Castles, Kilts and Caresses

by Carmen Caine

Birdie said nothing.

  “If you know something” – Mac went to stand by her – “you’d best speak up.”

  “Oh, posh!” Birdie waved a flustered hand. “She didn’t want anyone to know.”

  “Know what?” Hardwick and Mac spoke together.

  “She’s gone to Seagrave.” Birdie sounded defensive. “She went to Robbie and Roddie’s cottage last night, asking them to drive her. They left hours ago.”

  “Why didn’t she ask me?” Mac’s brow crinkled.

  “Perhaps she knew you’d tag along on her coattails?” Birdie smiled sweetly. “She has things to attend there that she wishes to do alone.”

  “Humph.” Mac frowned.

  Hardwick’s blood chilled. When Birdie opened her mouth again to argue with her husband, he used the opportunity to slip from the room.

  He couldn’t imagine why Cilla wanted to go to Seagrave. Whatever the reason, he didn’t like it.

  It was also dangerous.

  There were other reasons beside his memories that had kept him from returning to his old home. The ruin’s isolation, he’d been told, attracted unsavory souls.

  Ghosts who used his home for revels and debauchery he didn’t want Cilla to stumble into. He’d also heard that dredges of her time sometimes visited the site, appreciating its loneliness for their own foul purposes.

  “Hellfire and damnation!” He stormed out of Dunroamin’s heavy front door and scrunched his eyes against the blinding sunlight.

  Where was soft Highland mist when a body needed it?

  Scowling, he stomped down the broad stone steps, knowing there was only one thing he could do. He’d have to sift himself to Seagrave and fetch her.

  He just hoped he wouldn’t be too late.

  Chapter Seventeen

  ‘Tis a man’s work.

  Cilla remembered Hardwick’s words as she approached his ruined home, Seagrave Castle, so silent on its high, windswept cliff. She also took a long, deep, breath. She needed strength and calm for she was about to tackle some serious women’s work. Men didn’t do what she was going to attempt. When it came down to it, only women were so daring, so determined in chasing their dreams.

  Certain of it, she kept on, her steps brisk and sure.

  Confidence was the key.

  Only if she truly believed, would she have a chance of breaking through seven hundred years to reach the bard-wizard who’d cursed Hardwick. Villains always returned to the scene of their crimes. She hoped the evil druid held the pattern. Aunt Birdie had assured her that even if he hadn’t, residue of such a dramatic event would have seeped into Seagrave’s walls.

  It would help her make contact.

  But doing so wasn’t easy.

  Already she’d covered half of the long path to the imposing shell of Hardwick’s former home. Oddly enough, she took comfort in the occasional tossed-aside soda can or water bottle, the bicycle tracks on the path.

  The litter and signs of cyclists assured her that the ruins weren’t as dangerous as they looked.

  Other people came here.

  So she kept on, rather than hurrying back along the coastal road to the fishing community of Cruden Bay where Robbie and Roddie had dropped her.

  She had to be strong.

  Her rock-iron will to contact the druid and urge him to undo the spell wouldn’t let her give up.

  Still, she couldn’t stop a shiver. Seagrave wasn’t your archetypical Scottish cliff-top ruin, all tumbled walls and romance, wheeling seabirds and piles of mossy, indistinguishable rubble.

  The ruins were in-your-face formidable. Bold, stark, and soaring, they didn’t look crumbled at all. Only bleak and derelict, with the roof missing and large black rectangles of emptiness indicating the onetime placement of doors and windows.

  Cilla took another deep breath and adjusted the shoulder straps of her rucksack. Filled with her lunch and, more importantly, Aunt Birdie’s spirit-conjuring goods, it was starting to get heavy.

  So she veered off the track, pushing through to the heart of the ruin. A long, roofless corridor with many doors opening off both sides stretched before her. Eerie, damp, and earthy-smelling, it wasn’t inviting. But she kept on until she reached an open space that had surely been a courtyard.

  Choked with weeds and brambles, the entire area was dotted with clumps of fallen masonry. Huge, empty windows to the sea let in the light. Best of all, in the sheltered walls of the bailey, she’d be free of prying eyes.

