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Authors: Hannah Howell

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BOOK: Highland Hunger
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Chapter Fourteen
MacAvee Hall looked to be a massive structure, constructed of black-on-black stone atop more of the same. It straddled a cliff, looking over the village of Avee on the shore below it. Tira had observed it since the rain-filled evening turned to rain-filled night. It didn’t require effort. All she had to do was focus. She’d watched as light after light speckled the castle, coming from so many windows the structure looked to encompass the entire rock face.
Grant came to her door to fetch her now-empty goblet. He didn’t speak of it. She didn’t, either. They knew what it had contained : the same liquid as the night before, and the one before that.
“His Grace’s carriage has arrived from the hall.”
Tira nodded.
“I’ll be back to escort you.”
The door shut and a key turned. Tira walked across to the armoire and pulled out a cloak to go over the skirt and blouse she’d donned without one bit of an assist. Iain was avoiding her. She never saw him. He might as well be invisible with his comings and goings. She knew the reason for that, too: his power. He was well versed in avoiding detection with the way he froze and stalled time. She’d witnessed it and been a part of it, which made it painfully obvious he’d shut her out of it now.
It appeared her sentence for questioning him involved solitude and reflection time—two full nights of it. And he’d locked her in. She didn’t believe Grant’s word it was for her safety. No, it wasn’t. It was for Iain’s. She hadn’t labeled him a coward yet, but it was on the tip of her tongue more than once. Good thing she loved reading and he had a large store of books. And when that bored, she’d played with her enhanced senses, bringing the decks outside into focus. Almost like she was out there, watching the waves and the shoreline they followed. And sometimes she thought she was.
She was ready when the guardsman returned. The deck echoed beneath Grant’s feet. Not hers. As if she’d suddenly become weightless. Tira didn’t find it odd. She simply pulled the hood farther over her head and followed.
The ducal carriage was large, with no identifying marks. It stood out in its anonymity like a black ink splotch on a painting, until she factored in the four black stallions between the posts. A penetrating look showed Rory and Sean mounted on two more black stallions. They nodded and Tira returned the salutation from the top step. That’s when she looked about and realized not only could she witness all sorts of behavior, but she could hear conversations and sounds in whichever direction she chose . . . to a near-cacophonic level.
If any noted her cry and the swift way she entered the carriage, they didn’t say. Tira crawled along a bench to a far corner, shoved both hands to her ears, held her breath, and the next moment it all ceased.
Just like that.
Tira’s heart pounded, her whole body trembled, and there wasn’t anyone to even ask.
Damn Iain
. The least he could do was help her with this thing he’d done to her! When she saw him again, she was going to make certain he knew of it.
She could sense the dock outside but didn’t dare put her attention to it again. She settled with observing it through the large window at her elbow, watching the ground mist wrap about every light post. A flick of motion caught her attention, and Tira moved her head in time to observe Iain at the gangway, the quay, and the carriage, rocking it with his entrance, all of it within a blink of time.
Tira opened her mouth to speak, but something about the droop of his lip and general melancholy of his frame stopped her. He seemed to be intent on the view outside as they left the houses behind and entered a well-groomed roadway lined with the black silhouette of trees. And then they started climbing.
She was tired of his avoidance, fretful over the continual silence, and anxious over her new home. She guessed that once they reached his hall, it might be next to impossible to find him. Not unless she wanted to spend the rest of this eternity searching that monstrosity of a castle.
“Iain?”
He flicked a glance to the vicinity of her nose before returning to the view. The oddest impression of panic filtered from him before it faded.
“You can look at me. I won’t bite. At least . . . not yet.”
Her voice was breathless, and at the end it dropped an octave, sending sexual-tipped meaning. She knew he flinched. She heard the rustle of his muslin shirt against his skin. Upon licking her bottom lip, she could swear she
tasted
that same skin . . . and the faintest hint of whiskey.
“Have you been drinking spirits?”
“I fed,” he replied finally.
“They’d been drinking spirits?”
“Aye.”
“Does . . . that intoxicate?”
“You should na’ speak with me. Not . . . yet.”
“Why not?”
“I’m . . . na’ certain I’ve the strength for it.”
“But you just said you fed.”
“That is na’ what I mean.”
