by Allie Mackay
Hardwick’s heart fell wide, his soul tumbling. “Lass,” he bit out the word. Then he sucked in his breath as she moved over him, sliding down onto him like a burning, honey-damped sheath.
The world as he knew it split.
Seven hundred years of agony spinning away as if it’d ne’er been.
She tightened her legs around him, her eyes glittering as she locked gazes with him, the deep flush of her passion sweeping across her breasts.
“Hardwick…” She held fast to his shoulders, her grip fierce.
He smoothed a hand along her side and down across the soft skin of belly and lower to the sleek sweetness he knew so well. Need lancing him, he stroked and rubbed her, readying her before he slid his fingers up to the one spot he knew would shatter her.
His own lust raging, he circled the delicate bud with his thumb, flicking and teasing until she arched her back, her hips bucking and her pulse throbbing beneath his fingers.
Hot need wound tight around him, her wet, slippery heat almost more than he could bear.
He threw back his head, meaning to roar with the wonder of her, but bliss as he’d never believed possible stole his cry. Unending pleasure crashed over him and he swept his arms around her, seeking her lips. He plunged his tongue in and out of her sweet, silky-wet mouth using the same rhythm of the long, smooth glides of his body joining with hers.
And then she jerked her head away, the whole of her tensing as she drew a great shuddering breath and clamped her legs even tighter around him. She gave herself over to her release in a way he’d never seen a woman do, her cry of pleasure breaking at last to merge with his own.
“O-o-oh...” She went limp in his arms, her gasp a silken breath against a world set on fire.
A world – now that it was settling – he feared to see.
Not that he felt anything threatening.
But with the heat of his lust ebbing, good sense prevailed. He knew without cracking an eye, that there was a good chance he’d open them to see a gaggle of slathering, hand-rubbing hell hags waiting to claim him.
With surety, the Dark One wouldn’t harm Cilla.
He’d chase the fiend to the end of all time if he dared try to hurt her.
The trouble was, now that he’d posessed her fully, he couldn’t bear to let her go. As if she knew, she shifted in his arms, winding her own around his neck, her head resting on his shoulder.
Her trust almost broke him.
“That was beautiful,” she breathed, making it worse.
“I’m sorry, lass.” He smoothed his hands up and down her back, hoping to soothe her. “I wish things were different-”
“No need.” She leaned in, kissing him. “All is perfect as is.”
Doubting it, he opened his eyes.
The pitiful ruin of his onetime greeting room was still empty. The Dark One wasn’t lounging against the wall in a corner, leering at them. Nor was there a root dragon or hell hag in sight. Relief swept him, almost stealing his breath. His heart started thumping, hard, fast, and triumphant.
He could scarce believe it.
Needing proof, he sprang to his feet, glancing round. Long evening shadows filled corners and stretched across rough, uneven ground that had once been smooth stone and rich, furred coverings. But nothing stirred save the night breeze pouring in through his erstwhile windows.
“It’s an ordinary evening.” Cilla sat up, looking at him. “A beautiful gloaming, as you Scots say.”
“It cannae be.” Hardwick glanced about again. His fists clenched on the truth, the joy of it dampened only by the stinging heat spoiling his vision, the hot lump in his throat.
Still, he couldn’t be sure.
Heart thundering, he flicked a finger at a crumbled wall niche, trying to conjure the basin and ewer that had once stood there.
Neither appeared, the ancient niche remaining as it was now, a gash in the stone. It was a relic only, and filled with nothing more interesting than a few bits of fallen mortar and the smelly leavings of seabirds.
Hardwick’s heart almost leapt from his chest.
He stared at the crumbling niche, sure he’d ne’er seen anything more beautiful.
Except, of course, his lady.
“Cilla-lass, you were right!” He plucked her off the window ledge and caught her up in his arms, swinging her round and round until dizziness left him no choice but to release her. “I do believe the spell is broken.”
He set her down, a furrow in her brow damping his triumph.
“What is it?” He slid his arms around her, drawing her close. Gently, this time. “Are you no’ pleased that we have time now?”
