The Charm Stone (7 page)

Well, she wasn't staying in bed. That would lead to more sleep… and more dreams. She rubbed at the goose bumps on her skin as recollections of the exact nature of some of those dreams drifted through her mind… and her body. She really didn't want to think about that… or the fact that, in her dreams, when he had put his hands on her, she'd responded in a way that had given a whole new meaning to the term “consensual sex.”

“Enough.” She flung the quilts off and forced herself out of bed. Gregor's place was small and sparsely furnished. The Spartans would have been right at home, she thought with a smile. The lower level was actually one large room that comprised both living area and kitchen. The loft was all bedroom with a small bath tucked in the alcove. She stepped closer to the little window, pushing open the cantilevered panes so she could see more clearly. She stilled when she realized the view from the loft was focused directly on the castle ruins.

Part of her wanted to pull away, tug the windows shut, close the curtains, and pretend none of it had happened. She could drive to town, beg a room or sleep in her car at the dock until the next ferry arrived. She didn't care where it was heading. The stone had been returned, she'd done what she set out to do.

And yet she couldn't turn away from the window, or stop from searching out the tower windows for a glimpse of him. She scanned the beaches, but there was no sign of him there either, not even footprints left behind from an early-morning stroll. She spent a moment or two wondering if she really had dreamed the whole thing. Maybe the blasted trunk was still tucked in the boot of her car.

But she knew it wasn't. It was tucked in that tower. In the possession of The MacNeil.

She wrapped her arms around her middle. Why hadn't anyone told her the tower was still inhabited? Maybe that was the real reason Maeve had been so leery of her staying out here. Maybe he was some kind of eccentric descendant who thought he was laird of the nonexistent MacNeil clan.

“Except he knew about Bagan,” she murmured beneath her breath. She didn't know what to think of that. She supposed it was possible that tales of the clan guardian had been passed down from generation to generation. Still, she'd spent two months convincing herself the dwarf had been some kind of delusion and she wasn't as relieved as she'd thought she would be to hear his existence confirmed by someone else.

She turned her gaze to the shoreline, then out to the water. Now that she was here, somehow things that seemed fanciful-okay, certifiable-back home in the States actually seemed possible, even probable. There was definitely something magical about these islands. Especially Glenmuir, where crofts and sheep dotted the hills, and the one small town was inhabited with kindly older folk who could claim to have fairies living under their stoops and seem perfectly plausible.

For all that she'd flown to Scotland on a plane, driven to this very croft in an automobile… she could step outside and easily believe it was centuries earlier. The fact that the croft she stood in now was likely older than most structures currently standing in the United States was not lost on her. Glenmuir was definitely a place out of time.

Her thoughts strayed again to Connal. Connal. Just thinking his name gave her the shivers, made him seem all too real. It was the same name Bagan
had mentioned, the name belonging to man who'd lived three hundred years ago. It had to be a family name passed down from MacNeil to MacNeil.

Yer now mine as well, lass.

His words mixed with the dreams she'd had about him and she shifted uncomfortably, thinking once again of running. But there was nowhere to run. She was stuck here, in this land that was both dream and nightmare, for three days.

And yet… escape from all this confusion lay just outside her window. The beach was beautiful, the waves, though small, were breaking perfectly, and the sky was clear and sunny. She could sort this out later. The siren call was upon her. And she was going to lose herself in the rhythm of the ocean, the one place she always felt at home.

Connal stood at his tower window and watched her as she made her way down the path to the beach. She was clad in a black garment that clung to her like a second layer of skin. He found himself rethinking his opinion on her hips. They didn't sway overly much, but her purposeful stride stirred him nonetheless. Och, he'd been far too long deprived of a woman's softness. But his thoughts and energies had been focused only on the return of the stone… and the return of prosperity to Glenmuir.

Now that the stone lay securely inside his tower walls once more, his thoughts were on her. And little else. She'd followed him into his dreams last night, whereupon his subconscious had placed a far greater emphasis on how he'd gone about siring his future heir than on the importance of the heir himself.

She crossed the beach at an angle, heading toward the water.
What is she about?
His attention was
pulled from those compact curves to the brightly colored plank she carried tucked beneath her arm. It was longer than she was. He once again marveled at her strength as she carried the beam quite easily. Was she perhaps planning to hunt him down and thrash him with it? He smiled then, thinking that while her refusal to accept Fate's plan was frustrating for someone who'd waited as long as he had, her feisti-ness appealed to him. He'd need a strong woman to carry on once he was gone.

Gone. He could scarce believe his time here was close to an end. He'd had a very narrow view of the world, trapped as he was here, but it had been the only view he'd desired. Very few ever strolled these shores. In fact, more had left than had ever come. He'd borne the pain of his bargain in silence, forcing himself to watch the final decline of his clan, his home, as a reminder of why his faith must never waver.

Yet, it had. Such a long stretch of time, with nothing to do but ponder one's actions. He'd remained in seclusion, not revealing his spectral self to anyone for a very long time, nursing the pain of the brutal end his fellow clansmen had come to at the hands of other, more powerful clans. Nursing also his faith that, in the end, Fate would deliver what she had promised. The stone… and the woman who would help him return prosperity to what was left of Glenmuir.

After a century of time, he'd finally sought out company. It was that or go mad. Gregor's ancestors had erected the croft and their small farm holding by then. He'd taken to visiting late at night, when the master of the croft was well in his cups and unlikely to question the reality of his unearthly guest come morning. Gregor had been a particular favorite. Quite verbose in his opinions of… well, most everything.

