Tall, Dark and Kilted Read Free Page B

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