Sisters of Colford Hall 01 - The Invasion of Falgannon Isle (8 page)

“Finding his legs beautiful isn’t
too
alarming. But his toes? Truly a bad sign!”

Rushing into the bathroom, she dropped her clothes on the commode lid, tied her long hair into a knot and stepped under the icy water. She flipped the nozzle over to cold. Drawn from a deep well, the water was frigid, stinging.

She stayed under the spray and let it rinse away the heat from her body.

Desmond locked the door on the pink bedroom. Crossing to the leather attache sitting on the chair, he ran the zipper around it. First he checked his cell phone to see what he already knew: it wouldn’t work. Locating a jury-rigged outlet, he switched the plug to his computer. He groaned at the dial-up speed. After a wait, his e-mail account came up: hundreds of messages—typical—but two with red flags. He opened one, his eyes scanning the message from Jago.

“Des, I arrived in Kentucky and got a room at the Windmill Motel. Talk about stepping into the
Twilight Zone
. This place is in a time warp, stuck in the 1960s. Will let you know when I contact Asha Montgomerie. Called you last night, but was told the phone service to the island was down. A common occurrence, I gather. When I reported it, a sour-sounding Scot said not to bother, they already knew.
Slainte.
”

The second message was so like his brother Trevelyn: short, to the point and a tad cryptic. Jago and Trev were twins, but dead opposite in personalities. “Moving in for the kill tonight. Crashing a gala where she shall be. Sing a requiem for a Raven.”

Desmond hit compose and entered two addresses at Mershan International for his brothers, his fingers nimbly typing his message:
I have arrived, much to the imminent distress of Ms. B.A. Montgomerie. The whole bloody isle is some absurd hybrid between
Braveheart
and
Monty Python.

He paused, thinking back on B.A.‘s physical reaction to him. Never had he seen a woman so unprotected in her responses. It made him itch to have her in his bed. His body bucked at the notion of her being that open when she made love.

He snorted a harsh, angry laugh. He wasn’t going to make love to BarbaraAnne Montgomerie. He was going to screw her—just as he planned to screw the whole bloody isle.

After two breaths to regain control over his body, his fingers tapped out,
She’s different than I expected, but foresee no problems
. He hit send and watched the messages fly to his brothers’ e-mail accounts, wondering if their own plans included bedding the Montgomerie sisters, too.

His lips curved into a hard smile lacking mirth. Touching two fingers to his forehead, he saluted the laptop.
“Slainte.”

Chapter 7

To be packed into The Hanged Man with over two hundred men and the only one wearing pants was oddly disquieting. Well, pants—breeks, trousers, slacks, any term Scots used for male lower attire. As Desmond sat at the bar watching the goings-on, he noted there wasn’t one male in the entire pub whose knees weren’t flashing. It sort of gave him the willies. While he might lack the same curiosity as a woman, the thought flittered across his mind, what
did
they wear under their kilts? The day had been gloriously warm, but as the sun dropped out of sight—before 4:00 P.M. mind you—autumn’s chill made itself felt. The blue flames of the peat in the pub’s fireplace were welcome. He couldn’t believe they kept warm no matter how thick a wool the kilt was. Backdraft took on a whole new meaning!

Desmond had overheard B.A. tell them to appear in Scots’ attire. Since he judged every male on the island would jump through hoops for her, he wasn’t surprised to see a few in full Highland regalia. He hadn’t anticipated the total male population of the bloody isle to show up as if queuing for
Braveheart 2
auditions, though.

Moreover, he doubted her assertion there’s nothing sexier to a woman than a man in a kilt. Hadn’t B.A. stammered and blushed when he wore nothing but a towel? On the other hand, observing the Falgannonians give welcome to the three American women, Desmond conceded reassessment of his opinion was in order. Bright eyes and flushed faces attested to the buzzes the ladies got off knobby-kneed islanders.

