by Mason, Nina
He moved his hands to her shoulders, pulled her to him, and captured her mouth in a passionate kiss. As their tongues did battle, she reached between his legs.
Outside, it began to rain. He was dimly aware of the soft drumming on the roof of the car. Would it wash away the fog or make it thicker? He didn’t know and, for the moment at least, couldn’t care less. Her breasts were smashed against his chest, her tongue was wrestling with his, and the way she was stroking his cock was making him want her more by the moment.
It took every ounce of willpower he could summon to let her go. With a sigh, he dropped back into his seat. “I don’t want to take you in the car. Not when my castle is just down the road.”
“How very gallant of you.”
“I do try,” he said with a sideways grin, “when I have the chance, which, admittedly, isn’t often.”
She withdrew her hand and turned away from him, toward the window. “We could always talk, I suppose. You could tell me more about your ghost. What drove her to jump off the tower? Do you know?”
He took a moment to think through what to say. Obviously, he couldn’t tell her the truth…or could he? The idea of being open with her held a certain appeal, but also carried risks. Authenticity was intimate, and intimacy could lead to attachment. If he developed feelings for her, he wouldn’t want to let her go, but couldn’t keep her, either. Not without making her like he was, and that was a bigger commitment than he’d be willing to make based on a few days’ acquaintance. Not that she would go for it anyway. She was a freedom-loving Aquarian; a butterfly who couldn’t be caught. Therefore, was he to share his secrets, he’d have to erase the knowledge from her memory—along with her memory of him.
“I don’t know why,” he lied. “As I said, we weren’t together at the time.”
She went quiet for a few heartbeats before asking, “All you feel when she’s around is a drop in temperature?”
“That and a slight shift in the room’s energy when she’s there.”
“Does she ever do anything?”
“Nay,” he replied, being deliberately vague. “She just watches.”
“Maybe if you told me about your relationship with her—unless it’s too personal or, well, painful—it might help me understand what’s motivating her spirit to hang around.”
“I’ll tell you anything that might help get rid of her. Just tell me what you wish to know.”
Turning back to him, she fixed him with those penetrating blue eyes of hers. “Well, for starters, I’d like to know why you married a woman you didn’t love.”
Bloody hell. This could take a while. He sucked in a breath, killed the engine, and shut off the headlamps as he gathered his wool. After several moments of careful consideration, he said, eyes straight ahead, “People from noble families like mine didn’t marry for love.” He dropped his hands into his lap and shot a glance her way. “Sorcha—that’s her name, in case I didn’t mention it before—was sent to me by her father after the contract was signed. The engagement was in place before we ever set eyes on one another.”
“Oh, my God,” she exclaimed, obviously appalled. “Do people still do that?”
“Aye. In some cultures.”
“Well, I know they still do in places like China and India, but I didn’t think parents still arranged marriages for their children in Scotland.”
“The people with titles and property still do,” he said, treading carefully, “or, at the very least, make it clear who’s acceptable and who isn’t as a marriage partner for their heir.”
In his day, marriages were contracts made to merge fortunes, forge alliances, and produce heirs. Accordingly, love and passion were pursued outside of wedlock.
She looked away, out the window into the dark and rain. “What happened after you were married?”
He shrugged one shoulder. “We got on well enough. I’d hoped we’d grow to love each other in time, but it became clear early on that wasn’t going to happen.”
Her gaze came back to his. “Why not?”
“She had a strong aversion to marital relations.”
“Oh. I see. What did you do?”
He let out a sigh and lowered his gaze. “I bedded her until she conceived my heir, and left her to herself after that.”
“You have children?”
“I had a son, but he’s dead too, now.” Swallowing his grief, he looked out the window at the road, where the rain still battered the pavement.
“I can’t believe she wouldn’t have sex with you.”
He smiled through his sorrow. “Why not?”
“Have you looked in the mirror lately?”
