by Nina Mason
“Don’t pull any punches, mate.”
“Do I ever?”
Oh, nay. Duncan always spoke the absolute truth and damn the consequences. Callum liked that about his friend, actually. Because of it, he always knew exactly where he stood with the man, which was more than he could say for most people.
“I’m just saying.” Callum shrugged. “I think it might be safer to carry on wielding my influence from behind the scenes.”
Duncan chuckled. “And how’s that working out for you, eh? You’ve been pouring money into the cause for what?—a few hundred years? And I don’t see Scotland any closer to independence than it was when you started.”
“We have our own parliament again,” Callum pointed out.
“With its hands still tied by those bloody English wankers in Westminster.”
“If they’re all a bunch of useless wankers,” Callum challenged, “why are you so bloody eager for me to join their ranks?”
“To be a fox in the henhouse, not another bloody chicken.”
Callum emptied his glass and set it on the mantle. “What about the queen?”
“What’s she got to do with it?”
“I’m not talking about Elizabeth Regina, I’m talking about Morgan Le Fay.”
“Oh, I see.” Duncan’s clipped tone told Callum he was losing patience. “And, once again, what’s she got to do with it?”
“What if, by stepping into the public eye, she figures out I’m still alive?” Callum licked his lips, tasting whisky and smoke. “I’ll grant you, she hasn’t figured it out in all this time, but still. If she were to somehow discover my trickery, not to mention my treachery, she’d re-enslave me in a heartbeat. And probably clap me in irons in that dungeon of hers. Or worse.”
Callum paused for a breath and a gulp of whisky.
“And what about the press and all the paranormal investigators running around trying to dig up dirt on folks like us? What if one of them gets wind of what I am and blows the whistle? I’d be ruined in every possible way.”
“So, better to hide out here like a bleeding hermit, afraid to live your life? Frankly, I’d rather do time in somebody else’s prison than one I’d built myself.”
There was truth in Duncan’s words. Recognizing it, Callum chose his carefully. “If I was to agree to your scheme—and, mind, that’s a bloody big if—how do you see pulling it off?”
“You mean with regards to Queen Morgan?”
“No,” Callum said. “I mean with regards to the Hitherworld. My dossier isn’t waterproof. I’d be opening myself up to public scrutiny. What if I was found out?”
Duncan sat back and stroked his chin. “If someone did snoop around and put it together, we could always do a little psychic rewiring, couldn’t we?”
The clock on the mantle chimed, reminding Callum he had another engagement. “I need to cut this short. Lady Vanessa is waiting and so is dinner.” With a sheepish grin he added, “I’d ask you to join us, but, well, to put it bluntly, three’s a crowd.”
Callum tossed his cigar on the fire and collected his glass, which he carried to the table where Duncan’s feet rested. Ignoring the violation, he set the glass on a tray and started toward the door, but his friend’s voice stopped him.
“If you decide to run—and I sincerely hope you will—I’ll make sure your dossier’s iron clad. So, you needn’t worry about that. And, if you are found out, I’ll take care of that, too. In this realm, anyway. The affairs of the Thitherworld, I can’t do a bloody thing about. But I’ll tell you what. If Morgan claps you in irons, I’ll bake you a cake with a file inside.”
Callum, lips compressed, moved toward the door. “I said I’d think about it, and I will.”
He also needed to consult the stars. If the heavens favored his entering politics, he’d only have to decide if it was worth the risks. As he reached for the doorknob, worry knotted his gut. In all these years, he’d never brought a human woman to Barrogill. How might his dead wife’s ghost react to Lady Vanessa being there?
Just as he opened the door, Duncan spoke again. “Most people, I’ve observed, want to believe what you tell them.”
Unseen by his friend, Callum smirked. “Even a politician?”
“Good point.” The wolver chuckled. “But don’t worry. I’ll see to everything, make sure every t is crossed and every i dotted.”
“Please do. I need to sleep at night.”
