Page 11 of Unpredictable Love


  “Your pet?” Johansen felt blood running away from his cheeks, but he did not so much as flinch.

  “You promised me you would bring her back. Years ago.”

  “I promised we’d look for her together,” Johansen said angrily, then took a deep, calming breath. “Come with me.”

  There was a heavy silence in the room. The orange tip of the cheroot brightened, and the blue smoke hovered.

  “I can’t. Not yet,” was the answer. “Bring her here. Then we’ll talk about my leaving.”

  Johansen’s head lowered in despair, not believing that he had still hoped his brother called him because he had come to his senses.

  “I trust you’ll find her.”

  He heaved a breath. “I’ll try.”

  “I sense we’re approaching momentous days,” Geoffrey said. “I am going to prepare a sacrifice.”

  “You old, debauched madman.” Like a lightning strike, Johansen grabbed Geoffrey by the arm and slammed him face first into the wall. “Give him a drop of blood, and I’ll kill you.”

  “You’re welcome to try.” Geoffrey’s voice came out distorted from the position of his head.

  “One day, Geoffrey.” Johansen left the room, banging the door. “One day. Soon.”

  Johansen heard the first desperate screech of a barn owl as he stepped out of the monastery. He ignored it—ignored what he knew would happen—and focused on what was important: tracking down the girl he had helped run away almost eight years ago.

  Beardley Lodge

  6:39 p.m.

  Laetitia had never seen Sebastian so excited for a friend to taste and approve of his cooking. He covered the pan with the sweet caramelized-onion sauce, to be used later for the salmon that was cooking on low temperature in the oven.

  The kitchen smelled of the strawberry-and-whipped-cream dessert Laetitia had just finished decorating.

  “How did you and Mr. MacCraig meet?”

  “Don’t go ‘Mister MacCraig-ing’ him. You were eye-fucking each—”

  “Bastian!” Laetitia shrieked.

  Sebastian’s laugh boomed in her kitchen. “I beg your pardon, Lady Galen. I forgot you live in the seventeenth century.”

  “You! Mr. MacCraig owns the gallery—”

  A rude snort cut any possible explanation she could muster. “If you want to be formal, you can go for his whole title and name, Lieutenant Colonel Doctor Lord Tavish Uilleam Davenport MacCraig.”

  She sighed dramatically. “Right. Tavish Uilleam.”

  “Hmm. Tavish Uilleam, huh?” Sebastian teased.

  “This is how he likes to be—Oh!” Laetitia put her fists on her hips and tapped her foot on the ground. “You are avoiding answering me. How did you meet?”

  “I was leading a group, and we got trapped. I knew the mission was dangerous—every one of us knew. When we go to war, we all hope we are not going to get hit. I was hit—and dying.” Sebastian’s voice caught. “He was in a medevac unit, a group that moves quickly, with little concern for their own safety to save others’ lives. Luck, God—whatever you wish to call it—brought him to me.”

  “I shouldn’t have asked,” she said, in lieu of an apology.

  “We are past these formalities, lass.” Sebastian dried his hands on the towel and took off his apron, neatly folded it, and stored it in his cooking bag.

  When she was holding the dessert tray, with the refrigerator door open, the cold air snowing down on her face, as if it could protect her from her own fear, she asked noncommittally, “Would you mind coming back before eight o’clock?”

  “Why?”

  “You know, before he arrives.” She sighed, and closed the refrigerator door. Tavish triggered positively decadent thoughts in her mind.

  Stunned, he blinked down at her. “You are not afraid of him, are you?”

  Yes. “Not exactly.” Yes, I am, but I’m afraid of myself more.

  Sebastian and Laetitia were both private persons by nature, so when she told him she’d had a sad childhood and a dysfunctional date before she came to Warwickshire and didn’t offer further information, he didn’t ask.

  Their friendship had grown, taking roots deep enough for her to tell him bits and pieces. With his experience, it was not difficult to conclude she was very much hurt. When after all those years, she still kept to herself, Sebastian added fear to his previous conclusion.