“Looks aren’t everything, mo dearbadan-de, in case you haven’t learned that yet. I believe her heart belonged to somebody else, somebody she knew before our engagement. When I asked her to confirm my suspicions, she refused to answer me.” He paused, took a breath, and turned the tables. “You remind me of her in that way.”
She made an indignant sound. “You find me guarded?”
“In some ways, aye.”
“Perhaps it’s because you don’t know me all that well.”
“Does anybody?” He looked at her, hard. “Are you afraid people won’t like what they find if they get to know you too well?”
Her wounded expression told him he’d hit the bull’s-eye. Hiding it quickly, she gave him a smile and turned the spotlight back on him. “Did you sleep with other women while you were married to her?”
“Of course I did.” He returned his gaze to the lonely, fog-enshrouded road. “What man wouldn’t under the circumstances?”
“Did you develop feelings for any of your mistresses?”
He shrugged and glanced in the rearview mirror for no particular reason. “I felt desire and gratitude, which are feelings, no? I suspect, however, what you’re fishing for is whether I was in love with any of them.” He met her eyes and held her gaze. “The answer to which would be no.”
Outside, it was still raining and, inside, the dark hunger was rising like a river in a downpour. In the silence, he could hear her heart chanting his name.
Ca-lum. Ca-lum. Ca-lum.
He had to get some fresh air, get away from her, before he lost control. Holding his breath, he turned the key to the ignition’s accessory position and lowered the window a few inches.
God help him—and her. His fangs were breaking through his gums. He switched off the interior light and clamped his lips together to hide his condition from her. If he remained in these close confines much longer, there was no telling what he might do.
Lowering the window the rest of the way, he sucked fresh air into his lungs. Rain pelted his face, which felt good. Fuck the fog. He’d make the drive. He’d hunt while she changed for dinner, tell her everything, and make her forget him before she left Barrogill at the end of the week. In time, he’d forget her, too. He’d only known her for a day, after all, and one short day was nothing in the course of eternity.
Starting the engine, he eased off the shoulder and onto the road. He switched on the wipers at full speed, but still couldn’t see much through the rain and fog. He leaned forward, squinting to see through the downpour.
It was like driving through cotton. He eased up on the gas, determined to take it slow. Inch by inch, if need be. The cliffs should be a wee ways up ahead. If he was careful, he ought to be able to make it around them all right.
It didn’t help that the smell of her was wreaking havoc with his concentration or that he was salivating like a hungry dog. He swallowed, keeping his lips sealed tight. He hadn’t felt so close to the edge since…well, he couldn’t remember ever being this strung out. What was it about this particular woman? Whatever it might be was too bewitching to resist.
He’d reached the end of his tether. He couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe. He had to clear his head, to get away from her intoxicating scent, to get out of this suffocating car. He stomped on the brake. The Range Rover lurched to a stop. He threw it in park a
nd flung open the door.
As he started to jump out, she seized his sleeve. “Where are you going?”
Tearing his arm from her grasp, he vaulted from the car. He jogged down the road, careless of the soaking rain. He just prayed the night air would restore his senses. He still felt lightheaded, his fangs were still out, and his balls throbbed like a toothache. He stopped when he could no longer smell her, bent over, and sucked in breath after breath.
When he heard her walking up behind him, he growled, “Go back to the car.”
“Not until you tell me what’s going on.”
“Go back to car, Vanessa,” he requested more gently.
Ignoring his plea, she stepped up behind him and ran her hands up the muscles of his back. Christ Almighty, she was headstrong, to her own bloody peril.
“I want to help.”
She swept her hands across his shoulders, pushing him to the edge of reason. He opened his mouth to order her to leave him alone, but no words emerged. He spun around. As his gaze fixed on the pulsing vein in her neck, his teeth ached to penetrate her flesh. His cock ached, too, with the urge to penetrate elsewhere.
Stepping up to him, she touched his face with concern he’d never known. The blood racing through the sweet blue artery on her wrist called to him. His nostrils flared, seeking the savory bouquet of her blood.
