Unpredictable Love

  Cleopatra, having been shooed away from the bathroom by Sophia, climbed down the stairs and followed him, as forlorn as he was feeling.

  “What . . .” Alistair looked at the cat and then at Tavish and accepted a glass. “What the hell is that?”

  “Cleopatra. She is Laetitia’s. Come here, Cat.” He sat in the armchair and patted his leg. Cleopatra curled on his lap and bumped her head on his stomach, meowing. He smoothed a hand over her naked skin, soothing her, “I know, Cat, I know.”

  “We have to contact the authorities. You know that, don’t you?” Alistair said. “This is not something I—”

  “I know. I know.” Tavish pinched the bridge of his nose. “But we have to spare her, as much as we can. I don’t—I won’t let her be hurt more than she has been already.”

  “You, Tavish Uilleam, of all people, should understand how this is not an easy task.” Alistair frowned at Tavish.

  “I doona, Alistair Connor. Neither do any of us, in spite of all which happened in our lives.” Tavish hung his head, squeezing his eyes shut. “Sixteen years in hell. Plus eight in limbo. More or less. She doesn’t know how old she is or who even—I doona think I could have survived all this pain.”

  Alistair sighed. “We all carry our burdens the best way we can. She is a resilient woman. Strong. A survivor. Just like you.”

  Tavish looked up as a pale Sophia climbed down the stairs drying herself with a towel. Her clothes were wet from bathing Laetitia, and tears shimmered in her eyes. “I put her in bed.”

  “Did she say anything?” he asked.

  “Not a word. She went through the motions, doing whatever I asked her.” She shook her head and tears fell from her eyes. “She seems so lost, all curled in on herself, staring out in space. I’m so sorry, Tavish Uilleam.”

  Tavish could feel his pulse beating at his temples. He put Cleopatra on the floor and stood up. “Alistair Connor—”

  “Just say the word and it will be done.” Alistair rose. His hand rested on Tavish’s shoulders. “We are a family. I’ll do anything for you.”

  “Then do it for her,” he said in his too-quiet voice. “Give me a few days, just to get her better. Then we go get those bastards and tear them apart. Piece by piece.”

  “Aye. I’ll order Baptist to back off and gather all the information,” his brother answered. “You tell me when I can call the Prime Minister.”

  Ireland

  “I have news,” Geoffrey said with alacrity, entering Andrew’s bedroom with a large envelope in his hand.

  “Leave us!” From his dark corner, Andrew waved away the devotee, who was tidying his rumpled bed. As soon as the door closed behind the woman, he turned to Geoffrey. “Tell me.”

  Geoffrey sat on the couch and put the envelope by his side. “What do you want first? The good or the bad?”

  “The bad.”

  “I can’t bring her here.”

  A flare from the match lit Andrew’s face for a brief moment, before he extinguished it. “Why not?”

  “It’ll take too long and cost too much.” Geoffrey buffed his nails and rubbed them against his robes. “Besides, we cannot risk exposing the cult by bringing her here.”

  “I see.” The blue smoke of the homemade cigar was slowly filling the room, taking Laetitia’s form in Andrew’s eyes. He waved his hand in the air. “Money is not a problem, Geoffrey. Never has been.”

  A faint smile touched Geoffrey’s lips. “I know, my son.”

  “So, what’s the solution? Rent a secluded house in England? For a year, minimum. If she is lucky, she will not last that long. But then my pet has always been stubborn.” Lust suffused Andrew as scenarios formed in his mind. He pulled up his robes and began masturbating. “Better! Buy some ruined church or castle or whatever, as long as it has a cemetery. I’ll fuck her over a tomb to start with.”

  “You don’t need to stroke yourself, my son,” Geoffrey said, patronizing. “I’ll send a devotee to be impregnated by your precious seed after we finish this.”

