Sisters of Colford Hall 01 - The Invasion of Falgannon Isle (11 page)

He preferred to remain and eavesdrop, but if he went upstairs, maybe B.A.‘s lurking lads would decamp. Come morn, he’d pick a bone with these clowns.

Nearly dashing up the stairs, he grabbed his travel kit and hit the bathroom for a quick shave, not wanting B.A. to get razor burns—anywhere. Finished, he hurried into the bedroom. Turning out the lights, he opened the shades so moonlight flooded the room. He wanted to make love to B.A. bathed in that pale ghostly glow. Stripping off his clothes, he climbed under the cool silk-covered duvet and waited.

And waited.

The lights were still on below. He glanced at his Rolex—three minutes until midnight. The witching hour, when all things seemed possible, even magic.

Worry crept into Desmond’s suspicious mind as minutes crawled past. Cian Montgomerie, B.A.‘s brother, carried a reputation of being one of the best in corporate law. He was the head lawyer for Montgomerie Enterprises since B.A.‘s father had retired. Still, the solicitor could find out little. Even if he did, by the time he did it would be too late.

Still, unease bubbled in Desmond.

Lights winked out downstairs, then he heard B.A.‘s soft footfalls climb the stairs and travel down the hall, followed by noises from the room where the Scots had placed the other bed this morning. Edginess bit at his patience, spurring him to stomp down there, scoop her up and carry her back to this bed. Ignoring surging cavemanitis, he gave her space. She’d come. She wanted him as much as he wanted her.

The square of illumination on the opposite wall flicked out. Seconds later, B.A.‘s muffled steps sounded outside the door. Desmond’s heart raced and he held his breath.

She entered the room wearing a prim nightgown and wrapper, her hair plaited and over her shoulder. She was so beautiful, the golden girl, the pampered granddaughter of his enemy. And he wanted her more than life itself.

“Desmond… I’d like you and your men to leave come morn. I’ll ring Lewis and make special arrangements.”

The world fell out from under him.

“That’s it?” He didn’t move—
didn’t dare
—or he’d spring at her like a big cat bent on bringing down prey.

“I… reached a decision. A resort isn’t right for Falgannon. I dunna wish to take the island in that direction.”

“Pity that.” He breathed deeply to stem his spiraling fury. “Well, I’m afraid you don’t have that option, Ms. B.A. Montgomerie.”

“I’m owner of the isle. I decide what’s needed.”

Despite her words, she stood trembling, fragile. She feared him. It was clear she’d jumped at her brother’s call as an excuse to distance herself from him. Strangely, he felt a compulsion to go to her, to comfort her, but he suppressed the ridiculous impulse.

“Read the fine print of the papers I gave you. I’ve put in a lot of time and money on this project. If you cancel, you’ll pay the default fee in the contract or I’ll sue you.”

“Default fee?” she squeaked.

“One-million pounds sterling.” Without mercy, he played his trump card. “There’s also another paper I hold. Over thirty years ago, Sean borrowed a small fortune, putting up the north tip of the isle as collateral. The loan was never repaid. Through default on repayment I now own a chunk of your island—a shade over one-third to be precise. So Lady of the Isle, it seems there’s a new Lord of the Isle, eh?”

B.A. swayed, appearing pale, as if the blood had left her brain. “We… shall see.” She shakily turned on her heels and fled.

Desmond smiled in the darkness. “Yes, we shall.”

Chapter 9

“Och, here she comes. And oh, does she have a mad on!” Willie alerted the “Morn, B.A.” Club. Adam’s apple bobbing in guilt, he peeked through the blinds of the picture window of The Hanged Man. “I’m sure B.A. spotted me last night. Watch—she’ll lash a pound of flesh off my hide. I’ve been trying to come up with a good excuse for our spying ever since.”

“You being a writer and all, ashamed you should be,
Willa
Macgregor.You seem inventive enough in them ruddy books of yours. Or is it only with people having sex on a horse are you”—Angus the Ancient clucked his tongue, while he stole a glance at the ink marks on his hand—“de-miur-gic?”

Ian Fraser, watching the two over the newspaper, choked on his tea.
“Demi-what?
Looking up big words again, Angus, trying to tweak our Willie’s nose?”