  She’d also be somewhat protected from the cold wind racing in off the North Sea. Heavy, white-capped waves pounded Seagrave’s cliffs, the churning waters so different from the gentle, blue-swirling Kyle.

  Satisfied, she went to one of the windows and placed her rucksack on its broad stone ledge.

  Another deep breath, and she started arranging her spirit-conjuring goods. Two white candles, each carefully set inside glass jars because of the wind. A genuine fourteenth century oil lamp from the depths of Dunroamin’s unused wing. Tiny and rusted, the lamp was ideal to evoke a sense of the distant past, or so Aunt Birdie had promised.

  A little bottle of frankincense essential oil served the same purpose. Heart thumping, she hoisted herself onto the window ledge. Then she unscrewed the bottle’s cap, dribbling a few drops onto the stone.

  For good measure, she dabbed a bit of the oil to the tip of her nose.

  Then she closed her eyes and tried to concentrate, imagining the wizard-bard as a small bent man, grizzled and gray, and carrying a lute.

  Unfortunately, she only felt silly.

  Her eyes snapped open, her hopes diminishing. Despite the two glass jars, the wind had blown out her candles. Worse, she’d not thought to return her matches to the rucksack and the little packet was now gone.

  The wind had surely swept the matches right down into the North Sea.

  Damn.

  Aunt Birdie had insisted the white candles were crucial.

  Now she couldn’t relight them.

  Frustration tightened her chest. For a moment, her eyes stung and her view of the tossing sea went blurry. She blinked hard until her vision cleared.

  Then she picked up the little medieval crusie lamp, holding it tight. She focused on the druid, willing him to appear.

  Nothing happened.

  She breathed deep. Long, slow breaths to soak up the ancient scent of the frankincense. But all she inhaled was the tang of the sea and black, limpet-crusted boulders. Wet grass and a pungent waft of something she suspected was strongly related to the many lobster traps and fishing nets at nearby Cruden Bay.

  The frankincense couldn’t compete.

  Instead of feeling transported, she felt ridiculous.

  The druid wasn’t here, wasn’t reachable, or just didn’t care.

  She’d likely been doomed before she’d even put her spirit-conjuring tools into her bag. Knowing defeat when it stood before her, she sighed.

  It was then that she saw the man on the far side of the bailey.

  “Oh!” She stared, her eyes rounding.

  Tall, clad in black, and handsome in a roguish sort of way, he could’ve been a Scottish biker. He’d folded his arms and was leaning against the arch of one of the empty door openings.

  He clearly wasn’t a medieval druid.

  Trying to look as if she encountered dark-clad mystery men in castle ruins all the time, she hopped down from the window and dusted her hands.

  “Nice day for a walk, h’mmm?” She tried for casual.

  He said nothing.

  She forced a friendly American smile, but let her mind race to what she could use as a weapon. Maybe the jagged edge of one of the candle jars if she smashed it quickly enough. Does frankincense essential oil temporarily blind people if it’s dashed in their face? She wondered.

  He just kept studying her, a slight smile quirking his lips.

  Cilla dropped her own smile. Politeness wasn’t working.

  She stood straighter, aiming for calm. “Are you from around here?”


  “Scotland?” His deep burr said that he was. “Aye, so I was, once.”

  Cilla’s nape prickled. She didn’t like the way he’d said that.

  “Once?”

  He glanced aside, and she saw that he’d tied his sleek raven-black hair in a shoulder-skimming ponytail.

  “Aye, once.” His smile faded. “‘Twas long ago and a time best forgotten.”

  “‘Twas?” Cilla glanced at the candle jars, wondering if she could spring for them.

  It was one thing for Hardwick to use the occasional ‘tisey and ‘twasey. This guy looked too modern for such language.

  She backed against the wall, resting her elbow on the window ledge in a hopefully innocent-looking gesture. Even if she didn’t have time to smash a candle jar, she could use one to bop him on the head if need be.

  She almost choked at the thought.

  He was powerfully muscled, certainly Hardwick’s equal in strength or close to it. It was also a pretty good bet that he’d be fast on his feet. As for the damage his hands could do, she didn’t even want to consider it.

