She turned to a particularly suspect corner, eyes narrowing. She would’ve sworn she’d caught movement there. Something—her imagination insisted—that would prove to be all claws and fetid breath.
Long, flashing teeth and fiery red eyes.
Fortunately, the scariest thing she detected was a faint waft of mildew.
She almost laughed. She was bigger than the smell of damp and old furniture. And as a modern, sensible soul, she’d simply ignore how much the lavishly furnished, gothic-style room reminded her of every Dracula movie she’d ever seen.
That would be her first line of defense against weirdness.
A tactic she’d likely need, since the room would be hers for the summer.
Even so, she allowed herself a quick glance over her shoulder, half expecting the latched window shutters to slowly swing open, giving her a glimpse of the thick fog currently rolling across Dunroamin’s lonely shore. Pea soup, she’d call such roiling, impenetrable fog, though the local term was sea haar. Either way, she just knew that if she did dare a look, more than swirling gray mist would greet her.
In her present jet-lagged state of mind, she’d likely see a seagull glide past and mistake it for a bat.
Reaching again for her pullover, she thought better of it and rolled her shoulders instead. She was not exactly a Lilliputian, and so cramming herself into an economy window seat from Newark to Glasgow had left her feeling stiff, achy, and more than a little cranky.
The endless drive north hadn’t done much to defrazzle her, however breathtaking the scenery. Thank goodness she’d had competent escorts and hadn’t had to brave the left-sided driving and spindle-thin roads herself. Equally good, she knew exactly how to banish her body aches and tiredness.
A long, hot shower was what she needed.
And no matter how Transylvania-like the high-ceilinged, wooden-floored room struck her, its spacious and airy bathroom looked totally twenty-first century.
Already feeling the restorative pounding of a good, steaming shower, she stripped with lightspeed. But just as she reached to unhook her bra, she noticed the framed poster of her Aunt Birdie and Uncle Mac on Dunroamin’s steps.
She had a copy of it in her apartment back in Yardley, Pennsylvania. Hers was mounted in a tartan frame and had pride of place above her living room sofa. This one hung near the shuttered windows, its Old World-looking frame as dark as the room’s paneling.
But at least its familiarity took away some of the room’s eeriness. Thankful for that, she tossed aside her bra and went to look at the poster.
It was a Christmas card photo she’d had blown up just last year, thinking that her aunt and uncle would appreciate the way a slanting ray of winter sun highlighted the stone armorial panel with the MacGhee coat of arms above their heads. Theirs, and the dark head of a tall, broad-shouldered man standing a few feet behind them, close to the castle’s open door.
“Huh?” She blinked, certain she was now not just jet-lagged, but seeing things.
The man—who looked quite roguishly medieval—hadn’t been in the poster before.
Nor was he there now, on second look.
He’d only been a shadow. A trick of light cast across the glass.
She shivered all the same. Rubbing her arms, she stepped closer to the poster. He’d looked so real. And if she was beginning to see imaginary men, handsome, kilted, or otherwise, she was in worse shape than any jet lag she’d ever before experienced.
Certain that had to be it—the mind-fuzzing effects of crossing time zones and lack of sleep—she touched a finger to the poster glass, relieved to find it smooth and cool to the touch, absolutely normal-feeling, just as it should be.
But whether the man was gone or not, something was wrong. In just the few seconds she’d needed to cross the room, the air had grown all thick and heavy. Icy, too. As if someone had set an air conditioner to subzero, deliberately flash-freezing the bedchamber.
She frowned. Unless she was mistaken, Dunroamin didn’t have air conditioners.
It did, however, have strange shadows in posters.
No, not shadows.
The man was back, and this time he’d moved. Just as dark and medieval-looking as before, he now stood next to Aunt Birdie and Uncle Mac instead of behind them.
“Oh, God!” She jumped back from the poster and raised her arms across her naked breasts.
He cocked a brow at her—right through the poster glass!
Her heart began to gallop. She couldn’t move. Her legs felt like rubber, and even screaming was pointless. Her throat had closed on her and her tongue felt stuck to the top of her mouth.
