Must Love Kilts (12 page)

But such sashes—each one imported from Scotland—were expensive, so she’d resisted temptation and busied herself looking over the assortment of kilt pins, Scottish-themed figurines, refrigerator magnets, and coffee mugs.

She frowned at a pile of
Real Men Eat Haggis
bumper stickers.

At a dollar each, even they were beyond her budget.

She’d put every dime she could spare into the She’d put every dime she could spare into the drawing box.

Getting nervous, she drifted back to the rack of tartan sashes. They were exquisitely made and so quintessentially Highland.

Margo sighed.

Wistfully, she smoothed her fingers along the soft, pure wool. The lustrous weave seemed alive to the touch, warm and beckoning. Conjuring images of wild cliffs and castle ruins edged against dark, brooding skies. She could feel the cold, racing wind and smell the earthy richness of peat smoke in the chill, damp air.

This was why she loved A Dash o’ Plaid.

The booth held magic, always.

But when she looked up from the pretty tartan sash, her dreams of heather, misty hills, and glens shattered. The gum popper and the giggler were stuffing what appeared to be way more than twenty dollars’ worth of raffle tickets into the drawing box.

Donald Junior looked on, a pleased smile on his ruddy face.

The raffle benefited a good cause.

The McVitties—who rescued border collies in addition to running A Dash o’ Plaid—were donating every penny earned to a local no-kill animal shelter.

And they were personally matching the sum.

Needy animals would benefit.

Margo loved animals. She had the scars to prove it because she was known to veer her bicycle to avoid colliding with the occasional squirrel, raccoon, or other critter that sometimes dashed across her path. She never minded such scrapes or bruises. If the animal escaped unscathed, her little bit of pain was well worth it.

She applauded the McVitties’ dedication.

Even so, she resented every raffle ticket the two girls had purchased.

And that made her feel like a terrible person.

But her annoyance didn’t go away.

“If I win”—the giggler started kissing her tickets before pushing them into the slot—“I’ll put a tilt in Wee Hughie’s kilt before you can say
Braveheart
.” The gum popper rolled her eyes. “If he’s called ‘wee’ because of the size of his
haggis
, you won’t be able to tell.”

Donald Junior’s smile faded. He was fussing with an assortment of coffee mugs stamped with thistle designs or colorful pictures of a bagpiper in front of Edinburgh Castle.

The two girls nudged elbows, clearly enjoying his discomfiture.

Margo frowned at them, not caring if they noticed.

When they did, they both opened their eyes exaggeratedly wide, treating her to a scathing look that showed they thought she was an obsolete dinosaur.

And maybe she was.

Because—she lifted her chin and gave them a glare that could’ve frozen much of Iceland—their attitude only made her think of older, distant times when men like Magnus MacBride, Viking Slayer, would’ve dealt swiftly with such crude and rude manners.

Men like Magnus had honor, she knew.

In his day, insults weren’t taken lightly.

But this was the here and now, another age and a different world. As if they sensed how much that unalterable fact irritated Margo, both girls uttered two words that Margo would never allow to pass her lips.

Then they sashayed off toward the Cabbage Rose, their hips swinging.

Margo shuddered.

It was almost more palatable to think of Dina Greed in Scotland than those two twits.

“They’ll no’ be winning,” a sprightly, old-ladyish, and definitely Scottish voice trilled behind Margo.

“Gah!” Margo whirled around, almost colliding with a bright-eyed Scotswoman.

“You needn’t fash yourself, lassie.” The tiny woman winked at her. “All things happen as they should and”—her blue eyes twinkled—“
when
they should.”

“Ahhh . . .” Margo didn’t know what to say.

“Fie on them.” The woman shot a glance at the girls’ retreating backs. “There be words for their kind, but”—she set her hands on her hips—“I’m a lady.” Any other time Margo would’ve smiled.

But she’d been caught out.

The old woman had clearly seen her watching the girls. And somehow she knew Margo burned to win the raffle and that—how embarrassing—she wished everyone else buying a ticket would lose.

Margo’s head pounded slightly and she felt a teeny bit dizzy. Almost as if she’d stepped into another dimension, silly as the thought was. Donald Junior was still standing a comfortable arm’s length away, but somehow the distance felt like miles. Behind him were racks of ready-made kilts, tartan skirts, and—for the less discerning—
Kiss me, I’m Scottish
T-shirts.

