by Carmen Caine
Aunt Birdie’s eyes widened. “Grant fell for such a woman?”
“So it would seem. Either Dawn Paterson or the wealth behind her.”
“But he has money of his own.” Aunt Birdie frowned. “Isn’t his family one of the richest on the Delaware?”
“The richest, I suspect.” Cilla splayed the fingers of her left hand, her ring finger now naked of the egg-sized diamond she’d sported until so recently. “I imagine their position had something to do with turning his head in Dawn’s direction. Status mattered to Grant.”
Fool.
The deep Scottish voice came from somewhere near the row of tall windows. Loud and resonating, the single word echoed off the walls and strummed the air.
Cilla jerked. Something like a jolt of electricity tripped through her, spilling from the roots of her hair clear down to the tips of her toes.
“Did you hear that?” She flashed a look at her aunt, her pulse quickening. “A man’s voice-”
“Shush…” Aunt Birdie put a finger to her lips.
“I heard him clearly,” Cilla insisted anyway. “Maybe Uncle Mac is in the corridor? Or it was another of his recordings?”
She twisted around, her gaze searching the room.
But it was empty.
No suspicious humming gave away a recorded jest.
And the dark square of the door showed only shadows. Nothing but the ever-present sea haar stared in at them from the long bank of glittering, Jacobean-era windows.
Fool. The word still filled her ears.
Aunt Birdie sat quietly sipping her tea, a faraway look in her deep blue eyes.
“There is someone here.” She turned to Cilla, her gaze once more clear. “A chivalrous man who cannot stand seeing women treated poorly. I feel he’d avenge you if he could.”
Cilla swallowed. “You sense him?”
“Oh, yes.” Her aunt tilted her head, listening. “I’d bet your uncle’s beard on it.”
“And he wants to avenge me?”
Cilla kept her doubt to herself. She didn’t believe in gallant men, ghostly or otherwise.
Her aunt flicked a crumb off the tablecloth.
“I can only tell you the impressions I’m getting.” She met Cilla’s eyes, her own gaze steady. “It’s mostly anger and I’m interpreting his energy as being colored by Grant’s betrayal, though I could be wrong. But, come” – she jumped up and pulled Cilla to her feet – “let’s join your uncle in the library. As he would say, I likely shouldn’t have indulged in a second dram when you arrived.”
Moving quickly, she tugged Cilla from the room. “Tomorrow will be soon enough to think about our troubles here at Dunroamin, and whatever heartache Grant A. Hughes III has caused you.”
***
Grant A. Hughes III.
The third, by love of all the ancients. Near the windows, Hardwick stifled a snort. The man wasn’t just a fool. He had a name like a pompous, limp-wristed peacock.
Certain he had other, equally disagreeable faults, Hardwick stepped out of his hiding place the instant the two women exited the room.
Brushing at his plaid, he frowned at the now-empty suit of armor. Never again would he materialize inside anything even halfway as constricting.
He shuddered and flexed his fingers. For good measure, he wriggled his toes, as well. A few vigorous neck rolls, first in one direction and then the other, followed by a quick set of knee bends, completed his attempts to rid himself of the kinks and knots plaguing him.
All that, and still he felt miserable.
Whoever had once worn the armor had been a small, slightly built man.
Definitely not a Highlander.
Proud to belong to that noble race himself, he should have been more wary when he’d followed the interloper from her bedchamber. His scowl deepening, he planted fisted hands on his hips and glanced around.
How typical that he’d purposely left his own shield outside, only to have the fetching creature he now knew to be Cilla Swanner not only flash her breasts at him, but to leave him no choice than to trail after her to the castle armory.
A room filled with shields – taunting reminders of the state in which he’d passed the last seven hundred years.
The dire circumstances he’d find himself in if he failed to meet the Dark One’s requirements for lifting the wizard-bard’s curse.
“A plague on it,” he growled, scowling. “And on that long-ago lute picker. May his fingers rot and wither, or stick to his lute strings.” He put back his shoulders, his own curse rolling off his tongue with enough heat to rival any fireballs the Dark One might throw at him for his insolence.
There were some things a man just shouldn’t have to endure.
Dwelling beneath the same roof as his one great weakness – a damsel in distress - topped his list.
A room hung with targes proved a close second.
Glaring at them, he considered using his ghostly abilities to get rid of them. Perhaps send them hurtling into the North Sea, letting them sink into its briny depths, one shield at a time.
Or simply flicking his fingers and making them vanish. All at once, and with a fine and satisfying burst of colorful sparks.
Unfortunately, his honor wouldn’t allow him such mischievous pleasures.
Mac MacGhee was a goodly sort, and in the short time he’d enjoyed the laird’s unwitting hospitality, he’d grown rather fond of the man.
He also knew Mac appreciated the targes.
Still earthbound and curse-free, MacGhee hadn’t spent an eternity holding one of the fool contraptions in front of his tender parts.
He just wished the man had mentioned the pending arrival of his niece.
His Ameri-cain niece.
He shuddered, his every shred of self-preservation clamping around him. Cilla Swanner posed a greater threat than an entire hall strung with shields.
