Starry Knight

by Nina Mason

“I do, as a matter of fact,” she said, looking pleased with herself. “He’s got a house in the French Quarter and hangs out at the Crypt.”

  Callum blinked at her, unsure he’d heard her right. “The Crypt?”

  She nodded. “It’s a nightclub on Bourbon Street. A very creepy underground nightclub with a mosh pit and dead things hanging on the walls.”

  “Sounds charming,” Callum said, ready to put his plan into action. “What’s the dress code?”

  “Leather, lace, and dog collars—all in basic black.”

  Chapter 20

  A profusion of butterflies fluttered in Vanessa’s belly as she watched the lights of New Orleans fade into the distance. It had been an experience she wouldn’t soon forget, though not quite what she’d envisaged when she left her familiar English environs.

  It was early morning, but still dark out. In the seat beside her, Callum slept. She wished she could. She was exhausted. They’d been up all night. At the Crypt, St. Germain had agreed to look after Beau until he was ready to return to his wife. Part of her hoped he wouldn’t, that he’d leave her and find someone better. Beau was a good man. Handsome, smart, funny, charming, and a born storyteller. He deserved to be with someone who cherished him. He deserved to be as happy as she was with Callum.

  Her heart expanded as her thoughts returned to the man beside her. Now that she’d owned her feelings for him, they’d risen to the surface the way cream does in untreated milk. Her doubts had disappeared. Callum was her knight in shining armor. Finally, she believed in fairytales again.

  After the hand-off at the crypt, he’d taken her dancing to celebrate their engagement. They hadn’t danced since that first night at Barrogill, and she’d had the time of her life. Callum looked heart-stoppingly handsome in his black suit and T-shirt. Then again, he always looked drop-dead gorgeous—even now, with his head tilted to the side and his mouth hanging open. Thank God, he didn’t snore. She didn’t think she could bear a husband who snored however wonderful he might be when awake.

  A small quiver went through her at the word husband. She wanted to pinch herself to be sure she wasn’t dreaming. Her parents were less enthused about her wedding plans, but Vanessa refused to reconsider. She was tired of being a rung on their social ladder. From now on, she was determined to be herself, to live her own life, to follow her heart.

  She set her hand atop Callum’s and gave it a squeeze—not to wake him, but just to let him know how happy she was. They were on their way to Edinburgh and, after his business there was dispatched with, they were driving to Gretna Green to tie the knot.

  Callum had decided to drop out of the race, which was fine with her. She wanted him to be happy more than she wanted him in politics. He’d called Duncan last night to deliver the blow. His friend wasn’t happy, but said he understood. She could tell Callum was relieved, which made her feel guilty for pressuring him into running. He was right. She needed to let him be himself and do what felt right to him—and trust he’d return the favor. It was the only way their opposite natures could work in harmony.

  Callum stirred beside her and took her hand in his. “What are you thinking about, mo dearbadan-de?”

  “The wedding.”

  He squeezed her hand. “You’ve not changed your mind, I hope.”

  “No,” she said, giving him a smile. “I can’t wait until we’re married.”

  “Neither can I. Nor till the honeymoon.”

  Zapped by a high-wattage surge of desire, she shot a glance toward the lighted lavatory sign, which, to her delight, read “unoccupied.” She smiled at him and waggled her eyebrows suggestively. “Why wait when the Mile-High Clubhouse is at our disposal?”

  He glanced around the first-class cabin, which contained only a smattering of passengers. “You mean do it in the lavatory?”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s a bit cramped, don’t you think?”

  She laughed, not dissuaded, and tucked her handbag under her arm. “Surely, you can rise to the challenge.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “Meet me there in two minutes.” She got to her feet and squeezed past his knees. “Just be sure the stewardess isn’t watching.” Lowering her voice, she added, “I’m not sure what they’d do if they caught us and I’d rather not find out.”

  “They’ll put us in jail, lass,” he said. “Under British law, having relations in an airplane loo is akin to doing the deed in a public place.”

