Knight of Wands (Knights of the Tarot Book 1) (9 page)

She would, actually. Very much. Between the rain and the sea wind, her skin and hair felt sodden and sticky. What she’d like more than anything was a nice long soak in a bathtub, though she didn’t want to spoil whatever romantic antics he’d planned. Dinner had already waited on them long enough and she was more than ready to eat.

“Just a quick wash,” she said, smiling. “It won’t take long.”

As Hamish went out to collect the bags, Callum placed her hand in the crook of his arm and escorted her up a staircase to an overlook decorated with tapestries, paintings, and statuary. She looked around, impressed. The place was eclectic, tasteful, and remarkably warm and homey for a castle. At the first opportunity, she would explore every nook and cranny with her EMF meter.

“How many rooms does Barrogill have?”

He rubbed his chin with his free hand. After a minute, he met her gaze, a bemused smile on his mouth. “Thirty-eight, I believe, though I might have forgotten one or two.” Mischief twinkled in his golden eyes. “Also, just so you know, there’s a trapdoor to the dungeon in the dining room, in case you fail to use the proper fork…or say something over dinner I don’t care to hear.”

She smiled, her interest spiking. A dungeon seemed the perfect place for a vampire to hide, but how to get down there without being noticed?

“Does the dungeon have any unusual features?” A vampire, for example? Or, just as intriguing, whips and chains of the erotic variety? She’d never experimented with BDSM, but was open-minded about the possibility. She was all for trying new things and expanding her horizons, sexual or otherwise.

“Not unless you count the tunnel leading under the garden,” he said. “Back when the castle was built, it was used as an escape route when the Sinclairs stormed the place—an all-too-common occurrence.”

She filed the fact away for later as she asked, affecting disinterest in the dungeon, “Where do you do your stargazing?”

“The top of the tower.”

The thought sent a shiver through her. He’d set up his telescope on the same tower from which his wife leaped to her death? How macabre, not to mention insensitive. To hide her disapproval, she said, “I’ll bet the views from up there are spectacular.”

“They are, of the sea and surrounding countryside, as well as the stars,” he said, seemingly at ease. “Do you fancy a look when the storm clears out? Tomorrow promises to be a perfect night for viewing.”

Even though the idea disturbed her, she said, “That sounds great.”

Hamish, now carrying her bag, stopped at the top of the stairs and cleared his throat to draw their attention. When she looked over, the butler nodded her way.

“If you’ll follow me, Miss.” Shifting his gaze to Callum, he added, “Mr. Faol would like a word, my lord, before he departs. You’ll find him in the library when it’s convenient.”

Vanessa turned to Callum. “Is your friend leaving so soon?”

“Only for the evening,” he replied. “Now, go on, get freshened up, and meet me back here in an hour.”

When he started to break away, she pulled him back, unsure what to wear. Did they dress up for dinner here, like in Downton Abbey? “What should I put on?”

“It doesn’t matter.” Taking her hand, he lifted it to his lips and planted a kiss on her knuckles. “Even if you put on an old flour sack, you’ll still look good enough to eat.”

The hunger in his eyes told her he meant every word. Literally, quite possibly. She trembled, suddenly feeling like Red Riding Hood confronted by the wolf in her grandmother’s nightgown.

My, Lord Lyon, what big teeth you have.

All the better to eat you with, my bonny butterfly.

She shuddered at the imagined exchange, wondering briefly if coming to Castle Barrogill was a mistake. Smiling through her trepidation, she pulled her hand from his grasp and followed the butler up the marble staircase and down a long corridor lined with paintings, weaponry, mounted animal heads, and electrified sconces. Eager to see as much of the castle as she could, she peeked through every doorway they passed. All the rooms were decorated in an eclectic blend of antique and traditional pieces in tasteful blends of florals, plaids, and paisleys.

