by Nina Mason
“Sounds interesting,” she said, sounding not the least bit interested. “Then what?”
“Then we’ll maybe head back up to John o’Groats and out to Duncansby, to see the Natural Retreats, and the lighthouse, after which, if you’re not too tired, I thought we might take a sunset stroll along the beach.”
“Sounds like a full day.” She gave him a disingenuous smile. “When are we going to your castle?”
“A bit later,” he said, being deliberately evasive.
Why was she so eager to see his castle? He took a breath and blew it out before glancing her way. She was looking out the window again, probably scheming rather than watching the scenery. He imagined her sitting there in her underwear—well, the underwear he’d buy for her first chance he got. A lace-up corset and thigh-high stockings—the sort with the seam up the back. Oh, aye. He could almost feel his fingers gliding over the smooth satin and textured lace.
“What are you wearing underneath your clothes?”
She laughed. “What are you wearing underneath yours?”
“Nothing,” he said—the truth.
He should have known she’d turn the question back on him—another defining ploy of her sign. Ditto for her interrogation of him in the bar last night. She’d winkle everything she could out of him while revealing next to nothing about herself. If he let her, which he wasn’t about to.
“Vanessa. What does it mean?”
Her pretty brow puckered as her gaze found his. “What does what mean?”
“Your name,” he said, returning his attention to the road.
“My name means butterfly.”
His gaze flicked in her direction before rebounding to the road. “Does it? Well. Goodness me. How apropos.”
“What does yours mean?”
“Callum? It means dove or bringer of peace.”
She turned her body toward him and put her hand on his thigh. Her unexpected contact made him flinch. “I’m wearing a matching lace bra and knickers I bought last month in Paris.”
Interest tingled between his legs. “Oh, aye? What color?”
“Guess.”
Not black or red. If her bra were either, he’d be able to see the shadow through that clinging silk blouse she wore.
“Nude?”
“Close.”
“Pink?”
“Ding, ding, ding. We have a winner.” She ran her hand up his leg, stopping just shy of his package. “Are you into naughty lingerie?”
He fought to suppress a grin. “I don’t wear it, if that’s what you mean.”
“I’m glad to hear it, but that’s not what I meant and you know it. Now answer the question. Are you into lingerie and, if so, what kind?”
“That’s two questions.”
She cupped his balls and squeezed gently, making his whole body tense.
“Are you going to answer the question or do I have to get rough?”
“Corsets, garter belts, and stockings.” He was apprehensive about his bollocks but otherwise enjoying the game. “Did you happen to bring any along?”
“Nothing like that, I’m afraid,” she said, still clasping his manhood.
Despite his unease, her touch was making his cock tingle, distracting his focus. He removed her hand, took a breath, and resettled himself in the seat.
There was a lingerie shop in Wick. Perhaps, before the week was out, he’d take her there. For now, however, he needed to come up with some place halfway decent for a vegetarian to eat.
Though he’d lived in the area for hundreds of years, he’d never paid much attention to its eateries. There was a café in the harbor. He’d eaten there a couple of times with Duncan. It was far from elegant, but had decent seafood, an all-day breakfast, and a river view. The cheesy maritime decor probably wouldn’t impress her, but neither would driving in circles like a clueless tourist looking for somewhere better.
Wick, the principal town in these parts, sat astride the River Wick, which stretched along both sides of Wick Bay. Though the town itself wasn’t particularly large, it felt huge compared to the other wee villages and crofts dotting the county. Steeped in fishing-industry history, Wick was once the busiest herring harbor port in Britain, exporting mainly to Europe and the Baltics. At the height of the herring industry, there were 1,100 boats working the harbor in the peak season.
The harbor, first settled by Vikings, boasted dramatic ruins, breathtaking ocean views, and a bonny cliff top walk out to the promontory where the remains of two castles could be seen.
