by Allie Mackay
Dunroamin is entirely fictitious, but it could well be one of the phenomenally atmospheric privately-owned castles I’ve visited in Scotland. Actually, Uncle Mac and Aunt Birdie’s home is based on several of them. Places that, like Dunroamin, are filled with the old things I love so much: antiques, medieval weaponry, bolt-upon-bolt of faded tartan, and other bits of assorted whimsy. In such places, the past is cherished and the intrusion of anything modern is blessedly kept to a minimum.
Castle Varrich is real and exactly as described in the story. The trek up to the ruin is also accurately depicted – I know from experience, though I have never encountered a sexy Highland ghost within the ruin’s walls.
The ruin one can visit today was built in the 14th century by Clan Mackay. As it is believed to stand atop an even older structure, a Norse stronghold, Gudrid the Viking ghost (and her lover) could well have had ties to Castle Varrich.
Hardwick’s home on Scotland’s northeastern coast is also real. But I changed the name to Seagrave. The real ruin is Slains Castle, and it is eerily spectacular. It is quite derelict (as described in this book) and also dangerous because it really does perch on the edge of some truly precipitous cliffs. Memorial markers scattered here and there at the ruin honor the poor souls who have plunged to their death at Slains. So if you visit, tread carefully.
Slains was supposedly Bram Stoker’s inspiration for Dracula. So you can imagine the ambiance. Every time I’ve visited, I was fortunate to be there on my own, which enhanced the atmosphere. Sadly, such explorations are a thing of the past as the castle fell into the hands of developers in recent years. The plan is to restore the ruin and turn it into residential flats. So the site is now roped off and entry is no longer allowed.
Cilla’s interest in broken china jewelry is my own and I share her views about ‘damaged’ porcelain. Regrettably, I have not attempted to make my own such pieces. If ever deadlines allow, I would embrace doing so as a new and well-loved hobby.
Gregor, the mischievous great skua – a pterodactyl-like creature aka a ‘bonxie’ – was based on my own encounters with these dive-bombing beasties in northern Scotland and Shetland. The birds nest on coastal high moors and are quite ferocious. They attack anyone approaching their nests (which you can’t see for high grass, heather, or rocks). Clearly, it is their good right to be so fierce, and signs warning of them are posted when they’re about. They’ve been known to take off noses, so caution is wise.
Shetland’s Up Helly Aa is a Viking fire festival that culminates with a torch-lit parade of costumed ‘guizers’ and the burning of a Viking ship. It’s an annual event, taking place every year on the last Tuesday in January. If ever you go, wear an old coat because, as in the story, sparks and ash really do whirl through the air, burning holes in spectators’ clothing.
In summer months, interested Shetland visitors can learn more at the Galley Shed’s Up Helly Aa Exhibition. Opening times are limited, only three days a week, so plan ahead. If you visit, tell Erlend Eggertsson hello. No, he doesn’t really exist – I made him up. But you can be sure that the real folk who run the Galley Shed and Shetland’s Up Helly Aa festival, are just as dedicated.
Thank you for reading Tall, Dark, and Kilted. If you love wild places and old things as much as I do, I hope you enjoyed visiting Hardwick and Cilla in Scotland’s rugged far north.
Wishing you Highland Magic!
Allie Mackay / Sue-Ellen Welfonder
Some Like It Kilted
The Ravenscraig Legacy
Book Four
By Allie Mackay
Allie Mackay is a pseudonym for USA Today Bestselling Author, Sue-Ellen Welfonder
Copyright 2010, 2015 by Sue-Ellen Welfonder/Allie Mackay
E-book Edition Copyright 2015 by Sue-Ellen Welfonder/Allie Mackay
www.welfonder.com
www.alliemackay.com
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without prior permission of the Author/Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your online retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.
If you love Scotland and big, brawny men in kilts, this one's for you...
Mindy Menlove lives in a castle that was transported stone by stone from Scotland to Pennsylvania. When she must sell the estate, her plans soon unravel. She's bound for the Hebrides, a place she'd hoped to avoid. Once there, she's confronted by the castle's original builder, who happens to be maddeningly irresistible and seven hundred years young.
Bran of Barra was a legendary Highland chieftain. Since his demise he's enjoyed his ghostly pleasures - until a feisty female from across the Atlantic claims that she's come to Scotland to restore his ancestral home. It's a task she hasn't accepted willingly, and if the roguish Bran doesn't change Mindy's mind about his bonnie homeland - and him - neither of them will ever find any peace. But unexpected passion can be the most powerful...
"Bran of Barra is one of the most compelling heroes I've
read. His innate sensuality sprang off the page. I wouldn't mind having him show up in my bedroom to carry me back in time to his castle."
