Tall, Dark, and Kilted

by MACKAY, ALLIE

  “You must’ve been a good child.” Flora Duthie’s twittering voice rose from the first row. “I never allowed my girls to play with anything so fragile.”

  “Oh, my mother didn’t, either.” Cilla smiled, remembering. “The tea set was for looking, not playing. It was kept behind the glass doors of a curio cabinet, and”—she paused, trying to catch everyone’s eye—“I found the pull of the miniature cups and saucers quite irresistible.”

  I find you irresistible.

  His words hushed past her ear again. Deep, burred, and so honey-rich smooth she almost forgot to breathe. Heat consumed her anew and she set down the box of china pieces. She didn’t dare look at him. She was quite sure he knew what his sexy Highland voice did to her.

  What he didn’t know was how desperately she wanted to do the same to him.

  But it’d been a while since she’d heard of anyone swooning over an American accent.

  If ever.

  She bit her lip, his tingle-stirring burr still spooling through her. Heaven forbid if he started his slow, heated, body-roaming stare magic again.

  Half wishing he would, she took a deep breath. “One day when my mother was out, I climbed onto a chair and tried to take the tea set from its shelf. I slipped, grabbing hold of the curio cabinet’s glass shelf as I fell.”

  “Ach, dearie me!” A bespectacled woman in the second row gasped loudly.

  Colonel Darling twisted around to glare at her. He also muttered something about interruptions, clearly excluding himself.

  “Needless to say”—Cilla hoped her voice only sounded breathless to her—“I pulled down the entire curio cabinet. It landed on top of me, leaving scars I bear to this day. But most importantly, the mishap shattered my tea set.”

  A chorus of ooohs answered her.

  She rested a hand on the worktable. “I was bereft. Trying everything, I begged my mother to let me fix it. But she wouldn’t allow me to glue back the broken pieces, claiming the tea set was ruined.”

  “But you saw it differently.” The Tongue hair salon owner spoke up again. “You told her you wanted to make jewelry out of the smashed porcelain?”

  Cilla laughed. “Not quite, but almost. I was just a child, remember. But the experience did impress me, giving me my later passion for taking something that’s been broken and turning it into something beautiful again.”

  On the words, a swirl of sandalwood slid around her, almost a caress. Tender this time, but equally potent. As if he knew she’d thought of him as she’d said the words.

  She did mean to unbreak him, make him whole again.

  In the audience, Aussie Elizabeth stirred in her chair. Her red lips went pouty and her gaze—still on Hardwick—turned come-get-me seductive.

  Cilla frowned at her.

  The Aussie shifted again, wittingly or unwittingly revealing that she’d neglected to wear panties beneath her short, hip-hugging skirt. Cilla nearly dropped the broken-china link bracelet she’d just picked up, intending to pass it around as an example of her style.

  Ms. Official Kilt Inspector’s style was bare.

  Cilla’s jaw slipped. Her fingers tightened on the bracelet until its lobster claw clasp pinched her thumb.

  Aussie Elizabeth stopped shifting. But she’d settled in such a way as to keep her charms exposed.

  “Here’s a seat if you’re joining us.” She patted the empty chair beside her, her gaze on a spot just behind Cilla’s shoulder.

  Hardwick!

  Cilla’s breath caught. He stood right behind her. His sexy sandalwood scent swept around her, bold and possessive. She swallowed hard, her heart racing as another, less welcome emotion jabbed green-tinged needles into her most vulnerable places.

  Standing where he was, his view of Aussie Elizabeth’s wiles was surely as good as her own. Perhaps even better, as, being a man, he wouldn’t look away as she had.

  A thought that sent bolts of white-hot fury whipping through her.

  Setting down the pretty little sterling silver and broken-china link bracelet, she sucked in a hot breath. She also hoped the word jealous wasn’t stamped in bright, flaming letters across her forehead.

  Something told her it was.

  “There’s a name for such women, but I’ll no’ speak it in your presence.” Hardwick stepped closer to her, his deep voice low.

  He did fix the brazen wench with a carefully neutral stare, her display leaving him cold. “I thank you, lady,” he offered, inclining his head. “But like the colonel here”—he glanced at the man—“I am only here to observe. Miss Swanner and her porcelain pieces, mind.”

