Tall, Dark and Kilted (7 page)

And buttery-burred, dark-eyed Highland sex god or not, that was enough to give any girl the willies.

“Put me down!” She tried to jerk free again. “Now.”

A snort answered her.

Then a swish of cool, silky hair slid across her cheek and she found herself clutched even tighter to his broad, impossibly sculpted chest as she floated—no, as he carried her—down the remaining steps and set her on her feet.

“Next time I will no’ use such care,” he warned, stepping away so quickly the air where he’d been snapped back around her, cold and empty.

He was gone.

Whether she’d seen him disappear or not was beside the point. She felt his absence as strongly as if someone had vacuumed the air from her lungs.

He’d simply poofed himself away.

And she was losing it.

Sure of it, she stooped to snatch up her shoe and jam it back onto her foot. Then she blew a strand of hair off her face and glared up at the tight turnpike stair rising so innocently into the shadows.

The stones of the curved walls looked ancient and were dark and sooty in places where telltale iron brackets had once held smoking rush torches. A cold, damp wind whistled in through a few narrow slit windows, lending to the stair tower’s eerie ambience.

Most telling of all, the worn stone steps had dips in their middle.

She stared at those grooves now, her pulse settling.

They were why she’d slipped.

She hadn’t floated down the stairs in the arms of a roguish, sinfully handsome, seven-hundred-year-old Highland warrior in a kilt.

Her foot had simply slid on one of the slick, ancient steps, causing her to stumble the rest of the way down in a jet-lagged, zero-sleep-induced stupor.

There hadn’t been any sexy ghost.

Not in the stair tower or up on the battlements. Imagination wasn’t her middle name for nothing. Everyone knew the mind created all sorts of havoc when people were foolish enough to run around on empty with sand grit scratching their eyes. Anyone so far past the second-wind stage was bound to experience weirdness. Who could blame her if she’d seen fluttering cobwebs and turned them into plaids? Or heard the cold whistle of wind and imagined the purr of a smooth, whisky-deepened burr.

No, a smooth,
lilting
burr not deep at all and that was calling her name.

Honoria the housekeeper.

Red-cheeked and with her great matronly bosom thrust forward like the bow of a tweed-draped ship, she came sailing around a corner just as Cilla straightened her clothes and stepped out of the stair tower.

“Ach,
mo ghaoil
, it’s yourself!” The older woman hurried forward, her sturdy rubber-soled shoes silent on the plaid carpet-runner. “We were nigh after having all the staff search for you—”

“Mo gale?”
Cilla blinked. The grit in her eyes stung like sandpaper.

The housekeeper waved a hand. “It means ‘my dear,’ is all,” she said, taking Cilla’s arm and leading her in the exact opposite direction she’d meant to go. “We were quite fashed about you.”

“I got lost.” Cilla felt herself flush.

She shoved back her hair and tried to keep her voice light. “I couldn’t find the restrooms Aunt Birdie said were near the main staircase.”

She kept the rest to herself.

No way would she tell the no-nonsense-looking woman about
him
.

Nor did she care to admit that a simple search for the so-called loo had taken her into a dimly lit passage where the shadows had slid around her, blotting the way forward and backward. Or that the corridor had reeked so strongly of candle grease, old stone, and dark oak paneling that she’d feared she’d stepped into some kind of time warp.

“Right enough, that’s where they are. The restrooms, as you Yanks say. They’re behind the big stairs, just.” Honoria made a sympathetic clucking sound. “You’re not the first to lose your way looking for them.”

She leaned close, dropping her voice to a conspiratorial level. “That’s the trouble with these old piles, all put together in fits and starts down the centuries. If any one of the late, great builders meant to make it easy for a soul to find his way about, a hundred years later there comes his great-great-grandson adding on his own bits and pieces and spoiling the plan!”

“I like it.”

“Americans always do.” The housekeeper’s chest puffed. “And why not? Dunroamin isn’t your average country house surrounded by the prerequisite sweep of lawn and gardens. With the exception of a tearoom, seasonal tours, and a souvenir shop, we offer a little of everything.”

Looking proud, she rattled off the castle’s charms. “We have the oldest bits, the tower and parapets and even a dank undercroft for medieval buffs. Then there’s the Jacobean wing with its tall, south-facing bays for the stone-mullioned window enthusiast. And”—she winked—“we’ve more than enough Victorian gothic to please the soppiest romantics.”