  He leaned forward, setting his elbows on the counter. “Laetitia?”

  Trust is the enemy. Laetitia bit her cheek until the blood flowed, as she struggled against her most deeply ingrained instincts. She’d kept herself cut off for so long it was no easy matter to simply lay herself open. A bead of sweat dripped down her spine.

  Laetitia clenched her hands and blew out a loud breath. “Sebastian, I’m just—I don’t know him well enough to be comfortable—”

  “You’ll never be comfortable around him, or any other man, if you don’t open a slit on the sturdy wall you build around you. What are you afraid of?”

  Thoughts whooshed through her head like hysterical bats in an attic.

  CHAPTER 14

  Ireland

  December 2006

  “Hello,” said a soft male voice.

  From her huddled sitting position, under the wings of an angel hovering over a tomb, Laetitia started.

  A man was standing in front of her. She hadn’t seen or heard him approaching.

  “What are you doing here?”

  She raised her chin. “I could ask the same of you. This is private ground.”

  “I know.” He threw back his hood. Under the moonlight, his curly hair was like gold, in hues Laetitia had never imagined. His eyes were blue with a navy-blue rim; his skin, perfect. A cleft in his chin made him look younger than his thirty-two years and gave him a mischievous air. “I came here to join your peace.”

  Tall and lean, he was dressed in the handmade costume of the brotherhood: a black organic-cotton cloak over a simple black organic-cotton shirt and trousers.

  “My . . . uh, peace?” Another crazy one, Laetitia.

  He pointed over his shoulder to the remodeled eleventh-century monastery above the rolling hill.

  There is no peace there. The lack of embroidery on his black cloak told Laetitia he had not joined the brotherhood. He could be there just for a weekend, a week, or even a month. “Hmm.”

  At a glance, the monastery, surrounded by a great rock wall and well-kept woods, offered more warmth than most of the old well-kept castles in the country. To a stranger passing by, it would look like a five-star hotel.

  But only at a glance.

  Any strangers unfortunate enough to pass close to the monastery would find no smiles awaiting them, and the only five-star reception would be a well-placed knife between their ribs or a poisoned arrow through the heart—as guns were forbidden on the property. It was isolated enough to prevent most stray sightseers, and the locals had long ago learned to cut a wide path around the place.

  “You are a sister, right?”

  No. And I don’t intend to be. She didn’t bother correcting him, much less explaining she hadn’t been admitted in the brotherhood because Geoffrey, the leader, loathed her. She also didn’t inform him that no one in the monastery called her by a name.

  Once, when she was a gullible child, she had asked the old acolyte who taught her hidden lessons why she didn’t have a name. Pitying her, the old woman told her it was because she was a special kid and could choose her own name. From then on, it became a game they played. Each week as the old woman taught her about a famous woman from history, she would adopt that as her name and pretend to be the famed figure.

  Somehow, Laetitia’s newfound happiness from the role-playing game reached Geoffrey’s ears, and he had taught her the first of many lessons that were to come by punishing her with a sole caning. When it was over, her small body hung from a pole limply, covered in sweat and urine, her wrists and ankles chafed and bloodied. She couldn’t speak, and the brotherhood healer ha
d to bandage two of her toes, which were broken. And Laetitia learned that she was no one.

  The acolyte was never seen again, and no one dared teach Laetitia any more lessons. But that hadn’t hindered her from learning: the dusty library was full of ancient books and empty of mean people.

  “Do you normally walk alone in cemeteries at night?”

  His voice took her out of her memories.

  “Yes,” she said noncommittally.

  He approached slowly. “Aren’t you afraid of ghosts?”

  “Yes, I’m afraid of ghosts, but it’s not here you will find them. Here lay only the dead, and they don’t scare or make you suffer.”

  He smiled at her outburst. “Without suffering there would be no compassion.”

  “Well, tell that to those who suffer. They might not agree with you.” I don’t.