  The tart’s legs snapped shut. “And I am here to make a Celtic brooch for the Highland Storyweaver.” She sat up straighter, assuming a proprietary air. “Something Robert the Bruce-ish is what I have in mind. Wee Hughie is his grandson, eighteen generations removed.”

  “Indeed?” Hardwick arched a brow.

  The chit wasn’t worth the breath it would take to tell her that in his seven hundred years of ghosting, he’d encountered enough supposed Robert the Bruce descendents to populate all of Scotland and then some.

  Instead, he slid a sidelong look at Cilla, not liking the dark circles beneath her eyes. The slight puffiness that betold she hadn’t been sleeping well.

  “You look tired, lass.” He regretted his honesty the instant the words left his tongue.

  He’d meant to rouse her further by whispering some choice bit of seductive wickedness in her ear. Perhaps suggest that after he’d finished tantalizing her with his fingers, he’d use his tongue to give her release. That’s why he’d left the stairwell and approached her.

  To let her know he meant to make love to her this night. Leastways, as far as his present situation allowed.

  Now he’d broken one of the first rules of wooing.

  He’d commented on how ragged she looked.

  He frowned, wishing he could kick himself.

  “Lass”—he tried to make it better—“that’s no’ what I meant to say.”

  “I’m fine, thank you. Not tired at all.” She snatched up her box of broken china and summoned the two red-haired youths he now knew to be Honoria’s nephews. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll get on with my workshop.”

  “You’re also the loveliest sight to grace my eyes since”—he leaned close, ignoring her ire—“the last time I looked upon you.”

  Her mouth tightened and her gaze flicked to the trollop.

  So that was it. She was jealous.

  Hardwick almost whooped for joy.

  “She canna hold a candle to you.” He folded his arms, feeling smug. “Later, when we are alone, I shall prove it to you. As I’ve been trying to do the while, as I am sure you know.”

  To his delight, she blushed.

  Looking sweetly flustered, she half turned away from him to pluck a small, deep red square from her box of treasures. Then, clearly taking great pains to conceal how much he’d ruffled her, she handed the little piece of china to Violet Manyweathers, who accepted it with glee.

  When she returned to the worktable, her cheeks still glowed with anticipation and—he was certain, for he could see it—her pulse beat excitedly in the hollow of her throat.

  She couldn’t wait to be alone with him.

  Her eagerness shone like a beacon.

  Then she ruined it by flashing a bright smile on the two brawny lads, Robbie and Roddie.

  Hardwick frowned.

  She handed the taller of the two lads her box of broken china. “Robbie, if you’ll pass this around so everyone can select a special piece, and you, Roddie”—she gave the other youth a tray piled high with the tools she called mosaic nippers—“if you’ll hand out these, as well, we can get started.”

  As if on cue, Honoria and Behag Finney the cook stepped out of the shadows on the far side of the vaulted chamber. Coming forward, they held small tables he’d heard referred to as folding work trays clutched beneath their arms.

  Nodding to them, his lady quickly
returned her attention to the audience. She held up her own nipper and an uneven piece of porcelain.

  “Most of the broken china pieces I use for my Vintage Chic collections are cut into squares, ovals, hearts, and rectangles.” She set down the bit of porcelain and her nipper. “Even so, some of my most prized offerings have been made from irregular shapes. I’d suggest holding your piece in your hand while closing your eyes and then letting the china tell you in its own way how best to cut it.”

  Almost everyone except Colonel Darling nodded appreciatively.

  Aussie Elizabeth rolled her eyes.

  And at the back of the room, Birdie MacGhee was clearly using her wifely influence to keep Mac from slapping his thigh and hooting loudly.

  Hardwick, too, could have easily guffawed.

  He’d lived too long and too hard to waste time listening to cracked and broken bits of porcelain.

  He did look on as, contrary to his word, Colonel Darling fished not one but two pieces from the proffered box. Choosing first a small bit of what Cilla termed chintz, a delicate-looking floral pattern in yellows, pinks, and greens; his second choice proved equally fine, this piece boasting hand-painted deep purple flowers and green leaves.

