He climbed into the car, stuck the key in the ignition, turned it, and got the same result she had gotten the night before. Nothing. Owen popped back out of the car.
“Well, I'll take a look.” He opened the hood, then turned back to Arianna. “Ye ken, I can do this by me self, if ye have some place else to be.”
It took her a moment to realize she'd been more or less politely told to leave. She shrugged, turning back to the castle.
“I'll just be in the library. Let me know how much I owe for the repairs.”
She felt Craig's eyes on her as she walked to the kitchen door. With her hand on the latch she turned. He was standing where she'd left him, watching her. But there was no way she could decipher what the man was thinking. She didn't think she would ever be able to understand that man.
Chapter Seven
The library was cool and dark, and she lit the lamp that sat on the table. She wished she knew how to make a fire in the hearth, but she was afraid she'd start something on fire, or fill the room with smoke. Instead she pulled a scarf from her bag and wrapped it around her neck.
She walked around the room, scanning the spines of the books, finally pulling out a thin leather-bound volume that proved to be a diary of a relative who apparently lived at the castle during the time of Ross Cameron. It was like finding gold, if the author had recorded daily events. Even the smallest mention of Cameron, something innocuous, might prove to be the key to unlocking the mystery of the man.
But even in something written by a contemporary, Ross Cameron was an elusive figure. There were only brief passages about the man who should have been in constant residence. And those few words barely described the man, much less gave her any clues about him she could follow.
“Finding what ye want?”
She looked up, not entirely surprised to find Craig leaning against the door frame, watching her. Closing the book, she sighed.
“The more I search for him, the more elusive he becomes.”
His expression darkened, and for a minute she thought he was going to turn and leave. It was clear to her there was some internal struggle, something he wanted to say, but apparently wasn't going to.
“I canna help ye with that. But...” He stepped into the library, keys in his hand. “Owen sorted out the car.” The keys jangled as he set them on the desk. The sound had a finality she didn't like. It represented her freedom, but she wasn't ready to leave. At least not until she'd gotten the answers she was looking for. She just needed to avoid Craig, and his mysterious and seductive wiles. She would bury herself in her work. That's what she'd do.
“What do I owe him? Is he still here?” She grabbed her wallet from her bag.
“He's gone. It's been taken care of.”
She stared up at him. “Do I pay you?”
He shook his head. “Nay. No need.” He turned away, glancing over his shoulder as he left the room. “There's lunch, if you're interested.” She watched him disappear.
The sound of his boots faded down the hall. She was hungry, now that her headache had faded away. And she could probably manage to eat with Craig; after all, it wasn't likely he'd throw her over the table and take her among the lunch dishes. But she'd remain professional, keep her distance. She'd ask questions, but only for research.
The kitchen smelled familiar, and she was immediately taken back to her childhood, and Sunday dinner at her grandmother's house. A wave of nostalgia washed over her, and she suddenly felt small and vulnerable. But maybe that feeling wasn't totally due to the memory of being a child. Seeing Craig at the counter, back to her, set off a whole symphony of feelings, memories of last night crowding against this morning's harsh feeling of betrayal. Sensing her there, he glanced at her over his shoulder as she entered, nodding at the table.
“Sit. It's only chicken pie.”
That was the familiar aroma, chicken and herbs, baked in a crust. She'd eaten that every Sunday for years. But this wasn't her grandmother's kitchen in Nova Scotia; this was Scotland, and this was a man who'd taken advantage of her, emotionally, physically.
“It's fine, I'm sure.” She pulled out a rush-seated chair, dropped into it. A cup of tea appeared almost instantly at her elbow.
“About Owen, paying him, I mean. I want to pay him...or you.”
She watched as he cut into the pie, carefully lifting out a very generous serving. The plate joined her tea, the aroma of chicken and herbs rising up in a fragrant cloud.
“Nay. I said it was taken care of.”
“But I can't let you...”
