Dark and Stormy Knight Page 5

“I do.”

  “So, Lady Ruthven must live somewhere else.”

  “Must she?”

  “Does she?”

  “Not that I’m aware of.”

  Gwyn frowned at her furry companion. “That doesn’t make sense. You can’t live alone and with Leigh Ruthven at the same time.”

  “Can’t I? Says who?”

  She racked her brain for any explanation, however remote. “Do the two of you have some sort of time-share arrangement?”

  “We do not.” The cat smiled at her in that sly way all felines do. “Come, now. Surely you can solve the mystery. The answer, as with most riddles, is an obvious one.”

  Normally, she’d get this, but her mind was jumbled by the accident and everything she’d seen so far. She took a breath to clear her head and concentrated harder. The only way he could both live with the authoress and live alone was if—

  “Is Leigh Ruthven a ghost?”

  She was talking to a cat. In comparison, a ghost seemed more than plausible.

  “While she definitely haunts me at times, she is not, strictly speaking, a wraith.”

  Crossing her arms and chewing her thumbnail, Gwyn puzzled a little longer until the obvious answer popped into her head. Jeez Louise, how could she be so dense? “You wrote The Knight of Cups and Leigh Ruthven is your pen name!”

  “The light of truth dawns at last.”

  Gwyn took a moment to process all she’d just learned. Leigh Ruthven was the pen name of Sir Leith MacQuill, a man who was obviously much more than a man.

  “Your book isn’t fiction, is it?”

  “Not all of it, obviously.”

  “Obviously.” She shifted her gaze to the Sleeping Beauty Trilogy. “Nor the whole truth.”

  “No,” said the cat. “I whitewashed some of the story to appeal to a broader audience—and to protect the innocent.”

  In The Knight of Cups, he’d been taken from Culloden Moor to Avalon by a faery scout called Belphoebe. There, he’d been made a breeding drone to Queen Morgan Le Fay—a sex slave, in other words. The gory details of his enslavement, however, were left to the reader’s imagination.

  She’d fleshed out some of them in her screen adaptation, but had no idea if the scenes she envisioned were accurate.

  Conversely, the Sleeping Beauty Trilogy described the shocking abuses and humiliations imposed upon the enslaved characters in graphic detail.

  Nodding toward the Anne Rice books, she forced her question past the growing lump in her throat. “Is that why you showed me these books? So I’d understand what you suffered in Avalon?”

  “No.”

  She furrowed her brow. “Then why?”

  The cat flashed her a Cheshire grin, but, thankfully, did not fade away. “Have dinner with me tonight and afterward, I’ll disclose my reason.”

  At that, he jumped down and trotted out of the room with his tail held high, leaving Gwyn to wonder just what kind of fractured faery tale she’d stumbled into.

  Chapter 5

  Leith the cat slipped into the master bedchamber, spoke the counter-spell, and gritted his teeth through the transformation. A man once more, he returned to the door and flipped the latch. Hurrying to the bed, he withdrew from underneath, the hot-pink leopard backpack, eager to learn more about his intriguing guest. At this point, he didn’t even know her name.

  Not that it mattered.

  He unzipped the larger of the compartments There was what looked to be a manuscript inside. Please let it be something delectably dirty. He pulled the pages out and read the title. Shock struck his heart with the force of a battering ram. Bloody hell. It was a screen adaptation of his book!

  Sitting cross-legged on the bed, he set the manuscript in front of him. As he moved the pages from one pile to the other, his emotions zigzagged from shock to outrage to admiration to glee.

  He was saved. The sale of the film rights would provide the money to restore Glenarvon and clear his debts. A sly smile played on his lips as he considered how much Gwyneth Morland, aspiring screenwriter, might be willing to give of herself to achieve her ends.

  Her response to the erotic trilogy had raised his hopes. The flush of her cheeks, the way she twirled her hair, the unmistakable tang of female arousal. Oh, aye. She’d been turned on by what she’d read all right.

