Must Love Kilts (26 page)

We’re almost ashore.”

Margo wanted to believe him.

His neck nuzzle and ear nibble made her skin tingle, providing a welcome distraction.

But she still wasn’t ready to look.

Keeping her eyes shut left her in a world that was cold, wet, and dark. Seeing it would be scarier. She’d never believed in peering beneath rocks. Ugly things always lurked there, waiting to pounce. This was one of those times she was leaving the rocks alone. She didn’t need to look to know the world had turned nasty.

Icy waves were crashing into them and she’d felt Magnus’s foot slip once. Worse, the
crack
and splashing of the dragon ship’s oars filled the air, the noise so terrifyingly close that she expected one of the long, flashing oars to bop them any minute, knocking them under the waves, where they’d drown.

If doom was coming, she didn’t want to see its arrival.

She wasn’t that brave.

But then the waves stopped hurtling into them, and the smell of peat smoke and pine was suddenly high on the wind, seasoning the cold, salt air. She also caught a trace of cooking smells—a rich, savory stew?—as they reached solid ground and Magnus carried her out of the surf and up the sloping shoreline.

“There, see you?” He set her down, but kept his hands at her waist, holding her. “We’re here. Soon you’ll be warm and have new, dry clothes.” His gaze flicked to the red-doored cottage at the far end of the little bay. “Orla is about your size and will have everything you’ll need.”

“Won’t she wonder who I am?” Margo was torn between her desire to see the last of Orosius’s heavy, now-wet bearskin cloak and hesitation at meeting the medieval joy woman.

A woman who was obviously on very good terms with Magnus.

“Orla is a friend, no more.” Magnus cupped her face, his dark gaze earnest as he repeated what he’d already told her.

“Many women are friendly until they sense competition.” The argument slipped out before she could bite her tongue.

Magnus smoothed his hands down over her shoulders and then along her sides, sliding his arms around her. He pulled her close. “You dinnae have any competition.” His voice was low and gruff, his gaze intense. “You ne’er have, if you’d know the truth of it.” Margo’s heart dipped. “I know you were... You must’ve—”

“You dinnae hear well, aye?” He placed his palm against her cheek, pressing gently. His warmth soothed her. “I said no one.”

“I—” Margo broke off when the fisherfolk began stepping out of their huts, gathering in a ragtag huddle to stare down the strand at her and Magnus.

They didn’t look hostile. And none of them made an attempt to approach, instead staying in a tight circle where they were, near their turf-walled hovels. The small dog she’d noticed earlier ran back and forth, barking. But he looked more excited than ferocious.

And his tail was wagging.

Still. . .

Margo swallowed, remembering how easily Magnus’s men had taken her for a witch.

“They’re only curious. They’ve been expecting me.

But they’ll be surprised to see you.” He turned their way then, lifting a hand in greeting as he called to them. “You’ll have three of the cattle returned to you soon.” His promise earned smiles. “The beasts will be your own then, after Redpoint.”

The smiles turned into grins.

A little boy, thin-shouldered and wearing a tattered plaid, danced a jig.

Magnus smiled as he watched the sprite, a dimple flashing once in his cheek.

“I’ll send a few more from Badcall, and a fine pair o’ pigs,” Magnus shouted, and Margo was surprised when the villagers didn’t throw themselves on the ground, bowing to him.

They’d looked that happy.

She glanced at Magnus, puzzled.

“What was all that about?” She hadn’t understood anything he’d said. She had seen that the villagers idolized him.

“I’ll explain later, at the cothouse.” He wasn’t looking at her. He’d set his hands on his hips while he watched the villagers trickle back inside their huts.

They seemed to have forgotten she was there.

Magnus hadn’t.

He turned back to her, and his eyes were fierce again, reminding her so much of how he’d looked in the book illustration. As in the drawing, his long hair streamed in the wind, and as if he’d read her thoughts, he’d set his hand on his sword hilt, his strong fingers lightly circling the hilt. His arm rings shone brightly and his wet plaid clung to him, molded to the broad, hard-muscled expanse of his chest. He stood with his legs apart, the warrior stance making her breath catch.

He was her dream turned reality.

Being near him, breathing the same air, listening to his beautiful, deep voice, and seeing his passion, all lit a simmering desire inside her. She was almost light-headed with wanting him.

