Sisters of Colford Hall 01 - The Invasion of Falgannon Isle (13 page)

Desmond started the engine. “Cat’s got her tongue, eh, Dudley? Pity that. I can think of a few things for which it might come in handy.”

Devil B.A. sighed in dejection. So could she.

*

As Desmond pushed open the front door, the phone’s shrill ringing greeted them.

The first call was the Marys, asking permission to add five rooms to their house. Obviously hard of hearing, the sisters talked so loudly that B.A. had to hold the phone away from her ear, and he caught most of the conversation. With more prospective brides coming, they had decided to turn their home into a bed-and-breakfast, hinting they could be Falgannon’s unofficial chaperones to see the “proprieties” observed.

B.A. burst out laughing when Mary Annis yelled from the background, “Sister, you scatty eegit, tell our B.A. we see nothing wrong a’tall with her shacking up with the Viking prince. But we think these Yank lasses need to know they can’t have their wicked way with our lads.”

That provoked a case of the giggles in B.A., which quickly turned to hiccups. When Angus the Ferry called, reminding her to have the orders and checks ready for him in the morning, she could barely answer.

Shaking his head, Desmond took the phone from her. “Angus, B.A. is having an apoplexy, but she heard.”

“Slap her on the back.” Angus added, “Our B.A. is the delicate type, so ‘tis likely nerves. These high-strung types, like my Janet, need special handling.”

“Thank you, Angus, I’ll be sure to slap her on the back.”

No sooner than Desmond disconnected, Willie rang begging him to remind B.A. to e-mail Cassie Gates. As B.A. got her hiccups under control, her twin sister, Britt, called with news she had a role in a movie.

B.A.‘s somber end of the conversation led him to gather the opportunity excited Britt, yet some aspect upset her. From extensive profiles Julian Starkadder had worked up on the sisters, Desmond knew Britt hadn’t acted in years, had stopped after the breakup of her affair with some director.

To avoid snooping, he strode into the kitchen, intent on rooting out a whisky. He found several brands of Highland single-malt in a rack on the counter, and Waterford crystal glasses—only the best for Ms. B.A. Montgomerie—in the cupboard.

The cat twined around his feet going
murrrr,
which Desmond interpreted as Dudley-speak for,
Feed me before I pass out from hunger
. He paused, trying to recall where B.A. kept food for the-cat-that-wasn’t-her-cat. Dudley, the highly intelligent puss, scratched on a cabinet door. Sure enough, it was stocked with high-priced canned food, a half-open bag of Hill’s Science Diet and packets of Armitage Good Girl Catnip Drops.

“Not her cat, huh?” Selecting the dry, Desmond poured din-din into the bowl bearing the name the cat Dudley. “You need to go on a diet,” he said for the fiftieth time.

The cat blinked innocently, then yawned. Desmond assumed he was asking for more, not yawning in agreement.

Watching B.A. talk to her twin, he recalled seeing Britt at Sean’s funeral. One wouldn’t instantly assume them twins. In the face they were mirror images, but there the likeness ended. Britt’s long hair was a dark brown with a heavy mahogany cast, the solemn eyes a hazel gray. Not as tall as B.A., Britt had a more delicate air.

Taking a second tumbler from the shelf, Desmond added ice and Edradour whisky. He paused, watching B.A. She appeared tired. He suspected she hadn’t slept well the past two nights. Constantly on the go, everyone wanted this or that from her. She was surrounded by an island full of dotty Scots, was lady of some medieval feudal trust… and yet, no one was really there for her.

Going to her, Desmond took her hand, kissed her palm, then curled her fingers around the glass. For an instant, puzzlement lit her expression. Then the corner of her mouth twitched with a brief thank-you smile.

B.A. allowed the Edradour to glide down her throat, spreading warmth through her body. As if she needed to feel hotter being so close to The Panther Desmond! The man was a blast furnace. His tantalizing heat invaded her space, that irresistible male scent brushing against her mind, exorcizing any hope of hanging on to reason.

Pressing the chilled glass to her cheek, she closed her eyes. From behind, Desmond put his hands on her shoulders and began kneading her tight muscles. Singed by his touch, she stiffened, but it didn’t take long for those magic fingers to have her head lolling in ecstasy.

Oh, pretty please—does he do a full-body version?
Devil B.A. panted from her shoulder.

