Dark and Stormy Knight (2 page)

Mental haze covered the tail of the thought. The creature, whatever she was, went on drinking. His limbs were growing weak. He could no longer wiggle his toes or make a fist.

Euphoria sluiced through him, rinsing away his concerns. Had he died and gone to heaven? While it felt like heaven, the stench of death and distant wailing aroused fears he might be in hell instead.

Mother Mary knelt beside his head and pulled him into her arms. Her breasts—large, firm, high, and as pale as fresh cream—were exposed. They were the loveliest he’d ever seen, and he’d seen his share.

He was in heaven, all right. But would God boot him out for gazing upon his sainted mother with lustful thoughts?

Holy Mary, Mother of God,

Blessed art thou amongst women

And blessed art thy beautiful paps

Oh, aye. He was going to hell for certain.

She took hold of his face and pulled him against her, coaxing him onto one of her wee rosy teats as if he were a drowsy bairn. He closed his lips round her nipple and sucked. A sea of black ink rose inside his mind and carried him away.

When he returned to himself, it was night. He was still under the tree, lying on a bed of pine straw. Cold air touched every part of him. He lifted his head to have a look around.

His clothes and the White Woman were gone.

Had he imagined her? If so, how the devil had he ended up naked? His plaid, shirt, and coat were no more. Had looters stripped him, believing him dead? Maybe, but if scavengers had found him, why had they not taken his broadsword as well? The weapon was worth a vast deal more than his sorry garments.

Bewildered, he scratched his chin. Smooth skin rather than coarse whiskers greeted his fingertips, surprising him. Who’d shaved him? Not scavengers, surely. He sniffed his armpits, detecting none of their usual stink. His body, too, felt clean. And, saints be praised, his hair was louse-free for the first time in months.

Sitting up, he reached around to his back. There was no wound, no swelling, and no pain.

He blinked several times. Was he hallucinating?

The crunch of footsteps on dry leaves raised his inner shield. He started to scramble for cover, but abandoned the effort when he saw the raven-haired lass coming through the trees.

His missing clothing was draped over both her arms like a priest’s holy vestments.

“We have little time.” She knelt beside him. “Once you are the queen’s knight, you will be forbidden other partners.”

Queen? What queen? He opened his mouth to ask, but her question cut him off.

“By what name are you called, my lover?”

“MacDubh,” he croaked through his parched throat. “Heathcliff MacDubh.”

“I am Belphoebe.” She spread the plaid over him. “My sister, Amoret, is tending another not far from here. The rest of the wounded have been killed. Those who escaped were burned alive, shot, or hung. Any still on the moor have had their skulls bashed in.”

Her disclosure scourged him to the bone. Struck dumb, he took a moment to recover his wits. “What of the prince? Has he been killed or captured?”

“Nay.” She kept her voice low. “He and some of his officers got away, but are being hunted as we speak.”

Heath swallowed hard, shut his eyes, and lay back. In the stories, any taken by the faeries did not come back for hundreds of years, if they came back at all.

A precious moment from the past came into his mind. His beloved Clara outstretched beneath him, both of them naked, his stubbled face perched atop the dome of her pregnant belly. They’d just made love, and he was saying his farewells to her and the bairn.

Chest constricting, he lifted his gaze to the heavens.

“
Please, God, keep them safe and let them know in some way how sorry I am and how much I loved them.”

Gwyn let out a satisfied sigh and closed the novel. Leigh Ruthven’s first and only book,
The Knight of Cup
s had never been adapted for the screen—something she’d come to Scotland to change.

If only she could get access to the reclusive author.

For weeks, she’d tried to contact Leigh Ruthven through the official channels, but without success. Then, while surfing online for another avenue, she stumbled upon “Castles and Cairns,” a two-week excursion offering a brand-new feature: a night at Castle Glenarvon, the hermetic author’s Highland hideaway.

A lucky break, for once in her life.

Beside her, Mrs. Dowd was still knitting.

Click, click. Click, click.

Turning toward the window, Gwyn tightened her grip on the book. If the author was at home, she’d leave the screenplay where Ms. Ruthven would happen upon it the same way she’d done with Mr. Robbins, the head of production at the Hollywood movie studio where Gwyn worked as an assistant.

