“All I want to know is why.”
“Why . . . what?”
She’d rather have every candle lit then have to squint in the dark and wonder if his anger matched the sound of it.
“Why is this mattress so important?”
“’Tis your security. Granted from your first rest place after turning.”
“Do I need it for survival?”
“I’m na’ certain.”
“Well, that’s hardly fair.”
“What?”
“I mean, in comparison to yours.”
“Mine?”
“That piece of moth-ridden hemp I woke from. Tell me I’m wrong.”
“That’s my pallet . . . but far from moth eaten. I’ve taken great care with it.”
“Well, I think it needs to be washed. Badly.”
He was moving away. The barest shift in the bed was verification.
“I’m na’ good with words.”
Tira raised her brows. She barely kept the burst of laughter from erupting. “Now that’s a surprise,” she finally answered.
“I canna’ sit here and attempt it.”
“But I need to know certain things.”
“If you’ve need of me, call.”
His voice sounded choked. Flat. Tira concentrated on the dark and was rewarded with the smallest amount of glow before it dissipated.
“Are you running from me again? Iain!”
The words echoed back at her from the blackness. The cabin felt empty. Bereft. Lonely. He’d left. She didn’t have to see it.
Was he running from her? What man wouldn’t? It was impossible to stay near without taking every bit of rapture she gave him. It was equally impossible to act as if her proximity did nothing. Her nearness intoxicated him even as her words spoke on his guilt and treachery.
The drop was endless this time. Or he was ill. Or weak. Or something worse.
Iain landed on his side with a thud that pained, making more oddity in a world filling with it. This couldn’t be happening. Trembling was overtaking him, giving him a new curse with worse ramifications. He was a Highland laird. Strong. Stout. Stoic. Masculine.
He pulled handfuls of pallet weave to his face and somehow kept the emotion where it belonged: hidden.
Chapter Fourteen
MacAvee Hall looked to be a massive structure, constructed of black-on-black stone atop more of the same. It straddled a cliff, looking over the village of Avee on the shore below it. Tira had observed it since the rain-filled evening turned to rain-filled night. It didn’t require effort. All she had to do was focus. She’d watched as light after light speckled the castle, coming from so many windows the structure looked to encompass the entire rock face.
Grant came to her door to fetch her now-empty goblet. He didn’t speak of it. She didn’t, either. They knew what it had contained : the same liquid as the night before, and the one before that.
“His Grace’s carriage has arrived from the hall.”
Tira nodded.
“I’ll be back to escort you.”
The door shut and a key turned. Tira walked across to the armoire and pulled out a cloak to go over the skirt and blouse she’d donned without one bit of an assist. Iain was avoiding her. She never saw him. He might as well be invisible with his comings and goings. She knew the reason for that, too: his power. He was well versed in avoiding detection with the way he froze and stalled time. She’d witnessed it and been a part of it, which made it painfully obvious he’d shut her out of it now.
It appeared her sentence for questioning him involved solitude and reflection time—two full nights of it. And he’d locked her in. She didn’t believe Grant’s word it was for her safety. No, it wasn’t. It was for Iain’s. She hadn’t labeled him a coward yet, but it was on the tip of her tongue more than once. Good thing she loved reading and he had a large store of books. And when that bored, she’d played with her enhanced senses, bringing the decks outside into focus. Almost like she was out there, watching the waves and the shoreline they followed. And sometimes she thought she was.
She was ready when the guardsman returned. The deck echoed beneath Grant’s feet. Not hers. As if she’d suddenly become weightless. Tira didn’t find it odd. She simply pulled the hood farther over her head and followed.
The ducal carriage was large, with no identifying marks. It stood out in its anonymity like a black ink splotch on a painting, until she factored in the four black stallions between the posts. A penetrating look showed Rory and Sean mounted on two more black stallions. They nodded and Tira returned the salutation from the top step. That’s when she looked about and realized not only could she witness all sorts of behavior, but she could hear conversations and sounds in whichever direction she chose . . . to a near-cacophonic level.
If any noted her cry and the swift way she entered the carriage, they didn’t say. Tira crawled along a bench to a far corner, shoved both hands to her ears, held her breath, and the next moment it all ceased.
Just like that.
Tira’s heart pounded, her whole body trembled, and there wasn’t anyone to even ask. Damn Iain. The least he could do was help her with this thing he’d done to her! When she saw him again, she was going to make certain he knew of it.
She could sense the dock outside but didn’t dare put her attention to it again. She settled with observing it through the large window at her elbow, watching the ground mist wrap about every light post. A flick of motion caught her attention, and Tira moved her head in time to observe Iain at the gangway, the quay, and the carriage, rocking it with his entrance, all of it within a blink of time.
Tira opened her mouth to speak, but something about the droop of his lip and general melancholy of his frame stopped her. He seemed to be intent on the view outside as they left the houses behind and entered a well-groomed roadway lined with the black silhouette of trees. And then they started climbing.
She was tired of his avoidance, fretful over the continual silence, and anxious over her new home. She guessed that once they reached his hall, it might be next to impossible to find him. Not unless she wanted to spend the rest of this eternity searching that monstrosity of a castle.
