Delighted that it was so—this was one of the most important causes she’d ever taken on—she made her slow way to the seaward wall where the men had gathered. She didn’t worry about being seen now. If any of the men looked back, she’d blend into the shadows.
When she reached the wall, she paused to push her frizzled white hair back off her face and then took a deep, grounding breath.
She also held out her hands and wriggled her fingers a time or two.
Then she reached into her cloak for a small leather pouch and a tiny silver vial. In the pouch were grains of sand from Barra’s magnificent cockleshell strand, the Traigh Mhor. But there was also some rich dark earth she’d gleaned from the pit that’d been dug as the keep’s new foundation. A pinch of dried herbs and other spelling goods, brought from her own Isle of Doon, lent additional power.
The vial held seawater from Barra’s bay.
With great reverence, she set the vial on a stone. The water’s magic must wait. First she untied the little pouch and began carefully scattering its contents along the base of the newly laid wall.
She chanted as she hobbled the wall’s length. “Oh, Ancient Ones, hear me. By the powers in you, let this ground be disturbed no more. Accept this offering”—she lifted her cupped hand to her lips and puffed some of the earth-and-sand mixture onto the wall—“and keep these stones as stout and mighty as e’er they were.
“Guard and watch o’er those who dwell here, keeping them proud, safe, and honorable as e’er they were born to be.”
Her spelling pouch now empty, the crone carefully tucked it back within the depths of her cloak and stooped to retrieve her vial.
This she opened with the same solemnity as she’d done with the pouch, though now she moved to the very center of the little isle. Slowly, for her knees pained her, she knelt and used one gnarled finger to scratch a small hole in the earth. She knew—for her wisdom was vast—that she was now directly over the islet’s heart, the ancient broch that slept beneath the MacNeils’ tower, gladly sharing its strength as the center and backbone of the keep.
Such places were holy. And for that reason, she tipped the seawater from her vial into the hole with her steadiest hand and deepest respect.
As the water seeped into the earth, she raised her voice once more. “Oh, Ancient Ones, I call upon you. See how I’ve returned this water to the place it’s e’er loved and surrounded. Grant that no ripple or tide touching this isle will e’er again carry away what belongs here, at rest.
“And you, Powers of the Air”—she turned her face into the wind—“and you, Powers of Fire”—this time she peered across the bay at the twinkling cottage lights—“be one with the Auld Gods, join together, and . . .”
She let the words trail off and took a deep breath, readying herself for her last, somewhat unusual request.
“Help these men raise this tower with all speed!” She spoke the plea quickly, half expecting a lightning bolt to wing down and fry her.
But as with each night she’d performed this spell, nothing stirred to damn her. No demons rose to seize her for her cheekiness.
So, as always, she pressed a hand to her thin breast and called out the final words. “Honor to the Auld Gods! My thanks and blessed be!”
Once more, she glanced around hastily, scarce daring to breathe. The Ancient Ones were all-powerful and lightning jabs were only one way they could show their wrath against servants who vexed them.
But the night remained still.
Nothing moved except the whitecaps on the bay and the ever-present wind, just now tearing at the crone’s cloak and reminding her it was time to seek the warmth and cheer of her own merry hearth.
But before she left, she carefully picked her way back to the new seaward wall, just to see if her efforts had done any good.
She wasn’t disappointed.
The wall stood a good three feet taller than it had moments before.
“Eeeeeie—!” She broke off her gleeful cry, quickly summoning a humble smile. She also bobbed her head in one more demonstrative show of thanks.
Just in case the Ancient Ones were watching.
Then she turned and hobbled into the mist, vanishing before she cackled again.
It was enough reward that, come morning, the men of Barra would see the wall and congratulate themselves on a job well-done.
They deserved the glory.
