by Allie Mackay
“American women go where they want.” Cilla kept her chin raised and glared at him.
The blaze in his own eye could’ve lit a bonfire. “I have ne’er been a man to make women weep. I dinnae like it and that’s also the reason I came here, to Castle Varrich, today. I'll no’ make such a mistake again.”
Unable to bear having him see her embarrassment a moment longer, Cilla stooped to snatch up the devil mask. This time when she straightened, he was gone.
“Damn!” She swiped a hand over her cheek.
Then tossed back her hair and started for the doorway. Beyond the jagged opening, she could see clouds building out over the Kyle. Soon it would rain. Already, she could smell the chill moisture in the air.
That and a lingering whiff of sandalwood.
Just enough to pinch her heart.
But as she hefted the devil mask against her hip to scramble out of the ruin, she knew two things she hadn’t known before she’d entered it.
Firstly – the mask was not the devil face she’d seen outside her window. She glanced at the name label sewn into the inside of the mask, sure of it. However the devil face came to be in the possession of a giant bird, it wasn’t sinister.
She’d seen the real thing.
This was simply a mask that had once been the property of one Erlend Eggertsson.
She shuddered, not about to contemplate the implications when she had a long trek through dark and creepy woods awaiting her.
Instead, she considered her second and most important revelation. She’d almost been kissed by a medieval Highland ghost.
She’d wanted that kiss.
So badly, that she meant to do everything in her power to find out why it’d gone wrong.
Then, if for once her luck would change, she just might be able to make things right.
At the very least, she meant to try.
Chapter Eight
“It had to have been Gregor.” Aunt Birdie nodded. “The question is, where did he get such a thing?” She gripped the edge of the small round table and leaned forward. “It doesn’t make sense. A red devil mask, here in the middle of nowhere.”
“I can’t imagine.” Cilla popped a mini pretzel into her mouth.
The tiny salted tidbits were addictive, and compliments of the Ben Loyal Hotel’s Bistro Bar where they sat in a quiet corner. Already, she’d nibbled her way through one rather full bowl. This second portion would soon be gone, too.
Especially since each bite helped take her mind off the origin of her devil face, the one she’d seen at her window. The obvious answer – hell - was a road she didn’t want to go down. Certainly not in a discussion with Aunt Birdie. She doubted her aunt’s ghost-friendly outlook would extend to the fiend of all fiends.
Frowning, she shoved aside the bowl of pretzels.
Too much salt wasn’t good for you.
Neither was dwelling on things that would only add flames, perhaps literally, to the already scary situation at Dunroamin. She also needed to stop fretting over almost-kisses that hadn’t and never would happen.
She shifted on her chair, even now feeling Hardwick’s strong, warm hands settle on her shoulders. She remembered how her senses had leapt into overdrive, her entire body igniting as he’d stepped so close and looked down at her with such heat in his eyes.
She’d been sure he was about to kiss her.
And not just any kiss, but the deep, plundering kind that burned into a woman’s soul and left her melting all over a man. Breathless, needy, and begging for more, certain the world will stop spinning if he didn’t slake her craving.
With a gusty sigh, she crossed her legs, squeezing them together just a tad more than she’d usually do.
She frowned.
She really needed to forget him.
Sitting up straighter, she cleared her throat. “You really think the bird was Violet Manyfeather’s great skua? The bonxie, or whatever they’re called?”
“Bonxie, that’s right.” Aunt Birdie sounded fond of him. “He’s quite clever. Though he usually only snatches things from Colonel Darling. Small items like a pen or reading glasses, and once, his favorite pipe.”
Cilla’s eyes widened. “Was it lit?”
“The pipe?” The smile twitching her aunt’s lips said it was.
“With the colonel’s own custom blend, too,” she elaborated. “A fine smelling mix of vanilla and rum. Achilles was livid.”
“From a gentleman’s pipe to a devil mask.” Cilla shook her head, glad to get her mind on something else. “I still can’t believe we managed to get the mask into your car, big as it is.”
