by Carmen Caine
Chills swept her and the fine hairs on her nape lifted. Until the door completed its slow, ear-grating arc to reveal a small oak-paneled chamber.
Dark and low-ceilinged, the room appeared empty except for a dressing-table and washstand. A dust cover protected something that might have been a chair. If a bed had ever graced the room, it was gone now. But the room did have two windows opposite the door.
Twin and narrow oblongs that looked out onto the Kyle, over which the moon now hung, its bright crescent just sailing out from behind a cloud. She could make out the black outline of Castle Varrich. High on its cliff, the ruin's crumbling window arch was bathed in silver and shadow.
She took a step closer, her gaze going through the open doorway to the windows where she half expected to see the devil face sweep into view. A thin rain fell, the droplets glistening on the ancient, rippled glass. Somewhere thunder rumbled, but what really caught her attention was that some of the lower panes were missing, allowing cold damp wind to pour into the room.
Wind that had surely caused the door to swing open.
Or so she thought until she noticed the woman in the room’s darkest shadows.
Cilla pressed a hand to her lips, not wanting to release the gasp rising inside her.
She did stare at the woman.
Tall, blond, and stately, she could have been Aunt Birdie except she was still in the armory. Even in younger years, Aunt Birdie had never worn her hair in a single, hip-length braid. She favored French twists or a fashionably knotted silken head scarf.
And although Aunt Birdie possessed a certain grace and style, she walked like everyone else. She didn’t glide across rooms as if her feet didn’t touch the floor.
Nor was it her habit to run around in ankle-length woolen gowns of deep red-purple, the seams edged in finest embroidery, the sleeves long and tight. A shawl of brilliant blue draped the woman’s shoulders and a wide colorfully-patterned belt cinched her waist. If she wore any other adornments, Cilla couldn’t see them.
The woman now stood at the windows, her back to the door.
Cilla knuckled her eyes.
It didn’t help.
The ghost – for she could only be one – was still there. In the wink it’d taken Cilla to rub her eyes, the apparition had splayed a beringed hand against the rain-streaked window glass.
Sea-Strider.
The word – a name? – seemed to drift around the woman. As real as if she’d whispered it in Cilla’s ear, the word held all the anguish of a woman who’d loved and lost.
Forgetting the fright the woman’s sudden appearance had given her, her heart squeezed at the pain drenching the tiny dark-paneled room.
Very slowly, the woman turned her head and stared at her, her eyes beseeching. For a long moment she held Cilla’s gaze, her lips moving silently before she looked back out at the dark, wet night. Her gaze, Cilla knew, was fixed on the ruin of Castle Varrich.
She had to be Aunt Birdie’s Gudrid.
Though what she was doing at Dunroamin, Cilla couldn’t guess.
Remembering her aunt’s musings about the ghost, she sensed a big burly man near the woman. She could see him clearly. Unnoticed in a corner, he stared at the woman with great sad eyes. Bearded and fair as she, he wore a plain silver helm with a nose guard and a long mailed tunic. In one hand, he held a nine-foot spear. In the other, he clutched a large round shield, colorfully painted a rich dark blue and decorated with an interlace pattern of white, red, and green lines. Seeming to glow despite the shadows, the shield looked nearly double the size of Hardwick’s.
Thinking of him, both images faded.
But not without leaving her with the impression they’d had something important to tell her. Regrettably, she hadn’t been able to hear the woman’s voice and the man hadn’t even glanced her way, having eyes only for the woman.
Cilla pressed a hand to her breast, wishing she’d understood their message. She could only guess their names, Gudrid and Sea-Strider, before the little room’s door inched shut again, blocking its secrets from view.
“Oh, man.” Cilla rubbed her arms, chills all over her. She felt a strong urge to go back to the armory and real people, including Hardwick.
To her he was real.
She needed to settle things with him, one way or the other.
But the poor lighting in the stair tower struck her as even more dim than before. Deep shadows loomed everywhere and the night wind sounded eerie. Almost a wail, it whistled past the medieval arrow slits cut so deep into the walls. No way was she going down those stairs, into the darkness.
