by Nina Mason
“Say something romantic to me.” She tapped his shoulder. “In Gaelic, I mean.”
Letting the smile bloom, he moved his face around to hers and lifted his chin. “An toir thu dhomh pag?”
Her gaze met his with a spark. “What’s that mean?”
Tom, grinning, twisted his neck to address her. “Tell him, ‘Cha toir, ach bheir mi dhut sgailc!’”
Doing her best to parrot the difficult pronunciations, she though she sounded a bit like she was hawking up phlegm. “Chah TUH-r, ach vehr mee ghoot skahlk!”
Both men burst out laughing.
“What?” She looked between them. “What did I just say?”
“He asked if you’d give him a wee kiss,” Tom mirthfully explained. “And you said, ‘No, but I’ll give you a slap.’”
“Oh.” She swept a hand down Leith’s face. “That’s so sweet. Of course I’ll give you a kiss, baby.”
Fighting a grin, Leith offered his mouth to her. She met his lips with a quick peck before sitting back and looking out the window.
As hot dread pooled in his belly, he did the same. He loved her so much. What would he do if the druids couldn’t save her or refused to help? Breathing the thought away, he gazed out at the scenery.
They were on A86, a two-lane highway which, for the next wee stretch, doubled as the High Street. Quaint stone cottages, row houses, and shops—most with slate roofs, chimneystacks, and front gardens—lined the road on both sides.
“This is cute,” Gwyn observed. “Where are we?”
“Dingwall.” Leith craned his neck to look at her. “Known to Gaelic-speakers as Inbhir Pheofharai, which means ‘the mouth of the Peffery.’”
Her dark eyebrows gathered together. “What’s the Peffery?”
“A wee river emptying into the Cromarty Firth, which lies over yon.” He pointed eastward.
“Does Dingwall have a claim to fame?”
He returned his attention to the map. “It used to boast the biggest castle north of Stirling.”
“Used to? What happened to it?”
Tom snorted. “What didn’t?”
“What does that mean?” she asked.
“Murders, duels, intrigues, and a good deal of political hand-changing.” Leith spread the map across his lap as he retrieved the ferry schedule from the sun-beaten dashboard.
“Is it still there?”
“Nay.” He checked the schedule. “The crown abandoned it after the death of King James the Sixth. Back around sixteen hundred. It was used as a quarry for a bit, then finally demolished.”
She let out a sigh. “Seems a shame that something with that much history should be reduced to rubble.”
“Aye,” he agreed, “but castles are incredibly expensive to maintain. As I well know.”
“There’s still a folly on the site,” Tom put in, “built from some of the original stones, if that helps you feel better about it.”
Her brow puckered. “What’s a folly?”
“The story of my life,” Leith muttered.
“A decorative structure, basically,” Tom inserted. “You see them quite a bit in the gardens of grand houses.”
She still looked lost, so, to clarify, Leith said, “Remember the other day when we watched Pride and Prejudice?”
They had watched the newer version with Keira Knightly and Matthew Macfadyen. “Of course.”
“Do you also remember the scene in the pouring rain when Mr. Darcy proposes to Elizabeth?”
“That’s one of my favorite scenes.” Her voice took on a dreamy tone as she added, “The best one, though, is when he walks toward her across the field with the sun rising behind him.”
Leith cleared his throat. “My point was that the structure sheltering them from the rain is a folly.”
“Oh.”
Satisfied, he consulted the ferry schedule. Tonight was the full moon, so they’d need to reach Callanish somewhere around eleven o’clock to allow time to perform the ritual. Tom had the nawglen, which he’d prepared over the past fortnight, and a cross-over incantation provided by Queen Glorianna.
The last ferry set off around five o’clock. The crossing took three hours, give or take. That would put them in Stornoway with time to spare. Good. While Gwyndolen seemed to be feeling her oats, he sure as hell wasn’t. Truth be told, he felt rather anemic, the result no doubt of all the blood he’d contributed to her sustenance.
