Dark and Stormy Knight (13 page)

Of course he would
, fear whispered.
Look around you. The man is capable of anything.

As she stood there, strangled by dread, he took a seat on the chaise. His eyes roamed over her in a lascivious way that made her feel naked and dirty.

A smile twitched on his mouth. “Take off your clothes.”

Although mortified, she stuck out her chin in defiance. “And if I refuse?”

“I will do it for you.”

Her gaze met his before dropping to his lap. He wasn’t hard. How odd. She was sure he was getting off on this.

“Tell me something if you would,” she bit out. “How did the noble man you were become the monster you are?”

Pain flashed behind his eyes. He rubbed them, pushed back his hair, and scratched his chin, looking pensive. Clearly, he was giving his answer serious consideration. Finally, he heaved a sigh and spoke.

“Tenderness is what tames the beast within, Miss Morland. Without it, the savage takes over.”

“I don’t understand,” she said. “Who is denying you tenderness but yourself? When I tried to give you some, you threatened to horsewhip me.”

“Tenderness is forbidden to me.”

Brow furrowing, she blinked at him in confusion. “Forbidden? How, exactly?”

“By my curse.” Though he looked pained, she couldn’t bring herself to gloat about it. “If I accepted your tenderness and came to care for you, you would die.”

Her mouth fell open. Holy crap. That was the curse Queen Morgan put on him? That anyone he cared about would die?

“Is there no way to break the curse?”

He scrubbed his face with his hand and heaved a woeful sigh. “None that I’m aware of.”

“Are you sure it’s real? Maybe it’s one of those power-of-suggestion things and she was just messing with you.”

She was grasping at straws, but she didn’t care.

“Trust me. It’s real.”

Her heart leaped into her throat. “Oh, my God. Has someone died?”

He took a step back and rubbed his chest as if experiencing sudden pain. “Aye, Miss Morland. Two someones.” His eyes grew dark and turbulent. “And I’d prefer not to add you to the list of casualties.”

Chilly fingers walked up her spine. “Is there some danger of that?”

“There’s always a danger,” he said. “Now take off your things, and let’s get on with it.”

A small quiver went through her, half fear, half excitement. In his own convoluted way, he’d just admitted he had feelings for her. She had feelings for him, too. Despite the impending spanking. Beneath the rust and tarnish of his armor beat the heart of her faery tale knight. There had to be a way to rescue him.

Regarding him hopefully, she licked her lips. “Are you sure there’s no way to break the curse?”

He heaved a sigh and combed his fingers though his hair. “If there is, the antidote would be in the Thitherworld, where I am forbidden to go.”

Pulse accelerating, she set her hand on her chest as she stepped toward him. “What if somebody else went for you?”

He scoffed and looked down his nose at her. “Why would anybody be fool enough to do that?”

She blinked up at him, mouth suddenly dry. “So you could be a good knight again.”

A loud knock at the door almost made her jump out of her skin.

“My lord? Are you in there?”

It was the butler’s voice.

“Aye, Gavin.” Leith’s gaze moved from her to the door. “What is it?”

“I’m sorry to disturb, my lord, but Mr. Earlston and Lord Lyon have just arrived and are waiting upon you in the library.”

“Still living in the past, eh, Sir Leith?”

Lord Lyon’s snide remark raised Leith’s shields at once. He’d entered the library with Gwyneth on his arm to find the two gentlemen with their heads together at the window, each gripping maddeningly generous pours of his best single-malt.

The remark no doubt had to do with their costumes. He’d put his riding togs back on while Gwyneth still wore the fetching maid’s uniform he’d tried so hard to get her out of in the dungeon.

“Still the same cheeky bugger, I see, Lord Lyon,” Leith coolly returned.

Closer scrutiny revealed that Lord Lyon was not, in fact, the same. For one, he’d cut his hair—conservatively short. For another, he looked even happier than usual, which galled Leith to the marrow.

Tom looked much as he had the last time he’d visited Glenarvon, which was—what?—a dozen or so years back? Still the same impish good looks, intense blue eyes, and disheveled sandy hair.

Setting his hand atop Gwyneth’s in the crook of his arm, Leith stepped deeper into the room. “Gentlemen, allow me to present Miss Morland, who is adapting my book for the screen.” Addressing the lady, he added, “These ne’er-do-wells are Callum Lyon, the baron of Barrogill, and Tom Earlston, also known as Thomas the Rhymer.”

