Tall, Dark and Kilted (23 page)

She swallowed.

Her planned diva-on-the-sofa scene dispersed like a burst soap bubble.

Chills swept her, and the fine hairs on her nape lifted. Until the door completed its slow, ear-grating arc to reveal a small, oak-paneled chamber.

Dark and low-ceilinged, the room appeared empty except for a dressing table and washstand. A dust cover protected something that might have been a chair. If a bed had ever graced the room, it was gone now. But the room
did
have two windows opposite the door.

Twin and narrow oblongs that looked out onto the Kyle, over which the moon now hung, its bright crescent just sailing out from behind a cloud. She could make out the black outline of Castle Varrich, too. High on its cliff, the ruin’s crumbling window arch was bathed in silver and shadow.

She took a step closer, her gaze going through the open doorway to the windows, where she half expected to see the devil face sweep into view. A thin rain fell, the droplets glistening on the ancient, rippled glass. Somewhere thunder rumbled, but what really caught her attention was that some of the lower panes were missing, allowing cold, damp wind to pour into the room.

Wind that—she was sure—had caused the door to swing open.

She gave herself a shake, releasing the breath she’d been holding. That was twice tonight that she’d made a fool of herself. Lucky for her, no one had witnessed this second beyond-silly little episode.

No one, that is, except the strange woman in the dark little room.

Cilla started, her legs going all rubbery again.

Tall, blond, and stately, the woman could have been Aunt Birdie, except she was still in the armory. Even in younger years, Aunt Birdie had never worn her hair in a single, hip-length braid. She favored French twists or a fashionably knotted silken head scarf.

And although Aunt Birdie possessed a certain grace and style, she walked like everyone else. She didn’t
glide
across rooms as if her feet didn’t touch the floor.

Nor was it her habit to run around in ankle-length woolen gowns of deep red-purple, the seams edged in finest embroidery, the sleeves long and tight. A shawl of brilliant blue draped the woman’s shoulders, and a wide, colorfully patterned belt cinched her waist, but if she wore any other adornments, Cilla couldn’t see them.

The woman now stood at the windows, her back to the door.

Cilla blinked. Then she knuckled her eyes.

It didn’t help.

The ghost—for she could only be one—was still there. In the wink it’d taken Cilla to rub her eyes, the apparition had splayed a beringed hand against the rain-streaked window glass.

Sea-Strider.

The word—a name?—seemed to drift around the woman. As real as if she’d whispered it in Cilla’s ear, the word held all the anguish of a woman who’d loved and lost.

Forgetting the fright the woman’s sudden appearance had given her, her heart squeezed at the pain drenching the tiny, dark-paneled room.

Very slowly, the woman turned her head and stared at her, her eyes beseeching. For a long moment she held Cilla’s gaze, her lips moving silently before she looked back out the rain-splattered window. Her gaze, Cilla just knew, was fixed on the ruin of Castle Varrich.

She
had
to be Aunt Birdie’s Gudrid. Though what she was doing at Dunroamin, Cilla couldn’t begin to imagine.

She shivered. Remembering her aunt’s musings about the ghost, she imagined a big, burly man standing near the woman. She could see him clearly. Unnoticed in a corner, he stared at the woman with great, sad eyes. Bearded and fair as she, he wore a plain, pointed helm with a nose guard and a long mailed tunic. In one hand, he held a huge nine-foot spear, and in the other, he clutched a large round shield, colorfully painted a rich dark blue and decorated with an interlaced pattern of white, red, and green lines. Seeming to glow despite the shadows, the shield looked nearly double the size of Hardwick’s.

On thinking of
him
, both images faded.

But not without leaving her with the distinct impression they’d had something important to tell her. Regrettably, she hadn’t been able to hear the woman’s voice and the man hadn’t even glanced her way, having eyes only for the woman.

Cilla pressed a hand to her breast, wishing she’d understood their message. As it was, she could only guess their names, Gudrid and Sea-Strider, before the little room’s door inched shut again, blocking its secrets from view.

“Holy guacamole.” Cilla rubbed her arms, chills all over her. She felt a strong urge to go back to the armory and real people, including Hardwick.

To her he was real.

