His Lass Wears Tartan (25 page)

She moved a short inch down the aisle.

The same set of lyrical notes from a Celtic pipe started caressing her ears.
Definitely Celtic; this is not someone’s iPod.
“What the — ” she started, a slight chill ran down her spine, a tingling bolt. Not the invasive full-body freeze as before, but a chill squeezing her wildly beating heart. She glanced around, alone in the aisle. Goose bumps speckled her minimally tanned-from-a-bottle forearms. “It couldn’t be.” She slowly forced her head to turn toward the neatly packed shelves. Titles of Scotland filled her vision.

“Lassie, ye be cracking up around these books of ye ancestors.” Baillie melted against the bookshelves for support, her legs like wet strands of pasta.
Am I
having a stroke?
“Get over it, Catharine Anne Baillie. Ignore the dark fairies of the glen trying to frighten life out of ye and get ye wide-burdened butt back to work.” Baillie laughed shakily at her pitiful attempt at a Sean Connery brogue. Breaking the invisible hold of fear, she wobbled off to find a place for the last two books in her arm.

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