Starry Knight (37 page)

“You’re looking well.” Callum said, shaking the editor’s hand.

“As are you,” Tom returned with a grin.

“Tom Earlston, may I present Lady Vanessa Bentley, my fiancée.”

Tom smiled broadly as he nodded toward Vanessa. “I congratulate you both. When’s the happy day?”

“Tomorrow, God willing.” Callum was eager to get on with their business, as he was rapidly running out of steam and still wanted to celebrate his engagement to Vanessa. When he’d booked the hotel, he’d ordered the romance package, which included long-stemmed red roses, a magnum of French champagne, and Belgian chocolates.

“So, you’re working with Count St. Germain and the rebels?”

“Aye. That I am.”

“Doing what, exactly?”

“Gathering support, mostly.”

“What can I do? More than make a donation, I hope.”

“Contributions are always welcome, of course, but that’s not why you’re here.”

“Why then?”

“We need you to keep an eye out for astronomical phenomena,” Tom told him. “The prophecy says there will be a sign in the heavens when it’s time to take action.”

“What kind of sign? Do you know?” Callum asked.

“I wish I did.” Tom looked down at his drink and ran his finger around the rim of the glass. “Something fairly significant, I should imagine.”

“It could be anything from a planetary opposition to a meteor shower to a lunar eclipse,” Callum mused aloud. All would occur more than once in the coming year.

Tom met Callum’s gaze. “I thought maybe Halley’s Comet.”

Chewing his lower lip, Callum considered the possibility. Halley’s Comet, which was visible to the naked eye every 75 to 76 years, wasn’t due to reappear until 2061. “That’s quite a ways away.”

“I ken that,” Tom said, “but there’s no telling how long we’ll have to wait for the sign. Not too many more years, I hope. Finn’s not daft. St. Germain won’t be able to pull the wool over his eyes much longer.”

“When was the prophecy made? Can you tell me that much?”

Tom took a gulp of his drink. “Aye, since I’m the one who made the prediction.”

Callum nearly choked. “You?”

“Indeed,” Tom confirmed with an upward glance. “The premonition came to me in a dream a few hundred years ago—back when I was known as Thomas the Rhymer.”

Callum’s mouth fell open for a moment before he lifted his drink to his lips to hide his astonishment. He took a sip and set the glass back down with a
thunk
. Amazement now mixed with a slight intoxication hummed in his bloodstream.

Thomas the Rhymer was a legendary prophet who obtained the gift of second sight from Glorianna, the queen of Elphame, the Seelie court under Wales.

Vanessa looked his way, then at Tom before sipping her martini. She clearly had no idea who Thomas the Rhymer was. He set a hand on her thigh under the table and gave it a squeeze, hoping she’d take his meaning. He’d tell her the whole story later, when they were alone.

“You made the prophecy?” Callum asked, still struggling to come to grips with the unexpected revelation.

“You seem surprised.”

“Why wouldn’t I be? I thought you were an ordinary book editor. A damn good one, mind you, but still ordinary.”

Tom grinned at him. “Didn’t I tell you your books would do well?”

“Aye, but don’t all editors puff up their authors in a similar fashion?”

“It wasn’t flattery,” Tom said with a frown, “I foresaw your success. I just never figured you for a knight of Avalon. But then, why would I when I was given to believe Leith MacQuill was the only one of your kind on this side of the veil?”

The mention of MacQuill gave Callum a qualm. “That’s right. You’re MacQuill’s editor as well.”

“Aye. And I’d like the pair of you to kiss and make up.”

Callum bristled at the suggestion. Maybe MacQuill hadn’t killed Belphoebe, but he still didn’t like the man. He’d heard from some of the lasses at Madam Pennick’s that MacQuill was into whips and chains.

“Why?”

“Because you’ll be working together when the time comes and we don’t want any festering dissention in the ranks.”

“Does MacQuill know about Finn?”

Tom, suddenly grim, shook his head. “As far as he kens, Belphoebe died before giving birth. From the curse Queen Morgan put on him.”

“Are you at liberty to disclose what kind of curse it is?”

“The cruelest sort imaginable. Any he should give his heart to will die.”

“How awful,” Vanessa said beside him, her tone steeped in compassion. “Thank God she didn’t put a curse like that on you.”

“Only because she believes me dead,” Callum said. And he would be—or worse—if Queen Morgan ever learned of his treachery.

