by Nina Mason
He chuckled at her servility. “You needn’t call me Lord and Master unless we’re in character.”
“Oh, sorry.”
“Don’t be,” he said. “You’re fine. Now, may I touch you?”
“Where?”
“Everywhere, if you will allow it.”
She let out a breath. “I guess that would be all right.”
He ran his hands slowly down her body, over her clothes, then back up again. She seemed nervous, so he wanted to acclimate her to general touching before he attempted anything more intimate. He stroked her body twice more before asking permission to touch her breasts. When she gave it, he reached into her bodice and pulled one out. Bending, he took the sweet pink nipple between his lips and tugged gently.
She didn’t seem bothered, so he moved around her and did the same to the other breast. Then, he stood back and looked at her. The way her breasts spilled over the top of her bodice made him think of vanilla custard topped by rose pastilles—his favorite dessert as a lad.
“You’re very beautiful, Miss Darling. I hope you realize that.”
“I do…but wish I wasn’t.”
Her answer startled him. “Why?”
“So no one would covet me just for my looks,” she said.
Guilt and empathy twined together in his chest. Guilt because he wanted her for her resemblance to his wife. Empathy because, were he ill-favored, he would have died on the moor, sparing him the atrocities he suffered in Avalon—and the curse that plagued him still.
Taking a breath, he picked up the spreader bar, circled around to her feet, and removed her shoes before asking, “May I look at what’s under your skirts?”
“I guess so.”
“May I touch you there?”
“Touch me with what?” Doubt colored her tone.
“My fingers, to begin with.”
“Are you going to have sex with me?”
“Do you want me to?”
“Yes.”
“Good,” he said. “Now lift your knees, open your legs, and let me have a look at you.”
When she had assumed the requested position, he lifted her skirts and bent to inspect the dusky rose between her thighs. Women’s sexual organs had always looked botanic to him, like pink succulents or overripe fruit. He stroked the soft chestnut curls covering her outer lips before moving inside. With soft caresses, he explored her petals and bud before pushing two fingers inside her. She was surprisingly well lubricated, which he found both pleasing and encouraging.
“You’re very wet, Miss Darling. Has my touch aroused you?”
“Yes, strangely enough.”
Strangely enough? What an odd thing to say. He was starting to get the feeling there was something she wasn’t telling him; something that made her more reluctant to surrender control than she ought to be. Whatever the issue might be, he needed to know before going any further. His goal was to objectify, not traumatize.
His usual playmates were experienced submissives. Miss Darling clearly wasn’t—a fact that had the undesirable effect of arousing in him more compassion than passion.
“Miss Darling, I sense something is bothering you,” he said. “Is there anything you wish to tell me?”
* * * *
Gwyn bit her lip as she considered how to answer the question. Should she just tell him the truth? Probably. He clearly sensed her fear and, to his credit, was going easy on her. He had even taken to calling her by her real name, in violation of his own rules of play.
This kindness made her like and trust him all the more. It also confirmed her belief that, underneath his tarnished armor, beat the heart of a good and gallant knight—a man who longed for intimacy, but was just as afraid as she was to let anybody get too close.
Not quite ready to bare her soul, she decided to turn the tables on him. “Your book isn’t fiction, is it?”
“What makes you say that?”
“Just a feeling I have.”
He scoffed. “You honestly believe I fought with the Jacobites, was abducted by the faeries, and was sexually enslaved by the Queen of Avalon?”
“Since I believe in faeries, it doesn’t seem all that far-fetched.”
“Is that why you came to Glenarvon?—to meet a faery in the flesh?”
“Partly,” she said, “but mostly I came because I believe we’re connected in some cosmic way.”
“Connected? How?”
“By fate.”
He said nothing more, but she could hear him moving. Then her blindfold came off. He was standing over her, looking into her face, his eyes shimmering like amethysts. She blinked a few times as her eyes adjusted to the sudden light. The room was dim, but seemed bright after total darkness.
