The Queen of Swords: A Paranormal Tale of Undying Love (24 page)

He
began to feed. Kneeling behind him, she reached under his kilt and ran her hands over his cheeks. Raw lust roared like a caged animal. She slid her fingers down his crack, pausing to fondle his sphincter before moving to his balls, which she proceeded to cup, bounce, and squeeze. He pushed back a little and groaned against Rory’s thigh. The sound of his pleasure zapped her libido like a hot wire. Her sex was dripping wet. She moved her hand to Graham’s, eyes on Rory’s. Both were rock hard. Another breathless thrill ripped through her. This was so deliciously sick and twisted she might just cum before he touched her.

Closing her eyes, she
harkened back to the story he’d told her about the lads he’d encountered in Black Castle. The fair-haired one tongue-wrestling with him while the dark-haired pair took turns sucking his cock.

And the feeling was so sublime, I prayed they would never stop.

“Suck his cock,” she whispered. “I want to watch you do it.”

He
coughed, abruptly let go of Rory’s leg, and spun around so fast he nearly knocked her over. “You want me to do what?”

She backed away from his blazing eyes, suddenly afraid. “I just thought
...”

He licked
the blood off his lips. “I may have no choice about the way I’m forced to survive, but I’ve still got a choice about some things. And I’ll not suck another man’s cock for anyone. Are we clear on that?”

“I’m sorry,” she stammered, her face burning with shame. What had she been thinking? Of
course, he wouldn’t. He might be cursed, but he still had his Highland pride.

“Turn around,” he
commanded, crawling toward her, “and keep down on all fours.”

She did as he instructed. A cold draft stole under her skirt as he jerked it up. He slapped her ass with a stinging crack,
and then came into her hard. She cried out, from the slap as well as the sudden assault. He slammed into her again and again. She came quickly, shattering around him. He kept on, thrusting and grunting like an animal. Her flesh stung where he’d hit her, but remarkably, her body responded to his. She could feel him battering her cervix, could feel the scratchy wool of his kilt abrading her skin, could feel another powerful climax building. It tore through her, rocking her to the core. Despite her whimpers, he kept on. She tried to pull away, but he held her fast, his fingers digging into her flesh. And then, he slapped her again, hard enough to bring tears to her eyes.

“
You bastard,” she cried, struggling to free herself from his grip. “Let me go.”

“What’s the matter, lass? D
on’t you like being spanked?”

“No
. I don’t.”

He abruptly withdrew and
pushed her away. “Well, I don’t like a woman who seeks to emasculate me for a cheap thrill.”

The reference to
Branwen was clear. She’d obviously hit a raw nerve. Stung by his words and her own insensitivity, she fell back on her haunches, tears leaking from her eyes. He’d hit her, which she didn’t like, but not all that hard.

“I’m sorry
.” She hid her face in her hands. “I wasn’t thinking.”

“Aye, well
,” he grumbled, getting to his feet. “Next time, do. For both our sakes.”

* * *

Leaving Rory in the vaults to come to his senses, they drove back to the hotel in uncomfortable silence. Her mind was agitating like a washing machine. She’d vowed when she left her childhood home she’d never, ever, under any circumstances, allow anyone to strike her again. And now, someone had. Someone she loved dearly.

Should she
hold the line? Board the next train back to England?

S
he’d been dead wrong to suggest what she had. Why had she failed to realize the depth of his wounds? Branwen’s demeaning abuse. Fitzgerald’s stealthy nocturnal assaults. What was she thinking? Obviously, she wasn’t. But he’d also been wrong to spank her, though she had no clue what to do about it.

Intellectually, s
he understood he was from another era, but hadn’t taken the time to ponder the implications. He’d been born back when women were considered property and had no legal or personal rights. If a husband raised a hand to his wife, nobody gave it a second thought. In fact, society expected a man to keep his woman in line by whatever means necessary.

Sir!
Here's
a good
stick, to beat the lovely lady
.

And that was from a movie shot in the early 1950s
. Her mind retrieved a news report on attitudes about rape among young men in Scotland. According to a university survey, a disturbing percentage of respondents felt rape was justifiable if the woman was the girlfriend or wife. A lump of outrage swelled in her chest. Holy shit. If Scotsmen thought like that today, how neanderthalic were their attitudes back when Graham grew up?

She struggled to find her voice in the
stony silence. “Can I...ask you something?”

“Aye. If
you must.”

There was a sharp edge
to his voice she didn’t like and he wouldn’t look at her, but she pressed on all the same.

