by Nina Mason
“Connie.”
Kiss, flick, circle. “Connie who?”
It was all she could do not to crack up as she delivered the punch line. “Connie Lingus. Can your tongue come out to play?”
He lifted his head and smiled. “I’ve heard much worse.”
Moving over her, he took a nipple in his mouth, hardened by his previous devotions. She brushed her fingers up and down his sides, relishing the feel of soft flesh and sinewy muscle over solid bone.
“You’ve got lovely breasts,” he said.
Her insides turned to syrup. “I’ll bet you say that to all the girls.”
“Nay, lass.” He touched his lips to hers. “Only the ones with lovely breasts.”
He moved lower, leaving a trail of tender kisses. She raked her fingers through his silky golden mane, struck again by its softness.
“You’ve got great hair.”
“Thank you.” He pressed his mouth against her pubic mound. “So do you.”
He ran his hands down her thighs, lifted her hips off the bed, and sank into her, slow and deep.
God, he was good. So much better than the other men she’d shagged. If only their affair didn’t have to be so short-lived. She hadn’t told him yet she was moving to the states, probably for the same reason he’d lied about his wives. Why risk opening a big, ugly can of worms when they’d be parting ways so soon?
Callum was hitting that magic spot again, pushing her toward another thunderous climax. As the pleasure mounted, her insides coiled and melted. She writhed under his weight and clawed at his back. The orgasm struck like a lightning bolt, spreading its charge through her system.
“Vanessa.”
He spoke her name like an incantation.
There was no need. She was already falling under his spell.
Crashing down like a wave, his sweat-slickened body unfurled over hers, his hands grasping her face as he claimed her mouth. She shuddered under him, boneless and satisfied. Pushing up on his arms, he ended the kiss and brought her back to reality.
Meeting her gaze, he smiled. “What would you like to do today?”
She returned his smile. She really should be poking around in search of the rumored vampire or trying to talk to the ghost, but she’d much rather attend to the castle’s drool-worthy laird. “Don’t tell me you’ve hung up your tour guide’s cap already.”
“I thought we might take a day off from sightseeing.”
She ran her hands down his bulging biceps. “In that case, you know what I’d like to do?”
“Tell me.”
“Spend the whole day in bed making love.”
He gave her a quick peck on the lips before disposing of the condom. “That can be arranged. Shall I have Hamish bring our breakfast up?”
“Yes, please.”
Euphoria swept through her, bathing her insides in warm, golden light. She’d never felt so satisfied or comfortable with a lover before. Or so completely contented. It was a feeling she didn’t look forward to leaving behind.
* * * *
Callum was more than happy to spend the day making love. Even as they sat across from one another on the bed, sipping coffee and sharing the food Hamish had brought up, he yearned to be inside her again.
Her dispassionate sun sign made him fear she might be as frigid as Sorcha, another Aquarian, but those fears proved unfounded, thank the stars. Lady Vanessa was passionate, responsive, and refreshingly open—except, of course, when it came to her true motive for being at Barrogill.
As he reached for a slice of cheese, she did the same. Sparks sizzled at the spot where their hands collided. With a smile, he surrendered his claim. Would he be able to surrender her just as easily when their time together ended? Aye, well. Like it or not, he’d have to give her up.
“Callum?” Meeting her gaze, he waited for her to continue. He’d been right about those eyes of hers. He was going under. “Tell me about your first wife.”
Dread jabbed. He wanted to spend the wee bit of time they had together making love, not talking about his past, especially his disastrous marriages, which would kill his desire quicker than he could say “saltpeter.” Licking his lips, he asked guardedly, “What do you wish to know?”
“When did you marry her?”
“When I was younger.”
“That much I’d deduced on my own.” She swept her fingers along his bent leg. “What happened between you?”
The old resentment reawakened like a dormant virus. “She didn’t like being touched.”
Surprise mottled by sympathy played on her features. “Oh, dear. It was like that, was it?”
“Aye,” he bit out. “It was just like that.”
“What did you do?”