Both still belonged to Clan Sinclair, his sworn enemies back in his mortal days. They’d stolen Barrogill while he was enslaved in Avalon, believing he’d died at Flodden Field. They’d stolen his wife, too—the reason, he suspected, she’d thrown herself from the tower moments after consummating her marriage to the clan chieftain, doubtless by force.
There had been no love between Sorcha and himself, but he still grieved her tragic fate and, much more so, the death of their son at the hands of the Sinclairs. Callum never learned what happened to wee Jamie, but he could guess, given what the Sinclairs did to their own offspring.
Callum flung the painful reminiscence away. What could he do about it now? Not a bloody thing—except perhaps defeat their worthless descendant in the upcoming election.
When they reached the city limits, he steered the car toward the harbor and pulled in beside the cafe. As he shut off the engine, she sat up and frowned at the restaurant’s rather shabby stucco building.
“It’s not fancy,” he said, “but the food’s quite good and the view is unparalleled.”
He removed the key, climbed out, and hurried around to open her door. Not surprisingly, she met him on the pavement. Frowning at her usurpation of his chivalrous overture, he locked the car with the clicker, set his hand in the small of her back, and ushered her toward the front entrance.
An older woman with a plump face and a friendly smile showed them to their table. They looked over the egg-stained laminated menus in silence. The restaurant smelled of fried fish and a fine layer of grease covered everything. Their places were set with cheap flatware and overturned white cups on saucers. When he turned his upright, Lady Vanessa followed suit. A twenty-something dark-haired waitress appeared with a pot of coffee he hoped was fresh.
She filled their cups before setting the pot on the table and pulling her order tablet out of the pocket of her apron. “What can I get for you?”
Lady Vanessa ordered scrambled eggs and kippers. He asked for porridge and blood sausage. He wasn’t hungry, but figured he’d better eat something to throw her off the scent.
When the waitress left, he picked up his coffee and took a cautious sip. It was fresh, but bitter. He added milk and sugar and stirred vigorously. She watched him, saying nothing. He sipped his doctored coffee. It was better, but still miles from good. He looked out at the view, wishing she’d say something. The silence was growing awkward and he was no good at making small talk.
He looked at her then, really looked at her, possibly for the first time since leaving the inn. God, she was beautiful. Achingly so. And smelled as good as she looked. If he didn’t watch it, he might lose control long before they reached Barrogill.
The waitress returned and set their respective plates in front of them. Lady Vanessa scooped up a forkful of eggs and stuffed her mouth. She had that strange, enigmatic look typical of her sign, as well as the dreamy pale eyes. That faraway look might fool some, but not him. He knew her mind was quicker, deeper, and sharper than most.
He also knew the influence of her ruling planet made her a natural rebel who instinctively felt all established customs were wrong and that the world was in need of drastic alteration. A real rebel with a cause, as Duncan had so astutely put it.
Callum didn’t disagree with her about the state of the world, but time had taught him the world wouldn’t change until people stopped living in fear. Fear of scarcity, fear of otherness, fe
ar of fear itself. Fear begat hatred, jealousy, cruelty, and every other negative emotion Pandora released into the world when she let the human ego out of her box.
Putting it back inside was going to take more than political rebellion; it was going to take a miracle.
As she ate, he probed her mind, this time finding a piece of the puzzle he didn’t like. She’d come to Caithness to escape the paparazzi, who’d taken to calling her “Lady Ghostbuster” since she’d accepted a job as a paranormal investigator in the States. No wonder she’d fled when that reporter showed up last night. And no wonder she was so eager to get inside his castle.
Was she playing him?
Pulling out of her mind, he took a swallow of coffee to wash down his rising animosity. He could confront her, of course, but why risk unpleasantness? It would be much more entertaining to simply use her the way she was using him.
“There’s something you should know about my castle,” he said, watching her face for a reaction.
Her deceiving blue eyes shimmered with interest. “Oh? And what’s that?”
“It’s haunted.”
