by Nina Mason
Biting his lip, he moved to the third and final card, the harbinger of things to come. His breath caught when he saw what it was.
The Tower.
The card of ruination.
Bloody hell. Not what he cared to see in his future. Quite the opposite, in fact. If the card’s meaning was as literal as the first two seemed to be, he could guess what it signified. His worst fears would come to pass and there wasn’t a bloody thing he could do to stop it.
He shook his head in dismay. Enough navel-gazing. He wasn’t ruined yet, and it was time to join his wife’s doppelganger for dinner.
* * * *
When Gwyn entered the dining room, she found the table set for two, a cozy blaze burning in the fireplace, and something spectacular hanging over the mantelpiece. The full-length portrait was of Sir Leith in period 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 wide strap across his chest held the basket-hilted sword at his side.
Wow. He looked as if was ready to go and fight for the Bonnie Prince. Though Sir Leith would no doubt deny the painting was a period original, she chalked it up as further confirmation of her suspicions.
Approaching footsteps drew her attention to the doorway. Excitement threaded through her at the sight of her host looking as though he just stepped out of a period drama. Or had she just stepped into one? A dark and slightly perverted Gothic romance.
His broad shoulders bore a moss-green velvet frockcoat with large buttons and cutaway tails. Underneath was a snug-fitting silk waistcoat that showed off his chest to perfection. Below the waist, form-fitting breeches left little to the imagination. Tingling warmth flooded her nether region as her gaze traced the outline of the bulge at the base of his buttoned fall-front panel. Knee-high black riding boots and an intricately tied neckcloth completed the splendid ensemble.
In one hand, he held a riding crop. In the other, he carried a pair of black-leather gloves.
Licking her lips, Gwyn turned back to the portrait. “When was this painted?”
“That’s of an ancestor who was killed at Culloden.”
She swallowed, but not the lie. “He looks just like you.”
“Does he? I hadn’t noticed.”
She kept her focus on the painting, fighting the urge to probe further. If she voiced her suspicions, it might spoil their evening, and she didn’t want to risk losing her chance to see his playroom.
“What are we having for dinner?”
“Pheasant in brandy sauce—a specialty of my housekeeper’s. Can I pour you a drink?”
Coming into the room, he moved down the long table toward a butler’s tray full of bottles and decanters. Sadly, the tails of his coat prevented her from checking out his ass. In those painted-on breeches, his backside had to be well worth a gander.
“What’s your poison?” he asked.
“I’m not particular.” She smiled through her nerves. “Anything will do.”
Looking her way, he picked up a decanter filled with some sort of golden liquor. “What about whisky? It’s a Highland single-malt. The best I can afford.”
“That sounds perfect.”
While he filled the glasses, she feasted her eyes with heightening excitement. The man wasn’t just hot, he was sex personified. Had she been wearing panties, they might have burst into flames. She wasn’t, though, so to ravage her, he only had to lift her skirts.
She imagined him doing just that before lifting her onto the table. As she spread her legs, he stepped between them and hastily unbuttoned his breeches. Heat surged through her as she gazed upon her generous version of his manhood.
Blinking the fantasy away, she fanned herself and stepped back from the fire.
“Are you all right?”
“Yes,” she said, flustered. “Just a little overheated is all.”
He set down the decanter and picked up the glasses. As he came toward her, the cut-crystal facets of the tumblers twinkled in the firelight like tiny diamonds.
“Here you are,” he said, handing her one.
She took a gulp. The burn in her throat paled beside the fire in her loins. A downward glance told her he was as keen as she was. It also unleashed a torrent of raw lust.
Flustered and unsure what to say, she blurted the first thing that came into her mind. “Why did you name your castle Glenarvon?”
Surprise registered for a moment before he swept it under the carpet of a smile. “It’s the name of a book.”
“I know that.” She licked her lips and lowered her gaze demurely. “But what significance does it have?”
He arched a dark eyebrow. “I gather you’ve not read the book.”
