Sisters of Colford Hall 01 - The Invasion of Falgannon Isle (7 page)

Later, outside the family cemetery, he’d watched B.A. from his car, the soft knock of the wipers keeping rain off the windscreen. With a trembling hand, she’d touched the plaque placed in memorial of Evian Deshaunt. In that instant he’d almost hated her for wasting that emotion on a dead man. He’d fought the primitive urge to cross the graveyard and yank her into his arms, to kiss her until he melted that ice castle she’d built around herself, kiss her ‘til she knew life was for the living.

Desmond lay back in her huge George III bed and considered Ms. B.A. Montgomerie, sizing up his opponent—surrogate for her grandfather. All the time and money gone into bringing Sean Montgomerie’s empire down, and the old devil had escaped Desmond’s vengeance. He’d wanted to howl at the moon.

Oh, the financial part of his plans still had the green light. The Brothers Mershan were taking down Montgomerie Enterprises, piece-by-piece, starting with Falgannon; Valinor Revisited, the horse farm in Kentucky; and Colford Hall in England. Nothing could stop them. The Montgomeries would have no idea who was the real power behind Trident Ventures until too late.

He forced a smile, but had a feeling it didn’t reach his eyes, because a worried look passed over her face.

“Your head pains you?” she queried in concern.

Desmond curled his fists around handfuls of the duvet, holding tight to keep from grabbing her. She was too close. Her female scent brushed against his mind, nearly letting loose the primitive animal lurking just below the surface. She bent over the tray, the edge of her gown revealing the swell of those perfect breasts. B.A. Montgomerie needed reminding she was a woman and he was more than willing to do it—in every way imaginable.

Instead, he gave a brief nod. “A bit.”

Rage and raw pain of that forlorn seven-year-old who’d watched his father pull the trigger ending his life, built inside of him to a dangerous, reckless level. Looking for a venue to vent, he focused on her whiskey-colored eyes. He wanted to see them wide, staring into his as he pumped his body into hers. He wanted to hear that husky voice calling his name as she climaxed with a force her dead husband never pushed her to reach. Maybe then the demons would be silent for awhile.

“You should rest.” Anxiety flickered in her eyes.

In a clipped tone he replied, “Fine.”

B.A. shook out a couple aspirin and handed them to him with a glass of water.

His control rattled her, he knew, that stillness within him that reminded her of a predator. He scared her in ways Ms. BarbaraAnne Montgomerie didn’t want to think about. And like all true predators, he fed off that fear, savored it.

She turned to leave but he stopped her with a question, a challenge. “Don’t you want to look into my eyes?”

A faint shudder wracked her body. Then he heard what she was listening to. Downstairs, the radio played “Would I Lie To You” by Simply Red. Mick Huckhall crooned to look into his eyes and tell him if you believed he’d lie. It was one of those spooky moments, B.A.‘s amber eyes stared into his, and he knew without a doubt he’d lie to her with out hesitation.

“You’ll do.” She wanted to break away, but was held in sway. “Try and rest.”

Desmond watched her leave—run. Well, he’d permit her the distance. For now.

Feeling the pain in his head rise, fueled by rage, he closed his eyes and willed his mind to still. So many nights he’d lain awake staring at the ceiling, envisioning Montgomerie’s face as he was presented with a fait accompli, that the empire he’d spent his life building would be destroyed with a few strokes of Desmond’s pen. More than anything, Desmond had wanted Sean to know who was doing it and why. He’d been cheated of that personal triumph.

He rubbed the knuckles of his right hand, recalling how he put it through a wall after returning from Montgomerie’s funeral. His brothers and he had been robbed of a father, of a decent childhood, because of that greedy old man. The one thing that would’ve conjured peace within him—seeing Sean’s face as Desmond took everything from him—was no longer an option.

He’d still destroy Montgomerie Enterprises. He’d lay claim to the horse farm in Kentucky, the going concern in England and this stupid rock in the Atlantic. He’d even relish the pleasure of having Montgomerie’s oh-so-beautiful granddaughter under him. He’d ride her hard, give no measure, and though she’d come to him willingly, want him as desperately as he’d want her, he’d be using her. Just as he would take and ravage her precious island.

Why did that suddenly make him feel sick?

Chapter 6

B.A. peeked into the bedroom. She needed clothes and a shower, but that required bearding The Panther. A quick sweep of the room revealed he wasn’t about, so she hurried to the walk-in closet and opened the mirrored doors. Intent on escape, she didn’t stop to ponder where Mershan had vanished.

