Starry Knight (6 page)

“Well, she came up to speak to my friend about running a pro-independence candidate for the Commons seat in Caithness. And, well, as ridiculous as it might sound, he asked if I’d consider it.”

She looked his way, brow furrowed. “You mean run for a seat as a Scottish Member of Parliament?”

His gaze met hers. “Aye, but I don’t know if it’s a good idea. What’s your opinion on the matter?”

“I’m flattered you asked,” she said. “And, as it happens, I think you’d make a brilliant SMP, but—”

“But what?” he prodded, curious to know how she’d finish the sentence.

“You’re a nationalist.”

He’d not expected that. “So?”

“If you get your way, Parliament will be dissolved.”

“I’m aware of that.”

“So why run for a seat with the aim of doing away with it?”

He licked his lips to moisten his mouth, which suddenly felt dry. “Because, as I said last night, I’m a romantic. I believe in preserving my country’s cultural heritage. The music, literature, dialects, customs, folklore, mythology, history, and so forth.”

“In that case, you should definitely go for it,” she said. “Not that I give two hoots about Scottish independence, but I think everyone should fight hard for whatever they believe in.”

“How very idealistic of you.”

He wasn’t so sure he agreed with her. Not the idealism part, the part about running. Aye, he had principles worth fighting for, but the idea of being thrust into the public eye didn’t sit well with him. He was reasonably comfortable just now. A bit on the lonely side, aye, but he could live with solitude much easier than the inconvenience of exposure.

“What do you think of the scenery?” he asked to change the subject.

“It’s nice.”

He rolled his eyes. Nice? That was the best she could do? Aquarians were usually a bit more imaginative. If she was equally uninventive between the sheets, she’d be back at the inn by noon tomorrow.

“I thought, if you feel up to it, we might walk around for a bit after lunch, before heading down to the Whaligoe Steps.”

Her face snapped toward him. “The what?”

“The Whaligoe Steps,” he repeated. “It’s a manmade stairway the fisherwomen used in the olden days to bring their catches up from the harbor below.”

“Sounds interesting,” she said, sounding not the least bit interested. “Then what?”

“Then we’ll maybe head back up to John o’Groats and out to Duncansby, to see the Natural Retreats, and the lighthouse, after which, if you’re not too tired, I thought we might take a sunset stroll along the beach.”

“Sounds like a full day.” She gave him a disingenuous smile. “When are we going to your castle?”

“A bit later,” he said, being deliberately evasive.

Why was she so eager to see his castle? He took a breath and blew it out before glancing her way. She was looking out the window again, probably scheming rather than watching the scenery. He imagined her sitting there in her underwear—well, the underwear he’d buy for her first chance he got. A lace-up corset and thigh-high stockings—the sort with the seam up the back. Oh, aye. He could almost feel his fingers gliding over the smooth satin and textured lace.

“What are you wearing underneath your clothes?”

She laughed. “What are you wearing underneath yours?”

“Nothing,” he said—the truth.

He should have known she’d turn the question back on him—another defining ploy of her sign. Ditto for her interrogation of him in the bar last night. She’d winkle everything she could out of him while revealing next to nothing about herself. If he let her, which he wasn’t about to.

“Vanessa. What does it mean?”

Her pretty brow puckered as her gaze found his. “What does
what
mean?”

“Your name,” he said, returning his attention to the road.

“My name means
butterfly
.”

His gaze flicked in her direction before rebounding to the road. “Does it? Well. Goodness me. How apropos.”

“What does yours mean?”

“Callum? It means dove or bringer of peace.”

She turned her body toward him and put her hand on his thigh. Her unexpected contact made him flinch. “I’m wearing a matching lace bra and knickers I bought last month in Paris.”

Interest tingled between his legs. “Oh, aye? What color?”

“Guess.”

Not black or red. If her bra were either, he’d be able to see the shadow through that clinging silk blouse she wore.

“Nude?”

“Close.”

“Pink?”

“Ding, ding, ding. We have a winner.” She ran her hand up his leg, stopping just shy of his package. “Are you into naughty lingerie?”

He fought to suppress a grin. “I don’t wear it, if that’s what you mean.”

