Starry Knight (9 page)

“Jesus fucking Christ, Callum. You said you could see the bloody road?”

He flicked a worried look in her direction. “I can. For the most part. I just didn’t see yon boulder until we were nearly upon it.”

Just as she opened her mouth to suggest he pull over again, a set of towering iron gates appeared out of the fog. Through the ornate scrollwork, an imposing gray castle rose out of the mist. It looked as if it were floating on the vapor. It was still dark and storming, but there was enough light to show her what appeared to be an architectural marriage between a Norman fortress and a Georgian manor.

The older half was a five-story rectangular tower festooned with corner turrets and a single line of narrow windows running up the center. The newer addition was a symmetrical three-story mansion with a brick face and steep roof. Chimneystacks, dormers, and another corner turret jutted from the roofline.

The marriage, though disparate, appeared to be a happy one. A towering iron fence surrounded the dwelling, which sat atop a knoll overlooking the sea.

Callum pulled the car closer, lowered the window, and pressed a button to activate the intercom.

“Would that be you, then, my lord?” a Scottish man’s voice squawked out of the speaker.

“Aye, Hamish. Sorry to be so late, but we got hung up by the fog.”

“’Tis no matter, my lord. The important thing is you’re here at last, safe and sound.”

Vanessa smiled as she listened to the exchange. Given the acrobatics of Callum’s speech, she couldn’t help wondering what other feats his tongue might perform for her benefit.

A motor began to hum and the gates swung slowly inward, hinges groaning under the strain of their weight. He pulled the Land Rover through into a circular drive with a large spot of green lawn at the center. He brought the car to a stop near the porch, shut off the wipers and headlamps, and glanced at her.

“Are you ready for this?”

She swallowed and forced a smile. “As ready as I’ll ever be, I suppose.”

Angst avalanched over her. She drew a deep breath to calm her nerves. What awaited her inside the lion’s den? The thought sent a shiver of fear-laced excitement through her.

He hopped out, ran around to her door, and pulled it open. As she swung her legs around, he offered her his hand and a smile. Returning his smile, she took the hand.

The sky was still drizzling, so, after helping her out, he quickly ushered her into the sheltering arch of the front portico.

He opened his mouth to say something, but before the words spilled out, the huge front door creaked open. On the other side, stood a tall, stringy man with thinning dark hair. Hamish the butler, presumably. He wore an old-fashioned tweed suit and an unreadable expression.

“Would you be good enough to fetch the lady’s bags from the car,” Callum said to his butler, “and put them in my bedchamber?”

“Very good, my lord.” Hamish nodded. “Dinner is ready whenever you are.”

Callum’s golden gaze slid toward her, then back to his manservant. “If it’s not too great an imposition, I think the lady might like a wee bit of time to freshen up before we eat.”

She would, actually. Very much. Between the rain and the sea wind, her skin and hair felt sodden and sticky. What she’d like more than anything was a nice long soak, assuming he had a great big bathtub somewhere, though she didn’t want to spoil whatever he’d planned. Dinner had waited on them long enough. On top of which, she was famished.

“Just a quick wash,” she said, smiling. “It won’t take long.”

As Hamish went out to collect the bags, Callum placed her hand in the crook of his arm and escorted her up a staircase to an overlook decorated with tapestries, paintings, and statuary. She looked around, impressed. The place was eclectic, tasteful, and remarkably warm and homely for a drafty old castle.

“How many rooms does Barrogill have?”

At the first opportunity, she meant to have a good look around.

He rubbed his chin with his free hand. After a minute, he met her gaze, a bemused smile on his mouth. “Thirty-eight, I believe, though I might have forgotten one or two.” Mischief twinkled in his golden eyes. “And just so you know, there’s a trapdoor to the dungeon in the dining room, in case you fail to use the proper fork or say something over dinner I don’t care to hear.”

She smiled, her interest spiking. A deep, dark dungeon seemed the perfect place to hide a vampire, but how to get down there without being noticed?

“Does the dungeon have any unusual features?” Vampires, for example, or whips and chains of the erotic variety? She’d never experimented with BDSM, but was open-minded about the possibility. She was all about trying new things and expanding her horizons, sexual or otherwise.

