Tall, Dark and Kilted (20 page)

A corner where Cilla was sure he’d sat listening to much of their conversation.

Her cheeks flamed. Aunt Birdie then also knew he was a ghost and not just any ghost, but the one that had caused her to ask how her aunt would have reacted if Uncle Mac had been a sexy, melt-your-bones ghost when they’d met.

The way Aunt Birdie was beaming at him proved it.

His own smile was devastating. “Word is,” he said, his deep Scots burr smooth and rich, “that you’ve been having difficulties at Dunroamin. That you’ve reason to believe prowlers are roaming your peat fields of a night. I’m here to offer my services.”

His services.

Cilla almost choked.

The heat in her cheeks intensified until she was sure she must be glowing like a Chinese firecracker. The place between her legs clenched, fiery tingles running rampant. She smoothed a hand down the front of her jacket, pretended to right a nonexistent crease in the perfectly sitting wool.

Aunt Birdie didn’t appear to have any issues with his word choices.

“Your services?” Her aunt spoke without the slightest hesitation.

Hardwick nodded. “I’ve heard that your husband lacks men to cut his peat.” He glanced in the direction of Dunroamin. “Sadly, I canna be of help with the peat. I’ve come here to”—he cleared his throat—“recover from a longtime malady, and am no’ able to do much physical labor. But I can spend my nights walking your moors.”

“Like a security guard?” Cilla looked at him, her heart thumping.

He blinked. “I would guard your uncle’s peat hags, aye.”

For the first time, Aunt Birdie looked uncomfortable. “I can’t say Mac would agree. Times are difficult and we”—she fingered the fringed edge of her royal blue wrapper—“no longer have the—”

“Uncle Mac will come around.” Cilla put a hand on her aunt’s arm, certain her objection had more to do with worrying what Uncle Mac would say if he discovered Hardwick is a ghost than not having the funds to
hire
him.

“I have friends of Norse blood, my lady.” Hardwick’s voice rang deep, reassuring. “Even in the worst days of yore, many were simple farmers. Good men plied the seas as honest traders, dealing with merchants along the Baltic coasts and supplying much-needed goods to Viking settlers in distant Iceland and Greenland.”

He paused, waiting until Aunt Birdie stopped fidgeting with her wrapper fringe.

“So you see”—he spoke with conviction—“it doesn’t set well with me to learn there are souls who would guise themselves as my friends’ more notorious forebears for the purpose of frightening others.”

Aunt Birdie’s head came up. “You’ve heard of our Viking ghosts?”

“I have.”

“Running into them could be unpleasant.” She glanced at Cilla. “Mac doesn’t believe they’re ghosts. They could be dangerous.”

Hardwick barked a laugh. His eyes glittered in the light from the hotel entry. “I promise you, ladies, I also do not believe they are ghosts. And whoe’er they are and whate’er they’re about, it will be dangerous for
them
when our paths cross.”

Aunt Birdie considered. “Even so, we still—”

He cut her off with a raised hand. “Having done with them would be my pleasure. It’s a matter of honor. And for that, I couldn’t accept recompense. No Highlander worthy of the name would do so.”

“Well . . .” Aunt Birdie stood straighter. “If you put it that way, perhaps—”

“I do.” He took Aunt Birdie’s hand, bringing it to his lips.

When he straightened, he turned to Cilla. For a moment, she thought she’d caught a hint of his sword belt slung low around his hips. The long, sheathed blade looking so right against his thigh, the brass studs of his shield flashing in the light from a passing car.

Her heart began to hammer.

She moistened her lips. Whether in medieval trappings or, as now, gorgeous in a sexy modern-day kilt, he simply took her breath. Especially when his eyes narrowed, seeming to heat and smolder as he kept his gaze fixed on her.

“It could be”—he turned back to her aunt—“that a friend or two might join me on my nightly patrols. They, too, are Highlanders. Islesmen I’ve known for . . . years.”

An almost imperceptible smile twitched his lips. “Good fighting men and sharp-eyed, they’d eat your Viking ghosts for breakfast and spit out the bones.”

Aunt Birdie beamed.

“Then it’s settled, barring Mac’s objection.” Her gaze flicked across the road to her car. “I’d offer you a lift to the castle now. I’d like you to speak to him. But there’s not an inch of spare room in my car.”

