Sisters of Colford Hall 01 - The Invasion of Falgannon Isle (22 page)

All at once, Desmond and her lads filed back into The Green Man, wearing smug expressions. B.A. therefore ruled out the Intentions Speech, and Desmond was still the same shade as when he’d left, so she was curious what they’d been doing. But she wasn’t going to give them the satisfaction of asking. Ignoring them, she pushed through the swinging door into the kitchen, intent on fetching ice to refill the bin. She opened the machine and used the scoop to shovel the crushed ice into the bucket, muttering under her breath in Gaelic.

“Bheir aon fhear each gu uisge, ach cha toir a dha-dheug air ol,”
she muttered, reaching for the pail’s handle.

A hand closed over hers, lifting. Desmond’s eyes were so close she could see the small black etching within his iris. She nearly melted, lost in their vivid hue. Oh, how the man had the power to rock her.

“Which means, lass? Dudley might understand Gaelic, but I’m not so learned.”

“A Scots proverb says, One man can lead a horse to water, but twelve cannot force it to drink.”

He arched his brow. “I’m the horse? And there were five, not twelve. I take it you missed me?”

“Arrogant man.”

He carried the bucket back out to the bar and poured the ice into the bin, leaning close so his voice didn’t carry. “I can remind you of three occasions when you called me arrogant.”

“I suffer memory lapses.” B.A. leaned close enough to nip the corner of his sexy chin.

“I’ll remind you later.” His thumb rubbed the inside of her wrist as he flashed a killer smile. “Maybe while we play horsey.”

Callum saw the electricity in the air between Desmond and B.A. Passing a Wee Heavy to both Michaels, he smiled smugly before taking a swallow from his own.

Michael the Story studied him for a moment, then glanced to his left at Michael the Fiddle. “Usually when one of you knows something, so does the other. It’s like you share one brain. But I see your better half dunna ken. So, why are canary feathers hanging from your mouth there, Callum?”

“If you must ken, I fitted our Desmond’s Rover with a bicycle rack today.”

“Bloody hell. That ranks up there with Sean Connery coming to vacation on Falgannon.” Michael the Story grinned and clanked his bottle against Callum’s.

“Aye.” Callum beamed. “He figured he’s always running B.A. to ground on her bike, so it’d come in handy. While B.A. was at the store, he had me install the rack on the Rover.”

The men swiveled on their barstools, their eyes following as Desmond led B.A. to the dance floor and started dancing to Bob Seger’s”Come to Papa.”

“They sure move well together,” Michael the Story sighed.

“A bonnie pair,” Callum concurred.

“See how they anticipate each other—as if they’ve danced together for years. Hits a man
here
.” Michael the Fiddle thumped his fist to his heart.

Picking up his bottle of ale, he ambled to a table where he could watch the couple dancing. Soon, the others followed.

“I’ve partnered B.A. for years, so I recognized something rare and special exists between those two people.” He was pleased, but the words were tinged with sadness. “B.A. has always been ours. Even when she married that arrogant bugger, Deshaunt, she still belonged to us. I think someone has finally touched our lass’s heart the way no one has before.”

“Oh, aye.” They all nodded.

“Och, stop with the long faces! Time to celebrate. Our lady has her green-eyed man.” Phelan the Lobster nudged Ian the Radio. “Go put on some sexy tunes, get a little dirty dancing going here. Speed things up.”

B.A. noticed her lads sat watching, wearing sappy grins. “We’ve an audience,” she said.

“Why not? I’m an excellent dancer.” Desmond said with a wry grin. “And I have green eyes.”

“Where did you learn to dance?” There were a thousand questions she still wanted to ask; she was eager to know everything about him. Des had been slow to give up answers, like most men.

He shrugged. “I paid a woman to teach me, figuring I needed to blend in at social settings. It came in handy, as I’ve lived around the world and was expected to dance with clients’ wives.”

“You lived in the States?”

“We moved there when I turned nine. I was born in London. My mother was Irish, my father was half-English, half-French. After his death we moved to Ireland for two years.”

Desmond kept the smile plastered on his face, though the muscles felt taut. After his father’s suicide, they’d returned to his mother’s people in Ireland. They’d lived in a thatched cottage on family land. His grandfather, a bitter, hard man and an alcoholic, hadn’t welcomed them. He viewed Katlyn and her three sons as millstones around his neck. He forced his daughter to scrub floors on her hands and knees, treated her like a servant. In one of his drunken tirades, he’d died of a heart attack.

His mother wasn’t well educated. Marrying at an early age, like many women of her generation, she’d expected her husband to care for her. Desmond’s father had loved and pampered her with a grand lifestyle. Being part French, he’d encouraged a clinging dependency. A delicate woman, she’d died inside when he killed himself. Afterward, she was only a shell, keeping herself together enough to care for her three sons.

