The Queen of Swords: A Paranormal Tale of Undying Love (11 page)

“Good morning
.” Her mouth felt dry and sticky.

“Is it?” Without looking at her, he took a pull off the cigarette and blew the smoke at the glass. “If
you plan to keep me prisoner, you’ll need to get more whisky and ciggies. I prefer
Macallan
’s, twenty-year, and
Gauloises
, no filter.” Shooting her a hard look over his shoulder, he added, “I’d offer to pay for them, but I seem to have come out without my billfold.”

Sitting up, she
swallowed the snarky comeback rising in her throat. Why was he being such a jerk all of a sudden? “Did something happen? Because last thing I remember we were getting along quite well.”

He said nothing for
an infuriatingly long while, and then, “You can keep me here against my will, and you can keep me from telling lies, but you cannot keep me from being unhappy about it.”

“That’s true
. You’re in charge of your own happiness.”

Lips compressed, h
e shot her a stony glare. She climbed off the bed, crossed to the dresser, and looked through the drawers for something to wear. Selecting jeans, a vintage lace top, and a fresh pair of knickers, she draped them over her arm and headed for the door. “Where are you going?”

His question stopped her.

“To take a shower.”

“What about me?”

She rounded on him, uncertain what he meant. Surely, he wasn’t suggesting they shower together. Not given the way he’d been acting. Sweet memories of kissing him seeped out of her memory and trickled down her body, making her shiver with desire. “What about you?”

“I need a wash
too. And a coffee.”

“
You’re welcome to the shower when I’m finished,” she offered. “And I’ll put the coffee on while the water’s heating. In the meantime, please open the window before Avery goes ballistic. It’s like a bloody hookah den in here.”

“Avery can kiss my arse.”

The rude comment jarred her. If he was going to act cantankerous all day, perhaps she ought to let him go. But, then again, that was what he wanted, wasn’t it? To gall her into releasing him so he could be off to Scotland and back to business as usual while she went back to her dreary existence with an even bigger hole inside, having found and lost the only creature who could fill it. At the moment, though, he only filled her with the urge to smack him upside the head.

“I can understand why
you’re being pissy with me, but what’s Avery done to earn your disdain?”

“Ask her.”

She got a cold, sick feeling in her gut. Her mind jumped back to the Rusty Cauldron, but she couldn’t come up with any way Avery might have offended him. Her gaze sliced from him to the mound of dead soldiers in the nightstand astray. Clearly, he’d been awake while she slept. Did he leave the room? Did something happen between him and Avery?

“I’m asking
you
.”

“Don’t make the mistake of thinking her a friend.”

Her heart sparked, heating her face. “Tell me what happened.”

His eyes flared in defiance even as his mouth obeyed her command. “I went out to use the phone. After
you fell asleep. To ring Benedict about the dogs. She came in, wearing a see-through negligee, put her hands on me, and made her desires abundantly clear. With no regard for your friendship, I might add.”

T
he shock of discovery and betrayal made her shudder. “What did you do?”

He shrugged. “She’s beautiful
...and I was hungry.”

“No.” Her chest tightened, making it hard to breathe. She reached for the wall to steady herself. “Please tell me
you didn’t.”

His mouth hitched into a crooked grin.
“I didn’t.”

Confusion soon displaced the relief she felt upon hearing his answer. Had he only said it because she’d told him to? She needed to be more careful about how she phrased her questions. “Tell me what
you did.”

“I called her a whore
, didn’t I?” His face was like granite. “Not in so many words, but she took my meaning.”

The tears in her eyes rolled hot down her cheeks. Avery was her only friend in Wickenham. Her only friend in the world, really. She had to know
she was interested in Graham, that he’d spent the better part of the night in her room. So, how could she put the moves on him? He was right. Avery was no friend and it hurt. Profoundly. At least he’d refused to be complicit, as hungry and horny as he was—
gulp
—thanks to her spell. And speaking of her spell, he couldn’t lie. So why not ask him the jackpot question? She stood there a long time just looking at him, fear raging in her heart as she tried to formulate just how to put it. “Graham,” she began at last, “I need you to be honest...not just with me, but with yourself. Have you ever stopped loving me?”

Turning back to the window, he
heaved a sigh. “Nay.”

She stepped toward him,
and then stopped. “Then why fight it? Why live in fear? I’d much rather be happy—truly, deliriously happy—for a brief time than pine for what might have been the rest of my days.”

