Must Love Kilts (21 page)

“She speaks true.” Orosius sided with her. “I saw her find the stone. It’s why—”

“Saw her where?” Magnus rounded on him. “Here at Loch Gairloch or in your kettle steam?”

“Here, you nosy brine drinker.” Orosius tapped his head, glaring at Magnus. “I dreamed it. That’s why I came along on
Sea-Raven
.”

He jammed his hands on his hips and thrust out his bearded chin. “Belike I knew you’d think the poor lassie was the devil’s own helpmate or something worse. I wanted to be around if you had any fool ideas when you saw what I knew would happen here this morn.”

“I see.” Magnus did.

Orosius might make him grind his teeth, but he didn’t lie.

“So you believe me now?” Margo touched his arm, the light graze of her fingertips sending warmth all through him. “Please say you do. If you don’t”—she glanced at the sea, then back at him—“I don’t think I can bear being here.”

“I . . .” Magnus pulled back his arm and reached to rub his nape.

But the truth stood in Margo’s eyes just as the tight, burning knot deep inside him had been trying to tell him the while.

She was what she said she was.

A
too
-rist, though he wasn’t about to admit the term baffled him.

Traveler, he could accept. But no woman journeyed about full naked and unescorted.

“If you saw Donata, she will have spelled a vision-image of herself from behind St. Eithne’s walls.” It was the closest he’d go to admitting he accepted such an outlandish tale. “That means she possesses greater powers than we knew.”

“She was evil.” Margo shivered again, visibly.

“You know what we must do?” Orosius spat on the pebbly strand.

“I’ll no’ kill a woman, howe’er vile she is.” Magnus was firm. “We’ll order the good abbess at St. Eithne’s to keep a constant guard on her, even while she sleeps. If she’s e’er under someone’s eye, she’ll no’ sleeps. If she’s e’er under someone’s eye, she’ll no’ be able to spin her foul deeds and curses.”

“Say you.” The seer looked doubtful.

“I do.” Magnus threw a glance at the
Sea-Raven
, where some of his men now stood on the steering platform, watching him. “Margo”—he turned to her now, setting his hands on her shoulders—“my men and I have business at Redpoint, a wee fishing village south of Gairloch. You cannae stay here on your own.

Are you for joining us on the
Sea-Raven
?” She didn’t hesitate. “I’ll come, yes. Th-thank you.” The hitch in her voice split Magnus’s heart. And the same sweet, heady warmth that had washed through him when she’d rested her fingers on his arm poured through him again now. The sensation was stronger than before, this time melting places that had long been crusted with ice.

“Aye, well.” He spoke briskly, hoping she wouldn’t notice.

Then, before he could change his mind, he gripped Orosius’s arm. “Orosius.” He put respect into his tone.

“You have a fine way with words. We’ll be leaving for Redpoint anon. It’d be a fine help if you’d gather our men and tell them something, anything that comes into your mind, to explain what happened this morn.

“And let them know”—he glanced at Margo—“that we’ll have an additional passenger on board the
Sea-Raven
.”

“I shall.” Orosius grinned and turned on his heel, striding swiftly across the strand.

When he was out of earshot, Magnus slid his hands down from Margo’s shoulders, gripping her lightly by the hips. “Donata
is
dangerous. If she saw what you did with the Cursing Stone, she’ll use all her powers to find you, hoping to get the stone. And you as well, I vow.”

“She wanted to use me to hurt you.” Margo confirmed what he now knew to be true. “She said I would distract you and then you’d be—”

“Cut down?” Magnus was beginning to understand the sorceress’s scheming.

He grinned, the knowledge empowering him. “You do distract me, sweet. But”—he reached to smooth his thumb lightly over her lips—“no one is going to cut me down.

“Nor is anyone going to hurt you.” He looked deep into her eyes, willing her to trust him. “From this moment onward, I’m no’ leaving your side.”

“That’s good.” She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, looking relieved.

As he watched her, the warmth inside Magnus swelled and spread. His need to protect her was fierce as the hot flames of desire burning at his loins.

Only his wish not to frighten her, and the staring eyes of his men, kept him from pulling her hard against him and kissing her hungrily.

He would soon.

But for now, he was pleased to escort her onto the
Sea-Raven
.

The more he thought about it, the more he liked the notion.