“Stop beating about the bush, Miss Darling. If we are to be partners in roleplaying, we must trust each other…and trust begins with honesty.”
She remoistened her mouth, which suddenly felt dry. “Why should I be honest with you when you won’t be honest with me?”
“A fair point,” he said. “If I tell you what you wish to know, will you return the favor?”
“That seems fair enough.”
“Very well, then. You asked how much of my book was fiction. The answer is: only the parts I changed to protect myself and others.”
She blinked at him. “So, I was right. You are a faery…and you were the cat, too, weren’t you?”
“Aye to both,” he said. “Now, kindly reciprocate and tell me what is troubling you. Is it simply that you’re not cut out for this sort of thing?--or are darker forces at work?”
She hesitated. She wanted to tell him, but wasn’t sure how. Finally, deciding to just blurt it out, she said, “I was molested by my foster father.”
* * * *
Leith, deeply disturbed by Miss Darling’s disclosure, chewed his lower lip as he considered his response. Though he had worked with abuse survivors in the past, her resemblance to Clara made him view her abuse as a personal failure. Once again, he hadn’t been there to protect her from the villains who would do her bodily harm.
Ready to bring their session to a halt, he moved around to the head of the chaise and set about unbuckling the cuffs on her wrists.
“What are you doing?” She didn’t sound happy.
“I’m releasing your hands.”
“Why?”
“I think it best if we call it quits. I need to mull over what you’ve just told me…and work out how best to proceed—if indeed I judge it wise to proceed at all.”
Her eyes widened in surprise. “You’re giving up on me already?”
“Not necessarily.” He set the cuffs aside and moved around so he could gauge her reaction as he spoke to her. “I just need to think this through a bit more.”
She sat up and rubbed her wrists. When he moved closer, her hand came up to rest on his bare chest. Her touch shocked his system so violently he coughed. He shouldn’t allow such intimacies, so why was he doing nothing to stop her? For the same reason, no doubt, he had broken every one of his rules this evening. He wanted her, not as a plaything, but as a partner. She wasn’t a submissive he had admitted to his playroom; she was Clara, his beloved wife, returned from the grave.
Ever thine. Ever Mine. Ever Ours.
Powerless to resist her and mad with longing, he trapped her face between his hands and pulled her mouth against his. This small indulgence broke down the fragile walls around his heart. All at once, he was her husband again and she was the sweet, obliging, wonderful wife he loved to the depths of his soul.
A firm knock at the door brought him back to cruel reality with a jolt.
“My lord, are you in there?”
It was Gavin’s voice. Unable to help himself, Leith took one last sweet taste of her mouth before stepping back from Miss Darling.
Turning toward the door, he called out, “Aye, Gavin. What is it?”
“I’m sorry to disturb, my lord, but Mr. Earlston and Lord Lyon have just arrived and are waiting in the library.�
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Though the visit had slipped his mind, he wasn’t sorry for the disruption. He needed to get away from the temptress before him, and having unexpected guests provided the perfect excuse.
“I must go.”
As he turned to leave, she seized his arm, preventing his escape. “Wait. You haven’t yet told me what kind of curse you’re under or who put it on you.”
He stood up taller and broke free of her gaze. The exhilaration he experienced while kissing her had already been supplanted by shame and regret. “We will discuss it at another time. For now, I must see to my guests.”
She opened her mouth, then seemed to think better of whatever she meant to say. Good. He had disclosed too much already. Now that he was restored to his senses, he knew what he needed to do. Tomorrow, he would take her to Nairn, turn her over to the police, and do his best to forget she had ever darkened his door.
Chapter 7
Leith changed into jeans and a sweater before entering the library, where he found his guests with their heads together at the window, each gripping maddeningly generous pours of his best whisky.
Tom looked much as he had the last time he’d visited Glenarvon, which was—what?—almost a decade ago? Still the same impish good looks, intense blue eyes, and disheveled sandy hair. Callum Lyon, too, looked much the same as he had in Avalon, except that he now wore a suit, short hair, and a neatly trimmed beard.