He said nothing, did nothing. Didn’t even flinch. He just stood there at the stupid window like an unfeeling hunk of chiseled marble. Frustrated fury rose in her throat, strangling her. She clutched her clean clothes to her chest, fingers twisting in folds of denim and lace. Finally, she could bear his silence no longer.

“Say something, damn you.”

He kept quiet for several breathless moments, then said, in a low, pained voice,
“There is/By my leaning over the precipice/Of your presence and your absence in hopeless fusion/My finding the secret/Of loving you/Always for the first time.”

She knew the verse. It was from a much longer poem by Andre Breton, one of the founders of surrealism. She swallowed, touched. “
Is that how you feel now? About me?”

“I wish I could
deny it.”

She glared at his back. “Why
deny it? Love is a beautiful thing.”

A scoff escaped his throat.
“Not when it’s a death warrant.”

“We’ll find a way,
” she told him, wanting to believe it with all her heart. “I drew the Ten of Cups, remember?”

“I hope
you’re right. Because I don’t think I could bear to lose you again.”

“Then turn me,” she blurted without meaning to. “If
you make me like you, Fitzgerald can’t touch me. And you and I can be together at long bloody last.”

He
rounded on her, meeting her eyes with golden daggers. “You don’t ken what you’re asking.”

Saying nothing more, h
e just stood there, as still as a mighty oak. In comparison, she felt like a hummingbird, constantly in motion. Blinking, breathing, swallowing, twitching. Even her pounding heartbeat seemed excessive. And her emotions, which bubbled like a cauldron of witch’s brew. She bit her lip, fighting to keep them from boiling over, but lost the battle.

“I don’t understand
you.” Her throat was tight and her eyes filling with tears. “You couldn’t have known what he’d do to Caitriona. And maybe you didn’t know he’d come for Catharine. But you do believe he’ll come for me, and yet, you obstinately refuse to do the one thing that will protect me—”

“Turning
you isn’t the only way. Fitzgerald hasn’t come looking for you yet because he hasn’t picked up on my feelings—and he never will if I don’t allow them to take deeper root.” The look in his eyes chilled her to the marrow. “Release me from this infernal spell, dammit, so I can do what I should have done the moment I drew the Queen of Swords.”

Her heart shattered
like a mirror. How could he not see leaving her would destroy her as surely as anything Fitzgerald might do?

“No,” she countered, incensed. “I won’t let
you. Even if I have to keep you spellbound forever—you big, stupid, bloody-minded vampire.”

A
nd at that, she stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

Chapter
9: Taming the Scotsman

Cat elected to take a bath instead of a shower, wanting the extra time to cogitate and cool down. Maybe she should release him from the spell, let him run back to Scotland like a frightened rabbit, and try to forget she’d ever set eyes on him. That way, she’d be safe. And then what? Come back in another hundred years and go through it all again? The thought of it—and his mulishness—made her blood hotter than the bathwater in which she soaked. Had he never stopped to think this through? Or, was he too blinded by the smoke of self-blame, wishful thinking, and denial to see anything? It seemed so, meaning she’d have to lead him like a horse to water.

But could she make him drink?

Before climbing into the tub, she’d put on the coffee, as promised, and given him the all clear. Avery was nowhere around, thank the goddess, because she felt so angry and hurt right now, she might have flown into a rage reminiscent of her mother.

She took a deep, temper-cooling breath and let it out. After her bath and his shower, she’d take him to the liquor store for whisky and cigarettes.
It was the least she could do, though a small, wicked part of her was tempted to deny him his pacifiers to force him to feed on her. Blessedly, that part of her hadn’t yet gained a foothold in her otherwise charitable constitution.

The way she saw it, she had until midnight on Sunday to convert him to her way of thinking. Come Monday, she had to teach and get back to her dissertation. Until then, she’d keep him under her thumb. As long as the spell was in force, he was at her mercy. He did, of course, still have his
natural
superior strength, but she’d be willing to wager he wouldn’t use it against her.

I
f he ran, she’d bring him back with the smoke. Still, she didn’t believe he would run. Though he talked a good game, she suspected part of him wanted to remain her prisoner, wanted to be with her without feeling he’d betrayed his conscience. It was only a matter of time before those shields of his fell like Salome’s veils. She just hoped it would be sooner rather than later. As annoyed as she was with him at present, she still wanted him to strip her of her title.

If by midnight on Sunday, he refused to see sense and she remained a virgin, she didn’t have a clue what she would do. But, she didn’t need to thin
k about that just now, did she?

* * *

Returning to her bedroom after her bath—dressed in the jeans, lace top, and sneakers she took with her—she found him, to her horror, perusing the bookcase containing her vast collection of Scottish bodice-rippers. A blush scorched her face as he pulled one from the shelf, sliding a bemused glance in her direction.

