Starry Knight (4 page)

“All right,
Callum
,” she said, squeezing his protuberance for emphasis. “But only if you take me to your castle.”

“That can be arranged,” he said, pulling out his phone.

Yes! She was in.

She kept her hand on his cock as he placed a call and waited for a party to answer. “Duncan, it’s Callum. I’m in the bar with Lady Vanessa, who’d like to come with me to Barrogill tonight. Will you be much longer?”

After a pause in which she presumed Duncan had given his answer, Callum met her gaze and moved the phone away from his mouth. “Have you got a vehicle?”

She nodded. She’d rented a Land Rover at the airport in Wick when she landed earlier in the day.

“Never mind,” he said, returning to the call. “I’ve made alternative arrangements.”

Over the span of his existence, Callum had gotten very good at waiting. And doing without the things he couldn’t have. But enough was enough. He was sick and tired—of being alone, of settling for scraps, of denying his nature, and of being sick and tired. He needed a break from his loneliness, even if only a brief respite.

“Come on, lass,” he said, taking Vanessa’s hand. “Lead the way to the chariot that will whisk us away to Castle Barrogill.”

No sooner was she on her feet than she fell back on the barstool in a fit of giggles. Bloody hell. She was drunker than he’d realized, taking any sort of sexual contact off the table. He shot the barkeep a heated glare. Cleary, the cur had over-poured, hoping to get a leg over the lass.

“Shall I charge the tab to your room, miss?” Robert said with an edge to his voice.

“I’ll take care of it,” Callum returned, rising to his full height of six-foot-three.

The mongrel behind the bar wasted no time turning over the bill. As Callum looked it over, Lady Vanessa again attempted to stand, this time crashing into him. Recovering his balance, Callum draped an arm around her shoulders and held onto her as he studied the check with growing irritation.

Good God. She’d consumed half a bottle of Macallan’s, which would cost him a hundred quid on top of a much-desired night of passion.

Glowering down at the unchivalrous barkeep, Callum opened his mouth to say something, but then shut it again. He couldn’t risk calling attention to himself. The citizens of John o’Groats knew him on sight and might recognize Lady Vanessa from the newspapers. The last thing either of them needed was to have their assignation plastered all over newsstands from here to London. Besides, he needed to get her upstairs before she passed out, or worse, boaked all over his best bespoke suit.

He settled the check, leaving no tip to express his displeasure, and escorted Madam Butterfly, arm slung over her shoulder, through the compact lobby. Oh, aye. He remembered what he’d read about her. She couldn’t be caught. Or so the papers said. The challenge appealed—who didn’t enjoy a challenge?—but not enough to hook him. Both of his marriages had ended in disaster and he wasn’t about to walk that cruel road again.

Unfortunately, what he did want from Lady Vanessa was off the menu for tonight, thanks to that bloody bartender.

As Callum, disgruntled, escorted her to the lift, the enticing fragrance of her blood toyed with him unmercifully. Once he got her safely upstairs, he’d stick around to keep an eye on her. While the bartender struck him as more opportunistic than predatory, better to be safe than sorry.

Plus, he wanted to know what she was up to. He sensed the lady was being less than honest about her reasons for coming to Caithness, but couldn’t see through the alcoholic haze shrouding her thoughts.

The bell dinged and he ushered his charge into the car. Checking the control panel, he cursed when he saw the inn had two upper floors.

“What’s your room number, lass?”

She spun in his arms, shoulder-butted him in the chest, and knocked him back against the panel. She was on him in a blink, her mouth on his, her pelvis grinding against his flagging erection. He tried to push her off, but only half-heartedly. The truth was, he burned for her—body and blood.

Damn that accursed bartender.

He was still sober. Well, mostly. He’d had two drams in the bar and shared a couple of bottles of wine with Duncan and his friends over dinner. Even so, her fervent writhing against his cock was making it hard to think straight. His fingers, acting on their own, dug into her firm yet supple behind as his tongue plundered her mouth. Christ, how he wanted her. But not like this. Not when she wasn’t in control of her faculties. Not when she could wake up in the morning regretting her choices. She wasn’t one of his faery whores, she was a highborn lass. A suitable match for a man of his station. The thought jolted him back to his senses. Was he actually considering…? No, he mustn’t. It would never work. Besides, she was Madam Butterfly—the lady who couldn’t be caught.