“Nay,” Tom said, shaking his head, “especially if I had MacQuill’s depth of feeling. He rarely leaves his castle and is struggling financially.”

Callum took another slug of whisky and licked the smoky flavor from his lips. His heart had thawed a wee bit where MacQuill was concerned, but was still far from warm. “If he’s broke, why doesn’t he write another bloody book?”

“Writer’s block,” Tom said. “A crippling case. He’s desperate and wants me to come for a visit, to see if I can help. I thought you might like to accompany me.”

“I’d love to.” Callum forced a smile. In truth, he’d rather chew the glass in his hand then set foot inside MacQuill’s dark lair of perversion.

* * * *

Vanessa’s pulse raced as Callum ushered her across the hotel lobby toward the elevator. Against everything she believed about herself, she was eager to be married to him. Her questions about Tom and the rebels could wait. For now, she didn’t want to think any further ahead than tomorrow.

A glance around the elegant, Scottish-themed lobby told her the hotel was a good one. The marble floor had the soft patina of age. Antique portraits of men in Highland regalia covered the oak-paneled walls. A crystal chandelier very like the one in the ballroom at Barrogill hung from the tall coffered ceiling. A pleasing blend of tartans and damasks covered the classy-yet-inviting furniture, arranged around a massive carved mantle. The fire burning within cast an ambient amber glow over everything.

As they approached the elevator, her mind jumped back to that first night in John o’Groats. She’d retained only bits and pieces of the evening, but she vividly recalled the elevator ride—well, until she passed out cold, anyway. Kissing him with drunken abandon…grinding her pelvis against his…the feel of his hard cock in her hand. She shivered at the memory. It seemed her sweet lion was always ready for sex.

What about now?

They stopped before the elevator doors. When Callum stepped forward to press the call button, she stole a peek at him from underneath her lashes. Their gazes met with a spark that sizzled all the way to her clitoris. His eyes twinkled like there were stars in their depths and a smile twitched on his lips. He clearly had something up his sleeve.

Anticipation fluttered in her abdomen. What did her ruthlessly romantic double Leo have waiting for her in the room? Champagne and caviar? Oysters on the half shell he’d raised himself? A diamond ring?

No! Don’t spoil the surprise by guessing what it might be. Whatever he’d planned was sure to be wonderful.

The elevator dinged and the doors slid open. They stepped in. The doors closed. The car, like the lobby, was lined in age-darkened panels. The lighting, from a flush-mount fixture strung with crystal beads, was surprisingly soft and romantic.

Callum pushed the button for the top floor. Vanessa stole another glance at him. The air between them crackled with electricity. Her pulse quickened and her palms began to sweat as desire turned up her furnace.

Claustrophobia was the fear of close quarters, but was there a name for being turned on by small spaces?

She bit her lower lip to stop it from trembling. Other lips lower down quivered, too.

The car started to rise. A glance at the panel told her the hotel had twenty floors.

“We’re in the penthouse?”

“The bridal suite,” he said with a nod. “I wanted tonight to be extra special.”

So did she. “What time are we leaving for Gretna Green in the morning?”

“Not until we’ve enjoyed a leisurely breakfast…and done a bit of shopping.”

“Shopping?” she asked, blinking in surprise. “For what?”

His mouth bowed into the beguiling smile of a double Leo. They might be opposites in lots of ways, but he was perfect for her.

“I need a ring,” he said. “And you need a dress. We might be eloping, but we can still do it with style.” He caught her hand in his and pulled her against his chest. “What might you like to wear to your wedding?”

The question caught her off guard. She’d not given her wedding clothes the least thought, but now that he’d asked, she knew exactly what she wanted to wear. “Is a bridal gown too fancy for Gretna Green?”

“Nothing’s too fancy if it’s what you want,
mo dearbadan-de
.” He ran his knuckles along her jawline. “There’s a bridal salon not far from the hotel called Butterflies of Edinburgh. Something tells me they’ll have the dress of your dreams.”

Butterflies of Edinburgh? How kismetic. She took a moment to catch her breath. “What are you going to wear?”

“I’ll show you when we get to the room,” he said with a wink. “I had my butler send my wedding clothes by messenger.”

She conjured him dressed in a classic tuxedo and bow tie. He wore it well in her mind’s eye, but then, his body looked good in everything he put on. Better when he took his clothes off, of course, but he could hardly stand up with her in his birthday suit.

