Starry Knight

by Nina Mason

  “I’m fine,” she insisted. “But I’ll let you know if that changes.” She took a quick breath. “Speaking of change, if you should decide to run for Parliament—and I sincerely hope you do—I’m sure I could arrange a meeting with my father.”

  “Could you?” He did his best to feign surprise. “Duncan’s been trying in vain to get on your father’s calendar for months.”

  “Has he?”

  The question, though brief, was shaded with suspicion. Perhaps he shouldn’t have mentioned Duncan. “I believe he expressed something to that effect last night,” he added, backpedaling. “Though I was preoccupied signing books, so I might have heard him wrong.”

  “I’m sure you didn’t.” She looked right at him, her watery blue pools shimmering with distrust. “Is that why you chatted me up in the bar last night? So your friend could gain access to my father?”

  It was all he could do not to go off on her. How dare she accuse him of having ulterior motives when she’d come to Caithness hoping to expose his dark secret! “Nay, lass,” he ground out, keeping his temper in check. “I chatted you up because I saw you eyeing me at the signing like you wanted to fuck my brains out. And I wanted to fuck yours out, too. Something terrible. And, God help me, I still do.”

  He grabbed her shoulders, jerked her to him, and kissed her hard on the mouth. Then, remembering himself, he put her away from him, turned on his heel, and started back up the steps.

  “Tell me something, if you would,” he said, rounding on her. “Why are you so keen on me running for Parliament?”

  “I don’t have any ulterior motives,” she replied, “if that’s what you’re thinking. I just care about saving the planet from those who would rape her for their own personal gain with no thought for the devastating environmental footprint they’re leaving behind for future generations.” She heaved a sigh and bit her lip in a way that made him yearn to kiss her. “Look, the truth is, I want you to run for Parliament because my father needs all the allies he can get in the Commons. He could help you pass legislation to help protect Scotland’s natural resources and you could help support his measures to do the same in England. Don’t you see? It’s a win-win, Callum. And, as far as I’m concerned, a complete no-brainer.”

  “Spoken like a true Aquarian do-good-er.”

  Her mouth tightened impatiently. “Will you at least think about what I’ve said?”

  “Aye, I’ll think about it.”

  Turning, he started back up the steps with her on his heels. Despite her compelling points, he still wasn’t easy about stepping into the public eye. While he’d taken pains over the years to ensure his legal records were copacetic—the title to the castle, his bank accounts, his birth records, driving license, passport, etc.—his dossier wasn’t water-tight enough to float under pressure.

  Was getting back in the game worth the risk?

  “Where are you going?” she called after him.

  “To the beach,” he replied without stopping, “to watch the sunset.”

  * * * *

  On the drive to Sinclair’s Bay, Callum seemed broody and distant and Vanessa started to feel guilty about her ulterior motives. She came close to fessing up several times, but then talked herself out of it. If she confessed, he might take her back to John o’Groats—the last thing she wanted.

  “Is anything amiss?”

  “Huh? Oh, uh, no.” He darted a glance in her direction. “Of course not. What could be amiss?”

  “I don’t know,” she returned. “That’s why I’m asking.”

  “Everything’s fine,” he said with an unconvincing grin. “I was just thinking is all.”

  “What about?” she pressed.

  He shrugged the shoulder nearest her and flicked another look her way. “Duncan. Parliament. Dinner. You.” With an off-handed chuckle, he added, “Save us both some time, my lady, and ask what I wasn’t thinking about.”

  Thankfully, he seemed in better spirits, but far from easy. Her courage faltered but she restored it with a deep breath. “What were you thinking about me?”

  With a laugh, he said, “I’ll give you three guesses and the first two don’t count.”

  She gathered from that he was entertaining thoughts of an erotic nature. Good. She was entertaining similar thoughts herself.

  By the time they reached the bay, the sky was streaked with bands of pink, orange, and gold. It was a spectacular sight, as were the sugar-white sand and brilliant turquoise sea below the bluff where they’d parked the car. Vanessa might have believed she’d been transported to the Caribbean had it not been for the bone-chilling offshore wind.