  Andrew stopped, feeling ashamed, and threw his robes down. “I’m tired of being the cult’s stud. My patience is at an end. You—”

  “I know.” Geoffrey dryly interrupted the litany that was about to begin, his thoughts racing. Andrew was not supposed to have lived for so long, and the girl freak was not supposed to reappear, using the name of a dead devotee, or to have her face stamped everywhere. He had prolonged this game for too long, and before it got out of his control, he had to act. “I can’t promise a cemetery or a year.”

  There was a suspicious pause. “And what do you promise?”

  Geoffrey stared at the orange glow of Andrew’s cigar, wishing he could see the man’s face. “A few hours.”

  A harsh laugh echoed in the dark corner. “I’ve waited for almost eight years. Eight! To be offered a few hours? Is that the best you can do, Geoffrey?”

  “It’s the best I can promise,” he counterpointed, and he let out a sigh, pretending to empathize with Andrew’s annoyance. “Do you want them?”

  “Yes.” Andrew knew he couldn’t be choosy. “When?”

  “Sooner than you imagine.” Geoffrey stood and walked to the door. “I’ll send a devotee and a cup of yagé.”

  “Geoffrey?”

  “My son?”

  There was a brief pause. “You are aware that after the few hours, I’m going to kill her.”

  “I’m aware.” Geoffrey smiled at Andrew from the door. “And I couldn’t care less.”

  CHAPTER 43

  Tavish MacCraig’s apartment

  1:01 p.m.

  “My Little Elf.”

  His deep voice entered the haze of hurt that was tearing her heart apart, and Laetitia blinked in the shadowed room.

  He was standing by the bed. Dressed all in black, even in a comfortable cotton T-shirt and sweatpants, he looked like he could kill someone.

  And yet, there was something unsure in the way he had called her.

  “Tavish.” She lowered her lashes; her fingers stirred in his direction and retreated in the same way.

  “Can I lie down with you?” he asked softly.

  “Ah . . . yes . . . if you so wish,” she whispered.

  For a moment, her hesitant answer baffled Tavish. Then he understood, and fury sizzled inside him at the possibility she could be feeling ashamed—or worse, dirty—by what had been done to her.

  “I do and always will. Having you in my arms, feeling your warmth is a joy that I treasure. Now, forever.”

  Her breath caught, and the mere chore of breathing became difficult. Her mouth was dry, and her heart lodged somewhere in her throat.

  He entered under the covers and gingerly looped his arms underneath her body and lifted her as gently as he could, holding her close to his chest, and kissed her forehead. So small, so fragile. Her sweet, fresh honeysuckle scent surrounded him, reminding of the first time he had seen her. An aingeal. “They will pay, Snowdrop. For you, for each baby, woman, man. I’ll make them pay, I swear.”

  She didn’t answer or relax in his arms, as he was hoping.

  “Laetitia, look at me.”

  Her eyes found his, and he saw pain, fear, and shame in the violet-blue depths.

  “Tavish?”

  “It was no’ your fault.”

  “He . . . he gave me a drink, something strong.” A tear fell from her eyes. And then another, until they were falling freely. She rested her forehead on the crook of his shoulder. “Then he tied me, branded me, cut my wrists, licked my blood, and . . . and after . . .”

  “Shh. He is gone.”

  She gripped his T-shirt. “He passed out after he finished. And . . . and I smashed the branding poker on his face. I wanted him dead.”

  “You did what you had to do,” he spit out, glad she had hurt the man.

  “I had a baby,” she choked out. “So tiny, so small, she barely fit in my hand. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t, and she died.”

  “It was not meant to
be, my Little Elf.” I’ve killed once; I can kill twice. He ground his teeth together so hard that he feared breaking them. His fingers eased in her hair and combed it, slowly. “Cry, Laetitia. It helps.”

  Between sobs, she asked, “Did you cry?”

  “Nae,” he breathed.

  “How do you know it helps then?” That made her cry even more, biting her fist, trying to stifle the hurtful sobs, but nothing could muffle the painful sounds that left her body. “How?”

  Tavish had seen her cry before, and it had been painful, but nothing like this. Any coherence had disappeared into an otherworldly oblivion of pain, raw and primal, and there was nothing he could do but hold her, stroking her hair, slowly, up and down, and waiting for the rest of the story and the ache to ooze out of her.

