The Queen of Swords: A Paranormal Tale of Undying Love (4 page)

Chapter
3: Things Forgotten

Scowling around the crowded pub, she didn’t feel invisible, but almost wished she was. The spell had definitely worked, but instead of feeling like a goddess of grace and beauty, she felt like a juicy bone in a room full of dogs. Every man in the place, old and young, ogled her with lascivious intent. Some brazenly stared. Two almost came to blows over who would let her cut into the queue for the bar, where she and Avery now stood.

Her friend
hadn’t seemed to notice anything unusual going on, probably because she was too wrapped up in Benedict O’Lyr. He was across the room by the fireplace, surrounded by people. Apparently, he and his sister, Branwen, were the guests of honor at this little soiree.

Meanwhile,
the familiar stranger had yet to materialize.

The pub was packed, loud, and humid with body heat, and the drink line slow and claustrophobic. She felt like a kipper in a tin and could smell body odor, beer breath, and farts.
She also could feel eyes on her, undressing her, imagining things she’d rather not think about. To distract herself, she looked around at the decor, which, except for the morbid witch-hunt ephemera, was typical of English country pubs.

Behind the huge, canopied bar hung a mirror proclaiming, “Guinness is good for
you.” Bottles of inebriants winked from the shelves like travel posters, promising escape and a good time. Dark half-timbers cut the smoke-stained walls, plastered with assorted British memorabilia. A coronation-era portrait of Her Majesty the Queen watched over the tippling from above the front door. Arse-numbing wooden booths lined the perimeter walls. A rear annex offered billiards, darts, and a huge flat-screen television tuned permanently to ESPN.

“Isn’t he dishy?”

Fighting the urge to say something snarky, Cat shifted her gaze to the “dish” in question. Benedict O’Lyr was as tall, dark, and handsome, as advertised, but in a generic way that left her cold.

“He’s all right, I suppose
. If you like his sort.”

“All right? Are
you blind?”

On the contrary,
she could see perfectly well. She just didn’t see what all the fuss was about. Yes, Benedict was handsome. But in a wholesome, bloke-next-door kind of way. She preferred men with a hint of danger about them. Rakes only the right woman could tame. Rhett Butler, not Ashley Wilkes. Preferably, in a kilt.  Clark Gable in a kilt? She tried to picture it, but kept coming up with Sean Connery.

“Hey beautiful.” It was the tubby, red-faced guy behind her, his breath reeking of
ale. “If I could rearrange the alphabet, I’d put ‘u’ and ‘i’ together. What would you say to that?”

“I’d say leave it as it is
.” She gave him her best off-putting glare. “With ‘n’ and ‘o’ side-by-side.”

He backed off
, thank the goddess, and she went back to ignoring her admirers while patrolling for the Scot. When, at long bloody last, they reached the front of the queue, she leaned across the counter and tried to catch the eye of the bartender as he raced up and down, madly taking orders, pulling taps, and mixing drinks. Stopping before her, his demeanor careened from putout to predatory. A smile lit up his beefy face. His bulging dark eyes, dull and lifeless a moment ago, now gleamed with interest.

“Well, hello there
.” He waggled his eyebrows suggestively. “What can I get you, lovely lady?”

Fighting the urge to say something rude,
she ordered her usual: a dirty martini. Extra dirty with extra olives. Stepping up beside her, Avery asked for her usual too: Harvey’s on the rocks with a wedge of lime.

A few minutes later, c
ocktails in hand, they scouted around for an empty booth. Seeing none, they parked themselves beside an unoccupied table whose high, round top was half-covered with used pint glasses and empty packets of crisps. On the wall above hung a framed illustration of the nine witches hanged in the village back in 1612.

Turning her back on the offensive image, she
scanned the room while sipping her martini. When she caught a flash of copper hair by the fireplace, she nearly choked. Was it him? She couldn’t tell. Too many people blocked her view, dammit. She craned and bobbed, willing the crowd to part. Then, as if by magic, it did, exposing the full, glorious visage of her Highlander.