  A scene took shape inside his mind. She was the lady of the manor’s abigail; he, the laird who’d returned from a ride to find her in a compromising position with one of the grooms. No, wait. Make that two of the grooms. She was on her knees in the hay sucking the cock of one while the other fucked her from behind. As he entered the barn, the threesome broke apart, though not before his own cock throbbed with need. He grabbed the buggy whip off a peg on the wall and flailed it at the grooms as they jumped about, hobbled by their dropped breeks.

  After he’d driven them off, he confronted the maid. “You’ve been a very naughty lassie,” he told her, snapping the whip against his boot, “and must pay for your transgressions.”

  The power he felt was intoxicating. He struck his boot again, dispatching a white-hot bolt of lust to the engorgement straining against his form-fitting breeches. Thrills swam through his blood as her gaze shifted to the evidence of his intentions. He sauntered over, took her by the wrist, and led her into the tack room. A biting mixture of leather and saddle soap invaded his nostrils. Parking himself on a wooden bench, he pulled her across his lap. He slipped a hand under her skirts, savoring the velvety smoothness of her thighs.

  “What are you going to do to?”

  “No more than the grooms have already done,” he said, “and no less than you deserve.”

  At that, he flung her heavy skirts over her back, baring her beautiful backside. Goose pimples pebbled the lily-white mounds of her bum. He raised his hand and brought it down hard. The snap of the impact further heated his blood. He spanked her again on the other cheek, leaving a matching set of rosy handprints.

  One for each groom.

  She raised no protest. Good. The wicked wench knew what she had coming. Burying his hand between her legs, he fingered her intimate folds. They were slick with the juices of sexual excitement. Homing in on her swollen bud, he made slow circles with his fingertip as he pressed the hard evidence of his own arousal against her ribcage.

  A knock at the door shattered the fantasy. God’s teeth. He’d completely forgotten he’d summoned the butler and could hardly answer the door in his present condition.

  “Give me a minute, eh?”

  He stuffed the screenplay into the backpack and climbed off the bed. Grabbing his robe off a nearby chair, he pulled it on and tied the belt. Damn, his cockstand made an obvious tent.

  He’d not been with a woman in far too long. Lack of funds made it impossible to hire someone willing to sign a confidentiality agreement and pulling a lass from the local pub was too indiscreet. How he thwarted his curse was nobody’s business save his own. However desperate he might be for sex, he couldn’t bear the invasion of privacy wagging tongues would surely bring.

  Taking a deep breath, he called to mind the unanswered letter from his accountant asking for more money to pay the mounting bills. Almost at once, his erection withered.

  Hurrying over, he pulled open the door. On the other side, as expected, stood Gavin.

  “You rang, my lord?”

  “Aye, Gavin. I’ve asked our guest to dine with me this evening. At six. Please see to the arrangements.”

  “I shall, my lord. Did you have a particular menu in mind?”

  “Aye. Roasted pheasant. The way Mrs. King does it with the brandy sauce and shallots.”

  The menu was guaranteed to impress, yet simple enough to pull off on short notice. For his own ease and to attract shooting parties to Glenarvon, he kept the grounds well stocked with a variety of game fowl.

  “Of course, my lord.” Gavin swallowed and lowered his gaze. “And if I may, my lord?”

  “Of c
ourse. Speak your mind.”

  “Our back wages, my lord. When might we expect them?”

  Shame blew through Leith like hot wind. “If all goes as planned this evening, I will be able to pay all that I owe very soon.”

  “Very good, my lord.” The butler bowed from the waist. “I will inform Mrs. King at once of your requirements for this evening’s meal.”

  As Gavin set off, Leith called him back. “Could you wait just a moment while I jot a note for the lass?”

  * * * *

  Excitement fluttered in Gwyn’s stomach as she read the note just slipped beneath her door. Written in the same beautiful penmanship as the signature in the book on the nightstand, the instructions told her to put on the costume she’d find in the box in the hall.

  Heart in throat, she opened the door and looked both ways. The hall was empty except for a box big enough to hold a coat. She picked up the mysterious parcel and, after closing the door with her foot, carried the carton to the bed.

