Her aunt’s mouth twitched. “He’s just there where the colonel so aptly described. Out in the middle of his peat cuttings, but not to look for ghosts. He’s helping Honoria’s nephews load a lorry with peat.”
“Loading peat?” Cilla’s eyes widened. “Isn’t that backbreaking work?”
“It is.” Aunt Birdie’s brow crease returned. “Although this is the first year we haven’t had a score of helpers, young Robbie and Roddie are perfectly capable of doing the work on their own. But you know your uncle. . . .”
Cilla set down her fork. “He is rather stubborn.”
“That isn’t the half of it.” Aunt Birdie glanced over to the residents’ table, where voices were rising again. “It’d be easier to soften stone by boiling it than to get him to see reason sometimes.”
“But why does he need a whole lorry of peat? As close as his moorland is—”
“That bloody bird has a wingspread of five feet!”
Cilla jumped, Colonel Darling’s outburst about Gregor cutting her off.
Someone—Violet?—tsk-tsked. “If you’d be nice to him—”
“Nice, you say? To a dive-bombing pterodactyl?” The colonel flushed red. “I once heard of a chap who lost the tip of his nose to one of your beloved boxties!”
When he quieted, Cilla turned back to her aunt. “I meant, with Uncle Mac’s moorland so close by, can’t he just have Robbie and Roddie bring up the peat as needed?”
“We do that with the peat we burn at Dunroamin.” Aunt Birdie sipped her tea, immune to the ruckus at the other table. “It’s the distillery peat that needs a lorry.”
“Distillery peat?”
“That’s right.” Aunt Birdie looked at her, a touch of pride in her deep blue eyes. “Dunroamin has superior peat, or so your uncle believes. If you didn’t know, it’s peat smoke that distinguishes Highland whisky. Distilleries use it to dry their barley. All peat has its own distinctive reek, depending on area. That’s what determines a whisky’s ultimate flavor. Our Dunroamin peat is prized for the rich, earthy-sweet tang of its smoke and—”
“So Uncle Mac’s gone into the distillery business?” Cilla tried to remember.
“No, the peat business.” Aunt Birdie refilled their teacups. “He’s been trying to sell our peat to a few of the area’s smaller distilleries. Simmer Dim and Northern Mist are just two that have shown interest. Now, with their initial orders coming in and”—she set down the teapot, frowning—“the local young men who’d agreed to help refusing to set foot on our moors, we’re in danger of losing this avenue of supplemental income, as well.”
“Don’t tell me the locals are afraid of Viking ghosts, too?” Cilla stared at her aunt. Shades of Dawn Paterson and her parents whirled across her mind. “Or is there another reason Uncle Mac’s helpers left him in the lurch?”
“That’s the million-dollar question, my dear.” Aunt Birdie sighed. “Sutherland has never been an easy place to make a living. Your uncle suspects someone bribed the young men, luring them away with promises of better-paying jobs elsewhere.”
Cilla frowned.
That she could believe.
“So it isn’t about ghosts?”
“I’d say it’s a little bit of both.” Aunt Birdie squinted in the bright sun slanting in through the windows. “People hereabouts are superstitious. Word spreads quicker than a brushfire. If you sneezed, I can guarantee you everyone in Tongue would know it before you had a chance to reach for a tissue.”
“That sounds like Yardley.” Cilla couldn’t keep the bitterness out of her voice. “Before I drove home from the Charm Box, everyone along the Eastern sea-board knew I couldn’t sell my jewelry.”
“It’s a far cry from Yardley.” Aunt Birdie was her serene self again. “Who could blame the local lads if they were lured away by better-paying jobs? Many have young families to support. If they backed out because they fear something evil haunts our peat banks, well, that’s understandable, too.”
“Because this is the wilds of northern Scotland,” Cilla borrowed her aunt’s earlier words, “and Viking ghosts really might be putting in an appearance.”
Aunt Birdie took a sip of tea. “Exactly.”
“I still think it’s lousy.” Cilla sat up straighter. She knew all about how it felt to watch one’s livelihood crumble away to nothing.
