by Nina Mason
“I’m sorry, Leith. Truly I am.”
She went quiet and turned away, toward the side window. A car whooshed past going the other way. The shimmering firth with its low black hills came up alongside. Dark clouds gathered in the distance, hugging the horizon.
“Did you give me your blood to mend my bones?”
He stiffened. “Aye. Would you rather I hadn’t?”
“No, of course not.” She looked at him, brow furrowed. “Are you sure you didn’t turn me in the process?”
His hands tightened on the steering wheel. “Would it matter if I had?”
“Not really.”
“So, you’re not averse to being turned?”
“Should I be?”
He rolled his eyes. Did she always answer a question with a question? He stole a glance at her before returning to the road. She wore an ensemble pieced together from Mrs. King’s collections for the charity shop run by a local church. A shapeless sweater and baggy jeans rolled up at the ankles into wide cuffs. She looked like a child in her mother’s clothes, but still unbearably beautiful.
“I don’t think it will make a difference in terms of the curse,” he said, “though we really won’t know until we speak to the druids.”
“How will it change me?”
“You’ll be immortal, your senses will be sharper, and, by and by, you’ll be able to change your form.”
He could feel her heated stare. “What will I be able to change into?”
He glanced her way. “Any sort of creature.”
“Even a unicorn?”
“Aye, lass.” He fought the smile threatening to bloom. “Once you learn the fee-faw.”
Amusement danced in her hazel eyes. “Is that anything like fee-fi-fo-fum?”
“Only if you want to be a giant,” he said with a snort. “It’s an ancient shapeshifting spell.”
An impish smile bowed her mouth—a warning to be on his guard against mischief. Tightening his grip on the wheel, he fixed his attention on the road ahead.
This stretch always made him uneasy; not because the scenery wasn’t nice enough, but because it reminded him of that doomed last march with the Bonnie Prince. If only they’d surprised Cumberland’s army the way they’d planned. If only they hadn’t been so knackered.
If only…
Och! That bloody phrase again.
Leith’s chest tightened as he approached the sign for the battlefield, now a tourist attraction. Though he lived only ten miles away, he had not returned to that godforsaken moor since that terrible day he and the Highlands lost everything. And he planned to keep it that way.
As the car drew nearer, the harrowing stories came flooding back. His losses and trials after the battle, great as they were, didn’t compare to what his family, friends, and neighbors suffered in the aftermath.
The night before the battle, Cumberland gave the order to give no quarter to the Jacobite rebels. It was a command his soldiers carried out in the cruelest ways possible. The wounded that still lay upon the moor were murdered in cold blood; those able-bodied enough to flee the battlefield were hunted down like dogs and shot in their beds or on their knees, begging for their lives.
No mercy was given—to the survivors or the wives, sweethearts, and friends who had taken them in. Anyone found walking the roads was shot, stripped naked, and lewdly posed for the amusement of the soldiers.
He learned all of this in bits and pieces—in the barbershop and pub, mostly—after he moved back to Nairn as a descendent of his former self. His neighbors, even after all this time, still felt wronged.
So did he.
As he drove past the entrance, he shuddered and held his breath, feeling as if someone had just walked across his grave. Not until the sign was a dot in the rearview mirror did he start to breathe again.
If only he could get past the guilt with as little trouble, he thought bitterly.
He turned toward Gwyndolen with a knife in his gut. The rusty blade was jagged and buried deep. “I don’t deserve you.”
“Why? Because some faery bitch put a curse on you?”
“Among other reasons.”
She gave him a smile and squeezed his leg. “I’m not dead yet, you big dope. So why don’t you stop beating yourself up and enjoy however much time we have left?”
She was right. Come what may, she was here with him now and he’d already wasted too much time wallowing in his regrets.
* * * *
An hour later, Leith and Gwyndolen were in the heart of Inverness, strolling along a narrow cobblestone plaza lined with shops whose huddled storefronts lent old-world charm to names like Game Station, Carphone Warehouse, Starbucks, and Mail Boxes Etc.
