Knight of Wands (Knights of the Tarot Book 1) (18 page)

She drew closer, still gawking at him as if he’d lost his mind. “It’s freezing out here. You’ll catch your death.”

“Unlikely, since I’m immune to disease.” Stepping out of his slacks, he snatched them up and handed them to her.

Her gaze swept over his naked physique. “Very nice…but please tell me you don’t expect me to get naked, too. Because, as much as I might enjoy the whole
From Here to Eternity
thing, I don’t relish walking back to the car in the dark with sand in my crack.”

“I don’t want you to undress,” he told her. “Not just yet, anyway. What I want is for you to ride me.”

Her dark eyebrows pulled together. “Piggyback, you mean?”

“Not exactly.”

Getting down in the sand on all fours, he spoke the spell into the wind. At once, his bones and muscles began to bulge, twist, and stretch.

“Good God,” she exclaimed, her voice shrill with alarm. “What’s happening to you?”

He didn’t answer, partly because he was in agony and partly because the metamorphosis was stretching his neck and vocal chords in a way that made speech impossible. The change seemed to go on for ages. When at last it was complete, he snorted through his craterlike nostrils and tossed his long head to stop his forelock from blocking his sideways view of her.

Walking around him, she took in his new form in slack-jawed, wide-eyed wonder. “You’re a horse…and a very pretty one, too, I might add. I’ve always loved palominos. Did you know that or was it a lucky guess?”

He tossed his head and pawed the sand. “How would I know that?”

“Well, maybe because you’ve been reading my mind?”

“I’m not psychic,” he said, feeling a wee qualm, “though I can pick up things about a person if I choose to probe their mind.”

She got quiet for a moment and seemed uneasy. “What have you picked up from me?”

“Only that you’re afraid of love.” He swished his tail. “But it doesn’t take special powers to see that.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, scowling at him with her hands on her hips. “I’m not afraid of love. I’m afraid of losing my freedom.”

Spoken like a true water bearer. Bending his knees to lower his back, he instructed her to mount. She walked around to his left side and, a moment later, her weight came down on his saddle area. He waited until her hands fisted in his mane and her knees gripped his ribcage.

“All set?”

“I think so.” Her tone was unsure. “But don’t go too fast. I haven’t done a lot of riding.”

Getting his hooves under him, he pushed up to his full height of seventeen hands before starting across the dunes toward the sea. The sand gave way under his weight and also clung to the frogs of his hooves. Heeding her request, he fought the strong inclination to run through the surf. It wouldn’t do to have her tumble off into the icy water, especially when she was the guardian of his clothing. Stopping at the water’s edge, he looked out toward the horizon where the sea met the sky and pawed at the lapping surf.

“I have to say, this is, hands down, the coolest thing I’ve ever done,” she said from atop his back. “Even better than skydiving, which I never thought anything could top.”

“I’m glad you’re finally impressed.”

She patted his neck. “Not
finally
, Callum. I’ve been impressed by you since we met…and can’t for the life of me think why Mr. Armstrong has such a low opinion of you.”

The name caught in his craw. “Be careful there, Vanessa.”

“What makes you say that?”

“He’s been known to sexually harass his female employees.”

She went quiet for a few minute, as if thinking over what he’d said, then, “He doesn’t have anything good to say about you either—and you’ve proven him wrong. So maybe you’re wrong about him, too.”

“I’m not.”

“Based on what?”

“His behavior at a conference we both attended. I intervened on the lady’s behalf and foiled his plans—the reason, no doubt, he paints me in an unflattering light.”

“The lady in question was someone who worked for him?”

“Aye. Her name was Diana, that’s all I know.”

“Oh, my God. Diana was his assistant before me.”

He bobbed his head. “Like I said, be careful with Armstrong. Like most Scorpios, he’s as slippery as a snake.”