Sporadically, the islanders came to introduce themselves, flashing smiles, acting a tad too happy. It put Desmond in mind of being at a convention of cannibals and Desmond Delight was the main course. With that parade of white teeth passing before him, it registered the Falgannonians were poster-children for dental health—even Angus the Ancient.

“You don’t have a physician on Falgannon, but have a dentist?”

Angus chuckled and then snapped bright teeth at him. “Not a’tall. It’s our lass, dragging them Yank obsessions back with her. Don’t tell
Herself,
but she might have the right of it this time. When she took over as Lady of the Isle, first thing she did was give us dental floss and fluoride mouthwash. Bossy little thing, even then. We figured it was enough to keep our B.A. happy as she provided for us. Back at the first of the year, we drew the line when she came back with whitening strips. Each time she goes to visit the colonies she returns with some Yank fad to foster upon us.”

As B.A. presented each American with a small basket, a tartan ribbon tied on the handle, she drew Desmond’s eyes. He inquired, “Who are these women?”

The old man turned his attention to the group on the other side of the room. “The Yanks? ‘Tis B.A.‘s project. She likely gave them dental floss and whitening strips as part of her welcome basket,” he added confidentially.

“Project?” Desmond sipped his iced Pepsi—B.A. refused him alcohol due to “doctor’s orders.”

“Shoo, Kitty,” Angus fussed at the cat when it jumped atop the bar.

The Cat Dudley ignored the old man.

“Is that animal permitted the run of the isle?” Desmond arched a brow, amazed.

“Well, no one tells Kitty anything,” Angus barked a laugh. “He dunna listen. Must be a reincarnated Montgomerie.”

“So, what’s B.A.‘s project?”

Angus spotted a man carrying in an ice bucket to refill the bin built into the bar. “Michael the Story, the Viking wants to hear about the project. I dunna ken them computer things. Sort him out.”

The handsome Scotsman sat the empty bucket down. Leaning across the oak bar, he flashed another of those dazzling smiles and offered his hand. “Michael Mackenzie… and you’re Desmond Mershan.”

Desmond frowned. “I thought I met—”

“Oh aye, we’ve a few of them about, six breathing and several dozen in the cemetery. There’s Wee Michael, Michael the Greenhouse, Michael the Peat and Michael the Elder. I’m Michael the Story. I teach history to the children here and two other small isles. It was Michael the Fiddle you met this morn.”

“The Pete?” queried Desmond.

Michael put a saucer on the bartop and poured out dry cat food. “Not a’tall—peat as in peat moss. He cuts bricks of the stuff, dries them for heating our homes. Nothing like a peat fire, where whiskey gets its flavor. So, what you want to ken about the project?”

“Our lass thinks it’ll work,” Angus butted in, “but she’s forgetting The Curse.”

Desmond smiled into his tumbler, then swallowed the last of his cola. Just what this loony isle needed—a curse! He turned back to Michael the Story expecting to find him laughing, or at least making loony circles in the air beside his ear behind the old man’s back. Instead, a worried expression passed over the man’s thirty-something face. It spread in ripples to the men standing nearby.

Odd. Desmond possessed the flair for reading people, one of the tools that had seen him rise to the top in the cutthroat world of international business. These men believed in this curse. Not only believed, but
feared
it.

“The Curse?” Desmond prompted on cue, dying to hear this bit of blarney.

Michael drew himself an ale. Stalling? After a swallow, he replied,“‘Tis a legend about Falgannon. We’ve a shortage, you see, of marriageable-aged females—”

“Shortage!” A male to his right exploded in a snort. “There are
no
marriageable-aged females on the island for the past six years except for Morag the Healer, Oona the Painter and B.A.—and the first two dunna count.”

“Not count?” Desmond accepted a refill of his cola.

Michael the Story nodded toward the booth in the far corner where two women—wearing trousers—sat holding hands.

