Castles, Kilts and Caresses

by Carmen Caine

  Cilla frowned and reached for his hand, twining their fingers before he could pull away. “You should have stayed in bed.” She leaned close, dropping her voice. “Uncle Mac said you could have the room as long you needed. He thinks you’re ill from walking his moors at night, believes you took a chill. He doesn’t know that it’s-”

  “The Dark One’s warning taste of what awaits me when my time runs out?” Now he did look at her, his dark eyes glinting in the candlelight. His tone held a tinge of bitterness. “And I’ve no’ been using Mac’s kindly proffered quarters to sleep. I’ve been out on the moors with my lads every e’en. We’re still looking for the Viking ghosties.”

  “Maybe there aren’t any?”

  “Ach, there’s something about, for sure.” He waited as Honoria bustled past offering scones and shortbread. “Whoe’er they are, they’ve been lying low. But we’re on to them. As for me” – he dutifully took a piece of shortbread when the housekeeper passed by a second time – “the queasiness or whate’er it is the Dark One inflicted on me will pass. It takes more than a spell of dizziness to slow down a Highlander.”

  His gaze flicked to a tartan-covered wing chair not far from where they sat. “I wouldn’t have missed tonight’s performance for all the haggis in Scotland.”

  For one brief moment, his face lightened and he looked just as devilishly roguish as before his disappointing visit to the Dark One. Certainly as toe-curlingly handsome, not that now was the time to let her mind wander in that direction.

  So she smoothed her skirt and, for the sake of her aunt and uncle, attempted to feign appreciation in the evening’s entertainment.

  For sure, Wee Hughie was a showman.

  His kilt swishing smartly, he paced in front of the fireplace, his chest swelled and his shoulders proud. “I’ve the blood of a thousand kings in my veins,” he boasted, pausing for an effective moment. “My lineage dates back over two thousand years. From the legendary Celtic High King, Conn of the Hundred Battles, reaching to third-century Ireland and the days of the Sidhe, the famed Tuatha De Danann, to” – he cleared his throat meaningfully – “our great warrior king, Robert the Bruce, and many more.”

  Picking up his book, Royal Roots, he raised the tome high, holding it round for all to see. “Now, with the help of my book or my freelance researching services, you, too, can uncover the truth of your own ancestral story. Perhaps you will find the likes of great kings and nobles. As I’ve done for countless satisfied clients, I can take you step by step through the process, showing you-”

  A wild skirl of pipes ripped through the library, the Celtic blast shaking the walls and rattling teacups.

  “Aaaaagh!” Wee Hughie lurched backward, arms wheeling as the pipe tune – “Paddy’s Leather Breeches” – blared again, even louder than before.

  “Blazing heather!” Honoria jumped, dropping the tray of scones and shortbread.

  Colonel Darling waved his pipe in the air. “It’s that bloody pterodactyl! Mark my words.”

  “Pterodactyl schmocktyl! That’s my tune!” Uncle Mac laughed, grinning ear to ear.

  Next to Cilla, Hardwick pretended not to notice the clamor.

  And in the tartan-covered wing chair nearby, a big burly Highlander with a shock of auburn hair and a bushy beard slapped his kilted thigh and nearly convulsed with laughter.

  Looking their way, he grinned and nodded in greeting. Then, as the tune skirled on, getting louder by the minute, he started tapping his foot. Still beaming, he lifted his hands to mimic the motions of a piper’s lively fingers.

  Cilla stared at him. Her jaw slipped.

  Heart pounding, she whipped around to face Hardwick. He had the good grace to look a touch guilty.

  “I know him!” She grabbed his arm, squeezing. “He’s the ghost- … er … the man who appeared so suddenly before me in the corridor when I first arrived.”

  As if to confirm it, the big Highlander jumped to his feet and cut her a jaunty bow.

  “Bran of Barra, my lady.” He touched two fingers to his temple in salute. “The MacNeil of MacNeil, no less.”

  “Cilla Swanner.” She replied without thinking. “Yardley, Pennsylvania.”

  “Another fair Ameri-cain!” He grinned, looking most pleased with his observation. He flashed a bold glance at Hardwick. “Can it get any better, my friend? Nae” - he slapped his thigh again – “I say it cannae!”

