Tall, Dark, and Kilted

by MACKAY, ALLIE

  The man . . . no, the ghost . . . could smile!

  But the smile disappeared when he spread his arms again and stepped closer to the wall.

  He peered up at her, his expression earnest. “I told you, I may not be able to catch you here. But I should be able to cushion a fall if you slip. You need to turn around and climb down using the same footholds you used to get up there.”

  Cilla’s heart dropped.

  She couldn’t remember where a single one of the footholds were. Nor could she see them from this angle. Looking down, she measured the distance between her and the tower floor and frowned.

  For once, she’d hoped—no, expected—him to help her.

  It really was a long way down.

  Her knees began to tremble. “Why can’t you catch me again? You did before.”

  “Because this is not Dunroamin.” He said that as if it explained everything.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “It cost me much energy to come here.” A line etched into his brow on the admission. “Without my full strength, I cannot be certain I can catch you. I’ll no’ risk that. It’s safer if you climb down.”

  So she did, dropping first to her knees and then scooting round so she could scramble down before any other thought could enter her mind except that his outspread arms would at least soften the worst of a possible fall.

  Safely at the bottom, she dusted her hands to give her heart time to stop galloping. Then she took a deep breath and braced herself against other dangers.

  The most notable being his proximity.

  “So why did you follow me here?” She tilted her head, aware of his exotic sandalwood scent, heady in the closeness of the ruin. “Since you lose strength outside Dunroamin?”

  To her surprise, he laughed.

  But it was a humorless laugh, empty of the delicious tinge of bemusement that had lit his eyes when he’d pretended to stagger beneath her questions.

  “Ach, lass.” He put his hands on his hips and glanced up at the sky above the roofless tower. “I didn’t follow you here. I was here well before you arrived.”

  “But why? If you haunt Dunroamin—”

  “I do not haunt Dunroamin.” Pride made Hardwick clarify. “If you would know the truth of it, ghosts have better things to do with their time than haunt people or places. I stay at Dunroamin because”—he paused, searching for the best words—“it suits me to do so.”

  And I came here to get away from you.

  “Why?”

  “Why what?” He blinked. His mind was elsewhere.

  Indeed, he’d scarce heard her. She’d bent to pick up the devil mask and in doing so, presented him with a tantalizing view of her shapely backside.

  “Why what I asked you before.” She made it sound like he was a lackwit. “Why are you at Dunroamin and here? You don’t have a Highland name, so I don’t think you’re attached to Uncle Mac’s family and—”

  “My mother was a Shaw.” He tried to tear his gaze from her bobbing buttocks and couldn’t. “Clan Macintosh and Highland to the bone.”

  “That still doesn’t explain your business here.”

  “You do not want anything to do with the reason I’m here.”

  “Color me curious.” She straightened then, the devil face clutched in her hands, but the damage was done. And the way she gripped the mask, holding it fast against her, pushed up her full breasts so that they swelled against the clingy blue top she wore.

  Hardwick swore beneath his breath. He could even make out the contours of her nipples. Chill-tightened and thrusting, they were as visible as if she once again stood damp and naked before him.

  Damp. Naked.

  The two words whipped through him, blotting reason.

  His blood flamed and heat swept low, gripping his vitals and squeezing tight. So exquisitely tight that he reached for her, setting his hands on her shoulders and holding her still, lest she move again and cause her beautiful breasts to jiggle. Or worse, present him with another delectable glimpse of her plump little bottom.

  Remind him of the sweet triangle of lush golden curls topping her thighs.

  “Curiosity, lass, is no’ always a good thing.” He shook his head slowly. “No’ a good thing at all.”

  Her chin shot upward. “Even so—”

  “Nae, lass.” He couldn’t give in to her. “Trust me and leave it be.”

  “Trust you?” Her eyes flashed blue. “When you won’t even answer the simplest questions?”

  Hardwick raked a hand through his hair. In that moment, a crack widened in the wall of the ruin and where a moment before crumbled mortar had filled the narrow space between stones, several sets of fiery red eyes peered out at him.

