Dark and Stormy Knight (7 page)

“What time would you like dinner, my lord?”

“The sooner the better.”

“Very good, my lord. I shall do what I can to light a fire under Mrs. King.”

As Gavin walked away, Leith shut the door and went back to pacing. As he passed the bottles again, he considered pouring just a wee nip of whisky to enjoy while he waited for the dinner bell.

Then, he got a better idea of how to pass the time.

Returning to the desk, he withdrew his tarot cards from the top left-hand drawer. He’d learned to read them in Avalon to kill time and help him make sense of his lot. He’d stopped worshipping the God of the Catholic faith long ago. That deity, if He existed, was deaf to his prayers, so why go on wasting his breath?

He spoke the preparatory invocation as he unfurled the silk scarf shielding the cards from negative vibrations. As he shuffled the deck, he focused on what he wished to know. When the cards felt sufficiently infused with his energy, he cut the deck using his left hand.

The three-level spread, which provided the answer in terms of the problem’s past, present, and future, seemed a good choice. He didn’t have time for anything more in-depth and a single card would shed insufficient light on the matter. The problem was bigger than his writer’s block. He was miserable, lonely, destitute, and bereft of hope. His curse was to blame for most of it, but not the whole.

After dealing three cards from left to right face down, he overturned the card representing the foundation of the matter.

Queen of Cups
.

The queen on the card sat upon a stone throne carved with baby mermaids and seashells, gazing dreamily at the cup in her hands. The throne stood at the edge of a shore, the surf lapping around its base. The water did not touch the queen’s feet, which rested on a bed of sea glass and pebbles. A grass-covered bluff stood in the background.

No surprises there. The card obviously represented Queen Morgan Le Fay on her island with the chalice she used for her sorcery.

Holding his breath, he flipped the card representing his current situation.

Five of Cups.

The image depicted a cloaked figure grieving over the three spilled cups before him while ignoring the upright pair behind.

Also glaringly obvious. The cards weren’t beating about the bush today. They were saying in no uncertain terms his regrets, not the curse, were destroying his peace of mind and strangling his creativity.

Biting his lip, he moved to the third and final card, the harbinger of things to come. His breath caught when he saw what it was.

The Tower.

The card of ruination.

Bloody hell. Not what he’d hope to see in his future. Quite the opposite, in fact. If its meaning was as literal as the first two cards, he could guess what it signified. His worst fears would come to pass and there wasn’t a fucking thing he could do about.

He shook his head in dismay. Enough navel-gazing. He wasn’t ruined yet, and the dinner hour had finally arrived.

* * * *

Footsteps, coming this way. Excitement crackled through Gwyn’s nervous system. This was all so unbelievable reality had become a mere dot in the rearview mirror. She was about to meet her biggest ever fictional crush in real life. How awesome was that?

The heavy footsteps grew louder. He came into the room and stopped somewhere off to her right.

Gwyn, fighting the urge to turn with all her might, kept her gaze glued to the painting over the mantle—a full-length portrait of a lovely young woman in a blue silk gown. The lady’s wide-set eyes and delicate features reminded Gwyn of her own.

“Who is she?”

“Baroness Clara MacQuill.”

His wife. Holy cow.

“She’s very pretty.”

“Aye, she was.”

“What happened to her?”

He heaved a ragged sigh and took a few moments before answering. “She was butchered while in childbirth.” His voice was hard, his tone matter-of-fact. “By the Duke of Cumberland’s men.”

“My God, how awful,” she exclaimed, appalled. “I’m so sorry.”

The grisly picture his words painted in her mind chased away her appetite. From his book and her father’s stories, she knew the English army had terrorized the Highlands after Culloden, but hadn’t realized they’d behaved as despicably as that.

“Not half as sorry as I am, lass.”

She kept her focus on the painting. “Your life’s been a hard one, hasn’t it?”

“You have no idea.”

Her heart beat faster as she turned to drink him in.

He was clad in the riding attire of the Regency era: a velvet frockcoat the same shade as his eyes, a ruffled linen shirt tied at the neck with a cravat, a double-breasted waistcoat that showed off his expansive chest, and form-fitting tan breeches that left little to the imagination. Yearning tingled between her legs as her eyes traced the detailed topography of his imprisoned manhood.

