Dark and Stormy Knight (20 page)

Today, he was the man who’d written that letter to his wife. The chivalrous knight she knew all along he still was underneath the tarnished armor.

She felt a little guilty about him spending money on her, so she’d only bought what seemed essential for the next two weeks. She’d also stuck to the clearance racks. Except for the lingerie he’d approved. That was different. She’d put her new undies on when she’d changed into one of her outfits in the bathroom of the castle visitor’s center.

While she was in there, he’d bought her a souvenir—a Loch Ness Monster plush toy wearing a tartan Tam O’Shanter and playing the bagpipes. Though unbelievably tacky, she loved it to pieces.

“So, inquiring minds want to know. Is Nessie real?”

“Aye,” he said, “but it’s a water horse, not a dinosaur.”

A water horse, she knew from her father’s stories, was a big black beast with skin like flypaper that dragged its victims to the bottom of the lake before devouring them.

She gulped at the dreadful prospect. “Could you turn into one?”

“If I wished to.”

“What about a Highland pony?”

“I can turn into just about anything I can visualize.”

“I’ll be sure to keep that in mind next time we’re in the dungeon.”

He laughed that lovely deep laugh of his. Shielding her eyes from the sun’s glare, she looked up at him to find him looking back at her, his head silhouetted against a golden nimbus.

Her mind pasted his handsome features into the dark shadow obscuring his face. The seductive grey eyes, the sexy cleft chin, the sensuous mouth that gave such pleasure. She was in love and, despite the obvious downside, it felt good right now to revel in the feeling. Better than good.

Remembering a love song her father taught her once upon a time, she began to sing it to him, trying very hard to keep a straight face.

“Black is the color of my true love’s hair

His face so soft and wondrous fair

The purest eyes and the strongest hands

I love the ground on where he stands

Black is the color of my true love's hair

Of my true love’s hair.”

As she sang, she brushed his cheek, feeling sandpaper stubble. He captured the hand and kissed each of her fingers in turn.

“Oh, I love my lover and well he knows

Yes, I love the ground on where he goes

And still I hope that the time will come

When he and I will be as one

Black is the color of my true love's hair

Of my true love’s hair.”

Slipping his other hand beneath her neck, he lifted her head and bent to kiss her, but didn’t. Instead, he sang two verses of the song she’d never heard before.

“The winter’s passed and the leaves are green,

The time is passed that we have seen,

But still I hope that time will come

When you and I shall be as one.

“I go to the Clyde for to mourn and weep,

But satisfied I could never sleep.

I’ll write to you a few short lines,

I’ll suffer death ten thousand times.”

His voice was beautiful. Deep and clear with just a hint of gravel. Their lips met, already parted. Their tongues engaged, clashing against each other in the struggle toward communion.

She sought his hair, entangling her fingers in its midnight strands.

He wrapped her in his arms and pulled her against his chest, soft flesh against hard muscle.

The verses he’d sung made her think of his wife and the room in the closed-off wing.
No one else can ever possess my heart—never—never—Oh, God, why must I be parted from one I so love?
Jealousy speared her heart. She did not want to always live in Clara’s shadow, always second best to someone else. The way she’d felt after her father remarried.

The possibility gutted her. How many times she’d cried herself to sleep because she was no longer first in her father’s heart. He always denied it, but actions spoke louder than words. If he’d loved her best, he would not have stayed married to that awful woman.

She pulled out of the kiss. “Why do you keep your wife’s room like a shrine?”

His dark brows puckered and drew together. “To honor her memory.”

“Why is your portrait there instead of with hers?”

“It’s part of my penance, for abandoning her to my enemies.”

Oh, dear. “You blame yourself for what happened to her?”

“Who else should I blame?”

“How about the men who killed her?”

“They could not have killed her had I been at Glenarvon protecting my family instead of off fighting for a lost cause.”

Gwyn licked her lips, still tingling from their kiss. His mood had darkened palpably. Better change the subject and avoid the topic of his wife in the future.

“I’m having a lovely time. The picnic was a great idea.”

