Stirring Up Trouble: A Warlocks MacGregor Novella Page 2

  He found he didn’t want to disappoint her. Unsure what he was supposed to do and fearing she just might try to feed him another of the monstrosities she called cookies, Fergus abruptly took the basket from her. She gasped softly in surprise but let it go.

  “I guess I won’t keep you,” she said, her words measured and questioning, as if she wanted him to do something more.

  “Aye,” he answered.

  “Oh, my name is Donna Montgomery. I live about a half block from the bottom of the hill. It’s the house with the portrait studio sign out front. That’s me. Local photographer.”

  Fergus could see why his nephews called her Bella Donna. She was very bella, beautiful. But since when did any single male member of his family run from an attractive woman?

  He continued to stare at her. She didn’t look like a succubus or an empusa, and the conditions were not right for her to be a dziwozona.

  Donna gave a deliberate nod and inched away from him. “Have a great day, neighbor. Welcome, again, to the neighborhood.”

  “Aye,” he repeated. He slowly shut the door on her.

  As soon as the door latched, he dropped the basket and ran toward the dining room. He passed the long oak table where his nieces were magickally procuring festival food from magazine pictures. He hurried toward the library where the liquor supply was kept. Drinking whiskey straight out of the decanter, he let it burn the awful taste from his mouth.

  “Wow,” Euann said from behind him. “You’re a smooth one, Ferg.”

  Fergus turned, still gulping down the hard liquor while he eyed his nephew. He pulled the decanter away from his lips. Breathing hard, he asked. “What do ya mean? I waited until she wasn’t looking before I spit—”

  “Belladonna clearly likes ya,” Rory stated, joining Euann. “That was called flirting.”

  Fergus frowned. “Donna is bella, but I don’t think—”

  Rory laughed. “No, we call her Belladonna because she’s been trying to poison us for two months with her cooking. Trust me, when you’re expelling your guts in the bushes, her pretty loses its charm quickly.”

  “It is kind of her to try,” Fergus defended, unsure why he bothered. He didn’t know this woman and her cooking was indefensible. He took another swig of the whiskey, letting the liquid fill his mouth before swishing it between his teeth.

  “Ya know, cousin, she never looked at me like that,” Rory said to Euann.

  “Me neither,” Euann answered, also pretending Fergus wasn’t standing before them. “I think she likes Uncle Fergus.”

  “Aye. Too bad a piece of driftwood has more skills than he does when it comes to women,” Rory observed. “I couldn’t tell if he was flirting back or trying to hex her.”

  “I did not flirt,” Fergus stated. His nephews ignored him.

  “Should we offer to help him?” Euann was barely able to keep the laugh out of his teasing voice. “I think Malina might have a little of that love potion Lydia used on Erik. We could take away Fergus’s inhibitions. It worked for my big brother. He finally found a woman who will put up with him.”

  “Ach, no, I do not want to see Fergus shaking his naked arse on the front lawn.” Rory gave a dramatic shiver. “Some images cannot be erased from my mind.”

  “I don’t know. Erik’s poetry was quite lovely,” Euann said.

  “But not his singing voice,” Rory commented.

  “I think ya boys have been sampling your Uncle Raibeart’s liquor stash again,” Fergus said louder. “I told ya, I did not flirt with that woman.”

  “Oh, aye, we know,” Rory answered him. “What ya did was far from flirting. Yet she still seems to like ya.”

  “Even ya should have noted the way she smiled at ya, Uncle Ferg,” Euann added. “She wanted ya to talk to her.”

  “I should inform her that I am married.” Fergus decisively set the decanter down and made a move to leave. “I did not mean to give her the wrong impression.”

  “Go try the funnel cakes, laddies.” Angus appeared, tugging on Rory and Euann’s arms to yank them out of the room. When they were alone, Angus sighed and turned instantly serious. After a long moment, he said, “I miss her too, Fergus, but Elspeth would not want this life for ya. Perhaps we let it go on for too long, this pining of yours. I don’t expect ya to find another Elspeth, but there is something to be said for companionship. If ya worry about hurting the woman’s feelings, ya never need tell her ya carry another in your heart. No one expects ya to fall in love, but lust might be good for ya. And it sounds as if this Donna woman might have been stopping by in hopes of meeting ya. She probably saw ya around town and wanted an introduction.”

