Must Love Kilts (20 page)

Leastways it was as unsullied as it would ever be.

Orosius carried the cloak over one arm, as if he knew why Magnus wanted it.

“I’ll have that.” Magnus yanked it from his friend’s arm, and setting Margo from him, he swirled the cloak around her.

“Thank you.” She snatched the bearskin tight against herself, her eyes still shooting blue fire at him.

“I’ll find you suitable raiments later.”
If you don’t
disappear into the mist.
Keeping the sentiment to himself, he glowered back at her, for the moment glad to have her out of his arms.

Now that she was covered, he could breathe again.

He dusted his hands, demonstrably.

Sadly, he burned to pull the mantle right back off her shoulders, once again freeing her smooth, silken skin, the sweet curve of her hip, and those full, round breasts to his hungering view.

She was a lavish feast he was so tempted to fall upon. Desire ripped through him, especially now, fresh from battle and with the rush of victory hot in his blood. He took a step toward her, halting only because he was so furious that he’d erred about her.

She
was
the sea siren from the kettle steam. And he’d been so sure she was innocent.

Now...

She’d proved that her dark magic was potent. She might be trapped in Donata’s thrall, but she was the more skilled.

Who but a powerful she-devil could make a score of Viking ships and their crews simply vanish?

It was unthinkable.

So frightening, he doubted he’d sleep well for weeks.

And he was the Viking Slayer.

Nothing had scared him since he was a suckling bairn at his mother’s breast. And though he’d never bairn at his mother’s breast. And though he’d never admit it, he suspected he’d been fearless even then.

Yet this day, here at Loch Gairloch, and in the midst of some damned fine fighting, the sea vixen had shown her true colors, teaching him the new face of terror.

And still he burned for her.

Chapter 11

She’d spelled him.

Magnus was sure of it. Why else would her shivering have shaken him to the core, his heart turning over when he’d stepped near to glower at her and then caught the chattering of her teeth? What other reason outside a witchy one could make him pledge to find her clothes?

How could any female save Satan’s own seductress hold such power over him that just looking at her made him ache to roll her beneath him and bed her?

She wasn’t a witch, she claimed.

She was a
too
-rist.

Magnus hardened his expression as he watched her fuss with the bearskin, smoothing the cloak’s heavy furred folds.
Penseal-where’er.
He shuddered, wondering if she’d made up the name to muddle his wits. But the word had sounded true on her tongue. A small part of him believed her. Her horror and anger were too real.

Even now, she glared at him.

“You call me a witch. Don’t you think I would’ve have used my craft to conjure clothes if I were?” She jutted her chin, defiance in her tone. “Or maybe cast you into a three-toed, wart-backed toad!”

Magnus spluttered.

Beside him, Orosius hooted.

“Keep out of this, you loon.” Magnus bent a look at the seer. He’d forgotten Orosius was still there, hovering close by, his good ear tilted toward them.

“She speaks true, what?” The seer’s words proved he hadn’t missed a word. “If she were a witch, she’d have made good both those threats, eh?”

“That’s exactly what I meant.” Margo seized her advantage.

“Humph.” Magnus folded his arms. He determined to ignore both of them.

“Your friend only stated half of it.” She was suddenly toe to toe with him, having moved with incredible stealth while he’d been fuming. “If I had any witchy powers, I’d zap myself out of here. I always thought I’d love to see medieval Scotland. And then when I—” Her voice cracked and she swallowed, her eyes glistening as she pressed a fist to her lips.

“You’ve upset the lass.” Orosius turned a dark look on him.

“Bah!” Magnus cut the air with his hand. “I’ve done naught but find a mantle to cover her, you arse.” Even so, heat shot up his neck and a muscle twitched in his jaw.

He
had
put the sheen of tears in her eyes.

He would not allow himself to feel bad for her.

But he
did
.

And the knowledge only made him the angrier.

So he went over to her and took her chin in his hand and tilted her face upward so she had to meet his eye.

“I’ll only ask this once, lass. Answer me true. Did you use dark powers to fire-blast the Vikings, knocking them and their dragon ships into infinity?”

“Something knocked
me
into the ether and”—her eyes flashed blue sparks at him—“much as I wanted to be here, I’m now sorry I came.”

She broke away from him and set her hands on her hips, trying to look fierce.