The doorknob rattled, sending everyone scurrying. With tea and sticky buns, they took up their normal positions, feigning nonchalance.

Ian arched his brow as the door flung open and B.A. stormed in, her eyes executing a quick sweep of the room. Oh aye, she had a mad on.

She barked, “Where’s the bloody eegit?”

“Morn, B.A.,” everyone chimed in toneless, everyday fashion, though Ian noticed several struggled to keep their faces straight.

B.A. looked ready to spit nails. “Don’t morn me, you gormless pelicans. Where is he? I want his head on a platter.”

A laugh nearly escaped Ian when Willie snatched the newspaper from his hands and ducked behind it, hoping to escape her notice. He didn’t blame Willie. Their lass was a force when her dander was up. Stronger men ran when B.A. had steam rolling out her ears.

She swung around, glaring at all the men, but they bent over their hot buns with singular concentration, projecting halos over their heads. Her frown deepened, as though something had just occurred to her. “Where’s Dudley?”

“Being a Montgomerie, she rarely asks,” Angus grumbled. “Just demands in her Pictish princess tone. Sean should’ve beaten her regularly, no doubt,” he said once more.

B.A. rolled her eyes. “Oh, put a sock in it, Angus. No one believes you told Sean that.”

“You want to ken where Dudley is?” asked Callum, rising to snag another roll as Tam carried them in fresh from the oven.

“A lot of bother over a kitty,” Innis sniffed.

B.A. huffed. “Kitty mooches off the Club every morn. Where is he?”

“Could be with the Viking prince,” Michael the Fiddle suggested. “He favors him.”

“He’s no prince,” she snapped.

Angus tapped his cane. “Why aren’t you taking care of your patient, you scatty harridan? Doc said to watch him closely. You looking in his eyes every few hours?”

“I’m not his bloody nurse.”

“Ashamed you should be,” Angus badgered in his patriarchal tone. “Not seeing to his care, instead you’re here blethering about the cat!”

B.A. nearly growled, “I’m not searching for the cat.”

“Then stop fashing and tell us who you
are
looking for, lass.” Ian, stirring his tea, eyed Willie again, hiding behind the
London Times
. He leaned over and turned the newspaper right side up, thinking it’d be more convincing.

“I’m hunting Jock the Repair. Bloody phone is out again,” she complained. “I’ve got to call Cian the Brother.”

“Jock’s working on Davey the Weaver’s washer-machine. They thought he’d sorted it out, but Davey’s screaming it’s creating mounds of suds.”

“Want a sticky bun, B.A.?” Michael the Fiddle inquired, waving one under her nose.

“No, I dunna want a sticky bun.” But the smell of cinnamon rose from the hot roll. She snatched it away and took a bite, ignoring his smirk.“Tell the MacGyver of Falgannon, he better get it working by noon or I shall… ban him from the isle!”

“Dunna think our lass ever banned any of us before,” Hamish the Lighthouse said.

Innis huffed, “Got your knickers in a twist, B.A.? Not good for your health at your age.”

“My
age?
” She choked on the roll, so Michael slapped her on the back. Enjoying the show, Ian caught Innis winking at Tarn the Baker, who picked up the banter.

“Aye, B.A., you’re not getting any younger. Willie was reading to us how a woman over forty stands a better chance of being run over by a lorry from Fortnum and Mason than getting married. Edging perilously close to that big four-zero, you are, lass. Since lorries from Fortnum and Mason dunna deliver up here, ‘tis a grave concern to us.”

“‘Tis true,” Callum seconded. “At your advanced years, B.A., dunna let a golden opportunity pass you.”

“Aye, we hate to see you years from now, like the Marys, sitting up on the knoll pining over Dudley Campbell. You’ll be up in the cottage on the castle and calling your kitty The Cat Desmond. It’d be sad, indeed,” intoned Angus.

Clearly exasperated, B.A. stomped to the door. She paused to give them a parting shot. “I’ll be at Lady Cottage if anyone needs me. Tell Jock, the
real
MacGyver would make it work with a roll of duct tape!”

“Och, a low blow.” Ian lifted his teacup, saluting the closing door. “Guess it’s safe to assume our Viking prince dinna carry our lass up the stairs last night like Rhett did Scarlett.”