She needed to settle things with him, one way or the other.

But the poor lighting in the stair tower struck her as even more dim than before. Deep shadows danced everywhere, and the night wind sounded ominous. Almost a wail, it whistled past the medieval arrow slits cut so deep into the walls. No way was she going down those stairs, into the darkness.

Her room was much closer.

She shivered again, her decision made.

For now, Hardwick would just have to think what he wanted of her flight from the armory.

Tomorrow would be soon enough to deal with him.

First she needed a sound night’s sleep. Maybe she’d even take a hot bath. She’d found that using the bathtub made it much easier to regulate the water temperature than risking a go at the dodgy shower.

Then bed and a good book to get her mind off the ghost woman and her Sea-Strider, and she’d be fine.

Feeling better—but still a bit shaken—she resisted sliding another glance at the dark little room’s door, now closed tight and silent.

Instead she dashed up the remaining steps, then down the long corridor to her room. This passage didn’t seem to have any drip buckets to run an obstacle course around. Or she’d just not seen them. A distinct possibility, as the old-fashioned wall sconces her uncle loved so much appeared to throw off less light than usual.

The passage was positively gloomy.

Except for the thin band of light showing beneath her closed door.

For a beat, chills whipped through her again. But they vanished quickly. The light had to be thanks to Honoria doing turn-down service. With the night’s rainstorm, her room would’ve been really dark otherwise.

And she’d already pulled in her stubbed-toe quota for the entire summer.

Light was good.

So she vowed to remember to thank the housekeeper for her thoughtfulness, and opened the door.

Closing it, she took three steps into the room and froze.

Her jaw slipped.

There’d been a reason chills swept her upon seeing light beneath her door. Her first reaction had been spot-on, and the bar of light had nothing to do with Honoria.

It was
his
doing.

Hardwick’s.

“What are you doing here?” She stared at him, heart in her throat.

“I’m waiting for you, as you can see.” He spoke from her bed.

Bold as brass, he lounged against the pillows mounded against the headboard. He was staring right at her, his gaze hot and angry. Equally distressing, he’d drawn up one leg and although he’d clasped his hands around his knee, clearly arranging his kilt to try and hide certain
things
, she could still see them!

An errant kilt fold with a mind of its own had slipped, revealing him in all his impressive glory.

She blinked, her eyes going wide. Even
relaxed
, he was formidable. Heat whipped through her and she could only stare, certain she’d never seen such a magnificent man. He made at least three of Grant, possibly even four.

When he
twitched
and started to swell, growing even longer, the hot tingles whirring between her legs increased to such a fever pitch she almost climaxed.

“Oh, my . . .” She sucked in a breath, but the air wouldn’t go down her throat. It lodged there, almost choking her even as a ragged little moan pushed past to break from her lips.

She
was
going to shatter. Reaching for a chair back, she held fast, her knees turning to water and her panties starting to dampen.

“O-o-oh!” She still couldn’t breathe right. He twitched again, the long, thick length of him no longer hanging at ease between his powerful thighs but throbbing visibly and lengthening beneath her gaze.

“Hellfire and damnation!” Leaping off the bed, he brushed furiously at his kilt, swatting its folds into place. “I didn’t come here for
that
.”

Heat flared in Cilla’s cheeks. “I didn’t say—”

“Ah, but your eyes did.” He folded his arms, looking at her. “Such is the hazard of wearing a kilt.”

Cilla lifted her chin. “I know that.” She hoped her voice didn’t sound as shaky to him as it did to her. “What I don’t know is why you’re here.”

He arched a brow. “I think you already know. We need to talk.”

She swallowed, her pulse still racing. “Oh?”

“Aye, . . .
oh.
” He scowled at her, his dark eyes glinting in the dimly lit room. “You shouldn’t have run out of the armory. I told you it wasn’t what you thought.”

“What wasn’t what I thought?” Cilla brushed at her sleeve.

He saw right through her. “The thousands of American women. Your uncle misspoke what I’d told him.”

“I left the armory because I wasn’t feeling well.” She went for a white lie, her pulse finally slowing. “I ate too many mini pretzels at the Ben Loy—”

“Nae, that’s no’ the reason.” He shook his head, his gaze locked onto hers. “Just as I made it up here faster than you, so do I know you’re speaking untruths. And, nae, I canna read your mind.”

