Some Like It Kilted
Page 1
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Epigraph
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Epilogue
Teaser chapter
“I’m a kilt convert! After plunging into the rowdy
world of Some Like It Kilted, I would follow Allie
Mackay’s hot Scot anywhere!”
—New York Times bestselling author
Vicki Lewis Thompson
Praise for the Novels of Allie Mackay
Tall, Dark, and Kilted
“An engaging urban romantic fantasy with a touch of a mystery and a terrific twist. . . . The story line is brisk and breezy from the moment the ghost and the American meet and never slows down. With a strong cast, paranormal and human, fans will enjoy Cilla’s Scottish adventure in love.”
—Genre Go Round Reviews
Highlander in Her Dreams
“Scottish charm, humor, and . . . hot romance.”
—Night Owl Romance
“Sexy . . . imaginative . . . a fascinating mix of exciting action and passionate romance.”
—Romance Reader at Heart
“Cleverly plotted and well written . . . a fun, sexy story.”
—Romantic Times
“[A] pleasing blend of wit, passion, and the paranormal . . . a steamy romance that packs emotional punch.”
—Romance Reviews Today
“A fabulous mixture of magic and romance. Allie Mackay has penned an enchanting romance of lovers from different times. . . . A captivating paranormal romance and a wonderful addition to a book lover’s library.”
—Fresh Fiction
Highlander in Her Bed
“[A] randy paranormal romance. . . . The premise is charming and innovative. . . . This novel definitely delivers a blast of Scottish steam.”
—Publishers Weekly
“A yummy paranormal romp.”
—USA Today bestselling author Angela Knight
“A delightful paranormal romance. The writing is poetic, compelling, and fun, and the story features an imaginative premise, crisp dialogue, and sexy characters whose narrative voices are both believable and memorable. HOT.”
—Romantic Times
“A superb paranormal romance.”
—Midwest Book Review
“A sexy, humor-filled romance with delightfully amusing characters. Artfully blending past and present, Highlander in Her Bed is an entertaining read. Well written. Readers will enjoy this one!”
—Fresh Fiction
“Appealing and amusing. Sizzles with passion.”
—Romance Reviews Today
“A whimsical read that will have you panting from start to finish! Mackay knows what a Scottish romance novel needs and socks it to you! Red-hot, sizzling chemistry ignites from the moment Sir Alex materializes in front of feisty Mara. . . . A sure-bet bestseller.”
—A Romance Review
ALSO BY ALLIE MACKAY
Tall, Dark, and Kilted
Highlander in Her Dreams
Highlander in Her Bed
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In loving memory of Lisa Trumbauer.
Dear friend, best-ever travel companion, and talented
author, she was taken from this world much too soon.
Lisa loved animals, lived for soft misty days, and saw
such wonder in woodland walks and the drift of cloud
shadows across Highland hills. She loved Scotland
passionately and when I’m there, I see her everywhere.
She was the most just-like-me person I’ve ever known.
I’m so grateful for the years we had, the great times in
Scotland, and the privilege of being her friend.
I wish I could tell her one more time how much I
loved her.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Scotland is always my greatest inspiration and I feel blessed to have a career that allows me to spend my workdays revisiting my favorite places there. Although I love all of Scotland, my own ancestral ties bind me most strongly to the Hebrides. For that reason, I really enjoyed bringing Bran of Barra’s world to life.
The Hebrides are known as “the Isles on the Edge of the Sea,” and there are more than five hundred of them stretched along Scotland’s west coast. Wild, magnificent, and almost too beautiful to describe, they fire the imagination of the poetic, fill the dreams of Diaspora Scots, and steal the heart of anyone who ever visits them.
Bran’s Barra has held a special place in my heart for years. Actually a grouping of twenty small-to-teeny islands in the remote Outer Hebrides, Bar
ra truly is remarkable. The spark of Bran’s tale came to me on my first visit to Barra’s Kisimul Castle, ancient seat of the Barra MacNeils. This impressive isle-girded stronghold became Bran’s beloved tower.
