The woman raised a scraggly brow. “Is that so?”
Mindy nodded.
“Then you won’t be seeing thon water when it turns all clear and amethyst. Or”—the crone gave her a mysterious smile—“how the sun can gleam on our white cockleshell strands and set our bays aglitter?
“The Hebrides of song and legend—”
“Are you a mind reader?” Mindy blurted the words before she could catch herself.
It was too weird that the woman repeated her thoughts about
Margo’s Hebrides
almost verbatim.
But the crone only laughed delightedly. “I’m but an auld woman who loves her home. It pleases me when these isles are appreciated.” She turned a benevolent gaze on the water. “Most Americans come here in search of—”
“I’m not here as a tourist.” Mindy eyed her again, half certain that if she stared hard enough, this time she’d be able to see through her.
Again, she couldn’t.
But she did frown. “I know many Americans dream about visiting Scotland. But”—Mindy kept her tone neutral, not wanting to offend—“I’m not one of them. And I’m not looking for anything.”
“Perhaps you should be?”
“I—”
Mindy’s breath left her in a rush. The old woman wasn’t transparent, but there
was
a man standing at the rail a few yards behind her.
A kilted man.
And Mindy was certain he hadn’t been there before.
He stood in shadow, his chin lifted proudly and his gaze on the sea, but he didn’t need to be looking Mindy’s way for her to recognize him.
He was Bran of Barra.
And here—in his element, his powerful silhouette limned against the rolling sea and dark clouds—he was magnificent. Glorious in a way no modern man could rival. Wind lifted his hair and tore at his plaid, but he stood tall and unbending, as if the gusting spray and damp didn’t even faze him.
She surely looked like a bedraggled wet hen.
He was breathtaking.
And he wasn’t just hewn of this wild, watery world. He was its master and wasn’t shy about proclaiming his supremacy. It thrummed through every brawny inch of him and shimmered in the air around him, leaving no doubt that he ruled these dominions. And that he loved them with a fierceness that almost fringed on unholy.
Mindy swallowed, her heart thumping madly.
When he turned his head and looked straight at her, she almost choked. She did flush. A great wave of heat swept her, starting at the roots of her hair and tingling through her, clear to her toes.
“So-o-o, Mindy-lass, tell me true.” He didn’t move, but his voice came as close as if his lips had brushed her ear. “Are you awed yet?”
“I think . . . I mean . . . ,” she spluttered, horrified that she’d almost called him a rogue.
This
was
the twenty-first century, after all.
She shot a look at the old woman, but she was staring out to sea, her gaze fixed on the beetling cliffs of an island off to their left.
She didn’t seem to notice Bran of Barra’s presence.
Mindy was all too much aware of him.
Trembling, she started toward him, but the ferry pitched then, the violent dip and slide knocking her hard against the rail.
“I thought I dreamed you!” She clutched the slippery railing, fighting for balance. “And, no, you don’t awe me,” she lied, glaring at him. “I think you’re—”
“Oho, what’s this?” He held up his hands. “I didn’t mean my own self. I wanted to know”—his blue eyes sparkled and he flashed one of his crooked smiles—“if you’ve fallen under the spell o’ my isles.”
“I don’t believe in spells.”
“But you believe in dreams.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Ah, but you didn’t have to.” He took a step forward, his smile turning deadly. “I saw it in your eyes when you spoke of our kiss.”
“I didn’t say anything about that!” Mindy felt her face flame. She
had
meant the kiss when she’d said she’d thought she’d dreamed him. “And it wasn’t a real—”
She broke off at the sound of a titter behind her.
She’d forgotten the strange old woman.
Wheeling around, she started to tell the woman from Doon to mind her own business, but the rail where the woman had been standing was empty. There was nothing there except shadows and flying sea spray. Equally alarming, if the old woman had tottered back inside, she’d have had to pass Mindy on her way to the exit door.
And, of course, she hadn’t.
“Oh, God!” Mindy clapped a hand to her cheek. “She really was a witch! Or a ghost—”
“A ghost? Where . . . ?” A tall, lanky youth stood staring her, slack-jawed.
