Knight After Night (6 page)

“Then why are you here? If there’s nothing to be done?”
And why am I still here listening?
Jolie yanked her sweater tighter, buttoning it clear to the chin. It didn’t work. She was still chilled.

“You’re smart. Witty. Quick.”

“And I’m tired,” Jolie quipped.

“If MacKettryck contacts you again, call us.”

“I don’t have your number.”

“Roderick?”

One henchman held out a little tiny credit card sized thing that had one button. One.

“What does this do?”

“Contacts us.”

“And what will you do? Show up with a bunch of crucifixes?”

“The levity is out of place, Miss Pritchard, and has been this entire meeting. But you’ll learn that soon enough. You’ve been warned. That’s really all I can do. It’s up to you now. Wear the caller. In your pocket or where you can reach it easiest. Night and day. In the shower. Jogging. Everywhere. It’s water-resistant.”

“That’s it?”

He nodded.

“And I can go now?”

He nodded again. Roderick moved to the door, and opened it to a loud creak showing the age and non-use of this particular room.

“Shouldn’t I do something else? Wear garlic around my neck? That sort of thing?”

“Only if you like the smell.”

“What?”

“That one’s a myth. Always has been.”

“What about the crucifix?”

Lord Beethan waved his hand. The other servant man handed her an ancient looking piece, suspended from a thick metal chain. It wasn’t a cross, exactly. It had a loop at the top and etchings all through it.

“That’s a Celtic cross. Old. Powerful. Wear that.”

A Chroi?’

Thoran’s whisper came again, speaking the same words and in the same manner. As if calling to her. Jolie took the cross and put it over her neck where it fell to mid-belly with the length of the chain. She tucked it beneath her shirt and then she walked toward the door. And light. And sanity. Nobody stopped her.

“Can I ask you a question?”

She turned at the door and watched Lord Beethan stand, leaning heavily on his cane. They didn’t look like they’d be much help if she actually believed any of their nonsense and pushed the button.

“Certainly.”

“What does ‘
A Chroi’
mean?”

“It’s Gaelic. It means ‘My heart’. Or perhaps a better translation would be ‘My Love.’ Why?”

Jolie patted the cross. “No reason,” she mumbled, and took the stairs at a run.

“Good evening.”

Jolie started from contemplation of the setting sun coming through newly leafed trees as it glinted on the water and moved her glance to the Highland god looping an arm about the tree directly to the right of her, getting graced with red and yellow hues of sunset. He looked real enough. Hard. Firm. Massive. Absolute manly. That added another point to his favor. Thoran was much better looking in the flesh than either old painter portrayed. It had been a trick of the lighting combined with the eerie atmosphere of that cellar place. Along with the company she’d kept. It had to be.

“Must you?” she asked crossly.

He moved to pass in front of her, looking especially solid, before sitting on the left side of her, bowing the bench seat with considerable weight.

“Must I what?”

“Go all Dracula on me. As well as all the other stuff.”

“What is a…Dracula?”

“It’s the lead in a movie. The original movie. Don’t tell me you haven’t seen it. And expect me to believe it, anyway.”

“Verra well, lass. I will na’ do that.”

“You haven’t seen it?”

“There is no correct answer, so I decline the offer.”

“What does that mean?”

“Your wish is mine to grant this eve. You doona’ wish me to say I haven’t seen this Dracula movie. Therefore I will na’ say it.”

Jolie shook her head. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Is that a good thing?”

“It isn’t a thing, Thoran. It’s a what. Why do I feel like I keep talking but the hard-drive just keeps spinning?”

He didn’t say anything for so long she had time to look at his long fingers, placed with the pads together, his muscled calves showing beneath his kilt. And then she had to grasp the fact that he wasn’t wearing a shirt beneath his kilt band thing today. That put more amazing muscle on display than a world class wrestler claimed. The man was jaw-dropping. Fit. And golden kissed as if he went about naked. A lot. In the sunlight.

Wait a minute…

“What are you doing out?” she asked.

“Out where?”

“Out…doors. In daylight.
Sun
light.”

“I get outdoors a bit, lass. Usually near eve. Why?”

Jolie swallowed. “No reason.”

“But I insist.”

“Insist away. It’s not changing anything. I don’t have to explain anything to you. Or anyone else for that matter.”

“Like whom?”

She took a breath and held it. “What do you want, Thoran?”

“To sit near you. Talk with you. Feel you…beside me.”

“Oh. You can stop right there.”

He’d scooted closer without reflex action on any part of him. Or her eyes had missed the move.

“Why?”

He’d turned toward her and was breathing all over her, matching her inhalation for inhalation. And the exhalations, as well.

“Because I’m all confused. Tripping over my tongue. It’s your fault, too. For being such a babe. It’s hard to think straight…let alone form words if I have to do it while looking at you.”

He pulled the upper part of his body back, leaving his hip right where it was. Pressed against hers, sending vibrations through his plaid kilt and her jeans.

“That is a severe affront, I feel.”

Jolie smirked. He did sound insulted. She couldn’t imagine why. “Affront? To be called a babe? That’s a good thing, Your Highness.”

“My title is Your Grace. Only royalty use Highness.”

“I’m attempting sarcasm.”

“With a title? I’d prefer you na’ use it at all. And how is being a ‘bairn’ a good thing?”

“I said babe.”

“Same thing.”

“No, it’s not. Babe is another term for hunk.”

“Hunk? Of what?”

“Those are terms for handsomeness, Thoran. Good looks. Supreme male beauty. Gorgeous, jaw-dropping attractiveness. Way beyond the norm.”

