“I’ll have Laphroaig.” She looked him straight in the eye. “I appreciate its smoky flavor.”
The man looked at her with new respect. “Not many tourists ask for that one, much less”—he turned away to take the bottle from the shelf—“pronounce its name correctly.”
Mindy tucked her hair behind her ear and smiled, looking on as he poured her a generous measure.
He flashed a glance at her, a much warmer one this time. “Water or soda?”
“Neat.”
“Nothing at all?”
“I prefer it as is, thanks.” Mindy paid and found a seat against the windows. She took a sip of her Laphroaig, feeling extraordinarily proud of herself. It felt good to have put a crimp in the barkeep’s opinion of Americans, even if she’d had to borrow Margo’s Scotophile knowledge to do so.
The result was gratifying.
Even the Scots in the lounge had stopped giving her sideways, narrow-eyed looks. And the mist blowing past the lounge’s large windows had thickened into what she knew the locals called sea haar. The consistency of pea soup, the fog now blocked all views of the rolling Hebridean sea and the dark, picturesque isles that kept looming up out of nowhere.
Mindy shifted in her seat, pleased.
She didn’t want to do scenic.
Impenetrable fog suited her better. Enough quivers had run through her when she’d gone out on the deck. Her whole safe world, everything she felt—or, better said, didn’t want to feel—about Scotland, tumbled down around her when she’d walked into that wild, romantic seascape.
And that was before Bran of Barra made an appearance.
His arrival only worsened things.
He’d looked so perfect, so right, against the rugged backdrop of churning, rough-watered seas and all those steep, black-glistening cliffs. The deeply indented bays with sweet little stretches of gleaming sand beaches. Hauntingly atmospheric places where she was sure few, if any, men had ever set foot.
Off-the-map, unfrequented places where Bran of Barra could stand with his legs braced apart and his hands on his hips, his plaid snapping in the wind, and no one—not one living soul—would dare challenge his right to be there.
He was that kind of man.
He wore remoteness well.
And seeing him as she had, on the ferry deck, yet still in his untamed, almost legendary surroundings, had stirred her attraction to him so fiercely that she wondered she hadn’t gone up in flames.
She shivered.
She could still see him, feel his gaze locking with hers and how easily he’d seduced her with one look, sweeping her up into his bold, larger-than-life passion and undoing her resistance with promises of toe-curling kisses.
Kisses she knew would only lead to . . .
“Agggh . . .” The sigh escaped her before she could stop it.
She glanced around, but no one seemed to have heard her. Grateful, she snuggled deeper into her jacket, welcoming the dense sea haar that blotted his world from view. It was easier here, in the crowded ferry lounge, to just drift and think of other things.
So she leaned back and quietly sipped her Laphroaig until the empty dram glass slipped from her fingers to land with a little
clack
on the table, roll across its polished surface, and drop to the floor.
Mindy started, and then blinked to notice that the lounge was nearly empty. Only a few other ferry passengers remained, and from the looks of them, they were dozing. The ponytailed barkeep stood with his back to her, busying himself polishing ale glasses over a sink of steaming water.
It was very quiet.
A glance at her watch proved what she wouldn’t have believed otherwise: she’d fallen asleep.
They’d soon be arriving at Barra.
And, she recognized with alarm, it hadn’t been dropping her dram glass that had wakened her. It’d been a strange gonglike noise she could still hear, beating steadily, even though the other passengers and the glass-polishing barkeep didn’t seem to notice.
A chill rippled down her spine.
Her nape prickled.
She didn’t want to hear noises that no one else did.
It was bad enough being attracted to a ghost and having conversations with little old ladies in black who, if not exactly ghostly, weren’t your run-of-the-mill grand-mothers next door, either.
“Oh, man.” Very carefully, she leaned down to retrieve the fallen dram glass. When she straightened, something caught her attention from the corner of her eye.
It was something outside the windows.
And it was terrifying.
