“Excellent, Malcolm.” Lady Mara nodded. “Be sure to take her through the village on the way.” She smiled as she handed Mindy a key. “One Cairn Village might be our own modern incarnation of Auld Scotland, but we like to think it holds some Highland magic.
“Celtic whimsy and all that, you know?” She winked. “I think you’ll like it.”
“I’m sure I will,” Mindy lied for the third time since meeting Mara MacDougall Douglas.
Worse than that, as she followed kilt-wearing, rosy-cheeked Malcolm out of the reception and back down the castle’s entry passage toward the door, she had the strangest feeling that if she set foot in the mock Highland village, she’d never see America again.
The hairs had lifted on her nape when she’d driven past the turnoff to the village. Even then, safely inside her car, she’d felt the place’s power. It might have been the darkness of the woods or the lingering drifts of mist that curled through the trees.
She knew odd things were said to happen in Scotland.
And if she considered her own Scottish track record, she might be heading for trouble.
In fact, now she was certain of it.
Chapter 6
“Aye, well, that’s you, all set.” Malcolm stepped out the door of the Havbredey suite, but didn’t yet descend the stone steps that led down the side of Ravenscraig’s Victorian Coach House. Instead, he hovered on the landing, clearly meaning to be helpful.
He peered up at the night sky, where the moon was just sailing out from behind dark, fast-moving clouds. “The weather will be turning before an hour, true as I’m standing here. Are you sure you’ll no’ be wanting me to fetch you for tea after you’ve had a chance to freshen up?
“You’d get drenched if you tried to walk back to the castle or even the village once the rain starts.” He hunched his shoulders against the quickening wind, flashed another glance at the clouds. “There’s a full buffet in the castle dining room or”—his chest seemed to swell—“a fine Highlander’s tea served at the back o’ Innes’s shop. She does a wicked tuna sandwich on homemade bread, served with her own soup, chicken vegetable today. Or you can have fish-and-chips, the best this side of Oban.”
Mindy forced a smile and shook her head. “I’m fine, thank you. All I want is to sleep.”
“You’re sure?” He arched a ginger-colored brow, looking concerned.
“Absolutely.” Mindy let her smile brighten and started inching shut the door. She didn’t want to seem unappreciative, but she was getting very close to telling him that what she really needed was an aspirin.
Or several.
She’d worry about food later.
After she’d put Ravenscraig Castle behind her. The place was too eerie and too old, and had too many men who could be medieval crowding its ancient walls. Not to mention that he was here.
No way had she imagined Bran of Barra.
The rough-and-ready Hebridean chieftain wasn’t the kind of man a woman overlooked. Ghost or not, he was the type who strode into every room with a flourish, drawing eyes and making the space his own. Resplendent in his kilt and with a proud jut to his chin, he’d attract female notice at a hundred paces, regardless of the dimension.
Mindy’s brow knit. He had been in the great hall. And he’d definitely been in the foyer with her, invisible or not. She still sizzled from the encounter, drat it!
Even now, she could hear his husky voice at her ear, feel his breath teasing across her skin and his firm jaw moving ever so softly against her neck, making her shiver and reminding her she’d always been drawn to big, strong men with gentle hands. Such men could melt her in quick time.
Mindy released a slow, trembling breath. It wasn’t in her best interest to think about how easily Bran of Barra could seduce her if he wrapped his powerful arms around her, pulled her close against his huge, muscle-packed body.
Or what would happen if he kissed her.
For now, she’d put him from her mind and just be glad that Malcolm had finally turned and thumped back down the steps, leaving her alone. Not that he wasn’t a nice young man, courteous to a fault and, without doubt, dedicated to the castle hotel.
He was.
But genial or not, his tour of One Cairn Village had quainted her out.
And his long, detailed history of the MacDougalls, the original builders of the castle, had given her a raging headache. He’d taken her through the centuries, clear back to the days of Robert the Bruce!
