There was the arched opening that led to the stairway and on the opposite side of the hall, another opening to a room that looked to be a chapel. Kenna was hardly surprised to see it empty. She swallowed another large bite of parritch and headed toward the last point of interest: the heavy, iron-studded door at the front of the hall.
The bolt hadn’t been thrown, so when she tugged the door open, she expected to see bright daylight, but she found the orange glow of a setting sun instead. It bounced off the birch trees that had been allowed to crowd into the flat yard. The lack of servants had extended to groundskeeping, it seemed. Only a few stones remained exposed in the bailey floor. The rest was grass and tamped dirt.
If she hadn’t seen people here already, she’d assume the place deserted.
Had she dreamed it all? Everything? That seemed more likely than not, considering the memories.
But someone had made this parritch. And someone had brought her here. Someone with fangs and a bonny smile. Surely those two things shouldn’t go together.
Kenna propped herself against the edge of the doorway and watched the light turn from orange to red to dusky violet. She was just scraping the last of the oats from the bowl when she spied a hooded figure come around the corner of the keep. It moved close to the edge of the castle wall, like an animal comforted by the nearness of shelter.
She felt a bit like a wild animal herself, frozen to the spot and hoping not to be spotted. But it was futile. The thing was headed right toward her.
Suddenly, its head lifted and dark eyes locked onto hers.
A girl. Kenna blinked, and for a moment, she wasn’t sure why she thought the person was female. But there was something ineffably feminine in the small mouth and delicate bones of the face. Beyond that, she could have been a boy. Her black hair was shorn close and her sickly pale skin offered no hint at vanity.
“Good even’,” Kenna said, because she could think of nothing else.
The girl watched her for a long moment, scowling, and the scowl identified her as the servant who’d held the horse that morning. Kenna had thought her a boy at the time. Without a word, the girl walked on, right past Kenna, as if she hadn’t intended to enter the door. She looked angry, as if she wanted Kenna gone. Because Kenna added to her work, or was there another reason?
“If you’re thinking of escape, I’d wait till morning,” a deep voice rumbled from behind her shoulder.
Kenna dropped the bowl and whirled around with hands held high. They bounced harmlessly off MacLain’s chest. Her little slap neither hurt nor offended him, it seemed. He merely inclined his head.
“You slept well, I hope, Mistress Kenna?”
“Aye,” she croaked. “And you?”
“I admit to a bit of restlessness, worrying over you.” He smiled and knelt to retrieve her bowl and spoon. “I see you’ve broken your fast.”
“Yes, I-I apologize. There was no one about and I…”
“Will you sit with me while I break mine?”
What could she say? No, I prefer to stay here and watch the moon rise? But it seemed wrong to dine with a monster.
He decided the question by offering his arm and another of those smiles. Kenna gingerly put her hand on his, surprised when he flinched slightly at her touch.
“Are you hurt, Laird MacLain?”
“Nay, nothing like that.”
And what could that mean? She glanced toward him to find his jaw tense, but he said nothing more. She’d never been much for subtlety. “What is it, then?”
He looked down, frowning, and seemed to study her for a moment. Then he shrugged and stared straight ahead. “I was watching you, standing there, and I was thinking of our kiss, and of how I admire you.”
Oh. “Well, I…”
“And then you turned and I saw the look in your eyes.”
“What look?”
A corner of his mouth turned up. “The look that sees me for what I am, Mistress Kenna. The truth is not always easy to bear.”
She didn’t know what to say. He’d been thinking of their kiss? Kenna ducked her head. It had been a lovely kiss, soft and hot, and she’d been thinking of it herself before. Before.
He was a beast, and yet he’d been the first man in years to treat her as a woman, as a person.
When they reached the kitchen, Laird MacLain waved her toward the table and served himself. Her husband would never have done that. He’d expected to be cared for by all and sundry. But the laird himself retrieved his own bowl and scooped up parritch as if it were a natural occurrence.