Mindy’s heart stopped. Disbelief slammed into her as a high-prowed medieval galley shot past the slower-moving ferry. The ghost galley’s flashing oars sent up clouds of spume as it sped into the mist only to whip around and race by the windows again.
“O-o-oh, no . . .” Mindy stared, her blood icing.
That it was a ghost ship was beyond doubt.
Roderick, Silvanus, and Geordie stood beaming at the stern, their arms raised in proud salute, basking in their flamboyant display.
Mindy also recognized the gong-beating helmsman. He was one of the
ancestrals
from the Folly’s long gallery. As were the oarsmen who so tirelessly kept the galley flying back and forth beside the ferry.
On their fourth pass, Silvanus grabbed Geordie’s walking stick and thrust it high, using the cane to make great, sweeping circles in the air above his head. Some of the ghosties whooped, their cries rising above the rhythmic drumming of the helmsman’s gong.
Mindy’s blood began to roar in her ears. She knew what they were doing.
They were welcoming her to Barra.
And, as always, only she saw them.
She swallowed.
The twinkle in Silvanus’s eyes almost got to her. As did the excitement, and pride, that shone on the faces of the other ghosties. If the gong beater swelled his chest even the slightest bit more, he’d surely explode.
He looked that victorious.
They all did.
And she should turn away from the window, rest her hands flat against the solidity of the table, and take deep breaths as she imagined how wonderful it would be to soon slip into her bed at the inn. How, once there, she’d pull the covers up to her chin, forgetting the Long Gallery Threesome and their zealous friends.
Instead, she kept staring at them and had to struggle against returning their waves.
Their enthusiasm was infectious.
And she had the strangest feeling that it wasn’t just that. Scotland—or, at least, the Hebrides—seemed to have a behavioral and mind-altering effect on her.
She should be horror-struck.
She
was
appalled.
But what infuriated her was to find that she was watching the ghosties—otherworldly beings, for heaven’s sake—as if their performance were commonplace.
Mindy shuddered. There was nothing at all ordinary about being greeted by a band of medieval Highland warriors in a ghost galley beating up and down past the windows of a modern-day ferry.
The sight should send her fleeing.
It was every bit as bizarre as if little green men in a round, silver saucer had suddenly appeared outside the plane windows on one of her work flights.
There wasn’t that big a stretch between Martians and ghosts.
Yet . . .
She leaned closer to the window, pressing her forehead against the cold glass to see better through the fog. She shouldn’t want to see the ghost galley more clearly. But something had happened to her somewhere between landing in Glasgow and driving left onto a Barra-bound ferry.
Something indefinable.
And now, watching the Folly ancestrals having such fun with their
flourish
, as Margo would call their antics, only reminded her that Bran also planned to give her a special welcome-to-Barra greeting.
Mindy’s breath caught. Her pulse skittered just from remembering his words. How his eyes had smoldered and his grin had turned so utterly wicked as he’d spoken his warning.
His next kiss wouldn’t be innocent. It would be nothing like the first one, a light and fleeting, brush of his lips across hers.
Nor would he let her pull away as she’d done in the ferry corridor.
The next time there’d be no escaping.
He’d appear out of nowhere, grab and crush her in a breath-stealing, big-burly-man bear hug, kissing her passionately. And then, like the rogue that he was, he’d set about proving his prowess.
And then she’d be in deep trouble.
Because she strongly suspected she wouldn’t be able to resist him.
Chapter 9
The mist was swirling thicker than ever when Mindy finally drove off the CalMac ferry at Barra’s Castlebay pier. In fact, the mist—no, sea haar—was so impenetrable that she hadn’t even been able to catch a glimpse of Bran’s stony islet as the ferry passed the castle site on its way to the dock. Lights did flicker dimly along the town’s waterfront, but whether the yellow-glowing pinpricks belonged to cottages, shops, or even a fleet of fishing boats was something she just couldn’t tell at this point.
