“I shall win!” Saor leapt to his feet, laughing still. “And I already have my prize for the e’en!” He flashed a wicked smile at the plump, scantily clad ghostess who’d been sharing his trencher. “Naught you could offer would satisfy me more.”
“No doubt.” Bran felt his good humor returning.
He even slung a comradely arm around his friend’s shoulders. “Maili”—he flicked a glance at Saor’s trencher mate, winking—“will please you well.”
The glint in Saor’s eye said he knew it.
Of Bran’s own height and breadth, and with his bullish strength, Saor was also the only man in the hall who’d prove a worthy wrestling opponent. Even so, Bran would best him. The brute force he’d need in doing so would take his mind off the pestiferous chills nipping at him.
And—it must be said—with his other close friends having been lured away from ghostly realms in recent years, choosing instead to spend their days with
American
seductresses of the modern world, Saor was one of the few souls remaining whose company Bran truly enjoyed.
Saor, like Bran, held no aspirations to leave their spectral paradise. Pleasing Bran even more, Saor gloried in the boisterous and colorful trappings of their own fourteenth century. He harbored no high- flung wishes to dally in worlds where he didn’t belong.
For that, Bran was grateful.
Not that he’d admit any such softness.
But he had grown extremely tired of losing friends.
It did him good to know that Saor, with his laughing eyes and ready smile, would not be tempted elsewhere by an American female come to the Highlands for the sole purpose of claiming a kilted man.
A fool would know these women’s fixation with plaid was all that drew them.
And, perhaps, an appreciation for bonny knees!
Bran drew an annoyed breath.
Releasing Saor, he flipped back his own plaid and blotted the brazen vixens from his mind. Experience had proven their persistence and—he shuddered—their penchant for finding fourteenth-century Highlanders even more appealing than Scotsmen of their own time. It scarce mattered how many of them were blessed with long legs and bouncing, well- rounded bosoms. They roamed Scotland’s heathery hills like ravenous, bloodthirsty predators and were to be avoided at all costs.
If a man wished to keep his wits.
And Bran did, so he flexed his shoulders and strode over to a trestle table against the dais wall. A flick of his fingers cast away the crisp linen draping and the spread of victuals arrayed down the board’s length. A second finger click conjured two low and fat tallow candles, each one burning hotly on a flat iron pricket.
Pleased, he threw a look at Saor, eagerly awaiting his friend’s reaction. “There you have it!” He indicated the candles. “First man to douse the flames with the other’s arm is the winner, taking all!”
Saor arched a brow. “All of what?”
Bran thought a moment, then rocked back on his heels. “All the pleasure of chasing away any American lassies who might darken my door!”
Hoots of laughter greeted his outburst. Many merrymakers slapped their thighs or pounded on the trestle tables. Some gave mock gasps of horror.
All were amused.
Saor simply stared. “An American?”
“So I said.” Bran nodded, not quite sure where the notion had come from. “Dinnae tell me you’ve ne’er heard of them. Everyone knows they enjoy poking about our glens and castles, searching for their roots, as it were!”
More sniggers and snorts answered him.
Bran marched across the dais to jam a finger into the plaid-draped chest of the man who’d laughed the loudest. “You’d sing another tune if one of the long-fingered lassies snatched you into their day!”
He leaned down, nose to nose with the other ghostie. “I’ve been to their America. Once, it was! A place called
Pen-seal
-somewhere. The memory jellies my knees and”—he straightened—“still has the power to tie my toes in knots. Trust me, you dinnae want to land in the clutches of an American, most especially the ones that call themselves Scotophiles. They’re the worst o’ the lot.
“And I’ll no’ have any here.” Bran glared round, in warning. The idea of falling prey to such a female on Barra—or anywhere—made his insides quiver.
Blessedly, the possibility wasn’t a likely danger. He rarely visited modern times and absolutely refused to sift himself to Barra of the current day.
But it wouldn’t hurt to have a plan if the unthinkable ever happened.