He broke out of the kiss, breathless, sweating, unsettled, and panging with guilt.

“Your room, lass. Which floor?”

“Two-twelve.”

She staggered backward and nearly fell. As he caught her, she smiled up at him dreamily. He gasped in surprise as her hand plunged into his trousers. She seized his cockstand like a gearshift.

“My, what a big cock you have, Baron Barrogill.”

A sudden spike of pleasure made his mouth fall open and his eyes roll back. Before he could regain his wits, she collapsed against his chest. Fuck, she was out cold with her hand down his kecks and he had no bloody idea where her key might be. To even attempt a search, he’d have to extract her hand and prop her against the wall somehow, praying she wouldn’t suddenly come to and puke all over him and the bloody lift.

But, first things first. As he was working to remove her hand with as little damage as possible, the car jerked and began to rise. Christ almighty. Someone had called the bloody lift. He yanked her hand free, wincing in pain as her fingers plucked a few pubes. The elevator jolted to a stop and opened on a lanky bellman with an empty luggage caddy. The lad started to get on, but froze when he saw them.

Callum offered him a sheepish grin and a shrug. “What can I say? My wife can’t hold her drink. Would you be a mate and help me out? I believe our room key is in her handbag.”

The bellman just stood there, blinking like a dolt.

Annoyance coiled in Callum’s gut. He’d never been one to suffer fools. “Steady her for a moment, eh? Whilst I search for the key.”

“Och, aye,” the lad said, coming back to life.

With Lady Vanessa propped between them, he dug through her handbag, finding the credit card style key sharing an inside pocket with several tubes of lipstick. He took her back from the bellman and ran a hand softly down the side of her face. God, she was lovely. Even drunk and out cold. He scooped her into his arms and offered the bellman a courteous smile. “We’re in two-twelve, but, as you can see, my hands are full. Would you oblige me and lead the way? And perhaps help me get her inside?”

The bellman nodded and stepped aside, taking the cart with him. As Callum followed him down the hallway, her head lolled against his arm. Cradling her closer, he murmured against her hair, “You really should be more careful about who you trust, my lady, present company included.”

At the door to two-twelve, the lad took the key and inserted it into the slot on the door. Looking put out, he opened the door and held it whilst Callum carried the lass to the bed. Setting her down with care, he adjusted her clothing and the pillows to make her as comfortable as possible.

The bellman hovered just inside the door. Callum, eager to be rid of him, pulled out his wallet, withdrew a crisp tenner, and offered it with his thanks. The bellman accepted the tip with an appreciative nod and took his leave, thank the stars.

Callum shut the door and hurried back to Lady Vanessa, still out cold. Sitting softly on the edge of the bed, he pulled off her shoes. Her feet were long, slender, and graceful with red lacquer on the toenails. A strong inclination to kiss each toe in turn pulsed through his veins. Feet weren’t his thing, but hers were unusually lovely.

As hunger growled in his gut and his groin, he looked her over, debating how much of her clothing to remove—for her comfort. Moving up the bed, he peeled off her suit coat as deftly as he could manage. She made several small animalistic noises but, to his great relief, neither stirred nor spewed.

After unclasping her tangle of necklaces, he set the jewelry on the bedside table before laying her jacket neatly over a chair. She had on only slacks and a low-cut, sleeveless shell. That she was braless was even more evident than before.

His hungry gaze traced the natural curve of her breasts, which were as full and lovely as any he’d seen. Clenching his jaw against the urge to touch, he moved around to the other side of the bed and threw the folded-back coverlet over her.

Out of sight, out of mind, eh?

Casting around the room, he found a small sofa at the foot of the bed. Aye, he’d sleep there and watch over her, then, come morning, he’d take her sightseeing—after they made love. First, though, he needed to appease his thirst for blood.