  Easing off the lid, she peeled back the overlapping tissue paper cover. Sandwiched between the crisp sheets was the uniform of an eighteenth-century lady’s maid: a shift with drawstrings at the neck and cuffs, a plain linen skirt, a boned bodice that laced-up the front, a simple white apron, thigh-high cotton stockings, and low-heeled leather shoes with silver buckles.

  Every nerve ending tingled as she ran her trembling fingers over the garments. How similar this all was to the stories she used to re-enact. The castle, the costume, the cat. The only piece that didn’t quite fit was The Sleeping Beauty Trilogy. For the past hour, she’d racked her brain for an explanation, but kept coming back to the same one: Sir Leith MacQuill was a faery knight who enjoyed kinky sex.

  The question was, how did she feel about that reality? She’d read her fair share of erotica and, God knew, she’d fantasized about doing some pretty wild stuff. Fantasized being the operative word. Until now, her love life had been about as exciting as watching paint dry. Most of her partners didn’t give a damn about her pleasure. They were all grunt-grunt, thanks for the cunt, and out the door. Was it any wonder she preferred fictional men to the flesh-and-blood variety?

  Sir Leith, however, promised the best of both worlds. If he was into BDSM, she’d deal. As long as she could set some ground rules she couldn’t see a problem. Yes, he could tie her up, but no hitting. Not even with his hand. She’d had enough of that shit from her stepmother, thanks very much.

  As the old memories began to surface, she shook her head to drive them away. She didn’t want to dwell on the events that had chained her in fear. She wanted to break free and fly high, and she couldn’t do that with the past weighing her down like an anchor. Her drunken bitch of a stepmother couldn’t hurt her anymore—unless Gwyn allowed her do so by holding tight to her resentments.

  * * * *

  Leith was in his library, trying to figure out how to stretch his dwindling funds to cover his expenses. Last week, his accountant had written to ask him to deposit more money in the accounts used to pay his bills, and Leith had not yet responded. He began to do so now, pen in hand, but couldn’t seem to keep his mind on monetary matters. Not when that little vixen was upstairs changing into the costume he’d provided. How would she look in it? Fetching, he’d bet.

  He tried to imagine her in the maid’s costume, the tight-laced bodice cinching her tiny waist and pushing her ample breasts toward her lovely collarbone.

  Oh, aye. He liked the picture very much indeed.

  The tingling in his loins made him forget the letter. He stood, clasped his hands behind his back, and paced the floor. When he passed the liquor bottles, he thought about pouring himself a whisky to take the edge off his nerves, but decided against it. If she smelled spirits on his breath, she might not trust him and, for what he had in mind, gaining her trust was paramount.

  Returning to the desk, he took up his pen again. Just as he finished the salutation, he heard a sound outside the door. Believing it might be the girl, he went to the door and peered out. Disappointment dashed his hopes when Gavin blinked back at him from the hallway.

  “What time would you like dinner, my lord?”

  “The sooner the better.”

  “Very good, my lord. I shall do what I can to light a fire under Mrs. King.”

  As Gavin walked away, Leith shut the door and went back to pacing. As he passed the bottles again, he considered pouring just a wee nip of whisky to enjoy while he waited for the dinner bell.

  Then, he got a better idea of how to pass the time.

  Returning to the desk, he withdrew his tarot cards from the top left-hand drawer. He’d learned to read them in Avalon to kill time and help him make sense of his lot. He’d stopped worshipping the God of the Catholic faith long ago. That deity, if He existed, was deaf to his prayers, so why go on wasting his breath?

  He spoke the preparatory invocation as he unfurled the silk scarf shielding the cards from negative vibrations. As he shuffled the deck, he focused on what he wished to know. When the cards felt sufficiently infused with his energy, he cut the deck using his left hand.

  The three-level spread, which provided the answer in terms of the problem’s past, present, and future, seemed a good choice. He didn’t have time for anything more in-depth and a single card would shed insufficient light on the matter. The problem was bigger than his writer’s block. He was miserable, lonely, destitute, and bereft of hope. His curse was to blame for most of it, but not the whole.

