Save the sapphire of my lady’s eyes.
His heart squeezed, and he cleared his throat again. “You’ll be wanting to call in your constabulary,” he said to Mac, his chest tightening at the telltale glistening on the laird’s face. “Perhaps contact Erlend Eggertson in Lerwick. He’ll help make arrangements to get the Up-Helly-Aa costumes back to Shetland.”
“And the ghosties?” Mac swiped his sleeve across his cheeks. “Are they still out on the moor? They’ll no’ be getting away?”
“Ach, they’ll be going nowhere.” Hardwick grinned. “My friend Bran and his lads are guarding them. We stripped them naked as a bairn’s bottom. If they run, they’ll be doing so in all their shameful glory.”
“Jumping haggis!” Mac hooted and punched Hardwick in the arm. “I knew I liked you! You really are a man after my own heart!”
Hardwick’s own heart pinched. Unbidden came the image of the Dark One’s inner sanctum and the root-dragons with their glittering black-scaled backs and swishing tails, their fiery red eyes and fetid, sulfurous breath. He imagined Cilla in their clutches, the gaggle of hell hags cackling with glee as the root-dragons pulled her into their lair.
He blinked and the vision faded, the bright morning light pouring into the conservatory making such a notion more than absurd.
Even though he knew it could happen.
A cold chill rushed up his spine. The conservatory seemed to fade around him, Mac’s guffaws and the chatter of the residents dimming in his ears. He clenched his fists, fighting the dread building beneath his ribs.
Mac thrust his arms in the air and danced a little jig, laughing.
And he was being a loon.
Even so, he grabbed Mac’s arm as soon as he stopped twirling. “Where’s Cilla?”
“Eh?” Mac grinned and swatted at his kilt. “Ach, she’s just for sleeping in,” he panted. “She’ll be down anon.”
Hardwick started to feel foolish until he caught the guarded look on Birdie’s face. When she slid a furtive glance at Honoria and that one promptly began rearranging her muesli packets, he knew something was wrong.
“What is it? Where is she?”
Mac slung an arm around his shoulders. “I told you, the lassie’s abed.”
“Nae.” Hardwick shook himself free. “I dinna think she is.”
The high color staining Birdie’s and Honoria’s faces said he’d guessed rightly.
He folded his arms. “Out with it, ladies. I know she isn’t here.”
He could feel her absence like a rip in his soul. “She went sightseeing.” Honoria broke first, chin high and lying out her ears.
“Where?” A muscle ticked in Hardwick’s jaw.
Birdie said nothing.
“If you know something”—Mac went to stand by her—“you’d best speak up.”
“Oh, posh!” Birdie waved a flustered hand. “She didn’t want anyone to know.”
“Know what?” Hardwick and Mac spoke together.
“She’s gone to Seagrave.” Birdie sounded defensive. “She went to Robbie and Roddie’s cottage last night, asking them to drive her. They left hours ago.”
“And why didn’t she ask me?” Mac’s brow crinkled.
“Perhaps she knew you’d tag along on her coat-tails?” Birdie smiled sweetly. “She has things to do there that she wishes to do alone.”
“Humph.” Mac frowned.
Hardwick’s blood chilled. When Birdie opened her mouth again to argue with her husband, he used the opportunity to slip from the room.
He couldn’t imagine why Cilla wanted to go to Seagrave, but whatever the reason, he didn’t like it.
It was also dangerous.
There were other reasons beside his memories that had kept him from returning to his old home. The ruin’s isolation, he’d been told, attracted unsavory souls.
Ghosts who used his home for revels and debauchery he didn’t want Cilla to stumble into.
“Hellfire and damnation!” He stormed out of Dunroamin’s heavy front door and scrunched his eyes against the blinding sunlight.
Where was soft Highland mist when a body needed it?
Scowling, he stomped down the broad stone steps, knowing there was only one thing he could do. He’d have to sift himself to Seagrave and fetch her.
He just hoped he wouldn’t be too late.
Chapter 17
’Tis a man’s work.
