by Carmen Caine
Hardwick humphed again, not believing his friend’s excuse.
Bran jutted his chin. “Could be I was worried about you.”
“Worried about me?”
“So I was.” Bran’s tone took on an edge of belligerence. “The gods forgive you for doubting me. We are friends, you know. I aye stand by my allies.”
This time it was Hardwick who looked down at his feet.
Or he would have if he hadn’t caught himself fast enough. What he couldn’t prevent was the way his chest tightened on his friend’s admission.
As he’d already noted, since meeting Cilla, he’d grown way too soft-hearted.
So he summoned his most indifferent mien and pretended to adjust his plaid’s gem-studded shoulder brooch. “I’ve no need of someone to look o’er me.”
“Say you!” Bran grinned. “But no matter,” he added as quickly. “Truth is, I also returned because the feasting in my hall bored me. I thought I’d do a bit of scouting on Mac’s moorland. Maybe see if I saw any signs of his Viking ghosties before my lads arrive.”
Hardwick cocked a brow. “Did you see them?”
Bran stroked his beard. “If I had, you can be sure I’d still be busy with them.” He made a few flourishes with his hand as if wielding a sword. “‘Tis overlong since I’ve bloodied my fists, no’ to mention swing my blade in earnest.”
“So after you didn’t meet up with Mac’s Norsemen, you came here to tell me?”
“Sakes, no!” Bran swelled his chest. “I would have returned to Barra if that was all of it. You wouldn’t have seen me again until I came back with my men.”
“Then why are you here?”
“Because I found something.”
“Indeed?”
“Aye, and have a good look at it!” Bran held out a hand, wriggling his fingers to produce a shovel-like tool, its pointy head shiny and flat-bladed. “There’s more where this came from. A whole cache of these, tucked in a wicker basket hidden in a fold of peat.”
Hardwick frowned. “How many?”
Bran shrugged. “A good dozen, maybe more.”
“In Mac’s peat fields?”
“So I said, just.” Bran nodded again, his face earnest. “The basket was deliberately hidden. I’d bet my beard on it.”
Hardwick reached for the tool, examining it. Tiny words were inscribed on the steel of its triangular-shaped blade: MARSHALLTOWN COMPANY.
A term that made little sense, but for the cold prickles it brought to the back of his neck.
He curled his fingers around the tool’s wooden handle and looked at Bran. “Have you e’er heard of such a workman’s mark as this?”
Bran shook his head. “No’ that I can recall, though the wee shovel does look familiar.”
Hardwick nodded sagely.
He, too, had seen such a tool before. It was just a matter of time until he remembered.
When he did, he was sure, the Marshalltown Company and their tools would lead them a step closer to solving Mac’s problems.
He felt it in his bones.
Just as he knew that whoever had hid the basket out on the moors would soon have hell to pay.
He’d see to it personally.
Chapter Thirteen
OFFICIAL KILT INSPECTOR
Emblazoned in bright red satin across the front of an Australian woman’s royal blue jacket, the words jumped at Cilla each time she looked out at the expectant faces staring back at her from the small audience of her first Dunroamin-held broken china jewelry-making class.
A fan of Wee Hughie MacSporran, the woman – Elizabeth, according to the name stitched in large, equally scarlet letters on the back of her jacket – clearly wasn’t interested in the little piles of colorful broken china lining the worktable set up in Dunroamin’s vaulted basement.
The woman’s gaze kept sliding elsewhere.
Namely to the stairs, where Hardwick stood on the bottom step, his arms folded as he leaned against the wall, watching the proceedings.
Light from a mock medieval torch streamed down from higher up in the stair tower, illuminating him in all his kilted magnificence. Soft and flickering, the fake torchlight drew attention to the sheen of his silky black hair and the width of his powerful shoulders. His cute knees and attractive, manly calves also caught the eye.
His hallmark sandalwood scent wafted on the air.
Above all, the light spilled across his kilt. Cilla tried not to notice.
Aussie Elizabeth looked nowhere else.
