Tall, Dark and Kilted (3 page)

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.”

She set down her fork. “Don’t mention Culloden to your uncle. Not if you don’t want an earful. He visits the site whenever we drive down to Inverness and considers himself quite an authority on the battle.”

“It was the last battle on British soil, right?” Cilla slid another glance at the shields. “Bonnie Prince Charlie, the clans, and all that?”

“That’s right.” Aunt Birdie nodded. “Culloden broke the clans and proved the death knell of clan culture. The battle and its aftermath also smoothed the way for the Highland Clearances that followed. Strathnaver suffered bitterly in those times, with whole communities being put to flight, their homes torched to make way for more profitable sheep.” She leaned close, lowering her voice. “People hereabouts still speak as if it all happened just yesterday.”

“And Uncle Mac leads the parade.” The notion made Cilla smile.

“He does.” Aunt Birdie smiled, too. “He’s a real crusader for the old ways. His interest in the times is one reason he’s collected the targes. That’s why I don’t think any of them are medieval, though I suppose they could be. They certainly were around back then.”

“I thought so.” Cilla picked at her scone. She wasn’t about to admit that the real reason the shields bothered her was because there’d been one in the poster with Mr. Wasn’t-Really-There. The thing had been propped against the wall, near his feet.

And like him, it hadn’t belonged there.

Which meant she was losing her mind.

Or seeing ghosts.

Needing to know which it was, she pushed back from the table and stood. “Aunt Birdie, is Uncle Mac really so sure there aren’t any ghosts here?”

“Why?” Her aunt put down her salmon-topped oat-cake. “Have you seen one? There are stories, you know. All these gloomy old piles have their tales.”

“I know,” Cilla agreed. She also knew her aunt surely believed every one she heard.

Aunt Birdie was like that.

“Out with the fairies,” her mother always called her. Hearing the laughter of sprites in the tinkle of a stream or seeing
shades
in thin veils of drifting mist.

Cilla tossed back her hair and lifted her chin.

She
was different.

“But what does Uncle Mac really think?” She paced a bit, her gaze repeatedly sliding to the windows. “Mom and Dad mentioned there were some problems here. Do they have anything to do with ghosts?”

“So some say. But not your uncle.” Aunt Birdie dabbed a linen napkin at her mouth. “He’d laugh in the face of the devil. In fact, he thinks it’s a devil causing our difficulties.”

She set down the napkin and lowered her voice. “A mortal, flesh-and-blood devil out to ruin us, though we can’t imagine who he is or what he has against Dunroamin.”

“Oh, dear. That sounds serious.” Cilla returned to the table, roguish-looking poster shadows forgotten. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“We’ll discuss it later. We need to, as we’re hoping you can help us with a few things. Just now, I’d much rather hear about you.” Aunt Birdie patted her hand. “We were so sorry to hear about Grant.”

Cilla nearly choked on her tea. “Don’t be. Getting dumped by Grant A. Hughes III was the best thing that ever happened to me. I’m totally over him.”

Aunt Birdie’s eyes narrowed. “Are you sure? You don’t sound—”

“If I sound upset, it’s not because of losing Grant. It’s because his new girlfriend had a hand in ruining my business.” She set down her teacup. “I can’t prove it, but I’m certain she torpedoed Vintage Chic.”

“But you were doing so well.” Aunt Birdie looked astonished.

“So well I had to sell my car to pay several months’ overdue rent.” Heat began inching up her throat and she slipped a finger beneath the neck opening of her top, feeling warm in the chilly room.

“You should have told us.”

“I couldn’t.” She looked across the table at her aunt, something about her—as always—making the words spill. “Call it pride as far as you and Uncle Mac go, and, well, regarding Mom and Dad, they don’t have enough as is. No way did I want them dipping into their savings to help me.”

Aunt Birdie shook her head. “I’m so sorry, dear. We had no idea.” She gestured with her scone at the laptop Uncle Mac had left sitting at the far end of the table. “I remember you e-mailing some while back about a local jewelry and gift shop giving you display space. You said they were very excited about your sales, that—”

“You mean the Charm Box at the Emporium, a cluster of secondhand, antique, and jewelry shops in the heart of Yardley. They cater to shoppers with eclectic tastes.” Cilla tried not to sound bitter. “Paterson’s Charm Box is the one who carried my broken china jewelry creations. And, yes, they were enthusiastic. Unfortunately, their daughter, Dawn, saw things differently.”

“She’s the one seeing Grant?”

Cilla nodded. “The last time I took in a new batch of designs, she told me my work wasn’t selling and they couldn’t waste the counter space on me. Even worse, I’d swear she and her family are friendly with every other antique and jewelry shop owner between Philly and Trenton. After the Patersons ousted me, no other shops would even look at my work.”

“Sounds like sour grapes.” Aunt Birdie stood and crossed the room to toss a few peat bricks on the fire. “Sorry, of a sudden, I’m freezing.” She gave Cilla an apologetic smile as she reclaimed her seat at the table. “So, tell me. Who
is
this girl?”

“She’s a force to be reckoned with, that’s what.” Cilla poked at her scone. It wasn’t very encouraging to realize that the thought of her miniscule rival still had such power to needle her. “Born to rich and doting parents, she’s pampered, spoiled, and always gets her way. Or in Grant’s case, her man.”