She hesitated, as if weighing her words. “Cilla climbed up to Castle Varrich’s ruin this afternoon and she brought back a red—”

“Devil mask, I know—”

“But how . . .” Aunt Birdie blinked. Then her face cleared as quickly. “I should have known—”

“Of course, you should have.” Cilla put a hand on her aunt’s arm, improvising. “You’re the one always going on about how well the gossip mill works in Highland Scotland.”

She brushed a raindrop off her sleeve. Hopefully she’d spared Hardwick an awkward moment if he hadn’t yet realized her aunt knew just who—and
what
—he was.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if everyone above the Highland Line knows about the mask by now.” She made a little hand flip to emphasize her point.

“You’re right, of course.” Aunt Birdie caught on. “Even the stones are said to have ears here, every clump of heather a pair of watching eyes. And”—she smiled at Hardwick—“each burn a wagging tongue.”

“Word has spread, aye.” He nodded wisely. “I have an idea who the mask’s owner might be, or at least where to find him. And I’ve an equally good notion about the origins of your Viking ghosts. Unfortunately”—he glanced at the lowering clouds—“standing here in the drizzle isn’t the time and place—”

“You’ll speak with Mac?” Aunt Birdie didn’t make a second offer of a lift.

“That’s my intention.” His eyes went dark, almost fierce. “I’ll visit him at the soonest.”

Stepping back, he sketched another bow.
“Ladies.”

Then he turned and walked away. The silence of his heavy, steel-shod boots on the pavement gave the only indication he wasn’t a true flesh-and-blood man.

“How did you know?” Cilla spun to face her aunt the instant the night mist swallowed him. “He looked just as real as we do and—”

“My dear”—Aunt Birdie flipped the edge of her wrapper over her shoulder—“I’ve known he was about since well before you arrived. I just didn’t know who he was or his purpose until now.”

Cilla blinked. “His purpose?”

“Why, it’s all about you, of course.” Aunt Birdie spoke as if that made perfect sense.

“And Uncle Mac and his peat fields?” Cilla hurried after her aunt when she started for the car. “The men-dressing-up-as-ghosts or whatever. What about all that?”

“That’ll be part of it, too.” Aunt Birdie opened the car door—people in Tongue didn’t lock their vehicles—and slid behind the wheel.

She waited until Cilla dropped into the passenger seat and fastened her seat belt. “It’s this man’s karma to meet you. Perhaps to help us, too.” Her voice took on a sage note. “I’m quite sure.”

“But how do you know he’s the ghost you’ve been sensing at Dunroamin?” Cilla worried her lip. “Maybe you’ve picked up on Margaret MacDonald? The nursery spirit Honoria told me about? She sounded very protective.”

“Margaret hasn’t been at Dunroamin for years.” Aunt Birdie made a dismissive gesture. “I’d feel her if she were. She left Dunroamin when your uncle passed out of his boyhood.”

“But ...”

“No buts, dear. You told me yourself who this man is. How significant he’s become to you.” Aunt Birdie backed out of the parking space, her eyes now on the road. “Have you forgotten you mentioned his name and estate in the pub?”

Cilla looked out the car window. Curling wisps of smoke rose from the chimney of a roadside cottage. Then they passed a cluster of sheep huddling near a dry stone wall. The whole lot of the shaggy woollies lifted their heads to stare at her.

Deep, penetrating stares, as if they knew how easily he’d scattered her wits.

Then the long causeway back across the Kyle loomed before them. But she took scarce note of how gray and white-capped the usually sparkling blue water had gone.

“Aunt Birdie”—she glanced at her aunt—“we only
talked
about him. When you bumped into him as we left the hotel, he could have been anyone. Or, as I suspect, did you see him in the pub?”

The slow curve of Aunt Birdie’s lips was answer enough.

“I knew it!” Cilla eyes rounded. “You
did
see him!”

“And you didn’t?” Aunt Birdie shot her an amused glance. “He was at a back table in the Bistro Bar nearly the whole time we were there. My dear, I do believe he’s quite enamored of you. He looked ready to eat you up with a spoon.”

Ready to eat her.

The image of his dark head between her thighs flashed across Cilla’s mind. Her belly clenched and a flood of tingly heat swept low. She fisted her hands in her lap, ignoring the sensations.

“He’s quite handsome, isn’t he?” Her aunt chattered on. “Can you imagine being kissed by such a man?”

Cilla could. That was the problem.

She felt her face heating. “Why didn’t you tell me you could see him?”