“You’re not a hero, Magnus MacBride.” Her words gave his heart a jolt. “You’re an ogre.”

“Hah!” Orosius thumped his shoulder. “She knows you well, aye?”

Magnus ignored him.

Tears sparkled on the sea vixen’s lashes and he could see the wild beat of her pulse at her throat. She was distraught, likely terrified.

And her horror echoed through him like a distant pain, minding him of another young blond woman who’d trusted him to protect her and then died cruelly when he’d failed to keep her safe.

This woman wasn’t Liana.

Yet the longer he stood watching her heart beat in her throat and seeing how she struggled to keep her composure, the more he felt drawn to her.

Steeling himself, he fought against the urge to pull her into his arms again. She was stunningly beautiful and even more desirable than in the kettle vision. But it was her courage that most impressed him. He could feel his heart racing with admiration. And—the admission disturbed him—he had the uncomfortable feeling that she could see into his soul. That it was breaking her heart that he doubted her. Even so, he had to know the truth.

Much as he was glad to rid his coasts of Vikings, he preferred banishing them on his own and in the tried-and-true ways.

He did so with the wicked thrusts and slices of Vengeance’s trusty blade. A fine Norse battle-ax, when the need arose.
Sea-Raven
and his other ships, and as many good and loyal fighting men as he could gather to his banner. That was how a warlord dealt with Vikings.

They didn’t use dark magic.

Such was life in his world.

If Margo spoke true, what he needed to do now was help her return to wherever she belonged.

So he cupped her face again, this time brushing his thumb back and forth along her jaw, hoping to soothe her. “Tell me how you came to be here and I’ll try to find a way to return you safely to your own realm. Then—”

“I’m from Pennsylvania, not a realm.” She twisted away from his grasp, the movement causing the bearskin cloak to fall open for a moment, giving him a fine look at her golden female curls and sleek thighs.

He also caught a glimpse of her breasts, which, just then, jigged enticingly.

Lust speared him, his entire body tightening.

“Keep yourself covered.” He scowled at her, his moment of chivalry gone. Too much temptation waited behind the mantle’s furred edges and she’d already pushed him past his limits. “Or are you trying to tempt me?”

“I’d rather have you believe me.” She looked at him levelly, without her earlier belligerence. She wore an expression he couldn’t quite place. And her eyes shone so brightly that his heart hurt.

He
did
want her.

And he couldn’t look away from her luminous blue eyes, the soft pleading he saw there. He broke the glance and shook back his hair, letting its unbound weight swing about his shoulders, reminding him that he was a warrior. A man not swayed by naked bouncing breasts, sleek, shapely thighs, or even beseeching looks from sparkling sapphire eyes.

“I don’t know what happened to the Vikings.” She stepped closer, placing a hand on his arm. Her touch spilled through him, reaching places he shouldn’t allow her. “I can’t explain how I came here, though I’ll admit I’ve long been hoping for such a miracle.

“Just not like this.” She glanced at the cliffs edging the strand and Magnus saw a shudder ripple through her. “This was not my dream.”

Magnus nodded. “I’m sure it wasn’t.” Although he wasn’t sure of anything.

Following her gaze, he wondered what she saw that troubled her. He saw only a rocky headland, a few dunes covered with marram grass. A morning sky, thick with low, dark clouds. “Where is Pen
seal
...” He frowned, unable to pronounce the name. “Pen—”

“Pennsylvania.” A thread of pride ran through her words. “It’s a beautiful place, very special. New Hope—where I’m from—is especially nice. But it isn’t Scotland and I’ve always dreamed of—” She broke off, her eyes rounding as the color drained from her face. “Oh, my God!” She pressed both hands to her cheeks. “I think I know what happened to the Vikings. I might have done it, after all. I—”

“Dinnae say another word!” Magnus clamped a hand over her mouth and glared at Orosius, who’d edged so close his big booted feet were almost nudging Magnus’s own. “You’ll hear the tale after I have, you long-nosed rascal.”

“Could be I already ken how she did it?” Orosius sounded smug.

Magnus didn’t care.

Ignoring the lout, he started pulling Margo across the strand, away from the seer and the surf line where his men stood in sullen, suspicious circles. Honorably, they still had their backs to the strand. Some had already boarded
Sea-Raven
and the other longboats, and were clearly waiting for Magnus’s command to pick up the oars and beat south to Redpoint, where they’d planned to slay more Vikings.

