Tall, Dark and Kilted (24 page)

“They visit, too.” His gaze on her didn’t waver. “The Ravenscraig laird married an American. They run a place called One Cairn Village on the castle grounds. Every summer, Americans gather there in great numbers to research their—”

“Roots,” Cilla finished for him, the mundane subject helping her gather her wits. “You mean genealogy nuts. There are lots of Americans like that, but the ones of Scottish descent are the most dedicated.”

He shrugged. “Whate’er they are, they come in droves. And when they’re here, they blether on about everything they love about Scotland. The castles and our mist and hills to our pipes and, aye, our peat smoke.”

Pushing away from the hearth, he started pacing. “Many of the visiting Americans mentioned Irish peat, claiming they procured it using the Internet, something I’ve heard of but wouldn’t want to try and explain. The peat selling sounded like a venture that might benefit your uncle. Dunroamin’s peat
is
of particular quality.”

“Uncle Mac certainly thinks so.” Cilla was beginning to understand. “Obviously, he liked the idea.”

“And well he should. I suspect he’ll do fine with such an undertaking.” He paused, a shadow crossing his face. “At the least, it’s worth a try. It would be a shame if he lost Duroamin. I know he holds his home dear.”

“And your home? Seagrave?” Cilla didn’t care for his tone, the way his eyes had clouded. “You never speak—”

He made a dismissive gesture. “Seagrave is no more.”

“But Aunt Birdie said—”

“I heard what she told you.” He went to stand by the windows. “The walls of my home still stand, it is true. And she guessed the location rightly. The ruins are on Scotland’s northeast coast, south of the fine city of Aberdeen. Since my time, and much closer by, a small fishing village thrives not far from Seagrave’s cliffs.”

Cilla started to follow him, then decided better of it and remained where she was. “Have you been back?”

“To Seagrave?” He rested a hand against the arch of one of the windows and looked out into the rain. “I glimpsed the fishing village from a distance once. It looked a fair place. But the shell that remains of Seagrave is no’ the home I knew. I’ve no desire to return.”

Cilla frowned. “When were you last there? Maybe now—”

“Leave be, lass.” He whirled and went back to the hearth, where he stood staring at the fire. “Since my time new wings were added, great monstrous things. Walls that had stood for centuries have been refaced and are no longer recognizable. Leastways, no’ to me.”

He shoved a hand through his hair, remembering the day Bran alerted him to the damage. “When I learned of it, my stomach churned for months. It was a bad time.”

“I can see why you don’t want to return.” Cilla was at his side then, touching the sweep of his plaid with light, tentative fingers.

He tensed, that one gentle touch rocking his world. It’d been too long, perhaps never, that a woman had touched him in kindness.

Lust, aye.

He’d had more than his fill of uninhibited, base urges. All thrashing limbs and panted cries, the crazed, searing heat that can consume a man until his release douses the flames and he’s left more empty and yearning than ever before. He looked at Cilla, knowing she’d never leave him drained except in the sweetest of ways.

“I’m sorry I asked.” She slipped her hand beneath the swath of tartan, her fingers seeking, so welcome and warm against his chest. “Uncle Mac seems to really like you,” she whispered, sounding so pleased. “And you seem happy here, so why don’t you just stay at Dunroamin?”

“Because . . .”

Hardwick shut his eyes and drew a sharp breath. He’d love to stay at Dunroamin. Especially with her at his side, were such a miracle possible, but he couldn’t stay
anywhere
on this earthly plane.

Only at Dunroamin, and so long as his testing time allowed.

A time he’d cut short if he could, knowing what the Dark One could do if he wearied of plaguing Hardwick with mere hell hags and root-dragons. More than once he’d strode into the Dark One’s inner sanctum, seeking a word with him, only to catch glimpses of beautiful naked women bound by their own hair to the temple’s mist-shielded guardian trees.

Living, breathing women like Cilla, seized from this world at the Dark One’s whim and then, when the Dark One tired of them, given to the root-dragons for their own mauling pleasure.

Or equally horrifying, they’d find themselves tossed into the pit with the hell hags until the passing centuries turned them, too, into withered, flat-breasted crones.

It
did
happen.

