Knight of Wands (Knights of the Tarot Book 1) (6 page)

Leaving the car, he led the way along a track through a farmstead edging the sea cliffs until they reached the top of the steps, a steep flight of more than three hundred terraced flagstones zigzagging down the face of the cliff. Locals claimed there were 365 steps in all, one for each day in the year. He’d always been too preoccupied with keeping his footing in the thick sea haar that so often engulfed the lower portion of the steps to keep count.

Even without the fog, the grade was steep, the flagstones slippery, and the height off-putting for those suffering from vertigo. On the plus side, the hike down was abundant with wild flowers and seabirds, and the downward view into the “goe”—a small rocky inlet surrounded by soaring cliffs—was nothing short of breathtaking.

“Where do they lead to?” Vanessa asked as they began the walk down.

“To a grassy area called the Bink, and the ruins of an old salt store once used to cure fish. From there, you can climb down to a rocky shelf known as the Neist, if you’re so inclined.”

“Are we going all the way to the bottom?”

“Probably not.”

He kept a firm grip on her hand. Her boots, while becoming, weren’t the best choice for this endeavor, and he wanted to be sure she didn’t slip.

“Why were they built?”

“Harbors are scarce along this stretch of the coast, so the locals who fished here needed a way to get their catches up the cliffs and to the market at Wick.”

He liked the feel of her hand in his. Too much for his own good. They walked in silence for a while, concentrating on the steps. The path was lined with an assortment of wildflowers. The butterflies the blooms attracted called a long-ago memory to the surface. For some reason, he felt compelled to share it with her.

“When I was a lad, I used to collect butterflies. The Highlands are home to more than thirty varieties. Skippers, Fritillaries, Hairstreaks, Peacocks, Painted Ladies, and dozens more. My favorite was always the Scotch Argus, with its bonny chocolate wings and bright orange eyespots. I used to spend hours chasing the specimen I planned to catch, following it from flower to flower, waiting patiently for it to alight here or there. Then, I’d net it, take it inside, and pin it to a piece of board above a label documenting its Latin name and where I’d caught the wee thing.”

She looked right at him, her watery blue pools shimmering with distrust. “Is that why you chatted me up in the bar last night? So you could pin me to a board like one of your butterflies? Vanessa Angelica Meadows, caught in John o’Groats.”

It was all he could do not to go off on her. How dare she accuse him of having ulterior motives when she’d come to Caithness hoping to expose his dark secret!

“Nay, lass,” he ground out, keeping his temper in check. “I chatted you up because I saw you eyeing me at the signing like you wanted to fuck my brains out. And I wanted to fuck yours out, too. Something terrible. And, God help me, I still do.”

He grabbed her shoulders, jerked her to him, and kissed her soundly on the mouth. Then, remembering his vow to behave himself, he put her away from him, turned on his heel, and started back up the steps.

“Where are you going?”

“Back to the car.”

“Why?”

“So I can take you out to Duncansby Head to see the stacks and the lighthouse.”

Chapter 3

On the drive to Duncansby Head, Callum seemed distant and Vanessa started to feel guilty about her ulterior motives. She came close to fessing up several times, but kept talking herself out of it. If she came clean, he might take her back to John o’Groats, which was the last thing she wanted.

“Is anything wrong?”

“Huh? Oh…uh…no.” He darted a glance in her direction. “Of course not. What could be wrong?”

“I don’t know,” she returned. “That’s why I’m asking.”

“Everything’s fine.” He gave her an unconvincing grin. “I was just thinking.”

“What about?”

He shrugged and flicked another look her way. “You, mostly.”

Intrigued, she asked, “Anything you’d care to share?”

With a light-hearted chuckle, he said, “To be truthful, I was wondering what you had on under your clothes.”

Titillated by his question, she turned her body toward him and put her hand on his thigh. “Well, since you asked…I’m wearing a matching bra and panties set I bought at Victoria’s Secret in San Francisco.”

“Oh, aye? What color?”

“Guess.”

“Black?”

“Nope.”

“Red?”

“Try again.”

“Nude?”

“Close.”

“Pink?”

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

“I don’t wear it, if that’s what you mean.”

She squeezed his thigh. “I’m glad to hear it, but that’s not what I mean and you know it. Now, answer the question.”

“Yes.”

This conversation had promise. “What in particular gets your motor running?”

“I like corsets,” he said, “and garter belts with thigh-high stockings. Did you happen to bring any with you?”

She took a moment to think before answering. Either he was trying to entrap her or desire had drained all the blood from his brain. She sincerely hoped it was the latter. “Is that a trick question?”

“No.” He shot her a puzzled look. “Why would you think that?”

“Because corsets and stockings aren’t usually the wardrobe of choice for protests in the Arctic Sea.”

“Right. Sorry. I forgot why you came up here.” After a pause, he added, “There’s a lingerie shop in Wick, if you’re willing to indulge me.”

“Are you buying?”

“Of course.”

She brushed her fingers across his fly to see if he was hard. Finding he was, she withdrew her hand.

He looked her way again, wearing the same puzzled expression. “If you want to play with my cock, I won’t stop you.”

She smirked. “I didn’t think you would.”

“Then why did you stop?”

“It’s too soon.”

“We only have three days.”

“I could always skip the protest.”

“What?—and let the evil oil companies have their way?”

“It’s not as if Greenpeace is going to cancel the protest just because I don’t show up.”

