Sins Against the Sea

by Nina Mason

  “Ah. I see.” He cleared his throat. “Well, Sorcha, that’s too bad. Because, you see, I make it a strict policy never to get tangled up with anyone born under the sign of the twins. They’re far too changeable for me, I’m afraid.”

  He signed her book and handed it back. He made more or less the same claim whatever the answer. Well-meaning women were forever trying to set him up—usually with themselves. He sought out the dark-haired lass again, wondering what sign she might be. Not that it mattered, since what he had in mind would involve very little talking.

  Sending in his psychic tentacles, he glimpsed particles of her life. Odd bits of a puzzle whose pieces didn’t quite fit together. A suspension bridge he recognized as the Golden Gate in San Francisco. Ornate wrought-iron banisters like those in New Orleans. A string of not-nice men. Environmental protests. Tarot cards. A small white house with a front porch.

  Probing deeper, he looked for her childhood and family, finding a woman worn down by years of disappointed expectations. Her mother? Oddly, he found no father, only a dark haired man with piercing blue eyes who wasn’t old enough to be her parent. Who was he and why did he look so familiar?

  Pulling out of her psyche, he slid his gaze to her swanlike neck. The dark hunger reared its head as his eyes lighted on her throbbing pulse. Swallowing his lust, he moved his eyes to her hair. The top was tied back. The rest fell down around her shoulders, as heavy and thick as his. His gaze dropped to her breasts. As he imagined them in his hands, desire erupted, fierce and molten. He looked away and shifted in his chair to give his budding erection more room.

  Tearing his gaze away, he found a twenty-something lass with frizzy blond hair in front of him. Smiling, she held out her copy of his book.

  “I can’t believe I’m meeting you in the flesh,” she said excitedly as he took it from her. “I follow your blog every day and have all of your books.”

  The smile that bloomed across his face in response was genuine this time. As much as he hated these events, they did boost his ego. They also taxed him, mentally and physically. He was ready for it to be over, ready to be home in bed—though not necessarily alone. As he robotically scrawled his signature line—Let the stars be your guide, Callum Lyon—he shot another hopeful glance toward the refreshment table.

  Aye. Good. She was still there, still watching.

  Why didn’t she join the queue to have him sign her book? She didn’t strike him as the bashful type. Far from it, in fact. Something in her air gave the impression of self-sufficiency. She was standing there so coolly, like she owned the whole bloody room and, soon enough, meant to own him, too.

  Not that he would allow it. He’d bed her and turn her out, just like he always did. Swallowing hard, he shook his head to clear the thickening cloud of lust. The room was cold, but he was sweating. He wanted to shed his jacket and loosen his tie, to get away from all these people, but he only smiled and handed the blonde back her book.

  He took the next one from a young man in wire-rimmed spectacles, keeping one eye on his prey. He was hers, too, judging by the hungry look in her cool blue eyes. God, she was lovely…and far too distracting.

  Get a grip on yourself, you randy prick. You’re too old to get hard every time a bonny lass gives you a come-hither look.

  Callum shut his eyes. He was already fraying around the edges. Another hour or two of forcing himself to be sociable might unravel him completely. He couldn’t begin to imagine how he might divide his attention between a bunch of politicos and a sexual conquest, let alone have anything left to give her afterward. Opening his eyes, he gave her another look.

  When their gazes met with a palpable charge, lust surged through his bloodstream. Perhaps a meal and a couple of drinks would restore his vigor. He rechecked the queue. Only two more, thank the stars.

  A white-haired crone stood before him now. He held out his hand for her book, opened to the title page, and scrawled his autograph. With a tight-lipped smile, he handed it back and sought the cool brunette once more. Their gazes met again with voltage, but the connection was short-lived.

  A white-haired crone stood before him now. He held out his hand for her book, opened to the title page, and scrawled his signature line. With a tight-lipped smile, he handed it back and sought the brunette once more. Their gazes met with a high-voltage charge that crackled all the way to his brogues.