  Cilla blinked, not understanding their exchange.

  She did look back and forth between the two, vaguely aware of Uncle Mac and Colonel Darling dashing about the library peeking under chairs and behind curtains as they searched for the source of the music.

  At last she remembered something that had been niggling at her. She nudged Hardwick. “Uncle Mac only has the armory rigged with that tune. It’s timed to start at the end of his afternoon naps.”

  She raised her voice above the screaming pipes. “What’s playing is the pipe CD Aunt Birdie keeps in her car.”

  “Or not.” Hardwick’s gaze slid to his friend.

  Sitting again, Bran of Barra had his legs stretched out comfortably on the wing chair’s ottoman, and his arms crossed over his broad, plaid-draped chest.

  “What do you mean ‘or not?’” Cilla tugged on Hardwick’s arm.

  He flicked a speck of lint off his kilt. Then he aimed a telling glance at Wee Hughie.

  “It could be that Bran wished to enliven the evening.” He couldn’t quite keep his lips from twitching. “His humor has been known to run away with him.”

  “And yours?” She poked him. “Don’t tell me you didn’t have a hand in it.”

  “Ach, well…” He didn’t deny it. “Bran and the lads have been working hard out on the moors. They deserved a bit o’ levity.”

  Her eyes rounded. “They?”

  He looked at her. “You don’t really think that’s your aunt’s pipe CD playing so robustly, or do you?”

  “More ghosts?” Cilla glanced about, seeing none.

  “Och, you willnae be seeing them.” He slid an arm around her, pulling her close. “Some of the lads are a bit shy about showing themselves, but there’s a mean piper or two amongst them. Bran and I gave them the evening off from Mac’s peat fields to do a spot of playing here.”

  “To spoil Wee Hughie’s presentation?” Cilla’s own lips quirked.

  “His Kilt Inspectors will make it up to him.” He pulled her closer, dropped a kiss to her brow. “I’ll have the lads wind down in a beat. It’s about time they head back out on patrol anyway. The scent of men guising themselves as Vikings has been heavy on the air of late. Could be we’re closing in on the dastards.”

  Twisting round, he jerked a nod at the heavy red plaid drapes that framed the library’s corner windows.

  “Paddy’s Leather Breeches” faded at once.

  And although Cilla hadn’t seen them, she felt a cold air current sweep by as they departed.

  “They’re gone?” She snuggled against Hardwick, amazed as always by his warmth and rock-hard solidity.

  “Aye, they’re away now.” He was watching Wee Hughie again, studying the man with narrowed eyes. “Bran and I are the only ghosts left standing, so to speak.”

  Cilla bit back a sigh.

  Although his moods had been dark as thunder since returning from the Dark One, he’d never seemed less ghostly. She closed her eyes for a moment, memories of every minute they’d had together, assailing her from all sides. She wanted to capture every one of them, to make more, and always be where she was right now: with the man she loved above all else.

  Even her own life, truth be told.

  Heaven help her when the time came to say goodbye.

  Not wanting to think about how their farewell would split her, she took a deep breath and steeled herself. Then she sat up straighter and followed Hardwick’s gaze, hoping Wee Hughie’s lecture would take her mind off of how swiftly the summer was passing.

  Unfortunately, in following Hardwick’s gaze, her own snagged o
n a shadow in the corner behind the library’s black marble fireplace

  Or, more aptly, two shadows.

  Over there was Gudrid, the tall and stately blond Viking ghost whose long, thick braid and rich, deep red-purple and blue clothing Cilla instantly recognized. She stood with the fair-haired giant of a helmed Norse warrior she knew went by the name of Sea-Strider.

  Cilla stared at the ghostly pair, her pulse kicking into overdrive. The roar of her blood in her ears almost drowned out Wee Hughie’s droning voice.

  The couple looked right at her, and she knew instinctively that no one else saw them. She flashed a glance at Hardwick and, sure enough, he didn’t seem to notice them.

  Turning back to the couple, Cilla knew they had a very good reason for being here. She just wished she could figure it out this time.

  It wasn’t easy.

  Sea-Strider stood unmoving as ever, a good pace behind his blond-braided woman. Though not exactly frowning, his face was etched in hard, solemn lines. And as he scanned the ranks of those sitting about Dunroamin’s candlelit library, he held fast to his large painted shield and nine-foot spear.

