Read Tall, Dark and Kilted for Free Online

nipples drawn deliciously tight.
    “By all the powers!” He roared the curse.
    Snapping his brows together, he glared at the image until the wind broke it apart.
    He shoved back his hair, his mood thoroughly ruined. He didn’t know how she’d done it—a long line and more centuries of women than he liked to admit had only left him disinterested, even after a particularly pleasing tumble—yet this one had somehow managed to brand herself on him.
    And he hadn’t even kissed her.
    That could only mean trouble.
    Feeling it settle around him like a dark, clinging cloud, he set his jaw and started pacing again.
    If need be, he’d spend his proving time doing so.
    Pacing was good.
    Scowling, likewise.
    Better yet, even on a fine-weather day, the battlements often stayed windswept and cold. Many a good, stout Scots lass wouldn’t care to brave such a chill and blustery aerie.
    With luck, an American wouldn’t even attempt the climb up the narrow, winding stair.
    Unfortunately, something told him Cilla Swanner might. After all, she’d crossed the room to peer at him inside the poster frame even if seeing him there clearly didn’t sit well with her.
    She might look as if she should be perched in a tower window, her fair hair spilling over the ledge as she pined for some noble gallant to come and carry her away on a white steed, but she had a bold and daring heart.
    He was sure of it.
    So he stomped on, practicing his best glares all the while.
    “Ho! Here is a wonder!” A deep voice boomed behind him. “Ne’er would I have believed I’d see the day you scowl and curse o’er such a comely maid.”
    Hardwick whipped around so fast he nearly dropped his shield.
    Bran MacNeil of Barra stood a few paces away, his huge bearlike form almost splitting with mirth. Ghostly, great-hearted, and good-humored, the Hebridean chieftain sported a bushy beard nearly as red as Mac MacGhee’s, and his blue eyes crinkled with the same teasing amusement.
    The gemstone in the pommel of his sword hilt shone dimly in the day’s pale light and his plaid lifted in the wind, its woolen folds smelling distinctly of a heady musk-scented perfume that wasn’t Bran’s own.
    “You great stirk!” Hardwick glowered at him. “Cease goggling at me like a ring-tailed gowk. You should know why I’m scowling.”
    “I can think it, aye!”
    “No doubt,” Hardwick agreed. “You know fine why I’m here.”
    He tightened his grip on his shield. A sharp bite to his tongue kept him from demanding how his longtime friend and wenching companion knew Cilla Swanner was comely.
    Or, more importantly, how he knew she even existed.
    “Why are you here?” Hardwick eyed him, suspicious. Though, in truth, he’d already guessed the answer. “It’s a rare day that you leave Barra.”
    His friend cut the air with a hand. “My fair isle will keep until my return. I came to see how you’re doing here in the wild and lonely north!”
    “I’ve been passing my nights well enough until—” Hardwick caught himself.
    Somewhere in the mist behind him, a wicked chortle sounded.
    Hardwick’s nape prickled. His blood chilled and he blanked his features, as if he’d not noticed.
    Bran just kept laughing. “Until you had your head turned, eh?”
    “My head hasn’t been turned.” Hardwick lifted his voice, hoping any lurking cacklers would hear his denial and return to their hellhole. “You’re poking your nose where it doesn’t belong and seeing things that aren’t there.”
    “Say you?”
    “I do.”
    Looking as if he was having none of that, the burly Islesman leaned back against the parapet’s notched wall and crossed his ankles.
    “I told you it would have been wiser to hie yourself to Barra,” he said, sounding most serious. “There, you could have—”
    Hardwick laughed.
    He couldn’t help himself.
    Then he shoved a hand through his hair and spoke the truth. “Your hall is so thick with temptation you could stir the place with a