The Queen of Swords: A Paranormal Tale of Undying Love (8 page)

He was beside the bed so quickly she nearly jumped out of her skin. Her eyes shot to his
long-fingered hand as he crushed out his cigarette in the ashtray. She imagined it between her legs doing the things she’d only ever done to herself. As desire shivered through her, he picked up the box of cigarettes and removed another.

“You smoke a lot,” she said, handing him the lighter.
“But then, it’s not as if you’ll get cancer or anything, I suppose.”

“
Exactly.” He lit up. “On top of which, the nicotine helps curb my appetites.”

A
nother shiver went through her as he said
appetites
. His inflection told her he hungered for more than blood. So why was he chain-smoking? The question hovered on her lips, but she licked it away. “Why was it sold? Your caul, I mean.”

“To cover my father’s gambling debts
.” He dropped her lighter on the table with a clack. He met her gaze with haunted eyes and let out a short, bitter laugh. “I suppose you could say the sins of the father were visited upon the son. With regard both to the caul and Lord Fitzgerald.”

The gears in her head turned like clockworks.
“Did your father owe Fitzgerald money? Was that the reason he cursed you?”

Blowing a stream of
smoke toward the ceiling, he shifted his gaze to the glowing cigarette in his hand. “I want to relay the events as they unfolded. So you’ll understand how it all came to pass.” Turning away, he added, “Though, to tell the truth, I’m not sure I understand it myself.”

Walking back to the window, he
said nothing more for the longest time. She watched him, eyes sweeping up and down his alluring body, doing her best to imagine how it looked beneath his clothes. Knowing she could just order him to strip, and enjoy the show while he obeyed, sent a thrill sizzling through her.

Could she
muster the nerve?

Perhaps
, but not quite yet. As much as she wanted him, she also wanted answers.

“How old we
re you when you met Caitriona?”

“Nineteen,” he said without turning. “I remember because I’d only just come back from St. Andrews when her father summoned several of us to his estate to discuss how we might battle the famine that had settled over the Highlands after Culloden. At dinner the first night, she sat opposite.”
Pausing, he looked up and blew a stream of smoke toward the ceiling. “God help me, but I was in love the moment I set eyes on her. I felt as if I knew her. As if I’d always known her. Just the way I feel now.” He shot a backward glance over his shoulder at her. “About you.”

His declaration shocked her heart
and shot sparks through her blood. “I feel the same,” she heard herself say, “so why are you all the way over there?”

“
’Tis better this way.”

“Better or safer?”

“Safer,” he replied, turning to face her.

“Fuck safety. I
want you here. On the bed with your hands and your mouth all over me.”

“Oh, aye?
” He didn’t move. “And is that an order?”

“Does it need to be?”

His eyes narrowed. “I thought you wanted to hear my life story.”

“I do
.” She meant it, but also ached for physical closeness. “But I want other things too.” Just as she opened her mouth to convert the request into a command, a scene took shape behind her eyes, striking her mute.

Once again, she was herself but not herself.
She sat at a long table elaborately set with china, silver, and crystal. Candelabras and footed platters holding artistically molded gelatins stood upon the tartan cloth running down the center. Everything shimmered in the candlelight.

T
he dining room itself had paneled walls, a high ceiling supported by rustic beams, and a fireplace big enough to hold Avery’s Cooper Mini. A fire blazed in its hearth, bathing the room in soft amber light. Others were there too. Some she knew to be family. Others were strangers.

Seated to her right was an au
nt donning an elegant gown of emerald silk, ropes of pearls at the neck, and a turban sprouting a jaunty plume. The strong scent of her rose perfume both teased and cloyed.

Seated o
n her other side was Graham, the picture of a wealthy Highland nobleman in a draped tartan kilt and cutaway frockcoat over a white silk waistcoat. He was younger than now—barely a man—but even more breathtaking for his dewy youth. His hair was braided, clubbed, and tied with a lovely silk ribbon. From the pocket of his vest hung a gold chain and fob, a wax seal from the look of it. At the neck, he wore a cravat with a fashionable knot. On his lap lay a gray fur sporran with multiple tassels. Avoiding his face, she let her gaze linger on the glistening gold buttons on his coat.

Though t
hey’d only just met, she was already smitten. He might be a stranger—and from a hated clan—but some deeper part of her felt an intense and immediate connection. Already, she dreamed of secret meetings, the feel of those sweet youthful lips on hers, and the possibility of a happy and passion-filled marriage. But would her father allow a Logan to court her?

Discovering her palms were damp, she moved to wipe them ever so discreetly on the napkin in her lap.
That was when she saw she wore a deep blue overdress atop a white silk frock, the same dress as the girl in the stolen portrait.

