Tall, Dark and Kilted (32 page)

Twisting round, he jerked a nod at the heavy red plaid drapes pulled across the library’s corner windows.

“Paddy’s Leather Breeches” faded at once.

And although Cilla hadn’t seen them, she felt a cold air current sweep by as they departed.

“They’re gone?” She snuggled against Hardwick, amazed as always by his warmth and rock-hard solidity.

“Aye, they’re away now.” He was watching Wee Hughie again, studying the man with narrowed eyes. “Bran and I are the only ghosts left standing, so to speak.”

Cilla bit back a sigh.

She couldn’t put a finger on it, but although his moods had been dark as thunder—so to speak—since returning from the Dark One, he’d never seemed less ghostly.

Heaven help her when the time came to say good-bye.

Not wanting to think about how their farewell would split her, she took a deep breath and steeled herself. Then she sat up straighter and followed Hardwick’s gaze, hoping Wee Hughie’s lecture would take her mind off of how swiftly the summer was passing.

Unfortunately, in following Hardwick’s gaze, her own snagged on a shadow in the corner behind the library’s black marble fireplace

Or, more aptly, two shadows.

Over there was Gudrid, the tall and stately blond Viking ghost whose long, thick braid and rich, deep red-purple and blue clothing Cilla instantly recognized. She stood with the fair-haired giant of a helmeted Norse warrior she knew went by the name of Sea-Strider.

Cilla’s eyes flew wide. Her pulse kicked into overdrive and the roar of her blood in her ears almost drowned out Wee Hughie’s droning voice.

The pair stared right at her, and she knew instinctively that no one else saw them. She flashed a glance at Hardwick and, sure enough, he didn’t seem to notice them.

Looking back at the couple, Cilla knew they had a very good reason for being here. She just wished she could figure it out this time.

But it wasn’t easy.

Sea-Strider stood unmoving as ever, a good pace behind his blond-braided woman. Though not exactly frowning, his face was etched in hard, solemn lines. And as he scanned the ranks of those sitting about Dunroamin’s candlelit library, he held fast to his large painted shield and nine-foot spear.

Cilla’s chest tightened, the breath she’d been about to exhale lodging in her throat. She fisted her hands in her lap, willing the ghosts to reveal their message. But Gudrid’s lips weren’t moving this time, though her eyes still looked sad and beseeching.

Sea-Strider seemed to have turned his attention on Wee Hughie, his unblinking stare steady and intense.

“My repertoire of Scottish tales is rich and vast,” the Highland Storyweaver was saying, lifting his voice to fill the library. “Having enjoyed a sampling of them, perhaps you have a special theme you’d like me to expound on? A query about a clan ancestor?”

He looked around again, one brow arching in expectation.

When no one spoke, he lifted a hand to his mouth and coughed behind it. “If there are no questions, I’ll end the evening by apologizing for having to postpone my talk. It was kind of the laird”—he gave Uncle Mac a nod—“not to complain that I couldn’t hold the tea talk a few weeks ago as originally planned.”

“Tell them why.” One of his Aussies leaned forward, gushing. “Maybe they don’t know . . .”

The expressions on the faces of the two Norse ghosts sharpened.

They drifted nearer.

“I assumed they did know.” Wee Hughie’s back straightened. “All the newspapers in northern Scotland carried the news.”

“Harrumph!” Uncle Mac swelled his chest. “I know everything that goes on in these hills.”

Wee Hughie took the bait. “Then you’ll have heard that on the evening I was to speak here, I was called to Balnakeil to accept”—he produced a shiny mason’s trowel—“this Marshalltown Archaeology trowel in honor of the attention several of my talks brought to the Viking burial at Balnakeil Bay.”

Stepping closer to the audience, he held out the trowel for their inspection. He took care to display the pointy, flat-bladed tool so that everyone could see HIGHLAND STORYWEAVER etched on the steel.

Hardwick sat forward, his gaze on the trowel.

He shot a glance at his friend, Bran. But the jovial Highlander didn’t notice. His attention, too, appeared riveted on Wee Hughie.

Oblivious to their scrutiny, Wee Hughie droned on. “The tourist numbers at Balnakeil have increased more than threefold since I’ve educated the public to the wealth of Viking burials and ruins along our northern coasts.”