Tom smiled and uttered some appropriate pleasantry while Callum gave an astonished-looking Gwyneth the once over with a lecherous gleam in his eye.

Same old Lyon.

“I’m sorry I missed your wedding, Lord Lyon.” Leith said it deliberately, hoping to discourage the lady’s interest in the cad. “Allow me to offer my belated congratulations.”

“Thank you.”

Though Lyon spoke to Leith, he kept his eyes on his prey.

Leith regarded his unwelcome guest warily. “And where is your lovely bride this evening?”

“In Greenland,” Lyon replied, “saving the world from Big Oil, which I applaud.”

Leith smiled politely and ushered Miss Morland to the drink cart. Were he Lyon’s bride, he wouldn’t let his mate out of his sight. Or perhaps Lady Vanessa wasn’t aware of her husband’s reputation.

Reluctantly, he let go of Gwyneth’s precious hand and picked up the pillaged whisky decanter. Not to appear cheap, he filled both tumblers fuller than usual, after which, he handed one of the drinks to her. While he might have no claim on her, he’d be damned if he’d throw her to the Rampant Lyon of Caithness.

“And to what do I owe the honor of your condescension, my lord?” Leith took a sniff of his glass, savoring the heady blend of oak, vanilla, marmalade, and florals. When this was gone, there would be no more of the good stuff until the film money came through.

“Nothing in particular.” Lyon shrugged. “I’m on my way to London and thought I’d pop in to see how you’re getting on. And offer my sympathies. Tom here tells me you’re in a bit of a slump and, as a fellow author, I know how defeating that can be.”

“I hope you don’t mind my telling him,” Tom put in with a look of unease.

Leith did, actually. A great deal. The less Lyon knew about him and his concerns, the better. He took a sip from his glass and licked his lips. “Of course not. My life is an open book.”

Beside him, Gwyneth coughed into her hand before moving to the oxblood leather chesterfield. She sat, arranged her skirts, and sipped her whisky. God, she was lovely. With her wide-set green eyes, cherubic mouth, and button nose, she looked every bit the woodland nymph ripe for the ravishing.

“Will you be staying the night, Lord Lyon?”

“No, but I thank you kindly for the invitation.”

Relief washed through Leith until Lyon’s gaze slid back to the lady and lingered. Simmering with fury, Leith stepped into his sightline like a dog protecting a bone. A tug on the seat of his breeches made him turn.

“What are you doing?” Her expression was pinched, and her voice was little more than a hiss.

With a tight smile, he claimed the seat beside her. He kept his voice low as he said, “Lord Lyon is eyeing you like you’re his next meal.”

“I can see that,” she whispered back. Then, with a winsome smile he didn’t like in the least, she added, “Too bad he’s married, huh?”

The remark stung like a hornet. He swallowed, struggling to keep his expression from betraying his inner turmoil. “He’d do well to remember it.”

“If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were jealous.”

He laughed off her keen observation. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

Bloody hell. He
was
jealous. As jealous as a lovesick schoolboy. Eyes narrowing, he sipped his whisky. All the more reason to get rid of her. Once the contracts were signed, he’d wash his hands of her. In the meantime, he still owed her a spanking.

She rose in a swirl of skirts, crossed to the drink cart, and emptied the decanter into her tumbler. To Leith’s consternation, she then approached the two gentlemen and practically threw herself at Lord Lyon. It was an obvious—and maddeningly effective—ploy to get his goat.

When she asked Lyon about Barrogill, his castle up near Duncansby, Leith sprang to his feet, ready to point out Glenarvon’s superiority. Prudence made him change his mind. He might as well whip out his cock and challenge Lyon to do the same. And with his luck, Lyon’s would be bigger!

Biting his lip against the urge to make an untoward remark, he crossed to the servant’s bell and pulled. Though the hour was late, he knew Gavin wouldn’t retire until Tom was settled in one of the guest rooms.

Lyon and Gwyneth, now alone by the window, continued chatting amiably, galling Leith to the core.

Tom came over, refilled his glass, and nodded toward the golden-haired claim-jumper.

“He won’t say why he’s really here with the lass in the room.”

Tom’s disclosure pulled Leith’s attention from the pair at the window. Narrowing his eyes, he muttered, “I should have known the golden boy was up to something.”

“He’s come to bury the hatchet.”

“Where? In my skull?”

