Tall, Dark and Kilted (17 page)

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 HEART.

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—”

A bluidy windbag!

A gust of chill air blasted in through the windows as if to prove it. The pub door flew open and slammed shut with a loud bang.

“Oh, dear.” Aunt Birdie placed a hand to her breast. She glanced first at the door, then the windows. “It would seem a storm is brewing.”

Indeed, my lady
.

Aunt Birdie’s face went suspiciously noncommittal.

Cilla’s heart pounded wildly. Her nipples almost hurt. Now she
knew
he was here. A snort and two comments—all delivered in that buttery-rich burr—was more than enough proof.

His tone and the nature of his comments revealed he didn’t like the Scottish author, the entrepreneur, as Aunt Birdie called the man.

Cilla wanted to know why.

With luck, talking about the author would keep her grounded if Hardwick’s sexy voice rolled past her ears again. It didn’t matter what he said, not even that he sounded really annoyed. It was the
way
he said things, his Scottish accent, that curled her toes and sent a flash flood of heat tingling across her tender parts.

“So-o-o”—she tried to keep her own voice level—“why does Wee Hughie have a busload of Aussies trailing after him?”

“Did you not see the placard outside, next to the hotel door?” Aunt Birdie looked surprised. “It has

HIRE A HIGHLANDER scrawled in blue across the top. I can’t believe you missed it.”

“If I’d seen the name Wee Hughie I would’ve noticed. And HIRE A HIGHLANDER would’ve stopped me in my tracks.” Cilla curled her fingers around her pint of Stella Artois lager, squeezing lightly.

She needed focus.

Aunt Birdie didn’t need to know that her mind had been so occupied on her tramp down the hill that she’d marched straight past the hotel. She’d only discovered her mistake when the little whitewashed croft houses she’d been passing grew sparser, the fields between larger, and the sheep in the fields more plentiful.

She’d been walking blind.

Worrying about the devil at her window that hadn’t been a mask and fretting about Hardwick.

Especially Hardwick.

Thinking about him still, she looked at her aunt. “What does a poster have to do with Wee Hughie’s groupies? I don’t see the connection.”

Aunt Birdie laughed. “Think again, dear. The poster shows why they’re with him. Wee Hughie MacSporran runs Heritage Tours. Guiding, some call it. Anyone can sign on, and he then escorts them around the Highlands, regaling them with tales along the way.”

“Oh.” Cilla nodded, not really caring.

She was too busy concentrating on willing her nipples to de-pucker.

She couldn’t prove it, but she’d swear
he
was staring right at them. Maybe even using ghostly magic to make her imagine slick, hot tongue swirls circling first one, then the other nipple.

That’s what it felt like, anyway.

She frowned and reached for a pretzel, determined to ignore the sensation.

“Wee Hughie’s done an Australian book tour or two,” her aunt was saying. “These women are fans. Apparently, they sign on for a Highland tour with him every summer.”

Cilla blinked. “What?”

Aunt Birdie made a gesture. “You’ll soon meet Wee Hughie yourself. He’s scheduled to speak in Dunroamin’s library next weekend.”

Another gust of icy wind swept in through the windows, this time lifting a small stack of coasters off the bar and sending them cartwheeling through the air.

The barkeep returned then, pushing in through a door behind the bar. He carried their order on a tray, jacket potatoes with cheese and baked beans. Coming straight to their table, he plunked down the plates with an apologetic smile. Then he scurried, unasked, to refresh their drinks, his young face flushed from hurrying.

“Sorry you had to wait.” Quick as lightning, he turned away, scooping up the scattered coasters on his hasty retreat to the bar. “There’s an
event
in the An Garbh this e’en,” he tossed over his shoulder before disappearing through the door he’d used to enter the pub. “Keeping us right busy they are, just!”

“Goodness.” Aunt Birdie looked after him, then put down her glass of soda water and went to the bar. A few books and a little pile of flyers were displayed there. Taking one of each, she returned to the table. “Here. These will give you an idea of who Wee Hughie is.”

Cilla set down the fork she’d been about to plunge into her baked potato and picked up the book. The title,
Royal Roots
, jumped out at her. Several inches tall, the words blazed across the top of the book in bright gold letters. A subtitle,
A Highlander’s Guide to Discovering Illustrious Forebears
, followed in smaller lettering. The rest of the cover showed a tall, rather corpulent Highlander posing in front of the famous Bannockburn statue of Robert the Bruce.

The flyer announced a series of “Meet Your Ancestors” tea-and-talk events to be held at the Bettyhill Museum, the Loch Croispol Bookshop and Restaurant in Balnakeil, and—no surprise—Dunroamin Castle Residential Care Home.

Humph.

The snort came so close to Cilla’s ear she would’ve sworn
he
was leaning over her shoulder. But before she could glance around, the main pub door opened and closed again, this time falling shut with a quiet click.

An almost imperceptible little snick that sounded oddly final.

Cilla frowned. The book and the flyer felt suddenly cold beneath her fingers.

She set them down, not missing that the chill wind had stopped gusting through the window. The whole feel of the air shifted and changed. That last humph and the closing of the door clinched it. If Hardwick had been there, perhaps watching her from the menu table, he’d now left.

Which had a silver lining—she could finally bring up the subject she’d been dying to discuss.

And Wee Hughie MacSporran seemed a perfect way to ease into it.

“What’s a ‘Meet Your Ancestors’ tea?” She pitched her voice casually. “Does Wee Hughie introduce a parade of ghostly forebears during his presentations?”

Aunt Birdie almost choked on a bit of baked potato. “Oh!” She dabbed at her mouth with a napkin. “That would be interesting, my dear. The man claims direct descent from Robert Bruce and just about every other notable in Scottish history. It’d be quite a roll call of luminaries if he summoned them all to his lectures.”

“So what does he do?” Cilla hoped her aunt didn’t see her nervousness.

“He tells tales about them.” Aunt Birdie waved an airy hand. “He’ll surely regale us with anecdotes from his famed ancestors and then do a question-and-answer round. Supposedly, he can spin a yarn about your own family history if you challenge him with a Scottish surname.”