  When she crossed her arms and shivered visibly, Callum very chivalrously took off his suit coat and offered it to her. No fool, she accepted the jacket and thanked him as she pulled it on. Taking her hand, he led her down a steep trail and across a bunch of rocks, neither of which did her boots any good.

  Everywhere she looked, there were seabirds—wheeling overhead, perched on ledges, diving in the surf. Over the hiss of the sea, they conversed about the view, the weather, the stars, and the birds. He pointed out a group of puffins—comical-looking black and white birds with bright orange legs and bills. She enjoyed the camaraderie, his closeness, the smell of him on his jacket, and the feel of his big, warm hand encasing hers.

  It behooves me to warn you double Leos are ruthless romantics—a dangerous prospect for a dispassionate water bearer.

  Yes, well. She just hoped part of his ruthless plan was to kiss her like she’d never been kissed before while they strolled hand-in-hand along the beach. At the water’s edge, they shed their shoes for a walk along the surf, which quickly turned into a rollicking game of tag with each other and the waves. She couldn’t remember a time she’d enjoyed herself more—particularly in the company of a man.

  At the moment, they were sitting on some rocks, barefoot, mildly sunburnt, and windblown, their loose hair whipping around their faces. Feeling blessedly at peace, she looked out over the sea. The sun, now low in the sky, was cutting a blinding white swath across the glistening amber-blue water.

  “Look, up there,” Callum said, his voice barely audible over the birds and wind.

  Vanessa shifted her gaze to the direction he pointed. High on the cliff overlooking the bay stood the ruin of a castle.

  “That’s Girnigoe, once the seat of Clan Sinclair,” he said, looking at the castle’s crumbling remains. “It was built by William, the second Earl of Caithness, before his death at Flodden Field. The fourth earl, William’s grandson, imprisoned his own son and heir in the dungeon for being too lenient toward the townspeople. When, after seven years, poor John yet lived, the father gave him only salted beef, with nothing to drink, to hasten his death. He died all right, but not before the thirst drove him mad.”

  “How atrocious,” she said, deeply appalled. Her parents might have been neglectful, but they were never deliberately cruel.

  “Aye,” he agreed, his voice strained. “And John wasn’t the only poor lad to die so cruelly at the hands of that madman.”

  Clearly, there was more to the story, but, at the moment, she was more interested in getting warm. “Isn’t there some place we could get out of the wind?”

  “As it happens,” he said, giving her a look that took the chill off, “I know the perfect place. There’s a hidden sea cave just over yon.”

  Yes! A cozy cave would serve both her immediate purposes.

  Callum got to his feet, took her hand, and pulled her across the dunes toward the cliffs. She couldn’t see the entrance to the cave until he swept back a curtain of vines. She followed him through the narrow entrance, holding tightly to his hand. The interior was cool, dark, and smelled a bit fishy, but not offensively so.

  Stepping in front of her, he put a hand on her chin and lifted her gaze to his. The spark between them was palpable and she longed for him to kiss her. She licked her lips invitingly, hoping he’d take the hint.
>
  “You’re very bonny, mo dearbadan-de,” he said softly, seductively, as he brushed back a wayward strand of her hair.

  “What did you just call me?”

  “My butterfly,” he said, “in Gaelic.”

  She put her arms around his neck and offered him her mouth. He accepted, nibbling and flicking his tongue against her lips. She pulled the band from his ponytail, freeing his windblown mane. As it tumbled around his shoulders, she wove her fingers among its silky strands, pressing his mouth harder against hers.

  When he offered his tongue, she greeted it with her own. He moaned—a deep, needful sound that dumped accelerant on her desire. She thrust her hips against him, finding him as aroused as her. He pushed back, grinding against her as he walked her backward toward the wall of the cave. As her back met rough rock, warm fingers came under her blouse, climbed her ribs, and pushed under her bra. As he teased her nipples, something deep in her core turned all soft and molten.

