by Nina Mason
Her head popped up, and her gaze met his. “Is that possible?”
“Aye, for some lucky lasses.”
Well, he’d know soon enough. And so, apparently, would she. He went back to what he’d been doing, licking, flicking, and softly suckling. He kept his gaze trained on hers as she observed him pleasing her.
Oh, aye, baby. Watch as I take you to heaven.
She began to squirm and breathe hard. When she pulled his hair, he drove the hard tip of his tongue to the core of her swollen bud.
“Oh, God. Oh, yes. Right there.”
Her hips bucked like an unbroken filly. He drilled deeper, flicking rapidly.
“Oh, yeah. Just like that and don’t stop.”
He had no intention of stopping. Not until she broke. He pushed two fingers into her and moved them in circles as he eased them in and out.
Her cunt was crying to be claimed, and his cock was begging to do the job. His tongue quickened against her clit.
Come on, baby, jump.
Her body tensed and twitched. Her hips thrust. Her pussy convulsed around his digits. A stifled cry flew from her lips. As she floated back to earth, he planted adoring kisses along her inner thighs.
“Did you enjoy yourself, my wee mouse?”
“Do you really need to ask?”
He just smiled. She was right. He knew she’d gotten off. A woman could fake the noises, but not the way the body convulsed in the throes of orgasm. And while, like all men, he’d prefer to believe no woman had ever deceived him in that regard, he knew the statistics didn’t support the supposition. He’d had thousands of partners and possessed super-human sexual stamina. Surely one or two had faked orgasm along the way just to get it over with.
“You’ll never get rid of me now,” she said with a smile.
“Promise?”
“Cross my heart and hope to—”
She caught herself in the nick of time, thank God. He pushed up on all fours and crawled over her. His heart swelled with awe. She was so beautiful, so bewitching, so brave. He’d never met a woman like her. He was utterly and completely spellbound. He just prayed he wouldn’t fail her.
Twining her fingers in his hair, she pulled his mouth down on hers. Their tongues did a slow dance before she captured his between her lips. Lust cracked its whip in his groin as she sucked his as he’d sucked hers.
He drew up her knees and buried himself in her sultry depths. She lifted her hips, taking him deeper. Her legs went around him and locked in the small of his back. With each ensuing thrust, his heart drew closer to the point of no return.
Chapter 13
When Gwyn awoke, it was light. Squinting against the brightness, she sat up and looked around for Leith, finding, to her dismay, he wasn’t in the bed or anywhere else in the room.
She got up and picked up the dressing gown she’d borrowed from the armoire in her room, which she’d shed at the foot of the bed after stealing into his room. Leith, she presumed, had laid the robe over a chair nearby. As she pulled it on, she crossed to the window and looked out.
The room overlooked a pretty garden enclosed by a brick wall. A gravel path meandered through beds of flowers bordered by hedges. The setting was very romantic. Perhaps she could persuade him to take a walk with her there. First, however, she had to find him.
Determined to do just that, she pulled the dressing gown around her body and tied the belt. The robe was a gorgeous thing—pale-blue silk brocade with ribbons and ruching down the front and a wide lace ruffle edging the three-quarter-length sleeves.
She felt pretty in it. All the clothes she’d worn since arriving at Glenarvon were designed to make a woman feel beautiful and elegant. Modern fashions, in comparison, were so uninspired. Except for haute couture, of course, but only anorexic millionaires could wear those creations. Why didn’t anybody design frilly, romantic things like this robe anymore?
She shook the thought away. She had more important things to think about than frills and lace. His curse, for starters. She’d meant the things she’d told him last night from the bottom of her heart. If they could break his curse, she’d stay with him forever and ever.
Lord Lyon had explained how he’d turned his wife before they married. Not out of choice, but because she’d fallen from the tower. He’d healed Lady Vanessa’s injuries by giving her his blood.
Had Leith done the same for her at the crash site? She didn’t think so. For one thing, she didn’t feel any different. For another, she couldn’t believe he’d consider sending her back to California without saying a word about making her like him.