The club all chorused a discouraged agreement.

His cheek being licked woke Desmond from an erotic dream. Seconds passed before it registered that the tongue, akin to sandpaper, wasn’t connected to B.A. More’s the pity. Seeing the amber-eyed kitty nose-to-nose, he moaned and dragged the duvet over his head. No sooner was he hid from the cat’s view, he felt something pounce on his toes and attack.

“Bloody puss needs to go on a diet,” he grumbled. “I guess this is Falgannon’s version of an alarm clock?”

Rolling onto his back, he allowed the last of the sexy dream about B.A. tied to the posts of this bed to drift through his mind. He’d never been one for bedroom games, thus the dream astonished him. Every detail seemed so real—the sensations, the scents, heat from her body—that it’d nearly been a wet dream. He didn’t think forty-four-year-old men still had wet dreams. Peculiarly, it didn’t feel like a quirky fantasy but rather a vibrant memory.

He dismissed the unease and lazed as Dudley gnawed on his toes. Half drifting and enjoying the sensual movie playing in his mind, his body responded, bucking against the silk-covered comforter.

Unfortunately, the cat lost interest in chasing mouse-toes and pounced with his tubby tabby weight on the new source of movement under the comforter. Desmond screamed, jackknifing up to remove the playful cat.

“Dudley,” he squeaked in soprano, holding up the pudgy pussy, face-to-face. “This isn’t how I planned on waking up this morning. Come on, Fuzzball, let’s see if B.A. is ready for Round Two.”

Hopping out of bed, he grabbed a pair of sweatpants from his suitcase and yanked them on. Then he padded barefoot downstairs in search of Ms. BarbaraAnne Montgomerie.

From the stillness in the house, he sensed her absence. It felt empty, cold. He shrugged, chalking the chill up to the peat fire having burned out. The feline tagged along, dashing ahead to his bowl in the kitchen, hinting he could stand a feeding. Ignoring the pussycat, Desmond glanced around, expecting a note from B.A. with orders to get off her island.

“Hmm… no note.” Picking up the phone, he discovered no dial tone. He smiled. “Fate loves me, Dudley. Come on, I’ll stand you to pub grub as soon as I’m dressed. I’ve questions for a few of your lads, then we’ll run B.A. to ground.”

A half hour later, Desmond and Dudley pulled up in the Range Rover and parked in front of The Hanged Man. Looking down the street, he considered going to the store, seeing if B.A. were there. His stomach grumbled, reminding him there had been no breakfast in bed this morning. “Besides,” he said to the feline, “I want a tete-a-tete with her lads about their lurking.”

Pocketing the keys, he opened the car door. Dudley scampered out and up the pub steps with the accuracy of a heat-seeking missile—only, this fur-covered missile was food-seeking. He noticed as Kitty shot into the inn without slowing; the critter had his own entrance to the pub, too. They’d even painted the cat Dudley’s door over it in gold letters. Chuckling, he shook his head and used the people door.

“There’s Kitty!” Angus declared. “Right peaceful without the wee beastie tormenting us this morn. He’s fetched the Viking prince. Come have a scone and jelly, young feller.”

Desmond found a chair for himself and one for Dudley. “Thanks. Must be the island air, I’m famished.”

“Famished, he is,” Innis echoed.“‘Tis B.A.‘s fault. The hussy. Ashamed she should be, leaving him to fend for himself.”

“Aye, the lass needs a walloping with this.” Angus raised his cane. “I told Sean, time and again, she needed beating. Did he listen?”

“What did you expect? He was a Montgomerie.” Innis shook his head in mock disgust. “You ken Montgomeries never listen.”

Desmond frowned as Ian Fraser set a plate of scones and a rasher of bacon before him.

“Och, pay no mind, no one believes he said that.” Ian laughed. “That’s Angus flapping his gub. No one believe’s he’d dare touch a hair on the sweet lass’s head.”

” ‘Sweet lass,’” Angus scoffed. “Dinna she just threaten to boot Jock off the isle ‘cause he’s no good with duct tape?”

Desmond finished a melt-in-your-mouth-biscuit, then smeared raspberry jam on another. “B.A. was here?”

