Knight of Wands (Knights of the Tarot Book 1) (7 page)

When he moved in, she lifted her face to accept his kiss. The meeting of their lips sent delicious shivers through her. He slid his arms around her, shielding her from the wind as he gave her his tongue. Just as her insides started to melt, he broke away and took her hand.

As he pulled her back along the path toward the car, she asked, “Where are we going now?”

“To the beach to watch the sunset.”

She laughed and let him tow her along. “You really are a ruthless romantic, aren’t you?”

“Do you hear me denying it?”

* * * *

Sinclairs Bay was a beautiful place with sugar-white sand, brilliant turquoise water, and soaring bluffs. Vanessa might have believed they’d driven through a magic portal into the Caribbean if not for the bone-chilling onshore wind.

When she crossed her arms and shivered, Callum very chivalrously took off his coat and offered it to her. No prideful fool, she accepted the jacket and thanked him as she pulled it on. Taking her hand, he led her down a steep trail and across a bunch of rocks, neither of which did her boots any good.

Seabirds were everywhere—wheeling overhead, perched on ledges, diving in the surf. Over their screeching and the hiss of the sea, she and Callum talked while walking hand and hand along the shore. He pointed out a group of puffins—comical-looking black and white birds with bright orange legs and bills. She enjoyed the camaraderie, his closeness, the smell of him on his jacket, and the feel of his big, warm hand enfolding hers.

It behooves me to warn you double Leos are ruthless romantics…

Yes, well. She just hoped part of that ruthlessness included more kisses like he’d given her at the steps and the stacks. At the water’s edge, they shed their shoes for a barefoot walk along the surf, which quickly turned into a rollicking game of tag. Her skirt got wet, making the wind even colder, but she’d never enjoyed herself more.

Barefoot, damp, mildly sunburnt, and disheveled, they took a seat on some boulders out of the worst of the wind. Feeling blessedly content, she looked out over the sea. The sun, now low in the sky, cut a blinding white swath across the glistening amber-blue water.

“Look, up there. That’s Girnigoe, once the seat of Clan Sinclair.” He was pointing toward a ruined castle high upon the bluff overlooking the bay. “It was built by William, the second Earl of Caithness, before his death at Flodden Field. The fourth earl, William’s grandson, imprisoned his own son and heir in the dungeon for being too lenient toward the townspeople. When, after seven years, poor John yet lived, the father gave him only salted beef, with nothing to drink, to hasten his death. He died all right, but not before the thirst drove him mad.”

“How atrocious,” she said, deeply appalled. Her mother might have been neglectful, but she was never deliberately cruel.

“Aye,” he agreed, his voice strained. “And John wasn’t the only poor lad to die so cruelly at the hands of that madman.”

Clearly, there was more to the story, but, at the moment, she was more interested in getting warm. “Isn’t there some place we could get out of the wind?”

“As it happens,” he said, giving her a look that took the chill off, “I know the perfect place. There’s a hidden sea cave just over yon.”

Yes! A cozy cave would serve both her immediate purposes.

Callum got to his feet, took her hand, and pulled her across the dunes toward the cliffs. She couldn’t see the entrance to the cave until he swept back a curtain of vines. She followed him through the narrow entrance, holding tightly to his hand. The interior was cool, dark, and smelled like algae, but not offensively so.

Stepping in front of her, he put a hand on her chin and lifted her gaze to his. As electricity crackled between them, she longed for him to kiss her. She licked her lips invitingly, hoping he’d take the hint.

“You’re very bonny,
mo dearbadan-de.
”

His voice was soft, seductive. She put her arms around his neck and offered him her mouth. He accepted, nibbling and flicking his tongue against her lips. She pulled the band from his ponytail, freeing his wind-tousled golden hair. As it tumbled around his shoulders, she wove her fingers into the silken mass while pressing her mouth harder against his.