Those visits had afforded him not only knowledge
of the world beyond this place, but of what was happening about the island itself. He'd begun to feel his faith slip as he watched his homeland near its final years. There was no new life on Glenmuir, and those who inhabited it weren't long for this world. Once they were gone, Glenmuir would fall to its final ruin. As much a ghost of her former self as he was.

Then he had come to realize Fate's reasoning. If he was being punished somehow for his brothers’ refusal to accept the promise of the stone by being forced to witness the slow, torturous result of their careless choices, then his reward for keeping faith would logically be saving Glenmuir once and for all. Snatching it back from the yaw of ruin and death.

Now that time was blessedly, mercifully at hand and he was more than ready for the task that lay before him, regardless of the challenges yet to be met. But was he really ready to leave this place once and for all when he'd achieved his goal?

“Good God, yes,” he breathed.

She was heading directly toward the water now. He was drawn from his musings and moved to the next opening in the tower wall. She certainly didn't plan to raft her way to the mainland, did she? She'd be heading in the wrong direction, if that were the case.

He watched in amusement. She was not a Scot, which had put him at a bit of a loss. Why had the Fates tossed a foreign-born woman into his path? Perhaps she had Scots blood somewhere in her ancestry. He shrugged off his curiosity. Destiny was often a puzzle, one not to be solved by mere men. He knew from centuries spent trying.

It wasn't until she waded out into the water, with the beam held aloft, that he began to grow concerned. “Gods, she's planning on drowning herself!”

“Nay, she's out to hunt waves.”

Connal's spine stiffened at the arrival of his newest companion. “I don't recall requesting your guidance, Bagan.” Their discussion last eve had done little to raise the guardian in his estimation. Connal turned to find him seated precariously in a window opening and had to forcibly resist the urge to send him toppling out of it. Not that it would do any good. Blasted guardianship protected him. Had it protected the stone as well, he might not have spent the past three centuries stuck in this bloody tower.

“Ye needn't scowl at me so,” Bagan said, apparently unfazed by his chilly reception. “I've explained about the storm. Ye can hardly hold me accountable for that. Even Josie said so.”

“Josie?” So that was her name. He hadn't thought to ask last night. It sounded… odd on his lips. Foreign. “Short for Josephine, then.” Josephine. Yes, he liked that better. “Another MacLeod is she?” That would help explain the choice.

“Nay, no’ a MacLeod. Griffin is her surname. And 'tis simply Josie. Something to do with being named after a family cat.” Bagan waved a stubby hand. “A long story.”

Connal frowned. “Yes, I can imagine. I'll hear it from her.”

“Have yer way then,” Bagan said dismissively.

“Had I my way, I'd have been married to the Lady Elsinor, sired a castleful of hardy bairns, and been long dead by now.”

Bagan offered a cheeky smile. “Ye got half yer desire anyway.” He shrank back when Connal advanced on him, grabbing hold of the window to keep from falling out.

“I'm in no mood fer yer jests, imp.”

“I couldna change me fate, MacNeil, nor that of the stone. Fate has the final say, ye know that as well
as I do. Twasn't as if I could raise the trunk from the depths of the ocean floor.”

“Yer to have the stone's interest and well-being at heart at all times. It is the heart o’ the clan, but there ye go, once again more interested in—”

“Are ye no’ interested in what the lass intends to do with that board of hers?” Bagan said.

Frustrating, annoying as all hell, and quite deft at shifting the focus away from himself at the most judicious times, Connal thought. But the dwarf had a point. He turned his attention once again to the water below. She was sitting astride the plank now. “What in blazes does she think she's about?”

“I told ye. Wave hunting.”

Connal didn't shift his attention from the scene below. “What would she do with one were she to somehow catch it?”

Bagan hopped down from the window ledge and waddled over to stand beside Connal. “From what I understand, one rides them.”

Connal didn't respond. His gaze was fully intent on the woman astride the painted board. She'd paddled closer to the castle ruin, where the tumble of stones from the castle walls created a seawall of sorts, which in turn created a greater water surge. She was moving directly into the heaviest part of the surf and-gods!-she was attempting to steer that flimsy piece of driftwood in the direct path of- “She
is
plannin’ to send herself to hell!”

Connal was out of the tower in the flash, ignoring Bagan's pleas to stop and wait and let him explain. As if he'd believe anything the imp had to say. Man couldn't even deliver one winsome bride to his side through a bit of a storm! And now his current betrothed was trying to kill herself.

Connal hit the beach running, so unnerved he
hadn't even thought to merely appear in the water next to her. He was already unwinding his kilt and preparing himself for the bitter cold of the North Sea when he came to a skidding halt as he rounded the last pile of ruinous rubble… aghast as he spied her standing on that painted plank amidst Mother Nature's finest fury.

But if she was intending to kill herself, she'd yet to plunge herself into the rocky depths. In fact, it looked as if she'd had a change of heart and was desperately steering the thing away from the rocks, away from certain death. Or, at the very least, severe dismemberment.

He snapped out of his daze and rushed into the surf as she neared the beach. It was only after he'd dragged her kicking and screaming from the roiling seafoam that he thought to wonder on the fact that, close up, she hadn't seemed remotely panicked. At least not until he'd come in the water after her. In fact, she'd looked joyous. And quite a lovely countenance she had when she smiled, he thought.

Well… she wasn't smiling now.

W
hat the hell do you think you're doing?” Josie sputtered, pounding at his annoyingly broad chest. “Put me down! Now, dammit.” “Ye shouldna swear, lass. Isna verra becoming.” She glared at him. “Neither is dragging me off my surfboard. Not to mention dangerous.”

His flash black eyes widened. “Dangerous? Ye think me savin yer life to be the dangerous act?”