Chapter 13
Nearly a week later, Mindy stood outside the Anchor, hardly believing she’d survived so long in such complete, if glorious, isolation. It also surprised her that the charm of drearily wet days hadn’t yet faded. Barra’s cold, blustery clime continued to invigorate her. Even more amazing, she wasn’t missing the noise and hectic pace of her usual life. Not that New Hope, Pennsylvania, was exactly a metropolis.
But compared with Barra—a truly edge-of-the-world place—everywhere else bustled.
Of course, the Hebridean House was still bursting at the seams. But the people crowding Barra’s largest and best hotel weren’t movers and shakers and walk-fast, look-no-one-in-the-eye city dwellers. They were just Scots hoping to be immortalized in a book.
Not that she’d seen any of them since her arrival.
Preferring not to brave the bay crossing in Jock MacGugan’s surprisingly tiny boat—at least, as long as the weather remained fierce and she’d seen firsthand how the wind buffeted his boat and how the teensy vessel plunged and rose on the bay’s huge, turbulent waves—she’d spent her time driving around Barra, exploring the island’s many beauty spots and archaeological sites.
The island
was
lovely.
And with everyone and their proverbial uncle on Wee Hughie MacSporran’s coattails and so many Barra men working on Bran’s tower, the village stayed pretty much empty.
So she’d remained alone.
And considering she’d needed days to recover from her mind-blowing orgasm-on-a-kilted-ghost’s-thigh encounter with Bran of Barra, the Anchor’s remoteness suited her fine.
She wasn’t comfortable admitting it, but Bran was one reason she’d been glad for the high wind and tossing, plunging seas. The stormy weather gave her a valid excuse to decline Jock’s repeated offers to ferry her out to the islet.
Bran would be there, she knew.
The excellent progress of the restoration would draw him. Jock and his men were clearly more skilled than they admitted. In a relatively short time, the curtain walls already stood solid and the keep itself could now be seen rising above them. The work was galloping along at an incredible pace.
But it wasn’t really the tower that concerned Mindy, not anymore.
It was Bran.
She missed him badly, ached to be in his arms again, burned for more of his kisses—and that terrified her. Just the thought of him filled her with both trepidation and excitement. Most of all, thinking of him sent ripples of longing all through her. She lifted a hand to her cheek, not surprised to find her skin hot.
Bran of Barra could make a stone blush.
She still couldn’t believe she’d had the best climax of her life against his leg. Nor had she forgotten what he’d said about the grandeur of his bedchamber. What he’d implied he—or, better said, they—would do there prickled her nerves and made her shiver.
She rubbed a hand across her forehead, feeling faint.
The man was lethal. And she definitely wasn’t ready to see him again.
But she couldn’t avoid him forever.
The bad-weather gods had turned their back on her and although the seemingly ever-present mist hung everywhere, it wasn’t raining. And the bay looked much less abysmal than it had all week. Not quite calm, but not threatening, either, the water slapping over the jetty stones was glassy black and the waves were nowhere near as high as they’d been.
It was, in fact, quite a fine day.
From across the bay came the sound of hammering and the steady buzz of saws, but the waterfront itself was quiet. The air smelled of woodsmoke and the sea. Colorful fishing boats, already returned with their early-morning catches, filled the harbor, bobbing peacefully at their moorings. She’d also seen a few seals rolling in the waves or clambering on the rocks that edged the quay.
Barra was showing its bonniest face.
And soon, she knew, Jock would come knocking on her door, wondering if today was the day she’d finally wish to see the islet.
Too bad he didn’t know
seeing the islet
would also take her straight into Bran of Barra’s arms. She was sure of that.
She was also starving.
A condition driven home by the cooking smells wafting to her on the wind. It was midday, after all, and she’d learned quickly that Barrachs supped at noon. And if she went by the tempting aroma of frying fish and sizzling bacon drifting her way from the whitewashed cottages lining the village road, every kitchen was a busy place just now.
Mindy’s mouth watered. Her stomach rumbled.
She bit her lip, glancing between the Anchor and the heart of the village, where she was sure she could grab a tasty pub lunch at the Islesman’s Pride.
