Starry Knight

by Nina Mason

  “Do you live near here, my lord?”

  The less he thought she knew about him, the better.

  “Aye,” he said. “Up at Easter Head.”

  Easter Head, she’d learned from her research, was the true northernmost point of mainland Great Britain. It lay a few miles northeast of the village and, on a clear day, allegedly afforded exquisite views of the Orkney archipelago.

  The bartender set the baron’s drink down hard enough to spill some.

  “He’s the laird of Castle Barrogill, lass,” Robert said, looking dashed.

  She feigned an expression of surprise. “You own a castle?”

  “Aye,” the baron replied.

  Now, how to charm him into inviting her to spend the night?

  She batted her eyes at the baron, hoping he’d take it as flirtatious, not that she had something in her eye. “Do you ever take your conquests there?”

  He gave her another bone-melting smile. “Why do I get the feeling I’m the conquest in this scenario?”

  Uh-oh. Was he onto her? Perhaps she’d better ease up a bit. Being a Leo, he’d want to do the chasing. If she was clever and played to his astrological attributes, she could have him eating out of her hand in no time.

  “Do you mind if I ask a question for a change?” He sipped his drink before looking up at her from under long, dark lashes. “This is beginning to feel like an interrogation.”

  Swallowing, she gazed deeply into his eyes, which, to her delight, shimmered with the same desire pulsating in her nether regions. “Ask away.”

  “What brings you to John o’Groats? And how long are you planning to stay?”

  “That’s two questions,” she pointed out, still smiling.

  He gave her a roguish look. “Have I not answered more than two of yours?”

  Being a terrible liar, she searched her mind for something honest to admit. Her unfortunate experience with reporters had taught her the best way to sell a fib was to candy coat it in facts. After a moment, smile plastered on, she gave him her carefully worded answer. “I came to hear you speak and how long I stay depends.”

  “Oh, aye? On what?”

  “Your powers of persuasion.”

  He took a long pull on his drink and shifted in his seat so his leg rested against hers. Her focus shifted abruptly to the point of contact. As a thrill pulsed through her, she set a hand on his thigh, playing her card. Would he raise the stakes or fold? Under her fingers, his quadriceps was deliciously firm. God, she wanted this man. If not for her other agenda, she’d be happy to spend the rest of the week rolling like thunder between the sheets with the beguiling Baron Barrogill.

  He set his hand atop hers. “At the risk of sounding like I’m handing you a line, what sign would you be?”

  She tilted her head. “Can’t you guess?”

  “Aye,” he said with a grin that lit up his golden eyes. “You’re Aquarian. Which makes you a wide-eyed idealist who can’t bear to be tied down. A butterfly flitting from flower to flower, never settling on any for long. Am I right?”

  The word “butterfly” brought the paparazzi to mind with a surge of bitterness.

  “I don’t flit, your lordship. But otherwise, you’re spot on.” She bent to sip her drink, despite feeling woozy. “And what about you? I know you’re a Leo, but what’s your ascendant?”

  “Also Leo.”

  She nearly choked. “Holy crap. You’re a double Leo?”

  She was starting to slur her words. She’d better lay off the whisky. It wouldn’t do to get drunk and make an ass of herself.

  “Aye,” he confirmed, grinning proudly. “And it behooves me to warn you double Leos are ruthless romantics—a dangerous prospect for a dispassionate water bearer.”

  “I wouldn’t say I’m dispassionate,” she said, mildly offended. “I’m very passionate about the things I believe in. Safeguarding the environment, for example, and protecting the rights of animals.”

  “That’s very noble of you, my lady. But what about men?”

  “What about them?”

  Even if she wanted a relationship, which she absolutely didn’t, this wasn’t the time. She was moving to New Orleans in two short weeks, which gave her just enough time to find out if the rumored vampire was real before returning to London to close up her flat.

  “Surely we’re good for something.”

  As the baron sipped his drink, his warm honey gaze roamed over her, leaving pleasurable pins and needles in its wake.

