Sisters of Colford Hall 01 - The Invasion of Falgannon Isle (19 page)

Desmond sat up as she handed him a plate. “May I see the candle?”

B.A. poured him a glass of wine. “Sometime. It’s in a vault at Colford for safekeeping.”

Desmond’s jaw flexed at the mention of Colford Hall. “The candle belongs to Falgannon?”

“It does.”

“Why is it at Colford?”

“Sean deemed it safer there.”

“Even England returned the Stone of Destiny.” A spark flared to life in his soul. “Perhaps it’s time for Annie’s candle to return to Falgannon.”

B.A. stared at him sharing his dinner with the golden cat. “Yes, maybe it is time for Annie’s candle to come home.”

Chapter 16

Members of the “Morn, B.A.” Club raised their heads as Dudley flew through the kitty door of the Hanged Man, stopped and shook his fur dripping with rain. Seconds later, the people door opened and B.A. danced in followed by Desmond. They were both laughing, sharing an umbrella and holding hands.

B.A. started toward the kitchen, only Desmond pulled her back to him. They stared at each other for a long moment, lost in the wonder of their emotions. Then B.A. gave a witchy smile, her eyes bright with joy.

Leaning forward, Desmond brushed his lips over hers, tasting sea spray and rain. It was clear he would’ve deepened the kiss, unabashed by the audience, had Kitty not delivered one of his vampire bites to his ankle.

“Ouch! Your cat bit me again.” He playfully swung at Dudley, who pogo-ed out of reach.

B.A. repeated as expected, “He’s not my cat.”

Desmond raised his eyebrows. “Come out with that one more time, I’m going to think you’re a habitual liar.”

“Kitty’s telling you he’s hungry.”

“That’s not news. Kitty being finicky—CNN would post that as a news bulletin.” He trailed after B.A. toward the pub’s long bar. “Since food’s mentioned, I’m famished, too. Feed me woman, before I go into a Dudley faint.”

“You and the cat go sit. I’ll be out with food for you both.”

Michael the Story grumbled over his cup of tea, “No idea why they’re smiling so. Never got around to shagging last night. Ashamed they should be!”

“Aye.” Robbie mimicked Callum’s pruned face, and informed those who didn’t already know: “They picnicked on the beach, curled up like spoons and watched the northern lights. He got frisky several times, but our lass smacked his hand. At high tide, they awoke and went to Lady Cottage to inspect the work and watch the sunrise. After, they walked for hours in the rain. ‘Tis enough to give a man the blues.”

Ian sighed. “Still, there’s an invisible, elastic bond between a man and woman in love. It’s damn fine to see that electricity between our lass and the Outlander. Bodes well for Falgannon’s future. To my way of thinking, so what if the Viking prince owns the tip of the isle? The castle belongs to Herself. Ain’t much the man can do without her finger being in the middle of it. And if Mershan owns part of the isle—or
thinks
he owns it—he’ll be staying.”

“Gor, it
has
to be love.” Phelan the Lobster sighed. “Wish they’d get on with it. We ain’t getting a better chance to beat the Curse.”

Willie suggested, “We need to natter with Morag, get her to brew a love potion. I received an e-mail from Cassie Yates this morn. She’s coming next week. I’d like to see B.A. and the Viking sorted out so I can concentrate on my own romance. In my fifth book—
Love’s Dark Savage Fury
—The hero and heroine had a shotgun wedding. Maybe we need to slap iron, saddle up and wrangle B.A. so our Desmond can brand that heifer.”

“Gor,” Brian shook his head as if dizzy. “Willie’s gone cowboy again.”

Angus waved a finger. “B.A. catches you comparing her to a cow, she’ll make you a tunic.”

“That’s eunuch, Angus.” Ian sniggered.

Willie flinched. “Wouldn’t want to imagine what our B.A. would do if she ever caught wind I used poetic metaphor for her being a cow.”

Robbie nodded, and went back to the problem at hand. “You ken B.A. is a Montgomerie. It’s hard to get them set on anything—stubborn being their middle name.”

“Them bloody Vikings figured they’d get us shite-faced so we couldn’t go spying last night.” Michael the Story chuckled. “They dinna ken you cannot get drunk for two days after taking Morag’s goop.”

Willie grinned and buttered a scone. “We had a fine time watching
them,
though. Vikings are funny when they get foxed.”

Sniggers rippled through the group.

“Think we should show mercy on them, fetch Morag to mix up a batch of the goop for them?” Hamish inquired.

Everyone paused, thought for a second, then shook their heads no.

Desmond came over and pulled out a chair. “Morning. You lads look pretty chipper.”

Ian folded his newspaper and fixed the man with a stare. “Considering your two Vikings poured half the pub down us?”

Desmond sipped some tea innocently. “Where
are
the children of Loki?”