She glanced aside, worrying her lip. “It’s just that, well, I’ve fallen in love with you.”
“Ach, but that’s a cause for celebration.” He brushed the backs of his fingers down her cheeks. “No’ for long faces and creased brows.”
“It isn’t just that.” She looked up at him, pink tingeing her cheeks. “I’ve also come to love Scotland.” She glanced down, nudged a clump of grass with her toe. “Dunroamin and the residents. I can’t imagine not seeing them. I’ll even miss Leo and Gregor. Colonel Darling and his bluster.
“As for you...” She pressed a hand to her lips, tears spilling down her cheeks.
“You needn’t say goodbye to anyone. No’ now.” He wrapped his arms around her, hugging her near. “I was going to let Mac and your aunt tell you, but we caught the Viking ghosties. And, you’ll ne’er believe it, a great treasure with them!”
“A treasure?” She blinked. “In Uncle Mac’s peat fields?”
Hardwick nodded, grinning. “Sure as I’m standing here. You can ask Robbie and Roddie on the drive back.”
An ordeal he wasn’t looking forward to having never ridden in an automobile.
Not that he’d let on, of course.
Feeling brave already, he remembered his gallantry and snatched his plaid off the window ledge. He whirled it around her shoulders before she took a chill.
Truth was, she looked almost feverish.
“Then Uncle Mac and Aunt Birdie’s troubles are over.” She clutched his plaid around her, the color in her cheeks deepening. “I’m so glad they’ll be okay. With the end of summer inching nearer, that’ll make it easier when the time comes for me to leave. Knowing they’re-”
“Leave?” Hardwick stared at her, stunned.
Only now realizing what a dolt he’d been.
Women needed words.
‘Twas the first lesson his father had taught him about the fairer sex all those many years ago. Men lived by deeds and the good steel of their swords. Lasses wanted wooing, required a man’s heart laid bare before them.
His lass was plucking at his plaid, avoiding his gaze.
“Of course, I have to leave.” Her words pierced him. “Americans can’t just stay in Scotland. Not unless-”
“By all the living gods!” He grabbed her again, kissing her hard. “You think I’ll be letting you go? Now that I’ve my life back to share with you?”
“But-”
He kissed her again, silencing her.
“Did I no’ tell you I dinnae like that word?” He pulled back to look at her, shaking his head. “There’s no place for it our future.” He glanced aside, pretending to consider. “Unless you have something against me asking your uncle if we can build out the unused wing of Dunroamin? In exchange for helping round the place, of course. I can assist him with his peat businesses, and-”
“You want me to stay?” She launched herself at him, nearly knocking him to the ground. “With you, at Dunroamin?”
“No’ just that.” He caught his balance, then pulled her close. “I want you to be my wife.”
“Oh, yes!” she cried, her smile almost blinding him.
Or maybe it was the damnable heat pricking his eyes. Either way, he knew one thing.
Life didn’t get any better.
Epilogue
Up Helly Aa
Fire Festival
of the North
Six months later…
“Is it everything you expected, sweetness?”
Sir Hardwin de Studley, proud and successful manager of Dunroamin Peat Enterprises, slung an arm around his wife Cilla’s shoulders as they stood in the boisterous crowd swelling Lerwick’s cobbled High Street.
“O-o-oh, yes.” She leaned into him, toasty warm despite the icy, January wind. “You surely broke our record.”
His brows arched. “Our record?” But then he threw back his head and laughed, squeezing her. “A man is always good of a morn.”
“The word” – she lifted on her toes to nip his ear – “is incredible.”
Looking pleased, he dropped a kiss on her brow. “You haven’t seen anything yet.”
Smiling, she trailed gloved fingers down the front of his plaid. “I’m tingling already.”
“Next time I may no’ even let you have breakfast.” His dark eyes glinted wickedly. “I, after all, will have had my own.”
“You’re so bad!”
“Only in ways meant to please you,” he vowed in his delicious Scottish voice.
“Do I please you?” She edged closer, sliding a discreet hand beneath his sporran to splay her fingers across the impressive bulge there.