Lust surged through her at the thought of him naked. She shot a glance at the panel above the door as she reached between his legs. They were passing the tenth floor, allowing enough time for a little foreplay, but not much else. To her surprise, he wasn’t hard—unheard of for Callum. She rubbed him purposefully through the fly of his trousers, relieved by his rapid response.

As she gazed into his eyes, which were clear and sure, a smile bloomed across her mouth. “It’s not the Mile High Club, but it will do in a pinch.”

“Wouldn’t you rather wait until we get to the room?”

She brushed her lips across his, relishing his whisky flavor and breath. “I thought we might start here and finish there.”

“You’re quite the wanton,
mo bhilis
.” His voice was husky, his eyelids heavy. “Did you ken that?”

She lifted an eyebrow in question. “Are you complaining?”

Rather than answer, he pulled up her skirt and pushed his hand between her legs. His fingers slid, slowly, deliciously, from her sweet spot to her entrance, setting a fire as thrilling as it was torturous. She shuddered and exhaled in strangled bursts.

As they passed the twelfth floor, she lowered his zipper, reached through his open fly, and wrapped her fingers around his tubular engorgement. He groaned, shivered, and thrust into her grasp, but didn’t abandon his measured stoking of her pleasure. Fiery ripples of ecstasy unhinged her joints, dissolved her bones, and turned her insides to jelly.

The car stopped with a jolt on the fifteenth floor. She let go of his cock, but there was no time to put it away. He stepped behind her just as the doors glided apart. A middle-aged couple stood on the other side.

Vanessa offered them a meek smile. “Going up?”

“Down, actually,” the man returned with a sweeping glance that took all of her in. She flushed with guilt. Could he tell they’d been fooling around?

When the doors closed with the couple still on the other side, she heaved a sigh and collapsed against Callum, feeling boneless and doughy. He was her buttress, her pillar of strength, her safe harbor. She was a storm-damaged ship in need of refuge and repair.

He kissed her hair and slid his hands up her torso, over her blouse. She arched her back, pushing the tingling fullness of her breasts into his grasp as her buttocks burnished his erection.

“I have a surprise for you upstairs,” he whispered while teasing her nipples through the layers of silk and lace, “but it can wait.”

Without warning, he lunged forward, swept her with him to the panel, and punched the button to stop the car before pinning her against the wall.

“You are mine,” he said, eyes ablaze with a golden fire that consumed her, body and soul. “Mine and only mine. Now and forever. Do you hear me?”

“Yes,” she said in a breathless gasp. “And you’re mine.”

“Aye,
mo dearbadan-de
.” He kissed her mouth. “And very happy to be so.”

He took hold of her wrists, raised her arms above her head and held them there with one hand while the other snaked its way down her body. As he groped his way under her skirt, he plundered her mouth with his tongue. She moaned her surrender, cognizant of the metaphor. He’d caught her and pinned her like the butterflies he collected as a boy.

Vanessa Angelica Bentley

Mo dearbadan-de

Edinburgh, Scotland

She didn’t mind. She wanted to be his, wanted to be the one woman who finally loved him the way he deserved, wanted to spend the rest of eternity making him happy. He would do the same for her. She was sure of it, because he loved her for the crazy, mixed-up person she was, not in spite of it.

He was her one true love.

Her reason for being.

“Are you sure you’ve never read
Fifty Shades of Grey
?” she asked, breaking free of his mouth when she remembered the hot make-out scene in the elevator.

He gave her a lurid smile. “Nay, lass. But I have seen
Fatal Attraction
.”

She hadn’t, but before she could ask if the film had a similar scene, his trousers dropped to his ankles. She swallowed as her wide-eyed gaze slipped to his jutting erection.

Oh, my. All that’s mine and only mine, now and forever.

Her back was still against the wall. Stepping up to her, he lifted her skirt, slipped a hand between her legs, and pushed her panties aside. He then caressed her vulva with velvet claws, making her wetter than she already was.

Seizing his cock like a lever, she yanked him to her. The hard plains of his chest crushed the soft roundness of hers. She swung up her legs and captured his hips in the vise of her thighs. He impaled her with a savage thrust. The thrill of his entry, the unbelievable feeling of fulfillment, forced a ragged moan from her throat. She tipped her hips to take him deeper. He buried his blade to the hilt again and again and again—a crime of passion. Her body, rejoicing in the violence of his stabs, coiled tighter and tighter until an explosion of ecstasy blew every cell into oblivion.