And he’d dive into that pit himself before he’d allow Cilla to land in its seething, sulfurous brine.

Shaking himself, he flung her hand from his chest and sprang backward, away from her touch. “I canna stay at Dunroamin,” he almost snarled, his voice more harsh than he would have wished. “No’ a day longer than allowed.”

She blinked, staring at him like he’d grown horns.

He could’ve laughed at the irony.

Instead, he swiped an arm over his brow, not surprised to find it damp. His heart was about to burst from his chest, so fiercely was it pounding with dread.

“Why did you do that?” She stepped close, frowning.

The kind of frown—he knew—that wouldn’t go away unless she received the absolute truth for an answer.

He groaned, stepping back again, this time putting a good two stride lengths between them.

She folded her arms. “Well?”

He blew out a breath. “I wanted, no, I
had
to get away from your touch.”

“My touch?” Her eyes widened.

He nodded.

She pinned him with a look, clearly not satisfied with a simple head bob. “Why? I know you want me.”

He almost choked.

He did wince. Wanting her didn’t begin to describe it.

“Did you ne’er wonder why I always wear my kilt?” He knew the words sounded pointless, but he just couldn’t come right out with the truth.

Her eyes narrowed, just as he’d known they would. “I don’t see what that has to do with it.”

“Och, it has everything to do with it.” He ran a hand through his hair, searching for the right words. “See you, there are things a man notices more swiftly if he’s wearing the kilt.” He looked at her, waiting for comprehension to flicker across her face.

Nothing happened.

She only peered at him, her face an innocent blank.

“Ach, lass.” This time he rammed both hands through his hair.

He’d have to be blunt.

He cleared his throat. “A kilt allows for an easy
swing
,” he said, rushing the words. “That freedom means a man notices unwanted stirrings almost before they happen.”

Her eyes rounded. “You’re talking about
those
kinds of stirrings, aren’t you?”

He nodded.

Her face bloomed pink. “You’re saying—”

“I’m telling you there’s a reason I almost kissed you twice and didn’t.” Going back to her, he gripped her arms. “I told you, I broke away from your touch a moment ago because I
had
to, no’ because I wished to.”

He risked a quick kiss to her brow. “You cause stirrings in me that I’ve ne’er felt for any woman. And, aye, I mean
those
stirrings. But there are other feelings, too. Deep ones that I have no right to—”

“O-o-oh!” She jerked free and flung her arms around his neck. “You should have told me,” she cried, peering up at him with bright, shining eyes.

She smiled, hope all over her. “It doesn’t matter that you’re a ghost,” she said, clearly not understanding. “You’re as real and solid as any man. You can touch me and I—”

“Nae.” He shook his head. “We cannot touch.”

Her smile faded. “But—”

“It is no’ that simple.” He reached up and circled her wrists, removing her arms from his neck. “If my ghostly status were the only difficulty, we could. I have seen one or two such relationships prosper. But our situation is different. Our meeting came too late.”

Her chin shot up. “If meeting you as a ghost isn’t too late, how can anything else be?”

“You would be surprised how easily.”

“So surprise me.”

“My life, such as it is, is no longer my own.” He waited a beat, hating what came next. “I bargained it away to the Dark One in exchange for eternal peace.”

“Eternal peace?” She stared at him. “Isn’t that what you found when you . . . er . . . became a ghost?”

“Nae.” He shook his head slowly. “I haven’t known a moment’s peace since the day. Leastways, no’ until I came to Dunroamin.”

She bit her lip. “If you bargained away your life, how can you still be here?”

“Because,” he began, “the Dark One doesn’t grant bids without stipulations.”

“And yours was not to touch a woman?”

“Something very like that, aye.”

Her eyes narrowed. “I see.”

“Nae, you dinna.” He grasped her chin when she started to glance away. “You’re thinking of Mac and his thousands of Americans again.”

She flushed. “They do come to mind.”

“Grant A. Hughes III comes to
my
mind, and I’d love to cross blades with the man and leave him with a few cuts and bruises to teach him ne’er to treat a woman so shabbily again.”

She puffed a hair off her forehead. “You’re changing the subject.”

“Nae, I’m leading into it.”