Their situation had been harsh, so remote from everything, they hardly seemed to exist in the twentieth century. A lady from the United States was vacationing nearby, a writer researching her next book. Fortunately, she’d taken an interest in the lad who did her yardwork and felt for the plight of his family. She’d hired his mother as housekeeper while she summered there. When she left come autumn, she’d paid his mother the bonus of tickets to the United States, saying Katlyn stood a better chance there of breaking away from the grinding poverty of the small Irish farm.

Pushing himself to ignore the demons rattling their chains, he said, “I’ve lived in every large city in the United States, London, Paris, Rome, Hong Kong—even in Norway and a dozen of places in between.”

B.A. tried to make her next question sound casual. “Ever considered settling down in one place? Wulf and Dennis are tired of the globe-trotting.”

He started to reply, but the image of him standing at the bottom of the castle steps with his hand on the stone railing rose in his mind. Maybe such dreams were futile, especially knowing what was coming down the road.

He answered, “No, never,” though he wanted to say
never before
.

He saw the light in her amber eyes dim. B.A. was so open, so trusting, he almost wanted to kick her. She needed someone to protect her and this Pollyanna island from their faith in the goodness of people. A worldlier woman would take pleasure in this relationship yet shield herself against men generally being bastards.

“Until I put my hand on the railing of the castle.” The words were almost torn from him; he’d been unable to keep them from her. And Desmond again had the strange, sinking sensation his life was out of control.

Chapter 19

Peeking out the window panes of the front door, Oona called, “What ho, the lads from
Riverdance
are here.”

Confused, B.A. and Janet rushed to the door. Desmond and four other men jauntily strode down the walk, the heels of their boots sounding on the stones.

“A year for breaking traditions, eh?You’ve a new gown for the first time, B.A., and our Viking prince is striking a blow for male fashion,” Oona said in her dry tone. “Do love the leather breeks. Think I’ll have Cam knock me off a pair.”

None of the lads wore in kilts. Each wore black breeches, knee boots and poet’s shirts. Tartan sashes swept diagonally across their chests. Arranged in a phalanx behind Desmond, their tartans proclaiming their heritage: the Fraser twins represented Clan Fraser, Michael the Story stood for Clan Mackenzie and Jock for Clan Grant.

Her lads were handsome, but Desmond drew B.A.‘s eyes like no other. In the month he’d been on Falgannon his hair had grown longer on his neck, the waves stronger. His hair was done with plaits, small braids starting over the ear and going back in chief’s braids. He wore his blousy shirt with a pirate’s elan, the sleeves soft and billowing. The tartan crossing his chest proclaimed Clan Sinclair. A gold cathead brooch held it in place at his shoulder.

B.A.‘s eyes traveled down his long, muscular legs clad in leather, and she nearly swallowed her tongue.

B.A. fanned herself. “Those breeks should be outlawed.” Summoning composure, she uttered the formal welcome: “
Ceud mile failte
to the men of Sinclair, Grant, Mackenzie and Fraser.”

Ascending the steps, Desmond held out a white rose. He took a deep breath and, in a burr so thick it made her smile, said, “Tha men aye Falgannon hae come fer tha Quine aye tha Isle.”
The men of Falgannon have come for the Lady of the Isle.

Oona’s head snapped back. “Gor—they fed him Stop-Breath again!”

Desmond took the cape Oona held out. Sliding it about B.A.‘s shoulders, he fastened the catch at her neck. B.A. noticed how his hands trembled, his thumbs gently brushing her skin just above her breasts. Desmond stepped back, but raised his hand to cup the side of her face.

Looking into his eyes, emotion slammed into B.A., almost driving her to her knees. What Desmond forced her to feel was devastating. Fighting tears, B.A. leaned her head against his palm, basking in the power of her love for this man.

Dropping his hand, Desmond turned on his heel and offered his arm. They descended, though B.A. wasn’t sure her feet touched the ground.

Desmond asked, “Where’s the wee beastie?”

“Helping the Marys cook. Dunna worry. Kitty’ll show up when food’s served.”

“We planned to stuff him in leather pants, but he ran off. I’m afraid he’s angry at me.”

There’s not much you can do wrong in Kitty’s eyes.”

B.A. shared Dudley’s sentiment.

Desmond lifted B.A. up on the horse, settling her in the sidesaddle. He paused, staring at his hands upon her waist.

Flummoxed best described the emotion that hit him upon seeing B.A. in the medieval gown. The black garment was a stunning complement to her long blond hair. She shimmered as if blessed by pixie dust. Still, he was relieved the dress was black and not white, for otherwise it was identical to the gown she wore in his visions. He wasn’t sure he could’ve handled her in white. Her long hair had a hint of a ripple, and the image of the medieval maiden kept crowding his mind.

