Tall, Dark, and Kilted

by MACKAY, ALLIE

  Regrettably, the image also revealed how shell-shocked she looked.

  What she needed was fresh air.

  She gave herself a little shake to settle her nerves and then marched across the room and opened the nearest window. She unlatched the shutters, deliberately ignoring the weird screech of the rusty hinges.

  Such things wouldn’t bother her again.

  She had the backbone to stand above them.

  For the moment, she’d simply enjoy the view. And there really was a lot to relish. If one appreciated fine mist and drizzle, a touch of brisk, chill air, all of which she certainly did.

  Clutching the edges of the window, she breathed deep.

  Never had she seen a place of such haunting beauty, though haunting wasn’t the best word choice at the moment. Even so, it suited. She took another long breath, air scented with the rich earthiness of peat, a tinge of rain and damp, ageless stone. Her cares began to roll off her shoulders.

  She’d always understood why Aunt Birdie had fallen for a Highlander.

  Now, finally, she saw why her aunt had also lost her heart to Scotland’s far north. Wild, empty, and soul-piercingly beautiful, the vista before her was so spectacular it almost hurt to gaze upon.

  But she did, letting her troubles melt away as she stared down at the liquid glass surface of the Kyle, silver-blue and gleaming. She leaned out the window to better watch the moon rise above what looked to be a ruined tower perched on the edge of one of the cliffs on the far side of the inlet. Rising like two fingers held up in the victory sign, the ruin appeared to have a window arch in one of its remaining walls.

  How old it must be!

  Certainly older than Dunroamin.

  She shivered. This time with excitement. Who would have thought her room would look out upon an ancient castle ruin? There could be no mistaking that it was a crumbled tower. Even at this late hour, the sky shimmered with a luminosity that let her see everything.

  She saw not just the lines of the distant ruin, but also the great mass of Ben Loyal, bluish-purple in the night’s clear, limpid light, and—if she squinted—the one-track thread of a road, impossibly narrow and mist-sheened, that curved around the long sea loch that was the Kyle of Tongue. She could even see—if she craned her neck—a sliver of the rolling moorlands where Uncle Mac cut his peat.

  Fine peat, the best in the north. Or so he claimed. Looking that way now, she blinked, then gasped, her eyes widening.

  The devil filled her vision.

  Huge, red, and wickedly horned, his leering face hovered in the air just outside the window.

  “Eeeeee!” She grabbed the shutters and yanked them into place.

  The window wouldn’t budge.

  “Come on!” She pulled, but nothing happened. “Shut, will you?”

  When she broke a fingernail, she got mad.

  She glared at her torn nail. The back of her neck caught fire. “Enough,” she seethed, her smarting cuticle pushing her over the edge.

  Could it be her Kiltie? Would he reappear so quickly, disguised as the devil to scare her?

  She knew in her heart he wouldn’t.

  The red devil face had to be someone else.

  Something else.

  Maybe even Satan himself. Whatever it was, she wouldn’t show any fear. No matter that her knees were knocking, she wouldn’t be from anywhere close to Philadelphia if she didn’t know how to look brave.

  But in the instant it took her to throw open the shutters to prove it, the hovering devil had vanished.

  And without leaving so much as a pitchfork or a puff of brimstone in his wake.

  “Whew . . .” She let out a shaky breath.

  Then she curled her fingers around the cold, wet iron of the shutter latches, her gaze once again on the tower ruin across the Kyle. Wrapped round with a veil of thin, whirling mist, its stones called her.

  But not near as much as he did.

  And that scared her more than floating devil faces.

  Much more.

  Chapter 6

  Early the next day, Cilla stood at the entrance to Dunroamin’s breakfast room—actually a conservatory overlooking the paved terrace and garden lawn—and decided bright morning sunshine went a long way in dispelling the castle’s air of gothic gloom.

  Easier to find than the library, she’d only needed to follow the delicious aroma of bacon and the clatter of dishes and cutlery to find the airy, glass-walled room.

  And, of course, the raised tone of Colonel Darling’s clipped English voice.

  She’d heard him the minute she neared the bottom of the main stairs. Now, as she hurried to join her aunt at a small corner table, his bellowing proved even louder.