Images flashed through Mindy’s mind. She could almost see Scotland’s warrior king thundering into the mock village, riding a great black steed. Men would cheer and rush to surround him, each one eager to join his army. The women would vie for his attention, pushing and shoving to thrust themselves to the fore, then swooning if he glanced their way.
Margo—if she’d been there—would have climaxed on the spot.
Mindy smiled, sure of it.
Her sister could get more excited about Robert Bruce than some women did over Hollywood heartthrobs. And yet she had gone all tingly when a ghost had rubbed his seven-hundred-year-old beard against her neck!
Mindy frowned again and yanked off her heavy waxed jacket, tossing it onto a chair.
It had to be the jet lag.
She’d been up well over twenty-four hours now. Sleep deprivation did weird things to people. Not to mention crossing five time zones and . . .
Landing in a place where even the American owner spoke of Highland magic!
She shuddered and rubbed her arms, suddenly cold.
Not that anyone could blame her.
Walking through One Cairn Village in the misty gray of evening and with the village’s cluster of thatched, whitewashed cottages had felt like slipping into the pages of a history book. Though she doubted a real fourteenth-century village would have been so neat and tidy. One Cairn Village’s cottages had each winked with a pretty bright blue door and candles had flickered in the windows, though Malcolm had told her they weren’t real. They were electric lights made to look like candles.
But the late-autumn flowers and heather that bloomed everywhere, decorating door stoops and edging the footpaths that curved through the village, were real. As was the large memorial cairn with its tall Celtic cross at the very center of the village.
Dedicated to long-ago MacDougalls, or so Malcolm had claimed, the cairn and its ancient-looking cross had given her the chills. As had the thin blue threads of peat smoke rising from the low chimney stacks of the cottages. The smoke seemed to hang in the air, giving the village an earthy-rich, old-timey smell.
Too bad she was done with old-timey.
One Cairn Village’s Celtic whimsy existed, no doubt.
It just wasn’t her cuppa.
Unfortunately, she was stunned to find that the Havbredey suite was. Airy and light, it was nothing like she’d expected, proving to be one great open space. Highly polished hardwood floors with a scattering of cream-colored woolen rugs struck an inviting note, while the pine furnishings went well with the plain walls. Floor-length curtains in the same off-white shade as the rugs framed a tall window near the hearth, where a comfortable-looking tartan sofa was drawn up to catch the fire’s warmth. A flight of narrow pine stairs at the back of the room led up to a small loft bedroom.
The bathroom, also upstairs, was a hedonist’s dream. All honey-gold marble with black accents, it offered a corner whirlpool bath and a separate glass-enclosed shower, and was crammed with an amazing assortment of the finest bath oils, soaps, and scented lotions.
The only thing she’d change would be to ditch the large spray of white heather and red rowan berries in a vase on the vanity. She’d replace the oh-so-Highlandy display with something Polynesian. A tasteful arrangement of bird-of-paradise came to mind. Or perhaps she’d choose wild orchids and frangipani.
Otherwise, she’d loved the suite on sight. Her breath had caught the instant Malcolm swung open the door. Even the plaid sofa and the several large black-and-white photographs of the
Hebrides couldn’t detract from the immediate sense of welcome and belonging.
She could see herself curled up before the fire, listening to the wind howl outside as she sipped hot chocolate and lost herself in a good cozy mystery.
It was the kind of place she could have stayed in forever.
And that scared her more than if a troop of glittery-winged, green-gowned faery folk had popped out from behind the village’s memorial cairn to wave their sparkly wands at her.
She didn’t want to like anything here, yet . . .
“Enough!” She gave herself a shake and crossed the room to the sofa—deftly pretending it wasn’t tartan—before she turned into one of those people who constantly yearn for a pot of tea and scones.
Or should it be shortbread and whisky?
Sure she didn’t want to know, she dropped onto the sofa and reached for one of the books on the pine side table. Past her second wind, she hoped a bit of reading would help her fall asleep.
Unfortunately, the first book she grabbed was Rivers of Stone: A Highlander’s Ancestral Journey by Wee Hughie MacSporran. Half-afraid the title might summon the Long Gallery Threesome, Mindy slapped the book back onto the side table and reached for another.