“No, but I know it’s about the affair between Lady Carolyn Lamb and Lord Byron.”
He took a drink and, turning his back on her, lifted his glass, as if in a toast, to the portrait over the fireplace. Then, in the cadence of a recitation, he said to the painting, “That which was disgusting or terrific to man’s nature, had no power over Glenarvon. He had looked upon the dying and the dead; had seen the tear of agony without emotion; had heard the shriek of despair, and felt the hot blood as it flowed from the heart of a murdered enemy, nor turned from the sickening sight—Even storms of nature could not move Glenarvon. In the dark night, when the tempest raged around and the stormy ocean beat against the high impending cliffs, he would venture forth, would listen to the roaring thunder without fear, and watch the forked lightning as it flashed along the sky.”
A chill shivered through Gwyn. Was he trying to tell her something? If so, she had no idea what. “Is that a direct quote from the book?”
“Aye, Miss Darling.”
He kept looking at the painting of himself in eighteenth-century Highland regalia. Why? Did he see himself as Glenarvon? Maybe. Everything he’d just said certainly applied to him. Gwyn wasn’t sure she should risk probing him further. He suddenly seemed morose and she didn’t want to make him even more maudlin. She wanted to visit his playroom after dinner. She was already in costume. Both of them were. It would be a shame to have to return to her room no better than she’d left it.
She stood there a long while, debating within herself as she started at the back of him. The view wasn’t hard on the eyes, but she still wanted him to look at her, wanted to see the expression on his face and in his eyes.
Finally, deciding she would risk provoking him further, she said, “What are you trying to tell me?”
“Glenarvon drained energy from his lovers,” he calmly explained, “just as Byron drained the women he loved before abandoning them. As Glenarvon and Calantha’s relationship progresses in the book, he becomes stronger and more dominant, while she grows progressively weaker and more subservient. At one point, he tries to warn her of the dangers of loving him. ‘My love is death,” he tells her, but to no avail. She foolishly goes on loving him in spite of his warning.”
He turned back to her then, glaring upon her with fierce malignance. Despite his almost demonic smile, distress wrinkled his forehead and colored his eyes, suggesting he struggled with something. After a few moments, his expression softened and grew more solemn.
“If a man said those words to you, Miss Darling—‘my love is death’—how would you react?”
“I don’t know,” she said, trembling under his intimidating gaze. “I guess it would depend on the man and what he meant.”
He paused, seeming to weight what he would say next, then, “What if he meant it literally?”
Literally? What in the name of Tinker Bell was he trying to tell her? She took a gulp of her drink, swallowing with effort. “You mean like he was a vampire or something?”
“Or cursed, perhaps.”
Gwyn just stared at him. He was alarming her with all his talk of blood and curses. Was that his intention? To scare her away? She licked her lips, which felt dry despite the drink in her hand. “Was Glenarvon cursed?”
“Only a
fter he left Calantha to despair over his abandonment of her.”
Despite the fire, she felt a sudden chill. When the urge to cross her arms, to protect herself, washed through her, she fought it. “I still don’t understand what you’re trying to tell me…or why you renamed your castle after Lady Carolyn’s book.”
“My love is death, Miss Darling.” The weak smile he gave her did nothing to lighten the impact of the pronouncement. “I am cursed, you see. That is the reason I roleplay. To protect my partners from my affections.”
Gwyn’s blood turned cold, then, the clouds of confusion parted, admitting a ray of realization. Suddenly, she saw him in a different light. He’d miscast himself. He wasn’t Glenarvon, he was the Beast from the fairytale. Cursed by an enchantress to lead a lonely existence. Her love would save him. She was as sure of that as she was of her name. What she wasn’t sure of was how.
“If we go forward, it must be on my terms,” he said, still looking grave. “I will assign you a role, a subservient role, and you must remain in character at all times.”
