Sisters of Colford Hall 01 - The Invasion of Falgannon Isle (17 page)

“Des, you’re sick?” She leaned toward him, putting a hand on his thigh.

He swallowed the emotions lodged in his throat. “Maybe you need to look into my eyes.”

“I am! That’s why I’m concerned.” Pulling him to stand, she suggested, “Let’s walk out and sit on the swings. The fresh air might do you good. If not, we’re calling it an evening.”

After they donned their jackets, B.A. led him out to a lawn glider at the side of the town hall. It had two benches facing each other, but he settled into the corner on the same side with B.A. and pulled her into his arms. The night was cool, but they generated enough heat to keep cozy.

Setting the swing to rocking, he nuzzled her hair. The faint scent of her peony perfume saturated his senses. Closing his eyes, he floated on the peace she brought him, yet in the same breath exhilaration fluttered in his chest.

Opening his eyes, he caught sight of the sky. It glowed, shimmered, danced with all the colors of the rainbows. “Does Falgannon have night rainbows?”

B.A. leaned back, her head cradled in the curve of his shoulder and neck. “The Aurora Borealis. Haven’t you seen it before?”

“Nope. I’ve never sat and stared at the stars before.”

The corner of her mouth lifted. “Maybe those bright city lights have blinded you to magic. Lore says it’s the reflection of the Valkyries’ armor as they ride the night sky.”

The puttering whine of the kid on that blasted scooter shattered the tranquility of the moment. They heard Wee Dougie coming halfway around the island, slowly heading in their direction. He finally drove up and pulled to the other side of the yew bushes.

“I suppose he’s waiting for me to step out so he can show how he likes me?” Desmond guessed.

B.A.‘s soft laughter rumbled in her chest, moving through him. “He waits for the
ceilidh
to break up every Friday to have a go at the old duffers. He read a quote—Cagliastro, I think—saying man sleepwalks through life and isn’t truly alive unless he’s under deep stress.”

“Took that to heart, Wee Dougie did?”

“I bought him a helmet and insisted he wear it. It has a futuristic design, so he got it into his noggin it’s a virtual helmet. He’d just watched
Lawnmower Man,
mind. That’s why he calls it virtual bowling. And yes, he tries to run down the people he likes to make them feel alive.”

Desmond chuckled. Inhaling the pure island air, he flexed his arms around her, pulling her close. “Know what makes me feel alive?”

“What?” She turned.

“This.” He lowered his head and brushed his lips against hers.

As he softly kissed B.A., he felt her heart race under his hand. It’d be so easy to cup her breast, to feel the soft weight. If he did, he’d ignite a fire in them and he’d end up taking her here on the swingset. Sex on a lawn swing definitely had merits—but for a different occasion, a safer locale.

He ran his tongue along the seam of her full lips, tasting her, savoring her as he might a fine wine. She made a kittenish noise in the back of her throat and opened for him. His gut clenched as her tongue followed his, setting up a duel that nearly made him forget where they were.

The sound of running feet broke the magic. Someone took hold of the swing, stopping its rocking. “Da! The Viking is pillaging again!” Wee Gordie’s voice.

“Gor, she’s wallowing our poor Viking prince again.” Angus the Ancient tottered over, his cane clacking on the stone drive.

As Angus made it halfway between the town hall and the swings, Wee Dougie went barreling at the old man, the high
rat-tat-tat
of his two-cycle engine full throttle. At the last second, his scooter swerved and Dougie reached out and tagged the old man on the hip, counting coup. Then he drove off.

Angus shook his cane at the vanishing bike. That’s it, B. A., I want that delinquent tossed in the jug.”

“Angus, we dunna
have
a jail,” she pointed out playfully.

Then put him in the stocks. Surely we still have those.”

Desmond leaned his head back, closing his eyes.
Only on Falgannon.
Laughter vibrated in his chest. The more he suppressed it, the more his body jerked.

“Och, B.A., dinna realize you were giving our Viking that PVC again. Hey, Doc, he’s having seizures!” Angus shouted.

Cedric came running outside, and in his wake was Innis, carrying a bottle of fifty-two-year-old scotch. “This will fetch the lad around.”

Behind them trailed the population of three islands. Wee Dougie made his return and chased people left and right. The Escape Artists dashed up, barking and nipping at the wheels of the scooter.

The only character not outside was The Cat Dudley.

“Someone come fetch Kitty,” Angus the Ferry called from the doorway. “He’s on the table scarfing down ham.”

Innis shoved the Stop-Breath into Desmond’s hand. Then Cedric stepped up to the swing to look into his eyes, only one of The Escape Artists latched on to the hem of his kilt and hauled him backward. Desmond could no longer contain his laughter. It roared from him so hard that his ribs hurt. Tears came to his eyes. Never in his whole life had he laughed like this.