This one’s cover bore a color, full-sized photo of a tall, rather portly Highlander in a kilt. Obviously the proud author of this A Highlander’s series, Wee Hughie MacSporran had rosy red cheeks and thinning auburn hair, and beamed from beside the world-famous Bannockburn statue of Robert the Bruce.
Mindy eyed the cover photo, thinking the man looked rather like a kilted teddy bear. But it was the title that made her toss the book back onto the pile: Royal Roots: A Highlander’s Guide to Discovering Illustrious Forebears.
Not caring when the book slid across the little table and landed on the floor, she drew her feet up beneath her and then shuddered.
Were all Highlanders so ancestral-crazy?
Frowning, she was about to reach for the third and last book when her cell phone rang. The caller ID said restricted, but it could be only Margo, so she flipped it open and took the call. “Hello?”
“Mindy!” Her sister’s voice came through the line. “You’re in Scotland! How are you? What are you doing now?”
Mindy pulled a tartan throw over her knees and glanced at the hearth. The fire was already dying down and the room was beginning to chill.
No, it was turning icebox cold.
Mindy frowned. “What am I doing?” She cast another look at the peat embers. They resembled char-coaled marshmallows with just a hint of orange glow. “I’m relaxing by a crackling fire, sipping single malt, and romanticizing about my journey to the Isles tomorrow.”
“O-o-oh!” Margo’s excitement was palpable. “I knew it! There one day and you’ve fallen under Scotland’s spell. It happens to everyone. I told you—”
“Sorry. I lied.” Mindy shifted on the sofa. “But I am curled up before a peat fire. Sadly, it’s little more than a clump of smoldering ash just now. I’m not drinking whisky, though I could be if I wanted. There’s a small welcome bottle and a glass on the bedside table.
“Otherwise, I’m in a darkened suite in a Victorian coach house on a wet and windy night in the middle of nowhere. If you ignore the wind”—she glanced at the night-blackened window and shuddered—“it’s very still and quiet. And although I wouldn’t have believed it, it’s getting colder and eerier with each passing minute.”
“But have you seen any mist?” Margo’s enthusiasm wasn’t dampened. “They say it rolls down the braes and clings to the corries. They—”
“I don’t know what a corrie is, but—”
“It’s a cleft in the side of a mountain, sort of like a deep and narrow ravine,” Margo the Scotland expert explained. “A brae is the hillside itself and—”
“I don’t care what they are.” Mindy glanced at the dark window again. The wind gusts were starting to rattle the panes. “If there are braes and corries out there, I didn’t see any. Your mist was everywhere, pea-soup thick and blotting any heathery hills or romantic castle ruins that might have enchanted me.”
“You’ll come around!” Margo laughed. “I’d dare anyone to go to Scotland and not fall in love. No way is my own sister going to be the one exception.”
Mindy pinched the bridge of her nose and tried not to sigh. “Actually,” she began, feeling a pang of sisterly guilt because Margo truly did love Scotland, “my suite is quite nice. It’s got two levels and is airy. I could see it in Hawaii or Florida if I switched the pine furnishings and tartan for tropical prints and bamboo. Get rid of all the photos of the Hebrides and replace them with Maui sunsets.
“The suite is called the Havbredey”—her tongue twisted on the word—“and it means—”
“I know what it means, you goose!” Margo laughed again.
“I should have known.”
“Yes, you should have. I can tell you all kinds of things about Scot—”
Margo broke off abruptly and Mindy could hear the murmur of voices in the background. Then the creak of a door followed by the distinctive tinkle of the wind chimes that announced new customers at Ye Olde Pagan Times.
“I’m back.” Margo was on the line again, sounding a bit breathless. “Anyway, it’s about the Hebrides that—”
“Are you at work?” Mindy knew Margo’s boss, an eccentric old woman named Patience Peasgood, though nice, wouldn’t appreciate Margo chatting overseas on work time. “You can call me when you get off. I’ll hear the phone, even if I’m asleep. I don’t want Patience—”
“That’s the best part!” Margo almost shouted the words. “It was Patience who told me to call you. She and Madame Zelda insisted—”
“You mean Marta Lopez.” Mindy rolled her eyes. “The Puerto Rican tarot reader.”