  After some time, she shuddered out a breath and cleaned her face with the sleeve of her nightgown, sniffling.

  “Laetitia, do you know what also helps? Talking. I . . . talk.”

  Raising her eyes to him, she asked, “Did it help you, then? Talking?”

  “Aye.” He gathered her deeper, readying himself for whatever she was ready to let go. “You can tell me anything. Whatever you want. Whenever you want. However many times you need.”

  “All right.” She closed her eyes, and her breath slowed, tiny sighs leaving her lips.

  He kissed her temple, promising, “Anytime, Little Elf. I’m here for you.”

  “He said . . .” she breathed.

  The words were barely audible, and she didn’t continue. Nestling her better in his arms, he closed his eyes, his hand running down the length of her spine.

  He stared at the ceiling, grimly. As much wrath as he was feeling, there was a hollowness in his chest. He promised to himself, Whatever he did, I will undo it.

  As soon as the words left his mouth, she whispered, “He said we were marrying.”

  At that, he tensed, and his heart skipped a beat.

  “But I had no name. That means he didn’t marry me, right?”

  “If he did, if he did—” He couldn’t finish.

  “Please, tell me he didn’t.” Her hand ran over his chest and up to his face, trembling, cold. She pulled his face down and whispered, “Tell me he didn’t.”

  “Laetitia. Hear me well.” He looked away for a moment, his throat convulsing. When his eyes came back to meet hers, the turbulent, mesmerizing sea-green gaze flared over her face. “If you will have me, I am the man who is marrying you.”

  Monday, October 27, 2014

  7:30 a.m.

  Soft light poured through the gap in the curtains, and Laetitia felt a large hand caressing her back over the nightgown. She lifted her head and found Tavish propped on the pillows, his midnight-black hair gleaming blue, his sea-green eyes more turquoise than ever, staring at her as if she were the only woman in the world.

  His hand moved up to her hair, and he gently combed it with his fingers, resting his hand on the small of her back where it ended.

  He was dangerous, unpredictable, and frighteningly intelligent.

  He was beyond fascinating.

  A compelling challenge, for which she had feigned having no interest, afraid he would become a threat to her world, and she to his.

  She didn’t speak, nor did he. There was a peaceful quiet in the room, which they seemed in agreement not to disturb.

  Tavish saw something in the depth of her violet-blue gaze fire to life. She licked her lips unconsciously and her small hand grabbed his T-shirt.

  His breathing roughened when she bent and kissed his navel, pushing his shirt up and taking his nipple in her mouth, softly sucking. His hands curled into fists.

  She moved to the other nipple and paid it the same attention. She raised her torso and gently kissed him.

  It was barely a brush of lips, but one that made his already-warming desire boil.

  He didn’t resist the silent invitation, as her lips parted and her tongue licked his lips; his hand dipped underneath her nightgown, pulling her closer and closer, until their lips were mashing, their tongues dueling.

  She gripped his face in her hands. When the kiss was not enough to satiate the hunger inside her, she straddled him.

  He pulled his shirt off and ran his hands over her thighs, slowly lifting her nightgown, until she raised her arms, and he took it off.

  His hands cupped her breasts, and his thumbs toyed with her nipples.

  They stared at each other.

  The gaze was soothing and soul stirring and at direct odds with the physical urgency of their mounting desire.

  His hands slid down to her back, and he pressed her down onto him, kissing her so gently she thought she would die.

  She shifted and lay down, staring at him as he took off his shorts. He joined her, resting on an elbow, waiting for her to make her move.

  She threaded her fingers through his silky hair and brought him to her breast, silently inviting him to do as he pleased.

  Teasing flicks of his tongue made her nipples harden, and within moments she was arching under him and writhing in unfulfilled longing.

  His hand reached to grab a condom on his bedside table, but hers stopped it.

  She didn’t ask; he understood.

  He towered over her, as intense as only he could be, and she felt small in comparison, surrounded by his utter maleness, trapped, but she didn’t ever want out of that beautiful cage.