  Vanessa made her way to the lavatory, forced open the door, and stepped inside. Callum was right. The compartment was tiny and he was a big man. Making a tight turn, she slid the lock to activate the “occupied” sign before sitting down on the toilet. After stripping off her knickers, she stuffed them in her purse and waited for his knock.

  Right on time, he rapped softly. Jumping up, she released the lock and shoved open the door. There, as expected, stood Callum—her fiancé—looking good enough to eat or, better yet, fuck in mid-air. “Did anyone see you?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  She stuck her head out and looked up and down the aisle, just to be sure. Nobody was paying any attention. “If anybody says anything, tell them I was airsick and you were holding back my hair like the caring fiancé you are.”

  Fiancé.

  It surprised her how much she liked saying the word. Madam Butterfly had been caught at last. Who would believe it? It was still hard for her to grasp how well things had worked out—and how differently from what she’d expected when she attended his book signing in John o’Groats.

  With a laugh, he stepped inside, forcing her backward into the cramped compartment, and secured the door.

  She threw her arms around his neck and hung there as he unfastened his trousers. He pulled up her skirt, cupped her bare buttocks with both hands, and lifted her into the air. She made a little hop, wrapped her legs around his thighs, and pressed her lips against his. When he gave her his tongue, she sucked on it as she ground her pubis against his erection. He thrust in an attempt to enter her, but missed. She lowered one of her hands, took hold of his cock, and guided it toward her wet, aching orifice.

  A soft knock on the door halted her progress and nearly stopped her heart. She and Callum exchanged worried looks before he let her go and hastily zipped up.

  “Are you almost done in there?” a woman called through the door.

  “My wife’s sick,” he returned. “And I’m looking after her. Could you maybe use another lavatory?”

  “Of course,” the woman said. “I hope she’ll be all right.”

  The moment had passed. They’d have to join the Mile High Club some other time. Still, she wasn’t too disappointed. When he called her his wife, she’d almost had an orgasm.

  * * * *

  Worn out after a sleepless night and the long flight, Callum slept most of the way from the stopover in Newark to the runway in Edinburgh. He was still feeling a bit bleary as he and Vanessa wended their way through the arrival terminal, collected their luggage, and rented a car.

  Outside, it was cold and raining hard—a drastic and welcome change from the suffocating heat of New Orleans. Vanessa pulled a collapsible umbrella out of her handbag and opened it over the both of them, pleasantly surprising him.

  When they reached the designated vehicle, he stowed the luggage, opened her door, and ran around to the driver’s side. Slipping in behind the wheel, he fired up the engine and pointed the nondescript silver sedan toward the Royal Mile.

  He flipped on the windshield wipers and headlamps. Rain pelted the roof as he pulled out of the garage. The clock on the dash told him it was after eleven, so he would head straight for the pub. The U.B. was in Cowgate, near the South Bridge vaults, and stocked more than a hundred brands of whisky. The bar was a bit dodgy, as was the neighborhood, but two Avalonians were more than equal to any trouble that might arise. At the very least, they could shift into Simba and Nala and scare the living shit out of any hooli
gans who were daft enough to mess with them.

  “Why’s the pub called the U.B.? What do the initials stand for?” she asked as she watched the passing scenery.

  He flicked a gaze in her direction. “For Uisge-Beatha, which means Water of Life. It’s what we Scots call single-malt whisky.”

  “Oh,” she said, putting her hand on his thigh, “Tell me about Tom.”

  “What’s there to tell? He’s an editor for my publishers who are based here in Auld Reeky.”

  Her head pivoted toward him. “Did you just say Auld Reeky?”

  “That’s what we used to call Edinburgh. On account of the chimney smoke. Since you’re going to be a Scottish baroness soon, you might want to brush up on our language and slang.”

  “Learn Gaelic, you mean?”

  “And Scots.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “Gaelic is the language of the Highlands and Islands,” he explained, “while Scots is a bastardized form of English spoken by the lowlanders.”