The woman was an annoyance Cilla didn’t need, especially since she hadn’t seen Hardwick for over a week. She’d spent seven sleepless nights wondering if he’d appear out of the darkness, towering above her bed and ready to ravish her. As the hours ticked by, she’d tossed and turned, wishing he would.
Knowing he’d spent the time prowling Uncle Mac’s peat fields didn’t help, either. Sure, she knew he was more than able to make short work of whoever was slinking about the moors, pretending to be Viking ghosts. But she also knew that there were other things spooking about Dunroamin.
And those things worried her.
He’d meant to reassure her when he’d sided with her about the devil face. His rallying had touched her deeply. But knowing that he didn’t doubt the existence of such nightmare creatures was unsettling.
The devil face hadn’t made a return sweep past her bedroom window, but she feared what would happen if Hardwick encountered the fiend in the small hours on the moors.
She shuddered, trying to disguise her shiver by fiddling with her broken china tools. She shuffled them about on the worktable, doing her best to look busy.
As if she weren’t concerned about devils and hell hags. Much better to appear cool and calm, as if just breathing Hardwick’s medieval-y sandalwood scent wasn’t making her all hot and bothered.
Which, of course, it was.
No man should smell so delicious.
As for how he looked…
She slid another glance his way, drawing a quick breath when he flashed her one of his dazzling smiles. Plain and simple, he was beautiful, but with a bold roguishness no modern day man could begin to claim.
Before she could away, his dark gaze flicked over her, reminding her that, for whatever reason, he found her equally appealing. It was a thought that made her pulse leap and, even now, unleashed a stir of flutters deep in her belly.
He was just too big and handsome.
He was definitely too kilted.
That he’d returned now was just her luck. This was a time when her composure was crucial and – damn it all – she’d chosen to give her workshop in Dunroamin’s basement. Used regularly as a workstation, the vaulted undercroft was the most brightly lit area of the castle.
The high-powered spotlights trained on her worktable shone brightly on her, surely picking out the dark circles and puffiness beneath her eyes. Not to mention her little tummy roll that made it just a tad difficult to fasten the button at the top of her pants zipper.
She’d clearly eaten too much shortbread since arriving in Scotland.
Aussie Elizabeth appeared to have eaten nothing at all since leaving Sydney.
Cilla frowned.
If Ms. Official Kilt Inspector didn’t soon stop ogling Hardwick – or cease wetting her wine-red lips – she’d find herself reimbursed for the cost of the evening’s creative workshop.
Tempted to give her a refund immediately, Cilla blew out a breath. However hard it was to focus, she couldn’t allow jealousy to ruin her presentation. Too much depended on its success; her goal being to help Dunroamin. So she stood straighter and forced a smile, somehow managing to appear at ease.
“I’ve always loved old things,” she began, tightening her fingers around the mosaic nippers in her hand. “Treasures bursting with character and history, but perhaps in need of a bit of whimsy and imagination on your part if, like me, you’d enjoy bringing them back to life.”
Aussie Elizabeth yawned.
In the front row, Colonel Darli
ng puffed on his pipe.
Hardwick’s stare narrowed on her. She could feel it without looking. It was one of those slow, heavy-lidded stares that roamed her body, leaving behind a sizzling trail of heat that made it almost impossible to stand still.
She didn’t dare glance at him now. Her knees would weaken and she’d forget everything she meant to say.
Flustered, she put down the nippers and picked up a box of especially lovely bits of porcelain. She angled it so that her audience could see the tiny pieces, hoping they’d keep their attention on the broken china and not notice how her cheeks were surely flaming.
Hardwick was trying to tell her something with his hot, dampen-her-panties stare, and she had a good idea what it was. She might not have ever experienced the wild, dizzying kind of raw, untamed sex that supposedly shook hills and made the world stop spinning, but she’d read enough romance novels and seen enough films to recognize Hardwick’s message.
Something had happened.
Some difference that – dear heavens – meant he was going to make love to her.