Strangely, she wasn’t afraid. Roleplaying was second nature to her. So was subservience, sadly. What didn’t sit well was having her role chosen for her. “I’m used to creating my own characters. What if I don’t like the role you assign?”
He smiled like a cat. “You need only suggest another.”
That sounded fair enough. “I’m willing, provided there’s no humiliation involved.”
“Humiliation, I’m afraid, is non-negotiable.” He sipped his whisky.
Her stomach tightened. “Will I have a safe word?”
“Of course. Choose one now, if you like.”
Gwyn sipped her drink as she racked her brain for a word that was both appropriate and meaningful. After rejecting several possibilities, she came up with one she hoped would get a rise out of him.
“Avalon.”
Purple fire flared in his eyes before they narrowed to slits. “Is that your safe word?”
Feeling triumphant but not wishing to lord her small victory over him, she fought to hide her smile. “Is that okay?”
“As good as any, I suppose.” He took a drink. “Now for our roles. You’ll be Miss Brown, the lady’s maid, while I play the role of the laird of the castle who’s just caught you en flagrante delicto in the stable with one of his grooms.”
Impressed by his creativity, she batted her lashes at him. “My, how inventive you are.”
A grin bloomed across his face, adding to his appeal. “I’m a writer, remember?” The smile drooped into a frown as he added, “Or, used to be, anyway.”
Seeing her opportunity, she asked, “Why haven’t you written another book?”
He took a breath and compressed his lips before taking another drink. “It isn’t for lack of trying, believe me.”
“You have writer’s block?”
“Aye. A rather crippling case, I’m afraid.”
“Maybe you need to get out more.”
His eyes glinted and narrowed. “Are you a writer?”
“Not really,” she said. “I’ve tried my hand at fanfiction, but it wasn’t very good.”
“Maybe you just need to get out more,” he returned.
He’d hit the nail on the head—not that she was ready to admit her naiveté. If he knew her history, he might think better of taking her into his playroom.
She lowered her head and looked up at him from under her lashes. “Maybe it would help me to get into character if you described what you saw the maid doing with the groom.”
He crossed his arms, placed a finger against his jaw, and looked pensively toward the ceiling. After a few moments, he said, “As I recall, she was on her knees in the hay while he took her from behind. Both appeared to be enjoying themselves immensely.” Meeting her gaze with a searing stare and a salacious grin, he added, “Are you getting the picture?”
She was. In glorious Technicolor. Smirking, she said, “How efficient of Miss Brown to pleasure two gentlemen at once.”
One of his eyebrows shot up. “Two? How do you figure that?”
“The groom and you,” she replied, smiling slyly.
He stepped toward her and raised his hand to her temple. His long, cool fingers brushed back a curl, sending delicious shivers through her. He smelled of something sweetly exotic and masculine. Was it amber? The fragrance was familiar, though where she knew it from she couldn’t say. When their eyes met, she forgot everything except his scent and how badly she longed for the feel of his lips on hers.
“What is your name?” he asked, withdrawing his hand.
She cleared her throat. “Gwyndolen Darling…but I go by Gwyn.”
“I will call you Miss Brown,” he said with an air of authority, “and you will call me Lord and Master. While we are roleplaying, anyway.”
A clearing throat drew her attention to the doorway. There stood Mr. Brody in the livery of an eighteenth-century butler, right down to the curly white periwig. “Everything is ready, my lord,” he said to Sir Leith. “Shall I bring in the first course?”
“Aye, Gavin, do,” said his master. “We were just about to ring.”
I was about to ring all right, she thought, bemused, but not for the butler.
As the accommodating Mr. Brody departed, Sir Leith met her gaze with sizzling intensity, cracking the whip on her already galloping desire.
“Shall we take our seats?”
He gestured toward the table, which was big enough to seat twelve, making the two place-settings at the far end seem rather lonely. The one at the head of the table was meant for him, presumably, so she made her way to the other.