Margo could see all that from the corner of her eye.

Yet her
focus
seemed to have narrowed to the tiny Scotswoman with her wizened face and sharp blue eyes.

“Did Patience send you after me?” Margo could imagine her employer being friendly with such a woman.

They probably belonged to the same pagan circle.

Though ...

Margo knew most of Patience’s friends. And this woman wasn’t the sort to be easily forgotten. She reminded Margo of the witch in “Hansel and Gretel.” Except this crone seemed a good one. Almost like the wisewomen in some Scottish medieval romance novels.

“Patience?” The old woman cackled, enhancing the comparison. “Nae, dear, that one didn’t ask me to fetch you. But”—she stepped closer—“I know that she and your two other friends are saving a place for you at the Scottish luncheon buffet.”

Margo blinked, not sure what to think of the woman having such intimate knowledge of her private life.

“You are Margo Menlove, eh?” The crone tipped her somewhat bristly chin.

Margo just looked at her.

White-haired, rosy-cheeked, and flamboyantly styled in a sweeping skirt of deep black velvet and an emerald jacket of the same material, she’d completed her outfit with an expertly draped blue-green tartan sash. A large ruby-studded Celtic brooch winked at her shoulder, where it held the sash in place. Tiny high-topped black boots with red plaid laces peeped from beneath her skirt, adding a touch of modern pizzazz to her Old World look.

Anywhere outside the Scottish Festival, she’d appear odd.

But lots of people did wear period dress to the event. Most didn’t strike the same authenticity as this woman, but they did try.

It was part of the fun.

Still. . .

“How do you know my name?” Margo didn’t like the chills prickling her nape.

The woman’s smile turned mischievous. “Och!” She waved a knotty-knuckled hand. “I heard your friends blethering. They were worried that you hadn’t yet joined them.

“I was about to come this way, so ...” The crone didn’t finish. She did glance across the grass, past the other souvenir and food stalls to the row of clan tents curving along the far side of the duck pond.

Thick mist was beginning to roll down from the low hills to drift across the water. Shimmering curtains of soft gray stillness glided toward the Cabbage Rose Gift Emporium and Tea Room and the sprawling auditorium just beyond. The mist reminded Margo so much of Scotland that her heart squeezed.

“Thon scene could be the Highlands.” The old woman set a hand to her breast and took a deep breath. “No peat, but there’s fine damp air and a wee touch o’ leaf mold and moss. Such scents do delight the soul.

“Take away the hurly-burly and your boxy buildings and cars, and a body could almost be there. Maybe even on my own Isle o’ Doon.” She started to smile again, but just then the two young girls—Margo’s twits—pushed through the crowd at the auditorium door, elbowing inside.

“They’ll no’ be winning,” the crone said again, sounding as if she knew. “Suchlike would lose heart fast in my world. They’re in love with the Highlands they see in
fill-ums
.” She spoke the word
film
as if it was strange on her tongue. “They dinnae have the backbone to stand beside a true Heilander.”

“A true Highlander?” Margo was intrigued.

“Aye, just.” The woman grasped Margo’s arm with surprisingly firm fingers. “Such men as walk my hills need women of strength and courage. Women who appreciate honor and understand the need of blood feuds. Bold-hearted lasses who can dress wounds and even take up a sword if need be.” The crone’s grip tightened. “Women worthy of a lord of battle . . .”

Margo’s ears began to buzz, a strange ringing that increased as the old woman’s voice faded. A wave of dizziness washed over her and she leaned back against the edge of a display table, vaguely aware of Donald Junior showing a
sgian dubh
to a stocky, brown-haired man wearing a sweatshirt decorated with a red Scottish lion. Donald was holding up the little black dagger—commonly worn as a sock knife—and repeatedly saying, “No, it’s pronounced
skean do
. . .” as he turned the horn-handled dagger this way and that, showing off the knife’s Celtic-knot-design mounting.

Neither man seemed aware of Margo and the strange little Scotswoman.

Margo was very conscious of the crone.

“That’s an odd thing to say.
Women worthy of a lord
of battle.
” Margo leaned harder against the table.

Somehow, the woman’s piercing gaze made her feel as if the world were spinning around her. It was unnerving, and worsened her slight sense of dizziness. Just as disturbing, the crone was now shaking Margo’s arm.

