Castles, Kilts and Caresses

by Carmen Caine

  Stepping back, he resumed his leaning-against-the-wall pose. “So what drove you from some sweet Norsewoman’s arms?”

  “A raid!” Outrage swelled Bran’s voice. “The whole of Lerwick town is out for vengeance.”

  Hardwick’s brows lifted. He could scarce believe it.

  Bran’s bobbing head said that it was so.

  “A raid?” Hardwick looked at his friend. “You’re certain?”

  “Sure as I'm standing here.”

  “Was there pillage, the burning of houses? Men put to the sword and women captured?”

  Such was, after all, the old way of marauding.

  “Nary a drop of blood was shed.” Bran huffed. “Nor was a single war cry given. It wasn’t that kind of raid.”

  “What then?”

  “They took things.” Bran lowered his voice, glanced over his shoulder. “National treasures, Seagrave. All that’s most dear to a Shetlander's heart.”

  “The women?” Hardwick could think of nothing else.

  “Nae, you great loon!” Bran scowled at him. “‘Twas far worse than that. They raided the Galley Shed, for the love o’ Thor!”

  Hardwick blinked. “The what?”

  “Just what I said. The Galley Shed.” Bran hooked his hands in his belt and rocked back on his heels. “Dinnae tell me you’ve forgotten the place. It’s the great warehouse – a shed - where the good men of Lerwick build their Viking longboat each year. They-”

  “Vikings?” Hardwick’s brows arched.

  “Up Helly Aa guizers!” Bran’s voice boomed. “Braw, proud men taking care to uphold their Norse heritage by burning a galley at their fire festival each winter. Now their exhibition hall’s been looted.”

  “The boat was stolen?”

  “Nae, but I’ll vow they only left it because it was too big to carry away.” Bran paced a few steps, whirled back around. “The fiends took nigh all else they could get their hands on. If the town can’t recover their losses, next year’s Up Helly Aa will have to be cancelled.”

  Bran slapped his thigh, his eyes blazing. “Now you see why tempers are rising in the north! Blood calls when a Viking’s wronged.”

  Hardwick understood.

  Up Helly Aa was Shetland.

  The festival with its firelit procession of costumed guizers and the burning of their dragon ship went back more than twelve hundred years. He and Bran had even attended a few such raucous celebrations together, in their earth lives and thereafter.

  What he didn’t understand was why Bran returned to Tongue rather than staying on to help the locals find the perpetrators of such a crime against tradition.

  Eyeing him now, the truth hit Hardwick like an upturned pail of icy water.

  It had to do with Dunroamin.

  Hardwick started pacing, his kilt swinging about his knees. “I’d hear what was taken.”

  “The list is long.” Bran paused to snort at the HIRE A HIGHLANDER placard beside the hotel door. “The journey from Shetland is tedious. I may need to refresh myself before-”

  “You sifted yourself here the same as I did.” Hardwick stopped pacing to glance at him. “It takes less than a wink. But here” – he snapped his fingers and produced a cup of heather ale, offering it to his friend – “let no man say I’d deny a man his comforts.”

  Bran snatched the ale, quaffing it in one quick swig. “Ahhh….” He tossed aside the cup, laughing when it vanished before it hit the ground. “Where was I?”

  “The Galley Shed.”

  “Aye, right.” Bran drew his sleeve over his mouth. “Makes my blood boil, it does. The blackguards made off with the Guizer Jarl’s entire Viking chieftain array and a good score of the other guizers’ costumes. Horned and pointed helmets, mailed shirts, and woolen cloaks. Even a few fantasy disguises. Not to mention the swords, axes, and spears gone missing.”

  Hardwick narrowed his eyes. “That’s why you came back, isn’t it?”

  Bran’s face turned a faint pink. He glanced down, shuffled his big feet on the wet pavement. “I did the same as you would have, and we both know it.”

  “If you’re thinking what I am – that the Viking ghosties at Dunroamin are men using Up Helly Aa costumes - we’ll have to do something about it, and soon.” He glanced at the hotel windows. Soft yellow light fell out onto the road. Golden and glowing like Cilla’s hair. “I’ll no’ have the folks at Dunroamin set upon by a band of thieves.”

  Or worse.

