Knight of Wands (Knights of the Tarot Book 1)

by Mason, Nina

  She held his stare with a defiant gleam. “Go on. I dare you to say something to sweep me off my feet.”

  He gazed at her intently for several thrilling moments, then said, “I’m fire and you’re air…and fire needs air, to breathe and to burn.”

  Though impressed, she wasn’t about to let on. “That’s not half bad, but I’m not quite bowled over.”

  He laughed and sipped his drink. “Aye, well. It’s your loss.”

  She pursed her lips. “You sound awfully sure of yourself.”

  He tilted his forehead down to rest against hers. His skin, his whole being radiated sex. Closing her eyes, she soaked his essence in, along with his alluring aroma. Whisky, a pleasant herbal fragrance, and sultry manliness. Without planning to, she pressed her mouth to his. To her delight, he not only kissed her back, he also parted his lips and gave her his tongue. She brushed his with hers, but only for a transitory moment.

  “Are you staying here at the inn?” he asked.

  “Um-hmm,” she murmured against his lips. “Would you like to see my room? It’s got a nice, big bed.”

  Oh, shit. She hadn’t meant to say that. Now what?

  “I want more than one night, mo dearbadan-de.”

  Pulling away, she scowled at him. “What did you just call me?”

  “My butterfly, in Gaelic.”

  “Oh.” Her resistance melted away until she remembered what else he’d said. “You want more? How much more?”

  “All three days you’re in Caithness.”

  Seeing her chance, she asked with a smile, “Can I stay at your castle?”

  He answered with a devastating smile of his own. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  Yes! She was in. “What are we going to do together for three whole days?”

  “Everything I can think of to enjoy ourselves and Caithness.”

  “That sounds wonderful,” she said, meaning every word.

  “Good. Then, it’s settled…and I shall collect you in the morning.”

  She arched an eyebrow. “Collect me like a butterfly?”

  He grinned boyishly. “Just like a butterfly.”

  “What should I wear?”

  “Something pretty, but comfortable for walking,” he told her.

  Vanessa could not be more pleased—and not just because she’d achieved her goal of getting invited to his castle. Callum Lyon was the whole luxury package: handsome, charming, romantic, smart, and rich. He also took charge without being inconsiderate or controlling—rare qualities she appreciated. If she was in the market for a man, he would be just the sort to tempt her to buy.

  He got up, downed his drink, and kissed her on the cheek like a perfect gentleman. “Sleep well, Butterfly. Tomorrow, I shall collect you at eight o’clock sharp.”

  Eight seemed awfully early to look her best. “Can we make it nine instead? I’m still a bit jet-lagged, I’m afraid.”

  “Of course we can.” He handed his credit card to the bartender. “Shall I meet you in the lobby or come up to your room?”

  “The lobby would be perfect.” That way, she could keep him waiting and make an entrance.

  Chapter 2

  The next morning, in the compact but comfortable lobby of the inn where he’d dined the night before, Callum waited on Vanessa. She was late, but he didn’t mind. Over the span of his existence, he’d gotten very good at waiting, though he wasn’t quite sure what he’d been waiting for. The right woman, probably. Unfortunately, what he was made it difficult to form attachments. He had sex often enough, but few vertical relationships, and thus, he meant to enjoy his time with his butterfly to the fullest.

  The nickname he’d assigned her fit in more ways than one. Butterflies had short lifespans, and so would their relationship. When the affair was over, they would go their separate ways and that would be that. No strings, no regrets, and no unpleasant scenes.

  In the meantime, he would woo her with sunset walks, candlelight dinners, and mind-blowing sex. Before leaving Barrogill, he’d left instructions with Hamish, his butler, to prepare a romantic dinner for two this evening. Duncan, fortuitously, would be out with his SNP pals again, so he wouldn’t be around to cock-block his host—nor to hound him about running for Parliament, as he’d done all the way back to Easter Head last night.