Aunt Birdie laughed and glanced at the two broken fingernails on her right hand. “We may have wedged it in, my dear, but I’m not so sure we’ll ever get it out again. In any event, its horns are ruined.”
“Maybe Erlend Eggertson will be so happy to get his mask back, he won’t care that we bent the horns.”
Aunt Birdie took a few of the mini-pretzels and sat back. “I don’t think there is such a man in these parts. Unless he’s a recent incomer, and even then-”
“You’d have heard of him.”
“Let’s just say that if I hadn’t, you can bet one of the residents would have. A shame-”
A burst of muted female laughter issuing through the wall behind the bar cut her off. Excited and girly-sounding, the giggles came from the hotel’s An Garbh restaurant.
When the noise died down, Aunt Birdie continued, “A shame the An Garbh is so full tonight. You’d have enjoyed dinner there, and I could have asked the proprietors if they know of the Eggertsons. But they looked to have their hands full with” – she paused as another shriek of laughter erupted – “their coach tour guests.”
“I peeked in there when I first arrived. I thought you might be here already.” Cilla allowed herself one last mini pretzel. A reward for getting her mind off a certain sexy ghost and how good she knew he’d kiss. “I think they're a group of college girls. Australians, I think.”
“They’re definitely not the usual visitors we see in Tongue. Hill walkers, rock climbers, and the like. And they aren’t girls. They’re grown women, though some might be fresh out of college.” Aunt Birdie took a sip of soda water and lowered her voice. “According to Claire who works the shop at the petrol station, they’re fans of Wee Hughie MacSporran-”
Whoosh … crack! A standing bar menu flew off a nearby table. Small but sturdy-looking, it smacked into a chair leg before spinning away across the red-carpeted floor.
Cilla swiveled toward the sound but no one else was in the pub. Even the friendly young barkeep had left his post and wasn’t anywhere to be seen.
Aunt Birdie’s eyes narrowed, but then she gave a light shrug and took another sip of her soda water.
“That was odd.” Cilla glanced at the fallen menu board, wondering. She sniffed the air, certain she’d caught a tantalizing trace of sandalwood swirling at her from that direction. She looked around, her pulse leaping. The windows to the street stood open, but she couldn't detect a breeze. Nothing at all that would send the menu sailing off its table.
Or cause Hardwick’s delicious scent to waft beneath her nose, teasing and tempting her.
Unless...
Her heart skittered.
Foolish, wild hope swept her.
Getting up, she retrieved the menu and returned it to the table. More to check on the drift of sandalwood than from a sudden urge to tidy the hotel’s pub.
If the scent had been there, it wasn’t anymore.
She tamped down her disappointment. Then she reclaimed her seat, careful not to look at the bowl of mini pretzels. The blasted things seemed to be calling her, and she was not going to weaken.
Not for mini pretzels.
If she knew what was good for her, she’d also ignore imagined whiffs of sandalwood.
Dark smoldering glances and a deep Scots burr so beautiful on the ears that Hardwick ought to walk around wearing a warning sign around his neck:
<
br /> Caution! Plug your ears or lose your heart.
Knowing what was best for her, she blotted his honey-rich voice from her mind. Her days of melting over doons, aboots, and how Scotsmen said earthy, were over. She'd outgrown the Mad for Plaid club of her teen years. She knew better now than to thrill to tilts in kilts. She was made of sterner stuff and she wasn't falling for a Highlander, especially not a Highland ghost.
Especially one she imagined ate one woman for breakfast, two for lunch, and a full dozen for dinner.
Her cheeks flamed. He’d be a master at making a woman feel that she was a feast to be savored. She inhaled sharply, annoyed by the resentment that pricked her on knowing he hadn’t even wanted to kiss her.
She shifted in her chair again, certain her thoughts must be branded on her forehead.
Hoping they weren’t, she gave Aunt Birdie her full attention. “Who is Wee Hughie MacSporran?” she asked, grasping for a safe topic.
“We-ll...” Her aunt drew out the word. “He calls himself the Highland Storyweaver. In short, he’s an entrepreneur.”
A sound that could have been a snort came from the back of the pub.
Cilla shot a glance that way, namely towards the table with the flying menu board, but nothing stirred.
