Tall, Dark and Kilted (22 page)

Hardwick felt himself smiling, too.

He’d stopped believing in the benefices of providence many long years ago. But it made him feel good to see Mac MacGhee bursting with pride and confidence. And if he could play any small role in catching whoever was sneaking about the moors at night guised as Vikings, and doing the saints knew what kind of foolery, that was no small thing.

Mac was looking at him, his face alight. “Tell them.”

Hardwick cleared his throat. “A friend recently returned from Lerwick. He mentioned the raid on the Galley Shed.” He spoke the truth as he’d told it to Mac earlier, only leaving out that his friend happened to be a ghost. “In light of your troubles, I suspected a connection.”

Birdie MacGhee raised her brows. “Are you suggesting someone brought the Viking costumes here? That our nightly peat-field prowlers are using them?”

“Of course that’s what he’s saying!” Mac tossed down his malt, then dragged the back of his hand across his beard. “That’ll be the way of it. I knew there weren’t any real Viking ghosts spooking across my moors!”

“I don’t know. . . .” His wife kneaded the cushion on her lap. “There
is
something going on. Don’t you agree, Cilla?”

She looked across the room at Cilla.

“Eh, lass?” Her uncle eyed her, too.

Cilla hesitated, the devil face from her window flashing across her mind. She started to bite her tongue, then blurted, “I’m not sure Gregor’s devil mask was the only devil spooking around here. I . . . I saw such a face, too. Outside my bedroom window, and”—she took a breath, hating to say it—“I’m positive it was real.”

“Pah!” Mac scowled at her. “What’s going on here has nothing to do with ghosties and devils. No’ real ones, anyway. That I know!”

“I know what I saw.” Cilla folded her arms, too deep into it to say otherwise. “It wasn’t Gregor’s mask.”

Her uncle swung to Hardwick. “There’s no such thing as bogles, right? Red devil faces hovering outside a lassie’s window?”

On the sofa, Aunt Birdie glanced quickly aside.

Cilla looked at Hardwick, waiting.

He hesitated only a moment. “I can’t say as I’ve encountered any ghosts hereabouts.”

That, at least, was true.

Excepting himself and Bran.

“And you won’t be. I guarantee it!” Mac stood tall in a most lairdly manner. “But—as we now know—you might run across a pack o’ scoundrels
dressing up
as Viking ghosts!”

“Be that as it may”—Hardwick felt a need to defend Cilla, more disturbed than he cared to admit about her mention of a
real
red devil face—“there are things in these hills no living and breathing man should e’er encounter.”

“Ho!” Mac slapped him on the back. “You’ve been breathing in too much peat smoke, laddie! As for my niece, her imagination is as inflated as her aunt’s! There’s nothing spooking about here but those costumed loonies out on my moors.”

“But why would anyone bother?” Cilla voiced the question that had been plaguing Hardwick for days. “It doesn’t make sense.”

“Maybe they want to steal my peat!” Mac aimed a fierce glare at the windows. “There’s nothing else out there but heather, bracken, and stones!”

“What about our sheep?” His wife spoke quietly from the sofa. “Even if Dunroamin peat is superior, our business ventures with the Simmer Dim and Northern Mist distilleries are only now crystallizing. To date, our sheep turn a greater profit.”

“And what do you think Robbie and Roddie do every morn when they feed the woolly buggers for us?” Mac started pacing, his kilt swinging. “They count ’em, that’s what! Our Viking ghosties haven’t yet lifted a single one.”

“They could yet.” Birdie persisted.

“It’s the peat, I tell you!” He threw her an outraged look. “But they won’t be getting it now.”

He slung an arm around Hardwick’s shoulders. “Not only will the moors now be guarded at night, Hardwick here has friends who might pop by to patrol with him.” He drew a great breath, then roared the last words. “Brawny lads with beards and kilts!”

Birdie MacGhee and her niece shared a knowing glance.

A telling one.

Heat shot up the back of Hardwick’s neck. Apparently, Birdie knew of his
condition
after all. But before he could worry about that unsettling bit of knowledge, Mac gave him a bone-crunching squeeze.