He stood near Benedict, holding a drink—whisky, judging by the amber color
—and looked as ill at ease as she felt, endearing him to her even more. He’d traded the kilt and leather jacket for a well-cut dark suit, but still looked impossibly handsome. She watched him for several minutes before turning to Avery to bravely suggest they make their way over. Her friend, to her unhappy surprise, had turned into a skinny bloke with a prominent Adam’s apple and a wolfish glint in his eyes.

“Hello, gorgeous,” he slurred through
reptilian lips. “Can I buy you a cocktail?”

F
ace heating, she looked down at her glass. “No thanks. I’ve already got one.”

“Then
let me buy you another.”

When he reached for her hand,
she jerked it away, nearly upsetting her glass. “I don’t need another. But thanks all the same.”

“I suppose I’m not good enough
.” His tone was suddenly belligerent. “Is that it?”

She licked her lips.
“You could be Prince Harry and I still wouldn’t be interested.”

He smirked rather imperiously. “Oh, I see. It’s like that, is it?”

“Like what?”

“
You know. I seen the bird you came in with and, well, I can’t say as I blame you.” He leaned closer and lowered his voice. “What do you say the three of us have a go? You pair can drink from the furry cup while I fill your aching holes. How’s that sound, eh?”

Reviled by his suggestion,
she pulled a face. “I’m not gay. Nor the least bit interested.”

“Have it your way, Miss Todger Dodger. I’m probably too big for
you anyway.”

She
bit down hard, face burning like a match. After he buggered off, she scouted around for Avery, finding her by the fireplace chatting with Benedict and a total knockout with chin-length dark hair. Benedict’s sister, she presumed. Branwen donned a scandalously low-cut green dress that clung like cellophane to every nauseating curve. Beside her, Avery’s beauty paled, something she’d believed impossible.

Collecting her drink and her courage, she started over, pressing through the throng. More than one anonymous hand took liberties with her backside, but what could she do beyond kick herself for
daftly casting that spell? Her gaze remained fixed on the Scot, who had yet to look her way.

She was almost to him when he
finally looked her way. Their eyes met with crackling electricity. Recognition sizzled in her blood. Time stood still. Everything around her seemed dreamy and surreal. She could feel him inside her mind, probing the way other witches sometimes would. A scene began to play behind her eyes. Her, on a narrow bed in a corset and frilly petticoats; him, standing over her, hair hanging loose, eyes smoldering with passion, only, his eyes were a different color. Emerald instead of topaz.

When h
e looked away, breaking the connection, she just stood there, dazed, shaken, breathless. What just happened? Hands trembling, she gulped her martini, tasting an unpleasant mixture of lipstick, olive juice, and gin.

Now m
ore intrigued than ever, she sought his eyes again, jolting when she found them. They were pure radiance. Even though her feet were rooted to the floor, she could feel some deeper part of her reaching like a vine toward his light. She smelled the woods. Pine, oak, and balsam. Loam, moss, and mulch. More images floated across her mind. Purple hills cut by ribbons of mist. Dark water mirroring a vermillion sunset. A red castle high on a ridge.

It seemed impossible, like everything else, but she could swear she heard bagpipes calling to her across time. The scene from before began to replay
. Now, however, he was with her on the bed. Was it a past-life memory? She couldn’t say. She only knew it felt so real she could feel the moist heat of his kisses on her neck, the weight of his body pressing down on hers, the proof of his desire hard against her thigh.

In
the present, he looked away, bursting the scene like a soap bubble. She stood there on rubber legs, her mind whirling. Closing her eyes, she struggled to regain her equilibrium. When she opened them again, he was gone. Avery, Benedict, and Branwen were still there, chatting away, but not him. Glancing around in a near-panic, she caught a flash of copper moving toward the door.