  The colonel’s puffed chest and the telling glances he bestowed on both Violet and Flora left little doubt as to whom he had in mind as recipients for his labors.

  As if pretending not to notice—or, at the least, to have forgotten his avowals not to get actively involved in jewelry making—Cilla continued on. She moved about the rows of class attendees, the slight jiggling of her full breasts and the tempting sway of her hips making it difficult for Hardwick to think of much else.

  Until she stopped beside wee Violet Manyweathers’s folding work tray. The old woman’s hands shook, making it difficult for her to cut her square of deep red Fiestaware into the oval shape she wished for a pendant.

  Again and again, Cilla encouraged her, finally leaning down to cover the woman’s trembling fingers with her own strong ones so that, together, they managed to clip and cut the square into Violet’s oval.

  Hardwick moved closer, watching silently and not even realizing he’d drawn so near to them until a loud yelp shattered the spell.

  Eyeing him accusingly, Dunroamin’s little mascot dachshund, Leo, peered up at him from where he’d been curled at Violet’s feet.

  “Sorry, laddie.” Hardwick reached down to pat the dog’s head.

  But much as he regretted stepping on Leo’s tail, his mind was elsewhere.

  Instead of Dunroamin’s well-lit vaulted undercroft, he saw Seagrave’s great hall. Rather than Cilla and Violet Manyweathers, his long-ago intended and his mother loomed before him. Recalled from the hazy mists of time, the two souls from his past filled his vision, one much loved and cherished, the other inspiring only shudders and distaste.

  As if it were only yesterday, he looked on as the beautiful Lady Dolina appeared behind his mother’s chair and then leaned down to snatch the spoon from his mother’s bent and trembling fingers.

  “She should be locked in a tower! Kept away from the hall, where a nurse can hand feed and coddle her.” Lady Dolina slapped the spoon onto the high table, well out of his aging mother’s reach. “It offends my gentle eyes to watch her food dribble down her chin!”

  “And you offend me.” Hardwick took the beauty by the elbow, pulling her from the dais and, ultimately, out of his hall.

  It was the last he’d seen of her, not that he’d minded.

  What he did mind was her intrusion now.

  She’d robbed him of the pleasure of watching Cilla bend down to help Violet Manyweathers cut her square of red dinnerware. Prepared as he was—he’d pulled his tartan binding especially tight—he’d been enjoying how her well-rounded buttocks bobbed with her every move.

  He didn’t need to examine the tightness in his chest.

  Born of an entirely different emotion; one Bran would surely call love, neither his lustful urgings nor the swellings of his heart mattered at the moment.

  His mother and Lady Dolina were gone.

  And they’d taken Cilla and Violet with them.

  Hardwick frowned, blinking.

  He knuckled his eyes, but nothing changed. The vaulted undercroft was empty. Only the vacated seats and his lady’s worktable remained.

  Furious that he’d spent much more time than he’d thought peering into his own past, he took a piece of brilliant blue Fiestaware from the box of broken china. He turned the shard over in his hand, his heart thumping harder the longer he peered at it.

  It was the same blue as Cilla’s eyes.

  “Where were you?”

  He whirled around at her voice. The shard of blue flew from his fingers. “I . . . hell and botheration, I—” He reached down, swiping the little piece of dinnerware off the undercroft’s stone-flagged floor.

  “Well?” She stepped out of the shadows, the neat stacks of folding work trays lined against the wall behind her, indicating what she’d been doing.

  “I was thinking.” He set the shard on the table. “Thinking of you, and so deeply that I didn’t realize you’d ended your—”

  “I didn’t mean now.” Her gaze slid to the chair where the trollop had sat. “I meant all this week?”

  His brow furrowed. “I was patrolling your uncle’s peat fields. I thought you knew.” It was the best answer he could give her, unwilling as he was to reveal that he’d spent the time drilling himself on the moors.

  Using every passing moment to dwell on his desire for her in order to test the strength of his tartan binding, only returning once he’d assured himself he could pleasure her without suffering his own arousal.