“I was hoping you’d mention him first.” Aunt Birdie reached to flip on the CD player. A lively pipe tune filled the car’s interior. “Not that it matters now. Your young man has solved that particular hurdle for us.”

“And the other hurdles?” Cilla lifted her voice above Uncle Mac’s favorite pipe tune, “Paddy’s Leather Breeches.”

A short melody, the screaming pipes faded away quickly. But they started up again at once, the blaring tones even louder the second time.

Cilla’s ears began to throb.

Aunt Birdie looked oblivious.

Even when the tune ended and started up a third time, once more louder than before.

“That’s your uncle’s doing.” Aunt Birdie brimmed with amusement. “The CD plays that same little tune over and over again. But—”

“You don’t mind because you know how much Uncle Mac loves it.”

“That’s right. Seeing how his face lights when he hears that tune makes the listening worthwhile.” Aunt Birdie swung into Dunroamin’s long drive. “You see, my dear, when someone matters, when you love them more than life itself, living and breathing to see them happy, you look past things that others might find irritating.”

“Or impossible.” Cilla now knew why her aunt switched on the pipe music.

“That, too.” Aunt Birdie slid a meaningful glance her way. “Where there’s love there’s always—good heavens!”

She slammed on the brakes.

Her eyes rounded. “What’s Violet doing on a creepie in the middle of the garden?”

“A creepie?” Cilla’s breath caught, shades of her window devil—the real one—flashing across her mind.

Aunt Birdie flicked a finger toward the lawn. “The low, three-legged stool Violet is sitting on.”

“Oh.” Relieved, Cilla leaned forward, peering through the mist until she spotted the tiny woman.

Just as Aunt Birdie said, Violet Manyweathers appeared to perch on an unusually low stool. Great swaths of fog swirled around her and she sat hunched over, her stooped back and all the mist giving her the look of a crone out of some ancient Celtic saga.

Cilla thought of one from a series of Scottish medieval romance novels she’d once read. A fearsome old bat called Devorgilla or something.

She shivered.

“What’s she doing?” She could feel her brow crimping.

“I don’t know, but she isn’t alone.” Aunt Birdie’s gaze went past Violet to the clutch of residents gathered on the paved terrace outside Dunroamin’s glass-walled conservatory. “Everyone but your uncle appears to be out in the rain with her.”

Cilla glanced at the terrace. Gently illuminated by several mock gas lanterns, it was easy to make out the cluster of anxious-faced onlookers.

Aunt Birdie was right.

Uncle Mac wasn’t there.

But before Cilla could puzzle why, Leo shot into view. Barking wildly, the dachshund streaked across the lawn, making straight for Violet. Reaching her, he ran circles around her, his short legs pumping at great speed.

Cilla’s eyes flew wide.

Aunt Birdie stared. “What the—”

“It’s
him
!” Colonel Darling’s voice pierced the chaos. “That bloody boxtie!”

Hurrying toward the car, he held his walking stick high in the air, waving it over his head as he ran. He used his other hand to hold his protective deerstalker hat clamped tight on his notably bald pate. His face, ruddy on the best of days, had taken on a purple hue.

“Oh, dear.” Aunt Birdie tossed Cilla a here-comes-trouble look, then leapt from the car.

Cilla did the same.

“Achilles.” Aunt Birdie reached to grasp the colonel’s tweed-jacketed arms when he skidded to a halt in front of them. “What in the world is going on here?”

“I just told you!” He kept his cane whirling round his head. “It’s that damned bird.”

“Gregor?” Aunt Birdie used her softest voice.

“Is there any other?” The colonel scowled and shook free of her grip.

Huffing, he brushed at his sleeves. “The abominable creature showed up on a library window ledge just as we were settling in for tea.”

He sounded scandalized.

Aunt Birdie kept her cool. “Gregor often perches on windows.”

“With red cord snagged all round his damty legs?” Colonel Darling’s brows snapped together. “A shame the cord wasn’t wrapped round his neck, I say!”

Aunt Birdie and Cilla exchanged looks.

“A red cord?” Aunt Birdie looked to where Violet still sat on her stool, her back bent near double. “Is that what she’s doing? Untangling a cord?”

The colonel’s face turned a deeper shade of purple. “Fool woman announced she had to
save
him. If she didn’t, the bird might hurt himself. Can you imagine?” He leaned close, his silver mustache quivering. “Off she went into the rain and wind, the whole bleeding household trailing after her! I ask you, have you ever heard such nonsense? We’d be better off without that vile—”

Auk, auk!