Some Like It Kilted

by Some Like It Kilted (lit)

Airlines took a narrow view of anything that even fringed on unbalanced.

  “Madame Zelda did a reading for me,” Margo gushed on. “She’s certain I’m fated to make this trip. But if you’d rather I didn’t . . .”

  “No, no!” Mindy bit her tongue to keep from reminding Margo that if she’d revealed her dreams to the fortune-teller, of course, Madame Zelda would say they’d come true.

  Hoping to change the subject, Mindy glanced around the dimly lit room. Her gaze fell on a large gift bag bearing the tartan-ribboned thistle design of One Cairn Village. The package sat on an old-fashioned trunk at the foot of the bed. Mindy hurried there now, snatching up the bag and pulling out a gorgeous length of tweed, purchased for Margo in Innes’s tea and gift shop.

  “Of course, you must come.” Mindy hugged the tweed to her, wishing Margo could see it now. “I picked up some stunning tweed for you this afternoon. It’s—”

  “Tweed?” Margo’s voice rose with excitement. Her Highland vacation plans took a backseat to style. “You bought genuine Scottish tweed for me?”

  “I did.” Mindy smiled, glad she’d splurged. “It was made right here at Ravenscraig Castle, where I’m staying. It’s called Kiss o’ Heather and is all purply mauve with a touch of pink. You’ll love it.”

  “I already do.” Margo paused. “Is there enough to make a skirt?”

  “There is.” Mindy returned to the sofa. “That’s what I thought you could do with it.”

  “O-o-oh!” Margo sounded like she might jump through the phone. “I can’t wait to see it. Thank you and—oh, here come more customers.

  “Gotta go!” She hung up just as Ye Olde Pagan Times’ wind chime began to tinkle.

  Mindy stared at the dead phone. She rubbed her eyes, feeling as if she’d been caught up by a cyclone. Margo on a Scotland roll could exhaust anyone. Mindy just wished she hadn’t gone on about the woo-woo stuff.

  Especially with the wind shrieking round the eaves and making weird whooshing noises in the chimney. It didn’t help that the night sky—what little of it she could see through the window—no longer looked cold and gray, but was now cold and black.

  Pitch-black. The kind of darkness she was sure couldn’t be found on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean.

  And thanks to her sister, she now imagined that inky emptiness teeming with all kinds of dangers. If ghosts existed—even back home in New Hope—then who knew what creatures roamed Scotland’s hills after nightfall?

  She’d already seen a dog that could have been a werewolf!

  Shivering, she puffed her bangs off her forehead and snatched another book off the side table. Better to read about someone’s ancestral beanstalk than worry about Celtic beasties that might—or might not—be prowling through the woods beneath her window.

  Determined to bore herself with Wee Hughie’s genealogical wanderings, she glanced down at the book in her hand. It was another volume of the author’s A Highlander’s series. But this one was titled Hearthside Tales: A Highlander’s Look at Scottish Myth and Legend.

  A bad artist’s rendering of Nessie graced the cover.

  “Ack!” Mindy dropped the book as if it’d been a hot potato.

  She was not going to read about the very creatures she was trying to put from her mind. What she needed was a good hot shower or a long soak in the luxurious marble whirlpool. There was nothing better than modern-day niceties to banish things that went bump in the night.

  But the instant she stood, the wind dropped and the room went eerily quiet.

  Even the air felt different, turning thick and heavy.

  “Pah! It’s nerves, Menlove, pure nerves,” she muttered, starting across the room.

  She didn’t make it halfway to the bathroom before a piercing howl stopped her cold. Heart racing, she clapped a hand to her breast, listening as the sound ended on a haunting, high-pitched wail.

  It was the kind of mournful tone Margo would call otherworldly.

  Mindy was sure it was a hybrid owl.

  Certain she wouldn’t get any sleep until she knew, she went to the window, peering through the glass until her eyes adjusted to the darkness.

  When they did, she could make out one or two pinpricks of light from One Cairn Village on the other side of the wood. Closer to the Victorian Lodge Coach House, she spotted several large outcroppings of rock. Nothing stirred except the soft mist drifting through the trees.

  Mindy breathed a sigh of relief.