  He looked at her now, not missing the bright color staining her cheeks. Nor did he fail to note that she was avoiding his eyes. When she once more flashed a glance at the trollop’s seat, he knew why.

  “By Odin!” Disbelief swept him. “Dinna tell me you think I—”

  Her eyes flashed. “Everyone knows men go wild over smooth women like Elizabeth.”

  “Smooth women?” He stared at her, at first uncomprehending.

  When he did, his jaw nearly hit the floor.

  He took a deep breath, releasing it quickly. “It wouldn’t have mattered to me if she’d shaved her head, as well, do you hear?”

  Picking up the blue shard again, he wrapped his fingers around it, squeezing hard. “She could have thrown off her clothes and pranced about naked, for all I care. I would still no’ have seen her. No’ in the way you mean.”

  Cilla bit her lip, wanting to believe him. But just that moment her waistband was biting viciously into her recently acquired belly roll.

  She flipped back her hair, met his gaze full on. “She has a flat stomach.”

  The words sounded petty even to her.

  Unable to retract them, she started to frown when—to her amazement—Hardwick jammed his fists on his hips and, throwing back his head, began to laugh.

  His dark eyes alight, he grinned at her. “I can see you’ve ne’er known a Highlander if you think we lust after stick women!”

  Cilla tried to appear unaffected. “I’m sure I don’t know what a Highlander lusts after.”

  “Then, my sweet”—he stepped closer, his thumb rubbing slow circles over the piece of blue Fiestaware in his hand—“perhaps it is time you learned.”

  She glanced aside, painfully aware of the bright overhead lights shining down on them. They’d highlight the puffiness beneath her eyes and her mussed hair. Having attempted to look calm, cool, and collected, she’d adopted Aunt Birdie’s signature french twist.

  Only on her, it hadn’t worked.

  The pins had slipped and the elegant do was now nearly undone.

  “My ex was of Highland stock.” It was a lame excuse, but bought her time. “At least he claimed to—”

  “Sweeting, if he’d been a true Highlander, you would have known it.” His voice deepened, his burr sliding through her like sun-warmed honey.
“As a good friend of mine is wont to say, ‘There are men and there are Highlanders. Woe be to anyone fool enough not to know the difference.’ ”

  “I can tell the difference.” She looked back at him, her heart clutching. “It’s a big one.”

  “Aye, so I’ve been told.” He flashed a wolfish smile.

  Cilla’s eyes widened.

  He laughed.

  Heat consumed her, his nearness and the look on his face rousing her even more than the ghostly magic of his hot stares and roving fingers. Her heart began hammering, and her mouth went dry.

  “Then tell me again how you can seem so real,” she blurted, nerves making her grasp for a safer subject.

  “Because I will it so and”—he paused, his voice turning earnest—“because I’ve had seven hundred years’ practice.”

  Unable to argue with that, Cilla glanced to where Leo slept curled beneath the worktable. “And him?” She waited until he, too, looked down at the little dog. “Why isn’t he afraid of you? I’ve always heard dogs ran from ghosts.”

  “And do you always believe what you hear, Cilla lass?”

  “I—”

  “Dogs are no different than people, sweet.” His smile returned, his eyes twinkling. “In spirit or in life, they are the same souls. Dinna tell me you’ve ne’er noticed that dogs can tell when someone likes them or no’.”

  He cast another quick glance at the sleeping Leo. “They also ken a good soul from a bad one. That knowledge doesn’t change just because the soul they see might be others.”

  Cilla blinked. “Others as in a ghost?”

  He nodded.

  Under the table, Leo stretched and started snoring.

  Hardwick stepped closer, something in his eyes warming her to the roots of her own soul. Never had a man touched her so deeply both inside and out. She couldn’t imagine what would happen when he really touched her, something she knew was going to happen very soon.

  She moistened her lips. “Are you trying to tell me you’re a good man?”

  He shook his head slowly, his eyes going dark. “I’ll leave that for you to decide. What I wish to do is show you how good you are.”

  She blinked. “Me?”

  He leaned close to nuzzle her neck, letting his lips brush across her skin. “You and no other, aye,” he declared, nipping her ear.