  He jerked, releasing Cilla just as a thin, papery hand reached out of the crack to crook a finger at him.

  Oblivious to the jeering hags in the wall behind her, she stared at him, too. His heart racing, he ignored the crones and looked down at her, willing himself to see not her large blue eyes peering up at him so defiantly, but Bran of Barra’s ugly bearded face.

  The Hebridean varlet owed him a favor or two, so he doubted the lout would mind.

  He took it further, imagining his friend rocking back on his heels, then slapping his thigh in mirth. Roaring with the irony that for once, he—Hardwick, the rogue of all rogues—couldn’t just toss a lass o’er his shoulder, carry her off to bed, and air her skirts just because it pleased him.

  Not that he’d treat this one thusly.

  This lass begged a slow and thorough ravishing, hell hags or no.

  He swallowed hard and reached for her again. But his strength was ebbing and he couldn’t grip her shoulders. Leastways, not as firmly as he’d hoped to do.

  He did groan.

  The exact groan men make just before they lower their heads to kiss a woman.

  Cilla’s breath caught, her agitation forgotten. Her heart split. He was only testy because she was provoking him. And she was doing that because he made her nervous. Because ever since she’d spotted him limned in that ray of sunlight, she’d wanted to kiss him.

  And now it was going to happen!

  She was sure of it.

  Despite every shrill warning bell in her head, she leaned up onto her toes and lifted her face to make it easier for him.

  She even puckered her lips.

  Pulse racing, she waited for his lips to close over hers, first brushing gently, then with increasing insistence until he crushed her against him and devoured her mouth in a rough, bruising kiss.

  The kind Grant A. Hughes III had only given her in her dreams.

  Pleasure she wasn’t going to enjoy now, either, because just when he leaned in so close she could feel his warm breath on her cheek, he released her again so quickly she dropped the devil mask.

  Whipping about, he strode across the tower and snatched up his discarded shield. When he turned back to face her, he held the thing in front of him as if he expected her to run him through with a broadsword.

  He did not look like a man who’d been about to kiss her buggy socks off.

  He looked furious.

  And he couldn’t even seem to meet her eyes, his gaze repeatedly darting past her to a spot on the crumbling, moss-grown wall.

  Mortification swept Cilla. Heat jabbed into the backs of her eyes, making her humiliation complete.

  Even Grant the rat fink hadn’t made her cry.

  Scowling, he finally stepped up to her and reached to brush her cheek with his thumb.

  “This, sweetness”—he glanced at his hand, the wetness glistening there—“is the reason you should not have come to Dunroamin.”

  Cilla kept her chin raised and glared at him.

  The blaze in his own eye could have lit a bonfire. “It’s also the reason I came here, to Castle Varrich, today. I’ll no’ make such a mistake again.”

  Unable to bear having him see her embarrassment a moment longer, Cilla stooped to snatch up the devil mask. This time when she str
aightened, he was gone.

  “Damn!” She swiped a hand over her cheek.

  Then she tossed back her hair and started for the doorway. Beyond the jagged opening, she could see clouds building out over the Kyle. Soon it would rain. Already, she could smell the chill moisture in the air.

  That and a lingering whiff of sandalwood.

  Just enough to pinch her heart.

  But as she hefted the devil mask against her hip to scramble out of the ruin, she knew two things she hadn’t known before she’d entered it.

  Firstly—the mask was not the devil face she’d seen outside her window. She glanced at the name label sewn into the inside of the mask, sure of it. However the devil face came to be in the possession of a giant bird, it wasn’t sinister.

  She’d seen the real thing.

  This was simply a mask that had once been the property of one Erlend Eggertson.

  She shuddered, not about to contemplate the implications when she had a long trek through dark and creepy woods awaiting her.

  Instead, she considered her second and most important revelation. She’d almost been kissed by a medieval Highland ghost.

  And she’d wanted that kiss badly.

  So badly, in fact, that she meant to do everything in her power to find out why it’d gone wrong.

  Then, if for once her luck would change, she just might be able to make things right.

  At the very least, she meant to try.