The animal within needed to feed, but not on hare. This beast, more primal than the cat, required human blood. Since Gwyndolen needed all her strength to stave off the curse, he’d be forced to tap a random donor somewhere along the way.
He studied the map of Lewis, looking for a caravan park. At this time of year, campers made the best targets. He could strike a lone straggler and be gone before anyone was the wiser.
“When we get to Lewis,” he said, turning to Tom, “I’m going to need to feed.”
“Oh, aye? Did you have any particular quarry in mind?”
“Long pig.” He hoped the slang term might hide his intent from Gwyndolen. “Would you happen to know of a caravan park anywhere along the route?”
“What’s long pig?” she asked.
His jaw clenched. He should have known that inquiring mind of hers would never let him get away with subterfuge.
“Human.”
“Oh, I see…and what’s a caravan park?”
He bit his lip, fearing her condemnation. “I believe you call them campgrounds in the States.”
She took a minute to put the pieces together, then, with notable alarm, said, “You’re not going to kill anybody I hope.”
“Of course not.” His sharp tone conveyed his offense. “I’ll just take a scant few ounces and be on my way. They won’t ever know what hit them.”
“Can I go with you?”
His common sense reared in protest. “Go with me? Whatever for?”
“To watch. I might never get another chance to see a real live faery in action.”
Her statement made him sputter in surprise, but also gave him ideas. Human blood aroused his passions. Turning, he gave her a smile. “If I let you watch, will you let me have my way with you after?”
* * * *
Gwyn couldn’t help feeling like she had stepped into a live-action version of Worlds of Warcraft, Final Fantasy, or one of the other massively multi-player online games she played to escape her self-imposed solitude.
When she broke the curse, would she earn endgame gear? The thought made her realize how much of her life she’d wasted on gaming. Too bad she couldn’t trade her stockpile of virtual riches for a spell to break his curse.
She reined her mind back to reality. Before they got to the stone circle, they were stopping at a campground so she and Leith could drink someone’s blood. Would he have sex with her afterward? God, she hoped so. The sex was always so hot after he fed.
Lately, however, he’d been sweet and sedate in the sack. Because of the curse, presumably. Not that she was complaining. With him, sex was a feast whether he served it fast and hard or slow and sweet. She just wished he served it more often. Ever since she’d taken Glorianna’s elixir, she’d been unbelievably horny. No matter how often they did it, she couldn’t seem to quell her need for him.
Her overactive libido wasn’t the only recent change in her physiology. Her senses seemed sharper and more attuned, her breasts were tender, and she was having all these weird cravings. It had to be something in the potion…or else that god-awful soup he fed her. Just thinking about that horrid stuff brought the flavor back with a grimace of revulsion.
Leith didn’t know about her symptoms. She was keeping him in the dark in case the cause had nothing to do with her ingestions. If the druids couldn’t help her, she wanted to spare him the added agony of losing another child.
Chapter 14
Leith pulled out the bottle of twelve-year-old single-malt he’d stowed underneath his seat when they’d loaded the van back at Glenarvon. After taking a long pul
l, he wiped the neck and offered the scotch to Gwyndolen. Her eyes were closed and there was a wistful smile on her face.
He hoped she was thinking about him.
Without missing a beat, he passed the whisky to Tom, who took several swigs before handing it back to him.
A harrumph from the back seat snapped his head around. He met two fiery emeralds set in a frowning face. She sat stiffly upright with her arms folded across her chest.
He knew that scornful look; he just couldn’t think what he’d done to deserve it. In two seconds flat, his sweet angel had become a demon from hell. Aye, she’d been broody since taking Glorianna’s potion. This, however, was beyond the usual mood swings.
“Is something amiss, my love?” he asked, mindful of the eggshells under his feet.
Her frown deepened. “I can’t believe you’re drinking and driving.”
“I’m not driving.” He offered her a grin, hoping to lighten the sudden palpable tension. He didn’t get what was eating her. She’d never been a buzz-kill before.
Her eyes narrowed and hardened into agates. “Maybe not, but you’re aiding and abetting the person who is.”