She pressed and squeezed, smiling innocently.
He ran hard.
“You ask?” He pulled in a breath, releasing it in a puff of white. “For truth, if you pleased me anymore, ‘tis we who’ll be the night’s entertainment and no’ the marching guizers parading down the street.”
“I’m delighted to see you so happy.” Cilla removed her hand, pleased indeed.
She was happy, too.
Deliriously so.
Never would she have believed life could be so rich and full, every breathing moment a joy. Beaming up at him, she knew that happiness sparkled in her eyes. Her good fortune amazed her, and there hadn’t been a day she wasn’t grateful.
There was just one little thing that niggled her.
A worry she wasn’t sure how to address.
“To be sure, I’m happy, sweeting.” He reached to brush her cheek with the back of his knuckles. “There isn’t a single thing I want except you.”
Cilla bit her lip. “What if-”
In that moment, a great cheer rose from the torchlit procession and the Viking-clad guizers thrust their arms in the air, waving their fiery, spark-spewing torches high above their heads.
A rain of ashes showered across the spectators.
Around them people laughed and ducked. Others brushed good-naturedly at their shoulders. His face ruddy with the cold, Hardwick turned to flick away several red-glowing sparks that glimmered on her sleeve.
“See, lass? There’s the reason I told you no’ to dress in your finest.” He held up sooty, ash-stained fingers. “By the time the ceremonial galley torching is over and we arrive at the first fest hall, your clothes will be covered with burn holes-”
“I don’t mind.” Cilla glanced at the tiny scorch marks, the tense moment passing. She laughed when the wind sent another cascade of sparks into the crowd. “It’s fun and- … oh, look!” She pointed. “Here comes Erlend Eggertson in his red devil mask.”
Hardwick glanced in the direction she indicated. The large, grinning mask dipped and bobbed toward them, prominent against the hundreds of furry-vested, horn-helmed Vikings filling the street.
The blazing procession lit the sky as the merry guizer squads passed by, some shouting to family and friends waving frantically from the curb. Others raised deep voices in rousing Nordic song.
Erlend Eggertson swung his mask their way, slowing his pace as the others pressed on to the burning site, each guizer pitching a flaming torch onto the doomed longship’s deck until its decorated timbers leapt to blaze.
Thunderous applause and shouts came from near the burning galley as the Guizer Jarl jumped free.
Erlend Eggertson bobbed closer.
At the harbor, flames shot heavenward, the crackle and roar almost deafening. The crowd surged forward, hastening toward the fated ship.
Then, just as Eggertson was within a few yards of them, he was caught up in the mob. His red devil mask swept away before he could reach them.
He turned back once, seeming to thrust his burning, tar-soaked brand toward one of the dark, emptied alleyways leading off the High Street.
Live well.
His greeting hung in the air. But then, like his costume mask, was swallowed by the din.
Cilla shivered.
The Shetlander’s voice hadn’t sounded anything like she remembered. Before she could say so, another Shetlander rushed up to them, elbowing his way through the crowd.
“The de Studleys, right?” He drew to a panting halt, sleeved his damp brow. “I’ve been looking all over for you. Eggertson sent me-”
“Aye?” Hardwick slid a glance at his wife. “We just saw him go past.”
The man’s eyes widened. “Ach, but you couldn’t have.” He pulled a handkerchief from a jacket pocket and dabbed at his forehead. “That’s why I’m here. To let you know he’s abed and couldn’t make the festivities. Food poisoning, he thinks. A shame it is, too, coming now of all nights.”
Cilla frowned. “But-”
Hardwick squeezed her elbow, silencing her. “Did someone else wear his costume, then?”
The man laughed and shook his head. “Eggertson’s? Not a chance. He’s so proud of that devil face he wouldn’t even let his sons wear the mask.”
Hardwick and Cilla exchanged glances.
The Shetlander smiled. “He swears he’ll be fit by tomorrow’s eve. He’d like you to join him – join us - at one of the private fest halls for a party he’s arranged in your honor. Our thanks for helping to get our costumes back to us.”