“I’m glad to hear it, but that’s not what I meant and you know it. Now answer the question. Are you into lingerie and, if so, what kind?”

“That’s two questions.”

She cupped his balls and squeezed gently, making his whole body tense.

“Are you going to answer the question or do I have to get rough?”

“Corsets, garter belts, and stockings.” He was apprehensive about his bollocks but otherwise enjoying the game. “Did you happen to bring any along?”

“Nothing like that, I’m afraid,” she said, still clasping his manhood.

Despite his unease, her touch was making his cock tingle, distracting his focus. He removed her hand, took a breath, and resettled himself in the seat.

There was a lingerie shop in Wick. Perhaps, before the week was out, he’d take her there. For now, however, he needed to come up with some place halfway decent for a vegetarian to eat.

Though he’d lived in the area for hundreds of years, he’d never paid much attention to its eateries. There was a café in the harbor. He’d eaten there a couple of times with Duncan. It was far from elegant, but had decent seafood, an all-day breakfast, and a river view. The cheesy maritime decor probably wouldn’t impress her, but neither would driving in circles like a clueless tourist looking for somewhere better.

Wick, the principal town in these parts, sat astride the River Wick, which stretched along both sides of Wick Bay. Though the town itself wasn’t particularly large, it felt huge compared to the other wee villages and crofts dotting the county. Steeped in fishing-industry history, Wick was once the busiest herring harbor port in Britain, exporting mainly to Europe and the Baltics. At the height of the herring industry, there were 1,100 boats working the harbor in the peak season.

The harbor, first settled by Vikings, boasted dramatic ruins, breathtaking ocean views, and a bonny cliff top walk out to the promontory where the remains of two castles could be seen.

Both still belonged to Clan Sinclair, his sworn enemies back in his mortal days. They’d stolen Barrogill while he was enslaved in Avalon, believing he’d died at Flodden Field. They’d stolen his wife, too—the reason, he suspected, she’d thrown herself from the tower moments after consummating her marriage to the clan chieftain, doubtless by force.

There had been no love between Sorcha and himself, but he still grieved her tragic fate and, much more so, the death of their son at the hands of the Sinclairs. Callum never learned what happened to wee Jamie, but he could guess, given what the Sinclairs did to their own offspring.

Callum flung the painful reminiscence away. What could he do about it now? Not a bloody thing—except perhaps defeat their worthless descendant in the upcoming election.

When they reached the city limits, he steered the car toward the harbor and pulled in beside the cafe. As he shut off the engine, she sat up and frowned at the restaurant’s rather shabby stucco building.

“It’s not fancy,” he said, “but the food’s quite good and the view is unparalleled.”

He removed the key, climbed out, and hurried around to open her door. Not surprisingly, she met him on the pavement. Frowning at her usurpation of his chivalrous overture, he locked the car with the clicker, set his hand in the small of her back, and ushered her toward the front entrance.

An older woman with a plump face and a friendly smile showed them to their table. They looked over the egg-stained laminated menus in silence. The restaurant smelled of fried fish and a fine layer of grease covered everything. Their places were set with cheap flatware and overturned white cups on saucers. When he turned his upright, Lady Vanessa followed suit. A twenty-something dark-haired waitress appeared with a pot of coffee he hoped was fresh.

She filled their cups before setting the pot on the table and pulling her order tablet out of the pocket of her apron. “What can I get for you?”

Lady Vanessa ordered scrambled eggs and kippers. He asked for porridge and blood sausage. He wasn’t hungry, but figured he’d better eat something to throw her off the scent.

When the waitress left, he picked up his coffee and took a cautious sip. It was fresh, but bitter. He added milk and sugar and stirred vigorously. She watched him, saying nothing. He sipped his doctored coffee. It was better, but still miles from good. He looked out at the view, wishing she’d say something. The silence was growing awkward and he was no good at making small talk.

He looked at her then, really looked at her, possibly for the first time since leaving the inn. God, she was beautiful. Achingly so. And smelled as good as she looked. If he didn’t watch it, he might lose control long before they reached Barrogill.

The waitress returned and set their respective plates in front of them. Lady Vanessa scooped up a forkful of eggs and stuffed her mouth. She had that strange, enigmatic look typical of her sign, as well as the dreamy pale eyes. That faraway look might fool some, but not him. He knew her mind was quicker, deeper, and sharper than most.