Cilla glanced out a tall, arch-topped window they were passing, caught a glimpse of rolling moors and mist. “And you have Sutherland.”

“Nae, Sutherland has us.” Honoria gave her a look so serious she wouldn’t have dreamed of disagreeing. “We could travel across two oceans and as many continents and still the land would touch us, calling us home.”

“Dùthchas.”
Cilla’s heart wrapped around the word. “It’s the only Gaelic I know.
Dooch-hus
. Aunt Birdie taught it to me on one of her visits to Pennsylvania when I was little. She said it represents a Highlander’s deep sense of oneness with his land and culture.”

“No words can capture the feeling,
mo ghaoil
, but
Dùthchas
comes close, aye.” The housekeeper’s expression softened. “Only when you’ve felt that love of the land pulsing here”—she clapped a hand to her breast—“can you truly understand a Highlander’s heart. Your aunt does. She wears the far north well.”

Something inside Cilla twisted.

She loved Scotland, too, and had dreamed of coming here since childhood. She’d also loved Scotsmen, even founding the Mad for Plaid Club when she was sixteen. Sadly, her obsession with tartan-draped men had overridden every warning bell when Grant A. Hughes III waltzed into her life, claiming Scottish roots. When he’d arrived, kilted, to take her to a Highland Games on one of their early dates, her fate had been sealed.

Feeling heat inch up the back of her neck, she flicked a speck of lint off her sleeve.

Then she did her best not to frown.

The swell-headed lout hadn’t exactly ruined her enthusiasm for Scotland. But he’d made her wary of kilt-wearing, sporran-sporting Scots
men
.

“I know Aunt Birdie loves Sutherland,” she blurted, pushing Grant the weasel from her mind. “Whenever she’d visit, her eyes would light when she spoke of Uncle Mac’s home. She’d gush about its wild emptiness and what she called the vast stretches of sea, land, and sky. She said even the air was different. That it was magical, and that once you’d inhaled it, you’d be forever in its spell.”

“O-o-oh, aye, that’s the way of it.” Honoria nodded agreement. “You’ll lose your heart, too. Everyone does.”

Stepping close, she fixed Cilla with a shrewd stare. “Why do you think so many English incomers are for settling here?” She put back her shoulders, clearly warming to a favorite topic. “They come north, breathe our clean air and peat smoke, fall in love with our starry nights and quiet, even the days when our mist blows sideways and suddenly—or so they say—the city fumes and crush of London or Manchester or Liverpool are something they can’t bear anymore.”

The words spoken, she pressed her lips tight. As if
those
incomers were an entirely different kettle of fish than Aunt Birdie.

“Too bad they often feel differently when, come winter, they discover they need thermal underwear and learn that our weekly entertainment is Quiz Night at the Village Hall or a
ceilidh
over at Old Jock’s croft down by Talmine Bay.” Honoria’s chin lifted. “Fiddlers come from as far away as Lairg and Ullapool to play at Old Jock’s sessions. Yet—”

“Wait.” Cilla stopped before an oak-planked door studded with rusted iron. She was sure she’d passed through it earlier, certain it’d stood ajar.

Yet now it was bolted.

“I’m sure I came up here through that door.” She eyed the heavy-looking drawbar, the fine hairs on her nape lifting again. “It was open.”

“Ach, it couldn’t have been.” The housekeeper shook her head. “That way leads to a house wing we never use, save for storage.” She reached to jiggle the iron latch, proving its secured state. “The door’s kept mostly locked since a fire swept parts of that wing in the 1930s. I’d be surprised if even your uncle could slide back the drawbar.”

“But—”

From somewhere came the sound of knuckles cracking. “Shall I—”

“Oh!” Cilla’s heart stopped.

He
filled her mind again. She was sure she’d heard his voice. Almost sure she caught a whiff of sandalwood and musk on the chill, dust-moted air.

Just when she’d convinced herself she’d imagined him!

She slid a glance over her shoulder, seeing nothing.

Naturally.

Her heart began to pound again, her hard-won cool crumbling.

Honoria remained unruffled. “Be glad the door is sealed,” she said, pressing her point. “That’s also the wing with the ghost room.”

“Ghost room?”

“So we call it now.” Honoria took her arm, pulling her down the passageway. “The room used to be a nursery.”

Cilla glanced back at the locked door.