  There was only one more person in line—a woman with chin-length dark hair, enormous gray eyes, and delicate features. Curiously, she held no book.

  “What can I do for you?” he asked, sure he knew the answer.

  It’s not you I’m here to see,” she said in an English accent. “While I’d gladly swing among the stars with you anytime, Lord Lyon, I believe your astrology to be—now, how shall I put this delicately?—a lorry load of New Age horseshit.”

  The bluntness of her comment startled Callum. If she thought astrology a load of bollocks, why was she here? He got his answer when she turned to Duncan.

  “My name’s Miranda Hornsby. I’m a reporter for the Caithness Crier and I’ve got a tip for you.”

  Leaning across the table between himself and the journalist, Duncan arched an eyebrow. “Oh, aye? And what might that be?”

  “I’m about to do a take-down piece on Alasdair Sinclair.” She kept her voice low so only the two men could hear. “So, if you’re as clever as I’ve heard, you’ll have a challenger ready in time for the election.”

  “But,” Duncan stammered, clearly caught off-guard, “the election’s only a few weeks away.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know.” With the smile of a fox, she turned on her heel and strode off.

  Rubbing his chin, Callum considered what she’d disclosed with growing excitement. As the Member of Parliament for Caithness in the House of Commons, Sinclair was an important and powerful politician. He also was a total party puppet who routinely ignored his constituents while committing flagrant adultery. In addition to being a conservative who opposed independence—bad enough on its own—Sinclair was a descendant of the ruthless bastards who stole Castle Barrogill, killed Callum’s son, and drove his first wife to suicide.

  “Can you have a candidate ready to run in time, do you think?”

  “To be sure,” Duncan said. “In fact, I’ve already got one in mind.”

  Callum arched an inquisitive eyebrow. “Are you at liberty to divulge the name?”

  “Aye.” Duncan gave him a cock-sure grin. “Lord Lyon, the Baron of Duncansby.”

  Callum sputtered in surprise. “What? Me? Are you mad?”

  Duncan’s earnest blue gaze held his like a lock. “I’m perfectly sane, I assure you.”

  “But…I prefer to pull strings from behind the scenes, as you well know.”

  Duncan’s grin gained confidence. “Your party needs you, man. As does your country. So, I’m afraid the time has come for the Great and Powerful Oz to step out from behind the curtain.”

  The room was emptying, but there was still a tangle of people by the door. Callum scanned the cluster for long dark hair and a willowy figure in a black pantsuit. When he saw none of those things, a sick panicky feeling took him over.

  Duncan touched his arm. “Callum? Are you all right?”

  He wasn’t. Not by a long shot. Though he wasn’t sure whether it was the lass leaving or Duncan’s unexpected suggestion that had put him on edge. He dragged his hand down his face. “I’m fine. Just knackered is all.”

  “I’m sorry about the lass.” Duncan checked his wristwatch as he rose from the table. “I guess it just wasn’t meant to be. But come on. After a good meal, a few drinks, and a bit of verbal sparring, I’m certain you’ll feel better.”

  “I’m sure you’re right,” Callum said, even though he wasn’t. He should be relieved not to have to juggle a conquest and Duncan’s friends, but instead, he felt like a man who’d lost a sizable investment in what he’d been promised was a sure thing.

  * * * *

  “Why did yo
u disappear on me?”

  Vanessa’s heart jumped at the sound of the same deep Scottish burr she’d heard earlier that evening lecturing about political astrology. As she pivoted on her barstool, her knees grazed his thighs, shooting a thrilling dart straight to her sex. Taking a breath, she drank him in like an expensive specialty cocktail with more alcohol than was good for her. His long golden hair was pulled back, giving her a clear view of his handsome features, upturned mouth, and sexy topaz eyes. He still wore the well-cut suit from earlier, but had shed the tie and opened the collar of his crisp white shirt. A tuft of golden chest hair peeked over the top button. God, but she loved a man with hair on his chest.

  His closeness, mixed with the booze in her system, was making her head spin. “Let’s just say, I don’t like competition.”

