Tall, Dark and Kilted (26 page)

For the now,
he added in silence.

A good while later, in the smallest hours of the night, Hardwick stood just inside the bolted door to Dunroamin’s unused wing and tried his best not to sneeze. Damp and musty, the chill, seldom-seen rooms reeked of dust, old leather, and moldy books. With surety, there were a few other things he couldn’t identify.

Molting stags’ heads, ancient stuffed birds, and faint traces of candle wax were reasonable guesses.

Blessedly, he couldn’t detect the slightest tinge of dragon breath. Nor did he catch any subtle wafts of sulfur or the unpleasantly sharp-sweet odor of hell hag. Not that he was presently in the state of mind likely to attract his heinous watchers.

Even so, he frowned.

His brow furrowed even more when a small four-footed something scuttled out of a shadowed corner and darted across the uneven wood-planked floor. Tiny legs pumping, the wee creature disappeared into the unsavory-smelling blackness beneath a torn and tattered armchair.

As if, like him, the mouse wanted nothing to do with dark and dust-coated places, he reappeared in a wink. He took a few cautious steps forward and then sat up on his haunches, fixing Hardwick with a curious stare.

The wee beastie didn’t appear frightened of him, as some creatures were wont to do. Far from it, the mouse angled his head jauntily.

His cheeky perusal made Hardwick’s heart clutch.

Any other time, he would have smiled.

As things were, he flicked his fingers to conjure a fine morsel of cheese. This he threw to the teeny, bright-eyed mouse. Snatching it, the beastie scampered behind a cracked gilt mirror propped against a wall.

Feeling an odd tightness in his chest, Hardwick placed his hands on his hips and looked around. He took care not to breathe too deeply. While not quite malodorous, the air held enough piquancy to twitch a sensitive nose.

And—as he’d only now just learned—it would seem his nose was quite discerning.

His heart, too, saints preserve him.

He swallowed a sigh.

Now wasn’t the hour to dwell on such revelations. He was here for a reason, and an important one. So he moved deeper into the dingy passageway, taking care to peer into each open door and shadowed niche. Dark, dreary, and filled with indistinguishable clutter, these less-frequented rooms and deliberately hidden corners beckoned with treasures.

In particular, the room he knew to be filled with bolts of ancient tartan. He’d seen the room once and meant to find it again now.

His pulse leapt at the prospect.

He quickened his step, his mien purposeful.

He needed the tartan.

To that end, he nipped into the dimness of a promising room only to walk straight into the pointed corner of a dark oak table.

“Owww!” He rubbed his hip, scowling.

He made matters worse by backing away from the table and nearly tripping over a great, untidy pile of moth-eaten velvet window draping.

When a great swath of hanging cobwebs brushed across his face, clinging, he almost sifted himself out of the cramped and cluttered rooms.

There was only so much that a man—corporeal or otherwise—should be made to endure.

But the lure of the plaid bolts was greater.

A piece of
true
tartan, deftly applied, would protect him far better than any strip of plaid crafted in his usual finger-snapping way.

Sure of it, he threw open the door to yet another of the dark little rooms. He spotted the tartan at once. The colorful cloth was everywhere. Great teetering piles in such profusion, his heart near jumped from his chest. In one corner, the stacked bolts even reached the ceiling.

The room was empty otherwise, though a spill of ivy grew in through a crack in one of the grime-coated windows. The spreading green had claimed much of the far wall and some of the bolts stored there.

Even so, there was more than enough cloth to suit his purpose.

Relief—and hope—pumping through him, he stood on the threshold and surveyed his choices. Ancient and covered with a thick layer of dust, the tartan patterns were difficult to distinguish.

Not that the sett mattered.

What did was the tartan’s strength.

He needed one whose weave hadn’t been weakened by damp and centuries. Or worse, its proud threads assailed by moths and beetles. A single strip was all he required. But whatever he chose, the cloth had to hold securely, not giving at all once he’d fastened it into place.

His life—or
un
life—depended on it.

And though he had little cause in his ghostdom to raise his sword in battle, his warring instincts were still finely honed. He hadn’t gone through life on the winning end of a blade without having first used his head, always making the land and circumstances work in his favor.

So he eyed the bolt stacks carefully, considering.