He tucked his shoes under the bed skirt beside hers, then quickly stripped off every stitch while monitoring her breathing to be sure she didn’t awaken. It wouldn’t do for her to come to and find him prancing about her room in his altogethers. Well, perhaps not prancing per se, but still. Assured by her snores, he jogged to the window, threw up the sash, and perched on the sill with his legs dangling outside. The night air felt cool and refreshing against his frustrated flesh. The lawn below was a two-story drop.

He recited the Fith-Fath. As his bones and muscles began to rearrange themselves, he grimaced against the discomfort. Fur sprouted across his skin to form a golden pelt. His head enlarged, his face elongated, his hands and feet morphed into paws, and his hair became a thick, spiky mane.

Jumping from the ledge, he landed softly on his lion’s paws. The comingled smells of grass, sea, and loam filled his nostrils. His ears received rushing water and the rustle of wind among needles, leaves, and branches. Loping into the trees, he merged with the shadows, scenting the musk of a solitary deer.

Ducking behind a thick trunk, he sighted his prey: a young stag with fuzzy prongs. The animal’s head came up as it caught the scent of a predator. Seconds later, the stag crashed from the underbrush in a streak of buff. Callum 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.

“Sorry, lad, but a cat’s got to eat,” he said before reciting a prayer thanking the deer for its sacrifice.

Pressing his mouth against the pelt, he bit down, puncturing the jugular. Blood spurted hot over his tongue before settling into a steady stream. Viscous and warm, it tasted of copper and salt.

Bloodlust now satisfied, Callum the lion rolled onto his back, paws in the air. Above him, the moon was a luminous pearl floating in a sparkling 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 made his way back to the inn, praying the lass hadn’t awakened. The moon’s position told him it was an hour or so before dawn. He stood under her window for several minutes, feeling every bit Shakespeare’s star-crossed Romeo.

But soft, what light through yonder window breaks?

It is the east, and Vanessa is the sun.

Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon,

Who is already sick and pale with grief

That thou, her maid, art far more fair than she.

He shook his mane-covered head.
He’d spoken truth when he told the lady he was romantic. Too bad he’d had so few chances to experience that essential part of himself these past five hundred years. Both his marriages had been arranged, and there was little point in courting whores. He had wooed his mistresses back in the day—with flowers, poetry, and all the other trappings of romance the fairer sex so enjoyed. And, to be honest, he’d taken great pleasure in the pursuit.

Licking his whiskers, he gazed up at the window, in whose reflection he could see the moon and stars. He’d taken up astrology to please his father—an impossible task—but also to please himself. Heavenly bodies were mysterious, beautiful, and unfathomable—not unlike womankind.

Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven,

Having some business, do entreat her eyes

To twinkle in their spheres till they return.

Och, nay. He hadn’t exaggerated his romantic proclivities. Perhaps he could cultivate that part of himself for the next few days—not to win the lady, but simply to please himself.

* * * *

Vanessa opened her eyes to a pounding headache and the dim gray light of a new day. Swallowing to moisten her parched mouth, she rolled onto her side, expecting to find the Scottish Adonis sleeping beside her.

Shit, he wasn’t there. Had he shagged her and buggered off? God knew, it wouldn’t be the first time. Unfortunately, to stay on task, she needed Lord Lyon to be more than a one-night stand.

Hang on. If they’d made the beast with two backs, why was she still in her clothes?

As she surveyed her surroundings, a hazy scene from the night before played behind her eyes—them snogging in the lift with wrestling tongues and grinding pelvises. Good God, did she actually put her hand down his trousers?

She couldn’t understand what had happened. She’d only ordered two whiskies. Had the bartender refilled her glass when she wasn’t looking?—or, God forbid, spiked her drink with one of those date-rape drugs?

Thank the goddess Lord Lyon had come along when he did. She didn’t want to think what might have happened if he hadn’t.

Clearly, the baron was a gentleman, which was a good deal more than she could say for that snake of a bartender. She had half a mind to report him to the manager. Not that she could prove anything except that she’d overindulged.