“In the backroom, on cots, sleeping.” Michael the Story pulled pictures off the bulletin board. He flashed the pictures of the two tall, bare-chested Norsemen, faces painted blue and wearing kilts, sprawled on narrow folding beds. That green stuff Morag gave you after Thursday night poker? It fetches you around, all right. Only it does something strange to a man’s innards.”

“Only men?” Desmond questioned.

Brian shrugged. “Not sure—lacking a supply of females to experiment upon. Fixes you so you can’t get drunk for forty-eight hours. The alcohol they kept pouring might as well have been water. They’re the only two that got drunk.”

B.A. sashayed in and set a plate stacked with buttermilk scones and another with eggs sunny-side up and rashers before Desmond. “No bacon for Kitty,” she warned.

Dudley flashed her a glare before butting his head against Desmond’s elbow, taking his appeal to a higher court.

“B.A., them BBC people are pains in the bum. They blethered ‘til I feared my ears might bleed listening to that Davies git,” Willie complained, then added, “Get along lil’ doggie,” under his breath.

“B.A., your lads picked on my Vikings, ” Desmond teased, holding up the photos.

Laughter bubbled forth from her.“l told you, they’re working off residual IOUs for all those Viking raids.”

Desmond chomped some bacon, then asked, “So what did you do with the latest set of invaders?”

“The Marys tucked up the women. The pilot took a sleep sack to the town hall and kipped there. Mr. Big Teeth paid a hundred pounds to sleep in my bed.” Willie beamed.

“B.A., you’ve gotta sort out them Beebs.” Jock stacked his cup on his plate. “One of the females accosted me. Thought I was Richard Dean Anderson. When I explained I was younger and better looking, she said,
line
. Never saw a woman so intent on grabbing my
fearchas
.”

Desmond eyed B.A. “Is that what I think it is in Gaelic?”

She snatched away the bacon he’d slipped to the cat. “Hope she dinna leave fingerprints, Jock.”

“B.A., the Beebs are talking nonsense, wanting to take blood samples of everyone.” Robbie shuddered, showing his aversion for needles.

B.A. blinked. “Whatever for?”

“Since hemochromatosis is getting press, they wonder if a quirk in our chemistry is behind Falgannonian women having only male bairns,” Willie grumbled.

“‘Tis not right, them disrespecting our curse.” Angus muttered. “Bloody English, always wantin’ to perpetrate atrocities on us poor Scots.”

Desmond slipped Dudley more bacon when B.A. wasn’t looking. “What’s hemochroma… whatsis?”

Ian leaned back his chair, rocking it. “Hemochromatosis—a condition where the body stores too much iron in deep muscle tissue and organs. People of Scot-Irish ancestry stand a one in four chance of carrying the gene. The Beebs think if the Picts-Celts-Gaels have one, maybe they have another.”

Angus bellyached, “B.A., I dunna fancy some
Sasunnach
bugger prodding me like a pincushion. Boot them off the isle. We dunna need a chromomosomeme adjustment. Falgannon will be fine as soon as a certain lass marries a green-eyed man.”

Everyone’s eyes fell on Desmond, causing him to choke on his scone.

The phone rang and Brian answered it. “B.A., some rock group called Five O’clock Shadow has written a song about The Curse and Falgannon. They want to come to the isle to film a rock video.”

B.A. rolled her eyes and picked up Desmond’s plate to get more scones, slapping him on the back with her free hand. “Tell them, wrong number. As for the Beebs, you lads have fun ejecting them from the isle after breakfast. Jock, watch your
precious!
”

Desmond poured more tea to wash down the lodged biscuit. “I was up at the castle checking the cottage. Will the work be finished by Halloween?”

“Enough so B.A. can move in,” Brian replied.

“Could you use another hand?”

Ian folded his arms over his chest. “Might muss up those manicured nails of yours. I ken you’re an architect ‘n all, but this is hammering, sanding and such. Any experience?”

“I’ve hammered a few nails in my day,” Desmond answered, then sipped his tea.

B.A. placed more hot biscuits on the plate, pausing to give Tarn the Baker a buss on the cheek. “No one in the whole world makes scones as good as yours.”

“Our Viking prince sure scarfs them down, lass. Has a fine Dudley-style appetite.” He beamed at the praise.

The door swung open and Wulfgar stumbled in, looking like a little boy who’d just awoken from a nap. Well, as much as someone nearly seven-foot tall, with his face painted blue and wearing a red kilt could, B.A. thought. Befuddled, the poor man blinked as if seeing two of everything.

She took his arm and led him to a stool, pushing him to sit, wondering how he’d react when he noticed he was in a kilt and had received a Pictish facial.