His friends—a cluster of teens, similarly agog—crowded in the open exit doorway, gaping at her with startled, round eyes, though one, a spiky-haired youth with a stud in his nose, was most definitely smirking. The girl next to him, a tiny redhead dressed in black and with her eyes heavily kohled, jabbed him in the ribs. “I didn’t see a ghost, but I did see the Goodwife of Doon! She travels about working spells and doing good, like in olden times. I know because my mum knew someone who begged her assistance once when their wean was doing poorly and no doctors could help. Folk in our village believe her magic is real.
“I recognized her just now because I saw her leaving my mum’s friend’s cottage.” The girl tucked her hair behind an ear, her chin jutting out in challenge.
“More like you were nipping in your da’s whisky if you’re telling me you just saw an old woman who wasn’t there!” The spiky- haired youth swaggered to the rail, laughing.
The girl followed, clearly bent on arguing.
Mindy ignored them and whirled back to Bran. But like the crone, whoever she might have been, he, too, had vanished.
Or so she thought until she summoned her best I-am-above-this mien, crossed the deck, and pushed through the gawking teens to reenter the ferry, only to feel a strong, familiar, and entirely invisible hand clamp down on her shoulder.
When she also felt Bran of Barra’s—likewise incorporeal but oh-so-sexy—beard tickle her neck, the world began to spin in a way that had nothing to do with the rolls and plunges of the ferry.
She froze.
Who knew that the mere touch of a seven- hundred-year-old beard could turn a girl’s knees to water and make her head feel light?
As if he was well aware, Bran of Barra chuckled.
He came closer, the heat of him against her back sending shivers all through her. She drew a quick breath and tried to scoot away, but her efforts only caused him to slip his other hand into her hair and lean down, brushing his lips along her jaw.
“You shouldn’t have said our kiss wasn’t real, Mindy-lass.” His breath feathered across her cheek, electrifying her. “You leave me no choice but to prove to you that it was. And”—his tone dropped meaningfully—“to show you that such a soft kiss as I gave you was only a prelude to deeper, much more passionate kisses.”
She felt his thumb rub across her lower lip. Before she could gasp, he took her face in his hands. They were big, warm, and strong against her cheeks. Then his mouth slanted across hers, his lips cool, firm, and determined. Her heart slammed against her chest—the kiss felt so real, so wonderful—but when he tightened his grip on her face and started probing with his tongue, seeking to deepen the intimacy, she knew she was in danger. Mindy jerked free. “I don’t want your kisses!”
“Ah, but you will.”
“Oh, no, I won’t.” She glared at him.
“You’ll do more than want them, Mindy-lass. I say you’ll crave them.”
The supreme confidence in his voice—his disturbingly Scottish voice—made her heart race. “Never,” she snapped before remembering no one else could see him.
And, worse, that everyone could see and hear her.
People were staring.
Mindy took a deep breath to settle nerves that were beginning to unravel. She stood straighter and tugged at the front of her jacket, adjusted the scarf she’d knotted around her neck.
Anything to achieve a sense of balance.
She didn’t stare at other people. And she really disliked being the object of such gawking.
“Look here.” She would have poked Bran of Barra in the chest if she didn’t want to risk looking even sillier. “I don’t think—”
Lout that he was, he laughed. “Never fear, sweetness.” The words came close to her ear again, though this time he wasn’t touching her. “I know fine that this isn’t the place for us to enjoy ourselves.
“We’ll meet on Barra.” He did touch her then, reaching to smooth a hand over her hair. “And when we do, you’ll never again doubt my amorous capabilities. I’ll kiss you until the earth shakes beneath your feet. Or”—he laughed again—“at least until your toes curl!
“Be sure of it!” Leaning in, he gave her a hard, fast kiss on the cheek.
She knew instinctively that he bowed slightly when he stepped away from her. She was also sure there’d be a wickedly annoying smile twitching about his lips. And that his dancing blue eyes would show that he knew he dazzled her. Then, as qucikly as he’d appeared, he was gone, taking his devilry and laughter with him.
