Tall, Dark, and Kilted

by MACKAY, ALLIE

  She set down her fork. “Don’t mention Culloden to your uncle. Not if you don’t want an earful. He visits the site whenever we drive down to Inverness and considers himself quite an authority on the battle.”

  “It was the last battle on British soil, right?” Cilla slid another glance at the shields. “Bonnie Prince Charlie, the clans, and all that?”

  “That’s right.” Aunt Birdie nodded. “Culloden broke the clans and proved the death knell of clan culture. The battle and its aftermath also smoothed the way for the Highland Clearances that followed. Strathnaver suffered bitterly in those times, with whole communities being put to flight, their homes torched to make way for more profitable sheep.” She leaned close, lowering her voice. “People hereabouts still speak as if it all happened just yesterday.”

  “And Uncle Mac leads the parade.” The notion made Cilla smile.

  “He does.” Aunt Birdie smiled, too. “He’s a real crusader for the old ways. His interest in the times is one reason he’s collected the targes. That’s why I don’t think any of them are medieval, though I suppose they could be. They certainly were around back then.”

  “I thought so.” Cilla picked at her scone. She wasn’t about to admit that the real reason the shields bothered her was because there’d been one in the poster with Mr. Wasn’t-Really-There. The thing had been propped against the wall, near his feet.

  And like him, it hadn’t belonged there.

  Which meant she was losing her mind.

  Or seeing ghosts.

  Needing to know which it was, she pushed back from the table and stood. “Aunt Birdie, is Uncle Mac really so sure there aren’t any ghosts here?”

  “Why?” Her aunt put down her salmon-topped oat-cake. “Have you seen one? There are stories, you know. All these gloomy old piles have their tales.”

  “I know,” Cilla agreed. She also knew her aunt surely believed every one she heard.

  Aunt Birdie was like that.

  “Out with the fairies,” her mother always called her. Hearing the laughter of sprites in the tinkle of a stream or seeing shades in thin veils of drifting mist.

  Cilla tossed back her hair and lifted her chin.

  She was different.

  “But what does Uncle Mac really think?” She paced a bit, her gaze repeatedly sliding to the windows. “Mom and Dad mentioned there were some problems here. Do they have anything to do with ghosts?”

  “So some say. But not your uncle.” Aunt Birdie dabbed a linen napkin at her mouth. “He’d laugh in the face of the devil. In fact, he thinks it’s a devil causing our difficulties.”

  She set down the napkin and lowered her voice. “A mortal, flesh-and-blood devil out to ruin us, though we can’t imagine who he is or what he has against Dunroamin.”

  “Oh, dear. That sounds serious.” Cilla returned to the table, roguish-looking poster shadows forgotten. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “We’ll discuss it later. We need to, as we’re hoping you can help us with a few things. Just now, I’d much rather hear about you.” Aunt Birdie patted her hand. “We were so sorry to hear about Grant.”

  Cilla nearly choked on her tea. “Don’t be. Getting dumped by Grant A. Hughes III was the best thing that ever happened to me. I’m totally over him.”

  Aunt Birdie’s eyes narrowed. “Are you sure? You don’t sound—”

  “If I sound upset, it’s not because of losing Grant. It’s because his new girlfriend had a hand in ruining my business.” She set down her teacup. “I can’t prove it, but I’m certain she torpedoed Vintage Chic.”

  “But you were doing so well.” Aunt Birdie looked astonished.

  “So well I had to sell my car to pay several months’ overdue rent.” Heat began inching up her throat and she slipped a finger beneath the neck opening of her top, feeling warm in the chilly room.

  “You should have told us.”

  “I couldn’t.” She looked across the table at her aunt, something about her—as always—making the words spill. “Call it pride as far as you and Uncle Mac go, and, well, regarding Mom and Dad, they don’t have enough as is. No way did I want them dipping into their savings to help me.”

