Tall, Dark, and Kilted

by MACKAY, ALLIE

“Should we wait then? Maybe—”

  A movement outside the window caught Cilla’s eye and she snapped her mouth shut, blinked several times. She might be wrong—the sword and his shield were missing—but unless her eyes were fooling her, he stood outlined against the overcast night.

  Seemingly oblivious to the rain and whirling mist, he leaned against the wall near the hotel entrance, his arms folded and his feet crossed at the ankles.

  He was clearly waiting for someone.

  And she had a good idea who.

  Her breath snagged and her heart started racing. Then she nearly jumped out of her skin when Aunt Birdie placed a hand on her shoulder. She hadn’t even noticed her getting up.

  “I think it’s time.” Her aunt smiled down at her.

  Cilla’s jaw almost slipped. But then she realized her aunt only meant the drive home. “Out with the fairies” or not, Aunt Birdie wasn’t a mind reader.

  “Well?” Aunt Birdie stepped back, hitched the strap of her bag onto her shoulder. “Are you ready?”

  “Yes.” Cilla pushed to her feet before her knees could start knocking.

  She was ready.

  Aunt Birdie was right. Scotland was a magical place.

  And some of that magic was about to happen to her.

  She could just feel it.

  Chapter 9

  “You’re slipping again, my friend.”

  Bran of Barra stood on the strip of pavement outside the Ben Loyal Hotel and winked broadly at Hardwick. Then he whipped out his sword and, with a bit of a flourish, jabbed at the empty space where Hardwick’s own sword—and his shield—should have been.

  “You’ve once again manifested without your best pieces.” He sheathed his blade and planted balled fists on his hips. “The lassie’s addled your wits!”

  Hardwick frowned at him. “My best pieces are here, right enough.”

  All of them, he added. Naturally, to himself.

  For Bran’s benefit, he held up his hands and wriggled his fingers. Instantly, his trusty shield and brand appeared. “They are here if I need them.”

  He refrained from commenting on his wits. They did seem to be in a questionable state of late. Leaning back against the wall, he vanquished his sword and shield. Then he assumed the most casual stance he could muster.

  He also damned his luck that he’d sifted himself out of the pub only to reappear in nearly the very same spot and instant that his Hebridean friend chose to manifest his great hunkering self.

  The collision of their foreheads had been formidable.

  Most annoying of all, the impact hadn’t seemed to faze the bearded lout at all.

  His own head was splitting.

  So much so that if the knave didn’t stop grinning at him, he’d be sore pressed to challenge him to a bit of swordplay on the edge of the nearest cliff edge. A plunge down a five-hundred-foot rock face and into the cold, dark sea would dampen even a wild Isle-man’s humor.

  Instead, he left his blade safely out of reach and tried another, equally effective tactic.

  He smiled.

  “So-o-o, Bran.” He spoke as if they were sitting in Seagrave’s massive great hall, enjoying fine ale and finer women. “How is it you lost interest in Norse wenches so quickly? I didn’t expect you back from Shetland for a good while. Or”—he deepened his smile—“did the bonny northern maids snub their pretty noses at you?”

  Bran stepped back, legs apart and shoulders squared. “There wasn’t an hour I was away when I didn’t have a willing lass perched on each knee, make no doubt about it.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  “You ask! The whole bleeding Lerwick town was astir.” Bran paused, tossed a flap of his plaid over his shoulder against the cold wind coming down off the hills. “I’d ne’er seen the like. Even the womenfolk were as up in arms and for carrying on as the men.”

  He shook his head, pulled on his bushy red beard. “You’d think the world was coming to an end.”

  “Indeed?”

  “Did I no’ just say so?” Bran’s chin jutted.

  Hardwick folded his arms.

  Glancing aside, he pretended interest in the mist-bank blotting the scatter of houses at the far end of the road. From somewhere closer by came the sharp tang of wood smoke, welcome on the chill, damp air. He took a deep, deliberately audible breath, waiting.

  He knew better than to rush a Hebridean bent on sharing a juicy bit of blether.

  “Heigh-ho!” Bran’s face loomed in front of him, mere inches away. “Quit doing as if you’re counting raindrops. I know you’re keen to hear what’s set all Shetland on its ear!”

  “And I know you’ll tell me whether I wish to hear it or not.”

  “Is that so?”

  Hardwick tried to keep his lips from twitching.

  Bran needed less than an eye blink to detect the hidden smile, his own face splitting in a grin. “You great lump!” he roared, clapping Hardwick on the shoulder. “All these hundred years, and still you get the better of me!”

