Sisters of Colford Hall 01 - The Invasion of Falgannon Isle (9 page)

“However, a powerful witch in her own right, Sgathach screamed a curse upon the departing lovers—the women of Maeve’s line would forevermore be doomed, their love would see them destroyed. Falgannon’s women would birth only male babes, slowly dooming the tiny island.

“Sgathach wanted it far-reaching. The Curse would be stayed for a period of three generations if the woman of Maeve’s blood married an Outlander—a man with black hair, green eyes and the blood of the Irish in him. If he took her in any fashion other than love the isle was condemned once more to be an island of men looking across the waters at an isle of women.

“Scoff you may, but to this day, unless our lady marries an Outlander with black hair and green eyes and marries for love, there are no girl babes born to the women of the isle. You three lovely ladies might not believe either. Look around. Count the women amongst us. Visit the ancient churchyard. You might come away thinking a wee bit different.”

Desmond felt something queer itching his back—Dudley standing on his hind legs and draping paws over his shoulder. Distracted by the cat, he dismissed the duckbumps snaking up his spine as he watched the guests applaud the oral lore.

Well, women might buy into that romantic garbage, but not a man. Desmond began to laugh until his eyes assessed the males present. A strange mix of emotions was written upon their faces. Acceptance, resolve, and even a touch of desperation. Surely, they couldn’t believe this island was cursed? What a bunch of idiots! He knew why there weren’t available women on the isle—they were smart enough to hop on the ferryboat and leave this insanity behind!

Wulfgar strolled through the door and slowly made his way to Desmond’s side. “How do you feel, other than having a strange fuzzy growth on your shoulder?”

Desmond looked sideways at Dudley. “Where have you been?”

The door opened again and the sexy redhead from earlier poked her head inside. Deciding attention wasn’t on her, she surreptitiously claimed a seat at a table near the door. Wulfgar never turned in her direction, but Desmond noted a smug twitch at the corner of his friend’s mouth.

“Never mind,” he muttered. “You missed story hour.”

Wulf chuckled. “Pity that. You make it sound like kiddy time.”

“No kid would swallow this hogwash. Is insanity communicable?” Desmond queried.

Wulf shrugged. “Mass hysteria—”

“Not strong enough for this tommyrot.”

B.A. rose from the table and crossed the room, pausing several times to exchange snippets of conversation with various men. Her hip-length, gold hair rippled with her movements, her laughter. She stood out in the crowd, shimmered as if anointed with faery dust, drawing Desmond’s eyes.

“Old Sean sure bred some sexy granddaughters. Not a dog in the whole pack. Women with the power to make men get down on their bellies and crawl, beg to touch them,” Wulfgar complimented.

Desmond ignored the cat flexing its claws a little too spiritedly. He didn’t take his eyes off B.A., and gave no visible reaction to Wulf’s words. Nevertheless, his stomach muscles tightened; the tenseness radiated up his body to his jaw, becoming a mild pain.

He warned in a silky, ominous tone, “Let the redhead blow you all you want. But when you lean your head back and close your eyes in ecstasy, make sure B.A. Montgomerie’s face doesn’t come to mind.”

Wulf swung around, assessing his long-time friend and boss. Had the man been born with gray eyes, Wulf might liken Desmond to a shark that had taken on human form. Desmond was single-minded in getting what he wanted. He was cold, calculating; he was ruthless—traits of nature’s finest killing machine. As a teen in Norway, Wulf had visited Kristiansand Dyrepark Zoo and watched the big cats. They fascinated him: feral, motionless, with intense eyes so absolutely focused. Then the cats moved in a blink, almost faster than vision could follow. Desmond’s eyes reminded Wulf of a panther he’d seen. That same control, that preternatural stillness. A predator, a meat eater. To Desmond, women were just another form of meat. They came, they went, none lasting long.

Wulf would bet Desmond couldn’t recall their faces within a few months of their passing out of his life. But after two decades of watching him, he’d never seen Desmond look at any woman in this manner.

Deciding to tweak Desmond, he asked with a devilish grin, “Issuing a dare?”

It wouldn’t be the first time they’d vied for a woman. Ordinarily, a killer competitor’s streak saw Desmond relish the challenge. Winning was all the sweeter for it. Despite that, Wulf had a feeling BarbaraAnne Montgomerie was the exception.

“Hell, she’s too big for you, Des—more to my liking. Bet there’s Viking blood in that gal. You like those half-starved actresses that grace Cannes Film Festivals.”

Desmond’s ferine eyes rolled, targeting him, the level stare enough to send lesser mortals to quivering. But not a real Viking.

“Dra
til helvete,
Des.”

“I’ve been to hell, Wulf; I prefer it to Norway—it’s warm.”