  Even if she hadn’t seen the owl, everything looked as it should. Until something huge and dark loped past directly beneath her.

  “Gah!” She jumped and the creature stopped, swinging round to stare up at her with glowing amber eyes.

  It was the wolf-dog from the gatehouse.

  He, rather than a mutant owl, must’ve made the bloodcurdling howl. And—Mindy’s heart stopped as she stared back at him, unable to look away—she now knew why he’d given her such goose bumps.

  She knew him.

  Or rather, she remembered him.

  He was Gibbie.

  Bran of Barra’s ghost dog that she’d seen the night the Hebridean chieftain had appeared right in front of her in the Folly’s kitchen.

  Then, as now, the two were inseparable.

  Both watched her from near the edge of the wood. Gibbie stood where he’d swung around to stare at her, and his master was right beside him, where he’d manifested out of thin air, appearing in the wink of an eye.

  Mindy gulped and twitched back the curtain to get a better look. It was frightfully dark and a thin autumn rain was just beginning to fall. Droplets were splattering the window glass, running down the panes.

  But she wasn’t mistaken.

  Bran of Barra was down there.

  The glint of his coppery red hair shone in the moonlight and his plaid whipped around him, caught by the wind just starting to gust again. Shadows cast across his face made it difficult to see his expression, but she could feel both anger and passion radiating off him.

  He was certainly staring right at her.

  Every instinct told her to draw back from the window. Or at least step behind the curtains, shielding herself from his bold, assessing stare.

  But she couldn’t look away.

  Bran of Barra and his dog stepped closer. So near, she could see raindrops glistening on his hair and shoulders. He reached down to stroke the dog’s ears, but his gaze never left her face.

  He watched her with a look that made her insides quiver.

  It wasn’t the kind of look modern-day men gave women. It was the kind of piercing, oh-so-uncompromisingly male perusal that only bold, take-charge men of times past fixed on a woman when they wished to seduce and unsettle.

  And it was working.

  Ghostly or not, his strength wove a seductive spell around her. And the way he sometimes let his gaze drop to her lips, as if contemplating how best to plunder them, well, those heated looks filled her with tingly anticipation. Mindy could feel her entire body flaming.

  She shouldn’t think about his kisses.

  She did straighten her back, not wanting him to see how much he stirred her.

  He angled his head and she was sure his lips were twitching into a smile. But then he glanced at the dog and strode another few paces toward the coach house, his faithful companion at his side.

  Mindy stood frozen, trying to pretend he and his beast were nothing but a swirl of mist. Well, two swirls. In the darkness of night, many things could take on the shape of a man and a dog. Such an error was especially possible when those swirls were seen by someone beyond exhausted.

  It was just a pity that the dog’s luminous golden eyes and the bright blue sparks dancing around the pommel stone of Bran of Barra’s sword torpedoed her mist-swirl theory.

  She doubted even Highland fog came in colors.

  Whitish gray was pretty much worldwide standard.

  Mindy swallowed. Her pulse raced and she could feel her nerves prickling. But when Bran of Barra took another l
eisurely step in her direction and she leapt backward, tripping over Wee Hughie MacSporran’s book and landing with a painful thump on the polished floor, she got mad.

  She jumped up, kicked Wee Hughie’s book into a corner, and marched back to the window. She whipped back the curtains, prepared to glare down at the lout and tell him just where he and his wolf-dog could go.

  But in the short time it’d taken for her to fall and scramble to her feet, the heavens had opened. Just as Malcolm predicted, great sheets of rain were blowing across the clearing beneath her window. In fact, it was pouring so hard that she couldn’t even make out the pines that marked the edge of the wood.

  Somewhere thunder boomed and a jagged bolt of lightning flashed across the sky.

  Bran of Barra and Gibbie were gone.

  Frowning, Mindy opened the casement and leaned out. But the only thing to greet her was the gusting wind and rain. Bran and his beast really had vanished. And the instant she realized she’d called the ghost Bran, she closed the window so fast she almost cracked the glass.

  She was not going to get first- name personal with a man who wasn’t there.

  No matter how real he might appear.

  Or how sexy.

