Knight of Wands (Knights of the Tarot Book 1) Read online

  Vanessa followed the butler through the last doorway on the right. A king-sized bed with a massive carved headboard dominated the spacious room on the other side. Fit for a modern-day laird, it was covered with an elegant paisley comforter and layers of shams and throw pillows. At the foot, a tufted leather sofa faced a fireplace with a carved oak mantle. A small blaze burned in the grate, adding to the room’s inviting ambience.

  Two windows draped in tartan graced the opposite wall. Beneath one, a matched pair of wingback chairs flanked an antique table. As her gaze returned to the big, manly bed, she imagined the two of them naked and entwined.

  Hamish set her bag on a luggage stand and left the room, closing the door to give her privacy. Opening her suitcase, Vanessa rummaged through the things she’d packed in search of the dress she’d dubbed her “little black Maserati”—because it hugged every curve with style and class. As she laid it out on the bed to smooth out the wrinkles, a sudden cold washed over her, lifting the tiny hairs on her arms and the back of her neck.

  A shimmer near the foot of the bed slowly assumed the ghostly form of a woman in a heavy brocade gown with flowing sleeves—the sort commonly worn in the Tudor era. The apparition’s hair was dark, very long, and looked almost wild. Vanessa, puzzled by her costume, stared long and hard. Surely, this wasn’t the ghost they’d discussed.

  “Who might you be?” the spirit asked in a lilting Scottish brogue, beating Vanessa to the punch.

  “My name’s Vanessa. Vanessa Meadows. I’m a friend of”—she hesitated, unsure how to describe her relationship to Callum—”the baron’s.”

  “You’re not Scottish.”

  “No, I’m not.” Vanessa offered the spirit a smile. “I’m American.”

  “Why are you here?”

  “I told you. I’m a friend of Callum’s.”

  As the spirit drew closer, the temperature dropped, giving Vanessa a chill.

  “Are you another of his whores?”

  Mildly surprised and offended by the question, Vanessa replied. “I hope not. What makes you ask me that?”

  “You’re in his bedchamber, are you not?”

  “Just because I choose to sleep with a man, doesn’t make me a whore.”

  “I know that,” said the ghost.

  Vanessa was confused. “Then why did you ask the question?”

  “I asked because he only brings whores here.”

  She had to know. “Who are you? Or, rather, who were you in life?”

  “I was his wife, the Baroness of Duncansby.”

  Vanessa was sure the ghost was mistaken. “Surely you don’t mean the current baron, Callum Lyon.”

  “That’s exactly who I mean.”

  “But…you’re dressed like a lady from the Tudor era.”

  “Because I am a lady from the Tudor era.”

  The statement raised more questions than it answered. When the ghost began to fade, Vanessa, desperate to keep her there, cried, “Wait! Don’t go yet. There’s still so much more I need to know…like if there’s a vampire here at Barrogill.”

  “There is a vampire,” said the lady’s dissipating visage. “But not the sort you imagine.”

  As soon as the ghost vanished completely, the room returned to its previous comfortable temperature. Far from being satisfied by the encounter, Vanessa was left conjecturing…about the vampire as well as Callum. At the same time, she’d achieved her first objective. She’d gotten inside Barrogill, and despite his denial, there was a vampire—just not the sort she imagined, whatever the hell that meant. She’d better call Mr. Armstrong the first chance she got to let him know she’d gotten inside—and what the ghost had said. It wasn’t much to report, but at least he’d know where she was and that she was making progress.

  Retrieving her handbag, she dug out her cell phone and checked the bars. Shit. Just as she’d feared, there was no signal way out here in the sticks of Scotland.

  * * * *

  Callum found Duncan lounging on the chesterfield sofa with his feet on the coffee table swirling a glass of single-malt and smoking a cigar. As he entered the library, his friend said, “So, how goes it with the lass from last night? Still working on the seduction, I gather from the voices I overheard.”

  “Aye. She’s changing for dinner as we speak…and I still need to go hunting, so, we’ll need to keep this brief.”

  Leaning forward, Duncan shot a pointed glance in his direction. “You know what I want to know, man, so out with it.”