Tira sighed. “You avoid me for days and then you speak riddles. You’re the image of strength, Iain. And absolute male perfection. You probably always were.”
He squelched a groan and shuddered with it, making more erotic sounds of shirt fabric grazing brawn. Perhaps it was better in the dark. That way there wasn’t much interfering with the expansion of her new powers. Tira narrowed her eyes and focused and brought him into view, his head lowered, lips open to allow each pant of breath while his shoulders were so taut it pulled at the shoulder seams. He should’ve worn a sleeveless shirt. It would save on tailoring. He had his hands clenched about his knees, looking to break bone, and that put every bit of strength he’d just disclaimed on vivid display.
Tira tucked her bottom lip into her mouth and felt the prick as her canines lengthened.
“You need to . . . cease this.”
“Why?”
She rifled the reply with alacrity and power. That way she didn’t miss a bit of how he pulled in a huge breath that expanded the muslin to ripping point. She didn’t need her enhanced hearing as his shoulder seam separated. And then he let the air out, sending words with it that tripped atop each other.
“Because I’m a man of action, na’ words . . . and I’m full cursed, and I should’ve known better than to get into a carriage with you! There’s little defense!”
“Defense?”
“Aye! Defense!”
“Against what?”
She released her lip and eased her feet free of the slippers. He sent a sidelong glance as if he heard it. It came with a flare of light spearing the interior, before it disappeared. And then she had to use her enhanced sight to see him again.
“You’re not going to answer, are you?”
There was a shine atop the obsidian of his eyes before he looked away, blinking rapidly as he did so. The whoosh of volume through her chest startled her to a painful degree.
“You want an answer,
leannan,
I’ll give you one.”
“I’m listening.”
“You hate me.”
“Do I?”
“You’ve every right. I’ve shown little in honor and naught in self-control, and I—What did you just say?”
He’d poised in midmove, half turned toward her, with his head lowered and those two creases splicing his brow. Tira’s heart stalled at the picture he presented. Stunning. Perfect. Manly. Tira ran her tongue over her teeth, manipulating around the two spikes as she reached them. He reacted, seeming to fill his side of the carriage with blackness as if he somehow grew in stature. And then he went back to his usual size, the fading brightness behind showing how he’d done it.
“Your road . . . is very well groomed,” she told him.
“Wh—at?”
He split the word in two and that was just endearing and sweet and creating tension and longing atop more of the same.
“I suppose everything you own is well groomed. You’ve had years to see to it.”
“Tira—”
The low groan attached to her name sent a vibration of sound with it. Tira pulled pins from her hair, releasing it into a mass she finger-combed into a veil. She could see his response as both hands grabbed wads of plaid material from his kilt hem and tore.
“Most coaches have a sway to them as they travel uneven cobblestone or mud-pitted road. But not yours. Oh no. Your drive is perfectly groomed. Smooth. Even when traveling in the rain at night. There’s not a hint of the smallest rut.”
“You want a rough ride?”
“I want an excuse, Iain! That’s what I want!”
“An . . . excuse?”
“An excuse for falling against you! Something to blame when I soothe this ache within me. Something I can curse for longing to match my skin to yours! I want to run my hands all over you, and sink these fangs into you. I need it so badly!”
The blouse had too many buttons. She was reduced to yanking at the placket, separating it as buttons got plucked and dropped, making little spattering noises on the carriage floor.
“ ’Tis the vampire speaking.”
“So?”
“I have vowed I will na’ use it—”
“Shut up and help me!”
She had the blouse opened, ignoring how the satin chemise stuck to her skin, displaying and lifting her breasts. She tried to shed the skirt, but the waistband was an issue. Tira circled it twice, her fingers shaking as she looked for the fastening, before gripping the fabric and tugging and gaining absolutely nothing.
Damn dependable serviceable tweed!
“I will na’ . . . take you this way! I will na’!”
“Who said anything about you?”
She leaned into the gap between them with a snarl, making certain he saw the length of her teeth.
“Tira . . . please!”
She didn’t feel the leap, and yet it was her body atop him, slamming his back into the carriage with the same move that sank her teeth into him. And then she was erupting with bliss so large no black carriage on a black night could contain it. His fangs slid along her neck, and she ignored them, sucking and absorbing life fluid while yanking and pulling material apart in order to match breast to chest and belly to belly.