Looking at B.A., a sobering thought raced through his mind. He downed the whisky in one gulp, not realizing until done that the tumbler had been full. Fire spread through him.

Even so, the kick of the alcohol couldn’t combat the sobering question that had risen to his lips as he stared at B.A. The words, burning inside him hotter than the scotch, were:
Will you marry me, B.A.?

Chapter 15

Whomp, whomp, whomp.

The sound rattled the windows of Rose Cottage, the pummeling noise felt not just heard as it drew closer. Outside, readying for a dive with Dennis and Wulf, Desmond paused from checking his scuba equipment. Shielding his eyes with his hand, he attempted to examine the source, but the helicopter headed at them with the sun behind it.

B.A. came out the back door, then hesitated upon seeing Desmond prepping the diving gear. She frowned, her large eyes haunted. Turning away, she waved to the Fraser twins, who had cantered up on horses—one pure black and one snow white. The animals were nervous and sweating. Even Dudley twined around her legs, wanting soothing because of the whirly monster.

Ian patted the side of his white mare to ease the horse’s fear. “The berks are circling the isle?”

“Third pass,” Desmond confirmed.

Muttering “Where’s the bloody fog?” under his breath, he recalled the times he’d tried to fly over Falgannon with Julian Starkadder, but had been prevented. “Company’s coming,” he teased drolly.

Ian joked, “Not sure Falgannon can stand three invasions in one month, especially if these are more males. B.A., can we institute some sort of immigration policy limiting invasions to females only?”

“Aye, B.A.” Brian winked at her. “What’s the use of importing lasses if we end up sharing them with Outlanders? We only let our Viking prince stay ‘cause he has green eyes.”

Glancing at B.A., Desmond asked, “Expecting anyone?” Prickles of panic crawled up his spine as possibilities rose to mind. None good. The biggest fear—the helicopter carried B.A.‘s brother Cian, riding in like the cavalry to save the day.

The helicopter buzzed low, further scaring the animals. B.A. picked up Dudley to cuddle him, while the Frasers used their skills to restrain their mounts. The black reared, nearly unseating Brian. Slowing, the machine spiraled a descent, aiming for the castle.

“They’re starkers! They can’t land there!” B.A. vaulted off the porch, determination filling her face.

Desmond tracked their path. “That’s what they’re doing.”

She shoved Kitty against his chest, then rushed to the Frasers. “Give me a horse.”

“It’s that Pict princess coming out in our lass again,” Ian told Desmond, swinging his leg over the horse’s neck to dismount, still holding the reins. “Maeve dinna ken the word
please
either.”

B.A. snatched the reins and stepped barefoot into the stirrup, her skirt billowing in the breeze as she mounted. “Stupid gits! They want to land on the cairn?” she raged, kicking the horse’s ribs.

“B.A., damn it. Stop,” Desmond shouted. “Idiots, stop her! She’ll get herself killed!”

“Och, she’s a Montgomerie. She never listens to anyone,” Ian warned.

Desmond shoved the cat at Ian and demanded of Brian, “Let me have
your
horse.”

The twins exchanged questioning looks. Then Brian hopped off and tossed the black’s reins to him. “Any chance he knew Maeve, Ian?”

“‘Tis our B.A.‘s ugly Yank manners rubbing off,” his brother replied.

The mare reared as Desmond set his heels to its ribs. “I’m going to thrash her!”

“Angus would approve!” Brian called out dryly, sporting a quirky grin as he and his twin watched Desmond gallop after B.A. “I like our Viking more all the time.”

“Oh aye.” Crossing his arms over his chest, Ian nodded. “A sight to see—our Desmond trying to paddle our lass. Ten pounds say our lass flays the bloody hell out of him.”

Brian spit in his hand and held it out to seal the wager. “Done.”

They slapped palms and shook on it.

It had been a while since Desmond had ridden a horse. He leaned forward in the saddle, pushing to overtake B.A. Blasted woman rode like the wind, blond hair flying behind her, a Valkyrie headed for battle. He’d been around Wulf long enough to know the Norse translation of
Valkyrie
meant “Chooser of the Slain.” He judged B.A. not only wanted to do a little choosing, but planned to slay as well!

B.A. cantered her horse up the oddly ramp-shaped plateau, then stopped in the middle of the artificially flattened land. Fighting to keep the horse there, she blocked the helicopter from landing. The animal bounced on its hind hooves, but determinedly she chanted words in Gaelic to soothe and control it. Though terrified, the horse obeyed.

