Tall, Dark and Kilted (21 page)

Gregor’s cry cut him off. Then the bird appeared, waddling away from Violet’s stool with the awkward rolling steps used by so many great birds of prey on land.

Cilla recognized him at once. He was the big bird from Castle Varrich.

His cry, too, was unmistakable. As was the cheeky way he held his brown-feathered head.

But the mentioned red cord was nowhere to be seen. The bonxie’s legs were free.

As if testing that freedom, Gregor took another few tottering steps and then turned around to fix Violet with a piercing stare. His white-patched wings shot upward in a victorious V-shaped greeting.

Auk, auk
, he screeched again.

Violet laughed delightedly. Pushing slowly to her feet, she clapped her hands.

On the terrace, a great cheer arose.

Achilles Darling huffed.

When the bird took flight, winging away toward the moors, the colonel lowered his walking stick and released his grip on his deerstalker hat.

Then his gaze fell on the interior of Aunt Birdie’s car.

His eyes bulged, comprehension swift. “That’s the devil face Cook saw!” He yanked open the backseat door, peering inside. “And this”—he grabbed a long red cord dangling from one side of the mask—“is the same cording that was tangled round Gregor’s legs!”

“That would seem the way of it.” Aunt Birdie gave him her sunniest smile. “A riddle solved, yes.”

“Humph!” He stepped back, dusting his hands. “I knew that bird caused the uproar!”

“Perhaps it’s a good thing that he did.” Cilla kept her thoughts on
her
devil face to herself. “If he hadn’t found the mask, we’d never have known it
was
a mask. Behag Finney might have had nightmares for the rest of her life.”

Colonel Darling snorted. “If you asked me, I’d wager he didn’t find the mask. I say he stole it!”

“Wherever he got it”—Aunt Birdie started pulling the mask from her car—“Mac needs to hear about it.” She glanced over her shoulder at the colonel. “Do you know where he is?”

“I do.” The colonel’s chest swelled with importance. “He’s in the armory with a kilted young Highlander who looks like he walked off the set of
Brigadoon
.”

Cilla’s heart slammed against her ribs. “He’s here already!”

Aunt Birdie’s face wreathed in a smile. “So he’s a man of his word.”

“Eh?” The colonel gave them both a narrowed-eyed look, but held his tongue.

Of course, Cilla wouldn’t have cared what he said.

She had other things on her mind. Delightfully reassuring things like her aunt’s vow that where there’s love, nothing is impossible.

Cilla couldn’t have agreed more.

She also meant to prove it.

Chapter 10

A trace of sandalwood greeted Cilla the instant Aunt Birdie threw open Dunroamin’s front door. A trill of excitement made her heart jump as they hurried into the castle’s vast mausoleum-like entry. Behind them, Leo’s excited, high-pitched yips still resounded from the garden.

Glancing back, Cilla saw the little dog dash across the lawn, racing for the terrace. Violet Manyweathers followed at a slower pace. Colonel Darling trudged along behind her, the three-legged creepie tucked beneath his arm.

Amazingly, Violet sported his deerstalker hat.

“Would you look at that?” Cilla grabbed her aunt’s elbow, pulling her back to the door. “He gave Violet his hat.”

Aunt Birdie laughed. “I told you he’s all bluster.” She shifted the devil mask on her hip. “He’ll be worried Violet will catch a cold if she gets her head wet. Between us, I think he’s a bit soft on her.”

Cilla smiled and reached to turn up her jacket collar. Violet Manyweathers wasn’t the only one in danger of getting drenched. Colder and increasing in strength, the wind slung icy splinters of rain against the castle and across the stone of the outside steps.

A wet gust swept past them into the entry, lifting the edges of the tapestries and making a few of the standing suits of armor rattle in their wall niches. Aunt Birdie shoved at the heavy oaken door with her hip and Cilla rushed to help her, pushing with both hands. They strained against the wind until the door slammed shut with a bang.

“Wow, those have to be gale-force winds.” Cilla swept a hand through her hair, pushing it out of her eyes.

Then she frowned.

An aquatic chorus filled the air.

And it wasn’t the rain lashing at the windows. The great din came from the dark passage leading away from the entry and deeper into the castle.

Drips, plinks, plonks, and—most alarming of all—the distant gush of running water.

“The roof leaks!” She flashed a horrified look at her aunt. “I didn’t realize it was so bad.”