She did know that everyone leaving the ferry seemed to be going to the same place.
And when she considered how small Barra was, and the very explicit directions she’d received, it appeared as if that place was her destination.
The Hebridean House Hotel.
A family-run, four-star country-house hotel only a few minutes above the main village of Castlebay. According to Mindy’s source—a Scotland-loving airline friend who, unlike Margo, had actually been to Scotland and even made frequent return visits—Hebridean House was the best place to stay on Barra.
The rooms were spacious and comfortable, fireplaces were kept lit, the food was excellent, and the views divine, or so Mindy’s ex-colleague enthused. There was also a pub with great real ale where locals often held impromptu music sessions.
Best of all, the bathrooms were modern and, Mindy had been assured, she wouldn’t have to worry about learning how to operate fiddly showers that were next to impossible to get just the right temperature.
She’d fall in love with Hebridean House.
But now, as she inched her way through the cold, wet night, following a long string of red taillights through the tiny seaside village and up the hill to the large and rambling hotel, she had serious doubts.
With the exception of ghosts, Mindy had expected Barra to be a wild and empty place. The kind of grandiose nowhere that looks haunting in oil paintings, but where, in real life, she’d find nothing stirring but the ripple of wind on the sea, and, maybe, the occasional bark of a dog.
Far from it, the isle struck her as the Grand Central Station of the Hebrides.
Barra hopped with activity.
And she hadn’t been mistaken. Everyone was headed to her hotel.
Mindy shuddered and gripped the steering wheel tighter. At least she doubted Silvanus, Roderick, Geordie, and the others would abandon their galley to waylay her in the lobby of an overcrowded Victorian-era country-house hotel. She hadn’t seen them since the ferry had slowed its engines and made for the Castlebay pier.
Bran was a huge question mark.
She couldn’t be sure, but she might have caught glimpses of a huge, shaggy dog loping alongside the road next to her slow-moving rental car.
If so, the dog could be Gibbie.
She narrowed her eyes and tried to peer deeper into the rolling mist. She’d almost swear that when the fog thinned a bit in places, she’d spotted the large, burly figure of a man walking swiftly a few yards behind the dog. Even more telling, she’d also seen at least one or two strange bursts of brilliant blue light, each odd flare coming from near the striding man’s hip.
Bran of Barra’s sword had a gemstone that glowed. She’d seen the blade’s pommel stone shoot blue flames more than once.
He could be following her.
The possibility made her heart pound. Although she would have guessed that, like the
ancestrals
from the Folly, he’d choose to avoid confronting her in a place as jam-packed as the Hebridean House appeared to be.
Not especially pleased about the crowd herself, she pulled into the hotel’s car park—a surprisingly large one—and began what she feared would be a fruitless search for an empty parking space.
People were everywhere.
Circling cars, many from the ferry, cruised slowly past, going round and round, as drivers and passengers kept an eye out for a place to park. Finally, after turning and heading a bit back down the narrow, twisting road, she found a semisheltered spot near a drystone wall.
Gusty wind nearly blew her off her feet when she climbed out of the car, but the damp and darkness gave her energy she didn’t know she had, and she marched up the road, reaching the car park with what seemed like only a few quick steps.
She ignored the hotel bar, located to the side of the building and indicated by a hand-painted sign over its red door, reading THE HERRING CATCHER, EST. 1878. Though surely reeking atmosphere and age, the pub looked—and sounded—filled to bursting.
Not surprised, she made straight for the Hebridean’s main entrance, where even more people were streaming across the threshold.
When she got there, she saw why.
A poster was tacked to the door:
Do you have a tale to tell? If so, the Highland Storyweaver wants to put you in his next book!
Mindy stopped to read the smaller print near the bottom of the advert. A quick scan explained that Wee Hughie MacSporran, Highland historian and author, was staying at the hotel to give readings, do signings, and—the surefire reason for the mob—he was searching for