For now, his men would have to wait.

Margo—he realized he’d been calling her by her given name, not “sea witch” or “
too
-rist”—said she knew how she’d banished the Norsemen.

It was his duty as chieftain and warlord to hear what she’d done.

Unfortunately, his ears filled with the sound of Orosius’s hurrying feet.

“Ho, Magnus, wait!” Orosius caught up with them near the bottom of the cliffs. “I ken what it was. She used a Highland Curs—”

“A Highland Cursing Stone,” Margo finished for Orosius. She looked at him, deciding by his wild and rustic appearance that he was some kind of pagan hermit.

Or maybe he was a warrior monk.

Whatever he was, she liked him.

He reminded her of the bearded eccentric who carved the Elder Futhark rune sets that Patience sold at Ye Olde Pagan Times. Old enough to be her grandfather, Earl Wyndhall was the same kind of big, lumbering man as Orosius. And she suspected that, like Earl, Orosius enjoyed being cantankerous. She’d also bet that he shared Earl’s soft heart, even if he’d never admit it.

So she smiled at him now. And the dark frown that settled on Magnus’s face as she did so made her feel all the better.

She wouldn’t swear it, but she almost believed he might be jealous.

“So you cursed the Northmen?” Magnus sounded displeased again.

“Not intentionally.” She hadn’t. “But I might’ve vanquished them when I found myself here and called out the word ‘Viking’ as I clutched a stone I’d picked up on the strand. It might have been a Highland Cursing Stone, a magical stone that will banish a foe if you call out their name while holding the stone.”

“Aye, just!” Orosius nodded. “That be the way of it.” Magnus looked like he couldn’t decide whether to roll his eyes or laugh.

He did frown. “I ne’er heard of such stones.” Orosius gave him a reproving look. “You would have done if you’d paid more heed to my tales beside the fire at Badcall, rather than sitting alone at your high table when everyone else left the dais to make merry in the lower hall.

“Highland Cursing Stones hail from the days when time itself was young.” Orosius’s voice swelled importantly. “They’re relics of the Old Ones and inscribed with ancient runes. If danger is near, you need only to grasp the Cursing Stone and speak the name of the offender.”

“Once the name is uttered,” Margo put in, “the foe will disappear.”

This time Magnus did snort. “If such wonder stones existed, everyone in the Highlands would be scouring the hills to find one.”

“That’s just it.” Margo remembered the legends from Patience’s books on Celtic magic.

She shifted beneath the bearskin, not wanting to seem ungrateful. But the cloak was terribly itchy.

“Such powers were often misused by those who sought to wield them to their own gain and not, as intended, as protection for the innocent.” She looked at Magnus, pleased that she still had his attention. “As a result, it’s believed the Old Ones took action, scattering the indestructible stones across the land.

Only a few were said to exist and they were all hidden in remote places.

“Areas where there were many similar-looking stones.” She took a breath, remembering how the stone’s warmth and energy had flowed through her fingers and up her arm, filling her body with its power.

“The ancients hoped that doing so would lessen the chances of the Cursing Stones ever again falling into the wrong hands.

“If they should”—a chill rippled down her spine at this part—“a further spell was cast over the stones so that the magical runic script inscribed around their edges will appear to most as an ordinary quartz band encircling the stone. Only those of—”

“Pure heart”
—Orosius boomed the rest, flashing a meaningful glance at Magnus—“and in dire need can see the enchanted runes, and then only briefly.”

“Aye, well.” Magnus looked at Margo. “You’re saying you picked up one of the Cursing Stones and then banished the Vikings by calling out their name?” Margo shrugged. “I told you, I don’t know. But I can guess. And so I think that’s what happened.” guess. And so I think that’s what happened.” She paused to tuck her hair behind an ear. His suspicion hung in the air between them, the guarded look in his eyes making her defensive. “I was holding a stone and it did have a band of white quartz around the middle. And”—she stood straighter—“I did see runes flash red along the quartz ring. That’s all I remember before, well, what happened.” Magnus nodded. “I will think on the possibility.” It wasn’t the response Margo had hoped for, but as it wasn’t a full denial, her heart soared.