Dark and Stormy Knight Page 4

  She crossed her legs and hobbled toward the next door. The sound of approaching footsteps stopped her in her tracks.

  Please let it not be the handsome laird.

  Trying to walk, she found she couldn’t. The urge to pee was beyond intense. The footfalls were close. Too close. Pulse racing, she raised her candle, throwing light across the figure of a man with surprised pale eyes and shoulder-length dark hair.

  “Hi,” she whispered as blood heated her face. “I was just looking for the bathroom.”

  His gaze moved down her form, lingering on her most private places. “I really have to pee,” she said, teeth clenched. “Could you maybe point the way?”

  He made another visual sweep of her scantily clad figure, causing her to feel both exposed and titillated. Mrs. King hadn’t exaggerated his handsomeness. Even in the spooky shadows cast by her candle, she could see he was a beautiful man with intelligent eyes, a perfect nose, a full mouth, an angular jaw, and a cleft chin. And that hair of his was to die for. Long, silky, and scrumptiously sexy in a dangerous, dark knight kind of way. She burned with the urge to touch, stroke, and weave her fingers into those ebony tresses.

  She swallowed hard. Get a grip, the man’s married, for God’s sake!

  “Try the third door on the right.” He brushed past her, quickening her pulse. “And tell Mrs. King to find you a bloody dressing gown to put on next time you see fit to leave your chamber.”

  “Thank you,” she called after him. “For everything.”

  Her gaze followed him until he disappeared down the dark hallway. His scent, a manly blend of leather and laundry detergent, lingered in her nostrils. Was he a faery? And, more importantly, was he married to Leigh Ruthven? Either way, she was in way over her head.

  * * * *

  Leith slipped into his bedroom and locked the door behind him before peeling off his t-shirt and jeans.

  The compression of tight jeans was not the way to get rid of a raging erection. Neither was having a staring contest in a dark hallway with a bonny lass in a transparent night rail. His blood still crackled from the electrical current between them. That and the intimate shadows beneath that sheer cotton had driven him mad with desire.

  How hard he’d fought the temptation to scoop her up, carry her into one of the many bedchambers at his disposal, and mount her like the beast he was. Walking away from her took every ounce of will he could muster.

  The good news was, his blood hadn’t turned her. The transition was grueling. If she were in the midst of the experience, she wouldn’t be walking around. And she most definitely would not be looking for the toilet.

  Reclining on the bed, he took his aching cock in his hand and closed his eyes. In his mind, he was with her again in the hallway, only this time, instead of walking away, he ripped the nightgown down the middle, exposing the attributes he’d glimpsed only as shadows through the thin cotton.

  In his fantasy, he ran his hands over her naked body, felt the weight and softness of her breasts, teased her nipples, and fingered her sex. Och, aye. Her folds were swollen and slippery and her wee bud was as hard as his cock. The soft moans of enjoyment his caresses drew from her made his erection throb with the need for enveloping female flesh.

  He was sick of masturbating. He needed a woman.

  “Get down on all fours,” his fantasy self commanded.

  When she obeyed, he knelt behind her and ran the jizz-slickened dome of his prick from her anus to her vagina. She gasped in surprise when he drove into her, burying his cockstand to its furry base. Her cunt felt sublime. Hot, wet, and deliciously tight.

  Mother of God. This won’t take long.

  He pounded her like a jackhammer, brutal, relentless. Every muscle in his body clenched as his enjoyment climbed toward the zenith. Then, with an animalistic grunt and a blissful eruption, he unloaded into her.

  Panting and sweaty, he rolled toward the nightstand to grab the box of tissues. As the fantasy evaporated, he found himself, as always, alone and unsatisfied. Having a wank only ever relieved the physical aspect of his unbearable frustration.

  * * * *

  A thump roused Gwyn from sleep. Opening her eyes, she found Mrs. King poking at the log on the fire. The drapes were open and the sun was out. The groan of the bedsprings as she sat up brought the housekeeper’s gaze to hers.

  “Good morning. How do you feel?”

