Secrets Dispelled

by Raven McAllan

  The fire decided to stop acting up, flames began to lick the coals and the gloom of the day was dispelled as cheerful warmth permeated the room. Coll put the mesh fireguard in place and went into the kitchen. It was past six o’clock, the club was closed and he had nowhere to go and not a soul to be responsible for. The day called for a dram. He opened the cupboard and took out a bottle of Highland Park twelve year old.

  Coll wasn’t a big drinker, but sometimes a dram was the perfect thing to have at the end of a shitty day. First of all he’d had a phone call to say the guy who was due to deliver the log he intended to carve into a sculpture for fellow Dom Alex and Mimi, Alex’s sub and fiancé’s, wedding present had broken his arm. Therefore, the poor guy couldn’t deliver it until he had help to drive his truck. As he lived over a hundred miles away from Diomhair, and the tree trunk in question wouldn’t fit into a pickup, Coll would just have to wait. Which meant his time to get the damned thing finished for the wedding would be bloody tight.

  Then his toaster blew up, the net went down and he didn’t have a chance to check his orders. To end the day from hell, the fire smoked, and he was well on his way to becoming a kipper.

  He might like smoky whiskey, he didn’t like smoky rooms.

  The first mouthful of the fiery liquid went down like nectar. The second cheered him up and the third he savored.

  It was a promising beginning to a hopefully better evening. Coll went to the fridge and looked inside. He enjoyed cooking—at one point he’d toyed with being a chef, before he’d decided he preferred creating with a chisel instead of a spoon. Tonight, after a swift glance at the dark clouds outside, the way the trees bent in the wind and the rain that coated the windows, he’d decided it was a stew or spaghetti evening. After a moment’s thought, Coll settled on spaghetti bolognaise. Easy, fast and tasty. He began to chop onions efficiently and opened the Aga hob.

  Just after he’d relocated to the area, he discovered the cottage he’d bought and moved into needed a new roof and the central heating updating before winter. Jess and Jeff, siblings and the castle’s co-owners, had offered him one of the apartments in the castle until the work was completed and he’d jumped at it. After all, it would only be for a month or so. Jeff had even offered the use of a barn for Coll to work in so he didn’t get in the way of the tradesmen in the cottage.

  How the best-laid plans went wrong, Coll mused as he added minced beef to the onions and began to brown them. Here he was six months on, and happy where he was. Rising damp and dry rot had reared their ugly heads, and his cottage had to be completely gutted. In the end he’d decided the best way to deal with it all was to knock the cottage down and rebuild. Luckily the planning officer agreed, Jeff and Jess were happy for him to stay in the castle, and in effect he also helped the night watchman.

  Coll turned to the shelf where he kept his spices and took down a new jar of oregano. When the castle had been rebuilt many years after it was ravaged by fire, Jeff had made sure both apartments within it had private east-, south- and west-facing balconies from different rooms. It suited Coll. He grew herbs on the south facing one, dried his washing whenever possible on the one that was situated on the east side of the building and enjoyed a glass of wine on a dry and midge-free evening on the patio which pointed to the west. He had a patio heater there. He also had a midge-eater, but was resigned to the fact that as fast as he got rid of some blighters, they were replaced by the next group. In the middle of the so-called summer, the only way to sit out after sunset was to cover up, slosh on repellent and keep a midge net handy.

  So much for al-fresco scening. He wished. In fact in many ways, so much for scening full stop. Ever since his mentor Alex Sunderland had told him to, ‘go forth and scribe’, he’d prevaricated. Not because he didn’t think he was ready, he knew he was. Alex was the best artistic scriber bar none, and Coll knew himself privileged to be taught by the master. More because he couldn’t find anyone who called to him on the deep, primeval level he knew he needed. He wasn’t prepared to settle for less, therefore he waited as patiently as he could manage. Hopefully it wouldn’t be long before he could put his tuition into practice on his own sub, not someone chosen for his lessons.

  With a mental smile at his introverted thoughts, Coll opened the jar of the oregano he’d dried himself on the back shelf of the Aga and the aromatic scent filled the air.