Her room was closer.
Hardwick would have to think what he wanted of her flight from the armory.
Tomorrow would be soon enough to deal with him.
First she needed a sound night’s sleep. Maybe she’d even take a hot bath. She’d found that using the bath tub made it much easier to regulate the water temperature than risking the dodgy shower.
Then bed and a good book and she’d be fine.
Feeling better, she resisted another glance at the little room’s door, now closed tight.
Instead she dashed up the remaining steps, then down the long corridor to her room. This passage didn’t seem to have any drip buckets to run an obstacle course around. Or she’d just not seen them. A distinct possibility, as the old-fashioned wall sconces her uncle loved so much appeared to throw off less light than usual.
The passage was gloomy.
Except for the thin band of yellow showing beneath her closed door.
For a beat, chills whipped through her again. But they vanished quickly. The light had to be thanks to Honoria doing turn-down service. With the night’s rainstorm, her room would’ve been really dark otherwise.
And she’d already pulled in her stubbed toe quota for the entire summer.
Light was good.
So she vowed to remember to thank the housekeeper for her thoughtfulness, and opened the door.
She took three steps into the room and froze.
“What are you doing here?” She stared at Hardwick, heart in her throat.
“Waiting for you.” He spoke from her bed.
Bold as brass, he lounged against the pillows piled against the headboard. He was staring right at her, his gaze narrowed, maybe even angry. He still looked hot, especially in her bed. Equally distressing, he’d drawn up one leg and although he’d clasped his hands around his knee, clearly arranging his kilt to try and hide certain things, she could still see them.
An errant kilt fold with a mind of its own had slipped, revealing him in all his impressive glory.
Her eyes widened. Even relaxed, he was formidable. Heat whipped through her and she could only stare, certain she’d never seen such a magnificent man. He made at least three of Grant, possibly even four.
“Oh, my...” She drew in a breath, but the air wouldn’t go down her throat.
“Odin’s balls!” Leaping off the bed, he brushed at his kilt, swatting it into place. “Dinnae worry, lass, I’m no’ to pounce on you.”
“I didn’t say-”
“Your eyes did.” He folded his arms, looking at her. “Such is the hazard of wearing a kilt.”
“I know that.” Cilla lifted her chin. “What I don’t know is why you’re here?”
“We need to talk.”
“Oh?” She swallowed, her pulse still racing.
“Aye.” He took a step toward her, definitely scowling. His dark eyes glinted in the dimly lit room, and his jaw was hard-set, revealing his annoyance. “You shouldn’t have run out of the armory. I told you it wasn’t what you thought.”
“What wasn’t?” Cilla brushed at her sleeve.
“You ken what I mean, lass.” He saw right through her. “The thousands of American women. Your uncle misspoke what I’d told him.”
“I wasn’t feeling well.” She went for a white lie, not about to admit the jolt of green that had stabbed her. “I ate too many mini-pretzels at the Ben Loy-”
“Centuries of experience allow me to spot an untruth the moment one is born.” He looked at her with an expression that could’ve been irritation, or possibly regret. “Most ghosts have the same ability unless they were dull-witted in life. Then they remain dim always.”
“The same way a skirt-chaser remains woman-hungry?” Cilla couldn’t stop the words. “I mean in their afterlife, of course.”
“Bluidy hell!” He shoved a hand through his hair. “If I am hungry for any woman, it’s you!” His burr deepened, his eyes taking on a dangerous light. “Since that cannae be, I wanted to ensure that you dinnae think poorly of me.”
“Why would I do that?” Cilla’s her heart started to hammer again. “You’ve kept me from hurting myself more than once now and” – she glanced aside, not wanting him to see the effect he had on her – “you stood up for me against Uncle Mac when he laughed about the devil face I saw.”
She looked back at him, challenging. “The face did look real. I don’t know why I’m telling you this, but I just saw two other ghosts. They were a Viking couple in a dark little room off one of the stair landings.