Desmond’s body tightened as B.A. stopped before him, her golden-brown eyes searching his nervously. “Sorry that took so long. Are you tired? Head hurting?” she asked.

“My head doesn’t ache,” he answered. “Want to look into my eyes?”

Ignoring his challenge, she reached out and scratched the kitty still propped on his shoulder. “I thought we’d eat supper here on the porch.”

“Good, I’m
famished
.” His response was easy, but she was too close for him to miss the dilation of her eyes as she caught that he meant for more than food.

Blushing, she looked away, noticing Wulf standing there. “Have you eaten?”

Desmond pushed the cat off his shoulder and stepped closer to B.A., placing a proprietary hand on her waist. “Wulf’s already eaten. We shan’t trouble him.”

Wulf’s booming laugh sounded, as he thought about what he’d been doing with Janet. “He’s right, I shared a good meal not long ago, but thank you for the invitation.”

They started to step away when Desmond turned back. “That previous matter—it wasn’t a caution. I
meant
it.” Wulfgar saluted him. “You’re the boss.” Desmond smiled, but it was hard edged. “Yes, I am.”

Chapter 8

B.A. wasn’t sure who was the bigger puzzle—Desmond Mershan or the pod-cat the aliens left when they beamed up The Cat Dudley and replaced him with this angelic version. That riddle played through her mind as she toyed with the scallops on her plate, occasionally putting one in the saucer on the chair where the cat had joined them.

She glanced over at the arrangements of white roses accenting the candlelit decor, striking against the deep blue of the Montgomerie tartan tablecloths. In honor of the first three prospective brides to the isle, she’d supervised preparations, her eye to setting the mood for romance. B.A. hadn’t intended to be a part of the scenario. The plan had been to sit back and smile while she brought life to her island, content with the role she’d carved out for herself. Who knew, maybe it’d inspire her to pen a romance novel like Willie.

Each woman dined with three bachelors she’d selected from the Web site. Tomorrow she’d breakfast with one, picnic and tour the island with the second, and the third would escort her to supper. Hopefully, by the end of two weeks she’d discover there was a man she saw a future with and stay.

Yet, the bloody Panther upset those peaceful preparations. For all the attention B.A. paid the Yanks and her lads at the other tables, they may as well not be there. Mesmerized, she kept her focus solely on Desmond Mershan.

He carried the conversation through the meal, even touched on the proposed resort. A waste of breath. Unable to concentrate, she little retained specifics. The man was a force, overpowering everything around him. And she couldn’t take her eyes off him.

He fascinated her, those beautiful hands. The long, strong fingers moved in elegant magician-like passes, no wasted gestures or nervous ticks. Not soft, they conveyed power. She envisioned them wrapped around a hilt of a claymore, the hands of a warrior… the hands of a lover. Amplifying the lack of focus, she battled an odd sense of time slippage, as images of Desmond in chain mail, storming the steps of Castle Falgannon, wove through her mind.

Desmond eyed her as she fed the kitty another scallop. “Your cat’s fat.”

“He’s not mine.”

He sat his cup down. “You say that, but he’s at your home, you feed him, he’s sitting at this table and—once again, you’re feeding him. Ownership seems debatable.”

She smiled, vanquishing the warrior vision. “The Cat Dudley owns the whole isle, I fear.”

“There are other cats on the island?”

“Indoor cats. No one dares let one around him. Kitty’s a tad rough on other felines. Rough on dogs, horses”—she laughed—“people.”

Dudley blinked at Desmond, halo firmly in place.

“He needs to be on a diet,” he insisted.

The cat’s ears turned backward as he glared at Desmond. B.A. laughed softly at the kitty’s telepathic.
Mind your own beeswax.

“May I have the salt?” he requested.

B.A. used her knife to scoot the shaker to him.

Desmond studied B.A. This was the second time he’d requested salt and she’d behaved oddly. His curiosity was burning. “You going to tell me what it is with salt and you?”

“A woman must retain some mysteries,” she evaded.

Deciding Kitty was already a small bear, Desmond figured another scallop wouldn’t matter, so he placed one on the saucer. As a glass-covered cart was wheeled in, Dudley lost interest in the seafood, bouncing on his paws as if to pounce on the tray of desserts.

“Dudley’s passing fond of cheesecake?” he guessed.

“Passing fond?” B.A. chuckled. “Oh, aye.”

“What would you like for
afters?
” a young man in his late teens asked Desmond, automatically setting a slice topped with strawberries before B.A. “We’ve fudge-marble cheesecake, Bailey’s Irish Cream cheesecake, blueberry cheesecake, 7-Up cheesecake with strawberries and Key Lime cheesecake with raspberries.”

“Dudley isn’t the only one fond of cheesecake.” Desmond arched his brow. Being perverse, he asked, “Anything else?”