“Go back to the car,” he said as calmly as he could. “I get panic attacks sometimes and need some air. I’ll be all right if you just give me a few minutes to sort myself out.”
Chapter 4
Reluctantly, Vanessa returned to the car and ten minutes later, Callum joined her, seemingly less stressed. As he resumed the drive toward his castle, she nearly had a panic attack of her own. The rain was pouring down in sheets, the fog was as thick as clam chowder, and the road corkscrewed perilously along the edge of a steep cliff. The sea and jagged rocks, she presumed, waited below.
Heart in throat, she set her hand on his arm. “Are you sure you’re okay to drive?”
He flicked an uncomforting glance her way. “It’ll be all right. We’re nearly there now.”
Just as she opened her mouth to argue, a set of towering iron gates appeared out of the fog. Through the ornate scrollwork, a small stone castle rose out of the mist, looking as if it were floating on the vapor. It was still dark and storming, but there was enough light to show her what appeared to be an architectural marriage between a Norman fortress and a Georgian manor.
The older half was a five-story rectangular tower festooned with corner turrets and a single line of narrow windows running up the center. As her gaze swept upward toward the toothed battlements crowning the tower, she shivered at the thought of his wife jumping from the top to her death. Two disturbing images flashed behind her eyes. The first was the card of The Tower from her reading, which showed a man and woman falling from a chillingly similar tower. The second was her imagined footage of her mother leaping off the Golden Gate Bridge.
Blinking the images away, she shifted her gaze to the newer addition—a symmetrical three-story mansion with a brick face and steep roof. Chimneystacks, dormers, and another corner turret jutted from the roofline. The marriage of the two disparate architectural styles appeared to be a happy one. An iron fence surrounded the dwelling, which sat atop a knoll overlooking the sea.
Callum pulled the car closer, lowered the window, and pressed a button to activate the intercom.
A Scottish man’s voice squawked out of the speaker. “Would that be you, then, my lord?”
“Aye, Hamish. Sorry to be so late in returning, but we got hung up by the fog.”
“The important thing is that you’re here at last, safe and sound, my lord.”
A motor started up and the gates swung slowly inward, hinges groaning under the strain of their weight. Callum pulled the Range Rover through into a circular drive with a large spot of green lawn at the center and brought the car to a stop near the porch.
After shutting off the wipers and headlamps, he looked her way with an oddly tentative expression. “Are you ready for this?”
She swallowed and forced a smile. “As ready as I’ll ever be, I suppose.”
Angst avalanched over her. She drew a deep breath to calm her nerves. What awaited her inside? The thought sent shivers of fear-laced excitement racing through her bloodstream.
He hopped out, ran around to her door, and pulled it open. As she swung her legs around, he offered her his hand and a smile. Returning his smile with a trembling one of her own, she took his hand.
The sky was still drizzling, so, after helping her out, he quickly ushered her into the sheltering arch of the front portico.
He opened his mouth to say something, but before the words spilled out, the huge front door creaked open. On the other side stood a tall, stringy man with thinning dark hair. Hamish the butler, presumably, wearing an old-fashioned tweed suit and a guarded expression.
“Would you be good enough to fetch the lady’s bags from the car,” Callum said to his manservant, “and put them in my bedchamber?”
“Very good, my lord.” Hamish nodded. “Dinner is ready whenever you are.”
Callum’s golden gaze slid toward her, then back to his butler. “If it’s not too great an imposition, I think the lady might like a wee bit of time to freshen up before we eat.”
She would, actually. Very much. Between the rain and the sea wind, her skin and hair felt sodden and sticky. What she’d like more than anything was a nice long soak in a bathtub, though she didn’t want to spoil whatever romantic antics he’d planned. Dinner had already waited on them long enough and she was more than ready to eat.
“Just a quick wash,” she said, smiling. “It won’t take long.”