  She turned a questioning look on her aunt. “What’s with—”

  “It’s a morning ritual.” Aunt Birdie appeared unconcerned. “After all these years, I can’t imagine breakfast without their sparring. It keeps things lively.”

  Cilla leaned forward to peer around a potted coffee bean tree at the elderly combatants. She wasn’t sure such bickering should count as liveliness, especially not so early in the day. But she kept the thought to herself.

  More important, Hardwick didn’t seem present.

  Not kilted. Not invisible. Nor in his latest—and ridiculous—red devil getup.

  She frowned, feeling a twinge of guilt for suspecting him again. But after hours spent tossing and turning, and especially in the bright light of morning, the notion of the devil at Dunroamin struck her as absurd.

  Ghosts she could handle.

  She already knew one was here.

  And much as she felt herself attracted to him, however crazy that might be, it was obvious he wanted her gone. He’d already said so, and his insulting comment about not wanting to see her naked only underscored his feelings.

  So maybe he had made himself look like the devil? It was a safe enough bet that most women would run for the hills after seeing such a thing.

  If so, it was his tough luck that she wasn’t every woman.

  But still . . .

  She worried her lower lip and glanced around, expecting to see him. But she couldn’t sense him anywhere in the sunny room. Filled with light and a touch of Aunt Birdie’s bohemian charm, with its crowding of exotic greenery, crisp blue table linens, and windowed walls of sparkling glass, the conservatory felt totally ghostless.

  Just to be sure, she glanced at an oak sideboard near the door. Massive and stacked with china, pitchers of juice, and colorful serving bowls of muesli, the dresser cast the room’s only shadows.

  Satisfied that those wedges of darkness held nothing more than a standing rack of weekly papers, she returned her attention to her breakfast.

  Her first full Scottish breakfast, as a tartan-edged hand-printed card declared in large, bold letters. She’d heard about the heartiness of such feasts. The meal was a treat she meant to enjoy without worrying about him.

  Or the arguing residents.

  Determined to put them all from her mind, she picked up the menu and read the selection.

  Fresh fruit salad or fruit slices.

  Any style eggs, bacon and sausage, black

  pudding and haggis, smoked haddock or

  salmon.

  Fried tattie scones, soda farls—whatever they

  were—mushrooms, baked beans, and toast,

  white or dark.

  Muesli, yogurt, and porridge.

  Tea or coffee.

  Juices.

  Cilla’s mouth watered. Her stomach made an embarrassing noise. Fried potato scones sounded like her idea of heaven, though she might pass on the black pudding. Everyone knew it was really blood sausage. Still, she was hungry enough to have a bit of everything. Maybe even one of the mysterious-sounding soda farls.

  But first she needed caffeine.

  She was so not a morning person.

  Knowing it, Aunt Birdie indicated the teapot. The silver bangles on her arm tinkled as she tapped the pot’s handle. “You can have
coffee if you prefer.”

  Cilla shook her head.

  She’d love coffee, but the tea was on the table. Readily accessible caffeine was the best caffeine.

  “Where’s Uncle Mac?” She poured a cup of the tea. “Is he sleeping late?”

  “Your uncle?” Aunt Birdie nearly choked on a piece of smoked haddock. “He was up and away before the sun. It’s him that they’re all fussing about this morning.”

  “Uncle Mac?”

  Aunt Birdie nodded, her gaze flicking to the agitated colonel.

  “Bollocks!” Seated at the head of a large antique pine table, he waved a speared sausage. “He’ll not find anything but bog cotton and muck on his wellies! You didn’t hear him saying he was going off to look for Vikings, did you?”

  Across the table from him, Violet Manyweathers sniffed. “Of course he didn’t say the like. He doesn’t want to alarm us unduly.”

  “You’ve gone full dotty.” The colonel popped the sausage into his mouth and chewed angrily.

  “The laird never goes out so early,” Flora Duthie chimed, tucking a napkin into her collar. “Not before his breakfast. We all know that.”

  As unobtrusively as she could, Cilla parted the glossy dark green leaves of the coffee bean tree and sneaked a look at the other table.

