Starry Knight

by Nina Mason

  Och, nay. He hadn’t exaggerated his romantic proclivities. Perhaps he could cultivate that part of himself for the next few days—not to win the lady, but simply to please himself.

  * * * *

  Vanessa opened her eyes to a pounding headache and the dim gray light of a new day. Swallowing to moisten her parched mouth, she rolled onto her side, expecting to find the Scottish Adonis sleeping beside her.

  Shit, he wasn’t there. Had he shagged her and buggered off? God knew, it wouldn’t be the first time. Unfortunately, to stay on task, she needed Lord Lyon to be more than a one-night stand.

  Hang on. If they’d made the beast with two backs, why was she still in her clothes?

  As she surveyed her surroundings, a hazy scene from the night before played behind her eyes—them snogging in the lift with wrestling tongues and grinding pelvises. Good God, did she actually put her hand down his trousers?

  She couldn’t understand what had happened. She’d only ordered two whiskies. Had the bartender refilled her glass when she wasn’t looking?—or, God forbid, spiked her drink with one of those date-rape drugs?

  Thank the goddess Lord Lyon had come along when he did. She didn’t want to think what might have happened if he hadn’t.

  Clearly, the baron was a gentleman, which was a good deal more than she could say for that snake of a bartender. She had half a mind to report him to the manager. Not that she could prove anything except that she’d overindulged.

  With irritation gnawing on her insides, Vanessa turned to glance at the bedside clock, which told her it was half past nine o’clock. Rolling to the edge of the bed, she peered over the side. The sight of his shoes—classic lace-up black wingtips—raised her hopes. Their punched-trim toes peeked out at her from under the hem of the dust ruffle. She picked one up and brought it closer for a better view. The smell of fresh shoe polish bit her nostrils as she looked inside. They were a quality English name brand, size fourteen.

  A smile twitched on her mouth. If memory served, the myth about shoe size wasn’t wrong.

  So, he’d stuck around. Brilliant. If she played her cards right, she could still gain access to Barrogill Castle, still complete her first assignment as a licensed paranormal investigator, still impress her new boss, and maybe be the first to establish that vampires were real.

  She’d seen spirits since she was a little girl. Her parents, sure she was delusional, dragged her from one psychiatrist to another—or, rather, had the chauffeur drive her. Finally, tired of being psychoanalyzed, she pretended to be cured and never said another word about it—until she gave up pretending to be somebody she wasn’t.

  A glance at the sofa at the foot of the bed confirmed Lord Lyon’s presence and location. Letting the smile bloom, she replaced the shoe before crawling toward him on all fours. He was curled up like a fetus under a tartan blanket. The poor chap. Both the sofa and the blanket were too short for his tall frame by at least a foot.

  As she reached out a hand to wake him, she noticed a trail of muddy footprints on the carpet leading from the window.

  What the devil?

  “Lord Lyon?” she whispered over his ear.

  He made a growling noise deep in his throat and twitched a little. Amused, she reached down and ran her finger along his temple. He muttered something inaudible and swatted at her hand like it was an annoying insect. Suppressing the urge to laugh, she dragged her fingers across his hair, which was adorably tousled and cashmere soft.

  He came around and blinked up at her.

  “Good morning, your lordship,” she offered with a smile. “I gather by the fact that you stayed the night the plans we made last night are still in force?”

  He yawned and stretched, keeping her waiting. “Aye,” he said at last. “If you’re feeling up to it.”

  The truth was, her head ached, she felt clammy all over, and her stomach felt a bit queasy, but she wasn’t about to tell him that—or let a little thing like a hangover stand in the way of her mission. Beau Armstrong, the New Orleans-based paranormal investigator who’d hired her as an assistant, wanted her to check out Castle Barrogill before she moved to the States and that’s what she planned to do—with a few extra perks, possibly.

  “I’m totally up for it,” she said with more cheer than she felt. “Provided we don’t do anything too strenuous.”

  He arched a dark-gold eyebrow. “Define too strenuous?”