  “Remarkably well.” Truthfully, she felt better than she had in, well, ever.

  “I noticed you didn’t touch your soup last night. How’s your appetite this morning?”

  “Good.” Better than good, actually. She wasn’t just hungry, she was famished.

  Mrs. King left the room and returned a moment later with a tray, which she set across Gwyn’s lap. Hunger rumbled in her tummy as she surveyed the offerings: A pretty teapot decorated with red and pink roses, a silver rack holding triangles of toast, a decorative jam pot, and an egg in a cup on a plate with a spoon. As the woman poured the tea, the peppery perfume of Earl Grey wafted on the air.

  Picking up her cup, Gwyn took a cautious sip. The tea tasted as bracing as it smelled. “What time is it?”

  “Just after ten o’clock.”

  “So late?” No wonder she felt so refreshed. “Why didn’t you wake me sooner?”

  “Because you need your rest, lass.”

  Guilt murdered Gwyn’s appetite as images from the accident surfaced unbidden. Here she was, enjoying breakfast in bed while the loved ones of those poor women were getting the bad news.

  If it’s any consolation, he didn’t suffer. The other driver was going so fast, his car exploded on impact.

  Blinking away the unbearable memory, she set down her cup with a clink. “Did Sir Leith speak to the police about the crash?”

  “Aye, lass. They were on our doorstep bright and early.”

  “Did they find my backpack?”

  “I don’t know what was said,” Mrs. King told her, “only that they came and went.”

  Gwyn pursed her lips as her inner detective pulled on her trench coat. Why were the servants being so vague? What had their employer told the police? How had he healed her injuries so quickly? Why had he removed her from the scene of the accident? What was he planning to do with her now?

  “I still want to talk to Sir Leith.”

  Mrs. King returned to the fireplace and fussed with the trinkets on the mantle. “I’m afraid that’s not possible.”

  “Why is that?”

  “He’s busy.”

  “Doing what?”

  The housekeeper took a minute, as if trying to invent a response.

  Gwyn, prickling with suspicion, sipped her tea and nibbled a wedge of cold toast.

  “He’s trying to write.”

  Mildly surprised, Gwyn licked the buttery crumbs from her lips.

  “What does he write?”

  “Books, of course. What else?”

  “All sorts of things.” Gwyn shrugged. “Short stories, poetry, advertising copy, newspaper columns, book reviews, screenplays. Does he write novels, like his wife?”

  “His lordship isn’t—” The housekeeper hesitated.

  “Isn’t what?”

  “What? Oh, em. Silly me. Where is my head?” Mrs. King, clearly flustered, made a beeline for the door. “I’m sorry, dearie. While I’d love nothing more than to stay and chat, I’ve just remembered I’ve got a cake in the oven.”

  Suspicion swirled inside Gwyn’s brain. She was now more determined than ever to find out what the housekeeper was keeping from her. If the big secret was that Sir Leith was a card-carrying member of the Fae, there was no need to be cagey.

  He’d been out in the woods in the middle of a storm with nothing on. He’d given her a magic potion of some sort to mend her broken bones. He’d responded with a noncommittal answer when asked point blank if he was a faery. He lived with the author of The Knight of Cups, a book about a man enslaved by a faery queen
.

  All coincidences? She thought not.

  The notion might seem mad to someone who didn’t believe in faeries, but she did. With all her heart. And desperately wanted to meet one in the flesh.

  She just needed concrete proof to back up her theory, and, since the servants weren’t talking, she’d have to poke around—discreetly, of course—and see what she could find.

  First, however, she needed something to wear besides this flimsy nightgown. She was modest and the sheer voile left little to the imagination. Setting the tray aside, she climbed out of bed and headed straight for the armoire, hoping to find a bathrobe at the very least. Damn, the door was locked, but wait. Hurrying to the nightstand, she grabbed the key she’d set there last night, returned to the wardrobe, and inserted the end into the keyhole.

  Bingo.

  Relief rushed through her as the heavy mirrored door swung open, antique hinges squealing from disuse.