And she wanted more than his lovemaking. She wanted him to care about her with the same burning fervor she’d seen in him when he’d stopped to call out to the fisherfolk.

She knew now he’d never love her. No woman could compete with a ghost, especially not a martyred one.

But she so hoped he would care for her.

“Thon folk have suffered much.” He was still watching the villagers, looking on as a few stragglers disappeared into their humble dwellings. “I’ve sworn an oath to do all I can to keep them safe and spare them grief.”

His words speared Margo’s heart.

She shivered in the wind—it was freshening, the sky darkening with heavy clouds—but a deep, molten heat spread inside her, growing warmer when he took her hand, meshing their fingers.

“Come, now.” He led her along the curving strand, skirting the tide line and taking her up near the edge of the trees toward the tidy, whitewashed cottage with its red painted door.

Margo hurried beside him, one hand gripping the bearskin mantle to keep it from gaping wide. The cold stones shifted under her bare feet, making it difficult to walk. And several times she stumbled, slipping on the shingle. But Magnus caught her each time, steadying her and giving her a moment to regain her balance.

It was after one such pause that a glint of silver in the wood caught her eye.

“Magnus.” She froze, scanning the thick edge of pines. “I saw something in the trees. I think”—her blood chilled at the possibility—“it was the flash of mail.”

“It was.” To her surprise he grinned.

She blinked. “You saw it, too?”

“Nae.” He started forward again, seemingly unconcerned. “But I know there are men in the wood.

They are my own warriors. They’re crewmen from one of my other ships, the
Wave-Dancer
.” He stopped briefly, glancing at the dark pines before they moved on. “Calum had orders to send them here. They’ll circle the cothouse as we sleep this them here. They’ll circle the cothouse as we sleep this night, standing guard to alert me should an enemy approach.”

“Oh.” Margo was both relieved and—she couldn’t believe this—disappointed, because she was so sure he’d meant to make love to her at the little cottage.

She still felt reasonably sure.

And that only tied her belly in a worse knot.

Privacy might not be a big issue in medieval times, but she wasn’t keen on getting naked and intimate with a circle of hard-faced, sword- and ax-packing men-in-steel anywhere within hearing range.

The very idea sent a wash of heat up her neck.

Magnus smiled and gripped her fingers tighter.

“You’ll no’ ken they’re there. They’ve been told to keep at a good distance.”

Margo’s face burned even hotter on his words. It was almost as bad that he obviously knew she expected him to ravish her. Mortified, she took a deep, calming breath.

It didn’t help.

And when they started forward again, she promptly stubbed her toe against a rock. “Ow-w-w!” She faltered as she grabbed her throbbing foot. “I didn’t see—”

“Hush, you.” He scooped her into his arms, holding her close to his chest as they reached the end of the bay and approached the joy woman’s home. “I should’ve carried you the whole way.”

“I didn’t mind walking.” She hadn’t. But being in his arms was better.

Even so, she wanted to be standing on her own two feet when she met Orla.

“You can let me down now.” She was watching the cottage, dreading their arrival. “My toe doesn’t hurt that bad and—” Her jaw slipped, her protest snagging in her throat as the red door swung open and Orla stepped out onto the cottage’s tiny stone stoop.

“Dear God in heaven.” Margo stared at the other woman, her heart racing as Magnus lowered her to the ground, oblivious.

Margo was anything but.

She was shocked to the core.

She could only stare, disbelief sweeping her as Orla smiled a greeting, gesturing them inside.

Orla had a face Margo recognized.

She could’ve been Marta Lopez’s twin.

Chapter 15

“Magnus, it is too long since you darkened my door.” Orla waited until Magnus and Margo were inside, then grasped Magnus’s arm and lifted on her toes to kiss his cheek.

Margo watched, stunned. Amazement and surprise gathered tightly in her chest, shivers rippling up and down her back. Her breath locked in her throat, making her glad the other woman addressed Magnus first, giving her time to recover before she was forced to respond.

“I’ve been hoping you’d come soon.” Orla led them inside the candlelit cottage, her warm brown eyes assessing Margo, her smile full of welcome.

And it was Marta’s smile.

Marta’s rich chocolate eyes looking at her.