“I’ll be careful, I promise.” She kicked his sides. “Now tell me why Sorcha threw herself from the tower…and why you weren’t there when it happened. Was it after you were taken to Avalon?”

“Aye,” he said. “After I was presumed dead, my enemies wanted Barrogill, and the only way to get it was to force my widow to marry into their clan. The night her new husband claimed her, she threw herself from the tower.”

“Hang on. The night he
claimed
her? Are you saying he raped her?”

“Aye…or, at least, attempted to do so. Back then, under Scots law, a man only had to penetrate an unmarried woman to make her his wife.”

“Are you kidding me? That’s appalling—and positively
medieval
.”

He twitched his ears. “Which makes sense, given that it was the Middle Ages and all.”

They’d reached the cliffs where he’d parked the car. When he halted, she hopped down and set his clothes in front of him. As she headed up the beach, he shifted back into himself and quickly dressed. A glance around found her a few yards away, sitting on a rock. Snatching up his shoes, he sat beside her and bent to put them on.

“Is there any chance you’d consider staying in Scotland?”

“No,” she said, bumping against him. “Is there any chance you’d consider moving to New Orleans?”

“No,” he said.

“Well, then.” She brushed back his hair and pressed her lips against his temple. “I’ll just have to do everything in my power to earn your trust between now and then, won’t I?”

* * * *

Two hours later, they were back at Barrogill, stargazing on the roof of the tower. Callum was on one end of the roof, surveying the heavens through the bigger of his two telescopes, while Vanessa was at the opposite corner, peering through the smaller at Orion.

The night, though spectacularly clear, was brisk. Chilled by a sudden gust, he turned against the wind and adjusted the woolen scarf he’d wrapped round his neck before coming up. She’d put on her coat, but he nevertheless worried if she was warm enough. He’d come to feel very protective of her; and too attached to her for his own bloody good. His heart wrenched at the sight of her looking through his Schmidt-Cassegrain. It was a picture he’d like to see on a regular basis, but in all likelihood would never be repeated.

The temperature dropped abruptly, which seemed rather unusual, even for Scotland’s changeable climate. Hugging himself for warmth, he stuffed his hands into his armpits. As he exhaled, his breath made a small white cloud. What the hell? Just like that, it was as cold as December. He scowled around as if the answer would make itself known out of thin air. Then, it did.

Worry gripped his gut and raised a fine sweat around the edges of his hairline. He wiped his brow and finger-raked his scalp. What was Sorcha about? He came up here all the time and had never once felt her presence. He’d always assumed it was because of the way she’d died; that she avoided the top of the tower on purpose.

He turned toward Vanessa. His mouth when dry when he saw she was no longer at the telescope. For some odd reason, she was leaning over the battlement, looking down. He started over, alarm pinging in his chest. The ping crescendoed to a bong when the stone she leaned against gave way. As it tumbled over the side, he shot forward under a surge of adrenaline. Before he could reach her, her feet left the ground.

Panic kicked him in the chest. He couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe. Time wound down and stood still. He zoomed toward the broken battlement, arms outstretched, but too late. A scream tore through the night. Ear piercing, blood curdling. It rang inside his head like a bell. He found himself running, trying to catch her. His fingers brushed fabric. It slipped away. She tipped, teetered, toppled. No! The blood left his head. He gripped the stone ledge. It was cold and rough.

The scene below turned his stomach. His heart stopped. His vision swam. His brain refused to take it in. His butterfly was sprawled on the flagstones, legs bent at impossible angles. Blood pooled around her head like a dark halo.

His thoughts spun like a tire trapped in mud. He stripped, spoke the magic words, and dove off the battlement. He underwent the change as he fell, swooping upward when his wings sprouted. As he set down beside her, he folded his wings. The smell of her blood so overpowered his senses, he nearly tore into her.