Leaning closer, h
e reached for his wineglass. “Tell me, Miss Fraser, are you at all acquainted with Lord Byron or his poetry?”

“
No, my lord.” A blush scorched her cheeks at the mention of the scandalous bard. “Though I’ve heard he is something of a rake.”

“Indeed, Miss Fraser
.” A teasing grin danced on his inviting mouth. “And I would never deign to corrupt your ears were it if not for a certain...well, perhaps you will think me impertinent?”

“
I can’t imagine I would.” Why was she perspiring when the room was so cold? Touching her damp neck, she added, “I insist you speak your mind, my lord.”

His full wineglass was still in his hand,
suspended above his place setting. The footmen had already cleared the first course and refilled the glasses in preparation for the second, due at any moment.

“It’s only that, well
, there is a particular poem of Byron’s I believes describes you to perfection.”

More blood
rushed to her cheeks (and elsewhere). “Indeed? And what, pray, is the title and subject of this flattering verse of which you speak?”

“Its title is
She Walks in Beauty.
” His words, a thrilling caress, called more perspiration from her pores. “And as to its subject, well, any description I could offer, I fear, would fail to do it justice.”

Her heart sank.
The footmen were coming in with the next course on trays. They had only moments left and she so wanted him to make love to her with Byron’s words. “Might you then recite a few lines?”

With a beguiling smile and a twinkle in his
intoxicating emerald eyes, he straightened up and cast around the table as he sipped his wine. She followed suit, pleased to find the other guests all either embroiled in conversation or intent on the servants. As he returned his goblet to the table, he leaned toward her again and, in a voice as soft as velvet, whispered,

“
And on that cheek and o’er that brow

So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,

The smiles that win, the tints that glow,

But
tell of days in goodness spent,

A mind at peace with all below,

A heart whose love is innocent!”

The vision f
ractured, leaving her flushed and breathless. Present-day Graham was still at the window, watching her. She met his gaze. “What happened after dinner? That first night you met Caitriona?”

He took a moment, h
is brow knitting as if her question confused him. “I asked the baron’s permission to court her and was promptly shown the door.”

Alarm stung
like a wasp. “But why?”

“Because I’m a Logan
. And the Frasers and the Logans hated each other with passion back then.”

“But
, he invited you.”

“To talk about feeding our starving tenants
,” he pointed out. “Not to make love to his daughter.”

A frown wrinkled her brow.
“Wasn’t the clan system pretty much dead by then?”

“
In political terms, aye. But not in the hearts of the clansmen.”

“So, what did
you do? After he threw you out?”

He shrugged. “I tried to forget her
. And might very well have succeeded if not for that bastard Fitzgerald.”

Chapter 6: Nectar of the Gods

He
stopped talking. She’d been about to light another cigarette and now sat with the lighter in one hand, the cigarette in the other, still as a mannequin, staring at him. He was looking out the window again. She was looking inside, at the scene she’d just relived. Or was
remembered
more apt? Did one carry memories from past lives? She couldn’t say. She only knew it was as if she’d been there, back in time. She’d even tasted the wine and the residue of the first-course seafood bisque, smelled her aunt’s perfume and the burning beeswax candles, and seen the flames dancing in his eyes. How exquisite he’d been at nineteen. And how romantic. Men today didn’t recite poetry to woo a girl. Especially poetry by Lord Byron. And more was the pity.

“
Do you still like Byron?” she said to his back.

H
e turned quickly, a scowl of confusion wrinkling his brow. “Sorry?”

Clearly, he’d been lost in his own thoughts.
“Lord Byron. You know. The bad-boy poet of romanticism.”

“I ken who Byron is, lass.
” His scowl deepened. “But who said I liked his work?”

“You did. The night you met Caitriona. You recited a verse you said reminded you of her.
Or
me
, she thought, but didn’t say. Or is that one of the things you’ve forgotten?”

H
is gaze dropped to the floor. “I haven’t forgotten a single moment I spent with her...but how is it you remember that night?”

“I had a flashback just now,” she told him,
calling his gaze back to hers, “while you were telling me about it.” She paused for a moment and just looked into his mesmerizing eyes. “So, tell me something, Graham: Do I still walk in beauty like the night?”

T
he cigarette and lighter were still in her hand. She pressed the filter between her lips and started to light it, but before she could thumb the tiny wheel, he was there, taking it from her hand. As he flicked her Bic, his touch heated her blood. She bent toward the tiny blue flame, sucking hard until the tip glowed red. She inhaled and blew the smoke out, toward him.

“S
it with me, dammit. That’s an order.”

Following orders, he p
erched himself on the edge of the mattress, his back to her. It was all she could do not to reach for him and pull him down on top of her.