It took him all of two beats to know what must be done.

Rubbing his hands together, he strode directly to the largest pile of tartan and thrust his arms deep into the center of the dusty bolts. He closed his fingers around the one that felt right, pulling the bolt swiftly from the pile.

He’d chosen well.

Not a mote of dust marred the ancient MacDonald tartan. A fine hunting weave of muted greens and blues, shot through with white, red, and black stripes, he recognized the sett as belonging to the MacDonalds of the Isles, longtime friends and allies.

He smiled, ran appreciative hands over the smooth, well-aged wool.

The MacDonald connection was surely a good portent.

Better yet, the bolt smelled fresh and clean.

Its position in the middle of the pile had allowed the tartan to defy the ravages of time, leaving its precious wool almost as pristine as the day some long-forgotten soul had added the bolt to the stack.

Hardwick set the bolt aside and flexed his fingers, readying himself for what he must do. He felt a twinge of regret. It pained him that now, after centuries of lying untouched, he should be the one to mar such a noble tartan.

Fortunately, he was certain the MacDonalds wouldn’t mind.

As with his good friend Bran of Barra, more than one of the braw MacDonalds stood in his debt.

So he closed his eyes and drew a deep, preparatory breath. Then he reached for the bolt and began unrolling it with care, measuring just enough to suit his needs. Another deep breath and a few more finger flexes, and he was ready.

Gripping the tartan, he drew it taut and ripped off a suitable length.

Before guilt could besiege him, he dug his fingers into the cloth, holding it fast as he willed away the rest of his garb. Once naked, he wrapped the tartan around his hips. He wound the cloth band ever tighter, slipping it between his legs and using the plaid to secure his best parts until he was certain even the slightest twitch would prove impossible.

Satisfied at last, he knotted the tartan, well pleased with his handiwork.

He shoved a hand through his hair, excitement beginning to quicken his blood. Deliberately, he envisioned the sweet golden triangle topping Cilla’s thighs. He imagined his hand cupping her heat and finding her slick, moist, and warm.

Soft, slippery, and eager for his caress, she’d surely also welcome his tongue. If not, he knew ways to persuade her to allow him the pleasure.

At the thought, heat flashed through him, his loins tightening as fierce need fired his blood.

But he didn’t twitch.

The plaid wrapping worked well.

Tight, stifling, and a lust damper if e’er there was one, the binding enabled him to swiftly switch his thoughts from plundering his lady’s heat with his tongue to things as uninspiring as polishing the mail of his hauberk or watching several of the kitchen laddies at Seagrave empty and then scrub the sides of the stronghold’s cesspit.

Hardwick’s smile returned. His delight was boundless.

Uncomfortable as it was, the binding would allow him many freedoms.

Truth be told, he’d ne’er had a better idea.

He looked down, feeling his grin to his toes.

For good measure, he retied the binding’s knot, making the fit just a bit tighter.

“By Thor’s hammer!” A familiar voice boomed behind him. “What in a god’s name are you doing?”

“Bran!” Hardwick’s good humor vanished at once.

Mortification swept him.

He spun around to face his friend, summoning his kilt even as he wheeled about. “What are you doing here?” He slapped at the familiar woolen pleats, brushing the folds in place and righting his sporran. “You—”

“I’m no’ after the kind of foolery you’re up to, that’s for sure!” The Hebridean stared at him, gogeyed. “I know fine that some modern women run about wearing wee bits o’ cloth that barely cover their bottoms, but I haven’t yet seen a man donning such a style!”

Hardwick glared at him. “It isn’t a
style
, you great buffoon. It’s something I’m hoping to use to get around the Dark One’s stipulation that I daren’t—”

“Run hard.” Blunt as always, Bran rocked back on his heels.

Then he laughed, wiping the mirth from his cheeks. “Och, then—more like you’ll wither!”

“As e’er, you’re a man of few words, my friend.” Hardwick folded his arms. “Be glad you haven’t such a need.”

“I ne’er turned a bard-wizard from my door.” Bran drew his brows together, eyeing Hardwick’s kilt as if he could still see the tartan binding hidden beneath it. “Be that as it may, I’ll own that—were I in your position—I might consider such measures. Even if I’ll vow for all time that a Highlander’s man piece wasn’t made to be constricted!”