She knew it instinctively and the thought electrified her. Unable to resist, she did slant a quick look at him and immediately wished she hadn’t because as soon as their eyes met, he lowered his gaze to move slowly down and then up her thighs, finally settling just there where she’d swear she could feel the stirring touch of his expertly stroking fingers.
“Oh!” She disguised her gasp as a cough.
His eyes went even darker and one corner of his mouth lifted in a smile. He nodded ever so slightly, his gaze lingering just where it shouldn’t.
I want you, Cilla lass.
The words hushed past her ear; his beautiful Scottish voice so deep and rich, and pitched so that no one else could hear. Noticing her discomfort, he arched a knowing brow. His barely there smile turned wicked.
Cilla recognized its portent and her tingly shivers sped over her skin, even curling her toes.
I go after what I want, sweet. And I dinnae give up until I have it.
His gaze was still locked on hers; the promise in his words making her heart jump.
Giving herself a shake, she looked down at the box of broken china in her hands. Each piece gleamed in the stark lighting. Most were irregularly shaped and showed antique patterns of floral design, the colors soft and muted.
She tightened her grip on the box, willing the blaze between her legs to recede by focusing on the porcelain. Bolder shards appeared of American origin. Vibrant reds, blues, and yellows marked them as having started their career as much-sought-after Fiestaware. Other, more fragile pieces proved edged with finest gold.
Violet Manyweathers leaned forward, her gaze on the box. “You’re after helping us to make jewelry with these wee bits of china?”
“Pah!” Colonel Darling shot her a glance. “Of course she is! Why do you think we’re sitting here? Though” – he waved the stem end of his pipe at the worktable – “unlike the rest of you, I’m only here to observe.”
Violet dismissed him with a flip of her age-spotted hand.
“Speak for yourself,” she quipped, eyeing a bloodred square of the dinnerware. “I might be for having a new pendant.”
“And you can.” Relieved to get her mind on something else, Cilla made a mental note to be sure Violet received the bit of red Fiestaware. “I’ll help you with every step.”
Violet sat back, looking pleased.
The colonel stuck his pipe in his mouth and returned to puffing.
Cilla cleared her throat. “Before we begin, you must understand one thing. These bits and pieces of cracked china are much more than that. They are broken beauties.” She glanced around, her heart warming to a beloved theme. “Small shards of onetime cups and saucers, dessert plates, and anything else that was once well-loved and through no fault of its own, became damaged.”
A matronly woman raised a hand in the back row. “How did you become interested in making such jewelry?”
“Long before I actually started.” Cilla looked her way, remembering Aunt Birdie introducing her as the owner of Tongue’s hair salon. “When I was about six or seven, I had a beautiful tea set. It was tiny, the pieces more doll-sized than for a child. Although my mother gave it to me, the set once belonged to my great-grandmother.”
She trailed a fingertip across the china pieces. “The tea set was a lovely antique bisque shade decorated with pink and mauve roses and rosebuds. If I recall correctly, there were also little swirls of delicate green leaves. Very much like this…”
Looking down, she sorted through the box of china bits until she found a similar piece. She held it up for the audience’s examination.
A round of appreciative oohs and aahs rewarded her efforts.
“You must’ve been a good child.” Flora Duthie’s twittering voice rose from the first row. “I never allowed my girls to play with anything so fragile.”
“Oh, my mother didn’t either.” Cilla smiled, remembering. “The tea set was for looking, not playing. It was kept behind the glass doors of a curio cabinet and” – she paused, trying to catch everyone’s eye – “I found the pull of the miniature cups and saucers irresistible.”
I find you irresistible.
Hardwick’s words slid past her ear again. Deep, burred, and so honey-rich smooth she almost forgot to breathe. Shivery heat consumed her anew and she set down the box of china pieces. She didn’t dare look at him. She was sure he knew what his sexy Highland voice did to her.
What he didn’t know was how desperately she wanted to do the same to him.
But it’d been a while since she’d heard of anyone swooning over an American accent.
If ever.