She swept a hand over her hair, frowning. “It really is rotten, Aunt Birdie. I know you need the money. Honoria told me about the roof and how Uncle Mac—”
“Uncle Mac will do just fine.” Aunt Birdie’s smile said she believed it. “I’ve never known a more resourceful man. Even if all our residents leave and no one buys our peat, he’ll think of something to keep Dunroamin going.”
“I know, but . . .” Cilla felt her heart squeeze.
The thought of Aunt Birdie and Uncle Mac losing Dunroamin was unfathomable.
Worse, with Aunt Birdie’s sometimes dippy ways and Uncle Mac’s penchant for living in the past, she doubted they’d last long living anywhere but at Dunroamin.
“Ach! Don’t look so glum.” Sounding almost as Scottish as Uncle Mac, Aunt Birdie leaned forward. “With the help of Robbie and Roddie, your uncle will get his first load of peat off to Simmer Dim and Northern Mist, Viking ghosties or no. And he has a lot more plans for further—”
“You sound like you really believe in them.”
“Viking ghosts?”
Cilla nodded.
“I do.” Aunt Birdie’s eyes twinkled. “I just haven’t sensed any here, as I’ve told you. But”—her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper—“I have sensed them at the ruins of Castle Varrich. You might have seen the ruined tower from your window?”
“The ruin across the Kyle, perched on a cliff edge?” Cilla’s interest perked. “I saw it last night. Is it said to be haunted by Vikings?”
“Not that I’ve ever heard, but I’m certain I sensed a Norsewoman there once.” Aunt Birdie’s tone turned wistful. “I was there very late one night, well after midnight—you know summer nights here never get truly dark—and I saw her for just an instant. She was standing with her back to me, her long blond braid hanging well below her hips, as she gazed out to sea. Even though I couldn’t see her face, I knew it’d be tracked with tears.”
Aunt Birdie glanced aside for a moment, her own eyes suspiciously bright. “I knew here”—she touched a hand to her heart—“that she was pining for a lover who’d gone to sea and would never return.”
“And then she was gone.” Cilla guessed.
“If she’d even been there. Your uncle said she was just moon glow reflecting on the stones.” Aunt Birdie looked back at her, blinking. “I believe otherwise. I even sensed her name. Gudrid. If she was there, I like to think my sympathy was a comfort to her.”
“So Castle Varrich was Viking?” Cilla could see the ruined tower’s crumbling, V-shaped walls in her mind. “I thought it looked medieval.”
“The ruins are medieval.” Aunt Birdie dabbed at her eyes with a napkin. “The castle belonged to Clan Mackay and dates back to the fourteenth century. But local tradition claims a Norse stronghold stood on the site long before the Mackays set the first foundation stone.”
Cilla shivered. “I’d like to see it.”
“And you should.” Aunt Birdie looked determined. “If you don’t mind riding in a lorry, Robbie and Roddie can drop you off in Tongue later today. They’ll pass through the village with our peat and can leave you at the Ben Loyal Hotel. The path up to the ruin starts near there, just beside the bank.”
Cilla’s heart gave a little flip. “Can I walk back?”
“You could.” Aunt Birdie considered. “But that would mean walking clear through Tongue, not that it’s more than a blip in the road, then you’d pass some sheep fields before heading back across the Kyle causeway. Once on our side again, you’d turn right at the cemetery and then face an even longer trek back here.”
“That sounds like quite a hike.”
Aunt Birdie ta
pped her chin with a long, red-lacquered fingernail. “Yes,” she decided, “it’s much too far. I’ll drive over to the Ben Loyal myself and wait for you in their Bistro Bar or restaurant, An Garbh.”
“An Garbh?” Cilla lifted a brow.
“It’s Gaelic for ‘hilly place.’ The restaurant has huge picture windows with views of Ben Loyal and Ben Hope and even your castle ruin. And if the scenery isn’t enough, they play classical music as you dine.” Aunt Birdie sat back, looking pleased. “Maybe we’ll grab dinner there. They have the most divine menu.”
“Well . . .”
“You’d love their hand-cut chips.” Aunt Birdie pulled out the big guns. “They really are the best.”
Cilla swallowed.
