by Tarah Scott
Cat had uncovered a lucrative niche market. With money like that she didn’t need to kill again. But Cat was a Black Widow in the making. She simply wouldn’t be able to keep from biting again—until she got bit back. Margot prayed like hell Cat hadn’t already committed more murders that would initiate her into the bloody list of female Black Widows.
Margot closed the small notebook and lifted her gaze. The dry stone masonry and thatched roofs of the dozen croft houses that made up the inlet village were recreations of the original settlement. The bleating of sheep could be heard between the crash of waves against the beach. Oddly, the mundane sound soothed.
*****
Margot sipped the scotch she had chosen over the mead being served with dinner. She wasn’t the only one who had declined the honey wine. The three men had chosen from the variety of whiskies offered, and Leslie Evans had opted for claret. Not a great choice in Margot’s opinion, but better than the mead. Tory Hanley had been the only one to drink the old-fashioned honey wine.
“A Don Juan for a ghost,” Tory said in Cat’s pause for breath while relating the tale of Castle Morrison’s ghost.
A faraway look entered the forty-year-old’s hazel eyes and Margot was reminded of a teenage virgin on her first midnight drive with the local football hero. She would lose her virginity, her heart, and those rose colored glasses.
“How perfectly delicious,” Tory added.
Margot sipped her scotch. The woman needed to get laid. Her husband sat beside her, wolfing the wild boar as if it were going out of style. If he put half the gusto into fucking his wife as he did eating his dinner, they would both be better satisfied. Tory sighed like that virgin teenager, and Margot corrected herself. Mrs. Tory Hanley wasn’t the sort of woman a man fucked. Tory would be deeply disappointed with the ghost of Lord Morrison. He would be the football hero all over again.
Cat placed her elbows on the head of the table where she sat and leaned forward. “Not just your average ghost, Mrs. Hanley. More like…”
“A siren,” Margot offered.
She’d read the legend that hung over the foyer entryway. Lord Colin Morrison needed a particular woman to break the curse that imprisoned him in Castle Morrison. The woman must be pure of mind, have a heart of gold, and the body of Aphrodite. In his search for this perfect woman, he lured women into his bed, fucked them, then killed them when he discovered they weren't the one to free him from his supernatural prison. And they never were the one. He was a regular Romeo—with a deadly twist. Margot understood why the morbid legend appealed to Cat, birds of a feather…
“That’s right,” Cat said.
“The sea nymphs who lured men to their deaths?” Leslie Evans asked.
“It’s an apt analogy,” Cat said. “The curse compels Colin to entice women into his bed. The last woman known to enter the castle and disappear was Rita Jones in nineteen thirty-six.”
“She was the last known woman.” Margot lifted her glass of scotch in salute. “Who knows how many have disappeared since and weren’t reported.” She downed the scotch and set the glass on the table.
Cat nodded. “Exactly.”
Tory shivered, and Margot couldn’t blame her. The gleam in Cat’s eyes became almost predatory. What was she up to?
“A ghost can’t kill women,” Tory said.
Her husband leaned toward her. “Not a ghost, dear, a siren.”
She shot him a recriminating look and opened her mouth, but Cat cut off the obvious retort. “You wife is right, Mr. Hanley, Lord Morrison is long dead.” She glanced around the room as if his specter might appear. “But not even a ghost can escape the powerful magic of a witch. His spirit walks these halls.” Her gaze settled on Tory. “But you’re wrong about a ghost not being able to lure the living to their deaths.”
Margot bit her lip to keep from jumping to her feet and shouting murderer! It wasn’t the ghost of Castle Morrison they needed to be afraid of, but its proprietor. Margot reached for her scotch then remembered the glass was empty.
“But why kill those women?” Leslie Evans asked.
“Legend says his anger has no bounds when he learns they aren’t the one who can free him,” Cat said.
“Who would want to free him?”
“It’s the promise of passion that entices a woman," Cat replied. "Only a woman pure of heart can free him. She must enter his lair knowing she will sacrifice her life for his freedom.”
