The Queen of Swords: A Paranormal Tale of Undying Love Read online

  She took a breath and blew it out. This was not the time to work herself up about the hypocrisy of organized religion. Like killing in the name of God, the ultimate double-standard. What part of thou shalt not kill and love thy neighbor as thyself did those hypocrites not understand? Weren’t the Ten Commandments and the Golden Rule pretty basic?

  Oh, dear. Take a deep breath. Count to five. Let it out. Find some earrings. How about the pearls on the tray?

  Picking them up, she worked them through the holes in her earlobes, then proceeded to brush out her hair and pin it up in a French twist. Finally, she dabbed a drop of eau de violets, her signature scent, behind each ear.

  Now, where had she left her glass of wine? Right, the altar. She had just enough time to finish it, and maybe have one more, before Avery got home. She might be charmed, but she still needed every ounce of courage she could get.

  * * *

  Where the devil were his diaries and his cherished portrait of Caitriona? He’d taken great care to mark his personal boxes, but the movers had obviously delivered some of them elsewhere. But, blast it all, where?

  Worry tightened his gut as his mind skipped over the possibilities. Please let it not be in Branwen’s bedchamber. The last thing he needed was The Spider Woman having access to his innermost thoughts and feelings. On second thought, the last thing he needed was for Caitriona to return yet again to plague his heart, but there seemed little he could do about it short of avoiding her like church. He could always leave Wickenham, of course, but he wasn’t prepared to go to that extreme quite yet.

  He’d only just moved, dammit, and was still unpacking.

  Speaking of which, where the bloody hell were those diaries?

  Finding them was essential for a couple of reasons. First, he wanted to record his meeting with the Queen of Swords (for want of her actual name) while it remained fresh in his mind. Second, they served as references for the book he was writing, an autobiography disguised as a vampire novel. Having lived for more than two centuries, he’d experienced enough to fill multiple volumes. Unfortunately, since the human brain wasn’t designed for immortality, he’d forgotten a good deal of it. Hence, his need of the diaries.

  Raking his fingers through his hair, he tried to think where they might be. He didn’t want to venture into Shelob’s Lair unless absolutely necessary. Deciding to start with the library, he willed himself there, rematerializing in front of the fireplace, which, to his surprise, was lit. He spun around, expecting to find Benedict in one of the nooks with his nose in a book. What he found instead gave his heart a jolt.

  Shelob—er, Branwen—was perched in one of the wingback chairs flanking the marble mantelpiece in a clinging dress the same shade of green as her eyes. The daring neckline exposed more of her impressive décolletage than he cared to see at this or any other moment.

  “What are you doing here?”

  Branwen, who found reading a bore, generally had no use for libraries.

  “Waiting for you,” she said with a look of allure. “I thought you might like a snack before we go out among the villagers.”

  By “snack” she meant a nip of her blood and probably sex. Despite his aversion to her, he felt a distressing flutter of desire deep in his abdomen. It had been too long since he’d fed on feminine essence and the depravation now burned in his core.

  “I’ll do.”

  Pulling his hungry eyes away from her cleavage, he cast around for the box containing his diaries. He did not immediately see it among the unpacked boxes stacked along the shelves.

  “Are you looking for something?”

  His jaw clenched as his mind reached for the nearest title. “Dracula. I have a hankering to read it again.”

  “Shall I help you look?”

  He glanced her way, ready to tell her not to bother, but lost his words when his gaze landed once more on her chest. Her nipples were clearly visible through the clinging fabric of her dress. The sight of it plucked his libido like a harp. He shut his eyes, swallowed, and pointed toward the stack of boxes he’d just scanned.

  “Start over there, aye?”

  He watched her bend over a box, her backside temptation made flesh. It was early yet and he’d not yet showered and changed for their evening out, so he still wore his kilt. Beneath his sporran, his body responded to the visual stimuli. How could he feel such powerful lust for a creature he despised? Well, perhaps despised was too strong a word. Despising her took more effort than he cared to muster on her behalf. He sometimes wondered if, in a strange, screwed-up way, he slept with her sometimes precisely because he was so indifference. She felt more, however, which made their infrequent trysts les liaisons dangereuses in the extreme.