  Aunt Birdie shook her head. “I’m so sorry, dear. We had no idea.” She gestured with her scone at the laptop Uncle Mac had left sitting at the far end of the table. “I remember you e-mailing some while back about a local jewelry and gift shop giving you display space. You said they were very excited about your sales, that—”

  “You mean the Charm Box at the Emporium, a cluster of secondhand, antique, and jewelry shops in the heart of Yardley. They cater to shoppers with eclectic tastes.” Cilla tried not to sound bitter. “Paterson’s Charm Box is the one who carried my broken china jewelry creations. And, yes, they were enthusiastic. Unfortunately, their daughter, Dawn, saw things differently.”

  “She’s the one seeing Grant?”

  Cilla nodded. “The last time I took in a new batch of designs, she told me my work wasn’t selling and they couldn’t waste the counter space on me. Even worse, I’d swear she and her family are friendly with every other antique and jewelry shop owner between Philly and Trenton. After the Patersons ousted me, no other shops would even look at my work.”

  “Sounds like sour grapes.” Aunt Birdie stood and crossed the room to toss a few peat bricks on the fire. “Sorry, of a sudden, I’m freezing.” She gave Cilla an apologetic smile as she reclaimed her seat at the table. “So, tell me. Who is this girl?”

  “She’s a force to be reckoned with, that’s what.” Cilla poked at her scone. It wasn’t very encouraging to realize that the thought of her miniscule rival still had such power to needle her. “Born to rich and doting parents, she’s pampered, spoiled, and always gets her way. Or in Grant’s case, her man.”

  Aunt Birdie reached across the table to top off her tea. “I think Grant is the loser, dear.”

  Cilla shrugged. “Rumor is she told him she’s preggers. Either way, she’s so tiny she barely reaches my shoulders, but she packs a mean punch. I have it on good authority that she even blackballed me with the people who run the Red Barn, a local flea market. Who knows if she did or not, but when I tried to rent space there, I was declined. Thing is”—she stirred a dollop of milk into her tea—“they had at least a half-dozen booths free, and still do.”

  Aunt Birdie’s eyes widened. “And Grant fell for such a woman?”

  “So it would seem. Either Dawn Paterson or the wealth behind her.”

  “But he has money of his own.” Aunt Birdie frowned. “Isn’t his family one of the richest on the Delaware?”

  “The richest, I suspect.” Cilla splayed the fingers of her left hand, her ring finger now naked of the egg-sized diamond she’d sported until so recently. “I imagine their position had something to do with turning his head in Dawn’s direction. Status mattered to Grant.”

  Fool.

  The deep voice came from somewhere near the row of tall windows. Loud and resonating, the single word echoed off the walls and strummed the air.

  Cilla jerked. Something like a jolt of electricity tripped through her, spilling from the roots of her hair clear down to the tips of her toes.

  “Did you hear that?” She flashed a look at her aunt, her pulse quickening. “That was a man’s voice—”

  “Shush . . .” Aunt Birdie put a finger to her lips.

  “I heard him clearly,” Cilla insisted, anyway. “Maybe Uncle Mac is out in the corridor? Or maybe it was another of his recordings?”

  She twisted around, her gaze searching the room.

  But it was empty.

  No suspicious humming gave away a recorded jest.

  And the dark square of the door showed only shadows. Nothing but the ever-present sea haar stared in at them from the long bank of glittering, Jacobean-era windows.

  Fool. The word still filled her ears.

  Aunt Birdie sat quietly sipping her tea, a faraway look in her deep blue eyes.

  “There is
someone here.” She turned to Cilla, her gaze once more clear. “A chivalrous man who cannot stand seeing women treated poorly. I feel he’d avenge you if he could.”

  Cilla swallowed. “You feel him?”

  “Oh yes.” Her aunt tilted her head, listening. “I’d bet your uncle’s beard on it.”

  “And he wants to avenge me?”

  Cilla kept her doubt to herself. She didn’t believe in gallant men, ghostly or otherwise.

  Her aunt flicked a crumb off the tablecloth.

  “I can only tell you the impressions I’m getting.” She met Cilla’s eyes, her own gaze steady. “It’s mostly anger, and I’m interpreting his energy as being colored by Grant’s betrayal, though I could be wrong. But come”—she jumped up and pulled Cilla to her feet—“let’s join your uncle in the library. As he would say, I likely shouldn’t have indulged in a second dram when you arrived!”