Her aunt flicked at a pretzel crumb. If she’d noticed, she gave no indication.
But Cilla knew. Hot little flickers of awareness flashed down her nerves and her belly went all fluttery. Annoyed by her reaction to him, she risked another glance at the corner table.
It looked quiet as ever.
Not that the stillness mattered. Even if he was doing that ghostie trick he’d told her about and was keeping invisible, she’d bet the farm he was near.
If so, she wasn’t about to let him see how much he affected her.
It wasn’t fair that he looked so real, solid.
Like a flesh-and-blood man, and so much hotter than any she’d ever encountered.
Life could be so cruel.
Knowing that was so, she turned back to her aunt. “So Wee Hughie’s a businessman?”
“Oh, yes. But it’s himself that he markets.” Aunt Birdie’s brows drew together. “He’s written a book or two. His own family history, a bit of Scottish root-searching, and the like. He also lectures and he’s-”
A bluidy windbag!
A gust of chill air blasted in through the windows as if to prove it. The pub door flew open and slammed shut with a loud bang.
“Oh, dear.” Aunt Birdie placed a hand to her breast. She glanced first at the door, then the windows. “It would seem a storm is brewing.”
Indeed, my lady.
Aunt Birdie’s face went suspiciously noncommittal.
Cilla’s heart pounded wildly. Now she knew he was here. A snort and two comments – all delivered in that buttery-rich burr – was more than enough proof.
His tone and the nature of his comments revealed he didn’t like the Scottish author, the entrepreneur, as Aunt Birdie called the man.
Cilla wanted to know why.
With luck, talking about the author would keep her grounded if Hardwick’s sexy voice rolled past her ears again. It didn’t matter what he said, not even that he sounded really annoyed. It was the way he said things, his Scottish accent, that curled her toes and even set off a flurry of butterflies in her belly, a flash flood of heat tingling across her tender parts.
Apparently she hadn’t outgrown the Mad for Plaid club.
She was just as bad as every other Scotsman-hungry American female.
She was doomed.
“So-o-o” – she tried to keep her voice level – “why does Wee Hughie have a busload of Aussies trailing after him?”
“Did you not see the placard outside, next to the hotel door?” Aunt Birdie looked surprised. “It has HIRE A HIGHLANDER scrawled in blue across the top. I can’t believe you missed it.”
“If I’d seen the name Wee Hughie I would’ve noticed. HIRE A HIGHLANDER would’ve stopped me in my tracks.” Cilla curled her fingers around her pint of Stella Artois lager, squeezing lightly.
She needed focus.
Aunt Birdie didn’t need to know that her mind had been so occupied on her rush down the hill that she’d dashed straight past the hotel. She’d only discovered her mistake when the little white-washed croft houses she’d been passing grew sparser, the fields between larger, and the sheep in the fields more plentiful.
She’d been walking blind.
Worrying about the devil at her window that hadn’t been a mask and fretting about Hardwick.
Especially him.
Thinking about him still, she looked at her aunt. “What does a poster have to do with Wee Hughie’s groupies? I don’t see the connection.”
Aunt Birdie laughed. “Think again, dear. The poster shows why they’re with him. Wee Hughie MacSporran runs Heritage Tours. Guiding, some call it. Anyone can sign on and he then escorts them around the Highlands, regaling them with tales along the way.”
“Oh.” Cilla nodded, not really caring.
She reached for a pretzel, determined to ignore the sensation that Hardwick was near.
“Wee Hughie’s done an Australian book tour or two,” her aunt was saying. “Lots of Scots down there and they take their roots seriously. These women are fans. Apparently they sign on for a Highland tour with him every summer.”
“He sounds like a rock star.”
“So he is, in a Scottish way.” Aunt Birdie made a gesture. “You’ll soon meet Wee Hughie yourself. He’s scheduled to speak in Dunroamin’s library next weekend.”
Another gust of icy wind swept in through the windows, this time lifting a small stack of coasters off the bar and sending them cart-wheeling through the air.