Aunt Birdie glanced at the rain-streaked windows. “Only on such nights. As you can see”—she jerked her head at a plastic bucket near the silvered feet of one of the standing knights—“we’re quite prepared.”

A door on the other side of the entry flew open and Honoria sailed in, her arms lined with what looked to be dented and rusting milk pails.

“We’ve used up our supply of drip catchers.” She didn’t break stride as she hurried past. “I fetched these from the old byre. They should keep us dry!”

Then she was gone, her tweedy bulk nipping around a corner as quickly as she’d appeared. The ancient milking pails clinked in her wake.

Looking not at all put out, Aunt Birdie hitched the red devil mask against her hip again and started down the dimly lit passage.

The one that echoed with the loudest drip serenade.

“Aunt Birdie!” Cilla hastened after her, dodging trickles and weaving her way around the assorted buckets, pails, and cook pots lining the plaid-carpeted passage. “You can’t live like this!”

Her aunt stopped at once.

Turning around, she waited for Cilla to catch up with her.

“My dear, have you forgotten what I told you in the car?” She bent to adjust the placement of a large glass casserole dish so it better caught drips.

Straightening, she tucked her hair behind her ear. “Just as I love your uncle, so do I love his home. This”—she indicated the drip containers—“will all pass when the time is right for it to do so. Until then, if need be, I’ll sit on the floor and catch the water in my hands.”

“You would, wouldn’t you?”

The look on Aunt Birdie’s face was answer enough.

It was also enough to put a hot, swelling lump in Cilla’s throat.

How wonderful to love so fiercely.

She swallowed hard, in the same moment catching another waft of sandalwood. Her breath caught and her heart did a little flip. She hadn’t realized how deep into the passage they’d gone. The door to Uncle Mac’s armory loomed right ahead of them.

And something told her that once she crossed the threshold, there’d be no going back.

Her
Dunroamin waited within, and once she embraced it she had a feeling she’d be as ready as Aunt Birdie to listen to overloud pipe tunes and catch water drips in her hands.

There was only one way to find out.

So she took a deep breath and glanced at her aunt, reassured to see the older woman’s encouraging nod.

Then—before she could change her mind—she put her hand on the door latch.

Her heart started pounding.

The door swung open with incredible ease.

“Ach, laddie!” Uncle Mac’s mirth-filled voice boomed from across the weapon-hung room. “You’re a man after my own heart! A pity it is you’ve just now found your way here.”

Cilla and her aunt exchanged swift glances.

Aunt Birdie hid a smile.

Cilla stared at her uncle and her ghost, amazed by their apparent ease with each other. Both kilted and looking like two Celtic chieftains of old, they stood near the tatty tartan sofa placed halfway between the hearth and the room’s row of tall, mullioned windows.

A flash of lightning silvered the leaded panes, lining their silhouettes against the rainy night. Cilla blinked, her pulse leaping.

Again, she imagined the sword at Hardwick’s hip. The notion that he wore—and likely knew how to wield—such a proud and ancient weapon weakened her knees.

Every wildly romantic, sword-swinging Highland-y film she’d ever seen flashed through her mind. She could see Hardwick in such a role, especially in the heated love scenes that often followed, with the hero riding off into the hills, his lady sitting astride behind him, arms wrapped tight around his powerful body, and her long, unbound hair flying as they streaked across the heather.

She drew a tight breath, her heart thundering.

Unaware they’d been disturbed, her uncle and Hardwick clinked dram glasses, sharing a manly moment. They didn’t look around until—almost on its own—the door jerked from Cilla’s grasp and fell shut with a loud click.

Hardwick’s gaze snapped to hers. The air between them ignited, rippling and crackling as if ablaze. The power of it scorched her. His mouth curved in another of his slow, heart-melting smiles. As if he, too, felt the sizzling pull between them. Then his eyes went dark with a heated, simmering look that curled her toes.

Aunt Birdie nudged her with an elbow. “That’s it,” she whispered. “The look I told you about.”

“Ho!” Her uncle swung toward them. “It’s about time you two returned.”

“We ran into someone.” Cilla’s gaze stayed on Hardwick. Looking anywhere else was impossible. Even in the room’s deep shadows, he dazzled her. “And he—”

She broke off, her chest tightening with almost painful awareness. The sight of his long, strong fingers holding his dram glass reminded her of the feel of his hands on her bare skin when she’d slipped in the bathroom.