“You refer to me?”

His eyebrows lifted with what looked like genuine surprise. That easily displayed the perfect silver-shade of his eyes surrounded as they were by lush lashes. He was the exact description of male beauty. She had to swallow and look away before it tied her tongue and scrambled her wits.

“Of course you. Don’t you ever look in a mirror?”

“No.”

“Never?”

“It’s a severe waste of time.”

“As gorgeous as you are? I can’t believe you never look at yourself. No man is that humble. Especially one that looks like you. You should be on the cover of a magazine. Make that several magazines. And up on a few billboards. In a gladiator outfit or something. A loincloth. Wow. For the image that brings to mind. I can just see it: you…all oiled up and brandishing that huge sword of yours. Or better yet, you should be eye candy on some actress’s arm. I can think of several who’d look good with your escort. In a tuxedo. Double-wow. I’d better quit before I can’t banish that image when I try and sleep.”

“What image?”

He didn’t sound insulted anymore. He sounded confused. She wasn’t looking to check why. It was enough the rays of setting sun were touching on him. Without searing his flesh anywhere she could tell.

“You. In a tuxedo.”

“Would that be a good thing?”

“Heck, yeah.”

“I begin to doubt they speak King’s English in Alaska. I canna’ follow many words you say this evening.”

“You really should get out more. Or something. No. Forget it. Maybe that’s a bad plan.”

“Why?”

“You’d stop traffic anywhere you go. Truly. You sure wouldn’t be sitting on a park bench watching a slow moving current with the likes of me.”

“Where else would I be?”

“Oh…I don’t know. Stepping over all the women in your path, I assume.”

“Women in my path?”

“You walk into any club and watch. I bet you’d need a body guard to peel the women off. Trust me. Even the gays would adore you.”

“Gays?”

“You know. Homosexuals.”

“Sodomites?”

Now, he sounded really offended. Jolie laughed. It had a carefree sound she’d thought lost with all the vampire nonsense. “Yeah. Those guys. Sodomites. They know a good thing when they see it. And you’re definitely a good thing.”

“Are you attempting to anger me?”

“You’re a homophobe? For shame, Thoran Alexander MacKettryck, uh…the fifth.”

“Sixth. And that due to the dukedom. Actually I’d be the seventh with this exact name if you count the fourth Earl of Umber. He was also Thoran Alexander. But that was before we earned the highest title.”

“How very upper crust of you, Your Grace.” Jolie said it in a snooty accent, gleaned from watching too many hours of the British channel.

“That does na’ sound to be a good thing.”

“Then stop quoting your lineage to me. As if you need further enticement.”

“To what?”

“Your bed.”

There. It was out. And without one bit of warning. Jolie was flushed with the exercise of keeping her tongue from tripping over itself and hadn’t cleared that comment beforehand. There was an awkward silence for some time as she waited, holding her breath, just as he seemed to.

“I...I doona’ ken what to say, Jolie lass.”

“A good-bye would work.” She should’ve known. Rich, handsome, old world aristocrats driving Rolls Phantoms and living in castles didn’t like brash, assertive, modern women. They liked to be the aggressor. As he’d pretty much proven already.

“Whatever for?”

“It’s a brush-off. To me.”

“But I’d like you in my bed. Verra much so, actually.”

Oh…crap
. She was going to melt right there. Her legs turned to liquid mash and her hips didn’t help with keeping her in place. She slid before catching it with her hands on the bench seat. She didn’t notice how he’d clenched his fingers together until she got control of her own body. Nor had she noted how tense he felt. It should’ve been easy since he’d managed to move even closer to her and now touched along her entire left side.

“I’m…a bit a-feared over it, actually.”

“Of what? Oh. I’m sorry. I went too fast.”
And should have waited for the invitation.

“No. It’s just… I’m na’ certain I can…perform. It’s been so long, and—”

“Oh crap. Again. Just kill me now.”

“What?”

He turned his head and looked at her wide-eyed, stopping her heart for a painful beat before it restarted with such alacrity, her throat and lower jaw filled with the blush. Then her cheeks.

“It makes perfect sense now. It does.”

“What does?”

“Everything. You. The supper date. This pursuit of me. Heck, even your fan club in an odd sort of way.”

“Fan club?”

“Yeah. You’ve got a fan club of weird old guys. Truly weird. They’re totally too fond of you. They collect paintings of you. They gave me presents. Like this one.” She reached for the caller thing and held it out to him. Thoran took it gingerly, sniffed at it, and then pulled it away, squinting at the red light on it.

“It’s a transmitting device of some sort,” he finally said.

“No lie,” she answered.

“It’s always on.”

“Tell me something I don’t know,” she answered.

“They’re tracking you.”

“Ok. That I didn’t know.”

“Why would someone track you?”

He was all tense and rigid and angered looking. As if to defend her. Jolie banished the instant image of him brandishing that sword - all oiled up and in a loincloth - to where she’d stored the tuxedo one. To use later.

“They aren’t tracking me. I think they want you. And I already told you why. They’re fans. And buddy, I have to tell you. You have some very strange fans.”

“You want this?” He lifted an eyebrow.

“Not especially.”

“Good.”

He pitched it into the center of the river without any effort. They both watched it hit water and immediately sink. The muscles displayed in his arm had moved. Flexing. Rippling. The guy was built. Masculine. And he was gorgeous. And he was worried about performing for her. Jolie sighed. She’d known it was too good to be true. But it had sure been a fun fantasy.