“
Now tell me about Gerard Fitzgerald.” She drew on her cigarette to curb the urge to touch him.

He didn’t say anything for a while and she didn’t prod him. She smoked the cigarette down to the filter and put
it out, still waiting.

Let him start in his own time.

Allow the poor guy that much free will.

Finally, he began. “I received a letter
requesting I receive at
Tur-nan-Deur
one Lord Gerard Fitzgerald, the Earl of Kildare in County Limerick, who claimed an acquaintance with my late father. When the coach arrived, I hurried out to the courtyard, stopping in my tracks when the man himself emerged.”

She shuddered at his description of the Irishman’s unearthly complexion, jet-black hair, blood-red mouth, and predatory y
ellow eyes. Could Gerard Fitzgerald be the creature in her recurring dream?

“I swear to
you, I felt as if I looked upon someone—or
something
, rather—from another realm.”

“What did
you do?”

He shrugged. “What could I do? He was my guest
, a friend of my father’s. Still, I remained on guard, but he charmed all with whom he came in contact. Consequently, we attended dinners, parties, and private concerts almost every night—a two-edged sword for me, since Caitriona often attended as well. Each time I saw her, I was enchanted anew, and once again plunged into despair.”

The poor man.

How hard it must have been to love a woman he couldn’t have. All because of some ridiculous family feud. A sudden, grievous thought invaded her mind. Would they end up the same way? Were they star-crossed lovers, doomed to end broken-hearted?

“To escape my torment, I agreed to return with Lord
Fitzgerald to County Limerick, where he had a castle overlooking Lough Gur. Almost from the first night, I had the same terrible dream over and over. Disembodied yellow eyes would peer out of the darkness, then I’d feel someone or something crawl into bed with me and touch me in intimate ways. I would awake just as I came off, but could find no trace of having done so.”

Stopping, he
took a ragged breath as if what he was about to relay gave him pain. He still sat on the bed with his back to her, but now was smoking another of her cigarettes. The urge to reach for him, to slip her arms around him and press her face against his back, burned from her heart to the tips of her fingers. The urge to touch him in other ways burned lower.

“Then, one evening, after supper, I decided to explore the castle alone. I happened into a room, which, judging from the cobwebs and dust, had
been undisturbed for some time.

“
Inside, to my astonishment, I found three lads sitting together on a divan. Feeling uneasy, I observed them with caution. Two had thick, dark hair and eyes the color of sherry. The other was fair-haired, but with the same color eyes. All three had pale, flawless complexions and full lips as red as if they’d just eaten berries. I felt a potent urge to kiss them…a strange, dark, frightening urge. I’d never felt sexually attracted to a member of my own gender. And yet, there I was, not only burning to kiss them, but getting…” He paused a moment to compose himself. “Before I knew what was happening, the blond came closer and locked me in his gaze. I felt dizzy, but also mightily aroused. As I began to swoon, he helped me to the settee, sat very close, and continued gazing into my eyes.

“‘
You wish to be kissed,’ he whispered in Irish, bringing his mouth very near to mine. ‘And I wish to kiss you. We all do.’ He hovered there, so near I could smell the nectar-sweetness of his breath.

C
learly unnerved by the tale, he paused before going on. “The next thing I knew, his mouth was on mine, crushing my lips, seeking my tongue. When I gave it to him, he bit it and began to suck. I tasted blood, my own, but didn’t care. Sharp teeth sank into my thigh, a warm mouth encased my member. All three lads sucked on me like leeches.” Closing his eyes, he added, “The feeling was so sublime, I prayed they might never stop.”

He
ceased talking and crushed out his cigarette in the ashtray. She swallowed and licked her lips, eager for him to continue. The tale, though disturbing, had stirred something dark and desperate deep in her abdomen.

“Just as I was ready to come off, I sensed another presence in the room. Opening my eyes, I saw
, to my great horror, Lord Fitzgerald looming over us. ‘Leave him to me,’ he told the lads, who then vanished like wraiths. Saying nothing more, he knelt between my knees, bent over my lap, and took me into his mouth.”

Her
breath caught, making him turn. When their eyes met, the wild thing in her abdomen dragged its claws across her sex.

“
I wanted to protest, but found I could neither move nor speak. When it was finished, he said something even queerer than what had just transpired.”

“What did he say?”

“A man’s seed is the nectar of the gods.”

She
was aghast, but also so turned on she was ready to crawl out of her skin. She kept her eyes locked on his, which were now fierce and lambent.

“What did he mean?”

“Why does my kind crave human blood? What is it we need? The iron? The DNA? Or something else…?”

