by Nina Mason
“Nay,” he replied, being deliberately vague. “She just watches.”
Her darkly penciled eyebrows drew together. He dropped his gaze to her mouth, as inviting as a ripe strawberry, and fought the strong compulsion to take a bite.
“Does the energy feel negative at all?” she asked.
He shook his head to dispel his rising lust. “Negative?”
“Hostile or even malicious.”
“Nay. Just cold.”
Outside, it was still raining and, inside, the hunger was rising like a burn in a downpour. In the gaps in conversation, he could hear her heart chanting his name.
Ca-lum. Ca-lum. Ca-lum.
He had to get some fresh air, get away from her, before he lost control. Holding his breath, he turned the key to the ignition’s accessory position and cracked the window.
God help him—and her. His fangs were breaking through his gums. He clamped his teeth together hoping to thwart their emergence. If he remained in these close confines much longer, there was no telling what he might do.
“You don’t look so good,” she said, eyes brimming with concern. “Is anything wrong?”
Bloody hell. He couldn’t answer without revealing his pronounced canines. Lowering the window far enough to stick his head out, he sucked fresh air into his lungs. It was still raining, but not as hard. The fog, too, appeared to be clearing.
Fuck it. He’d try to make the drive. He’d been playing with fire and had burnt his fingers. If he didn’t watch it, everything he cared about could go up in flames.
He made up his mind. To hell with Sorcha’s ghost. He’d just have to put up with her. He’d indulge his Unseelie desires tonight and take Lady Vanessa back to John o’Groats in the morning. He’d make her forget him and, in time, he’d forget her, too. He’d only known her for a day, after all, and what was one day in the course of eternity? A mere blip he’d soon fail to recall like so much else.
Starting the engine, he eased off the shoulder and onto the road. He switched on the wipers at full speed, but still couldn’t see much through the rain and fog. He leaned forward, squinting to see through the downpour.
It was like driving through cellophane. He eased up on the gas, determined to take it slow. Inch by inch, if need be. The cliffs should be a wee ways up ahead. If he was careful, he ought to be able to make it around them all right.
It didn’t help that the smell of her was wreaking havoc with his concentration. His fangs were all the way down and his mouth was watering like a hungry dog’s. He swallowed, keeping his lips sealed tight. He hadn’t felt so close to the edge since, well, since he’d awakened in her room that morning. He should have taken her then and there instead of waiting so long. He was usually good at waiting, but something in her blood called to him like a siren bent on his destruction.
He’d reached the end of his tether. He couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe. He had to clear his head, to get away from her intoxicating scent, to get out of this bloody car. Fresh air in his lungs and rain on his face would soon set him to rights. He stomped on the brake. The Land Rover lurched to a stop. He grabbed the door handle and pulled.
As he started to jump out, she seized his arm. “Where are you going?”
Tearing his arm from her grasp, he vaulted from the car. He walked down the road, not caring that he was getting soaked. He just prayed the night air would restore his senses. He still felt lightheaded, his fangs were still out, and his balls throbbed like an abscessed tooth. He stopped when he could no longer smell her, grabbed his knees, and started sucking in breaths. He tensed when he heard her coming up behind him.
“Go back to the car.”
“Not until you tell me what’s going on.”
“Go back to car, Lady Vanessa,” he said more gently.
Heedless of his request, she stepped up behind him and ran her hands over his lower back. Christ Almighty, she was headstrong, to her own bloody peril.
“I want to help.”
She swept her hands across his shoulders, pushing him to the edge of reason. He opened his mouth to order her back to the car, but the words wouldn’t come. He spun around. As his gaze fixed on the pulsing vein in her neck, his teeth ached to penetrate her flesh. His cock ached, too, with the urge to penetrate elsewhere.
“Go,” he said, spewing the word.
Stepping up to him, she touched his face with a tenderness he’d never known. The blood racing through the sweet blue artery on her wrist called to him. His nostrils flared, drinking in the tantalizing bouquet of her highborn blood.
