Dark and Stormy Knight (37 page)

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500 years later

John o’Groats, Scotland

“Have a look at your adoring fan over there,” Duncan said, leaning in. “I do believe she’s visually undressing you.”

Callum looked up from the book he’d been signing—
Political Astrology Through the Ages
, his latest in a series on the subject. The fan in question stood by the refreshment table, clutching the book to her chest.
Was
she undressing him with her gaze? Och, nay. Judging by the heat of her stare, he was already stark naked in her mind’s eye.

He’d seen her in the third row, giving him equally heated looks while he delivered his lecture. She seemed vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t seem to place her. With a shameless ogle of his own, he traced the long, smooth contours of flesh and muscle beneath the posh black pantsuit she wore. She was tall and slender with an angular face and a wide, full mouth that stretched into an inviting smile as his gaze met hers with a palpable sizzle. Her eyes shimmered like rare Burmese sapphires. Holding her stare, he dispatched his psychic probes.

Particles of her life presented themselves—odd bits of a puzzle whose pieces didn’t quite fit together. Smart parties and balls. Environmental protests. Political rallies. Charity affairs. A string of unwelcome suitors.

Looking deeper, he found an older man whose ambitions mattered more than his family and a woman who cared only about her social standing.

Her parents.

Oh, aye. He could feel it, feel everything. She was the quintessential “poor little rich girl,” the black sheep of the blue bloods who’d been given everything money could buy while being deprived of the things she wanted most. Love, affection, and approval, mainly. Consequently, she’d erected barriers to protect herself.

Not unlike himself.

Pulling out of her psyche, he sought the pulse in her swanlike neck. The dark hunger awoke with a ferocious roar. His gaze dropped to her breasts, which were large and firm, despite the lack of a brassiere. Given his proclivities, he sincerely hoped she wasn’t disinclined toward undergarments.

He put her in a satin corset and thigh-high stockings—the sort with seams up the back. A searing bolt of lust ripped through his pelvis. She definitely had the figure for risqué lingerie.

Shifting in his chair to ease the tightness in his trousers, he turned to Duncan. “Who is she? Do you know?”

“Only from the papers,” his friend replied. “She’s William Bentley’s daughter—a real rebel with a cause, from what I hear.”

Callum remembered her now. Lady Vanessa, the one the papers called “Madam Butterfly” because she couldn’t be caught. She looked better in person than in those grainy newsprint photographs. Ten times better.

Good enough to eat, one might say.

Licking his lips, Callum shifted his focus to the woman directly in front of him. She was fiftyish, plump, and squat with curly dishwater hair.

“What was the name again?”

“Deirdre.”

“That’s lovely.” He grinned through the qualm inflicted by the name. “I once had a wife called Deirdre.”

“Is that so?” the woman asked, her interest clearly aroused. “And would you be married still, your lordship? Because, if you’re not, I ken a bonny lass who’d be just perfect for you.”

“Oh, aye?” Still smiling falsely, he arched an eyebrow. “And what sign would she be then?”

“She’s a Gemini,” the woman replied, beaming in a way that suggested the fix-up in question was probably her daughter.

“Ah. I see.” He cleared his throat. “Well,
Deirdre
, that’s too bad. Because, you see, I make it a strict policy never to get tangled up with anyone born under the sign of the twins. They’re too changeable for me, I’m afraid.”

He signed her book and handed it back. He made more or less the same claim whatever the answer. Well-meaning women were forever trying to set him up—usually with themselves. He sought out Lady Vanessa again, wondering what sign she might be. Given what he’d seen when he probed her mind, his money was on Aquarius. Unconventional and unsentimental—the opposite of himself.

Still, there were worse signs. Water-bearers were unpredictable, so she’d keep him on his toes, and fiercely loyal once they’d made up their minds to commit—no small feat for someone born under the influence of freedom-loving Uranus. And, well, whatever her other attributes, she was stunning, highborn, and clearly wanted to hook up.

“What do you suppose she’s doing all the way up here?” he asked Duncan, keeping his eye on the lady in question.

“From the looks she’s giving you, I’d say she’s hoping to get into your kecks,” his friend returned. “And from the one you’re giving her, I’d wager she’ll get what she came for.”