He took the next seat at the square table, his left knee jutting out toward her. As he ate, Kenna found herself sneaking glances at his leg. Crisp bronze hairs dusted the length of his lower leg, more sparsely on his calf than on his shin. Muscles bulged, as sharp as cut rock beneath his skin. She could just see the bottom of his knee beneath the dark edge of his plaid and was suddenly overwhelmed with an urge to touch it. To lay her hand on his bare skin and feel his flesh jump at her touch.
Her husband had often teased her about her physical appetite. Stronger than any man’s, he’d said. And he’d been right. She’d loved that part of married life, and she’d missed it after his death. Until she’d grown too tired to miss it.
But now her fingers itched to smooth over those crisp hairs and listen for the shock of his indrawn breath.
Kenna fisted her hands tightly in her lap. “How can you possibly be fifty years old?”
“I’m not,” he answered. “I’m past seventy.”
“Good God! But you look so…”
He flashed a smile. “Bonny?”
“Bonny? No, I wouldn’t say bonny. Not at all.”
“Oh.” He looked a bit crestfallen at that, and Kenna couldn’t help but smile.
“I was going to say braw, Laird MacLain. You’re a bit too big for bonny.”
“Really?”
The smile was back, and Kenna had to remind herself that sometimes his mouth held fangs.
“Big and braw, did you say?” He looked exceptionally pleased with himself, just as any man would.
“Aye. Big and braw…and terribly old.”
MacLain slapped a hand over his heart with a grimace. “Och, lassie. Such cruelty in a wee babe.” His plaid rode up a bit, exposing an inch of his thigh as it flexed with the movement. A bonny sight despite her previous words.
And what the devil was she doing thinking such things?
The world sat heavily and suddenly on her shoulders. Her life had been tossed high in the air and she was flailing aimlessly. Flailing, indeed. Tumbling toward the ground and thinking of this man’s legs?
“Laird MacLain, when can I go home?”
His eyes dropped to the empty bowl and he set his spoon carefully inside. “After I’ve hunted down Jean Montrose.”
“You said you’d been after him for fifty years.”
“Aye.” He looked up to her, regret clear in her eyes, and Kenna knew this was worse than she’d allowed herself to imagine.
She shoved up to her feet. “What of me, then? What of my life?”
“I’m sorry.”
“I canna stay here forever in this godforsaken place!”
“I ken that. I’ll do my best to find him quickly. He’s a foul-tempered rat. He’ll try for revenge before going to ground.”
“A fortnight,” she muttered. “I shall give you a fortnight to find him. He’ll have forgotten me by then, surely.”
“A man who lives for hundreds of years does not forget things so easily, Kenna. It isn’t safe.”
“And this is?” She threw a hand out, trying to encompass his whole world into her scorn, but suddenly found that she was pointing toward a dour-looking Mrs. McDermott. Kenna quickly dropped her hand. “Good even’, Mrs. McDermott.”
The woman sniffed and shuffled to the hearth.
“Pack two days’ worth of food,” MacLain said. “We’re off before the moon rises.”
Kenna snapped her chin up to meet
his eyes. “We? Me?”
“Aye.”
She shook her head in confusion. “Am I to help you find Jean, then?” She’d do what she could, but truly her belly trembled at the thought.
The MacLain rubbed a hand over his face as if he’d already spent two full days on a horse. “Nay. We’re going to meet the king.”
“That makes no sense! Why would the king wish to see me?”
“He doesn’t. He wishes to see me and I canna leave you here, not with Jean free. So we go together.”
“But…” She wanted to sputter out a protest, but what could she say? Leave me here in your cave of a castle?
“If you’ve anything needs doing, do it,” he muttered. Had she thought him charming before? “I can only travel by night, so there’s no time for gnashing your teeth.”
“Gnashing!” she snapped, but she spoke to his back. By the time she’d drawn enough air to yell, Mrs. McDermott was her only companion.