The rotors whipped the beast’s mane and B.A.‘s hair, an image of terrifying beauty that burned into Desmond’s mind: a Pict warrior-goddess ready for battle.

The pilot got that she wasn’t backing down. He waved and headed toward the next knoll. Rush with success, B.A. nudged the horse into action, barreling down the inclined path.

As she flew down the hill and straight at him, Desmond reached out and caught a rein. She jerked it away.

“B.A., damn it, stop!”

“Let go!” she screeched. “I’m going to kill them!”

Using her reins as a lash, she slapped the neck of Desmond’s mount. It shied. Not the rider B.A. was, it took him all his skill to hold his seat, allowing her to get away. Recklessly she galloped toward the helicopter, not pausing to see how dangerous the situation was. A scared horse could panic, rear and toss her into the rotors.

Desmond urged his mount to a faster pace. B.A. was halfway up the knoll before he overtook her. Drawing abreast, he leaned over, wrapped his arm about her and dragged her from the saddle. Off-balance, the horse dumped them both.

Struggling to protect her, he softened her fall with his body. Air slammed out of his lungs, still he refused to release his grip. Faring better, she scrambled to her knees. He grabbed her wrists and dragged her to the ground again.

The witch tried to kick him, but with one angry push he had her on her back. She was strong, furious and a handful to restrain without hurting her. Pinning her arms over her head, he struggled to draw breath, to allow the hammering in his heart to subside.

He snarled,“Damn it, B.A, stop! Want to get yourself killed?”

His heart pounded from the exertion, but more in fear at how her anger had blinded her to peril. Once she stopped struggling he eased his grip, only to have her try to knee him in the groin. He dodged, absorbing the blow to his thigh.

“You really want to cripple me there, luv?” He used his hard male muscles on her frailer female body, pressing until she found it difficult to draw air. “Dealing with you is going to put me in the hospital one of these days.”

She barked, “
Leig dhomb!
”

“Which means? One of us doesn’t speak Gaelic.”

B.A. huffed, blowing stray hairs from across her mouth. “It means, let me alone.”

“So you can play Russian Roulette?” His eyes searched her beautiful face, light-headed over how carelessly she’d acted. “Damn it, woman, rearing horses and helicopter blades don’t mix!”

The emotion in his words finally reached her, causing her to search his face. It registered how upset he was. She closed her eyes, and he saw her mentally kick herself.

“Sorry,” she offered. “I have the devil’s own temper.”

He nodded, combating the Neanderthal within him. B.A. had released a massive dose of testosterone in his blood, an adrenaline cocktail that left him with a major buzz. And it was sexual. He wanted nothing more than to extract payment for his fright in the most primitive way possible. On the other hand, if he gave in to the retro-caveman act and shagged B.A. here, no doubt a bloody horse would decide to sit on him, Wee Dougie would putter up to ride circles around them, and The Escape Artists would be chasing his wheels.

Judging it best, he let her up. He glanced at his hands, which were trembling uncontrollably. Not since he was a small child and he’d witnessed his father take his life had anything terrified him so. Now he understood B.A.‘s panic over his diving with Wulf and Dennis.

“I lost ten years of my life,” he muttered.

B.A. accepted Desmond’s proffered hand. Noticing how he shook, in a gesture of reassurance she reached up and caressed his cheek as he helped her rise.

Clearly tongue tied, he grabbed her upper arms, his mouth covering hers in a bruising kiss that stole her breath. She tasted cinnamon from the gum he’d likely swallowed chasing after her. She tasted anger, fear.

She tasted love.

B.A. smiled against his lips, wondering how long before Desmond recognized it himself.

He released her and warned, “Do something that dangerous again and I’ll turn you over my knee. And don’t think your lads will intervene. They’d cheer. Angus would pat me on the back and say it was about time someone took you in hand and beat you regularly.”

Poking a finger into his chest, B.A. accused playfully, “You drank too much Stop-Breath last night.”

“At this moment, I haven’t drunk enough.”

She grabbed his neck, yanking him down for a kiss to knock his socks off. Not holding back, Desmond’s mouth worked hers until her knees were weak. Her hand clung to his waist, loving the feel of him. The man sure was a kisser!

Releasing him, B.A. stepped back. She tried to calm down, seeing the helicopter had landed. Its blades slowed and then came to a stop.

As she took a step, Desmond gave her a swat on the rump. She jumped in surprise and turned. Laughing, she winked at him, but kept on toward her target—the people in the helicopter.

“B.A., you lack your face painted blue and a claymore slung over your back—like Mel Gibson,” Desmond called after her.

