Must Love Kilts (3 page)

Sure of it, Margo shifted on her stool behind her Luna Harmony station and reached to rearrange the little blue and silver jars and bottles of organic beauty products that shop owner, Patience Peasgood, urged her to sell to those seeking celestial answers. With names like Foaming Sea bath crystals or Sea of Serenity night cream, all inspired by lunar seas, the cosmetics made people smile.

Even if most Ye Olde Pagan Times regulars found the prices too steep.

Margo secretly agreed.

No one loved a bargain more than her.

But just now she was grateful so many of the Lunarian Organic products cluttered her counter. If she appeared busy, fussing with their display, Dina Greed might not sail over to needle her.

At the moment, the pint-sized brunette—who never failed to make Margo feel like a clunky blond amazon—was browsing around the aisles, her chin tilted as she peered at sparkling glass bowls filled with pink and clear quartz crystals. She also examined the scented oils and reed diffusers, and then drifted away to study the large selection of herbal teas and cures.

Willing her to leave the shop, Margo eyed her progress from beneath her lashes.

Instead, she stopped before a display of white pillar candles arranged in trays of small, river-polished pebbles, then moved on to the bookshelves set against the shop’s back wall, where she stood watching Patience Peasgood carefully unpack a box of newly delivered books on medieval magic and Celtic and Norse mythology.

Neither woman looked in Margo’s direction.

Yet—the fine hairs lifted on her nape—she was certain someone was watching her.

Margo shivered. She wondered if it was her—Dina Greed did ride her last nerve—or if a shadow had passed over the sun. Either way, the whole atmosphere in the shop suddenly felt a shade darker.

It was a creepy, unsettling kind of dark.

Margo knew that Patience, a self-taught white witch, had been experimenting with new spells in recent days. Watching the shopkeeper now, Margo hoped her employer hadn’t unwittingly unleashed something sinister. It wouldn’t be the first time Patience’s well-meant magic backfired and caused more trouble than good.

“She’s going to Scotland, you know.”

“Gah!” Margo knocked over a bottle of Sea of Nectar body lotion. Whipping around on her stool, she came face-to-face with Marta Lopez, the Puerto Rican fortune-teller who became Ye Olde Pagan Times’

Madame Zelda of Bulgaria each morning when she stepped through the shop door.

“Geesh.” Margo pressed a hand to her breast as she stared at her friend. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you it’s not nice to sneak up on people?” Instead of backing away, Marta stepped closer, lowering her voice. “I thought you’d want to know before she ruins your day. That’s why she’s here.” She flashed a narrow-eyed glance at Dina Greed’s back.

“She wants to make you jealous.”

She is!
The two words screamed through Margo’s Scotland-loving soul, turning her heart pea green and making her pulse race with annoyance.

“How do you know?” Margo tucked her chin-length blond hair behind an ear, hoping Marta wouldn’t notice the flush she could feel flaming up her neck. “Are you sure? Or”—she could only hope—“is it just gossip?” Dina Greed had been making noise about going to Scotland forever.

So far she’d never gotten any closer than
Braveheart
.

But the way Marta was shaking her head told Margo that this time her rival’s plans were real.

“You should know I only ever speak the truth.” Marta smoothed the shimmering purple and gold folds of her caftan. “One of my cousins”—she straightened, assuming an air of importance—“works at First Class Luggage and Travel Shoppe. She told me Dina was in there two days ago, buying up a storm and bragging that she was about to leave on a three-week trip to the Highlands.

“She even has a passport.” Marta imparted this bit of info with authority. “My cousin saw it when Dina insisted on making sure it fit easily into the tartan-covered passport holder she bought.” Margo’s heart sank. “She bought a tartan-covered passport holder?”

“Not just that.” Marta’s eyes snapped. “She walked out with an entire set of matching tartan luggage. It’s a new line First Class just started carrying. I think my cousin said it’s called Highland Mist.”
Highland mist.

The two words, usually the stuff of Margo’s sweetest dreams, now just made her feel sick inside. As long as she could remember, Dina Greed had deliberately targeted and snatched every one of Margo’s boyfriends.

Three years ago, she’d also somehow sweet-talked the manager of a really lovely apartment complex Margo wanted to move to into giving her the last available apartment, even though Margo had already made a deposit.