Fergus nodded. “A baked apple.”

“Cheesecake is a bit of an island obsession,” B.A. added unnecessarily.“I collect recipes from around the world. 7-Up cheesecake is nigh on sinful.”

Desmond smiled. “I’m game. Sin is my middle name, after all.”

B.A.‘s wide-eyed expression was priceless. How could a woman live to be thirty-seven and yet remain so untouched? Her long black lashes batted as a blush tinged her cheeks. B.A. Montgomerie was a babe in the woods. That old Sam the Sham song ‘Lil’ Red Riding Hood’ sprang to mind:
You’re everything a big bad wolf could want
. She cut off the tip of her dessert, leaned to place it on the saucer for Dudley who was in a tizzy. The deep scoop neck of her black sweater displayed her generous cleavage, enough to make Desmond almost break out in old Sam’s lyrics.

After she took a bite of dessert, a crumb clung to the corner of her mouth. Desmond’s body clenched, and he craved to lean over and lick it off. Her tongue swiped her lips clean, twisting his gut.
It’s going to be a long night,
he thought.

He coughed to clear the dryness in his throat. “Literally, Sinclair is my middle name. My brothers called me Sin for short in their teens.”

She choked. “Sinclair?”

“You have some long-standing feud with Clan Sinclair?”

“Not precisely.” She reached for her water glass, the sweater slipping off her right shoulder. Clearly turning the topic, she inquired, “You have brothers?”

Desmond forced his mind off the image of him putting a passion mark on that lovely skin. “Hmm, ah… twins, younger by six years, Trevelyn and Jago.”

She smiled. “I have twin sisters—Raven and Asha—younger, too. I’m a twin also.”

Desmond stared at her over his coffee cup, silently wondering which of his brothers had one of her sisters in bed at this moment. Likely, Trevelyn. He’d move in for the kill with lightning speed. Jago would sit back and size up the situation—a cat giving a mouse the illusion of choice. He glanced at his watch. Trevelyn planned on meeting Raven at some gala. By midnight, he’d bet Trevelyn would have her under him, over him, and in about every position imaginable.

Bedding the Montgomerie sisters hadn’t been a part of their plans, but he knew his brothers—they wouldn’t resist the fillip. Some elemental quality about these Montgomerie women, a challenge in their eyes, provoked a man to want to dominate them. Possess them. Own them.

“Small world,” he replied.

Sipping his coffee, he observed the men and women at the other tables. “You expect your scheme to work?”

“Lonely women will jump at a chance to find love. I have dozens of lonesome bachelors on Falgannon. Bringing the two together seems like common sense.”

“Sounds romantic.” He couldn’t help a faint note of disdain that colored his comment.

B.A.‘s amber cat-eyes studied him. “The island, the people mean a lot to me. I do everything I can to see they’re happy.”

“Even finding them brides? Most men would resent that.”

Finished with the meal, she leaned back in her chair. Dudley hopped up onto her lap and she absently scratched his ear. “Scotland fascinates Americans. It’s a highly romantic brew: Scotland, men in kilts and a woman having the pick of hundreds of bachelors.”

“All because of some ancient curse?” He scoffed. “You really believe it?”

She shifted, visibly uncomfortable. “I’m a logical person, but I’m also of this land. To an Outlander our ways and beliefs might seem—”

“Odd… far-fetched… bizarre?” he taunted.

“No female children born on the island
is
odd.”

He arched his brow. “None?”

A trace of defensiveness twisted her mouth. “Oona and Morag, but—”

“They don’t count,” he finished. “I’ve heard. Weren’t you born here?”

“I was born at Colford Hall, my grandfather’s home in—”

“England. Yes, I’ve seen it. Impressive,” he informed her in a clipped tone. “So, no females that count—for how long?”

“The Marys were the last ones—sixty-seven years ago. None since Maeve married.”

“Your men didn’t hatch. There had to be women at one time.”

“Some marry outside the isle. Women died… childbirth, accidents, cancer. Most grow to hate the island and leave. Divorce rate is high on Falgannon.”

Desmond pressed. “Your grandfather wasn’t—what did the storyteller call it…?”

“An Outlander. Sean was island born and had red hair.”

“He didn’t believe in The Curse?”

She shrugged. “Sean Montgomerie thought he could remake the world according to his wishes.”

“So I heard.”

At the terse note in his voice, B.A. paused, her eyes searching his face. His self-containment clearly unnerved her. On the surface, she’d see a man who was educated, well-mannered—one might even label him charming. He noted the slight breathlessness to her speech, as though it was hard for her to breathe around him. He did nothing to put her at ease, liking how off-kilter she was around him.

“You
married,” he pushed.