“Aye, dashed in wanting to ken where Dudley was,” Innis answered between sips of tea.

“Wasn’t the cat,” Callum corrected, “but Jock the Repair and his duct tape she was trying to run to ground.”

Desmond fixed Callum with a stare. “Seeing as you’re good at keeping tabs on B.A., you wouldn’t happen to know where she is?”

The man had the grace to look sheepish. “Oh aye, she’s at the cottage on the castle.”

That wasn’t the first time he’d heard them say it precisely that way.
“On
the castle?”

“Aye,” several muttered.

“How do I find this cottage
on
the castle?” Desmond asked.

“‘Tis on the north side of the isle. Take any road—all roads lead to the castle,” Ian said.

Desmond cleared his throat. “North side?”

“Tread careful around the lass,” Ian cautioned. “She wasn’t in a cheery mood when she stormed out of here.”

Before polishing off his scone, Desmond broke off a bite of bacon for Dudley. “Now, perhaps someone would explain why you lads were poking noses in B.A.‘s windows last night?”

B.A. stood high atop Castle Falgannon, the wind playing in her hair. Placing her hands on the crenellation, she leaned into the breeze and let the warm autumn day caress her face. This isle was so much a part of her heart, her soul.

Passed from female to female of her line since the dawn of time, she was smart enough to know she wasn’t an owner but a caretaker, recognized the island owned
her
. She enjoyed visiting her family in England or Kentucky, but the whole time a restlessness niggled in her to return to Falgannon.

B.A. perceived why her ancestors had built the castle on this point. From the vantage atop the hill, she surveyed nearly the entire island. No Viking invaders could approach without being seen—even modern-day Vikings. Why, she was even aware an angry Desmond stomped up the hill heading in her direction.

” ‘By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes,’” she quoted the Scottish play—only she figured her definition of wicked and Will’s varied slightly.

Ignoring the man—or trying to—she stared out across the northern tip of the isle at the white sand beaches, then up the hill to the ancient ring of stones that dated back over five millennia.

“Over any dead body will some Viking raider steal what belongs to my ancestors—even if he does have green eyes. I might be a woman, but I’m also a warrior, as all the females of my bloodline were. No one is taking this castle,” she vowed.

The fact he still made her heart go pitter-patter wouldn’t deter her one bit.

Desmond paused at the bottom of the stone staircase, which wound up one side of the ancient fortress. He
had
to stop. The view was imposing, breathtaking. He’d been aware there were ruins of a castle on Falgannon, but the lack of information on record frustrated him.

He’d hired aerial surveys done, even attempted three himself with Julian Starkadder, his right-hand man, as pilot. But a dozen endeavors to fly over the isle each met with the same results. As the helicopter sighted Falgannon in the distance, mists suddenly enshrouded it, preventing them from getting closer. When he had complained of the problem, one old seaman called him daft, said the Hebrides didn’t have the same trouble with fog as the mainland. Now Michael the Story’s telling of the sacred mists enfolding Friseal and Maeve came to mind.

Hence, the majesty of Castle Falgannon now caught him unawares. At first glance he noted the stone stairs as a recent addition, estimating their crafting to have been sometime in the past two centuries. The architect in him admired the castle’s brilliance of design, the eight hundred-year-old stone and mortar rivaling anything done today. The foundation showed signs of being constructed atop the ruins of
another
fortress—dating back how long? In this day and age when they imploded half of Las Vegas because the buildings were deemed too costly to repair, that this fortress had endured, weathered, was proud of its heritage, was amazing.

Touching a family-held structure so ancient humbled him. The overwhelming need to own this castle seized him, and it had nothing to do with his plans for developing Falgannon, but for himself. Desmond suddenly coveted this stronghold.

Glancing up, he spotted B.A. framed by the merlons, her gold hair flying in the wind like a warrior’s banner. The Lady of the Isle.

Abruptly time shifted, and the weight of chain mail and armor were upon his body, his hand wrapped around the pommel of a broadsword. He stood on another set of stairs, ones much older, the objective burning in him to storm this bastion, to claim Castle Falgannon and its lady. About him he heard the clash of swords, the din of battle. Words echoed inside his brain—this fortress was his and so would she be.