The Charm Stone
Page 27
“I don't understand, do you mean…” Her eyes widened as he nodded. “Mortal?” she whispered, not daring to believe it.
“As mortal as you. I hope ye dinna mind, I'll no’ be popping in and out. Ye'll have to put up with having only a mortal man to love you.” He took her mouth then, kissing her deeply, until she well and truly believed what he'd said. And when he lifted his mouth from hers, he looked into her eyes and said, “I do love you, Josie Griffin. My heart is yours.”
She hugged him tightly, tears welling in her eyes, unable to stop them, but not caring, for these were tears of joy. Indescribable, impossible joy.
A slight clearing of a throat intruded on their moment.
“Oh no.” Griff. And Freddie. What must they think of the scene she and Connal were creating? She looked up at him, but her joy was too immense, too huge, to worry about anything at the moment. “I guess I can always tell them it was love at first sight, right?”
“Them?”
“My father. He has no idea. About us. Nobody does.” She went to gesture behind him, scrambling madly for what she was going to say to Griff, but there was no one there.
Connal took her face between his hands and kissed her again. “There is one small thing I have yet to tell ye.” He frowned slightly. “Very small.”
Certain she could handle anything so long as he didn't move from her sight, she said, “What?”
“The gods saw fit to render mortality on someone else, as well, though I'm no’ certain if it was as a blessing or as punishment.” He shifted around and pulled her to his side as he did.
Standing just behind him, wearing a simply awful mustard yellow polo shirt, with plaid trousers and a matching tam, was Bagan. He wiggled his fingers at her. “Hello, Josie.”
Josie's mouth dropped open, then she looked from Bagan to Connal, then back to Bagan. “Really? Mortal?”
Both Bagan and Connal nodded. Only one of them was smiling.
She started to laugh, then laughed even harder, until she clung to Connal, who was beginning to look seriously alarmed. “Are ye okay?”
“Oh aye,” she said, still grinning. “I'm as okay as I've ever been in my entire life.” She looked to Connal. “Wait, he does get his own place to stay, right?”
Connal nodded. “Of course.”
She leaned in, and whispered, “He needs serious wardrobe help.”
Before Connal could reply, her father and Freddie reappeared. “Well,” Griff said jovially, “looks like you've all made acquaintance rather quickly.” He eyed the arm Connal had placed possessively around Josie's back.
“We've, uh, we've met,” Josie stammered.
“So I see.” Griff looked Connal over, then looked at Josie. He had to see the joy beaming from her, she thought, because he nodded, smiled at Connal, and said, “Care for a lift to town, laddie?”
“That's okay, Dad,” she said quickly. “I'll drive him in.” Then she smiled. “But Bagan here needs a lift.”
Bagan started to complain, but one look from Connal had him nodding and smiling, thanking Griff for his kindness.
“See you at Roddy's?” Griff asked her. “We have a great deal to go over.”
“I'll be there as soon as I can.”
“Fine then.” He gave Connal one more considering look, then climbed in the rental car with Freddie. Bagan waved from the back window as they headed toward town.
Josie waved back, then turned to Connal and pulled him right back into her arms. “Please tell me this isn't a dream. I don't ever want to wake up.”
He tipped her head back and leaned in to kiss her.
“Aye, 'tis a dream. A grand dream. For there are none better than those that come true.” He kissed her then, hungrily, like a man staking his claim.
When he lifted his head, they simply stood there and stared at each other, as if each of them was still afraid to believe in what was right in front of them. “I'm sorry for the pain,” he said, brushing at a stray strand of hair.
“You're here, that's all that matters.” She rested her head on his chest, reveling in the steady beat of his heart beneath her cheek. His arms felt perfect and strong around her. She thought she would be content never to move from this very spot. “I'm sorry… about the baby. I thought, for a time, but—” She shook her head, unable to put what she felt into words.
