Knight of Wands (Knights of the Tarot Book 1) (10 page)

“You mean with regards to Queen Morgan?”

“No. I mean on this side of the vale. My dossier isn’t waterproof. I’d be opening myself up to public scrutiny. What if I was found out?”

Duncan sat back and stroked his chin. “If someone did snoop around and put it together, we could always do a little psychic rewiring, couldn’t we?”

The clock on the mantle chimed—a reminder he was short on time. “I really need to hunt. We can talk more tomorrow.”

Finishing his drink, Callum crossed to the table where Duncan’s feet rested. Ignoring the violation, he set the glass on a tray and started toward the door, but his friend’s voice stopped him.

“If you decide to run—and I sincerely hope you will—I’ll make sure your dossier’s iron clad. So, you needn’t worry about that; and, if by some chance you are found out, I’ll take care of that, too. In this realm, anyway. The affairs of Avalon, I can’t do much about, unfortunately. But I’ll tell you what; if Morgan claps you in irons, I’ll bake you a cake with a file inside.”

Dissatisfied, Callum moved toward the door. “I said I’d think about it…and I will.”

He also needed to consult the stars. If the heavens favored his entering politics, he’d only have to decide if it was worth the risks.

Just as he opened the door, Duncan spoke again. “Most people, I’ve observed, want to believe what you tell them.”

Unseen by his friend, Callum smirked. “Even a politician?”

“Good point.” Duncan chuckled. “But don’t worry. If you decide to run, I’ll see to everything.”

“Please do. I need to sleep at night.”

“Look, mate,” Duncan said, his tone more serious. “I get you dig being a force behind the scenes and all, but it’s time to step up your game. Since the referendum failed, we’re going to need more nationalists in the larger Parliament—and you’re our best hope to fill Sinclair’s seat when his unethical activities are exposed.”

Callum left the room, hurried into a parlor with a door into the garden, and stripped off his clothes. Naked, he stepped into the moonlit garden. It had stopped raining and the night air felt cool and refreshing against his bare skin. Filling his lungs, he looked around to be sure his transformation would be unobserved. Finding himself alone, he spoke the incantation.

Fee-faw, magic words as old as time.

As his bones and muscles began to rearrange themselves, he grimaced against the pain. Fur sprouted across his skin, forming a golden pelt. His head enlarged, his face elongated, his hands and feet turned into paws, and his hair became mane.

The comingled smells of grass, sea, and loam tickled his leonine nostrils. From beyond the treeline, he could hear the hiss of the sea and the rustle of wind among needles, leaves, and branches. Loping away from the castle, he merged with the forest. As he moved deeper, the musk of a stag pricked his nostrils. He ducked behind a thick trunk, knowing it stood near, eyes alert, pulse racing, muscles taut and twitching. It sensed him, as he sensed it, deep in the blood. Crouching, he waited for the moment, pulse racing and mouth watering.

The stag bolted, crashing from the underbrush in a streak of buff. Bounding after it, he ran it down and sprang, landing on its back. The deer kicked and flailed before falling, outstretched and trembling, its black eyes glassy with terror.

Remorse flickered. “Sorry, lad, but a cat’s got to eat.”

Bending over the stag, he pressed his mouth against the pelt and bore down, puncturing the throat. Blood spurted hot over his tongue before settling into a steady stream. Viscous and warm, it tasted of copper and salt.

As the blood rose in him like a tide, he released the deer and rolled onto his back, paws in the air. Above him, the moon was a luminous pearl floating in a glistening black ocean. He knew every star, planet, and constellation as well as he knew his own face in the mirror. Antilia, Chamaeleon, Crater, Hydra, Sextans, Ursa Major, and Leo, the constellation under which he’d been born back in 1479.

By and by, he returned to his human form and made his way back to the castle, eager to rejoin Vanessa. When dinner was over, he would take her to the ballroom for a waltz. Then, at long last, he’d bang her bonny brains out.