  Moving quickly, she tugged Cilla from the room. “Tomorrow will be soon enough to think about our troubles here at Dunroamin, and whatever heartache Grant A. Hughes III has caused you.”

  Grant A. Hughes III.

  The third, by love of all the saints. Near the windows, Hardwick stifled a snort. The man wasn’t just a fool. He had a name like a pompous, limp-wristed peacock.

  Certain Hughes had other, equally disagreeable faults, Hardwick stepped out of his hiding place the instant the two women exited the room.

  Brushing at his plaid, he frowned at the now-empty suit of armor. Never again would he materialize inside anything even halfway as constricting.

  He shuddered and flexed his fingers. Then, for good measure, he wriggled his toes, as well. A few vigorous neck rolls, first in one direction and then the other, followed by a quick set of knee bends, completed his attempts to rid himself of the kinks and knots plaguing him.

  All that, and still he felt miserable.

  Whoever had once worn the armor had been a small, slightly built man.

  Definitely not a Highlander.

  Proud to belong to that noble race himself, he should have been more wary when he’d followed the interloper from her bedchamber. His scowl deepening, he planted fisted hands on his hips and glanced around.

  How typical that he’d purposely left his own shield outside, only to have the fetching creature he now knew to be Cilla Swanner not only flash her breasts at him, but to leave him no choice than to trail after her to the castle armory.

  A room filled with shields—taunting reminders of the state in which he’d passed the last seven hundred years.

  The dire circumstances he’d find himself in if he failed to meet the Dark One’s requirements for lifting the wizard-bard’s curse.

  “A plague on it,” he growled, scowling. “And on that long-ago lute picker. May his fingers rot and wither, or stick to his lute strings.” He put back his shoulders, his own curse rolling off his tongue with enough heat to rival any fireballs the Dark One might throw at him for his insolence.

  There were some things a man just shouldn’t have to endure.

  Dwelling beneath the same roof as his one great weakness—a damsel in distress—topped his list.

  A room hung with targes proved a close second.

  Glaring at them, he considered using his ghostly abilities to get rid of them. Perhaps send them hurtling into the North Sea, letting them sink into its briny depths, one shield at a time.

  Or simply flicking his fingers and making them vanish. All at once, and with a fine and satisfying burst of colorful sparks.

  Unfortunately, his honor wouldn’t allow him such mischievous pleasures.

  Mac MacGhee was a goodly sort, and in the short time he’d enjoyed the laird’s unwitting hospitality, he’d grown rather fond of the man.

  He also knew Mac appreciated the targes.

  Still earthbound and curse-free, MacGhee hadn’t spent an eternity holding one of the fool contraptions in front of his tender parts.

  He just wished the man had mentioned the pending arrival of his niece.

  His American niece.

  He shuddered, his every shred of self-preservation clamping around him. Cilla Swanner posed a greater threat than an entire hall strung with shields.

  From experience, he knew how dangerous such foreign wenches could be. Two of his closest friends had fallen for females of her ilk, even succumbing deep enough to marry them.

  Blowing out a hot breath, he shoved a hand through his hair, his friends’ capitulations riding him hard.

  He couldn’t risk any such foolery.

  It’d been bad enough looking on as the maid had bared her breasts.

  And what magnificent breasts! Full, well-rounded, and pink-tipped, they’d bounced as she’d crossed the room to peer at him. Seldom had he seen such creamy, succulent teats. And she’d stood so close to the poster frame that he could almost feel their silky-smooth weight in his hands.

  Almost taste her chill-tightened nipples beneath his greedy, swirling tongue.

  Saints, how he’d love to suckle them!

  At once, he felt a stir beneath his kilt. A sudden rush of heat and twitches that heralded the start of a man’s oh-so-irresistible swelling.

  “Damnation,” he growled, clenching his fists until the hot pulling receded.

  Furious, he stared up at the room’s hammer-beam ceiling. He should have vanished when the lass had stripped down to such a delectable state of undress.

  Most certainly when she’d headed toward him, her startled expression leaving no doubt that she’d seen him.

  But nae . . .