“Look, mate,” Duncan said, his tone more serious. “I get you dig being a force behind-the-scenes and all, but it’s time to step up. We need more nationalists in the larger Parliament. You’re from Caithness, not to mention good-looking, well spoken, and a stand-up citizen. You’re the ideal candidate.”
Callum remained torn. “As it happens, Lady Vanessa agrees with you.”
“Does she? I’m glad to hear it.”
“She’s also offered to set up a meeting with her father.”
“Well, well. That’s good news indeed. With Lord Bentley behind us, we can’t lose.” He paused for a heartbeat. “What did you tell her?”
Callum turned, meeting his friend’s watery blue gaze. “The same thing I’m telling you. That I’ll bloody well think about it, all right?”
“Well, don’t chew your cud too long, Bessie. There’s little enough time before the election to mount a compelling campaign as it is.”
* * * *
Vanessa arrived in the dining room still torn about what to say about the ghost and her revelations. Yes, that he’d been married twice had come as a surprise, but it really didn’t affect her. She was here for a tryst and to look for a vampire, not to plan a wedding. Whatever the ghost might say, being wife number three was out of the question. She just prayed she wouldn’t be eating her own foot for dinner.
Taking a breath, Vanessa looked at her surroundings. A mish-mash of tea tables and sideboards hugged the perimeter walls. Assorted paintings and arrangements of antique plates and platters covered the tartan wallpaper. Collections of silver candlesticks, tea caddies, snuff boxes, and other objet d’art were deftly arranged on every available surface. Something on the wall caught her eye. Moving in for a closer look, she saw it was a framed collection of mounted butterflies. With rising angst, she examined the pinned and labeled specimens.
Did he plan to collect her, too?
Vanessa Angelica Bentley
Uxor Ternario
Easter Head, Scotland
A shiver went through her even the crackling blaze across the room couldn’t abate.
Footsteps drew her attention to the wide doorway behind her. She looked just as the baron strode into the room with a dusty bottle in his hand.
“I’m sorry I kept you waiting.” His golden gaze washed over her, accomplishing what the fire couldn’t. “My business with Duncan took longer than expected. You look enchanting, by the way.”
Warmed by his compliment, she turned toward the table to hide her blush. A stunning crystal chandelier met her gaze. Beneath it stood an oval antique table with cabriole legs. At its head, near the fireplace, two of the ten places were set with fine china, crystal, and silver. In the center, directly beneath the light fixture, was an unusual silver epergne whose cutwork baskets held flowers and gourmet nibbles.
“This is beautiful,” she said, leaning in for a closer look at the centerpiece. “Is it an antique?”
“Aye.” He moved past her toward the fireplace. “It’s George the Second, by a Scottish silversmith named William Robertson. I collect Scottish silver, mostly to resale, but can’t bring myself to part with some of the rarer pieces—that one included.”
“I can see why.”
The piece, which displayed gourmet goodies worthy of Buckingham Palace, really was exquisite. Vanessa plucked a gold-plated almond from one of the cutwork baskets and bit down, careful not to break a tooth.
“I’m glad you like it,” he said, “as it’s always been one of my favorites.” He stopped befor
e a butler’s tray crowded with glass and cut crystal decanters. Holding up the bottle he’d come in with, he waited until she looked his way. As their eyes met with a visceral spark, he said, “Do you fancy an aperitif? I’ve liberated a fine Dubonnet from the cellar.” He swept a hand over the tray as he added, “Unless you’d prefer something else. Sherry, perhaps, or claret?”
His eagerness to please her delighted her. “Dubonnet is perfect.”
When he turned to pour the drinks, she ran an appreciative ogle over the seat of his trousers. Her lust rekindled in a gush of tingling heat. So what if he’d been married twice before? It wasn’t as if she was here for the long haul. She moved closer to accept her drink.
“How did it go with Mr. Faol?”
“Fine.” He stepped away from the bar tray and her. “I told him I was still thinking it over.”
“I like your castle,” she offered. “Except for the deer heads, which I could do without.”