  It wasn’t completely false, but neither was it wholly true. She’d had a fit of conscience and lost her nerve. As much as she wanted to get inside his castle—and his pants—she couldn’t stop thinking about what the medium had said. If he was indeed her Knight of Wands, sleeping with him would endanger the thing she valued even more than her career.

  Her freedom.

  He emitted a small laugh. “She wasn’t competition. She was a reporter who had business with my friend.”

  “Oh? And where is your friend now?”

  “In the restaurant, having a heated debate with his pack.”

  She blinked up at him, still astounded by his sudden appearance. “Why aren’t you with them?”

  “Because I’d rather be here.”

  She let her gaze run over him again. Even hotter in person than in photos, he had the leonine good looks characteristic of his sign. Did he also have the enormous ego, fierce temper, and suffocating possessiveness typical of those ruled by the sun? Probably. Not that it mattered. She’d come to Scotland to find a vampire, not a husband.

  She offered him her coolest smile. “Then have a seat, Lord Lyon. Unless you’re in a rush to get back to your party.”

  Slipping onto the barstool with feline agility, he hailed the bartender—a dark-haired Scot named Robert who, for the past hour, had kept her glass full. Sure she’d blown her first assignment as a paranormal investigator, she’d stopped in for a nightcap to take the sting out of her failure.

  “What can I get for you, Lord Lyon?”

  Clearly, the bartender knew the baron, or at least knew who he was. She was very glad now she’d resisted the urge to question him about the Vampire of Barrogill.

  “A dram of Oban—neat,” the baron replied, “and another of whatever the lady is having.”

  Vanessa still couldn’t believe her good fortune. She thought she’d blown it and now, here he was, as if by magic…or fate…or maybe just coincidence. Not that she believed in coincidences. For better or for worse, they were destined to meet. He was the Knight of Wands. Unfortunately, she’d had one too many single-malts to carry out her plan, even if she could charm him into taking her to his castle.

  Barrogill was out on Easter Head—the northernmost point of mainland Scotland. It was a few miles northeast of the village and extremely remote. There was probably no cell signal way out there so, if she went home with him, she’d be at his mercy. Or the vampire’s, if the rumors proved true.

  Lord Lyon turned to her with a devastating smile. “Do you have a name, lass?”

  “Yes, of course.” She offered him a smile along with her hand. “I’m Vanessa. Vanessa Meadows.”

  He took her hand, but instead of shaking it, he lifted it to his lips. Sparks crackled in her abdomen as he pressed a kiss to the back, holding her gaze as he did. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Meadows. What brings you to John o’Groats?”

  Luckily, she’d had the foresight to invent a cover story. “I was on my way to Orkney to join a Green Peace protest of arctic drilling…and happened to see you were lecturing this evening—a lucky coincidence, given my interest in the subject matter.”

  “Very lucky. For both of us.”

  The smoky look he gave her set fire to her loins, burning away her misgivings about sleeping with him. Fortunately, her good sense was flame-retardant. If she invited him up to her room, he’d have no reason to take her to Barrogill. Yes, she could try to finagle her way in, but, being a Leo and a player, he would probably find pushiness as unattractive as she did.

  No, if she wanted to keep his interest, she’d have to use her knowledge of astrology to gain the advantage in this little waltz of theirs. By letting him take the lead. Leos, being lions, were proud hunters with fiery passions and romantic hearts. He might let his lioness share in the hunting, but he was king when it came to mating. In other words, Leo men liked to do the chasing, usually with all the schmaltz. Candles, violins, flowers, sunsets, moonlight, and, with any luck, naughty lingerie.

  They also liked to be stroked and, if crossed, could instantly turn from purring pussycats into roaring beasts. At the first sign a woman wanted to rule him, a Leo man made a beeline for his cave. If she was clever and played to his astrological attributes, she could have this sexy jungle cat eating out of her hand in no time. If she insisted on pushing her agenda, however, their seductive pas de deux could turn into a battle of wills.

