Tall, Dark and Kilted (38 page)

“And you think that matters to me?” She reached down between them, gripping him firmly. “I’d have you take me there”—she jerked her head at the stony, nettled floor—“if that was the only way I could have you! Here, on your plaid in the window, seems more than fitting!”

Hardwick’s heart fell wide, his soul tumbling. “Lass.” He bit out the word, sucking in his breath through tight-clenched teeth as she moved over him, sliding down onto his need like a burning, honey-damped sheath.

The world as he knew it split.

Seven hundred years of agony spinning away as if it’d ne’er been.

She wrapped her legs around him, her eyes glittering as she locked gazes with him, the deep flush of her passion sweeping across her breasts.

“Hardwick . . .” She held fast to his shoulders, her nails scouring his flesh.

He smoothed a hand along her lush curves and down across the soft skin of her belly, and lower to the damp curls he knew so well. Need lancing him, he toyed with them now, teasing and plucking before he slid his fingers deeper to the one spot he knew would shatter her.

Scarce able to breathe, he circled the delicate bud with his thumb, flicking and teasing until she arched her back, her hips bucking and her pulse throbbing beneath his fingers.

His own need wound tight around him, the sleek, slippery heat of her almost more than he could bear.

He threw back his head, meaning to roar with the wonder of her, but bliss as he’d never believed possible stole his cry. Unending pleasure crashed over him and he swept his arms around her, seeking her lips. He plunged his tongue in and out of her sweet, silky-wet mouth using the same hot rhythm of the long, smooth glides of his body joining with hers.

And then she jerked her head away, the whole of her tensing as she sucked in a great, shuddering breath and clamped her legs even tighter around his hips. She gave herself over to her release in a way he’d never seen a woman do, her cry of pleasure breaking at last to merge with his own.

“O-o-oh, Hardwick . . .” She gasped his name again, a soft breath against a world set on fire.

A world—now that it was settling—he feared to see.

Not that he felt anything threatening.

But with the heat of his lust ebbing, good sense prevailed and he knew without cracking an eye that there was a very good chance he’d open them to see a gaggle of eager, hand-rubbing hell hags waiting to claim him.

With surety, the Dark One wouldn’t harm Cilla.

That much he’d seen to be true.

The trouble was, now that he’d claimed her fully, he couldn’t bear to let her go. As if she knew, she shifted in his arms, winding her own loosely around his neck, her head resting lightly on his shoulder.

The trust in her cuddling almost broke him.

“That was . . . beautiful,” she breathed, making it worse. “If only . . .”

“I’m sorry, lass.” He smoothed his hands up and down her back, hoping to soothe her. “I shouldn’t have risked—”

“You should have long ago.” She squirmed to lean close, kissing him. “I’ve been waiting all this time, and now . . .”

He opened his eyes, not liking her tone.

Sure enough, her brow was furrowed and she’d taken her kiss-swollen lower lip hard between her teeth. But he saw, too, that the pitiful ruins of his onetime greeting room were empty. The Dark One wasn’t lounging against the wall in a corner, leering at them.

And, best of all, there wasn’t a root-dragon or hell hag in sight. Relief swept him, the unexpected shock of it almost stealing his breath. His heart started thumping, hard, fast, and triumphant.

He could scarce believe it to be true.

Needing proof, he stepped back, glancing round. Long evening shadows filled corners and stretched across rough, uneven ground that had once been smooth stone and rich, furred coverings. But nothing stirred save the night breeze pouring in through his erstwhile windows, a scatter of dried and loose leaves blown across fallen stone.

His fists clenched on the truth, the joy of it dampened only by the stinging heat spoiling his vision and the hot, swelling lump thickening his throat.

Still, he couldn’t be sure.

Quickly, because the worry on his lady’s face plagued him, he slid a hand behind his back and wriggled his fingers in the direction of his discarded sword.

The blade remained where it was, cast aside in the heat of his passion.

Heart thundering, he flicked a forefinger at a crumbled wall niche, trying to conjure the basin and ewer that had once stood there.

But the basin and ewer didn’t appear, the ancient niche remaining as it was now, filled with nothing more interesting than a few tiny bits of fallen mortar and the smelly leavings of perching seabirds.