“Beards and kilts, did you hear?” He waggled his brows at the ladies. “There’s not a fake Viking ghost alive brave enough to withstand a Highland charge! Before they can shout ‘Up-Helly-Aa,’ we’ll have ’em by their danglers. And that’s not all the good news!”

Taking his arm from Hardwick’s shoulder, he stamped across the room to a darkened corner. Bending, he snatched up a rusty milk pail. He returned clutching it before him.

Hardwick bit back a groan.

He knew what was coming.

Cilla looked on with interest, which only made it worse.

Proving Hardwick’s dread, Mac waved the pail before his wife’s nose. Water sloshed over the sides and onto the room’s threadbare tartan carpet. Some also splashed onto Birdie’s knees, but to her credit she said nothing, only peered up at him curiously.

Mac plunked down the brimming milk pail and jammed his hands on his hips. “Thanks to our new friend here”—he flashed a glance at Hardwick—“and the fine quality of our own Dunroamin peat, our days of roof leaks and drip buckets may soon come to an end!”

“What?” Cilla and her aunt spoke together. “A new roof?”

“Sure as today and tomorrow are long!” Mac’s beard jigged with pleasure. “Hardwick offered a suggestion that should bring us at least enough funds for a roof. If all goes well, we might even be able to tackle the unused wing.”

“Ooooh.” Again the ladies cried out in unison.

Birdie MacGhee’s eyes began to glisten.

And he was sure Cilla’s lower lip was starting to quiver!

Mac hooted a great, belly-shaking laugh.

Hardwick struggled against the urge to throttle him. And to keep from cutting off his own flapping tongue to keep it from getting him into such a pickle again.

Not that he begrudged Mac the money.

If indeed it came.

Truth was, if he had access to his own former riches, he’d gladly give Mac every last coin.

It was the
way
he was revealing the plan.

Oblivious to the harm he was about to cause, Mac rocked back on his heels, savoring the moment.

“Did he suggest other distilleries?” Cilla sounded hopeful. “Does he have contacts for you?”

“Aye, he does. Thousands of them!” Mac looked near to bursting. “Thousands of American women to buy Dunroamin peat!”

Cilla’s eyes widened. “Thousands of American women?”

Uncle Mac bobbed his head enthusiastically. “He says they swoon for anything Scottish, including our peat.”

“I’m sure.” Cilla folded her arms. “I like peat, too. And don’t you, Aunt—”

“Let’s hear what Mac has to say, dear.” Birdie spoke over her.

Then she reached for her niece’s hand and squeezed. “Go on, Mac.” She nodded to him, one voice of reason in the cold, shadowy room.

“He’s met all these women, see you?” Mac blundered on. “He says they bemoan not being able to smell peat smoke when they go home. So-o-o, he had the idea that we might export Dunroamin peat to America!”

“To his thousands of American women friends.” Cilla spoke low.

“To any American who’ll buy it!” Mac grinned. “But it was the women that gave him the idea. They’re the most passionate. They loved—”

“I’m sure they did.” Cilla glanced at the door and started edging that way.

Hardwick scowled.

Respect and honor kept him from correcting Mac’s interpretation of his peat-for-Americans suggestion. Nor did he wish to dampen the man’s well-deserved pleasure in revealing the idea to his wife.

Dunroamin needed hope.

And he needed to get Cilla alone.

So he did a bit of lightning-quick sifting, putting himself between her and the door before Mac and Birdie noticed he’d moved.

Cilla did.

She froze where she was, her back ramrod straight.

Hardwick swore beneath his breath. She looked like she’d swallowed a broomstick. And he never would have believed she could compress such full, sensuous lips into such a hard, tight line.

But she had, and seeing it killed him.

Again.

Lass. It isn’t what you think
. He willed her to hear him.

She arched one brow, indicating she had.

Hardwick started to relax. But then her back went even more rigid, and although she couldn’t
sift
, she’d somehow managed to shoot past him and reach the door.

Ignoring him now, she grabbed the latch and pulled.

Hardwick swore.

He threw a quick glance across the room. Mac stood with his back to him and was still blethering on about Americans and their great love of peat fires.

But Birdie was watching him.

To his surprise, she winked. Then she made a little flipping gesture with her fingers.

She mouthed the word
Go.

Hardwick understood at once.

He whipped back around, but he was too late. The armory door stood ajar. Cilla was gone, the echo of her retreating footsteps all that remained.

