Sisters of Colford Hall 01 - The Invasion of Falgannon Isle (3 page)

Cane clicking on the wood floor, Angus the Ancient tottered in, leaving the door open. “You’ve done it, B.A. That black-headed feller dunna appear thrilled a’tall being butt of your joke, lass.”

Silence descended, causing B.A. to turn. Abruptly, the storefront shook with the force of a small blast. For a fleeting second B.A. wondered if they’d suffered an earthquake. But no, someone had slammed the door shut with such violence everything on the shelves rattled. Not seismic activity. Another force of nature.

He
stood there.

Her stomach dropped. Maybe she had been a
little
abrupt in handling him. Well, it was his own bloody fault, setting off such frantic emotions within her!

“Och, now you’re in for it, B.A.” Angus waved a shaky finger at her.

Mershan’s jacket was off, draped in the crook of his arm. Lasers of fury, his ice-green eyes targeted her, and despite the tension crackling in the air, she was positive it wasn’t sexual. Though his chest rose and fell, she noted it was in effort to control his anger and not from the walk. He hadn’t broken a sweat from the tour of the tiny village, showing his peak physical condition.

All the better to throttle you, B.A.,
her mind whispered as she battled the instinct to run.

“He’s right,” Mershan growled, “I’m not happy.” He dropped his bag and coat on the floor as if needing both hands free.

All the better to wrap around your neck, B.A.,
echoed her brain.

Desmond took a step toward her. B.A. took one back. She feared no man, but for the first time in her life one rattled her.

Frozen in a fight-or-flight response, it took seconds for her to recognize an odd creaking from overhead. Jerking her gaze to the ceiling, it locked on the old shark jaw suspended by a wooden peg from the rafter. Hung before she was born, it suddenly dropped, hurtling straight at them. She stood too stunned to move. With feline reflexes Mershan yanked her aside, shielding her with his body. Razor sharp teeth just missed them. Chunks of the brittle bone ricocheted into the pyramid display of soup cans, sending them dodging again.

Twining around Mershan’s ankles, Dudley squalled when his tail was stepped on. Reverting to his nasty little self, he protested by sinking claws into Desmond’s right calf, then followed with his patented vampire bite.

The man howled. The cat yowled. Cat dangling from his leg, Desmond danced over bone chunks and rolling cans.

B.A. knew that Dudley had earlier fixed in his brain the source of all evils in kittydom originated with Callum. Thus, she wasn’t surprised when he released Mershan and launched that fat tabby body at the thigh of his nemesis, glomming on as Callum’s foot landed on a rolling can.

No time to regain footing, Desmond ducked to avoid Callum’s flailing. Callum, with the tabby hanging on, went flying backward. He collided into the off-balance Desmond; both men and cat crashed into the five-tiered rack of jars of sweets.

Dozens of glass containers shattered, flinging shards, jawbreakers and gumballs across the wooden floor. Everyone hopped to dodge the confections and glass. Hard candies acted like ball bearings, while cream-filled treats squished to a slippery goop. B.A. gaped in horror as Mershan skated on the jawbreakers, his feet flying into the air. Going down, he cracked his head against the floor.

To escape chaos, Dudley leapt to the countertop. He flopped down and stuck his hind leg in the air. With a sneeze of disdain, he started giving it a tongue bath.

For several heartbeats, B.A.‘s mind reeled, waiting for the invader to get up. He didn’t move. No rise and fall of his chest was visible. Step-by-step, everyone made their way over to him and peered at his still form.

B.A. glanced up to see her villagers crammed against the shop windows and door; noses pressed to the glass, they resembled creatures from the
X-Files
. With unabashed glee, they howled at the Marx Brothers antics inside.

Robbie shook his head in disbelief. “You have to admit, B.A., this is the most excitement we’ve had on the isle since the Floating of the Sheep last June, when we prepared them for shearing by tossing them into the creek to wash them.”

“B.A.,” Angus muttered, “you’ve gotten yourself in a pretty pickle. Gone and murdered the Viking leader. Ashamed you should be.”

Panic setting in, she knelt beside the almost too beautiful man—the man alarmingly still. “He isn’t dead,” she pronounced. Her hands hovered just above Mershan, afraid to touch him. “I… dunna think.”

With a thespian wink, Angus shook his cane, a touch of farce to reinforce his idiotic statement. “Told Sean Montgomerie he should’ve beaten her regularly. He dinna listen. Now she’s gone and kilt this feller. ‘Tis a sad day. Our Lady of the Isle is a murderess.”