“Since we’re in a bind for women wanting to get married, B.A. hit upon the project of importing brides. We have a Web site with a bachelor registry. Ladies read about us—our likes, dislikes—they fill out an application, and if B.A. chooses them, she’ll pay their expenses to the isle. They get a two-week vacation, a chance to get to know the island, meet our men.” He reached for the silver laptop sitting on the end of the bar and spun it around for Desmond.

The screen filled with the image of a landscape in the sunset with the Flash header isle of love. Stylish, the layout was by Purple Rain Designs, impressing Desmond enough to note the name for redesign of his Web site for Mershan International. Using the touch pad he quickly shifting through fast-loading pages. There were photos of the island’s males with brief bios.

Well, well, BarbaraAnne Montgomerie, owner of Falgannon Isle, was also B.A. Montgomerie, matchmaker. Desmond stared across the pub, covetously tracking B.A., who was setting the nervous Americans at ease. The idea was bloody brilliant and would work better than she imagined. And it was typical of the Montgomeries, who’d poured a fortune into this isle going back to when Old Sean first married Maeve Mackenzie.

Maeve had owned Falgannon, but the old man had had the money. Island-born, at an early age Sean had been sent south to England for an education. In his twenties, he’d amassed a fortune in the stock market, parlayed it into an international conglomerate and returned to claim Maeve. For her dowry, Sean had channeled a chunk of his fortune into dragging the isle into the twentieth century.

Desmond never could fathom this about the old man. A sonofabitch in business, Sean had never done anything without profit margin as his sole motivation. One might argue love had driven him into rebuilding the isle as a small Scottish paradise. Desmond discounted that. Maeve, they said, had lived more for the isle than her marriage. Even in death, they’d returned Maeve’s body to Falgannon, while Sean was laid to rest in England.

Evidently, B.A. had inherited the same love of the island from Maeve.

Taking a swig of cola, he used it to wash down the shard of conscience. Yes, B.A. was guiltless, but hers wouldn’t be the first life shattered by big business. His mother, twin brothers and he had been innocents; it hadn’t stopped Montgomerie from destroying their world. Likewise, Desmond wouldn’t let it prevent him from extracting vengeance.

Every night for decades, Desmond had envisioned handing papers to the old man, seeing Sean’s face as he comprehended his whole empire was going down the tubes—that Desmond Mershan had orchestrated it and why. He closed his eyes against the vision of his father pulling the trigger. Against seeing blood spatter everything.

Damn Sean to hell for robbing him of the prize, cheating him of the sole purpose for most of his life. It’d still happen. There was no impeding it; wheels were in motion and too much money was at stake. Despite no gratification coming with the hollow victory, he’d at least achieve a sense of closure. Maybe then the demons would stop rattling their chains. Perhaps never again would he awaken bathed in sweat, calling for his father, feeling helpless, alone. Teeth grinding, he forced the emotions back.

Glancing up, as if she sensed him staring at her, B.A.‘s luminous eyes sought his. There it was again—that pull, the same connection between them he’d experienced back in the spring at Sean’s funeral. In the tartan skirt and black scoop neck sweater, B.A. now stole his breath. Tightness filled his chest. Rubbing the dent in his breastbone, Desmond chalked the sensation up to the gassy Pepsi.

Pushing her buttons this morning had convinced him Ms. B.A. Montgomerie hadn’t been with a man for a long time, likely not since the death of her husband. She flustered too easily. Had she been working her way through her own private bachelor preserve, she wouldn’t stammer and blush as an untried teen. A woman that sexy used her beauty as a tool, had men ready to kill for her. Whereas he judged every man in the room ready to fight for her, they wouldn’t fight
over
her. The whole situation was a paradox.

“I gather why Oona and Morag don’t count.” Desmond smiled as B.A. blushed and turned away. “But you’re telling me none of you are courting B.A.?”

“None of us are daft, are we?” Michael muttered into his glass, then exchanged understanding glances with other long-suffering males.