Hardwick’s heart almost leapt from his breast.

He stared at the niche, well aware his jaw had slipped.

Not that he cared.

Truth was, he’d ne’er seen anything more beautiful, except, of course, his lady.

“Dear God, Cilla, you were right all along!” Ignoring the crack in his voice—and hoping she hadn’t noticed—he plucked her off the window ledge and caught her up in his arms, swinging her round and round until dizziness left him no choice but to release her. “I do believe the spell is broken. . . .”

He set her down, the still-there furrow in her brow damping his triumph.

“What is it, sweet?” He slid his arms around her, drawing her close. Gently this time. “Are you no’ pleased that we have time now?”

She glanced aside, worrying her lip again. “It’s just that, well, I’ve fallen in love with you.”

He tightened his grip on her, squeezing. “Ach, but that’s a cause for celebration. No’ for long faces and creased brows.”

“It isn’t just that.” She looked up at him, pink tingeing her cheeks. “I’ve come to love Scotland, too. At least”—she glanced down again, nudging a clump of grass with her toe—“Dunroamin and the residents. I can’t imagine not seeing any of them anymore. I’ll even miss little Leo and Gregor. Colonel Darling and his bluster. As for you . . .”

She pressed a hand to her lips, tears spilling down her cheeks.

“Ach, lass, you needn’t say good-bye to anyone. No’ now.” He wrapped his arms around her, hugging her near. “I was going to let Mac and your aunt tell you, but we caught the Viking ghosties and, you’ll ne’er believe it, a great treasure with them!”

“A treasure?” She blinked at that. “In Uncle Mac’s peat fields?”

Hardwick nodded, grinning. “Sure as I’m standing here. You can ask Robbie and Roddie on the drive back.”

An ordeal he wasn’t looking forward to, having ne’er ridden in an automobile.

Not that he’d let on that he was inexperienced, of course.

Feeling brave already, he remembered his gallantry and snatched his plaid off the window ledge, whirling it around her shoulders before she took a chill.

Truth was, she looked almost feverish.

“Then Uncle Mac and Aunt Birdie’s troubles are over.” She clutched his plaid around her, the color in her cheeks deepening. “I’m so glad they’ll be okay. With the end of summer inching nearer, that’ll make it easier when the time comes for me to leave. Knowing they’re—”

“Leave?”
Hardwick stared at her, stunned.

Only now realizing what a dolt he’d been.

Women needed words.

’Twas the first lesson his father had taught him about the fairer sex all those many years ago. Men lived by deeds and the good steel of their swords. Lasses wanted wooing, required a man’s heart laid bare before them.

His lass was plucking at his plaid, avoiding his gaze.

“Of course I have to leave.” Her words pierced him. “Americans can’t just stay in Scotland. Not unless—”

“By all the living saints!” He grabbed her again, kissing her hard. “Do you think I’ll be letting you go? Now that I’ve my life back to share with you?”

“But—”

He kissed her again, silencing her.

“Did I no’ tell you I dinna like that word?” He pulled back to look at her, shaking his head. “There’s no place for it our future unless”—he glanced aside, pretending to consider—“you have something against me asking your uncle if we can build out the unused wing of Dunroamin. In exchange for helping round the place, of course. I can assist him with his peat businesses, and—”

“You want me to stay?” She launched herself at him, nearly knocking him to the ground. “With you, at Dunroamin?”

“No’ just that.” He caught his balance, then pulled her close. “I want you to be my wife.”

“O-o-oh, yes!” she cried, her smile almost blinding him.

Or maybe it was the damnable stinging heat pricking his eyes.

Either way, he knew one thing.

Life didn’t get any better.

Epilogue

Up-Helly-Aa
Fire Festival of the North

“Is it everything you expected, sweetness?”

Sir Hardwick de Studley, for some while now proud and effective manager of Dunroamin Peat Enterprises, slung an arm around his wife Cilla’s shoulders as they stood in the boisterous crowd swelling Lerwick’s cobbled High Street.

“O-o-oh, yes.” She leaned into him, toasty warm despite the icy, racing wind. “I do think you broke our record.”