Each time she spied a deer head or fur throw, she prayed it was faux. As a card-carrying member of PETA, the SCPA, and the World Wildlife Federation, she was adamantly opposed to hunting and furs. Plus, those staring glass eyes gave her the willies. Had he killed the animals himself? She certainly hoped not.

Taking a breath to cool her simmering indignation, she searched for something more pleasant to occupy her thoughts. Apart from the gruesome heads, the castle’s décor was elegant, comfortable, and masculine, without being overtly bachelor-pad. Had Callum done the decorating himself or hired an interior designer?

Vanessa followed the butler through the last doorway on the right. A king-sized bed with a massive carved headboard dominated the spacious room on the other side. Fit for a modern-day laird, it was covered with an elegant paisley comforter and layers of shams and throw pillows. At the foot, a tufted leather sofa faced a fireplace with a carved oak mantle. A small blaze burned in the grate, adding to the room’s inviting ambience.

Two windows draped in tartan graced the opposite wall. Beneath one, a matched pair of wingback chairs flanked an antique table. As her gaze returned to the big, manly bed, she imagined the two of them naked and entwined.

Hamish set her bag on a luggage stand and left the room, closing the door to give her privacy. Opening her suitcase, Vanessa rummaged through the things she’d packed in search of the dress she’d dubbed her “little black Maserati”—because it hugged every curve with style and class. As she laid it out on the bed to smooth out the wrinkles, a sudden cold washed over her, lifting the tiny hairs on her arms and the back of her neck.

A shimmer near the foot of the bed slowly assumed the ghostly form of a woman in a heavy brocade gown with flowing sleeves—the sort commonly worn in the Tudor era. The apparition’s hair was dark, very long, and looked almost wild. Vanessa, puzzled by her costume, stared long and hard. Surely, this wasn’t the ghost they’d discussed.

“Who might you be?” the spirit asked in a lilting Scottish brogue, beating Vanessa to the punch.

“My name’s Vanessa. Vanessa Meadows. I’m a friend of”—she hesitated, unsure how to describe her relationship to Callum—”the baron’s.”

“You’re not Scottish.”

“No, I’m not.” Vanessa offered the spirit a smile. “I’m American.”

“Why are you here?”

“I told you. I’m a friend of Callum’s.”

As the spirit drew closer, the temperature dropped, giving Vanessa a chill.

“Are you another of his whores?”

Mildly surprised and offended by the question, Vanessa replied. “I hope not. What makes you ask me that?”

“You’re in his bedchamber, are you not?”

“Just because I choose to sleep with a man, doesn’t make me a whore.”

“I know that,” said the ghost.

Vanessa was confused. “Then why did you ask the question?”

“I asked because he only brings whores here.”

She had to know. “Who are you? Or, rather, who were you in life?”

“I was his wife, the Baroness of Duncansby.”

Vanessa was sure the ghost was mistaken. “Surely you don’t mean the current baron, Callum Lyon.”

“That’s exactly who I mean.”

“But…you’re dressed like a lady from the Tudor era.”

“Because I am a lady from the Tudor era.”

The statement raised more questions than it answered. When the ghost began to fade, Vanessa, desperate to keep her there, cried, “Wait! Don’t go yet. There’s still so much more I need to know…like if there’s a vampire here at Barrogill.”

“There is a vampire,” said the lady’s dissipating visage. “But not the sort you imagine.”

As soon as the ghost vanished completely, the room returned to its previous comfortable temperature. Far from being satisfied by the encounter, Vanessa was left conjecturing…about the vampire as well as Callum. At the same time, she’d achieved her first objective. She’d gotten inside Barrogill, and despite his denial, there was a vampire—just not the sort she imagined, whatever the hell
that
meant. She’d better call Mr. Armstrong the first chance she got to let him know she’d gotten inside—and what the ghost had said. It wasn’t much to report, but at least he’d know where she was and that she was making progress.

Retrieving her handbag, she dug out her cell phone and checked the bars. Shit. Just as she’d feared, there was no signal way out here in the sticks of Scotland.

