Tall, Dark and Kilted (12 page)

Or maybe he’d sift himself out to MacGhee’s peat banks and watch for Viking ghosts.

That, after all, had been his original plan before he’d spotted the two redheaded giants, Roddie and Robbie, lugging the
coffers
abovestairs.

Coffers that had somehow managed to make him look the fool again.

He bristled.

It was a mistake he wouldn’t make a second time.

“Broken china is my passion.” Her words came to him as if from afar.

He watched her return the plate to the coffer, now seeing her and her chipped treasures through the mist beginning to whirl around him.

She didn’t notice as the grayness swirled faster, almost cloaking him.

He could have—should have—simply vanished. Leaving in the mist took longer. But despite his embarrassment, he wanted to savor those last lingering moments to admire how her hair, so glossy and bright, spilled across her face as she bent over her prizes.

His heart squeezed, and he damned his curse.

How he’d love to see those fair tresses spread across her pillow, twine his fingers in the silken strands as he settled himself above her, kissing her. . . .

Then trailing an openmouthed blaze of fire down her naked skin to dip a questing tongue into the slick, sweet heat he knew waited between her thighs.

Hardwick groaned, knowing she’d no longer hear him.

He clenched his fists and drew a tight, uneven breath, willing the mist to spin faster. Once, something hot, dry, and clawlike snatched at his ankle, but he jerked free, keeping his gaze on her.

“The broken china is my work,” she said then, still rummaging in the coffer’s straw. “I make jewelry from antique porcelain.” She picked up a crescent-shaped shard of rich blues, appearing to admire it. “Necklaces, earrings, bracelets, rings, you name it. I even do some wall art, mirrors and stained glass pieces and such. That’s why Uncle Mac gave the boxes to me. Not as a welcome gift.”

Cilla made a sweeping gesture, taking in the paneled bedroom with its clutter of Victorian gothic furnishings. “I didn’t need a welcome present from Uncle Mac. Being here is gift enough,” she added, not mentioning how she’d dreamt of coming to Scotland all her life.

How she hoped her time at Dunroamin would fill the emptiness inside her. And not the void left by Grant A. Hughes III. Since Hardwick’s arrival in her life, she could hardly even picture Grant’s face. But she hadn’t designed a thing—not even a beaded hairpin—in weeks.

And that frightened her.

Her creative well was dry.

“Oh yes.” She swallowed against the tightness in her throat. “Being here is exactly what I needed.”

Humph.

The snort sounded muffled, almost more like the wind soughing past the window shutters than Hardwick’s buttery rich burr.

“In return”—she tucked the bit of Delft china back into the crate—“I’ve agreed to teach Dunroamin’s residents how to make broken china jewelry. Aunt Birdie and Uncle Mac hope that if they have something creative to keep them busy, they won’t think so much about the Viking ghosts—”

She broke off and clapped a hand over her mouth.

Heat flamed her face.

Who was she to make light of old folks thinking they saw Viking ghosts running across the moors at night when
she
was standing in the middle of her bedroom having a conversation with one?

When she erupted in a blaze of orgasmic tingles each time he appeared?

“Oh, man.” Her entire body went cold and hot at the same time.

What she needed to do was tell him to stop
materializing
everywhere she went. If that was what his sudden appearances out of thin air were called.

She didn’t want to be haunted.

And if she was imagining him, she wanted to stop that, too.

It couldn’t be good for her.

But when she turned around to tell him so, he was gone.

Her jaw started to slip but she didn’t let it. Instead, she put on her best I-am-in-charge look and made a careful circuit of the room, turning on mock Victorian oil lamps as she went. One by one, they cast little pools of softly glowing light, but not near enough to chase the shadows from every empty space and corner.

She paused near the hearth, glad for its cheery birch-and-peat fire.

Much better to continue her survey of the room from here, standing in the warmth and light of the fire, than to keep stalking about with her every foot-step echoing off the polished wood floor to unnerve her.

Each
tap-tappity-tap
gave her the willies, making her think someone was sneaking along behind her.

Frowning, she considered just going to bed and pulling the covers over her head.

But her bed—great, dark-wooded four-poster that it was, complete with heavy, embroidered hangings—seemed to hunch in wait for her. As did the other, equally clunky furnishings, each piece appearing to hold its breath in the silence, watching to see what she’d do.

She shivered and rubbed her arms.

“I am not on the set of a bad horror film.” She spoke the words slowly, distinctly. “There’s nothing any more odd about the shadows in this room than the ones in my apartment back in Yardley.”

The room was just a little heavy on the gothic.

It was simply Dunroamin.

Her echoing footsteps had been just that—footsteps. The few creaks and groans breaking the stillness were only the sounds of ancient woodwork settling down for the night. All old houses made such noises.

And all antique dresser mirrors had ghosts in them.

“Gaaaah!” She jumped.

The ghostly woman leapt closer to the mirror glass and gaped at her. Pale, wild-eyed, and with a tangled mane of hair, the specter shook her head and began withdrawing into the mirror’s depths. Each retreating step took her deeper into the shadows until she stopped cold, frozen in place, the very moment Cilla backed into an enormous overstuffed chair.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” She threw her hands up, laughing out loud when the
ghost
did the same.

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.