  “I can’t think what you mean,” she said, feigning innocence.

  Clasping her hand, which still rested on his thigh, he slid it to his and pressed it against his rather sizeable erection.

  “Does that help?”

  “My lord,” she gasped, simulating shock. “Are you suggesting what I think you’re suggesting?”

  “Aye, my lady,” he said, leaning closer and lowering his voice. “And that being the case, I think you ought to maybe call me by my Christian name.”

  “All right, Callum,” she said, squeezing his protuberance for emphasis. “But only if you take me to your castle.”

  “That can be arranged,” he said, pulling out his phone.

  Yes! She was in.

  She kept her hand on his cock as he placed a call and waited for a party to answer. “Duncan, it’s Callum. I’m in the bar with Lady Vanessa, who’d like to come with me to Barrogill tonight. Will you be much longer?”

  After a pause in which she presumed Duncan had given his answer, Callum met her gaze and moved the phone away from his mouth. “Have you got a vehicle?”

  She nodded. She’d rented a Land Rover at the airport in Wick when she landed earlier in the day.

  “Never mind,” he said, returning to the call. “I’ve made alternative arrangements.”

  Chapter 2

  Over the span of his existence, Callum had gotten very good at waiting. And doing without the things he couldn’t have. But enough was enough. He was sick and tired—of being alone, of settling for scraps, of denying his nature, and of being sick and tired. He needed a break from his loneliness, even if only a brief respite.

  “Come on, lass,” he said, taking Vanessa’s hand. “Lead the way to the chariot that will whisk us away to Castle Barrogill.”

  No sooner was she on her feet than she fell back on the barstool in a fit of giggles. Bloody hell. She was drunker than he’d realized, taking any sort of sexual contact off the table. He shot the barkeep a heated glare. Cleary, the cur had over-poured, hoping to get a leg over the lass.

  “Shall I charge the tab to your room, miss?” Robert said with an edge to his voice.

  “I’ll take care of it,” Callum returned, rising to his full height of six-foot-three.

  The mongrel behind the bar wasted no time turning over the bill. As Callum looked it over, Lady Vanessa again attempted to stand, this time crashing into him. Recovering his balance, Callum draped an arm around her shoulders and held onto her as he studied the check with growing irritation.

  Good God. She’d consumed half a bottle of Macallan’s, which would cost him a hundred quid on top of a much-desired night of passion.

  Glowering down at the unchivalrous barkeep, Callum opened his mouth to say something, but then shut it again. He couldn’t risk calling attention to himself. The citizens of John o’Groats knew him on sight and might recognize Lady Vanessa from the newspapers. The last thing either of them needed was to have their assignation plastered all over newsstands from here to London. Besides, he needed to get her upstairs before she passed out, or worse, boaked all over his best bespoke suit.

  He settled the check, leaving no tip to express his displeasure, and escorted Madam Butterfly, arm slung over her shoulder, through the compact lobby. Oh, aye. He remembered what he’d read about her. She couldn’t be caught. Or so the papers said. The challenge appealed—who didn’t enjoy a challenge?—but not enough to hook him. Both of his marriages had ended
in disaster and he wasn’t about to walk that cruel road again.

  Unfortunately, what he did want from Lady Vanessa was off the menu for tonight, thanks to that bloody bartender.

  As Callum, disgruntled, escorted her to the lift, the enticing fragrance of her blood toyed with him unmercifully. Once he got her safely upstairs, he’d stick around to keep an eye on her. While the bartender struck him as more opportunistic than predatory, better to be safe than sorry.

  Plus, he wanted to know what she was up to. He sensed the lady was being less than honest about her reasons for coming to Caithness, but couldn’t see through the alcoholic haze shrouding her thoughts.

  The bell dinged and he ushered his charge into the car. Checking the control panel, he cursed when he saw the inn had two upper floors.

  “What’s your room number, lass?”