Cilla frowned remembering Hardwick’s words. Much as she loved him, she struggled against blowing out a bitter breath. She did take a deep, back-straightening one. That was what she needed, about to tackle some serious women’s work. Men didn’t do what she was going to attempt. When it came down to it, only women were so daring, so utterly bold and determined in chasing their dreams.
Her throat swelled and an annoying sting of prickling heat jabbed the backs of her eyes at the thought of her dream. Forget the tingles he gave her and the to-die-for tongue swirls. His deep, hungry kisses that drove her to madness, and even his rich Scottish burr. Something she doubted she’d tire of even if she lived a thousand years.
His slow, sexy smiles and the way his dark eyes went all hot and simmering when he looked at her.
She didn’t even need to think about his kilt.
All that was wonderful, but it was his heart and his soul that she really wanted, because her own would never be complete without him.
She suspected she’d known it the moment she’d seen him, and she wasn’t going to let him go now.
So she blinked back her tears before they could fall and swallowed the lump in her throat. Strength and courage was what she needed. There would be time for soppiness later, if her plan worked.
Refusing to accept otherwise, she pushed her hair back off her forehead and took another few brisk and confident steps.
Confidence was the key.
Only if she truly believed would she have a chance of breaking through seven hundred years and reaching the bard-wizard who’d cursed Hardwick. Villains always returned to the scene of their crimes, after all. Aunt Birdie had assured her that even if he hadn’t, enough residue of such a dramatic event would have seeped into Seagrave’s walls for her to make contact with the minstrel.
As long as she kept faith that she could.
But doing so wasn’t exactly easy. Already she’d covered half of the long grass-grown path that lead out to the imposing ruins of Hardwick’s former home. Her determination and—oddly enough—the occasional tossed-aside soda can or water bottle and the bicycle tracks on the path were the only things keeping her from turning around and following the little coastal road right back to the tiny fishing village of Cruden Bay, where Robbie and Roddie had dropped her.
Her rock-iron will to make contact with the bard and urge him to undo the spell wouldn’t let her turn back if her life depended on it.
And the litter and signs of cyclists assured her that the ruins weren’t as dangerous as they looked.
Other people clearly came here.
Even so, she couldn’t stop a shiver. Seagrave wasn’t your archetypical Scottish cliff-top ruin, all tumbled walls and romance, wheeling seabirds and piles of mossy, indistinguishable rubble.
The ruins were in-your-face formidable. Bold, stark, and soaring, from this distance, anyway, they didn’t look crumbled at all. Only bleak and derelict with the roof missing and large black rectangles of emptiness indicating the onetime placement of doors and windows.
Cilla took another deep breath and adjusted the shoulder straps of her rucksack. Filled with her lunch and, more importantly, Aunt Birdie’s spirit-conjuring goods, the thing was starting to get heavy.
And something was watching her from Seagrave’s hollow, blank-staring windows.
Hoping it might be the minstrel, in the way of spirits perhaps already aware of her mission, she quickened her step and plunged on. Chin high, she veered off the muddy, grassy track and pushed through into the heart of the ruin. A long, roofless corridor with many doors opening off both
sides stretched before her. Eerie, damp, and earthy-smelling, it was anything but inviting, but she strode along until she came to a wide-open space that once could only have been a courtyard.
Though choked with weeds and brambles, there were enough clumps of fallen stone to sit on. Huge, empty windows facing the sea let in the light, and, best of all, here in the sheltered walls of the bailey, she’d be free from prying eyes.
Here, too, she’d be somewhat protected from the cold wind racing in off the gray, white-capped North Sea. Heavy waves pounded Seagrave’s cliffs, the churning waters so different from the gentle, blue-swirling Kyle.
Passing by the fallen chunks of masonry—she’d learned all about stinging nettles at Castle Varrich—she went to one of the large, gaping windows and placed her rucksack on its broad stone ledge.