My affection for Barra includes the Barrachs themselves, especially the Barra MacNeils. When I originally needed a bold, larger-than-life Hebridean chieftain, I looked no further than the MacNeils. I hope Bran of Barra does them proud. I certainly tried to give him their fierce love of Barra, their bighearted spirit and openhanded generosity, and their hallmark joy in life.
A proud and noble race, they also had a rollicking sense of humor. It’s true that, in days of yore, one of the more colorful MacNeil chiefs sent a trumpeter to the battlements each night to blast a fanfare, announcing that the great MacNeil of Barra had dined and now that he’d done so, the rest of the world was then free to begin their own evening meal.
It’s also true that after Kisimul Castle fell to ruin, the eventual restoration was undertaken entirely by the men of Barra. Funds for the project poured in from MacNeils around the world, proving their devotion to the clan’s ancestral home.
I believe I chose well in letting the Barra MacNeils be the clan who changed Mindy’s mind about Scotland. I knew she’d fall in love with the Hebrides. But I wanted her hero to be a very special Hebridean man. One she couldn’t possibly resist. Only Bran of Barra would do!
A thousand thank-yous to Roberta Brown, the best agent in the world. She’s my closest friend, my trusted confidante, and so much more. I couldn’t do this without her. Special thanks to my fantastic editor, Kerry Donovan. I so appreciate her support and enthusiasm. And I’m especially grateful for her suggestion to include something magical to bind Bran and Mindy. Her comment about something magical became Bran’s sword, the Heartbreaker.
Much appreciation to my very handsome husband, Manfred. He proves every day that real-life heroes exist. As always, my sweet little Jack Russell, Em, my constant companion and greatest love. His cuddles and tail wags mean more to me than all the world’s gold. I only wish all dogs were as cherished.
Special thanks to my readers—you’re fantastic! For those wishing to visit Bran’s Barra, there is air service. The flights are unique, landing on a beach, the Traigh Mhor. But I prefer the ferry. Either way, I promise you’ll love Barra!
“While I’ll no’ argue that a man in a kilt is greater than any other, I’m here to tell you that a kilted Highlander is more. He is a god.”
—Saor MacSwain, Highland ghost, master of carouse, and kilt-wearer extraordinaire
Prologue
The Long Gallery at MacNeil’s Folly
New Hope, Pennsylvania
In a dimension not our own . . .
“Since when do MacNeils make war on women?”
Roderick MacNeil, proud fifteenth-century chieftain of his clan, hooked his thumbs in his sword belt and glared round at the other ghosts crowding the narrow, dark-paneled room they’d called their own for longer than was tolerable.
He also took immense pleasure in how his deep voice echoed from the rafters.
Unfortunately, the stubborn looks on his fellow ghosts’ faces indicated they weren’t paying him any heed.
“I say you, I’ll no’ be a part of it.” He lowered his brows and scowled until even the misty haze in the room shimmied and drew back from his wrath.
“And I say we have no choice!” Silvanus, likewise a fifteenth-century MacNeil, and Roderick’s cousin, waved his arms until the billowing mist drifted back in Roderick’s direction. “If we let the lass escape us, the saints only know how many more centuries we’ll be doomed to wallow here.”
“Bah!” Roderick whipped out his sword and used it to cut the swirling mist. “There has to be another way.”
“Nae, there isn’t.” Geordie, of the same blood, albeit of the sixteenth century, lifted his own voice. He stepped forward, the blues and greens of his kilt aglow against the room’s haze. “I’m with Silvanus. We must act now, even if the by-doing leaves a dirty taste in our mouths.”
“Hear, hear!” another kinsman agreed from the far end of the long gallery. “ ’Tis this folly that makes my bile rise, no’ the means we need to make things right.”
Roderick jammed his sword back into its sheath, then swung away to stomp the length of the room. He took pains to ignore his kinsmen and even more care not to glower at the rows of empty portraits lining the long gallery’s walls.
Huge, gilt-framed, and just recently vacated, the portraits, which had once been the pride of each respective MacNeil chieftain, now bore the shame of trapping them in a world they despised.