They were beautiful eyes, fringed with thick black lashes, and so familiar. They also brimmed with a secret knowledge as if Orla understood exactly why Margo was staring at her, still unable to speak.

And the reason wasn’t only that Orla resembled Marta so strongly.

Her home could’ve been a medieval version of Ye Olde Pagan Times.

Charmingly feminine, and with the same candle-wax, aromatic essential-oil scent, the cottage was low-ceilinged and heavily beamed. All manner of dried herbs, flowers, and leaves hung in clusters from the thick black rafters, and the stone-flagged floor looked painfully well swept. Odd bits of driftwood, wooden bowls of pinecones, and innumerable pebbles and stones crowded the thick window ledges and the shelves arranged artfully across two walls. A large plaid curtain hung across one corner, discreetly hiding Orla’s sleeping quarters, a niche where, according to Magnus, she likely plied her trade when such men came to call.

Marta would’ve loved the cottage.

Patience and Ardelle would’ve swooned. And Margo’s chest tightened as she imagined how the three women’s eyes would’ve lit with wonder if they’d been here with her. They would’ve walked about, examining everything, and exclaiming their delight, deeming the cottage perfect.

It made Margo felt right at home.

Magnus looked out of place. His head almost brushed the heavy black ceiling rafters and he had to duck to avoid the hanging clusters of flowers and whatnot. Towering above her and Orla, he sent a look at the tray of fresh-baked oatcakes and cheese set upon the room’s lone table. Along with the earthen jug of ale and three cups placed invitingly beside it. A brace of candles burned nearby, their golden glow lending to the cottage’s homey atmosphere.

Magnus cleared his throat, plainly uncomfortable.

“Three ale cups, Orla?” He looked at his friend, one brow raised questioningly.

“Magnus.”
Margo blushed, his meaning obvious.

Orla’s eyes only lit with amusement and she laughed. “I still leave such
delights
to my less discerning friends in the trade,” she announced, not looking at all embarrassed. “The truth is ...” She lifted her chin and met his gaze, her dark hair gleaming in the firelight. “Something told me you’d bring a friend here this day.”

“Humph.” Magnus frowned. “Dinnae start with suchlike. I hear enough second-sight and rune-casting foolery from Orosius. I dinnae need you—”

“I have a woman’s good sense, no more. That is all.” She smiled at Margo. “Though I’ll own that living so close to nature”—she gestured to the treasures displayed all around the cottage—“allows one to observe and discover truths some folk never notice.

“I also trust in my dreams.” She tucked her hair behind an ear, her gaze still on Margo. “All women do.

It’s why we’re wiser than men.”

“Say you?” Magnus didn’t look impressed.

“I do.” Orla turned her smile on him, and then took Margo’s hand and ushered her to a low bench against the back wall, urging her to sit. Her no-nonsense, take-charge personality reminded Margo so much of her friend that a terrible hotness swelled in her throat. She had to blink rapidly to keep from embarrassing herself.

Orla was shaking her head, tutting over her as she took a length of soft linen from a basket near the bench. Stepping close, she used the cloth to dab sea spray from Margo’s hair and off her face.

“I can see you’ve suffered an ordeal,
mo ghaoil
.” She chose the same Gaelic term of affection as Magnus. And she glanced at him now, a frown marring her brow. “What have you done to her, h’mmm?”

“Naught, as you surely know.” He stood near the cottage’s central hearth, warming his hands before the strangest fire Margo had ever seen. The flames shone blue, purple, and gold as they hissed and spat, dancing almost sinuously atop a small heap of elegantly twisted silver-hued wood. “Margo is from a distant land to the south,” he improvised, avoiding Margo’s eyes. “She’s the sole survivor of a foundered ship. We found her just north of Gairloch and took her on board the
Sea-Raven
.”

“Did you, now?” Orla’s arched brow said she didn’t believe a word.

But she held her tongue, setting aside the drying cloth and dusting her hands. “Then you have come seeking raiments for her, h’mmm?”

She flicked a glance at Margo, winking as if they shared in a conspiracy Magnus knew nothing about.

“As it is . . .” She tapped her chin, looking about the one-room cottage as if searching for something.

Margo watched her, more drawn to the laughing-eyed joy woman by the moment. She had what Patience called
heart
.