Thunderheads now filled the sky, but she didn’t care. In fact, she rather hoped it would rain. She would take brooding ambiance over sunny superficiality any day of the week.

Rain was so atmospheric and romantic. Like in that scene in
The Quiet Man
where John Wayne, his wet shirt clinging to his bare chest, kissed Maureen O’Hara in the cemetery as the rain poured down.

God, yes. Bring on the rain. And with it, a man like Sean Thornton or, better yet, Heath MacDubh, to kiss all her fears away. And the pain she worked so hard to deny. Too bad they didn’t make men like them anymore. Not that, even if they did, any dashing leading man worth his salt would give a wimpy bit player like her the time of day.

She played small, hid in the background, lived in fear—of rejection, criticism, failure, and just about everything else.

Even success.

With any luck, Scotland would change her. Transform Gwyn the Meek into Gwyn the Bold. There was magic here, after all. Her father had told her as much. Real magic, too. Not just the phony kind produced in Hollywood.

Leith looked around the shed’s interior through the black-and-white lens of a cat. Assorted rakes and hoes hung on pegs. A stack of clay pots, some chipped, one broken, stood near the door. Bags of mulch and manure, all unopened, were stacked here and there. A coiled length of hose lay in one corner. A pair of rubber Wellies awaited their absent owner beside a potting bench. A cobweb-laced wheelbarrow was propped on end against the far wall.

Keeping up the grounds of Castle Glenarvon was more than he could handle. If only he could afford a proper gardener.

Chasing the human thought away, he padded to the door, which he’d purposely left ajar when he entered. Hooking a paw around the front edge, he pulled. The weathered hinges squealed in protest. The assault on his ears made him cringe. Shaking it off, he slipped outside. Soil, grass, pine, decaying leaves, and that earthy perfume Mother Nature dabbed on just before it rained bit his tiny sinuses.

He searched the bouquet for the musky undernotes of prey. Detecting a hint of hare, he followed the scent-trail into the woods. The sky cracked and flashed overhead. He’d been an idiot to wait so long to hunt. With a bit of luck, the storm wouldn’t break until he’d filled his wame.

The clouds rumbled as he tracked the hare to the cliffs. Waves crashed on the rocks below. Normally, he loved the sea. At the moment, however, its brine masked the scent of his prey. Hares weren’t particularly clever creatures, so he doubted the subterfuge was deliberate. Even if it were, the ruse would only delay the inevitable.

Though his prey’s scent was veiled, he could still sense the creature’s fear, knew it was concealed somewhere quite near. Hares weren’t just stupid, they also were skittish. If he waited, dinner would show itself. He crouched on his haunches, muscles as taut as springs.

After a few tense minutes, the hare bolted, as predicted, in a streak of motion. He bounded after it, ran the animal down, and pounced. As his claws dug in, the hare screamed, heightening his predator’s instincts.

The hare kicked and thrashed in his grip. He clamped his jaws around the neck and bit down, piercing pelt and flesh. Blood spurted over his tongue before settling into a steady stream, tasting of iron and protein—flavors he’s grown accustomed to in exile. He much preferred human prey. The blood was sweeter and less gamey, but, in a hamlet like Nairn, rumors spread as swiftly as pox in a brothel.

Discretion was the key to avoiding discovery, along with the ill-effects of his curse.

The iron fist of resentment closed around his heart. He hated feeding this way, hated what he’d become, hated his miserable existence. Mostly, though, he hated
her
. The evil faery bitch who’d taken from him everything that made life worth living.

He released the hare and proceeded to wash himself with a rough tongue and curled paws. Through the sheltering branches, the sky was a roiling black menace. A jagged bolt of light shot across it, etching its imprint on his vision. The retorting thunder boomed like a cannon. Memories of Culloden flickered, but retreated as soon as the clouds opened.

Bloody hell. It was raining cats and dogs. He smiled inside at the pun he’d made, but his feline aversion to water soon drowned his mirth. He shook his damp paws. Better head back before he got soaked. In his human form, he didn’t mind it so much, but his cat self couldn’t abide wet fur. Besides, he wanted to be sequestered inside his bedchamber long before that busload of hens invaded his roost.