“Aiding and abetting? Christ, lass. You sound like a bloody barrister.”
Clearly, that was the wrong thing to say as she now looked fit to kill.
“Put that goddamned bottle away before we all die in a fiery wreck,” she screamed. “Or, worse, kill somebody else.”
He opened his mouth to argue and then shut it again in a hurry. She was crying. God’s flesh. What was this about? He shot a questioning look at Tom, who appeared equally befuddled. With a shrug, he corked the bottle and re-stowed the whisky beneath his seat.
“All right.” He raised his hands in surrender. “I’ve put it away. Now, would you mind telling me what the devil you’re so upset about?”
She sniffed, provoking a pang of guilt. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be a bitch. It’s just that…well, you see, my parents were killed by a drunk driver.”
Leith, feeling bloody awful about passing the bottle, unfastened his seatbelt and moved to the backseat. He took the spot beside her, put an arm around her shoulders, and pulled her against his chest.
“I’m so sorry, lass. I had no idea.”
She started to blubber against his sweater. His gut tied itself into a knot. He couldn’t bear a woman’s tears. Especially when he was the clueless idiot who’d triggered the waterworks.
“I’m so sorry, my angel.” He stroked her hair. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“I know,” she said between sobs, “and I’m sorry for being such a baby.”
“It’s all right.” He tightened his hold on her and kissed the top of her head. “I’m here. You’re safe. Just let it out.”
She bawled with a violence he hadn’t witnessed since…oh, bloody hell. His heart shot into orbit, but crashed to earth again as soon as he remembered the curse. Damn Queen Morgan. Damn her to hell. He’d already fathered two bairns he’d never know. If Gwyndolen now carried the third, he didn’t know what he would do
By and by, she cried herself to sleep. He went on holding her. They now were driving alongside Loch Glascarnoch, though he could only catch occasional glimpses of the water through the thick screen of planted trees. The last time he’d been out this way, the loch wasn’t here. Men built it in the 1950s to support a dam that supplied electricity. An underground tunnel channeled the water to a power station five miles away.
His thoughts wandered. How much the world had changed since he’d first come into it. He’d been born during the Scottish Enlightenment, had witnessed the rise and fall of the Industrial Age, and now lived in the Age of Information.
He heaved a weary sigh. So-called progress left its mark on the world, and rarely as innocuously as the loch flying past his window. The destructive footprints of marching time were everywhere he looked. Air pollution, water pollution, ozone depletion, deforestation, offshore drilling, nuclear meltdowns, and global warming. Humankind daily raped Mother Nature and thought nothing of it. As long as there was money to be made, to hell with everything else. Too many people saw natural resources as commodities to be harvested for gain.
“Forgive them, Father,” he muttered, his heart steeped in bitterness, “for they know not what they do.”
* * * *
When Gwyn opened her eyes, Leith was wrapped around her like a living shawl—a hot and heavy living shawl. He was facing her and softly snoring, his arms locked around her, his long legs curled up to fit the bench seat. His face was serene, his hair disheveled, his mouth lax and open. Her heart ballooned with affection. She felt safe, protected, and, well, loved. She also felt fiercely aroused.
So did he, apparently. Even in sleep, her sweet knight was a total horn-dog—and now, due to magic or hormones or just being in love, so was she. Too bad they couldn’t slip into the rear of the van and avail themselves of the makeshift bed back there. Leith would sleep there while she and Tom were in Brocaliande. With the time difference between Hitherworld and Thitherworld, even a few hours spent in the druid forest could equal days of waiting.
Missing her knight already, she kissed the end of his perfect nose and the sexy cleft in his chin. His face twitched and he made a noise deep in his throat, but didn’t open his eyes.
The sun was still up, despite the evening hour. Curious to see where they were, she tried to rise, but his lock on her was unyielding. She put her mouth against his and ran her tongue across his teeth, feeling sharp fangs. Holy smokes. He really did need blood.
Sleepy, blinking violet eyes met hers. “Hello there,” he said. “Are you feeling any better?”
