Must Love Kilts (2 page)

Not that Magnus heard them above the roar of his own hot blood pounding in his ears. Or the terrible hammering of his heart that raced in time with the flashing oars of the longships as they sped across the waves, almost flying and leaving great plumes of spray in their wake. Magnus glared after them, shock and dread slamming into him like a hundred hard-hitting fists. White-hot fury scalded him, squeezing his chest and making it impossible to breathe.

The hot, ash-filled air also made inhaling difficult, but that unpleasantness was the least of his concern.

Now, this moment, his entire world had contracted to hold only those six fleeing longships.

Nothing else existed.

Even at this distance, he recognized the garishly colored sea dragon painted on the square sail of the largest Norse vessel.

The coiled, fire-spewing monster was the emblem of Sigurd Sword Breaker, the worst of the heathen Norsemen who terrorized this coast. His hasty departure and bloodthirsty reputation left no doubt that he was responsible for the thick columns of smoke rising from the fishermen’s cottages lining the foreshore beneath the ridge.

The most times peaceful hamlet was a raging inferno.

Black, acrid smoke that stank of more than burning roof thatch came to Magnus and his men on the wind, stinging their eyes and scalding their lungs.

The smoke also obliterated their reason for being there.

Knowing it as well, the horn blowers and drumbeaters at the rear of Magnus’s party fell silent.

Even his piper quit his strutting and stood stunned, the rousing skirls of his blowpipes dying away to a pitiful moan. Brought along to herald Magnus’s arrival at Badcall village—a journey made to collect Liana Beaton, his soon-to-be bride—these men, too, swiped at streaming eyes and gaped at the hellish scene.

And it
was
hell.

Badcall Bay was now a place of the dead.

No screams or cries rose above the wicked crackle and roar of the flames.

Whoever might remain in the little fishing community at the foot of the steep and rocky cliffs lived no more.

And if anyone did yet draw breath, God’s mercy on them, for they’d met a terrible and undeserved fate.

Bile rose in Magnus’s throat and he welcomed its bitterness, wishing he could take on the agonies suffered by the hapless fisherfolk of Badcall Bay. He couldn’t, regrettably. But he was sure that giant, unseen hands had clamped tight iron bands around his chest. His pain was that great, especially when Liana’s innocent face flashed before him.

A maid still, for they’d shared only chaste kisses.

Her wonder that he’d defied station and tradition in desiring her for his wife had driven him to prove to her that he loved her above all else. He’d vowed to protect her always, keeping her safe from all ills and ensuring that her family and village would prosper. And—the that her family and village would prosper. And—the memory speared him—he’d sworn to fill her days with happiness and her nights with boundless passion.

Together, they’d raise strong sons and beautiful daughters, showing the naesayers that no other bride would have better suited him.

How she’d smiled when he’d made those promises.

Now, as he remembered, instead of seeing her eyes alight with pleasure, he saw them wide with horror.

Unspeakable terror that—he was certain—would never have visited this quiet place if not for him.

Viking sea raiders cared little for heaps of fish nets and strings of dried herring.

But they would have known—and rightly—that any Highland chieftain worth the title would shower his bride-to-be and her family with riches.

Those coffers of silver and coin would have been the spoils that attracted the Norsemen.

“Calum!” Magnus swung down from his saddle and signaled to one of the horn blowers, an older man who had once been a renowned Viking-fighter but now handled horses better than he wielded a sword. “Take young Ewan”—Magnus jerked a glance at Calum’s grandson—“and see the garrons away from this smoke. The rest of us will go down to the village and put out the fires. We’ll find you when we’re done.” He didn’t add that they’d be burying the burned and the slain.

It wasn’t necessary to put words to such a ghastly task.

Calum nodded, grimly.

He knew better than most what awaited them along the shoreline.

“Ewan and I can tether the horses and come back.” The older man’s gaze flicked to the cliff edge, where a steep track began its zigzagging descent to the little bay. When he looked back at Magnus, he straightened his broad-set shoulders and spat on the ground. “You’ll be needing all hands when you get down there.”

“Aye.” Magnus gripped Calum’s arm, firmly. He hoped his old friend—a man who was much like a father to him—would leave it at that.

He was also thinking fast.

