The Charm Stone (6 page)

Josie supposed it wasn't a bad way to get around. Maeve had said there were numerous old sheep paths that most of the islanders used as shortcuts.

She spied an old dented bike leaning up against the rambling, thatched croft. Maybe she'd take a spin herself in the morning. She glanced back to the shore. But only after she'd tested out the surf, she decided.

“Okay, okay, you can't ignore it forever.” She took a breath and looked back at the castle. It was truly impressive. She got out of the car and opened the boot, intent on grabbing her gear bag so she could get her wet suit out. But the box with the trunk was on top, right where she'd tucked it back on the ferry dock.

She meant to just push it aside, but something had her picking it up, flipping open the flaps. “You're home,” she whispered, having no idea why she did and feeling immediately spooked for having said it.

But that didn't compare to how spooked she felt when she turned, still holding the trunk, and looked at Winterhaven… only to spy a light flickering on in the tower window. She blinked, telling herself it was the setting sun reflecting on the windowpane… then realized that there couldn't be a windowpane in a tumbledown ruin. Could there?

That question died unanswered when a cloaked figure emerged from the lower door of the tower, moving in long strides across the narrow spit and up the beach.

Josie's mind and heart raced, but she froze when he stopped and looked up, as if directly at her.
Run,
she told herself.

She turned, but his voice, carrying beyond the sound of the surf when there was no way it could have, stopped her.

“I believe you have something that belongs to
me.” His thundering voice all but vibrated through the wind-tossed air between them.

Josie slowly turned around. He was standing behind her, which was impossible given that moments ago he'd been yards down the beach.

“Gregor?” But she knew it wasn't Gregor. This man wasn't old enough to have grandbabies. And it wasn't Bagan either. This man was no dwarf. Quite the opposite.

He looked around her age, late twenties, maybe thirty, but far more intense than any man of any age she'd ever met. He was tall, ruggedly built, his dark hair pulled back from his face. Unlike most of the men she'd seen in Scotland, he actually wore a kilt, with the excess tartan tossed over his shoulder like a cloak. The fabric was worn, the colors faded, like a favorite pair of jeans. And he looked just as natural in it. Beneath the plaid was a shirt that might have been linen, but in the growing dusk it was hard to tell. The shirt wasn't new and neither were the leather boots laced up his thick calves. She couldn't manage another word. Imposing didn't begin to describe the man.

His dark eyes bore full into hers. “I'm The Mac-Neil.” He nodded to the box. “And that stone yer holdin’ is mine.”

“I—” She forced herself to choke down the hard knot in her throat. “Here.” She shoved the box toward him. “Take it. I don't want it.”

He stepped forward then and she realized just how big a man he really was. She forced herself not to flinch or pull back as he reached for the box with impossibly big hands. Once he had what he wanted, he'd probably leave her alone.

She breathed a sigh of relief when he grasped the box without touching her, though she couldn't have said precisely why the thought of him touching
alarmed her so much. “I… I was bringing it here. To you.”

Then he grinned and she lost all conscious thought. His teeth were a blind of white against tanned skin and dark hair. “Were ye now?” He lifted the trunk out of the cardboard box she'd packed it in, letting the latter drop to the ground ignored. “Och, but it's seen a few bad days, hasn't it.”

She was still trying to get used to the reality of his presence in front of her and didn't respond. Couldn't.

He pried open the lid and pulled out the chain. “Safe and sound,” he murmured, his voice quavering with some profound emotion. “Just as I knew she would be.”

Josie tried not to look at the stone, had in fact been successful at not looking at it for months now. But she couldn't help herself. In his hands, the thing fairly glowed. It must be a trick of the setting sun.

She pushed her hand through her hair and somehow scrounged up a smile. “Well, it's been nice meeting you. Glad I could help.” On very shaky legs, she began backing toward the door of her car.

Then he looked up and stilled her with one look. One very intense, very compelling look. “Have ye worn it?”

Josie gulped. The phrase “just say no” took on new meaning. But his eyes lit up before she could form the words and he stepped closer. The answer must have shown on her face.

“Ye have, haven't ye?” Almost in disbelief, he whispered, “You're her.”

His gaze was so direct, so focused she felt as if it reached in and touched the most intimate part of her. “I—”

“If ye bear me the chain, then ye bear me yerself as well, lass.” His intensity was like a live thing.

She forced her throat to work, her tongue to move. “I don't think so. I'm really sorry.” She started backing up when the gleam in his eyes grew brighter, but he merely kept pace toward her. “I-I mean, I'm flattered and all, but… I-I can't… you know…
bear
you anything else.”

“What I know is that you bear my stone.” He closed the distance and lifted the necklace toward her. “Which means yer mine now as well.”

T
hree hundred years. An eternity of time, but his faith had never wavered. He'd done little but think about this moment. Yet now that it was here, Connal MacNeil scarcely knew how to act. His heart pounded and a loud roar had taken up residence inside his head. His destiny would now-finally-be fulfilled.

“Come wi’ me,” he commanded the young woman who'd borne him the trunk. A comely lass she was, too, he thought. Short, wind-tossed curls and expressive eyes, coupled with a figure seemingly hardy enough to bear him the beginnings of the legacy he'd bargained so dearly for. Aye, she would do. Not that he could afford to be choosy.

He'd long wondered if the gods had indeed played a role in the fate of the stone, despite knowing that once the stone was set upon its way, only Fate guided its course. Had they somehow conspired with the Fates to punish him for his brothers’ transgressions? He knew not. But his faith would be rewarded. His destiny was not to die on some bloody battlefield, his clan in ruin.

And finally, Fate had proven his patience and faith worthy of that reward.