“Go back to the car,” he said again, praying she’d obey this time. “I get panic attacks sometimes and need some air. I’ll be all right if you give me a minute alone to collect myself.”
* * * *
Talking of panic attacks! They were back on the road and Vanessa’s stomach was doing loop-de-loops as the Land Rover wound along a mist-shrouded corkscrew edging a steep cliff. Beside her, Callum looked like a corpse with a death grip on the steering wheel.
The car swerved abruptly, throwing her against the door. Pain exploded in her shoulder, but she swallowed her cry. Just as she regained her bearings, the backend fishtailed. As the tires squealed, the inertia tossed her again—smack into Callum. This time, she did give voice to her distress.
“Jesus fucking Christ, Callum. You said you could see the bloody road?”
He flicked a worried look in her direction. “I can. For the most part. I just didn’t see yon boulder until we were nearly upon it.”
Just as she opened her mouth to suggest he pull over again, a set of towering iron gates appeared out of the fog. Through the ornate scrollwork, an imposing gray castle rose out of the mist. It looked as if it were floating on the vapor. It was still dark and storming, but there was enough light to show her what appeared to be an architectural marriage between a Norman fortress and a Georgian manor.
The older half was a five-story rectangular tower festooned with corner turrets and a single line of narrow windows running up the center. The newer addition was a symmetrical three-story mansion with a brick face and steep roof. Chimneystacks, dormers, and another corner turret jutted from the roofline.
The marriage, though disparate, appeared to be a happy one. A towering iron fence surrounded the dwelling, which sat atop a knoll overlooking the sea.
Callum pulled the car closer, lowered the window, and pressed a button to activate the intercom.
“Would that be you, then, my lord?” a Scottish man’s voice squawked out of the speaker.
“Aye, Hamish. Sorry to be so late, but we got hung up by the fog.”
“’Tis no matter, my lord. The important thing is you’re here at last, safe and sound.”
Vanessa smiled as she listened to the exchange. Given the acrobatics of Callum’s speech, she couldn’t help wondering what other feats his tongue might perform for her benefit.
A motor began to hum and the gates swung slowly inward, hinges groaning under the strain of their weight. He pulled the Land Rover through into a circular drive with a large spot of green lawn at the center. He brought the car to a stop near the porch, shut off the wipers and headlamps, and glanced at her.
“Are you ready for this?”
She swallowed and forced a smile. “As ready as I’ll ever be, I suppose.”
Angst avalanched over her. She drew a deep breath to calm her nerves. What awaited her inside the lion’s den? The thought sent a shiver of fear-laced excitement through her.
He hopped out, ran around to her door, and pulled it open. As she swung her legs around, he offered her his hand and a smile. Returning his smile, she took the hand.
The sky was still drizzling, so, after helping her out, he quickly ushered her into the sheltering arch of the front portico.
He opened his mouth to say something, but before the words spilled out, the huge front door creaked open. On the other side, stood a tall, stringy man with thinning dark
hair. Hamish the butler, presumably. He wore an old-fashioned tweed suit and an unreadable expression.
“Would you be good enough to fetch the lady’s bags from the car,” Callum said to his butler, “and put them in my bedchamber?”
“Very good, my lord.” Hamish nodded. “Dinner is ready whenever you are.”
Callum’s golden gaze slid toward her, then back to his manservant. “If it’s not too great an imposition, I think the lady might like a wee bit of time to freshen up before we eat.”
She would, actually. Very much. Between the rain and the sea wind, her skin and hair felt sodden and sticky. What she’d like more than anything was a nice long soak, assuming he had a great big bathtub somewhere, though she didn’t want to spoil whatever he’d planned. Dinner had waited on them long enough. On top of which, she was famished.
“Just a quick wash,” she said, smiling. “It won’t take long.”
As Hamish went out to collect the bags, Callum placed her hand in the crook of his arm and escorted her up a staircase to an overlook decorated with tapestries, paintings, and statuary. She looked around, impressed. The place was eclectic, tasteful, and remarkably warm and homely for a drafty old castle.