  He taught her a few words of both as he drove through the rain, straining to make out the street signs. He drove past the pub, found a parking space a couple of blocks away, and backed in. He shut off the engine and when she started to get out, he grabbed her arm.

  “Let me get your door.”

  “I’m not an invalid.”

  “I know that, but you’re my lady. It’s a matter of respect, Vanessa, not a slight.”

  He thought she might argue, but she didn’t. Good. He meant to treat her like a queen for the rest of eternity.

  After getting out of the car, he ran around to her side, rain pelting, and opened the door. She popped the umbrella before climbing out and, as the two of them huddled under it, he put an arm around her waist and ushered her toward the pub.

  He was more curious than nervous about the meeting with Tom. Was his editor more than human? At the entrance, Callum stopped, let her go, and opened the door. As she stepped inside, she collapsed the umbrella and dropped it in a stand provided for that purpose. Following her into the bar, he surveyed their surroundings.

  The place had been refurbished—modernized—since he’d last been there. He wasn’t particularly keen on the new décor, but at least the seats still looked comfy. Putting a hand on her lower back, he guided her past the bar and toward his favorite booth, which occupied a turreted alcove overlooking the street. He liked the view of the bustling capital, which he seldom visited, even through the obfuscating drizzle. Once settled, he ran his fingers through his rain-kissed hair, looked across at her, and warmed all the way to his core.

  “At the risk of sounding like a caveman, I like being back in Scotland with you by my side.”

  “At the risk of sounding like a dependent female,” she returned with an affectionate smile, “I like being here with you.”

  Reaching across the table, he took both her hands in his.

  “I love you, you know,” he told her, looking into her bonny blue eyes, “more than anything in the world.”

  “I love you, too,” she replied, demurely dropping her gaze, “more than I ever thought possible.”

  Her words warmed him and made him want her again. It was late, so they’d spend the night here in Edinburgh and set off for Gretna Green tomorrow. He’d booked a room at a boutique hotel in a better part of town.

  He squeezed her hands and shot a glance toward the crowded bar. There was no table service, so he’d have to fetch their drinks. “What would you like?”

  “Will you still love me if I say I want a Pimm’s with a twist of lemon?”

  He gave her a reassuring smile. “I shall love you till all the stars fall down from the sky.”

  At the bar, he ordered their drinks—a Pimm’s for her and a double Oban for himself. After he paid and got back his change, he counted it carefully before stuffing it in his pocket. In this part of town, the barkeeps made a nasty habit of short-changing gullible customers. He carried their beverages to the table, set them down, and, this time, slid in beside Vanessa. Moving close, he leaned in, kissed her ear, and nuzzled her neck. The sweet smell of her flesh and hair delighted his senses.

  When she loudly cleared her throat, he straightened up. There sat Tom on the opposite side of the table, beaming at him, looking much as he had the last time they’d met here—which was what—more than a year ago? Still the same puckish good looks, bright blue eyes, and sandy brown hair that fall in wavy layers over his forehead and collar.

  “You’re looking well.” Callum said, shaking the editor’s hand.

  “As are you,” Tom returned with a grin.

  “Tom Earlston, may I present Lady Vanessa Bentley, my fiancée.”

  Tom smiled broadly as he nodded toward Vanessa. “I congratulate you both. When’s the happy day?”

  “Tomorrow, God willing.” Callum was eager to get on with their business, as he was rapidly running out of steam and still wanted to celebrate his engagement to Vanessa. When he’d booked the hotel, he’d ordered the romance package, which included long-stemmed red roses, a magnum of French champagne, and Belgian chocolates.

  “So, you’re working with Count St. Germain and the rebels?”

  “Aye. That I am.”

  “Doing what, exactly?”

  “Gathering support, mostly.”

  “What can I do? More than make a donation, I hope.”

  “Contributions are always welcome, of course, but that’s not why you’re here.”

  “Why then?”

  “We need you to keep an eye out for astronomical phenomena,” Tom told him. “The prophecy says there will be a sign in the heavens when it’s time to take action.”

  “What kind of sign? Do you know?” Callum asked.