She could feel her mouth watering. The corners of her lips twitched upward. From nowhere, his sandalwood scent swirled around her, flooding her senses. Excitement started beating inside her. The day, as her aunt painted it, did sound like a lovely and enjoyable outing.
And it would be—whether Kiltie chose to show himself or not.
After all, who could resist a cliff-top castle ruin?
Especially when followed by the promise of delicious hand-cut French fries?
As a lover of atmospheric old places and a dedicated, card-carrying potato zealot, she couldn’t think of a better way to spend the afternoon.
She also loved classical music.
Still . . .
“Will I find my way up to the ruin and back okay?” That was her only consideration. “The cliff looked pretty steep and wooded from my window.”
“The path is well marked—no worries.” Aunt Birdie dismissed her concern. “It isn’t all that steep. I haven’t been up there in a while, but I don’t recall it being too difficult a climb.”
“If you’re sure . . .” Cilla didn’t want to admit she wasn’t in the best shape.
She bit her lip.
If only she was one of those lucky women who lost their appetite when things went wrong.
Unfortunately, getting ditched by Grant and then seeing her business crumble had increased her passion for food and decreased her desire to exercise.
“Of course I’m sure.” Aunt Birdie smiled in satisfaction. “Besides, the fresh air will do you good and—”
“Eeeeee!” A woman’s high-pitched cry rose from somewhere else in the castle, accompanied by a loud, clattering crash and a dog’s wild barking.
Cilla’s heart slammed against her ribs. She whirled toward the door, her ears ringing.
Aunt Birdie leapt to her feet. Her teacup shattered on the tile floor.
“Aaaaaaaiiiiii!” The woman screamed again.
This time a low, heavy-sounding thud cut off her screech.
“That was Behag, the cook!” Aunt Birdie sprinted from the conservatory.
“Wait!” Cilla hurried around the table, her feet slipping in the spilled tea.
Colonel Darling and Violet Manyweathers were already out the door. They chased after Aunt Birdie, the three of them streaking down the corridor with incredible speed. Flora Duthie hobbled in their wake, the tap-tapping of her cane loud in the vaulted passage now that the echoes of the ruckus were fading.
Only Leo kept up the din.
His frantic yapping filled the corridor, the shrill barks cresting the ear-piercing level only achieved by the smallest of dogs.
Far ahead of Cilla, her aunt and the old dears disappeared around a curve in the passageway, leaving her to pull up the rear.
Heart in her throat, she ran ever faster until she barreled around a corner and nearly slammed into the colonel’s gray-suited back.
Fisted hands on his hips, he blocked the arched entry into the kitchen. “I’ve said for years that she dips into Mac’s spirit cabinet!” he scolded, sounding righteous. “Now we have the proof!”
“Proof schmoof.” That came from Honoria. “She was making your breakfast is what she was doing. Everyone else eats scrambled eggs. You order yours soft-cooked and not a jot over or under six minutes!”
The colonel’s back stiffened. “Harridan.”
“Oh, stop, both of you!” Aunt Birdie pushed past him, her usual calm flown.
Colonel Darling moved then, and Cilla caught a glimpse of the housekeeper past his square-set shoulders. Kneeling, Honoria pressed a cloth to the forehead of a huge blond-haired woman, her entire apron-clad bulk lying prone on the kitchen’s stone-flagged floor.
Smashed crockery and a spreading puddle of steaming porridge lay beside her. A great wooden stirring spoon, Flora’s silver porringer, and an upturned basket of freshly baked soda farls added to the chaos.
A few yards away, Leo ran in circles in front of the long work counter, his gaze repeatedly darting to the window above the large copper sink.
“Goodness me!” Aunt Birdie’s voice rose. “What happened here?”
“Did she have a . . . is she . . . ?” Cilla clamped her mouth shut, realizing too late that the words heart attack and dead were best left unspoken in a place like Dunroamin.
“Nae, she isn’t deid.” Flora tottered forward to poke the cook with her cane. “But this is the work of the Vikings, sure as I’m standing here! Behag Finney is one of them”—she touched the tip of her cane to the cook’s flaxen hair—“so they’ve come to collect her. She just fainted before they could spirit her away.”
“This has nothing to do with Vikings.” Honoria dipped her cloth into a basin, then, after wringing it out, slapped it once more onto the cook’s forehead.