The barkeep returned then, pushing in through a door behind the bar. He carried their order on a tray, jacket potatoes with cheese and baked beans. Coming straight to their table, he plunked down the plates with an apologetic smile. Then he scurried, unasked, to refresh their drinks, his young face flushed from hurrying.
“Sorry you had to wait.” Quick as lightning, he turned away, scooping up the scattered coasters on his hasty retreat to the bar. “There’s an event in the An Garbh this e’en,” he tossed over his shoulder before disappearing through the door he’d used to enter the pub. “Keeping us right busy they are, just!”
“Goodness.” Aunt Birdie looked after him, then put down her glass of soda water and went to the bar. A few books and a little pile of flyers were displayed there. Taking one of each, she returned to the table. “Here. These will give you an idea of who Wee Hughie is.”
Cilla set down the fork she’d been about to plunge into her baked potato and picked up the book. The title, Royal Roots, jumped out at her. Several inches tall, the words blazed across the top of the book in bright gold letters. A subtitle, A Highlander's Guide to Discovering Illustrious Forebears, followed in smaller lettering. The rest of the cover showed a tall, rather corpulent Highlander posing in front of the famous Bannockburn statue of Robert the Bruce.
The flyer announced a series of “Meet Your Ancestors” tea-and-talk events to be held at the Bettyhill Museum, the Loch Croispol Bookshop and Restaurant in Balnakeil, and – no surprise – Dunroamin Castle Residential Retirement Home.
Humph.
The snort came so close to Cilla’s ear she would’ve sworn Hardwick was leaning over her shoulder. Before she could glance around, the main pub door opened and closed again, this time falling shut with a quiet click.
An almost imperceptible little snick that sounded oddly final.
Cilla frowned. The book and the flyer felt suddenly cold beneath her fingers.
She set them down, not missing that the chill wind had stopped gusting through the window. The whole feel of the air shifted and changed. That last humph and the closing of the door cinched it. If Hardwick had been there, he’d now left.
Which had a silver lining - she could finally bring up the subject she’d been wanting to discu
ss.
Wee Hughie MacSporran seemed a perfect way to ease into it.
“What’s a ‘Meet Your Ancestors’ tea?” She pitched her voice casually. “Does Wee Hughie introduce a parade of ghostly forebears during his presentations?”
Aunt Birdie almost choked on a bit of baked potato. “Oh!” She dabbed at her mouth with a napkin. “That would be interesting, my dear. He claims direct descent from Robert Bruce and just about every other notable in Scottish history. It’d be quite a roll call of luminaries if he summoned them to his lectures.”
“So what does he do?” Cilla hoped her aunt didn’t see her nervousness.
“He tells tales about them.” Aunt Birdie waved an airy hand. “He regales his audience with anecdotes from his famed ancestors and then does a question and answer round. He’ll also spin a yarn about your own family history if you challenge him with a Scottish surname.”
Cilla looked down, toying with her food. “Maybe he’ll know something about the Eggertsons?”
“Could be.” Aunt Birdie took a bite of baked beans. “He’s rumored to have extensive knowledge of the clans, so he might well know of other names.”
“I wonder if he would know anything about a place called Seagrave or” – Cilla drew a breath, then rushed on – “a medieval family named de Studley?”
“You could certainly ask him.” Aunt Birdie smiled, her deep blue eyes crinkling at the corners. “Seagrave rings a faint bell. I believe it’s a ruin on the east coast, north of Aberdeen. Rather like the touristy Dunnottar, but left wild, totally untouched except by time.”
“What about the de Studleys?”
Aunt Birdie shook her head. “I can’t say that I’ve heard of them, my dear. Sorry.”
***
Can’t say that I’ve heard of them.
The words hit Hardwick like a kick in the shins.
He frowned and stepped deeper into the shadows near the door. To be sure, Birdie MacGhee had never heard of his family. He’d left no issue, and those who’d remained and could have, though not directly cursed, met their own untimely ends until the line was no more.
Even Seagrave, mighty holding that it’d been, had suffered. Other families came and went, tearing down towers or adding wings until, ultimately, they, too, disappeared into the mists of time.