“I’ll fetch Morag—”

The back door opened and Morag breezed through. “Speaking of the devil, were you?” Shaking the rain off her
manna,
she hung it on a peg. “Heard our lads drank the Vikings under the table, knowing my antidote kept them from getting polluted.” She stopped when she saw Wulf, snorted, then steepled her hands over her mouth to prevent further laughter.

Wulf’s head jerked up, absorbing her words. Morag set about mixing a glass of the green gelatin. Wulf eyed her suspiciously as she set it before him, then gave a monosyllabic grunt.

“Watch him, Morag,” Tarn teased, pushing rolls into the oven. “Animalistic noises are first signs them Vikings are going berserker. Ain’t you seen
The 13th Warrior?
”

Wulf grumbled, “What’s this junk?”

“Morag’s magic.” B.A. patted him on the head. “It’ll fetch you around.”

Dennis stumbled in and over to where Wulf sat. “B.A., not complaining, that stuff they poured down us last night—it truly was paint thinner.”

B.A. and Morag started chuckling again.

Dennis croaked, “What’s funny?”

When B.A. didn’t reply, the men looked at each other. Both sets of blue eyes set in blue-black faces went wide. Knowing they were in Morag’s gentle care, B.A. picked up the plate and was almost through the door, when she halted abruptly.

“They gave you Stop-Breath?”

“Yeah, I told them about my plans to move here. Then Wulf asked if he could stay, too.”

Tarn grinned. “Our Wulf has sisters, so the lads voted to adopt him, too.”

“Sisters?” B.A. perked up.

Wulf nodded, then grimaced. “Three. Triplets, twenty-one-year-olds. The men at home run from them. You’re welcome to them, B.A. I’d put them up for sale on eBay, but think there’s a rule against it.”

Tarn shook a finger. “Had he told us that first, we might’ve skipped painting him blue.”

“Hmm, methinks you both best break the news to Desmond about your defection ASAP. Gossip has wings on Falgannon.” B.A. backed against the swinging door, watching Wulf and Dennis both groan and hang their heads—their
blue
heads.

“Come on, my braw Vikings. Down the hatch. Then we’ll set about turning you a nice healthy pink again.” Morag set goop before Dennis, then winked at B.A. “I do love this part.”

Rain poured down as Desmond pulled into the drive of Rose Cottage and shut off the engine. He reached into the backseat for the umbrella, but paused. Leaning brought him close to B.A. He felt the heat from her body, the scent of the rain on her skin. Almost more than he could stand, he fought the primitive urge to drag her under him and take her right there on the bucket seats.

“Don’t bother with the brolly,” B.A. whispered breathlessly, “it’s just a dash.”

“You’re sure?” He brushed his lips across hers. “Ummm, you might melt.”

“We’re already steaming up the windows.” She stroked his chin with her thumb. “I stand a stronger chance of melting here with you.”

As Desmond opened the driver door, Dudley dashed between his legs and up onto the deck. Not slowing, he barreled in through the kitty door.

Chuckling, they both rushed up the steps and onto the wooden porch themselves. Desmond wasn’t sure why he was laughing so hard. Being out in the rain and getting soaked was not a cause for such happiness. He held out his hand for B.A.‘s keys, then recalled.

“Silly woman, never locking doors.”

B.A. looked up at him with those whiskey-colored eyes, robbing him of breath. His heart did a slow roll as he reached past her to grasp the doorknob. Initially, he meant to turn it. Instead, he maintained his grip and backed her against the doorframe. He leaned into her, rubbing his cheek against her soft hair, and the rain releasing her peony scent kicked him into hormonal overdrive. Closing his eyelids in ecstasy, in agony, he savored the sense of being against her.

What was he going to do with this woman?

His mind had no answers. At least, none he was ready to face. In less than a week, she’d turned his world upside down. Likely, he could reason out what would happen between them, but he knew he wouldn’t appreciate the answers. Wouldn’t like the loss of control. For the first time in his life he could only breathe for the pleasure of the moment. And right this moment, he was going to kiss B.A. until her toes curled.

He opened his mouth over hers, relishing the taste of scones and jam. At first he kept the pressure light, again amazed how much he enjoyed just kissing B.A.

Kissing, stroking and cuddling were important to females. At an early age, men gleaned that these were tools used to lure ladies down the primrose path. Males were sprinters, he knew,
ready-set-go
where sex was concerned, but since the days of cavemen they’d comprehended a woman would have none of the stallion-covering-a-mare routine.

Hmm, Desmond made a mental note on his list of
101 Things to Do with B.A
. Playing horsey with his Scots lass held a definite lure!

Though men acquired the necessary skills to woo a lady into bed, they often didn’t linger on what his mother had daintily called “the preliminaries,” when she’d embarrassedly told him of the birds and the bees at age thirteen. So, why did he feel he could stand here kissing B.A. forever?