Love by the Stroke of Midnight by Raven McAllan (best historical biographies .txt) 📗

put no finer point on it, horny one minute and like a chastened five-year-old the next? “I haven’t managed to get home for a couple of years and now…now our tradition has been changed and no one thought to mention it to me. I feel cheated. Oh, not by you,” she added hastily. At times he appeared as discomfited as she did. “But by whatever it is.”

He nodded. “I can understand that, but this is meant to be. And it has to be this year. Before you progress into your next decade.”

Clear as mud. Not. “Elucidate.”

“I can’t. Not until the day of your birth. Only then.”

She’d expire with curiosity. And she didn’t want to.

“That is so not fair.” Gah, now she sounded like a whiny three-year-old who couldn’t get her own way. What next, stamping her foot?

“It’s the rules.”

Why did he have to sound so blooming reasonable? “Damn the bl…ooft.”

Paden put his hand over her mouth. “Do not blaspheme what is in our heritage.”

“Dfghm.”

“Think it, don’t say it.”

If she thought it she’d have to wash her mind out.

He laughed. “Yeah…maybe blank it out for now.”

How on earth did he understand that? Marcail decided she was getting a headache.

The door to the dining room opened, and Bonnie poked her head around it. “Ready…”

“Saved by the shout,” Paden said with a wry grin. “Hostilities put on hold, to resume later when we have no referees?”

She smiled. She wasn’t hostile towards him, just the opposite.

* * * *

Contrary to what she’d expected, Marcail enjoyed the meal at first. As usual when they were together, no one stood on ceremony. Bread, platters and wine were passed around by whoever was nearest, and chatter came from all sides of the table. Bonnie decreed the turnip carving championship should take place before noon, so they could then observe Samhain in the traditional way. In their case, sunset until sunset the following day.

Why she felt she had to say that Marcail had no idea. It was what they usually did. What did surprise her was the way Paden seemed to fit in. He’d nodded at Ruari’s “We’ve one for you as well, Paden, if you fancy,” as if it were something normal and natural to be part of the Drummonds’ way of life. It unnerved Marcail, and by the time they were halfway through the meal she was jittery and had no idea why.

“How long have you been here?” she asked Paden in a lull in the conversation—mainly because everyone except her had their mouth full. She’d lost her appetite. “Or known Mum and Dad? Strange how they’ve never mentioned you.”

Her mother’s eyes narrowed, and she swallowed hastily. “Marcail Morven Drummond, how rude can you get? Apologise at once!”

“No need,” Paden said before Marcail opened her mouth and no doubt dug herself deeper in the mire. “Valid questions I’d be asking in Marcail’s place. After all, no one had ever mentioned me, or that I’d be here, had they?”

“They couldn’t.”

Why?

“Can’t share that, yet.”

Paden inclined his head. “Therefore to answer you, Marcail, would take more time than we have right now. I’ve not been on the island many days, although coming here was long overdue. As for the rest? Your parents and I go back a while. Let’s say longer than anyone realises and not as well as we could or should.”

Clear as mud. However, Marcail nodded. “Then I’m sorry for asking, and even more sorry I had the need.” She smiled at him. “Not your fault. Any more wine in the bottle?”

“This one is full.” Bonnie passed it over without another word. Marcail filled her glass and ignored the ‘see what I mean’ expression on Bonnie’s face. She couldn’t have cared less if the rest of them were horrified, scandalised, or weren’t bothered that she, a lightweight when it came to red wine, was on her third glass. Passing out in a red-wine coma seemed infinitely more appealing than screaming at the top of her voice like a fishwife and demanding what was going on, which at that moment in time was likely the only other outcome.

She counted to ten, sipped her wine and let the now somewhat stilted conversation pass over her head. Bonnie had a brooding expression, which showed she was either going to go dumb or explode over something as yet unspecified. Marcail gave her a warning look and what she hoped was a comforting glance. She herself accepted her life was upside down, and all she wanted—and was damn sure she wasn’t going to get—were a few days of normalcy. To experience the feeling of being home and comforted, and having time to chat to her family and recharge her batteries. To be able to tell them about her proposed trip—which so far only Bonnie knew about—and get their thoughts and ideas. Now even that appeared to have been taken away from her. The sensation was not good. She had, she realised, relied on that. To lose that ability was unpleasant. Maybe it was even lost for ever.

“It isn’t, you know. Not unless you let it be.”

“You said you’d butt out.”

“Someone has to talk sense to you.”

That annoyed her. She didn’t see why. They hadn’t bothered much before, had they? Marcail scowled. Who was the last to know how her birthday has been hijacked? That something momentous was about to happen to her and she hadn’t been warned? She’d bet that even Baird knew more than she did.

“Of course, his mind is open.”

“Yeah, well, I prefer to keep mine private, so go away. My mind, my ideas.” Including, she grudgingly admitted, her thoughts.

There was that sensation of her mind going all huffy again. Could she tell it to grow a pair?

“Ouch. No, not really.”

That was enough to make her bite her lip before she said something that no one might ever forgive her for.

She finished her meal in silence and stood up. “Who wants coffee?”

Bonnie got up hurriedly. “I’ll do it, it’s not your forte at the best of times. You