Authors: Nina Mason
Lord Bentley lowered his menu and fixed Callum with a hard look. “You’d recommend a divorce? Even if the majority disagree with you? Even if she’d be marginalized and more vulnerable to bullying? Be forced to give up her seats in NATO, the G8, and the UN Security Council? Have to raise her own armed forces, establish her own diplomatic contacts, and apply for separate membership in international organizations?”
Callum, unswayed, fixed the earl with a determined gaze. “Why shouldn’t Scotland be a full-fledged member of the European Union and other international organizations? Why shouldn’t our ministers have a seat at the grown-ups table? Why shouldn’t we have our own voice and the full power to represent and fight for our own national interests?” Narrowing his eyes, he added, “Just know this: if the prime minister doesn’t keep his promise to turn over more power to the Scottish Parliament, there will be hell to pay.”
In his day, Scotland stood on her own—at least until the dominoes started to fall after King James made that fatal blunder in judgment.
The house Mr. Armstrong had rented on Vanessa’s behalf was a bit on the bijou side, but still brimming with vintage Southern charm. It had two bedrooms, hardwood floors, a brick fireplace, built-in bookcases, and a cute front porch complete with a couple of white wooden rocking chairs. The tiny bathroom could use updating, the crappy curtains would have to go, and the back garden was in serious need of pruning, but it still had loads of potential as a haven in her off hours.
She’d spent most of the afternoon unpacking and rearranging the furniture to her liking. One of the neighbors had stopped by with a tray of brownies. While the woman seemed nice enough, she asked prying questions about Vanessa’s religious beliefs and left a copy of
The Watchtower
for her to read.
As if.
On the plus side, the interruption had kept her from ringing Callum, which she was dying to do, if only to find out how things went with her father. After considerable inner debate and much cleaning and furniture re-arranging, she dug through the book boxes she’d shipped ahead for her copy of
Love in Your Stars,
a guide to astrological compatibility in romantic relationships.
Flipping through the yellowed, dust-mite infested pages, she found the section on Leo men and began to read:
“Leos, being lions, are proud hunters with fiery passions and romantic hearts. If you want to keep your Leo man, you’d better let him be king when it comes to courting. At the first sign a woman wants to rule him, he’ll make a beeline for his den and probably stay there for good, ignoring your desperate phone calls. You’d also better forget about pursuing a career. He’s your raison d’etre, darling, and don’t you forget it.”
Argh!
Vanessa flung the book at the wall. Fine. Let him do the courting, but she wasn’t giving up her career or falling at his feet like some starry-eyed groupie. He wasn’t the only one who could roar. She was a strong and independent woman with opinions and dreams of her own. If he didn’t like it, that was too bloody bad. She was probably better off without him anyway. Granted, she didn’t feel better off at the moment, but the emptiness would pass soon enough. She was just infatuated. No big deal.
Taking a breath, she made up her mind not to call him. Yes, she would talk to him if he rang her, but she’d leave it to him to make the first move. In the meantime, she had Fitzwilliam, her multi-speed rotating vibrator. Chin out, she marched into the bedroom, ripped open the box marked “nightstand” in Callum’s graceful handwriting, and rifled through it for her high-priced dildo. Shit, Fitzwilliam was nowhere to be found.
Damn that sneaky lion!
Giving up, she decided to go hunting. After changing into something easy to get off and on, she dialed Bayou Manac into her phone’s GPS app and headed out. Luckily, Mr. Armstrong had rented her a car—a champagne-colored Ford Taurus—to use until she could buy one for herself. All in all, he seemed like a very nice man.
Stepping onto the front porch, she pulled the locked front door closed behind her. Ugh. The humidity was still stifling and the symphony of insects made her feel like she was in darkest Africa instead of America.
She got in the car and propped her phone in the cup holder between the front seats. She really should charge it before setting off, but her bloodlust wouldn’t wait.
* * * *
“Your ticket, sir?”
The train conductor’s request brought Callum out of his trance. He dug out the ticket and handed it to the uniformed man, who punched it before giving it back.
Slipping the stub into his inside coat pocket, the brooding Scot turned toward the window, pressed his nose against the glass, and sighed.