Reaching for her jeans, she froze when sounds to the right drew her attention, her vision traveled down the dressing room hall to the spacious bathroom.

The mirror covering the wall behind the double-basins reflected Desmond in all his glory. Well,
nearly
all. The only thing covering that gorgeous body was a black towel around his hips. Leaning over the sink, he stuck out his chin and applied a smooth stroke up his sexy throat with a razor.

Hubba-hubba!
Devil B.A. broke into wolf whistles.

She mentally kicked herself for ogling The Panther Desmond, but it had been a long time since she’d had a nekkid man—well, mostly nekkid—in her bathroom. She wished she possessed a dram of Janet the Red in her, as there was little doubt how her friend would handle this situation.

Wistfully, she sighed. Too much good girl was ingrained in her, so she remained flatfooted and tongue-tied. But her heart slammed against her rib cage and desire boiled in her, the ache more agonizing for being a sensation she thought long dead.

Devil B.A. screamed,
Maybe good girls don’t, but
women
certainty do!

Desmond leaned forward and washed off the excess shave cream. As he raised back, his hypnotic green eyes locked with hers as he looked at her in the mirror, their power not lessened because they were a reflection. He snagged a towel and dried his face, then turned. Every gesture was unhurried, each movement measured with that stillness unique to big cats. He
knew
there was no rush; he had mesmerized his prey. Exuding confidence, he cocked his hips and put his hands on them, saying: Look your fill.

B.A. wanted to throw something at him. Arrogant bastard! He stood—a slight smirk on that too sensual mouth and in that itsy-bitsy towel—assured that he sent her blood spiraling.

Before she could blink, he stirred, stalking to her with an animalistic, sensual grace. Angel B.A. screamed,
Don’t stand there! Throw something! Run!
as he moved in for the kill. Her breaths were short, choppy, pushed her breasts up high in faint jerks; the heat off his very male body, rolled over her even though inches separated them.

The feral eyes held her in thrall as Desmond leaned close, as if going to kiss her. At the last second he whispered, “Do I smell like pink peonies?”

Peonies, what’s a peony?
echoed Devil and Angel B.A. in unison.

She swallowed hard, acknowledging she’d made a fool of herself. He noted the visible signs she anticipated he might kiss her, yet stood like a virginal teenager. Both of them were aware if he’d chosen to follow through she wouldn’t have fought, and that secretly she desired him to do so.

Stop being such a ninny,
Angel B.A. rebuked from her right shoulder. Embarrassment propelled her to step back. On the opposite side, Devil B.A. groaned and hung her head in shame.

Smug, Mershan permitted the distance. “Hope you don’t mind. I wanted to wash my hair, get rid of the sticky stuff from yesterday’s adventure.”

“I’m sure… You dunna-care for the fragrance of my shampoo?” She stammered.

“Au contraire.”
Once more, he invaded her space to nuzzle against her ear. “On you, the scent’s quite seductive. It haunted my dreams.”

Angled open, the closet door reflected their images to the bathroom mirror and back. Feeling trapped in a house of mirrors, she suddenly wondered what had possessed her to design a bedroom suite with so many panels of reflective glass. All she’d missed was one over the bed.

Don’t go there,
Angel B.A. chided primly.

Ignoring mutterings of her guiding conscience, a premonition flooded her mind of Desmond’s and her bodies intertwined on silk sheets, the erotic tableau reflected in a mirror overhead.

Well, maybe just one more,
Devil B.A. mused, pushing a finger into a cheek to create a dimple in an effort to appear innocent.

Desmond’s darker body was clad in the small towel about his hips, standing against her pale body in the white gown, her honey-blond hair, his black—this was a portrait of overwhelmingly salacious contrasts. As if she needed to see them reflected! She drowned in his potent warlock pheromones.

It’d be so easy to take one little step and move into his body. For once not think. To give free rein to the wild emotions rising in her, to the madness shrieking to be set free. Downstairs the radio played Cutting Crew’s “I Just Died in Your Arms Tonight.” A promise, a lure, taunting her to put a sock in Angel B.A.‘s nattering platitudes such as
Men don’t buy the cow if they get the milk for free,
and to surrender to the bad-girl side long denied.

No man had ever affected her with such a strong physical pull.