Chapter 5

Vanessa arrived in the dining room still unsure what to say about the ghost. Though she claimed to be Callum’s dead wife, her period costume suggested otherwise. Did more than one baroness haunt the castle? Callum hadn’t mentioned another ghost, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t one. Sometimes, spirits only made their presence known to certain people.

Well, whatever the case, she wasn’t going to ruin her evening worrying about it. She was here to have a good time, for tonight anyway. Tomorrow was soon enough to start looking for the vampire’s lair.

Taking a breath to dispel her concerns, she looked around at the furnishings. A mish-mash of tea tables and sideboards hugged the perimeter walls. Assorted paintings and arrangements of antique plates and platters covered the tartan wallpaper. Collections of silver candlesticks, tea caddies, snuff boxes, and other
objets d’art
were deftly arranged on every available surface. Something on the mantle caught her eye: a glass box containing a collection of butterflies. Moving in for a closer look, the things he’d said earlier that day rose to the surface of her mind as she examined the pinned and labeled specimens.

She swallowed hard. He was a possessive Leo and called her his butterfly. Did he plan to collect her, too?

Footsteps drew her attention to the wide doorway behind her. She looked just as Callum strode into the room with a dusty liquor bottle in his hand.

“I’m sorry I kept you waiting.” His golden gaze washed over her, enflaming her in ways the fire could not. “My business with Duncan took longer than expected. You look enchanting, by the way.”

Warmed by his compliment, she turned toward the table to hide her blush. A stunning crystal chandelier met her gaze. Beneath it stood an oval antique table with cabriole legs. At its head, near the fireplace, two of the ten places were set with fine china, crystal, and silver. In the center, directly beneath the light fixture, was an unusual silver epergne whose cutwork baskets held flowers and gourmet nibbles.

“This is beautiful.” She leaned in for a closer look at the centerpiece. “Is it an antique?”

“Aye.” He moved past her toward the fireplace. “It’s George the Second, by a Scottish silversmith named William Robertson. I collect Scottish silver, mostly for resale, but can’t bring myself to part with some of the rarer pieces—that one included.”

“I can see why.”

The piece, which displayed exotic goodies worthy of a sultan, was exquisite. Vanessa plucked a gold-plated almond from one of the cutwork baskets and bit down, being careful not to break a tooth.

“I’m glad you like it, as it’s always been one of my favorites.” He stopped before a butler’s tray crowded with glass and cut crystal decanters. Holding up the bottle he’d come in with, he waited until she looked his way. Their eyes met with a visceral spark that sizzled all the way to her sex. “Do you fancy an aperitif? I’ve liberated a fine Dubonnet from the cellar.” He swept a hand over the tray. “Unless you’d prefer something else. Sherry, perhaps, or claret?”

His eagerness to please her was refreshing. Nick never gave a thought to what she wanted or needed. He only cared about his own wants and needs. Just like all the other guys she’d dated. She wasn’t a person to them with thoughts and feelings to be considered; she was just a pretty trophy to show off to their friends—or, more aptly, a butterfly pinned inside a glass case.

“Dubonnet is great,” she said through the lump in her throat.

Good God. Was Callum just like Nick and all the others? Did he only want to stick a pin in her so he could show her off to the world? Even if that was his plan, he wouldn’t have any better luck than the rest of them had. She was only here to have a fling and look for a vampire. She was like that girl in the song
Ex’s and Oh’s
by Elle King. Men, for whatever reason, couldn’t seem to let go. Probably because they couldn’t have her.

“I like your castle,” she offered. “Except for the deer heads, which I could do without.”

Amusement danced in his sexy golden eyes. “I might have known you disapprove of blood sports.”

Her face warmed again, but this time from offense. Was he mocking her? “I might concede hunting has its place, but I will never condone the practice of cruel sports.”

He arched an eyebrow. “Cruel sports?”