Shifting back, he bent over her. He reached out a hand, then, thinking twice, withdrew it. What if he caused irreparable damage? She was unconscious, both legs had multiple fractures, and one of the snapped bones in her arm poked through the fabric of her coat. Blood gushed from her scalp. Fearing her neck might be broken, he didn’t dare lift her head to try and stem the wound.

He felt for a pulse. It was weak and thready. The nearest hospital was in Wick. She was too far gone to ride on his back and driving would take too long, as would summoning an ambulance.

From the look of her, she had only minutes left to live.

He couldn’t lose her. The smell of her blood had summoned his fangs, a mixed blessing. He brought his left wrist to his mouth, but stopped before biting into it. Was this wrong? Would she hate him for it? He bit his lip and swallowed hard. There wasn’t time to contemplate the consequences. He’d just have to deal with what came. He sank his teeth into his wrist. As the blood streamed, he bent over her.

“Vanessa, can you hear me?”

She emitted a feeble moan. He pressed his bleeding wrist against her lips. “Drink, lass. This will save you.”

As her tongue fluttered against the wound, hope surged through his system. Her sucking, weak at first, gradually grew more purposeful. When she’d taken enough, he withdrew his arm and checked her pulse. It was strong and steady. He could hear her bones knitting as her limbs straightened. The blood was performing its healing magic, thank the heavens.

He climbed to his feet, now cognizant of his nakedness and the cold night wind. Shivering, he hugged himself and looked up at the tower.

“Sorcha,” he shouted at the stars, “what have you done and, more to the point, why?”

Spitting a curse, he raked a hand through his hair and tried to think. What had motivated the ghost to do it? He could come up with only two possibilities: either she’d done it to kill Vanessa or she’d done it to stop her from leaving him.

If it was the former, she’d gotten the opposite of her wish. If it was the latter, she’d taken a tremendous risk. The fall could have killed Vanessa on impact, though perhaps Sorcha knew it wouldn’t, having taken the same dive two centuries ago.

Whatever the reason, he was furious. Shaking his fists at the sky, he cried, “Damn you to hell, Sorcha. Damn your bloody soul to hell. Why did you do this?”

“I did it for you, Callum,” replied a voice he hadn’t heard in centuries. “So you would finally know love and be happy.”

Chapter 10

Vanessa was sure she must be dead. There was no way anyone could have survived a fall from that height onto flagstones. Still, she had expected death to feel differently. Painless, for one thing. Wasn’t physical sensation supposed to cease as the soul took leave of the body?

Either she was wrong or she wasn’t dead, because her head pounded, every bone in her body ached, and something toxic now flowed through her veins. Her mind was a dark sea of nothingness. She tried to focus her thoughts, but it only added to the pounding in her head. She felt weak, feverish, dizzy, and queasy. She opened one eye, but shut it again at once. Wherever she was had blinding light and looked remarkably similar to Callum’s bedroom.

The thought of Callum clawed her heart, giving her more pain than anything her body could dish out. Hang on. If she still had a body, she couldn’t be dead, which must mean, by some miracle, she’d survived the fall.

It seemed improbable given the height of the tower and the solidity of the landing. Luckily, the shock had veiled her awareness, sparing her the horror of the impact. Even so, the memory of falling made her queasy and lightheaded. Her eyes fluttered open. She called his name, but all that came out was a creak. She tried again with more force.

“Callum? Are you here?”

“Aye.”

Squinting against the light, she looked around. She lay on his bed, propped up on pillows, while he stood at the foot, leaning against the bedpost.

He looked different. More radiant somehow. She smiled and glanced around, seeing with a jolt that everything had changed.

Colors were more vivid, textures more defined. It was as if she’d spent all her life looking through a filter. Everything was brighter, crisper, sharper, and cleaner.

She met Callum’s gaze and, enthralled by their luminance, made no attempt to look away. She became aware of the sounds from outside. The screeching of gulls, the sigh of the sea, the whisper of the wind in the trees. Nature’s symphony, the most astounding composition she’d ever heard.