  His gut clenched at the possibilities. Already he’d seen how brazen the hell hags were behaving, cackling in the mist of shower steam and peering out at him through cracks in Castle Varrich’s ruined walling. He was sure he’d seen a root dragon or two as well.

  He knew he’d smelled one.

  If aught happened to Cilla and he couldn’t protect her, he’d never forgive himself.

  “We’ll get to the bottom of it.” Bran sounded eager, his voice booming. “When we find the dredges, we’ll hang them by their toes!”

  “Must you yell when you’re standing so close?” Hardwick rubbed his ear.

  “That comes from living in the Hebrides. All those howling gales leave a soul no choice but to talk o’er them.”

  Hardwick couldn’t argue with that.

  He did need to get rid of his friend. Soon Cilla and her aunt would leave the hotel, and he'd rather be alone to greet them. Especially in light of Bran’s tidings.

  But the knave was leaning forward, fire in his eye. “Do you think he had a hand in any of this?”

  “Who?”

  “Him yonder!” Bran’s sword appeared in his hand and he thrust its point at the placard by the door. “I ne’er did like that preening peacock.”

  “Nor do I.” Hardwick glanced at the poster. “But it’s his belly-winding that makes my head sore. I don’t think he has aught to do with Mac’s troubles.”

  “He’s here.” Bran remained stubborn.

  “He’s come to give talks.” Hardwick ignored his friend’s indignation. “Take another look at his placard. He’s calling himself the Highland Storyweaver these days. He’s hauling adoring female admirers the length and breadth of the land. He’d no’ ruin such a soft living by hieing himself up to Lerwick to steal Viking guises.”

  Bran’s expression soured.

  He kicked a pebble in the road. “I’ll still be keeping an eye on the rascal.”

  “You’d do better to go rally your friends.” Hardwick warmed to the idea. “We might need them,” he added, hoping such a showing wouldn’t be necessary. “I’ll see to MacSporran.”

  Bran cocked a brow. “And I thought you’d been seeing to the Ameri-cain.”

  “Who?” Hardwick feigned ignorance.

  “Hah!” Bran sent an exaggerated eye roll in the direction of the hotel’s lit windows. “I saw you in there, lounging at a corner table and making moonie eyes at the lass. Saw you true as my name’s MacNeil!”

  “I wasn’t making eyes at her.” Hardwick gave his friend a cross look. “A red devil mask turned up at Dunroamin and also Castle Varrich when you were away. I thought it in the best interest of all to see what the ladies had to say about the matter.”

  Bran barked a laugh.

  Hardwick didn’t care.

  It was no one’s business but his own that he’d gone to Castle Varrich to get away from the lure of Cilla Swanner. The swells of her full, lush breasts, or the way her close-fitting hose drew a man’s attention to her well-curved buttocks.

  He scowled and swept a hand through his hair.

  For sure, he wasn’t going to tell Bran that he’d followed her to the hotel pub because her scent reminded him of bright spring days, sun-washed and smelling of new grass and budding flowers. Or, the gods preserve him, because he found the deep blue of her eyes irresistible.

  “Best interest, eh?” Bran wasn’t going to let it go.

  “You err.” Hardwick met the scoundrel's eye. “I had good reason for being in the pub. My efforts were rewarded.”

&nbs
p; “Whate’er you say.” Bran shrugged. “Far be it from me to argue with a man in love.”

  Hardwick ignored the taunt. “I learned the name of the devil mask’s owner. If I heard rightly, the man is one Erlend Eggertson.”

  “By thunder!” Bran’s eyes rounded. “That’s a Shetland name if e’er I heard one!”

  “So I’m thinking.” Hardwick waited as an old man walking a dog hastened past. “Now you see why I’ve asked you to rally your men. If Erlend Eggertson’s devil mask was stolen from the Galley Shed, it can only mean-”

  “War!” Bran raised a balled fist, looking more than pleased at the prospect. “By the powers, I’m away to Barra! The scuttling fools will learn the price of trying to cozen an Islesman. Or” - he threw a meaningful glance at the pub windows – “those we hold dear.”

  Agreement flamed in Hardwick’s heart. Before he could say so, his friend whipped out his blade. Thumping his broad chest with one hand and using the other to slash the air with his steel, he vanished in a swirl of plaid and Gaelic curses.