“You know. Fox hunting, hare snaring, that sort of thing.”

“Ah. I see. Well, I agree with you there. Hunting might be necessary to maintain the natural balance, but deliberate cruelty is unacceptable.”

The way he looked at her made her feel like prey. She licked her lips, tasting Dubonnet and disgust. If he had his druthers, would he hang her head on a wall or display her on the mantle under a piece of glass?

“How is hunting necessary to maintain the natural balance?”

He walked to the fireplace, turned his back on her, and, for a frustratingly long time, stood there staring into the flames. Then, at last, he said, “Remember earlier when we talked about the wolves?”

“Yes.”

“Well, because the deer have no natural predators, they are taking over and stripping the saplings being planted to restore the old-growth forests. So, to protect the forests and keep their population under control, hunting them is necessary to thin the herd. But regulated hunting—not the sort that wiped out the wolves.”

“I see.”

She watched him, debating within herself what to say about the ghost. Finally, deciding on the safest approach, she asked, “I met a ghost earlier, when I was changing for dinner, though I have my doubts she was the one we talked about.”

He rounded on her with a gaze as heated as the flames dancing behind him. “Why do you doubt it was Sorcha?”

She trembled under his fierce stare. “Because of the way she was dressed.”

His eyes narrowed and darkened. “How was she dressed?”

“In a gown from the Tudor era.”

Something flickered behind his eyes as he moved down the table toward the place settings. “Come and take your seat. My butler will be in momentarily with the first course.”

Doing as he’d urged, she kept her full weight off the chair while he pushed it in. No sooner had he claimed the seat at the head of the table than Hamish entered carrying a tray with a bottle of wine and a platter of what looked like crushed ice. The butler set the tray aside and poured the wine, a chardonnay, judging by the deep golden color. After setting the bottle in front of his lord, the manservant returned to the tray and put the platter on the table. Embedded among the ice were a dozen raw oysters.

She smiled, both because she loved oysters and because they were reputed aphrodisiacs. Not that her desire for her enigmatic host needed any further prompting.

“Are these from your farm?”

“Aye.” He reached for a half-shell.

“What kind are they?”

“Pacific, which aren’t native to Scotland.” He tilted back his head, poured the oyster into his mouth, and swallowed without chewing.

She wanted to ask more about the ghost but, not wishing to make waves her first night in the castle, she chose what she hoped was a safer subject. ““How did it go with Mr. Faol?”

“Fine. I told him I was still thinking it over.”

“I know you have reservations, but I really think you should run,” she told him.

“Do you? Why?”

“Because somebody needs to save the planet from those who would harvest her resources for personal gain with no thought to the devastating footprint they’re leaving behind.”

He smiled and slurped another oyster from its shell. “Spoken like a true Aquarian do-gooder.”

Impatience tightened her stomach. “I’m just saying. The world could use a lot more people like you in public office and a lot fewer politicians pushing business interests at the expense of the greater good.”

“I wholeheartedly agree, but still need to think about it.”

They finished the oysters just before Hamish returned with a tray supporting two bowls of soup. After setting one steaming bowl before each of them, he collected the platter of shells and refilled their wine glasses.

The pinkish-golden bisque before her smelled appetizingly of seafood, butter, herbs, and sherry. Callum thanked the butler and waited for him to leave the room before picking up his spoon. She followed suit, suddenly aware how hungry she was.

“It’s langoustine and smoked salmon,” he told her as he spooned some from the edge.

She did the same, holding the warm liquid in her mouth for a moment to savor the incredible flavor. She’d dined in many five-star restaurants in her time, but couldn’t recall ever tasting anything quite so delicious.

“So, besides ghost whispering, what’s the plan while I’m here?”

“Well…I thought I might introduce you to the simple pleasures of a quiet country life.”

She looked up from her bowl, meeting his gaze. “Please tell me you’re not taking me hunting.”