Her gaze jumped to his face, framed by wavy dark layers that fell to his sturdy shoulders. His gray eyes—deep-set and flecked with danger and sorrow—were as breathtaking as the rest of him.

“Do you like what you see?”

Sparks sizzled all the way down to her sex. “I like what I see very much, your lordship.”

“Call me Leith,” he said. “Until I instruct you otherwise.”

“Leith is an unusual name.” As much as she hated small talk, it seemed her best defense against his magnetic allure. If he offered, she’d do him right here in the dining room. “I can’t say I’ve ever heard it before.”

“It’s the name of the port where my father made his fortune in shipbuilding.”

“Is that how you came to own this castle?”

“No. Glenarvon was part of my wife’s dowry.”

Gwyn turned back to the portrait. The poor woman. How she must have suffered, and how aggrieved he must have been when he learned the circumstances surrounding her death. As her imagination repainted the image, she blinked the picture away and turned to the table, which had been set for two.

“What are we having for dinner?”

“Pheasant in brandy sauce. It’s a specialty of my housekeeper’s.”

“It sounds yummy.” She turned back to him. “And after dinner?”

“I thought I might show you the dungeon.”

“Oh?” Fear flickered in her heart, but she refused to let it catch fire. “What’s in the dungeon?”

“Use your imagination.” He stepped toward her. “Can I pour you a drink?”

He moved down the long table toward a butler’s tray full of bottles and decanters. Sadly, the tails of his coat prevented her from checking out his ass. In those painted-on breeches, his backside had to be well worth a gander.

“What’s your poison?” he asked.

“I’m not particular.” Nerves made her smile. “Anything wet will do.”

Looking her way, he picked up a decanter filled with golden liquid. “What about whisky? It’s a Highland single-malt. The best I can afford.”

“That sounds perfect.”

While he filled the glasses, she drank in the view. Holy crap. The man wasn’t just hot, he was sex personified. Longing’s sweet fire blazed between her legs. Had she been wearing panties, they might have burst into flames. She wasn’t, though. To ravage her, he need only lift her skirts. He set down the decanter and picked up the glasses. As he came toward her, their cut-crystal facets twinkled in the firelight like tiny diamonds.

“Here you are,” he said, handing her one.

She took a gulp. The burn in her throat paled beside the fire in her loins. A downward glance told her he was just as turned on as she was. It also provoked a sweltering surge of longing.

“We could always skip dinner,” she suggested.

“Aren’t you hungry?”

“Yes, but not for food.”

She couldn’t believe she was being so forward. At the same time, she rather liked this new emboldened version of herself.
Fare thee well, Gwyn the Meek; come on down, Gwyn the Bold.
She set a hand on his arm, delighting in the bulging bicep beneath his sleeves. He was all man. So what if he was into kinky sex? As long as he didn’t hurt her, bring it on.

“If we go forward, it must be on my terms.”

“I see,” she said, playing the coquette to cover her anxiety. “And just what do your terms entail?”

“I’ll assign you a role to play and you must stay in character at all times.”

Fear hardened her stomach as she saw herself on all fours with a bit in her mouth. “What if I don’t like the role you assign?”

He waved a hand, a dismissive gesture. “Then suggest another.”

That sounded fair enough. “I’m willing, provided there’s no hitting involved, or anything to make me feel crappy about myself.”

“What about blood drinking?” He sipped his Scotch. “I promise to be gentle.”

Blood drinking? In
The Knight of Cups
, the experience was depicted as highly erotic for the donor.

“Will I have a safe word? In case things get out of hand?”

She knew about safe words from reading erotica.

“Of course.”

Gwyn sipped her drink as she racked her brain for a word that was both appropriate and meaningful. After rejecting several possibilities, she came up with one.

“Mercy.”

He gave her a funny look. “Is that your safe word?”

“Is that okay?”

“As good as any, I suppose.” He shrugged and took a drink. “Now for our roles. You’ll play Miss Brown, the lady’s maid, and I will be the laird of the castle who’s just caught you
en flagrante delicto
in the stable with two of my grooms.”

“
Two
of your grooms? My, how inventive you are.”