He paused, his voice taking on a boastful tone. “Indeed, I’ll soon be journeying to Shetland to inspect a Viking-related find there. The site is on St. Ninian’s Isle. It’s a lovely place, perched on a grassy cliff at the far end of a white-sanded tombolo, but it’s also a site overlooked by many.”

“Eh? And you’re for changing all that?” Uncle Mac glowered at him from beneath down-drawn brows. “There’s some that appreciate left-alone places, just!”

Wee Hughie reddened.

“The people of Shetland have asked me to help them attract visitors.” He looked round, as if expecting applause. “The site was first discovered in the 1950s. It will be a privilege to alert the public to—”

“What’s a
Viking-related
find?” The question leapt off Cilla’s tongue before she realized she’d formed it.

Across the room, the blond-braided woman and her Sea-Strider nodded significantly.

Then they joined hands, smiling. Their expressions lighter, they held Cilla’s gaze, looking as if a great burden had been lifted from their shoulders.

In a wink, they vanished.

Chills swept down Cilla’s spine. She blinked and moistened her lips, certain now that the Viking pair were so-called messenger ghosts. The kind that appear again and again until someone understands what’s burdening them and their unfinished earthly business is resolved.

At the front of the library, Wee Hughie drew a breath for his answer. “A Viking-related find,” he explained, setting down his trowel, “is an archaeological site that isn’t necessarily of Viking origin but that has been influenced by them in some way.”

“Such as?” Cilla sat forward, compelled to probe. In her mind she could still see the Norse pair watching her, their smiles and nods encouraging her. “I’d like an example.”

Wee Hughie rolled his shoulders, eager to oblige. “The Balnakeil burial, a youth’s grave, is a clear-cut Viking archaeological site. It dates back to the ninth or tenth century, when the Norse frequently raided our coasts. The grave goods found with the lad were typical Viking wares.”

He took a glass of water off the table, draining it. “The St. Ninian’s site in Shetland is different,” he continued, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “The ruins there are of an early Celtic church and, as such, are worthy of any visitor’s time. What makes St. Ninian’s unique is the spectacular hoard of Pictish treasure that was discovered beneath a stone slab in the chapel grounds.”

“Buried treasure?” Cilla’s eyes widened. She could almost see Gudrid and Sea-Strider beaming.

Beside her, Hardwick swore.

He shot a terse look at Bran, and made a jerky gesture with his clenched fist.

“Aye, you could say buried treasure.” Wee Hughie basked in the attention. “St. Ninian’s gave up one of the most fabulous stashes of Celtic silver ever to be found in the British Isles. A boy found the hoard, uncovering a wooden box brimming with silver bowls and brooches, sword hilts and trappings, pins, spoons, and innumerable objects yet to be identified, all more dear than a king’s ransom.”

“And the Vikings?” Cilla didn’t turn her head, but knew without looking that Hardwick was scowling. “What did they have to do with it?”

“Everything.” Wee Hughie preened. “Without them, the treasure would never have lain hidden for hundreds of years.”

Cilla darted a glance to where the Viking pair had stood, her heart thumping.

She looked back at Wee Hughie. “How so?”

“It’s like this. . . .” He raised a learned finger. “The hoard is believed to have been buried in the mid-ninth century, a time when Viking raids were particularly ferocious. Many scholars support the theory that when Viking sails were spotted on the horizon, the treasure was buried to avoid detection.”

Cilla nodded, sure she was on to something.

Hardwick was still grumbling. Angry Gaelic words that sounded like curses.

“There are”—Wee Hughie accepted a fresh glass of water from Honoria—“other possibilities, including that the Vikings themselves might have buried the hoard, hoping to keep looted goods safe from other raiders.”

Cilla let out a breath. “So that’s why you called it a Viking-related site.”

“Exactly.” Wee Hughie nodded. “Such sites abound in Scotland. The possibility of happening across such a treasure, hidden by peat or sand dunes for centuries, is what makes archaeology so exciting.”

It was then that Cilla noticed Hardwick and Bran were gone.

Shooting to her feet, she glanced round, Vikings and Wee Hughie forgotten. Hardwick had warned that the Dark One might claim him any moment. If he’d been zapped away now, while she’d been talking about buried treasure to a man who called himself the Highland Storyweaver, she’d never forgive herself.

“He went that way, dear.” Flora Duthie indicated the open library door.

Cilla started at the tiny woman’s words, ashamed she’d almost plowed right into her.