“ ’Twas the devil, it was,” she insisted, splaying her fingers to better press the cooling rag against Behag’s pale skin.
“The devil?” Cilla’s stomach dropped.
Surely Hardwick wouldn’t stoop to frightening helpless old women? Overweight, middle-aged cooks in faded blue dresses and flour-stained aprons?
But Honoria was nodding, her face grim.
“I saw him myself.” She flashed a look at the colonel, as if expecting him to deny it. “Bright red, horned, and big as the day, he was. Looking in through the window just there”—she flung out an arm to indicate the sink—“when I came in here to fetch Flora’s wooden bowl.”
“Humph!” Colonel Darling snorted.
Aunt Birdie wrung her hands.
Cilla stared at them all, wondering.
What a pity she didn’t have any answers.
Chapter 7
Several hours later, Cilla paused about halfway up the steep and overgrown path to Castle Varrich. She’d never dreamed a supposed hiking trail would be barely wide enough for her feet. She eyed the ever rising track and considered turning around. Great was the temptation to return to the cozy, oh-so-level public rooms of the lovely Ben Loyal Hotel.
She could call Aunt Birdie and go back to Dunroamin. Sort through the packing crates of Uncle Mac’s broken china, organize her tools, and wait for him to make another appearance. On the thought he loomed before her mind’s eye, his big, strong hands hooked around his kilt belt and looking ready and eager to sate any woman’s hottest dreams.
Cilla’s breath caught and her heart began a slow, hard thumping.
A shiver slid through her and, God help her, but her breasts went tight and her nipples puckered, almost aching to feel his touch again. Worse, his rich, whisky-smooth voice played across her memory, the deep, lilting tones strumming vulnerable places and, she was sure, dampening her panties!
She pressed a hand to her mouth and willed away the sweet warmth beginning to pulse deep in her belly.
Then she choked back a bitter laugh.
How typical that she’d hoped to spend the afternoon not thinking about her sexy Highland ghost, yet she couldn’t get him out of her mind.
She should be angry at him, not fantasizing about how good he’d be in bed.
She bit down on her lip, her breath slowly returning to normal.
And with it came reason.
If her suspicions were true, he’d used a silly devil disguise to try and scare her and then did t
he same thing to the poor innocent cook. She didn’t want to believe he’d do such a thing, but she had seen his conjuring skills. Any ghost who could appear so real and also make a solid-looking medieval shield pop in and out of thin air could surely whip up a devil face, too.
After all, hadn’t he flicked his fingers and created a wooden, water-filled bathing tub in the middle of her bedroom?
So yes, it was possible.
She did have reason to suspect him.
Yet here she was—away from his ghostly reach—and just thinking about him made her heart do flip-flops.
He’d caught her twice when she could have done serious bodily injury to herself, and he’d looked at her with so much smoldering heat she’d almost swear her skin was still sizzling from his gaze.
She was also sure she’d felt a tremor ripple through him when he’d held her so briefly. Almost as if he, too, recognized an irresistible pull between them and struggled against acknowledging it.
Even so, he’d made it clear he wanted her gone. And however she turned it, the result was the same.
She wanted him.
No man had ever affected her so intensely.
A man who was a ghost!
Cilla shoved back her hair. Her breath hitched again, this time in frustration. Feeling the back of her neck blaze, she glared at the trail rising in front of her. She had no business struggling up slippery, weed-infested footpaths. What she needed to be doing was making an appointment with a shrink.
Instead, she did her best to put him from her mind. Then she bent down to plunge a finger beneath the top of her sock, fishing around until she located the tiny, impossible-to-identify beetlelike creature who’d just decided to get on intimate terms with her ankle.
Pleased to have ended the association before it could get too serious, she gently placed the bug on one of the giant bracken fronds clogging the path. Then she allowed herself a shudder.
A shudder and—she just couldn’t help it—another frown.
Aunt Birdie had lied out her ears.
The only thing easy about getting up to the ruined tower was finding the prominent wooden FOOTPATH TO CASTLE VARRICH signpost next to the Tongue bank.
Tall, Dark, and Kilted Page 11
