Castles, Kilts and Caresses

by Carmen Caine

He could imagine the taste of her.

  And he wanted it on the back of his tongue.

  He pulled a hand down over his chin, furious with himself and his plight.

  The urges he had no business feeling.

  “You misheard me.” He spoke to her back, trying to keep his gaze from straying down to the sweet curves of her hips, the lush rounds of her buttocks. He could so easily cup them, squeeze her ripe, plump flesh and then drop to his knees, licking his way to her most tender parts, a delicacy he’d savor. More than that, he’d use all his skills to melt her, not having done until he’d given her the most intense, primal release she’d ever known.

  Instead, he pushed the images from his mind and sought words to soothe her agitation. “For truth, lass, I meant seeing you unclothed is the last thing-”

  “So you’re not only rude, but insulting!” She whirled on him, her blue eyes ablaze.

  “Holy heather!” He jammed his hands on his hips and stared at her. “You still dinnae-”

  “I understand perfectly well.” She yanked on the ends of her robe’s belt, making a knot. “I’ll ask you again. Why did you appear in my bathroom?”

  “Because I heard you scream.”

  Her eyes rounded. “You were listening at my door?”

  Nae, I was guarding it.

  The true answer hung unspoken between them. She needn’t know he was troubled by certain goings-on at Dunroamin and meant to look into them.

  Or that he hoped doing so would help him to keep his mind off of her.

  His mouth twitched on that impossibility.

  The great silvery Kyle would sooner dry up and all the noble peaks of the north slip back into the earth before he could stop desiring her.

  She’d bespelled him, working a stronger magick than that wart-nosed, bent-backed bard of old could have done in his wildest conjuring dreams.

  Watching her, he almost laughed at his predicament and would have if he didn’t wish to upset her even more. Seeing her naked had nearly undone him. Feeling her sleek warm skin, all smooth and wet beneath his hands when he’d caught her, was a torture he couldn’t risk again.

  If he’d held her a moment longer, even the Dark One’s threats wouldn’t have mattered.

  As it was, he’d almost nipped and nuzzled her neck when he’d bent to whisper in her ear. He’d even considered slipping a hand between her legs and using one expertly circling finger to show her the kind of bliss a man could give a woman after seven hundred years of experience.

  An urge that was surely responsible for causing one of the hell hags to gurgle a laugh from the shower. In the same moment, he caught a whiff of root dragon’s breath, its foulness chilling his blood.

  He blinked against the lingering steam, certain the Dark One’s hags and dragons wouldn’t sneak so openly into this earthly realm. Yet he swore he saw sharp nails and the flash of a scaly tail.

  He shuddered, turning back to Cilla when the image faded.

  Even now she tempted him.

  Damp, disheveled, and wearing a Dunroamin plaid robe with her name stitched across the breast in ridiculously large letters, she stirred him more than any other lass he’d ever known.

  Having seen her naked was a gift.

  And a worse burden than the curse that had plagued him for so many centuries.

  “So?” She was still staring at him, her gaze intent. “Were you eavesdropping or not?”

  He frowned. “I have ne’er done the like in my life. Or thereafter.”

  “Oh, that’s right.” She swept her hair behind an ear. “Let’s not forget you’re a ghost.”

  The words ripped him. “Would that I could.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “I’d rather hear what you were doing outside my door?”

  Hardwick considered how much he should tell her.

  “Two lads carried coffers up here earlier and I followed them.” That was certainly true enough. He just didn’t mention he hadn’t liked the looks of them.

  Tall, red-haired, and strapping, they’d struck him as too young, too bonnie, and – most damning of all – too alive.

  “Coffers?” She’d come closer, her blue eyes rounding.

  Hardwick blinked, the youths forgotten.

  “Aye, coffers.” He glanced to where the strongboxes stood near the shuttered windows. “They looked heavy and-”

  “Those aren’t coffers.”

  He eyed them carefully, certain they were.

  To his surprise, she laughed.

  Not a mocking sort of laugh, but a light and breezy kind that slid through him with ease, warming him in ways that were more than dangerous.