“Maybe I ease my guilt with the Web site and sponsoring prospective brides. What better way to fight ancient magic with modern magic—the Internet. As to my husband… he was black-haired and part Irish, but had verra blue eyes. I guess Sgathach won’t accept two out of three.” As if sensing he was going to question her further about Evian Deshaunt, she said, “If you’ve finished, I need to return to the house. I’ve e-mails to wade through.”

“Fine.” He rose and pulled out her chair.

They paused by the tables to wish the American women good night before bidding everyone in the pub the same. Leaving the cozy building behind, they walked into the darkness, Dudley trailing behind them.

As they started across the road, the kid on the scooter came zooming out of nowhere, veering toward them as if to run them down. B.A. calmly put a hand against Desmond’s stomach to halt him until the motorbike spluttered around the curve.

“He was trying to run us over!” Desmond gasped, astonished.

“Oh aye—means he likes you. Wee Dougie only pretends to run down people he likes. He calls it virtual bowling. He and his scooter are the bowling ball and we’re the pins.”

Desmond shook his head and muttered under his breath, “Whole bloody island’s crazy.”

Pausing by the car, he fished his keys from his pocket. Glancing up at the signpost in Gaelic, he read cearn gnothachas a’ falgannon. Another was tacked up to the back, so he leaned to see what it said, only to discover the same sign opposite. He quirked a brow at B.A.

“A joke.” She laughed, then translated,” ‘Falgannon Business District.’ If you blinked, you missed it.”

In the moonlight, the madness of this tiny isle seemed infectious. He should be eager to reach the house, check for updates from his brothers. Likely, other business matters needed his attention. Yet he felt no rush—an experience to which he was unaccustomed. His whole life had been so focused on his goals, there had been little time to enjoy the rareness of a moment.

“You know insanity runs on Falgannon?” Desmond expected her to turn defensive.

“Actually, it gallops.” Her musical laughter echoed in the still night.

Her smile was mysterious, feline, almost the same expression that silly cat wore, prancing on the hood of the Rover. Moonlight adored her, caressed her. He envisioned Falgannon’s Lady dancing on the moor under its pale rays, a pagan goddess calling down mystical powers and using them to ensorcel him, for he could no more resist her than the tides did the moon.

Putting his hand on her waist, he urged her closer. The scent of pink peonies and BarbaraAnne Montgomerie flooded his mind.

Her glittering eyes roved over his face. The corner of her small, full mouth tugged up as she melted against him. His lips closed over hers, brushing softly, then coming to rest. She tasted of cheesecake and strawberries and was more intoxicating than Highland whisky.

Sensing hesitation, he didn’t allow her to pull back, but molded her lips to his, gently coercing her to follow his lead. Nibbling, tasting, savoring her. His right hand snaked into that mass of heavy hair, luxuriating in the silken feel, fighting the primitive urge to close his fists in it and drag her to the ground.

She placed a hand on his chest. Whether to push him away or from a desire to feel his heart beating under her palm, he couldn’t judge. Trapping it under his, he kept her hand there, letting the pounding of his heart thud out his need for her.

B.A. stepped back, confusion flooding her eyes. Her lower lip trembled faintly.

Desmond’s thumb stroked the pulse point on her graceful throat, felt the hammering of her desire. Reaching past her, he opened the Rover’s passenger door. She got in without a word. The silly cat hopped in, too.

B.A. glanced up at him, her face an open book. The expression knocked the breath from his lungs, was a fist to his heart.

He closed the door and walked around to the driver side to find Dudley in the seat. “Hop in the back, cat. You don’t have your driver’s license.” Like a steeple chaser, Kitty jumped from the front seat to the back bench, which faced the rear window.

Putting his key in the ignition, Desmond caught sight of the luminous numbers on his watch: 10:43 P.M. He couldn’t help wondering if he’d beat his brother, Trevelyn, to being the first Mershan to bed a Montgomerie.

B.A. welcomed the darkness of the car, as it shrouded her emotions. She sat stiffly, shocked to her toes, barely able to buckle the seat belt. This was bad. It had been a tentative kiss. Exploring… questioning. A kiss of such sweetness, she fought tears welling in her eyes. He hadn’t used his teeth or tongue, only gentle lips. That boiled her blood. Left her hungry for more.

It provoked her to realize this man’s touch rocked her the way no man had. Guiltily, she swallowed that fact.

She had loved Evian Deshaunt. Their love had been warm and comfortable until the end. Making love with Desmond Mershan would be anything but comfortable. It’d be as wild and uncontrolled as the winds that swept across Falgannon.

She wasn’t sure she was prepared to face that intensity.

It had been seven years since she’d made love with a man, that long since one saw her naked. While she exercised and stayed fit, she wasn’t the firm nubile bride Evian wed fourteen years ago. No woman would be at ease with the prospect.