Tall, Dark and Kilted (2 page)

“Then tell me what I must do.”

“It is more what you must not do. Dare not do . . . if you wish the resolution to help you.”

Hardwick took a step closer to the temple, his own temples beginning to throb with frustration when the swirling mists thickened, giving the impression that the blasted place was receding from him.

Halting, he tamped down his temper and held up a hand. The one he didn’t need to hold his shield in place. “I will do—or not do—whatever is necessary to rid myself of this foul condition.”

“So be it.” The mists thinned, once again allowing glimpses of the Dark One’s hallowed temple. “You shall be relieved of your curse and also granted the everlasting sleep you crave—if you can keep yourself from becoming aroused for a year and a day.”

Hardwick almost laughed. “Think you that will be a problem? After centuries of such an affliction as I’ve endured? By the gray mists shielding you from me, I swear there isn’t a female walking who could tempt me.”

“Do not claim victory too soon, Seagrave.” Another rush of icy air whipped through the inner sanctum, this time accompanied by a black, shrieking wind. Even more distressing, the tangle of exposed roots spreading out from the circle of guardian trees suddenly morphed into hissing dragons. As one, they lifted scaly black heads, looking round with fiery, unblinking eyes. “Be warned. The price of your redemption is high and fraught with grave danger.”

Hardwick pitched his voice as resolute as the Dark One’s. “Rid me of my
problem
and I will face any danger.”

Drawing his sword, he thrust its tip into the billowing mist rippling around his ankles. “With the greatest respect,” he said, watching the root-dragons stare at him with eyes like glimmering coals, “I’ll not be deterred by sorcerous means or others.”

On his words, the scaly beasts vanished, their great, crouching bodies nothing more than a snarl of silent, black-gleaming roots.

The chill air remained, but a soft rustling came from within the temple and Hardwick could almost imagine the Dark One nodding consent.

“As you will.” His deep voice shook the trees and sent shock waves through the fog. “But know this, you who seek my benevolence. If you fail, the old condition will return at once, along with your curse to satisfy a different woman every night. This time you will no longer be able to roam the world and centuries at will, choosing your bedmates as it pleases you.”

The Dark One paused and the icy air grew even colder. “One slip and you will find yourself in the blackest, most vile level of the world-between-the-worlds, where you’d be forever doomed to pleasure the pathetic creatures who dwell there. Females far different from the endless lovelies you’ve pleased down through the ages.”

Hardwick narrowed his eyes on the temple, then carefully sheathed his sword. “I would ask one boon.”

“Indeed?” The Dark One humphed. “Name it quickly—before I tire of speaking with you.”

“I would have the right to choose where I spend the required proving period.” Hardwick stood straighter, his jaw tight with determination. “That is all.”

A place where I can live quietly and away from all temptation
.

He left the words unspoken, his entire body taut with the waiting. “Well? Am I to have my boon?”

“It shall be granted.” The Dark One appeared on the temple’s threshold, an imposing manlike form, only discernible as a blackness deeper than the surrounding darkness. “Choose wisely—you will not be allowed a second chance.”

Hardwick opened his mouth to reply, but a flash of eye-blinding lightning snatched the words. A simultaneous
boom
of thunder ripped away the trees and the temple, leaving him alone in another, less threatening corner of this mystical realm he’d drifted in and out of for so long.

Great swaths of shimmering gray-white mist slid past him now, and he knew from experience he need only find the appropriate opening, then will himself below.

Far below, to wherever on the earth plane he wished.

But first he looked beneath his shield, his heart slamming against his ribs when he saw only his plaid and wide-leathered sword belt riding low on his hips.

His
problem
was gone.

Or, better said, relaxed.

Throwing back his head, he whooped. Then he grinned broadly and lowered his shield, removing it from in front of his groin for the first time in seven hundred years.

“By all the saints!” He dashed a hand across his cheek and heaved a great sigh.

His curse was finally over.

Now he need only seek his place of refuge.

Blessedly, he knew exactly where he needed to go.

Chapter 1

Dunroamin Castle
A Registered Residential Care Home
Scotland’s Far North, the Present

Someone was watching her.