“Iain?”
He flicked a glance to the vicinity of her nose before returning to the view. The oddest impression of panic filtered from him before it faded.
“You can look at me. I won’t bite. At least . . . not yet.”
Her voice was breathless, and at the end it dropped an octave, sending sexual-tipped meaning. She knew he flinched. She heard the rustle of his muslin shirt against his skin. Upon licking her bottom lip, she could swear she tasted that same skin . . . and the faintest hint of whiskey.
“Have you been drinking spirits?”
“I fed,” he replied finally.
“They’d been drinking spirits?”
“Aye.”
“Does . . . that intoxicate?”
“You should na’ speak with me. Not . . . yet.”
“Why not?”
“I’m . . . na’ certain I’ve the strength for it.”
“But you just said you fed.”
“That is na’ what I mean.”
Tira sighed. “You avoid me for days and then you speak riddles. You’re the image of strength, Iain. And absolute male perfection. You probably always were.”
He squelched a groan and shuddered with it, making more erotic sounds of shirt fabric grazing brawn. Perhaps it was better in the dark. That way there wasn’t much interfering with the expansion of her new powers. Tira narrowed her eyes and focused and brought him into view, his head lowered, lips open to allow each pant of breath while his shoulders were so taut it pulled at the shoulder seams. He should’ve worn a sleeveless shirt. It would save on tailoring. He had his hands clenched about his knees, looking to break bone, and that put every bit of strength he’d just disclaimed on vivid display.
Tira tucked her bottom lip into her mouth and felt the prick as her canines lengthened.
>
“You need to . . . cease this.”
“Why?”
She rifled the reply with alacrity and power. That way she didn’t miss a bit of how he pulled in a huge breath that expanded the muslin to ripping point. She didn’t need her enhanced hearing as his shoulder seam separated. And then he let the air out, sending words with it that tripped atop each other.
“Because I’m a man of action, na’ words . . . and I’m full cursed, and I should’ve known better than to get into a carriage with you! There’s little defense!”
“Defense?”
“Aye! Defense!”
“Against what?”
She released her lip and eased her feet free of the slippers. He sent a sidelong glance as if he heard it. It came with a flare of light spearing the interior, before it disappeared. And then she had to use her enhanced sight to see him again.
“You’re not going to answer, are you?”
There was a shine atop the obsidian of his eyes before he looked away, blinking rapidly as he did so. The whoosh of volume through her chest startled her to a painful degree.
“You want an answer, leannan, I’ll give you one.”
“I’m listening.”
“You hate me.”
“Do I?”
“You’ve every right. I’ve shown little in honor and naught in self-control, and I—What did you just say?”
He’d poised in midmove, half turned toward her, with his head lowered and those two creases splicing his brow. Tira’s heart stalled at the picture he presented. Stunning. Perfect. Manly. Tira ran her tongue over her teeth, manipulating around the two spikes as she reached them. He reacted, seeming to fill his side of the carriage with blackness as if he somehow grew in stature. And then he went back to his usual size, the fading brightness behind showing how he’d done it.
“Your road . . . is very well groomed,” she told him.
“Wh—at?”
He split the word in two and that was just endearing and sweet and creating tension and longing atop more of the same.
“I suppose everything you own is well groomed. You’ve had years to see to it.”
“Tira—”
The low groan attached to her name sent a vibration of sound with it. Tira pulled pins from her hair, releasing it into a mass she finger-combed into a veil. She could see his response as both hands grabbed wads of plaid material from his kilt hem and tore.
“Most coaches have a sway to them as they travel uneven cobblestone or mud-pitted road. But not yours. Oh no. Your drive is perfectly groomed. Smooth. Even when traveling in the rain at night. There’s not a hint of the smallest rut.”
“You want a rough ride?”
“I want an excuse, Iain! That’s what I want!”
“An . . . excuse?”
“An excuse for falling against you! Something to blame when I soothe this ache within me. Something I can curse for longing to match my skin to yours! I want to run my hands all over you, and sink these fangs into you. I need it so badly!”
The blouse had too many buttons. She was reduced to yanking at the placket, separating it as buttons got plucked and dropped, making little spattering noises on the carriage floor.
“ ’Tis the vampire speaking.”
“So?”
“I have vowed I will na’ use it—”
“Shut up and help me!”
She had the blouse opened, ignoring how the satin chemise stuck to her skin, displaying and lifting her breasts. She tried to shed the skirt, but the waistband was an issue. Tira circled it twice, her fingers shaking as she looked for the fastening, before gripping the fabric and tugging and gaining absolutely nothing. Damn dependable serviceable tweed!
“I will na’ . . . take you this way! I will na’!”
“Who said anything about you?”
She leaned into the gap between them with a snarl, making certain he saw the length of her teeth.
“Tira . . . please!”
She didn’t feel the leap, and yet it was her body atop him, slamming his back into the carriage with the same move that sank her teeth into him. And then she was erupting with bliss so large no black carriage on a black night could contain it. His fangs slid along her neck, and she ignored them, sucking and absorbing life fluid while yanking and pulling material apart in order to match breast to chest and belly to belly.