  She professed to be in love with him. Not that he believed her capable of the emotion. Love required a degree of selflessness Branwen was entirely without. She thought only of herself. Still, her delusion persisted, keeping him at bay. He needed the act of love to be free of entanglements, and Shelob saw him as a fly in her web. What was it Tolkien had written about her? He retrieved the passage handily, having read it innumerous times: “…She served none but herself, drinking the blood of Elves and Men, bloated and grown fat with endless brooding on her feasts, weaving webs of shadow; for all living things were her food, and her vomit darkness.”

  The passage gave him a lust-cooling chill. Returning his attention to the task at hand, he began hunting through the unpacked boxes in another part of the room. After a few moments, he heard her exclaim, “Eureka!”

  “Did you find Dracula?”

  “No. I found something much better.”

  He turned to look, finding her back at the fireplace poring over a book. Panic set a hook in his gut. Was it one of his diaries?

  “Oh? And what’s that?”

  “The Kama Sutra. Whose is it, yours or Ben’s?”

  “Mine.” Cringing inside, he bit his lip. Her fascination with the ancient Hindu manual on sex was no doubt just another of her seductive ploys.

  Still engrossed in the book, she walked toward one of the wingbacks and sat. “Fancy looking through the pictures with me? For old time’s sake?”

  He didn’t answer. He could think of nothing less appealing. Or potentially dangerous.

  “Listen to this,” she said, calling his gaze in spite of himself. “When the female raises both of her thighs straight up, it is called the rising position; when she raises both of her legs, and places them on her lover’s shoulders, it is called the yawning position; when the legs are contracted, and thus held by the lover before his bosom, it is called the pressed position.” She raised her eyes, meeting his. “If I’d known you had books like this, I might have spent more of my time in the library.”

  Gritting his teeth, he tore his eyes away. The library was his refuge. From her. “You can borrow it, if you like.” With any luck, she’d take the hint and bugger off with the book to her room. Not that she’d ever been one for subtlety.

  To his dismay, she stayed put. “What’s your favorite position, lover?” With a sharp laugh, she added, “Never mind. I already know.”

  Chapter 3: Things Forgotten

  Scowling around the crowded pub, she didn’t feel invisible, but almost wished she was. The spell had definitely worked, but instead of feeling like a goddess of grace and beauty, she felt like a juicy bone in a room full of dogs. Every man in the place, old and young, ogled her with lascivious intent. Some brazenly stared. Two almost came to blows over who would let her cut into the queue for the bar, where she and Avery now stood.

  Her friend hadn’t seemed to notice anything unusual going on, probably because she was too wrapped up in Benedict O’Lyr. He was across the room by the fireplace, surrounded by people. Apparently, he and his sister, Branwen, were the guests of honor at this little soiree.

  Meanwhile, the familiar stranger had yet to materialize.

  The pub was packed, loud, and humid with body heat, and the drink line slow and claustrophobic. She felt like a kippe
r in a tin and could smell body odor, beer breath, and farts. She also could feel eyes on her, undressing her, imagining things she’d rather not think about. To distract herself, she looked around at the decor, which, except for the morbid witch-hunt ephemera, was typical of English country pubs.

  Behind the huge, canopied bar hung a mirror proclaiming, “Guinness is good for you.” Bottles of inebriants winked from the shelves like travel posters, promising escape and a good time. Dark half-timbers cut the smoke-stained walls, plastered with assorted British memorabilia. A coronation-era portrait of Her Majesty the Queen watched over the tippling from above the front door. Arse-numbing wooden booths lined the perimeter walls. A rear annex offered billiards, darts, and a huge flat-screen television tuned permanently to ESPN.

  “Isn’t he dishy?”

  Fighting the urge to say something snarky, Cat shifted her gaze to the “dish” in question. Benedict O’Lyr was as tall, dark, and handsome, as advertised, but in a generic way that left her cold.

  “He’s all right, I suppose. If you like his sort.”

  “All right? Are you blind?”