Relieved that he did, he raised his arms above his head and cracked his knuckles, eager to arm-wrestle Saor and put American wenches from his mind. A wink and a smile were all he needed to find himself seated at the table he’d readied. Proud of his flourish, he shoved up his sleeve and planted his elbow firmly on the board, grinning.
Not to be outdone, Saor flicked his wrist to fetch a cup of ale from the air, downing the brew to its dregs in one long gulp. He laughed when the emptied cup vanished from his fingers, and quick as winking, he, too, had claimed his place across from Bran.
“So, my friend!” He plunked his own arm on the table and grabbed Bran’s waiting hand. “Let us see who shall have the pleasure of chasing American lassies from this fine isle! But be warned.” His deep voice held a note of amusement. “The ghosts one calls are e’er summoned!”
Chuckles and hoots rippled through the group of gathered onlookers. Several nudged one another or exchanged merry-eyed glances, though one or two tried to hide their laughs behind sudden bouts of coughing.
Bran ignored them all and concentrated on keeping his arm steady. At his elbow, the pricket flame leapt and danced. He could feel the candle’s warmth licking him, waiting. Unconcerned, he let his lips twitch, sure of victory. His wrists were free of telltale burn scars and he wasn’t about to put one there now.
So he kept his arm relaxed and let Saor do the straining. Already his friend’s jaw was setting, his teeth gritted, and tiny beads of sweat began to dot his brow. No longer laughing, the crowd around the table drew near, some men leaning down to bang the table with their fists. Saor grimaced, pushing fiercely as the pounding beat became a rhythm.
Bran paid no heed, the roar of his own blood in his ears louder than his friends’ thunderous encouragement. Saor was squeezing his hand now, the other man’s grip almost bone crushing as he tried to push Bran’s arm onto the candle.
“You cannae win.” Bran ground out the words, his own brow growing damp. “Give and spare yourself a brand!”
Saor flashed a grin and strained harder. “You are the one about to be burned!”
Bran snorted.
In truth, he
was
burning.
The muscles in his neck and shoulders had suddenly caught fire, sending scorching heat shooting through his veins. But still he thrust Saor’s arm closer to the flame, determined to triumph. Until the blood rushing in his ears became a shrill buzzing, and a scalding flash of white-hot pain exploded against his hip.
“Yee-owwww!”
Lightning quick, he slammed Saor’s arm against the candle, the hiss and stink of burnt flesh lost in the shouts of his men and the agony of the blinding heat stabbing into his side.
Saor blinked and sat back, his grin returning. “It would seem the American lassie shall be yours,” he announced, shaking his singed wrist.
Around them, revelers whipped out swords and raised them high in tribute. Bran pushed slowly to his feet and left the table, scarce seeing or hearing the cheering throng for the raging blaze he couldn’t ignore. No longer just at his hip, the heat raced through him, searing his very soul.
Every inch of his body burned.
His blood sizzled and each indrawn breath left a fiery trail that roasted his lungs.
It was a misery he finally recognized.
Though he’d rather cut himself than admit the flames came from the pommel stone of his sword.
His nape prickled at the possibility and icy chills sped down his spine. The Heartbreaker’s crystal was said to be enchanted. Formed by the tears of a MacNeil ancestress who lost her love in an ancient battle, the gemstone was believed to heat and glow in times of grave danger to the clan.
Or so legend claimed.
Not wanting to think about the
other
claims, Bran lurched through the hall, sifting himself into the cold night air of the bailey only when he was sure none of his men was looking his way. Dark mist swirled across the cobbles and the wind was picking up, the air damp with the smell of rain. Beyond the curtain walls, he could hear the sea crashing against the rocks. MacNeil’s Tower, after all, claimed its own wee isle, set just off the nearby coast of Barra. The keep was a nigh- impregnable stronghold and utterly defenseless against the dread churning inside him.
He stopped near the lee of a wall, letting its towering stones and the drifting mist shield him from prying eyes. If the Heartbreaker was branding him, he meant to keep his fate to himself.
Even so, it cost him greatly to toss back his plaid and clamp his hand around the sword’s rounded pommel.