  She spun in his arms, shoulder-butted him in the chest, and knocked him back against the panel. She was on him in a blink, her mouth on his, her pelvis grinding against his flagging erection. He tried to push her off, but only half-heartedly. The truth was, he burned for her—body and blood.

  Damn that accursed bartender.

  He was still sober. Well, mostly. He’d had two drams in the bar and shared a couple of bottles of wine with Duncan and his friends over dinner. Even so, her fervent writhing against his cock was making it hard to think straight. His fingers, acting on their own, dug into her firm yet supple behind as his tongue plundered her mouth. Christ, how he wanted her. But not like this. Not when she wasn’t in control of her faculties. Not when she could wake up in the morning regretting her choices. She wasn’t one of his faery whores, she was a highborn lass. A suitable match for a man of his station. The thought jolted him back to his senses. Was he actually considering…? No, he mustn’t. It would never work. Besides, she was Madam Butterfly—the lady who couldn’t be caught.

  He broke out of the kiss, breathless, sweating, unsettled, and panging with guilt.

  “Your room, lass. Which floor?”

  “Two-twelve.”

  She staggered backward and nearly fell. As he caught her, she smiled up at him dreamily. He gasped in surprise as her hand plunged into his trousers. She seized his cockstand like a gearshift.

  “My, what a big cock you have, Baron Barrogill.”

  A sudden spike of pleasure made his mouth fall open and his eyes roll back. Before he could regain his wits, she collapsed against his chest. Fuck, she was out cold with her hand down his kecks and he had no bloody idea where her key might be. To even attempt a search, he’d have to extract her hand and prop her against the wall somehow, praying she wouldn’t suddenly come to and puke all over him and the bloody lift.

  But, first things first. As he was working to remove her hand with as little damage as possible, the car jerked and began to rise. Christ almighty. Someone had called the bloody lift. He yanked her hand free, wincing in pain as her fingers plucked a few pubes. The elevator jolted to a stop and opened on a lanky bellman with an empty luggage caddy. The lad started to get on, but froze when he saw them.

  Callum offered him a sheepish grin and a shrug. “What can I say? My wife can’t hold her drink. Would you be a mate and help me out? I believe our room key is in her handbag.”

  The bellman just stood there, blinking like a dolt.

  Annoyance coiled in Callum’s gut. He’d never been one to suffer fools. “Steady her for a moment, eh? Whilst I search for the key.”

  “Och, aye,” the lad said, coming back to life.

  With Lady Vanessa propped between them, he dug through her handbag, finding the credit card style key sharing an inside pocket with several tubes of lipstick. He took her back from the bellman and ran a hand softly down the side of her face. God, she was lovely. Even drunk and out cold. He scooped her into his arms and offered the bellman a courteous smile. “We’re in two-twelve, but, as you can see, my hands are full. Would you oblige me and lead the way? And perhaps help me get her inside?”

  The bellman nodded and stepped aside, taking the cart with him. As Callum followed him down the hallway, her head lolled against his arm. Cradling her closer, he murmured against her hair, “You really should be more careful about who you trust, my lady, present company included.”

  At the door to two-twelve, the lad took the key and inserted it into the slot on the door. Looking put out, he opened the door and held it whilst Callum carried the lass to the bed. Setting her down with care, he adjusted her clothing and the pillows to make her as comfortable as possible.

  The bellman hovered just inside the door. Callum, eager to be rid of him, pulled out his wallet, withdrew a crisp tenner, and offered it with his thanks. The bellman accepted the tip with an appreciative nod and took his leave, thank the stars.

  Callum shut the door and hurried back to Lady Vanessa, still out cold. Sitting softly on the edge of the bed, he pulled off her shoes. Her feet were long, slender, and graceful with red lacquer on the toenails. A strong inclination to kiss each toe in turn pulsed through his veins. Feet weren’t his thing, but hers were unusually lovely.