  Coll sniffed with appreciation then almost dropped the jar and dusted himself and the work surface with oregano flakes, as the unexpected sound of the landline telephone broke into the tempting sizzle from the hob. The landline was really only there for the net. It had nothing to do with the club, and as he usually used his mobile, the harsh ring was unexpected and intrusive. Coll slid the pan off the hob, cursed and dried his hands before he picked the phone up.

  “Youse yins, fucking pervs. Ya need to watch it or the lassie’ll get more than a wee Glasgae kiss. Gan find her ootside yer door, fucker. An’ remember, nae playing wi’ guns.” The mixture of dialects was so thick, and the voice so distorted that it wasn’t until he heard the dialing tone that Coll went over the words in his mind and made some sense of it.

  Pervs? That was nothing new. To some people who didn’t understand him, BDSM or the what’s normal anyway scenario, perv was the natural tag. It didn’t bother him. Each to their own. However, what lassie? The only women he knew who might be around would be safely home with their husbands. The club was closed and none of his fellow Doms who helped run the place had mentioned they or their subs were likely to drop by.

  Coll thought for a brief second and hauled on the steel-cap boots he habitually wore for work—after all he might stop paying attention and drop a chisel on his feet. Unlikely, but then so was some unknown phoning him with a message like that.

  He grimaced, sprayed midge repellent on every area of skin that he couldn’t cover in clothes, shrugged into a thick waterproof and grabbed a heavy-duty torch which could double as a cosh.

  The rain had almost stopped when he got outside but the bloody midges were out in force. Coll slammed the front door—he didn’t want a houseful of the little blighters—and looked around. The area closest to the castle was empty.

  So which way?

  Mindful that for some obscure reason it could be a trap of some sort, although why, Coll had no idea, for life around Diomhair—as far he knew—had been uneventful of late, he scanned the area carefully. Then he moved toward the major driveway that headed direct to the main road, and wondered, why now? Even the ubiquitous white van that had dogged the area on and off like a bad penny and given several of them a bad time seemed to have disappeared.

  Nothing disturbed the midges or the mist and as he rounded the first bend, Coll wondered if he should have headed in the other direction.

  Something under a tree caught his eye and he veered toward it.

  A quad bike, old and on its last legs. As far as he could recall, he’d never seen it before. However a locked box welded to the back made him think for a moment. A farmer? If so, what the hell was he doing around here? And why leave his bike? Coll circled it once and noticed that the engine was still warm.

  Curiouser and curiouser. Oh, he knew the estate supported farmers and gamekeepers and such like, but why on earth would one of them be around the main drive, in such weather?

  A scuffling noise alerted him to the presence of someone or something close and he spun around on his heel. Well, as best he could in squelchy, muddy undergrowth. A thick, thorny, wet branch missed his cheek by inches and a splatter of water tricked over his face and down his neck.

  Fuck, shit and double fuck.

  The young woman—the muddy and bruised young woman with deep green and pain-filled eyes—who pointed a shotgun at him swayed.

  “You fucker, what the hell is all this shit, eh? I should just shoot your balls off and be done with it. In fact if you don’t start taking pdq, I might just do that.”

  Coll froze and like all mistreated goodies in bad westerns, slo
wly put his hands in the air, even though he really wanted to use them to cover his bollocks.

  “Ha, see, a…” She blinked owlishly. “A… Oh, fuck it, who are you and why did you knock me out? I guess I should be grateful you didn’t half-inch Sean while you were at it.”

  Sean? The gamekeeper? What had she got to do with him? No, that couldn’t be right, there was no Sean working in the estate as far as Coll knew.

  “My dog. Where is he?” She took one step forward and went white. “If you’ve hurt him, I will kill you. Slowly. God almighty, do you know how dangerous it is to knock someone out while they carried a loaded gun?”

  She swayed again and shut her eyes. Not long enough for him to try any heroics, though. She opened them immediately and he swore he could see pain and confusion in her expression. She wasn’t the only one in the confused part of the equation.

  “There was no dog here.”