  His green eyes blistered her with a possessive look, while he let her position him just at her entrance. She wrapped her legs over his waist, and when he entered her, she cried.

  He claimed her mouth in a kiss and thrust shallowly, easing himself into her, bit by bit, in contained movements that left her in even more need.

  His muscular body settled down on her more firmly. And she held him close, her fingers and nails exploring the ridges of his back as he filled her, fighting to hold back the need for release mounting inside her with every long plunge of his member.

  She dug her nails into his shoulder for support, as she began to tense up, and a constant shuddering took hold of her body.

  A long shove of his hips cut the last tie she had on her control.

  Her climax raced through her with such force that she threw her head back and choked back a scream when she came, shaking as convulsions gripped her with the strength of her pleasure.

  She was briefly aware of Tavish thrusting a few more times, before he trembled in her arms, as his own orgasm shattered his rigid body.

  He fell on her, hauling deep breaths as if he had been rescued from drowning.

  Laetitia welcomed his weight, her arms holding him tight, before he rolled onto his back, bringing her with him.

  She placed her head in the crook of his arm, resting her cheek against the warmth of his broad chest. He was all hard muscle covered with soft, warm velvet skin, and she wanted to crawl under it.

  Just before she closed her eyes in slumber, she whispered against his skin, “My answer is yes.”

  Tavish lay there looking up at the ceiling, his heart beating loudly in his ears.

  For the first time since he had come back from the war, Tavish allowed himself to cry.

  CHAPTER 44

  Lakeside Manor

  Thursday, October 30, 2014

  3:01 a.m.

  Hugh’s eyes snapped open, and he stumbled from the bed in a rush. After switching on the lights, he pulled a drawer from his bedside table with such force it came out of its hinges, falling to the floor with a loud bang.

  Tons of photographs spilled from the overturned drawer. “Fuck. Where is it?”

  He discarded the smaller ones, pushing them aside. The bigger ones showed him in many positions, always smiling, receiving many awards and prizes, from different highly ranked officers. But in none was the man with elfin ears.

  “It has to be here.” He ran a hand over his buzzed hair. “It has to be here somewhere.”

  The soft click-clack of his brother’s prosthesis made him raise his head. r />
  “Hugh? Are you OK?” Richard looked around the room, confused. “What the fuck are you doing, man?”

  “Do you remember when I received the Hennessy Trophy and Philip Sassoon Memorial Prize?”

  “Oh, yeah! That ball was good, wasn’t it? So many beautiful women—”

  “Where is the photo?”

  Richard scratched his head. “How the hell am I supposed—”

  Hugh jumped off the floor and ran out to his mother’s room, entering without knocking. “Mother. Wake up.”

  “Hugh?” Martha’s voice sounded scared. “Is Richard—?”

  “Nah, Mum. I’m OK,” Richard said and grabbed Hugh by the shoulders. “What’s going on?”

  “I don’t know,” he answered. “Mother, where do you keep my awards and photos?”

  Martha pushed her hair away from her face. “Along with your father’s. Why?”

  But Hugh was already out of the room. Richard and Martha followed, bewildered by his unusual behavior, and found him scrutinizing each photo. Until he picked up one and turned it over.

  “Chief of the Air Staff, Air Chief Marshall Sir Leon Camden, guest of honor at RAF College Cranwell, to review the graduation of cadets,” he muttered and showed the photo to his mother and Richard. “That’s him. Look.”

  “You were so proud. We all were. Not even the cold and blustery weather conditions could have stopped you or your—”

  “Mother. I know you were proud.” He ran a hand through his hair again. “But look at the man. Doesn’t Air Marshall Camden remind you of someone?”

  Martha gasped. “Laetitia.”

  “The resemblance is fucking—”

  “Language, young man!” Martha slapped him over the head.

  “Sorry, ma’am,” Richard said apologetically. “The resemblance is impressive.”

  “I’m calling Will.” Hugh pursed his lips. “Now.”

  “No,” Martha held his arm. “Invite them for the weekend.”