She bit her lip, his tingle-stirring burr still spooling through her. Heaven forbid if he started his slow, heated, body-roaming stare magic again.
Half wishing he would, she took a steadying breath. “One day when my mother was out, I climbed onto a chair and tried to take the tea set from its shelf. I slipped, grabbing hold of the curio cabinet’s glass shelf as I fell.”
“Ach, dearie me!” A bespectacled woman in the second row gasped loudly.
Colonel Darling twisted around to glare at her. He also muttered something about interruptions, clearly excluding himself.
“Needless to say” – Cilla hoped her voice only sounded breathless to her - “I pulled down the entire curio cabinet. It landed on top of me, leaving scars I bear to this day. Worst of all, the mishap shattered my tea set.”
A chorus of sympathy answered her.
She rested a hand on the worktable. “I was bereft. Trying everything, I begged my mother to let me fix it. She wouldn’t allow me to glue back the broken pieces, claiming the tea set was ruined.”
“But you saw it differently.” The Tongue hair salon owner spoke up again. “You told her you wanted to make jewelry out of the smashed porcelain?”
Cilla smiled. “Not quite, but almost. I was just a child, remember. The experience stayed with me, giving me my later passion for taking something that’s been broken and turning it into something beautiful again.”
On the words, a swirl of sandalwood slid around her, almost a caress. Tender this time, but equally potent. As if he knew she’d thought of him as she’d said the words.
She did mean to unbreak him, make him whole again.
In the audience, Aussie Elizabeth stirred in her chair. Her red lips went pouty and her gaze - still on Hardwick – turned come-get-me seductive.
Cilla frowned at her.
The Aussie shifted again, wittingly or unwittingly revealing that she’d neglected to wear panties beneath her short, hip-hugging skirt. Cilla nearly dropped the broken china link bracelet she’d just picked up, intending to pass it around as an example of her style.
Ms. Official Kilt Inspector's style was bare.
Cilla’s jaw slipped. Her fingers tightened on the bracelet until its lobster claw clasp pinched her thumb.
Aussie Elizabeth stopped squirming. Bu
t she’d settled in such a way as to keep her charms exposed.
“Here’s a seat if you’re joining us.” She patted the empty chair beside her, her gaze on a spot just past Cilla’s shoulder.
Hardwick!
Cilla’s breath caught. He’d moved to stand right behind her. His sexy sandalwood scent swept around her, bold and possessive. She swallowed hard, her heart racing as another, less welcome emotion jabbed green-tinged needles into her most vulnerable places.
From his new vantage point, Hardwick’s view of the attractive Aussie’s wiles was as good as her own. Perhaps even better, as, being a man, he wouldn’t look away as she had.
It was a thought that sent bolts of white-hot fury whipping through her.
Setting down the pretty little sterling silver and broken china link bracelet, she sucked in a hot breath. She also hoped the word jealous wasn’t stamped in bright, flaming letters across her forehead.
Something told her it was.
“There’s a name for such women, but I’ll no’ speak it in your presence.” Hardwick stepped closer, his deep voice low. “You are worth a thousand of her ilk, more even.”
His praise sent the sweetest warmth spilling through her. No man had ever paid her such a fierce compliment. She felt entirely unworthy, but that didn’t stop his words from affecting her. She was sure they’d also put fresh color on her face, but she didn’t care.
All that mattered was Hardwick.
***
No man would dare call Hardwick a monk. But the brazen wench in the front row of Cilla’s workshop participants left him that cold. He did fix her with a carefully neutral stare, her display not stirring him a whit.
Nor could anything under the stars persuade him to claim the empty seat she kept patting.
“I thank you, lady,” he offered, inclining his head. “But like the colonel here” – he glanced at the man – “I am only here to observe. Miss Swanner and her porcelain pieces, mind.”
The tart’s legs snapped shut. “And I am here to make a Celtic brooch for the Highland Storyweaver.” She sat up straighter, assuming a proprietary air. “Something Robert the Bruce-ish is what I have in mind. Wee Hughie is his grandson, eighteen generations removed.”