MacNeil’s Folly should still be MacNeil’s Tower.
Strong, safe, and intact.
Above all, in its original location on the Hebridean isle of Barra, not perched atop some fool hill in New Hope, Pennsylvania, carted there stone by stone by a lackwit descendant who chose not only to emigrate to America but to take the MacNeil ancestral seat along with him.
It was scandalous.
An abomination beyond bearing.
And—he had to admit—blowing steam out his ears and clenching his teeth so fiercely that his jaw ached wasn’t going to solve a thing.
His cousins had the right of it.
Mindy Menlove was their only hope.
Wheeling about, Roderick saw at once that his kinsmen recognized his capitulation. Silvanus didn’t bother to hide how his chest swelled with satisfaction, and Geordie, e’er a thorn in his side, thumped his walking stick hard on the floor. Others exchanged triumphant glances, while one or two shuffled their feet or fussed with their plaids, clearly not at ease in stirring his spleen.
Only one proved oblivious.
Not that it was likely Bran of Barra even knew of their quandary. If he did, chances were he’d be displeased. The unavoidable disruptions might annoy him. Unlike the rest of them, the fourteenth-century MacNeil of MacNeil didn’t haunt his portrait. He chose to remain in his chiefly hall, celebrating nightly revels with other like-minded spectral friends who appreciated his skill at maintaining MacNeil’s Tower as it was in his day.
Bran of Barra’s ghostly conjured tower, that was.
The true tower was here, across the great wastes of the Atlantic. Exactly where it shouldn’t be. And whether Roderick liked it or not, it was up to him and his kinsmen to see every last stone returned to Barra.
Curling his hand around his sword hilt, he scowled at Bran’s portrait, the burly chieftain’s grin and his air of joviality deeply offending him.
He looked as if he were about to throw back his head and laugh.
Roderick felt his own face turn purple with fury. “You, Silvanus!” He flashed a look at his cousin. “I’d hear what you said earlier. Mayhap you were mistaken and the lass—”
“Och, I heard her right enough.” Silvanus tossed back his plaid with a flourish. “I might be on the wrong side o’ the living, but there’s naught amiss with my ears! She’s bent on selling the castle, she is. Wants to hie herself to a place called Hawaii.”
“Haw-wah-ee?” Roderick’s brows shot upward.
Silvanus shrugged. “That’s what it sounded like, aye. Said she’s tired o’ rain and dark woods and gloomy old piles and wants to go someplace where the sun shines and”—he raised a dramatic finger—“where she’s sure she won’t be meeting any MacNeils!”
“Pah-phooey!” Geordie made a dismissive gesture. “She just met the wrong MacNeil.”
“Indeed!” Roderick jumped on his chance. “Which is why I’m no’ for this fool plan! Scaring the wits out of her will only make her think less of us.”
“Nae, it’ll make her help us.” Geordie wagged his walking stick for emphasis. “If we tell her we’ll follow her to the ends o’ the earth, haunting and pestering her all her days, she’ll surely see reason and agree to have our castle sent back where it belongs.”
“And if she refuses?” Roderick frowned at him. “Are you prepared to chase after her to some heathenish pl
ace with a name we can’t even pronounce?”
Roderick shuddered.
MacNeil’s Folly was shameful enough, but the thought of having to endure a place called Haw-wah-ee was even worse.
The very notion jellied his knees.
“Well?” he thundered, pinning his wrath on Geordie. “I’ll ask you again. What say you if she refuses?”
“She won’t.” Geordie set down his walking stick with a clack. “She’s already afraid of us. You can’t deny how she hastens through here, always glancing over her shoulder as if she expects us to jump down out of our portraits and whisk her away to some harrowing fate.”
“Geordie speaks true,” rumbled a voice from the back corner. “She’ll do anything rather than risk having us hovering around her.”
“I ne’er thought of myself as a man to set women cringing.” Roderick’s pride bit deep. “If you’d know the way of it, the ladies were e’er fawning all o’er me. And I sure didn’t mind their attention! Mindy Menlove is a fine lassie. She didn’t deserve what was done to her and she doesn’t need—”