  Did she want that? Hell, no. She might be a rebel at heart, but she detested personal conflict.

  “When is the protest?” he asked.

  “This weekend.”

  A roguish gleam came into his eyes. “Oh, aye? And what are you doing until then?”

  “I’m not sure. I thought I might have a look around the area. I flew into Wick, and the scenery I observed on the way up here was breathtaking.”

  “Aye. That it is. Would you like someone to show you around?”

  She fluttered her lashes. “Are you offering?”

  “I might be…depending.”

  “Depending on what?”

  As he sipped his drink, his gaze spread over her like honey, leaving sweet warmth behind. “What are you’re looking for.”

  “I’m looking for a hot Scot to have fun with. Even better if he owns a castle and a kilt.”

  You’re in luck. I own both.”

  “Really? Cool. What’s it like to live in a castle?”

  “Like most things, it has its ups and downs.”

  The Tower from her tarot reading flashed through her mind. The image showed a man and a woman falling headlong from a burning barbican. “Tell me about this castle of yours. Does it have a tower?”

  “Aye.”

  “Where is it?” She sipped her drink, pretending ignorance. “And what’s it called?”

  “It’s up near Easter Head. And it’s called Barrogill, which translates roughly as ‘fortress in a ravine.’”

  She smiled at him coquettishly. “Do you ever take your conquests there?”

  He shook his head, fighting to suppress a smile.

  “Why not?

  Lowering his gaze to his drink, he began to play with the glass. “Because I value my privacy too much.”

  “That’s too bad…because I’ve never been inside a castle before.”

  “Aye, well. We might be able to work something out.”

  “Really?” She beamed at him. “That would be awesome.”

  She set her hand on his thigh and gave it a squeeze.

  “Are you trying to pull me, Miss Meadows?”

  “Pull you? What does that mean?”

  “In the States, I believe you call it picking someone up.”

  “Oh. Well…if you can’t tell…I’d better work on my technique.”

  “Your technique is fine. And, being American, can I presume you’re not looking for anything long term?”

  She gave him her sexiest smile. “I couldn’t have put it better myself.”

  Vanessa had never been on this side of a pick-up before and didn’t like it much. Men pursued her; she didn’t pursue them, and trying to walk the line between flirting and coming on too strong was like walking a tightrope without a net.

 
; Tapping his glass to let the bartender know he was ready for a refill, the baron offered her a disarming smile. “At the risk of sounding like I’m handing you a line, what sign might you be?”

  She batted her eyes coquettishly. “Can’t you guess?”

  “I can, actually.” He licked his lips. “You’re a fairly textbook Aquarian.”

  “But with Leo rising.” A grin stole across her mouth. “Which makes me a paradox.”

  “And a wide-eyed idealist who can’t bear to be tied down,” he said. “A butterfly flitting from flower to flower, never settling on any for long.”

  She furrowed her brow. “I don’t flit, Lord Lyon. But otherwise, you’re spot on.” She bent to sip her drink, keeping her eyes on him. “What about you? You’re a Leo, obviously, but what’s your ascendant?”

  “Also Leo.”

  She nearly choked. “Good God. You’re a double Leo?”

  “Aye. And it behooves me to warn you we double Leos are ruthless romantics, a dangerous prospect for a butterfly such as yourself.”

  “Are they?” She sipped her drink. “How so?”

  The barkeep had poured him another. Raising it to his mouth, he took a gulp. “That’s for me to know and for you to find out.”

  She gave him an arch look. “You sound awfully sure of yourself.”

  “Do I?”

  “Go on,” she said, a defiant gleam in her eye. “I dare you. 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 him know as much. “That’s not half bad, but I’m not quite bowled over.”

  He laughed and sipped his drink. “You don’t beat about the bush, do you lass?”

  She pursed her lips. “Why should I?”

  He raked his free hand through his thick and wavy shoulder-length hair. “Because there are some who might find your directness off-putting.”

  “Are you one of those people?”