Alcohol stank on his breath. This Donovan was different than the usually cordial and professional model that understood the constraints of publishing. Without my series continuing, he wouldn’t be gracing any more of my covers.
“Why do you have that?” The ship was too small to have my personal stalker on it right now.
He quickly folded it and placed the paper back in his pants pocket.
“I'm not going to let my piece of golden honey get away from me. You know, your cocoa butter scent drives me wild.” He slithered closer towards me.
I took an unconscious step back and frowned at him.
Ever since I’d discovered his picture at some convention and begged my publisher to put him on my covers, well, he’s been sickeningly sweet. Sort of like the stripper that has no interest in you, just the large stack of folded ones in your pocket.
I placed my hand up. “Whoa. Although you might consider that a compliment, it isn't.”
“Does my adoration offend you?”
“I find your behavior very offensive. I think you’re drunk.”
He shook his head, and clenched his jaw. I could see the muscles working.
“You should really get to that workshop you’re supposed to lead.” He cleared his throat, and I didn’t know him well enough to have any idea what might have been happening behind that handsome mask, but whatever it was, the evil glint in his eyes gave me pause.
“I'm sorry. I didn't mean to offend you,” he continued, then turned and stalked away.
Gran materialized at my side. “You need to be careful with that one there. He’s been poking sheep so long, he doesn’t know that you’re a wolf.”
“Wolves hunt in packs. If I were anything, I’d be a vampire.”
I grabbed my glass of water, glanced at the clock, and headed toward conference room A.
“You always did have a thing for those that sucked. I was just hoping you’d have better taste in men than your mother.”
10
Alistair
What in all that should be holy is going on? Thoughts swirled. He moved from the pool area, and towards where the authors seemed to be convening.
It didn't take long before he noticed her.
He watched as one model seemed to do a body roll, while another author stuffed dollar bills somewhere. He couldn't be a prude. There was one author who sat to the side. She had a name tag on with a folded piece of paper before her. She looked as miserable as he felt.
But it was the scent of lavender that made him recognize her.
He'd seen beauty, he'd tasted it, rolled in it and practically drowned in it, but it wasn't her. She was different. A spark flared and made him stand still.
That didn’t happen too often, had never happened to be honest.
There was something in her aura that caught his attention. The more he stared, the more his stomach did something strange inside. His palms grew sweaty, and for a man that always had something to say, he found himself speechless.
“Mine!” He heard something within him call out. His eyes blared and he stared at her, taking in every nuance of her heart-shaped face, her curly reddish-brown hair, and kiss-worthy lips. He wanted her to smile and be the reason a smile crossed his face.
He couldn't make words form, couldn't move. A gust of wind blew, rocking the boat. He needed to get his emotions in check, or he'd sink the whole damn ship.
He wished for nothing else than to push his chest out, remove everyone from around them, toss her over his shoulder and take her away—far away from those who did not deserve her attention.
She was breathtaking. He paused and frowned. Rubbing his chest, he realized that he didn’t like that much.
She’d only be a distraction in the castle. To him, the Order and everything that he’d created over the years—that was what mattered.
“Oh, do you read romance?” An older woman who reminded him of his grandmother with white hair and wide-rimmed spectacles, said as she pulled on his sleeve. “I've seen it all, but I didn't think that men like you would read such things.”
He cleared his throat. “Men like me?”
“Yes, manly men.” She emphasized manly and touched his arm a little longer.
“I'm a great fan of Ms. Love's work.” He held up the copy of the book that had been shoved down his pants.
“She's all right, but she'll never be as great as Cassidy MacFarlane. She writes authentic love stories, not this crap—” She waved at the woman whose name he'd read off of the paper placard.
“You, my dear, just don't know good story telling,” he said
“I prefer the stories filled with BDSM. That is true smut. Just my taste to get the engines going and you know, revved up for someone like you to finish me off.”
Alistair tried to keep a straight face. Of course, he probably hadn't had sex since before the woman standing next to him was born, which made for an uncomfortable conversation. “You know, sunny,” she continued, “men like you need to know the rules of foreplay. It's not all about poking and prodding, but you got to make love to a woman. Those MacFarlane books can teach you how.”
She shimmied her hips around in a circle. When did great-grandmas become so sexual?
“Um?” He looked for a way out. He’d been alive when women showing a bit of ankle was cause for scandal, but this? This lewdness he couldn’t handle. He could feel the walls closing in when the woman began with the talks of whips and chains.
“You know, when I was younger, I made sure to use what I had, and that's why I'm still able to keep going. Helps to keep me young.”
“Not sure your husband would agree with that,” he said.
“He was too busy with the housekeeper. I kept the pool boy.” She turned and swished away, leaving him to consider her statements. It had been a long time since he'd had to consider wooing a woman, and he just wasn't ready for that. The potential.
His thoughts shifted to the last time, and his ex, Skadi. They'd been hot and heavy and then when things became difficult, she became difficult.