  “Ya would never betray your wife,” Fergus said. “Why are ya telling me to betray mine?”

  “Aye, I wouldn’t. But this is not about me. If I could give Elspeth back to ya, I would. She died protecting my daughter. That is a debt no man can repay. All I can do is honor her, and try to think of what she would want for ya. Elspeth loved ya, brother, and that is how I know she would not want this eternity for ya. It has been over four hundred years. I think it’s time we let Elspeth rest. I think it’s time ya let yourself have even a brief moment of companionship. I don’t know if a man can have more than one fíorghrá in his life, but ya can have a life.”

  “What makes ya think I’d even be interested in this Donna?” Fergus crossed his arms over his chest.

  “That part is fairly obvious.” Angus cleared his throat and glanced to Fergus’s kilt.

  Fergus looked down and was surprised to find his erection jutting forward. The bag he carried across his chest pressed the tartan down on his hip so that there was no hiding the way Donna affected him. Like a schoolboy, he instantly shoved the bag to hang in front of his waist.

  Angus chuckled. “Just think about it. Oh, and your dog is eating the basket. Ya might want to take him outside. Traitor might be immortal thanks to your spells, but even I am sure he’s not supposed to eat garlic. The whole front hall reeks of it.”

  Reminded of the taste, Fergus again grabbed the whiskey.

  Chapter 2

  Donna hummed softly to herself, smiling brightly for anyone to see as she made her way down the long MacGregor mansion drive. She didn’t know the song, but it didn’t matter. The bagpipes and violins in her head filled her spirit and made her happy. The world was a wonderful, glorious place, and today was a brilliant day.

  What a nice man. She paused, realizing she didn’t know the last Mr. MacGregor’s name. He had kind eyes. Mr. Kind Eyes MacGregor. Such a friendly disposition too.

  They really were an attractive family. She’d met most of them briefly—some in town, others when she’d dropped off her gifts. The genetic pool had been kind to them. Money and good breeding probably helped.

  Good breeding? Did people still say good breeding? Donna wondered at the antiquated thought.

  The snow crunched beneath her feet. She glanced back to see the mansion disappearing behind the snowy hill. The Georgian was so pretty and majestic, overlooking the town that sprawled over the valley on one side, with the forest on the other. The house had sat abandoned nearly her entire life, remaining dormant until the MacGregors purchased it several months before. Everyone in town knew the story of the displaced English lord who’d come to Wisconsin in disgrace to build the estate. Children used to dare each other to roam the gardens at night, telling stories of how the mansion was haunted. Then, as teenagers, young couples would sneak up to be alone. It was a constant backdrop to their small town life, a landmark. In a way, the people of the town had always looked up at that mansion and felt its dominating presence. Now, when they looked up, they thought of the MacGregor family.

  “Such a nice family,” she said to herself before humming again. “Such a nice man.”

  With each step, her smile dropped by the smallest degree and the song began to fade until she stood at the end of the drive on the slushy street. Suddenly, the cold seeped into her toes, as if only now her nerve endings w
orked. Her humming stopped, as did the music in her head.

  Frowning in confusion, she looked up the drive. Her gaze followed her tracks. Did she just deliver…cookies? To the surly Scottish neighbor?

  What the hell was wrong with her? Cookies? Fucking cookies?

  Donna wasn’t sure what was worse. The fact she couldn’t remember why she’d felt compelled to deliver food to the neighbors. The fact this wasn’t the first time it had happened. Or the fact no one should eat anything that came out of her kitchen. Ever. It should be illegal for her to even own an oven.

  Why was she trying to feed the wealthy neighbors? It’s not like they needed her charity. They were the town gazillion-something-aires. And, if she was so compelled to take them baked goods, why didn’t she just go to the bakery and pick something up?