B.A. loved her twin, who was still talking on the phone, only she had a hard time tracking Britt’s words as waves of pleasure washed through her. She wanted to say she’d ring her back later, but understood this was important. Her sister’s suicide attempt seven years ago had seen her siblings now take any call seriously. Britt refused to discuss that period in her past, though B.A. always believed Lucien Delacroix, the brilliant movie director, had been behind Britt’s self-destructive turn.

“I’d think Hammer doing a remake of
Curse of Glen Gables
would draw good press. The script’s good, Lee is big box office after
Lord of the Rings,
and you’re more beautiful than ever. What’s the prob?”

Britt sighed. “I was high about it, until I went in for pre-pub photos today…”

“And?”

“Lucien Delacroix is directing. Talk about being poleaxed.” Britt laughed, but B.A. heard tears in her voice.

“Ah, bugger.” B.A. groaned.

“I’d never have signed had I known. There’s no backing out.” Britt sighed. “It’s late. You sound tired. I’ll ring you later, after I face the devil incarnate. I need to go arm myself with holy water and wooden stakes.”

Desmond’s eyes traced the lines of B.A.‘s face, concern flickering in them. “Trouble?”

Hanging up, she nodded sadly. “My twin—who’s nothing like me. She took it into her head she wanted to act in horror films. She did. With her gorgeous body splashed across the screen, and two spreads in
Playboy,
she rose to the top. Britt loved acting in horror flicks. Only thing she loved more—Lucien Delacroix. He directed two of her biggest films. Everyone warned her about him—a maniac genius, he made love to his leading ladies, then cast them aside like trash. She dinna listen. When he dumped her, it destroyed Britt. Hammer Films is staging a comeback. They’ve set Chris Lee to star in a sequel to her biggest film,
Curse of Glen Gables
. Britt as the female lead—the same character she played years ago. Same actors—”

“Same director.” Desmond ventured a guess.

She nodded. “I’m not sure Britt has the strength to face Lucien again.”

Desmond lightly raked his hands up her arms. “From a big brother to a big sister—sometimes we can’t stop our siblings from making mistakes.”

“Lesson learned long ago. Still, it isn’t easy when my sisters keep sticking their fingers in the fan.”

Desmond urged, “You’re exhausted. Call it a night.”

“I have several hours of work to do yet—”

The phone rang and B.A. reached for it, only his long arm beat her to the receiver. “Ms. Montgomerie’s butler speaking. She’s retired for the evening. Try again in the morning.”

“Butler?” The voice laughed. “What’s a lady’s butler paid these days? Any
side
benefits?”

Desmond’s humor sobered. “Trevelyn. Time you checked in.”

Kissing him on his cheek, B.A. whispered, “For the drink and the shoulder rub.” Then she went into the alcove to handle paperwork, affording him privacy.

“I’ve been busy, Des.”

Desmond’s eyes followed B.A. as she booted her laptop, wishing she’d go on to bed instead. “To any purpose?”

“You might say. I’m sitting on the bed of Raven Montgomerie, while she prepares us a late supper.” His voice held a note of triumph.

Desmond snorted. “Figures.”

“What’s with the butler rubbish?”

Desmond evaded. “I’d rather hear details from your end.”

Trevelyn laughed. “Not now, Sin. Besides, I’m intrigued by your new profession.”

“Trev…” he growled.

“I’d rather not go into details, but the situation’s on target.” Trevelyn hesitated, then inquired, “You’re on track as well?”

Desmond thought back on his life before coming to the island and his purpose for being here. The Cat Dudley twined around his legs, vibrating with a diesel purr.

Was everything on track?

His reply was evasive. “Why shouldn’t it be?”

Trevelyn sensed something was off. “You sound… different.”

Not wishing for more of his brother’s incisive probing, he offered an excuse. “I took a tap on the head.”

“Hokey smoke, Bullwinkle! Bad?”

“You know me. I’ve a hard head.” He cut Trevelyn off before he could ask more questions: “Check in more—I like progress reports. ‘Night, Trev.”

“‘Night, Des.”

Desmond hung up the receiver, pausing, lost in thought. He stared at the beautiful woman whose lovely face was marred by a scowl as she looked at her computer screen, squinting. He had an idea she needed her eyes checked, was likely waiting until she visited England again. She’d skipped supper telling him she’d catch a sandwich later. She hadn’t. He wondered how many times she’d put off eating and then gone to bed with no food, simply because she was too exhausted.