She’d done so well putting the sexy ghost from her mind. Yet now she could almost see him standing beside the ancient door, flexing his fingers above the drawbar as if he meant to seize it any moment.

Pull the thing back and open the door—just to prove that he could.

She swallowed, her pulse leaping.

“Honoria . . .” She spoke before she lost nerve. “Is the ghost room haunted by a Highland warrior who wears a big sword and carries a round, medieval shield?”

“By glory, nae! More’s the pity!” The older woman tossed her a glance. “It’s not a braw lad but a poor serving lass. She hails from the days of Culloden, if the tales be true.”

“The mid-1700s?” A chill slid down Cilla’s spine. “Uncle Mac swears there aren’t any ghosts at Dunroamin,” she argued, the comment causing an unexpected tightening in her chest. “I asked him.”

Honoria scoffed. “That one wouldn’t own to a bogle’s presence if one bit him on the nose. Ask your auntie about the lass. She’ll tell you the truth of it.”

“Aunt Birdie saw her?”

“Och, nae, but she understands the possibilities.”

The housekeeper paused to run a finger along the edge of a dark oaken table set into a wall niche. She frowned when the finger came away dust smeared.

Cilla waited, not really wanting to talk about ghosts, but curious all the same.

Honoria drew a breath. “The maid’s name was Margaret MacDonald,” she revealed, her voice dropping. “She was a local lass, born right here in the shadow of Ben Hope and Ben Loyal. Fair, she was, with a head of dark curls and a bright, dimpled smile. Not a day passed that she wasn’t smiling or laughing. Until”—she paused, her eyes glittering in the lamplight—“she caught the laird’s eye.”

“He seduced her.” Cilla already knew. “Then he sent her away pregnant.”

“Aye, so it was,” the housekeeper confirmed. “But the only place he sent her was into a hidey-hole behind the bricks of one of the chimneys.”

“He walled her up?”

Honoria nodded. “Word was put about that she jumped off a cliff, heartbroken over the death of a local gallant who’d lost his life at Culloden. But she started appearing not long thereafter, and the truth came out.”

Cilla swallowed. “Her body was found?”

“Aye, it was. But not till repairs were done on the chimney in the early 1900s.” They’d reached the top of the main stair, and the housekeeper turned to look at her. “The laird confessed the deed on his deathbed, though he didn’t have the breath to reveal where he’d put her.”

“That’s horrible.” Cilla shuddered as they began descending the stairs. “Is she still seen?”

“Not these days, and there’s little chance of her appearing again, so you needn’t worry.” Honoria’s pace turned brisk, her tweed skirt swishing. “Your Uncle Mac was the last soul to see her.”

“Uncle Mac?” Cilla couldn’t believe it. “He’s the greatest skeptic there is.”

“He wasn’t when he was three years old.” Honoria stopped on the landing. “He just doesn’t remember seeing her,” she said, her mouth quirking. “He was ill with a fever and she sat on a chair in his room for a week, watching over him and singing to him until he recovered.”

“She was worried about him and wanting to help.” The idea squeezed Cilla’s heart. “Not being able to have her own babe, she tried to nurture other ones.”

“That’s what we believe, just.” Honoria peered back up the way they’d come, her gaze on the shadows at the top of the stairs. “She only ever showed herself if a child of the house fell seriously ill. Once the danger passed, she’d leave. Your uncle was the last child reared at Dunroamin. Now, with the residents all being of a certain age, we suspect she’s found her peace.”

“Or she’s moved on to look after little ones elsewhere?” Cilla’s voice hitched on the words.

Margaret MacDonald’s story put a different spin on ghosts.

She sympathized with the heartbroken serving girl.

“I hope she’s well. . . . Wherever she is.”

“Ach, she’ll be feeling better than me with my knees e’er aching from traipsing up and down these stairs.” Honoria dusted her jacket sleeve, all business again. “Come now, and we’ll sit you down in front of the library fire and you’ll have a cup of tea to warm you.”

“That’d be nice,” Cilla lied, certain she’d soon need the loo again if she had to drink more tea.

What she needed was a hot shower and a bed.

But when she opened the library door a few moments later, rather than book-lined walls and tables spread for tea, it was a teetering assortment of all manner of containers that greeted her.

Plastic buckets, old pitchers and jugs, and even seed trays and empty tin cans filled the doorway, each unlikely item crammed so tightly together she couldn’t see anything but darkness beyond the towering pile.