  On the contrary, she could see perfectly well. She just didn’t see what all the fuss was about. Yes, Benedict was handsome. But in a wholesome, bloke-next-door kind of way. She preferred men with a hint of danger about them. Rakes only the right woman could tame. Rhett Butler, not Ashley Wilkes. Preferably, in a kilt. Clark Gable in a kilt? She tried to picture it, but kept coming up with Sean Connery.

  “Hey beautiful.” It was the tubby, red-faced guy behind her, his breath reeking of ale. “If I could rearrange the alphabet, I’d put ‘u’ and ‘i’ together. What would you say to that?”

  “I’d say leave it as it is.” She gave him her best off-putting glare. “With ‘n’ and ‘o’ side-by-side.”

  He backed off, thank the goddess, and she went back to ignoring her admirers while patrolling for the Scot. When, at long bloody last, they reached the front of the queue, she leaned across the counter and tried to catch the eye of the bartender as he raced up and down, madly taking orders, pulling taps, and mixing drinks. Stopping before her, his demeanor careened from putout to predatory. A smile lit up his beefy face. His bulging dark eyes, dull and lifeless a moment ago, now gleamed with interest.

  “Well, hello there.” He waggled his eyebrows suggestively. “What can I get you, lovely lady?”

  Fighting the urge to say something rude, she ordered her usual: a dirty martini. Extra dirty with extra olives. Stepping up beside her, Avery asked for her usual too: Harvey’s on the rocks with a wedge of lime.

  A few minutes later, cocktails in hand, they scouted around for an empty booth. Seeing none, they parked themselves beside an unoccupied table whose high, round top was half-covered with used pint glasses and empty packets of crisps. On the wall above hung a framed illustration of the nine witches hanged in the village back in 1612.

  Turning her back on the offensive image, she scanned the room while sipping her martini. When she caught a flash of copper hair by the fireplace, she nearly choked. Was it him? She couldn’t tell. Too many people blocked her view, dammit. She craned and bobbed, willing the crowd to part. Then, as if by magic, it did, exposing the full, glorious visage of her Highlander.

  He stood near Benedict, holding a drink—whisky, judging by the amber color—and looked as ill at ease as she felt, endearing him to her even more. He’d traded the kilt and leather jacket for a well-cut dark suit, but still looked impossibly handsome. She watched him for several minutes before turning to Avery to bravely suggest they make their way over. Her friend, to her unhappy surprise, had turned into a skinny bloke with a prominent Adam’s apple and a wolfish glint in his eyes.

  “Hello, gorgeous,” he slurred through reptilian lips. “Can I buy you a cocktail?”

  Face heating, she looked down at her glass. “No thanks. I’ve already got one.”

  “Then let me buy you another.”

  When he reached for her hand, she jerked it away, nearly upsetting her glass. “I don’t need another. But thanks all the same.”

  “I suppose I’m not good enough.” His tone was suddenly belligerent. “Is that it?”

  She licked her lips. “You could be Prince Harry and I still wouldn’t be interested.”

  He smirked rather imperiously. “Oh, I see. It’s like that, is it?”

  “Like what?”

  “You know. I seen the bird you came in with and, well, I can’t say as I blame you.” He leaned closer and lowered his voice. “What do you say the three of us have a go? You pair can drink from the furry cup while I fill your aching holes. How’s that sound, eh?”

  Reviled by his suggestion, she pulled a face. “I’m not gay. Nor the least bit interested.”

  “Have it your way, Miss Todger Dodger. I’m probably too big for you anyway.”

  She bit down hard, face burning like a match. After he buggered off, she scouted around for Avery, finding her by the fireplace chatting with Benedict and a total knockout with chin-length dark hair. Benedict’s sister, she presumed. Branwen donned a scandalously low-cut green dress that clung like cellophane to every nauseating curve. Beside her, Avery’s beauty paled, something she’d believed impossible.

  Collecting her drink and her courage, she started over, pressing through the throng. More than one anonymous hand took liberties with her backside, but what could she do beyond kick herself for daftly casting that spell? Her gaze remained fixed on the Scot, who had yet to look her way.