“She’s good whether you like her or not.”
“Ice cream is good, too, but look what happens if you eat it all the time.”
“You’re just jet-lagged. Listen—”
“I’m all ears.” Mindy settled back against the cushions. “What’s up?”
“I’m flying over to see you!” Margo’s voice swelled with glee. “Can you believe it? Patience gave me unpaid leave to come and—”
“I’m not even there yet.” Mindy tightened her grip on the phone. “Not in Barra, anyway. I’ll be staying at one of the island’s best hotels and you know how hard it was to get a booking. The lady said they were full up and—”
“Don’t worry! I don’t mean now.” Margo would be waving a hand, Mindy knew. “Patience put some strings on my leave, but that’s no bother. She’s looking for another girl to help out afternoons and weekends. As soon as she finds someone suitable, she said I can have the time off to fly over and join you. Unless business gets too busy and then . . .”
Mindy listened to Margo rattle on. Her chances of coming didn’t sound that solid. Even so, a wave of dread crashed over her at the thought of her ghost-busting enthusiast sister appearing at Barra.
“That’s wonderful!” Mindy hoped her voice didn’t come across as squeaky.
But she knew it did.
“Don’t be so alarmed.” Margo’s reply proved it. “My trip might not even happen. But if it does, I promise not to embarrass you.”
“I didn’t mean that. . . .” Mindy combed a hand through her hair, unable to finish.
Margo already had embarrassed her—or would have—if Mindy wasn’t always one step ahead of her. Feeling sweat bead her brow, Mindy glanced at her hand luggage, on the floor near the suite’s large four-poster bed.
A super-duper ghost-detecting device was tucked into the side pocket of the carry-on. The latest in spook-sleuthing technology, according to Margo and everyone at Ye Olde Pagan Times, the thing was an EMF reader.
Designed to pick up fluctuations in electromagnetic fields where ghosts were believed to gather, the EMF meter had all the bells and whistles. It included a shrill alarm tone that sounded if the registered paranormal activity proved t
o be especially strong.
The only reason Mindy hadn’t pitched it at Newark was that Margo had it on loan from Patience Peasgood. After Mindy’s trip, it had to be returned to the shop.
So Mindy had done the only reasonable thing and removed the batteries.
Thankfully, no one in security had found the EMF meter, demanding answers to questions that would only make her look goofy.
If Margo came to Barra, she’d be weighted down with several more such devices. Not to mention infrared thermometers and cameras and whatever else practicing ghost hunters carried around with them.
People would notice.
And Mindy wouldn’t be just embarrassed.
She’d be mortified.
“I know what you meant.” The hurt in Margo’s voice brought back Mindy’s stab of guilt. “I won’t bring any equipment except my diggy camera. You already have a good EMF reader there. That’ll be enough.
“And don’t worry.” Margo laughed again. “I won’t do an EVP session or anything.”
Mindy closed her eyes. She was sure trying to catch ghostly voices on a tape recorder would be one of her sister’s first attempts to attract Highland spirits.
“I’ll hold you to that.” Mindy’s plaid throw slipped and she reached to tuck it around her knees again. “No woo-woo weirdness and I’ll be glad to see you.”
That, at least, was true.
She did love Margo, despite her penchant for the strange and unexplained.
But having Margo underfoot, mooning around and waxing poetic about the Scottish Highlands, just so wasn’t on Mindy’s agenda for this trip.
Everyone knew the Scots thought Americans were a bit overly dotty about Scotland. Just as it was well-known that the Highland telegraph was alive and working better than ever, even in these age-of-the-Internet times.
Margo would have everyone in the Isles thinking they’d both gone around the bend. The verdict would spread like a fire on the moor. They’d be branded as certifiable, which might even leak back to Global, hurting Mindy’s chances of returning to her old flying job.
Some Like It Kilted Page 11