Now she was also going to Scotland.

It was beyond bearing.

“So it is true.” Margo looked at her friend, feeling bleak. She also felt the beginnings of a throbbing headache. “Minnie Mouse wins again.” Marta shot Dina a malice-laden glance. “Maybe she’ll fall off a cliff or disappear into a peat bog.”

“With her luck”—Margo knew this to be true—“some hunky Highlander would rescue her.”

“Leave it to me.” Marta winked. “I have lots of cousins and one of them practices voodoo. I’ll just put a bug in her ear and have her—”

“Margo!” Dina Greed was coming up to the Luna Harmony station, her dark eyes sparkling. “I was hoping you’d be here today. I need your advice about—”

“Scotland?” Margo could’ve bitten her tongue, but the word just slipped out.

“You’ve heard?” Dina’s brows winged upward in her pretty, heart-shaped face. “It’s true. I’m really going. In fact, I’m leaving”—she smiled sweetly—“in three days.

But that’s not why I’m here.”

She set her tasseled sporran-cum-handbag on the counter and unsnapped the clasp, withdrawing several typed sheets of paper. “This is my itinerary, if you’d like to see it. I’m doing a self-drive tour and will be concentrating on all the places connected to Robert the Bruce.” She twinkled at Margo, well aware that the medieval hero king was one of Margo’s greatest heroes.

“I’ve been planning this trip for years, as you know.” She clutched the itinerary as if it were made of gold and diamonds. “I don’t need your help with Scotland.” Margo forced a tight smile. “I didn’t think so.” Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Marta swishing away, making for the back room where she did her tarot readings. Margo hoped she’d also use the privacy to call her voodoo-expert cousin.

She looked back at her rival, wishing she had the nerve to throttle her.

“So what can I do for you?” She hated having to be nice. “Are you looking for some good cosmetics for your trip?” She tapped the Ocean of Storms shower gel. “All the Lunarian products come in travel sizes.”

“No, thanks, but that’s close.” Dina held out a hand, wriggling her fingers. “I’m on my way to have these nails removed”—she glanced down at the diva-length red talons, clearly fake—“and someone mentioned you might have a tip for keeping my real nails from breaking.

“They aren’t very strong and”—she gave Margo another sugar-infused smile—“I’ll be exploring so many castle ruins and whatnot, you know? I’d hate to damage them when I’m off in the wilds of nowhere.”

“Oh, that’s easy.” Margo felt a spurt of triumph. “Just be sure you always file them on a Saturday,” she lied, knowing that was the worst possible day for nail care.

“If you do that, they’ll stay hard, resistant to breakage, and never give you any problems.”

Margo smiled.

Friday after sunset was when the moon’s magic worked on nails.

“My fingernails thank you.” Dina tucked her itinerary into her furry sporran purse. “I really must go. It’s been lovely seeing you. But”—she was already halfway across the shop—“I need to pack. I’ll stop by when I’m back and tell you about my trip.”

“I’m sure you will,” Margo muttered when the shop bell jangled as Dina swept out the door.

Free at last, she released a long breath. It was good that her nemesis left when she did, as she might have exploded otherwise. She could maintain her always-be-gracious-to-customers demeanor only so long. Dina had pushed her close to her limits. A white-hot volcano of anger, envy, and frustration was seething inside her.

On the trail of Robert the Bruce.

Highland Mist luggage.

Margo frowned. She wouldn’t be surprised if the other woman wore plaid underwear. She
had
left her mean-spirited residue in the most times tranquil shop.

Sensitive to such things, Margo shivered and rubbed her arms. They were covered with gooseflesh. And the odd dimness she’d noticed earlier had returned. Only now, the little shop wasn’t just full of shadows; it’d turned icy cold.

Of course—she saw now—rain was beginning to beat against the windows and the afternoon sky had gone ominously dark. Autumn in Bucks County was known for the night drawing in rather early.

Still...

This wasn’t that kind of chill.

Margo sat frozen on her stool. She wanted to call out to Patience or even Marta, sequestered in her back room, but her tongue felt glued to the roof of her mouth. She glanced over to the bookshelves, seeking the reassurance of Patience’s familiar presence.