  Callum did know, but still needed more time. He poured himself a whisky and posted himself near the fireplace. Taking a sip, he held the malt in his mouth, allowing smoke, peat, leather, and a hint of heather to seduce his senses.

  “I’m waiting…,” Duncan nudged.

  Callum swallowed. “I’ve got no answer for you.” He took another drink and trapped it between his tongue and the roof of his mouth, again savoring the subtle flavors and sublime bouquet.

  “What’s fueling your indecision?”

  Callum shrugged. “While the idea intrigues—especially the idea of cutting Sinclair’s puppet strings—I have serious misgivings about entering public life.”

  “Because of what you are?”

  “Among other things.”

  “Such as…?”

  Callum took another drink as Duncan’s impatient stare bored into his him. “What can I say? I like my privacy.”

  The wolver coughed, nearly dropping his glass. “Privacy you call it? You’re a bloody hermit, mate. Apart from the occasional conference or lecture.”

  Callum swallowed the irritation the accusation engendered. “What’s wrong with that?”

  “You mean aside from the fact that you’re a lonely, miserable prick who’s turned his back on the things he used to care about?”

  “Don’t pull any punches, mate,” Callum returned sarcastically.

  “Do I ever?”

  Oh, nay. Duncan always spoke the brutal truth and damn the consequences. Callum liked that about him, actually. Because of Duncan’s bluntness, he always knew exactly where he stood, which was more than he could say for most people.

  “I’m just saying.” Callum shrugged. “I think it might be safer to carry on wielding my influence from behind the scenes.”

  Duncan chuckled. “Because that working out so well, right? Face facts, Callum. You’ve been pouring money into the cause for ages now, and I don’t see Scotland any closer to independence than she was when you started.”

  “We have our own parliament again,” Callum pointed out.

  “With its hands still tied by the thieves in Westminster.”

  “If they’re all a bunch of thieves,” Callum challenged, “why are you so eager for me to join their ranks?”

  “To be a fox in the henhouse, not another bloody chicken.”

  Callum emptied his glass and set it on the mantle. “What about the queen?”

  “What’s she got to do with it?”

  “I’m not talking about Elizabeth Regina; I’m talking about Morgan Le Fay.”

  “Oh, I see.” Duncan’s clipped tone told Callum he was losing patience. “And, once again, what’s she got to do with it?”

  “What if, by stepping into the public eye, she figures out I’m still alive?” Callum licked his lips, tasting whisky and worry. “I’ll grant you, she hasn’t figured it out in all this time, but still. If she were to somehow discover my treachery, she’d re-enslave me in a heartbeat…and probably clap me in irons in that dungeon of hers. If not worse.” Callum paused for a breath and a gulp of whisky before going on. “What about the press and all the paranormal investigators running around trying to dig up dirt on folks like us? What if one of them gets wind of what I am and blows the whistle? I’d be ruined in every possible way.”

  His thoughts ran upstairs to Vanessa. While they were having dinner, he’d have Hamish search her luggage and confiscate all her recording devices and cameras. He could wipe her memory, but interfering with her equipment mig
ht raise questions when she returned to New Orleans. Beau Armstrong might be a predatory jackass, but he was no moron, despite the impression created by his thick southern drawl.

  “So, better to hide out here like a hermit, afraid to live your life? Frankly, I’d rather do time in somebody else’s prison than one I’d built myself.”

  Recognizing the truth in Duncan’s words, Callum chose his carefully. “If I was to agree to your scheme—and, mind, that’s a bloody big if—how do you see pulling it off?”

  “You mean with regards to Queen Morgan?”

  “No. I mean on this side of the vale. My dossier isn’t waterproof. I’d be opening myself up to public scrutiny. What if I was found out?”

  Duncan sat back and stroked his chin. “If someone did snoop around and put it together, we could always do a little psychic rewiring, couldn’t we?”

  The clock on the mantle chimed—a reminder he was short on time. “I really need to hunt. We can talk more tomorrow.”

