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

not going to Skye at this time of the year,” she said out loud, and surprised a bird in a nearby tree, which flew off with an indignant squawk. “I am going to do what I want, wear what I want and sod anyone who tells me I can’t.”

Like Roddy had. Why on earth had she been so stupid as to pay attention to his petty ways? No more!

The clapping she heard was a balm to her bruised soul. And if that wasn’t fanciful she didn’t know what was.

Nevertheless, how she hated that sensation of disenchantment her attitude had given her. Why did she feel something was missing?

“You’re waiting for me.”

Now that was crazy. She was off men for the duration.

“Not off me, not ever, wait and see.”

Marcail rolled her eyes. If he thought so he had another think coming.

“Harsh, mo ghaol, very harsh.”

She ignored that.

Her siblings seemed to be content, so why wasn’t she? Baird, her brother, worked as a teacher in a tiny village school in the Highlands, and said little about what was going on in his life, except it was right for him. He didn’t want to go out of his beloved Scotland he’d insisted, but somewhere different, where he was needed and not just as a son and brother. As much as he’d loved living on the island, he needed more.

Marcail understood that. So had she.

“I still do,” she said firmly. Which was why in a month—give or take a few days—she was heading to New Zealand. First though, she needed to snap out of her miserable mood, and appreciate the time with the family. Celebrate her birthday, enjoy the chance to breathe fresh air, recharge her batteries and prepare for the trip of a lifetime. From that moment she was going to be positive.

“That’s my girl.”

“Bog off.”

The laughter that swirled around her made her grin. Maybe talking to yourself did have some perks after all. You could answer back how you liked. Tell yourself to shut up, bog off and take a hike.

“You’re talking to me, not yourself.”

“You can still bog off.”

Sweating a little—it was unseasonably mild—Marcail started to unload her car and transfer the few bits and bobs she had brought with her to the boat. The note on the tiny cabin door made her laugh. ‘Wait for me, I’ll be there by three, off to buy something nice for tea, lots of love…’ Bonnie, she guessed. She was the one who enjoyed scribing silly little notes that the others loved to receive, and she’d promise to meet Marcail.

Bonnie, the youngest Drummond child, was the only one of them still living on the island, albeit in her own house.

Bonnie with her uncanny sense of knowing when something was wrong, and accepting that sometimes she should wait and do nothing, at other times wade right in. It couldn’t be coincidence that within ten minutes of Marcail watching Roddy depart from her life, Bonnie had phoned to ask if everything was okay, and why not come home for her birthday.

Bonnie’s intuition—Marcail refused to call it second sight—always struck Marcail as a bit weird, even though the rest of the family took it for granted. As they also accepted Marcail’s voices, she supposed she shouldn’t wonder too much. They were all a bit peculiar. Idly she wondered if her brother had some strange thing he insisted was perfectly natural and normal.

We’re strange.

“Define strange.”

“You. And stop eavesdropping, it’s rude.”

The laughter made her jump. It was so loud she half expected to see someone sitting in the passenger seat.

Sometimes Marcail envied Bonnie for her serenity, her acceptance of what she was, and for her tranquillity and contentment living on the island. However, deep down she knew that permanent island life wasn’t for her. If only she knew what was.

“One day soon.”

Marcail ignored that and remembered Bonnie’s note. Half an hour to wait wasn’t too long. Marcail locked her car, pocketed the keys and swung onto the boat. There was coffee left in the flask she’d filled at the last comfort stop, a few chocolate biscuits in a box and her Kindle to keep her company.

“And me, of course. I’ll always be here for you…my Pearl.”

“Oh of course,” she said under her breath. “The bloody voice in my head calls me Pearl. Just what I need—not.” Pearl, the anglicised version of her name, was one she rarely used. When it was, it sent shivers down her spine and she had no idea why. The last person who had regularly called her that had been her Granny Pearl. A tiny, white-haired old lady, said by many to have the second sight. Marcail didn’t believe in such stuff. It was great in books, impossible in real life.

“Not impossible. She did have it, so do you if you care to use it. You accept me, why not that?”

“One step too far.”

“Wait and see.”

“Oh shut up, you’re beginning to annoy me.”

Could you have a huffy silence inside your mind? If so, she’d got it in spades.

The sun had almost gone down when the roar of a motorbike heralded Bonnie’s arrival.

On a motorbike? That’s new. As far as Marcail knew, Bonnie drove an old Mini she called Petal and refused to change it for anything else.

Marcail emptied the dregs of her coffee over the side of the boat, dusted biscuit crumbs into a bag and stood up, eager to see her sister again.

The rider revved the engine and switched it off.

The silence was absolute until somewhere nearby a buzzard called and was answered. Marcail watched as the rider dismounted and took off a jazzy helmet.

She blinked.

The rider couldn’t be her sister. Not unless she’d gained six inches, a stone or two and changed sex.

This rider was all male. A challenging, sexy and bloody scary male. Where was the pepper spray when you needed it?

Carefully, Marcail bent and fumbled under the seat, opened the box there and found a spanner.

The bloke who stood next to the bike kicked the rest into place so it didn’t