Instead, she found her palms and her brow dampening.

Her ill ease only increased when the door jangled again and she caught the backs of Patience and Marta as they dashed out into the rain. The door swung shut behind them, leaving her alone.

She’d forgotten it was Marta’s half day.

And Patience had told her that morning that she’d be leaving early to join friends for high tea at the Cabbage Rose Gift Emporium and Tea Room out near Valley Forge. Margo had agreed to close the shop on her own.

It was an unavoidable situation.

But she regretted it all the same.

Especially when—oh, no!—she saw the shadow by the bookshelves.

Tall, blacker than black, and definitely sinister, the darkness hovered near where Patience had stood earlier, sorting the new books. And—Margo stared, her stomach clenching—whatever it was, it oozed an ancient malevolence.

It wasn’t a ghost.

She knew that unquestionably.

This was more a portent of doom.

Then there was a loud rumbling noise outside and—as a quick glance at the windows revealed—a large cement mixer that had been stopped in front of the shop lumbered noisily down the road, allowing the gray afternoon light to pour back into the shop.

The
shadow
vanished at once.

And Margo had never felt more foolish.

She wiped the back of her hand across her brow and took a few deep, calming breaths. She shouldn’t have allowed Dina Greed and her upcoming Scotland trip get to her so much that she mistook a shadow cast by a construction truck for a gloom-bearing hell demon.

She didn’t even believe in demons.

Ghosts, you bet. She’d even seen a few of them and had no doubts whatsoever.

She was a believer.

But demons . . .

They belonged in the same pot as vampires and werewolves. They just weren’t her cuppa. And she was very happy to keep it that way.

She was also in dire need of tea.

Knowing a good steaming cup of Earl Grey Cream would soothe her nerves, she pushed to her feet and started for Marta’s tarot-reading room, a corner of which served as Ye Olde Pagan Times’ makeshift kitchen.

She was almost there when she heard a
thump
near the bookshelves.

“Oh, God!” She jerked to a halt, her hand still  reaching for the back room door. The floor tilted crazily and she was sure she could feel a thousand hidden eyes glaring at her from behind the bundles of dried herbs and glass witch balls that hung from the ceiling.

Every spell gone bad that Patience had ever done flashed through her mind. Once, Patience tried to cast protection over migrating frogs she’d heard about on the news. She didn’t like thinking of the amphibians crossing busy roads. Within minutes, Ye Olde Pagan Times had been overrun with hopping, green-skinned frogs.

Another time, she’d tried to spell the air conditioner into working better and frost suddenly appeared on every surface in the shop. Icicles even grew from the ceiling and hung like frozen swords in the windows.

Lately, she’d been trying to gain the power to see true history by murmuring spell words over the white spaces between lines in books. Patience wanted to examine a few specialized books on early witchcraft to learn the truth behind medieval witch hunts and trials.

Margo shuddered to think her employer might have summoned a foul-tempered warlock.

Or something worse.

Very slowly, Margo turned. She half expected to see the shadow again.

There was nothing.

No ghosts, demons, or other beasties crept along the bookshelf aisles.

She certainly didn’t see a warlock.

But a book had fallen, lying open and facedown on the polished hardwood floor. Margo went to retrieve it, glad to know the source of the noise and intending to return the book to the shelf. It was from Patience’s new shipment and the title jumped at her.

Myths and Legends of the Viking Age.

For some inexplicable reason just seeing the words, red and gold lettering on a brownish background, sent a jolt through her. It was so strong, and forbidding, that she almost walked away, leaving the book where it was on the floor.

Stubbornness made her snatch it up, the painful shock that sped through her fingers and up her arm as soon as she touched the book underscoring why she really needed to heed her instincts.

Could Patience’s spell-casting pursuits have thrown magic on the books, rather than on Patience herself?

Had her employer enchanted the merchandise?

Margo was sure she didn’t want to know.

But she’d had enough—enough of everything—and she wasn’t going to let a book get the better of her. So she ignored the burning tingles racing along her skin and peered down. She immediately wished she hadn’t, for the book had opened to a two-page color illustration of a Viking warship off the coast of Scotland.

Margo could have groaned.