Then she felt his finger beneath her chin, lifting her gaze up to his. “It wasn't the destiny due us. No’ at the time.” He kissed her so gently it brought fresh tears to her eyes. “We'll have our bairns, Josie. When the time is right for us.” He pulled her to his side and they both turned to look at the island. “But first, we have another destiny to fulfill.”
In that moment, she had never been more certain that Fate and Destiny did indeed exist. And it had nothing to do with a cold stone set in hard metal. She looked up at the man she was destined to spend the rest of her life loving. No, Destiny was a living thing, ever-changing, ever-forming… its strength founded on the hearts of those who loved enough to give it the wings to fly.
She glanced up to find him gazing at her. A teasing grin came from somewhere to curve her lips. “So,” she said, taking his hand and tugging him toward Bidda's car, “when do you want to start your surf lessons?”
“My what?”
“It'll be fun.”
“Fun.”
“Yeah, you remember. Fun?”
He grinned then, that devilishly wicked grin she'd almost forgotten he possessed. She took one step backward, but he tugged her hand and she came flying back up against his chest. “Ask me again in about an hour,” he said, the words almost a growl against the side of her neck. “When I have you naked and beneath me in bed.”
She was already panting. “I-good idea.” She groped behind her for the door handle. “I'll drive.”
“Good idea.”
“Oh no. My father—”
“Can wait.” He was already peeling her shirt open.
“Yes,” she decided, somewhat breathlessly. “Why yes, he can.” She gasped when his fingers brushed over her. “I think this is going to be the shortest courtship in Glenmuir history,” she said, leaning her head back to allow him full access to… anything he damn well pleased.
“Aye,” he said, lowering his mouth to her. “Aye, that 'tis.” He caught her gaze just before his lips brushed her skin. “The MacNeil is back.”
“Aye,” she said, then her eyes drifted shut on a sigh of pleasure. “Aye, is he ever.”
Epilogue
The sun at his back felt wonderful.
looked toward the shore and his heart filled with such happiness he could have burst with it. He thought, once again, how undeserving he was of it. But he'd accepted it all the same, thanks.
There were two of them, frolicking in the waves. Josie and her daughter, wee Isabella. If he squinted, he could just make out the other two strolling away down the shoreline and into the afternoon mists. Shell collecting, most like, he thought. Young Griff was quite enamored of his collection and his father, when not busy representing his people in Parliament, took his job as guide and collection curator quite seriously.
Aye, it was a rich life they all led. No’ because of money, though Glenmuir was prospering in all ways a man could measure it. Josie had continued her work with her father, as well as teaching the island children-and many of their parents-to surf. Clud helped her out on occasion. Dougal and Gavin both worked for Griff part-time. Bidda and Posey had gone and opened what they called a bed-and-breakfast, catering to the slow, but steady trickle of surfers that came to examine Griff's wares. Roddy handled most of the shipments on the Internet. Another fine invention, he found himself thinking, making a mental note to check his e-mail later.
Right now there was a perfect swell building behind him. He stuck his stubby hands in the water and paddled his custom-made shortboard-very short board-over so he could catch it.
Then Baean popped up in a perfect front-footed stance, cau g ht the shoulder…and ripped
the back end wide open.
Note from the Author
The idea for this book began when I read a story about the current MacNeil clan chief signing a one-thousand-year lease with Historic Scotland, to ensure continuing renovations of the clan seat, Kisimul, on the Isle of Barra. The terms of the lease are a pound note a year, and a bottle of Scottish whisky. Sounded reasonable to me! Legend has it that Kisimul has been the MacNeil stronghold since the eleventh century. The fact that the property had stayed for so long in MacNeil possession intrigued me and I started digging around a bit. I found the Isle of Barra to be charming and its history and that of the MacNeils quite interesting.
The needs of my story, however, meant altering that history a great deal, which I didn't want to do. So, although I use the MacNeil name, my characters, their heritage, and their actions, are completely fictional. And while the Isle of Glenmuir is certainly inspired by Barra, it is my own creation, as are Winterhaven Castle and Black's Tower.
Charm stones are real, however, and have a long and colorful heritage in both Scottish and Celtic history. The MacNeil Stone is my own invention. If the MacNeils had a clan charm stone, my research didn't uncover it.
