Must Love Kilts (16 page)

“I thought all Highland clans did that.”

“They did.” Wee Hughie turned to her. “They still do, much as clan spirit is possible today. But in olden times, days before the great Barra MacNeils, there were warriors who might not have been able to keep their loved ones safe no matter how hard they tried.

“Life was dangerous then.” His eyes narrowed and his smile was gone. “Those were killing times, full of treachery and bloodshed. Magnus MacBride lived in those days. If”—he paused, watching her closely—“he even existed.

“The Viking Age was one of the reddest chapters in Scottish history.” He reached to grasp her arm, squeezing lightly. “I liked your sister. I feel a debt to warn you to be careful walking about on your own.

Here in Gairloch, and the farther north we go, the closer you’ll come to the true heart of the Highlands.

Deep, ancient places where the past does live on.”

“I love the past.” Margo did.

She’d embrace the chance to step into history. She wasn’t afraid.

“Dinnae love it too much, lass.” Wee Hughie’s burr deepened. “There’s a big difference between a MacNeil stronghold on Barra and finding yourself bound and freezing in the bilgewater of a Viking warlord’s dragon ship.”

Margo forced a smile. “I can see why they call you a storyweaver.”

“I tell true tales.” He winked and a dimple flashed in his cheek. “Now”—he rubbed his hands briskly, once again the tour guide—“are you for going back to the Old Harbour Inn with me? The ceilidh will begin shortly.”

“I want to see the crofting and fishing museum.” Margo was eager to be on her way. “I know it’s just up the village road.”

“They closed at five.”

“I still want to go look around.”

“So be it.” Wee Hughie didn’t argue with her.

But his words held a note of finality that sent a rush of shivers across Margo’s nerves. Before she could say something light and breezy to chase her flare of alarm, he turned and strode down the quay toward the Old Harbour Inn.

Margo crossed the street and started along the roadside path to the museum. She’d taken only a few steps before something made her look back at Gairloch’s sleepy little harbor.

Her heart stopped when she did.

Something wasn’t right.

The quay looked the same as a moment before.

And so did the fishing boats, the whole bobbing fleet of them. There were still a few cars parked near the dockside fish-packing warehouses and one or two evening strollers on the harbor walk. But she couldn’t shake the sensation that the atmosphere had somehow shifted, grown darker.

Her spine tingled, and she could feel the fine hairs rising on her nape. Nothing appeared out of the ordinary, but she couldn’t shake the unease rippling along her nerves.

It was the sense of being watched.

Observed, and not in a good way.

Margo frowned. She also kept walking, trying to look purposeful and confident.

Unfortunately, the shadows cast by one of the quay-side warehouses kept drawing her eye. A patch of deeper blackness there seemed to shift and swell on the wind, almost as if something was trying to form.

She blinked, but the weirdness didn’t go away.

Worse, the pulsing darkness had edges.

She was reminded of the shadowy mass she’d seen near the bookshelves at Ye Olde Pagan Times.

This oddity had the same feel. And the seams appeared to glitter like Fourth of July sparklers.

Only the sparkles were inky, not bright.

Then someone—a crusty old fisherman—stepped from the warehouse, a wedge of yellow light flooding out into the evening with him.

The patch of blackness vanished.

Margo took a deep, relieved breath and reached to smooth the chills from the back of her neck. It’d been an optical illusion, nothing else. She gave herself a shake, letting the tension slide from her shoulders.

She also felt a bit silly.

The night couldn’t have been more peaceful.

Threads of peat smoke—the earthy-rich scent made her heart tumble in her chest—rose from the chimneys of the stone houses along the road. Light from streetlamps shimmered on the water. And surf broke on the rocks. She also caught faint snatches of the ceilidh tunes. Jigs and reels from Wee Hughie’s Highland Night, which would now be in full swing back at the Old Harbour Inn.

Margo kept walking.

A sign promised that the museum was just ahead.

The wind had freshened and carried the damp chill of coming rain. And it was getting late. The hillsides were already black with evening darkness. But the moon shone through the clouds, silvering the cobbled court-yard of the crofting and fishing museum.

Buffeted by the wind, Margo drew her jacket tighter and looked around.