  Chapter 8

  “It had to have been Gregor.” Aunt Birdie nodded for emphasis. “The big question is, where in the world did he get such a thing? A red devil mask here”—she gripped the edge of the small round table and leaned forward—“in the middle of nowhere.”

  “I’m sure I can’t imagine where he got it.” Cilla popped a mini pretzel into her mouth.

  Compliments of the Ben Loyal Hotel’s Bistro Bar, where they sat in a quiet corner, the tiny salted tidbits were addictive. Already, she’d nibbled her way through one rather full bowl. And this second portion—served with equal generosity—would soon be gone, too.

  Especially since each bite she took helped take the edge off her worry about where her devil face had come from. The obvious answer—hell—was a road she didn’t want to go down. Not in her own mind and certainly not in a discussion with Aunt Birdie. She rather doubted her aunt’s ghost-friendly outlook would extend to the fiend of all fiends.

  Frowning, she shoved aside the bowl of pretzels.

  Too much salt wasn’t good for you.

  Neither was dwelling on things that would only add flames—perhaps literally—to the already scary situation at Dunroamin. She also needed to stop fretting over almost-kisses that hadn’t and never would happen.

  She shifted on her chair, even now feeling his strong, warm hands settle on her shoulders. She remembered, too, how her senses had leapt into overdrive, her entire body igniting as he’d stepped so close and looked down at her with such hot, scorching heat in his eyes.

  How sure she’d been he was about to lower his head and kiss her.

  And not just a kiss, but the deep, plundering kind that burned into a woman’s soul and left her melting all over a man. Breathless, needy, and begging for more, sure the world will stop spinning if he didn’t slake her craving.

  With a gusty sigh, she crossed her legs, squeezing them together just a tad more than she’d usually do.

  No, a lot more.

  She frowned.

  She really needed to forget the man.

  Er . . . the ghost.

  Sitting up straighter, she cleared her throat. “You really think the bird was Violet Manyweather’s great skua? The bonxie, or whatever they’re called?”

  “Bonxie, that’s right.” Aunt Birdie sounded fond of him. “He’s quite clever. Though he usually only snatches things from Colonel Darling. Small items like a pen or reading glasses, and once, his favorite pipe.”

  Cilla’s eyes widened. “Was it lit?”

  “The pipe?” The smile twitching her aunt’s lips said it was.

  “And with the colonel’s own custom blend, too,” she elaborated. “A fine-smelling mix of vanilla and rum. Achilles was livid.”

  “From a gentleman’s pipe to a devil mask.” Cilla shook her head, glad to get her mind on something else. “I still can’t believe we managed to get the thing into your car, big as it is.”

  Aunt Birdie laughed and glanced at the two broken fingernails on her right hand. “We may have wedged it in, my dear, but I’m not so sure we’ll ever get it out again. In any event, its horns are ruined.”

  “Maybe Erlend Eggertson will be so happy to get his mask back, he won’t care that we bent the horns.”

  Aunt Birdie took a few of the mini pretzels and sat back. “I don’t think there is such a man in these parts. Unless he’s a recent incomer, and even then—”

  “You’d have heard of him.”

  “Let’s just say that if I hadn’t, you can bet one of the residents would have. A shame—”

  A burst of muted female laughter issuing through the wall behind the bar cut her off. Excited and girly sounding, the giggles came from the hotel’s An Garbh restaurant.

  When the noise died down, Aunt Birdie continued, “A shame the An Garbh is so full tonight. You’d have enjoyed dinner there, and I could have asked the proprietors if they know of the Eggertsons. But they looked to have their hands full with”—she paused as another shriek of laughter erupted—“their coach-tour guests.”

  “Coach-tour guests.” Cilla smiled at her. “They struck me more like a pack of rabid hyenas.”

  Aunt Birdie’s mouth quirked again. “You saw them?”

  “I peeked in there when I first arrived. I thought you might be here already.” Cilla allowed herself one last mini pretzel. A reward for getting her mind off a certain sexy ghost and how good she knew he’d kiss. “I think they’re a group of college girls or something.”