“I locked her in the dungeon and fed her salted beef until she went mad.”
Her eyes widened. “Please tell me you didn’t.”
“Of course I didn’t.”
“Why did you marry a woman who didn’t enjoy sex—especially given your overactive libido?”
“I didn’t know she was frigid until after we were wed.”
“You didn’t sleep with her before?”
“Nay,” he said, treading as carefully as if crossing a stream on wet, mossy rocks.
The truth was, he didn’t meet Sorcha until she was brought to Barrogill by her parents for the betrothal ceremony. The match had been arranged by their parents and neither he nor his bride had a say in the matter. Love matches were unheard of among noble families at that point in history. Marriages were made to merge fortunes and forge alliances.
“I couldn’t imagine marrying someone I hadn’t slept with.”
“Nor could I, now.”
“Did you divorce her?”
“Nay, she died.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Aye, well. So am I.”
Resentment weighed down on him like the stones once used to crush witches. Just like her, he’d never felt love—from his parents, his wives, or the whores he bedded. While he wasn’t enamored of his wives, he cared enough to be hurt by their rejection of his advances.
“Can we please talk about something else?” he asked. “Or better yet, not talk at all?”
They sat in silence for a few strained moments before she reached out, took one of his hands, and lifted it to her mouth. The desire killed by talk of Sorcha re-sparked as she kissed his knuckles, one by one.
“And your second wife? Where’s she now?”
The question threw sand on his reviving passion. “Also dead, I’m afraid.”
“Jesus, Callum, you sure have been unlucky in the marriage department.”
“Tell me about it,” he returned glumly.
“Would you ever consider marrying again?”
“Only under extraordinary circumstances.”
* * * *
Vanessa dozed off in Callum’s arms after making love, but woke alone. Seeing her chance to have a look around, she crawled out of bed, threw on a sweater and some jeans, and looked around for her mobile phone. If she did stumble onto evidence of the vampire, she’d need to snap a picture. Unfortunately, her phone was nowhere to be found.
Undeterred, she decided to start with the dungeon, which seemed the most logical place for a vampire to hide. First, though, she’d have to make her way to the dining room without arousing suspicion—or, better yet, enter through the hidden door in the woods. That way, if she was missed or got caught, she could claim she’d simply gone out for a walk.
Satisfied with her plan, she made her way through the castle and out a back door without being spotted. She walked the garden, searching the ground for the hidden entrance, but found no sign of a trapdoor. Heart beating fast, both from the exertion and her fear of discovery—yes, she had a cover story, but she’d still have to sell it—she circled the castle again and again, moving a few feet farther out with each go-round. As she completed each loop, she stopped to look around and lis
ten. No one appeared and no human noises disturbed the sounds of nature.
Frustration thrummed in her blood as her fruitless search continued. Surely, Callum would have missed her by now and would appear any second. Would he detect the lie as he searched her eyes? More than likely.
Shit. Maybe she should give up for now and head back inside, then try again next chance she got—or just forget the outdoor access and enter via the dining room. First, though, she needed a breather. The exercise had made her sweaty and her legs were aching something awful.
Spying a bench nearby, she walked over and took a seat. Just as her pulse returned to normal, she saw movement among the manicured hedges. Her heart leapt into her throat as she strained to see what had caused the commotion.
When the culprit showed himself, she nearly shit herself. It was a lion—a full-grown fucking African lion. Her mind spun in search of an explanation. Had the animal escaped from a circus or wild animal park somewhere nearby? Wherever he’d come from, he probably wasn’t tame. She just hoped he wasn’t hungry. Heart hammering, hands shaking, she remained as still as a potted plant, praying he wouldn’t notice her. The big cat, to her dismay, looked right at her. She didn’t move or breathe. As much as she wanted to run, she knew it was the worst thing to do. Even if the lion wasn’t inclined toward eating her, running would trigger his hunting instincts.
The lion curled his lip, emitted a staccato sound, and started toward her.
