The Charm Stone Read online

  The captain removed his hat and rubbed at his bald head before replacing it. “I'm from Stranraer, only just started on the ferry service up here, but the MacNeils have been in these islands since the beginnin’, so I'm sure there's probably one or two left on Glenmuir that could help you.”

  “Thanks.” What was she supposed to do now? Just stick the thing in a box marked “Current MacNeil Chief, Glenmuir, Scotland”?

  She trudged back to her rental car at the other dock. It was easy to spot as it was the only one with a board strapped on top. Everyone else involved in the tournament was staying through the weekend and a part of her wished now she'd booked herself more time here.

  She'd had a great time in Tiree, far better than she'd expected. Finola was almost fifteen years older than she was, but had the energy of an eighteen-year-old. It had been the perfect antidote to the past two months. Josie had even gotten some time in the chilly highland surf during the three-day tournament. She was honestly happy she'd come and wished her dad had been able to come along, too. He'd have liked Finola. She'd hated saying good-bye to her.

  But fun and frolic notwithstanding, she was not going home with the damn trunk. She put the box she'd packed it in back in the car and leaned against the closed boot. She didn't see where she had a choice but to mail the thing from the mainland, but she felt responsible for its safety. Just then a delivery truck rumbled up and headed to the Glenmuir ferry. A spurt of hope shot through her. She started to take off after it on foot, but the captain unchained the gate and motioned the truck right onto the ferry. She'd never catch up.

  She looked back to her dock, at the Oban ferry that wasn't scheduled to leave for hours yet, then back at the Glenmuir ferry. Damn, damn, damn. But she was already climbing into her car and pulling out of line. She wasn't going to regret this, she told herself. She knew exactly what she was doing and it had zero to do with Destiny, Fate, or anything else.

  The captain waved her on with a big smile, calling out that he'd settle up with her after they'd set off on their way. I'm doing this of my own free will, she repeated silently as she waved back to him. She just needed to hand the trunk over to someone personally, that was all.

  She'd have to reschedule her flight and it would probably cost her a mint, plus she'd have to find accommodations on Glenmuir and it was the high season for tourists. But Glenmuir wasn't exactly a hot spot so she shouldn't have too hard a time.

  She parked, her heart racing as she tried to reassure herself she'd done the right thing. She knew her dad wouldn't mind her extending her stay. He'd been worried about her lately and she'd felt bad for not confiding in him. She usually shared everything with him, but not this. Because of that, she'd kept to herself more than usual, claiming the design project was giving her fits and taking more time than usual. It had, but mostly because she'd spent too much time trying to forget Bagan and his dire predictions.

  So this little side trip was a good thing. It would allow her to go home rested and happy, which was good for them both. Maybe she'd even get in some more surfing, or at the very least some nice beachcombing.

  “Yeah,” she murmured under her breath as she got out of the car and made her way to the rail. “It's just a few more vacation days. Totally my choice.”

  So why the dread built as she neared the island, she had no idea. Glenmuir first emerged as a speck on the horizon. It didn't grow much bigger as they neared. It was hilly, but the vegetation was sparse. The shoreline, on the eastern side at least, was rocky and definitely inhospitable for surfers. Right now she was more interested in finding a place to stay.

  She'd studied a big map posted on board and had been pleased to find Winterhaven noted on the western shore of Glenmuir. A single road ringed the speck of an island and would take her directly to it. She'd also noted that there was only one town, Ruirisay, a short way from the ferry landing, but she held out hope that she'd find a place to stay. Surely the captain would have mentioned that being a problem before encouraging her to go.

  She followed the truck off the boat, growing more uncertain as she bumped along the single-lane road into Ruirisay. They passed a few crofts on the way and numerous sheep, but no other cars and not much else. The town itself consisted of one main street with a few shops and businesses lining the only habitable side of the street. The other was railed off before falling away to the rocks far below, but provided a gorgeous view of the water.

  Josie pulled to a stop behind the truck when it parked outside a small grocery that also appeared to serve as post office, bakery, butcher, and mercantile. There was only one other car parked there, but a number of bicycles were lined up against the building.