  In the same moment, the hotel door swung open.

  A bright wedge of golden light spilled out into the rain-misted night. Cilla and her aunt stepped outside. Hardwick made certain his blade and shield were invisible, then he squared his shoulders and strode from the shadows.

  “Ladies.” He bowed low. “A word, if you will...”

  ***

  “Oh!” Cilla slammed into her aunt’s back. Her jaw dropped, but she snapped it shut at once. Heat rushed through her, blazing hottest on her cheeks. She had the oddest sensation of the pavement dipping beneath her feet. She’d expected Hardwick to vanish again before she left the pub.

  Yet there he stood, gorgeous as ever and looking even more corporeal than before.

  Her heart did a quick flip, and then raced, beating in triple time.

  He’d changed his appearance, leaving off his medieval trappings. Though still kilted, the kilt he now wore looked a bit rough, ragged around the edges. A khaki shirt, equally old-seeming, was unbuttoned just enough to reveal a tantalizing glimpse at his powerfully muscled chest. A dusting of black hairs glistened there, the sight of them doing funny things to her belly. Heavy work boots and thick, downturned socks leant to his ruggedness. A hint of sandalwood still clung to him, despite his modern-day garb.

  Appreciation shivered through her. As other deeper, more exciting sensations.

  If anything, he was more irresistible than before. She knew it was impossible, but she so wished she could turn back time, erasing years and centuries. Anything that would make him not just look so good, so real, but that would allow him to actually be a part of her world, her life.

  She knew Aunt Birdie trusted in Highland magick. Legends, myth, and lore, the widespread claim that time stands still in Scotland. That all things can happen there, especially in wild and remote places like Sutherland.

  Cilla wanted to believe, too.

  She slid a glance at her aunt, not daring to speak.

  If Aunt Birdie was surprised, she’d recovered beautifully. Indeed, she was looking at him as if he were a long lost friend just returned from a journey.

  “Of course!” Aunt Birdie flashed her brightest smile. “What can we do for you?”

  All the charm of the Gael went into his own smile. “I am Seagrave. Sir- … er … Hardwin de-”

  “Studley.” Aunt Birdie didn’t bat an eye.

  She did toss a look at Cilla.

  “I’ve heard you were about,” she added, cool as a cucumber. “It’s a great pleasure to meet you.”

  Cilla glanced from one to the other. It was clear her aunt recognized Hardwick. She obviously remembered Cilla mentioning his name in the pub. Likely, she’d seen him, which would explain her repeated glances to the menu board corner.

  A corner where Cilla was sure he’d sat listening to much of their conversation.

  If so, Aunt Birdie knew he was a ghost and not just any ghost, but the one that had caused her to ask how her aunt would have reacted if Uncle Mac had been a sexy, melt-your-bones ghost when they’d met.

  The way Aunt Birdie was beaming proved it.

  Hardwick’s own smile was devastating. “Word is,” he said, his deep Scots burr smooth and rich, “that you’ve been having difficulties at Dunroamin. That you’ve reason to believe prowlers are roaming your peat fields of a night. I’m here to offer my services.”

  “Your services?” Her aunt spoke without the slightest hesitation.

  Hardwick nodded. “I’ve heard that your husband lacks men to cut his peat.” He glanced in the direction of Dunroamin. “Sadly, I cannae be of help with the peat. I’ve come here to” – he cleared his throat – “recover from a longtime malady, and am no’ able to do much physical labor. But I can spend my nights walking your moors.”

  “Like a security guard?” Cilla pushed a hair from her face, her heart still thumping.

  He gave her a slow, easy smile. “I would watch o’er your uncle’s peat hags, aye.”

  For the first time Aunt Birdie looked uncomfortable. “I can’t say Mac would agree. Times are difficult and we” – she fingered the fringed edge of her royal blue wrapper – “no longer have the-”

  “Uncle Mac will come around.” Cilla put a hand on her aunt’s arm, certain her objection had more to do with worrying what Uncle Mac would say if he discovered Hardwick is a ghost than not having the funds to hire him.