Unfazed, Flora caned her way nearer, a plate holding two large jam-and-cream-filled scones clutched in her free hand. “I saw him go past when I fetched my tea scones.”

“Thank you.” Cilla turned toward the door.

Flora thrust out her cane, blocking her path. “Have a care, child,” she tsked, shaking her head. “He looked mighty angry, he did.”

“I can handle him.” Cilla smiled reassurance as the old woman lowered her cane. “It’s not me he’s mad at.”

Ignoring her aunt and uncle’s flashed glances, she pushed her way through the milling Kilt Inspectors, who were now gathering around their hero’s book table, fawning and squealing.

They could have their red-cheeked raconteur.

She had to find Hardwick.

She paused outside the library door, peering both ways down the long and dim corridor. Retreating footsteps, rapid and masculine, gave a clue from the shadows to her left. But by the time she raced down the passageway, Hardwick was nowhere to be seen.

Pulse racing, she let herself out the castle’s massive front door and hurried down the steps to the graveled drive and gardens. Her gaze darting everywhere, she sprinted across the wet lawn, making for the moorland and the dark edge of Uncle Mac’s peat fields.

She’d covered only a few yards before Hardwick stepped out from behind a thicket of dripping rhododendrons to grab her arm, stopping her in motion.

“Whoa, lassie.” He pulled her roughly against his chest, his strong arms snapping around her like an iron vise. His big hands clamped onto her hips, his fingers gripping firmly into her buttocks. “You’re no’ going anywhere.”

Cilla sucked in a breath, the feel of her breasts crushed against his hard-muscled chest and, heaven help her, the press of his not-to-be-ignored
bulge
against her stomach almost making her dizzy.

“I thought the Dark One had taken you.” She clung to him, slinging her arms around his neck and thrusting her fingers into his hair, holding tight. “The Viking pair, the ghosts I saw, were there, in the library, and when you disappeared I thought maybe they’d come to warn me that your time here was over.”

His brows shot upward. “The Viking pair? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I just did.” She choked on the words, twisting her fingers deeper into his hair. “I knew they were there for a reason, and when I saw you couldn’t see them I feared it had something to do with you. Now, after hearing Wee Hughie—”

“Enough.” His mouth swooped down on hers, hard and silencing. He tightened his grip on her buttocks and swept one hand up her back and around to her front, cupping her breast and squeezing hard, almost as if he feared she’d vanish if he didn’t hold her so fiercely.

“I heard what MacSporran said and I’ll no’ have you with me tonight.” He slanted his mouth over hers, parting her lips with his tongue and thrusting deep. Not even giving her a chance to catch her breath, he kissed her mercilessly. Nipping and licking, his tongue sliding furiously over and around hers, plunging and withdrawing again and again until she went limp in his arms and he broke the kiss.

He set her from him at once and stepped back, his breath coming in hard, fast pants. “I’m away to the moors to join Bran and the lads.” He looked down at her, his eyes still dark with passion, almost blazing. “Now go back to the castle. I’ll no’ have you coming with me.”

“Why not?” She lifted her chin. After such a kiss, and the odd feeling that he meant it as their last, she wasn’t about to return to Dunroamin.

“Dinna trouble your head with why.” He frowned at her. “You’ll go because I said so.”

“Oh yeah?” Cilla bristled. “That might have worked in the fourteenth century, but it won’t with me.” She folded her arms, stubborn. “Women do what they want these days.”

“And what do you want?” His eyes blazed hotter and his burr went all buttery deep, its smoothness downright dangerous.

Cilla blinked. “I . . .” Her voice hitched, the damn tingles he always gave her making it impossible to think.

“Come, sweet.” His eyes went hot and heavy-lidded, his gaze tracking slowly downward. “Perhaps if you tell me, I’ll oblige you?”

“I . . .” Cilla bit her lip, sure the ground was tilting beneath her.

Smiling wickedly, he reached between them to inch up her skirt, sliding his hand up her thigh to cup and press the panty-covered heat between her thighs.

“Tell me, lass.” He leaned close, licking, then nibbling her ear. “Your every desire fulfilled . . .”

“Stop trying to change the subject.” Amazed she could even speak, Cilla jerked free. “I saw the way your expression changed when Wee Hughie started talking about Vikings, and . . . and your friend, Bran, was upset, too!”

His smile fading, he touched one finger to her clit and circled. Once, twice, and again before he pulled back his hand and stepped away from her.