  “Do you?” She ignored his comment about dogs, spoke angrily, and then winced. “Hell so where’s Sean gone… Oh no, that’s right, he’s at Lachy’s. I forgive you.” She said that so stiffly he could see how much she hated it. “But you didn’t know that.”

  There was a bruise forming on her cheek, and his mystery lady touched it briefly. “Shit and fuck, a black eye as well.”

  “I didn’t. Knock you out. I’m as much at sea as you are.”

  Coll lowered his hands and took a step toward her. To do what? She waved the gun and he stood still again.

  “Ru…rubbish. No sea for miles.” The gun pointed at him, a tree and back at him again.

  “Don’t you know it’s dangerous to wave a gun round?” he asked in as mild a tone as he could manage whilst castigating himself for being caught like an idiot. “You might hit something.”

  Damn, he hoped his tone didn’t make her think he thought that any other time it was unlikely. He didn’t want her to prove herself.

  “Exactly, so you better ho…hope…I’ve got the safety on, eh?” She blinked twice. “Do you think, oh well, it’s only a girl”—she invested the word with scorn—“so she wouldn’t blow your brains out. You’re wrong. That, in case you have enough no…nous to wonder why, is because females have their brain in their head not in their go…gonads.”

  She seemed to have trouble formulating her thoughts and words. Concussion?

  “It’s not loaded.” Coll made his tone as confident as anyone could with a gun pointed at their gonads. He had no idea if it was or wasn’t, but whoever she was carried it well enough to make him think she was too experienced not to have the bloody thing unloaded.

  He hoped.

  His mystery lady blinked again. “Shwhat?” She looked down at the gun and shook her head. “Whosh says?”

  “You did.” Now he had to hope if she was concussed as he assumed, she had no idea what she had and hadn’t said.

  “Oh, bugger.” She swung the gun toward a tree a fair few yards away and pressed the trigger.

  Coll ducked as bits of bark and leaves flew in all directions.

  She looked at the gun like she’d never seen it before and broke it open. Then she stared at Coll.

  “You lied.”

  Before he had a chance to reply, his mystery lady slid like an overcooked noodle onto the wet ground.

  Coll stared at the woman—no, girl, he amended as he took a proper look at the person slumped in front of him and wondered what he’d done to deserve it. Or what she had either.

  Something stunk, and it wasn’t just the wet vegetation. He studied the area they were in carefully, but nothing or no one disturbed the rain. Just him and an unconscious female.

  At least it had stopped hailing and sleeting but it was almost dark, murky and bloody miserable. The last thing he could do was leave the girl outside in the damp and wait for her to wake up. She needed warmth and dry as soon as possible.

  Was it safe to move her? He shrugged mentally. It was a lot safer than getting pneumonia, and he reckoned it should be okay, especially after she’d been able to stand upright—sort off—and shoot. Anyway he really didn’t have much choice. He made sure she was in sight as he picked up the shotgun, broke it open and checked it was empty. Now what? Coll would be the first person to admit he knew about as much of guns as most people knew about his personal preferences. To whit Shibari, scribing and clamps.

  Coll made his mind up in his course of action. He walked to where the quad bike had stopped, aware it was probably hers, and found a gun carrying bag. Still with half his mind on the girl, he put the shotgun in it, slung the bag over his shoulders and walked back to lift the still unconscious female into his arms.

  Bloody hell. Coll grunted as he shifted her to an easier position for him to walk—she was no lightweight, and sodden outdoor clothing and heavy boots didn’t help.

  She muttered something incoherent and he waited to see if she’d say anymore, but there was silence. The sooner he got her indoors, the better.

  He began to walk briskly down the drive toward the house, very aware that if she woke up in his arms, she might well carry out her threats and make sure fatherhood was nowhere in his future.

  It was almost enough to make him drop her and cover his nuts.