“We’ll look forward to it.” Hardwick nodded.
The man touched his brow and turned, disappearing the way he’d come.
“I knew there was something funny about the way the mask bobbed over to us.” Cilla grabbed Hardwick’s arm. “It was him! The Dark One. He came to say goodbye and wish us well.”
“Bah!” Hardwick snorted. “That one ne’er does anything so mundane. He’ll have had a reason.”
Cilla considered. “Well, he did-”
She broke off at the look on her husband’s face.
Half turned away from her, he was staring in the direction the Dark One had pointed, a look of amazement on his handsome face.
She saw why at once.
Two Vikings stood in the darkness of a narrow alleyway. Tall, proud, and festively dressed, the woman’s long blond braid identified her at once, as did Sea-Strider’s colorfully painted shield and nine foot sword.
If there’d been any doubt, the strange otherworldly glow that shimmered about them was more than telling.
Their smiles, however, were a surprise.
Almost beneficent, there was something about them that pricked the backs of Cilla’s eyes. She swallowed hard, willing the hot lump in her throat to recede.
She really was too emotional lately.
“What’s she carrying?”
Cilla blinked, Hardwick’s words making her start.
“H’mmm?” She squinted, trying to see better through the crowd.
Not that she needed to.
The woman had left the alley and was coming toward them. The blazing light of the Up Helly Aa flames clearly showed the tiny wooden sword and the little Viking-painted shield in her hands.
“Oh my God!” Cilla stared as Gudrid approached, her smile saying everything. “She knows.”
“Knows what?” Hardwick looked at her.
But then Norsewoman was there, in front of them. Silent, she handed Cilla the miniature sword and shield, nodding solemnly when she took them.
“Our thanks.” Gudrid’s voice was soft, melodic. “And our blessings.”
On the words, she vanished.
And at the edge of the crowd, Sea-Strider no longer stood in the en
trance to the alley.
***
What remained was a strange but jubilant welling in Hardwick’s chest. It was a feeling that increased the longer he observed how tightly his wife clutched the tiny wooden sword and shield.
When she started blinking rapidly and a tear rolled down her cheek, he grabbed her and slanted his mouth over hers, kissing her fiercely.
“Odin’s balls, woman!” He released her to swipe a tear off his own cheek. “Whye’er did you no’ tell me?”
She looked up at him, the uncertainty in her eyes splitting him. “I was afraid you wouldn’t be ready. That you’d rather things would have stayed as-”
He reached for her again, squeezing her as hard as he dared. “No’ ready?” he roared the words, causing heads to swivel. “Our first child and you think I’m no’ pleased?
“Sweet lass, I am overjoyed!” I have waited seven hundred years for this privilege!
Cilla beamed, her eyes glistening.
The swivel-heads slapped shoulders and cheered.
Hardwick ignored them.
Ne’er a man of words, he thrust his hands in her hair and kissed her. Rough, fast, and furiously, showing her beyond doubt how very happy she’d made him.
Around them the night burned brightly. And beneath his lady’s heart a flame of a very different nature flickered and grew, the thought filling him with more joy than he would’ve believed possible.
As if she knew, Cilla tightened her arms around him, sighing.
He pulled back only long enough to flash her a grin. “By the gods, but I love you.”
Then he resumed kissing her, this time slow and sweet.
Author’s Footnote
Tall, Dark, and Kilted combines three of my passions: all things old and quirky, wild places, and the paranormal. The way to my heart is to drop me off in a vast and empty corner of Scotland – somewhere untouched by time, where rocks, wind, and cold, are your only companions. Toss in a ghost or two, an atmospheric castle ruin or a seen-better-days stately home, and I’m happy.
This book’s setting is Scotland’s rugged and remote far north. Sutherland, to be precise. Although I love every inch of Scotland, it is here that my heart beats hardest. All the places visited by Cilla and Hardwick are real, though I changed a few names. These locations are on the map and I highly recommend exploring them if ever you journey to Sutherland.