His brows arched. “Our record . . . ?” But then he threw back his head and laughed, squeezing her. “A man is always good of a morn.”

“The word”—she lifted on her toes to nip his ear—“is
incredible
.”

Looking pleased, he dropped a kiss on her brow. “You haven’t seen anything yet.”

“Oh?” She trailed gloved fingers down the front of his plaid. “I’m tingling already.”

“Next time I may no’ even let you have breakfast.” His dark eyes glinted wickedly. “I, after all, will have had my own.”

“You’re so bad!”

“Only in ways meant to please you.” He winked.

“And do I please you?” She edged closer, sliding a discreet hand beneath his sporran to splay her fingers across the impressive bulge there.

She pressed and squeezed, smiling innocently.

He ran hard.

“You ask?” He sucked in a breath, releasing it in a puff of white. “For truth, if you
pleased
me anymore, ’tis we who’ll be the night’s entertainment and no’ the marching guizers parading down the street!”

“I’m delighted to see you so happy.” Cilla removed her hand, pleased indeed.

She was happy, too.

Deliriously so.

Never would she have believed life could be so rich and full, every breathing moment a joy. Beaming up at him, she knew that joy sparkled in her eyes. Her good fortune amazed her, and there hadn’t been a day she wasn’t grateful.

There was just one little thing that niggled her.

A worry she wasn’t sure how to address.

“To be sure, I’m happy, sweeting.” He reached to brush her cheek with the back of his knuckles. “There isn’t a single thing I want except you.”

Cilla bit her lip. “What if—”

In that moment, a great cheer rose from the torchlit procession, and the Viking-clad guizers thrust their arms in the air, waving their fiery, spark-spewing brands high above their heads.

A rain of ashes showered across the spectators.

Around them people laughed and ducked. Others brushed good-naturedly at their shoulders. His face ruddy with the January cold, Hardwick turned to flick away several red-glowing sparks that glimmered on her sleeve.

“See, lass? There’s the reason I told you no’ to dress in your finest.” He held up sooty, ash-stained fingers. “By the time the ceremonial galley torching is by with and we arrive at the first fest hall, your clothes will be covered with burn holes—”

“I don’t mind.” Cilla glanced at the tiny scorch marks, the tense moment passing. She laughed when the wind sent another cascade of sparks into the crowd. “It’s fun and . . . oh, look!” She pointed. “Here comes Erlend Eggertson in his red devil mask.”

Hardwick glanced in the direction she indicated. The large, grinning mask dipped and bobbed toward them, prominent against the hundreds of furry-vested, horn-helmed “Vikings” filling the street.

The blazing procession lit the sky as the merry guizer squads passed by, some shouting to family and friends waving frantically from the curb. Others raising deep voices in rousing Nordic song.

Erlend Eggertson swung his mask their way, slowing his pace as the others pressed on to the burning site, each guizer pitching a flaming torch onto the doomed longship’s deck until its decorated timbers leapt to blaze.

Thunderous applause and shouts came from near the burning galley as the Guizer Jarl jumped free.

Erlend Eggertson bobbed closer.

Behind him, flames shot heavenward, the crackle and roar almost deafening. The crowd surged forward, hastening toward the fated ship.

Then, just as Eggertson was within a few yards, he was caught up in the mob, too, his red devil mask swept away before he could reach them.

He turned back once, seeming to thrust his burning, tar-soaked brand toward one of the dark, emptied alleyways leading off the High Street.

Live well.

His greeting hung in the air and then, like his costume mask, was swallowed up by the din.

Cilla shivered.

The Shetlander’s voice hadn’t sounded anything like she remembered. But before she could open her mouth to say so, another Shetlander rushed up to them, elbowing his way through the crowd.

“The de Studleys, right?” He drew to a panting halt, sleeved his damp brow. “I’ve been looking all over for you. Eggertson sent me—”

“Aye?” Hardwick slid a glance at his wife. “We just saw him go past.”

The man’s eyes widened. “Ach, but you couldn’t have.” He pulled a handkerchief from a jacket pocket and dabbed at his forehead. “That’s why I’m here. To let you know he’s abed and couldn’t make the festivities. Food poisoning, he thinks. A shame it is, too, coming now, of all nights.”