Warmed by another burst of lust, Callum tore his gaze away. A twenty-something lass with frizzy blond hair stepped up and, beaming at him, held out her copy of
Political Astrology Through the Ages.

“I can’t believe I’m meeting you in the flesh,” she exclaimed as he took it from her. “I follow your blog every day and have all of your books.”

The smile that bloomed in response was genuine this time. As much as he hated these events, they did boost his ego. They also taxed him, mentally and physically. He was ready for it to be over, ready to be home in bed—though not necessarily alone. As he robotically scrawled his signature line—
Let the stars be your guide, Callum Lyon
—he shot another hopeful glance toward the refreshment table.

Aye. Good. Madam Butterfly was still there, still watching.

Why didn’t she join the queue to have him sign her book? She didn’t strike him as the bashful type. Far from it, in fact. Something in her air gave the impression of self-sufficiency. Or was it superiority? She was standing there so coolly, like she owned the whole bloody room and, soon enough, meant to own him, too.

Not that he objected.

Swallowing hard, he shook his head to clear the thickening cloud of lust. The room was cold, but he was sweating. He wanted to shed his jacket and loosen his tie, to get away from all these people, but he only smiled and handed the blonde back her book.

He took the next one from a young man in wire-rimmed spectacles, keeping one eye on his butterfly. Her father was a liberal, like himself, but unlikely to support the dissolution of the political foundation upon which his power rested. Especially after the failure of last year’s referendum on Scottish independence. Still, Lord Bentley couldn’t know Callum had quietly poured money into the cause of Scottish freedom for decades, nor could his daughter. It was a secret shared only by Duncan and a few other die-hard nationalists who, like him, weren’t about to give up the fight just because the majority of Scots had fallen prey to English fearmongering.

Duncan was a wolver, a benevolent type of lycanthrope found in the Shetland Islands. Most worked as fishermen, as Duncan had done, before he realized he could help more indigent people through politics than by donating part of his catch to the local soup kitchen.

Shutting his eyes against her allure, Callum took his emotional temperature. He was already fraying around the edges and still had to get through dinner with some of Duncan’s and his political pals. Another hour or two of forcing himself to be sociable would likely unravel him completely. How would he divide himself between a crew of rapid nationalists and the lass, let alone have anything left to give her afterward?

He made another lingering appraisal. As raw need pulsed through his bloodstream, he decided to try. He wanted her, damn it, and was sick to death of denying himself the pleasures of female company—human female company.

A white-haired crone stood before him now. He held out his hand for her book, opened to the title page, and scrawled his signature line. With a tight-lipped smile, he handed it back and sought the cool brunette once more. Their gazes met with a high-voltage charge that crackled all the way to his brogues.

There was only one more person in line, thank the stars—a woman with chin-length dark hair, enormous gray eyes, and delicate features. Callum regarded her warily, noting she held no book.

“And what can I do for you?” he asked, sure he knew the answer.

“It’s not you I’m here to see,” she said with a Sassenach accent. “While I’d gladly swing among the stars with you anytime, Lord Lyon, I believe your astrology to be—now, how shall I put this delicately?—a lorry load of New Age horseshit.”

The comment both startled and bewildered Callum. If she thought astrology naught but bollocks, why was she here?

He got his answer when she turned to Duncan. “My name’s Miranda Hornsby. I’m a reporter for the
Caithness Crier
and I’ve got a hush, hush tip for you.”

Leaning closer, Duncan arched an eyebrow. “Oh, aye? And what might that be?”

“I’m about to do a take-down piece on Alasdair Sinclair.” She kept her voice low so only the two men could hear. “So, if you’re as smart as you look, you’ll have a challenger ready in time for the election.”

“But,” Duncan stammered, clearly caught off-guard, “the election’s only a few weeks away.”

“Tell me something I don’t know,” she said before turning on her heel and striding off.

Rubbing his chin, Callum considered what she’d disclosed with growing excitement. Sinclair was the Member of Parliament for Caithness, a Scottish representative in the House of Commons, the elected body of representatives in the British Parliament. The Scottish Parliament, re-established in 1997, enjoyed only limited authority over domestic policy, so the real power still resided with the larger legislature in London.