From experience, he knew how dangerous such foreign wenches could be. Two of his closest friends had fallen for females of her ilk, even succumbing deep enough to marry them.
Blowing out a hot breath, he shoved a hand through his hair, his friends’ capitulations riding him hard.
He couldn’t risk any such foolery.
It’d been bad enough looking on as the maid had bared her breasts.
And what magnificent breasts! Full, well-rounded, and pink-tipped, they’d bounced as she’d crossed the room to peer at him. Seldom had he seen such creamy, succulent teats. She’d stood so close to the poster frame that he could almost feel their silky-smooth weight in his hands.
Almost taste her chill-tightened nipples beneath his greedy, swirling tongue.
Gods, how he’d love to suckle them!
At once, he felt a stir beneath his kilt. A sudden rush of heat and twitches that heralded the start of a man’s oh-so-irresistible swelling.
“Damnation,” he snarled, clenching his fists until the hot pulling receded.
Furious, he stared up at the room’s hammer-beam ceiling. He should have vanished when the lass had stripped down to such a delectable state of undress.
Most certainly when she’d headed toward him, her startled expression leaving no doubt that she’d seen him.
But nae….
He’d ignored all good sense to stare right back at her like a lovestruck gawp, his old instincts rooting him in place despite the perils.
He frowned again.
The curvaceous lass was a threat he hadn’t expected to encounter at a remote Highland home for the aged.
He’d hoped to spend his days being bored and uninspired.
Wholly free of temptation.
Setting his jaw, he tossed another glare at the wall of shields. Then he curled his fingers around his sword belt, preparing to transport himself up onto the battlements.
For reasons he didn’t care to acknowledge, he felt a strong need for a blast of chill, bracing air.
Something told him he soon might even require a few dips in the icy sea.
Hardwick
sighed. He’d chosen the refuge for his proving period unwisely.
Most unwisely indeed.
Chapter Two
“Fool.”
The word followed Hardwick to the battlements, sticking as close to him as the blaring strains of Mac MacGhee’s favorite pipe tune still rattled in his ears. He cupped them with the palms of his hands and pressed hard, trying in vain to rid himself of the loud, droning echo.
Not that he didn’t love pipes.
He did, as did all self-respecting Highlanders.
But there were bagpipes and then bagpipes.
Mac MacGhee’s mechanically contrived blast of Heiland skirling was an abomination.
Hardwick frowned. Never again would he make the mistake of manifesting in the laird’s privy quarters just prior to teatime.
Nor would he allow himself any further moments of self-satisfaction over having chosen Dunroamin as the place of refuge for his proving period.
His decision was disastrous.
If Grant A Hughes III was a fool for walking away from the lightsome lass, he was an even greater lackwit for putting himself in her path.
“A double-dyed doomed lackwit,” he fumed, glaring at the mist drifting past the battlements. Thick and gray, great sheets of it swirled everywhere. He narrowed his eyes, peering at each billowy drift. It would be just like the Dark One to lurk behind the impenetrable brew, gloating at him.
Twice now he’d caught what could’ve been a crone’s cackling laugh.
Or – the gods forbid – the heinous sniggers of a whole gaggle of them.
He shuddered, looking deeper into the fog.
But his best peering efforts turned up naught. If the fiend or his hell hags were at Dunroamin, they were keeping themselves well hidden. So he put them from his mind and bowed to long habit, conjuring his shield.
A flick of his fingers and it appeared in his hand.
The shield’s familiarity comforted.
He just hoped he’d never again need it for its erstwhile purpose.
Certain such a calamity was rushing right at him, he balled his fists and began to pace the wall-walk. A cold drizzle slicked the stone flagging and darkened the castle walls, but the rain-misted afternoon suited him.
So much so that he didn’t bother to draw his plaid against the rising wind.
There was, after all, no need.
Mac MacGhee’s bonnie niece more than warmed him.
With every angry footfall, her face rose before him. She tempted and vexed him with her startled eyes of deepest blue, the fine line of her jaw, and her creamy skin. The sleek fall of her thick, silky hair also taunted him. Honey-gold in color and just brushing her shoulders, the gleaming strands begged a man’s touch. Just as her mouth, so full, sweetly-curved, and soft-looking, hinted at a hidden lustiness he’d love to waken in her.
A groan rose deep in his throat and he pulled a hand down over his chin.
He hadn’t often loved a fair-haired woman. Well-prized in his day, most proved either already taken or were sequestered away in an unassailable tower, guarded by their fathers until the highest bidder claimed them.
How he’d love to claim this one!
He swallowed another groan, imagining the bliss of thrusting his hands into such shining skeins. He’d twine the strands around his fingers and pull her close, kissing her deeply. If she kissed him back, he’d crush her to him, making sure she felt the thick, hard length of him brushing against her.
Just thinking about such deliciousness let him almost feel her softness pressing into him, the golden strands of her hair spilling through his fingers, delighting and bewitching him. He drew a deep breath and released it slowly.
Fair women were a prize beyond telling.
In his numberless years of carousing, most of his bedmates had sported tresses of flame or coloring as dark as his own. Of the few yellow-maned wenches he’d sampled, he’d quickly known they’d gleaned the bright shade from the local henwife.