“Oh, Angus, put a sock in it,” B.A. snapped. Her life was suddenly spiraling out of control.

Chapter 2

When Desmond opened his eyes, the first thing—two things actually—they focused on were breasts. They were firm, round and about the size of grapefruits, perfect to his way of thinking, and encased in iridescent gold silk.

And just above his face.

If he raised up, he could latch his lips around one silk-clad breast. First, he’d graze it with the edge of his teeth, then suck it into his mouth, drawing to the point of pleasure-pain. He craved to make this fantasy real. For some strange reason he could only lie there and allow the erotic vision to play through his mind.

Ethereal forms floated within his peripheral vision. The oddball thought flittered through his brain—his aching brain—that they might be angels. If men knew angels had such breasts, morgues would see queues of mass suicides. Then the ghostly forms took on definition and he started hearing words.

“Is Doc coming?” a sexy voice asked.

Did angels speak with a burr?

The breasts jiggled with the firmness of overchilled Jell-O as vibrations of her words surrounded him.
Lucky me.
His head was in the angel’s lap. Desmond had no idea what he’d done in his sad, sorry life to rate heaven, but hell, he wasn’t one to look gift breasts… hmm… a gift horse in the mouth.

Disoriented, he fought two rising sensations, mild nausea being first. Superceding the queasiness was a blaze of lust that nearly crippled his body.

The angel’s scent enveloped him. It was earthy, unlike anything he’d ever encountered, affecting his senses on an animalistic level. Never had a woman’s body heat, her scent affected him so.

But it was more. So much more.

More than
a
woman—this was
the
woman—one who’d haunted his fantasies for more nights than he cared to admit. This was the woman he’d watched from afar, and like some lovesick puppy had carried her picture in his wallet these past fifteen years. This woman had become the standard by which he measured all others, and none ever reached her level of class, beauty or intelligence. As a man long denied that which he most cherished, Desmond hungered for her with a soul-deep yearning that paralyzed him. Only
this
woman could break his control, could have him willing to go down on his knees ready to beg for her touch.

And it was the one woman in the whole bloody world he couldn’t have.

Allowing the fantasy, for a brief moment he willingly relinquished his iron control. He envisioned taking her wrists and pushing them over her head; bowing her body to his, he’d slowly lick his way down her stomach and lower—drink in her hot female essence, lose himself in the sweet bliss of madness.

His angel spoke again. “You’re sure he’s not dead, Robbie?”

Robbie Mackenzie closely monitored Mershan’s pulse. He glanced up to see the man’s green eyes were wide open, though B.A. didn’t see. Feeling the heartbeat jump from comatose to that of a marathon runner, he noticed the stranger staring up at B.A. like a man possessed. Placing his arm across Mershan’s stomach, Robbie noted the rock-hard erection defined against the black slacks. He checked to see if B.A. noticed. Nope. At times their lass tended to wear blinders where men were concerned.

A seed taking root, he stifled a smile before answering. “Aye, lass, he lives.”

Stroking Desmond’s forehead, B.A. asked, a quaver threading her words, “Did you find a pulse?”

The men sitting on the long bench glanced at Mershan’s groin and then to each other.

Staring at the lad’s healthy response to being in their B.A.‘s lap, Robbie arched a brow and nodded to them.
Oh aye, he’s got a pulse. Dead men don’t get erections.
In male sympathy, he figured it was to the point of painful, the sort of lust that makes a man silly-buggers to all around him.

He’d seen one of those police shows about forensic evidence on telly. In it, they discussed how a poor blighter had been murdered, strangled to death, and he’d died with a hard-on. Tap a woman on the head and she’ll sit and whine about the pain. Cosh a man, put his head in a female lap, and when he opens his eyes the first thing he sees is a pair of world-class breasts, all the blood travels south so there’s less pain. It’s one of those women-are-Venusians-and-men-are-lower-than-slugs things, Robbie figured. A man could be quite dangerous in that state, a cocked pistol with the safety off.

“Stop fashing, B.A., he has a fine steady pulse.” To Robbie’s way of thinking, their lass seemed quite concerned. A heartening sign, though he doubted she’d appreciate his logic.