Desmond conceded it was futile at this juncture, to continue questioning these mad islanders, since they obviously reveled in their insanity. Only, this was digging at him. There wasn’t a male in this room—on earth—who wouldn’t find B.A. Montgomerie desirable. One dead husband, or a live one for that matter, was no stumbling block when a man wanted a woman. Desmond had risen to where he was in life by being a keen observer of human nature, of what made men and women tick, of sensing strengths and weaknesses and how to exploit them. That a group of men would place B.A. on a pedestal and worship her as some vestal virgin was contrary to logic and biology. No, it was plain nuts!

“‘Tis The Curse, you see,” Angus stated again, as if that explained everything.

Desmond opened his mouth to say,
No, he didn’t see,
when Brian the Horseman came to the bar and thumped his hand on it.

“You’re up, lad. Break a leg—as the Yanks say in showbiz.” He winked. “Do it bang-on and you might win the heart of a fair lass.”

Michael skirted the crowd to stand before the fireplace. A hush fell over the pub as the sandy-haired man drew all eyes. “Ages past, the Isles of Britain were joined and located far to our south. The clime was warm, the land a paradise. A race of giants lived upon the shores, and in a time of war they battled each other and shattered the land into many wee isles. That’s how the Hebrides came to be. We’ve heard tales of Sgathach, Warrior Queen of Skye, how she and her sisters taught the Warriors of the Red Branch. Fables retold many times over. However, the Legend of Falgannon is rarely heard outside our shores—a story of love, of jealousy and a curse that never ends…”

Desmond’s gaze circled the room, marking enrapt expressions. Taking a swallow of his icy soda, wishing it was something a lot stronger, he thought,
Oh great, time for
Romper Room
story hour
. He tried to disguise his sour countenance, but evidently failed because Angus used a cane to nudge his thigh.

“Pay attention, Viking. Now you’ll hear.”

“The Curse of Falgannon Isle dates back to the time of Sgathach Buanand, Warrior Queen of the Shadow Isle—the Isle of Women. Following in the ancient Pictish belief only women could train men for war, she ran a school and taught the best men from many kingdoms. One day a warrior came, Friseal, sent to Sgathach by the fierce Viking warlord Rolv. Friseal was the son of Rolv, though his mother was an Irish slave. He was beautiful, strong of body and resembled his
mathair
with her black, wavy hair and green eyes. Had Friseal been born of one of Rolv’s wives, he’d have been a Viking prince. Even so, Rolv loved Friseal, was proud of his son. As a result, he sent the young man to Skye for training. Friseal proved a mighty warrior, fleet of foot and adept at all weaponry. It wasn’t long before the beautiful Friseal attracted the eye of the Queen of Skye, or for her to decide she coveted him for a lover.

“Friseal’s older half-brother Olav grew jealous of their father’s love for his half-Irish son, saw it as a threat to his birthright, so Olav attacked Skye in the dead of night. Sgathach’s female warriors repulsed the assault, but not before Olav stabbed Friseal in the back and left him to die. Fever wasted his body—it seemed nothing could save Friseal. Sgathach sent to fetch Maeve of Falgannon. A great healer, Maeve was one of the Daughters of Anne. Her healing powers came from her being a
cait sidhe,
a feared witchwoman, royalty from the Picts of Cait and Druimalban. Maeve saved Friseal’s life; only, whilst tending him, they fell in love. When Sgathach learned of their bond she was furious. In order to escape her wrath, Friseal and Maeve stole away from Sgathach’s castle and into the night. Enraged, Sgathach ordered her warrior-women to hunt them down, kill Maeve and bring Friseal back.

“Before setting sail, Friseal put the rest of the boats to flame. Sgathach and her warriors arrived at the shore too late. Maeve’s magick was strong. Sgathach could only watch as the Sacred Mists enfolded Friseal and Maeve into its protection. No one landed on Falgannon Isle unless the Lady of the Isle willed it; the mists enshrouded the island, shielding, protecting. Sgathach knew the lovers were forever out of her reach.