A small whimper escaped her involuntarily as terror locked her in a stranglehold. Blood pounded in her temples and the urge to flee twitched in her legs. Her spinning mind showed another Delacroix from the Louvre. In this one, the lion was eating a woman. Holy fuck. Her heart was thumping so hard her chest felt ready to explode.
The lion crept still closer, his golden eyes locked on her face.
“Nice kitty,” she said, forcing the words through her constricted throat. “Please don’t hurt me, I support PETA.”
The beast let out a low, rumbling growl and then, to her enormous relief, turned round and sauntered off in the opposite direction.
* * * *
Imagine Callum’s surprise when he happened upon Lady Vanessa in his lion form. He’d gone hunting in the wilderness surrounding the castle while she napped, hoping to ease his cravings for her blood. He wasn’t a fool; he didn’t buy her story about exercise and fresh air. She’d been snooping around in search of the hidden entrance to the dungeon he’d daftly told her about.
Okay, so maybe he was a fool for keeping her here and indulging his lusts, but he couldn’t seem to help himself. Something in her called to something in him like a missing part. He should know better at his age, should have more self-control, but he was helpless where she was concerned. Besides, he kept telling himself, he could cleanse her memory of anything she learned at Barrogill, so she presented no real threat.
Luckily, she’d swallowed his story about the lion probably being an escapee from a nearby wildlife park. Never mind that there wasn’t any such park for miles around. She wouldn’t know that or be able to check the veracity of his story without her mobile phone, which he’d re-hidden where she’d never find it. He’d conveniently find the device seconds before he bid her farewell, right after he wiped her memory of anything that could come back to bite him in the bollocks.
Meanwhile, he’d continue enjoying her company while keeping a closer eye on her. Not that she’d find anything suspicious in the dungeon if she should find her way in. The only vampire at Barrogill was hiding in plain sight.
When he reached the bedroom, where she’d gone to have a lie-down to recover from the shock of her encounter with his lion self, he found her sitting up looking fully restored and very much at home in his bed. As their gazes met, his groin tingled with interest. He’d thought about taking her on a picnic to show her the stacks and maybe the lighthouse built by Robert Louis Stevenson’s grandfather, but now had second thoughts.
If she was up for it, he’d make love to her again, and then make some excuse to leave her alone long enough to thoroughly explore Barrogill. Maybe if she found nothing out of the ordinary, she’d forget all about the castle’s alleged vampire and focus completely on catering to the needs of its laird.
Perching himself on the edge of the bed, he took her hand in his and gave her a reassuring smile. “Are you feeling better?”
“Yes. Much better.”
“Good,” he said with a gentle squeeze of her hand. “I’ve searched the grounds and there’s no sign of the lion. I’ve also called the park and, it turns out I was right. They are missing one of their cats. They’re sending someone over immediately to retrieve the old fellow.”
Lying to her gave him a qualm, though he couldn’t think why it should when she’d been dishonest about her reasons for being in the garden.
“Thank you for believing me.”
“Why wouldn’t I?” He searched her face for a reaction, sure he saw a flicker of guilt behind her steady blue gaze. “You’ve given me no reason to doubt you thus far.”
Aye, he was being wicked, but her duplicity warranted a wee bit of devilishness. As they went on gazing at one another, her eyes turned smoky and dark, giving him the impression she was thinking along the same lines as he. Outside the bedroom she might be having him on, but inside she was the most sexually responsive woman he’d ever been with. Even Madam Pennick’s whores didn’t compare. They were skillful, to be sure, but it was like painting by the numbers. Making love to Madame Butterfly was more like Van Gogh’s The Starry Night—one of his all-time favorite works of art.
Passion shifting into higher gear, his gaze slid to her mouth. Her lips were parted invitingly. He licked his own as the urge to kiss her rose inside him like the sun at daybreak. As he moved in, she lifted her face. He swept his lips across hers, savoring their soft feel and sweet flavor. She smelled of the outdoors. Pine, grass, and something sweetly floral touched with sea wind. As his mouth seized hers, he sensed her surrender in every wee movement: the softening of her mouth, the parting of her rose-petal lips, and the offering of her velvet tongue. If only her heart was half as yielding. Not that he could keep her, even if she wanted to stay.
