Dark and Stormy Knight (6 page)

She checked behind her to be sure nobody had come in when her back was turned. Nobody had. Looking back to the cat, she asked the obvious question. “Did you just speak or am I going bonkers?”

“I did speak,” the cat returned, “though the fact that I can talk does not automatically rule out insanity on your part.”

She blinked at the cat a few moments, wondering if she had indeed lost her mind. Perhaps her head injury was causing her to hallucinate. That was, of course, the most logical explanation, but she’d much prefer magic, not madness, lay behind the experience.

Deciding to carry on as if the cat had truly spoken, she cleared her throat. “Forgive me for being dumbstruck, but I’ve never met a talking cat before.”

“Strictly speaking, I’m not just a talking cat.”

Aha! He’d as much as admitted he was a shapeshifting faery—just like Sir Heath in
The Knight of Cups.

“I gathered as much,” she said. “Now tell me why, out of all the books in your library, you showed me these?”

“I will answer your question when you’ve answered mine.”

She blinked at the cat, confused. “I would be happy to answer your question if I could remember what you’d asked me.”

“I asked if you liked the book.”

“I liked it fine.” This felt more like a kinky version of Wonderland by the second. “I just don’t appreciate being shown erotic literature by—” She hesitated, leaving the sentence incomplete. She needed to be sure she was dealing with who she thought she was dealing with before making accusations. “You are Sir Leith MacQuill, the laird of this castle, are you not? In the form of your alter ego, I presume, like the hero in your wife’s book?”

“My wife?” asked the cat. “What makes you think I am married?”

She narrowed her eyes. “Aren’t you married to Leigh Ruthven, the authoress, who also lives here?”

“No,” he said, showing his pointy teeth. “I am unmarried and live alone.”

Great. The cat not only talked, he also spoke in riddles. Luckily, thanks to her father, she was an ace at solving riddles.

She took a minute to consider the clues he’d given. He was unmarried and lived alone, presenting only two possibilities. He either lived elsewhere or Leigh Ruthven did.

“Do you live here at the castle?”

“I do.”

“So, Lady Ruthven must live somewhere else.”

“Must she?”

“Does she?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

Gwyn frowned at her furry companion. “That doesn’t make sense. You can’t live alone and with Leigh Ruthven at the same time.”

“Can’t I? Says who?”

She racked her brain for any explanation, however remote. “Do the two of you have some sort of time-share arrangement?”

“We do not.” The cat smiled at her in that sly way all felines do. “Come, now. Surely you can solve the mystery. The answer, as with most riddles, is an obvious one.”

Normally, she’d get this, but her mind was jumbled by the accident and everything she’d seen so far. She took a breath to clear her head and concentrated harder. The only way he could both live with the authoress and live alone was if—

“Is Leigh Ruthven a ghost?”

She was talking to a cat. In comparison, a ghost seemed more than plausible.

“While she definitely haunts me at times, she is not, strictly speaking, a wraith.”

Crossing her arms and chewing her thumbnail, Gwyn puzzled a little longer until the obvious answer popped into her head. Jeez Louise, how could she be so dense? “You wrote
The Knight of Cups
and Leigh Ruthven is your pen name!”

“The light of truth dawns at last.”

Gwyn took a moment to process all she’d just learned. Leigh Ruthven was the pen name of Sir Leith MacQuill, a man who was obviously much more than a man.

“Your book isn’t fiction, is it?”

“Not all of it, obviously.”

“Obviously.” She shifted her gaze to the
Sleeping Beauty Trilogy
. “Nor the whole truth.”

“No,” said the cat. “I whitewashed some of the story to appeal to a broader audience—and to protect the innocent.”

In
The Knight of Cups
, he’d been taken from Culloden Moor to Avalon by a faery scout called Belphoebe. There, he’d been made a breeding drone to Queen Morgan Le Fay—a sex slave, in other words. The gory details of his enslavement, however, were left to the reader’s imagination.

She’d fleshed out some of them in her screen adaptation, but had no idea if the scenes she envisioned were accurate.

Conversely, the
Sleeping Beauty Trilogy
described the shocking abuses and humiliations imposed upon the enslaved characters in graphic detail.