  As hunger growled in his gut and his groin, he looked her over, debating how much of her clothing to remove—for her comfort. Moving up the bed, he peeled off her suit coat as deftly as he could manage. She made several small animalistic noises but, to his great relief, neither stirred nor spewed.

  After unclasping her tangle of necklaces, he set the jewelry on the bedside table before laying her jacket neatly over a chair. She had on only slacks and a low-cut, sleeveless shell. That she was braless was even more evident than before.

  His hungry gaze traced the natural curve of her breasts, which were as full and lovely as any he’d seen. Clenching his jaw against the urge to touch, he moved around to the other side of the bed and threw the folded-back coverlet over her.

  Out of sight, out of mind, eh?

  Casting around the room, he found a small sofa at the foot of the bed. Aye, he’d sleep there and watch over her, then, come morning, he’d take her sightseeing—after they made love. First, though, he needed to appease his thirst for blood.

  He tucked his shoes under the bed skirt beside hers, then quickly stripped off every stitch while monitoring her breathing to be sure she didn’t awaken. It wouldn’t do for her to come to and find him prancing about her room in his altogethers. Well, perhaps not prancing per se, but still. Assured by her snores, he jogged to the window, threw up the sash, and perched on the sill with his legs dangling outside. The night air felt cool and refreshing against his frustrated flesh. The lawn below was a two-story drop.

  He recited the Fith-Fath. As his bones and muscles began to rearrange themselves, he grimaced against the discomfort. Fur sprouted across his skin to form a golden pelt. His head enlarged, his face elongated, his hands and feet morphed into paws, and his hair became a thick, spiky mane.

  Jumping from the ledge, he landed softly on his lion’s paws. The comingled smells of grass, sea, and loam filled his nostrils. His ears received rushing water and the rustle of wind among needles, leaves, and branches. Loping into the trees, he merged with the shadows, scenting the musk of a solitary deer.

  Ducking behind a thick trunk, he sighted his prey: a young stag with fuzzy prongs. The animal’s head came up as it caught the scent of a predator. Seconds later, the stag crashed from the underbrush in a streak of buff. Callum ran it down and sprang, landing on its back. The deer kicked and flailed before falling, outstretched and trembling, its black eyes glassy with terror.

  “Sorry, lad, but a cat’s got to eat,” he said before reciting a prayer thanking the deer for its sacrifice.

  Pressing his mouth against the pelt, he bit down, puncturing the jugular. Blood spurted hot over his tongue before settling into a steady stream. Viscous and warm, it tasted of copper and salt.

  Bloodlust now satisfied, Callum the lion rolled onto his back, paws in the air. Above him, the moon was a luminous pearl floating in a sparkling black oc
ean. He knew every star, planet, and constellation as well as he knew his own face in the mirror. Antilia, Chamaeleon, Crater, Hydra, Sextans, Ursa Major, and Leo, the constellation under which he’d been born back in 1479.

  By and by, he made his way back to the inn, praying the lass hadn’t awakened. The moon’s position told him it was an hour or so before dawn. He stood under her window for several minutes, feeling every bit Shakespeare’s star-crossed Romeo.

  But soft, what light through yonder window breaks?

  It is the east, and Vanessa is the sun.

  Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon,

  Who is already sick and pale with grief

  That thou, her maid, art far more fair than she.

  He shook his mane-covered head. He’d spoken truth when he told the lady he was romantic. Too bad he’d had so few chances to experience that essential part of himself these past five hundred years. Both his marriages had been arranged, and there was little point in courting whores. He had wooed his mistresses back in the day—with flowers, poetry, and all the other trappings of romance the fairer sex so enjoyed. And, to be honest, he’d taken great pleasure in the pursuit.

  Licking his whiskers, he gazed up at the window, in whose reflection he could see the moon and stars. He’d taken up astrology to please his father—an impossible task—but also to please himself. Heavenly bodies were mysterious, beautiful, and unfathomable—not unlike womankind.

  Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven,

  Having some business, do entreat her eyes

  To twinkle in their spheres till they return.