Read Online Tall, Dark and Kilted by Allie Mackay - Free Book Online Page B

it.
    “Aye, it does.” Honoria snatched up the casserole pot. “Only in the worst rainstorms, but then the plink-plinkety-plonks of the dripping water is so loud that a body can’t hear itself think.”
    “Aunt Birdie and Uncle Mac didn’t mention—”
    “There’ll be much they haven’t told you about the goings-on at Dunroamin, but”—the housekeeper caught her eye—“you’ll be hearing it soon enough.”
    “Aunt Birdie told me there are difficulties.” Cilla stepped aside as the older woman thrust the casserole pot back into the chaos and shut the closet door. “Do you think someone deliberately damaged the roof?”
    “Age and wear damaged the roof and naught else.” Honoria started down the corridor again. “Though I can tell you that your aunt and uncle meant to have the roof repaired some while ago and would have done if business hadn’t taken such a bad turn.”
    “Oh, dear.” Cilla hurried after her, hot shower and bed forgotten. “Water drips can do all kinds of damage to an old house like this.”
    “Exactly.” Honoria didn’t break stride. “And that’s just what we suspect certain bodies are hoping.”
    “But who would want to hurt Uncle Mac and Aunt Birdie?”
    “Someone up to no good is who.” The housekeeper’s voice was sharp. “And one thing is sure as I’m standing here”—she stopped before a magnificent carved oak door, one hand on the latch—“it isn’t ghosties what’s causing the furor.”
    Cilla blinked. “Ghosties?”
    Behind her, she thought she heard a rustle of wool. Kilted wool—she knew the sound well—coming closer, as if to listen in on their conversation.
    Unfazed, the housekeeper sniffed.
    “Aye, ghosties, if one was of a mind to believe such twaddle.”
    “I thought you believed in them.”
    “Ach, and I do right enough.” Her tone rang with conviction. “But there are ghosties and ghosties , and I’ll no’ be buying that a gaggle of them want to scare away Dunroamin’s paying residents.”
    Leaning close, she pinned Cilla with a stare. “I don’t just work here, see you? I live and breathe this house. I know every creaking floorboard, every groan in the woodwork, each sticking window, and which shutters rattle in the night wind.”
    She straightened, her hand still on the door latch. “I also know Dunroamin’s ghosts. The bogles we have here, such as poor Margaret MacDonald, love Dunroamin and would never seek to frighten folk.”
    Cilla wasn’t so sure about that, but before she could voice an opinion, the housekeeper swung open the library door and three things leapt at her, chasing Honoria and her bogles from her mind.
    One, she’d never seen so much plaid.
    Though the requisite mahogany bookcases lined the walls and the handsome fire surround gleamed in the expected black marble and the usual ancestral portraits held pride of place throughout the large room, a palette of tartanware covered every other inch of available space.
    Heavy velvet drapes styled the windows in a sett of deep red squares and stripes. Instead of the customary Persian carpets, richly patterned plaid rugs lent warmth to the wide-planked polished floor, while tartan wallpaper peeked from between the bookshelves, gilded picture frames, and occasional molting stag heads.
    Even the scattered sofas and wing chairs welcomed in various-shaded tartan dress, some offering the additional comfort of several folded plaid blankets and stout tartan-covered ottomans.
    In short, the library bulged plaid.
    Cilla blinked, the colorful array almost hurting her eyes.
    The housekeeper, clearly immune, strode past her into the candlelit room. Looking wholly in her element, she made straight for a long, tartan-draped table near a wall of tall, mullioned windows.
    Spread for tea with generous servings of oatcakes and cheeses, cakes and chocolate-dipped biscuits, and large silver platters of salmon and thin-sliced roast beef, it wasn’t the tartan tablecloth that took Cilla by