He also knew the influence of her ruling planet made her a natural rebel who instinctively felt all established customs were wrong and that the world was in need of drastic alteration. A real rebel with a cause, as Duncan had so astutely put it.

Callum didn’t disagree with her about the state of the world, but time had taught him the world wouldn’t change until people stopped living in fear. Fear of scarcity, fear of otherness, fear of fear itself. Fear begat hatred, jealousy, cruelty, and every other negative emotion Pandora released into the world when she let the human ego out of her box.

Putting it back inside was going to take more than political rebellion; it was going to take a miracle.

As she ate, he probed her mind, this time finding a piece of the puzzle he didn’t like. She’d come to Caithness to escape the paparazzi, who’d taken to calling her “Lady Ghostbuster” since she’d accepted a job as a paranormal investigator in the States. No wonder she’d fled when that reporter showed up last night. And no wonder she was so eager to get inside his castle.

Was she playing him?

Pulling out of her mind, he took a swallow of coffee to wash down his rising animosity. He could confront her, of course, but why risk unpleasantness? It would be much more entertaining to simply use her the way she was using him.

“There’s something you should know about my castle,” he said, watching her face for a reaction.

Her deceiving blue eyes shimmered with interest. “Oh? And what’s that?”

“It’s haunted.”

She nearly choked on her eggs, which pleased him no end. He’d say this for the lady. She was a hopeless liar. Reading her mind seemed almost like overkill when her every feeling was written all over her face.

“Is that so?” she asked, dabbing her mouth with her napkin.

“Aye. By a lady who threw herself off the tower several centuries ago.”

“Oh, dear. How sad. Do you know why?”

“Apparently, she was forced to marry a brute of a man from an enemy clan.”

She scooped up a forkful of eggs. “I think I’d kill myself, too, if I was forced to marry a terrible man I didn’t love.” She put the eggs in her mouth and after swallowing them, added, “Just out of curiosity, how do you experience the haunting?”

“I feel coldness when she’s in the room.” He didn’t add that it was the same coldness the lady had treated him with when they were married.

“Does she make sounds? Move things? Feel hostile?”

“No, nothing like that.” He took a sip of coffee to hide his smirk. “I just feel the drop in temperature when she comes into the room.”

“How do you know it’s the girl who threw herself from the tower?”

“I don’t know,” he said, tasting the lie. “I just do.”

“If she was religious in life, she might be afraid to cross over and face eternal damnation.”

“You seem to know something about spirits,” he said, calculatingly.

“I do,” she said, poking at her kipper. “I’ve seen them since I was a little girl—not that anybody believed me.” She met his gaze with watery eyes. “My parents thought I was crazy and made me see a psychiatrist.”

The tears in her eyes gave him a pang of guilt—and pity. “Perhaps when we get to Barrogill, you can have a word with the ghost, find out what she wants, and persuade her to move on.”

“I’d be happy to—if she reaches out. I can only see the spirits who wish to make themselves known.”

Fair enough, he thought, ready to probe deeper. “So, did the psychiatrist help you?”

“Not with the spirits,” she said. “I still saw them, I just pretended I didn’t so my parents would stop sending me to see him.”

“You didn’t enjoy being analyzed?”

“On the contrary, I hated it with every fiber of my being.”

He wasn’t surprised. There was a fine line between genius and madness and people born under Uranus treaded that line like a tightrope walker. Lewis Carroll was an Aquarian. So were Mozart, Lord Byron, William S. Burroughs, Somerset Maugham, Thomas Edison, and Galileo.

If Lord and Lady Bentley thought her mad for seeing ghosts, he could only imagine how horrified they must be by their daughter’s chosen profession—and how tickled she must be by their reaction. Aquarians loved nothing better than shocking friends and family with their eccentric behavior—except perhaps solving mysteries. They were mad for solving puzzles, especially the flesh-and-blood variety. The question was, which sort had she come to Caithness to solve?

He could guess—and let her try. He had nothing to fear since he could cleanse from her memory whatever she might learn. In the meantime, he’d enjoy her to the fullest.