Cilla Swanner dropped the pullover she’d been about to lift out of her suitcase and stood very still. Something had set the fine hairs on the back of her neck to standing and it wasn’t the overall gloom seeming to fill the shadowy, dark-paneled bedchamber. Nor was it the deep silence pressing in on her from all sides, even though it wasn’t much later than three in the afternoon.

She turned to a particularly suspect corner, eyes narrowing. She would’ve sworn she’d caught movement there. Something—her imagination insisted—that would prove to be all claws and fetid breath.

Long, flashing teeth and fiery red eyes.

Fortunately, the scariest thing she detected was a faint waft of mildew.

She almost laughed. She was bigger than the smell of damp and old furniture. And as a modern, sensible soul, she’d simply ignore how much the lavishly furnished, gothic-style room reminded her of every Dracula movie she’d ever seen.

That would be her first line of defense against weirdness.

A tactic she’d likely need, since the room would be hers for the summer.

Even so, she allowed herself a quick glance over her shoulder, half expecting the latched window shutters to slowly swing open, giving her a glimpse of the thick fog currently rolling across Dunroamin’s lonely shore. Pea soup, she’d call such roiling, impenetrable fog, though the local term was
sea haar
. Either way, she just knew that if she did dare a look, more than swirling gray mist would greet her.

In her present jet-lagged state of mind, she’d likely see a seagull glide past and mistake it for a bat.

Reaching again for her pullover, she thought better of it and rolled her shoulders instead. She was not exactly a Lilliputian, and so cramming herself into an economy window seat from Newark to Glasgow had left her feeling stiff, achy, and more than a little cranky.

The endless drive north hadn’t done much to defrazzle her, however breathtaking the scenery. Thank goodness she’d had competent escorts and hadn’t had to brave the left-sided driving and spindle-thin roads herself. Equally good, she knew exactly how to banish her body aches and tiredness.

A long, hot shower was what she needed.

And no matter how Transylvania-like the high-ceilinged, wooden-floored room struck her, its spacious and airy bathroom looked totally twenty-first century.

Already feeling the restorative pounding of a good, steaming shower, she stripped with lightspeed. But just as she reached to unhook her bra, she noticed the framed poster of her Aunt Birdie and Uncle Mac on Dunroamin’s steps.

She had a copy of it in her apartment back in Yardley, Pennsylvania. Hers was mounted in a tartan frame and had pride of place above her living room sofa. This one hung near the shuttered windows, its Old World-looking frame as dark as the room’s paneling.

But at least its familiarity took away some of the room’s eeriness. Thankful for that, she tossed aside her bra and went to look at the poster.

It was a Christmas card photo she’d had blown up just last year, thinking that her aunt and uncle would appreciate the way a slanting ray of winter sun highlighted the stone armorial panel with the MacGhee coat of arms above their heads. Theirs, and the dark head of a tall, broad-shouldered man standing a few feet behind them, close to the castle’s open door.

“Huh?”
She blinked, certain she was now not just jet-lagged, but seeing things.

The man—who looked quite roguishly medieval—hadn’t been in the poster before.

Nor was he there now, on second look.

He’d only been a shadow. A trick of light cast across the glass.

She shivered all the same. Rubbing her arms, she stepped closer to the poster. He’d looked so real. And if she was beginning to see imaginary men, handsome, kilted, or otherwise, she was in worse shape than any jet lag she’d ever before experienced.

Certain that had to be it—the mind-fuzzing effects of crossing time zones and lack of sleep—she touched a finger to the poster glass, relieved to find it smooth and cool to the touch, absolutely normal-feeling, just as it should be.

But whether the man was gone or not, something was wrong. In just the few seconds she’d needed to cross the room, the air had grown all thick and heavy. Icy, too. As if someone had set an air conditioner to subzero, deliberately flash-freezing the bedchamber.

She frowned. Unless she was mistaken, Dunroamin didn’t have air conditioners.

It did, however, have strange shadows in posters.

No, not shadows.

The man was back, and this time he’d moved. Just as dark and medieval-looking as before, he now stood next to Aunt Birdie and Uncle Mac instead of behind them.

“Oh, God!” She jumped back from the poster and raised her arms across her naked breasts.