She nearly choked on her eggs, which pleased him no end. He’d say this for the lady. She was a hopeless liar. Reading her mind seemed almost like overkill when her every feeling was written all over her face.
“Is that so?” she asked, dabbing her mouth with her napkin.
“Aye. By a lady who threw herself off the tower several centuries ago.”
“Oh, dear. How sad. Do you know why?”
“Apparently, she was forced to marry a brute of a man from an enemy clan.”
She scooped up a forkful of eggs. “I think I’d kill myself, too, if I was forced to marry a terrible man I didn’t love.” She put the eggs in her mouth and after swallowing them, added, “Just out of curiosity, how do you experience the haunting?”
“I feel coldness when she’s in the room.” He didn’t add that it was the same coldness the lady had treated him with when they were married.
“Does she make sounds? Move things? Feel hostile?”
“No, nothing like that.” He took a sip of coffee to hide his smirk. “I just feel the drop in temperature when she comes into the room.”
“How do you know it’s the girl who threw herself from the tower?”
“I don’t know,” he said, tasting the lie. “I just do.”
“If she was religious in life, she might be afraid to cross over and face eternal damnation.”
“You seem to know something about spirits,” he said, calculatingly.
“I do,” she said, poking at her kipper. “I’ve seen them since I was a little girl—not that anybody believed me.” She met his gaze with watery eyes. “My parents thought I was crazy and made me see a psychiatrist.”
The tears in her eyes gave him a pang of guilt—and pity. “Perhaps when we get to Barrogill, you can have a word with the ghost, find out what she wants, and persuade her to move on.”
“I’d be happy to—if she reaches out. I can only see the spirits who wish to make themselves known.”
Fair enough, he thought, ready to probe deeper. “So, did the psychiatrist help you?”
“Not with the spirits,” she said. “I still saw them, I just pretended I didn’t so my parents would stop sending me to see him.”
“You didn’t enjoy being analyzed?”
“On the contrary, I hated it with every fiber of my being.”
He wasn’t surprised. There was a fine line between genius and madness and people born under Uranus treaded that line like a tightrope walker. Lewis Carroll was an Aquarian. So were Mozart, Lord Byron, William S. Burroughs, Somerset Maugham, Thomas Edison, and Galileo.
If Lord and Lady Bentley thought her mad for seeing ghosts, he could only imagine how horrified they must be by their daughter’s chosen profession—and how tickled she must be by their reaction. Aquarians loved nothing better than shocking friends and family with their eccentric behavior—except perhaps solving mysteries. They were mad for solving puzzles, especially the flesh-and-blood variety. The question was, which sort had she come to Caithness to solve?
He could guess—and let her try. He had nothing to fear since he could cleanse from her memory whatever she might learn. In the meantime, he’d enjoy her to the fullest.
They returned to their meals, she taking tiny bites of egg and fish between sips of coffee; he giving the illusion of eating without actually doing so. Finally, she looked up from her food, fixed him in her gaze, and asked, in typical out-of-the-blue water-bearer fashion, “What’s your position on off-shore drilling in the North Sea?”
“I oppose it,” he said, meaning it.
“Because it’s an environmental travesty, right?”
“Because not one penny of the revenue winds up in Scotland’s coffers,” he corrected her—not that she was wrong about the devastating environmental impact of the practice. “England reaps the profits from mining our national resources and invests the money in its own enterprises whilst cutting Scotland’s public services to the bone. It’s bloody appalling.”
“I can see why you feel that way, but I don’t want to see anybody profiting from off-shore drilling. We should be arresting our dependence on fossil fuels, not looking for new sources to feed our addiction—especially at the expense of the natural environment.”
He agreed with her. Humankind’s callous disregard for the health of the planet was insupportable. Water pollution, air pollution, ozone depletion, deforestation, global warming, and toxic waste, to name a few.