Getting cheese and sliced beef from the refrigerator, he fixed himself a sandwich, sharing a bite of the meat with Dudley. Slicing the bread diagonally, he paused mid-action. He had a strange, sinking feeling that nothing was on track. Least of all, him.

Chapter 11

He stood at the cliff’s edge before Castle Falgannon, the wind ruffling his hair. Desmond stared out to sea at storm clouds looming on the horizon. Heavy mist swirled in the air, enshrouding the isle. So much for the Hebrides rarely having fog.

He’d come here, drawn by the ancient fortress and its panoramic vantage. His intent had been to go for a walk, to distance himself from B.A. and refocus on the plans he’d set in motion.

He’d have a hard time achieving those aims after holding her in his arms all night.

The morning had been spent delivering checks to shops on the main circle in the village, their cut of the online catalog sales for Falgannon.co.uk. At B.A.‘s invitation he’d gone along. After breakfast at The Hanged Man, the first stops had been the pottery store, the bicycle shop, Davie the Weaver’s and the art gallery run by Oonanne the Painter. Next came Patrick the Jeweler, who created dazzling gold and silver pieces with Pictish designs. Then the Shoe & Saddle Shop, where to his surprise, he found that outside of Reeboks all leather goods were handmade on the isle. Impressed with the quality, he ended up purchasing the pair of riding boots he now wore. They fit like a glove. The first pair of knee-boots he owned, and yet they felt a part of him, as if he’d lived in them his whole life.

He also wore a fisherman’s knit sweater, though it was from Dunmohr, a nearby isle. Not only did B.A. see there was work for all on Falgannon, she organized two neighboring isles. Thus far, the online sales showed a steady clientele.

B.A. also ran greenhouses where they bred and exported hardy tea roses and peonies. Not allowing anything to go to waste, they used the petals to create sachets, soaps and perfumes for popular lines named Mists of the Isle and My Lady’s Passion. After the first of the year, she’d launch another for men called Warrior Prince.

For such a small isle, they were quite industrious. The whole island was busy as bees and so bloody happy it nearly made him puke. Desmond couldn’t put a finger on why their contentment with their island life irritated him. They weren’t living in poverty. Their homes were postcard picturesque. B.A. supplied them with “toys”—DVD and CD players and the latest movies and music. Willie ran a combination book, DVD and CD shop, taking used ones in trade.

The clothing store was stocked with anything the islanders could want, but practical wear, no designer labels—they were more interested in how long it’d last or how warm it was. The only time they showed interest in who made it was if it came from one of the neighboring isles. When he inquired if they stocked Louis Vuitton jeans and sweaters, the storeowner, Marjorie Mackenzie, informed him she didn’t know the man and asked if he was new to the area.

“He’d best contact B.A. She’ll add him to the catalogue.” After he explained, she fixed him with a pinched look. “‘Tis daft, young feller. A shirt is a shirt, and no putting a name on it will make it any better.”

He’d felt like a pretentious jerk.

The island affected him. Desmond hated that it did, but he wouldn’t hide from the fact. How could a few days make such a difference? Small wonder the whole community was nuts; he was beginning to think he no longer knew himself. He found it harder to concentrate on why he’d come to Falgannon, more difficult to stay in tune with that predatory instinct of going for the throat.

He’d come out here to center himself, to sharpen his mind-set. Instead, he found he had no anchor. Never had he felt so out of control—and he didn’t like it one bit.

He turned, staring at the castle’s gray stone walls, trying to see it with architect’s eyes, a developer’s bottom line. Contrarily, he speculated about the people who had lived there—all the daughters of the original Maeve’s line and their search for happiness with their green-eyed men. Had any found bliss? Had the castle walls echoed with laughter?

It surprised him to discover after all these years he still possessed a bit of a conscience. The islanders were so accepting of him. Especially B.A. After he’d claimed ownership of the northern tip of the isle, she hadn’t pressed for proof. He knew she’d called her brother this morning. But catching the tail end of her conversation, he heard the tone of her voice was curiosity not urgency. These kooky Scots were too open—too
genuine
. It chafed that he wasn’t handling them in the same fashion.

Quashing pointless emotion, Desmond stalked back to the greenhouse to round up B.A. and the cat. After all, it was about time for the ferry to return, then supper and Thursday night poker.

