Sisters of Colford Hall 01 - The Invasion of Falgannon Isle by Deborah MacGillivray Page B

for robbing him of the prize, cheating him of the sole purpose for most of his life. It’d still happen. There was no impeding it; wheels were in motion and too much money was at stake. Despite no gratification coming with the hollow victory, he’d at least achieve a sense of closure. Maybe then the demons would stop rattling their chains. Perhaps never again would he awaken bathed in sweat, calling for his father, feeling helpless, alone. Teeth grinding, he forced the emotions back.
    Glancing up, as if she sensed him staring at her, B.A.‘s luminous eyes sought his. There it was again—that pull, the same connection between them he’d experienced back in the spring at Sean’s funeral. In the tartan skirt and black scoop neck sweater, B.A. now stole his breath. Tightness filled his chest. Rubbing the dent in his breastbone, Desmond chalked the sensation up to the gassy Pepsi.
    Pushing her buttons this morning had convinced him Ms. B.A. Montgomerie hadn’t been with a man for a long time, likely not since the death of her husband. She flustered too easily. Had she been working her way through her own private bachelor preserve, she wouldn’t stammer and blush as an untried teen. A woman that sexy used her beauty as a tool, had men ready to kill for her. Whereas he judged every man in the room ready to fight for her, they wouldn’t fight over her. The whole situation was a paradox.
    “I gather why Oona and Morag don’t count.” Desmond smiled as B.A. blushed and turned away. “But you’re telling me none of you are courting B.A.?”
    “None of us are daft, are we?” Michael muttered into his glass, then exchanged understanding glances with other long-suffering males.
    Desmond conceded it was futile at this juncture, to continue questioning these mad islanders, since they obviously reveled in their insanity. Only, this was digging at him. There wasn’t a male in this room—on earth—who wouldn’t find B.A. Montgomerie desirable. One dead husband, or a live one for that matter, was no stumbling block when a man wanted a woman. Desmond had risen to where he was in life by being a keen observer of human nature, of what made men and women tick, of sensing strengths and weaknesses and how to exploit them. That a group of men would place B.A. on a pedestal and worship her as some vestal virgin was contrary to logic and biology. No, it was plain nuts!
    “‘Tis The Curse, you see,” Angus stated again, as if that explained everything.
    Desmond opened his mouth to say, No, he didn’t see, when Brian the Horseman came to the bar and thumped his hand on it.
    “You’re up, lad. Break a leg—as the Yanks say in showbiz.” He winked. “Do it bang-on and you might win the heart of a fair lass.”
    Michael skirted the crowd to stand before the fireplace. A hush fell over the pub as the sandy-haired man drew all eyes. “Ages past, the Isles of Britain were joined and located far to our south. The clime was warm, the land a paradise. A race of giants lived upon the shores, and in a time of war they battled each other and shattered the land into many wee isles. That’s how the Hebrides came to be. We’ve heard tales of Sgathach, Warrior Queen of Skye, how she and her sisters taught the Warriors of the Red Branch. Fables retold many times over. However, the Legend of Falgannon is rarely heard outside our shores—a story of love, of jealousy and a curse that never ends…”
    Desmond’s gaze circled the room, marking enrapt expressions. Taking a swallow of his icy soda, wishing it was something a lot stronger, he thought, Oh great, time for Romper Room story hour . He tried to disguise his sour countenance, but evidently failed because Angus used a cane to nudge his thigh.
    “Pay attention, Viking. Now you’ll hear.”
    “The Curse of Falgannon Isle dates back to the time of Sgathach Buanand, Warrior Queen of the Shadow Isle—the Isle of Women. Following in the ancient Pictish belief only women could train men for