Disbelief and shock sweeping her, she looked on as the man, illusion, or whatever, sauntered away from her aunt and uncle to lean a shoulder against the door arch. Devilishly sexy—she couldn’t help but notice—he just stood there, arms and ankles crossed as he stared back at her.
Once, he flicked a glance at something that looked like a round medieval shield propped against the wall near his feet. She thought he might reach for it, but he only looked up to glare at her.
“You aren’t there.” She found her voice, a pathetic croak. “I am not seeing you—”
She blinked.
Mr. Wasn’t-Really-There was gone again.
Only the shadow on the glass remained.
“Oh, man.” Her shower forgotten, she snatched up her bra and the rest of her airplane clothes, tossing them back on even faster than she’d taken them off. She should never have accepted Uncle Mac’s welcome dram.
Not after being up nearly thirty hours.
“Miss Swanner?” A woman’s voice called through the closed door, accompanied by a quick rap. “Are you awake?”
She almost flew across the room, half-tempted to answer that, yes, she was awake, but she was also having waking hallucinations.
Instead, she ran a hand through her hair and opened the door. “Yes?”
“I’m Honoria, Dunroamin’s housekeeper. I’ve come to take you down to tea if you’re feeling up to it?” An older woman in a heavy tweed suit and sturdy shoes peered at her, the oversized print of an unusually large badge pinned to her jacket, repeating her name.
Following her glance, the woman put back strong-looking shoulders and cleared her throat. “Some of our residents have difficulty remembering names. Others”—she looked both ways down the dimly lit corridor, tactfully lowering her voice—“don’t see well.”
Cilla almost choked. There wasn’t anything wrong with her memory, but since a few moments ago, she had some serious doubts about her vision.
About everything.
The world she’d known and understood tipped drastically when she’d peered at that poster.
Hoping the housekeeper wouldn’t notice, she stepped into the hallway, closing the door behind her. “I’d love tea,” she said, meaning it. “And I’m looking forward to meeting the residents. Aunt Birdie and Uncle Mac always talked so much about them, I feel as if I know them alrea—”
“Ach, you won’t be seeing any of them just yet.” The housekeeper glanced at her as they moved down the plaid-carpeted corridor. “They’ll be having their tea in the library. Your aunt and uncle are waiting for you in the armory.”
She blinked, wondering if her hearing was going wacky as well. “The armory?”
Honoria paused at the top of a great oak staircase. “It’s not what it sounds like, though there are still enough weapons on the walls. Your uncle uses the room as his private study. His den, I believe you Americans call it?”
“Oh.” She felt foolish for thinking she was going somewhere that would give her the willies.
A den she could handle, even if it did have a few swords and shields decorating the walls.
But when Honoria opened the door, ushering her inside, she found the armory unlike any American-style den she’d ever seen. Full of quiet and shadows, medieval weapons gleamed on every inch of wall space, and two full-sized suits of standing armor flanked a row of tall
windows across from the door.
Cilla froze just inside the threshold, the willies making her stomach clench.
Her aunt and uncle were nowhere to be seen.
Her heart thumping again, she turned to the door. “Are you sure this is where Aunt Birdie and—” She closed her mouth, catching a glimpse of the housekeeper already rounding a curve at the far end of the corridor.
“Ach! There you are.” Her uncle’s deep voice sounded from the room’s shadows. “Come away in, lass, and have your tea with us.”
Spinning around, she saw her aunt and uncle at last. They sat in the soft lamplight of a corner table set for tea. Aunt Birdie, with her sleek, tawny-colored hair and large, deep blue eyes, looking so much like an older version of Cilla’s mother and herself, she started.
Uncle Mac, kilted as always, wore the bold, masculine room like a second skin.
With his larger-than-life good looks and full, curling red beard, not to mention his horn-handled sgian-dubh , the ever-present dagger peeking up from his sock, he looked every bit the fierce Highland chieftain.
So much so, Cilla forgot herself and blurted what she really wanted to know. “Uncle Mac—does your castle have ghosts?”