He chuckled derisively. A hot time on the old isle tonight.

So, why was he looking forward to it?

The Cyrkle’s golden oldie, “Turn Down Day,” played over the speakers, the song matching B.A.‘s pensive mood as she pruned roses in the greenhouse, the chore a favorite on rainy days. She enjoyed the quiet of the indoor gardens, with Dudley dancing around on the benches. Kitty loved music and often kept her company, but today he surprised B.A. by staying rather than trailing after The Panther Desmond.

Maybe Dudley sensed, as had she, that the man needed space. After the tour of the shops, Desmond had grown silent, brooding. It was troubling.

She’d gotten a trunk call through to her brother concerning Desmond’s claim. Cian asked if she’d seen Desmond’s paperwork. He’d edged toward livid over her not cornering Desmond for facts. Somehow, that hadn’t been foremost on her mind.

The truth?—At this point she didn’t care. She was falling hard for Desmond Mershan. It little mattered what had brought him to Falgannon. As she’d told Michael the Fiddle, she might get hurt, but the time for hiding from the world in the safe cocoon of the island was past.

Pulling a perfect white rose to her nose, she closed her eyes and inhaled the citrus scent. Rocking to the music, her mind reflected on last night. He’d been so caring, bringing her the whisky and later a sandwich. It had been a long time since someone did things for her. Years since she’d let them.

When she’d dropped to the computer in exhaustion, he carried her into the living room, laying her on the couch. He’d lit the peat in the fireplace and sat, putting her feet into his lap. There were no words to describe the ecstasy as he put those magic fingers to work on her feet. All tension, knots of seven years, released under his tender ministrations.

Never had anyone treated her with such gentle care, made her feel so precious, cherished. It was silly but tears came to her eyes. Closing her lids, trying to hold them back, she hoped Desmond hadn’t seen. He leaned over and scooted behind her, pulling her back to his chest. He fitted his body protectively to hers. Those strong arms enfolded her, his radiant heat scorching her flesh, seeping bone deep. She’d felt secure, safe.

At dawn, she’d woke to Angus the Ferry tapping on the door. She was tucked up with blankets over her—very alone. The peat fire was barely more than ash.

As she inhaled the flower’s perfume, she sighed. Desmond Mershan was a perplexing man, likely perplexing even to himself, though he’d be loath to admit that. And he was oh so hard on a tender heart.

“What to do, Kitty, what to do?” Dudley bumped his head against her arm, assuring her he liked Desmond. “I’m to trust
your
opinion, you arrogant beastie?”

“Talking to a pussycat might lead some to think the kitty’s yours.” Desmond stood, leaning against the doorway. His midnight hair was windblown, droplets of rain clinging to the curls. Wearing black pants tucked into his knee boots and a fisherman’s knit sweater, he appeared island-born instead of the polished businessman who’d arrived four days ago.

Her fae voice whispered:
He belongs here
. Oh, she was in trouble.

Flustered, she waved her hand. “Everyone natters to Kitty. It’s when he talks back we show concern.” She deadheaded the spent bloom and dumped it into the dustbin on wheels in the middle of the aisle.

Chill, BarbaraAnne,
Angel B.A. counseled.
Drooling puddles on the floor is unacceptable behavior.

Desmond studied B.A., who was pretending his presence didn’t affect her. She appeared less tired today, her hips swaying to K. D. Lang’s “Constant Craving.” The silly cat was doing the same.

“Dudley, my man, they’d have burnt you as a familiar in the Middle Ages.” He laughed as Kitty ignored him and continued a
Meow-Mix
chow-chow-chow dance.

Evidently, she’d rested peacefully in his arms last night. Rather surprisingly, so had he. He’d put up with lying next to her, aching with every fiber of his being, wanting her so badly he thought he’d go mad. He’d gritted his teeth and cradled her, so beautiful in peaceful slumber that he couldn’t bear to disturb her. Just watching B.A. was reward enough.

At least, it had been last night. Today was another matter.

The queer mood polluting his disposition, he stalked B.A., invading her space, stepping close enough that she’d feel the heat off his body. He breathed the words close against her ear, “Aren’t you going to look in my eyes?”

Half closing her own, B.A. shivered. The small gesture empowered him. Lust hit him like a bolt of lightning.