The cliff path was too treacherous for a man of Calum’s years. Especially one with a knee that was wont to give out on him, however much the doughty warrior chose to make light of his occasional stumbles. And Ewan had yet to bloody his sword.

Magnus didn’t want the devastation below to be the lad’s first taste of carnage.

“I’d rather you and Ewan guard the horses.” Magnus seized the first excuse that came to mind. “Sword Breaker and his men likely slaughtered the village cattle and took the meat onto their longships.” That was true enough. “They may have left someone behind to search for other beasts and then hasten them away to a hidden landing beach to be fetched later.”

Magnus doubted it. But he was grateful to see Calum bobbing his bearded head. “If such men should appear, you and Ewan can dispatch them.”

“Aye, right you are.” The old man’s chest swelled.

“We’d make short work of the ravaging bastards.” He patted his sword, looking fierce. “They’d ne’er see the blow that felled them. We’d be on them that quickly.”

“Good, then. See you to it.” Magnus stepped around him, making for the cliff edge, where the others were already pounding down the track.

Calum maneuvered in front of him, blocking the way. “She may no’ be down there, laddie,” he warned, voicing Magnus’s worst dread.

Liana in the hands of Sigurd Sword Breaker would be a fate worse than death. The Viking sea raider was known for committing atrocities on those he sought to ransom. And if any attempts at rescue were made . . .

Magnus blotted the thought from his mind, unable to bear connecting the woman he loved with the Norseman’s blackest villainies.

But if Sword Breaker had her, he’d upend the world to free her.

Calum leaned close then, his gaze direct. “You’ll do well to brace yourself. I fought Sword Breaker’s father, Thorkel Raven-Feeder. I know what they do—”

“I’ll find Liana, where’er she is.” Magnus clapped the old man’s shoulder, silencing him. Then he turned and raced after his men, tearing down the steep, dizzying path as quickly as his hurrying feet would carry him.

The scene at the bottom was worse than he’d imagined.

He glanced wildly about, staring at the chaos.

Beneath his feet, the ground tilted dangerously, almost bringing him to his knees.

“Liana!”
He shouted her name, knowing she wouldn’t answer him.

Fire-blackened—or butchered—bodies were everywhere, littering the crescent-shaped strand in glaring testimony to how savagely they’d died. No mercy had been shown. Each slashing wound displayed how ferociously the Norsemen had wielded their spears and axes.

They’d also been free with their torches. Every cothouse, byre, and fishing shed stood ablaze. The smoke was denser here, great billowing clouds that filled the cove with an ominous, suffocating stench.

Magnus’s men ran about, shouting and battling the Magnus’s men ran about, shouting and battling the flames. Many had stripped naked and were using their plaids to beat at the fires.

Magnus ran, too, ripping off his own plaid and swatting at the leaping flames as he dashed from one sprawled and broken body to the next, searching for his bride.

He was almost to her father’s cottage—now a soaring wall of fire—when one of his men pounded up to him, red-faced and panting.

“Magnus!” The man clutched at him, breathing hard.

“We’ve found one still alive! It’s Liana’s grandmother and—”

“Liana?” Magnus’s hope flared. He stared at his kinsman, willing the answer he wanted to hear. “What of her? Has anyone seen—”

“She’s with the old woman.” The man’s tone made the world go black. “They’re there”—he pointed to a rocky outcrop at the edge of the cove—“together, both of them. The grandmother doesn’t have much longer.

She’s been grievously set upon. Liana ... your bride . .

. I’m sorry, Magnus. She is—”

“Dead.” Magnus’s heart stopped on the word. He couldn’t breathe or move. He went rigid, his entire length freezing to icy-hard stone even as agony hollowed him, leaving him emptied of all but searing denial.

He saw Liana now, her lifeless body there on the sand, beside the rocks. Several of his men knelt around her, their heads respectfully bent. One of them cradled the old woman, leaning down to catch whatever last words came from her blood-drained lips.

A great cry burned in Magnus’s throat, but he couldn’t tell if he was yelling or if the terrible, earsplitting sound was the thunder of his blood.

Then, somehow, he was at Liana’s side. He flung himself to his knees, pulling her into his arms, holding her limp form against him. She looked only asleep, for her body wasn’t broken and mangled like the others.

Her fair hair was unsullied and shone bright as always, spilling around her shoulders. But her eyes were closed, her lashes still against the whiteness of her cheeks.