Another deep breath and a silent prayer, and she started setting up her minstrel-conjuring goods. Two white candles, each carefully set inside glass jars to block the wind. A genuine fourteenth-century oil lamp from the depths of Dunroamin’s unused wing. Tiny and rusted, the lamp was just the thing to evoke a sense of the past century, or so Aunt Birdie had promised.
A little bottle of frankincense essential oil served the same purpose. Heart thumping, Cilla hoisted herself onto the window ledge and then unscrewed the bottle’s cap, dribbling a few generous drops onto the stone.
For good measure, she touched a finger to the bottle’s opening and then dabbed a tiny bit of the oil on the tip of her nose.
Then she closed her eyes and tried to concentrate, imagining the bard as a small bent man, grizzled and gray, and carrying a lute.
Unfortunately, she only felt silly.
Her eyes snapped open and she frowned. Despite the two glass jars, the wind had managed to blow out her candles. Worse, she’d not thought to return her matches to the rucksack, and the little packet was now gone.
The wind had surely claimed them. Sweeping the matches off the window ledge and sending them right down onto the crashing waves of the North Sea.
Damn.
Aunt Birdie had insisted the white candles were crucial.
And now she couldn’t relight them.
Frustration tightened her chest. For a moment, her eyes stung again and her view of the tossing gray-and-white North Sea went blurry. But she blinked hard until the stinging heat receded and her vision cleared.
Crying never got anyone anywhere.
But fierce determination did, so she picked up the little medieval cruse lamp and held it so tight its rounded, bowl-like edge dug deep into her palm. Ignoring the discomfort, she concentrated again on her image of a wandering minstrel, willing the man to appear. Or, at least, to give her some kind of sign that he was present and willing to listen.
Nothing happened.
She breathed deep. Long, slow breaths designed to soak up the ancient scent of the frankincense. But all she inhaled was the tang of the sea and black, limpet-crusted boulders. Wet grass and a pungent waft of something she suspected was strongly related to the many lobster traps and fishing nets she’d seen at nearby Cruden Bay.
The frankincense couldn’t compete.
Instead of feeling transported, she again began to feel ridiculous.
The minstrel wasn’t here, wasn’t reachable, or just plain didn’t care.
Doomed before she’d even put her bard-conjuring tools into her bag. Knowing defeat when it stood before her, she sighed and opened her eyes.
“Oh, no!” She clapped a hand to her breast, mortified to discover that she had conjured someone.
A man.
Tall, clad in black, and handsome in a roguish sort of way, he stood across the bailey from her, leaning casually against the arch of one of the many empty door openings.
Arms folded and ankles crossed, he was looking right at her, clearly amused.
And she knew without asking that he was absolutely not a medieval minstrel.
She also couldn’t shake the odd sensation that she’d seen him before. A notion that, although unsettling, was a lot better than if he struck her as some kind of Scottish ax murderer. Scotland was surely safer than certain parts of Philly, but even she had heard of the occasional weirdness.
Trying to look as if she encountered dark-clad mystery men in castle ruins all the time, she hopped down from the window and dusted her hands.
“Nice day for a walk, h’mmm?” She tried for casual.
The man said nothing.
But at least he hadn’t moved.
She forced a friendly American smile, but let her mind race to what she could use as a weapon. Maybe the jagged edge of one of the candle jars if she smashed it quickly enough. Does frankincense essential oil temporarily blind people if it’s dashed in their face? she wondered.
The man just kept studying her, an odd smile quirking across his lips.
Cilla dropped her own smile. It wasn’t working, anyway.
She swallowed. “Are you from around here?”
“Scotland?” His deep burr said that he was. “Aye, so I was . . . once.”
Cilla blinked. She didn’t like the way he’d said that.
“Once?”
He glanced aside, and she saw that he’d tied his sleek raven-black hair in a shoulder-skimming ponytail. He looked back at her as quickly and pushed away from the wall, taking a few steps toward her.
“Aye, once.” His smile faded. “ ’Twas long ago and a time best forgotten.”
“ ’Twas?” Cilla slid a look at the two candle jars, wondering if she could spring for them.