Chapter 12

Margo’s second thoughts kicked in as she let Magnus lead her across the strand toward his warship, the
Sea-Raven
. Pausing at the tide line, she stood with one hand holding the bearskin cloak against her nakedness. She puffed her bangs off her forehead, wondering where in the world she’d find the courage to board a medieval ship.

She’d never been keen on boats.

And in addition to looking like a fire-breathing sea serpent, this one was crewed by hard-faced, fierce-bearded men who bristled with arms and surely whetted their sword tips every morning. They were all staring at her. And each one appeared eager to test his blade’s sharpness on her. Without exaggeration, they looked hostile.

Some might even say murderous.

Only Orosius was friendly, flashing a broad grin at her before he threw back his plaid and strode into the sea. Head high, he splashed through the surf as if he loved every step, and then vaulted over the side of the waiting longship.

Margo swallowed.

She had to board the
Sea-Raven
.

It wasn’t like she had an alternative.

Even if she scrambled back up the cliff, the coastal road would no longer be there. And the Old Harbour Inn wasn’t even a blip in anyone’s imagination. Empty hills and wilderness would greet her. Perhaps a few villagers who’d take one look at a naked, bearskin-cloaked woman and, thinking the worst, do what Magnus had implied could so easily happen: they’d burn her as a witch.

Hanging around here alone, waiting for the
real
witch to return, was equally unappealing.

The dice had been cast.

And, as so often, she didn’t much care for the luck of the throw.

“Oh, dear.” She could feel her eyes rounding as the
Sea-Raven
tossed in the surf. Men were raising the ship’s square red-and-white striped sail. Others already sat at the rowing benches, ready to get going.

Margo would almost swear the ship looked impatient, straining and eager to shoot forward, cleaving the waves.

Her stomach tightened at the thought. Dread skittered along her nerve endings and her heart was beginning to beat much too fast. Even her palms were growing damp and her mouth had gone bone-dry.

This was so not like her fantasy of time travel.

This was, in two words, the pits.

“We’ll no’ journey far this day. A wee inlet, Badachro Bay, just off Loch Gairloch, is where we’re headed.” Magnus was looking down at her, his voice deep, calm, and reassuring.

He knew exactly why she’d stopped so close to the water’s edge.

He’d sensed her fear and wanted to take it from her.

Margo shivered a little, his hero image beginning to return.

“My business is a bit south of Badachro, at a place called Redpoint.” He reached to draw the bearskin closer together and then used a huge Celtic pin he took from his own plaid to fasten the cloak more securely. “Some of my men must travel there overland to lay preparation. We’ll spend this night in Badachro.

We’ll moor the
Sea-Raven
at Sgeir Ghlas—”

“Where?” Margo blinked. She was glad to be distracted from the sensation of his strong, warm fingers brushing against her skin as he eased the brooch pin through the thick skin of the cloak.

“
Sgeir Ghlas
means ‘gray rock.’” He stood back, the pin now in place. “It’s the smallest of several islands in the bay and is a secure sheltering place for
Sea-Raven
. My men will sleep aboard ship.”

“And us?” The intimacy of those two words speared straight to Margo’s center, the tingling anticipation almost making her forget her fear of the tossing longship.

He meant to pass the night with her somewhere, and alone.

She looked at him, waiting.

“We’ll stay the night onshore in a wee cothouse.” He looked down at her then, regarding her as if he expected her to argue. But—she couldn’t help it—the thought filled her with giddy expectation.

“A cothouse is a small cottage, right?” Margo’s pulse quickened as sensual awareness beat through her, making her almost light-headed.

She knew what a cothouse was.

Magnus was watching her closely, a slight smile playing across his lips. His dark eyes were branding her, setting her on fire. “Aye, it’s little more than a reed-thatched hut.” His deep voice stirred her, and she ached to touch him. “But there’ll be a store of driftwood we can burn and I’ll bring enough plaids to make you a comfortable pallet to sleep on.”
Plaids to sleep on.

Margo nearly gasped with pleasure.

She bit her lip, almost afraid to breathe. She could feel hot, sensual want sizzling between them. It was like an unrestrained electrical current, charging the air as it leapt around them, fanning her desire.

“I’m sure it’ll be fine.” Was that her voice, so breathy and excited?

It was, but she didn’t care.

This was her dream coming true. Her luck was changing, transformed with the mention of tartan.