  And what was with that last MacGregor guy? Like the others, he was handsome, maybe too handsome. The gray at his temples added the impression of wisdom. That same notion was reflected in his eyes. He had the face and body of a fantasy. The kilt didn’t hurt that image either. Unfortunately, with his wise gaze had come a bit of a condescending annoyance when she’d spoken to him. He’d just stared at her, acting like everything that came out of her mouth was idiotic.

  Well, to be fair, everything out her mouth had been idiotic.

  Had she really told him the story of dreaming she was a dog chewing on shoes? It wasn’t as if that was an anecdote she thought about often.

  “Hi, I’m Donna. It’s not like I have a furry fetish, but here’s a random get-to-know-me fact. I used to vividly dream I was a dog.” She sighed heavily as she grumbled to herself. “At least I didn’t tell him about the flying insect dreams. Or my imaginary friend teaching me how to stick fight, and subsequently being rushed to the hospital to be psychologically evaluated.”

  Though really, what had her aging parents expected? She was an only child living on a farm in the middle of Nowhere, Iowa. She’d been a surprise pregnancy to a couple in their forties. Now her mother would have been one to bring baked goods to the new neighbors. That woman knew how to cook. Unfortunately, Donna had been too much of a tomboy to pay attention.

  The jacket she wore wasn’t meant for such cold temperatures. Donna hugged her arms over her chest and tucked her head down to continue the trek home. What was happening to her? She could recall every instance of going to the grocery store, reading recipes on her phone, staying up all night baking, putting the food items into cute little baskets to take up the hill. She had been doing it sporadically since late October, but she couldn’t recall why she did it. Normally, when new people moved into town, she just sent a photography coupon out with the local welcome wagon lady and called it good.

  Glancing up, she found a pretty woman staring at her from across the street. Brownish blonde waist-length hair blew in the breeze. Donna blinked and jumped back from the splashing puddle as a car zoomed past. When she again looked, the woman was gone. She searched up and down the now empty street before continuing home.

  “Maybe my imaginary friend is all grown up and coming back to say hi. I should have her hit me over the head with the stick again, knock some sense into me.”

  Her house was small, nestled between the Johnstons and Mr. Reyer. It had a decent yard and a small porch. Her sidewalk was cleared of snow, which meant Mrs. Johnston had taken pity on her again and made Mr. Johnston get out his snow shovel.

  The yellow siding and white trim guarded the sanctuary inside. This was her life, the piece she’d carved out for herself. She wasn’t rich. She wasn’t famous. Donna simply was. She wanted nothing to do with the new town nobles living above them. So it made no sense why she’d try to make friends with them.

  Any farm-girl dreams she’d had of becoming spectacular had long faded. She’d found with adulthood that she really wasn’t suited for photographing the Amazon jungle, or trekking through the wilds to discover isolated tribes. Instead, she traveled in books and photographed children and weddings. She had no desire for fame and fortune. People like the MacGregors lived in the spotlight. The rich always did. Donna liked to live behind the camera flash. She liked quiet. She liked normal.

  So then why was she suddenly trying to be Suzie Homemaker for the new Scottish neighbors living as local celebrities in the mansion on the hill?

  Donna opened her front door. It wasn’t locked. Apparently, Baker Donna hadn’t felt the need for personal security.

  She closed the door and locked it before kicking off her wet shoes and dropping her gloves and hat on the floor. She then trudged toward her bedroom to get out of her wet clothes. At least her home was warm, even if it did smell of whatever painful concoction had come out of her oven.

  “Comhstach.”

  Donna gasped at the soft whisper. She turned, ready to confront the man standing in her home. “Who’s there?”

  She reached for her pocket. Fucking wonderful. Neighborly Donna didn’t believe in carrying her cell phone.

  She held still for a long moment, listening to the silence. Nervously, she made her way down the hall. She pushed open a creaky door and switched on the bathroom light. No one was there. Next, she tried the extra bedroom that had been turned into her office. The computer monitors were dormant on the wood desk, and her camera equipment sat untouched. Inching toward her living room, which doubled as a showroom, she didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary. Large photographs of happy faces stared from oversized frames. Her front door remained closed.

