Tall, Dark and Kilted Read Online Free PDF Page A

walls and strummed the air.
    Cilla jerked. Something like a jolt of electricity tripped through her, spilling from the roots of her hair clear down to the tips of her toes.
    “Did you hear that?” She flashed a look at her aunt, her pulse quickening. “That was a man’s voice—”
    “Shush . . .” Aunt Birdie put a finger to her lips.
    “I heard him clearly,” Cilla insisted, anyway. “Maybe Uncle Mac is out in the corridor? Or maybe it was another of his recordings?”
    She twisted around, her gaze searching the room.
    But it was empty.
    No suspicious humming gave away a recorded jest.
    And the dark square of the door showed only shadows. Nothing but the ever-present sea haar stared in at them from the long bank of glittering, Jacobean-era windows.
    Fool . The word still filled her ears.
    Aunt Birdie sat quietly sipping her tea, a faraway look in her deep blue eyes.
    “There is someone here.” She turned to Cilla, her gaze once more clear. “A chivalrous man who cannot stand seeing women treated poorly. I feel he’d avenge you if he could.”
    Cilla swallowed. “You feel him?”
    “Oh yes.” Her aunt tilted her head, listening. “I’d bet your uncle’s beard on it.”
    “And he wants to avenge me?”
    Cilla kept her doubt to herself. She didn’t believe in gallant men, ghostly or otherwise.
    Her aunt flicked a crumb off the tablecloth.
    “I can only tell you the impressions I’m getting.” She met Cilla’s eyes, her own gaze steady. “It’s mostly anger, and I’m interpreting his energy as being colored by Grant’s betrayal, though I could be wrong. But come”—she jumped up and pulled Cilla to her feet—“let’s join your uncle in the library. As he would say, I likely shouldn’t have indulged in a second dram when you arrived!”
    Moving quickly, she tugged Cilla from the room. “Tomorrow will be soon enough to think about our troubles here at Dunroamin, and whatever heartache Grant A. Hughes III has caused you.”
    Grant A. Hughes III .
    The third, by love of all the saints. Near the windows, Hardwick stifled a snort. The man wasn’t just a fool. He had a name like a pompous, limp-wristed peacock.
    Certain Hughes had other, equally disagreeable faults, Hardwick stepped out of his hiding place the instant the two women exited the room.
    Brushing at his plaid, he frowned at the now-empty suit of armor. Never again would he materialize inside anything even halfway as constricting.
    He shuddered and flexed his fingers. Then, for good measure, he wriggled his toes, as well. A few vigorous neck rolls, first in one direction and then the other, followed by a quick set of knee bends, completed his attempts to rid himself of the kinks and knots plaguing him.
    All that, and still he felt miserable.
    Whoever had once worn the armor had been a small, slightly built man.
    Definitely not a Highlander.
    Proud to belong to that noble race himself, he should have been more wary when he’d followed the interloper from her bedchamber. His scowl deepening, he planted fisted hands on his hips and glanced around.
    How typical that he’d purposely left his own shield outside, only to have the fetching creature he now knew to be Cilla Swanner not only flash her breasts at him, but to leave him no choice than to trail after her to the castle armory.
    A room filled with shields—taunting reminders of the state in which he’d passed the last seven hundred years.
    The dire circumstances he’d find himself in if he failed to meet the Dark One’s requirements for lifting the wizard-bard’s curse.
    “A plague on it,” he growled, scowling. “And on that long-ago lute picker. May his fingers rot and wither, or stick to his lute strings.” He put back his shoulders, his own curse rolling off his tongue with enough heat to rival any fireballs the Dark One might throw at him for his insolence.
    There were some things a man just shouldn’t have to endure.
    Dwelling beneath the same roof as his one great