  “Mountain climbing might be a bit much.”

  “Oh, aye?” He rolled onto his back, reached a hand toward her face, and brushed her cheek with his fingers. “Well, in that case, it’s a good thing I wasn’t thinking about mountain climbing, eh?”

  Her gaze swept down his blanketed body, pausing on the small tent at the apex of his thighs. “Oh? And just what were you thinking?”

  He arched an eyebrow. “Must I draw you a picture?”

  She got the picture and had no objection, apart from feeling about as unsexy as humanly possible. She needed coffee, a couple of aspirins, and a bite to eat to settle her stomach. Her skin felt sticky, there was film on her teeth, and, given that she’d slept with her make-up on, she probably resembled a raccoon. Plus, why rush the grand finale? Seduction was a foxtrot, not a quickstep. The building tension was half the thrill. Even if she felt better, she’d much rather wait until her desire for him reached a fever pitch.

  “I get the picture,” she said, quickly adding, “but first, I’d like a shower, some breakfast—and to see your castle.”

  Looking displeased, he threw back the blanket and climbed off the couch. He still wore his trousers, but nothing else. She swallowed hard as her gaze swept over his torso. Bloody hell. How was she supposed to keep her mind on vampires in the company of such masculine perfection? Powerful shoulders, bulging biceps, a cut chest dusted with the perfect amount of hair, and rippled abs. Dark-gold hair trailed from his navel to the waistband of his trousers, accentuating his sculptural laterals.

  God, he was hot.

  Feeling her self-control slipping away, she climbed off the bed and started toward the bathroom. “Why don’t we order up some coffee and toast? Or whatever you might fancy for breakfast.”

  He came up behind her, slipped his arms around her waist, and pulled her body against his. “If you think I’m some toy to play with and toss aside when it suits, you’d best think again, my lady.”

  “I don’t think that,” she said, twinging inside. She didn’t see him as a toy exactly, but she did plan to cast him aside when the affair had run its course. As perfect as he seemed, he lived in Scotland and she was moving to New Orleans. She might be impulsive, but not when it came to her heart. Besides, this was the worst possible time to get sidetracked by a relationship.

  “I hope that’s true.” He nibbled her earlobe, sending delicious shivers through her bloodstream. “Because I’m beginning to fear you’re naught but a cock tease.”

  “I’m not,” she said, trying to break free of his arm-lock. “I promise. I’d just like to freshen up, see the local sights, and maybe get to know you a little better first.”

  “All right.” He kissed her neck before letting her go. “I just hope you’re being honest with me.”

  Chapter 3

  By the time Lady Vanessa emerged from the bathroom, Callum had rung his butler with instructions for the romantic dinner he envisaged, popped down to the front desk for a razor and toothbrush, and planned the day’s itinerary. Hamish also had informed him Duncan was soundly installed in his usual quarters and had plans this evening with his SNP pals.

  Good. Callum didn’t want anyone around to cock-block him.

  As he looked the lady over, desire cracked through his body like a whip. She looked sonnet-worthy in a clinging silk blouse and calf-length floral skirt with her hair done up in a jaunty twist. He considered reciting something by Pablo Neruda—the master of romantic verse, in his humble opinion—but decided she might find the gesture ridiculous. He wanted to roman
ce her like a man, not a lovesick school lad.

  “So,” she said, doing a wee turn, “was it worth the wait?”

  “Oh, aye,” he said with all due sincerity, “but we really should get going. I’ve got a full day planned and you should eat something before you pass out on me again.”

  Her joy visibly faded, making him regret the comment. What happened last night wasn’t her fault. The blame lay with that upstart barman, who he’d throttle given half a chance. Fueled by a surge of protectiveness, Callum moved behind her and set his hand in the small of her back. The connection sent a thunderbolt straight to his groin. Christ Almighty. How would he get through the next few hours without ravishing her?

