Sisters of Colford Hall 01 - The Invasion of Falgannon Isle by Deborah MacGillivray
Authors: Deborah MacGillivray
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believe they kept warm no matter how thick a wool the kilt was. Backdraft took on a whole new meaning!
Desmond had overheard B.A. tell them to appear in Scots’ attire. Since he judged every male on the island would jump through hoops for her, he wasn’t surprised to see a few in full Highland regalia. He hadn’t anticipated the total male population of the bloody isle to show up as if queuing for Braveheart 2 auditions, though.
Moreover, he doubted her assertion there’s nothing sexier to a woman than a man in a kilt. Hadn’t B.A. stammered and blushed when he wore nothing but a towel? On the other hand, observing the Falgannonians give welcome to the three American women, Desmond conceded reassessment of his opinion was in order. Bright eyes and flushed faces attested to the buzzes the ladies got off knobby-kneed islanders.
Sporadically, the islanders came to introduce themselves, flashing smiles, acting a tad too happy. It put Desmond in mind of being at a convention of cannibals and Desmond Delight was the main course. With that parade of white teeth passing before him, it registered the Falgannonians were poster-children for dental health—even Angus the Ancient.
“You don’t have a physician on Falgannon, but have a dentist?”
Angus chuckled and then snapped bright teeth at him. “Not a’tall. It’s our lass, dragging them Yank obsessions back with her. Don’t tell Herself, but she might have the right of it this time. When she took over as Lady of the Isle, first thing she did was give us dental floss and fluoride mouthwash. Bossy little thing, even then. We figured it was enough to keep our B.A. happy as she provided for us. Back at the first of the year, we drew the line when she came back with whitening strips. Each time she goes to visit the colonies she returns with some Yank fad to foster upon us.”
As B.A. presented each American with a small basket, a tartan ribbon tied on the handle, she drew Desmond’s eyes. He inquired, “Who are these women?”
The old man turned his attention to the group on the other side of the room. “The Yanks? ‘Tis B.A.‘s project. She likely gave them dental floss and whitening strips as part of her welcome basket,” he added confidentially.
“Project?” Desmond sipped his iced Pepsi—B.A. refused him alcohol due to “doctor’s orders.”
“Shoo, Kitty,” Angus fussed at the cat when it jumped atop the bar.
The Cat Dudley ignored the old man.
“Is that animal permitted the run of the isle?” Desmond arched a brow, amazed.
“Well, no one tells Kitty anything,” Angus barked a laugh. “He dunna listen. Must be a reincarnated Montgomerie.”
“So, what’s B.A.‘s project?”
Angus spotted a man carrying in an ice bucket to refill the bin built into the bar. “Michael the Story, the Viking wants to hear about the project. I dunna ken them computer things. Sort him out.”
The handsome Scotsman sat the empty bucket down. Leaning across the oak bar, he flashed another of those dazzling smiles and offered his hand. “Michael Mackenzie… and you’re Desmond Mershan.”
Desmond frowned. “I thought I met—”
“Oh aye, we’ve a few of them about, six breathing and several dozen in the cemetery. There’s Wee Michael, Michael the Greenhouse, Michael the Peat and Michael the Elder. I’m Michael the Story. I teach history to the children here and two other small isles. It was Michael the Fiddle you met this morn.”
“The Pete?” queried Desmond.
Michael put a saucer on the bartop and poured out dry cat food. “Not a’tall—peat as in peat moss. He cuts bricks of the stuff, dries them for heating our homes. Nothing like a peat fire, where whiskey gets its flavor. So, what you want to ken about the project?”
“Our lass thinks it’ll work,” Angus butted in, “but she’s forgetting The Curse.”
Desmond smiled into his tumbler, then swallowed the last of his cola. Just what this loony isle needed—a curse! He turned back
Desmond had overheard B.A. tell them to appear in Scots’ attire. Since he judged every male on the island would jump through hoops for her, he wasn’t surprised to see a few in full Highland regalia. He hadn’t anticipated the total male population of the bloody isle to show up as if queuing for Braveheart 2 auditions, though.
Moreover, he doubted her assertion there’s nothing sexier to a woman than a man in a kilt. Hadn’t B.A. stammered and blushed when he wore nothing but a towel? On the other hand, observing the Falgannonians give welcome to the three American women, Desmond conceded reassessment of his opinion was in order. Bright eyes and flushed faces attested to the buzzes the ladies got off knobby-kneed islanders.
Sporadically, the islanders came to introduce themselves, flashing smiles, acting a tad too happy. It put Desmond in mind of being at a convention of cannibals and Desmond Delight was the main course. With that parade of white teeth passing before him, it registered the Falgannonians were poster-children for dental health—even Angus the Ancient.
“You don’t have a physician on Falgannon, but have a dentist?”
Angus chuckled and then snapped bright teeth at him. “Not a’tall. It’s our lass, dragging them Yank obsessions back with her. Don’t tell Herself, but she might have the right of it this time. When she took over as Lady of the Isle, first thing she did was give us dental floss and fluoride mouthwash. Bossy little thing, even then. We figured it was enough to keep our B.A. happy as she provided for us. Back at the first of the year, we drew the line when she came back with whitening strips. Each time she goes to visit the colonies she returns with some Yank fad to foster upon us.”
As B.A. presented each American with a small basket, a tartan ribbon tied on the handle, she drew Desmond’s eyes. He inquired, “Who are these women?”
The old man turned his attention to the group on the other side of the room. “The Yanks? ‘Tis B.A.‘s project. She likely gave them dental floss and whitening strips as part of her welcome basket,” he added confidentially.
“Project?” Desmond sipped his iced Pepsi—B.A. refused him alcohol due to “doctor’s orders.”
“Shoo, Kitty,” Angus fussed at the cat when it jumped atop the bar.
The Cat Dudley ignored the old man.
“Is that animal permitted the run of the isle?” Desmond arched a brow, amazed.
“Well, no one tells Kitty anything,” Angus barked a laugh. “He dunna listen. Must be a reincarnated Montgomerie.”
“So, what’s B.A.‘s project?”
Angus spotted a man carrying in an ice bucket to refill the bin built into the bar. “Michael the Story, the Viking wants to hear about the project. I dunna ken them computer things. Sort him out.”
The handsome Scotsman sat the empty bucket down. Leaning across the oak bar, he flashed another of those dazzling smiles and offered his hand. “Michael Mackenzie… and you’re Desmond Mershan.”
Desmond frowned. “I thought I met—”
“Oh aye, we’ve a few of them about, six breathing and several dozen in the cemetery. There’s Wee Michael, Michael the Greenhouse, Michael the Peat and Michael the Elder. I’m Michael the Story. I teach history to the children here and two other small isles. It was Michael the Fiddle you met this morn.”
“The Pete?” queried Desmond.
Michael put a saucer on the bartop and poured out dry cat food. “Not a’tall—peat as in peat moss. He cuts bricks of the stuff, dries them for heating our homes. Nothing like a peat fire, where whiskey gets its flavor. So, what you want to ken about the project?”
“Our lass thinks it’ll work,” Angus butted in, “but she’s forgetting The Curse.”
Desmond smiled into his tumbler, then swallowed the last of his cola. Just what this loony isle needed—a curse! He turned back
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