  “I think I’ll be going.” She slid a look down the long door-and-window-filled corridor.

  A dark passage of shadows and the sense of strange little creatures darting here and there, flitting just out of sight before the eye could catch them. Worse, the short distance to its entry seemed like a hundred miles, maybe even as far as the moon.

  Her mouth went dry, the need to be gone beating inside her.

  Her fingers stretched for the candle jar.

  The Scot’s hand snapped around her wrist. He’d moved before she could blink.

  “Hey!” She tried to yank free.

  He smiled again, his grip like iron.

  “The candles wouldn’t have worked.” He released her but loomed before her, blocking her escape. “No’ as you meant to use them.” He rubbed his chin as he eyed her spirit-conjuring goods. “They would have shielded you, though.”

  “Shielded me?” Was that high-pitched squeak her voice?

  “Aye, they’d have protected you.” He leaned in, his gaze piercing hers. “If they were still burning.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She grabbed her candle jars and the frankincense bottle and stuffed everything in her rucksack.

  It would serve as a weapon if swung deftly.

  Another slight smile quirked his lips. “Ach, you know well enough, Cilla.”

  His words jellied her knees.

  He knew her name.

  She caught her breath, heart thumping. “How do you know who I am?”

  “How is it that you dinnae know who I am?” He angled his head, looking at her. “I thought you would’ve guessed by now.”

  “I can’t know you.” Cilla tightened her grip on her rucksack, making ready to swing. “I think you heard Robbie and Roddie use my name when we stopped for tea in Collieston. There were other people in the tea shop. You could have been one of them.”

  “Ah, but you disappoint me.” He clucked his tongue. “To think I troubled myself to come here.”

  “You needn’t have bothered. And you can have the place to yourself.” She started away. “I’m leaving.”

  “Without hearing what I’ve done for you?”

  Something in his tone stopped her. “I know you’re not the minstrel.”

  “The druid-bard?” He laughed softly. “I could be him if you wished. Nothing is impossible.”

  Cilla’s pulse skittered.

  Slowly, she turned.

  He stood at the window, facing her. His tall, broad-shouldered form was limned dark against the twilit sea. He really did look like a biker. The bad, and dangerous kind. And something about the way he angled his head chilled her to the soul.

  She was sure she’d seen him before.

  “Indeed, I have many guises, lady.” He spoke casually, his smile flashing white in the shadows.

  “Oh, my God!” Her eyes flew wide. “You’re him! The red devil face at my window!”

  She’d known the face had been real.

  He clapped a hand to his heart and gave a mock wince. “Recognized at last, though I must own that I am no’ himself, nae. Merely a favored keeper of a small corner of his boundless dominion.”

  Cilla stared at him, her blood running cold. “But the mask-”

  “The mask and that wretched bird’s meddling ruined what was meant as a warning to Seagrave.” Annoyance flickered across his face. “I wanted him to know how close I could come to you.”

  He glanced out at the sea, then back at her. “Had I bothered to look deeper into the goings-on at Dunroamin I would have foreseen Gregor’s interference with the Up Helly Aa mask and chosen another guise. As it was, some of my root dragons were causing havoc at the time, misbehaving. My mind was otherwise occupied.”

  “Root dragons?” Cilla swallowed, fear constricting her chest.

  Up to now she’d believed he was just a loony. Now that he’d mentioned Hardwick, Dunroamin, and Gregor, she had little choice but to believe him.

  He really was the devil’s minion.

  Worse, she could tell that he wasn’t going to let her go until he’d had his say.

  So she put back her shoulders, trying to look braver than she felt. “Why did you want Hardwick to see how close you could get to me?”

  He leaned against the window ledge, crossing his legs at the ankles. “I meant to threaten him with your soul. He needed to see I could take it if I desired.”

  “Take my soul?”

  “It was a consideration, aye.”

  Cilla stared at him, pretended bravura forgotten. “And now?”

