by Mason, Nina
While he agreed in theory, time had taught him nothing would change until people stopped living in fear—of scarcity, otherness, and fear itself. Fear begat hatred, jealousy, cruelty, and every other ugly emotion that made world peace impossible.
The thought triggered the memory of a bumper sticker he’d seen once in London. Visualize Whirled Peas. He couldn’t help smiling as he wondered absentmindedly if whirled peas were anything like mushy peas.
“Why are you smiling?” Her inquiry brought him back to the table.
Before he could answer, the waitress returned and set their respective plates in front of them. Vanessa scooped up a forkful of eggs and filled her mouth. As she ate, he probed her mind, this time finding a specific tarot card. The Knight of Wands. What the devil did it mean?
“Do you read tarot cards?” Two could play at the game of random questions, he thought drolly.
“Yes, as a matter of fact,” she said, seemingly taking the odd question in stride. “What about you?”
“Oh, aye. I’m an old hand at the tarot, as you might imagine, me being an astrologer and all.” He took a breath, preparing to drop the bomb. “As a matter of fact, I read my cards the other day and drew a card I’m still puzzling over.”
“Really? What card was it?”
“The Knight of Wands.”
She choked, nearly spewing her coffee all over the table. Her reaction pleased him more than it should have. He took a swallow of coffee to wash down his mirth. If he had any sense, he’d take her straight back to the inn and say, “Sayonara, sweetheart.” So, why did he find the idea disagreeable? Was he so desperate for female companionship that he’d risk discovery?
Not that the risk of her learning his secret was all that great. Fortunately, over time, he’d spun the tale started by the Sinclairs to deflect suspicion from himself. A dark family secret passed down through the generations. A vampire bricked up inside a hidden chamber. It was amazing what people could be led to believe.
“What do you think it means?”
“That will depend on what position it was in.”
He had to think fast. “It was in the position of the crux of the matter.”
“Was it upright or reversed?”
“Reversed.” What the hell, right?
“Hmm…well, I’d have to say the knight most likely represents you or an aspect of yourself. Are you battling with a decision that might have an impact on your identity?”
His decision about the election sprang to mind. He almost said something about it before he remembered he’d made it all up. He hadn’t drawn the bloody Knight of Wands, he’d seen it while probing her psyche. Though, on second thought, why not tell her what he was wrestling with?
“I’m thinking about running for a seat in the Parliament, but I’m not sure it’s a good idea.”
“Why not?”
“I’m a private person and don’t think I’d like living in the glare of the public eye.”
“That’s understandable, but I still hope you’ll give it some serious thought.”
“I intend to.”
As they resumed eating, something else worried him, which he’d discuss later with Duncan. His dossier. Over the years, he’d taken pains to ensure his legal records were copacetic—the title to the castle, his bank accounts, his birth records and passport, that sort of thing. Luckily, there were firms that catered to the legal needs of immortals who chose to make a life in the Hitherworld.
He was now Callum Lyon X on paper. His curriculum vitae, however, was far from foolproof. What if some shrewd opponent or journalist should stumble upon an inconsistency and expose the truth? Was getting back in the game worth the risk? How would he explain his failure to age? Good genes? Plastic surgery? A portrait in the attic?
At the same time, he missed the high he used to get from political engagement. While the books and occasional lectures helped staunch the longing, they didn’t hold a candle to his golden days as the court astrologer at Holyroodhouse. Once upon a time, he’d consulted the celestial heavens to advise James IV on everything from battles to rebel plots to court intrigues. What a shame the king turned a deaf ear to the celestial warnings about the invasion of England—to many more detriments than his and the king’s.
“If you were in Parliament, you could pass legislation to protect the environment,” she said between bites.
“Aye. Exactly. Which is why the idea interests me so much.” He set down his fork and leaned closer. “This may sound strange, but I’d like to reintroduce wolves into Scotland.”
Mild surprise registered on her face. “Are there no wolves here?”
“No. They were hunted to extinction hundreds of years ago and, as a consequence, the red deer have no natural enemy, so they have taken over and are destroying the forests. You wouldn’t believe how much the Highlands have changed in the past few centuries. Old-growth forests used to dominate the glens and now there are very few trees left.”
“Oh, dear,” she said. “That does sound like a problem worth addressing.”
“Wolves would keep the deer population under control, but would also endanger domestic livestock, especially sheep. I think it’s a small price to pay for replenishing the old-growth forests, but the sheep farmers think it’s a mad idea.”
“It sounds like a complicated issue.”
“Aye, it is. Like most things.” Reclaiming his fork, he pushed the food on his plate around for a few moments before saying, “There’s something you should know about my castle before I take you there.”
Her blue eyes shimmered with interest, just as he’d expected. “Oh, really?—and what’s that?”
“It’s haunted.”
She nearly choked on her eggs, which pleased him immensely. She dabbed at her mouth with her napkin. “By a ghost?”
“Aye. My dead wife’s, no less.” It was the truth, though why Sorcha haunted him, he couldn’t begin to guess.
“Oh, dear. How did she die?”
“She threw herself off the tower.”