She started walking down the road, not needing to consider long.
Food was an excellent alternative to making a fool of herself over a man—a ghost!—who, although he’d kissed her socks off and probably ruined her for life, had made it plain he viewed their kiss as a grievous mistake that shouldn’t have happened.
His Fourth of July sparkler sword proved it.
Destined to mate,
he’d said.
It made Mindy’s heart ache to remember how he’d looked so deeply into her eyes when he’d explained why he believed his sword recognized her as his one true love. A shiver slid through her, and her pulse quickened. She could still feel his lips on her palm as he’d kissed her hand just before he’d vanished, leaving her alone and longing.
She shouldn’t think about it, but he’d done more than drop a kiss to her palm. He’d nipped the sensitive inside of her wrist with his teeth and then flicked the edge of her thumb with his tongue.
He’d made her tremble, her insides melt.
And now . . .
She blinked, refusing to let emotion sting and burn her eyes. Then she started to see that she’d already reached the pub. The tempting smell of food was even stronger here, but she was sure the Islesman’s Pride would be full of Jock’s workmen friends. So she straightened her back and took a deep breath before she opened the door and went inside the crowded pub.
The interior was low, narrow, and dark, and the heavy black beams running the length of the ceiling signaled that the pub was very old. From what she could tell through the haze of smoke and shadows, framed photographs of fishing boats covered the walls, along with a motley assortment of what appeared to be centuries-old fishing and crofting paraphernalia.
There were also a few hand-painted wooden signs in Gaelic that she couldn’t read and didn’t even want to try to pronounce.
Margo would say the pub reeked atmosphere and she would have to agree. But it was also jammed. Even more full than she’d imagined.
But she’d been noticed.
She could feel people staring at her. And the last thing she wanted to do was offend the locals by popping into their pub and walking out a second later.
She especially didn’t want to appear rude in front of Jock’s friends.
But as soon as her eyes adjusted to the dimness, she saw that the Islesman’s Pride wasn’t filled with fishermen. The people sitting at tables and along the bar that looked like a sawed- in-half boat were people she recognized from the CalMac ferry.
She also knew the kilted man holding court at a table near the rear. If she had any doubts, the teetering pile of books at his elbow identified him.
He was Wee Hughie MacSporran.
And she’d walked into a book signing.
Mindy could’ve groaned.
The author looked right at her, gave a lofty nod. He clearly thought she’d come to tell him a tale for his next book. Or, worse, assumed she was there to buy a copy of the current one and get his autograph.
Mindy stood rooted to the spot, unable to move. Before she’d stepped inside the pub, she’d done her best to summon an open, friendly expression. And now she could feel her face freezing.
Could be she’d have to walk through life wearing an insipid smile.
At the thought, her sense of the ridiculous kicked in, and a laugh started bubbling up inside her. She pressed a hand to her chest and began inching backward to the door, her legs finally cooperating again. But before she could reach behind her and grasp the door latch, the author loomed in front of her, a book tucked beneath his arm.
“I’m the Highland Storyweaver,” he announced, waiting a beat for her reaction. “In addition to writing, I run Heritage Tours, guiding small groups on their own ancestral journeys through Scotland. I also specialize in individualized clan or Scottish historical research.
“Robert the Bruce was my great-great-grandfather, eighteen generations removed.”
Mindy’s eyes rounded. Her tongue seemed stuck to the roof of her mouth. It certainly refused to move. After all, what did you say to a man who claimed Scotland’s hero king was his granddaddy?
Equally annoying, she was getting a crick in her neck looking up at him.
He
was
quite tall.
And he seemed to swell his chest as he peered down at her. When she didn’t respond to his spiel, he cleared his throat. He somehow managed to make the noise sound affected, and when she heard it, Bran’s opinion of him flashed across her mind.
The bastard has more hot air in him than a peasant forced to exist on a diet o’ beans.