She dredged up excuses: I’m thirty-seven, a widow, surely I can gag that good-girl conscience and indulge in hot sex with The Panther. Agreeing, Devil B.A. broke into a Highland Fling. B.A. sucked in a deep breath to take that step, putting her against him.

Ice water doused her in the form of the front door opening and voices shouting her name. Eyes wide, for a frozen instant she stared at Desmond, nearly hating him for reading her every reaction to him. Hated herself even more for being so susceptible to his potent panther magic.

She dragged the jeans off the hanger and clutched them to her chest. “Coming!” she called, then dashed from the room, not caring Desmond would view it as running from him.

She paused at the top of the stairs, spotting Brian, Callum, Robbie, Willie and Michael carrying in sofas and chairs. Behind them was Wulfgar with luggage.

“Hi ho, lass,” Brian called. “A bonnie day, is it not?”

“Why are you addlepates in my house?” She stormed down the staircase, keen to vent frustration on surrogates.

“‘Addlepates,’ she says,” Michael addressed the other men. “She plays slugabed this morn, while we’ve sorted out matters.”

Callum and Robbie toted in a chair with Angus sitting there holding Dudley in his lap. “You shameless hussy, prancing around in your nightie!” Then he looked down as if the cat had just materialized. “Go, before you get it in your twisted brain to take a chomp out of me. Shoo!”

“I’m
not
prancing, you invaded my privacy—”

“‘Tis privacy she’d be wanting,” Angus chortled. “Likely to wallow that poor Viking more. Ashamed you should be.”

Wulfgar the Walking Mountain returned, carrying another case and scuba tanks, which he dropped before her. “These are his,” he intoned, then lumbered back outside.

“Wait! Dunna leave these here!” She started to chase after him, only Brian and Michael caught her by the waist, lifted and dropped her to sit on a chair they had just brought in.

“Out of the way, lass,” Brian ordered.

“You’re
not
leaving his stuff. Fetch him back with you. I played nurse last night,” she fumed. “He’s perfectly all right.”

More than all right, he’s absolutely perfect,
Devil B.A. purred.

Brian shook his head. “Doc says he’s to rest for a week and you’re to keep an eye on him. A person can develop
seizures
after a bonk to the skull. You looking into his eyes, B.A.?”

“Why me?” She whipped around, eyeing him with suspicion.

Michael shrugged. “Outside of Janet the Red, we’re low on members of the female persuasion to care for him. You really want our Janet soothing his furrowed brow?”

B.A. frowned. Janet had demonstrated a strong yen for black-haired men, over time methodically flirting her way through the males of Clan Fraser while Angus the Ferry wasn’t looking. B.A. wanted Desmond out, so that he’d stop sucking all the air from the room and leave her in peace—not devoured whole!

“Janet offered.” Brian twisted the burr deeper.

Michael teased, “B.A. is thinking, which never bodes well for us males. Stop lolling about in your gown, lass, or Angus will call you a hussy again. Our Yank lasses are resting, the time difference hitting them. They’ll be up soon. You need to be there to welcome them.”

“You’re certain about the kilts, lass?” Brian quirked an eyebrow.

She ceased nibbling her lower lip over Janet tending The Panther Desmond. “Aye, nothing’s sexier than a man in a kilt.”

They nodded, bowing to her female wisdom. “Kilts it shall be.”

“May we cut them roses from the castle garden?” Michael asked.

“Not roses—a single bud, white or lavender, tied with a tartan ribbon,” B.A. insisted, knowing less was more.

“‘O,
my love is like a red, red rose
—’” Willie crinkled his forehead as he quoted Robbie Burns. “Wouldn’t red be better?”

“My Lady’s Passion are in full glory,” Michael chimed, mischief in his gray eyes.

B.A. frowned. “See, Kitty?” she said to Dudley, referring to their earlier discussion. “Told you.”

“Since you’re conversing with the wee beastie from hell, ask him to get off.” Angus whined, watching Dudley in his lap, “He’s kneading me with his tiny daggers.”

“Jock the Repair got the blower limping along. Ian, my brother”—Brian winked, speaking of his twin—“said e-mail for our project’s full. You need to sort that out. We’ll settle the Viking prince. See, not only did we bring the furniture from the ferry, but even fetched a second bed—to save your honor and all.”

“What about the furniture for Lady Cottage?” she argued. They’d almost finished installing the paneling and flooring so she could move back into the cottage perched atop the castle. “I have to be in residence by
Samhain
.”