  They had told him the drinking of a special psychotropic tea and cocktails enhanced pleasure and supposedly revealed both positive and various negative or unresolved aspects of those who went there to experience visions of the divine. If that was true, he had found his life mate. “Can I sit with you?”

  No. As much as she found him beautiful, this was her place, where she went when she was sad, which was often, and where she went when she was happy, which was so seldom she could count those times on her fingers.

  In the too-cold winter night, Laetitia rubbed her hands. “In fact, I’m cold, and it’s late. I’m going back.”

  But it was neither the temperature nor the hour that made Laetitia decide to go back. All the attention the man was giving her made her feel jumpy.

  “Can I accompany you?” His question was rhetorical, because he fell in pace with her. When she didn’t offer anything to their conversation, he asked, “How is it I haven’t seen you before?”

  In truth, he had spotted her from afar on the first night. He asked around, but no information was provided. He decided to take matters into his own hands, and he discovered she frequented the cemetery late at night.

  “I live in another part of the building.” She crossed her arms around her body to protect herself against the wind that had picked up. She had never understood why she lived there, segregated from the brotherhood. She served no purpose, and every time she tried to escape, she was punished.

  “Come here. I’ll warm you.” He passed his arm around her and brought his cloak over her as a protective wing. When his hand closed around her waist, his thumb brushed her breast. His fingers itched to grab the plump globe that was so out of place on that thin body. “How old are you?”

  “Sixteen.” I guess.

  He stopped walking and tipped her face upward to examine it under the moonlight.

  She didn’t look her age, if one judged her by her body and face. If one cared to look more deeply, they would find a maturity and an intelligence disproportionate to her years.

  “Beautiful. You’re beautiful.” His head swam in a rush of desire, and he lowered his head. “I have to kiss you.”

  Astonished that someone could find her beautiful, much less desirable, Laetitia’s feet couldn’t move anymore. She let herself be pulled against him and kissed. She didn’t consider the fact that she had met him a few minutes ago, that she knew nothing about him but his name, and that he was to join the brotherhood. She didn’t consider that he could tell Geoffrey everything.

  As the erotic sensations exploded the contained well she had not yet drunk from, she desperately grabbed his underrobe, not knowing what to do.

  He didn’t consider that she was too young, half his age, and clearly inexperienced. He didn’t consider she would be frightened; he was only thinking of how she felt in his arms, of the heady pleasure he was experiencing.

  Aroused, he pulled Laetitia tighter against him and grunted in pleasure when his erect member was pressed between them. He was looking forward to days of free sex and unshackling his desires. In any way it came. Especially if it involved the ethereal woman in his arms.

  “Tomorrow,” he said on her lips. “I have to see you again. Eight thirty.”

  Her pale-brown eyebrows lowered. She craned her head.

  “I won’t tell anyone,” he said, staring into her eyes. “I promise.”

  From far away, a barn owl screeched. Its echo told Laetitia the sound came from someplace inside the monastery.

  She was not superstitious, nor was she afraid of the sound in nature. What frightened her was the desperation she heard in those screeches. A desperation she could empathize with. A desperation for freedom. She trembled and pushed him away.

  Apart from once or twice a month, it was rare that the heavy silence of the woods was disturbed by more than chirping birds and scurrying animals. Inside the monastery, the constant activity was muted, the footsteps were barely heard, voices were kept low.

  The monastery’s location was not chosen by accident. Beneath the rolling hills lay hidden a series of caves that stretched for miles. There were a hundred local legends connected to the caves, depending on the century.

  Some claimed that they had been built by ecclesiastics to imprison and convert the Picts. Some said that they had been used by the Protestant dissidents. And others that they had been the hideout of IRA rebels.

  None of the stories were true.

  Since the monastery’s renovation, the caves were home to a cult—or a well-oiled business—where money, sex, and hallucinogenic drugs abounded.

  With the drug running through his system, he stood there, watching her running to the farther entrance. Tresses of her long white-blonde hair gleaming in the moonlight, flowing around her, reminded him of a ghost. A very alive ghost, who was going to haunt him for all his life.