  Finishing his drink, Callum crossed to the table where Duncan’s feet rested. Ignoring the violation, he set the glass on a tray and started toward the door, but his friend’s voice stopped him.

  “If you decide to run—and I sincerely hope you will—I’ll make sure your dossier’s iron clad. So, you needn’t worry about that; and, if by some chance you are found out, I’ll take care of that, too. In this realm, anyway. The affairs of Avalon, I can’t do much about, unfortunately. But I’ll tell you what; if Morgan claps you in irons, I’ll bake you a cake with a file inside.”

  Dissatisfied, Callum moved toward the door. “I said I’d think about it…and I will.”

  He also needed to consult the stars. If the heavens favored his entering politics, he’d only have to decide if it was worth the risks.

  Just as he opened the door, Duncan spoke again. “Most people, I’ve observed, want to believe what you tell them.”

  Unseen by his friend, Callum smirked. “Even a politician?”

  “Good point.” Duncan chuckled. “But don’t worry. If you decide to run, I’ll see to everything.”

  “Please do. I need to sleep at night.”

  “Look, mate,” Duncan said, his tone more serious. “I get you dig being a force behind the scenes and all, but it’s time to step up your game. Since the referendum failed, we’re going to need more nationalists in the larger Parliament—and you’re our best hope to fill Sinclair’s seat when his unethical activities are exposed.”

  Callum left the room, hurried into a parlor with a door into the garden, and stripped off his clothes. Naked, he stepped into the moonlit garden. It had stopped raining and the night air felt cool and refreshing against his bare skin. Filling his lungs, he looked around to be sure his transformation would be unobserved. Finding himself alone, he spoke the incantation.

  Fee-faw, magic words as old as time.

  As his bones and muscles began to rearrange themselves, he grimaced against the pain. Fur sprouted across his skin, forming a golden pelt. His head enlarged, his face elongated, his hands and feet turned into paws, and his hair became mane.

  The comingled smells of grass, sea, and loam tickled his leonine nostrils. From beyond the treeline, he could hear the hiss of the sea and the rustle of wind among needles, leaves, and branches. Loping away from the castle, he merged with the forest. As he moved deeper, the musk of a stag pricked his nostrils. He ducked behind a thick trunk, knowing it stood near, eyes alert, pulse racing, muscles taut and twitching. It sensed him, as he sensed it, deep in the blood. Crouching, he waited for the moment, pulse racing and mouth watering.

  The stag bolted, crashing from the underbrush in a streak of buff. Bounding after it, he ran it down and sprang, landing on its back. The deer kicked and flailed before falling, outstretched and trembling, its black eyes glassy with terror.

  Remorse flickered. “Sorry, lad, but a cat’s got to eat.”

  Bending over the stag, he pressed his mouth against the pelt and bore down, puncturing the throat. Blood spurted hot over his tongue before settling into a steady stream. Viscous and warm, it tasted of copper and salt.

  As the blood rose in him like a tide, he released the deer and rolled onto his back, paws in the air. Above him, the moon was a luminous pearl floating in a glistening black ocean. He knew every star, planet, and constellation as well as he knew his own face in the mirror. Antilia, Chamaeleon, Crater, Hydra, Sextans, Ursa Major, and Leo, the constellation under which he’d been born back in 1479.

  By and by, he returned to his human form and made his way back to the castle, eager to rejoin Vanessa. When dinner was over, he would take her to the ballroom for a waltz. Then, at long last, he’d bang her bonny brains out.

  Chapter 5

  Vanessa arrived in the dining room still unsure what to say about the ghost. Though she claimed to be Callum’s dead wife, her period costume suggested otherwise. Did more than one baroness haunt the castle? Callum hadn’t mentioned another ghost, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t one. Sometimes, spirits only made their presence known to certain people.

  Well, whatever the case, she wasn’t going to ruin her evening worrying about it. She was here to have a good time, for tonight anyway. Tomorrow was soon enough to start looking for the vampire’s lair.