  He’d ignored all good sense to stare right back at her like a lovestruck gawp, his old instincts rooting him in place despite the perils.

  He frowned again.

  The curvaceous American was a peril he hadn’t expected to encounter at a remote Highland care home for the aged and infirm.

  He’d hoped to spend his days being bored and uninspired.

  Wholly free of temptation.

  Setting his jaw, he tossed another glare at the wall of shields. Then he curled his fingers around his sword belt, preparing to transport himself up onto the battlements.

  For reasons he didn’t care to acknowledge, he felt a strong need for a blast of chill, bracing air.

  Something told him he soon might even require a few dips in the icy sea.

  Hardwick sighed. He’d chosen the refuge for his proving period unwisely.

  Most unwisely indeed.

  Chapter 2

  “Fool.”

  The word followed Hardwick to the battlements, sticking as close to him as the blaring strains of Mac MacGhee’s favorite pipe tune still rattled in his ears. He cupped them with his hands and pressed hard, trying in vain to rid himself of the loud, droning echo.

  Not that he didn’t love pipes.

  He did, as did all self-respecting Highlanders.

  But there were bagpipes and then bagpipes.

  Mac MacGhee’s mechanically contrived blast of Heiland skirling was an abomination.

  Hardwick frowned. Never again would he make the mistake of manifesting in the laird’s privy quarters just prior to teatime.

  Nor would he allow himself any further moments of self-satisfaction over having chosen Dunroamin as the place of refuge for his proving period.

  His decision was disastrous.

  If Grant A. Hughes III was a fool for walking away from the lightsome lass, he was an even greater lackwit for putting himself in her path.

  “A double-dyed doomed lackwit,” he fumed, glaring at the mist sliding past the battlements. Thick and gray, great sheets of it swirled everywhere. He narrowed his eyes, scanning each billowy drift. It would be just like the Dark One to lurk behind the impenetrable brew, gloating.

  Twice now he’d caught what could have been a crone’s cackling laugh.

  Or—saints forbid—the heinous sniggers of a whole gaggle of them.

  He shuddered, looking deeper into the fog.

  But his best peering efforts turned up
naught. If the fiend or his hell hags were at Dunroamin, they were keeping themselves well hidden. So he put them from his mind—for now—and bowed to long habit, conjuring his shield.

  A flick of his fingers and it appeared in his hand.

  The shield’s familiarity comforted.

  He just hoped he’d never again need it for its erstwhile purpose.

  Certain such a calamity was rushing his way, he balled his fists and began to pace the wall-walk. A cold drizzle slicked the stone flagging and darkened the castle walls, but the rain-misted afternoon suited him.

  So much so that he didn’t bother to draw his plaid against the rising wind.

  There was, after all, no need.

  She more than warmed him.

  With every angry footfall, her face rose before him. She tempted and vexed him with her startled eyes of deepest blue, the fine line of her jaw, and her creamy, unblemished skin. The sleek fall of her thick, silky hair taunted him, too. Honey-gold in color and just brushing her shoulders, the gleaming strands begged a man’s touch. Just as her mouth, so full, sweetly curved, and soft-looking, hinted at a hidden lustiness he’d love to waken in her.

  A groan rose deep in his throat and he pulled a hand down over his chin.

  He hadn’t often loved a fair-haired woman. Well-prized in his day, most proved either already taken or were sequestered away in an unassailable tower, guarded by their fathers until the highest bidder claimed them.

  How he’d love to claim this one!

  He swallowed another groan, imagining the bliss of thrusting his hands into such shining skeins. He’d twine the strands around his fingers and pull her close, kissing her deeply. And if she kissed him back, he’d crush her to him, making sure she felt the thick, hard length of him brushing against her.

  Just thinking about such deliciousness let him almost feel her softness pressing into him, the golden strands of her hair spilling through his fingers, delighting and bewitching him. He drew a deep breath and released it slowly.

  Fair women were a prize beyond telling.

  In his numberless years of carousing, most of his bedmates had sported tresses of flame or coloring as dark as his own. And of the few yellow-maned wenches he’d sampled, he’d quickly known they’d gleaned the bright shade from the local henwife.