And in case you're wondering, yes, you really can surf in Scotland. Barra, Tiree, the North Coast, and Pease Bay are a few of the places favored by the small, but hardy band of Scots surfers.
About the Author
Born and raised in Maryland, Donna now lives in Virginia with her husband, sons, and growing menagerie of dogs and birds. She can be reached online at www.donnakauffman.com or by mail at PO Box 541, Ashburn, VA 20146.
The Last Bridesmaid
Turn the page for a sneak peak at the new exciting
romance from Donna Kauffman
Coming soon from Bantam
Killer column today, Tanz.” Tanzy adjusted her phone headset and hit save. “Thanks, Martin. Let's just say I was inspired.”
“I'll say. The reader response to your last bridesmaid angle has been amazing. Who knew there were so many of them out there?”
She snarled silently. “Yeah, who knew. I'm thinking of forming a club.” It had been two weeks since Rina's wedding and fodder for her twice-weekly column was still spewing forth. Apparently she wasn't, in fact, the last bridesmaid on the planet. She'd heard from a whole slew of them in the past ten days. “Listen, I'm getting Saturday's column in early. I've got that Single Santa radio thing this afternoon, then this month's stint on the Barbara Bradley Show is taping tomorrow morning. They're doing a Single at Christmas show for airing during the holidays.” Hoo boy. She could hardly wait.
“Well, chat up this whole wolf/sheep thing you zeroed in on in today's column. I have a hunch it's going to play big with the serial solos out there.”
She grinned. “I'll talk to you after I'm done taping Friday, let you know how it went.” She clicked off and stared at her laptop screen, scanning back over what she'd already written, then began to type.
So, why is it we L.B.'s aren't willing to settle for Sheep like the rest of our social circle? What's wrong with a man who puts family first, who maintains a steady job, has college funds set up for his kids, and builds that nest egg for his retirement? Member of the workaday herd, never straying.
Solid, dependable Sheep Guy.
Why can't I love this guy? I've decided that, for me, it's the Wolves. They distract me from the Sheep. Men on the prowl. Totally alpha. Not interested in being domesticated. What is it about these men that makes my heart speed up in ways no Sheep ever have? I don't want to tame them. I certainly don't want to take them home to Mama. No. I, the original self-sufficient, independent, and proud of it dammit, woman wants Wolf Guy to drag me back to his lair and have his way with me. Repeatedly. But that's all I want from him. That wild rush, that feeling of being taken over by something stronger and more powerful than I am.
Maybe that's it. I'm responsible for everything else in my life: my home, my career, my social circle. I don't have to ask permission to do anything, don't have to make any compromises unless I want to. I do what I want, when I want. And I like it that way, intend to keep it that way. I just need Wolf Guy to rip the reins from my hands from time to time and allow me to give up my grip for a little while. Let's face it, Sheep Guy will never do that. And until I don't need to have my reins ripped anymore, I can't imagine joining the herd on a permanent basis.
So where does that leave me? A serial solo, straying from the herd every time that Wolf comes sniffing around, that's where. And I'm sorry to all you permanent herders out there, but at the moment, I'm thinking that's fine by me.
“Take that, Sheep lovers,” she muttered and saved. She tapped on her ISP and zapped the column to Marty before she could reconsider what she'd written. After all, it wasn't called “Tanzy Tells Some of the Things.” Whatever she felt was what she wrote. No holding back, no worries about offending anyone. She was the universal bared soul of the single woman, put on display for all the world to read. What you read was what you got. Take it or leave it. Fortunately for her, a whole lot of people, both men and women, took her words. They accepted them, rejected them, debated them, heatedly at times… and propelled the writer of them to a certain level of fame and fortune.
She scanned her email, a dry smile curving her lips as she skimmed down the potpourri already queuing up for today's entertainment. The fame part, even at her insignificant level, had its pros and cons. She got date offers, marriage offers, offers to be saved by various members of the clergy, offers to be fixed up with sons by various mothers, fixed up with brothers by an assortment of sisters, and all around good guys by well-meaning married matrons. And that was usually before ten A.M.