  He took his turn in the bathroom while she packed her things. When he emerged fresh-breathed and stubble free, he thought about kissing her, but decided he’d better not. Once he got started, he might not be able to stop. Collecting her suitcases, he led the way to the lift. As they waited for the car, he flashed back to the night before. The intrepid kiss, the bold invasion of his trousers. Oh, aye. The lady definitely had gumption, though perhaps not quite as much sober as when in her cups.

  “How are you feeling, my lady?”

  She stirred from her own thoughts. “What? Oh. Fine. More or less.”

  Nice try, but he wasn’t buying it. Clearly hung over, she needed coffee and food and the sooner, the better.

  “What might you like to eat?” he asked.

  She gave him a heartening smile. “I’m not fussy, provided there’s nothing with a face involved.”

  He should have guessed as much by the sweet, grassy smell of her blood. Her dietary restrictions would complicate things, but only a wee bit.

  The lift arrived with a ding and he followed her inside. She punched the button for the lobby and, as the car descended, he said, “We’ll need to take your car, if that’s all right. Duncan drove me into town last night in his, which is now with him back at Barrogill.”

  “That’s fine,” she said, gaze on the door. “We can take mine. It’s parked right out front.”

  The car stopped and he followed her across the lobby toward the door. The bartender from last night wasn’t on duty—the lucky sod. Had he been working, Callum would have felt compelled to challenge the cad. Liquoring a woman up in the hope of taking advantage was akin to rape. If a lass was drunk, she couldn’t consent. Period. End of paragraph.

  Thankfully, the lobby was quiet and empty save for a redheaded lass at the reception desk. She looked up from her task and did a double take as they passed by.

  “Good morning, Lady Vanessa,” she called out with a knowing smirk. “Sleep well?”

  “Yes,” she returned, cheeks coloring. “Very well. Thanks for asking.”

  The weather was perfect. Sunny and cool with a few puffy clouds embellishing a deep azure sky. He couldn’t have asked for a better day to show her the virtues of Caithness.

  She led the way to a charcoal gray SUV. He owned a similar vehicle, only his was a few years older, a wee bit larger, and black.

  When he started to guide her toward the passenger side, she stopped short and spun around to face him. “If you think I’m going to let you drive my car, you’d better think again.”

  “It only makes sense,” he told her. “I know the area and know where we’re going, which you don’t.”

  “You could play navigator.”

  “Aye, I could,” he agreed. “But you’d miss all the bonny scenery, which somewhat defeats the point of our excursion, no?”

  “You’re not an authorized driver on the rental agreement.”

  “I’ll tell you what,” he offered, grinning as he snatched the keys from her hand, “if I crash the car, I’ll pay for the damages.”

  She chased him around to the passenger’s side and crossed her arms as he opened the door for her. “What if you’re killed in the crash?”

  He smiled and gestured for her to get in. “I won’t be.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “I just am, that’s all.”

  With a defeat-conceding huff, she gave up the fight and climbed into the passenger seat.

  He gave her a mollifying smile as he checked that her skirt was clear before shutting the door. As he walked round to the driver’s side, he pressed a fist to his lips to repress a laugh. The lady was nothing if not headstrong. Oddly, that only added to her appeal. He liked a lass who knew her own mind. He also enjoyed a challenge. Overly solicitous women got boring very quickly.

  Their destination was Wick, their route a narrow two-lane highway with an almost constant ocean view. Vast expanses of flat, scrubby fields seasoned with wildflowers, peat bogs, and the occasional crofter’s cottage flanked the road on both sides.

  She, he was delighted to see, did seem to be taking in the scenery. At the moment, she was staring out her window, presumably at the blue-gray band of ocean on the right-hand side of the landscape.

  His gaze skimmed over her clinging silk blouse and sweeping floral skirt before returning to the road. While she wasn’t exactly dressed for a hike, she ought to be able to manage the Whaligoe Steps and a romantic sunset walk along the beach. First, though, he’d better get some food in her. She hadn’t complained, but he couldn’t imagine she wasn’t suffering some aftereffects of last night’s over-indulgence.

  “Do you eat eggs?”

  “Yes.”