“Tira . . . please! Na’ like this. Please? Oh . . .
sweet!
”
Tira had him in her hands, stiff and readied, while the skirt hid her motion to latch on to him, sheathing him at the exact moment he punctured her neck, and then she was flying. Soaring. The entire experience blended into an ecstasy of full-out paradise with Iain at the center. Tira shoved her body at him, over and over, rocking with a discord of rhythm, and that got his hands gripping her buttocks in order to hold her in place for a roll beneath him. The move unlatched his fangs and gave him freedom to slide them along her skin, searching for and finding a breast tip. Tira went wild at the first hint of suckling attention. She couldn’t stand it! She swung at him and connected with solidmuscled back flesh, turning her blows into caresses.
There wasn’t space to contain such rapture! Tira arched up and into his mouth, glorying in the sensation, hauling in a deep breath while another full-fledged bloom of ecstasy overtook and consumed her. And then she was falling, exhaling with the drop, and hearing the words he was whispering.
“Ah, lass. Forgive me.”
“Don’t stop, Iain. Please. Don’t you dare stop.”
“Stop?”
The word was grunted, intensifying the pummeling he was doing, taking her into realms of existence she’d never before imagined. And then he did stop, poised in place by the weave of his body in flexed perpetuity of motion, shuddering and pulsing deep within while she held on and reveled in it. This time she was determined he wouldn’t leave her, or escape, or do anything other than hold her.
She clung to Iain but he moved anyway, placing her with great care on her own bench, going to his knees in the carriage well to do so. And then, before Tira’s surprised eyes, he lowered his face into the bench and shook.
Chapter Fifteen
Tira had her hand hovering over Iain’s shoulder when the clatter of horse hooves on wood stopped her. The coach rolled beneath a gateway, darkening the interior—not enough she couldn’t penetrate it, but enough to show arrival. The sound of a portcullis rising came next, and within a blink they drew to a stop. Iain regarded her from his seat, fully attired and immaculately groomed, proving he’d stalled time again.
“I wish you’d cease that.” Tira dropped her hand. It should be chilled in the carriage with just a skirt for modesty. Tira flicked a glance down at herself. She had the shredded remains of her chemise and blouse still dangling off her shoulders. But it wasn’t chilled. And it wasn’t warm. It felt vacant.
“What?”
“You . . . alter time. Change . . . perception.”
“So?” It was soft-spoken.
“I thought it magical until you shut me out.”
He sighed heavily but didn’t answer.
“I mean . . . I want to be with you when you do it. I want to be part of it again. To share in it.”
“Cover yourself.”
She pulled the cloak from where it was crumpled beneath her, wrapped it about her, put the hood over her head, and held both ends together at her chin for good measure. “Is that better?”
“You canna’ have it both ways,
leannan.
I thought it possible, but I was wrong.”
“Both ways?”
“You want me because of the vampirism. It stirs the blood, mixes up the senses, overrides objections. There’s nae stopping it. We just proved it.”
Her skin tingled as he listed exactly what happened and what was starting up again. It was easy to hear the effect in her reply. “Does it matter why?”
“Aye. And to a degree I’d na’ thought possible.”
“I . . . want you, Iain.” Her heart rate had elevated, her nerve endings started twitching, and her canines lengthened.
His face went grim. Dark. Then Grant opened the door to receive a hissed snarl from her, showing full teeth. Fear touched his face for the barest moment before it was gone. He nodded at Iain and got a nod in reply.
“Everything is prepared, Your Grace.”
“What’s been prepared, Iain?” She hadn’t much control over her voice or it wouldn’t rise with what sounded like worry. Then she admitted it. She was worried. Where was he taking her? Would he be with her? Would he lock her in again? And for how long?
“Come, Tira.” Iain stood outside the carriage, the sway of the coach the only indicator he’d moved. “My household is up and dressed to welcome us.”
“All of them?”
He nodded.
“At this hour?”
“MacAvee lairds keep odd hours. The households adapt.”
And here she was still suffering waves of illicit yearning and desire, her hair unbound, clothing in disarray, and covered over with a wrinkled cloak. Tira concentrated and felt her teeth retracting. “You could’ve warned me,” she whispered.
“Would it have mattered?”