Amusement danced in his eyes. “That’s right. I forgot. You’re a vegetarian.”
Her face warmed again, but this time from offense. Was he mocking her? “I might concede hunting has its place, but will never condone the practice of cruel sports.”
“Cruel sports?”
“You know. Fox hunting, hare snaring, that sort of thing.”
“Ah. I see.”
The way he looked at her made her feel like prey. Her mind showed her a painting she’d seen in the Louvre of a lion devouring a deer. She licked her lips, tasting Dubonnet and fear. When he was done with her, would he hang her on a wall?
He walked to the fireplace, turned his back on her, and, for the longest time, stood there staring into the flames.
She watched him, debating within herself what to say about the ghost. Finally, deciding on the safest approach, she asked, “Have you ever been married?”
“No,” he lied.
“Your ghost says differently,” she said, challenging him.
He rounded on her with a gaze as heated as the flames dancing behind him. “You spoke to her?”
“Yes,” she said, trembling a little under his stare. “She appeared briefly while I was dressing for dinner.”
His eyes narrowed and darkled. “What did she say?”
“That you’ve been married before. Twice.” Deciding to up the ante, she added, “And that you’ve only brought whores to Barrogill since your second wife ran away.” She licked her lips. “Why did she run away? And why did you lie to me just now about being married?”
“What difference does it make?”
“None, I guess. But I’d still like to know.”
“And I’d like to know what else the spirit told you,” he said, keeping the upper hand. “Did she mention why she’s hanging around?”
“No, she didn’t, but I have a feeling we’ll meet again.”
He seemed different. Much less sweet and far more calculating. Cold, distant, and intimidating, even. Like he had for a time in the car. She wasn’t sure how she felt about this side of the baron. Part of her liked it and part of her didn’t, but all of her still wanted to go to bed with him. Yes, he’d lied to her, but she could understand that he might not wish to speak about his past marital troubles with her. Despite what the ghost had said, this could only ever be an affair.
“When and if you do speak to her again, be sure to ask why she haunts the castle,” he said, moving down the table. “Now, come and take your seat. My butler will be in momentarily with the first course.”
Doing as he’d urged, she kept her full weight off the chair while he pushed it in. No sooner had he claimed the seat at the head of the table than Hamish entered carrying a tray with a bottle of wine and a platter of what looked like crushed ice. The butler set the tray aside and poured the wine, a chardonnay, judging by the deep golden color. After setting the bottle in front of his master, the butler returned to the tray and put the platter on the table. Embedded among the ice were a dozen raw oysters.
She smiled, both because she loved oysters and because they were reputed aphrodisiacs. Not that her desire for the baron needed any further prompting.
“I’ve been sinking a wee bit of money into an oyster farm in the Outer Hebrides,” he told her as he squeezed a wedge of lemon over the shimmering bivalves. “For the meat, not the pearls. There’s a market, if we can get it right, but that’s harder than it sounds. These wee buggers aren’t easy to raise, assuming you can get your hands on the seed stock in the first place.”
“What kind are they?”
“Pacific, which aren’t native to Scotland.” He tilted back his head, poured the oyster into his mouth, and swallowed without chewing. “Oysters once were plentiful in our waters. Back before there was so much bloody pollution.” He shook his head. “I swear I don’t know what’s wrong with people. Do they not understand the damage they do to the planet can never be reversed?”
“I couldn’t agree more,” she said, impressed by his speech. “But most people, I’ve observed, are incredibly selfish when it comes to the environment.”
“Selfish and greedy.” He reached for another half-shell.
Just as they polished off the last oyster, Hamish returned with another tray. This one contained two bowls of soup. After setting one steaming bowl before each of them, he collected the platter of shells and refilled their wine glasses.
“You’re quite the entrepreneur,” she observed, addressing the baron. The pinkish-golden bisque before her smelled appetizingly of seafood, butter, herbs, and sherry.