Tom let out a small laugh. “Do you know the reason he’s had no use for you all these years?”

“Aye,” Leith said. “He blames me for Belphoebe’s unfortunate fate.”

“Exactly.”

“So, what’s changed?”

“She’s still alive.”

Leith could not believe his ears. When he’d delivered Belphoebe to the druids, she’d been carrying his child. He’d assumed all these years both were lost to the curse. He’d loved her back then. Not the way he’d loved his Clara, but enough to put her in jeopardy.

“Did she have the bairn?”

“Aye,” Tom said, “though Finn’s not been a bairn for some time.”

Leith’s pulse quickened as he absorbed the news. She’d had a boy. Named Finn. All these years, he’d had a son and didn’t know it. Why had no one told him before now? Anger soon usurped his amazement. He tightened his grip on his empty glass.

Where the devil is Gavin?

“Are they still with the druids in Brocaliande?”

“
She
is.”

“Where is my son? I should like to meet him.”

Tom set a hand on his arm. “That, I can’t tell you.”

Leith fixed him with a distrustful glare. “Can’t or
won’t
?”

“He’s more than your son,” Tom said. “Think about it, Leith. He’s the only natural-born drone to survive infancy.”

Confusion furrowed Leith’s brow. “What the devil are you talking about?”

Tom’s blue eyes widened in surprise. “Are you telling me you don’t know about the prophecy? I thought sure that was the reason you put them under the protection of the druids.”

“No. She never uttered a word about it.”

When she’d told him she was with child, she seemed pleased, which he’d thought odd under the circumstances, but dismissed as a female thing. She’d told him where to take her and how to fool the queen into believing he’d carried out her orders. Now, he understood how she knew the trick would work. Because she’d fooled the queen in the same way when she’d aided Lyon’s escape.

Leith’s gaze flicked to his adversary, who, to his vexation, was still conversing with Gwyneth by the window. As resentment heated Leith’s blood, he fought the urge to throw his drink at the wall. The glass was Irish crystal and hardship had taught him to prize the few fine things he still had.

He set the tumbler on the bar tray and glowered at Lyon. Damn the man and his good fortune. He got everything he wanted with the snap of his fingers. Well, Lyon wouldn’t add Miss Morland to his trophy case, if Leith had anything to say about it.

Lyon’s topaz eyes met his hateful gray glare. “I gather Tom’s told you the news?”

“I have,” Tom confirmed. “And he swears Belphoebe never breathed a word about the prophecy.”

Gwyneth’s pretty mouth fell open. “There’s a prophecy? What does it predict?”

Better questions Leith couldn’t have asked himself.

Tom’s worried gaze darted between Leith and Gwyneth.

Leith, understanding his concern, said, “It’s all right. She knows what I am and, well, all can be erased, can it not?”

Tom shrugged. “The prophecy says a natural-born drone will rise up one day to overthrow the queen.”

“And because of it,” Lyon put in, “she kills and eats all the lads she bears.”

“How vile.” Gwyneth’s disgusted gaze met Leith’s. “Isn’t Belphoebe the faery in your book? The one you were ordered to kill?”

“Aye. Only that’s not quite what happened.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “No? Then what did happen?”

“He took her to the druids of Brocaliande,” Tom proffered. “To protect her and the child.”

“And gave the queen the heart of a sow,” Leith tacked on. “Queen Morgan is ruthless, to be sure, but she’s not particularly astute.”

Gwyneth gave Leith a probing look he couldn’t comprehend. “So, Belphoebe’s still alive?”

“She is,” Lyon confirmed. “Alive and well, as is her son, Finn MacKnight.”

Leith, suddenly aware his palms were sweating, wiped his hands on his breeches. “If he’s
my
son, why’s he called MacKnight and not MacQuill?”

“For the same reason you call yourself Leigh Ruthven,” Tom replied, smirking. “He doesn’t know of his parentage or his destiny, and won’t learn the truth until the time is right.”

It felt to Leith like another loss in a lifetime of losses. He had a son, but couldn’t meet him; had a heart, but couldn’t use it. Biting his lip to stem his growing regret, he turned his gaze on Gwyneth.

Suspicion stirred when he saw the same gleam in her eye Clara used to get when she was up to something. He licked his lips as he searched her face for clues. He found only beauty he ached to possess. Even through the shock of everything he’d just heard, her pull on his heart was too strong to ignore. It was also potentially lethal.