Turning the paperback over, he began to read the back-cover blurb aloud: “No one can tell the hot-blooded Scottish lass whom to marry! But the much-feared man Nora runs to for protection may be more perilous to her heart than any unwanted groom
... And much more difficult to tame!”

With a chuckle, he looked up, meeting her mortified gaze. “
Taming the Scotsman?
Don’t go getting any ideas now, eh?”

He replaced the book and withdrew another, again reading the back-cover blurb, but to himself this time. He laughed and looked up, catching her watching. “Seriously? This is what does it for
you?” Winking, he added, “I’d best put my kilt back in mothballs, eh?”

She looked away. She probably should be relieved his mood had improved, but she was too humiliated to process the shift. When she looked
back, he’d moved on,
thank the goddess.
Now, he stood before her altar with his back to her. Bending over, he fingered her statue of Hecate, depicting the goddess of witchcraft in her three-bodied form as maiden, mother, and crone.

“How long have
you been practicing magick?”

“Only since my last year in secondary school,” she told him, still addled. “But I’ve always been interested in the occult
...and mythology. Especially Celtic mythology.”

“Oh, aye?” He turned his head, regarding her briefly, before returning his eyes to the book. “
You’re acquainted then with the tales of Cuchulainn and Fionn mac Cumhaill?”

“Of course.”

Cuchulainn and Fionn mac Cumhaill were heroes of Irish mythology whose legends extended to Scotland and the Isle of Man.

“My
Granda used to tell me their stories when I was a wee laddie.” He looked through the book as he spoke. “Along with his own adventures in the Forty-Five, of course.”

T
he Forty-Five was what Highlanders called the 1745 Jacobite rebellion led by Prince Charles Edward Stuart in his bid to restore his family’s claim to the British throne. The campaign ended in the slaughter at Culloden, after which the English banned all trappings of Highland culture, including the wearing of tartan.

“Your grandfather was a Jacobite?”

“Oh, aye.” He returned the book to the altar. Moving his attention to the shelf above, he ran a finger down the spine of her grimoire, but didn’t remove it. “And his father and grandfather before him. We Logans have been fighting for the cause of freedom since the days of William Wallace.” Turning, he looked hard at her. “Please tell me you ken who that is.”

She felt the sting of insult.
“Of course I do. He’s the guy in
Braveheart
.”

She realized how daft it sounded the moment it was out of her mouth.
With a grunt, he turned back to the altar. “Braveheart is a load of bollocks. For one thing, Robert the Bruce never betrayed Wallace. For another, Wallace supported John Balliol not the Bruce as heir to the throne.” He paused, chuckling. “And I’m reasonably certain Sir William never got a leg over the She-Wolf of France.” Looking down, he shook his head. “And don’t even get me started on the schiltrons.”

“Schiltrons?” Despite reading loads of Scottish history, she’d never heard the word.

“The lads with the sharpened spikes. Wallace invented them. As a defense against English cavalry charges. But the men formed into clumps, like giant porcupines, not in lines the way the bloody film depicts.”

“Oh
.”

Silently, she
tacked on a
holy shit
. She knew he’d “died” back in 1815, having done the math while he recounted his story. She also knew he’d been an earl and lived in a castle on the Black Isle. She just hadn’t had time to think it all the way through. He’d been a Highland nobleman, born in the devastating aftermath of failed rebellion, forever marked by those times. She’d been there too, as Caitriona Fraser, daughter of a laird. No wonder she’d always been so drawn to Scottish romances.

He’d moved to her desk and was now looking through her reference materials. “What are
you working on to do with vampires?”

“My doctoral dissertation
.” She swallowed to moisten her dry mouth. “On the archetype’s evolution in literature. I’m what’s known as ABD. Do you know what that means?”

“Aye
.” He leaned in for a closer look. “All But Dissertation. It means you’ve completed all the coursework for your Ph.D., just not the research paper.” A small laugh tumbled from his mouth. “As it happens, I’ve earned a doctorate or two myself over the years.”

Feeling her jaw begin to drop, she clamped it shut. Why should she be surprised? If she’d been around as long as
he had, she’d have earned multiple advanced degrees too.  And she admired him all the more for his enterprise and obvious intelligence.

As she watched him sorting through her books and papers, a plan began to hatch
in her mind—a plan that promised to save her job.

“
You collect vampire novels, right?”