“Sounds pretty one sided to me,” Margot said.
Cat laughed. “Still as cynical as always, Margot.”
“If you call not being willing to sacrifice my life to a serial killer, yeah, you could call me cynical.”
“Just think of what he offers in return.”
Margot snorted. “That better be one earth shattering orgasm.” The room went silent. She looked at the faces around the table. “I sucked the life right out of the legend, didn’t I?”
Cat grinned. “Even you can’t wipe away three hundred years of romance.”
Memory of hard brown eyes flashed in Margot’s mind. A deep voice, “How did you get here?”
“An earth shattering orgasm would do it for me,” Tory said.
Her husband grunted.
“You will return from whence you came, if ye have any sense about you, and quickly.”
“Passion is a powerful magic,” Tory said.
“You wouldn’t be dabbling in bayou magic, would you, sugar?”
Dark irises swirling like a tornado. Warmth spread through Margot. Eyes on her breasts, warm lips closing around a nipple, sucking, teasing, warm breath against her neck. She startled from the images. The room snapped into focus. Well, damn, that had been one helluva dream, after all.
“Maybe he didn’t kill those women,” Tory said.
“It’s not his fault,” her husband said. “What man wouldn’t go mad locked up in a castle for hundreds of years.”
Tory’s eyes narrowed. “You mean, what man wouldn’t go mad locked up in a castle with a woman?”
He forked potatoes into his mouth. “Your words, darling, not mine.”
Stifled laughs came from the other two men. Joseph and Franklin had been suspiciously quiet throughout the evening and Margot figured they weren’t particularly enamored with the idea of a serial killer for a ghost, especially one who ravished his victims first.
Tory glared at her husband. Margot couldn’t help wondering if Cat didn’t have a male prostitute tucked away in some dungeon down in the bowels of the castle. She could double her revenues by fulfilling the fantasy of every affection starved—sex starved –female guest.
“How old is the curse?” Leslie asked.
“Parts of the castle date to the tenth century. But Lord Morrison lived during the seventeenth century.” Cat nodded toward a large tapestry hanging alongside stairs leading to the second level. “That tapestry is written in Inglis—you’ll know it as Gaelic—and tells the story of the enchantment. Lord Colin Morrison made the mistake of spurning a woman who asked for one night of lovemaking. So the woman cast a spell that imprisoned him in the castle and forced him to make love to women until he found the one who loved him not for the pleasure he could bring her, but for the man he was.”
“Poor tortured man,” Tory whispered.
Margot blinked. Damn, maybe it wasn’t a male prostitute Tory needed, but a brain.
Chapter Five
Margot turned right and another hallway in the castle stretched out before her, this one in deeper shadow than the last. She glanced behind her. A single sconce created an eerie shadow dance across the stone walls and floor. She startled at sight of a heavy oak door on the corner of the bend in the hallway. The doorway hadn't been there when she’d walked past. A room couldn’t possibly be built on the corner of two hallways? Margot hesitated, then faced forward, took one step, another, and another until a door came into view on the left.
She stopped in front of the door, grasped the handle, and pressed on the latch. The soft click of
latch releasing from catch sent a prickle up her arms. In the last two hallways, door after door had been locked. Her fingers trembled on the handle. Well damn, what would the boys back home in Wilkinson County— "—think of Deputy Sheriff Saulnier unnerved by an unlocked door?” she finished out loud, then shivered at the odd sense of déjà vu.
She shifted her attention down the hall. Another door waited up ahead on the right. That hadn’t been there a moment ago. She released the handle and started toward the other room.
At the door, she gripped the handle and awareness zipped down her spine. Vague images of a tall dark figure flashed across her mind’s eye. Margot pressed the latch and swung the door wide.
A cherry wood four poster bed stood against the right wall, quilt and sheets turned down as if in readiness for her arrival. No swags hung from the posters as they had…as they had when? She swung her gaze onto the wall opposite her. Floor length, gold curtains covered an eight foot section of the wall probably concealing balcony doors. Shouldn’t she be hearing the crash of the sea against the cliff walls as she did in her room?