The shocking cold transported him back to the sixteenth century, when he used to do the same while riding about the countryside in the royal carriages. The memory filled him with regret-tinged nostalgia. He blew a silent
huh
, creating a wee patch of vapor. Raising a finger, he drew an “x”—the cross of St. Andrew, Scotland’s patron saint.
He’d made no headway with Mackintosh in the end, but their conversation had done much to rekindle the fire in his belly. He’d almost forgotten how much he enjoyed a lively debate over the issues of the day.
In the end, they’d agreed to disagree. Callum promised, in exchange for their endorsement and support—should he decide to run against Sinclair—to keep a lid on his zeal for independence. For the meantime, at least. He hadn’t sold out, he’d simply been shrewd. Success in the political arena called for flexibility, not digging in one’s heels. Compromise, not obstinacy. He’d still fight the good fight, of course, he’d simply go about it with more stealth.
When it came down to it, what the bloody hell was honesty anyway? Speaking one’s mind whatever the circumstances and damn the consequences—the way Vanessa was prone to do—or being true to oneself?
He believed it was the latter. He also believed truth, like beauty, lay in the eye of the beholder. As Marcus Aurelius pointed out way back when, “Everything we hear is an opinion, not a fact. Everything we see is a perspective, not the truth.”
Speaking of truth, had Vanessa arranged the meeting with her father for his benefit or her own? As much as he wanted to believe her motives were noble, doubt still nagged.
She hadn’t called him. Should he ring her? His pride reared in protest before stomping the idea into the ground. If he chased her, she’d only run farther away and she was too bloody far away as it was. If he let her fly free, maybe she’d feel his absence and come back to him.
He clenched his fists against the hollow ache in his chest. Rather than wallow in misery, he should look for the good. However things between them turned out, he’d learned from their acquaintance. She was right. He’d grown too removed, too complacent, too willing to let others fight the fight while he stood on the sidelines, afraid to get his hands dirty.
Was it too late—and too risky—to climb back into the ring and throw a few punches? If he ran, he could push to put more power in the hands of the national parliament, restore the old-growth Caledonian forests, crack down on polluters, preserve Scotland’s public services, and channel some of the profits from the harvesting of natural resources back into Scotland’s coffers.
Suddenly, he felt excited, empowered, and inspired. It was a palpable energy that expanded his heart and electrified his blood. Vanessa and Duncan were right. He should do more than watch from behind the curtain. It was, after all, his planet, too.
That settled it. He would run for Parliament and damn the consequences. He pulled out his cell, eager to call Duncan and share the news about his decision as well as the meeting with Lord Bentley and Mr. Mackintosh. His heart sank a wee bit when he saw there were no messages waiting. He thought sure she’d call if for no other reason than to ask how things went with her father.
Was she glad to be free of him? He didn’t want to believe it, but part of him was starting to. Aye, well. Let her call in her own good time. Let her miss him. He had better things to do with his time than pine away like a lovesick schoolboy for a lass who valued her freedom more than she valued him.
Especially now that he’d made up his mind—though not without a wee bit of lingering reluctance—to climb back into the political arena.
* * * *
Deep in Bayou Manac, tendrils of silver moss swayed from ghostly branches as fireflies flashed here and there like neon-yellow twinkle lights. The air smelled of swamp gas and rotting vegetation. Night had just fallen, but the humidity remained unbearable. Choirs of creatures sang all around. Cicadas, crickets, toads, crocodiles, and God knew what else.
Under Vanessa’s paws, a small doe trembled, her dark, watery eyes swimming with terror. In a few more minutes, Vanessa planned to let the poor creature go—her new program of catch and release. Yes, Callum had warned her not to let her prey live, but he’d failed to provide a compelling reason. How could letting the doe go do any harm? Besides, she was mad at him for being a macho pig and stealing her dildo.
The deer still trembled under her paws. Vanessa tossed her leonine head, let out a woeful roar, and released her catch. While her hunger for blood might be sated, she still craved her absent mate with a need bordering on agony. As she watched the doe struggle to her feet and stagger into the ghoulish shadows, she remembered the bracelet Callum had given her in London.