He took the arm of the woman sent to fulfill his destiny and turned to make his way back to the
tower. The rising tide would soon make the trip difficult.

She surprised him by yanking her arm free. He spun about to find her staring at him in a distinctly defiant manner, arms folded. “I've waited a long time for you and I'll no’ be wastin’ any more of it. I've a legacy to build.”

Even in the twilight, he saw those expressive eyes go dark. She had quite a prominent chin, he noticed, especially when she stuck it out so.

“I'm not going anywhere with you,” she announced with barely a quaver in her tone.

“A brave lass,” he said, nodding approvingly. “Our son will need one such as you to protect and defend him until he is old enough to do it for himself.”

Her mouth dropped open, then snapped shut again as she quickly scuttled out of his reach.

He sighed, trying to rein in his impatience. But three hundred years of waiting tended to take a toll on a man. “Ye have no say in the matter.”

Her chin came up again, shoulders squared. Healthy shoulders he noticed, wondering if she labored in the fields of her homeland. He skimmed his gaze lower and was disappointed to find that her hips weren't cut from the same sturdy cloth. Narrow they were, almost mannish. Well, she was sturdy enough, he decided. She would have to be.

“I've given you back your blasted stone,” she said, this time the trembling more clear in her voice, but he wasn't sure if it forged in fear… or fury. “In fact I came halfway around the world, or so it seems, to deliver it personally. But you'll have to understand if I refuse to accept your kind offer of rape as a token of your gratitude. A simple thank-you would be enough.”

His eyes popped wide. “Rape?”

She folded her arms, but her legs weren't braced nearly as firmly as she would have liked him to believe. “That's what they call it when you take a woman against her will, which I can heartily guarantee will be the case if you lay so much as one finger on me.”

She was something. All spitfire and ribald bravado. He tipped back his head and laughed.

“You're not exactly instilling any confidence in me here,” she snapped.

He sighed, thinking it might have been better if the stone had brought him a quieter, obedient lass, but he was too overjoyed at its return to judge Fate's choice. They hadn't kept him waiting three hundred years for no reason.

“I willna hurt ye,” he said, then took a step forward, hand outstretched, frowning when she stepped farther away.

“You'll pardon me if I don't swoon with relief.”

“Och, but there's no need for such a sharp tongue.”

Now she snorted with what he supposed was a laugh, though quite an unfeminine version of it. “You announce you're going to force yourself on me and I've offended
you
with sarcasm?” She bowed. “Please accept my humblest apologies, my lord.”

“I'm laird, no’ a lord.”

She straightened and sighed. “Whatever. Listen, I'm tired. It's been an amazingly long day. I'd really like to go inside-alone-and settle in for the night. We can take up this discussion again in the morning, okay?” She didn't wait for him to answer, she simply turned her back on him and began hiking up the rutted lane to Gregor's old place.

He was so unused to being treated in such a manner-no matter that he'd lived alone for so long-that it took him a moment to react. “See here, we have much that needs discussing.”

“If you want to talk to someone, put the necklace on,” she called out over her shoulder, not bothering to look back. “I'm sure the dwarf won't mind listening to you.”

“Bagan?”

That stopped her, but she didn't turn around. “You know him?”

“Aye. He's the guardian of the stone.”

She stood stock-still for a long moment. “Not a very good one,” she said finally, no longer so strident.

“You've seen him then? You know what became of him?”

Her spine stiffened and she started moving again. “Put the stone on and ask him yourself.”

She was at the door when he spoke again, this time more softly. “If ye've met Bagan, then surely you know ye canno’ escape what lies in store for us.”

She did turn then, a trick of the waning light illuminating her face clearly to him. “Two months ago I would have said there was no such thing as Fate or Destiny. I'm still not a real fan of either.”

“I'll convince ye otherwise.”

Was that a smile curving her lips? He couldn't be sure, but he heard the music in her voice for the first time. “You're not off to a real great start.”

“Are ye challenging me, then?”

There was a long pause. So long he fully expected her to disappear inside without another word. When she did finally speak, what she said surprised him. “What is your name?”

“I'm The MacNeil.”

“Your given name.”

What was she up to now? “Connal.”

That seemed to give her pause. “Family name?” Then she waved her hand. “Never mind. I really don't want to know. Night.” Then she was gone.

He let her go, looking down instead to the trunk he held tightly against his chest. The stone had been returned. He could scarce believe it was true. He glanced at the closed door. And with its return, another challenge.

It made sense, he supposed. Nothing had ever come to him easily. He'd had to bargain his soul to get this far. Gods knew what else was expected of him. But he'd waited this long, he'd do whatever it took, make whatever sacrifice was necessary. She was finally here… and she would be his.

A yellow light glowed to life behind the window-pane. “I am up to this challenge, fair one,” he said. “And any others ye care to lay in my path. See if I'm no’.”

Josie sat up in bed with a start, breathing heavily as the last vestiges of the dream misted away. “Oh, thank God,” she whispered, pressing a hand to her racing heart. She'd been dreaming, that's all. Dwarves and magic stones and demanding men with long black hair and flashing black eyes… she'd made it all up. Then her vision cleared and she realized she was not in her own bed, or her own house. Hell, she wasn't even in her own country. She hadn't been dreaming after all. Dammit.

She flopped back on the feather down and frowned at the beamed ceiling. The beamed ceiling in Gregor's croft. In Scotland. “Why me?”

Thankfully no one answered that question. She wasn't up to any more supernatural discussions at the moment. Or discussions with supernaturals, for that matter.

She peered out the small loft window. But as it never got fully dark this far north in the summertime, it was hard to tell what time it was. She rolled
over, looked at her travel clock, and groaned. “Why am I awake at six o'clock?”