Alasdair Sinclair was a total party puppet who routinely ignored his constituents while committing flagrant adultery. In addition to being a conservative who opposed independence—bad enough on its own—Sinclair was a descendant of the ruthless bastards who’d stolen Castle Barrogill, killed Callum’s son, and driven his wife to suicide.

“Can you have a candidate ready to run in time, do you think?”

“To be sure,” Duncan said. “In fact, I’ve already got someone in mind.”

Callum arched an inquisitive eyebrow. “Are you at liberty to divulge his name?”

“Aye,” Duncan said with a cock-sure grin. “Lord Lyon, baron of Duncansby.”

Callum sputtered in surprise. “What? Me? Are you mad?”

Duncan’s earnest blue gaze held his. “I’m perfectly sane, I assure you.”

“But…I prefer to pull strings from behind the scenes, as you well know.”

“Be that as it may,” Duncan said, his grin gaining confidence, “your party needs you, man. As does your country. So, it’s time for the Great and Powerful Oz to step out from behind the curtain.”

The room was emptying, but there was still a tangle of people by the door. Callum scanned the cluster for a willowy figure, dark hair, and a black pantsuit. When he saw none of those things, a sick panicky feeling took him over. Beside him, Duncan was saying something about dinner, but he couldn’t hear it over the questions flying around his brain like bats in a ringing bell tower.

Duncan touched his arm, bringing him back. “Callum? Are you all right?”

He wasn’t. Not by a long shot. But what good would it do to say so? There was still dinner to get through and Duncan’s unexpected proposal to consider. Could he run for a seat in the Commons, being what he was? A thought occurred, bringing a wry smile to his mouth. If he did decide to run, he wouldn’t be the first blood-sucking monster in the history of British politics—nor the last, he’d daresay.

“I’m fine.” He rubbed his eyes and dragged his hand down his face. “Just knackered is all.”

“I’m sorry about the lady.” Duncan checked his wristwatch as he rose from the table. “I guess it wasn’t in the stars, eh?” With his usual optimism, his friend added, “But come on. After a good meal, a couple of drinks, and a bit of sparring, you’ll feel better. And, when we get back to Barrogill, we can ring Madam Pennick and have her send up a couple of whores.”

Madam Pennick, who ran a call-girl service for immortals, was his go-to for sating his bloodlusts, but could do nothing for the hole at his core, which now echoed like a canyon. He should be relieved Lady Vanessa was gone. Indulging his desire for her would have been foolhardy at best. So, why did he feel as though he’d just been kicked in the stomach?

* * * *

“May I buy you the next one, Lady Vanessa?”

Vanessa’s heart leapt at the sound of Lord Lyon’s sensual burr. As she pivoted on her barstool, her knees grazed his thighs, shooting a thrilling dart straight to her sex. Taking a breath, she drank him in like a tall, cool cocktail. His long golden hair was pulled back, giving her a clear view of his handsome features, upturned mouth, and sexy topaz eyes. He still wore the well-cut suit from earlier, but had shed the tie and opened the collar of his shirt. A tuft of golden chest hair peeked over the top button. God, how she loved a man with hair on his chest. She also loved the way he smelled—like spiced leather, laundry soap, and scotch.

“I’m flattered you’ve managed to learn my name,” she said, tasting the lie. She’d rather hoped to remain incognito while here in Caithness. If the press got wind of what she hoped would develop between herself and the to-die-for Scottish astrologer, they’d ruin everything.

“Why’d you disappear on me?”

His closeness, mixed with the alcohol in her system, was making her head spin. “Let’s just say I’m allergic to reporters.”

Allergic was an understatement. The London tabloids had made her life a living hell for as long as she could remember. They’d dubbed her “Madame Butterfly” because she had no interest in marriage. They were wrong. She was interested in marriage, but only to a man who saw her for the person she was, not as a means to an end.

He emitted a small laugh. “Oh, aye? So am I, as it happens.”

“What did the journalist want?”

He shrugged. “Something to do with Duncan.”

Duncan Faol, the man he’d been with at the book signing, was a political consultant with strong nationalist leanings, leading her to suspect Lord Lyon—an “old friend” according to Mr. Faol’s pre-lecture introduction—harbored similar predilections.