* * * *

Callum found Duncan lounging on the chesterfield sofa with his feet on the coffee table swirling a glass of single-malt and smoking a cigar. As he entered the library, his friend said, “So, how goes it with the lass from last night? Still working on the seduction, I gather from the voices I overheard.”

“Aye. She’s changing for dinner as we speak…and I still need to go hunting, so, we’ll need to keep this brief.”

Leaning forward, Duncan shot a pointed glance in his direction. “You know what I want to know, man, so out with it.”

Callum did know, but still needed more time. He poured himself a whisky and posted himself near the fireplace. Taking a sip, he held the malt in his mouth, allowing smoke, peat, leather, and a hint of heather to seduce his senses.

“I’m waiting…,” Duncan nudged.

Callum swallowed. “I’ve got no answer for you.” He took another drink and trapped it between his tongue and the roof of his mouth, again savoring the subtle flavors and sublime bouquet.

“What’s fueling your indecision?”

Callum shrugged. “While the idea intrigues—especially the idea of cutting Sinclair’s puppet strings—I have serious misgivings about entering public life.”

“Because of what you are?”

“Among other things.”

“Such as…?”

Callum took another drink as Duncan’s impatient stare bored into his him. “What can I say? I like my privacy.”

The wolver coughed, nearly dropping his glass. “
Privacy
you call it? You’re a bloody hermit, mate. Apart from the occasional conference or lecture.”

Callum swallowed the irritation the accusation engendered. “What’s wrong with that?”

“You mean aside from the fact that you’re a lonely, miserable prick who’s turned his back on the things he used to care about?”

“Don’t pull any punches, mate,” Callum returned sarcastically.

“Do I ever?”

Oh, nay. Duncan always spoke the brutal truth and damn the consequences. Callum liked that about him, actually. Because of Duncan’s bluntness, he always knew exactly where he stood, which was more than he could say for most people.

“I’m just saying.” Callum shrugged. “I think it might be safer to carry on wielding my influence from behind the scenes.”

Duncan chuckled. “Because that working out so well, right? Face facts, Callum. You’ve been pouring money into the cause for ages now, and I don’t see Scotland any closer to independence than she was when you started.”

“We have our own parliament again,” Callum pointed out.

“With its hands still tied by the thieves in Westminster.”

“If they’re all a bunch of thieves,” Callum challenged, “why are you so eager for me to join their ranks?”

“To be a fox in the henhouse, not another bloody chicken.”

Callum emptied his glass and set it on the mantle. “What about the queen?”

“What’s she got to do with it?”

“I’m not talking about Elizabeth Regina; I’m talking about Morgan Le Fay.”

“Oh, I see.” Duncan’s clipped tone told Callum he was losing patience. “And, once again, what’s
she
got to do with it?”

“What if, by stepping into the public eye, she figures out I’m still alive?” Callum licked his lips, tasting whisky and worry. “I’ll grant you, she hasn’t figured it out in all this time, but still. If she were to somehow discover my treachery, she’d re-enslave me in a heartbeat…and probably clap me in irons in that dungeon of hers. If not worse.” Callum paused for a breath and a gulp of whisky before going on. “What about the press and all the paranormal investigators running around trying to dig up dirt on folks like us? What if one of them gets wind of what I am and blows the whistle? I’d be ruined in every possible way.”

His thoughts ran upstairs to Vanessa. While they were having dinner, he’d have Hamish search her luggage and confiscate all her recording devices and cameras. He could wipe her memory, but interfering with her equipment might raise questions when she returned to New Orleans. Beau Armstrong might be a predatory jackass, but he was no moron, despite the impression created by his thick southern drawl.

“So, better to hide out here like a hermit, afraid to live your life? Frankly, I’d rather do time in somebody else’s prison than one I’d built myself.”

Recognizing the truth in Duncan’s words, Callum chose his carefully. “If I was to agree to your scheme—and, mind, that’s a bloody big
if
—how do you see pulling it off?”