“Do
you think of me as your equal?”

H
e looked at her then, frowning deeply. “Because I spanked you?”

Swallowing hard, she summoned
her courage. “Well, yes. I suppose. To some extent. But also because you’re...well, because you’re from such a different time. An era when women were considered property, like cattle or furniture.”

“First of all”
—the edge in his voice sharpened—“I have never in all my life looked upon a woman as a piece of property. Back in my day, equality had to do with class. Females of my class were more or less equals...while females of a lower class were not. But the same standard was applied to men.” He shot a swift, softer glance in her direction. “When I was alive, mind, women were treated as second-class citizens. They rarely got a proper education, inherited property, or earned a living wage. As a consequence, I might have at one time believed a woman’s intellect to be...well, less sharp, I suppose. But I can assure you Caitriona sorted me out on that score.”

She took a breath and blew it out, relieved they were at least talking again. “
Did you ever hit her? Or Catharine?”

H
is thorny demeanor was making her fear the answer. “I’m sorry I lost my temper. Truly. But you cut me to the bone. Did I not make myself clear on the subject of feeding in that manner?”

“Yes, but
—”

“But what?”
he snapped, cutting her off.

She bit her lip.
“But nothing. I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”

“Thank
you. Apology accepted. And I hope you’ll forgive me too.” He sucked in a breath and blew it out. “Look, lass. I ken why you’re worried. But if I’m harboring any repressed chauvinism, I’m unaware of the fact. Though, come to think of it, I would be, wouldn’t I?—given how it’s repressed.” His mouth quirked into a lopsided grin. “But seriously, if I ever act like a sexist pig, call me out on it. I might be old...and a wee bit old-fashioned...but I’m hardly a bloody caveman.” He looked at her then, meeting her eyes. “And to answer your question, no. I never laid aught but a loving hand on either one of them.” In a voice softened by contrition, he added, “And I swear on the holy iron of my dirk, say or do what you will, I shall never raise my hand to you again.”

Chapter
20: The Whole Tartan Thing

It was now the next day and Graham was standing at the perimeter wall of Stirling Castle, gazing out at what the tour guide had described as “one of the finest views in Scotland.” The Asian-American beside him evidently disagreed. Sweeping his arm dismissively across the landscape, the blovious yank said, “If you ask me, it’s highly overrated. I’ve seen way better back in L.A.”

With a disgruntled snort,
he returned his eyes to the panoramic view: the slate rooftops and green fields of Stirling, the rock bridge where William Wallace divided and conquered the invading English army, the boggy carse where Robert the Bruce at last broke the chains of English bondage, the flat bank of hills fortifying Fife, and, finally, the first purple hills of the Highlands.

Home.

Clouds streaked the blue-gray sky. The day was dry, though a wee bit too breezy to qualify as perfect. Still, it was excellent weather for sightseeing, a blessing given how it would be his only chance to show her around. After the tour, she’d gone to browse for souvenirs while he ducked into the whisky shop, a snug hole-in-the-wall whose tartan-festooned shelves offered an excellent selection of single malts. He’d sampled several before making his choice: Wallace Whisky Liqueur, a quirky blend of single malt, Scottish berries, and French herbs. He enjoyed a dram now and again when he felt nostalgic and it was hard to come by south of the border.

Taste buds still humming, he waited at the wall where they’d agreed to rendezvous. He’d sported his kilt at her request and a cold wind now whipped around his bollocks. He moved his free hand around back to anchor the pleats. One good gust and those bloody yanks would get a view they’d not soon forget.

A grin sprouted when he saw her coming toward him across the courtyard. She was a vision even in her dungarees and bulky sweater. The trousers hugged her arse in a way that made it challenging to keep his mind on history. There was a bag in her hand. What had she purchased? Let it not be another of those silly books with a half-naked Scot on the cover.

“What have
you got there?” he asked.

“A book.”

\He fought the urge to roll his eyes. “Oh, aye? What kind?”

“A novelized biography. Of Robert the Bruce. By someone named Nigel Tranter.”

He let the grin bloom. Tranter’s biography of Bruce was
par excellence
. As she came alongside, he put his arm around her shoulder and turned toward the view. “Do you see over yon? That first hill with all the trees? That’s called Abbey Craig. And the tower rising out of the crest is the Wallace Monument.”

“I had no idea all this meant so much to
you.” She nestled against him.

“Aye, well. It does.”