Never far from the minds of all Falgannon’s lonely lads, The Curse dated so far back in ancient history it was now lore. It was placed on Falgannon by Sgathach Buanand, Skye’s Warrior Queen. In a jealous fit of vengeance, she decreed the males of the isle wouldn’t find true and lasting love unless the Lady of the Isle mated with an Outlander—one who had black hair and green eyes and was of Irish descent. If those conditions remained unmet, the females of the island would bear only boy babes, leaving Falgannon with a perpetual shortage of marriageable-aged women.

Much to the consternation of Falgannonian males, they’d discovered it wasn’t a simple matter of moving away either. The Curse had far-reaching effects. Robbie was aware men who tried leaving found all manner of dilemmas befell them and wouldn’t cease until they returned to the wee rock in the Atlantic Ocean.

When B.A. announced her impending marriage nine years before, all the males had muttered no good would come of it. They’d held their tongues around B.A. about grave doubts. The aristocratic half-Irisher Deshaunt wasn’t one the islanders considered good enough for B.A. Still, when dealing with The Curse they’d clutched at straws. A sticking point, though Irish and he had black hair, Deshaunt lacked green eyes, so the men of Falgannon had rubbed their rabbit feet and prayed for the best. And when Deshaunt’s plane went down in the North Atlantic seven years ago, Robbie knew the hopes of every Falgannonian male went with it. As long as B.A. lacked a mate who met the terms of The Curse, the men of the isle were doomed.

Robbie studied the green eyes fixed on their B.A., then skimmed over the Outlander’s body. A fit man, a hard man. Of course, it’d take one with grit in his craw and a will of iron to deal with their lass. He had a feeling this Desmond might be the feller. B.A. and he were certainly getting buzzes off each other.

More importantly—he had green eyes! Robbie glanced skyward and whispered a paean for this godsend. So maybe… with a nudge here and there? Of course, with their B.A. it’d probably require something more subtle—like a broom over the head. However, needs must when the devil drives.

Michael the Story returned with a dustpan and two brooms, elbowed Callum and handed him one. Wiggling his brows, Michael jerked his head in the direction of the couple on the floor. When Callum made his prune face and said a silent
huh?,
Michael mouthed the words,
our B.A., the Outlander… black hair, green eyes… The Curse
.

Robbie saw the lightbulb come on over Callum’s head, though he deemed the wattage a wee bit dim.

“How come Doc isn’t here yet?” B.A. wailed.

“He has to pump up the tire on his bicycle.” Michael suggested. “Maybe one of the Vikings could fetch him around in that machine?”

B.A.‘s face brightened. “Oh aye, hurry.”

B.A. watched Michael go out the door, jostling through the throng of villagers still pressed there. Suddenly, Mershan flexed those cat muscles, and in a move that’d bring a smile to Hulk Hogan, she was on her back with Desmond the Panther on his knees looming over her.

It certainly put to rest the question of him being dead, B.A. marveled. She opened her mouth to… what—ask how his head felt? To scream? Only, warm soft lips covered hers. They moved, kissing her slowly, thoroughly, and with such surprising sweetness that tears welled in her eyes.

Her hand lifted to his face in a caress of wonderment. She shook, forgot all about herself. There was only him. Tasting hot as cinnamon and intoxicating as Highland whisky, his velvet tongue slid in, stroking, proclaiming a male intent that ignited a yearning in her. A heat hit at the base of her belly and exploded outward, causing her to tremble with longing.

You don’t know this man,
ranted the logical part of her brain—the part she always referred to as Angel B.A. Her Devil B.A. side laughed and said,
I don’t bloody care, as long as he’s kissing me like there’s no tomorrow.

Prodded by her angel side, B.A. scooted to sit up, but there wasn’t room to maneuver with him hovering over her. Worse, she had to be careful of the broken glass. Hands in the air, she glanced about in frustration, then back to the grinning, sexy man.

Sensing her uncertainty, he took advantage, leaning forward to kiss her again. She drank in the fire, the male pheromones, drowned in his blatant masculinity. Unprepared for her physical response, the sensations were agonizing! He kissed her, cherished her as though he were the last man on earth and she the last woman.

Of course… they weren’t.

Angus shuffled over, peering at them. “Lads, our B.A. dinna kilt the Viking after all. He’s comin’ around.”

“Aye, not dead a’tall, Angus. Not sure about the around part, but I’d say he’ll be comin’ if he keeps that up.” Callum began sweeping up the glass shards and candies near them. “Mind, B.A., wouldn’t want this muck to get in your long hair.”