A charming place, the huddle of low, whitewashed and rough-stoned buildings held just the right touch of yesteryear. Moonlight spilled across the slate roofs and fell brightly on the diamond-shaped windows of the museum’s pièce de résistance, a mock lighthouse near the entrance.

As she’d been warned, the place was closed.

Or so she thought until a shadow moved behind the main building’s lit windows just as she’d been about to walk around the replica lighthouse.

Margo froze.

Someone was inside the building.

And whoever it was had been watching her. Not just watching, but observing her carefully, and with stealth.

The chill bumps on her arms told her that much. Her nape prickled again, indicating the same.

The air filled with menace.

She could feel it swirling around her, souring the cold night wind.

Wee Hughie’s words of caution flashed across her mind as she stared at the museum. A curious rustling came from behind her, almost like the crackling of brittle, aged paper. Margo’s heart began to beat rapidly. The strange feeling she’d had at the harbor returned with a vengeance. She took a deep, steadying breath, and willled calm.

It didn’t come.

Something evil was near.

She started to turn, meaning to make a run for it, but just then she saw a small, old-lady face at the window, peering out at her.

“Oh, man ...” Margo clapped a hand to her breast.

She felt such a wash of relief, she laughed out loud.

The old woman smiled and waved.

Clearly a museum volunteer, she must’ve been working late to close out the gift shop. Or maybe she was just tidying up after a busy day. Either way, Margo felt ridiculous for letting nerves get to her.

The tiny woman cracked the museum door, beckoning Margo near. “We be closed since five”—she opened the door a bit wider, letting cheery light spill out onto the path—“but you can have a wee peek if you’re quick.”

“I was just leaving.” Margo didn’t want to get the woman in trouble.

She’d guessed right. The lady could be only a staff volunteer. A bit stooped, she had a whir of frizzled white hair and bright blue eyes. She was clearly pushing eighty, if not more. But she looked sprightly in her ankle-length tartan skirt and matching vest. And her white blouse was crisply ironed. She also had the contented air of someone who really loved her work.

“I only wanted to see the lighthouse.” Margo seized the first excuse that popped into her mind, and then started to turn away.

But somehow, her feet carried her forward and she was crossing the threshold, into the museum’s display-case-crammed entry.

“Och, a few minutes’ nosey will nae hurt anyone.” The old woman—her volunteer name badge read DEV DOONIE—twinkled at Margo. “We have a wealth of Highland history within these walls. And there’s no one who knows these hills better than me.” Looking proud, she smoothed her tartan skirt. “Truth is, I’m older than the hills, as you can see.” Her bright blue eyes crinkled at her joke. “If there be something you wanted to know, just ask.”

“Well. . .” Margo hesitated. “Do you anything about Magnus MacBride?”

“The Viking Slayer?”
Dev Doonie beamed. “I know of him, aye.”

“So he was real?” Margo’s pulse quickened. “I’d heard he was just a myth.”

“Mythic would be more apt.” The old woman’s eyes lit with pride. “And, aye, he’s real. No one hereabouts would tell you otherwise.” She spoke as if she knew him. “Folk remember how he protected these parts with his sword, a huge gleaming brand called Vengeance.”

Margo blinked. “He was liked around here?” Dev Doonie hooted. “Lass, to the folk up and down this coast, he was a god.”

Margo wasn’t surprised.

The old woman took on the air of a conspirator.

“Those days were bloodthirsty and folk lived in fear.

When Vikings raided these shores, Magnus MacBride filled his warship,
Sea-Raven
, with his best fighting men, mounds of weaponry, and then came beating down from his stronghold, Badcall Castle.” She leaned close, her eyes glittering. “He brought other ships with him, a small fleet. They left stout warriors in each village along the coast. They were fierce, good-hearted men who taught sword-craft to the local lads so they’d know how to protect their homes and families if they were attacked again.

“The Viking Slayer also made sure the villagers had enough men and fuel to light balefires on the hilltops.” Admiration filled her voice. “He wanted beacons lit if the Northmen were spotted off the shore.”

“He did all that?” Margo had known he was that kind of hero. She’d felt it when the book
Myths and
Legends of the Viking Age
sprang from the shelf and she’d picked it up, opened to the illustration of Magnus standing in the surf, raising his sword.