“No-o-o!” He tightened his arms around her, burying his face in her hair, still so cool and silken. Just as her skin was yet smooth and warm, almost alive.

He heard footsteps then and looked up to see one of his men approaching, pity in his eyes. The man set a hand on Magnus’s shoulder, gripping hard. Magnus glared up him, grief and rage turning him feral.

“She isn’t dead, see you?” He raised a fist, shaking it at the heavens. “She’s only stunned, I say you. She’ll waken soon and—”

He broke off, staring at the blood on his hand.

Bright red and fresh, it colored his fingers and the whole of his palm, hideous rivulets trickling down his arm.

Liana’s blood.

“Nae!” He held her from him, his heart splitting when her head lolled to the side. He stared at her, looking closely, seeing what he’d missed before.

There was a large crimson stain at her middle, dark, glistening wet, and deadly.

It was then that the madness seized him.

He threw back his head and roared, allowing the pain to rush in. Blackness filled him and his vision blurred to a burning, red haze. But he kept his hands steady as he lowered her onto the plaid that someone had spread out for her beside the old woman, who—he saw at once—had also taken her last agonizing breath.

Soon, he would see them buried. He’d put them, and all the others, to peace as best as possible in such a fouled and heinous place.

But for now, he gave in to his rage and leapt to his feet, a beast unchained. He ran to the water’s edge, where he whipped out his sword and plunged it deep into the wet sand beneath the cold and swirling surf.

He clenched his hands, glaring through the smoke to the now-empty horizon. “Sword Breaker, hear me!” he bellowed, yelling with all his lung power. “There is no rock large enough to hide you! No shadows black enough to keep you and yours safe from me, Magnus MacBride!”

He strode into the water, shouting the same words again and again as he glared out to sea. He shook his fists at the rolling waves, ranting until several of his men came for him. They took him by the arms, dragging him back to shore.

Back to a life that was forever changed.

The Magnus MacBride who stood on the strand—his heart turned to stone and his blood boiling with rage—was a different man from the one who’d wakened that morn, eager and joyful to ride out and fetch his bride.

From this day on, he would live only for vengeance.

Chapter 1

Ye Olde Pagan Times

New Hope, Pennsylvania

The present

Margo Menlove was born loving Scotland.

She lived, breathed, and dreamed in plaid. At the ripe age of sixteen, she’d single-handedly convinced nearly all the girls in her high school—and even a few of the female teachers—that there was no man sexier than a Highlander. In those heady days, she’d even founded the now-defunct Bucks County Kilt Appreciation Society.

Now, more than ten years later, locals in her hometown of New Hope, Pennsylvania, considered her an authority on all things Scottish.

And although she was officially employed as a Luna Harmonist at the town’s premier New Age shop, Ye Olde Pagan Times, advising clients according to the natural cycle and rhythm of the moon, many customers sought her assistance when they wished to plan a trip to Scotland.

Sometimes when one of those Glasgow-bound Sometimes when one of those Glasgow-bound travelers consulted her, she’d surprise herself with how well she knew the land of her dreams.

She really was an expert.

She knew each clan’s history and could recognize their tartan at a hundred paces. She prided herself on being able to recite all the must-see hot spots in the Highlands in a single breath. Her heart squeezed each time she heard bagpipes. Instead of ballet, she’d taken Scottish country dance classes as a child and could dance a mean Highland fling before she’d entered kindergarten. Unlike most non-Scots, she even loved haggis.

And although she didn’t wish to test her theory, she was pretty sure that if someone cut her, she’d bleed tartan.

She loved Scotland that much.

Her only problem was that she’d never set foot on Scottish soil.

And just now—she tried not to glare—a problem of a very different sort was breezing through the door of Ye Olde Pagan Times.

Dina Greed.

Margo’s greatest rival in all things Scottish. So petite that Margo secretly thought of her as Minnie Mouse, she was dressed—as nearly always—in a mini tartan skirt and incredibly high-heeled black boots that added a few inches to her diminutive but shapely form. The deeply cut V neckline of her clinging blue cashmere top drew attention to her annoyingly full breasts. And her cloud of dark, curling hair shone bright in the late-autumn sunlight slanting in through the shop windows. She was also wearing a very smug smile and that could only mean trouble.