It took her a second to realize what he meant, having forgotten about the crying jag. “Yes,” she whispered, “and I’m sorry about that.”
“Don’t be.” He pressed a kiss to her mouth. “I’m sorry I upset you by behaving like a thoughtless cretin.”
The next moment, his mouth was on hers and their tongues were entwined in an electrifying dance.
“Up and at ’em, sleepyheads,” Tom’s voice boomed from the front seat, sparking her heart and breaking them apart. “We’re coming up on Loch Broom.”
“What’s so special about Loch Boom?” she wanted to know.
“See for yourself.”
When Leith looked out the window, she followed suit, blinking the last remnants of sleep from her eyes. What she saw could have been an oil painting by William McTaggart.
A shimmering silver-blue loch stretching beyond the horizon was the focal point. In the background, generous dabs of purple and gold lent color and texture to rolling brown hills. In the near ground, rustic rock walls bordered fields of vivid spring green. Quaint white-washed cottages salted the hills and edged the road.
She yearned to live in one. Especially if she lived in the idyllic setting with Leith and their baby.
Her imagination showed her a little girl with his black hair and amethyst eyes. She’d always thought, if she ever had a daughter, she’d name her after her mom.
Emma Bernadette MacQuill.
Yes, she was getting ahead of herself, but a deep-down part of her hoped she was pregnant. She wanted to give him a child. Even more, however, she wanted to be part of a safe and loving family again.
“It’s a sea loch.” Leith’s voice near her ear burst her fantasy like a soap bubble. “Which means we’ll be in Ullapool in a few more minutes.”
* * * *
Loud rapping on the rear doors of the van snapped Gwyn out of her twilight sleep. After they’d boarded the ferry, the men had gotten out to stretch their legs and have a smoke. The sea wind proved too cold for her, so she opted to remain in the van. Besides, she felt strangely strung-out. Her body craved his like a junkie craved a fix.
Not knowing what else to do and still unwilling to disclose her symptoms, she’d crawled into the bed in the back. Leith had outfitted the sleeping space with the pillows from his bed. For a long while, she’d reveled in his comforti
ng scent before finally drifting off.
Someone pounding on the door brought her back to herself with a jolt. She sat up and looked around, orienting herself. The banging persisted.
“Leith? Is that you?”
“Who else would it be? Now, open up. I’m ganting for it and Tom’s only giving us twenty minutes.”
Ganting? She’d never heard the expression, but could guess the word’s meaning. He sounded as desperate for her as she was for him. Delighted, she got to her knees and, after fumbling with the sticky handle, flung open one of the rear doors. He looked windblown and good enough to eat.
He gave her one of his irresistible lopsided smiles. “Are you feeling up to a quickie?”
She gave him a smile and crawled back toward the pillows. As she reclined, he climbed in and slammed the door. In a blink, he was over her on all fours.
“Did you tell Tom not to come a-knocking if the van’s a-rocking?”
His grin broadened before he brought his mouth down on hers. The kiss, though heartfelt, was frustratingly brief. She forgave him when he whispered in her ear, “I adore you, my wee mouse.”
He smelled of the sea and himself—an arousing aroma that put the whip to her already galloping desire. She grabbed him by the hair and pulled his mouth back to hers, forcing her tongue into his mouth. He groaned and kissed her back as he lowered his body onto hers, pushing her legs apart with his knees. He tasted harshly of cigarettes and whisky, but she didn’t care. The kiss was so hot, her blood caught fire.
“This will be quicker than I’d like.” His voice was husky, his eyes smoldering with desire.
She swallowed a sudden onrush of saliva. Her body throbbed with the need of him—gums, heart, belly, loins—a physical, all-consuming lust she’d never felt before. “What are you doing to me?”
“If you have to ask, I must be doing it wrong.”
“No, I meant—”
She stopped herself, not wanting to ruin the moment. Suddenly, she desired him inside her more than she desired life itself. He rose up on his knees and unbuttoned the fly of his jeans. Tiny effervescent thrills swarmed her nether regions when his erection popped out.