  She was air, he fire, and right now, she wanted his light and heat, wanted him to consume her in a crackling blaze.

  He broke out of the kiss, moved his mouth to her ear, and nibbled the lobe. She grew weak in the knees as his tongue traced the sensitive inner folds.

  “Why do you run away from love, mo dearbadan-de?” he whispered huskily. “Do you see it as a trap?”

  “More a fraud than a trap.”

  “And sex isn’t?”

  “With sex, you know what you’re getting.”

  “And when it’s over, you’ve got nothing.”

  “How is love different?”

  “I don’t know,” he said, “having never felt it.”

  “We’re alike in that,” she said, “but from what I’ve observed, it’s a mirage people only chase because they feel incomplete within themselves.”

  Taking her face between his hands, he trained her in his riveting gaze. “Do you truly believe that?”

  “Yes.”

  He let her go, turned his back, and stepped away. For the longest time, he stood there, just out of reach, saying nothing. Then, as suddenly as he’d turned his back, he rounded on her with eyes like yellow coals. “Tell me, Madame Butterfly. Who made you feel so unlovable?”

  The question impaled her like a red-hot spike. Damn him for asking it, for digging so deep, for skewering her with his probe. She suddenly felt ridiculous, like some poor little rich girl. She’d been born into wealth and privilege. What right did she have to be unhappy? So what if her parents didn’t love her or she had no true friends.

  Boo-fucking-hoo. Get over yourself.

  What right did she have to wallow in self-pity when children were starving, people were dying of Ebola, and the planet was being raped on a daily basis? She deserved no compassion, despite the searing wound she did her best to ignore.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she said in a voice that sounded faint and faraway under the blood-thunder in her ears.

  “No? Then why have you closed your heart?”

  Defiance bubbled in her heart like hot tar. Damn him for trying to get past the battlements she’d spent years erecting hurt by hurt and brick by brick. If anything, she should build her walls higher where this bedeviling baron was concerned, not let him wear them down like rain.

  “Did you bring me in here to psychoanalyze me?”

  “No,” he whispered, the heat of his breath caressing, soothing. His hand glided purposefully down her body and pushed between her legs. As he stimulated her through her knickers, she threw back her head and expelled a soft sigh—of pleasure and relief. A rapacious lover, she was equal to. A probing one, not so much.

  As he stroked her through the satin crotch of her knickers, desire fluttered in her abdomen like an injured bird. He’d struck too close to home. She’d didn’t feel loveable because she’d never felt loved. Not for one single, solitary moment of her entire privileged life. She’d had a chain of nannies who believed children should be seen but not heard before being packed off to boarding school where she was treated with equal detachment. Her parents, in short, had hired others to raise her—no, make that train her. In their eyes, she was a hunk of clay to be molded, not a human being to be nurtured. How disappointed they must have been when they got an outspoken nonconformist in place of the pretty marionette they’d paid for.

  Callum’s finger came inside her knickers and began to circle her clitoris, smothering her bitterness in the syrup of pleasure. The orgasm charged and retreated, charged and retreated, and then finally exploded in a heavenly cascade.

  Setting his hands on the wall on either side of her head, he docked his forehead against hers and said, “I’d rather chase the mirage than die alone without hope in the desert.”

  Chapter 4

  As Callum navigated the winding, fog-shrouded road out to Easter Head, his knuckles white on the steering wheel, he entertained a strange and selfish thought. What if he should miss a turn and go over the cliff? The drop was steep and the landing rocky. If he didn’t turn her, she would die.

  He’d never turned anyone before, never even been tempted. Belphoebe had told him how, in case he found someone someday he wanted to keep as his mate. Strangely, he never had. In the hundreds of years he’d been alive, he’d never once fallen in love. He wanted to love, loved the idea of being in love, but, for whatever reason, the seeds of affection never took root. And oh, how he’d tortured himself over what those reasons might be.