She started after him, but
didn’t get far. Too many bodies blocked her way. She did her best to squeeze and elbow her way through. Reaching the door at last, she ran outside, shivering as the cold struck her bare arms. Hugging herself for warmth, she glanced up and down the street in frantic search of him.

Hope spiked when she caught a flash of copper hair.
He was just turning the corner. She took off after him as fast as her high-heels would carry her, which wasn’t very fast at all. She didn’t know what she would say when and if she caught up with him; she only knew she couldn’t let him get away without saying something.

The corner he’d turned led into an alley. As she stepped into it, the mingled stench of urine and rubbish assaulted her nostrils. There was a dumpster, stacks of crushed boxes, and a couple of silver kegs, but no sign of
her stranger. Heart sinking, she turned to go back inside.

“Well, well, well. If it ain’t
Little Miss Muffet.”

Alarm pricked her heart.
It was the jerk from earlier, blocking her way. He looked twice as big and twice as threatening as he had inside. Every inch of her pinged with fear. What to do? Her mind raced, searching for options. Making a break for the pub’s back door seemed her best chance, but still carried risks. The alley was dark and deserted. If he caught her before she reached safety, she was doomed. Then again, maybe he was just trying to scare her, to pay her back for rejecting him, and didn’t mean her any harm.

“Let m-me p-pass.”

His snake-like lips curled into a cruel smile. “I think it’s time someone took you down a few pegs, Miss Muffet. Gave you something tastier to eat besides curds and whey, if you catch my meaning. A nice juicy banger, for starters. And I could do with a nosh, so it would appear the job’s fallen to me.”

As h
e took a menacing step toward her, she spun, ready to run. Her ankle turned, barking with pain. She stumbled, lost her balance, and started to go down. He caught her by the arms, walked her backward toward the wall, and pinned her under the weight of his body. She tried to scream, but he stifled it with a kiss, thrusting his tongue into her mouth so deeply she nearly gagged. He tasted of beer, cigarettes, and something salty. She started to bite down, but he pulled away, hawked up a wad of mucous, and spit it in her face.

“Bite me and
you’re dead, bitch. Are we clear on that?”

She said nothing, too frightened to form words. Or coherent thoughts. The feel of his body on hers made her stomach turn and her skin crawl. She could feel his erection digging into her thigh, could smell feral arousal in his sweat. She squirmed and flailed, fighting his hold with everything she had, but he was too strong. Tears of futility sprang into her eyes. She couldn’t believe, after waiting so long, she was going to lose her virginity like this.

He let go of her arms, but kept her pinned. The next instant, he pressed an arm against her throat hard enough to cut off her air. She tried to gasp, but took nothing in. Her head began to pound, her mind to swim. She could feel him fumbling with his fly. She tried to lift a knee, to bash him in the groin, but he shoved his knee between her legs, blocking the blow.

“Pleas
e,” she pleaded, her voice a rasp.

“That’s right, Miss Muffet
.” He eased the chokehold enough to let her breathe. “Beg for it.”

She felt him jerk up her skirt, felt his fingers clawing at her knickers, felt him poking at her entrance.
Air rushed over her as his weight lifted off her. Unprepared for the sudden release, her legs buckled. She slid down the wall, the rough stucco and timbers tearing at her dress. Shaking with terror, she looked up. What did he mean to do? It took her a moment to process the scene before her. Her attacker dangled in midair, trousers around his knees, feet running a foot off the ground. Her Scot was there too, holding the man by the scruff of the neck.

“This is between me and her,
” the would-be rapist sputtered as he yanked up his pants.

“Oh, aye? Well, it’s between
you and me now.”

Dazed and shaken, she
watched the exchange, mouth agape.

“What shall I do with him lass?”
the Scot asked, keeping his eyes on his captive. “It’s your call. Beat him to a senseless pulp or call the coppers?”

She leered hatefully at the man’s
crotch. “Is castration an option?”

“Aye
.” The Scot flashed her a grin as he gave the man a hard shake. “Just the bollocks or the whole package?”