“Tira . . . please! Na’ like this. Please? Oh . . . sweet! ”
Tira had him in her hands, stiff and readied, while the skirt hid her motion to latch on to him, sheathing him at the exact moment he punctured her neck, and then she was flying. Soaring. The entire experience blended into an ecstasy of full-out paradise with Iain at the center. Tira shoved her body at him, over and over, rocking with a discord of rhythm, and that got his hands gripping her buttocks in order to hold her in place for a roll beneath him. The move unlatched his fangs and gave him freedom to slide them along her skin, searching for and finding a breast tip. Tira went wild at the first hint of suckling attention. She couldn’t stand it! She swung at him and connected with solidmuscled back flesh, turning her blows into caresses.
There wasn’t space to contain such rapture! Tira arched up and into his mouth, glorying in the sensation, hauling in a deep breath while another full-fledged bloom of ecstasy overtook and consumed her. And then she was falling, exhaling with the drop, and hearing the words he was whispering.
“Ah, lass. Forgive me.”
“Don’t stop, Iain. Please. Don’t you dare stop.”
“Stop?”
The word was grunted, intensifying the pummeling he was doing, taking her into realms of existence she’d never before imagined. And then he did stop, poised in place by the weave of his body in flexed perpetuity of motion, shuddering and pulsing deep within while she held on and reveled in it. This time she was determined he wouldn’t leave her, or escape, or do anything other than hold her.
She clung to Iain but he moved anyway, placing her with great care on her own bench, going to his knees in the carriage well to do so. And then, before Tira’s surprised eyes, he lowered his face into the bench and shook.
Chapter Fifteen
Tira had her hand hovering over Iain’s shoulder when the clatter of horse hooves on wood stopped her. The coach rolled beneath a gateway, darkening the interior—not enough she couldn’t penetrate it, but enough to show arrival. The sound of a portcullis rising came next, and within a blink they drew to a stop. Iain regarded her from his seat, fully attired and immaculately groomed, proving he’d stalled time again.
“I wish you’d cease that.” Tira dropped her hand. It should be chilled in the carriage with just a skirt for modesty. Tira flicked a glance down at herself. She had the shredded remains of her chemise and blouse still dangling off her shoulders. But it wasn’t chilled. And it wasn’t warm. It felt vacant.
“What?”
“You . . . alter time. Change . . . perception.”
“So?” It was soft-spoken.
“I thought it magical until you shut me out.”
He sighed heavily but didn’t answer.
“I mean . . . I want to be with you when you do it. I want to be part of it again. To share in it.”
“Cover yourself.”
She pulled the cloak from where it was crumpled beneath her, wrapped it about her, put the hood over her head, and held both ends together at her chin for good measure. “Is that better?”
“You canna’ have it both ways, leannan. I thought it possible, but I was wrong.”
“Both ways?”
“You want me because of the vampirism. It stirs the blood, mixes up the senses, overrides objections. There’s nae stopping it. We just proved it.”
Her skin tingled as he listed exactly what happened and what was starting up again. It was easy to hear the effect in her reply. “Does it matter why?”
“Aye. And to a degree I’d na’ thought possible.”
“I . . . want you, Iain.” Her heart rate had elevated, he
r nerve endings started twitching, and her canines lengthened.
His face went grim. Dark. Then Grant opened the door to receive a hissed snarl from her, showing full teeth. Fear touched his face for the barest moment before it was gone. He nodded at Iain and got a nod in reply.
“Everything is prepared, Your Grace.”
“What’s been prepared, Iain?” She hadn’t much control over her voice or it wouldn’t rise with what sounded like worry. Then she admitted it. She was worried. Where was he taking her? Would he be with her? Would he lock her in again? And for how long?
“Come, Tira.” Iain stood outside the carriage, the sway of the coach the only indicator he’d moved. “My household is up and dressed to welcome us.”
“All of them?”
He nodded.
“At this hour?”
“MacAvee lairds keep odd hours. The households adapt.”
And here she was still suffering waves of illicit yearning and desire, her hair unbound, clothing in disarray, and covered over with a wrinkled cloak. Tira concentrated and felt her teeth retracting. “You could’ve warned me,” she whispered.
“Would it have mattered?”
No. The need and desire were too strong. Too vivid. Too massive. And she’d been the instigator. Again.
“Come. They’ve been told of your illness.”
Tira stopped at the door in a stoop, one hand on the railing while the other held her cloak together. “My . . . illness?”
“You suffered massively from seasickness. The entire voyage. You were too ill to venture from your cabin.”
“I was locked in, Iain. I couldn’t leave it.”
“Semantics.”
“Why are you acting like this?”
“Like what?”
“Cold. Distant.”
“Because anything else is beyond me! Can you na’ just come down? Please?”
The hand held toward her trembled, warming her heart, strengthening her legs, and making it feel like she flew to his side. Tira lifted her chin and turned to face a virtual sea of faces and welcoming smiles. An elderly man stepped forward, clad in a MacAvee plaid kilt, black jacket, frothy white lace-fronted shirt, while he held a large feather-topped tam in one hand.
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