  “They’re definitely not the usual visitors we see in Tongue. Hill walkers, stac climbers, and the like. And they aren’t girls. They’re Australian women, though some might be fresh out of college.” Aunt Birdie took a sip of soda water and lowered her voice. “According to Claire, who works the shoppie at the petrol station, they’re fans of Wee Hughie MacSporran—”

  Whoosh . . . crack! A standing bar menu flew off a nearby table. Small but sturdy-looking, it smacked into a chair leg before spinning away across the red-carpeted floor.

  Both women swiveled toward the sound, but no one else was in the pub. Even the friendly young barkeep had left his post and wasn’t anywhere to be seen.

  Aunt Birdie’s eyes narrowed, but then she gave a light shrug and took another sip of her soda water.

  Cilla glanced at the fallen menu board, wondering. She sniffed the air, certain she’d caught a tantalizing trace of sandalwood swirling at her from that direction. She looked around, her pulse leaping. The windows to the street stood open, but she couldn’t detect a breeze. Nothing at all that would send the menu sailing off its table.

  Or cause his delicious scent to waft beneath her nose, teasing and tempting her.

  Unless . . .

  Her heart skittered.

  Foolish, wild hope swept her.

  Getting up, she retrieved the menu and returned it to the table. More to check on the drift of sandalwood than from a sudden urge to tidy the hotel’s pub. Little good the ploy did her.

  If the scent had been there, it wasn’t anymore.

  She tamped down her disappointment. Then she reclaimed her seat, careful not to look at the bowl of mini pretzels. The blasted things seemed to be calling her again, and she was not going to weaken.

  Not for mini pretzels.

  And—if she knew what was good for her—especially not for imagined whiffs of sandalwood.

  Dark, smoldering glances and a deep Scots burr so beautiful on the ears that the man ought to walk around wearing a warning sign around his neck:

  CAUTION! PLUG YOUR EARS OR LOSE YOUR HE
ART.

  Moistening her lips, she blotted his honey-rich voice from her mind. She also closed her nose to his unbelievably rousing scent, if it’d even been there. She’d outgrown the Mad for Plaid club of her teen years. Now she was made of sterner stuff and she wasn’t falling for a Highland ghost!

  Especially one she imagined ate one woman for breakfast, two for lunch, and a full dozen for dinner!

  Her brows snapped together and her cheeks flamed. Without doubt, he’d be a master at that kind of eating, making a woman feel that she was a feast to be savored. Cilla inhaled sharply, annoyed by the jab of resentment that pricked her on knowing he hadn’t even wanted to kiss her.

  She squirmed on her chair again, certain her thoughts must be branded on her forehead.

  Hoping they weren’t, she gave Aunt Birdie her full attention. “Who is Wee Hughie MacSporran?” she asked, grasping for a safe topic.

  “We-ll . . .” Her aunt drew out the word. “He calls himself the Highland Storyweaver. In short, he’s an entrepreneur.”

  A sound that could have been a snort came from the back of the pub.

  Cilla’s breath caught and she shot a glance that way, namely toward the table with the flying menu board, but nothing stirred.

  Her aunt flicked at a pretzel crumb. If she’d noticed, she gave no indication.

  But Cilla knew. Hot little flickers of awareness flashed down her spine, and her belly went all soft and fluttery. Worse, her nipples tightened and pushed against her top, almost as if they had a mind of their own and were straining for another of his oh-so-rousing finger brushes. Furious about her body’s reaction to him—to a mere snort, for heaven’s sake!—she risked another quick glance at the corner table.

  It looked quiet as ever.

  Not that the corner’s stillness mattered. Even if he was doing that ghost-power trick he’d told her about and keeping himself invisible, she’d bet the farm he was near.

  And she wasn’t about to let him see how much he affected her.

  She cleared her throat. “So Wee Hughie’s a businessman?”

  “Oh yes. But it’s himself that he markets.” Aunt Birdie’s brows drew together. “He’s written a book or two. His own family history, a bit of Scottish root-searching, and the like. He also lectures and he’s—”