  Before she ducked into her tower, she looked back at him. Under the moonlight, he looked like one of the angels in the cemetery.

  But Laetitia knew that angels didn’t exist.

  CHAPTER 15

  Beardley Lodge

  6:49 p.m.

  “Is everything OK?” Sebastian’s hand on Laetitia’s shoulder gently brought her away from her stupor.

  She smiled tightly, shoving the memories back in the recesses of her mind. “Pardon. Old ghosts.”

  “You didn’t love the asshole, did you!”

  “Hell no.” She stopped at the finality of her own words.

  It was so shameful how she’d been utterly tricked by her own emotions. She’d been swept away by supposed feelings of love, which in the end had proved to be nothing more than her own imagination.

  “Does it hurt to speak of him?” Sebastian asked tentatively.

  “Of him? No, it doesn’t.” And oddly, Laetitia meant it. It hadn’t mattered that she was a teenager, and it had lasted less than three months. It would always sting, what had happened and what had not happened. What hurt more was what she had been compelled to do—what she did to survive.

  Sebastian eyed her expectantly, but she didn’t elaborate. One day, perhaps, she would be able to talk about her past without fear of being judged, but not tonight.

  Then out of the blue, a mocking smile designed itself on his lips. “Do you intend to become a nun?”

  “Sebastian!” A relieved giggle left her. “No, I do not!”

  He chortled. “Good. Where is Cleopatra, by the way?”

  “In her room.” She pointed over her shoulder to one of the doors on the other side of the living room.

  “Lock that crazy cat in if you don’t want to scare Doc away. She frightens even badasses like me.” Sebastian patted her hand when only her smile dimmed. “I’ll be back as soon as I can. I promise.”

  Laetitia hadn’t wanted to simply throw on jeans and a shirt or her comfortable go-out-with-friends clothes or her only serious outfit.

  She wanted something flirty yet unassuming. She didn’t want him noticing she had given too much thought to her clothes.

  Within her neat wardrobe, she located a vintage red turtleneck with sexy cuts on the shoulders, which she had never had an opportunity to use, and p
aired it with a long, burnt-caramel, flowing wool skirt. After putting them on her bed, she considered her accessories. A heavy blackened-copper chain necklace was an easy pick to go together with small earrings.

  Satisfied with her outfit, she prepared a luxurious bath, using the smelling salts and bath oil she had been gifted for Christmas but never used. A fragrant steam billowed through the bathroom and fogged the mirror, hypnotizing her as she watched herself disrobing.

  While others marveled at the unique likeness of her face, she saw a ghost with white-blonde hair; pale, creamy skin; and big violet-blue eyes, which usually turned red in photographs. And she didn’t much care for her body, either, although many women would have killed to have it. In her opinion, she was too petite for her breasts and had a too-narrow waist for her hips and legs.

  Achieving perfection or beauty had never been Laetitia’s goal; however, she wanted Tavish to find her attractive.

  She finished her shower, dressed, and surveyed her image briefly in the mirror.

  Satisfied with her appearance, she climbed down the stairs, anticipation knotting her insides.

  When Tavish had seen Alejandro leering at Laetitia and speaking of her as if she weren’t a person, an all-consuming need had rushed through him: mark her so that every man who looked at her knew she belonged to him and, even more important, that there would be consequences if anyone hurt her. The need was more potent than even his desire to have her in his bed. Everything inside him screamed, “Mine.”

  Had they been alone when her mouth opened for his thumb, he would have thrown her onto his shoulder, caveman style, and carried her somewhere private, not necessarily a room with a bed.

  Nothing like that had ever happened to him. What he felt for Laetitia was as uncontrollable as a midnight summer tempest. Yet as wild as Tavish felt when he was near her, he also found that his torments were muted. Somehow, Laetitia soothed his inner beast, and everyone who didn’t treat her well would have to face his wrath.