“How many rooms does Barrogill have?”
At the first opportunity, she meant to have a good look around.
He rubbed his chin with his free hand. After a minute, he met her gaze, a bemused smile on his mouth. “Thirty-eight, I believe, though I might have forgotten one or two.” Mischief twinkled in his golden eyes. “And just so you know, there’s a trapdoor to the dungeon in the dining room, in case you fail to use the proper fork or say something over dinner I don’t care to hear.”
She smiled, her interest spiking. A deep, dark dungeon seemed the perfect place to hide a vampire, but how to get down there without being noticed?
“Does the dungeon have any unusual features?” Vampires, for example, or whips and chains of the erotic variety? She’d never experimented with BDSM, but was open-minded about the possibility. She was all about trying new things and expanding her horizons, sexual or otherwise.
“Not unless you count the tunnel leading under the garden,” he said. “Back when the castle was built, it was used as an escape route when the Sinclairs stormed the place—an all too common occurrence.”
She filed the fact away for later as she asked, affecting disinterest in the dungeon, “And where do you do your stargazing?”
“The top of the tower.”
“I’ll bet the views from up there are spectacular.”
“They are, of the sea and surrounding countryside, as well as the stars,” he said, seemingly at ease. “Do you fancy a look when the storm clears out? Tomorrow perhaps?”
“I’d love it.”
Hamish, now carrying her bag, stopped at the top of the stairs and cleared his throat to draw their attention. When she looked over, the butler nodded her way.
“If you’ll follow me, my lady.” Shifting his gaze to Callum, he added, “Mr. Faol would like a word, my lord, before he departs. At your convenience. You’ll find him in the library when you’re ready.”
Vanessa turned to Callum. “Is your friend leaving so soon?”
“Only for the evening,” he returned. “Now, go on, get freshened up, and meet me back here in twenty minutes.”
When he started to break away, she pulled him back. “What should I put on?”
Growing up at Bentley Manor, she was required to dress for dinner—when she was home—semiformal for family meals, formal for parties and guests.
“It doesn’t matter.” Taking her hand, he lifted it to his lips planted a kiss on her knuckles. “Even if you put on an old flour sack, you’ll still look lovely.”
Vanessa, swallowing her guilt, pulled her hand from the baron’s grasp, and followed the butler up the marble stairs and down a long corridor lined with paintings, weaponry, mounted animal heads, and electrified sconces. Eager to see as much as she could, she peeked through every doorway they passed along the way. All the rooms were decorated in an eclectic blend of antique and traditional pieces. The upholstery was a tasteful blend of florals, plaids, and paisleys with the occasional animal print thrown into the mix.
Each time she spied a trophy head or fur throw, she shuddered She was adamantly opposed to hunting for sport. Plus, those staring glass eyes gave her the willies. Had he killed the animals himself? She hoped not. She’d once dumped a guy just for defending Beyoncé’s choice to wear furs.
Taking a breath to cool her outrage, Vanessa searched for something more pleasant to occupy her thoughts. Apart from the gruesome heads, the castle’s décor was elegant, comfortable, and masculine, without being overtly bachelor. Had Callum done it himself or hired a decorator?
The butler gestured for her to follow as he turned into the last doorway on the right. A king-sized bed with a massive carved headboard dominated the spacious room on the other side. Fit for a modern-day laird, it was covered with an elegant paisley comforter and layers of shams and toss pillows. At the foot, a leather chesterfield sofa faced a fireplace with a carved oak mantle. A small blaze burned in the grate, adding to the room’s warm ambience.
Two windows draped in a small check graced the opposite wall. Beneath one, a matched pair of wingback chairs flanked an antique piecrust table. As her gaze returned to his big, manly bed, she imagined him there with her, naked and entwined.
Her gaze swept the room again. Callum Lyon had good taste. He also had correct opinions. Two distinct pluses in her book. If she ever did settle down, it would be with a man who knew his own mind and wasn’t shy about speaking it.