  “I chose otherwise.” He flicked a pebble off the window ledge, watching as it fell to the sea. “I decided to return Seagrave’s soul instead. So to speak, of course, considering his soul never left him. Only his life-”

  “What?” Cilla’s heart slammed into her ribs. She felt dizzy. The world seemed to still, the sea and the wind going silent. Cilla pressed a hand to her breast, aware only of the strange ringing in her ears, the words she wanted so badly to believe. “He’s a real man again? You broke his curse?”

  “You could put it that way, aye.” He lifted a hand, examining his knuckles. “Remembering makes me wonder what possessed me. I ne’er did care for him.”

  “But-”

  “Touch her and I’ll kill you!” Hardwick burst into the courtyard, his sword drawn. “A thousand times if need be!”

  “No more? You’ve lost your fierceness, Seagrave.” The Dark One started forward, looking unconcerned.

  “Hardwick!” Cilla ran between them, flinging her arms wide. Terror swept her, snagging her breath and making her chest burn. “No fighting, please! You’re-”

  “Stay back, lass!” Hardwick was already lunging.

  It was too late.

  ***

  Leaping forward, Hardwick grabbed Cilla, yanking her behind him. “You’ve no idea what he can do,” he warned. “I have to fight him.”

  His nemesis gestured toward his sword. “You’re welcome to try.”

  Hardwick released Cilla, hoped she’d have the sense to stay put. He kept his gaze on the Dark One, trying not to even blink. “Whate’er it takes,” he spoke savagely.

  If he had the strength.

  He’d spent the best part of the day trying to sift himself to Seagrave. Time and again, he’d failed, only reaching the edge of Mac’s lands. Until one last effort landed him sprawled on the peaty ground before his former home.

  He’d heard Cilla at once, speaking from the depths of the ruin.

  Now that he’d found her, he’d keep her from the fiend’s clutches if it was the last thing he did.

  “Conjure a blade, Dark One.” He narrowed his eyes, fury pounding through him. “Fight me like a man - if you dare!”

  The Dark One leaned against the ledge of a window that had been one of Hardwick’s favorites. He smiled, almost indulgently. “And I thought you’d come to end our enmities.
”

  “A blade, you fiend.” Hardwick advanced on him. “Fetch one.”

  “I can summon a thousand swords, if I wished.” His enemy lifted a hand and the air filled with the rasp of steel being whipped from scabbards, the loud clangor of swords. “Alas” – the sounds faded – “I’m here for another reason.”

  “Name one good enough to keep me from running you through.”

  “Hardwick, no!” Cilla called out from the corner. “You don’t understand. He-”

  “He nae listened to reason,” the Dark One spoke over her, flashed a glance her way. “He was aye hot-tempered.”

  Turning back to Hardwick, he sighed as if his patience waned. “You’d regret lifting your sword against me. In truth, it would serve you naught.”

  “No’ to my mind.” Hardwick raised his sword, kissing the hilt for luck. No matter the cost, the impossible odds, he’d send his foe back to the Otherworld.

  A short death, he knew. The Dark One was immortal.

  But a blow to him in a human guise would slow him down, buying Cilla time to flee.

  “So you’d risk all?” The Dark One’s gaze dipped to Hardwick’s mud splattered kilt and the peat smears on his knees. “No’ wise in your condition.”

  “My condition?” Hardwick glared at him.

  The Dark One shrugged. “If you dinnae know-”

  “I know I’ll have your name etched in my sword’s steel.” Hardwick flung his left arm behind him, seizing Cilla’s wrist when she tried to clutch at him. He pushed her back again, her presence, the danger she was in, maddening him.

  He flashed a fierce glance at her, then looked back to his foe. “My blade craves your blood. It’s been too long since her thirst’s been quenched!”

  Unfazed, the Dark One hitched his hip on the window ledge. “How long has it been since you’ve been a man?”

  “A Highlander is aye a man.” Hardwick stood straighter, pride thrumming through him. “No curse can take that away. No’ even you, with all your dark magick and foulness.”

  “I am powerful, aye,” the Dark One agreed.

  “And your tongue asks senseless questions.” Hardwick pointed the tip of his sword at the Dark One’s chin. “I have an urge to cut it from you.”

  The fiend knew to the hour how long he hadn’t been a flesh-and-blood man.