Fire blazed in the hearth centered on the left wall, but night air hovered in the room, damp, with an edge. She shivered. A door in the corner of the room opened and a man filled the entryway. Margot released a silent breath. A crisp white shirt fit taut across broad shoulders, dark hair curled at the edges, and…intense brown eyes stared at her. Memory rose of dinner, talk of legends, and—
“Colin Morrison, I presume,” she said.
Something flickered in his eyes. Her belly tensed. Those eyes were even more dangerous than they’d been last night. She’d never had a reoccurring dream before. It had to be all the talk of ghosts seducing women. Margot grimaced. It had been way too long since she’d been seduced. She was no better than Tory Hanley.
Margot ran her gaze down the kilted Adonis. Maybe she and Tory were more alike than she wanted to admit—but Margot recognized a good opportunity for an earth shattering orgasm when she saw one. She reached beneath her satin short nightgown, glad for the decision to forgo panties despite the chilly summer night, and flattened a palm against her abdomen.
Eyes on the gorgeous specter, she memorized every hard line of his body from muscled legs hugged by soft leather lace boots, to the kilt held in place by a belt and round leather buckle with driftwood carved across its length. She trailed her gaze up his waist and broad chest to the angled jaw. When she woke up, she’d have something solid to get the job finished with a bang.
His brow furrowed and his gaze dropped to her rucked up nightgown. With her free hand, Margot pulled the nightgown higher, revealing the downward slide of her fingers into curls already wet with anticipation.
He snapped his head up, eyes hard on her face. She froze in sliding a finger across her clit when he started toward her. He stopped so close she could smell…what was the scent? Sandalwood. Margot breathed deep in an effort to imprint the scent upon her mind. This would send her over the edge as her fingers plunged in and out of her channel in imitation of the gorgeous cock hidden beneath his kilt.
She tensed in readiness for the dream to evaporate, but he remained before her. She released the nightgown and ran the backs of two fingers down his stubbled jaw. One hundred percent male. His irises dilated. Her pulse jumped. How long could this last?
Gaze locked with his, Margot reached beneath his kilt. Her fingertips brushed velvety warmth and she slowly wrapped her fingers around his girth until she gripped his tool as if her hold could keep him real. She paused. He felt different somehow from last night. Different maybe, but his cock felt as real as any man in the waking world. How long before she woke up? She’d never before been able to maintain a dream once she realized she was dreaming. Margot gently squeezed the pulsing flesh. He hardened more beneath her touch.
He grasped her jaw and yanked her face upward. “Women beg me to pleasure them,” he said in a hoarse voice.
“Don’t worry, sugar, you’ll pleasure me all right. I’m the main attraction. But I’ll enjoy it a lot more if I get a good taste of you first.” Margot released his shaft and knelt in front of him.
“What are ye doing?” he demanded.
She looked up. “You going to get angry like you did last night?”
“Last night—” Surprise, then anger crossed his face.
“Hold on there,” she said. “That’s not part of the fantasy. I like my men hot and wild, not angry.”
His expression cleared. Well, damn, she’d heard about people controlling the dream state, but she’d never put much stock in the theory. This was one time she was glad she’d been wrong.
She lowered her gaze to his engorged cock. Her mouth watered. She didn’t like her men angry, but this shaft looked like it could take her with one ball tied behind its back. A package like this didn’t come along every day. With great care, Margot wrapped the fingers of one hand around him, slid her hand downward, then up the length to the tip where she covered it in her fist before sliding back down again.
The taut skin stretched, forcing the rigid organ to jut toward her in desperate invitation. Colin groaned and thrust into her hand. When her palm edge met his abdomen, she covered the corona with her mouth and slowly pulled back, letting her teeth graze the edges until the slit slipped past her lips.