“Humph,” the old woman sniffed. Kenna had no idea if her displeasure was directed at Kenna, MacLain, or both, but she’d learned from her grandmother that one couldn’t win an argument with a woman that close to death, so she gathered up her pride, set her chin, and pretended she had things to pack.
“My apologies,” Finlay muttered as he approached Kenna. “I had to bid farewell to the cattle.” She stood with arms crossed, a plaid pulled low over her brow. The same plaid he wore, and it moved him to see it so dark against her pale skin.
One of her pretty eyebrows rose. “You really say good-bye to your cows?”
“No. Not really.”
“Oh!” Shocked realization widened her eyes. “I…see.”
He’d meant to lead the horse and leave Kenna be. He really had. But each time he moved into the horse’s vision, it shied away in panic, eyes rolling. “Damned idiot beast,” he cursed. Now that it had rested, it remembered its terror of his kind. Likely it could smell the cow’s blood on him as well, though he’d rinsed his mouth with whisky afterward.
“Can I give you a hand up, lass?” He cupped his hands, standing well back of the horse’s line of sight to boost her up. She accepted his help gracefully, though he could see by the tight set of her mouth that she was angry or disgusted or both. Likely both.
But as he tossed his leg over and settled in behind her, his body didn’t worry over her state of mind. It thrilled at her warm curves, sending sparks of approval chasing up his spine. She is warm and soft and lovely, it crooned. And she was.
The blood he’d drunk had been meant to hold some of his lust at bay, but he might as well have filled his belly with goat’s milk. His fangs began to ache the moment her round bottom pressed between his thighs. Finlay clenched his eyes shut and took a deep breath. It didn’t help. As a matter of fact, it hurt quite a lot.
“If it wouldn’t offend you, laird, I’d prefer to ride astride. My spine still aches from that last ride.”
“Aye!” he answered too fast. “’Tis a grand idea.”
If her hip weren’t pressed quite so snugly to his cock, perhaps he could think of something other than tossing up her skirts. She shifted immediately, swinging her leg around and wiggling her skirts into place. When she finally sighed and settled back, Finlay’s eyes nearly popped out. Now it felt as if he were riding her instead of the horse. Her thighs pressed all along the length of his now, from hip to knee. The cheeks of her bottom cushioned his pelvis. And if his cock got any harder, surely she would feel it pressing along the cleft of her arse.
Ah, Jesus.
He cleared his throat hard enough that she jumped against him. “Right, then,” he croaked. “Are your feet covered? I’ll have Mrs. McDermott bring another cloak if you need.”
“Nay. I’m warm.”
God, yes, she was warm. He sneaked his arms around her waist and urged the mount forward, his hips tilting forward with the movement. Pleasure heated his skin as they rocked together with each step of the horse.
For a half mile or so, he was so absorbed in his own torment that he almost felt alone. Foolish, considering the source of his pain. But as they passed the burned stumps of wood that had once been a village, Finlay scolded himself for his distraction and took a deep breath to clear his mind.
Instead of clarity, he found a brightness that struck him like lightning. “Oh,” he breathed.
“What is it?” Kenna asked, her voice a bit rough around the edges. Rough, because she was aroused. As aroused as he was. He could smell the slippery desire of her sex as clear as if he were nestled between her legs.
If he let his hand fall an inch to her thigh, would she shiver and sigh? Would she lean her head against his shoulder and let her thighs relax? By God, he could slip his hand beneath her skirts so easily. Make her moan. Bring her to her peak right here.
He lay the edge of his hand carefully on her thigh…and his fangs descended.
Good God, they’d never done that unless he’d willed them to. He glanced at her neck where the plaid had dipped down, and he knew he’d bite her, full belly or not. He’d run his tongue along the line of her neck, and then he’d open his mouth against her skin and scrape his fangs over that pulsing vein.
A shudder stretched his spine. She smelled so good that her taste must be a banquet meant for gods. He couldn’t imagine it. Couldn’t imagine the hot flow of her essence flooding his mouth.
“MacLain?” she whispered.