She taught him that love wasn't worth it, but maybe Ms. Love could teach him something else.
On that thought, he turned away not liking where those thoughts could lead.
The seer would only cause problems, and even his allegiance to Freyja wasn’t going to make him take that woman back to his castle; this was now simply out of the question.
11
Leslie
The ship rocked and careened as the waves continued to crash against the sides. My dinner gown swirled around me from the ship’s breeze, just as my head swam from the constant movement.
At the starboard side of the ship, I held on to the deck railing. Music from the Top 40s blared, people laughed, but where I stood, no one was around, not even the waiter who'd been plying me with drinks.
The star-filled sky offered me a moment of relief. They twinkled, and so far away from city lights and land, I appreciated the different constellations.
The boards creaked behind me when someone approached.
“My dear, are you okay?” Donovan asked.
I turned to see the cover model who’d been on Claudine’s “to do” list for tonight.
“You look quite dashing in your finery,” I said, ogling him in his Scottish regalia.
“I've also worn it as it has historically been depicted.” He winked at me. That should have told me something was off.
“Is this about the next book?” I asked.
“Good, I’m happy that you’re bringing it up. Your publisher told me that you will no longer require me on your books.” He came closer. “Don't you think I’m handsome enough to cover your hard work?” His voice lowered to an intimate whisper. He pinned me against the railing, his arms on either side of me. His breath spiked with the odor of alcohol, warmed on my face.
I stared at him and wondered at his beautiful face. He was handsome in his own right, and if I would have had a thing for men in kilts, he'd have been right up there,
but something in me cried out. I wanted a bad boy—a historical bad boy bezerker, and everyone knew that they only came as Vikings, even if later on those Vikings became some delicious Scots.
I cleared my throat, but unable to move. Instead, I batted my eyelashes. “You know, it’s an interesting thing with the Scots and their tartans. Each one represents a clan. Which clan are you supposed to be from?”
“Surely, the only thing that matters is whether or not this Scot's sword shall pierce you.”
“Pierce me?” I laughed. “Did you just say pierce me? I know you’re trying to play a part, but that’s not something to joke about. A historical man wouldn't talk like that.”
He furrowed his brow. “Are you laughing at me?”
I turned away and watched him clench his fingers around the metal railing.
“I'm not the first, nor will I be the last.”
He leaned in, as if to place a kiss on me. I pushed against his chest. “No,” I said.
“You know you want it. I've read how you've talked about my body being on yours and how you've desired nothing more since seeing me.”
“You’re just the model.”
“I am the man behind the muse.” He took his hand and reached down as if to pull up the hem of my dress.
“No,” I said again, and pushed at his chest.
“Isn't this just like you want it? Rough?”
Closing my hand, I jammed my fist into his face. I didn't have five brothers for nothing. “I said, NO!”
“My face,” he yelped, and grabbed his nose.
He'd get less covers now for sure.
Anger marred his features just as much as his broken nose. “They’ll be no blue ribbon below from me, dear lad. Why don't you go get some sleep? Evidently being around all of these women has gone to your head. Better yet, why don't you just go?” I pointed back toward the lounge area.
He slinked away, and in that moment, momentous relief rained down on me. I hadn't had to defend myself since the sixth grade where I'd been called an epithet, and it didn't sit so well with me then. Just as attempted sexual assault made me want to beat the shit out of someone—Donovan in particular.
I turned back around and stared out at the sea in front of me, watching the dark water. The only light came from buoys in the near, and that was all right with me.
I closed my eyes and drifted to the thought of what it would be like if he had been like I'd always wished for—a Viking. Maybe then I would have been more interested in knowing if the railing could have held me up or not.
12
Leslie
With one piercing scream, I flew over the side of the deck railing and plunged into the dark frigid waters. My dress tangled around my ankles and legs, pulling me down further and further from the surface as I attempted to propel myself upward. Its heaviness acted like weights.
Time wasn’t on my side. I knew the longer I stayed in the water, the higher the chance that hypothermia would set in.
For a moment, I could hear uilleann pipes playing as I attempted to move. My lungs burned, fighting to breathe, while a thousand needles punctured me. My heart contracted, and hiccupped. For a moment, my mind drifted to the Titanic and all of those souls lost on that ship, and how Rose had enough room on that damned raft, but refused to scoot over for Jack to also survive. I wished I had a raft or a life vest.
Like giving birth, I finally broke through the water, and as in the movie, in the dead of night, only stars lit up the sky. In the distance, I saw the ship’s lights moving further away.
“What are you doing out here?” Gran asked, appearing at my side. Her eyes were wider than saucers. Her mouth formed into a large “O”.
“I fell overboard,” I sputtered.
“Fell or thrown? I told you that model wasn’t any good.”
My teeth began to chatter, but I couldn’t really think. My head ached. “I’m not ready to die, Gran.”