“Not unless you count the tunnel leading under the garden,” he said. “Back when the castle was built, it was used as an escape route when the Sinclairs stormed the place—an all too common occurrence.”

She filed the fact away for later as she asked, affecting disinterest in the dungeon, “And where do you do your stargazing?”

“The top of the tower.”

“I’ll bet the views from up there are spectacular.”

“They are, of the sea and surrounding countryside, as well as the stars,” he said, seemingly at ease. “Do you fancy a look when the storm clears out? Tomorrow perhaps?”

“I’d love it.”

Hamish, now carrying her bag, stopped at the top of the stairs and cleared his throat to draw their attention. When she looked over, the butler nodded her way.

“If you’ll follow me, my lady.” Shifting his gaze to Callum, he added, “Mr. Faol would like a word, my lord, before he departs. At your convenience. You’ll find him in the library when you’re ready.”

Vanessa turned to Callum. “Is your friend leaving so soon?”

“Only for the evening,” he returned. “Now, go on, get freshened up, and meet me back here in twenty minutes.”

When he started to break away, she pulled him back. “What should I put on?”

Growing up at Bentley Manor, she was required to dress for dinner—when she was home—semiformal for family meals, formal for parties and guests.

“It doesn’t matter.” Taking her hand, he lifted it to his lips planted a kiss on her knuckles. “Even if you put on an old flour sack, you’ll still look lovely.”

Vanessa, swallowing her guilt, pulled her hand from the baron’s grasp, and followed the butler up the marble stairs and down a long corridor lined with paintings, weaponry, mounted animal heads, and electrified sconces. Eager to see as much as she could, she peeked through every doorway they passed along the way. All the rooms were decorated in an eclectic blend of antique and traditional pieces. The upholstery was a tasteful blend of florals, plaids, and paisleys with the occasional animal print thrown into the mix.

Each time she spied a trophy head or fur throw, she shuddered She was adamantly opposed to hunting for sport. Plus, those staring glass eyes gave her the willies. Had he killed the animals himself? She hoped not. She’d once dumped a guy just for defending Beyoncé’s choice to wear furs.

Taking a breath to cool her outrage, Vanessa searched for something more pleasant to occupy her thoughts. Apart from the gruesome heads, the castle’s décor was elegant, comfortable, and masculine, without being overtly bachelor. Had Callum done it himself or hired a decorator?

The butler gestured for her to follow as he turned into the last doorway on the right. A king-sized bed with a massive carved headboard dominated the spacious room on the other side. Fit for a modern-day laird, it was covered with an elegant paisley comforter and layers of shams and toss pillows. At the foot, a leather chesterfield sofa faced a fireplace with a carved oak mantle. A small blaze burned in the grate, adding to the room’s warm ambience.

Two windows draped in a small check graced the opposite wall. Beneath one, a matched pair of wingback chairs flanked an antique piecrust table. As her gaze returned to his big, manly bed, she imagined him there with her, naked and entwined.

Her gaze swept the room again. Callum Lyon had good taste. He also had correct opinions. Two distinct pluses in her book. If she ever did settle down, it would be with a man who knew his own mind and wasn’t shy about speaking it.

Hamish set her bag on a luggage stand and left the room, closing the door to give her privacy. Opening her suitcase, Vanessa rummaged through the things she’d packed in search of her “little black Maserati”—so named because it hugged every curve with style and class. Shaking it out, she laid the dress across the comforter and began to smooth the wrinkles with her hands. A sudden cold washed over her, lifting the tiny hairs on her arms and the back of her neck.

A shimmer near the foot of the bed slowly assumed the transparent form of a woman in a white gown with flowing sleeves—the sort commonly seen in the pre-Raphaelite paintings of John Waterhouse. The apparition’s hair was dark, very long, and looked almost wild.

“Who are you?” the apparition asked in a Scottish brogue.

“My name’s Vanessa. Vanessa Bentley. I’m a friend of”—she hesitated, unsure how to describe her relationship to Callum—“the baron’s.”

“You’re a Sassenach.”

Vanessa bristled.
Sassenach
meant “outsider” in Scots, but carried derogatory connotations when applied to the English.

“I’m afraid so,” Vanessa said, offering the spirit a smile, “but I’m not a bad person.”

“Why are you here?”

“I told you. I’m a friend of the baron’s.”