  The only one occupied besides hers and Aunt Birdie’s.

  “Mac MacGhee’s business is just that—his business.” Colonel Darling forked another sausage. “He won’t appreciate a gaggle of old biddies speculating on how he chooses to fill his morning.”

  Flora ignored the insult. “The Vikings were especially active last night,” she said, adding a pinch of salt to her porridge. “Like as not he saw them, too, and hoped to catch any that might still be floating about.”

  “Might still be floatin’ aboot!” Red-faced, the colonel mimicked the tiny woman’s burr. “The only thing floating about this place is that insufferable boxtie.”

  He yanked his tweed cap more snugly onto his head and shot an angry look at Violet. “That abominable bird of yours is the real spook. Mark my words.”

  Her expression infinitely calm, Violet spooned a helping of haggis onto her plate. “Gregor is a bonxie, not a boxtie. And”—she returned the serving spoon to the dish of haggis—“who the spook around here is, is a matter of opinion.”

  Flora tittered.

  Colonel Darling reached for his tea, nearly dropping the cup when Leo shot out from under the table and leapt up to snatch the napkin off his lap.

  “Damnation!” He half rose from his chair, shaking a fist at the retreating dachshund. “Long-backed little bugger! I’ll get my hands on him one of these days!” he roared, dropping back onto his seat. “Him, and that wretched boxtie.”

  “Great skua, affectionately known as a bonxie.” Honoria waltzed into the room, bearing a platter heaped with crispy bacon, black pudding, and steaming scrambled eggs.

  “Affectionately!” The colonel glared at her.

  Looking pleased to have corrected him, the housekeeper plunked her tray onto a large oak buffet near his table. “You’ll not be touching either creature or you’ll have to contend with me.”

  “Bah!” He grabbed a piece of toast and started smearing it with butter. “Bring me another napkin or you’ll have me to deal with.”

  “I’m trembling in my shoes.” The housekeeper’s lips twitched as she did as he bid, even spreading the napkin on his lap for him.

  “Harrumph.” He nodded gruff thanks and returned to his toast.

  Cilla released her grip on the coffee bean tree leaves and turned back to the table. Through the windows she caught a swift movement out on the lawn, near the sundial. Her heart leapt, then dipped when she spotted two rabbits playing chase in the grass.

  She’d thought it’d been him.

  Her Kiltie.

  Despite his antics—if he was indeed behind the red devil face—some crazy-mad part of her wanted to see him again.

  But nothing moved on the emerald green lawn except sun shadows, the rabbits, and a sparrow that seemed intent on pecking at something on the stone face of the sundial.

  “Honoria!”

  Cilla started. The colonel’s bark brought her back inside the conservatory.

  “Cook forgot to serve Flora’s porridge in her wooden bowl.” He held up the silver porringer as evidence. “Porridge cools too quickly in this contraption, fancy as it is.”

  Cilla watched as the housekeeper took the silver bowl without a twitch of irritation.

  Holding the porridge before her, she started for the door. “I’ll fetch another serving and make sure we use Flora’s special bowl.”

  The colonel nodded, clearly appeased.

  Flora gave him a twittery smile.

  “See?” Aunt Birdie reached across the table to nudge Cilla’s arm. “The bickering between them is pure stuff and nonsense. They’re all actually quite fond of each other. I suspect that’s a reason they’ve stayed with us when others have left.”

  “Did the others really leave because of Viking ghosts?”

  Aunt Birdie shrugged.

  “That’s what they said, yes.” She lowered her voice. “See, my dear, with the exception of those like your uncle and Achilles—that’s Colonel Darling—many people hereabouts still believe in the old folklore and traditions.”

  “I know they do.” Cilla smoothed her napkin into place. “I remember you saying so when you’d visit Yardley.”

  “It’s still true.” Aunt Birdie brushed at her skirt. “Seers and second sight, healing rituals and sacred places are all things that are still widely accepted. And”—she glanced out at the sun-bright morning—“not just in gathering twilight or on long winter nights.”