  She was almost to him when he finally looked her way. Their eyes met with crackling electricity. Recognition sizzled in her blood. Time stood still. Everything around her seemed dreamy and surreal. She could feel him inside her mind, probing the way other witches sometimes would. A scene began to play behind her eyes. Her, on a narrow bed in a corset and frilly petticoats; him, standing over her, hair hanging loose, eyes smoldering with passion, only, his eyes were a different color. Emerald instead of topaz.

  When he looked away, breaking the connection, she just stood there, dazed, shaken, breathless. What just happened? Hands trembling, she gulped her martini, tasting an unpleasant mixture of lipstick, olive juice, and gin.

  Now more intrigued than ever, she sought his eyes again, jolting when she found them. They were pure radiance. Even though her feet were rooted to the floor, she could feel some deeper part of her reaching like a vine toward his light. She smelled the woods. Pine, oak, and balsam. Loam, moss, and mulch. More images floated across her mind. Purple hills cut by ribbons of mist. Dark water mirroring a vermillion sunset. A red castle high on a ridge.

  It seemed impossible, like everything else, but she could swear she heard bagpipes calling to her across time. The scene from before began to replay. Now, however, he was with her on the bed. Was it a past-life memory? She couldn’t say. She only knew it felt so real she could feel the moist heat of his kisses on her neck, the weight of his body pressing down on hers, the proof of his desire hard against her thigh.

  In the present, he looked away, bursting the scene like a soap bubble. She stood there on rubber legs, her mind whirling. Closing her eyes, she struggled to regain her equilibrium. When she opened them again, he was gone. Avery, Benedict, and Branwen were still there, chatting away, but not him. Glancing around in a near-panic, she caught a flash of copper moving toward the door.

  She started after him, but didn’t get far. Too many bodies blocked her way. She did her best to squeeze and elbow her way through. Reaching the door at last, she ran outside, shivering as the cold struck her bare arms. Hugging herself for warmth, she glanced up and down the street in frantic search of him.

  Hope spiked when she caught a flash of copper hair. He was just turning the corner. She took off after him as fast as her high-heels would carry her, which wasn’t very fast at all. She didn’t know what she would say when and if she caught up with him; she only knew she couldn’t let him get away without saying something.

  The corner he’d turned led
into an alley. As she stepped into it, the mingled stench of urine and rubbish assaulted her nostrils. There was a dumpster, stacks of crushed boxes, and a couple of silver kegs, but no sign of her stranger. Heart sinking, she turned to go back inside.

  “Well, well, well. If it ain’t Little Miss Muffet.”

  Alarm pricked her heart. It was the jerk from earlier, blocking her way. He looked twice as big and twice as threatening as he had inside. Every inch of her pinged with fear. What to do? Her mind raced, searching for options. Making a break for the pub’s back door seemed her best chance, but still carried risks. The alley was dark and deserted. If he caught her before she reached safety, she was doomed. Then again, maybe he was just trying to scare her, to pay her back for rejecting him, and didn’t mean her any harm.

  “Let m-me p-pass.”

  His snake-like lips curled into a cruel smile. “I think it’s time someone took you down a few pegs, Miss Muffet. Gave you something tastier to eat besides curds and whey, if you catch my meaning. A nice juicy banger, for starters. And I could do with a nosh, so it would appear the job’s fallen to me.”

  As he took a menacing step toward her, she spun, ready to run. Her ankle turned, barking with pain. She stumbled, lost her balance, and started to go down. He caught her by the arms, walked her backward toward the wall, and pinned her under the weight of his body. She tried to scream, but he stifled it with a kiss, thrusting his tongue into her mouth so deeply she nearly gagged. He tasted of beer, cigarettes, and something salty. She started to bite down, but he pulled away, hawked up a wad of mucous, and spit it in her face.

  “Bite me and you’re dead, bitch. Are we clear on that?”

  She said nothing, too frightened to form words. Or coherent thoughts. The feel of his body on hers made her stomach turn and her skin crawl. She could feel his erection digging into her thigh, could smell feral arousal in his sweat. She squirmed and flailed, fighting his hold with everything she had, but he was too strong. Tears of futility sprang into her eyes. She couldn’t believe, after waiting so long, she was going to lose her virginity like this.