One night, after making love, she’d expressed to him her fear the heady passion wouldn’t last. The next day, he’d gone out for an hour or so and returned with a beautiful silver cuff inscribed with a line from a poem by D. H. Lawrence.
The gem of mutual peace emerging from the wild chaos of love.
Touched, she admitted she hadn’t even known D. H. Lawrence wrote poetry. Callum had then kissed her with a tenderness that brought tears to her eyes before telling her
Fidelity
was the poem’s title. She’d understood what he sought to convey. Passion was like coal and partnership the diamond it solidified into over time.
Macho attitudes and sex-toy pilfering aside, he really could be incredibly sweet. They’d spent a week together in London packing up her flat and he’d been nothing but helpful and supportive. The drive to the airport and saying good-bye had been sheer torture. It had taken every ounce of strength she could summon not to beg him to come along.
It killed her to leave him, but her logical side refused to surrender any ground. Wait a few weeks, it kept telling her.
Wait until you’re sure he’s not like the others. Wait until you’re sure about your feelings.
Now, she was less sure than ever.
With a heavy sigh, she pushed Callum from her thoughts and spoke the counter spell. When she’d resumed her true form, she returned to the tree where she’d left her clothes and got dressed. With trembling hands and bated breath, she drew her mobile from her handbag, praying she’d find a voicemail or missed call from her Simba.
Tears pricked her eyes when she discovered the phone was out of juice.
* * * *
Callum scolded himself for his thoughtlessness as he scanned the train station platform for Hamish. He’d been too preoccupied by his worries over the election and Vanessa to realize he’d be getting in at such an ungodly hour. It was nearly four a.m. If he’d had his wits about him, he’d have hired a taxi to deliver him to Barrogill instead of asking his butler to fetch him.
He docked his teeth against his lower lip as he continued his search. While he didn’t see Hamish, he did see another familiar face. Duncan’s. Bookending the political adviser was a matched set of buxom blondes.
The soft luminosity radiating from them told Callum they were of the Fae. Seelie prostitutes, probably.
Gut tightening, he approached his unexpected greeters. Duncan said something to one of the lasses, who then ran up to Callum and threw her arms around his neck. The sweet smell of her blood flooded his nostrils, breaking the dam on his desire.
Callum, throbbing with guilt, licked his lips and swallowed the onrushing saliva. What to do? Were Vanessa in the country, there would be no question. But she wasn’t, having left him on his own with little more than vague promises.
Resentment set a hook in his belly. How could he be faithful under such impossible circumstances? Still, the idea of partaking of another so soon offended his sense of honor.
He dropped his suitcase and gently-but-firmly extracted himself. “No offense, lass, but I’m involved with someone else.”
“I’m sorry,” Duncan offered, stepping forward to claim Callum’s suitcase. “Had I known you and Lady Vanessa were still going strong, I’d not have brought the lasses along.”
Callum draped an arm over Duncan’s shoulder and steered his friend toward the vending machines. When they were out of earshot, he said, “I’ve turned milady and want her for my mate. And though she’s gone off to New Orleans for a job, I’d like to give her the benefit of the doubt. So, as hungry as I am right now, and as much as I appreciate the gesture, I’d best feed on something that won’t come back to bite me in the arse.”
“I get you, but are you sure?”
“No. But get rid of them anyway, eh? I could do without the temptation.”
“All right, but it won’t be easy,” Duncan said, his voice just above a whisper. “I promised them a night in your castle followed by a tour of the Highlands. That was the arrangement, as you’ll recall.”
“Only if things didn’t work out with Vanessa,” Callum felt compelled to clarify. “And, at this point, the jury’s still out.”
“She means that much to you?”
“Aye, Duncan. She does.”
“And what about Lady Vanessa? Does she return your regard?”
Callum clenched his jaw and swallowed hard. “Like I said, I’m still hoping to hear from her.”
“Maybe she’s waiting to hear from you,” the wolver offered with his usual cheerful optimism.
No, don’t chase her. If she wants you, she knows how to get in touch.
“I had lunch with her father this afternoon,” he announced, steering the conversation away from his unrequited regard.