  Her pulse quickened as she took in the treasures inside. She couldn’t say what she’d expected; only that she hadn’t dreamed the closet would be stuffed to the bursting point with historic costumes. She ran her fingers over smooth silks, textured brocades, and rough lace. One was lavishly embroidered. All were exquisite and perfectly preserved.

  Holy smokes. This was better than Christmas. She’d always loved period dramas and often wished she’d been born in a time when women wore sumptuous layers that rustled when they walked.

  When she was a girl, her father would sometimes bring home costumes from his movie studio. After school when he was still at work, she’d dress up in them and act out scenes from the faery tales she loved so much.

  Real faery tales, not the family-friendly versions Disney produced.

  Her favorites were the stories of handsome knight-errants taken into the otherworld by a beautiful faery queen. Only later did she come to understand the faeries lured humans into their realm for sexual purposes.

  A naughty thrill went through her as she wondered if Sir Leith had brought her to his castle with seduction in mind. Faint scratching called her attention to the door. She stilled to listen. Scritch, scritch, scritch. The noise, as unnerving as nails on a blackboard, sent tremors through her. Crossing the room, she opened the door a crack and looked into the hall. There was no one there. Puzzled, she glanced up and down the empty corridor.

  Just as she started to close the door, something brushed against her leg. She jumped and looked down. There, gazing back at her with slanted gray eyes was a sweet-looking black-and-white housecat.

  “Well, hello there. And who might you be?”

  Though Gwyn adored cats, she’d never had one. Her father was allergic, her stepmother didn’t want the hassle and expense, and her current lease forbade pets.

  The cat rubbed against her legs before sauntering into the room, head and tail held high.

  Bending, Gwyn scratched the animal’s ears and stroked its sleek back. A quick peek told her the cat was a tom. “What’s your name?”

  The animal mewed as if he’d understood. Charmed, she scooped him up and cuddled him against her breasts.

  Purr.

  “What shall I call you?” She carried the cat to the bed and gave his lanky body a squeeze before setting him atop the rumpled bedclothes. “How about Heathcliff, after the character in your mistress’s book?” The cat purred louder, as if affirming her choice. “Heathcliff it is, then.”

  As Heathcliff commenced to wash his face, she turned back to the wardrobe and the selection of gowns. The desire to try one on overwhelmed.

  She selected the simplest of the gowns: an ensemble consisting of a one-piece bodice and overskirt embroidered in shades of blue and rust and a coordinating copper underskirt.

  From her childhood play-acting, she knew how the pieces were supposed to go together. To complete the outfit, she’d need a shift with ruffles on the sleeves, a set of stays, and a farthingale or petticoats. Finding everything she needed in the armoire’s huge bottom drawer, she laid the pieces of her costume on the bed and pulled her nightgown off over her head.

  “How shall I do my hair?” she asked her furry companion as she smoothed her tousled tresses.

  Oh, dear. She’d just spoken to a cat—a cat who appeared to be checking her out. Suspicion prickled through her bloodstream. In The Knight of Cups, Sir Heath became a shapeshifter whose alter-ego was a hybrid breed of cat found only in Scotland. Once thought to be mythical, these “faery cats” were a cross between wild and domestic cats and bore the same black-and-white markings as the animal on the bed.

  “Please tell me you’re not the laird of the castle come to ogle me in the guise of his alter ego,” she said with a laugh.

  Meow.

  Yes, okay. The notion seemed crazy, but there were plenty of things in this world that couldn’t be explained with logic and reason.

  Keeping one eye on the cat, she stepped before the mirror and began to dress, layer by layer. A dish on the dressing table offered the fasteners required, as if someone wanted her to find the gowns and put one on. When finished, she liberated a pair of brocade mules from the wardrobe and slipped them on. Though not exactly comfortable, they beat running around barefoot.

  Moving to the dressing table in a swish of silk, she parked herself on the backless chair and looked at the cat in the mirror. His keen gray eyes were trained on her.

  “Sir Leith?”

  After giving her an eerily human look, the feline jumped down from the bed and slipped through the crack in the door.