  “I have friends of Norse blood, my lady.” Hardwick’s voice rang deep, reassuring. “Even in the worst days of yore, many were simple farmers. Good men plied the seas as honest traders, dealing with merchants along the Baltic coasts and supplying much-needed goods to Viking settlers in distant Iceland and Greenland.”

  He paused, waiting until Aunt Birdie stopped fidgeting with her wrapper fringe.

  “So you see” – he spoke with conviction – “it doesn’t set well with me to learn there are souls who would guise themselves as my friends’ more notorious forebears for the purpose of frightening others.”

  Aunt Birdie’s head came up. “You’ve heard of our Viking ghosts?”

  “I have.”

  “Running into them could be unpleasant.” She glanced at Cilla. “Mac doesn’t believe they’re ghosts. They could be dangerous.”

  Hardwick eyes glittered in the light from the hotel entry. “I promise you, ladies, I also dinnae believe they’re ghosts. Whoe’er they are and whate’er they’re about, it will be dangerous for them when our paths cross.”

  Aunt Birdie considered. “Even so, we still-”

  He cut her off with a raised hand. “Having done with them would be my pleasure. It’s a matter of honor. And for that, I couldn’t accept recompense. No Highlander worthy of the name would do so.”

  “Well...” Aunt Birdie considered. “If you put it that way-”

  “I do.” He took Aunt Birdie’s hand, bringing it to his lips.

  When he straightened, he turned to Cilla. For a moment, she thought she’d caught a glimmer of his sword belt slung low around his hips. The long, sheathed blade looking so right against his thigh, the brass studs of his shield flashing in the light from a passing car.

  Crazy as it was, falling in love with him was something she could see herself doing.

  Perhaps she already was, a little.

  And who could blame her? Whether in medieval trappings or, as now, gorgeous in a sexy modern day kilt, he simply took her breath. Especially when his eyes seemed to heat and smolder as he kept his gaze locked on hers.

  That he wanted to help Aunt Birdie and Uncle Mac made her heart hitch in an entirely different way.

  “The troubles aren’t good for Dunroamin.” It was all she could think to say. “Any assistance in ending them would be so appreciated.”

  “I will do what I can.” He gave her another smile, one that he surely meant to be reassuring, but that also sent the sweetest, golden warmth spooling through her. “It could be” – her turned back to her aunt - “that a friend or tw
o might join me on my nightly patrols. They, too, are Highlanders. Islesmen I’ve known for years.”

  “Your friends-” Cilla stopped herself before she blurted the obvious.

  That his pals were likely ghosts.

  “Aye, my friends.” He didn’t blink. “Good fighting men and sharp-eyed, they’d eat your Viking ghosts for breakfast and spit out the bones.”

  Aunt Birdie beamed.

  “Then it’s settled, barring Mac’s objection.” Her gaze flicked across the road to her car. “I’d offer you a lift to the castle now. I'd like you to speak to him. But there’s not an inch of room in my car.”

  She hesitated, as if weighing her words. “Cilla climbed up to Castle Varrich’s ruin this afternoon and she brought back a red-”

  “Devil mask, I know-”

  “But how…” Aunt Birdie blinked. Then her face cleared as quickly. “I should have known-”

  “Of course, you should have.” Cilla put a hand on her aunt’s arm, improvising. “You’re the one always going on about how well the gossip mill works in Highland Scotland.”

  She brushed a raindrop off her sleeve. Hopefully she’d spared Hardwick an awkward moment if he hadn’t yet realized her aunt knew just who – and what – he was.

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if everyone above the Highland Line knows about the mask by now.” She made a little hand flip to emphasize her point.

  “You’re right, of course.” Aunt Birdie caught on. “Even the stones are said to have ears here, every clump of heather a pair of watching eyes. And” - she smiled at Hardwick – “each burn a wagging tongue.”

  “Word has spread, aye.” He nodded wisely. “I have an idea who the mask’s owner might be, or at least where to find him. I’ve an equally good notion about the origins of your Viking ghosts. Unfortunately” - he glanced at the lowering clouds – “standing here in the drizzle isn’t the time and place-”

  “You’ll speak with Mac?” Aunt Birdie didn’t make a second offer of a lift.

  “That’s my intention.” His eyes went dark, almost fierce. “I’ll visit him at the soonest.”

  Stepping back, he sketched another bow. “Ladies.”