  Josie went inside and looked about the place as the truck driver unloaded supplies and talked and laughed with the owner. The older woman who ran the store signed his clipboard and handed him a check before seeing him to the door. “Best ye head back to the ferry. That new one, he's like to leave you, and the poor folks on Harris won't have their bread for another fortnight.”

  The man waved and climbed back in his truck. Josie was tempted to follow him, but then the owner turned those warm brown eyes and pleasant smile on her. “How may I help you?”

  Her brogue was as warm and delightful as Finola's, but her eyes, though brown, reminded her of Bagan. Very twinkly. Josie shut that train of thought off, put on a smile and stuck out her hand. “I'm Josie Griffin. I was over on Tiree at the surfing championships and thought I'd take a look here.” She tried to look confident instead of desperate. “I sort of came on the spur of the moment and don't have a place to stay. I was hoping you could help.”

  The woman's smile faded to one of sincere concern. “Oh dear.” She held Josie's hand a moment before letting it go. “Surfing you say? We've never had any surfers as far as I can recall. Are you certain you meant to come here?”

  Josie motioned to the window where her car and board were visible. “I hoped maybe there were good waves here, with quiet, less-crowded beaches. I'm always up for an adventure,” she added gamely, thinking she'd never felt less like being adventurous. She hadn't thought she could feel more foolish, but she simply wasn't up to explaining why she was really here. She'd hoped to start with surfing and work her way to the MacNeil's and Winterhaven from there.

  “I'm afraid someone has misled you. No’ about the beaches, we've some fine ones, if a bit remote.” She smiled warmly again. “But we're no’ so easy to get to, so we're not exactly a tourist stop, if you get my meaning. We've no hotel here.”

  “I don't need anything fancy.”

  The woman's expression didn't clear. “Margaery's let her spare rooms to her sister and her kids, come to stay for the summer.” She smiled briefly. “Always nice to hear the ringing laughter of children. We miss that around here.” Then she motioned to the door. “Come with me. We'll see what we can do.”

  They stepped outside, then into the pub next door. The buildings were like row houses, all attached, each painted in a cheery pastel color. It was a lively look for such a quiet little place.

  “I'm Maeve, I should have said before.”

  Josie smiled. “I really appreciate the help.”

  “This is my husband Roddy's place. Maybe he has an idea.”

  The pub was small and dark, just big enough to accommodate a massive pool table, a few chairs, and the thick bar that ran the length of the far wall. Three men occupied stools in front of it, likely the owners of the bicycles out front, Josie thought.

  All three men were of the same age as Maeve, all speaking Gaelic to one another. Maeve hailed them in kind, then switched to English when she introduced Josie.

  “This is Josie Griffin, over from Tiree and fresh from the surfing tournament there.” She smiled. “Josie, this is Gavin, Dougal, and the ornery one at the end there is Clud. And that's my husband, Roddy, behind the bar.”

  All four men grinned and raised their glasses to her. Roddy was enjoying a drink as well, she noticed.

  “Can we buy you a
n ale, lass?” asked Dougal.

  Gavin nodded. “Why, you're the prettiest thing we've seen in—” He stopped abruptly when Roddy cuffed him on the shoulder. “Since yer lovely wife there,” he finished with aplomb, making all four men laugh.

  “Oh, go on with you now,” Maeve said, waving them off, obviously used to their ways. “Josie is here for a few days and needs a place to stay. I know Margaery has Susan and the boys and Posey is doing some work on her place. I dinna think the Sutherlands need anyone underfoot anyhow.” She turned to Josie and said, “Marital problems they have.” She rolled her eyes heavenward and shook her head, then turned back to the men. “Have you any ideas?”

  Roddy scratched his gray-whiskered chin and the other men seemed to take the matter under great consideration as well. Josie appreciated it, but had the sinking feeling she was going to end up sleeping in her car for a few nights. With the trunk and necklace. Oh goody.