Their other hair gave away the secret every time.
But he knew what the tongue-waggers said about true flaxen-haired, blue-eyed maidens.
Once a man melted them, their fire burned hotter than the sun.
Need clawed at his gut. He drew a tight breath, wishing he’d never heard such blether. He wasn’t the man to test Cilla Swanner’s passion.
Would that he could.
In another time and place it would’ve been possible.
As things were, he simply strode faster, letting his quickened pace and his fury heat his blood. His frustration also staved off the bite of the day’s cold, wet wind.
Until the gusts turned, sending up spray from the foot of the cliffs to flip an edge his plaid across his eyes.
“Damnation!” He snatched at the offending wool, yanking it down, only to discover that the maid’s face still hovered before him.
Worse, he could now see even more of her.
In memory, her naked breasts bobbed right beneath his nose. Just as full, round, and plump as he remembered, and with the rosy-sweet crests drawn deliciously tight.
“By all the powers!” He roared the curse.
Snapping his brows together, he glared at the image until the wind broke it apart.
When, after a moment, only mist and drizzle drifted across the parapets, he released the breath he’d been holding and shoved back his hair. He didn’t know how she’d done it – a long line and more centuries of women than he liked to admit had only left him disinterested, even after a particularly pleasing tumble – yet this one had somehow managed to brand herself on him.
And he hadn’t even kissed her.
That could only mean trouble.
Feeling it settle around him like a dark, clinging cloud, he set his jaw and started pacing again.
If need be, he’d spend his proving time doing so.
Pacing was good.
Scowling, likewise.
Better yet, even on a fine weather day, the battlements often stayed windswept and cold. Many a good, stout Scots lass wouldn’t care to brave such a chill and blustery aerie.
With luck, an outlander wouldn’t even attempt the climb up the narrow, winding stair.
Unfortunately, something told him Cilla Swanner might. After all, she’d crossed the room to peer at him inside the poster frame even if seeing him there clearly didn’t sit well with her.
She might look as if she should be perched in a tower window, her fair hair spilling over the ledge as she pined for some noble gallant to come and carry her away on a white steed, but she had a bold and daring heart.
He was sure of it.
So he stomped on, practicing his best glares the while.
“Ho! Here is a wonder!” A deep voice boomed behind him. “Ne’er would I have believed I’d see the day you scowl and curse o’er such a comely lass.”
Hardwick whipped around so fast he nearly dropped his shield.
Bran MacNeil of Barra stood a few paces away, his huge bearlike form almost splitting with mirth. Ghostly, great-hearted, and good-humored, the Hebridean chieftain sported a bushy beard nearly as red as Mac MacGhee’s and his blue eyes crinkled with the same teasing amusement.
The gemstone in the pommel of his sword hilt shone dimly in the day’s pale light and his plaid lifted in the wind, its woolen folds smelling distinctly of a heady musk-scented perfume that wasn’t Bran’s own.
“You great stirk!” Hardwick glowered at him. “Cease goggling at me like a ring-tailed gowk. You should know why I’m scowling.”
“I can think it, aye!”
“No doubt,” Hardwick agreed. “You know fine why I’m here.”
He tightened his grip on his shield. A sharp bite to his tongue kept him from demanding how his longtime friend and wenching companion knew Cilla Swanner was comely.
Or, more importantly, how he knew she even existed.
“Why are you here?” Hardwick eyed him, curious. Though, in truth, he’d already guessed the answer. “You rarely leave Ba
rra.”
His friend cut the air with a hand. “My fair isle will keep until my return. I came to see how you’re doing here in the wild and lonely north!”
“I’ve been passing my nights well enough until-” Hardwick caught himself.
Somewhere in the mist behind him, a wicked chortle sounded.
Hardwick’s nape prickled. His blood chilled and he blanked his features, as if he’d not noticed.
Bran just kept laughing. “Until you had your head turned, what?”
“My head hasn’t been turned.” Hardwick lifted his voice, hoping any lurking cacklers would hear his denial and return to their hell hole. “You’re poking your nose where it doesn’t belong and seeing things that aren’t there.”
“Say you?”
“I do.”
Looking as if he knew everything, the burly Islesman leaned back against the parapet’s notched wall and crossed his ankles.
“I told you it would have been wiser to hie yourself to Barra,” he said, sounding most serious. “There, you could have-”
Hardwick laughed.
He couldn’t help himself.
Then he shoved a hand through his hair and spoke the truth. “Your hall is so thick with temptation you could stir the place with a spoon.”
“Aye, so it is!” Bran looked more than pleased with the description. “But” – he raised a sage finger – “you have sampled the charms of all the lovelies who drop in and out of my keep. It seems to me, you’d have had less trouble turning a blind eye to them than to this maid.”
Hardwick humphed.
Much as he loved his friend, he wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of an answer.
Besides, the lout’s piercing stare showed that he already knew.
“She’s an Ameri-cain.” Bran spoke the word as if it were dipped in gold. He also pronounced it as one of their two foreign-bride-wedding friends had done. “Both Alex and Aidan fared well with such lassies,” he observed, making it worse. “Perhaps you-”
