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

to wonder what he really thought of her.
    “Are we all here?”
    Most dawns, The Hanged Man was the domain of what was lovingly called the “Morn, B.A.” Club—the elders who came to enjoy tea and bannocks while discussing world events or gossip about Davey and his never-ending battle with his washer-machine. The club acquired its name from B.A. stopping off first thing every day to pick up one of Tarn the Baker’s pastries to take with her to the store. Naturally, the duffers always wished her a “Morn, B.A.”
    That B.A. hadn’t made her usual stop, and the store remained unopened, was on all their minds. Several topics buzzed about the room. Why had the Vikings come to Falgannon? Had the three Yank lasses arrived, and what did they look like? However, the overriding concern was that the Viking prince had spent the night in B.A.‘s bed.
    Seeing the ancients—Angus and Callum—at their surveillance post by the picture window, in case B.A. or the Vikings showed up, Michael the Fiddle called for order. “Attention, please! Time to shut your gubs!”
    “I will, if you will,” Brian the Horseman called, causing everyone to laugh.
    “Seriousness, please. Matters need sorting out, then furniture has to be hauled to Rose Cottage before B.A. boots the Viking out.” Michael tapped on the table with the end of a knife.
    “Our gubs are shut. On with it,” Tam the Baker barked. “Some of us work.”
    “He’s waiting ‘til someone gives him a gavel,” Alasdair the Barber smirked.
    Michael flashed them a prune face. “First thing I’d bang on would be that pointed noggin of yours, Alasdair, but it’d dent the gavel.”
    “Och, on with it,” someone fussed from the far side of the room.
    “We assessed the situation at Rose Cottage,” Michael began.
    Phelan the Lobster demanded, “What did you suss, man?”
    “Plenty. B.A. was outside in her nightie dancing and singing.”
    “Our B.A.?” Gasps of disbelief rippled through the room.
    Michael glanced to Callum on his left and nudged him for verification. Callum snapped awake to comply.“Quite frisky, too, I’d say.”
    Willie tacked on, “Mershan has black hair and green eyes.”
    “The Viking has green eyes?” At the bar, Davie the Weaver exclaimed in shock, dropping his scone into his tea.
    “Green as a cat’s,” Robbie confirmed, “and Eire’s lilt is in his voice. Not heavy, but it’s there.”
    Michael watched the murmuring grow as the pertinent facts circled the room, reaching everyone—even the ancients. Almost deaf, they generally missed half of what was said since both were too bloody cheap to turn on their hearing aids.
    He picked up the thread. “Her Web site shall fetch lasses to the isle. Only, with The Curse wreaking havoc, it’s futile unless B.A. marries the proper man. The Viking prince and she gave off enough sparks last night to power Hamish’s lighthouse.”
    Angus confirmed from the window seat, “Aye, the chap’s taken with our lass. That kiss he gave her… warmed my old heart to see them.”
    “The Viking prince for our lass then?” Michael raised his hand in a vote, soon followed by every man in the room. “What, Angus? Not going to cast a no vote as you usually do to be contrary?”
    “And bollocks up the thing? Bite your tongue, laddie, I’m a-planning to marry, too. Heard that Anna-Nicole Smith is available again. Have two-thousand pounds tucked up in my sock. I’m sure she’ll be interested.”
    Michael joined the whole room in laughter. “Motion carried… unanimously. Mark that down in the minutes. Doubt we’ll see it again.”
    Glasses and cups clinked together, sealing the conspiracy.

    A revving engine in neutral, Desmond considered what his next move should be. He eased back in the bed as B.A. removed the tray, watched her, unblinking.
    He’d miscalculated, underestimating the obstacle of Ms. BarbaraAnne Montgomerie. He disliked flaws popping up in his meticulous plans. B.A. wasn’t what he