In a blink, he was behind her chair, pulling it out. As she swept into her seat, he bent over and flicked his tongue against her flesh, sending heavenly tremors through her body. The nip of teeth that followed made her flinch in surprise. Was he planning to drink her blood? In Knight of Cups, he described the act as an extremely erotic experience.
Grabbing the artfully folded cloth napkin from atop the stack of gold-edged plates, she spread the cloth across her lap.
Moving to the head of the table, he grabbed the ewer of red wine beside his place-setting. After filling both their goblets, he replaced the ewer and took his seat.
They drank their wine in silence, the air thick with sexual tension. God, how she wanted him, but also wanted a better idea of what to expect when they reached the dungeon. She opened her mouth, ready to inquire, but closed it again when she remembered his dictate to stay in character.
“How do you like the wine, Miss Brown?” he asked before taking another sip of his own.
She picked up her napkin and dabbed at her cleavage, which was damp with perspiration. “I might enjoy it more, Lord and Master, if I knew how you planned to punish me for what took place in the stable.”
“Patience, Miss Brown.” He licked his lips in a way that made her weak. “All will be revealed in due course.”
Mr. Brody brought in a tureen and proceeded to ladle cream-colored bisque into the gold-rimmed china bowls before them. The smell of seafood reminded her she was hungry for more than erotic experience.
She kept her focus on her bowl until the butler left the room. Risking a glance at Sir Leith, she found him staring at her. Her face heated as their gazes met with a high-voltage spark.
Pulling her gaze away, she picked up her spoon and dipped the bowl into the soup. Acutely aware of his every movement, she slurped the hot liquid, tasting a rich combination of crab, sherry, and cream.
She still couldn’t believe she was here, having dinner with the man she had fantasized about for years. Granted, she never saw herself strapped to a table in his BDSM dungeon, but she was more than open to the experience, especially if it could pave the way to real intimacy with him.
The butler came in with the main course and dished the food onto their plates. When Sir Leith began to eat, she followed suit. The pheasant tasted a great deal like chicken, though with a denser texture and gamie
r flavor.
When they finished their meals, Mr. Brody returned to clear the dishes. As he left the room, Sir Leith rose from the table, picked up his goblet, and took the wine to the fireplace. Gwyn turned in her chair so she could observe him. He was studying the portrait over the mantle with a thoughtful expression.
“Perhaps I do resemble him a bit,” he said. “Something around the eyes…”
Gwyn knew he was trying to throw her off the scent. The portrait was probably painted in 1745, right before he joined the rising. Before she could give voice to her suspicions, he was behind her chair, pulling it out. As she rose in a rustle of petticoats, he grabbed a candlestick off the mantle and hooked his arm through hers.
“Come, Miss Brown. It is time you were called to account for your scandalous actions--by a man with the power to indulge the wickedness that dwells in the hearts of most. Play the part as you see fit, but don’t break character without first invoking the safe word.” He looked at her as he added, “Are you clear on the parameters?”
“Yes.”
He led her into a shadowy corner, where he swiped aside the Persian carpet, revealing the trap door underneath. Letting go of her arm, he crouched to open the hatch, releasing a belch of cool, musty air. As he swept the candlestick over the opening, she saw steps descending into the darkness below.
Trepidation blew through her like icy wind. “You won’t hurt me, right?”
He looked up at her with eyes full of hellfire and a devilish grin on his lips. “There’s a fine line between pleasure and pain, Miss Brown. Tonight, you and I are going to walk that line together.”
Dread tightened her stomach. Suddenly, she wasn’t sure she wanted to walk that or any other line. She took a deep breath and stared down her fear. She could do this—and if she couldn’t, she had a safe word. It was natural to be nervous, given her history and what she was about to do. If, however, she clung to what was comfortable, her life would never get better.
As he started down the steps, his boots heavy on the chiseled stones, her mind conjured a picture of her hanging from the ceiling in only a dog collar and handcuffs, her flesh pinched by hundreds of clothespins.