He sat down at the head of the table with his plate. “Aye, but, you're not letting me do anything, Miss. I paid him because I wanted to.”
We were back to the formal today. Arianna sighed; she had just been a one-night stand. Picking up her fork she broke off a piece of crust, lifting it to her mouth. It was buttery and delicate.
“There's sommat bothering you. What is it?”
She looked up, startled. “What makes you think something's wrong? And what business is it of yours?”
His smile surprised her. “I may be a recluse, but I've known my share of women. Ye have it written all over ye face that you're upset.” He set down his fork, hands resting on the table. “It's about last night. About what happened between the sheets...between us.”
Her face grew hot, but she held his gaze. “Yes. It's about last night. I think...I feel like you used me. Took advantage of me, just because I was here. An easy mark.”
It was out in the open between them, and there was no going back. She thought he'd argue his side, or worse, laugh and brush her off, dismiss her. That would be painful, humiliating, and she wasn't sure now she really wanted to deal with being told she was right.
His gaze was level, dark eyes holding hers. “Well, ye are here. And I did take ye.” One corner of his mouth curled in a brief smile. But it faded.
“It might seem I did use ye. But if I tell ye I didn't, would you believe me?”
“Oh. Well...” She hadn't expected that as a response.
“Ye have yer mind set. But I'll tell ye the truth.”
She found she was playing with her fork and made the effort to put it aside.
“Yer not just a girl I bedded because ye were here. And I didn't bed ye because ye look like her either. Ye are a beautiful woman, Arianna. Ye...touched a part of me no woman has touched in a long time. I bedded ye because it was what I wanted...I wanted ye. And I thought ye wanted it too...that ye wanted me.”
The heat rose in her face, and she dropped her eyes. He leaned forward and set one finger beneath her chin, and she let him raise her face to his.
“Do not look away from me, Arianna. Look at me.”
His dark eyes were lit with an inner fire, a fire that pulled her in. When he leaned further across the space between them she met him, his lips claiming hers. The kiss was brief, but searing.
“Ye aren't just a passing fancy for me. I ken ye'll be leaving, but while ye be here...”
He rose, holding out his hand. “Will ye come with me again?”
His request was so direct, so simple. She stood and took his hand, nodding, not trusting her voice. He led her out of the kitchen, leaving their lunch cooling on the table.
They entered the hall and for a moment she pulled against him as she turned one way, and he turned the other, away from the room he'd taken her to last night. This time he guided her down a short hall, deeper into the castle. The door he opened was small, set into an alcove, easily missed.
This room was different, obviously lived in, slightly disordered but clean. Clothes hung from hooks in an open cabinet, books lined a small shelf by the bed. The room smelled of Craig, clean and masculine, of hard work and the sweat that comes from it. If there was ever an aphrodisiac, that had to be it.
He pulled her into the room, turned to her, and brought her against his body. The movement was so smooth, so natural, it caught her off guard. He was graceful in the way certain men are, and for an insane m
oment she thought he'd be wonderful dance partner.
But dancing wasn't on his mind, or hers. With infinite care he reached up, touching her face with his fingertips, tracing the planes of her cheeks, her jaw, her mouth. As he touched her, she parted her lips, and he slipped a finger between them. He tasted salty, earthy, and she sucked gently on his finger. His lips parted in response as he drew in a breath. She held his gaze, watching his eyes darken, pupils dilating.
She took his hand, gently pulling it down until it rested on her breast. He smiled at her, eyes heavy-lidded, hardly needing any encouragement. He cupped her fully, his large hand a perfect fit against her.
It was different, here in the daylight, watching as he ran his hands over her body, fingers plucking at the hem of her shirt. She let him pull it up over her head, and then he was working the clasp of her bra. It came away and she shrugged out of it, letting Craig drop it to the floor.
His shirt followed a moment later, and then he pulled her against him, her breasts crushed against his chest. He held her for a long moment, looking down at her, his face close to hers, but not kissing her. She felt as if he was memorizing something, the lines on her face, or the curve of her cheek, the fullness of her lips. Or how much she looked like Bridget.