“Before I came here, they would’ve frightened me.” She flipped back her hair, kept her chin raised. “Now I just felt sorry for them. I could feel their anguish – it steeped the air around them. Even so, it was a shock to see them.”
She still felt hollow inside, their obvious plight driving home the pointlessness of falling in love with a ghost.
“They were not happy, I could tell.” She hesitated, then shrugged. “It would seem Dunroamin attracts ghosts. Maybe they’re everywhere, even out on Uncle Mac’s moors.”
Holding his gaze, she waited, not sure what he’d say.
He surprised her by closing the distance between them in several long strides and wrapping his arms around her, pulling her close against him.
“Sweet lass.” He drew her head to his chest. “I’ll no’ deny that restless ones abound here. Sutherland draws such souls, so I’m no’ surprised real Viking ghosts would visit Dunroamin. They’ll have heard about the troubles and be upset by the furor, distressed by unsavory men impersonating them.
“Now, your devil face...” He tightened his arms around her, splaying his hands over her hips, his grip firm.
“Such creatures are another reason I’m here.” He pulled back to look at her, his tone serious. “The fiend was surely looking for me, no’ you. There’s no reason for you to fear and I doubt you’ll see the like again. Indeed, I’ll make certain of it.”
“How can you?”
“You’ll have to trust me.” He pulled her close again, nuzzled his cheek against her hair. “I ken why they’re here and can keep them at bay.”
“The devil?” Cilla’s chest went hot and tight, as if a giant hand had swooped down out of nowhere to squeeze the breath from her. “I didn’t want to believe it. I can handle ghosts. They-”
She broke off, embarrassment sweeping her.
“Dinnae feel bad, sweeting.” He stroked her back, his touch as welcome and warming as his rich, honeyed burr. “I’m no’ offended. ‘Tis what I am, after all. Naught can change that. And I’ll no’ have you worrying o’er things you shouldn’t even know about.”
Releasing her, he went to the hearth, resting one arm on the mantel. “As for the rest” – he gave her such an intense look that her heart caught – “my other reason for being here, I’ll have you know that I am no’ a skirt-chaser.”
“I didn’t say…” Cilla let the words tail off, her face flaming. “Oh, all right,” she finally admitted. “I did think so. How could I not?”
“Indeed.” He smiled.
Another of his slow and easy, curl-all-through-a-girl smiles that made her forget about red devil faces, Viking ghosts, and just about everything else except the sweet golden warmth spooling inside her.
It was a sensation that didn’t have anything to do with her glimpse beneath his kilt and everything to do with the hard, steady thumping of her heart. The way the look in his eyes weakened her knees and set off butterflies in her belly.
She was falling in love with him.
“If you’d hear the truth,” he said, something in his expression hinting that he knew, “I did tell your uncle that I knew ‘thousands of Ameri-cain women’ who would show interest in his peat. Aye, I’ve met those women. Though I’m sure they ne’er noticed me. I just happened to be where they were. So, of course, I heard them speaking.”
“Where did you meet them then?”
“I have friends, see you? Ghostdom can get lonely and so we visit each other. Some of my oldest companions frequent Ravenscraig Castle near Oban. Its laird, Alex, is friendly toward us and so we often meet there.”
Cilla’s ears perked. She’d heard of Ravenscraig. “And the Americans?”
“They also visit the castle.” He looked at her, his gaze level, his tone so earnest she had to believe him.
“One of Ravenscraig Castle’s employees picked up at the Glasgow airport,” she told him, remembering the friendly young Highlander with his shock of red hair. “His name was Malcolm and he drove me to Lairg, where Uncle Mac met us.”
“I am no’ surprised.” He gave her a little smile, just a slight tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Ameri-cains are aye greeted warmly by the folk at Ravenscraig. The Ravenscraig married an Ameri-cain. They turned the estate into a hotel and also run a place called One Cairn Village on the castle grounds. Every summer, Ameri-cains gather there in great numbers to research their-”
“Roots,” Cilla finished, the mundane subject helping her gather her wits. “You mean genealogists. There are lots of Americans into their ancestry, but the ones of Scottish descent are the most dedicated.”