All the color left her face. “Holy shit. Were you there when it happened?”
“No, thank God. By that time, we were no longer living together.”
“You were separated?”
“More or less.” He’d been in the Thitherworld, actually, serving as a sex slave to the queen of Avalon.
“Just out of curiosity, how do you experience the haunting?”
“I feel coldness when she’s in the room.” He didn’t add that it was the same coldness Sorcha had treated him with throughout their miserable excuse for a marriage.
“Does she make sounds? Move things? Radiate hostile energy?”
“No, nothing like that.” He took a sip of coffee to hide his discomfort. “I just feel the drop in temperature when she comes into the room.”
“How do you know it’s your wife?”
“I don’t know, I just do.”
“Was she religious? If so, she might fear damnation for committing suicide.”
He picked up his cup and took a sip of coffee. “You seem to know about spirits.”
“I’ve seen them since I was a girl—not that my mother believed me.” She poked at her food, avoiding his gaze. “She thought I was crazy and made me see a psychiatrist.”
The emotion in her voice provoked a pang of guilt—and an onrush of sympathy. “If you ask me, it was your mother who needed the psychiatrist.”
“True.” Smiling sadly, she met his gaze with glittering eyes. “Perhaps when we get to your castle, I can have a word with your ghost, find out what she wants, and persuade her to move on.”
“I’d appreciate that.”
They returned to their meals, she taking tiny bites of egg and bacon between sips of coffee; he giving the illusion of eating without actually doing so. Finally, she looked up from her food, fixed him in her gaze and, in typical out-of-the-blue water-bearer fashion, asked, “What’s your position on off-shore drilling in the North Sea?”
“I
oppose it,” he said, meaning it.
“Because it’s an environmental travesty, right?”
“Because not one penny of the revenue winds up in Scotland’s coffers,” he corrected her—not that she was wrong about the devastating environmental impact of the practice. “England reaps the profits from mining our national resources and invests the money in its own enterprises whilst cutting Scotland’s public services to the bone. It’s bloody appalling.”
“I can see why you feel that way, but I don’t want to see anybody profiting from off-shore drilling. We should be arresting our dependence on fossil fuels, not looking for new sources to feed our addiction—especially at the expense of the natural environment.”
The waitress was back, looking from him to Vanessa with a frown. “Didn’t you like the food, Lord Lyon? You’ve barely touched a bite.”
“It was fine,” Callum told her. “I’m just not very hungry.”
“Would you like me to box up the leftovers?” the waitress asked. “You could take it with you and have a picnic later. It’s a lovely day for it.”
“No, thank you.” He fished out his wallet. “Just the bill, if you don’t mind.”
The waitress brought the check, which he promptly paid before he and Vanessa walked to the car in silence. On the winding drive to the next stop on his sightseeing tour, he thought long and hard about taking her back to John o’Groats and leaving her on the doorstep of the inn. It was by far the safest and most sensible thing to do. So why was he still driving toward Whaligoe? Lust? Loneliness? A bit of both?
By the time he pulled into the unmarked parking tarmac above the Whaligoe steps, he had made up his mind to take her to Barrogill. She’d find nothing at his castle to substantiate the rumors, so he could see no harm in doing so. Plus, he’d like very much to be rid of Sorcha’s ghost. If Vanessa could help with that, the benefits would vastly outweigh the risks.
Leaving the car, he led the way along a track through a farmstead edging the sea cliffs until they reached the top of the steps, a steep flight of more than three hundred terraced flagstones zigzagging down the face of the cliff. Locals claimed there were 365 steps in all, one for each day in the year. He’d always been too preoccupied with keeping his footing in the thick sea haar that so often engulfed the lower portion of the steps to keep count.
Even without the fog, the grade was steep, the flagstones slippery, and the height off-putting for those suffering from vertigo. On the plus side, the hike down was abundant with wild flowers and seabirds, and the downward view into the “goe”—a small rocky inlet surrounded by soaring cliffs—was nothing short of breathtaking.
“Where do they lead to?” Vanessa asked as they began the walk down.
“To a grassy area called the Bink, and the ruins of an old salt store once used to cure fish. From there, you can climb down to a rocky shelf known as the Neist, if you’re so inclined.”
“Are we going all the way to the bottom?”
“Probably not.”
He kept a firm grip on her hand. Her boots, while becoming, weren’t the best choice for this endeavor, and he wanted to be sure she didn’t slip.
“Why were they built?”
“Harbors are scarce along this stretch of the coast, so the locals who fished here needed a way to get their catches up the cliffs and to the market at Wick.”
He liked the feel of her hand in his. Too much for his own good. They walked in silence for a while, concentrating on the steps. The path was lined with an assortment of wildflowers. The butterflies the blooms attracted called a long-ago memory to the surface. For some reason, he felt compelled to share it with her.
“When I was a lad, I used to collect butterflies. The Highlands are home to more than thirty varieties. Skippers, Fritillaries, Hairstreaks, Peacocks, Painted Ladies, and dozens more. My favorite was always the Scotch Argus, with its bonny chocolate wings and bright orange eyespots. I used to spend hours chasing the specimen I planned to catch, following it from flower to flower, waiting patiently for it to alight here or there. Then, I’d net it, take it inside, and pin it to a piece of board above a label documenting its Latin name and where I’d caught the wee thing.”