So, he must not have given her enough blood to effect the transformation. Even so, she wanted to speak with him about their plans. Opening the door, she hurried into the hall, which was quiet except for the low drone of voices somewhere far off.
The deep timbre told her they were male voices, but she couldn’t make out who was speaking. Steeling her courage with a deep, inward breath, she followed the sound down the drafty hallway, hugging herself for warmth. The dressing gown was beautiful, though not particularly warm, and the chilly stone floors bit her bare feet as she walked.
She stopped at the top of the staircase. The voices were rising from below. She still couldn’t hear what was being said, but was pretty sure one of the voices belonged to Leith. The voices led her to the library door, which was slightly ajar, making it possible to eavesdrop without giving herself away.
“If your feelings are as strong as you suspect,” Tom said, “I can’t see that you have much choice.”
Gwyn’s pulse quickened. Were they talking about her? If so, she should be happy about it, since she was teetering on the precipice herself, but happy wasn’t quite the feeling whorling inside her right now.
Terrified, maybe. Conflicted, definitely. Hopeful, possibly. Because of the curse, his regard would kill her, which seemed so incredibly unfair. Not to mention, ill timed.
She’d only just started to live, damn it. Only just broken the chains of fear that’d held her back her whole fucking life. Only just met the man of her dreams. Only just got the break that could make her career.
“What will happen to her when the curse kicks in?”
Tom’s question drew her back to the conversation. She held her breath and strained to hear Leith’s answer over the blood-thunder in her ears.
“I’m not sure.” His voice was almost too quiet to be audible. “I only know Faith died of a fading illness.”
Taking a breath to calm her nerves, Gwyn struggled to keep hysteria at bay. Freaking out wouldn’t help matters. Everybody died. She would go sooner or later, and there were much worse ways than simply fading away. There were better ways, too, of course. Like dying in her sleep—or from a sudden impact. The police said her poor father never knew what hit him.
A maelstrom swept away the calm. Fear mixed with outrage over the injustice of it all.
Then, a realization broke through the tempest in her brain: if not for Leith, she’d already be dead. Rather than stealing her life, he’d granted her a reprieve. The days she’d lived since surviving the accident had been bonuses, not entitlements. And she’d be a fool not to make the most of every single second she had left.
“How long did it take Faith to succumb after you realized how you felt?”
“Three weeks,” Leith told Tom. “Maybe four.”
“That’s good.” Tom sounded hopeful. “That means there’s still time to figure something out.”
“My mind’s made up, Tom. I’m taking her to Inverness first thing.”
What?
“I don’t understand. How will that help?”
“I’m not over the moon quite yet,” Leith explained. “And she’ll be out of my life for good that way. Without the film rights, she’ll have no reason to contact me again.”
Gwyn’s hand flew to her mouth to stop the expletive on her tongue from tumbling out. That filthy snake! He’d just made love to h
er, knowing all the while he was about to pull the rug out from under her feet. What a conniving, fork-tongued reptile.
And to think, not five minutes ago, she was entertaining fantasies about being with him forever. What a gullible idiot she was. Fuming, shaking, and unsure what else to do, she crept back to her own bedchamber, locked the door, and threw herself down on the bed. The deadly brew of anger, betrayal, and disappointment bubbled hot and thick inside her ribcage.
Tears stung her eyes and tightened her throat. She wrapped her arms around the pillow and hugged it to her. Five minutes ago, she stood on the brink of getting everything she’d ever wanted. Adventure, success, and maybe even her knight in shining armor. Now, she had nothing, nobody, no reason to stay in Scotland, and no reason to go home.
* * * *
Standing at the window with a cigarette, Leith felt utterly defeated. About his writer’s block, about his curse, about everything. If he didn’t sell the film rights, he’d lose Glenarvon, the last piece of the past he had left. But what else could he do? Kill the lass to keep his castle? He might be a beast who too often thought with his prick, but he wasn’t a heartless monster.
“Maybe the reason you can’t write is because you haven’t yet lived the rest of the story.”
He turned to Tom with scornful eyes. “And taking her to the druids will solve that, I suppose.”