“The life force,” she rasped, face heating under the intensity of his gaze.

His gaze narrowed and intensified. “Is not semen, which contains the very blueprint of life, not a more superior source than blood? Think about it. What was the ambrosia of the gods?—the magical elixir said to bestow immortality and everlasting beauty? And why do you suppose Zeus and Apollo and all the others, never mind the greatest heroes of mythology, were forever chasing after bonny young lads? Zeus made Ganymede, the most beautiful of them all, cupbearer to the gods, did he not? And what was in that cup he bore, do you suppose?”

She shivered, reviled. “Are
you telling me you feed on…?”

His eyes were pools of molten gold. “And what if I did? D
o you find the idea so reprehensible?”

She was at a loss for words. She saw nothing wrong with fellatio per se
. Nor homosexuality. What consenting adults chose to do with their sexual organs was nobody’s business but their own, as far as she was concerned. She knew several gay professors at the university, male and female, and was nothing but supportive of them and their rights.

So why was she so bothered by what
he’d just said?

Was it b
ecause she believed him her soul mate? Because it ran counter to the dark fantasies fed by paranormal romance? She couldn’t say. Closing her eyes, she tried to picture him feeding in that way. Goddess knew, she’d seen two men doing it often enough on the internet. How else to learn? And what better teacher than one who gave and received?

“Tell me what
you’re thinking,” he demanded, bringing her back.

Shame scorched her cheeks. She
broke away from his gaze. “N-nothing. I wasn’t thinking anything.”

“Aye, well,” he said, incredulous. “In case
you’re wondering, I don’t feed in that way, though maybe I should.”

She cleared her throat
, still avoiding his gaze. “What makes you say that?”

“Because the on
es who do are stronger. And if I were stronger, I’d be better able to protect you from Lord Fitzgerald when he shows up this time.”

He
turned his back on her, lit another cigarette, and, after a prolonged silence, went on with the story. After the incident with Fitzgerald, he prepared to leave Ireland, but fell ill. When he’d recovered enough to leave the premises, but not enough to travel abroad, he started drinking in a local pub where he heard strange stories. Black Castle, the locals claimed, was visible but once every century—from the Feast of All Soul’s to Midsummer’s Eve. And when it appeared, many of the handsomest lads in the county mysteriously disappeared.

Some claimed
Gerard Fitzgerald was a dark wizard who drank the blood of virgins to maintain his youthful appearance; others, said he was an alchemist who’d discovered the secret of immortality; still others asserted he could change his shape at will.

He’d
thought his host strange, and possibly mad, but gave credence to none of these stories. Then, quite by accident, he saw a man shoot his host through the heart after accusing him of stealing his only son. He rushed to Fitzgerald’s aid, but found no pulse. Following the funeral, he’d returned to Scotland, determined to marry Caitriona whatever the cost.

“
Did you?” she asked. “Marry her, I mean?”

Turning, he
looked at her with a grave expression. “It took several meetings and a good deal of gold, but I eventually secured her father’s consent. Then, on the night before our wedding, Fitzgerald reappeared, in my own castle. I could not believe my eyes, but there he was. Back from the grave. ‘Why are you surprised?’ he asked me, his demonic yellow eyes gleaming. ‘I said we’d meet again, did I not? That you belonged to me. Did you think I would let you escape so easily?’”

Hanging his head, he
just sat there for a long while. After an extended silence, he plowed his fingers along his scalp and went on. “We fought. He was impossibly strong, but I held my own until he pushed me with superhuman force. I lost my footing and tumbled down the stairs. Bone cracked, I felt a sharp pain in my neck, and then, nothing. I landed at the bottom, conscious, but unable to move my limbs. From the landing, he gazed down at me, grief-stricken. I do not know what he wanted with me, but I do believe he did not mean to kill me. He was beside me in a blink, tearing open my shirt, biting into my chest. I felt my life draining away...and then, I was in his arms, drinking from him. I recall tasting blood...and the words he spoke, like an incantation...or a marriage vow.”

When he didn’t go on, she
asked, “What did he say? Please tell me.”

He swallowed hard. “He said, ‘Now
you shall be flesh of my flesh and blood of my blood. And we shall be as one forever.’”

She
stared at him agape, unsure what to say. Nothing she’d learned so far made her wish him far away. In fact, the things he’d shared only deepened her affection for him. And her desire. Surrendering to her urges at last, she slipped her arms around his waist and set her cheek against his back. He was warm and firm and smelled wonderfully woodsy. “What happened wasn’t your fault. You do know that, don’t you?”

“Aye
. But you cannot say the same about the things I’ve done since.”

A hard knot formed in her stomach. Did she want to know? Not really, but she heard herself ask
all the same.