As he bent to kiss her hair, a chilly gust lifted the back of his kilt, opening the pleats like a fan. The hand gripping the bagged bottle shot around just in time to deprive any onlookers of an unadvertised attraction. Though it would answer the age-old question about his native costume.

W
ith a smile as bright as the sun, she kissed his shoulder and said, “My heart’s in the Highlands, my heart is not here/My heart’s in the Highlands, a-chasing the deer/Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe/My heart’s in the Highlands, wherever I go.”

H
er unexpected recitation of Robert Burns both surprised and delighted him. Pulling her closer, he nuzzled her hair. “My heart’s wherever you are, lass. And always will be.”

* * *

“What’s with the whole tartan thing anyway?”

He shot her a disapproving frown. The whole tartan thing? Seriously? Tartan, he’d have her know, was a tradition ne
arly as old as Scotland itself.

“It was brought over with the Scoti tribe that emigrated from Ireland in the fifth century,” he told her, swallowing his indignation. “As they spread out, they began to produce different patterns and colors. All the dyes used for the yarns,
you see, were made from plants back then. What grew naturally differed a wee bit from place to place, though the whole notion of a particular clan wearing a particular tartan didn’t really start until the seventeenth century. And most setts weren’t designated until well after that.”

They were nearly to the coast, having just left the village of Elrick, where they’d stopped for lunch at a country pub called the Broadstraik Inn. Though the place was packed, they’d been lucky enough to score one of the tables in the fireplace inglenook. He’d polished off a couple of single malts and an appetizer
of black pudding and oatmeal bonbons while she ate a burger and chips. He’d always been fond of black pudding, one of the few human foods he could still digest with ease.

“It’s a shame so much knowledge
about dye-making and patterns and such came to be lost during the ban,” he added, bitterness filling his heart. “The English imposed it in the aftermath of Culloden, a poison arrow aimed right at the heart of our culture. It forbid the wearing of tartan, the playing of bagpipes, the speaking of Gaelic, the bearing of arms, and the gathering of clansmen. The goal was to destroy our way of life, as punishment for the uprising, and to quash any lingering Jacobite sympathies.”

“And what about Culloden? Was it a mistake?”

“Aye,” he admitted with some reluctance. With a glance in her direction, he added, “But then, hindsight is always twenty-twenty, is it not?”

Setting a hand
on his knee, she gave it a squeeze. “You were born just after the ban was lifted, weren’t you?”

“I was.” He felt a shadow pass across his heart. “And as long as I walk this earth, I’ll never forget what they stripped us of; never forget valor, honor, freedom, and clan; never cease to be moved by the skirl of the pipes.”

“What finally prompted Parliament to lift the ban
? Do you know?”

He smirked as he called the story from his memory, glad to find it still there. “It’s rather an amusing anecdote, actually.”

“Tell me,” she urged.

“Aye, well
,” he began, his mood lightening a wee bit, “things changed and people forgot. And, when the repeal at last came up for a vote in Parliament, the lone dissenter was an Englishman named Sir Philip Jennings Clerke. He wasn’t opposed to lifting the ban per se, just to the wearing of kilts outside Scotland. In making his case, he relayed to the members of the House the tale of a local innkeeper who’d quartered a small party of Scottish officers not long before. Apparently, he’d had a devil of a time keeping an eye on his wife and daughters, who’d been overly occupied with the soldier’s naked thighs.”

She hiked up his kilt a few inches. “I know the feeling.” With a sly smile in his direction, she added, “And I’m surprised more men don’t wear them. Don’t they know how sexy they are?”

“Aye, well.” He released a wee laugh. “I’m sure I wouldn’t know about that.”

His breath caught when he felt her hand climbing his thigh. They were in the thick of civilization
—not the best time for distracted driving. Gray boxlike apartment buildings sprang up on the right...or was it a bloody penitentiary? Whatever it was, it was uglier than shite. He shook his head in dismay. Aberdeen used to be a bonny place back before they struck oil off the coast. The thought of the oil galled him even more than the depressing scenery. Scotland retained none of the revenues generated by the drilling. The Parliament in Westminster, which controlled the revenue, was busy eviscerating Scotland’s public services, hospitals, and universities.

“Is something wrong?” she asked when he failed to respond to her manual ministrations.

“No, lass. I’m just distracted, that’s all.”

“Would it help if I
...you know?”

Choking in surprise, he shot her a censorious look. “While I’m driving,
do you mean?”

“Why not?”