He flashed a devilish smile. “Centuries of experience allowed me to spot a lie the moment one is born. Most ghosts have the same ability unless they were dull-witted in life. Then they remain dim in their afterlife.”

“In the same way a skirt-chaser remains woman-hungry?” Cilla shot him a smile of her own. “I mean, in their afterlife, of course.”

“Bloody hell!” He shoved a hand through his hair. “If I am hungry for any woman, it’s you! As I believe you just observed.” His burr deepened on the words, his eyes taking on a dangerous light. “But since that canna be, I wanted to ensure that you dinna think poorly of me.”

“Why would I do that?” Cilla’s her heart started to hammer again. “You’ve kept me from banging myself up more than once now and”—she glanced aside, not wanting him to see the effect he had on her—“you stood up for me against Uncle Mac when he laughed about the devil face I saw.”

She looked back at him, pitched her voice challenging. “I really did see something weird. The face
did
look real. And . . . and I don’t know why I’m telling you this, but I just saw two other ghosts. They were a Viking couple in a dark little room off one of the stair landings!”

Holding his gaze, she jutted her chin, expecting him to laugh at her.

But he surprised her by closing the distance between them in several long strides and wrapping his arms around her, pulling her close against him.

“Sweet lass.” He drew her head to his chest, “I ken better than you that such things abound. I’m no’ surprised real Viking ghosts would make an appearance here, no’ with all that’s going on out on Mac’s peat fields. They’ll likely be upset by the furor, perhaps distressed to look on as unsavory souls impersonate them.

“As for the devil face you saw . . .” He tightened his arms around her, splaying his big hands over her hips, his grip firm and, she couldn’t deny, soothing.

“Such creatures as the face in your window are another reason I’m here, lass.” He pulled back to look down at her, his expression letting her know he was serious. “The fiend was surely looking for me, no’ you. There’s no reason for you to fear, and I doubt you’ll see the like again. Indeed, I’ll make certain of it.”

“But—”

“No buts.” He pulled her close again, nuzzled his cheek against her hair. “I ken why they’re here and can take measures to keep them at bay.”

“The devil?”
Cilla’s chest went hot and tight, as if a giant hand had swooped down out of nowhere to squeeze the breath from her. “I didn’t want to believe it. I can handle ghosts. They—”

She broke off, mortification sweeping her.

But Hardwick only laughed, the sound as rich and warming as his honeyed burr. “Dinna feel bad, sweeting, I’m no’ offended. And I’ll no’ be having you worry o’er things you shouldn’t even know about.”

Releasing her as quickly as he’d seized her, he went to the hearth and stood there, resting one arm casually on the mantel. “As for the rest”—his voice deepened again—“my other reason for being here, I’ll have you know that I am no’ a skirt-chaser.”

“I didn’t say . . .” Cilla felt her face flame again. “Oh, all right,” she corrected, swiping a hand through her hair. “I did think so. But how could I not?”

“Indeed.” He smiled.

And it was another one of his curl-all-through-a-girl smiles that made her forget about red devil faces, Viking ghosts, and just about everything else except the warmth pulsing inside her.

The kind of warmth that didn’t have anything to do with her reaction to that one wildly erotic glimpse beneath his kilt and everything to do with the slow, steady thumping of her heart and the way the look in his eyes made her mouth go dry.

She swallowed, knowing in that instant that she was falling in love with him.

“If you’d hear the truth of it,” he said, something in his expression telling her he knew, “I did tell your uncle that I knew thousands of American women who would show interest in his peat. And, aye, I’ve met those women. Though I’m quite sure they never noticed me. I just happened to be where they were. So, of course, I heard them speaking.”

“I see.” Cilla blinked at him, hoping he couldn’t hear the racing of her pulse. “Where did you meet them, then?”

“I have friends, see you? Ghostdom can get lonely, and so we visit each other. Some of my . . . er . . . oldest companions enjoy frequenting Ravenscraig Castle near Oban. Its laird is friendly toward us and so we often meet there.”

“And the Americans?”