  She toyed with the idea of asking if any of them were MacNeils but it didn't seem the time to impose further. She'd lasted this long, one or two more nights with the blasted thing wouldn't kill her.

  “What of ol’ Gregors place?” Dougal said. “He's over to Mull with his daughter what just had the babe. Sure he wouldn't mind someone doing more than just checking on the place. He'll be gone a fortnight more, I think, at least.”

  Josie looked to Maeve, who didn't appear all that hot on the idea. “His place is away on the western shore.”

  One of the other gents waved off her concern. “She can borrow my bike. I can walk back.”

  “She has a car,” Maeve said, “but still…”She looked to Josie. “It's fairly remote.”

  It was perfect. Winterhaven was on the western shore. She could poke about a bit, then maybe come back and talk with Maeve, and maybe the men as well, about the MacNeil history here. Worst-case scenario, she could give the stupid thing to them and leave them to duke it out for possession.

  “I'm pretty self-sufficient,” Josie said to Maeve.

  “If you're sure it's okay with him, I'd like to take you up on your very kind offer. It's only for two nights. I'll be more than glad to pay whatever rent you think appropriate.”

  All four men waved her off. “Och, ol’ Gregor won't mind,” Dougal assured her. “You might want to stock up over at Maeve's though. I doubt he has much put by.”

  Maeve gave in gracefully, her lined face smoothed to a smile when she turned to Josie. “Gregor definitely won't mind, dear,” she said. “Come next door and we'll get you what you need. He doesna have phone service out there, but you've only to come by and ring the bell at any hour. Roddy and I live in the rooms above and will be glad to help you out.” She patted her hand and her eyes crinkled at the corners as her smile widened. “Welcome to Glenmuir, Josie Griffin.”

  Josie was still smiling as she drove on down the road to Gregor's place. Apparently no key was needed since no one locked up their places on the island. She supposed that the population couldn't be more than a hundred or so on the entire island, and that included the sheep, so there was probably little in the way of crime. The sun was setting as she wound her way along the coastline.

  She drove slowly as the road was rutted, but the scenery was so gorgeous she found she didn't mind a bit. The hills at this end were carpeted in the lovely bright green grass she'd admired since arriving in Scotland, much of it still studded with heather. It probably looked much as it had centuries ago, she thought, unable to keep herself from wondering about the original MacNeil laird, the one who'd sent the stone out to sea.

  Then she rounded another curve and stomped hard on the brake. She'd reached the west shore.

  The beach truly was beautiful, a long stretch of smooth sand, with decent waves that could probably entertain her for a few hours.

  But that wasn't why she'd just given herself whiplash.

  “Winterhaven,” she whispered, awestruck. The massive pile of stones stood, proudly ruinous, on a spit of land that jutted out from the shore. The strand leading to it was so narrow that at high tide, Josie imagined you'd need to swim out to it, or take a boat. Two of the square walls had partially tumbled into the water, but still rose strong and tall into the evening sunset. A third side, facing the open water, was completely gone. But the fourth was what held her attention, as it was part of the tower of dark stone that jutted upward, seemingly untouched by the same hazards that had left the rest in ruins.

  Black's Tower. She rubbed at her arms. Awed by the foreboding strength of it, she thought briefly of the men who had built it. And of her folly in coming out here alone.

  She pressed on the gas before she could change her mind. It's a ruin, she thought no one has lived here for hundreds of years. But as she drew closer and the tower loomed higher and higher she couldn't keep the hairs on her arms from lifting just a bit.

  She spied Gregor's spread-it was hard to miss as it was the only place around-and edged into the deeply rutted dirt lane he called a driveway. She had to stop after only several feet, unable to go any farther without getting stuck. “Doesn't anyone drive on this island?” But she'd already learned that almost everyone rode bicycles, which explained the rutted roads and lanes. Maeve explained how expensive it was to bring in petrol and most islanders preferred to hoof it or bike. The island wasn't all that big and

  Josie supposed it wasn't a bad way to get around. Maeve had said there were numerous old sheep paths that most of the islanders used as shortcuts.