“What do you see, Craig? What are you looking at?”
“The differences. Ye think I’m looking at Bridget in ye, but I’m not.” He touched her left cheek, just below her eye. “Ye have a mark here…” His finger moved lower, running over her lips.
“They curve at the corners, even when ye not be smiling. And here…” His hand moved back to cup the fullness of one breast, running a thumb over one nipple. “These be the color of roses in bloom.”
She drew in a sharp breath as a piercing feeling shot through her, a combination of arousal and longing, something achingly sweet, and almost sad. Her eyes prickled with sudden tears. He must miss her terribly, she thought. And I’m a poor substitute.
“I’m sorry I’m not her.”
He pulled his head up, eyes suddenly bright. “Do not be sorry. Ye not be her. I don’t expect ye to be. Some fate as made ye similar in face and form, but I know in my heart and soul she’s dead. And ye be here, warm and alive.”
His voice had roughened, deepened. “It’s ye that I want. As much as I miss her, have for decades, it’s something in ye that draws me, not the way ye look.”
She didn’t really believe him. But she found she didn’t care.
She lay with her head resting on his shoulder, drowsy, on the edge of drifting off, even though it was only afternoon. He shifted beneath her and for a moment her heart dropped, thinking he was going to leave. But he only reached down, pulling the linen sheet higher over his chest, up over her shoulder.
“I'll not be leaving ye today, unless I do. But I'll come back.”
She smiled at his convoluted speech, idly wondering if he'd grown up speaking Gaelic. But the thought passed from her head, irrelevant and unimportant.
“Do ye believe me now, that ye weren't just a passing fancy?”
“Another go in the sheets isn't necessarily definitive proof that I'm not.”
His voice rumbled against her cheek. She closed her eyes, smiling.
“Alright. I'll agree with ye.”
They were quiet for a few moments. The silence was somehow comfortable, and she listened to his slow breathing, the steady beat of his heart. He shifted again, drew a deep breath, and she lay still, waiting for whatever was coming next.
“Ye know nothing about me, so it's fair play that ye feel the way ye do. If I tell ye sommat maybe ye'll see me in a different light.”
“You're right. I don't know anything about you, other than you know your way around an anvil. And your name's Craig James.”
There was no rumbling laugh this time, only silence. And that silence now seemed strained. She felt a muscle in his arm tense, his fingers closing against her skin.
“About that...my name's not Craig James.”
“Huh? It’s not?” Her voice carried the wave of panic that had suddenly rose in her chest, threatening to steal her breath.
“Nay… It's Ross Cameron.”
She tried to sit up, to look at his face, to see if he was teasing her. But his arm tightened around her, holding her to his chest. She thought if she wanted to, she could push away. But something made her stay, something in the tone of his voice.
“Ross Cameron? A descendant of the owner of the castle?” She must have misunderstood him.
“Nay. Not a descendant. I am Ross Cameron.”
A thousand thoughts flew through her head, one rising quickly to the top. He was crazy, unbalanced. She'd not only been taken advantage of, she'd been taken advantage of by a maniac.
“I'm not mad, in that way, at least. I will nae hurt ye, if that’s yer worry. Let me tell ye the story. Just let me do this much.”
The eerie sensation of hearing her thoughts articulated sent a shiver through her. “I...I don't think you're mad.” Even to her own ears she didn’t sound convincing.
He laughed at this. “Ye do, and it's alright. Like I said yesterday, I think I am too sometimes. But I am Cameron.”
“How can that be? You'd be...” She tried to do the math, but her mind refused to cooperate. “You'd be really old.”
There was a beat of silence. “I am old. Older than anyone has a right to be.”
It was her turn to laugh. “You're just making this up. It's not possible...you can't be that Ross Cameron. Stop playing around.”
“I asked ye if ye believed in magic. Do ye remember?”