For one ridiculous moment, he considered following her as a man would do. Purposely following her through Dunroamin’s winding passages and then up the various stairs she needed to traverse to get to her room.

He could keep a discreet distance. Then, upon reaching her bedchamber, he could knock politely at her door. He could state his purpose and request admission. If he were a man, he could do all those things.

But he was a ghost, after all.

And being a ghost did have a few advantages.

So he glanced back at Birdie one last time, giving her an appreciative nod.

Then he sifted himself out of the armory and directly to the one place he knew Cilla would be so startled to see him, he’d have at least a few minutes to speak to her before she ordered him to go.

In a blink, he was there.

The only problem was, now that he’d materialized in her bed, he knew he’d want to be there again.

And under very different circumstances.

Heaven help him.

Chapter 11

Thousands of American women.

Cilla couldn’t blot the words from her mind. They whirled in her head, growing louder until she could hardly think. No matter how fast she hurried through Dunroamin’s dim and dripping corridors, she couldn’t outrun them.

They kept pace.

Jeering each time she almost knocked over a drip container or stubbed her toe on the incredibly hard stone of the ancient castle’s tight-winding stairs.

Making it worse, the women weren’t the only ones. Two Scots chased her, too.

More appropriately said, two Scotsmen.

American-born Grant A. Hughes III, so proud of his supposed Scottish ancestry even if he likely couldn’t trace it farther back than the New York tartan shop where he’d acquired his custom kilt.

And historian-cum-author-cum-tour guide Wee Hughie MacSporran, also known as the Highland Storyweaver. If his enthusiastic pack of Australian groupies was any indication, he was an even greater skirt-chaser than Grant.

Cilla shuddered.

She’d had enough of such men.

Who would have thought she’d have to add a
ghost
to their tartaned, womanizing ranks?

Furious that it was so, she paused to press her side. It burned and ached with a stitch she really didn’t need. Keeping a hand to her ribs, she mounted a few more steps. Then she stopped again, this time on a little landing with two doors opening off it.

Leaning against the wall, she frowned.

She shouldn’t care that she had to lump Hardwick in the same pot as Grant and his scribbling, tour-guiding Scottish counterpart.

She
did
care that she’d made a fool of herself.

Ghost or not, Hardwick surely knew why she’d dashed out of Uncle Mac’s armory. Women didn’t run from men they didn’t care about.

Everyone knew that.

It was a universal truth. One that made her face burn and her hands curl into fists.

She blew out a breath, trying to pretend she didn’t feel like a white-hot vise had clamped around her chest, stealing her air. After Grant, she’d sworn to stand above such things. To never again fall so hard for a man who wielded such power over her heart.

Trouble was, she hadn’t realized she’d done just that until her uncle had oh-so-unwittingly revealed Hardwick’s womanizing ways.

Oh, she’d known she was interested. How could she not know when she need only catch a hint of his deliciously exotic scent to have tingles sizzling all through her? And if he turned that slow, seductive smile on her, she really lost it. As for his deep, husky burr and the dark, heated looks he gave her . . .

She didn’t finish the thought.

The clench she felt between her legs each time he said
anything
didn’t bear admitting.

It was just too plain humiliating.

She really did care about him. Big time. And hearing about his legions of women—Americans, no less—had been a blow behind the knees.

A
revealing
blow.

And there was only one thing to do about it.

She should turn around, march right back downstairs, waltz into the armory, and plunk herself onto the sofa as if nothing had happened.

Then she’d lift her chin or examine her fingernails and casually announce that she ate too many mini pretzels at the Ben Loyal’s Bistro Bar. Everyone would believe her if she claimed the salt had made her stomach queasy. No one would lift a brow if they thought a roiling tummy had sent her flying from the room.

“Yeah, Swanner, you need to go back down there. Save your face if you can’t salvage your heart.” She spoke to the door across the landing. Age-darkened and indifferent-seeming, she had the strangest feeling that the closed door was staring at her.

She blinked, her blood chilling.

The door might not be looking at her. But it
was
opening.

Creaking open in the way of all squeaky-hinged doors in centuries-old castles: slowly and with just enough weirdness to turn her legs to lead, freezing her to the spot.