“Who can say?” Tom shrugged. “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 lass are as strong as you suspect, I can’t see that you have much choice.”
Tom’s words pierced his soul. Was he fooling himself? Had he passed the point of no return with Gwyneth? He’d thought Faith was safe, too. He’d met her in Edinburgh after returning from Avalon. She worked for the architect he’d hired to restore the castle. Though he’d done his best, the attraction between them proved too powerful for his weak will to resist.
Besides, there was that small part of him that wanted to believe the curse might be one of the queen’s wicked tricks. He took a chance and lost. When Faith fell ill, he ended the affair and stayed the hell away from her. He sucked hard on his cigarette before blowing the smoke at the window, where it gathered into a cloud and hovered like a ghost. Faith’s ghost. Or perhaps Clara’s.
The thought punched him in the gut, knocking the wind out of him. He gasped, inflating his lungs with bitterness. He could taste it on his tongue, feel it burning the back of his throat, sense it spreading through his bloodstream like acid. He was a loathsome creature, a despicable scoundrel. He’d abandoned every woman he’d ever loved and was about to do so again.
His mind jumped back to the morning he’d received the telegram from his architect in Edinburgh.
Faith died this morning of a fading illness. Stop. Thought you’d like to know. Stop. Her last word was your name. Stop.
His whole body clenched. No, he would not, could not desert another. Not again. This time, he would fight. Come what may, damn it, he would stick by her.
Now determined, he turned his thoughts to Belphoebe. She was still alive, so perhaps the druids did know a way to break the curse—or, at least, to reverse its effects. Hope buoyed in his heart. If Gwyneth could be saved, they could be together and his lonely days would at last be over.
Reining in his runaway thoughts, he steered them back to more immediate concerns. Namely, how to get to Brocaliande from this side of the veil.
He’d taken Belphoebe to Brocaliande via the Thitherworld route—across the broad channel that separated Avalon and the Borderlands. The druid forest lay a few miles beyond, but he didn’t make it that far. When they landed on the beach, Cathbad, the high priest, was waiting to take her the rest of the way. To fool the queen, Belphoebe gave him a silver casket containing the heart of a sow.
Turning to Tom, who also looked lost in thought, he asked, “How exactly do we get to the druids? Do you know?”
“The portal is through the standing stones at Callanish,” Tom replied with a faraway look in his eyes. “It can only be opened at the stroke of midnight under the full moon. With the aid of a nawglen. And even then, it’s up to the druids to let us in.”
One of Leith’s eyebrows shot up. “Is there a chance they won’t?”
“Aye. There’s always a chance.” Tom’s blue eyes, now clear and intense, met Leith’s. “Cathbad’s not overly fond of Avalonians. As I’m sure you know, he and Queen Morgan are sworn enemies from way back.”
Though Leith knew of the enmity, he wasn’t clear on the details. Some ancient feud over the ill treatment of a druid priestess sent to Castle Le Fay as a diplomatic envoy during the Thitherworld War. Rumor had it, Queen Morgan put the woman’s eyes out with a red-hot poker. If the story was true, he could understand why Cathbad might hold a grudge.
“I’ll go with you as far as Callanish, but the curse prevents me from crossing the veil. And Gwyneth’s human, not Avalonian.”
Tom arched an eyebrow. “Isn’t she?”
“Not that I’m aware.”
“We’ll, if she’s not yet, she will be by the time we reach Callanish. I saw it in a dream last night.”
Leith had no problem with that. Lyon had turned his bride, and he’d turn his, too. Assuming Gwyneth survived the curse. There was no other way for them to be together for all eternity. “What else did you see in your dream?”
“A golden chalice encrusted with gems,” Tom said. “Any idea what it means?”
He did. He’d titled his pseudo-memoir The Knight of Cups for a couple of reasons. The first was that, in the tarot, the Knight of Cups represented a man of passion born under a water sign. He’d been born November 18, 1711, making him a Scorpio, a water sign notorious for its passionate temper and sexual prowess.