Holding tight to her hand, he felt like a beggar who’d snuck into a fully laid banquet hall. He’d been love-starved for so long, and now a feast was his for the taking. He wanted to stuff himself, to gorge himself, to commit the deadly sin of gluttony. He kissed and touched her every chance he got.
In between public displays of affection, she scanned each shop window they passed. Now and then, she’d move in for a better look. If something captured her fancy, she’d pop inside. He followed, feeling part puppy dog, part pack mule, and part cash machine.
None of the three roles thrilled him. Shopping, as far as he could tell, was the female equivalent of deer stalking. Maybe he would enjoy it more if he pretended they were tracking prey. Or, better yet, hunting for buried treasure. She could be a lady pirate—and a lusty one she’d make, too.
He conjured a picture of her in a ruffled blouse and leather bustier with her breasts pushed up to her chin. The fantasy brought a smile to his face and a flood of warmth to his groin.
He added a military frockcoat to the fantasy image. The sort with big brass buttons, gold braid, and huge cuffs. Aye, with a flintlock tucked into the wide belt cinching the waist. On her lower half, he placed a skirt—hiked up on the side to reveal thigh-high boots with stiletto heels.
Underneath, he kept her “regimental,” to give him ready access to the booty. Oh, aye. Tugging on the crotch of his jeans to give his cockstand more room, he looked around for a place to act out the fantasy.
He didn’t find what he was looking for, but he did find plenty of change. The once-sleepy streets now hummed with a steady stream of traffic. The noise of tires on pavement, droning engines, and squealing brakes drowned out the once-prominent hiss of River Ness. Bagpipes skirled from every corner. Double-decker buses chugged and rumbled. Camera-toting tourists crowded the sidewalks, babbling to each other in foreign tongues. Tourist traps hawking tacky tartan and Loch Ness Monster souvenirs lined the streets. The air, once as fresh as an ocean breeze, now stank of exhaust, grime, and deep-fried food.
The capital of the Highlands had been forced to modernize, and not necessarily for the better. He could relate. He left the mortal realm in 1746 and returned just after the second world war had ended, shocked senseless to discover two centuries had elapsed in the two years he’d been enslaved in Avalon.
He’d left a world of muskets, horse-drawn carriages, and clans, and returned to a world with machine guns, motor cars, and a League of Nations.
Gwendolen’s tug on his hand pulled him out of his ruminations. His lusty wench was leading him toward a posh department store. Still aroused by his pirate fantasy, he had no desire to walk about in Debenhams with a cockstand.
“I’ll wait for you over there,” he said, motioning toward an empty bench just outside the store’s entrance.
After turning over his credit card, he parked his butt and lit a cigarette. As he smoked, he pulled out the new iPhone he’d picked up across the way. Carphone Warehouse was running a special, so he paid next to nothing to upgrade from his old mobile. The new one had all sorts of nifty bells and whistles he doubted he would use. Superfluous features aside, the sleek device looked cool as hell.
After all the advancements he’d adapted to back in 1946, computers, mobile devices, and Bluetooth transmitters were
a piece of cake, even to someone born in 1717.
He’d bought Gwyndolen a new phone, too—a package deal. To test their high-tech walkie-talkie system, he programmed in her number, thumb-typed “Buy something sexy” on the keypad, and pushed send. Then, he kicked back and enjoyed his smoke while waiting for her reply. When the cigarette was halfway gone, the phone chimed.
I’m working on it, she wrote back.
He replied: Take a selfie in the changing room
He drummed his fingers on his thigh as he waited.
Ping.
A picture of her in a lacey black bra appeared on the screen above the words, What do you think of this one?
Grinning, he typed: I think it’s a keeper.
Puff, blow, puff, smoke rings, finger drumming, puff.