* * * *

Thunder cracked louder than Gwyn thought possible, rattling her nerves along with the window beside her. With trembling hands, she slipped
The Knight of Cups
into the backpack at her feet. The hot-pink leopard print still jarred her sensibilities. She’d bought the backpack for the trip—to symbolize her new lease on life. Fake it till you make it and all that. So far, the bold print only made her feel like an imposter, even though it carried her touchstone. A photo of her parents on their wedding day—the only image of them she had left.

Her stepmother had burned the rest.

The bus listed abruptly. Gwyn gripped the armrests. Good God. The coach damn near tipped over that time. Why didn’t the driver pull over?

The tour guide, a forty-something woman named Alice Trowbridge, was coming down the center aisle, reassuring the other passengers, who looked as uneasy as Gwyn felt.

Alice was lanky and long-limbed with a sculpted pageboy and oversized teardrop eyes that reminded Gwyn of those creepy sixties-era paintings of sad-eyed children her stepmother collected. Not that Alice was creepy. On the contrary, she seemed friendly, organized, and, though English, knowledgeable about Scotland.

Just as Alice approached their row, another violent gust rocked the coach. A chorus of screams rose from the forward seats. All the blood in Gwyn’s body rushed to her stomach. She shot a hard look at the tour guide.

“Shouldn’t we pull over and wait it out?”

“We’re horribly late already.” Alice glanced at her wristwatch. “And the driver knows this road like the back of his hand.”

Gwyn hoped to hell it was true. Wringing her hands, she turned back to the storm. It was like being inside one of those drive-through carwashes without the soap.

“All will be well,” Alice assured her. “I promise.”

The bus tipped. The tour guide stumbled, but gripped the headrest on Mrs. Dowd’s seat to stop her fall. The color drained from Alice’s face. Her pageboy was no longer perfect.

Gwyn turned back to the window just in time to meet a blinding flash. The sky was dark and churning, rain poured down in sheets, and a steep ravine edged the narrow road. One good gust could blow the bus right over the side! She gulped and closed her eyes. She should pray. But to which saint? Michael, the archangel of protection? Christopher, the patron of travelers? Shit, she was almost sure there was a saint for storms, but couldn’t seem to dislodge the name from her fear-jammed brain.

Fuck it, she’d go with the old standard, not that prayer had ever done her any good before.

Angel of God, my Guardian dear,

to whom His love commits me here,

ever this day, be at my side,

to light and guard, to rule and guide.

The coach tilted to one side. Her heart jumped into her throat and fear crawled across her skin like a herd of baby spiders. Holy smokes. She was going to die. The wheels dropped with a jolt, knocking her teeth together. Damn, she’d bitten her tongue, but at least she was still alive.

The bus lurched, throwing her forward. The seatbelt stopped her, and she slammed against her seat. Her head snapped back like a Pez dispenser. Blood salted her tongue. Damn, she’d bitten it again.

Beside her, Mrs. Dowd, needles clicking like rosary beads, recited the Hail Mary under her breath.

The coach teetered on the edge of the ravine.

Screams cut through the noise of the storm.

Gwyn clamped her hands around the armrests.

Mrs. Dowd was still knitting and praying.

“Holy Mary, Mother of God”
—click, click, click—
“pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death
.
”

Gwyn struggled to shut her out. She didn’t want to think about dying. This trip was supposed to be the start of a new, more exciting life. The beginning, not the end.

Eurosia! That was the name of the patron saint of storms.

As the bus tipped toward the cliff, another shrill chorus assaulted Gwyn’s ears. She swallowed, eyes shut tight. If they were going over, she’d rather not witness the carnage.

Her memory unveiled the wedding photo of her parents. Would she see them on the other side? Or had they already come back as somebody else? Despite her Catholic upbringing, she believed in reincarnation. She just prayed she wasn’t about to find out she was wrong.

The coach tilted and hung there, balanced. Time stood still. So did her heart. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t remember how to pray.

The bus tipped past the balancing point.

No! This wasn’t happening!

And yet, it was.

The bus rolled down the embankment, thrashing and groaning like a dying elephant. Panic stabbed Gwyn hard again and again. The other passengers screamed and screamed.