She looked right at him, her watery blue pools shimmering with distrust. “Is that why you chatted me up in the bar last night? So you could pin me to a board like one of your butterflies? Vanessa Angelica Meadows, caught in John o’Groats.”
It was all he could do not to go off on her. How dare she accuse him of having ulterior motives when she’d come to Caithness hoping to expose his dark secret!
“Nay, lass,” he ground out, keeping his temper in check. “I chatted you up because I saw you eyeing me at the signing like you wanted to fuck my brains out. And I wanted to fuck yours out, too. Something terrible. And, God help me, I still do.”
He grabbed her shoulders, jerked her to him, and kissed her soundly on the mouth. Then, remembering his vow to behave himself, he put her away from him, turned on his heel, and started back up the steps.
“Where are you going?”
“Back to the car.”
“Why?”
“So I can take you out to Duncansby Head to see the stacks and the lighthouse.”
Chapter 3
On the drive to Duncansby Head, Callum seemed distant and Vanessa started to feel guilty about her ulterior motives. She came close to fessing up several times, but kept talking herself out of it. If she came clean, he might take her back to John o’Groats, which was the last thing she wanted.
“Is anything wrong?”
“Huh? Oh…uh…no.” He darted a glance in her direction. “Of course not. What could be wrong?”
“I don’t know,” she returned. “That’s why I’m asking.”
“Everything’s fine.” He gave her an unconvincing grin. “I was just thinking.”
“What about?”
He shrugged and flicked another look her way. “You, mostly.”
Intrigued, she asked, “Anything you’d care to share?”
With a light-hearted chuckle, he said, “To be truthful, I was wondering what you had on under your clothes.”
Titillated by his question, she turned her body toward him and put her hand on his thigh. “Well, since you asked…I’m wearing a matching bra and panties set I bought at Victoria’s Secret in San Francisco.”
“Oh, aye? What color?”
“Guess.”
“Black?”
“Nope.”
“Red?”
“Try again.”
“Nude?”
“Close.”
“Pink?”
“We have a winner.” She ran her hand up his leg, stopping just shy of his crotch. “Are you into lingerie?”
“I don’t wear it, if that’s what you mean.”
She squeezed his thigh. “I’m glad to hear it, but that’s not what I mean and you know it. Now, answer the question.”
“Yes.”
This conversation had promise. “What in particular gets your motor running?”
“I like corsets,” he said, “and garter belts with thigh-high stockings. Did you happen to bring any with you?”
She took a moment to think before answering. Either he was trying to entrap her or desire had drained all the blood from his brain. She sincerely hoped it was the latter. “Is that a trick question?”
“No.” He shot her a puzzled look. “Why would you think that?”
“Because corsets and stockings aren’t usually the wardrobe of choice for protests in the Arctic Sea.”
“Right. Sorry. I forgot why you came up here.” After a pause, he added, “There’s a lingerie shop in Wick, if you’re willing to indulge me.”
“Are you buying?”
“Of course.”
She brushed her fingers across his fly to see if he was hard. Finding he was, she withdrew her hand.
He looked her way again, wearing the same puzzled expression. “If you want to play with my cock, I won’t sto
p you.”
She smirked. “I didn’t think you would.”
“Then why did you stop?”
“It’s too soon.”
“We only have three days.”
“I could always skip the protest.”
“What?—and let the evil oil companies have their way?”
“It’s not as if Greenpeace is going to cancel the protest just because I don’t show up.”
He looked down his nose at her while a teasing smirk played on his lips. “Be that as it may, I’m not sure I can condone you selling out the planet for sex.”
“You sound as if you don’t want me to stay.”
“It’s not that.”
“Then what is it?”
He got quiet for several minutes and then said, “Did you really come to Caithness on your way to a Greenpeace protest?”
Guilt nipped her heart. “Why would I lie about that?”
“That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”
She swallowed the lump in her throat and turned toward the window, away from him. What did he suspect her of? Not the truth, surely.
As they drove on, the tension between them grew thick. She didn’t like the feeling…or how much she was starting to like him.
The road was narrow, winding, and edged the sea cliffs. There was no barrier, which meant one false move could be fatal. She held her breath until he parked the car on a cliff overlooking the sea.
Neither of them made a move to get out. As much as she wanted to tell him the truth, she didn’t dare. If she blew her assignment because she’d stupidly gotten emotionally involved, Mr. Armstrong would think her incompetent. As much as she hated being deceitful, she needed to keep her priorities straight. In two more days, she was going home and would never see Callum Lyon again. Unless, of course, she cast him into the public eye by exposing his family secret, ruining his life and his chances of running for office in the process.
To ease her anguish, she looked out at the sky, which was clear and just as blue as the sea stretching toward the horizon. This was a beautiful place, but also windswept and desolate. There were seabirds aplenty, but no other people within view.