He got quiet and gazed out across the loch. She hoped he wasn’t thinking about Clara. He obviously kept her up on a pedestal. St. Clara. Martyred by the English army in childbirth. She couldn’t resent his feelings, though neither could she see how she could ever compete.

He looked down, into her eyes, and straight into her soul. “I love you now, my angel,” he said, surprising the hell out of her. “I shouldn’t, of course, but I just can’t seem to help myself.”

As her heart took wing, she touched his face. His wonderful, beautiful face. “I love you, too.”

He smiled just before his mouth captured hers. She returned the kiss with the jubilance born of new love. If she was going to die, she told herself as their tongues fervently entangled, at least she’d be happy when she met her end.

Gwyneth grew progressively weaker as the day wore on. By the time she and Leith left Loch Ness, she was too unsteady to walk back up the hill to the car, so he carried her. Having her in his arms took him back to the night he’d found her broken and dying at the crash site. Maybe he should have left her for the authorities to find. If he had, she might have died, but not because of his lack of self-control.

As guilt’s weight threatened to crush him, he realized that at some unseen level he’d been living in denial. Deep down, he’d hoped Gwyneth had been right, that Faith’s death had been a coincidence, and that Queen Morgan’s curse was nothing more than a
nacebo
, a malicious yet harmless spell meant to fool its target into believing it real.

Gwyneth’s condition confirmed the curse wasn’t a trick. Because of him, she would soon wither away. Even if she lived until the full moon, she’d be in no condition to travel to the Hebrides, let alone pass into the Thitherworld.

Now at the car, he fumbled one-handed with the key and lock until he got the passenger door open. He then placed her in the low bucket seat as if she were the most precious thing in existence.

As far as he was concerned, she was.

He shut the door, circled around to the driver’s side and got in, still silently berating himself.

“Don’t blame yourself,” she said, touching his arm. “I’m happy. All my life, I’ve been too afraid to live. And now, facing death, I finally feel brave. How funny is that?”

Not funny at all. He felt enough fear for the both of them. A strangling, suffocating fear that made breathing hard as he leaned over her to buckle her in.

She slid her hand up his arm and into his hair and gave it a tug. “Hey, I’m not dead yet, you big dope. And I won’t have you ruining what time I’ve got left by getting all maudlin on me.
Carpe diem
, remember? So, pucker up.”

He couldn’t help smiling. She was so good, so giving, and so positive. He didn’t deserve a woman like her. He was wicked, covetous, selfish, perverse, melancholic, and a whole lot of other terrible things he couldn’t find names for right at the moment.

He pressed a kiss to her lips—a soft peck of contrition. As he started to pull away, her hands fisted in his hair, holding him there.

“Oh, no, you don’t,” she scolded against his lips. “Give me a real kiss.”

He responded with what he planned to be a lingering, closed-mouth appeasement. Tender and full of feeling, but chaste. Dissatisfied, she coaxed his lips open with her own. Their tongues met in an ardent tussle. As the kiss grew more heated, desire’s warm flutterings stiffened his cock. Slipping his hands under her sweater, he pawed the closest breast through the bra. The nipple was already hard. As lust dug in its heels, his cock throbbed with the need to be inside her. One of her hands fell from his hair and found its way to his crotch. His breath caught as her fingers brushed his bulge.

He opened his eyes, finding hers closed. They couldn’t do this. They were in the car park of Urquhart Castle, for fuck’s sake. A national monument. He might have his kinks, but exhibitionism wasn’t one of them.

He broke free of her mouth. “We really need to stop this before things go too far.”

“But I want you.” She rubbed his erection through his trousers.

“I want you, too, but not here.”

His mind scanned for possible trysting spots. An inn was a good option, certainly, though also a frightful waste of money when Glenarvon was less than an hour away.

They could always just take a short drive and pull off into a secluded spot somewhere. Glen Urquhart wasn’t far, though the profusion of hikers might prove problematic. Where else, then? Shepherd’s Hill? Divach Falls? The Cover?

Bloody hell. He shook his head to dispel the idea. He must get her back to Glenarvon
tout de suite.