Salty cum brought her taste buds to life. She closed her mouth around him again and guided him deeper inside. Her lips hugged the silky flesh, sliding down, then up again as she started a rhythm. He grasped each side of her face holding her course steady. With her free hand, she reached between his legs and cupped his balls. Desire rammed through her. She wanted those balls slapping against her as his cock pounded into her channel. She stroked the sensitive sacks, not missing a beat of the in and out rhythm. Damn, if his rod didn’t bulge more.
His grip on her head tightened and Margo slowed. She had no intention of ending things so quickly. She stopped stroking his balls and spread her knees as she slid a finger through her curls. Margot closed her eyes. Feel of his cock sliding in and out of her mouth as she dragged her wet finger back across her clit tightened her pussy to near discomfort.
She dipped the finger deeper, then up again and vibrated the swollen nub for the bare instant it took for pleasure to rip through her. She pulsed into the finger and her rhythm on his shaft faltered. He seized her shoulders and yanked her upright. Margot snapped her head up and met those brown eyes. She frowned. They were colder than she remembered.
“No woman pleasures herself in my company,” he snapped.
She blinked. This was an interesting turn, a dream lover who took charge. He seized the lower edges of her nightgown and dragged it over her head and arms. Her nipples jumped to attention. He tossed the nightgown aside, whirled her around, and shoved her against the wall. He grasped her wrists and yanked them above her head, palms flat against the wall. Her breasts and abdomen pressed into cool stone as he covered her from behind. Warmth penetrated through his shirt to her back, an erotic contrast to the cool stone that brought a shiver.
Her nipples tightened to hard points as he slid one large hand around her ribs, along the side of her breast and up to the pink bud. Rough wool pressed into her ass then her crack when he shifted and nestled his erection between her cheeks. He grazed her nipple with his fingertip. An ache clenched her sex. Margot lifted on tiptoes, straining until the edge of her channel rubbed the wool and almost touched the base of his cock. Her heart hammered against her chest as she dropped onto flat feet and slowly lifted again in sweet agony to almost touch the hard shaft that taunted her.
His hand dropped from her breast and her breath caught when the tip of the long finger skimmed the top of her swollen nub, then plunged into her heated core. Margot cried out. He pulled the soaked finger back, moistening the throbbing core as he dragged the digit across her clit. His fingers dipped again, two at a time, into her opening. She rocked into the digits, then back against the erection pressing heavily between her buttocks.
“Y
e like that, sweet?” he whispered.
His deep voice reverberated in her ears. He flicked her pleasure point with his thumb and she rocked into the hand, then back into the cock again.
Hot breath enveloped her ear. “I am yours.” He flicked the sensitive nub again.
Pleasure rocketed through her. Awareness played on the edge of consciousness. Her rhythm faltered. Fingers squeezed a nipple. Her heart leapt into a gallop.
“I am yours,” he repeated.
He shifted, and his velvety length rubbed the crack of her ass, free of the kilt. Margot sucked in a breath. A low laugh met her ears. He stepped back. Cold air washed over her. She registered the tap against the inside of her ankle and realized he was coaxing her legs open. Margot widened her stance and warm hands covered her ass as he spread her wide. A finger slid past her cheeks and into her channel. She lifted on tiptoes to give him better access. He withdrew the finger and, with one hand, grasped a hip as he trailed the tip of his cock through her folds.
“Aye,” he ground out. He fitted his shaft to the opening of her channel. “This is what ye want.”
Margot gave a strangled laugh. “Fuck me hard, sugar, and we’ll both get what we want.”
He slid a hand around her waist to her pleasure point and began vibrating in a quick, insistent motion. Pressure mounted. Margot shifted slightly until the spot he massaged leapt to life with a force that made her see stars behind her closed lids. Hard cock began to fill her.
She gasped. “Sweet Christ.”
The scent of sandalwood enveloped her. Pleasure shot through to her core. She tensed against an unexpected discomfort that tugged at her chest. Margot bucked against the mounting orgasm. A loud crash reverberated through the room.