She nodded. “Yes. But magic is...”
“Not real?”
“Right. It's make-believe. Fairy tales for little kids.”
“You’ve heard the legends, know the stories, aye?”
“Well, yes. But that’s all they are, legends and stories. Things made up to attract tourists…” She hesitated. There were no tourists, apparently had never been any. And Craig…or Cameron…whoever he was certainly wasn’t encouraging any.
“They’re just made up.”
“They’re based in the truth. And that’s my story.”
“Your story?”
“Aye. I am Ross Cameron. The son of Lawrence Cameron. I am the Lord of Castle Cameron…or as you call it, Castle Nathair.”
He said it with such conviction that if she closed her eyes, forgot what year it really was, she almost believed him. An image from the forge, the first day she’d seen him: clad in a kilt, sweat-sheened muscles bulging as he hammered a piece of iron into submission, sparks rising around him. He certainly looked the part of an ancient Scotsman. But that wasn’t the same as being Ross Cameron, the original Ross Cameron.
“Ye don’t believe me, and I don’t blame ye. But here’s the way of it, how it came to be. I was born in the Year of our Lord, 1742, in the room at the top of the stairs, across from the library. My mother died the following day.”
“I read that. She died…” How could she say his mother died because of him? “As a result…because of…”
She felt Craig—or Cameron; she wasn't quite sure how to think of him now—shake his head. “Nay. It wasn’t not because of me she died. I mean, not during all of it. It was later. My father, he’d left to go to the village for the doctor. She…” His voice faltered, the first sign of emotion he’d shown in telling his story. He ran his hand absently over her arm for a moment.
“She had a fever. There was no one with her. The only other person here, Cook, was in the garden. My mother fell down one of the unfinished stairways. Her neck was broken.”
He drew a deep breath, held it a moment and then let it out slowly. “My father came home, found me crying. He’d brought the doctor, but there was nothing for him to do. I was fine. My mother was dead.”
“I’m so sorry…” The words, said hundreds of years too late, seemed wholly inadequate.
“My father closed off the hallway, moved to the downstairs rooms, never finis
hed building the castle. And then he died of a broken heart.”
She remembered the abrupt end to the hall, the oddly placed stone wall near the library.
“And then?”
“I was sent to a convent, to be raised by nuns. My father had money, left to me. When I was old enough to know what I wanted, I ran away, came back here…came home.”
“What did you find?”
“After almost fifteen years? Dust, spider webs. An empty building, some of it in ruins. But it was home. My home.”
Gently he shifted her off of him, moving to sit up against the carved head of the bed. She sat up and his arm went round her shoulders, pulling her against him again. There was a proprietary feel to his embrace. She should have disliked the feel, but she found it oddly comforting, subtly erotic and arousing.
“I cleaned enough of the place for myself. The kitchen. This room. The library.” A hesitation. “The room with Bridget's portrait.”
“And the forge?”
“That came later. After…” His voice faded away again.
“After what?”
“This is where I need ye to believe me.” He turned toward her, setting his finger beneath her chin, tipping her face to his. “It’s important that ye try to believe me. Can ye do that?”
“Why?”
“Why do I need ye to believe me? Because…”
“No. I mean, why me? Why is it me that needs to believe you? You could have told this...whatever it is...to anyone.”
He looked into her face, his eyes locked with hers. “I canna tell you why. I’ve never told anyone this story. But I want to…need to. And ye…” He reached up, brushing a tangled strand of hair away from her forehead. “Ye be the first woman I’ve wanted to tell. The first since it happened.”
“What happened?”
“Magic. Since the magic happened. Since I was cursed.”
Laughter burbled up for an instant, but the seriousness in his voice, the way he looked at her quelled that impulse. He was serious, deadly serious. Whether he was crazy was another matter. But he was serious about what he was saying.
Kiss Of Fire (BBW Dragon Shifter Paranormal Romance): Dragon Shifter Romance Page 5