  “Those are packing crates full of chipped and cracked porcelain.” She went to stand beside them. “Uncle Mac never throws out anything, and he said I could have them. The boys you saw are Roddie and Robbie, Honoria’s nephews. Aunt Cilla mentioned they do odd jobs around the estate. They brought the crates down from the attic.”

  Hardwick’s brows drew together. He considered himself most enlightened to the ways of her world, but he’d never heard of packing crates.

  Nor had he suspected that Mac MacGhee’s fortunes had turned so poorly that he’d be forced to give his visiting niece damaged goods as a welcome gift.

  The very notion made his heart sore.

  “They’re beauties.” She’d opened the lid of one of the coffers – he refused to think of them as anything else – and withdrew a small flowered cup, lovely save the jagged crack in its side and a rather conspicuous chip at the gold-edged rim. “I’ve rarely seen such treasures.”

  She held up the cream-colored cup for his inspection.

  “Humph.” Hardwick found himself at a loss for a suitable comment.

  Instead, he stepped closer and examined the cup.

  Decorated with pink roses surrounded by smaller flowers in purple, yellow, and blue, the design was enhanced with a scattering of delicate green leaves. The cup would have been a treasure indeed if not so sadly marred.

  Surprisingly, she didn’t appear at all disheartened by the cup’s flaws, which said a great deal about her character. She clearly didn’t wish to offend her aunt and uncle by seeming disappointed in their gift.

  Hardwick frowned. He didn’t like the direction his mind was taking.

  It served him better when she sparred with him, spearing him with her fiery blue gaze.

  For one thing, he now knew beyond doubt that a henwife couldn’t claim a hand in the color of her honey-gold hair. She was born to the lovely shade. That knowledge alone could have dire repercussions if he allowed himself to dwell on how he’d made such a delicious discovery.

  It was one thing to imagine a sweet triangle of golden curls topping her thighs, all soft and inviting.

  And something else entirely to have seen such sweetness.

  Nor had he yet recovered from the pleasant ring of her laughter. How it’d warmed him. Learning she possessed a caring heart along with her fine curves and other charms was more than he wished to know.

  “Here’s another.” She plucked a small flowered plate from deep inside the coffer’s straw-like filling. “Who would have thought Uncle Mac’s attic would hold such gems?”

  “No’ I, to be sure.” Hardwick tightened his grip on his shield.

  Then, because her delight in the pathetic wares apparently overrode her objections to him, he peered dutifully at the plate when she held it in his direction.

  Covered with pink and deep-red roses, again with a few artfully placed green leaves and gold trim, this piece, too, had seen better days. A jagged crack zig-zagged across its center, marring its onetime perfection.

  She didn’t seem to see the defect.

  Far from it, she beamed at the dish, her excitement clearly mounting when she turned it over and studied its underside.

  “English.” She ran a finger along the crack, pausing over a line of squiggly black lettering. “Early 1900s, I’m guessing.”

  Hardwick’s gut clenched.

 
She sounded overjoyed that the plate was not only damaged but, considering her time, quite ancient.

  “Uncle Mac isn’t the only one in the family who loves old things,” she mused, her eyes misty. “This” – she hugged the cracked dish to her heart – “is just what I needed.”

  “Nae, it isn’t. No’ at all.” Hardwick couldn’t help the denial. Every chivalrous bone in him railed against seeing her so soppy-headed over such shameful offerings.

  Equally painful was imagining Mac MaGhee’s reaction.

  A proud man, the laird surely knew his niece deserved better.

  Unable to stop himself now that he’d spoken, Hardwick indicated the two coffers with a flick of his hand. “More’s the pity your uncle couldn’t give you something finer as a welcome gift.” He hoped his voice held more sympathy than disapproval. “A maid like yourself ought be welcomed with ropes of shining pearls and glittering gemstones, no’ cracked and chipped bits of cast-off cups and-”

  She laughed.

  A beautiful golden sound, rich and honey-edged, but damning in its portent.

  Somehow – and he didn’t know where – he’d erred.