  Cilla’s chest tightened, the breath she’d been about to exhale lodging in her throat. She fisted her hands in her lap, willing the ghosts to reveal their message. But Gudrid’s lips weren’t moving, though her eyes looked sad and beseeching.

  Sea-Strider seemed to have turned his attention on Wee Hughie, his stare steady and intense.

  “My repertoire of Scottish tales is rich and vast,” the Highland Storyweaver was saying, lifting his voice to fill the library. “Having enjoyed a sampling of them, perhaps you have a special theme you’d like me to expound on? A query about a clan ancestor?”

  He looked around, one brow arching in expectation.

  When no one spoke, he lifted a hand to his mouth and coughed behind it. “If there are no questions, I’ll end the evening by apologizing for having to postpone my talk. It was kind of the laird” – he gave Uncle Mac a nod – “not to complain that I couldn’t hold the tea talk a few weeks ago as originally planned.”

  “Tell them why.” One of his Aussies leaned forward, gushing. “Maybe they don’t know…”

  The expressions on the faces of the two Norse ghosts sharpened.

  They drifted nearer.

  “I assumed they did know.” Wee Hughie’s back straightened. “All the newspapers in northern Scotland carried the news.”

  “Harrumph!” Uncle Mac swelled his chest. “I know everything that goes on in these hills.”

  Wee Hughie took the bait. “Then you’ll have heard that on the evening I was to speak here, I was called to Balnakeil.” He rummaged in a green satchel on one of the book tables, producing a shiny mason’s trowel. “I was there to accept this Marshalltown Archaeology Trowel in honor of the attention several of my talks brought to the Viking burial at Balnakeil Bay.”

  Stepping closer to the audience, he held out the trowel for their inspection. He took care to display the pointy, flat-bladed tool so that everyone could see HIGHLAND STORYWEAVER etched on the steel.

  Hardwick sat forward, his gaze on the trowel.

  He shot a glance at his friend, Bran. But the jovial Highlander didn’t notice. His attention, too, appeared riveted on Wee Hughie.

  Oblivious to their scrutiny, Wee Hughie droned on. “The tourist numbers at Balnakeil have increased more than three-fold since I’ve educated the public to the wealth of Viking burials and ruins along our northern coasts.”

  He paused, his voice taking on a boastful tone. “Indeed, I’ll soon be journeying to Shetland to inspect a Viking-related find there. The site is on St. Ninian’s Isle. It’s a lovely place, but it’s also a site overlooked by many.”

  “Eh? And you’re for changing all that?” Uncle Mac eyed him from beneath down-drawn brows. “There’s some that appreciate left-alone places, just!”

  Wee Hughie reddened.

  “The people of Shetland have asked me to help them attract visitors.” He looked round, as if expecting applause. “The site was first discovered in the 1950s. It will be a privilege to alert the public to-”

  “What’s a Viking-related find?” The question leapt off Cilla’s tongue before she realized she’d formed it.

  Across the room, the blond-braided woman and her Sea-Strider nodded significantly.

  Then they joined hands, smiling. Their expressions lighter, they held Cilla’s gaze, looking as if a great burden had been lifted from their shoulders.

  In a wink, they vanished.

  Chills swept down Cilla’s spine. She blinked and moistened her lips, certain now that the Viking pair were so-called messenger ghosts. The kind that appear again and again until someone understands what’s burdening them and their unfinished earthly business is resolved.

  At the front of the library, Wee Hughie drew a breath for his answer. “A Viking-related find,” he explained, setting down his trowel, “is an archeological site that isn’t necessarily of Viking origin but that has been influenced by them in some way.”

  “Such as?” Cilla sat forward, compelled to probe. In her mind she could still see the Norse pair watching her, their smiles and nods encouraging her. “I’d like an example.”

  Wee Hughie rolled his shoulders, eager to oblige. “The Balnakeil burial, a youth’s grave, is a clear-cut Viking archeological site. It dates to the ninth or tenth century, when the Norse frequently raided our coasts. The grave goods found with the lad were typical Viking wares.”