Mindy leaned back against the wall, breathless.
Kiss her until her toes curled!
The man—no, ghost—was an unmitigated, arrogant, and insufferable scoundrel. But his teasing blue eyes and that deep, buttery-rich burr made him beyond dangerous.
Mindy bit her lip. Had she really believed she could remain immune to a Scottish accent?
There wasn’t a woman alive who could!
Even now, those soft, lilting tones echoed in her mind, seducing her with each deliciously rolled
r
and all that honeyed richness that made Scotsmen temptation walking.
And Highland Scots were the worst!
They should be outlawed.
Mindy swiped a hand across her brow, certain the dampness there had nothing to do with the flying spray that had been blowing along the ferry’s outer deck.
Hunter the cad’s seven-hundred-year-old ancestor had gotten to her.
His promises—about kisses, no less—conjured a whirl of images that set her entire body tingling.
She could hardly stand for the hot rush of sensation whirling through her. She didn’t need
curled toes
to add to her misery. The last thing she wanted was to be kissed by Bran of Barra.
He didn’t need to convince her of his seduction skills.
That he had them was a given.
Just remembering the feel of his soft, warm breath against her skin—his hand gripping her shoulder so firmly, the other tangled in her hair, his fingers caressing the back of her neck—ignited everything feminine inside her, sweeping her with fierce, undeniable desire.
She was on the road to madness.
And she didn’t need him making the earth tremble beneath her.
It already did.
Determined to do something about that shaking, she pulled herself together and pushed away from the wall before someone mistook her limp-noodled posture for a bad case of mal de mer. Or, worse, an overindulgence in drams.
She hadn’t touched a drop of fine Highland single malt, but now seemed like a very good time.
Especially when, upon entering the nearest lounge, she found that the men crowding the bar now stood only two deep rather than four. Unfortunately all the seats still seemed to be taken, and now that they’d been under way for a while, the whole dimly lit area smelled strongly of fish-and-chips, damp waxed jackets and woolens, and spilled ale.
But the ferry cafeteria had looked even more crowded and no way was she venturing on deck again.
She didn’t want to give Bran of Barra another chance to catch her alone.
And the risk of running into the strange old woman from Doon again—wherever Doon might be—was just another excellent reason to treat herself to a brisk swig of Scotland’s most famed libation.
Somehow she didn’t think either one of them would accost her in the busy pub. So she put back her shoulders and tried to pretend that the people thronging the lounge weren’t Scots on a ferry to Barra, many of them giving her sidelong, how-do-you-fit-in-here looks, and imagined they were airline passengers and on one of
her
flights.
Feeling instantly better, she threaded her way through the crowd and even managed to get close enough to the bar to order a “Jacket Potato with Bangers ’n’ Beans,” glad she’d had enough UK layovers to know that bangers were sausages. As for her single malt . . .
There were so many bottles lining the glass shelves behind the bar!
But one—
Laphroaig
—jumped out at her. Margo’s favorite, and pronounced
La-froyg
, it was the only one she recognized, remembering that her sister insisted that although the whisky was an acquired taste, no other was as smooth and peaty, almost tasting like a smoky turf fire.
Mindy eyed the bottle, hesitating.
She was wet and cold from being on the promenade. Her heavy waxed jacket, against all advertising claims, had let the damp seep through to chill her. And despite her sturdy, equally high-dollared hill-walking boots, her socks felt waterlogged and her toes were frozen. She didn’t care to acknowledge that her hair was soaked and plastered to her head, her bangs dripping. As for what her makeup might look like . . .
She shuddered and tried not to think about it.
She
could
use a dram.
But—she recalled Margo’s sighs of rapture whenever she spoke of her favorite whisky—anything peat flavored and smacking of turf fires might be just a touch too Highlandy for her taste.
“Dinnae ken your whisky?” The many-earringed, ponytailed barkeep flickered his eyebrow at her. “Most Americans order Glenlivet or Famous Grouse.” He smiled, already reaching for the latter. “You’ll like—”
