“No.” Mindy hadn’t been able to finish the first.
She glanced toward the front of the pub, to the one window, which revealed that the afternoon outside was beginning to look seriously cold and gray again. “I should be getting on my way soon.”
“One question first, if you don’t mind?” The author sat forward. “Have you thought about what you’ll do with the MacNeil Tower when the work is finished?” He, too, cast a glance at the pub window. “They’re making amazing progress. Those in the know on Barra are betting it’ll be habitable very soon, perhaps within days.”
“Could be.” Mindy wouldn’t be surprised.
She’d never seen a building go up so fast, much less a medieval castle.
“But . . .” She tapped her chin, thinking about his question.
The answer came quickly.
“I’ll have it turned into a Gaelic heritage center.” She glanced at one of the hand-painted Gaelic signs on the wall. “Jock MacGugan and his men refused payment for their work, so that money remains untouched. There’s more than enough to fund such a—”
Loud whoops and foot stomping from the front of the pub interrupted her.
Wee Hughie didn’t seem to notice.
Mindy’s heart hit her ribs.
Almost afraid to look, she peered again through the shadows, toward the pub entrance. Sure enough, the Long Gallery Threesome occupied the table beside the door. Grinning like fools, they were staring right at her, brimming ale mugs raised in the air as they cheered.
“Heigh-ho!” Geordie leapt up and swung his walking stick in a fast circle around his head.
Silvanus glared at him and grabbed Geordie’s kilt, pulling him back into his seat. But when he released Geordie and looked back at Mindy, he was beaming again. He dragged his sleeve over his whiskery cheek, the brightness in his eyes making her breath catch.
The ghost had tears in his eyes!
“Oh, God!” Mindy’s own eyes blurred.
“Are you okay?” Wee Hughie reached across the table, grabbing her arm. “Can I fetch you some water?”
Mindy blinked. “No, I’m fine. I just—” She looked again at the table by the door, but the family with four children that she’d seen before sat there now.
The three ghosties were gone.
Mindy’s heart squeezed all the same. “I swallowed wrong,” she lied, picking up a napkin to dash at her eyes.
“You’re sure?” The author looked concerned.
“Yes, but I need to get going now.” She stood, collecting her jacket and bag. “Thank you so much for sharing your tales with me.”
She meant that.
Wee Hughie unfolded his tall form from his chair. “It was my pleasure. And I think you’re doing a wonderful thing, turning the castle into a Gaelic cultural center.” He spoke as if he were the prince of the Gaels, his usual loftiness slipping back over him.
“Too many of our young people no longer speak the Gaelic and have even forgotten our traditions.” His chest started swelling again. “As Robert the Bruce’s grandson, I see it as a personal responsibility to ensure that our culture is upheld.”
He reached to help her with her coat. “But tell me, what will you be doing with yourself? Are you intending to return to the States? Or are you thinking of staying on here?”
She’d give anything to stay!
The words screamed in her head, so loud and strong she almost feared she’d spoken aloud.
“I’ll be going back to my work. The airlines.” She hitched her bag onto her shoulder, speaking the inevitable.
Never had flying seemed less appealing. The thought of returning to her onetime dream job weighed down on her like a ton of bricks. She didn’t even want to think about faceless buildings of glass and steel or express-ways crowded with rush-hour traffic.
Her chest tightened and she suddenly found it very difficult to swallow.
She
had
fallen in love with Scotland.
But she wasn’t about to stay on without Bran.
She couldn’t bear it now.
Chapter 14
Mindy let herself out of the Islesman’s Pride only to step straight into a blast of cold air. The afternoon had turned chillier, and thick mist hovered over the bay and rolled silently down the village road. Cottage lights glimmered, but did little to break the darkness. She started on her way, realizing it was much later than she’d thought.
She’d spent hours in the pub.
But it’d been worth every minute to learn so much about the sword that—she was sure—belonged to the man who, with neck nuzzles and wicked, smoldering smiles, had thawed all the ice that had been inside her and already taught her so much about passion and need.
She wouldn’t think of specifics.
The
thigh incident
was too fresh a wound to jab.
It was enough—and surely more than many people ever experience—that they’d enjoyed a few moments of incredible bliss. The kind of total, take-your-breath-away, sensual exhilaration she never would have believed existed outside romance novels.
Bran of Barra had shown her the truth.
She knew she loved him.
She loved his home, too. His wasn’t a steely, impersonal world of glass and concrete. Teeming cities with people who looked like their faces would crack if they smiled. Or suburbs filled with cookie-cutter sixties bungalows, each one the same and all without character.
Bran’s world was a place where the past walked hand in hand with the present, and tradition mattered. Showing her the wonder of Barra and the whole magnificent sweep of his Hebrides—opening her eyes so she could truly see—was just one more gift he’d given her.
And she wanted to give him so much more.
The Gaelic heritage center was just the beginning. She knew it would please him to see his home used in such a good way, benefiting the community. Owned and run by the people of Barra instead of a large national organization like the National Trust for Scotland.
Even worse would have been her original plans—to see the castle turned into a hotel or youth hostel.
Margo’s suggestion, to open a parapsychology study center, would have been a complete disaster. Though she knew her sister would have pleaded otherwise if she’d been able to fly over as planned.
Mindy’s heart squeezed. She did miss her sister and truly had hoped to see her.
Sadly, Margo’s boss, Patience Peasgood, had slipped while jumping on her grandchildren’s trampoline, injuring her knee so badly that she’d required surgery. Her absence left Ye Olde Pagan Times firmly in Margo’s hands.
Mindy walked faster.