“Ho! Not here an hour and already you’re asking what every American visitor wants to know.” Slapping his hands on his thighs, he pushed to his feet, his face splitting in a broad, twinkly-eyed grin. “The only ghosts hereabouts are my ancient creaky knees. If you count both together, they’re well o’er a hundred! So dinna you go all polite on me and say you haven’t heard ’em cracking.”
Cilla smiled. “If your knees are creaky, I would’ve noticed when you picked me up in Lairg and helped Malcolm load my luggage from his car to yours.” She crossed the room and hugged him. “I must say, I didn’t hear a thing.”
“Didn’t you, now?” He lifted a bushy brow. “There’s some who might say that’s only because young Malcolm was blethering away like a headless chicken. As he surely told you, he works at Ravenscraig Castle down Oban way.”
He paused to scratch his beard. “Now that’s a place with a ghostie or two. Not my Dunroamin. I took my first breath in these walls. If there were any bogles flitting about, sure enough and I’d know it.”
Aunt Birdie sniffed. “What about the gray lady on the main stairs?” She came forward to join them, her purple-and-blue watered silk dress swirling around her like an exotic, perfume-scented cloud. “Or the little boy who sits on a stool in a corner of the kitchen?”
Her husband hooted. “The day a misty lady floats down my stairs, I’ll shave off my beard.” He whipped out his sgian-dubh, looking down as he tested its edge. A satisfied smile lit his face when a bead of red appeared on his thumb. “Och, aye, I’m all for taking off my beard when the like happens. And”—he leaned close, his tone conspiratorial—“the offer stands for any other spook, gray, green, or even pink, who might care to put in an appearance.”
“Have a care, dear. There’s always a kernel of truth to any legend.” Aunt Birdie tapped his chest with a red-tipped fingernail. “Bucks County back home is steeped in both tradition and ghosts. Here . . .” She let her voice trail off. “Let’s just say that you, as a Highlander, should know better than to scoff at such things.”
He huffed and waved a hand.
“Tell me”—he winked at Cilla—“do you believe in such foolery? Ghosts, tall tales, and plaid-draped, sword-packing beasties that go bump in the night?”
“I—”
Cilla bit her lip.
From what she’d seen of Scotland so far, she doubted Uncle Mac would like her answer.
Dunroamin made it even easier to believe in such things.
The very blend of peat smoke, old leather, and furniture oil pervading each antique-crammed room hinted at the possibility of another time.
Likewise the grand gilt-framed ancestral portraits lining all the dark and must-tinged corridors.
A chill slid down Cilla’s spine.
She wasn’t at all keen on walking past some of those portraits late at night when the house was quiet. More than one of the fierce-eyed, bekilted Highlanders depicted so boldly looked more than able to belt out an ancient war cry and leap down from his golden-scrolled frame, sword swinging and murder on his mind.
“If not ghosties”—Uncle Mac’s voice cut the stillness—“what say you to Selkie folk or dear old Nessie?” He hitched up his kilt belt, his curly beard jigging with the movement. “Nessie’s big business for some of those high-dollar tour operators down in Inverness!”
Cilla hesitated, hardly hearing his teasing.
Her gaze kept going to one of the standing suits of armor across the room. Try as she might, she couldn’t shake the impression that someone stared at her from behind the narrow eye slit of the knight’s silvery helm.
And the stare wasn’t friendly.
She shivered, once again feeling all goosebumpy.
“Well?” Uncle Mac slung an arm around her shoulders. “Restore my faith in Americans. Tell me you know that footsteps on the stairs at night are nothing more than popping water pipes.”
“Of course I know that.” She spoke quickly, before she could change her mind. “I’ve never believed in ghosts.”
She didn’t add that she might soon be persuaded to think otherwise.
If she saw him again.
Mr. Wasn’t-Really-There peeking out at her from behind poster glass.
“No, I do not believe in them,” she repeated, speaking firmly and confidently.
Just in case he was listening.