When he offered his tongue, she greeted it with her own. He moaned—a deep, needful sound that dumped accelerant on her desire. She thrust her hips against him, pleased to find him as aroused as she was. He pushed back, grinding against her as he walked her backward toward the wall of the cave. As her back met rough rock, warm fingers came under her blouse, climbed her ribs, and pushed under her bra. As he teased her nipples, something sleeping deep in her core awoke.

Normally, air didn’t need fire, but right now, she wanted his light and heat, wanted him to consume her in a blazing pyre of passion.

He broke out of the kiss, moved his mouth to her ear, and nibbled the lobe. She grew weak in the knees as his tongue traced the sensitive inner folds.

“Why do you run away from love,
mo dearbadan-de
?” he whispered huskily. “Do you see it as a trap?”

“More a fraud than a trap.”

“And sex isn’t?”

“With sex, you know what you’re getting.”

“And when it’s over, you’ve got nothing.”

“How is love different?”

“I don’t know,” he said, “having never felt it.”

“We’re alike in that,” she said, “but from what I’ve observed, it’s a mirage people only chase because they feel incomplete within themselves.”

Taking her face between his hands, he trained her in his gaze. “Do you truly believe that?”

“Yes.”

He let her go, turned his back, and stepped away. For the longest time, he stood there, just out of reach, saying nothing. Then, as suddenly as he’d turned his back, he rounded on her with eyes like yellow coals. “Tell me who made you feel so unlovable? Was it your mother? Your father? Or some undeserving boyfriend?”

The question impaled her. Damn him for asking it, for digging so deep, for stabbing her through the heart. She suddenly felt ridiculous, like she had no right to be unhappy. So what if her father abandoned her and her mother committed suicide? A lot of people had it much worse than she did. She merited no pity, despite the searing wound she did her best to ignore.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she said in a voice that sounded faint and faraway under the blood-thunder in her ears.

“No? Then why have you closed your heart?”

Anger bubbled to the surface like hot tar. Damn him for trying to get inside her head—and her heart. She’d built her battlements for a reason. “Did you bring me in here to psychoanalyze me?”

“No.”

His hand glided purposefully down her body and pushed between her legs. As he stimulated her through her panties, she threw back her head and expelled a soft sigh—of pleasure and relief. A rapacious lover, she welcomed. An inquisitive one, she could do without.

Desire fluttered in her abdomen like a broken-winged bird. He’d struck too close to home. She’d didn’t feel loveable because she’d never felt loved. Not for one single, solitary moment of her life. Except by her grandmother, who left her, too, though not by choice, unlike her parents.

Setting his hands on either side of her head, he docked his forehead against hers and said, “I’d rather chase the mirage than die alone without hope in the desert.”

“We’d better go or we’ll miss the sunset.”

“And dinner.”

His addendum surprised her. “Are you still taking me to your castle?”

“Aye. Against my better judgment.”

She was glad, but wanted her luggage. She didn’t believe him about the vampire and her night-vision goggles, thermal camera, and EMF meter were back at the inn in John o’Groats, along with all her clothes and toiletries. “Can we stop at the inn first so I can get my stuff?”

“I believe that can be arranged.”

* * * *

Callum, heart pounding and knuckles white on the steering wheel, did his best to navigate the winding cliffside road leading to his castle. Collecting her luggage had taken longer than expected and night had fallen before they’d completed the task. The fog was thick, too—and growing denser by the moment—making the drive even more treacherous. If they went over, she would not—

No! He mustn’t think such thoughts. They wouldn’t go over if he was careful…and, if they did, well…he could try and save her. Belphoebe, the faery scout who’d taken him to Avalon and later aided his escape, had taught him how. In case he ever met a mortal woman he wanted for his mate.

Beside him, Vanessa was quiet, which was just as well. He needed to focus on his driving. The haar was now so thick he could barely see the bonnet of the car.