Angus remained in an awkward position, his head tilted sideways, watching. The Cat Dudley padded over and rubbed against the old man’s legs. “Think our B.A. is giving the lad mouth-to-mouth reassesses—that breathing thing—to keep him going ‘til Doc gets fetched?” he asked.

Leave it to her nutty islanders to turn the whole thing into a joke at her expense. B.A. pushed against the stranger’s shoulders, breaking the embrace. A tear formed in her eye from the shock of how this man reached through her barriers and had touched her—and not physically, but her soul. She glared at him, resenting how he’d upset her well-ordered world.

He leaned and kissed the furrow of her brow, almost as if he understood her confusion, shared it. B.A. tilted her head to study this beautiful, black-headed man. Her trembling fingers traced over her lips, befuddled by the mix of emotions he provoked within her.

He kissed the tip of her nose. Once more, a simple gesture of reassurance. Then their eyes locked and B.A. felt the world about her revolve. She drowned in those jade depths. Moved, she almost reached out to touch him, the wonder of this bizarre moment shaking her to where she couldn’t think. Typically male, he recognized his power, that his scent fogged her brain. Taking advantage, he brushed his lips against hers again.

“Guess he needed a second dose to rise from the dead—you think, Angus?” Callum sniggered.

Snapped back to awareness of the others around her, B.A. decided to kill them. First Callum, next Angus, then The Bloody Cat Dudley. Finally, she would skin a green-eyed panther. As soon as he stopped kissing her—as soon as she stopped kissing him back.

Dormant for years, her body clamored with a hunger so strong it was incapacitating. She’d forgotten the heat that radiated off a man’s body, how hard muscles compared to a woman’s softness, how male scent clouded your brain. How a man could make you blind with need.

The bells clattered as Innis shuffled in. “Shoo, devil’s spawn,” he addressed Dudley. The feline sniffed at him disdainfully. Innis leaned over in a fashion mirroring Angus. “What’s our B.A. doing to the Outlander?”

“That PCV stuff,” Angus informed him.

Robbie burst into gales of laughter, which infected Callum. “I… think… you… mean… C… P… R, Angus.” He barely got out the sentence before the boffos exploded again.

“Och, I see it!” He nudged B.A.‘s shoulder. “Should you not be a huffin’ ‘n, puffin’ ‘n knockin’ the lad in the chest? Seen it on telly once. Dunna seem, B.A., as if you have the hang of it.”

B.A. drew back, feeling much like Alice after tumbling down the rabbit hole.

“Her heart’s in it, give our lass that.” Innis dragged over another bench, the racket as distressing as fingernails on a chalkboard. “Angus, take a load off. And thought you’d want to ken, B.A., one of them Vikings drove Michael over in the juggernaut to fetch Doc. Janet the Red, poor thing, is sacrificing herself by taking the big braw one down to the Hanged Man.”

“Considerate of our Janet, her being an Outlander and all. I ken how much a sacrifice that be for the lass,” Angus commiserated, tongue in cheek. He nudged Innis with his cane and looked at B.A. and Mershan.“A bonnie pair they make, eh?”

“That they do. It’s good, B.A., to see you showing interest in a man again,” Innis teased.

B.A. floated on a cloud of sensations, tingling from head to toe with those strange achy prickles one gets when you sit on your foot too long. This man singed her, branded her with an ardor she found devastating. Even so, it didn’t stop the notion of purchasing a gross of voodoo dolls and putting them to use from fleeting through the back of her head.

Rushing in, Gordie the Piper announced, “Juggernaut’s returning. You can see headlights half across the isle.” Wee Gordie, trailing three steps behind his da, almost stepped on his father’s heels. “Gor, look at that! Them bloody Vikings have started their rapine ways. Next they’ll want to pillage something.”

Wee Gordie scrunched up his forehead. “Da, what’s pillage mean?”

Enough! If permitted, these eegits would make a whole evening’s entertainment out of this. Gathering her wits, B.A. pushed away from Desmond. Blasted man followed as if he intended to kiss her again—the damn panther wasn’t letting go of his prey.

She wagged her index finger in front of his face. “Now, stop that!”

His pale eyes narrowed on her finger and, before she knew what he intended, he sucked it into his mouth. His tongue swirled around it, sending deep shudders down her spine.

The bells sounded again as Michael dashed in with Cedric in tow. “Found him,” he declared.

Cedric the Doc strolled in, the fabric of his kilt swinging as he walked. “Evening, Innis, Ian, Callum, Robbie, Angus, Gordon, Wee Gordie.”