  Chapter Three

  Her world had stopped swaying so much. Were they now in harbor? Surely she really hadn’t decided to take a cruise? For goodness sake, she got seasick on the boating lake at home and that was in a pedalo and two feet of water. Finn wondered if it was worth opening her eyes. Tried one, managed about a millimeter and decided the answer was no. She felt like rubbish and had no desire to throw up if she could get away with not doing so. Anyway, her head hurt, her cheek throbbed and bouncing up and down like she was gave her no inclination to do anything except go back into oblivion.

  Her feet hit something hard. Pain sped through her body like nothing she’d ever experienced before. Finn struggled and hit something softer. Soft with a core of steel. What was it? This boat was so not good. She kicked out and wondered if she had a death wish as little men with hammers invaded all of her and not just her head. Dimly, she thought she heard someone cuss and say, ‘Ah shit, sorry’, but she couldn’t swear to it, and her mouth wouldn’t form any words to ask. Once more her world turned gray.

  When she finally opened her eyes, she looked up at soft cream. Like a milkshake. Cream? Since when was the sky that color? And surely the sky didn’t look so uniform unless it was gray? Had it stopped sleeting and stuff? Why was the ground so soft and warm? She wriggled and found her arms and legs didn’t want to move.

  Why not? Okay, she felt woozy and spaced out, but surely that didn’t equate for limbs that were leaden and unmoving? And what was she covered with? Wet waterproofs were not as snuggly.

  Finn looked away from the sky… No, not the sky she realized, a ceiling. High to be sure but a roof over her head at least and she gazed down at herself.

  Covered in a duvet. Deep brown with a green trim. Like the earth and the grass. Why on earth was she associating a cover with the outside? She was definitely indoors, and it certainly wasn’t her own indoors.

  Which then beggared the question, where was she?

  And the even more serious questions. Why was she certain she was naked and why couldn’t she move her hands and legs?

  Surely not just because her head ached and her brain was scrambled? Finn wriggled a bit, felt the mattress—she was sure she was in a bed—move with her, and very carefully assimilated all she knew.

  Tied up? Certainly. Why? No idea.

  How? There was a weird set of ropes and pulleys above her and she saw, as she gingerly moved her head to one side, ornate head and footboards with what looked like rings and ropes and—oh fucking shit, what the hell have I got myself into—chains attached to them.

  Finn concentrated hard, lifted her ankles a full two inches and heard what she thought could be a chain rattle. The same result occurred when she moved her wrist. She tugged and swore.

  I’m cursing more today than I have
in a year. What the fuck is going on? Who’s got me trussed up like a turkey for the oven? She pulled harder. All that did was add extra soreness to her already pain-laden body.

  “You’ll hurt yourself if you carry on like that and I really will want to wash your mouth out with soap.” The voice came from over her shoulder.

  A man entered her vision and she swallowed twice, very hard.

  Drop-dead gorgeous was an understatement.

  Tall, without an ounce of fat on him but not muscle bound, thank the Lord, he had no man boobs. His dark hair was short with a sexy hint of gray running through it and a mouth-hollowing, ‘come to me and tidy it’ curl which fell over his forehead. His eyes were a mesmeric blue, which reminded her of a Mediterranean sea at midnight. Finn bit back a giggle as she swallowed nervously. She sounded like the rantings of a lovesick lunatic. Even dressed as he was in low-slung—unbuttoned—jeans, he exuded power. The sort of guy, Finn decided, who would have women rolling over and begging for whatever crumbs he threw their way. The sort who needed a badge on that said ‘dangerous animal do not upset’.

  Dark hair sprinkled over his chest, outlining his nipples, and arrowed down under that unsnapped waistband. She tried without much success not to imagine what was hidden under the denim. She was in enough trouble as it was without clit-clenching, damp pussy dreams.

  If it would have been possible, Finn knew fine well she would have trembled, closed her eyes and inched backwards. She couldn’t, so she swallowed several times more and tried to clear her throat without much success.

  Lord, what had she got herself into?

  “Pardon?” Was that scratchy voice really hers? She guessed any other person in this predicament would sound less prickly. Sadly, not her. She’d never been able to do conciliatory very well. “What the hell is this all about?” What else could she, should she, say? ‘Let me loose, you fucker’ might not be very sensible.