But for now, for now, she was his to claim. Letting himself off the reins, he put everything he had, everything he’d been holding back for centuries, into that kiss. She matched his intensity, melting his last shield and making him feel she shared his desperate, impossible desire to turn their affair into something more.
He captured her tongue, sucked it hard, and bit down. She moaned, protesting the pain, but didn’t retreat from him. Clamping down, he sucked with vigor, tasting the ambrosia of her lineage while his heart beat out a hopeful refrain: if only, if only, if only.
* * * *
Vanessa fought to levy the irritation rising within her like a river in a rainstorm. She’d let her feelings get the better of her—something she almost never did. Not when it came to men, anyway. Swept away by her unfathomable passion for Callum, she’d all but forgotten her mission to locate the vampire’s hiding place.
Luckily, the menfolk, Hamish included, had just departed for town on some undisclosed errand and, according to Callum, would be gone at least two hours. Except for a couple of housemaids, she was alone in the castle. With the lion still lurking, returning to the garden was out, but getting into the dungeon through the dining room should be no problem—provided she could find the bloody entrance. She’d already checked all the corners in vain and was now tapping her way along the oriental carpet with her booted foot, hoping a hollow thump might give away the trapdoor’s location.
Thump, thump, thump.
Shit, nothing so far.
Thump, thump, boom.
Her pulse quickened under a rush of adrenaline as she pulled back the carpet. Sure enough, there was a covered hatch cut into the wooden planks underneath. Slipping her fingers through the recessed iron pull, she attempted to lift it. Shit, it was heavier than it looked
. Bending her knees, she put her back into it. Yes! The door came up, groaning from disuse, and belched a gust of dank and dust into the dining room.
She did her best to lay the door down easy, but its weight got the better of her. It dropped on the floorboards with a resounding bang she was sure carried all the way to the maid’s quarters. She listened, heart pounding, for the approach of footsteps. Hearing none, she steeled her nerve and peered into the hole. A makeshift wooden ladder descended into total darkness. Luckily, she had the battery-powered torch she’d found underneath the sink in Callum’s en suite. Tucking the flashlight into the waistband of her jeans, she positioned her boots on the rungs and started down, half hoping she wouldn’t find a vampire waiting in the darkness.
Her dread coiled tighter with every step. It didn’t help that the rickety slats felt ready to snap under her weight or that the space grew colder and creepier as she descended into cave-like darkness. As she stepped down on the fifth or sixth rung—she’d lost track—the wood did break. Her stomach flew out of her mouth as her foot plunged downward. Panic exploding, she yelped and gripped the rails for dear life, picking up a few splinters in the process. Luckily, her boot hooked the next rung, stopping her fall. Carefully, breathlessly, she navigated several more steps until, at long bloody last, her boot hit solid rock. Catching her breath, she looked up. Holy shit. The light from the dining room had to be at least twelve feet up. If she’d fallen, she would have broken her neck for sure.
With trembling hands, she pulled out the flashlight and fumbled with the buttons until it came on. The beam fell across block walls of natural stone, thick cobwebs, and cracks oozing lime. The tunnel was narrow, the ceiling low, and the air stale and musty. A chill crawled up her spine like a centipede, giving her gooseflesh and making her shiver all over. This was starting to feel like a very bad, very stupid idea.
“Hello?” she called out. “Is anybody down here?”
Her greeting reverberated, but, as expected, received no answer. Swallowing her trepidation, she set off down the passageway, telling herself she wouldn’t make much of a paranormal investigator if she was afraid of something as innocuous as darkness. A few feet down the passage, her torch dimmed and flickered. Then, something banged, jarring her. An icicle impaled her heart when she realized what she’d heard: someone had closed the trapdoor in the dining room. Holy shit on a biscuit. She was trapped in the bowels of Castle Barrogill, possibly with a vampire, and nobody was around to hear her screams—except whoever had locked her in here, and something told her that asshole wouldn’t be riding to her rescue anytime soon.