As Leith shook hands with them both, Tom said, “Lord Lyon’s just gotten married, is expecting a child, and was recently elected to a seat in Parliament.”
“Congratulations,” Leith said with a smile. “On all fronts.”
“Thank you, Sir Leith.”
“Where is your lovely bride this evening?” Though his tone was pleasant, his insides churned with resentment. Lyon had a wife and a child on the way while he must content himself with sexual roleplaying.
“In Greenland,” Lyon replied, “saving the world from Big Oil, an effort I wholeheartedly support.”
Leith, smiling through his bitterness, moved to the drink cart, picked up his pillaged whisky decanter, and filled a glass. The heady blend of oak, vanilla, marmalade, and florals teased his nose and heightened his regrets. When this bottle was gone, there would be no more good whisky to dull his unnatural appetites.
He took a sip from his glass, licked the flavor from his lips, and turned his gaze on his guests. “Will you be staying the night, gentlemen?”
“No,” said Lyon, “but I thank you kindly for the invitation. I’m on my way to London on political business and thought I’d pop in to renew our acquaintance and see how you’re getting on.”
“I’m getting on just fine,” Leith lied. “What about you, Tom? Shall I have my housekeeper make up a room?”
“I would appreciate that,” said he.
They sipped their drinks in silence for several minutes as Leith’s patience wore thin, Tom said he had much to disclose, so why wasn’t he doing so? Finally, able to wait no longer, he said, “What is it you came to discuss?”
“Belphoebe.”
The name speared Leith through the heart. Belphoebe was the faery with whom he’d had the affair that earned him Queen Morgan’s wrath. Unbeknownst to Morgan, Belphoebe had been carrying his child when she succumbed to the curse. “What about her?”
“She isn’t dead, as we’ve long believed.”
Leith took a drink as he absorbed the shock of the news and all it might mean. “Did she have her child?”
“Yes,” said Tom. “She had a boy, who is now a man.”
Leith couldn’t believe his ears. All these years, he’d had a son and didn’t know it. As anger usurped his amazement, he tightened his grip on his half-empty glass. After Morgan learned of their affair, she’d ordered him to kill his lover and bring her Belphoebe’s heart as proof he’d done the deed. Instead, he’d taken her to the druids, who promised to protect and look after her and the child, and gave Morgan a sow’s heart as a ruse. When the jealous queen later cursed and banished him from Avalon, he’d presumed Belphoebe had died as a consequence. “Are she and the child still in Brocaliande?”
“She is.”
“Where is my son? I want to meet him, to know him.”
Tom set a hand on his arm. “That isn’t possible, I’m afraid.”
Leith fixed him with a distrustful glare. “Why not?”
“He’s more than your son,” Tom said. “Think about it, Leith. He’s the only natural-born drone to survive infancy.”
Confusion furrowed Leith’s brow. “What in the name of Old Nick are you talking about?”
Tom’s blue eyes widened in surprise. “Are you telling me you don’t know about the prophecy? I thought sure Belphoebe had told you, and that was the reason you put her and your unborn child under the protection of the druids.”
“No. She said nothing about any prophecy.”
When she’d told Leith she was carrying his child, she seemed pleased, which he’d thought odd under the circumstances, but dismissed as a female thing. She’d also told him where to take her and how to fool the queen into believing he’d carried out her orders.
As Leith’s gaze jumped to Lord Lyon, a realization dawned. Belphoebe knew the pig’s heart would fool Queen Morgan (who, though cruel, wasn’t particularly sharp) because that was how she’d convinced the queen Lord Lyon was dead.
As resentment heated Leith’s blood, he fought the urge to throw his drink at the wall. The glass, being Irish crystal, was expensive, and hardship had taught him to cherish the few fine things he still had.
He set the tumbler on the bar tray and glowered at Lyon. Damn the man and his good fortune. He’d not only escaped Avalon unscathed, he now had a new wife and a child on the way.