  She spied an old dented bike leaning up against the rambling, thatched croft. Maybe she'd take a spin herself in the morning. She glanced back to the shore. But only after she'd tested out the surf, she decided.

  “Okay, okay, you can't ignore it forever.” She took a breath and looked back at the castle. It was truly impressive. She got out of the car and opened the boot, intent on grabbing her gear bag so she could get her wet suit out. But the box with the trunk was on top, right where she'd tucked it back on the ferry dock.

  She meant to just push it aside, but something had her picking it up, flipping open the flaps. “You're home,” she whispered, having no idea why she did and feeling immediately spooked for having said it.

  But that didn't compare to how spooked she felt when she turned, still holding the trunk, and looked at Winterhaven… only to spy a light flickering on in the tower window. She blinked, telling herself it was the setting sun reflecting on the windowpane… then realized that there couldn't be a windowpane in a tumbledown ruin. Could there?

  That question died unanswered when a cloaked figure emerged from the lower door of the tower, moving in long strides across the narrow spit and up the beach.

  Josie's mind and heart raced, but she froze when he stopped and looked up, as if directly at her. Run, she told herself.

  She turned, but his voice, carrying beyond the sound of the surf when there was no way it could have, stopped her.

  “I believe you have something that belongs to me.” His thundering voice all but vibrated through the wind-tossed air between them.

  Josie slowly turned around. He was standing behind her, which was impossible given that moments ago he'd been yards down the beach.

  “Gregor?” But she knew it wasn't Gregor. This man wasn't old enough to have grandbabies. And it wasn't Bagan either. This man was no dwarf. Quite the opposite.

  He looked around her age, late twenties, maybe thirty, but far more intense than any man of any age she'd ever met. He was tall, ruggedly built, his dark hair pulled back from his face. Unlike most of the men she'd seen in Scotland, he actually wore a kilt, with the excess tartan tossed over his shoulder like a cloak. The fabric was worn, the colors faded, like a favorite pair of jeans. And he looked just as natural in it. Beneath the plaid was a shirt that might have been linen, but in the growing dusk it was hard to tell. The shirt wasn't new and neither were the leather boots laced up his thick calves. She couldn't manage another word. Imposing didn't begin to describe the man.

  His dark eyes bore full int
o hers. “I'm The Mac-Neil.” He nodded to the box. “And that stone yer holdin’ is mine.”

  “I—” She forced herself to choke down the hard knot in her throat. “Here.” She shoved the box toward him. “Take it. I don't want it.”

  He stepped forward then and she realized just how big a man he really was. She forced herself not to flinch or pull back as he reached for the box with impossibly big hands. Once he had what he wanted, he'd probably leave her alone.

  She breathed a sigh of relief when he grasped the box without touching her, though she couldn't have said precisely why the thought of him touching alarmed her so much. “I… I was bringing it here. To you.”

  Then he grinned and she lost all conscious thought. His teeth were a blind of white against tanned skin and dark hair. “Were ye now?” He lifted the trunk out of the cardboard box she'd packed it in, letting the latter drop to the ground ignored. “Och, but it's seen a few bad days, hasn't it.”

  She was still trying to get used to the reality of his presence in front of her and didn't respond. Couldn't.

  He pried open the lid and pulled out the chain. “Safe and sound,” he murmured, his voice quavering with some profound emotion. “Just as I knew she would be.”

  Josie tried not to look at the stone, had in fact been successful at not looking at it for months now. But she couldn't help herself. In his hands, the thing fairly glowed. It must be a trick of the setting sun.

  She pushed her hand through her hair and somehow scrounged up a smile. “Well, it's been nice meeting you. Glad I could help.” On very shaky legs, she began backing toward the door of her car.

  Then he looked up and stilled her with one look. One very intense, very compelling look. “Have ye worn it?”

  Josie gulped. The phrase “just say no” took on new meaning. But his eyes lit up before she could form the words and he stepped closer. The answer must have shown on her face.

  “Ye have, haven't ye?” Almost in disbelief, he whispered, “You're her.”