* * * *

As Leith turned the key to start the car, Gwyn got an idea. If his blood had the power to mend broken bones, his other bodily fluids might also have magical healing powers. She harbored no illusions what she contemplated would lift the curse. All she wanted was enough strength to make it to Callanish.

When he grabbed the gearshift, she set her hand atop his. “Hang on a minute. I want to try something.”

“Oh, aye? And what might that be?”

Reaching over, she danced her fingers up and down the hard ridge in his jeans. “I’ll give you three guesses, and the first two don’t count.”

His eyes opened wider, telling her he took her meaning. “Here in the car park? What if somebody should walk by?”

“They’d see my head bobbing. No big deal.”

His brow furrowed disapprovingly. “I thought you weren’t feeling well.”

“I think maybe this will make me feel better.” She forced herself to sound more chipper than she felt, hoping to persuade him.

“I think maybe this will get us arrested for public indecency.”

“Since when are you such a prude?”

“It’s not prudishness, Gwyneth. It’s common decency. What if a child should happen by and look in?”

She rolled her eyes. “Do you want me to suck your dick or not?”

“How am I supposed to answer that?”

“By whipping it out.”

He gave her a hard look. “Are you sure you’re up to this? God knows, I feel guilty enough without having you collapse with my cock in your mouth.”

“That won’t happen. You have my word.”

He took another moment before switching off the ignition. From behind the seats, he produced an old tartan driving blanket. “I’ll keep an eye out and if anybody comes near the car, I’ll throw this over you.”

“Good plan,” she said. “Now let’s get on with it before I change my mind.”

He looked out the windows and checked the review mirror as he undid his fly. He was as aroused as she, the reason, no doubt, he’d given in. Leaning over his lap, she wrapped her hand around his firm shaft, exciting a flush of yearning between her legs.

She flicked her tongue against the tip of his glans. He gasped and set a hand atop her head. As she swirled her tongue around the flange, he finger-raked her scalp. His breath hitched as her lips closed around the whole head and sucked hard, twirling her tongue in all the most sensitive spots.

“Holy fuck,” he rasped, clearly pleased.

He tasted salty and smelled of herbal soap and sweat. She took him deeper, sucking, swirling, and scraping oh so carefully with the edges of her teeth.

He flexed his hips, forcing her to take him deeper. Still sucking, she zig-zagged her tongue up and down his length. He released a strangled sound and locked his hand on her head. She moved up and down his shaft while working the head with her tongue. He groaned and flexed his hips, pushing himself against her tonsils. She jerked her head upward, breaking free of his grip.

“Don’t do that,” she rebuked. “You almost gagged me.”

“Sorry,” he muttered. “Your mouth just felt so bloody good.”

She got back to work, moving up and down, licking, flicking, and sucking with increasing vigor as he started to come unglued.

She found his reaction a total turn-on. If there were a way to fuck him in the car, she totally would. But, even if they could work around the bucket seats, steering wheel, and gearshift, there were too many people around. A blow job was risky enough.

Leith’s breathing was hot and heavy, his muscles were clenched and twitching, and the hand on her head was pulling her hair. She dragged her tongue around his bell as her mouth pumped furiously.

“Oh, God. Oh, fuck.”

He made a guttural sound, as if lifting something heavy. His hips jerked, his cock started to pulse, and warm, salty semen spurted into her throat. She grimaced, swallowed quickly, and let go.

Leith zipped up and set his hand on her thigh.

“Thanks.” He gave her leg an appreciative squeeze. “That was very nice. But, more to the point, do you feel any better?”

She still felt weak-limbed and a tad lightheaded.

“Not yet,” she replied, clinging to hope.

“Aye, well.” He started the engine. “I’ll remain hopeful. And, if you’re feeling up to it when we get back to Glenarvon, I’ll return the favor, all right?”

He shifted into reverse and, as he turned to look out the back, she leaned toward him. “Don’t I at least get a kiss for my trouble?”

Most guys she’d been with wouldn’t kiss her after she’d swallowed their spunk, which always made her feel cheap and dirty. Not to mention, offended. If it was okay for her to swallow, it should be okay for them to taste it on her.