  “Hello?” she called softly, going to check the kitchen. It was primarily used to store take-out containers but was now covered in discarded bakeware and a fine dusting of flour. One set of footprints in the flour led from where she’d baked toward the living room. The kitchen was empty, and yet she found herself going toward the counter.

  A handprint had been pressed into the flour mess. Donna glanced at her hands. They were still red from being outside with insufficient gloves. Slowly, she lowered her palm over the print. Her fingers were too long to fit inside the mark.

  “What is happening to me?” she whispered.

  Chapter 3

  “What do ya think? Angus says lust would be good for me, but what do I know of courting these modern women?” Fergus took a deep breath. Part of him was very interested in the idea of slaking his lust with Donna. She’d been in his head since he’d first met her. The attraction he had for the woman was very strong, stirring in his body as nothing had in a very long time. “I don’t know why I’m even thinking about it. Ya know what I’m going to say, don’t ya? My Elspeth. I’ve never cheated on her.”

  The ache was real and always there. It would never go away.

  But perhaps the others were right. He’d failed to bring Elspeth back. Every day for over four hundred years, he had tried, and he had failed. There were no more spells to attempt. There hadn’t been for decades, centuries. Now he was just making things up, killing trees to fuel his magick so he could recite a new version of an old spell. He’d opened portals. He’d done shady deals with even shadier necromancers. He’d spilled blood and tears. He had nothing left.

  He lay on his stomach on the floor of his bedroom, his face a foot from the English bulldog’s wrinkled smile. Traitor stared into his eyes as if enthralled by his words, but Fergus knew the dog wouldn’t answer him.

  “I’ve managed to keep ya alive, haven’t I, friend? Years of trying has taught me much, but it has not taught me how to talk to a woman.”

  The dog wobbled forward on his stomach and licked Fergus’s face with his thick tongue.

  “Ya like her, don’t ya? Ate all those cookies she brought by.”

  Traitor burped and continued to breathe hard.

  Fergus grimaced and pushed up from his stomach. “Ya make a good point. I should return her basket. My nephews were not too kind to her. That’s no way to behave in a new town, and gifts should be reciprocated. We want to make a good impression.”

  Traitor snorted.

  “Ya don’t know what ya ar
e talking about. I go for the clan, to make a good impression.”

  Traitor rolled onto his back and began twitching back and forth to scratch himself on the thick carpet.

  “Do not judge me.” Fergus glanced down over his slacks. Little white strands of fur stuck to them. With a magickal brush of his hand, he cleaned them off as he left the room to search out his niece. Malina would be able to help him with the gift basket. Fergus didn’t know much about hair ribbons, baubles, trinkets and the like. Any gift he put together would include a bottle of whiskey and golf balls. Did most women like a good whiskey?

  “Malina,” Fergus called loudly as he came down the stairs. “I need ya to get me girl products.”

  Malina stood in the front hall with Euann and Rory. All three turned in unison to look at him.

  Euann had a packed duffle bag on the floor beside him, clearly getting ready to leave for New York. “I warned ya if ya didn’t use it your manhood would fall off.”

  “I don’t think tampons are going to help ya, Uncle Fergus,” Rory teased. “Unless another of your spells went incredibly wrong.”

  “I don’t understand ya, laddies. Why would I need to tampion something?” Fergus frowned. He had no reason to stuff a rag into a hole. “Can’t ya magickally stuff something into—”

  Rory and Euann began to laugh harder.

  Fergus didn’t understand why they thought plugging was so funny. “I was asking for help making a present to give Donna to thank her for her generosity in welcoming our family. Unless ya think she’d like a bottle of my favorite whiskey?”

  “Ignore Euann,” Malina said, her English accent a contrast to her brother. “I will help you.”

  “Aye, ignore me,” Euann stated. “We’ll all help ya put together the perfect gift. Trust us, we know what women like.”

  “Aye,” Rory agreed. “The perfect gift. Ya are right, Fergus. We need to be more neighborly.”

  “Good.” He nodded. That was more like the mature attitude he expected from them.