A pleased grin bloomed on his face. “I’m a writer, remember?” The smile wilted. “Or, used to be anyway.” He took a breath and another drink. “If it would help you get into character, I’d be only too happy to describe what I witnessed in detail.”

She fought the urge to smirk. “If that’s what does it for you, go for it.”

He crossed his arms, placed a finger against his jaw, and looked toward the ceiling. “As I recall, you were on your knees in the hay with one groom before you and one behind. Both were delighting in the moist heat of your orifices. Are you getting the picture?”

She was. In glorious Technicolor. “How efficient of me to pleasure three gentlemen at once.”

An inquisitive eyebrow shot up. “Three?”

“The two grooms plus yourself.”

When he clasped her face with both hands, she stiffened in surprise. He turned her head and pressed his lips against her neck. His hair tickled and he smelled of leather and soap. Tiny spasms of ecstasy went through her. Reality fell away. She forgot everything except his mouth, his scent, and the passion raging inside her.

“What shall I call you?”

“My lord.”

His hands swept to her waist and took hold. He pulled her against him, letting her feel the solid heat of the body beneath the clothes. As she pressed her pelvic bone against his crotch, the feel of his hardness turned up the heat between her legs.

“My lord.”

Her voice was breathy and strained. She rubbed his erection, reveling in the power she had over him. The moan he released made her clit pulse and her nipples tighten. Her whole body hummed with need. She’d never wanted any man this much. She was in his thrall, ready to do whatever he desired.

A clearing throat broke the spell. He tensed and pulled away.

She staggered backward, blushing. Holy crap. If that was any indication, the sex would be absolutely mind-blowing. Not that she knew what that felt like. Up until now all her lovers had been selfish. She’d never even had an orgasm that wasn’t self-inflicted.

Mr. Brody stood in the doorway in full eighteenth-century livery. “The meal is ready, my lord. Shall I bring the food in?”

“Aye, Gavin, do,” Leith said. “We were just about to ring.”

She was about to ring all right, but not for the butler.

As the butler departed, her lord and master met her gaze with a sizzling spark that cracked the whip on her already galloping desire. “Shall we take our seats?”

The long mahogany table was big enough to seat twelve, making the two place-settings at the far end seem rather lonely. The one at the head of the table was meant for him, presumably, so she made for the other.

In a blink, he was behind her chair, pulling it out. As she swept into her seat, he bent over and again pressed his mouth against her neck. He flicked his tongue across her flesh, sending heavenly shivers through her body. The nip of teeth that followed made her jump in surprise.

Her old friend whispered in her ear:
You’re playing with fire, with something you don’t understand.
If you had any sense, you’d run like he’s the devil himself, which he probably is.

No, he was the faery knight she’d dreamed of meeting all her life. She wasn’t going anywhere. She grabbed the artfully folded cloth napkin from atop the stack of gold-edged plates and spread the cloth across her lap.

He grabbed the ewer of red wine at the top of his place-setting and filled her goblet. After filling his own, he replaced the ewer and took his seat.

They drank their wine in silence, the air thick with sexual tension. God, she wanted him. She also wanted to know what to expect when they reached the dungeon. She opened her mouth, ready to inquire, but stopped herself, remembering his dictate.

I will assign you a role to play and you must stay in character at all times.

She couldn’t think how to ask about the dungeon as Miss Brown, so she decided to leave the topic for now.

Her thoughts drifted to the film rights. Miss Brown couldn’t very well bring that up, either. Not that she was ready to. Her chances of persuading him were much better if he read the screenplay. Tomorrow, she’d try to find a way to print out the pages. Luckily, she’d stored a back-up copy on her cloud drive, which she could access from the computer in his library if the opportunity presented itself.

The silence was growing oppressive. So was her bodice. The damn thing was laced so tight she could hardly breathe, let alone eat. She pictured herself in the dungeon, naked and strapped to a table with her legs apart. He stood over her, bare from the waist up. His rakishly disheveled hair framed his face in a way that made him even more appealing. His perfect torso glistened with sweat. His stare was fixed on her sexual organs, which lay open to him like an oyster on the half shell. His raging hard-on embossed his painted-on breeches in a delectably explicit way.