Desmond glanced about the glasshouse. It was shrouded in the thick fog, which coated the glass panels overhead and rolled down the sides. Inside, earthy scents of the plants and a perfume of roses mixed with the more potent aroma that was BarbaraAnne Montgomerie—a lethal aphrodisiac to a man already in hormonal overdrive.

Even snoopy Scotsmen wouldn’t be spying in the rain, which meant The Cat Dudley was the only audience—and Dudley was bribable. Besides, Kitty seemed already preoccupied, his nose stuck up in the air as he danced to the music.

“Keep that up, Dudley, and I’ll buy you a copy of “Sweating to the Oldies” with Richard Simmons. You can dance away that flubber.” He took hold of a surprised B.A.‘s hand, twirled her into his arms and started dancing. Phil Collins’s “Easy Lover” was playing. “What? Think I couldn’t dance?” he asked.

She chuckled. “I think you could do anything you set your mind to, Desmond Mershan.”

Rocking to the rhythm, they moved together, each anticipating the other’s steps. Desmond sighed, thinking how well they’d complement each other when they made love. The music switched to the slower”He’s So Shy” by the Pointer Sisters. He pressed her close, enjoying the sensual sway of their bodies, inhaling the intoxicating fragrance that was pure B.A.

Halfway through the song, he stopped. Brushing the side of his thumb against the faint cleft in her chin, he drowned in those amber eyes. She watched him with a doe-in-the-headlights expression. So luminous. Every emotion exposed for him to read.

Desmond lifted her chin and slowly brushed his lips across hers. Drank in her gasp. Her lips were soft and yielding, tasted of lemon drops. They melted against each other, fitting perfectly, and the world about them spun like leaves in the autumn wind.

He pulled back slightly, unnerved by the power rising between them. No woman before had sent his heart racing with such frantic need. None ever invoked this necessity to possess, to protect. To cherish. A grinding surge of lust pushed him to reach out and take her in the rawest, most elemental way. Yet, as demanding as the urge, his consciousness whispered how special this woman was—maybe too special for his peace of mind.

Controlling his every thought, his every emotion, had been how Desmond survived. This spiraling magic between them was beyond his experience. Outside of control. He was used to taking what he wanted from a relationship, then walking away without a second thought. Terms B.A. would never accept, he suspected.

A lesser man would run, unable to face the gravity of involvement. If a man couldn’t accept all the strings that came with her, they’d better back off before she was hurt… bad.

He swallowed, bitterness rising in him. B.A. would be hurt no matter what. When the trap sprang shut on Falgannon Isle it’d close around her heart, piercing it as well. For he was a bastard who long ago had sold his soul to the devil in a pact for vengeance. He wouldn’t leave her in peace. He’d take her, soak up these moments of sunshine that warmed his cold heart, then use her until that second when those amber eyes stared at him with daggers of hatred.

He shrugged to dismiss a pesky bit of conscience, that bit of Jacob Marley undigested cabbage that rose to nag him, saying if he followed through on destroying her island he’d be no better than Sean Montgomerie. Desmond hated to think he had anything in common with the old man. One viewpoint: He might be worse. He’d be looking into her eyes when she learned of his betrayal. Then who would be the bigger bastard—Sean or him?

Yes, Sean had destroyed his world, but it had been done from a distance. Montgomerie had never seen the pain up close, the hurt, the deprivation. Desmond knew what was coming, what he’d put into action. Since he was no coward, he’d be here to face the fallout when it came down around their heads.

He stared into those glistening eyes, and all other thoughts vanished. The passion smoldering between them was overpowering, humbling, drove all shards of the civilized man from his consciousness. Letting lose the primordial animal. He sensed his mate. Never had anything seared his mind, his soul, with such intensity. He couldn’t think. He wasn’t sure he breathed.

One last splinter of control kept him from reaching out and taking her with a fierceness that would terrify her. There was a chasm in his psyche, a fathomless darkness, and within that black void lurked a hunger that bordered on insanity. He tried to work the constricted muscles in his throat, to swallow back the crying need before he lost hold on the leash of the ravenous demon.

“I’m not a gentle man. You’d be smart to grab that stupid cat and run as fast as you can.” The warning came from a part of him he no longer understood. This suddenly having scruples was a bloody nuisance!

Kitty sniffed, telling Desmond what he thought of the suggestion. Desmond figured Kitty tallied slights against an offender’s name and settled up in some manner at a later date. Maybe that was why the cat and he bonded. They were a lot alike in that.