  The chime announcing the arrival of the lift brought Callum to his feet. As Vanessa stepped out, desire sizzled through his body. She looked sonnet-worthy in a clinging silk blouse and calf-length floral skirt with her hair done up in a flattering twist. Keeping his hands off her wouldn’t be easy, but he intended to behave like a perfect gentleman, not an uncivilized cad. At least until he got her back to Barrogill.

  “So…was it worth the wait?” She did a little turn that charmed him to the core.

  “Well worth the wait.” Grinning, he moved beside her, and set his hand in the small of her back. As he guided her toward the exit, the physical connection sent thrilling electrical impulses through him. Christ Almighty. How would he get through the next few hours without ravishing her? “Did you sleep well?”

  “Yes. Very well. What about you?”

  “Aye, but woke up hungry. I thought we’d start by having breakfast somewhere. What might you like to eat?”

  She gave him a heartening smile. “I’m not a picky eater. Anything’s fine.”

  Good. She was low maintenance, which would make the next few days easier. He guided her outside and toward his black Range Rover. The day was sunny and cool with a few puffy clouds embellishing a deep azure sky. He couldn’t have asked for a better day to show her the virtues of Caithness.

  Opening the passenger door, he helped her in and made sure her skirt was clear before shutting her inside. As he walked round to the driver’s side, he sucked in a breath of fresh air in an effort to cool his lusts. Being confined with her in a car for too long might make it hard to keep his appetites under control.

  He got in, started the engine, and set off. Their destination was Wick, via a narrow two-lane highway with an almost constant ocean view. Vast expanses of flat, scrubby fields seasoned with wildflowers, peat bogs, and the occasional crofter’s cottage flanked the road on both sides.

  As she took in the scenery, he stole glances at her. What was she thinking about? He could probe her mind to find out, but doing so seemed invasive. Plus, he wanted to get to know her the normal way.

  “Do you care for oysters?” he asked.

  “Yes. Very much.” She flashed him an agreeable smile. “Are we having oysters for breakfast?”

  “For dinner. As a starter, not the main course. Assuming you still want to see my castle at the end of the day.”

  “I’m sure I will.”

  Licking his lips, he returned his attention to the road. “I’ve been sinking a wee bit of money into an oyster farm in the Outer Hebrides. For the meat, not the pearls. There’s a market, if we can get it right, but that’s harder than it sounds. The wee buggers aren’t easy to raise…assuming you can get your hands on the seed stock in the first place. Oysters once were plentiful in Scottish waters…back before there was so much bloody pollution.” He compressed his lips in condemnation before adding, “I honestly don’t know what’s wrong with people. Do they not understand the damage done to the planet can never be reversed?”

  Aye, well. He knew exactly what they were thinking: Fuck the planet and everybody on it so long as I can live in a grand house, drive a luxury car, and buy loads of things that will only go in a landfill one day.

  “I couldn’t agree more,” she said with conviction. “But most people, I’ve observed, are incredibly selfish when it comes to the environment.”

  “Aye. Selfish and greedy.” He looked her way, pleased that she cared enough about ecology to take part in protests. “How long have you been a member of Greenpeace?”

  “A few years…”

  Her answer seemed suspiciously evasive, but he let it go. Silence fell between them, but it was a comfortable silence. His
thoughts wandered to Duncan’s proposal. Callum was still torn about running for Parliament. As much as he welcomed greater involvement in the political arena, stepping into the public eye meant risking exposure. Not that he’d be the first blood-sucker in British politics, he thought wryly.

  Speaking of which…Miss Meadows’s blood smelled so heavenly he was starting to salivate. He really should have hunted last night to reduce the temptation, but he’d been too bloody tired by the time he got home.

  Cracking the window, he sucked the fresh sea air into his lungs and squeezed a question out of his brain. “So, where are you from?”

  “San Francisco, originally, but I just moved to New Orleans.”

  Interesting. “What motivated the move?”

  “A job.”

  “Would you care to elaborate?”

  “Not really.”