Two men climbed out of the helicopter, followed by three women. One was male, straight from the cover of GO, flashing a fake, magazine smile. He held out his hand. “Hallo! Gareth Davies, BBC. I’m looking for B.A. Montgomerie. We want to do a special for the
Tales of Ancient Britain
series, about The Curse and the fact that there are so few women on Falgann—”

Hands on her hips, B.A. growled. “Who gave you leave to be landing here?”

Desmond came to stand beside her. “Yeah, Falgannon is a private isle. No one lands here without written permission.”

“I tried to ring—” Davies’s eyes shifted from B.A. to Desmond.

“W-R-I-T-T-E-N—it means you write me and I write back.
Maybe
.” B.A. pointed at the offending machine. “So hop in that bloody whirlybird and get the hell off my island—”

“Our
island,” Desmond corrected, then gave her a crooked smile.

B.A. glanced at him with a mix of perplexity and pleasure. “—before I arrest you for trying to destroy historical ruins. You nearly landed on an ancient cairn.” And with that, she turned to go back down the hill.

She heard Desmond say, “I’d guess
welcome
wasn’t a word Maeve used often either.”

“Wait! This is a great opportunity—,” Davies yelled to B.A.

She turned, saw Desmond put his hands on his hips. Mimicking the island brogue, he said, “Och, dunna waste your breath. She’s a Montgomerie. Montgomeries never listen to anyone.”

B.A. coasted her bike to a stop behind the Rover. Setting the kickstand, she helped Dudley out of the handlebar basket. He often rode with her, provided she kept a sedate speed. Today she could’ve entered the Tour de France and Kitty would’ve hung on for his fat life.

“You’re not letting that picnic basket out of your sight, eh?”

Undoing the bungee cord, B.A. packed it together with the blankets. She descended the cliff path, careful with her footing. Dudley dashed ahead.

This morn had not been smooth sailing on the romance front. After the
ceilidh,
she’d noticed Desmond mentally retreat, distancing himself from her. He’d done the same on Thursday after they’d delivered checks to the shops on the village circle.

“Silly man is feeling too much and dunna Ieen how to cope. TM—Typically Male. The power of his emotions scares him witless, so he back’s off. Circles his wagons, as Willie would say in one of his Westerns,” she told the prancing cat.

She’d permitted Desmond space. A moody person, she granted others the same right to retreat into themselves. His drawing back bothered her, but males never adjusted quickly to these overpowering forces.

Ignoring his mood, she’d busied herself this morning passing out monies to the Dunmohr and Dunbeag people, seeing that they ate breakfast and then sending them on their way back to their isles. Returning to Rose Cottage, she’d discovered Desmond doing a check of his scuba gear, prepping to dive with Wulf and Dennis.

Perhaps the dread churning in her was irrational. It brought back the too terrifying reminder that in loving a man you opened yourself to the possibility of losing him. That tightness around her heart increased with every breath.

“Kitty, his tanks could run out of air, he might experience a cramp, or Cecile the Seasick Serpent—Nessie’s cousin—could want a Desmond appetizer for his elevenses. All valid concerns!” she assured Dudley. “I offered sound logic why he might forego diving today, such as a kelpie might come to spirit him away from the mortal world. Being an Outlander, Des wasn’t impressed with that possibility. You ken what he told me? Not to worry, he wasn’t driving a bicycle.”

She spread her blanket on the pure white sand. Pulling the basket to the plaid’s edge, she took out peat bricks and unwrapped the plastic. As she scoop out sand for a fire pit, she talked.

“I have six brothers, mind, so I’ve had time to study men, warts and all. No matter their age, start telling them things—for their benefit—and suddenly they get this kindergarten stubbornness to their chin and a mommy-can’t-make-me look in their eyes. From that point on, reasoning with them is useless. They’ll do as they damn well please to spite you!”

The pit dug, she placed the earthy rectangles in the center and lit them. The soft breeze caught the smoke, spiraling it into the air. “I should’ve kept him in bed all day. But no,

Des went diving despite my protests. Tears clogging my throat, I had to watch him drive away, Kitty. Well, the day’s not over.”

She smiled as Dudley scampered off to play tag with the surf. So comical: The tide would roll out, he’d chase it. Then it’d return and he’d dance beyond the high water line. The silly cat so enjoyed life.

Growing restless, B.A. kicked off her shoes and strolled along the water’s edge, watching the tide ebb. The white sand was damp under her bare feet, and the beach appeared as if the
Sidhe
had stole in and swept it clean. Quite rare, at gloaming on hot summer evenings, the sandbars almost sang. The crystal and shell grains soaked up so much heat, they sounded similar to distant wind chimes when you walked upon them. It was magic found only on Falgannon.