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

“That sounds ominous,” Marcail said.

“Not ominous. Just inevitable.”

Clear as mud again.

“Sorry, but it is as it is.”

It was fair enough, she supposed. Marcail indicated her room. “Are you coming in?”

Paden shook his head. “No, this is your parents’ house and that would be disrespectful, even if we only talked.” He paused and pulled her into his arms. “Which we wouldn’t.”

“I suspect not.” There wasn’t a lot of suspect about it, it was almost certain they wouldn’t. Even as they were she could sense the tension in him, and every one of her nerves were on edge. Sexual tension bar nothing. “I’ll see you later. No later than half past.”

“May I come for you? To escort you?” Paden asked with quiet diffidence. “Be the partner I wish to be?”

“I’d like that,” Marcail said honestly. “I’d like it very much.”

“Then until just before half past,” Paden said with a grin. “I won’t dare make it any earlier. Unless you need me to do up zips, fasten buttons, bras…”

“I’ll pass,” Marcail said dryly. “As I’m not sure fastening would be your inclination.”

“I’m damned sure it wouldn’t,” Paden said with frankness. “Oh, how the body wants one thing, and your heritage insists it’s not getting it.” He handed her a small gift bag she hadn’t noticed before. “To keep the jitters at bay.”

* * * *

Marcail waited until she was sure no one was around, grabbed her tote with everything she thought she’d need, and once more used the back stairs to reach the kitchen.

She opened the door cautiously and checked the room was empty before going in and swiftly emptying the bag on the table. The family took turns to make the yearly soul cakes, small round buns full of spices and dried fruits handed out on All Hallows’ Eve in mediaeval times and maybe still, were in some places. Her family always had them. She bet with everything that was going on, they all thought she’d forgotten about the cakes. She hadn’t, she just hadn’t had the time to make them. Marcail set to work.

“Smells good.”

She turned around. No Bonnie or her mum, just her earlier self once more in the rocking chair. “You do keep popping up,” she said, not fazed this time by the apparition. “Why now?”

“It’s time.”

She was already mighty fed up of that comment. Marcail nodded. “Okay.”

The old woman laughed. “I haven’t changed much over the generations.”

Marcail turned to take the cakes out of the oven and put them on a baking tray. When she turned back the chair was empty. She shrugged—she was definitely becoming used to such things now. A quick glance at the clock told her she’d have to get a move on, or she’d be late to welcome in Samhain, which was not acceptable. She washed up and, with the cakes, headed for her bedroom. It was time to hurry.

A quick shower did nothing to help calm the nerves she’d had on and off all day, although the tiny bottle of gin, can of tonic and the ice cubes in an insulated pack, along with three chocolates and a mini bar of shortbread did. The bottle had a label on it saying ‘Marcail’s Birthday Booze’, the tonic ditto, and the ice cube bag a sign saying ‘reusable’. She loved it.

Her dress was warm, velvet and long. She pinned her brooch to it, put her new earrings in and Bonnie’s plaid around her shoulders. She’d have loved to have worn her fur-lined boots but her mum would have objected, so she contented herself with thermal tights and leather ankle boots.

Just before twenty-five past four, there was a knock on the door. Marcail picked up her bag with an assortment of nuts for the fire-throwing tradition and also the soul cakes she’d made when she’d snuck downstairs. They were now in a box she’d brought with her just for that reason. She headed to meet Paden.

And stopped dead when she saw him. “Wow.”

“Have I scrubbed up well?” he asked with a grin.

“I’ll say.” Marcail let herself take a long, leisurely look at his kilt-clad body. “More than. Go on, give us a twirl.”

He obliged and turned round in a circle so his kilt spun out around him. Sadly, not quite high enough for her to see… Do not go there, not now. “Why is it a bloke in a kilt is so much more of a turn-on than, say, a guy in a tux?” she asked.

“The thought of whether he’s a true Scotsman or not?” Paden asked as he took her bag from her and held out his other hand to her. “Do you really need to ask that of me?”

“You’re probably right, and I guess not.”

“Hurry up, you two, Dad’s doing his ‘what’s keeping everyone, it’s almost time’ act,” Baird called from the ground floor. “He’s about to upset Mum, and then what a lovely Samhain we’ll have.”

He was also in a kilt, and although he looked good, and he was her brother to boot, Marcail decided Paden knocked spots of him. Which, as she had more than sibling affection for Paden, was not a fair comparison.

“On our way.” They descended to the hall hand in hand and accompanied Baird into the lounge.

Ruari was resplendent in a kilt of the family tartan, Margaret in a long plaid skirt, and Bonnie in deep maroon velvet.

“Aren’t we all posh?” Marcail said as she handed the box of cakes to her mum. “I didn’t forget.” She chose not to admit when she’d made them. “Something smells good.”

“Dinner, of course,” Margaret said. “I’ve just had the Aga door open to check it’s all well. It is.”

“It’s time,” Ruari said softly. “Let’s go and greet the sunset and welcome in Samhain.” He lit the lanterns and passed one to each of them. Somewhere, somehow, there was now one for Paden.

“My creativity when you went to bake. Yes, I sensed you, no I didn’t interfere. You had a visitor anyway, didn’t you?”

“Let’s go.” Ruari led the way