The flip side was that, on occasion, she also got threats: some aimed at messing with her person in a violent manner, some litigiously eyeing her bank account. Of course, the combination of being seen on television, heard on the radio, and accessible via the Internet, was bound to bring out the less stable segment of society. She figured it went with the job. Fortunately, none of them had ever followed through, successfully or otherwise.
She spied a note from her most recent “extreme fan” as she called them and debated whether reading it would entertain or disconcert. This guy was particularly insistent if not particularly original. He was her self-proclaimed savior, the one who would love her for all time, thereby relieving her of all her single girl angst. She smiled faintly as she skimmed past his most recent proclamation of eternal devotion. He didn't seem to understand single girl angst paid her rent. Besides she wasn't really angsty. More reflective. In an openly global kind of way.
Forgetting about SoulM8, as he so cleverly called himself, she clicked instead on an email titled “Howling 4 U.” Her latest column, in which she'd only briefly debuted her “men can be put into two categories, Wolves and Sheep” theory, had been published for less than an hour. “And they're already crawling out of the woodwork.” She picked up her now cool mug of hot chocolate and sipped. “It's going to be an interesting day,” she murmured as she read with great amusement the letter from a guy who professed he was an actual wolf. Of the werewolf variety. He was certain her column spoke directly to him and wanted to mate with her during the next full moon. Which-lucky her!-was the very next night. She hit delete-her most effective tool when dealing with whackos-and had just opened “Baaaahed Boy” when her phone rang.
“Tanzy dear, we need to talk,” the caller said without preamble.
Tanzy almost choked on her chocolate. “Aunt Millicent!” She quickly put her mug down and pulled off her headset in favor of the old-fashioned phone. She found it was generally better to be gripping something substantial, and better yet, unbreakable, whenever her great aunt deigned to call. Since there were no titanium bars within easy reach, the hard plastic receiver would have to do. “What a nice surprise.”
“How nice of you to say that even if you don't mean it. At least Penelope managed to breed some manners into her only offspring before flitting off to
God knows where. Now stop gripping the phone like a drowning woman clinging to a lifeline. I've only got a few moments before the car arrives and we've got much to discuss.”
“We do?” Tanzy found it best to merely nod and go along with Millicent, as there was really no point in believing she'd ever have control of a conversation with her mother's somewhat eccentric aunt. Okay, “somewhat” was her being nice again. And she hadn't gotten that trait from her mother. The only thing she'd gotten from Penelope was blue eyes and a distinct mistrust of long-term commitment.
“Yes, dear, we do. It seems my dear friend from Philadelphia, Frances Dalrymple, has suffered a decline in her health. She's asked me to come visit for what might be a rather extended stay. We went to Vassar together as you might recall.”
“Mmm,” Tanzy replied, one she'd learned to use rather judiciously when conversing with Millicent.
“My those were wonderful years. Still feels like yesterday. Young women in pursuit of higher learning were so rare in our time, you see. We were vital, so alive.” She sighed wistfully.
“Real visionaries,” Tanzy said, hoping Millicent didn't think she was being patronizing. She really did admire her great aunt, and what she didn't admire she was in awe of. But she really didn't need a replay of “Millicent Harrington: The Vassar Years.” She knew them by heart. “I'm sure she'll enjoy having your company. Do you want me to go by and water your plants or collect your mail?” This was an empty offer as Millicent was loaded and had a houseful of people to look after every last detail of her Presidio Heights monstrosity of a mansion, but she also knew Millicent enjoyed it when Tanzy played the doting niece.
Other than her absent mother, Millicent was the only family left and although she wasn't exactly anyone's version of a cuddly, maternal figure, she also didn't pretend to be anything other than what she was. A woman who oversaw her inherited holdings, business interests and God knew what other investments with a steely eye and a firm grip. At eighty-two she was a more intimidating figure than ever.