“Good, good.” Her uncle flashed a triumphant smile. “Maybe you can talk some sense into your aunt over tea. I haven’t had any luck in all these years. Woman has a mind of her own.”
“You won’t be joining us?” Cilla looked at him, disappointed.
Uncle Mac shook his head. “Ach, lass, would that I could, but duty calls . . .”
Glancing at his watch, anticipation lit his face. Raising his arms high above his head, he twirled in a fast tricky-footed spin in the same instant a blast of lively pipe music skirled through the armory.
“Gah!” Cilla nearly jumped out of her skin.
“The Royal Scots Dragoon Guards!” Uncle Mac ended his jig with a quick little hop and flourish. “ ‘Paddy’s Leather Breeches,’ that is,” he boomed, looking pleased. “One o’ my favorite pipe tunes.”
“It’s also his cue that it’s time for him to attend our residents in the library.” Aunt Birdie looked up from pouring tea. “He sometimes takes naps in here,” she explained, indicating a comfortable-looking tartan sofa half-hidden in the shadows near the hearth. “The pipe tune ensures he doesn’t sleep through teatime. It’s an afternoon ritual.”
“I ne’er sleep, you!” He wriggled his brows at her. “I doze.”
Cilla hid a smile. “So, what’s the ritual? The pipes or tea?”
“Both!” Uncle Mac’s chest swelled. “If you didn’t know, in addition to pipes, there are three things Highlanders love: their home glen, a good fight, and a stirring fireside tale. Since most of our residents are far from their glens and all of them are too old to fight, they enjoy a well-told tale.”
He paused, his eyes sparkling with good humor. “I try to give them one at teatime.”
Laughing, he made another spirited spin—this time without the blare of “Paddy’s Leather Breeches”—and then disappeared into the corridor, leaving Cilla alone with her aunt.
Her beloved Aunt Birdie, and a fusty, weapon-hung room that went even more dark and eerie without Uncle Mac and his jolly bluster.
Cilla rubbed her arms, feeling cold again.
“Come, dear. We should have warned you about your uncle’s pipe alarm, but we can have a few quiet words now.” Aunt Birdie waved a hand at the table. Covered with starchy-looking white linen, it glimmered with crystal and silver and held more delicacies than most people could eat in a week.
“You must be starving.” Her aunt pulled out a chair for her, then
took the one opposite for herself. “Dunroamin’s scones will melt in your mouth. Or if you wish something more substantial, I can offer you oatcakes with hot smoked salmon and cheese.”
“I’m not really that hungry.” Cilla joined her, but her attention strayed to the row of windows and the thick sea haar pressing against the leaded, diamond-shaped panes.
She could almost imagine a hooded form peering in at her through the mullioned glass, but she cast aside the notion at once.
Whoever—or whatever—seemed to be watching her felt rampantly male and daring.
If it was a ghost, it wasn’t the kind to drift about in the mist, shrouded and faceless.
Her ghost would snatch a sword off the armory wall, grab one of the shields hanging everywhere, and then charge out of the castle, looking for action.
He’d also have the same sexy, dark looks of the man in the poster. Just minus his rude glare.
“At least eat something.” Aunt Birdie was looking at her strangely. “Cook will be offended if she happens past here and pops in to see you staring at the targes rather than enjoying her famous scones.”
“Targes?” Cilla blinked. Even after several minutes the rousing pipe tune still rang in her ears.
“The shields.” Aunt Birdie leaned over to set a scone on her plate. “The round, leather-covered ones decorated with Celtic interlacing and brass studs.”
“Are they medieval?” Cilla ignored the scone, eyeing instead a wicked-looking targe that had a pointed spike sticking out from its center. “They look pretty scary.”
Her aunt lifted a brow. “More than the swords?”
“The one over the fireplace looks like it could do as much damage as a sword.”
“Likely it has.” Aunt Birdie helped herself to a dainty portion of hot smoked salmon. “The targes in here are said to be of the Culloden era. Your uncle even thinks one or two might have been blooded in that sad disaster.”
Tall, Dark, and Kilted Page 2