He could only stand and stare at her. B.A. was heartbreakingly beautiful.

Desmond knew when his brain worked again he’d face weighty questions. He floundered in emotional quicksand and feared only one answer existed to the dilemma.

“Damn it, B.A.!” Oona dashed inside and back with two gold slippers. “Eegit, you’re wearing tennies.”

Oona passed Desmond the gold slippers while she unlaced the sneakers, since B.A. had already arranged her legs on the sidesaddle. He slipped the dainty gold shoes on her, feeling much like Prince Charming and Cinderella.

His gut twisted, knowing he was no prince. Time was running out. Soon B.A. would know that as well.

“Bloody hell.” No words came to Desmond’s mind. The few half-formed floated away, far short of conveying his thunderstruck emotions while standing at the pinnacle of Falgannon. In a leisurely pace they’d ridden up the hill, past the castle, then to the high plateau where the stone ring sat. Desmond sensed tangible power radiating from those pagan stones. A magnetic disturbance in the air. Whispers of ancient voices. The thirteen stones, nearly fifteen feet tall, were some of the oldest in Britain. Sunlight reflected off alternating streaks of crystals imbedded in the gray stone. Magic.

Several times B.A. had put off his request to visit them. After going there, Desmond understood her reticence. A Doubting Thomas, the experience unnerved him, the silvery stones almost mocking him: they’d been here thousands of years and would be thousands more, long after he was dead and forgotten. Standing before them was humbling. And as he’d woven between the slabs of gneiss, he savored their eternal riddle, easily envisioning pagan celebrants dancing ancient rites under the pale moon.

The stones emitted an aura, a cross between a hum from a tuning fork and static electricity. They taunted him to touch them. He had. His mind flooded with so many images it’d been painful. He’d jerked back, dumbfounded. Visions of a past life, for lack of a better term, had increased since touching them, even invading his dreams at night.

Though the stones’ pull was strong, their command dwarfed when compared to the panoramic vista now claiming his attention. He glanced over his shoulder to the perfect village far in the distance. The rolling lands of Falgannon were arrayed at his feet, so green, yet gilded with the painter’s brush of autumnal colors. On the horizon, other islands were thin ribbons of majestic purple scattered on the turquoise water. Dunbeag and Dunmohr were closest, only a few miles to the west. Falgannon’s rear dropped off, fingers of rocks jutting from the sea in a connect-the-dots from the isle to the two others and showing that they had once been joined.

Desmond swung from his saddle, glancing between the two faces of Falgannon. Showcased before him were thirteen square miles of manicured, perfectly maintained farms and homes, reflecting B.A.‘s love. In contrast, raw, untamed sea was at the isle’s back, high waves crashing against the ancient rocks.

Tearing himself from his dumbfounded awe, he lifted B.A. from her horse. So high up, the winds were buffeting. Be-spelled by the landscape, he didn’t notice she took his hand until B.A. tugged, leading him to a single stone.

Not as tall as the ones in the ring, it was hardly more than five feet high. The odd form resembled a woman in a hooded cape, with her hands before her as in prayer.

B.A. said, “The Lady Stone. Legend holds she was the first Lady of the Isle, one of the Daughters of Anne. I presume Anne to be the Pict-Celt water goddess Annis. The lady angered Annis somehow. For punishment, Annis turned the lady to stone. Here she remains, watching over the isle.”

A brown twig was stuck in the soil before the stone. Ian yanked it from the ground and tossed it away. Untying a small pack from his saddle, he took out a bottle of water and a trowel and passed them to Desmond.

B.A. and he knelt before the stone. From the lads’ instructions, he knew to dig a hole a foot deep. B.A. plucked the leaves from the lower stem of the rose he’d given her, exposing two buds. She held it at the center of the pit he dug, while he raked and tamped the peaty soil back. B.A. took the bottle and carefully emptied the water on the dark earth.

A small act, but Desmond sensed deep significance attached to the ritual.

“Every Samhaine we come to Lady Rock and plant a white rose,” Ian explained. “If the Lady of the Isle has found her green-eyed man, and he has black hair and Ireland in his soul—and if he takes her in love—the rose will root and grow strong. If not, it withers and dies.”

A question flickered in Ian’s ice blue eyes: Would this rose flourish or be a twig a year from now? Desmond met Ian’s challenge with a poker-face.

His heart burned. A callow knave, he’d come to Falgannon under false pretences. That was bad enough, but to permit this relationship with B.A. without being honest with her was beyond the pale. And as Ian studied him, Desmond feared this man he’d come to view as a friend could read his guilt.

Worse, he craved to be B.A.‘s man. Her green-eyed man. The one to summon the magic that would see Falgannon thrive. He wanted to make this same trek next fall and see white roses blooming.

Pragmatic, Desmond realized he could no longer hide from the questions arisen this past month on Falgannon.