No. The need and desire were too strong. Too vivid. Too massive. And she’d been the instigator. Again.
“Come. They’ve been told of your illness.”
Tira stopped at the door in a stoop, one hand on the railing while the other held her cloak together. “My . . . illness?”
“You suffered massively from seasickness. The entire voyage. You were too ill to venture from your cabin.”
“I was locked in, Iain. I couldn’t leave it.”
“Semantics.”
“Why are you acting like this?”
“Like what?”
“Cold. Distant.”
“Because anything else is beyond me! Can you na’ just come down? Please?”
The hand held toward her trembled, warming her heart, strengthening her legs, and making it feel like she flew to his side. Tira lifted her chin and turned to face a virtual sea of faces and welcoming smiles. An elderly man stepped forward, clad in a MacAvee plaid kilt, black jacket, frothy white lace-fronted shirt, while he held a large feather-topped tam in one hand.
“Greetings, Your Grace! Even without introduction, I ken you as MacAvee laird. At first glance! You’re the image of your grand-sire. I was but a wee lad, but I swear . . . the verra image. Welcome to the Hall. We’ve kept it readied and prepared for your arrival at any time, to orders.”
“Thornton . . . is na’ it?”
The man bowed, displaying a bald spot ringed with silver hair. “Aye. Gerard Thornton. Steward and comptroller of MacAvee Hall. This is your new wife?”
“Her Grace, the Duchess of MacAvee.”
Sean announced it with a voice that seemed incongruous on such a thin frame. Tira curtsied, holding the cloak like the most perfect ball gown.
“Come in. Please. Follow me. We’ve prepared . . .”
There was more. Tira heard a portion as the man led them, speaking his words to the air in front of him. But then it didn’t matter as her eyes widened on the breath-taking sight of MacAvee’s great hall. The two-story carved entrance doors opened to a raised entry that dropped down into such an enormous chamber ; the size was impossible to gauge, despite the volume of torches they’d lit. Tira had to use her new power, enhancing her eyesight to bring everything into perfect focus.
A hammer-beam ceiling spanned the entire chamber, its surface covered with colorful paintings in the Jacobite style. There were no less than four fireplaces carved into both walls, with stone sides and thick wooden mantels. Black rock walls peeked from between tapestries and banners, framing sizable paintings that could only have come from the paintbrushes of Renaissance masters.
Each step echoed through the chamber, blending into a beat of thumping noise, dragging her pulse into it. They passed through an archway at the far end into what might be a hall, although the width couldn’t be easily spanned with a glance. This space had dark wooden walls rising only two stories, framed wherever she looked with more tapestries, more torches in sconces, and more paintings, although these mainly featured Iain in several different poses and costumes. Tira noted more than one portrait of a woman as well. And everywhere was the glint of silver, gold, or crystal. It appeared the castle hadn’t been changed or modified in the years Iain refrained from visiting it. Or perhaps Iain liked medieval period. He didn’t offer it and she didn’t ask. It felt nearly too sacrosanct even to whisper in such magnificence.
Thornton hadn’t the same issue. He turned and addressed Iain and then her. “I’ll show you the chieftain chamber now. If you’ll follow me?”
Another set of doors was opened at the end of the hall, leading to a four-man-wide spiral stair, or maybe it was wide enough to accommodate three men on horseback, such as a Seton chieftain had built at Fyvie Castle. She’d heard of it but never seen such a thing and wondered why such trivial things occurred to her now.
The landing at the top was another rock-walled edifice, with but one ending. There was a smaller set of doors, surmising a small room. That was proven a misnomer upon opening them. Tira felt the same slack-jawed response to even more spacious, torchlit luxury. MacAvee’s chamber had one wall devoted entirely to a window. If it wasn’t a rain-filled night, the view would be extraordinary: ocean as far as the eye could see, topped by sky just as broad and all-encompassing. Tira followed the steward and Iain into the center of the room and then pirouetted in a slow circle.
It already felt big and incredibly desolate. Tira tightened her hands on the cloak’s opening. Large and lonely . . . and that window couldn’t be safe. There wasn’t a drape attached to either side of it that she could see. There were various shapes of furniture along the other walls, two fireplaces, as many groupings of chairs, as if conversations took place in the chieftain’s chambers, and on a raised platform to one side was a structure she immediately knew was a bed, with three wooden sides enclosing it.