  Just as embarrassing, he’d blethered on like a lovesick calf.

  Ropes of pearl and glittering gemstones!

  If Bran had heard him utter the like, he’d be the laughing stock of ghostdom and beyond.

  He frowned, already willing himself elsewhere.

  Perhaps Mac MacGhee’s armory, where he could claim a chair and let scores of targes glower down at him, each one reminding him of his plight and how he’d best hold his tongue – and his lust – around the laird’s fetching niece.

  Or maybe he’d sift himself out to MacGhee’s peat banks and watch for Viking ghosts.

  That, after all, had been his plan before he’d spotted the two red-headed giants, Roddie and Robbie, lugging the coffers abovestairs.

  Coffers that had somehow managed to make him look the fool again.

  He bristled.

  It was a mistake he wouldn’t make a second time.

  “Broken china is my passion.” Her words came to him from as if from afar.

  He watched her return the plate to the coffer, now seeing her and her chipped treasures through the mist beginning to whirl around him. She didn’t notice as the grayness swirled faster, almost cloaking him. He could have – should have - simply vanished. Leaving in the mist took longer. But despite his embarrassment, he wanted to savor those last lingering moments to admire how her hair, so glossy and bright, spilled across her face as she bent over her prizes.

  His heart squeezed, and he damned his curse.

  How he’d love to see those fair tresses spread across her pillow, twine his fingers in the silken strands as he settled himself above her, kissing her…

  Trailing an openmouthed blaze of fire down her naked skin to dip a questing tongue into the slick, sweet heat he knew waited between her thighs.

  He groaned, knowing she’d no longer hear him.

  Clenching his fists, he drew a tight, uneven breath and willed the mist to spin faster. Once, something hot, dry and clawlike, snatched at his ankle, but he jerked free, keeping his gaze on her.

  Then the gloom claimed him and he could see and hear her no more.

  ***

  “The broken china is my work,” Cilla said, still rummaging in the coffer’s straw. “I make jewelry from antique porcelain.” She picked up a crescent-shaped shard of rich blues, appearing to admire it. Necklaces, earrings, bracelets, rings, you name it. I even do some wall art, mirrors and stained glass pieces and such. That’s why Uncle Mac gave the boxes to me. Not as a welcome gift.”

  She made a sweeping gesture, taking in the paneled bedroom with its clutter of Victorian gothic furnishings. “I didn’t need a welcome present from Uncle Mac. Being here is gift enough,” she added, not mentioning how she’d dreamt of coming to Scotland all her life.

  How she hoped her time at Dunroamin would fill the emptiness inside her. And not the void left by Grant A. Hughes III. Since Hardwick’s arrival in her life, she could hardly even picture Grant’s face. But she hadn’t designed a thing – not even a beaded hairpin – in weeks.

  That frightened her.

  Her creative well was dry.

  “Oh, yes.” She swallowed against the tightness in her throat. “Being here is exactly what I needed.”

  Humph.

  The snort sounded muffled, almost more like the wind soughing past the window shutters than Hardwick’s buttery rich burr.

  “In return” - she tucked the bit of Delft china back into the crate - “I’ve agreed to teach Dunroamin’s residents how to make broken china jewelry. Aunt Cilla and Uncle Mac hope that if they have something creative to keep them busy, they won’t think so much about the Viking ghosts-”

  She broke off and clapped a hand over her mouth.

  Heat flamed her face.

  Who was she to make light of old folks thinking they saw Viking ghosts running across the moors at night when she was standing in the middle of her bedroom having a conversation with one?

  “Oh, man.” What she needed to do was tell him to stop materializing everywhere she went. If that was what his sudden appearances out of thin air were called.

  She didn’t want to be haunted.

  If she was imagining him, she wanted to stop that, too.

  It couldn’t be good for her.

  But when she turned around to tell him so, he was gone.

  Her jaw started to slip but she didn’t let it. Instead, she put on her best I-am-in-charge look and made a careful circuit of the room, turning on mock Victorian oil lamps as she went. One by one, they cast little pools of softly glowing light, but not near enough to chase the shadows from every empty space and corner.