  After dealing three cards from left to right face down, he overturned the card representing the foundation of the matter.

  Queen of Cups.

  The queen on the card sat upon a stone throne carved with baby mermaids and seashells, gazing dreamily at the cup in her hands. The throne stood at the edge of a shore, the surf lapping around its base. The water did not touch the queen’s feet, which rested on a bed of sea glass and pebbles. A grass-covered bluff stood in the background.

  No surprises there. The card obviously represented Queen Morgan Le Fay on her island with the chalice she used for her sorcery.

  Holding his breath, he flipped the card representing his current situation.

  Five of Cups.

  The image depicted a cloaked figure grieving over the three spilled cups before him while ignoring the upright pair behind.

  Also glaringly obvious. The cards weren’t beating about the bush today. They were saying in no uncertain terms his regrets, not the curse, were destroying his peace of mind and strangling his creativity.

  Biting his lip, he moved to the third and final card, the harbinger of things to come. His breath caught when he saw what it was.

  The Tower.

  The card of ruination.

  Bloody hell. Not what he’d hope to see in his future. Quite the opposite, in fact. If its meaning was as literal as the first two cards, he could guess what it signified. His worst fears would come to pass and there wasn’t a fucking thing he could do about.

  He shook his head in dismay. Enough navel-gazing. He wasn’t ruined yet, and the dinner hour had finally arrived.

  * * * *

  Footsteps, coming this way. Excitement crackled through Gwyn’s nervous system. This was all so unbelievable reality had become a mere dot in the rearview mirror. She was about to meet her biggest ever fictional crush in real life. How awesome was that?

  The heavy footsteps grew louder. He came into the room and stopped somewhere off to her right.

  Gwyn, fighting the urge to turn with all her might, kept her gaze glued to the painting over the mantle—a full-length portrait of a lovely young woman in a blue silk gown. The lady’s wide-set eyes and delicate features reminded Gwyn of her own.

  “Who is she?”

  “Baroness Clara MacQuill.”

  His wife. Holy cow.

  “She’s very pretty.”

  “Aye, she was.”

  “What happened to her?”

  He heaved a ragg
ed sigh and took a few moments before answering. “She was butchered while in childbirth.” His voice was hard, his tone matter-of-fact. “By the Duke of Cumberland’s men.”

  “My God, how awful,” she exclaimed, appalled. “I’m so sorry.”

  The grisly picture his words painted in her mind chased away her appetite. From his book and her father’s stories, she knew the English army had terrorized the Highlands after Culloden, but hadn’t realized they’d behaved as despicably as that.

  “Not half as sorry as I am, lass.”

  She kept her focus on the painting. “Your life’s been a hard one, hasn’t it?”

  “You have no idea.”

  Her heart beat faster as she turned to drink him in.

  He was clad in the riding attire of the Regency era: a velvet frockcoat the same shade as his eyes, a ruffled linen shirt tied at the neck with a cravat, a double-breasted waistcoat that showed off his expansive chest, and form-fitting tan breeches that left little to the imagination. Yearning tingled between her legs as her eyes traced the detailed topography of his imprisoned manhood.

  Her gaze jumped to his face, framed by wavy dark layers that fell to his sturdy shoulders. His gray eyes—deep-set and flecked with danger and sorrow—were as breathtaking as the rest of him.

  “Do you like what you see?”

  Sparks sizzled all the way down to her sex. “I like what I see very much, your lordship.”

  “Call me Leith,” he said. “Until I instruct you otherwise.”

  “Leith is an unusual name.” As much as she hated small talk, it seemed her best defense against his magnetic allure. If he offered, she’d do him right here in the dining room. “I can’t say I’ve ever heard it before.”

  “It’s the name of the port where my father made his fortune in shipbuilding.”

  “Is that how you came to own this castle?”

  “No. Glenarvon was part of my wife’s dowry.”

  Gwyn turned back to the portrait. The poor woman. How she must have suffered, and how aggrieved he must have been when he learned the circumstances surrounding her death. As her imagination repainted the image, she blinked the picture away and turned to the table, which had been set for two.