Shifting his gaze to Tom, Leith said, “Tell me about the prophecy.”
“The prophecy says a natural-born drone will rise up one day to overthrow the queen.”
“And because of it,” Lyon put in, “she kills and eats all the lads she bears.”
Leith, suddenly aware his palms were sweating, set down his glass and wiped his hands on his breeches. “If you won’t tell me where to find my son, can you at least tell me his name?”
“Aye,” said Tom. “It’s Finn. Finn MacKnight.”
The name needled Leith’s pride. “If he’s my son, why is he called MacKnight?”
“He doesn’t know of his parentage or his destiny,” Tom explained, “and won’t learn the truth until the prophesied sign appears in the heavens.”
Leith furrowed his brow. “What sort of sign?”
“We’re not certain,” said Tom, “but Lord Lyon is keeping an eye out for whatever it might be.”
Leith wasn’t pleased. All this felt to him like another loss in multiple lifetimes of losses. He had a son, but couldn’t meet him; had a heart, but couldn’t use it without killing the object of his affection. Biting his lip to staunch his regrets, he turned his thoughts to Miss Darling. Her pull on him was too powerful to fight. Would it also prove fatal?
Belphoebe being alive made him wonder—and allow himself to hope for the first time in ages. If the druids did indeed know a way to break the curse, there was a chance he might know happiness again with Clara—if indeed that was who Miss Darling was.
* * * *
Gwyn, too keyed up to even think about sleeping, stifled a yawn as she peeked into the hall. Their conversation about his curse had been too brief, leaving her with too many unanswered questions. What sort of curse was he under? Who had put it on him and why?
In Knight of Cups, Heath MacDubh made the atonement the queen demanded after learning of his affair with the faery called Belphoebe. He killed his lover and brought her heart to the queen as proof he’d carried out her order. Afterward, to further punish him, Queen Morgan banished Heath forever from the Thitherworld. Upon returning to Scotland, he discovered two centuries had passed during which his wife had died and his castle had fallen into disrepair.
He said he’d l
eft out things to protect himself and others. Was that why he’d left out the curse? She’d never rest until she knew more. Hoping to catch him before he went to bed, she’d been listening in vain for his footfalls on the stairs. Now, she meant to go in search of him. If she found him alone, she’d try to persuade him not to give up on her. If he was still with his guests, she’d quietly steal back upstairs and go to bed.
From the armoire in her room, she’d borrowed a dressing gown—a gorgeous thing of pale blue silk brocade with ribbons and rusching down the front. A wide lace ruffle edged the three-quarter-length sleeves.
With the robe swirling around her bare legs, she tip-toed into the hall, which was quiet except for the low drone of male voices somewhere below. Steeling her courage with a deep, inward breath, she followed the sound down the drafty hallway, hugging herself for warmth. The chilly wood floors bit her bare feet as she crept along, shivering. Though beautiful, the dressing gown wasn’t particularly warm, especially since she had nothing on underneath.
She followed the voices to the library door, which was slightly ajar, making it possible to eavesdrop without giving herself away.
“Maybe the reason you can’t write is because you haven’t yet lived the next part of the story,” said a man whose voice she didn’t recognize.
“And taking her to the druids will solve that, I suppose,” Sir Leith replied.
“Who can say? Still, it’s got to be better than washing your hands of her. Or sitting around here day after day beating your head against the keyboard in futility. Besides, if your feelings for the girl are as strong as you fear, I can’t see that you have much choice.”
The man’s words quickened Gwyn’s pulse. It sounded as if Sir Leith was falling in love with her.
“Do you honestly think the druids know a way to reverse my curse?”
“As they’re powerful magicians, it’s entirely possible,” the other man replied.
“What else could account for Belphoebe’s survival?”
“I don’t know,” said the other man, “but there are still risks involved.”
“I know that, but if there’s a chance to break my curse, shouldn’t I take it?”