“Humph.” Hardwick refused further comment.

He knew too well how much a Highlander appreciated a free and unrestricted
swing
.

But the twinkle in the Hebridean chieftain’s eye was warning enough that he’d take the subject to embarrassing heights if allowed to do so.

Hoping to avoid such a debacle, Hardwick steered him in another direction.

“I’d hear why you’re here? I thought you’d gone back to Barra to gather your lads?”

“And so I did!” The lout flashed a grin.

“But?” Hardwick waited.

Bran looked down, shuffling his big feet on the dusty floorboards. “Ach, it was so. My friends were in the midst of some serious merrymaking when I arrived.” He glanced up again, his foot shuffling at an end. “It will take a while for their heads to clear sufficiently for them to sift up here and join us. So—”

“You sifted yourself here ahead of them?” Hardwick couldn’t keep the skepticism out of his voice. “Since when do you—the greatest fest giver in the Hebrides—walk away from a night of bawdy revelry?”

A stain of pink bloomed on Bran’s cheeks.

“Perhaps I’m growing old?” Looking anything but, the burly Islesman whacked Hardwick on the shoulder. “Seven hundred years wears on a soul.”

Hardwick humphed again, not buying his friend’s excuse. He arched a brow to show it.

Bran jutted his chin. “Mayhap I was worried about you?”

“Worried about me?”

“Aye, so I was.” Bran’s tone took on an edge of belligerence. “The saints forgive you for no’ believing me. We
are
friends, you know.”

This time it was Hardwick who looked down at his feet.

Or he would have if he hadn’t caught himself fast enough. What he couldn’t prevent was the way his chest tightened on his friend’s admission.

As he’d already noted, since meeting Cilla, he’d grown way too soft-hearted.

So he summoned his most indifferent mien and pretended to adjust his plaid’s gem-studded shoulder brooch. “I’ve no need of someone to look o’er me.”

“Say you!” Bran grinned. “But no matter,” he added as quickly. “Truth is, I also returned because the feasting in my hall bored me. I thought I’d do a bit of scouting on Mac’s moorland. Maybe see if I saw any signs of his Viking
ghosties
before my lads arrive.”

Hardwick cocked a brow. “Did you see them?”

Bran stroked his beard. “If I had, you can be sure I’d still be busy with them.” He made a few grand flourishes with his hand, as if wielding an imaginary sword. “ ’Tis overlong since I’ve bloodied my fists, no’ to mention swing my blade in earnest!”

“So after you didn’t meet up with Mac’s Norsemen, you came here to tell me?”

“ ’Sakes, no!” Bran swelled his chest. “I would have returned directly to Barra if that was all of it. You wouldn’t have seen me again until I came back with my men.”

“Then why are you here?”

“Because I found something.”

“Indeed?”

“Aye, and have you a good look at it!” Bran held out a hand, wriggling his fingers to produce a shovel-like tool, its pointy head shiny and flat-bladed. “There’s more where this came from. A whole cache of the things, tucked in a wicker basket hidden in a fold of peat.”

Hardwick frowned, reaching for it. “A whole cache?”

Bran bobbed his head. “I counted a good dozen, maybe more.”

“In Mac’s peat fields?”

“Aye, so I said, just.” Bran nodded again, his expression earnest. “The basket was deliberately hidden. I’d bet my beard on it.”

Hardwick turned the tool over in his hands. Tiny words were inscribed on the steel of its triangular-shaped blade: MARSHALLTOWN COMPANY.

A word that made little sense, but for the cold prickles it brought to the back of his neck.

He curled his fingers around the tool’s wooden handle and looked at Bran. “Have you e’er heard of such a workman’s mark as this?”

Bran shook his head. “No’ that I can recall, though the thing does look familiar.”

Hardwick nodded sagely.

He, too, had seen such a tool before. It was just a matter of time until he remembered.

And when he did, he was sure, the
Marshalltown Company
and their tools would lead them a step closer to solving Mac’s problems.

He felt it in his bones.

Just as he knew that whoe’er had hid the basket out on the moors would soon have hell to pay.

He’d see to it personally.

With a wee bit of help from his friends.

Chapter 13

OFFICIAL KILT INSPECTOR.