  Taking a breath to dispel her concerns, she looked around at the furnishings. A mish-mash of tea tables and sideboards hugged the perimeter walls. Assorted paintings and arrangements of antique plates and platters covered the tartan wallpaper. Collections of silver candlesticks, tea caddies, snuff boxes, and other objets d’art were deftly arranged on every available surface. Something on the mantle caught her eye: a glass box containing a collection of butterflies. Moving in for a closer look, the things he’d said earlier that day rose to the surface of her mind as she examined the pinned and labeled specimens.

  She swallowed hard. He was a possessive Leo and called her his butterfly. Did he plan to collect her, too?

  Footsteps drew her attention to the wide doorway behind her. She looked just as Callum strode into the room with a dusty liquor bottle in his hand.

  “I’m sorry I kept you waiting.” His golden gaze washed over her, enflaming her in ways the fire could not. “My business with Duncan took longer than expected. You look enchanting, by the way.”

  Warmed by his compliment, she turned toward the table to hide her blush. A stunning crystal chandelier met her gaze. Beneath it stood an oval antique table with cabriole legs. At its head, near the fireplace, two of the ten places were set with fine china, crystal, and silver. In the center, directly beneath the light fixture, was an unusual silver epergne whose cutwork baskets held flowers and gourmet nibbles.

  “This is beautiful.” She leaned in for a closer look at the centerpiece. “Is it an antique?”

  “Aye.” He moved past her toward the fireplace. “It’s George the Second, by a Scottish silversmith named William Robertson. I collect Scottish silver, mostly for resale, but can’t bring myself to part with some of the rarer pieces—that one included.”

  “I can see why.”

  The piece, which displayed exotic goodies worthy of a sultan, was exquisite. Vanessa plucked a gold-plated almond from one of the cutwork baskets and bit down, being careful not to break a tooth.

  “I’m glad you like it, as it’s always been one of my favorites.” He stopped before a butler’s tray crowded with glass and cut crystal decanters. Holding up the bottle he’d come in with, he waited until she looked his way. Their eyes met with a visceral spark that sizzled all the way to her sex. “Do you fancy an aperitif? I’ve liberated a fine Dubonnet from the cellar.” He swept a hand over the tray. “Unless you’d prefer something else. Sherry, perhaps, or claret?”

  His eagerness to please her was refreshing. Nick never gave a thought to what she wanted or needed. He only cared about his own wants and needs. Just like all the other guys she’d dated. She wasn’t a person to them with thoughts and feelings to be considered; she was just a pretty trophy to
show off to their friends—or, more aptly, a butterfly pinned inside a glass case.

  “Dubonnet is great,” she said through the lump in her throat.

  Good God. Was Callum just like Nick and all the others? Did he only want to stick a pin in her so he could show her off to the world? Even if that was his plan, he wouldn’t have any better luck than the rest of them had. She was only here to have a fling and look for a vampire. She was like that girl in the song Ex’s and Oh’s by Elle King. Men, for whatever reason, couldn’t seem to let go. Probably because they couldn’t have her.

  “I like your castle,” she offered. “Except for the deer heads, which I could do without.”

  Amusement danced in his sexy golden eyes. “I might have known you disapprove of blood sports.”

  Her face warmed again, but this time from offense. Was he mocking her? “I might concede hunting has its place, but I will never condone the practice of cruel sports.”

  He arched an eyebrow. “Cruel sports?”

  “You know. Fox hunting, hare snaring, that sort of thing.”

  “Ah. I see. Well, I agree with you there. Hunting might be necessary to maintain the natural balance, but deliberate cruelty is unacceptable.”

  The way he looked at her made her feel like prey. She licked her lips, tasting Dubonnet and disgust. If he had his druthers, would he hang her head on a wall or display her on the mantle under a piece of glass?

  “How is hunting necessary to maintain the natural balance?”

  He walked to the fireplace, turned his back on her, and, for a frustratingly long time, stood there staring into the flames. Then, at last, he said, “Remember earlier when we talked about the wolves?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, because the deer have no natural predators, they are taking over and stripping the saplings being planted to restore the old-growth forests. So, to protect the forests and keep their population under control, hunting them is necessary to thin the herd. But regulated hunting—not the sort that wiped out the wolves.”