What the devil were people thinking? Aye, well. He knew perfectly well they were thinking only about themselves. Fuck the planet and everybody on it so long as I can live in a grand house, drive a luxury car, and buy loads of things that will only go out of fashion.
Bloody hell. People said money was the root of all evil, but he disagreed. Money was merely the means to an end. The true root of all evil was selfishness.
The waitress was back, looking from him to Vanessa with a frown. “Didn’t you like the food, my lord? You’ve barely touched a bite.”
“It was fine,” Callum told her. “I’m just not all that hungry.”
She turned to Vanessa. “Not hungry for good food? I don’t know about you, lass, but I wouldn’t kick him out of my bed if he wanted my blood.”
The statement lanced Callum’s heart. Breath held, he awaited Vanessa’s reaction.
“Nor would I,” the lady flippantly replied, gazing at him with a wicked gleam in her eye.
Did she already suspect the truth? Callum compressed his lips to keep from saying something impulsive whilst reminding himself her sussing out the truth wasn’t the end of the world. For one thing, he could easily erase the knowledge from her mind. For another, he could feed on her the way he was dying to.
“Would you like me to box up the leftovers?” the waitress asked. “You could take it with you and have a picnic later. It’s a lovely day for it.”
“No, thank you,” he said, fishing out his wallet. “Just the check, if you don’t mind.”
The server collected their dirty plates and took them away. Lady Vanessa leaned in, her blue gaze intent. “Can I ask you something that might seem rather odd?”
“Of course,” he said, overruling his alarm. “Ask whatever you like.”
“Did you by any chance go out the window last night?”
He bristled, but still held her gaze, hoping she wouldn’t notice. “The window? No. Of course not. Why?”
“It’s just that, well,”—she looked away from his lying eyes, thank the stars—“I could have sworn I saw muddy footprints on the carpet this morning.”
“Aye, well,” he began, licking his lips. “That does seem extremely odd. They must have been there already—don’t you think?—and you simply failed to notice.”
“Maybe.” Her eyes narrowed as she turned toward the view. “But I really don’t think so.”
; The waitress brought the check, which he promptly paid, and they walked to the car in silence. On the winding drive to the next stop on his sightseeing tour, he thought long and hard about taking her back to John o’Groats, cleansing her memory of him, and leaving her on the doorstep of the inn. It was by far the safest and most sensible course. So why was he still driving toward Whaligoe? Lust? Loneliness? A bit of both?
By the time he pulled into the unmarked parking tarmac above the steps, Callum had made up his mind to proceed as planned. After parking the car, he led Lady Vanessa along a track through a farmstead edging the sea cliffs until they reached the top of the steps, a steep flight of flagstones zigzagging down the cliff face. Locals claimed there were 365 steps in all, the Royal Commission on the Ancient and Historical Monuments of Scotland, that there were only 330. He’d always been too preoccupied trying to keep his footing in the thick haar often engulfing the lower portion of the steps to be bothered with counting.
Even without the fog, the grade was steep, the flagstones slippery when wet, and the height off-putting for those suffering from vertigo. On the plus side, the hike down was abundant with wild flowers and seabirds, and the view down below into the “goe”—a small rocky inlet surrounded by soaring cliffs—was nothing short of breathtaking.
“Where do they lead to?” Vanessa asked as they began the walk down.
He kept a firm grip on her hand. Her boots, while becoming, weren’t the best choice for this endeavor and he wanted to be sure she didn’t slip.
“To a grassy area called the Bink and the ruins of an old store salt once used to cure fish. From there, you can climb down to a rocky shelf known as the Neist, if you’re so inclined. Whaligoe got its name from a dead whale that washed into the ‘goe’ once upon a time.”
“Why were they built?” she asked.
“Harbors are scarce along this stretch of the coast,” he told her, keeping a firm grip on her hand, “so the locals were forced to use Whaligoe as a fishing station and needed a way to get their catches up the cliffs and to the market at Wick. If this proves too taxing for you, do let me know, eh?”