  But despite her attempts to put him from her mind and go to bed in her best I-am-not-affected-by-him attitude, she found herself moving about the room, turning on lamps, overhead lights, and even the television. Not that it helped much to create a nonghostly atmosphere with the ceiling lights recessed and muted and the table lamps designed to look like old-fashioned oil lamps.

  The TV wasn’t very soothing, either, as the only program that came on without snow and static was a 1950s film in Gaelic.

  Mindy didn’t want to look too closely, but she strongly suspected it was Brigadoon.

  When Gene Kelly strode onto the screen, she was sure.

  “Not for me.” She grabbed the remote off the coffee table and clicked.

  The screen went black just as Bran of Barra appeared in front of her, his great shaggy dog at his heels and a grin on his face.

  “Gah!” Mindy jumped. The remote went flying from her fingers.

  Bran of Barra waited until it landed with a clack on the hardwood floor, and then planted his hands on his kilt-covered hips.

  “So-o-o, lass, we meet again.” He looked about the room, one brow arched, appraisingly. “I’m thinking it’s a pity you’re staying in these fine lodgings. Such comfort will soften you, it will. You’ll no’ find Barra as hospitable. ’Tis a cold, windswept place where giant waves pound the cliffs and the gales are strong enough to blow you away in a wink. It won’t be at all to your liking.

  “If”—his gaze snapped back to her—“that’s where you’re heading.”

  Mindy suppressed the urge to laugh. If she weren’t so unsettled—which she knew was his point—she’d no doubt bust a gut. As it was, she tilted her head to one side and jammed her own hands on her hips.

  “Where I’m going is my own business.” She kept her voice cool, glad certain ghost-hunting, the-star-is-psychic-and-speaks-with-the-Other-Side TV shows made it seem halfway normal to converse with him. “As for Barra, you needn’t bother trying to convince me I won’t like it. I already know that very well myself.”

  To her surprise, he blinked, looking almost offended.

  “Barra is the pearl of the Hebrides.” His chest swelled and his voice rang with pride. “Though I’ll own it’s possible that only a Barrach can fully appreciate the isle’s true worth and many splendors.”

  He folded his arms, eyeing her as if he expected agreement.

  When she said nothing, he set his lips in a hard line and flicked an invisible speck of lint from his plaid.

  He was clearly peeved.

  His dog began shuffling around the room, sniffing at furniture. He passed close by her once, his cold nose bumping her hand and his plumed tail swishing a few times, as if they were friends.

  Mindy refused to be distracted.

  Nor would she admit that how people felt about dogs was one of her measures of a person’s goodness. Bran’s devotion to his dog appealed to her strongly. And that the dog loved him so much in return also said bundles.

  She’d withdrawn from more than one potential relationship because the man hadn’t liked dogs. The way Bran of Barra’s whole expression softened when he looked at Gibbie made so much seem insignificant.

  Like his ghostly status. Even his name—MacNeil.

  But she didn’t want to fall for him.

  She put back her shoulders, chin lifted. “Why are you following me? Why don’t you want me—” A fierce gust of wind rattled the windowpanes, cutting her off.

  Bran of Barra paid the screaming wind no heed.

  He did raise one auburn eyebrow. “Want you, my lady?”

  “I meant”—Mindy ran a hand down the front of her sweater, sure it’d shrunk two sizes since he’d popped into the room—“why don’t you want me on Barra? The other ghosts—”

  “The other ghosts are no longer your concern.” His mouth almost twitched into a smile. “I am.”

  “Every one of you is a problem for me.”

  “Nae, you err.” He set his hand on the hilt of his sword. Its crystal gemstone was glowing blue. “My friends have naught to do with this. You heard them in my hall. They only wish”—he glanced at the darkened window—“peace to enjoy their days and make merry as they will.

  “I warned you once that their passions are dangerous if roused. Now it is me you must be wary of. If”—he closed his fingers around his sword’s pommel stone, hiding the crystal—“you visit my hall again.”

  “I’m not afraid of you.” Mindy felt her temper rise. “And I’m used to trouble.”

  “Ahhh, but I haven’t yet begun to make trouble for you, Mindy- lass. I promise you”—he spoke softly, his deep voice sending shivers all through her—“you’ll know when I do.”