  “I’d say the score is about even, my friend.” Hardwick reached up to give Bran’s hand a hardy squeeze. He wasn’t about to admit it, but he’d missed the lout.

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

  “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.

  But 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 rape and pillage?”

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

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

  “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 muckle sumph!” Bran laughed. “ ’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. “Dinna 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 scowled. “The weasels took nigh all else they could get their hands on. Word is, 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. “You see why the Lerwick lassies had more on their mind than warming my bed! Blood calls when a Viking’s wronged.”

  Hardwick rubbed his chin. Finally he understood.

  Up-Helly-Aa was Shetland.

  The festival, with its blazing 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 wild and 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. A muscle in his jaw jerked and he pushed away from the wall, needing to move.

>   “You said the thieves took national treasures from the Up-Helly-Aa exhibit.” He started pacing, his kilt swinging about his knees. “I’d hear what was taken.”

  “About time you asked!” Bran’s face brightened.

  “Then tell me.”

  “The list is long.” Bran played for time, pausing to snort at the HIRE A HIGHLANDER placard displayed 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 glare at him. “It takes less than a wink. But here”—he snapped his fingers and produced a cup of heather ale, offering it to the Hebridean—“let no man say I’d deny a friend 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. “Now where was I?”

  “The Galley Shed.” Hardwick folded his arms.

  “Aye, right enough.” 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.”

  Hardwick started to agree but his throat had gone thick. He frowned. Of late, he’d been plagued by more than his share of such heart-pinching moments, and he wasn’t sure what to do about them.

  Especially when they were inspired by Bran of Barra.

  So he simply gripped the varlet’s heavily muscled arm and squeezed. There’d be time enough later to ponder just what she was doing to him. For now, he cleared his throat and leveled his most earnest look at his friend.

  “If you’re thinking what I am—that the Viking ghosties at Dunroamin are men using Up-Helly-Aa costumes to disguise themselves—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.

  He kept that thought to himself, but his gut clenched and his mouth went dry 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 boomed the words with gusto. “When we find the dredges, we’ll hang them by their toes!”

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

  Bran hooted. “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?” Hardwick blinked.

  “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 here to give talks.” Hardwick ignored his friend’s indignation. “Take another look at his placard. He’s calling himself the Highland Storyweaver these days. And he’s hauling adoring female admirers the length and breadth of the land. Do you truly think he’d 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 waggled his brows. “And here I thought you’d been seeing to her.”

  “Who?” Hardwick feigned indifference.

  “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 moony 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.

  The half-truth was all the bushy-bearded Hebridean was getting out of him. 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 proud, upthrusting swells of her full, lush breasts with their pert pink nipples, or the impossibly rousing way her close-fitting hose drew a man’s attention to the plump ripeness of her well-curved buttocks.

  He scowled and swept a hand through his hair.

  It was even less anyone else’s concern 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, saints 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, my friend.” Hardwick met the scoundrel’s eye. “I had good reason for being in the pub. My efforts were well rewarded.”

  “Whate’er you say.” Bran winked. “Far be it from me to argue with a man in love.”

  Hardwick ignored the taunt. “Lounging at that corner table enabled me to learn the name of the devil mask’s owner. If I heard rightly”—he paused for effect—“the man is one Erlend Eggertson.”

  That won Bran’s attention.

  “By thunder!” His 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 gather your men. If Erlend Eggertson’s devil mask was burgled 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. But before he could say so, his friend whipped out his blade and gave a bloodcurdling yell. 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 drew a deep breath. Then—making certain his blade and shield were indeed invisible—he squared his shoulders and strode forth 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 him to vanish ag
ain before she left the pub.

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

  He’d changed his appearance, leaving off his medieval trappings. Though still kilted, this kilt looked worn and a bit ragged around the edges. A khaki shirt, equally old-seeming, was unbuttoned just enough to reveal a tantalizing glimpse of 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 completed the picture, as did the faint and irresistible scent of sandalwood still clinging to him, despite his modern-day garb.

  Cilla swallowed, her heart beating wildly.

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

  But 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!” She flashed her brightest smile at him. “What can we do for you?”

  All the charm of the Gael went into his own smile. “I am Seagrave. Sir—. . . er . . . Hardwick de—”

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

  She did toss a knowing look at Cilla.

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

  Cilla looked 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 even 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.

  Her cheeks flamed. Aunt Birdie then also 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 at him proved it.

  His 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.”

  His services.

  Cilla almost choked.