  She continued looking out toward the North Sea. What was she thinking about? He’d probe to find out, but he couldn’t take his attention off the road for that long. He still suspected she was up to something, but couldn’t guess what it might be. Had she really come all this way just to meet him? If so, she wouldn’t be the first, though she was quite different from his usual adoring fans.

  “What about seafood?” he asked.

  “Sometimes.” She glanced his way, fixing him with those dangerous blue drowning pools of hers. “Provided it isn’t farm raised and no dolphins were harmed in the process of catching it.”

  He pulled his gaze away. If she was particular about such things, he’d best tell Hamish to avoid scallops. The dredgers used in their harvest laid waste to the ocean floor, which she would know. Crab and lobster ought to be all right, though. And salmon.

  Wick wasn’t far and, being a former herring capital, still boasted some of the finest seafood restaurants in Scotland. They’d eat somewhere there, then. That settled, he moved on to the next thing on his list: sparkling conversation.

  He compressed his lips. Easier said than done. Witty repartee, difficult under the best of circumstances, was impossible under these. In such close quarters, the smell of her had his head spinning and his cock thrumming with impatience. It was all he could do to keep his fangs from sprouting.

  Cracking the window, he sucked the fresh sea air into his lungs and squeezed a question out of his brain. “So, what’s it like, then, being the daughter of an earl?”

  “Lonely, mostly.”

  Her cryptically frank answer both surprised and intrigued. “Would you care to elaborate on that statement?”

  “Not really.”

  He had a pretty good idea after last night’s brief-yet-revealing probe. She was the quintessential “poor little rich girl,” not that being born into privilege made loneliness any less painful, as he kent all too well.

  They motored on in silence, she watching the unchanging landscape out the window, he trying to think of something to say that wouldn’t lead down a dangerous path. Landing on what seemed to be a safe topic, he licked his lips and flicked a glance in her direction. “Do you remember that reporter who approached me last night—the one who sent you running like a frightened doe?”

  “Of course,” she replied without turning. “What about her?”

  “Well, she came up to speak to my friend about running a pro-independence candidate for the Commons seat in Caithness. And, well, as ridiculous as it might sound, he asked if I’d consider it.”
>
  She looked his way, brow furrowed. “You mean run for a seat as a Scottish Member of Parliament?”

  His gaze met hers. “Aye, but I don’t know if it’s a good idea. What’s your opinion on the matter?”

  “I’m flattered you asked,” she said. “And, as it happens, I think you’d make a brilliant SMP, but—”

  “But what?” he prodded, curious to know how she’d finish the sentence.

  “You’re a nationalist.”

  He’d not expected that. “So?”

  “If you get your way, Parliament will be dissolved.”

  “I’m aware of that.”

  “So why run for a seat with the aim of doing away with it?”

  He licked his lips to moisten his mouth, which suddenly felt dry. “Because, as I said last night, I’m a romantic. I believe in preserving my country’s cultural heritage. The music, literature, dialects, customs, folklore, mythology, history, and so forth.”

  “In that case, you should definitely go for it,” she said. “Not that I give two hoots about Scottish independence, but I think everyone should fight hard for whatever they believe in.”

  “How very idealistic of you.”

  He wasn’t so sure he agreed with her. Not the idealism part, the part about running. Aye, he had principles worth fighting for, but the idea of being thrust into the public eye didn’t sit well with him. He was reasonably comfortable just now. A bit on the lonely side, aye, but he could live with solitude much easier than the inconvenience of exposure.

  “What do you think of the scenery?” he asked to change the subject.

  “It’s nice.”

  He rolled his eyes. Nice? That was the best she could do? Aquarians were usually a bit more imaginative. If she was equally uninventive between the sheets, she’d be back at the inn by noon tomorrow.

  “I thought, if you feel up to it, we might walk around for a bit after lunch, before heading down to the Whaligoe Steps.”

  Her face snapped toward him. “The what?”

  “The Whaligoe Steps,” he repeated. “It’s a manmade stairway the fisherwomen used in the olden days to bring their catches up from the harbor below.”