  Mindy bit her lip, not doubting him.

  She took a step backward.

  He looked too real. Everything about him was too much like the braw Scottish warriors she’d fantasized about in the years before Hunter. His voice, that accent . . .

  The look he was giving her set her heart racing.

  Even more alarming, the room suddenly felt much smaller. Bran of Barra, already one of the tallest, most commandingly built men she’d ever seen, now appeared even bigger. He seemed to grow in power and stature, a muscle-ripped bear of a man whose intense gaze was searing her.

  Mindy swallowed.

  She was quite sure there was no man like him anywhere. Not in her world or his, nor anyplace in between. He was a force of nature. And he was coming at her with slow, sure steps that made it hard to breathe.

  No, it was the heat in his eyes doing that.

  He meant to kiss her.

  “No-o-o!” She scooted around the sofa, putting its bulk between them.

  He laughed. “Och, lass, do you truly think you can escape me so easily?”

  On the words, he was right beside her. But rather than ravish her, he merely lifted a hand to brush his knuckles down her cheek. It was the lightest of touches, but it sent tingles rippling along her nerves, making her go hot and shivery all over.

  “It willnae be good if you go to Barra.” His gaze moved over her face, then dropped to her lips. “Stay away.” He lowered his head, kissing her so gently she could barely note the coolness of his lips before it was over.

  And—damn her—she wanted more!

  She felt herself trembling, and shame scalded her. She didn’t need this. Putting up a hand, she backed away and this time he didn’t follow.

  “You see, sweet”—he was suddenly across the room where his dog lay before the hearth—“the kind of trouble you’ll bring on yourself if you act unwisely.”

  Mindy glared at him, angry.

  He had the gall to shrug. “Go home to your America and rest easy that you’ll no’ be missing much. There isn’t a stone left on Barra to see.”

 
; “There is now.” Mindy tossed her hair. “I know because I had them sent there!”

  She angled her head, ready to savor his shock, but empty air stared back at her. She whirled around, sure he’d be behind her, grinning. But he wasn’t. He was gone. Certain she’d never been more shaken, she dropped onto the sofa.

  She’d wanted him to kiss her.

  A ghost!

  Feeling both hot and cold—and still maddeningly excited—she pulled the tartan rug over her, adding two plump pillows for good measure.

  She was so sleepy.

  If she just closed her eyes—

  Brrrrring! A loud siren tone filled the room. The shrilling grew louder, hurting her ears. She leapt up, tripping over the bedcovers as they tangled around her legs. She stumbled forward through the dark, trying to find the bedside lamp.

  The sound was too shrill for her cell phone. Mindy tried to shake off the fog of drowsiness, feeling confused.

  Until she remembered that Margo’s all-the-bells-and-whistles EMF Spook-o-meter was in her bag. She grabbed her purse, pulling out the ghost-busting device just as the siren dwindled to silence.

  She frowned at the small contraption, remembering too late that she’d discarded its batteries before she’d left Newark Airport.

  In that moment, the brrrrring noise went off again. Only this time it wasn’t as loud. And it certainly wasn’t the EMF meter.

  It was the alarm clock on the nightstand.

  She’d set it for six a.m. so she wouldn’t miss Ravenscraig’s full Scottish breakfast, served in the castle dining room from seven to nine. Margo’s ghost-hunting device hadn’t gone off at all. She’d been sleeping and dreamed everything. Most likely, Bran of Barra’s visit, too.

  She sank onto the edge of the bed and rubbed her hands over her face, trying to remember undressing and slipping beneath the covers. She couldn’t, but she did recall every detail of her dream encounter with Bran.

  She should be glad it hadn’t been real.

  Instead she was almost sorry. And that could mean only one thing.

  Trouble.

  Chapter 7

  Bran of Barra had never felt more like a scoundrel.

  Nae, scoundrel wasn’t quite odious enough. Scowling, he paced his rain-washed bailey, searching for a more suitable epithet. When it came, he revolted at the description, but couldn’t deny its blistering aptness. He wasn’t a mere lout. He was a cloven-footed, ring-tailed arse.