The heat was excruciating.
But it was the bright blue light seeping through his fingers that nearly stopped his heart.
Shimmering blue light that legend called
the truth of the sword
and that—for which he’d always been most grateful—had never deigned to show itself in all the long centuries he’d possessed the fabled blade.
It was truly magnificent—finely honed steel just as ghostly as himself. And—his gut clenched—still possessed of the powerful magic of the true Heartbreaker.
Bran shuddered.
The saints only knew where the earthly blade now rested.
Not that it mattered. His chiefly wits already told him that his beloved sword had determined to disrupt his eternal peace.
Now he looked on in horror as the light deepened in brilliance and began curling past his fingers to weave and dance before him. Eyes wide, he staggered backward, releasing the pommel. But if clutching the crystal had unleashed its magic, letting go didn’t break the spell.
Far from it, the blue light began spinning into a long, glittery wand that bobbed and bounced in the air, slowly stretching itself into a glowing rectangle, bright against the cold gray of his castle walls.
He was cold, too.
Blistering heat no longer blasting him, a black chill now swept him. It was a terrible, icy grip on his gizzard that would have brought a lesser man to his knees.
Bran did his best not to flinch.
Such weakness was beneath his chiefly status.
Hebridean chieftains, in particular, were known for their stoutheartedness and valor. Frozen innards were nothing to men of his ilk.
Ghostly or otherwise.
But when a woman appeared inside the blue-edged shape hovering in front of him, his mouth went dry and he could feel his throat working.
The woman wasn’t just any female.
She was a
modern woman
, he was sure.
Comely and fair, she stared right at him, her eyes wide with horror and every bit as blue as the shimmering light surrounding her. An unseen wind tossed her sun- bright hair about a face that—under different circumstances—would send lust thundering straight to his loins. But her mouth, sweet and lush as it was, had opened in a silent scream, the sight dashing any such urges before they could rise.
He did take a step closer, drawn like a moth to flame even though he knew he should flee.
But her lush curves beckoned and her urgent need . . .
Bran swore and reached out a hand, compelled to comfort her. As if she knew, her lovely eyes rounded with an even greater look of terror. Then she veered away, dashing deeper into the mist trapped inside the glowing blue frame.
She vanished almost as quickly as he’d seen her.
Sadly, not before he noted her clothing.
She was wearing breeks.
The heavy blue kind folk of her day called jeans.
Bran swallowed hard, his own horror mounting as the shimmering blue light contracted back into a single spinning beam. A brilliant wand of dazzling light that again bobbed and danced in the air before him. Until it suddenly stopped weaving and floated toward him, pointing straight at his heart before, with a crackling
hum
, the beam leapt back inside the Heartbreaker’s crystal, leaving him alone with the icy-cold truth.
The bards hadn’t lied about the mythic blade.
There were times when a woman’s distress could summon the crystal’s magic.
Women who carried MacNeil blood in their veins. Or females who—Bran couldn’t deny it—were inextricably bound to a MacNeil male, usually a chieftain.
Either way, the
truth of the sword
unerringly revealed the MacNeil destined to champion the woman.
Such fates were etched in stone.
Bran shoved a hand through his hair, certain the cobbles beneath his feet had just opened up to swallow him. He felt decidedly ill. After seven hundred years of merry ghostdom, his own beloved sword had finally brought his world crashing down around him. There could be no escape.
Not from the Heartbreaker’s prophecy. Nor from the American lass he knew would soon land on his doorstep. He should have listened to Saor’s warning about calling ghosts.
Now he was doomed.
Though the Heartbreaker’s crystal was quiet now, its glistening roundness cold and benign as the night’s chill mist, Bran could still see the woman’s startled blue eyes. They pierced him through dimensions and—he knew—across great distances.
Bran scowled. His chest tightened with fury.
As if the Heartbreaker meant to torment him even more, images flooded his mind. They were wanton, lascivious glimpses of tumbling the lass on a bed of turf and heather. That, he could well imagine.