Hamish set her bag on a luggage stand and left the room, closing the door to give her privacy. Opening her suitcase, Vanessa rummaged through the things she’d packed in search of her “little black Maserati”—so named because it hugged every curve with style and class. Shaking it out, she laid the dress across the comforter and began to smooth the wrinkles with her hands. A sudden cold washed over her, lifting the tiny hairs on her arms and the back of her neck.
A shimmer near the foot of the bed slowly assumed the transparent form of a woman in a white gown with flowing sleeves—the sort commonly seen in the pre-Raphaelite paintings of John Waterhouse. The apparition’s hair was dark, very long, and looked almost wild.
“Who are you?” the apparition asked in a Scottish brogue.
“My name’s Vanessa. Vanessa Bentley. I’m a friend of”—she hesitated, unsure how to describe her relationship to Callum—“the baron’s.”
“You’re a Sassenach.”
Vanessa bristled. Sassenach meant “outsider” in Scots, but carried derogatory connotations when applied to the English.
“I’m afraid so,” Vanessa said, offering the spirit a smile, “but I’m not a bad person.”
“Why are you here?”
“I told you. I’m a friend of the baron’s.”
As the spirit stepped closer, the room grew colder. “You have the speech of a highborn lady. The baron has brought naught but whores to Barrogill since that awful Sinclair lass ran away.”
Vanessa bit her lip, unsure which thread to pull first. Deciding, she asked, “What awful Sinclair lass would that be?”
“Deirdre, his second wife.”
“Are you telling me he’s been married twice?”
“Aye, lass. That’s exactly what I’m telling you. And you’ll be number three, if I have anything to say about it.”
“Me? Are you mad? I’ve only just met the man.”
“So? When I was alive, couples became betrothed before ever setting eyes on one another.”
Vanessa scoffed, incredulous. “Are you seriously endorsing the barbaric matrimonial customs that drove you to suicide?”
Saying nothing more, the ghost disappeared, leaving Vanessa wondering just how many secrets Callum Lyon might be keeping from her.
Chapter 5
“So, how goes it
with the lovely and elusive Lady Vanessa?” Duncan lounged on the sofa with his feet on the coffee table, swirling a glass of his host’s best single-malt and smoking a Havana. “Still working on her, I take it.”
“That I am.” From his roost by the fireplace, where he was enjoying a scotch and Cuban cigar of his own, Callum glanced toward the closed outer door. “She’s upstairs, changing for dinner as we speak. So, we’ll need to keep this brief.”
When she came down, he’d have Hamish search her bag for cameras or any other paranormal recording devices. Callum had already divested her of her mobile phone, which he’d hidden in a drawer on the landing whilst her back was turned.
Leaning forward, Duncan shot a watery blue glance in his direction. “You know what I want to know, man, so out with it.”
Callum did know, but needed more time. He flicked the excess ash from his cigar into the grate before sipping his malt. Rather than swallow the whisky, he held it in his mouth. Smoke, peat, leather, and a hint of heather filled his senses.
“I’m waiting,” Duncan prodded.
Begrudgingly, Callum swallowed. “I’ve got no answer for you.” He took another drink and trapped it between his tongue and the roof of his mouth, again savoring the flavors and bouquet.
“What’s fueling your indecision?”
Callum shrugged. “While the idea intrigues—especially the idea of cutting Sinclair’s puppet strings—I have serious reservations about entering public life.”
“Because of what you are?”
“Among other things.”
“Such as?”
Sucking on his cigar, Callum blew the smoke at the wall. He sensed Duncan’s stare boring into his him. “What can I say? I like my privacy.”
The wolver coughed, nearly dropping his glass. “Privacy you call it? You’re a bloody hermit, mate. Apart from the occasional conference or lecture.”
Callum swallowed as irritation intensified the burn in the back of his throat. “And what’s wrong with that?”
“You mean aside from the fact that you’re a lonely, miserable prick who’s turned his back on the things he used to care about?”