His list of reasons flew out the window as soon as he felt the enveloping warmth of her mouth. Swallowing, he tightened his grip on the wheel. The scenery improved some. Quaint post-war houses replaced the prison-like cubes. Not that he paid it much mind. His eyes might be on the road, but his mind was in his lap, where she was building a pleasant fire.

The buildings got older and more charming, the traffic heavier. Nothing looked familiar. He did his best to stick to the route, navigating roundabout after roundabout, praying he wouldn’t get them lost. In his lap, she was sucking hard enough to peel the paint off a pole. Not that he was complaining, mind.

He kept driving, fighting for focus. She was fondling his balls while swirling her tongue around the rim of his knob. The building pressure was making it hard to think. More hideous buildings. Another bloody roundabout. Christ, they sure didn’t make it easy for a man to be fellated while driving. They entered Old Aberdeen. Quaint stone buildings cropped up on either side. Finally, something he recognized. How could anyone think those modern monstrosities were an improvement over this?

He was on the verge. Another roundabout.
Bloody hell
. He missed his turn and went round again. The orgasm backed off. They passed the university, crossed a bridge over a river. Was it the Don or the Dee? He couldn’t remember, probably because there was no blood left in his brain. It was all between his legs, where her head was bobbing fast and hard. The pressure heightened along with the pleasure. His jaw was clenched, his breathing ragged, his knuckles white on the wheel.

“Get off,” he hissed. “I’m gonna
blow.”

When she didn’t let go, he reached down, grabbed a handful of her hair, and jerked up her head just as his climax erupted in blissful pulsations.

She sat up and rubbed her jaw as her eyes darted across the scenery. “What did I miss?”

He coughed a laugh. “If
you want the truth, not a bloody thing.”

* * *

Three hours later, they were in a quaint seaside village, walking hand-in-hand under a canopy of sun-filtering branches in something resembling a small wood. A variety of wildflowers, grasses, shrubs, and trees grew on either side of the rough lane, though Cat, though an avid herbalist, was unfamiliar with most of the plants.

Try as she had
during the long drive, she could not inveigle out of him the slightest clue as to their destination, though he’d been more than generous with the local lore. They were in Aberdeenshire, a little ways east of Cairngorms National Park and just north of a place called Cruden Bay, named for some long-ago battle between the Scots and the Danes.

His
knowledge of all things Scottish was nothing short of encyclopedic. And while it felt at times like she was back in school, she mostly found his stories enthralling. Plus, he seemed happier when he talked than when he went quiet. She was sure something was eating him, despite his repeated denials, though she couldn’t guess what it might be. He didn’t seem upset with her, just withdrawn at times.

As they emerged from the wood, the North Sea burst into view beyond the promontory. She could smell it, feel
the salty damp on her skin, and hear waves battering the rocky shore below. The wind was suddenly strong and brisk, the sounds of nature all around more pronounced. Crying birds, hissing water, rushing wind, rustling leaves. She scanned the magnificent vista, gasping when she glimpsed the imposing ghostly edifice of a ruined castle.

Looking up at him, she found him gazing
down at her with a gleam in his eyes. “That’s not
your
castle, is it?”

“No,” he replied with a clipped laugh. “It’s known as New Slains. And from the time the land was given to them by Robert the Bruce until they sold it to a Glaswegian shipping magnate after the First World War, it belonged to the chiefs of Clan Hay.”

Still holding her hand, he walked toward the ruins, which looked almost like a giant sandcastle with its weathered stone facade, numerous towers, and jagged roofline.

“It must have really been something in its day,” she observed, studying the eroding remains. “Why did the new owner let it go to ruin?”

“He dismantled and sold off what he could for architectural salvage,” he returned with a disapproving frown, “then removed the roof to avoid paying taxes.”

The thought that this
once great and important castle had been reduced to ruin by a selfish profiteer filled her with outrage, but it didn’t explain why he’d brought her here. Ruined castles were abundant in Scotland, so why this one in particular?

When she turned to
him and pressed yet again for an answer, he said something both strange and hauntingly familiar: “Suddenly, I became conscious of the fact that the driver was in the act of pulling up the horses in the courtyard of a vast ruined castle, from whose tall black windows came no ray of light, and whose broken battlements showed a jagged line against the sky.” As she searched her mental archives for the reference, he went on: “The castle is on the very edge of a terrible precipice...as far as the eye can reach is a sea of green...”

The reference surfaced.
It was Jonathan Harker’s description of Dracula’s Castle. But why?