Nodding toward the Anne Rice books, she forced her question past the growing lump in her throat. “Is that why you showed me these books? So I’d understand what you suffered in Avalon?”

“No.”

She furrowed her brow. “Then why?”

The cat flashed her a Cheshire grin, but, thankfully, did not fade away. “Have dinner with me tonight and afterward, I’ll disclose my reason.”

At that, he jumped down and trotted out of the room with his tail held high, leaving Gwyn to wonder just what kind of fractured faery tale she’d stumbled into.

Leith the cat slipped into the master bedchamber, spoke the counter-spell, and gritted his teeth through the transformation. A man once more, he returned to the door and flipped the latch. Hurrying to the bed, he withdrew from underneath, the hot-pink leopard backpack, eager to learn more about his intriguing guest. At this point, he didn’t even know her name.

Not that it mattered.

He unzipped the larger of the compartments There was what looked to be a manuscript inside. Please let it be something delectably dirty. He pulled the pages out and read the title. Shock struck his heart with the force of a battering ram. Bloody hell. It was a screen adaptation of his book!

Sitting cross-legged on the bed, he set the manuscript in front of him. As he moved the pages from one pile to the other, his emotions zigzagged from shock to outrage to admiration to glee.

He was saved. The sale of the film rights would provide the money to restore Glenarvon and clear his debts. A sly smile played on his lips as he considered how much Gwyneth Morland, aspiring screenwriter, might be willing to give of herself to achieve her ends.

Her response to the erotic trilogy had raised his hopes. The flush of her cheeks, the way she twirled her hair, the unmistakable tang of female arousal. Oh, aye. She’d been turned on by what she’d read all right.

A scene took shape inside his mind. She was the lady of the manor’s abigail; he, the laird who’d returned from a ride to find her in a compromising position with one of the grooms. No, wait. Make that two of the grooms. She was on her knees in the hay sucking the cock of one while the other fucked her from behind. As he entered the barn, the threesome broke apart, though not before his own cock throbbed with need. He grabbed the buggy whip off a peg on the wall and flailed it at the grooms as they jumped about, hobbled by their dropped breeks.

After he’d driven them off, he confronted the maid. “You’ve been a very naughty lassie,” he told her, snapping the whip against his boot, “and must pay for your transgressions.”

The power he felt was intoxicating. He struck his boot again, dispatching a white-hot bolt of lust to the engorgement straining against his form-fitting breeches. Thrills swam through his blood as her gaze shifted to the evidence of his intentions. He sauntered over, took her by the wrist, and led her into the tack room. A biting mixture of leather and saddle soap invaded his nostrils. Parking himself on a wooden bench, he pulled her across his lap. He slipped a hand under her skirts, savoring the velvety smoothness of her thighs.

“What are you going to do to?”

“No more than the grooms have already done,” he said, “and no less than you deserve.”

At that, he flung her heavy skirts over her back, baring her beautiful backside. Goose pimples pebbled the lily-white mounds of her bum. He raised his hand and brought it down hard. The snap of the impact further heated his blood. He spanked her again on the other cheek, leaving a matching set of rosy handprints.

One for each groom.

She raised no protest. Good. The wicked wench knew what she had coming. Burying his hand between her legs, he fingered her intimate folds. They were slick with the juices of sexual excitement. Homing in on her swollen bud, he made slow circles with his fingertip as he pressed the hard evidence of his own arousal against her ribcage.

A knock at the door shattered the fantasy. God’s teeth. He’d completely forgotten he’d summoned the butler and could hardly answer the door in his present condition.

“Give me a minute, eh?”

He stuffed the screenplay into the backpack and climbed off the bed. Grabbing his robe off a nearby chair, he pulled it on and tied the belt. Damn, his cockstand made an obvious tent.

He’d not been with a woman in far too long. Lack of funds made it impossible to hire someone willing to sign a confidentiality agreement and pulling a lass from the local pub was too indiscreet. How he thwarted his curse was nobody’s business save his own. However desperate he might be for sex, he couldn’t bear the invasion of privacy wagging tongues would surely bring.

Taking a deep breath, he called to mind the unanswered letter from his accountant asking for more money to pay the mounting bills. Almost at once, his erection withered.

Hurrying over, he pulled open the door. On the other side, as expected, stood Gavin.

“You rang, my lord?”