“Aye, lass?” Her neck was so close now. Only an inch away. And her arse was a snug furrow rubbing against his cock.
“Um…Why does…Why does the king wish to see you? Are you in trouble?”
The king? She wished to speak of politics? He stared at her sweet white neck. So close. She’d feel pleasure if he bit her, especially if he aroused her first. More than she was already aroused, that is.
Finlay laid his hand flat on her thigh and closed his eyes at the tiny hitch in her breath.
“Laird MacLain,” she said on a rush.
“Aye, lass,” he murmured, stroking his thumb across the rough wool of her skirt. All he had to do was dip his chin and his lips brushed the hot skin of her neck.
“You!” she yelped, jerking forward so that her back no longer curved into his chest. “You didna answer my question!”
She tugged the plaid forward so that he could no longer see her neck, but her hips were pushed back even more firmly against him. She jerked away, his brain tried to explain as his hips urged him to rock against her. She does not want you.
But there was no question that she did want him. Her body made that clear. His mind eked out a bit of clarity from the cloud of need. She does not want to want you. And that was the last word. For now.
“What—?” His voice was a growl when he tried to speak, so Finlay had to pause to clear the lust from his throat. He tried again after exhaling very carefully. “What question was that, Mistress Kenna?”
“W-why does the king wish to see you if he does not know of your…truth?” Her breathlessness was small comfort, but it soothed his pride, at least. My God, she was responsive, as needful as he was, if not more cautious. As cautious as she should be. Canny lass.
Still, Finlay wasn’t so burdened with caution, and he needed a distraction. Talking about Stirling and the king just might be the thing.
“There are rumors about me at court. They say I can bend any man to my will.”
“Can you?”
“Not truly.”
She twisted suddenly toward him, looking over her shoulder. “Why do you sound…Oh. I see. Your, uh, teeth are…down.”
“They are,” he said, relieved that she could not see the flush creeping up his face. “Sorry.” Finlay closed his eyes and pulled them in with a grimace.
“Does that hurt?”
“Only—” Realizing what he was about to say, Finlay changed course. “Only sometimes.”
“You’re not…”
Painfully aroused?
“…thirsty?”
“Och, no. I shan’t
bite you unless you want me to.”
“Want you to? Who would want that?”
“Er…Women.”
“Why?” she scoffed.
Should he tell her the truth? That his bite could bring her to her peak faster than another man’s tongue? “It is considered extremely pleasurable.”
“To be bitten? You must be mad. I wager you’ve never been bitten.”
“On the contrary.” She twisted toward him again and he flashed her a smile.
“Not by another man?”
“Oh, no. Not by a man.”
Lips parted, she gaped at him. “There are women like you?”
“Aye.”
“And they are your, um, lovers?”
Finlay’s enjoyment in teasing her fell away for a dark, cold moment. He pushed back at the memory, slamming it shut like a door. “They have been in the past, yes.”
“I see.” Her body slowly twisted back to face front. “Is that girl your lover?”
Finlay shook his head. “What girl?”
“The girl who works in your stables.”
“Gray?” he asked, half laughing. “She’s my manservant.”
“She’s a woman!”
He cocked his head, thinking. Perhaps Gray had been a woman once, but not anymore. Not if she had any say about it. “She is a girl, I suppose. I found her in Germany, living in a cellar. She does not like to be touched, Kenna.”
“Oh,” she responded quietly.
“She is like me, but she was turned too young and…used. By a whole family of vampires, you see.”
“Och, that’s awful. How old is she?”
“I’m not sure. Nearly a century old, I think. I found her about twenty years ago.”
A shiver racked her body, and Finlay realized that her shaking didn’t affect him now. The talk of Gray had successfully tamped down his arousal. Even now he was haunted by the memories of that cellar, and of Gray, chained and silent and as dead as a living thing could be. He still didn’t like to think how close he’d come to missing her in the corner, though perhaps she’d have been relieved to starve to death there in the dark.
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