  “I wish I did.” Tom looked down at his drink and ran his finger around the rim of the glass. “Something fairly significant, I should imagine.”

  “It could be anything from a planetary opposition to a meteor shower to a lunar eclipse,” Callum mused aloud. All would occur more than once in the coming year.

  Tom met Callum’s gaze. “I thought maybe Halley’s Comet.”

  Chewing his lower lip, Callum considered the possibility. Halley’s Comet, which was visible to the naked eye every 75 to 76 years, wasn’t due to reappear until 2061. “That’s quite a ways away.”

  “I ken that,” Tom said, “but there’s no telling how long we’ll have to wait for the sign. Not too many more years, I hope. Finn’s not daft. St. Germain won’t be able to pull the wool over his eyes much longer.”

  “When was the prophecy made? Can you tell me that much?”

  Tom took a gulp of his drink. “Aye, since I’m the one who made the prediction.”

  Callum nearly choked. “You?”

  “Indeed,” Tom confirmed with an upward glance. “The premonition came to me in a dream a few hundred years ago—back when I was known as Thomas the Rhymer.”

  Callum’s mouth fell open for a moment before he lifted his drink to his lips to hide his astonishment. He took a sip and set the glass back down with a thunk. Amazement now mixed with a slight intoxication hummed in his bloodstream.

  Thomas the Rhymer was a legendary prophet who obtained the gift of second sight from Glorianna, the queen of Elphame, the Seelie court under Wales.

  Vanessa looked his way, then at Tom before sipping her martini. She clearly had no idea who Thomas the Rhymer was. He set a hand on her thigh under the table and gave it a squeeze, hoping she’d take his meaning. He’d tell her the whole story later, when they were alone.

  “You made the prophecy?” Callum asked, still struggling to come to grips with the unexpected revelation.

  “You seem surprised.”

  “Why wouldn’t I be? I thought you were an ordinary book editor. A damn good one, mind you, but still ordinary.”

  Tom grinned at him. “Didn’t I tell you your books would do well?”

  “Aye, but don’t all editor
s puff up their authors in a similar fashion?”

  “It wasn’t flattery,” Tom said with a frown, “I foresaw your success. I just never figured you for a knight of Avalon. But then, why would I when I was given to believe Leith MacQuill was the only one of your kind on this side of the veil?”

  The mention of MacQuill gave Callum a qualm. “That’s right. You’re MacQuill’s editor as well.”

  “Aye. And I’d like the pair of you to kiss and make up.”

  Callum bristled at the suggestion. Maybe MacQuill hadn’t killed Belphoebe, but he still didn’t like the man. He’d heard from some of the lasses at Madam Pennick’s that MacQuill was into whips and chains.

  “Why?”

  “Because you’ll be working together when the time comes and we don’t want any festering dissention in the ranks.”

  “Does MacQuill know about Finn?”

  Tom, suddenly grim, shook his head. “As far as he kens, Belphoebe died before giving birth. From the curse Queen Morgan put on him.”

  “Are you at liberty to disclose what kind of curse it is?”

  “The cruelest sort imaginable. Any he should give his heart to will die.”

  “How awful,” Vanessa said beside him, her tone steeped in compassion. “Thank God she didn’t put a curse like that on you.”

  “Only because she believes me dead,” Callum said. And he would be—or worse—if Queen Morgan ever learned of his treachery.

  “Nay,” Tom said, shaking his head, “especially if I had MacQuill’s depth of feeling. He rarely leaves his castle and is struggling financially.”

  Callum took another slug of whisky and licked the smoky flavor from his lips. His heart had thawed a wee bit where MacQuill was concerned, but was still far from warm. “If he’s broke, why doesn’t he write another bloody book?”

  “Writer’s block,” Tom said. “A crippling case. He’s desperate and wants me to come for a visit, to see if I can help. I thought you might like to accompany me.”

  “I’d love to.” Callum forced a smile. In truth, he’d rather chew the glass in his hand then set foot inside MacQuill’s dark lair of perversion.