~ Love Romances & More
Praise for Allie Mackay
“Charming and innovative, Mackay definitely delivers a blast of Scottish steam.” ~ Publishers Weekly
“I’d follow Allie Mackay’s hot Scots anywhere!” ~ Vicki Lewis Thompson, New York Times Bestselling Author
“Allie Mackay pens stories that sparkle.” ~ Angela Knight, New York Times Bestselling Author
“Mackay knows what a Scottish romance novels needs, and socks it to you!” ~ A Romance Review
“If you want a fun and passionate ghost love story, look no further than Allie Mackay!” ~ Sapphire Romance Realm
Praise for Some Like It Kilted
"A ghostly romance that transcends time."
Allie Mackay gears us up for another hauntingly sexy Scottish romp. She’s a master at penning magical tales of love across the ages, and this certainly is another gem.”
~ Fresh Fiction
“If you love to laugh out loud, fall in love, and reach for what you desire, this book is for you!”
~ Leah Weller ‘Medieval Lady,’ Reviewer for Bookworm2bookworm
“Perfect for a weekend’s escape. Mackay’s humor is sprinkled throughout, making the book a fun read. She skillfully weaves the elements of reincarnation, time travel and ghostly happenings into a well told story.
Bran of Barra is one of the most compelling heroes I’ve read in some time. His innate sensuality sprang off the page. I wouldn’t mind having him show up in my bedroom to carry me back in time to his castle.”
~ Love Romances & More
“A great read! This is the fourth book in Allie Mackay’s wonderful Highland Ghost series and the one we’ve all been waiting for: Bran of Barra’s story! You will love this series especially if you are a die-hard Scottish fan.”
~ Sapphire Romance
Under His Spell
A kilted man stood at the rail.
Mindy was certain he hadn’t been there before.
He stood in shadow, his chin lifted proudly and his gaze on the sea. But he didn’t need to be looking Mindy’s way for her to recognize him.
He was Bran of Barra.
And here – in his element, his powerful silhouette limned against the rolling sea and dark clouds – he was magnificent. Glorious in a way no modern man could compete. Wind lifted his hair and tore at his plaid, but he stood tall and unbending, as if the gusting spray and damp didn’t faze him.
She surely looked like a bedraggled wet hen.
He was breathtaking.
And he wasn’t just hewn of this wild, watery world. He was its master and wasn’t shy about proclaiming his supremacy. It thrummed through every brawny inch of him and shimmered in the air around him, leaving no doubt that ruled these dominions. And that he loved them with a fierceness that almost fringed on unholy.
Mindy swallowed, her heart thumping.
When he turned and looked at her, she nearly choked. She did flush. A wave of heat swept her, clear to her toes.
“So-o-o, Mindy-lass, tell me true.” He didn’t move, but his voice came as close as if his lips had brushed her ear. “Are you awed yet?”
“No, you don’t awe me,” she lied, glaring at him. “I think you’re-”
“Oh ho, what’s this?” He held up his hands. “I didnae mean my own self. “I wanted to know” – his blue eyes lit and he flashed one of his crooked smiles – “if you’ve fallen under the spell of my isles?”
Dedication
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.
Acknowledgment
Some Like It Kilted was originally released as a traditionally published title by Penguin NAL. Heartfelt thanks to my Guardians of the Cridhe sisters, Tarah Scott and Ceci Giltenan, for their love, support, and encouragement as they guide into the amazing world of indie publishing. This book wouldn’t be here without them.
As always, much appreciation to my very handsome husband, Manfred, who keeps the cravens at bay, the wolves from my door. And for my beloved, irreplaceable Jack Russell, Em. I am only half myself without him. Fifteen years were not enough and I would give my all for just one more moment to hold him.
Some Like It Kilted
“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 gods 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 isnae.” 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 in 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, and not perched atop some fool hill in New Hope Pennsylvania, carted there stone by stone by a lackwit descendent who chose to not only 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, ever 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 late 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. 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 offended him.
He looked as if her were about to throw back his head and laugh.
Roderick felt his own face turn purple with fury. “You, Silvanus!” He flashed a glance 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. She wants to go someplace where the sun e’er 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 will 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. She’ll agree to have our castle sent back where it belongs.”
“If she refuses?” Roderick frowned at him. “Are you prepared to chase after her to some heathenish place with a name we can’t even pronounce?”
Roderick shuddered.
MacNei
l’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-”
“‘Tis the only way, Roderick.” Silvanus clamped a hand on his shoulder. “If we lose her, it may be another hundred years before someone else as likely to help us comes along.”