As the spirit stepped closer, the room grew colder. “You have the speech of a highborn lady. The baron has brought naught but whores to Barrogill since that awful Sinclair lass ran away.”

Vanessa bit her lip, unsure which thread to pull first. Deciding, she asked, “What awful Sinclair lass would that be?”

“Deirdre, his second wife.”

“Are you telling me he’s been married
twice
?”

“Aye, lass. That’s exactly what I’m telling you. And you’ll be number three, if I have anything to say about it.”

“Me? Are you mad? I’ve only just met the man.”

“So? When I was alive, couples became betrothed before ever setting eyes on one another.”

Vanessa scoffed, incredulous. “Are you seriously endorsing the barbaric matrimonial customs that drove you to suicide?”

Saying nothing more, the ghost disappeared, leaving Vanessa wondering just how many secrets Callum Lyon might be keeping from her.

“So, how goes it with the lovely and elusive Lady Vanessa?” Duncan lounged on the sofa with his feet on the coffee table, swirling a glass of his host’s best single-malt and smoking a Havana. “Still working on her, I take it.”

“That I am.” From his roost by the fireplace, where he was enjoying a scotch and Cuban cigar of his own, Callum glanced toward the closed outer door. “She’s upstairs, changing for dinner as we speak. So, we’ll need to keep this brief.”

When she came down, he’d have Hamish search her bag for cameras or any other paranormal recording devices. Callum had already divested her of her mobile phone, which he’d hidden in a drawer on the landing whilst her back was turned.

Leaning forward, Duncan shot a watery blue glance in his direction. “You know what I want to know, man, so out with it.”

Callum did know, but needed more time. He flicked the excess ash from his cigar into the grate before sipping his malt. Rather than swallow the whisky, he held it in his mouth. Smoke, peat, leather, and a hint of heather filled his senses.

“I’m waiting,” Duncan prodded.

Begrudgingly, Callum swallowed. “I’ve got no answer for you.” He took another drink and trapped it between his tongue and the roof of his mouth, again savoring the flavors and bouquet.

“What’s fueling your indecision?”

Callum shrugged. “While the idea intrigues—especially the idea of cutting Sinclair’s puppet strings—I have serious reservations about entering public life.”

“Because of what you are?”

“Among other things.”

“Such as?”

Sucking on his cigar, Callum blew the smoke at the wall. He sensed Duncan’s stare boring into his him. “What can I say? I like my privacy.”

The wolver coughed, nearly dropping his glass. “
Privacy
you call it? You’re a bloody hermit, mate. Apart from the occasional conference or lecture.”

Callum swallowed as irritation intensified the burn in the back of his throat. “And what’s wrong with that?”

“You mean aside from the fact that you’re a lonely, miserable prick who’s turned his back on the things he used to care about?”

“Don’t pull any punches, mate.”

“Do I ever?”

Oh, nay. Duncan always spoke the absolute truth and damn the consequences. Callum liked that about his friend, actually. Because of it, he always knew exactly where he stood with the man, which was more than he could say for most people.

“I’m just saying.” Callum shrugged. “I think it might be safer to carry on wielding my influence from behind the scenes.”

Duncan chuckled. “And how’s that working out for you, eh? You’ve been pouring money into the cause for what?—a few hundred years? And I don’t see Scotland any closer to independence than it was when you started.”

“We have our own parliament again,” Callum pointed out.

“With its hands still tied by those bloody English wankers in Westminster.”

“If they’re all a bunch of useless wankers,” Callum challenged, “why are you so bloody eager for me to join their ranks?”

“To be a fox in the henhouse, not another bloody chicken.”

Callum emptied his glass and set it on the mantle. “What about the queen?”

“What’s she got to do with it?”

“I’m not talking about Elizabeth Regina, I’m talking about Morgan Le Fay.”

“Oh, I see.” Duncan’s clipped tone told Callum he was losing patience. “And, once again, what’s
she
got to do with it?”

“What if, by stepping into the public eye, she figures out I’m still alive?” Callum licked his lips, tasting whisky and smoke. “I’ll grant you, she hasn’t figured it out in all this time, but still. If she were to somehow discover my trickery, not to mention my treachery, she’d re-enslave me in a heartbeat. And probably clap me in irons in that dungeon of hers. Or worse.”