“Plenty of time. Stop fashing, B.A., you’ll get wrinkles between your brows,” Brian teased, obviously taking perverse pleasure in her killing glare.

“Morning,” a voice rumbled from behind B.A.

Dudley stopped terrorizing Angus and raced up the steps to twine around Desmond’s legs. His bare legs. He stood wrapped in her pink robe reaching only to mid-thigh. Slack-jawed, B.A. stared at his sexy male toes, traveled up his faintly bowlegged but still beautiful legs—to her silk wrapper.

Michael leaned near and smugly arranged the lapel of B.A.‘s robe to cover her right breast. The thin white gown little shielded her body’s reaction to The Panther. B.A. slapped the hand away, glanced at Brian, then back to Mershan. Then, feeling her blush deepen, she bolted up the stairs, nearly toppling Desmond as she shoved past.

Desmond leaned back against the rail, tracking B.A. as she ran down the hall and into a room. She slammed the door so hard the windows rattled. “She always like that?” he inquired of the Scots.

Michael held out his hand. “Michael Mackenzie.” He gestured to the other men and introduced them in turn.

A keen observer, Desmond sensed these men were a tad too eager to make his acquaintance, and not adept in hiding Cheshire Cat grins. For now he let it ride since it worked to his advantage.

“Ignore the lass,” Brian said. “I imagine a man in her robe flustered her—not used to it and all.”

Desmond grinned sheepishly. “I was without clothing. I guess she took mine and popped them into the washer. These my bags?”

“Dunna be exerting yourself.” Michael and Brian jumped for the case before Desmond descended the final steps. “Doc said to relax, to let B.A. tend you. She’s to fetch you around to the Marys, so he can look you over this evening before the welcome ceremony for our Yank lasses.”

“I’m fine—” he started to say.

The old man interrupted. “Young feller, heed Doc. He may not be much—being a critter doctor and all—but he kens these things.”

Desmond’s eyebrows lifted. “I was checked by a veterinarian?”

Willie the Writer came forward, his turn to shake hands. “Not exactly. He dinna have time before you knocked him out. Of course, it was
B.A.‘s
fault, screaming like the
bansidhe
.”

“You don’t have a real doctor on the island?” Desmond turned sideways so they could carry his luggage up to the bedroom, smiling as they automatically installed him there. For whatever reason, these kooky islanders were proving to be allies.

Wulfgar returned, carrying the last of Desmond’s belongings. His blond brow arched, asking if arrangements met with Desmond’s wishes. Desmond gave Wulf a faint nod. His friend and employee smiled, shaking his head.

“We’re a healthy lot, rarely sick. To treat the rare cold we have Morag,” Brian said, coming down the stairs. He accepted the cases from Wulf.

“She’s a nurse?” Desmond inquired.

“Not a’tall. A healer, an herbalist, I believe they’re called nowadays.”

Desmond pressed, “And if you have an emergency?”

“They’d send a
helio-co-pator
from the Big Isle.” An old man shuffled up to shake Desmond’s hand. “Angus Mackenzie, kenned as Angus the Ancient. The men of Falgannon bid you
cead mile faille,
Desmond Mershan.”

It’d taken nearly twenty-four hours, but finally had someone said Welcome to Falgannon. Desmond glanced down at the cat standing up on its hind legs, soft paws against his thigh. He meowed as if adding voice to the greeting.

Hmm. Maybe he’d been welcomed yesterday—just in Dudley-speak.

*

Leaning against the door she’d slammed, B.A. pressed a hand to her burning forehead. The room was devoid of furniture, so her breaths echoed against the walls.

“Och, ‘tis not good, Angel and Devil B.A. The Panther has green eyes and black hair,” she muttered. “And the voice—the lilt’s there. I knew the situation was precarious when I suddenly thought his toes were beautiful. No sane woman considers a man’s feet pretty. They’re strange long things with weird toes sort of added as an afterthought. Not Desmond’s. I didn’t realize it earlier, but his toes are beautiful. Finding his legs beautiful was one thing. They’re just right, not chicken thin or fat tree stumps, but sculpted rock-hard muscle. True, they’re faintly bowed, but that imperfection only makes him more accessible.”

In her mind she heard Robert Shaw in
Jaws
intoning, “
Here’s to swimmin’ with bowlegged women,
” and though it didn’t rhyme as well, there were interesting points about swimming with bowlegged men.