“Margo.”
Marta’s concerned voice reached her, shattering the weirdness. “You’re as green as grass.” Her friend let go of Margo’s wrist and slid her arm protectively around Margo’s waist. “I told you it wasn’t a good idea to hang out here all morning, without eating. You should have joined us at the scone booth for breakfast. Now—”

“I’m fine.” Margo shook herself free, glancing around.

The little Scotswoman was gone.

The drawing box had also disappeared. One of Donald Junior’s younger brothers must’ve carried the box to the Cabbage Rose auditorium.

The box’s removal meant the drawing was imminent.

Margo’s heart began to thump. She turned back to Marta. “Did you see a little old lady just now? A Scotswoman all tricked out in traditional costume?”

“You’re kidding, right?” Marta glanced around at the jeans-clad throng.

“No.” Margo followed her friend’s gaze. “She said she was from the Isle of Doon.”

Marta lifted a brow. “I don’t think there is an Isle of Doon in Scotland?”

“There isn’t.” Margo was sure. “Only a Loch Doon in Ayrshire.”

“Then she was pulling your leg.”

“Maybe.” Margo was still looking around.

Many women, including elderly ones, had turned out in their own versions of Scottish dress. But in most cases, their imagination was limited to a tartan sash or a thistle-bearing T-shirt. A few wannabe vamps paraded about in mini-kilts and thigh-high boots. Only the very young girls—usually aged eight or so—who were Scottish dancers wore traditional Highland costume.

No one had on small black boots with red plaid laces.

Not even the most eccentric of the granny set.

Purple hair seemed to be the hit with the geriatrics.

Though there was an older woman who looked like an aged hippie walking about with heather sprigs woven into her thick, gray braids. She also boasted a blue and white saltire tattoo on her somewhat swollen ankle.

No escapees from the Brothers Grimm.

Margo frowned and rubbed the back of her neck.

She slid a glance at Donald Junior. But she knew without interrupting his
sgian dubh
sales pitch that if she asked him about the odd little woman, he’d say he hadn’t seen her.

Because—Margo felt ill—there hadn’t
been
a witchy-like crone.

She’d surely imagined her.

Her nerves were shredded.

That was all.

But the old woman had seemed so real.

“O-o-oh, look!” The pinch Marta suddenly gave her arm
was
real. “That has to be the Scottish author. Over there”—she pointed toward the row of clan tents—“heading towards the auditorium.”

“Good Lord.” Margo’s eyes rounded. “I think you’re right.”

Wee Hughie MacSporran—if the tall, heavyset man in a kilt was indeed the Highland author-cum-historian-cum-touring-company-owner—had a patrician air about him that bordered on pompous.

He strutted like a peacock. A group of squealing, fawning women hurried in his wake, many clutching books they surely wanted him to sign. But he marched on without acknowledging them, his chin held high and his shoulders set in prideful determination. He really did look like a kilted teddy bear. But his arrogance ruined the cuteness of his apple red cheeks and bright blue eyes.

Margo’s heart sank.

She hadn’t expected a Magnus MacBride look-alike. But
Highland Storyweaver
had conjured very different images in her mind.

A swellhead wasn’t one of them.

“He looks like he expects people to applaud just because he walks by.” Margo glanced at Marta, then back at the Scottish author.

His thinning red hair and paunch dimmed the splendor of his tweed Argyll jacket and white, open-necked ghillie shirt. But the shirt’s old-fashioned Jacobite styling did what it was meant to do. He looked as if he’d just walked off Culloden Battlefield.

And his fur-covered, three-tasseled sporran appeared equally authentic. His kilt—Margo recognized it as a MacDonald plaid—swung smartly about his knees, his brisk strides showing the confidence of a man well accustomed to wearing Highland national dress.

“Maybe he’s not as inflated as he looks.” Ever the optimist, Marta grabbed Margo’s arm and began pulling her across the grass, away from A Dash o’

Plaid and toward the Cabbage Rose.

“He’s probably very nice.” Marta took another jab at playing diplomat.

Margo tried not to roll her eyes.

Wee Hughie looked so vain, she suspected he’d burst like a gas-filled balloon if someone pricked him with a pin. But she kept the sentiment to herself.