  In a swirl of skirts, Gwyn went after him. Pulse quickening, she followed the loping cat down the broad oak staircase, through the paneled great hall, and into a room lined with towering bookcases. She paused in the doorway to catch her breath. In the center, atop a worn Persian carpet, a stately oak desk faced a fireplace. Books, papers, and an open laptop littered the desk’s broad surface.

  The cat jumped onto the ledge of one of the columns of shelves, rubbed against a row of books, and meowed as if trying to show her something. She crossed to where he was and skimmed the spines.

  The Claiming of Sleeping Beauty

  Beauty’s Punishment

  Beauty’s Release

  Holy smokes. The cat had rubbed against The Sleeping Beauty Trilogy written by Anne Rice under the pseudonym A. N. Roquelaure. Erotic novels set in a medieval fantasy world, the books were loosely based on the age-old story of Sleeping Beauty.

  Very loosely.

  In more ways than one.

  In the first of the three, Beauty fell into an enchanted sleep after pricking her finger. Instead of kissing her awake, the prince stripped her naked and claimed her virginity. Afterward, he took her back to his kingdom, where BDSM was the norm. All of the beautiful young subjects of the kingdom did whatever their masters asked, from bondage to spanking to being ridden like ponies.

  She swallowed hard. Was Sir Leith the faery equivalent of Beauty’s prince?

  Now convinced more than ever the cat was not just a cat, Gwyn arched an eyebrow at the animal.

  “Does your interest in BDSM go beyond books?”

  Meow.

  Pulling Beauty’s Punishment off the shelf, she thumbed through the pages. Desire ignited deep in her belly as she skimmed an explicit passage in which one of the characters, now a sex slave, was being sodomized by one man while fellating another.

  All the while, the cat watched with an interest bordering on voyeurism.

  Unnerved by his stare and the tingling between her legs, Gwyn closed and returned the book to its place on the shelf.

  “You didn’t care for it?”

  Gwen gulped and did a double-take. The cat had not just spoken to her. Yes, she’d suspected he was more than he appeared, but suspicion and confirmation were two different things.

  She checked behind her to be sure nobody had come in when her back was turned. Nobody had. Looking back to the cat, she asked the obvious question. “Did you just speak or
am I going bonkers?”

  “I did speak,” the cat returned, “though the fact that I can talk does not automatically rule out insanity on your part.”

  She blinked at the cat a few moments, wondering if she had indeed lost her mind. Perhaps her head injury was causing her to hallucinate. That was, of course, the most logical explanation, but she’d much prefer magic, not madness, lay behind the experience.

  Deciding to carry on as if the cat had truly spoken, she cleared her throat. “Forgive me for being dumbstruck, but I’ve never met a talking cat before.”

  “Strictly speaking, I’m not just a talking cat.”

  Aha! He’d as much as admitted he was a shapeshifting faery—just like Sir Heath in The Knight of Cups.

  “I gathered as much,” she said. “Now tell me why, out of all the books in your library, you showed me these?”

  “I will answer your question when you’ve answered mine.”

  She blinked at the cat, confused. “I would be happy to answer your question if I could remember what you’d asked me.”

  “I asked if you liked the book.”

  “I liked it fine.” This felt more like a kinky version of Wonderland by the second. “I just don’t appreciate being shown erotic literature by—” She hesitated, leaving the sentence incomplete. She needed to be sure she was dealing with who she thought she was dealing with before making accusations. “You are Sir Leith MacQuill, the laird of this castle, are you not? In the form of your alter ego, I presume, like the hero in your wife’s book?”

  “My wife?” asked the cat. “What makes you think I am married?”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Aren’t you married to Leigh Ruthven, the authoress, who also lives here?”

  “No,” he said, showing his pointy teeth. “I am unmarried and live alone.”

  Great. The cat not only talked, he also spoke in riddles. Luckily, thanks to her father, she was an ace at solving riddles.

  She took a minute to consider the clues he’d given. He was unmarried and lived alone, presenting only two possibilities. He either lived elsewhere or Leigh Ruthven did.

  “Do you live here at the castle?”