  He took a glass of water off the table, draining it. “The St. Ninian’s site in Shetland is different,” he continued, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “The ruins there are of an early Celtic church and, as such, are worthy of any visitor’s time. What makes St. Ninian’s unique is the spectacular hoard of Pictish treasure that was discovered beneath a stone slab in the chapel grounds.”

  “Buried treasure?” Cilla’s eyes widened. She could almost see Gudrid and Sea-Strider beaming.

  Beside her, Hardwick swore.

  He shot a terse look at Bran, and made a jerky gesture with his clenched fist.

  “Aye, you could say buried treasure.” Wee Hughie basked in the attention. “St. Ninian’s gave up one of the most fabulous stashes of Celtic silver ever to be found in the British Isles. A boy discovered the hoard, uncovering a wooden box brimming with silver bowls and brooches, sword hilts and trappings, pins, spoons, and innumerable objects yet to be identified, all more dear than a king’s ransom.”

  “And the Vikings?” Cilla didn’t turn her head, but knew without looking that Hardwick was scowling. “What did they have to do with it?”

  “Everything.” Wee Hughie preened. “Without them, the treasure would never have lain hidden for hundreds of years.”

  Cilla darted a glance to where the Viking pair had stood, her heart thumping.

  She looked back at Wee Hughie. “How so?”

  “It’s like this…” He raised a learned finger. “The hoard is believed to have been buried in the mid-ninth century, a time when Viking raids were particularly ferocious. Many scholars support the theory that when Viking sails were spotted on the horizon, the treasure was buried to avoid detection.”

  Cilla nodded, sure she was on to something.

  Hardwick was still grumbling. Angry Gaelic words that sounded like curses.

  “There are” - Wee Hughie accepted a fresh glass of water from Honoria – “other possibilities, including that the Vikings themselves might have buried the hoard, hoping to keep looted goods safe from other raiders.”

  Cilla let out a breath. “So that’s why you called it a Viking-related site.”

  “Exactly.” Wee Hughie nodded. “Such sites abound in Scotland. The possibility of happening across such a treasure, hidden by peat or sand dunes for centuries, is what makes archeology so exciting.”

  It was then that Cilla noticed Hardwick and Bran were gone.

  Shooting to her feet, she glanced round, Vikings and Wee Hughie fo
rgotten. Hardwick had warned that the Dark One might claim him any moment. If he’d been zapped away now, while she’d been talking about buried treasure to a man who called himself the Highland Storyweaver, she’d never forgive herself.

  “He went that way, dear.” Flora Duthie indicated the open library door.

  Cilla started at the tiny woman’s words, ashamed she’d almost plowed right into her.

  Unfazed, Flora caned her way nearer, a plate holding two large jam-and-cream-filled scones clutched in her free hand. “I saw him go past when I fetched my tea scones.”

  “Thank you.” Cilla turned toward the door.

  Flora thrust out her cane, blocking her path. “Have a care, child,” she tsked, shaking her head. “He looked mighty angry, he did.”

  “I can handle him.” Cilla smiled reassurance as the old woman lowered her cane. “It’s not me he’s mad at.”

  Ignoring her aunt and uncle’s glances, she pushed her way through the Kilt Inspectors who were now gathering around their hero’s book table, fawning and squealing.

  They could have their red-cheeked raconteur.

  She had to find Hardwick.

  She paused outside the library door, peering both ways down the long and dim corridor. Retreating footsteps, rapid and masculine, gave a clue from the shadows to her left. She raced down the passageway, but Hardwick was nowhere to be seen.

  Hurrying out the castle’s massive front door, she dashed down the steps to the graveled drive and gardens. Her gaze darting everywhere, she sprinted across the wet lawn, making for the moorland and the dark edge of Uncle Mac’s peat fields.

  She’d only covered a few yards before Hardwick stepped out from behind a thicket of dripping rhododendrons.

  “Whoa, lassie.” He grabbed her arm, pulling her roughly against his chest. “You’re no’ going anywhere.”

  “I thought the Dark One had taken you.” She clung to him, slinging her arms around his neck and thrusting her fingers into his hair, holding tight. “The Viking pair, the ghosts I saw, were there, in the library. When you disappeared, I thought they’d come to warn me that your time here was over.”

  His brows shot upward. “The Viking pair? Why didn’t you tell me?”