He
cocked a brow at her—right through the poster glass!

Her heart began to gallop. She couldn’t move. Her legs felt like rubber, and even screaming was pointless. Her throat had closed on her and her tongue felt stuck to the top of her mouth.

Disbelief and shock sweeping her, she looked on as the man, illusion, or whatever, sauntered away from her aunt and uncle to lean a shoulder against the door arch. Devilishly sexy—she couldn’t help but notice—he just stood there, arms and ankles crossed as he stared back at her.

Once, he flicked a glance at something that looked like a round medieval shield propped against the wall near his feet. She thought he might reach for it, but he only looked up to glare at her.

“You aren’t there.” She found her voice, a pathetic croak. “I am not seeing you—”

She blinked.

Mr. Wasn’t-Really-There was gone again.

Only the shadow on the glass remained.

“Oh, man.” Her shower forgotten, she snatched up her bra and the rest of her airplane clothes, tossing them back on even faster than she’d taken them off. She should never have accepted Uncle Mac’s welcome dram.

Not after being up nearly thirty hours.

“Miss Swanner?” A woman’s voice called through the closed door, accompanied by a quick rap. “Are you awake?”

She almost flew across the room, half-tempted to answer that, yes, she was awake, but she was also having
waking hallucinations
.

Instead, she ran a hand through her hair and opened the door. “Yes?”

“I’m Honoria, Dunroamin’s housekeeper. I’ve come to take you down to tea if you’re feeling up to it?” An older woman in a heavy tweed suit and sturdy shoes peered at her, the oversized print of an unusually large badge pinned to her jacket, repeating her name.

Following her glance, the woman put back strong-looking shoulders and cleared her throat. “Some of our residents have difficulty remembering names. Others”—she looked both ways down the dimly lit corridor, tactfully lowering her voice—“don’t see well.”

Cilla almost choked. There wasn’t anything wrong with her memory, but since a few moments ago, she had some serious doubts about her vision.

About everything.

The world she’d known and understood tipped drastically when she’d peered at that poster.

Hoping the housekeeper wouldn’t notice, she stepped into the hallway, closing the door behind her. “I’d love tea,” she said, meaning it. “And I’m looking forward to meeting the residents. Aunt Birdie and Uncle Mac always talked so much about them, I feel as if I know them alrea—”

“Ach, you won’t be seeing any of them just yet.” The housekeeper glanced at her as they moved down the plaid-carpeted corridor. “They’ll be having their tea in the library. Your aunt and uncle are waiting for you in the armory.”

She blinked, wondering if her hearing was going wacky as well.
“The armory?”

Honoria paused at the top of a great oak staircase. “It’s not what it sounds like, though there are still enough weapons on the walls. Your uncle uses the room as his private study. His den, I believe you Americans call it?”

“Oh.” She felt foolish for thinking she was going somewhere that would give her the willies.

A den she could handle, even if it did have a few swords and shields decorating the walls.

But when Honoria opened the door, ushering her inside, she found the armory unlike any American-style den she’d ever seen. Full of quiet and shadows, medieval weapons gleamed on every inch of wall space, and two full-sized suits of standing armor flanked a row of tall windows across from the door.

Cilla froze just inside the threshold, the willies making her stomach clench.

Her aunt and uncle were nowhere to be seen.

Her heart thumping again, she turned to the door. “Are you sure this is where Aunt Birdie and—” She closed her mouth, catching a glimpse of the housekeeper already rounding a curve at the far end of the corridor.

“Ach! There you are.” Her uncle’s deep voice sounded from the room’s shadows. “Come away in, lass, and have your tea with us.”

Spinning around, she saw her aunt and uncle at last. They sat in the soft lamplight of a corner table set for tea. Aunt Birdie, with her sleek, tawny-colored hair and large, deep blue eyes, looking so much like an older version of Cilla’s mother and herself, she started.

Uncle Mac, kilted as always, wore the bold, masculine room like a second skin.

With his larger-than-life good looks and full, curling red beard, not to mention his horn-handled
sgian-dubh
, the ever-present dagger peeking up from his sock, he looked every bit the fierce Highland chieftain.