It was one thing for Hardwick to use the occasional ’tisey and ’twasey. But this guy, though definitely a bit on the odd side, looked way too modern for such language.
She backed up against the wall, resting her elbow on the window ledge in a hopefully innocent-looking gesture. Even if she didn’t have time to smash a candle jar, she could use one to bop him on the head if he tried anything funny.
She almost choked at the thought.
He looked powerfully muscled, certainly Hardwick’s equal in strength or close to it. It was also a pretty good bet that he’d be fast on his feet. As for the damage his hands could do, she didn’t even want to consider it.
In a word, he appeared lethal.
“I think I’ll just be going . . .” She slid a look down the long door-and-window-filled corridor, not at all surprised that it now seemed even more sinister.
A dark passage filled with slanting shadows and the weird sense of strange little creatures darting and scampering here and there, flitting just out of sight before the eye could catch them.
Her fingers stretched for the candle jar.
His hand snapped around her wrist. He’d moved before she could blink.
“Hey!” She tried to yank free.
He smiled again, his grip like iron.
“The candles wouldn’t have worked.” He released her but crowded her space, looming tall before her, blocking her escape. “Not as you meant to use them. They would”—he rubbed his chin as he eyed her bard-conjuring goods—“have shielded you, though.”
“Shielded me?” Was that high-pitched squeak her voice?
“Aye, they’d have protected you well. If they were still burning.”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She grabbed her candle jars and the frankincense bottle and stuffed everything in her rucksack.
It alone would serve as a weapon if swung deftly.
Mr. Ponytail met her eyes, challenging. “Ach, you ken well enough what I mean, Cilla.”
His words jellied her knees.
He knew her name.
She caught her breath, heart thumping. “How do you know who I am?”
“How is it that you do not know who I am?” His lips twitched. “I thought you would have guessed by now.”
“I think you’re mad.” Cilla tightened her grip on her rucksack, making ready to swing. “Maybe you heard Robbie and Roddie use my name when we stopped for tea in Colliest
on. There were other people in the tea shop. You could have been one of them.”
“Ah, but you disappoint me.” He clucked his tongue. “To think I troubled myself to come here.”
“You needn’t have bothered, but you can have the place to yourself.” Cilla started away. “I’m leaving.”
“Without hearing what I’ve done for you?”
Something in his tone stopped her. “I know you’re not the minstrel.”
He laughed softly. “I could be him if you wished. Nothing is impossible.”
Cilla felt her pulse skip a beat.
Slowly, she turned.
He stood at the window, facing her, his tall, broad-shouldered form dark against the great expanse of the silvery twilit sea. Something about the way he angled his head and watched her made the fine hairs on the back of her neck stand on end.
She was sure she’d seen him before.
When he laughed again, his eye corners crinkling and his whole face broadening in a wide, self-satisfied grin, she knew where.
“Oh, my God!” Her eyes flew wide. “You’re the devil! The red devil face at my window!”
She’d known the devil face had been real.
He clapped a hand to his heart and screwed up his face in a mock wince. “Recognized at last, though I must own that I am not himself, nae. Merely a favored keeper of a small corner of his boundless dominion.”
She stared at him, trembling. “But the mask—”
“The mask and that wretched bird’s meddling ruined what was meant as a warning to Seagrave.” A look of remembered annoyance flickered across his face. “I wanted him to know how close I could come to you.”
He glanced out at the sea, then back at her. “Had I bothered to look deeper into the goings-on at Dunroamin I would have foreseen Gregor’s interference with the Up-Helly-Aa mask and chosen another guise for myself. As it was, some of my root-dragons were causing havoc at the time, misbehaving, and my mind was otherwise occupied.”
“Root-dragons?” Cilla swallowed, fear constricting her chest.
He didn’t seem to hear her, his gaze once more on the sea.
She moistened her lips, gauging how she could escape.
Up to now she’d believed he was just a loony. Now that he’d mentioned Gregor’s name, she had little choice but to believe him.
Tall, Dark, and Kilted Page 28