“Oh?” Her eyes were starting to glitter.

Damning himself for being the cause, he steeled himself against how much he wanted her. Then he reached for her, pulling her into his arms.

“I am no’ that man, Cilla. Nor any other who might have hurt you.” He spoke gently, laying bare his heart. “But I
did
have my share of women in my time. I lived no differently than other men of my position. Being unmarried, I saw no harm in enjoying myself.”

She stiffened but made no move to pull away, so he continued.

“My hall was a merry place and visitors came to Seagrave from far and wide.” He paused, bile beginning to rise at what was coming. “At times, great nobles and their entourages called, often staying for weeks. It was during the stay of such highborn guests that my troubles began.”

“What did they do?”

“They didn’t do aught.” He could see them still. How they’d lined his high table, wine chalices raised in good cheer. “They were fine men.”

“If they were good, what happened?”

“They had bitter foes.” He tightened his arms around her, remembering. “A wandering lute player had been trailing them for days when they arrived at Seagrave. We’d had it on good authority that this man was a paid assassin. When, a few days into their stay, such a man appeared at my gates, I turned him away.”

“What else could you have done?” She pulled back to look at him.

“I could have welcomed him to my hearthside, offering a warm pallet and hearty viands for as long as he wished to stay. Such was the custom.” He released her and moved to the windows, needing air. “I violated the ancient code of hospitality. Unfortunately, I unwittingly did so to a man who was not only a genuine minstrel but a powerful wizard.”

“He cursed you.” She spoke at his elbow.

“He did.” He turned to face her. “It was to get relief from his curse that sent me to the Dark One.”

“And he sent you here?” A glimmer of hope lit her eyes.

“Nae,” he said, dashing that hope. “I chose Dunroamin on my own. It seemed the best place for me to spend my proving period.”

She blinked. “Your what?”

“My testing time.” He drew a long breath. “The Dark One agreed to grant me an end to the minstrel’s curse and the eternal peace I desired only if I could spend a year and a day without becoming aroused by a woman.”

“I see.” And this time she clearly did. “You thought Dunroamin would be free of such distractions.”

“That was the way of it, aye.”

“Then I arrived.”

“Aye, and what an entrance you made.” He smiled, unable to stop himself. “I would not have missed you, lass. No’ for anything.”

She wet her lips. “So what happens if you . . . if we—”

“If I let my feelings for you run full course?”

“That, too, but I meant what if you fight it?” She stood straighter then, her chin lifting. “We have a saying in my world that two heads are better than one.

Maybe two hearts are more powerful than one wizard?”

Hardwick looked at her, his own heart swelling.

She hadn’t yet asked what his curse
was
. But her willingness to stand by him did something to him that he’d never thought would happen.

He was falling in love.

And the longer he looked at her, seeing so much hope and confidence lighting her eyes, the easier it became for him to hope, too.

Two hearts where before there’d only been one.

He did like the notion.

Better yet, it just might make a difference.

Chapter 12

Cilla knew the minute she’d won.

A great
whoosh
of relief swept over her. She drew a deep breath, trying to stay calm. She could so easily toss back her hair and pump a fist in the air. Maybe whoop with triumph or try her luck at one of Uncle Mac’s whirling, fast-footed jigs.

Hardwick was hers.

He stood watching her, his dark eyes smoldering with a heat that confirmed it. If she didn’t want to push her luck, she’d march over to him, grab his plaid, and pull his head down to hers, kissing his kilt right off him.

She’d do a lot more, too.

Maybe seize his face with both hands, holding tight and gentling her lips back and forth over his until he couldn’t take it anymore and yanked her hard against him, demanding deeper and hotter kisses. She’d tease him with her tongue, making him crazy as he swept his hands up and down her body, revealing that he needed intimate contact with each and every inch of her.

She shivered, wondering what he’d do if she maneuvered him onto a chair and then yanked up his kilt so she could swing one leg over him and then settle uninhibitedly onto his naked lap, riding his rock-hard thighs and, hopefully soon, something even more granitelike.

At the least, she was sure that the next time he made an attempt to kiss her, he’d follow through. And with much more than just deep, soul-searing kisses, full of tongue, breath, and silky-hot sighs.