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

fall over and held his hands up in the air. “Whoa, careful, I come in peace. Bonnie asked me to meet you.”

Do I know that voice?

“Bonnie?” She made sure it sounded like a question.

He grinned. Hot, teasing and wicked enough to send every sense she had into meltdown. The sort of expression to curl your hair and make you hold your stomach in. Wish you hadn’t eaten those last three calorie-filled biscuits and hope your last night’s curry hadn’t lingered on your breath. Find it hard to ignore tight nipples and damp thighs and try to concentrate on what was going on.

Just in case. She wasn’t going to go into in case of what.

“Clever girl,” he said in an admiring way. “Your sister, Bonnie. You know? Around five foot and don’t forget the half inch, writer of fantasy, sister, Bonnie. She would have come herself, but in her words, her sodding hero wants to go and do heroic things she doesn’t want him to do, and the dragons are rebelling. Your ma is busy baking up a storm, your brother is coming tomorrow after school—er, I’ll add I know he’s a teacher not a pupil—and he’s requested black bun and clootie dumpling. She, your ma, has a birthday cake to make and ice and someone’s been pinching the hundreds and thousands for the top and it wasn’t me. I don’t even know what they are.”

“Tiny bits of multicoloured sugar and I guess starch,” Marcail answered absently. Why were they having a conversation about mini balls of sugar, for heaven’s sake? And why was his voice familiar? She was damn sure she’d never met him before. “They go on cakes and trifles and, if my dad is around, in his mouth as they come. Why didn’t he pick me up?”

“Ah, well evidently, according to your ma, your pa has got his intermittent bad leg. Too much sugar?”

She laughed despite herself. Her dad’s bad leg was a convenient excuse when he didn’t want to do something and concentrate on his greenhouses instead. They always came first. “Maybe. Plus, he hates driving at dusk. So, you are?”

“I’m the visitor to the rescue. Paden MacDonald, from Skye, amongst other places, currently residing at Castle Bearradh. Hale, hearty and all my own teeth. Plus a filling or two.”

Not Skye again.

“Inevitable.”

“Damn it, stop already.”

It sounded plausible, however. “How come I’ve not been told we have visitors?” Her father insisted he was allergic to them.

“Probably thought it would scare you away.” Paden MacDonald raised his shoulders and let them drop. “I’ve been told that although you might not live there, you’re very protective of your island. Not a lot of people get to visit, let alone stay. I’m guessing to have family time there is even more important to you now, when you’ll be going away again soon and so far away at that.”

How the hell did he know? She’d told no one her plans. “Really? What makes you think that?”

He tapped the side of his nose. “I know that’s what you think you’ll be doing, but never fear, I’ll not clype on you whether you do or not. When you do it will be what’s needed.”

“There’s nothing to tell.” Marcail shrugged, somewhat incensed at his indication she might not go. Of course she was going, and it would be because she wanted to, not for any other reason. “Why are you stopping on the island?”

“I’ve a wee job to do there. My ancestors and yours have a history. One that needs to be sorted. It was now or never, but I’ve promised to stay out of your family celebrations, unless welcome by all.”

That statement, said so matter–of-factly, made her feel rotten. Surely she, or any one of them, wasn’t so miserable as to insist he stayed in his room or whatever? Especially as it was Samhain, and important.

“You do know it’s Samhain, don’t you?” she asked as he put a rucksack on his back, pushed the bike into the tiny, almost unnoticeable lean-to next to a clump of trees and jumped up onto the boat. If he understood and celebrated, she couldn’t refuse to let him join in, could she?

“Of course. I’ll do my honouring in private, don’t worry.” He shot her a swift grin. “Ready to head over? Happy I’m not a serial killer or a burglar?”

“Ready to head over, yes. I’ll reserve judgement on the rest.” And hang on to the spanner.

“Fair enough. By the way, there’s a hammer under the back thwart. Might do more damage than the spanner.”

“I didn’t say that.”

He raised one eyebrow and laughed. “You thought it though.”

Where had she heard that laugh before?

Chapter Two

Whatever else Paden MacDonald from Skye was, or was not, he was a quick worker and a competent helmsman. Within minutes he’d stashed her belongings in the cabin, passed her a life jacket and donned one himself, started the frequently temperamental engine, cast off and headed the boat in the direction of the island.

“So, Marcail Drummond,” he shouted to be heard above the noise of the engine, “what ails you?”

What…? “Nothing ails me, thank you,” she said firmly. “I’m on my way home to see my family for a while. I’m looking forward to spending time with them.”

“And you’d rather I wasn’t here? I understand that.”

“Well,” she said lamely. “It’s unusual.” It wouldn’t be polite to retort, yeah, you said it, not me. “Ma and Pa aren’t social animals, not really. Nor is Bonnie.” Bonnie in fact was the most likely to be antagonistic. She valued her—and the island’s—privacy above most other things. “It could be difficult for you.”

“If you say so. Remember though, I’m here for you, not other people. If you need me, just holler.” He flashed her a heart-stopping, hot, sexy grin. “Out loud or inside. I’ll hear you well enough for now. Later, maybe, I’ll need a wee bit of help. When you’re all those miles away.”

The words ‘if you go’ seemed to hover in the air, unspoken, but there nevertheless.

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