  “Then you’d think the notion of ghosts wouldn’t bother them.” Cilla slid another look at the sundial. The rabbits and the little sparrow were gone. “Why—”

  “Because along with the harmless and good, like believing a branch of rowan tacked above the byre door will safeguard the health of the animals within, there are other, darker beliefs, as well.”

  “Such as?”

  Aunt Birdie looked at her, her face as sincere and earnest as ever. “Omens and taboos that can be quite frightening. The evil eye and the powers of goodwives whose magic is anything but.”

  “Even today?” Cilla had trouble believing it. “People really worry about those things?”

  “Don’t forget you’re in Scotland, dear.” Aunt Birdie topped off her teacup. “And Sutherland, remote and rugged as it is, is Highland Scotland at its best and its worst, depending on your viewpoint.”

  Visions of the red devil face rose in Cilla’s mind and she opened her mouth to say so, but closed it as quickly. Aunt Birdie and Uncle Mac had enough on their plates without her adding hovering devils to the brew.

  She cleared her throat, pushing the image aside. “So the residents who left really were afraid of Viking ghosts?”

  “Indeed they were, sadly.” A tiny crease appeared between Aunt Birdie’s brows. “One woman confided she feared the Norsemen were harbingers of doom. That they’d come to get her in her sleep. Sort of like the tales down south of those huge phantom dogs said to slink about the moors at night. To see one of the great black beasts meant certain death.”

  Cilla shivered. “I’m sorry. I wish—”

  “Things will improve. Our stalwarts are still here and soon others will join us. I am sure of it.” Aunt Birdie flashed a smile and reached for a basket of what looked to be very large and thick scones.

  “Have a soda farl.” She jiggled the basket. “Cook really has a way with them. And”—she cast a look at the colonel and his buttered toast—“they’re much better than toast. Like the English, the Scots never seem able to serve anything but cold toast.”

  “What about you?” Cilla took one of the soda farls. “Do you think there are Viking ghosts?”

  “Me?” Aunt Birdie set down the basket, her arm bangles jingling again. “You know I believe in gho
sts. I’m sure there are plenty Viking ones all up and down Scotland’s coasts. But I’ve yet to sense any here.”

  “And the chivalrous ghost you said was angry at Grant for ditching me?” Cilla’s heart skittered on the words. “Is he still here?”

  She had to ask.

  Even though she knew the question put two bright spots of red on her cheeks.

  “A ghost angry at Grant?” Aunt Birdie didn’t seem to remember.

  “That’s what you said.” Cilla wished she’d never mentioned him. She could still feel his hot gaze raking her. His fingers brushing her nipples, and his soft, warm breath tickling her neck when he’d leaned close that once.

  She shifted on the chair, crossing her legs before such thoughts brought on another attack of the tingles.

  “Ahhh, it’s coming back to me.” Aunt Birdie tilted her head, peering into nowhere. “He was quite dashing if I recall correctly. At least”—her lips curved in a soft smile—“his energy was bold, even rakish. That’s all I caught, regrettably. A fleeting impression, no more.”

  “And now?”

  Aunt Birdie’s brow creased again. “Now . . .” She closed her eyes, concentrating. “I cannot sense him at all.”

  “He’s gone?”

  “He’s not here at the moment, no.” Her aunt’s eyes popped open, clear and focused again. “That doesn’t mean he won’t return. Many ghosts come and go at Dunroamin, even if your uncle scoffs at the notion. I’m not the only one who notices them. My theory is that they feel at ease here, perhaps because we keep things as they were.”

  She picked up her teacup and took a sip, watching Cilla over the rim. “To our residents—and us—Dunroamin is a refuge from the stresses of modern life. Why should that change in the afterlife? Why wouldn’t such souls seek a slower-paced, edge-of-the-world haven if they appreciated such places in their earthly lives?”

  Cilla bit her lip.

  Something told her that Kiltie had very different reasons for popping by Dunroamin.

  Reasons she suspected might be dangerous to know.

  As was the kilted ghost himself, she was sure!

  “Aunt Birdie . . .” She drew a breath to change the subject. “What did the colonel mean about bog cotton and muck on Uncle Mac’s boots? Where is he, anyway?”