“And die you shan’t. Stay here, and I’ll go get help.”
I’m not really sure where she expected me to go, but the more the waves moved back and forth, the more I longed for a life vest, some buoyance.
A numbness crept upward from my fingers and toes, and no matter how much I tried to remain calm, anxiety peeled me like an onion, ripping away layers at a time. My muscles grew tired.
And the waves pulled me under again.
The battle was on.
I screamed as loud as I could. “Help me!” Yet, in the inky darkness of the water no one could see me, and I couldn’t see anything as the lights from the ship faded from my sight.
My eyes welled with tears, and as the waves rocked me back and forth, I thought about poor Jack. He’d frozen holding on, and I wasn’t sure how much longer I could keep treading water before the sea would also suck me under. Large almond shaped blue eyes stared back at me.
Titanic had been my favorite movie up until now. I’d cherished the love story, and often fell asleep with the soothing sound track. But the more I tread water and thought about it, the angrier I became.
“Jack didn’t have to die, just like I don’t have to.”
We were miles off the coast, I knew, but the sea wasn’t like the ocean. The current would push me southward. But again, the more I behaved like a fish, the higher the chance I had of becoming shark food. I gulped. And a fresh shiver of angst raced through me.
“Help is on its way, dear. I made contact,” Gran said, appearing again at my side.
“Whatever you do, don’t you leave me again. There are things in this water that can devour me in one bite, and I’m getting tired. I’m not sure how much longer I can keep this up.”
“Don’t you worry, now. I’m not going to let anything happen to you.” Her voice shifted, and she began to chant—something I’d never heard her do. Her voice filled a void within me, and I closed my eyes and continued to tread water, repeating the tune she sang.
Suddenly, a beast rose from the water. The starlight reflected off of its large scaly frame, and its head—the size of my mother’s minivan—reared up.
“Dear, your help has arrived. Now climb on.”
I heard what she said, and I stared at the beast before me. Its reptilian eyes took me in, and waited.
“It’s a freaking dragon!”
“Get on, dear, before you catch more than a chill. He will bring us back to the coast and get you right back on your cruise ship. You’ll see.”
It moved closer to me. “He?” I whispered.
“Yes. You mustn’t be afraid. Not everything is as it appears. You should know that. He is here because he’s magical and that’s why he could see me.”
If she could have, she would have pushed me onto the dragon’s back, and I would have let her. Instead, I took the last bit of my energy I had left and splashed over to the waiting beast.
He exhaled, and a large puff of steam floated upward when he lowered his head, then I climbed up its large back. The dragon’s green and deep blue scales shimmered slightly under my hands.
“Your gran tells me, dear Lass, that you need help,” the dragon said. It’s voice in a rich, poetic Scottish accent.
I flinched away.
“Don’t be afraid, dear,” Gran attempted to reassure me. “There’s a reason you can hear him, but that can all be explained later.”
I wrapped my hands around him, and held on tightly as he took to the water.
13
Alistair
The last thing he wanted was to sit down on a make-shift throne and watch his boar rut. The thing was getting more action than he was, with half the effort.
He flipped through the pages of the book again. So far, the story followed an Ewan Macleod, a Viking at that. He couldn’t help his guffaw. Sure, this Ms. Love had done her research, but there was so much he could teach her about that time period.
“Will you two stop it! I have no desire to watch this spectacle,” he yelled, then tucked the book in between his cushion and the throne’s frame.
The castle overflowed with activity and was situated overlooking a Loch; his nearest neighbor lived twenty minutes away. But it was the way that the night lights played and danced in the sky that made his home a respite—one that they could not so easily get rid of.
With a bustle of movement, in hurried Killian. “Another letter has arrived from the township regarding the castle. They say that you are not following the rules in making this into a national treasure.”
“Bollocks. They are no more interested in my registering this estate than they are in whether or not Nessie indeed exists.” He smirked at that. Nessie had been seen too many times in the area to be considered local lore or even a folktale.
“They are just trying to search the caves,” Killian said. “You know this problem is going to snowball. It’s going to bring with it more of those ghastly Nessie hunters.”
“The caves that they don't have access to due to the wards?”
“Correct. The power of the gods, elven magic, and all of that have kept us safe.” Killian leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms behind him. “I was surprised you took that trip to the ship?”
* * *
“Freyja likes to instigate things, and since I owed her a favor or two, I promised I'd make an appearance. Who even knew what an author cruise was”?” He shrugged.
“Didn't you see anything or anyone you might fancy?”
“Fancy? You surely jest? You’re starting to sound like Freyja.”
Freyja was his grandmother, and although married to Odin, and the Queen of Asgard, she still liked to play matchmaker, even with her grandson who had no need for love, or a mate.
“Why is it that you put on that dragon skin then, if you have no need for such triviality as mankind's interest?”
Sirens and Scales Page 227