He dropped the spent cigarette and crushed the ember under his heel.
Ping.
Are you sure? It’s kind of expensive.
He laughed and shook his head as he typed, You’re worth every penny.
His mirth dissolved when reality set in. Given the strength of his feelings, the curse could strike at any moment. When and how remained to be seen. He only knew Faith had died from “a fading illness” less than a fortnight after he realized the depth of his feelings.
Belphoebe, however, had survived the curse for reasons he didn’t know. He just prayed it was because the druids had given her an antidote and not because he didn’t love her enough.
Just as he glanced toward the department store entrance, out came Gwyndolen carrying a small bag. As she approached him, he stood and gathered her other packages.
“Will you model your purchases when we get back to Glenarvon?”
She smiled saucily. “Try and stop me.”
“I don’t suppose you happened to see a lady pirate’s costume while you were in there.”
She gave him a funny look. “Not that I recall.”
“Too bad.” He flashed her a licentious grin. “You’d look mighty fine as a lusty wench.”
Her brow furrowed and her lips compressed.
Sheepishly, he said, “You don’t fancy playing pirate queen and shanghaied Highlander?”
“It’s not that…” She glanced up the street. “I’m just feeling a little woozy. I skipped breakfast and think I might need to eat something.”
Concern snagged his heart. Please God, let it only be low blood sugar. “I thought we’d get ourselves a picnic hamper and head up to Urquhart Castle.” He pointed up the road. “There’s a gourmet shop just there that sells hampers filled with wine, smoked meats, cheese, and such. How does that sound?”
“Perfect.” She smiled more weakly than he would have liked. “Lead the way.”
* * * *
“Are you feeling better now that you’ve had a bite to eat?”
Gwyn, head resting in Leith’s lap, smiled up at him. “I am, actually.”
A bite to eat, he called it—a major understatement. She’d gorged herself on lox, ham, fruit, sausage, cheese, and bread until she feared her stomach would burst.
“Good.” He stroked her hair in a way that was both soothing and sensual. “I’m glad. But do tell me if you should start to feel poorly again, eh?”
She made herself smile, not wanting to spoil the moment. While she did indeed feel better, something wasn’t right. Please, let it not be the curse. Not yet. As much as she welcomed the upside of what that would mean, she wanted more days like today.
They’d parked in the lot for Urquhart Castle, an old ruin overlooking the loch, and hiked down to a secluded spot just beyond. When she expressed concerns about trespassing, he said, “Here in Scotland, we have something called the right to roam, which gives citizens access to any land, public or private, for recreational purposes. Provided, of course, they behave responsibly and leave things as they found them.”
Despite her fatigue, she was happy. Not to mention amazed to find herself on the banks of Loch Ness with her head in the lap of the man of her dreams.
Leith had been so wonderful to her all day, she found it hard to believe he was the same man who’d bound and clamped her in his dungeon playroom. Or, for that matter, that he even owned a BDSM playroom.
Not that she minded. Playing pirate queen and shanghaied Highlander sounded like fun. For the time being, however, she just wanted to enjoy the sunshine, the refreshing lake breeze, the breathtaking scenery, and his company. Now that he’d owned his feelings, he’d been acting much more like the knight in his book. While they ate, he fed her grapes, told her stories, and had even recited some poetry.
Lord Byron, of course. It wasn’t lost on her that Glenarvon was the title of a book by Lady Caroline Lamb, a tell-all about her affair with the “mad, bad, and dangerous to know” poet and rogue who wrote, “Love will find a way through paths where wolves fear to prey.”
Today, her dark knight was the man who’d written that beautiful letter to his wife; the man she knew he still was all along.
Feeling guilty about spending his money, she had stuck to the sale racks. She had changed into one of her new outfits (and her new sexy bra and panties) in the restroom at the castle visitor’s center. While she was in there, he bought her a souvenir at the gift shop—a Loch Ness Monster plush toy wearing a tartan Tam O’Shanter and bagpipes. She loved it to pieces.