Desmond offered B.A. his hand. She smiled, those amber-brown eyes so open, full of trust. He felt a blow to the center of his chest, as if all the air had been knocked from his lungs.

Desmond stared flabbergasted out at the sweeping horizon in both directions. This island was pristine. Such beauty, such perfection was to be protected with the heart of a warrior. Falgannon was well-served by its lady. Only, the lady deserved a protector.

He stood buffeted by the breeze. The opposing forces of Falgannon’s winds were an invisible undertow, holding him, trying to drive him right into the soil. Telling Desmond he belonged here.

B.A. pushed through the wind to reach him. Desmond grabbed her, drawing her against his chest, wrapping his arms around her to absorb the heat from her body. Glancing over her shoulder, she watched his face.

He stared down on the undulating farmlands and the cobbled road leading to the neat horseshoe-shaped village, struggled to find words to describe the impact of being up here, of sharing this with her.

Her smile was witchy. “It affects me that way. The power never lessens.”

He leaned his head against hers. “My God, B.A., you can see forever from here.”

And he meant that literally—
forever
.

Nearly midnight, after all the ceremony, Desmond stood in Lady Cottage, his hand caressing the pommel of the sword, a soul-deep ache in him. The broadsword called to him as the castle did—as B.A. did. This island was changing him. He’d be a fool to deny it. At this late date in his life he’d discovered there were things money couldn’t buy. Items beyond price tags. Biting the bullet would cost him big time, but the bottom line was that only an idiot ignored what stared him in the face.

I’m in love with B.A.

He’d never believed love existed until now—still hated using the word. But what else could he call this consuming emotion? Before, women had intrigued him, but after having sex with them several times, his interest waned. Being male, he’d found pleasure in the emotionless couplings. But never had he caught himself thinking of a woman, aching to be with her every minute.

He’d spent four weeks with B.A., almost continuously in her company. It should’ve stifled him. When she was out of sight, images of their time together inundated his mind. He hungered for her, and not just for their lovemaking. Meaningless flashes: her licking the mayonnaise off the spoon after she’d made sandwiches, her falling asleep on her laptop, or when he’d caught her dancing with Dudley to the Moody Blues’s “The Story in Your Eyes.”

He was a Doubting Thomas brought to his knees by a Scottish witch.

Accepting the certainty, he had to act fast to set their relationship right. Work he’d already scheduled on Falgannon would start after the first of the year. Before then he needed to confront B.A. with the truth. She’d likely take this sword to him when he revealed his plans.

Yet he knew one thing—he’d got to B.A., too, dug under her skin as badly as she affected him. The power between them was rare, special. He felt confident they’d weather the coming storm.

He tried to pinpoint the moment he’d taken the tumble, that second he’d fallen headlong in love with B.A. Montgomerie. He’d been fighting it for a long time. Maybe it it had even been that breathless instant he looked into those amber eyes when he first arrived on Falgannon. Or was it that first night he’d awoken to see the cat propped up on the pillows between them, B.A. slumbering, trusting, as if they belonged together? Had that fae blood of hers sensed this destiny from the start?

Possibly it was before, at Sean’s funeral—that pause in time when she’d turned, locked eyes with him and the world shifted on its axis.

He removed the sword from its rack. Holding it out, he relished its weight, its balance.

Ridiculous! But perhaps when he clipped B.A.‘s engagement picture from that magazine, he’d started down this inevitable path to her. He should’ve gone after her years ago. They’d be happy on this tiny island, likely have half-grown children by now. How had he been so blind?

Well, he wasn’t dimwitted enough to make the same mistake twice. He wanted B.A. in his life. No matter the cost, he’d move heaven and earth to have her.

“That sword belongs in your hands.” B.A. strolled in, carrying two glasses of whisky.

Reverently, he settled the sword back on the wall rack. “I hope I wasn’t breaking some Lady of the Isle rule by handling it.”

“Not a’tall. In that snazzy outfit you look the Highland warrior. The sword’s natural in your hands. You’re a warrior, Des. You don’t use a sword, but you wage war, don’t you?” Her cat-eyes stripped his soul bare.

He’d formulated his intent to claim B.A., but not
how
he’d broach the subject. He wanted this magical night, to use their passion to bind her to him before facing the cold facts of tomorrow. Thus, it seemed prudent to divert the topic. “How old is the sword?”

“Two centuries, cast from the original sword of The Sinclair—Iain Sinclair. He came to claim Deporadh Mackenzie, Lady of the Isle in 1457.”

“Sinclair…” He steeled himself. “Tell me of Deporadh and this green-eyed man.”

She gave him an amused look. “How did you ken lain had green eyes?”

He shrugged, not ready to discuss his visions. “I’m wrong?”

“Nay, he had green
eyes
.”

“And they lived happily ever after?”