Magnus would be on that plaid with her, she knew.

They’d be naked, hotly entwined, and kissing all through the night. She might even ask him about the kettle-steam episode.

Life was looking good.

Magnus glanced out to sea, then back at her.

“There’s also a woman at Badachro, Orla Finney, who will surely have an extra gown and whate’er other female goods you might need.”

Margo’s elation faded. “A woman?”

“Aye, she is a joy woman, if you ken the term?” His dark eyes twinkled, showing her a very appealing side of him.

If he weren’t speaking of a medieval prostitute.

Margo frowned. “I know what
joy woman
means.” He grinned then, dimples flashing. “Orla is a friend, no more. She’d a good-hearted woman who serves the fishermen and others who visit these shores. As she doesn’t bar her door to Northmen, she also she doesn’t bar her door to Northmen, she also provides me with much appreciated news of their whereabouts and doings.”

“Oh.” Margo felt a wave of relief wash through her.

Until the morning sun shone through a cloud and the sudden light reflected brightly off the mailed shirts and swords of the men crowding the
Sea-Raven
. They were stony-faced, regarding her with sullen, down-drawn brows.

“They will no’ hurt you.” Magnus stepped close, smoothed her hair back from her face. “They answer to me and know I’d slit them from their bellies to their gullets if they so much as look cross-eyed at you.” Margo didn’t remind him that they were doing that now.

She didn’t have the breath.

The ray of sunlight also fell across the dragon ship, picking out the fearsome details of the red-and-black-painted raven heads carved on the high stem and prow. The birds appeared to be screeching, their wide-opened beaks seeming eager to chomp into enemies.

Or her, she was sure.

“It isn’t your men. ...” Not so much, anyway. “It’s just that”—she looked up at him, the concern shadowing his eyes touching her so deeply that it made her chest hurt—“I’ve never been much for boats.” There, she’d said it.

Magnus’s expression cleared, a smile spreading across his face. “You will love the
Sea-Raven
, ne’er you fear. There are few greater joys than feeling life surge into a fine ship as she dances across the waves, spume gilding her sides and the wind in your face. The glory of it can make a man feel like a god.”

“I’m a woman.”

“Aye, you are.” Magnus’s voice warmed, his gaze sliding over her from her windblown hair to her bare feet, now lapped by icy cold surf. “And”—he took her face in his hands, looking deep into her eyes—“you mind me that there are much greater pleasures than standing at the steering oar and feeling my ship’s heartbeat thrum beneath my feet.”

“O-o-oh . . .” Margo’s breath caught, his words slipping through her like honeyed seduction, making her own heart beat hard and slow.

For a moment, her fantasy image of him flashed across her mind. As in her dreams, she saw him as a tall, powerfully built Highlander with his long raven hair tied at his nape and a plaid slung boldly over one shoulder. Gleaming mail winked from beneath his plaid and he wore a huge, wicked-looking sword strapped low at his hip. Gold and silver rings glittered on his powerful arms, and his handsome face was hard, almost as if carved of stone.

Now she saw him for real.

Vivid and alive, in full 3-D color in his own time and place. His rich Scottish burr seduced her senses and the heated look in his dark eyes tempted everything female inside her.

The wonder of such a miracle was almost too much to bear.

He wore his hair loose now, the sleek, blue-black mane spilling nearly to his waist. Sunlight fell across the glossy strands, emphasizing their silky sheen, and before she could stop herself, she reached to run her fingers lightly down the flowing raven tresses.

“Have a care, lass.” He seized her wrist, locking his fingers firmly around her arm as he moved her hand away from his hair. “My men are watching and they may think you’re laying a spell on me.” Margo could hardly breathe. “And if I was?”

“You already have.” The smoldering heat in his eyes proved it. “As I think you know?”

Margo felt herself blush all over. “I know”—she moistened her lips—“nothing.”

She did know.

At least, she guessed.
Hoped.

Something had shifted since he began believing her, and that altering perception unleashed a powerful connection between them. Margo had never felt so drawn to a man, nor so desperate to be crushed in his powerful embrace. Need heated the air around them, sizzling like living desire, and making her ache to be held tight against him. She craved the feel of his big, strong hands sweeping over her bared skin, questing and exploring, even as she ran her own fingers along the tight, muscle-hewn lines of his warrior’s body.