As Hamish went out to collect the bags, Callum placed her hand in the crook of his arm and escorted her up a staircase to an overlook decorated with tapestries, paintings, and statuary. She looked around, impressed. The place was eclectic, tasteful, and remarkably warm and homey for a castle. At the first opportunity, she would explore every nook and cranny with her EMF meter.
“How many rooms does Barrogill have?”
He rubbed his chin with his free hand. After a minute, he met her gaze, a bemused smile on his mouth. “Thirty-eight, I believe, though I might have forgotten one or two.” Mischief twinkled in his golden eyes. “Also, just so you know, there’s a trapdoor to the dungeon in the dining room, in case you fail to use the proper fork…or say something over dinner I don’t care to hear.”
She smiled, her interest spiking. A dungeon seemed the perfect place for a vampire to hide, but how to get down there without being noticed?
“Does the dungeon have any unusual features?” A vampire, for example? Or, just as intriguing, whips and chains of the erotic variety? She’d never experimented with BDSM, but was open-minded about the possibility. She was all for trying new things and expanding her horizons, sexual or otherwise.
“Not unless you count the tunnel leading under the garden,” he said. “Back when the castle was built, it was used as an escape route when the Sinclairs stormed the place—an all-too-common occurrence.”
She filed the fact away for later as she asked, affecting disinterest in the dungeon, “Where do you do your stargazing?”
“The top of the tower.”
The thought sent a shiver through her. He’d set up his telescope on the same tower from which his wife leaped to her death? How macabre, not to mention insensitive. To hide her disapproval, she said, “I’ll bet the views from up there are spectacular.”
“They are, of the sea and surrounding countryside, as well as the stars,” he said, seemingly at ease. “Do you fancy a look when the storm clears out? Tomorrow promises to be a perfect night for viewing.”
Even though the idea disturbed her, she said, “That sounds great.”
Hamish, now carrying her bag, stopped at the top of the stairs and cleared his throat to draw their attention. When she looked over, the butler nodded her
way.
“If you’ll follow me, Miss.” Shifting his gaze to Callum, he added, “Mr. Faol would like a word, my lord, before he departs. You’ll find him in the library when it’s convenient.”
Vanessa turned to Callum. “Is your friend leaving so soon?”
“Only for the evening,” he replied. “Now, go on, get freshened up, and meet me back here in an hour.”
When he started to break away, she pulled him back, unsure what to wear. Did they dress up for dinner here, like in Downton Abbey? “What should I put on?”
“It doesn’t matter.” Taking her hand, he lifted it to his lips and planted a kiss on her knuckles. “Even if you put on an old flour sack, you’ll still look good enough to eat.”
The hunger in his eyes told her he meant every word. Literally, quite possibly. She trembled, suddenly feeling like Red Riding Hood confronted by the wolf in her grandmother’s nightgown.
My, Lord Lyon, what big teeth you have.
All the better to eat you with, my bonny butterfly.
She shuddered at the imagined exchange, wondering briefly if coming to Castle Barrogill was a mistake. Smiling through her trepidation, she pulled her hand from his grasp and followed the butler up the marble staircase and down a long corridor lined with paintings, weaponry, mounted animal heads, and electrified sconces. Eager to see as much of the castle as she could, she peeked through every doorway they passed. All the rooms were decorated in an eclectic blend of antique and traditional pieces in tasteful blends of florals, plaids, and paisleys.
Each time she spied a deer head or fur throw, she prayed it was faux. As a card-carrying member of PETA, the SCPA, and the World Wildlife Federation, she was adamantly opposed to hunting and furs. Plus, those staring glass eyes gave her the willies. Had he killed the animals himself? She certainly hoped not.
Taking a breath to cool her simmering indignation, she searched for something more pleasant to occupy her thoughts. Apart from the gruesome heads, the castle’s décor was elegant, comfortable, and masculine, without being overtly bachelor-pad. Had Callum done the decorating himself or hired an interior designer?