She did wish that Margo could have seen the tower’s restoration. And she’d hoped, loving Scotland as Margo did, that she’d come around and agree that the Gaelic heritage center was the best solution. Bran’s tower would belong to Barra. And she’d make sure that would never change. Ideas were coming fast and furiously now. Jock MacGugan would be keen to help run such a center. And if not, he surely knew someone equally qualified. His friend Sandy Budge, who took care of the island finances, could set up the trust. It would all be wonderful. And she wanted to tell Bran, see the pride and pleasure light his eyes when he heard the news.
Not that she could, not now.
The kitchen encounter had been good-bye.
And she didn’t think so because she hadn’t seen him since then. Or even because of the things he’d said before he’d disappeared. She knew it with a sudden, fierce pain that ripped her heart and made her ache so badly she was surprised she was still upright, walking down the road.
She felt like she was breaking.
“Damn!” She kicked a pebble and reached to turn up her jacket collar.
It
was
glacial.
Icy wind shrieked down from the hills that rose behind the village, the strong gusts howling round the eaves of the cottages and echoing across the water. The sound was lonely and keening, and made her shiver.
“Yeah, right.” She hunched her shoulders against the cold and kept marching home to the Anchor. She didn’t fool herself for a moment.
She was shaking because of Bran.
Not the weird howl of the wind.
It was Bran, all about him. She missed the warm intimacy of his embrace. The thrill of feeling his powerful arms tighten around her, drawing her close. How one intense look or just breathing in his scent could melt her. Or what it did to her when she felt the soft brush of his beard. Even the lightest touch of his lips against hers sent her spiraling into ecstasy. No one had ever excited her more.
Not like he did.
And that was only a fraction of it.
She ached for the taste and feel of him. The pulse-pounding excitement that swept her each time he appeared. She yearned to see his twinkling blue eyes take on a gleam and hear him say
Mindy-lass
. Let his rich laughter wash over her, and catch how it rumbled deep in his chest. She wanted all of that. Especially to relive how just being near him could make the air around them thicken with crackling desire and—she had to say it—a sense of rightness.
As if they were indeed destined to mate.
“Oh, Bran . . .” She whispered his name, ignoring how her voice hitched as she kicked another pebble.
Speaking to Wee Hughie about the Heartbreaker had set her spirits soaring. Something had told her the sword was the key to it all. Yet when she’d left the Islesman’s Pride, the road had stretched empty.
It’d been a void that hit her harder than the cold.
She bit her lip and drew her jacket closer about her. She wished she’d dressed in layers, or worn thermal underwear. But in her heart, she doubted such measures would have made a difference.
If Bran continued to stay away from her—and she feared he would—she’d never be truly warm again.
Determined to wrench herself into a better mind-set, she glanced at the bay, trying to imagine the tower as a Gaelic heritage center. She couldn’t see the castle—too much billowing mist stretched between the shore and the islet—but she did spot Jock’s boat tied to a bollard.
It was empty, the fisherman nowhere in sight.
But a movement on the water caught her eye and she thought she saw the square sail of the Long Gallery Threesome’s galley speeding across the waves. Yet when she blinked and looked again, it was only a patch of low, fast-moving clouds, blown by the wind.
Even so, her heart raced.
She was sure someone was watching her.
Whipping around, she peered through the mist, looking back the way she’d come. She half expected—no, she hoped—to see Bran striding toward her, his face lit with a smile and his arms opened wide.
But, of course, he wasn’t there.
Nothing was, except the fog and encroaching darkness.
Even so, when she started on her way again, the sense of being observed intensified with each step. It prickled her nape and sent chills tripping along her skin. She resisted the urge to toss another glance over her shoulder.
She did quicken her pace. And it was then, as she neared the Village Hall, that she realized where the odd feeling was coming from.
Someone
was
staring at her.
It was the dog from the pub.
It was Gibbie. She’d known it was him!
Now he was sitting in the shelter of the glass doors of the closed community center, waiting for her. And—she had to knuckle her eyes, swipe the dampness from her cheeks—she hadn’t heard the keening of the wind.
The pitiful noise had been the old dog’s howls.
As if to prove it, he tipped back his head and gave a long, piercing
yeeowwwl
. It was a sound to split ear-drums, attract attention, and break the heart of anyone who loved dogs.
Mindy did.
And she was especially fond of this dog.
“Gibbie!” She started toward him. But he leapt up and bolted away, charging past her to dash down the road in the direction of the harbor. Her breath caught and she began to shake all over again.
Dogs ran like that only when they were making for their masters.
“Oh, God!” Mindy’s heart stilled.
She spun around just in time to see Gibbie disappear into the darkness. When happy barks and a man’s—
Bran’s
—deep, rich laugh came from inside the swirling, impenetrable mist, she could have whooped louder than the Long Gallery Threesome had done at the pub.
“Bran!”
She shouted his name, not caring who heard her.
Then she ran, tearing down the road so fast that a stitch jabbed her side. But she kept on, nearly falling when she slipped on the slick pavement and her feet almost went flying out from under her.
“Mindy-lass.” Bran caught her, sweeping her up into his arms and pulling her hard against him. “I’d sworn no’ to come, but”—he pressed his lips to her hair, raining kisses from her temple to her ear, nuzzling and nibbling her neck—“I couldn’t stay away.”
Beside them, Gibbie barked. He was running circles around them, tail wagging.
Mindy thought her heart would burst. “I saw Gibbie in the pub. Then again at the Village Hall.”
Bran leaned back to grin at her. “And who do you think sent him?”
“Oh, Bran.” She twined her arms around his neck, her heart thumping wildly.
“I’ve been mad with missing you.” She clung to him, rubbing her face against his plaid. Its wool was rough against her skin and she’d never felt anything more wonderful. Her entire body was shaking, inside and out, but she didn’t care. He smelled of woodsmoke and the cold, frosty night.
She wanted to drink him in.
Bran looked ready to toss her over his shoulder and carry her off to his turret.