“So, inquiring minds want to know. Is Nessie real?”
“Aye,” he said, “but it’s a kelpie, not a dinosaur.”
“What’s a kelpie?”
“A big black horse-like beast that drags its victims to the bottom of the lake before devouring them. There’s a herd of them in the loch surrounding Castle Le Fay.”
She gulped at the dreadful prospect. “Could you turn into one?”
“If I wished to.”
“What about a Highland pony?”
“I can turn into just about anything I can visualize.”
She couldn’t hide her smile. “I’ll be sure to keep that in mind next time we’re in the dungeon.”
He laughed that lovely deep laugh of his. Shielding her eyes from the sun’s glare, she looked up at him to find him looking back at her, his head silhouetted against a golden nimbus.
Her mind pasted his handsome features into the dark shadow obscuring his face. The seductive lavender eyes, the sexy cleft chin, the sensuous mouth that gave such pleasure. She was in love and, despite the obvious downside, it felt good right now to revel in the feeling. Better than good.
She began to sing it to him, trying hard to keep a straight face.
“Black is the color of my true love’s hair
His face so soft and wondrous fair
The purest eyes and the strongest hands
I love the ground on where he stands
Black is the color of my true love's hair
Of my true love’s hair.”
As she sang, she brushed his cheek, feeling sandpaper stubble. He captured the hand and kissed each of her fingers.
“Oh, I love my lover and well he knows
Yes, I love the ground on where he goes
And still I hope the time will come
When he and I will be as one
Black is the color of my true love's hair
Of my true love’s hair.”
Slipping his other hand beneath her neck, he lifted her head and bent to kiss her, but didn’t. Instead, he sang two verses of the song she’d never heard before. His voice was beautiful, deep and clear with just a hint of gravel. Their lips met, already parted. Their tongues engaged, clashing against each other in the struggle toward communion.
She sought his hair, entangling her fingers in its midnight strands.
He wrapped her in his arms and pulled her against his chest, soft flesh against hard muscle.
Remembering what he’d said about the song and his wife, she drew back and smiled at him. “Why is your portrait hung so far away from Clara’s?”
“It is part of my penance, for abandoning her.”
Oh, de
ar. “You blame yourself for what happened to her?”
“Who else should I blame?”
“How about the men who killed her?”
“They could not have killed her if I had been at Glenarvon protecting my family instead of off fighting for a lost cause.”
Gwyn licked her lips, which still tingled from their kiss. His mood had darkened. Better change the subject and avoid the topic in the future.
“I’m having a lovely time. The picnic was a great idea.”
He looked down, into her eyes, and straight into her soul. “I never stopped loving you,” he said, surprising the hell out of her.
As her heart took wing, she touched his face. His wonderful, beautiful face. “I’ve never stopped loving you, either.”
He smiled just before his mouth captured hers. She returned the kiss with the jubilance born of an old flame reignited. If she was going to die, she told herself as their tongues enmeshed, at least she’d found her true love again.
* * * *
Gwyndolen grew weaker as the day wore on. By the time she and Leith left Loch Ness, she was too unsteady to walk back up the hill to the car, so he carried her. Having her in his arms took him back to the night he found her broken and dying at the site of the tour bus crash. Maybe he should have left her for the authorities to find. If he had, she might have died, but not because of him.
Now, they were screwed. Even if she lived until the full moon, she would be in no condition to travel to the Hebrides, let alone pass into the Thitherworld.
At the car, he fumbled one-handed with the key and lock until he got the passenger door open. He placed her in the low bucket seat as if she were the most precious thing in existence.
As far as he was concerned, she was.
He shut the door, circled around to the driver’s side and got in, still berating himself.
“Don’t blame yourself.” She touched his arm. “I’m happy. All my life, I’ve been too afraid to live. Now, facing death, I finally feel brave. How funny is that?”