“Aye
.” He picked up
Carmilla
and turned it over to read the back cover. “Call it morbid fascination, eh?”

“
Listen,” she began, not knowing quite how to phrase her proposal, “here’s the thing: the first draft of my dissertation is due in a couple of weeks and, well, the truth is...I’m having a bit of trouble with it.” She scraped her bottom lip with her front teeth. “Would you maybe be willing to help me out?”

He rounded on her, fixing her with those
dazzling eyes of his. “Help you
how
exactly?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe read what I’ve got so far, give me constructive feedback, make some suggestions about what to take out or put in.”

Setting
Carmilla
down, he picked up
The Vampire Diaries
and started thumbing through it. After several unbearable moments, he said, “I’ll tell you what. If you take me back to mine, so I can freshen up and look after my dogs, I’ll help you out, even let you use my personal collection for your research. What do you say? Do we have a deal?”

Her mind searched for loopholes in his proposal, but found none. Even at Wicken Hall, he’d remain under her spell, so she didn’t foresee any problem save one. “What about Branwen? Won’t she mind my being there?”

“She might if she knew.” He looked at her from under long auburn lashes. “But Branwen is in London for the whole weekend.”

* * *

Squinting against the sun, heart pounding in her ears, Cat steered her 1979 MGB through the iron gates and up the gravel drive leading to Wicken Hall. Before her towered the mansion’s impressive three-story brick facade with its tiered windows, bookend wings, and rooftop chimney forest. Classic Georgian, meaning he’d been alive when the manse was built—a sobering thought.

Meanwhile, the walking relic sat beside her in the passenger seat, silent as the grave. He told her not to bother stopping at the liquor store
because he had everything he needed at home. She parked out front, set the emergency brake, and released her seatbelt. Graham jumped out and hoisted her bulging satchel from behind the seats. She followed up the steps of the pedimented portico. The front door had a fresh coat of cerulean paint and a shiny brass doorknocker—a lion’s head with a ring in its mouth.

He
opened the door and motioned for her to go first. As she crossed the threshold, he said behind her, “Welcome to my humble abode.”

His abode was anything but. Her mouth fell open as she drank in the grand foyer’s checkerboard marble floor, intricate plasterwork, and carved oak staircase. A round table stood in the middle under a brass chandelier. Elaborate pediments crowned the doorways. Matched sets of mirrors and sma
ll chests graced the rear wall.

He guided her across it and into another room she could only describe as the consummate English library. It had everything a proper library ought to: rich paneling, soaring bookcases, a rolling ladder, a limestone fireplace flanked by a matched pair of cordovan leather wingbacks, and—the
pièce de résistance
—the heady bouquet of old leather-bound books. Her pulse quickened as her eyes swept over the packed, but orderly floor-to-ceiling shelves.

“Will it do
?” He set her satchel on a stately oak desk near a window overlooking the grounds.

She just gaped at him
for a long moment, too overwhelmed to speak. Her trance lifted when he moved toward the fireplace. She went to the shelves and began to scan the books, most of which belonged in a museum. She reached toward a cluster of the oldest-looking ones, brushing her fingertips across their decorative spines.

Spotting
Dracula
, she eased it out of its place and turned it over in her hands. Its binding was exquisite—black morocco leather with gold-stamped red labels, raised bands, tooling, and gilt inner dentelles. Cracking the stiff cover, she noted the heaviness of the pages and the blood-red marbled endpapers. Turning to the title page, she glanced at the publisher’s mark:
London Archibald Constable and Company, 1897.
She got a shock when she saw, just above it, the handwritten inscription:
To Graham Logan
from Bram Stoker, 22.6.97.

“Good goddess
.” She turned to the fireplace where he was on his knees loading the grate with wood and kindling. “This is a first edition. Inscribed to you on the day of publication.”

He laughed. “I see
you’ve found my vampire collection.”

“This is incredible,” she
observed, turning pages. “It must be worth a fortune.”

“One very like it sold at auction not long ago for a wee bit over £50,000. Not that I’d ever part with it, mind.”

Taking a breath, she slipped
Dracula
back in place as she scanned the neighboring spines.
Holy shit.
He had every vampire book she’d ever heard of, including some of the cool Japanese stuff like
Hellsing
,
Trinity Blood,
and
Vampire Hunter D
.

“So
, what is true?” she asked him, still marveling at his collection. “In terms of the tropes, I mean. You said the coffin thing wasn’t…or Anne Rice’s sex thing…and, obviously, you can go out in daylight. But what about the rest? Garlic, for instance. Does a plate of spaghetti make you run for the hills?”