  She paused near the hearth, glad for its cheery birch-and-peat fire.

  Much better to continue her survey of the room from here, in the warmth and light of the fire, than to keep stalking about with her every footstep echoing off the polished wood floor.

  Each tap-tappity-tap gave her the willies, making her think someone was sneaking along behind her.

  Frowning, she considered just going to bed and pulling the covers over her head.

  But her bed – great, dark-wooded four-poster that it was, complete with heavy, embroidered hangings – seemed to hunch in wait for her. As did the other, equally clunky furnishings, each piece appearing to hold its breath in the silence, watching to see what she’d do.

  She shivered and rubbed her arms.

  “I am not on the set of a bad horror film.” She spoke the words slowly, distinctly. “There’s nothing anymore odd about the shadows in this room than the ones in my apartment back in Yardley.”

  The room was just a little heavy on the gothic.

  It was simply Dunroamin.

  Her echoing footsteps had been just that – footsteps. The few creaks and groans breaking the stillness were only the sounds of ancient woodwork settling down for the night. All old houses made such noises.

  All antique dresser mirrors had ghosts in them.

  “Gah!” She jumped.

  The ghostly woman leapt closer to the mirror glass and gaped at her. Pale, wild-eyed, and with a tangled mane of hair, the specter shook her head and began withdrawing into the mirror’s depths. Each retreating step took her deeper into the shadows until she stopped cold, frozen in place, the very moment Cilla backed into an enormous overstuffed chair.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake!” She threw her hands up, laughing when the ghost did the same.

  Regrettably, the image also revealed her shell-shocked appearance.

  What she needed was fresh air.

  She gave herself a little shake to settle her nerves and then marched across the room and opened the nearest window. She unlatched the shutters, deliberately ignoring the weird screech of the rusty hinges.

  Such things wouldn’t bother her again.

  She had the backbone to stand above them.

&nb
sp; For the moment, she’d simply enjoy the view. There really was a lot to relish. If one appreciated mist and drizzle, a touch of brisk chill air, all of which she did.

  Clutching the edges of the window, she breathed deep.

  Never had she seen a place of such haunting beauty, though haunting wasn’t the best word choice at the moment. Even so, it suited. She took another long breath, inhaling air scented with the rich earthiness of peat, a tinge of rain and damp, ageless stone. Her cares began to roll off her shoulders.

  She’d always understood why Aunt Birdie had fallen for a Highlander.

  Now, finally, she saw why her aunt had also lost her heart to Scotland’s far north. Wild, empty, and heart-piercingly beautiful, the vista before her was so spectacular it almost hurt to gaze upon.

  But she did, letting her troubles melt away as she stared down at the liquid glass surface of the Kyle, silver blue and gleaming. She leaned out the window to better watch the moon rise above what looked to be a ruined tower perched on the edge of one of the cliffs on the far side of the inlet. Rising like two fingers held up in the victory sign, the ruin appeared to have a window arch in one of its remaining walls.

  How old it must be!

  Certainly older than Dunroamin.

  She shivered. This time with excitement. Who would have thought her room would look out upon an ancient castle ruin? There could be no mistaking that it was a crumbled tower. Even at this late hour, the sky shimmered with a luminosity that let her see everything.

  She saw not just the lines of the distant ruin, but also the great mass of Ben Loyal, bluish-purple in the night’s clear, limpid light, and - if she squinted – the one-track thread of a road, impossibly narrow and mist-sheened, that curved around the long sea loch that was the Kyle of Tongue. She could even see – if she craned her neck - a sliver of the rolling moorlands where Uncle Mac cut his peat.

  Fine peat, the best in the north. Or so he claimed.

  Looking that way now, she blinked, then gasped, her eyes widening.

  The devil filled her vision.

  Huge, red, and wickedly horned, his leering face hovered in the air just outside the window.

  “Eeeeee!” She grabbed the shutters and yanked them into place.

  The window wouldn’t budge.