He shrugged. “Whate’er they are, they come in droves. When they’re here, they blether on, praising everything they love about Scotland. The castles and our mist and hills to our pipes, kilts, and accents, and, aye, our peat smoke.”
Pushing away from the hearth, he started pacing. “Many of the visiting Ameri-cains mentioned Irish peat, claiming they procured it using the Internet, something I’ve heard of but wouldn’t want to try and explain. The peat selling sounded like a venture that might benefit your uncle. Dunroamin’s peat is of exceptional quality.”
“Uncle Mac thinks so.” Cilla was beginning to understand. “Obviously, he liked the idea.”
“And well he should. I suspect he’ll do fine with such an undertaking.” He paused, a shadow crossing his face. “At the least, it’s worth a try. It would be a shame if he lost Dunroamin. He holds his home dear.”
“And your home? Seagrave?” Cilla didn’t care for his tone, the way his eyes clouded. “You never speak-”
He made a dismissive gesture. “Seagrave is no more.”
Cilla frowned, his tone twisting her heart. “I don’t understand. Aunt Birdie said-”
“I heard.” He went to the windows. “The walls of my home still stand, it is true. She also guessed the location rightly. The ruins are on Scotland’s northeast coast, near the fine city of Aberdeen. Since my time, and much closer by, a small fishing village thrives not far from Seagrave’s cliffs.
“Have you been back?”
“To Seagrave?” He rested a hand against the arch of one of the windows and looked out into the rain. “I glimpsed the fishing village from a distance once. It looked a fair place. But the shell that remains of Seagrave is no’ the home I knew. I’ve no desire to return.”
“When were you last there? Maybe now-”
“Leave be, lass.” He turned and went back to the hearth where he stood staring at the fire. “Since my time new wings were added, great monstrous things. Walls that had stood for centuries have been refaced and are no longer recognizable. Leastways no’ to me.”
“I am
sorry.” She was.
She wanted to help him, to say or do something to ease the pain that surely weighed on his heart. But words seemed hollow, and who could change the ravages of time? Or each through the impenetrable veil that stood between them.
She didn’t know much about such things, but she was sure his ability to manifest and speak with her – to touch, and visit her – was the extent of reality.
A great gift, to be sure.
But not powerful enough to undo the past.
***
“It must be hard to have lost your home.” Cilla’s words reached Hardwick from across the room, her understanding balm to his soul. “I can’t imagine the shock of seeing it so destroyed.”
“So it was, aye.” He kept his gaze on the hearth fire, his mind going back to the day Bran alerted him to the damage. “When I learned of it, my stomach churned for months. It was a bad time.”
“I can see why you don’t want to return.” Cilla was at his side then, touching his plaid with light, tentative fingers.
He tensed, that one gentle caress spearing straight to his heart. It’d been too long, perhaps never, that a woman had touched him in kindness.
Lust, aye.
He’d had more than his fill of uninhibited, base urges. All thrashing limbs and panted cries, the crazed, searing heat that can consume a man until his release douses the flames, leaving him emptier than before.
He looked at Cilla, knowing she’d never leave him drained except in the sweetest of ways.
She’d fill a man’s soul with gladness, giving him the kind of joy and satisfaction that lasted longer than a mere coupling, the slaking of carnal needs.
Pleasures he’d never know, and wished he didn’t want so fiercely.
“I’m sorry I asked.” She slipped her hand beneath the tartan swath of his plaid, her fingers seeking, so welcome and warm against his chest. “Uncle Mac really likes you,” she said, sounding so pleased. “And you seem happy here, so why don’t you just stay at Dunroamin?”
Hardwick’s blood iced. “Because...”
He shut his eyes and drew a sharp breath. He’d love to stay at Dunroamin. Especially with her at his side, were such a miracle possible. But he couldn’t linger anywhere on this earthly plane.