The other reason had to do with Queen Morgan and his curse. She’d used a golden chalice very like the one Tom described to work her sorcery. She’d spoken the hex over the cup after filling it with blood—his and hers in equal measure, binding them eternally.
“It has to be Morgan’s cup,” Leith said with a flicker of hope in his heart. “Could it signify the curse will be broken?”
“It’s hard to say.” Tom looked circumspect. “I simply saw the cup, suggesting it will play a role. What that role might be, remains to be seen.”
Leith’s dream of the tower came into his mind. The dragon, he was almost certain, represented his curse. If Gwyneth hadn’t stolen into his room, the dream might have shown him the outcome. Not that he regretted her being in his bed. In fact, as soon as he finished with Tom, he planned to return to her there. After breakfast, he’d take her to Inverness—not to abandon her, but to shop for clothes. Now that he was going to be a millionaire, he could afford to spoil her. And, if they were going all the way to Lewis, the Hebridean isle where the stone circle stood, she’d need something more modern than the fashions he kept on hand.
* * * *
Heavy hearted and resigned to her fate, Gwyn turned the knob. She might still be a doormat, but she refused to spend her last few hours at Glenarvon weeping into her pillow. This former mouse was having a look around the place, damn it, before the mean old cat packed her off to Inverness.
The lock yielded with a soft click. Pulse quickening, she pushed open the heavy oak door and stepped inside. Holy crap. The room was fit for a queen. The bed, the centerpiece of the room, was a towering, gilded canopy. At its foot, stood a delicate writing desk with curved legs. A dressing table similar to the one in her bedroom occupied a deep window alcove. A massive mahogany wardrobe stood on the wall beside the alcove.
Opposite the bed was a marble fireplace. Over its carved mantle hung a full-length portrait. Stepping closer for a better look, she drank in the details of a man’s impressive costume: shoes with silver buckles, knee socks tied with ribbons, an old-style kilt belted at his waist, and a fitted tartan jacket edged in gold lace. A
cross his chest, a wide strap festooned with an ornate buckle held the sword at his side.
Her breath caught when she saw his face. Holy crap on a Triscuit. It was Sir Leith. No, it was Sir Heath, the man he’d been before Culloden and Avalon.
She spun around, wondering why he’d hung the portrait here—so far away from Clara’s. The room’s purpose also perplexed her. The bedchamber was closed off, but well maintained. There was no dust on the furniture, no cobwebs in the corners. Did he maybe use the room for role-playing? Sure that must be its purpose, she took a turn about the space, examining and touching objects here and there. A fancy dresser set engraved with the initial C. A pair of inkwells on a pretty tray. Silver candlesticks and porcelain figurines. Everything was antique and extremely feminine.
She moved to the little desk and opened the middle drawer. There were old letters inside, bound with a red ribbon. The top one was addressed simply to Castle Glenarvon in Nairn, Scotland. The handwriting looked very like that on the note she’d received from Sir Leith.
Pulsing with curiosity, she took the bundle to the bed and sat down, trying to work it out. Should she read them? Her conscience flared in protest. No, that seemed wrong. Letters were private.
The devil on her shoulder whispered: Even if written to somebody long dead?
The urge to untie the ribbon sizzled in her fingertips. No! She mustn’t. He wouldn’t like it. The devil whispered, Why should you care what he does or doesn’t like? That was true. She shouldn’t care. He’d deceived her with all his talk of forever, just like all the others, so to hell with him and what he wanted.
With great care, she untied the frail ribbon. The paper, too, was yellowed around the edges and brittle throughout with age.
12 April, 1746
To my beloved wife,
Though still in my cot, my thoughts are of you, my darling, now and then joyfully, then sadly, waiting to learn whether or not fate will see fit to reunite us when this sorry campaign has come to an end. Aye, I must be away from you, but pray soon to fly into your arms. No one else can ever possess my heart—never—never—Oh, God, why must I be parted from one I so love? Without you, my life is wretched. Knowing you await my return is all that keeps me going. As you see, my dearest, your love makes me at once the happiest and unhappiest of men.