“Aye, Gavin. I’ve asked our guest to dine with me this evening. At six. Please see to the arrangements.”

“I shall, my lord. Did you have a particular menu in mind?”

“Aye. Roasted pheasant. The way Mrs. King does it with the brandy sauce and shallots.”

The menu was guaranteed to impress, yet simple enough to pull off on short notice. For his own ease and to attract shooting parties to Glenarvon, he kept the grounds well stocked with a variety of game fowl.

“Of course, my lord.” Gavin swallowed and lowered his gaze. “And if I may, my lord?”

“Of course. Speak your mind.”

“Our back wages, my lord. When might we expect them?”

Shame blew through Leith like hot wind. “If all goes as planned this evening, I will be able to pay all that I owe very soon.”

“Very good, my lord.” The butler bowed from the waist. “I will inform Mrs. King at once of your requirements for this evening’s meal.”

As Gavin set off, Leith called him back. “Could you wait just a moment while I jot a note for the lass?”

* * * *

Excitement fluttered in Gwyn’s stomach as she read the note just slipped beneath her door. Written in the same beautiful penmanship as the signature in the book on the nightstand, the instructions told her to put on the costume she’d find in the box in the hall.

Heart in throat, she opened the door and looked both ways. The hall was empty except for a box big enough to hold a coat. She picked up the mysterious parcel and, after closing the door with her foot, carried the carton to the bed.

Easing off the lid, she peeled back the overlapping tissue paper cover. Sandwiched between the crisp sheets was the uniform of an eighteenth-century lady’s maid: a shift with drawstrings at the neck and cuffs, a plain linen skirt, a boned bodice that laced-up the front, a simple white apron, thigh-high cotton stockings, and low-heeled leather shoes with silver buckles.

Every nerve ending tingled as she ran her trembling fingers over the garments. How similar this all was to the stories she used to re-enact. The castle, the costume, the cat. The only piece that didn’t quite fit was
The Sleeping Beauty Trilogy
. For the past hour, she’d racked her brain for an explanation, but kept coming back to the same one: Sir Leith MacQuill was a faery knight who enjoyed kinky sex.

The question was, how did she feel about that reality? She’d read her fair share of erotica and, God knew, she’d fantasized about doing some pretty wild stuff.
Fantasized
being the operative word. Until now, her love life had been about as exciting as watching paint dry. Most of her partners didn’t give a damn about her pleasure. They were all grunt-grunt, thanks for the cunt, and out the door. Was it any wonder she preferred fictional men to the flesh-and-blood variety?

Sir Leith, however, promised the best of both worlds. If he was into BDSM, she’d deal. As long as she could set some ground rules she couldn’t see a problem. Yes, he could tie her up, but no hitting. Not even with his hand. She’d had enough of that shit from her stepmother, thanks very much.

As the old memories began to surface, she shook her head to drive them away. She didn’t want to dwell on the events that had chained her in fear. She wanted to break free and fly high, and she couldn’t do that with the past weighing her down like an anchor. Her drunken bitch of a stepmother couldn’t hurt her anymore—unless Gwyn allowed her do so by holding tight to her resentments.

* * * *

Leith was in his library, trying to figure out how to stretch his dwindling funds to cover his expenses. Last week, his accountant had written to ask him to deposit more money in the accounts used to pay his bills, and Leith had not yet responded. He began to do so now, pen in hand, but couldn’t seem to keep his mind on monetary matters. Not when that little vixen was upstairs changing into the costume he’d provided. How would she look in it? Fetching, he’d bet.

He tried to imagine her in the maid’s costume, the tight-laced bodice cinching her tiny waist and pushing her ample breasts toward her lovely collarbone.

Oh, aye. He liked the picture very much indeed.

The tingling in his loins made him forget the letter. He stood, clasped his hands behind his back, and paced the floor. When he passed the liquor bottles, he thought about pouring himself a whisky to take the edge off his nerves, but decided against it. If she smelled spirits on his breath, she might not trust him and, for what he had in mind, gaining her trust was paramount.

Returning to the desk, he took up his pen again. Just as he finished the salutation, he heard a sound outside the door. Believing it might be the girl, he went to the door and peered out. Disappointment dashed his hopes when Gavin blinked back at him from the hallway.