Sisters of Colford Hall 01 - The Invasion of Falgannon Isle by Deborah MacGillivray Page A
Authors: Deborah MacGillivray
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to Michael the Story expecting to find him laughing, or at least making loony circles in the air beside his ear behind the old man’s back. Instead, a worried expression passed over the man’s thirty-something face. It spread in ripples to the men standing nearby.
Odd. Desmond possessed the flair for reading people, one of the tools that had seen him rise to the top in the cutthroat world of international business. These men believed in this curse. Not only believed, but feared it.
“The Curse?” Desmond prompted on cue, dying to hear this bit of blarney.
Michael drew himself an ale. Stalling? After a swallow, he replied,“‘Tis a legend about Falgannon. We’ve a shortage, you see, of marriageable-aged females—”
“Shortage!” A male to his right exploded in a snort. “There are no marriageable-aged females on the island for the past six years except for Morag the Healer, Oona the Painter and B.A.—and the first two dunna count.”
“Not count?” Desmond accepted a refill of his cola.
Michael the Story nodded toward the booth in the far corner where two women—wearing trousers—sat holding hands.
“Since we’re in a bind for women wanting to get married, B.A. hit upon the project of importing brides. We have a Web site with a bachelor registry. Ladies read about us—our likes, dislikes—they fill out an application, and if B.A. chooses them, she’ll pay their expenses to the isle. They get a two-week vacation, a chance to get to know the island, meet our men.” He reached for the silver laptop sitting on the end of the bar and spun it around for Desmond.
The screen filled with the image of a landscape in the sunset with the Flash header isle of love. Stylish, the layout was by Purple Rain Designs, impressing Desmond enough to note the name for redesign of his Web site for Mershan International. Using the touch pad he quickly shifting through fast-loading pages. There were photos of the island’s males with brief bios.
Well, well, BarbaraAnne Montgomerie, owner of Falgannon Isle, was also B.A. Montgomerie, matchmaker. Desmond stared across the pub, covetously tracking B.A., who was setting the nervous Americans at ease. The idea was bloody brilliant and would work better than she imagined. And it was typical of the Montgomeries, who’d poured a fortune into this isle going back to when Old Sean first married Maeve Mackenzie.
Maeve had owned Falgannon, but the old man had had the money. Island-born, at an early age Sean had been sent south to England for an education. In his twenties, he’d amassed a fortune in the stock market, parlayed it into an international conglomerate and returned to claim Maeve. For her dowry, Sean had channeled a chunk of his fortune into dragging the isle into the twentieth century.
Desmond never could fathom this about the old man. A sonofabitch in business, Sean had never done anything without profit margin as his sole motivation. One might argue love had driven him into rebuilding the isle as a small Scottish paradise. Desmond discounted that. Maeve, they said, had lived more for the isle than her marriage. Even in death, they’d returned Maeve’s body to Falgannon, while Sean was laid to rest in England.
Evidently, B.A. had inherited the same love of the island from Maeve.
Taking a swig of cola, he used it to wash down the shard of conscience. Yes, B.A. was guiltless, but hers wouldn’t be the first life shattered by big business. His mother, twin brothers and he had been innocents; it hadn’t stopped Montgomerie from destroying their world. Likewise, Desmond wouldn’t let it prevent him from extracting vengeance.
Every night for decades, Desmond had envisioned handing papers to the old man, seeing Sean’s face as he comprehended his whole empire was going down the tubes—that Desmond Mershan had orchestrated it and why. He closed his eyes against the vision of his father pulling the trigger. Against seeing blood spatter everything.
Damn Sean to hell
Odd. Desmond possessed the flair for reading people, one of the tools that had seen him rise to the top in the cutthroat world of international business. These men believed in this curse. Not only believed, but feared it.
“The Curse?” Desmond prompted on cue, dying to hear this bit of blarney.
Michael drew himself an ale. Stalling? After a swallow, he replied,“‘Tis a legend about Falgannon. We’ve a shortage, you see, of marriageable-aged females—”
“Shortage!” A male to his right exploded in a snort. “There are no marriageable-aged females on the island for the past six years except for Morag the Healer, Oona the Painter and B.A.—and the first two dunna count.”
“Not count?” Desmond accepted a refill of his cola.
Michael the Story nodded toward the booth in the far corner where two women—wearing trousers—sat holding hands.
“Since we’re in a bind for women wanting to get married, B.A. hit upon the project of importing brides. We have a Web site with a bachelor registry. Ladies read about us—our likes, dislikes—they fill out an application, and if B.A. chooses them, she’ll pay their expenses to the isle. They get a two-week vacation, a chance to get to know the island, meet our men.” He reached for the silver laptop sitting on the end of the bar and spun it around for Desmond.
The screen filled with the image of a landscape in the sunset with the Flash header isle of love. Stylish, the layout was by Purple Rain Designs, impressing Desmond enough to note the name for redesign of his Web site for Mershan International. Using the touch pad he quickly shifting through fast-loading pages. There were photos of the island’s males with brief bios.
Well, well, BarbaraAnne Montgomerie, owner of Falgannon Isle, was also B.A. Montgomerie, matchmaker. Desmond stared across the pub, covetously tracking B.A., who was setting the nervous Americans at ease. The idea was bloody brilliant and would work better than she imagined. And it was typical of the Montgomeries, who’d poured a fortune into this isle going back to when Old Sean first married Maeve Mackenzie.
Maeve had owned Falgannon, but the old man had had the money. Island-born, at an early age Sean had been sent south to England for an education. In his twenties, he’d amassed a fortune in the stock market, parlayed it into an international conglomerate and returned to claim Maeve. For her dowry, Sean had channeled a chunk of his fortune into dragging the isle into the twentieth century.
Desmond never could fathom this about the old man. A sonofabitch in business, Sean had never done anything without profit margin as his sole motivation. One might argue love had driven him into rebuilding the isle as a small Scottish paradise. Desmond discounted that. Maeve, they said, had lived more for the isle than her marriage. Even in death, they’d returned Maeve’s body to Falgannon, while Sean was laid to rest in England.
Evidently, B.A. had inherited the same love of the island from Maeve.
Taking a swig of cola, he used it to wash down the shard of conscience. Yes, B.A. was guiltless, but hers wouldn’t be the first life shattered by big business. His mother, twin brothers and he had been innocents; it hadn’t stopped Montgomerie from destroying their world. Likewise, Desmond wouldn’t let it prevent him from extracting vengeance.
Every night for decades, Desmond had envisioned handing papers to the old man, seeing Sean’s face as he comprehended his whole empire was going down the tubes—that Desmond Mershan had orchestrated it and why. He closed his eyes against the vision of his father pulling the trigger. Against seeing blood spatter everything.
Damn Sean to hell
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