Taking her to Barrogill was dangerous—and not just because of the poor driving conditions. Still, if she could rid the castle of Sorcha’s ghost, the risks he was taking would be worth it. For centuries, he’d suffered his dead wife’s presence without the least inkling why she’d chosen to haunt him.

He’d also wanted Vanessa since the moment he first noticed her giving him the eye from the third row at his lecture. Why he wanted her so much, he couldn’t say. Maybe he just longed for “the girlfriend experience,” as his regular prostitute called it, with someone who wasn’t acting the part. Or maybe…he wanted the
actual
girlfriend experience for once in his life. Aye, he’d been married, but not happily.

He shot a glance at Vanessa. Did he want her to stay with him? No, surely not. He got lonely sometimes, but was mostly content. Except when Sorcha was around to put him on edge. Surely, if he got rid of the ghost, his spirits were bound to improve.

The drive was becoming impossible—and impossibly dangerous. Turning the wheel toward the shoulder, he braked to a stop, leaving the engine running and the headlamps on.

“What are you doing?” she asked, sounding anxious.

“I can see in the dark well enough,” he told her, “though not in this gloom…and I don’t fancy creeping blindly along these cliffs.”

“So we’re just going to sit here until it clears?”

“We are.”

“What if it doesn’t clear before morning?”

“We’ll spend the night in the car.”

He looked at her, his heart and loins throbbing with longing. God, she was bonny with the moonlight kissing her face. He imagined her in his bed in only her pink bra and panties. Were they silky or lacy? Blood rushed southward. Shifting to ease the tension in his trousers, he switched on the interior lamp.

“We could always fool around.”

She waggled her eyebrows at him. “I’m game if you are.”

He was more than game. He unbuckled his seatbelt, switched on the interior lamp, and fixed his gaze on her chest. “Open your blouse. I want to see your pink bra.”

She laughed. “That’s right. I forgot. You’re a lingerie man.”

“Guilty as charged. Now, show me the goods.”

His pulse quickened as she began to unbutton her blouse. The first glimpse of pale pink lace made his cock pulse with eagerness. Oh, aye. It was the sort that pushed up the breasts the way whalebone corsets used to do. He couldn’t have asked for better…unless she’d been wearing an actual corset.

When her blouse was all the way open, she turned to him, pulled back the edges, and offered him a full frontal view of her large lace-encased breasts. The glory of the display took his breath away. Holy God. He’d died and gone to heaven.

With trembling hands, he reached out, but stopped just shy of contact. He’d promised himself he’d act like a gentleman. Not that he’d behaved all that gentlemanly in the cave, but still. He raised his gaze to her eyes, which glittered invitingly in the moonlight. “May I?”

“Be my guest.”

He brushed the delicate lace with his fingertips. Goose pimples pebbled her flesh and her nipples hardened. His cock hardened, too.

“Are you cold?” he asked, his voice roughened by arousal.

“A little.”

He put his hands on the cups of her bra and gave her breasts a squeeze before reaching inside the lace. Moisture leaked from the tip of his glans as he rolled her nipples between his thumbs and forefingers.

“Vanessa,” he whispered, aflame with desire, “do you like it gentle or rough?”

“It depends on the man and the moment.”

His heart flared in protest. He didn’t like thinking about her with other men. An irrational impulse of his possessive Leo nature, perhaps, but still a genuine feeling. “Have you been with many men?”

“Does it matter?”

“It shouldn’t, but it does.”

She laughed lightly. “That’s right. I forgot. You’re a double Leo.”

“Aye, which makes me doubly possessive.”

“I’m only here for three days, remember?”

“I know that. But for those three days, I want to think of you as mine.”

“I can live with that…as long as you let me go at the end of it.”

The thought of letting her go gave him a disturbing pang. What the devil had gotten into him? He knew damn well this could never be more than a fling. She was a butterfly. If he tried to catch her and pin her down, he’d only ruin what made her so appealing.