  He tried to think why she might want to keep her profession a secret, but everything he came up with—like being a spy or a drug dealer—seemed absurd. He sent in his probes, again finding the blue-eyed man he recognized but couldn’t place. Who the devil was he and how did he know the guy? He combed his memory. Then, the answer came to him. The man was Beau Armstrong, a New Orleans-based paranormal investigator. They’d met at a conference a few years back under less than positive circumstances.

  Distrust tightened Callum’s jaw muscles as he shot a glance at Vanessa. Her evasiveness spoke volumes. She’d come to Caithness to meet him all right, but not because she was a fan of his books. Armstrong had sent her to investigate the rumors that a vampire lived in a secret room at Barrogill. What should he do? Confront her about it? Turn the car around and take her back to John o’Groats? Carry on and wipe her memory when he was through with her?

  “When I was a girl, I thought the stars were holes in the floor of heaven where the light of God shone through,” she said, seemingly out of the blue.

  He compressed his lips. It was just the sort of random statement typical of Aquarians, who operated on a different plane than most people.

  “Are you interested in astrology?”

  “Of course,” she said with a quick glance in his direction. “I told you I came up here to attend your lecture.”

  Liar.

  His mind reached back to the night before. Had she said anything incriminating? Had he? Not that he could recall, though she had seemed awfully eager to see his castle.

  “How’d you get into astrology?” she asked, ruthlessly playing the innocent.

  “I did it to please my father,” he responded truthfully, “who was an astrologer and physician.” He didn’t add that his father lived and died five centuries ago. If he played along with her charade, he’d better watch every little thing he said.

  “That’s an interesting combination of professions,” she said. “Do you miss your father?”

  Did he? He rarely thought back that far and, when he did, it felt as if he was remembering someone else’s life…or something he’d read in a book.

  “Not anymore.”

  “I don’t miss my mom, either. Probably because she wasn’t around all that much when I was a kid.”

  “How do you like New Orleans?”

  “I like it a lot,” she said, “except for the heat and humidity, of course, which are beyond anything I ever imagined. Being from the Bay Area, I’m used to dry air and cool temperatures.”

  “Is your family still in San Francisco?”

  “No. My family’s all gone.”

  He licked his lips and flicked a glance in her direction. So, the two women he’d detected in her thoughts last night were dead. Inexplicable empathy for her compelled him to say, “So is mine.”

  Silence fell again. He tried to think of something to say to fill the gap, but came up empty. Finally, just to get her talking again, he asked, “What do you think of the scenery?”

  “It’s nice.”

  He rolled his eyes. Nice? That was the best she could do? Aquarians were usually a bit more imaginative. If she was equally uninventive between the sheets, she’d be back at the inn by noon tomorrow.

  “I was thinking, provided you feel up to it,” he said, “we might walk around for a bit after breakfast, before heading down to the Whaligoe Steps.”

  Her face snapped toward him. “The what?”

  “The Whaligoe Steps,” he repeated. “It’s a manmade stairway the fisherwomen used in the olden days to bring their catches up from the harbor below.”

  “Sounds interesting. Then what?”

  “Then we’ll maybe head out to Duncansby Head to see the stacks and the lighthouse, after which, if you’re not too tired, I thought we might take a sunset stroll along the beach.”

  “Sounds like a full day. When are we going to your castle?”

  “A bit later.”

  He’d been deliberately evasive, to give her a taste of her own medicine. She’d been elusive about her job and was deceiving him about her reasons for hooking up with him. Was she even attracted to him, or was that a ruse, too? He threw a glance her way. She was looking out the window again, hatching her schemes, he’d wager.

  “Have you ever been married?” he asked.

  “No.” She looked his way. “What about you?”

  “Yes.”

  Her eyes widened in surprise. “You’re divorced?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Still married?”

  “No.”

  “Are you a widower?”

  “Aye.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said, eyes still on him. “How did your wife die?”

  “She killed herself.”

  “Oh, God. I’m so sorry. So did my mother.”

  This brought his startled gaze to her ashen face. “How old were you?”

  “Eighteen.”