He’d not just touched her; he’d seen her naked.

And the wicked glint in his eye suggested he knew exactly what she was thinking.

Fair was fair, after all. She knew enough about Scotland to know that—as a true Highlander—he was equally naked beneath his kilt.

The thought electrified her.

She moistened her lips, her heart galloping. Desire pulsed through her, heated and tingly. Worse than that, an almost irresistible urge to march across the room and lift his kilt swept her.

No, the wish consumed her.

Could there be any thought more rousing?

Doubting it, she cleared her throat, forcing her attention on her uncle. “We met someone,” she repeated, not sure what Hardwick had told him. “We lost track—”

“We’d hoped to have dinner at the Ben Loyal’s An Garbh restaurant, but they were full up.” Aunt Birdie came to her rescue. “If we’d dined there as planned, we would’ve been much later.”

“I know that fine.” Uncle Mac hooked his thumbs in his kilt belt. “And I know all about how you met my young friend here.” He rocked back on his heels, looking delighted. “Thanks to him—a Highland Shaw of the good Clan Chattan—I also know about Gregor’s mask. It’s been a grand e’en!”

He flashed a grin at Hardwick. “You’ll ne’er believe who we just talked to!”

“Oh?” Aunt Birdie lifted a brow, slid a knowing glance at Cilla. “You might be surprised at what I believe.”

Cilla stepped on her toe.

Hardwick—clearly the other half of her uncle’s exuberant
we
—came forward to take the red devil mask from Aunt Birdie’s arms.

Leaning close to Cilla, he dropped his gaze to her foot, pitching his voice for her ears alone. “He doesn’t know. No’ that.”

Cilla’s face warmed. She knew exactly what he meant.

His ghostdom.

She removed her foot from her aunt’s at once. “I—”

“Dinna tell me you aren’t curious?” Uncle Mac was staring at them, his bearded chin jutting at a stubborn angle.

“Of course we’re interested.” Aunt Birdie went to sit on the sofa. “Who did you call?”

“Erlend Eggertson!”

Cilla had to smile at the triumph on her uncle’s face.

“Erlend Eggertson?” She put a deliberate note of wonder in her voice. “That’s amazing.”

“Isn’t it, just!” Uncle Mac’s chest swelled.

He slid a glance at Hardwick. “There aren’t many souls what can hide when two Highlanders put their heads together.”

“How did you find him?” Cilla really wanted to know. “Aunt Birdie said there aren’t any Eggertsons around here.”

“And there aren’t!” Uncle Mac folded his arms, looking smug. “That didn’t stop us from tracking him down.”

“The man’s in Lerwick. He’s a
guizer
.” Hardwick propped the mask against the wall. “I had a feeling we’d—”

“A geezer?” Cilla’s eyes rounded.

“No,
guizer
.” Aunt Birdie settled herself on the sofa. “There’s a Guizer Jarl, the leader, and then”—she pulled a plaid cushion onto her lap—“his squad of attending
guizers
. There can be hundreds of them. I’ve seen their parades on BBC. They dress up as Vikings in celebration of Up-Helly-Aa, an ancient Norse fire festival.”

She paused when a great crack of thunder shook the windows. “It’s quite a thrilling spectacle.” She continued when the rumbles faded. “They carry blazing torches through the streets and then burn a mock galley.”

“And now they’ve been burgled!” Uncle Mac roared the words. “The Galley Shed—a sort of Up-Helly-Aa museum and warehouse combined—was raided some weeks ago. According to Eggertson, the thieves took scores of Viking costumes.”

“Viking guises, weaponry, and”—Hardwick leaned back against a table and crossed his arms—“Eggertson’s red devil garb.”

“Including the mask.” Cilla was beginning to understand.

Hardwick nodded.

Uncle Mac flashed a wicked grin. “Little good it did them. We’re on to them now!”

Cilla considered. “If Eggertson is a
guizer
, and they dress like Vikings, what’s he doing with a red devil costume?”

“They don’t all parade as Vikings.” Uncle Mac picked up an iron poker and started jabbing at the peats in the hearth. “Some of the men wear fantasy getups.”

“But . . .” Aunt Birdie didn’t sound satisfied. “How did you know to look for Eggertson in Shetland?”

“Tchach . . .” Uncle Mac set aside the poker and dusted his hands. “Besides Eggertson being a Norse name”—he winked at Hardwick—“some might say providence is finally beginning to smile on us!”