He looked down his nose at her while a teasing smirk played on his lips. “Be that as it may, I’m not sure I can condone you selling out the planet for sex.”

“You sound as if you don’t want me to stay.”

“It’s not that.”

“Then what is it?”

He got quiet for several minutes and then said, “Did you really come to Caithness on your way to a Greenpeace protest?”

Guilt nipped her heart. “Why would I lie about that?”

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”

She swallowed the lump in her throat and turned toward the window, away from him. What did he suspect her of? Not the truth, surely.

As they drove on, the tension between them grew thick. She didn’t like the feeling…or how much she was starting to like him.

The road was narrow, winding, and edged the sea cliffs. There was no barrier, which meant one false move could be fatal. She held her breath until he parked the car on a cliff overlooking the sea.

Neither of them made a move to get out. As much as she wanted to tell him the truth, she didn’t dare. If she blew her assignment because she’d stupidly gotten emotionally involved, Mr. Armstrong would think her incompetent. As much as she hated being deceitful, she needed to keep her priorities straight. In two more days, she was going home and would never see Callum Lyon again. Unless, of course, she cast him into the public eye by exposing his family secret, ruining his life and his chances of running for office in the process.

To ease her anguish, she looked out at the sky, which was clear and just as blue as the sea stretching toward the horizon. This was a beautiful place, but also windswept and desolate. There were seabirds aplenty, but no other people within view.

“Most tourists turn back once they’ve admired the view from the car park,” he said, “which is a shame, because the real delights of this place can only be seen from up by the lighthouse.”

When he pointed, she followed his finger to the top of a bluff. There, overlooking the sea, stood a large, two-story white structure more closely resembling a manor house than a lighthouse.

“That is Duncansby Head Lighthouse,” he said, “which was built in the nineteen twenties by David Alan Stevenson, the grandfather of Robert Louis Stevenson. Have you ever read his books?”

She tried to think what she might have read by Stevenson, but came up empty. “Didn’t he write
Treasure Island
?”

“Aye, as well as
The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde
, which few people realize.”

As he said it, he gave her a pointed look that heightened her guilt. It was almost as if he knew her secret, even though he couldn’t possibly. She’d been incredibly careful.

“Aren’t we getting out of the car?”

“In a minute,” he said. “When we’re through talking.”

“Talking about what?”

“Why you really came to Caithness.”

His statement, and the look on his face, gave her a jolt. “I already told you why I came.”

“Tell me again.”

Fear tightened her chest and quickened her pulse. How could he know? There was no way. “I came to hear you lecture.”

“Not to get inside my castle?”

She couldn’t keep up the pretense. Not when he asked her directly. She was an honest person by nature and he seemed like a nice guy. Nothing like the profligate womanizer Mr. Armstrong had described. “Well…that too.”

“Why?”

“Because I want to sleep with you.”

“Is that the only reason?”

“What other reason would I have?”

“I can think of a couple.”

“Such as?”

He searched her face for several agonizing moments before he said, “If I told you there’s no vampire at Barrogill…would you still want to come home with me?”

The question knifed her heart. “How did you know?

“I can read minds.”

She was dumbfounded, and more than a little afraid. Why hadn’t she guessed? He was an astrologer, after all, and it wasn’t as if she didn’t believe in extra-sensory perception. “You’re psychic?”

“Not exactly, but I do possess some mental powers.”

“When did you figure it out?”

“At breakfast.”

Another shock blasted through her. “Why didn’t you take me back to the inn?”

“Because I like spending time with you.”

She liked spending time with him, too—and also liked the kiss he gave her on the Whaligoe Steps, but she still wasn’t sure what to make of his behavior. He’d known she’d deceived him since breakfast and hadn’t taken her back to the inn. Why? Was it really because he liked her company and wanted to get laid? Or did he have some ulterior motive for keeping her with him?

He opened the door and climbed out. Not knowing what else to do, she got out, too. The cold sea wind burned her face and whipped her hair around. She followed him along a well-trodden path leading toward the lighthouse. The roar of the sea, the screeching of gulls, and the pounding of her heart filled her ears. She was peripherally aware of the spectacular coastal views. Jagged sandstone cliffs, carpeted in verdant green grass and moss, dropped dramatically into the choppy blue-gray sea.

Up ahead, at a low wire fence, Callum stopped and waited for her to catch up. Just as she reached him, a foul, fishy odor invaded her nostrils.

“What’s that awful smell?” she asked, wrinkling her nose as she came alongside.

“The bird droppings.” He nodded downward to the inlet below the barbed-wire barrier. “And that is the Geo of Sclaites.”

The Geo of Sclaites was a deep rectangular cleft cut into the cliff. Probably because he’d mentioned Robert Louis Stevenson, she thought it would be the perfect place to hide a pirate ship.

“Impressive,” she said.

“It gets better.”

He walked on. She followed him across the lush clifftop field until he stopped again. The geological structures that met her astonished gaze were like nothing she’d ever seen before. Three rocky spires shot out of the sea to the height of the bluff where they stood.

“These are the Duncansby Stacks,” he told her.

“Wow,” was all she could think to say.

“Part of these cliffs once upon a time, and now eroded by nature to the peaks you see.”

“They’re beautiful.”

He came closer and brushed back her windblown hair. “So are you, mo dearbadan-de. Even if you are a vampire hunter.”

Longing surged through her as she met his golden gaze. “Is there a vampire at your castle?”

“Not at present.”