  “I’m sorry. That must have been hard.”

  “It was, but not as hard as when I lost my grandmother.”

  Her voice wavered and there were tears in her eyes, which made him uncomfortable. This was getting too personal. Returning his attention to the road, he searched his mind for something innocuous to ask. Finally, he came up with the very thing.

  “Vanessa. What does it mean?”

  She shot a puzzled glance his way. “What does what mean?”

  “Your name.”

  “Are you telling me you don’t know?”

  He was puzzled. “No. Why would I?”

  “Because of what you said last night.”

  He flicked a scowl her way. “I don’t follow.”

  “Vanessa means butterfly.”

  Surprise speared him. “Does it? Well. How funny. Not to mention, fitting.”

  “What does Callum mean?”

  “Dove or bringer of peace.”

  She turned her body toward his and put her hand on his thigh. The unexpected contact made him flinch. “Have you always been a baron?”

  The out-of-left-field question startled him as much as her touch, though it probably shouldn’t have, given her sign. “How did you know I was a baron?”

  “I’ve read your books, which include your bio.”

  “Oh…and no. I became a baron after my father died.”

  “When was that?”

  Uh-oh. Tread carefully. “Some time ago.”

  This was getting too personal again. He wanted to get to know her—to feel comfortable in her company, not to fall in love with her. Not that there was much danger of that. As much as he relished the concept of finding the perfect partner, the seeds of passion never put down deeper roots. Meanwhile, the why of it remained an unsolvable mystery. Was it because he only slept with prostitutes? Maybe, probably. But that didn’t explain why he’d never fallen in love in his youth. Back then, as now, women chased him; threw themselves at him, even, and all he felt was disdain. Why? He was a double Leo, for God’s sake. A self-proclaimed ruthless romantic, so why did he seem incapable of falling in love?

  He shook the thoughts from his head. He needed to focus on breakfast, not his dysfunctio
nal emotions. They were almost to Wick. There was a café in the harbor, where he’d eaten a couple of times with Duncan. It was far from elegant, but had decent seafood, an all-day breakfast, and a river view. The cheesy maritime decor probably wouldn’t impress her, but neither would driving around like a total wanker hoping to find somewhere better.

  When they reached the town limits, he steered the car toward the harbor and pulled in beside the café. As he shut off the engine, she frowned through the windscreen at the restaurant’s rather shabby stucco exterior.

  “It’s not fancy,” he said, feeling defensive, “but the food’s quite good and the view is unparalleled.”

  He removed the key, climbed out, and hurried around to open her door. Not surprisingly, she met him on the pavement. Displeased by her usurpation of his pale attempt at chivalry, he locked the car with the clicker, set his hand in the small of her back, and ushered her toward the entrance.

  An older woman with a plump face and a friendly smile showed them to a table. They looked over the egg-stained laminated menus in silence. The smell of fried fish hung in the air and a fine layer of grease covered every surface. Their places were set with cheap flatware and overturned white cups on saucers. When he turned his upright, Vanessa followed suit. A twenty-something dark-haired waitress appeared with a pot of coffee he hoped was fresh.

  She filled their cups, set the pot on the table, and pulled her order pad out of the pocket of her apron. “What can I get for you?”

  Vanessa ordered scrambled eggs and bacon. He asked for porridge and blood sausage. He wasn’t hungry, but figured he’d better eat something to keep up the pretense of being mortal.

  When the waitress left, he picked up his coffee and took a sip. Though fresh, it tasted bitter. He added milk and sugar and stirred vigorously. She watched him, saying nothing. He sipped his doctored coffee. It was better, but still miles from good. He looked out at the view, wishing she’d say something. The silence was growing uncomfortable and he had run out of small talk.

  He looked at her across the table. She had that strange, enigmatic look typical of her sign, as well as the dreamy pale eyes. That faraway look might fool some, but not him. He knew Aquarians were quicker, deeper, and sharper than most. They also were natural-born rebels who instinctively believed the world was in serious need of reformation.