She’d known then he’d been larger than life.

Dev Doonie confirmed it. “Och, aye, he did all that.

And he did more than see that the villagers had balefires. He sent swift help each time such flames reddened the sky.” She nodded sagely. “That’s the kind o’ man he is.”

“Is?” Margo blinked.

“Heroes ne’er die, do they?” Dev Doonie rubbed her hands, smiling again. “It’s a pity”—her gaze went to the still-open door—“dark comes so quickly this time of year. There’s a little strand not far from here where you’d have a fine view of the bay. A stroll there would put you close to the scene of some of the Viking Slayer’s greatest battles.

“But ...” She hesitated, tapping her chin. “It’s a bit of a wild and remote place—”

“I love wild and remote.” Margo didn’t hesitate.

Wild places were her dream.

Remote was her middle name. Solitary and isolated became her.

Dev Doonie angled her head, considering. “Thon strand would be treacherous this time of night, the rocks slippery. But the moon is high now—you’d see well enough. . . .”

Margo glanced at her feet. “I have sturdy shoes.”

’Tis a sturdy heart you’ll be needing.

Margo started. She wasn’t sure if Dev Doonie had spoken, or if she’d imagined the words.

The old woman had already moved to the door.

She’d picked up a duster, hinting tactfully that it was time for Margo to leave.

She looked at Margo and winked. “Just follow the coast road about a quarter mile and you’ll see a footpath down to the strand.”

“I will. And”—Margo impulsively hugged her—“thank you so much for telling me about Magnus MacBride.” you so much for telling me about Magnus MacBride.”

“Och!” Dev Doonie wriggled free, her eyes dancing.

“My like doesn’t need thanks.”

“But—”

“No buts, lassie.” Dev Doonie wagged a finger.

“Just you hie yourself to thon strand and do what you must.

“And remember”—she patted Margo’s shoulder as she stepped out the door—“a true Heilander needs a woman of strength and courage.”

“What?” Margo turned, but Dev Doonie had already closed the door and flicked off the lights inside the museum.

Margo stood in the darkness, frowning. She was sure she’d heard the woman’s last words before.

She just couldn’t recall where.

So she set off down the moon-washed path, taking the opposite direction along Loch Gairloch from the Old Harbour Inn. Dev Doonie’s parting comment kept circling in her mind, keeping pace with her as she climbed the road, walking past a huddle of stone houses on the crest of a hill above the harbor.

“A true Heilander needs a woman of strength and
courage.”

Who said
Heilander
these days?

Even Wee Hughie MacSporran used
Highlander
.

There had to be something significant about those words.

She could feel them scratching at the edges of her memory. Much like a dog will scrabble at a door when he wants to go out. Or tap at your knee with his paw if you’re eating and he wants table scraps.

If only she could remember ...

Still puzzling, she paused at the top of the rise to gaze again at the sea. Rich, velvety darkness now cloaked the little harbor town and its quay. But she could see the hills, black outlines against the deeper night. Lights glittered along the docks and shone in the windows of the Old Harbour Inn, off in the distance.

Yet she felt as if she were alone in another world, surrounded by nothingness and with no real trace of the twenty-first century anywhere for miles.

It was the all-enveloping silence that transported her. No city noises intruded on the stillness. Wind and the surge of the sea ruled here.

And the sweetness of such quiet almost broke her heart.

“Damn.” Margo fisted her hands and blinked against the stinging heat at the backs of her eyes.

Scotland made her fragile.

She closed her eyes for a moment and listened to the heaving seas, the rush of the wind. Her throat burned and she swallowed hard. Her heart ached and she wondered if anything could stir a soul more deeply than a Scottish night wrapping around you like a caress.

She wanted to stay here so much.

“Damn.” She cursed again, blinking furiously.

Then she sat on a roadside boulder to shake a pebble from her shoe. But the instant she leaned down to untie her boot’s laces, she jumped back up again, so many chills streaking through her that she felt as if she’d thrust her fingers into an electrical socket.

“Oh, my God!” She stared at her feet, not seeing her own clunky walking boots, but remembering the tiny high-topped black boots worn by the white-haired, rosy-cheeked Scotswoman from Donald McVittie’s A Dash o’ Plaid booth the day of the Scottish Festival.