Callum thanked the butler and waited for him to leave the room before picking up his spoon. She followed suit, suddenly aware how hungry she was.
“It’s langoustine and smoked salmon,” he told her as he spooned some from the edge.
She did the same, holding the warm liquid in her mouth for a moment to savor the incredible flavor. She’d dined in many five-star restaurants in her time, but couldn’t recall ever tasting anything quite so delicious.
“So, besides ghost whispering, what’s the plan while I’m here?”
“Well, my lady, I thought I might introduce you to the simple pleasures of a quiet country life.”
She looked up from her bowl, meeting his gaze. “And what might these simple pleasures entail, my lord?”
His eyes twinkled with mischief. “Assuming we feel the need to get out of bed, and the weather obliges, I thought we might take a walk along the beach, have a picnic somewhere, or go for a drive. In the evenings, we might sit by the fire, read to each other—poetry perhaps or some of the classics—and sample the store of single-malts in my cellar. Or maybe do a bit of stargazing…or dancing.” He took another spoonful of soup. “I do so love to dance and miss it fiercely. In fact, I was hoping you might allow me to waltz you about the ballroom once or twice between the pudding and dessert.” Winking at her, he added, “Please tell me you know how to waltz.”
“I was a debutante.” She mirrored his smile. “Need I say more?”
The week he’d planned sounded romantic in a safe, quiet sort of way. Quiet wasn’t usually her style, but she was willing to give it a try. She couldn’t imagine growing bored with him in three or four days. Unlike the other men she’d dated, he was capable of intelligent conversation.
“Can I ask you a personal question?”
He’d been about to take a bite, but stopped. “What do you wish to know?”
“Why did your second wife run away?”
He put the spoon in his mouth, voided it of soup, and then set the utensil on the rim of the bowl with a clink. “If you must know, my appetites proved too much for her.”
Vanessa dropped her spoon, which landed in her bowl with a clang, splashing soup onto the white tablecloth. Flustered by her clumsiness, she grabbed her napkin off her lap and dabbed at the stain. “I’m so sorry. I’m such a klutz sometimes.”
He picked up a bell and rang it three times. Seconds later, Hamish came in with the main
course and another bottle of wine. After removing the bowls, the butler set the plates before them, uncorked the new bottle, refilled their glasses, and left the room.
Callum cut a bite of perfectly cooked salmon with his fork and stuffed it in his mouth. After swallowing, he said, “The salmon’s delicious. You really ought to eat it before it gets cold.”
She gave him a feeble smile before digging in. He was right. The fish was excellent. Tender, flaky, moist, and buttery with hints of lemon and herbs.
They ate the rest of the meal in silence. After Hamish cleared the dishes away, Callum rose from the table and helped her out of her chair. He then took her hand and led her from the dining room down a long, narrow corridor lined with museum-worthy displays of portraits and weaponry.
Wings of fear and excitement fluttered in her belly. “Where are you taking me?”
“To the ballroom,” he said. “So we can dance.”
Chapter 6
As a former debutante, Vanessa had glimpsed more than her share of ballrooms, but this one seemed more special somehow. It wasn’t the décor, though she found the cavernous space with its gleaming parquet floor, intricate plasterwork ceiling, and massive chandeliers in no way wanting. No, the wonder she felt sprang from something else. Something she couldn’t put her finger on.
Was it because there was no one there to judge and condemn her? While she liked to pretend what other people thought of her didn’t matter, it did—or used to be before she stopped trying to win their approval. Shocking England’s upper crust with her wayward behavior was both easier and more entertaining.
The clacking of her high heels echoed as he led her to the middle of the floor. He swept her into his arms, pulled her body against his, and captured her mouth. He tasted like salmon and wine, only even more scrumptious. As their tongues wrestled, a flame ignited at her core, making her feel like a forgotten candle finally remembered.
She’d never felt the way he made her feel, which, though wonderful, also scared her. She wasn’t some starry-eyed romantic. Yes, she was impulsive, but not when it came to her heart.
