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

be a hundred and two, I guess we can’t say they did him any harm.”

Marcail spluttered as she swallowed her mouthful of coffee in a hurry. “He sounds quite a man,” she said when she was sure she could speak without choking.

“And before you ask, mo ghaol, I do not follow him in any way. I was only ever half a rogue. It took too much effort.”

“Good to know it,” Marcail said absently. Then his words filtered into her consciousness. “Why do you call me that?” And why did the way he said it remind her of something—or someone—else?

He shrugged. “It fits.”

Marcail opened and shut her mouth again. What could she say that wouldn’t sound arsy or provocative?

Bonnie coughed. “Do you want the rest of us to leave?”

“What?” Marcail blinked and looked at the interested and speculative expressions on her family’s faces. “Don’t be daft. He’s being provocative, and I am not going to rise to it.” She drained her cup. “I’m off to bed. See you in the morning.” Sadly, I guess that will include Paden. “Perhaps one of you can tell me exactly what’s going to happen over the next few days, whilst I’m here. You know, how many at your ceilidh, do I need to find a fancy dress or share my bathroom?” Shave my legs? That wasn’t much of a winter job when she wore thick tights or trousers. “Turf out of my bedroom and sleep on Bonnie’s sofa? Minor details like that.”

Her mum tutted. “No, you just need to change your attitude,” she said sorrowfully, albeit with a hint of admonishment in her tone. “If you’re not happy, only you have the answer.”

Marcail thought that over for all of two seconds as her temper flared. “Very true. I’ll be off first thing then.”

She left a stunned silence behind her as she marched out of the room.

 

Chapter Four

By the time she’d climbed the stairs she was beginning to regret her strop, but of course by then it was too late to retract her words, or undo her actions. Why was she so upset? It was natural to be disappointed, but it was her parents’ home and they were entitled to do whatever they wanted there. Invite whom they pleased.

But did they want him? Were they pleased?

Her dad was unhappy about something, her mum unsure and Bonnie suspicious. There didn’t seem to be a lot of pleasure emanating from any one of them.

No one had denied that it was important Marcail was there though. So why?

She’d left years ago, content to know she could visit when she wanted to or felt the need for the serenity of the island. Perhaps that was one reason she wasn’t happy—her peace had been shattered. Never mind it was by a man who interested her. She could have done with a few tranquil days first.

Marcail brushed her teeth, wished she’d had the forethought to bring her wine and some shortbread up with her, and acknowledged to herself that part of her attitude was that once more she felt like the changeling in the family.

Not that anyone else had intimated they held that opinion, but somehow she thought they must do in some way.

Senses, hearing things, knowing things that were to come or happened long ago, had never been part of her make-up. She’d never mentioned to anyone that she had tried to sense without any luck. For her, it was only the voice, and now the new voice. Scared she was lacking, she never asked anyone exactly what skills—if that was what they were called—they had. Or if they could be learned.

“You should, and think on, mo ghaol, you listen to me now, don’t you? You learned how to accept that, how to do it and answer, so why not other things?”

Ass. Didn’t he know he needed to let her have a sulk? And calling her his love… Marcail stopped cleaning her teeth, mid-brush.

Mo ghaol.

Cyril-Dragh, mo ghaol. Paden. Mo ghaol. That was who the bloody voice in her head reminded her off. Paden. Why oh why hadn’t she put it all together earlier?

Oh-so-slow clapping echoed around the room. “You didn’t want to.”

Marcail narrowed her eyes and scowled at her reflection in the mirror. It irked her to know that was true.

Now I’m eyes wide shut.

“Kinky.”

She puzzled over that for a while until she remembered it was the name of a somewhat erotic thriller movie.

I meant open. “And I’m not talking to you, stop being an eavesdropper.”

“Couldn’t help it. Open is a better approach over this, but shut could be accommodated—up to a point.”

That was enough. Where the hell had her parents put him? She needed to find out exactly who he was, and why he was there.

Nothing in her head gave her the answer to that. She couldn’t go and ask Bonnie—she’d be more likely to tell her to ignore or reject any ideas that emanated from Paden or his ilk—and she was damn sure she wasn’t going to quiz her parents. Which meant, unless she tested and checked all seventeen or so bedrooms, she would have to curb her impatience and temper. Never an easy thing to do when you were, as she accepted she was, spoiling for a fight.

“Or making love?”

“Not a bloody chance,” she muttered, conscious of a long sigh both on her side and in her mind. The erotic dreams of the previous night were still at the forefront of her thoughts and her nipples hardened at the remembered sensations.

“We could do it again?”

What’s with the ‘we’ bit? Marcail changed into fleecy jammies with cartoon cats on them and fuzzy, funny slippers. The comfort of such familiar things should have soothed her. She pulled on an old sweatshirt over them and waited for a snarky comeback from Cyril.

“Are you Paden?”

There was no answer, snarky or otherwise—not even a soothing, noncommittal response. Thoroughly disgruntled, she wrapped herself in a blanket, pulled a shabby armchair near to the window, opened the shutters and stared out at the