“Thornton? Her Grace and I thank you. Grant? See to things.”
Iain spoke for her. Tira didn’t move. She kept her eyes on the raised bed while projecting with every fiber of her new powers.
Don’t leave me! Iain . . . please!
She heard the doors thumping together before they thudded into place. Then she heard the distinct sound of a key turning in a lock.
He’d locked her in. Emptiness settled around her, making everything even more chilled and vacant and lonely. Tira moved slowly toward the window, her hands out like a sightless person. If this was her future, she’d rather face pure sunlight and have it ended and done with. But then her fingers touched cold black stone. She splayed her hand open and found nothing but solid rock.
“I had it walled in over a century ago.”
Tira whirled to see Iain standing near the door, directly beneath a candlelit chandelier, highlighting his beauty, arms folded, showing their size, legs apart, showing his readiness for confrontation. He’d untied his hair, as well.
“You didn’t leave?”
“I doona’ concede defeat that easily.”
Black eyes locked with hers as he just stood there, unmoving.
“We . . . have to talk, Iain.”
He stopped breathing for a moment, looked over her head and way up the wall before returning to her gaze. “Can we na’ do something I have a fair chance of success at?”
“I can’t even heft a sword.”
One side of his lip lifted. “I have other skills.”
“As I’m very much aware.”
This time he grinned. Then he sobered. “You wish to talk?”
She nodded.
He gestured her to one of the groupings of furniture about a fireplace. A fire sparked to life in the grate before she settled into an overly large, stuffed wing chair. Tira studied the beginning flames for a bit before looking up at where he stood, an arm reclining on the mantel.
“How do you do that?” she asked.
“ ’Tis part my power. Yours appears to be an ability to see through solid rock walls.”
“It’s an incredible view,” she replied.
“Still is. If you wish, I’ll take you there.”
“Where?”
“Either tower. Or along the battlements. The view does na’ discriminate. Every guardsman has noted it as well as every guest.”
“You take in guests?”
“MacAvee does na’ turn down wayward travelers.”
“What of the women?”
She could tell he stiffened. “What women?”
“You can start with the ones in the paintings.”
“Oh. Paid ones. Mostly.”
“Not wives?”
“The first duke took a wife.”
“You mean
you
took a wife when pretending to be the first duke.”
“There’s nae pretence, love. I was the first duke. As such, a union was forced. I dinna’ marry of my own free will. Na’ until you.”
His voice cracked slightly. Tira narrowed her eyes. “Forced? You?”
“ ’Twas the best way to end the MacGruder clan feud and gain Castle Blannock.”
“You’re
married?
”
“You see? The more I speak the angrier you become.”
“Iain—”
“I’m widowed. She passed on. A decade ago. An auld woman of ninety-two.”
“No children?”
“She locked me from her chamber. I dinna’ fight it. We had little in common. She golfed. Rode to hounds. Hunted. Fished. She excelled at every Scot pursuit.”
“Sounds divine.”
“Did I fail to mention a face like a horse and frame to match? There was nae way to get drunk enough to tup her.”
“Why don’t you move closer?”
He straightened. She could hear the rustle of his clothing. “That would be unwise.”
“Why?”
“I canna’ keep a strict enough leash on it . . . and I am still a gentleman born.”
“It?”
“I need you, Tira. Vastly. To a consuming level. ’Tis ever-increasing and ever-present. If I’m near you, I lose control . . . and do things that make you hate me.”
His voice dropped as did his gaze. The man was mistaken. She didn’t hate him at all. What she felt startled and shocked her, sending a surge of emotion with each beat of her heart that blended with the rivulet of shivers coursing her skin. And he had a great gift with words, especially when they snagged in the middle.
“You must excuse me now. I’ve . . . things to see to yet.”
“Things?”
“Grant is bringing my pallet and your mattress.”
“Oh. Good. I’d hate to think I have to tote it.”
Tira pushed the hood off her head. She probably looked a sight. It had been impossible to tell on his yacht since he didn’t keep any mirrors. She looked about as it occurred to her. There hadn’t been any in the lower rooms, either.
“Why are there no mirrors, Iain?”
BOOK: Highland Hunger
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