  As a breeding drone, it was in his nature to seduce, to draw women to himself to satisfy his physical needs. He enjoyed those trysts, enjoyed the chase and the conquest, enjoyed the power he wielded and the erotic gratification their bodies afforded. What man wouldn’t? What he didn’t enjoy was their pursuit of him. Or the lengths he had to go to sometimes to get rid of them.

  Thus, he preferred Madam Pennick’s faery whores to human women. He relished his privacy and his solitude. Having unwelcome company foisted on him upended his sense of wellbeing. It was that simple. He wanted a woman when he wanted her. When he didn’t, she could go hang herself.

  Those feelings didn’t stem from a general disrespect for women. Oh, no. Quite the opposite, in fact. He adored women, adored their soft bodies and giving them mind-blowing orgasms. Sadly, that was all he’d ever been able to give them. Except Sorcha, of course, who wouldn’t even let him give her that much.

  She’d bristled under his touch and laid stiffly beneath him while he “did his business,” as she called it, much to his consternation. Other things fell away, but not the memory of poor Sorcha sobbing under him as he exercised his rights as a husband. Taking and never giving back because she wouldn’t allow him to please her.

  For two centuries, he’d suffered the ghost’s presence without the least inkling why she insisted on haunting him.

  “Do try to find out what she wants,” he said, turning to Lady Vanessa.

  “Who?”

  “The ghost.”

  “I’ll give it my best shot.”

  The fog was getting thicker. He could barely make out the curve of the road. Beside him, Lady Vanessa was quiet, which was just as well. He needed to focus on his driving. The fog was now so thick he could barely see the bonnet of the car. Jerking the wheel toward the shoulder, he stopped, leaving the engine running and the headlamps on.

  “What are you doing?” she asked, sounding anxious.

  “I can see in the dark well enough,” he told her, “though not in this gloom. And I don’t fancy creeping along these cliffs like I’m playing Blind Man’s Bluff.”

  “So we’re just going to sit here until it clears?”

  “We are. Unless you’ve got a better idea.”

  She waggled her eyebrows at him. “We could always fool around.”

  The suggestion shot a flaming arrow straight to his groin. Against his better judgment, he unbuckled his seatbelt and pulled her into his arms. Their mouths locked in a passionate kiss. As their tongues entangle
d, his hands moved up and down her back.

  Outside, it began to rain. He was dimly aware of the soft drumming on the roof of the car. Would it wash away the fog or make it worse? He didn’t know and, for the moment at least, couldn’t care less. Her breasts were smashed against his chest, her tongue was playing with his, and his cock was straining against the fly of his trousers.

  It took every ounce of willpower he could muster to let her go. With a sigh, he dropped back into his seat.

  “I don’t want to take you in the car. Not when my castle is just down the road.”

  “How very gallant of you.”

  “I do try,” he said, pursing his lips, “when I have the chance, which, admittedly, isn’t often.”

  She turned away from him, toward the window. “We could always talk, I suppose. Tell me more about your ghost. Why did she hate the man she married enough to jump off the tower?”

  He took a moment to work out how to tell her the story without giving himself away before starting. “As I understand it, the marriage was forced—a common practice back then when a man wanted a woman who didn’t want him.”

  “Hang on. How do you force someone to marry you?”

  “Back then, under Scots law, a man only had to have intercourse with an unmarried woman to make her his wife.”

  “Oh, my God,” she exclaimed. “That’s appalling—and positively medieval. No wonder the poor girl threw herself off the tower.”

  “That wasn’t the worst of it.”

  “No? What could be worse than being forced to marry your rapist?”

  “Marrying a man who raped you to get ahold of your dead husband’s castle.”

  “She was married before?”

  “Aye,” he said, treading carefully. “To a man killed at the Battle of Flodden Field.”

  She went quiet for a few heartbeats before asking, “And all you feel when she’s around is a drop in temperature?”

  “And a slight shift in the room’s energy when she’s there.”

  “Does she ever do anything or move objects?”