Read Online The Queen of Swords: A Paranormal Tale of Undying Love by Nina Mason - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Nina Mason
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don’t. But if you keep me spellbound all weekend, I might be compelled to do other things.”
She said nothing for a couple of beats before asking, “Does it hurt?”
He thought he knew what she meant, but wasn’t sure. “You mean the bloodletting?”
“Yes.” She let out a small laugh. “I might be a virgin, but I don’t live on a desert island. I’ve been on the Internet. I talk to people. I know sex hurts the first time.”
“It does. The bloodletting, that is. The bite part, though the drinking part is rather enjoyable. And sex too. For the woman. Or, so I’ve been told. But—”
He stopped himself before saying he hoped they wouldn’t have sex, because he wanted to as much as he didn’t for lots of reasons he didn’t care to explain.
“But what?”
“Never mind.” He gave his head a quick shake. “What’s your name?”
“Cat. Short for Cathleen. Cathleen Fingal.”
He rolled his eyes. Bloody hell. Of course it was. It was always Cat, wasn’t it? She was always the same, give or take a few fingerprints of the times. He just wished to God he knew why. Was her immortal soul punishing him? Was God? Why else give her back just to take her again?
“Let me go, Ca thleen Fingal. I’ll go back to Scotland and never darken your door again.”
“But I want you to darken my door.”
“Christ, lass,” he ground out , shaking his head. “Do you have a bloody death wish?”
She gave him a sharp look. “I’m supposed to be asking the questions, remember?”
“So, you’re going to keep me here.” His fingers powered his hair. “No matter what?”
He saw the flash of a grin. “That’s the plan.”
Shifting his weight, he pulled up his left knee to ease the strain on his back. He licked his lips, tasting her mouth on his. He liked the familiar flavor of her, liked the kiss. Too much for both their goods. If she meant to keep him spellbound all weekend—and it appeared she did—there didn’t seem to be much he could do about it. And talking seemed a safer way to pass the time than the alternative. As much as he longed to lay with her again, he must keep his feet firmly on the tightrope.
“I should like to tell you the story of my life then,” he offered, hoping she’d catch the reference. “I would like to do that very much.”
Though h er face was in darkness, he could see her smile. It let him know she’d understood, even before she said, “That’s the spirit, Louis.”
* * *
She watched from the bed, leaning on a pair of pillows propped against the brass headboard, as he climbed to his feet and slowly walked across the room toward the window. For a long time he stood there, backlit by intermittent flashes of lightning. It was lighter now—was dawn breaking?—and she could see the humble furnishings in her small bedroom. The desk just across where her neglected dissertation waited, the altar where the spell candle flickered, the chair in the corner piled with re-wearable clothes, the bookcase crammed with vampire novels and Scottish romances.
Funny how the man at the window was an amalgamated personification of the two genres she loved best. Was it a bleed-through from her past lives? She licked her lips, but kept quiet, waiting for him to begin. The scene reminded her uncannily of the opening of Interview with the Vampire , in which Louis turned on the light to prove to the boy he was as he claimed.
Graham was fair-skinned too, but not in a ghoulish way. Her eyes brushed his long, copper hair, dyed silver by the night. It looked thick and silky and she yearned to touch it. He still wore the white shirt and dark trousers from the pub, but was now sans jacket, not surprising given how she’d sucked him out of the comfort of his home in the middle of the night. What if he’d already been in bed? Something deliciously wicked twitched in her belly. What did he sleep in? What would she have done if he’d arrived without a stitch? What would he have done?
“Do
She said nothing for a couple of beats before asking, “Does it hurt?”
He thought he knew what she meant, but wasn’t sure. “You mean the bloodletting?”
“Yes.” She let out a small laugh. “I might be a virgin, but I don’t live on a desert island. I’ve been on the Internet. I talk to people. I know sex hurts the first time.”
“It does. The bloodletting, that is. The bite part, though the drinking part is rather enjoyable. And sex too. For the woman. Or, so I’ve been told. But—”
He stopped himself before saying he hoped they wouldn’t have sex, because he wanted to as much as he didn’t for lots of reasons he didn’t care to explain.
“But what?”
“Never mind.” He gave his head a quick shake. “What’s your name?”
“Cat. Short for Cathleen. Cathleen Fingal.”
He rolled his eyes. Bloody hell. Of course it was. It was always Cat, wasn’t it? She was always the same, give or take a few fingerprints of the times. He just wished to God he knew why. Was her immortal soul punishing him? Was God? Why else give her back just to take her again?
“Let me go, Ca thleen Fingal. I’ll go back to Scotland and never darken your door again.”
“But I want you to darken my door.”
“Christ, lass,” he ground out , shaking his head. “Do you have a bloody death wish?”
She gave him a sharp look. “I’m supposed to be asking the questions, remember?”
“So, you’re going to keep me here.” His fingers powered his hair. “No matter what?”
He saw the flash of a grin. “That’s the plan.”
Shifting his weight, he pulled up his left knee to ease the strain on his back. He licked his lips, tasting her mouth on his. He liked the familiar flavor of her, liked the kiss. Too much for both their goods. If she meant to keep him spellbound all weekend—and it appeared she did—there didn’t seem to be much he could do about it. And talking seemed a safer way to pass the time than the alternative. As much as he longed to lay with her again, he must keep his feet firmly on the tightrope.
“I should like to tell you the story of my life then,” he offered, hoping she’d catch the reference. “I would like to do that very much.”
Though h er face was in darkness, he could see her smile. It let him know she’d understood, even before she said, “That’s the spirit, Louis.”
* * *
She watched from the bed, leaning on a pair of pillows propped against the brass headboard, as he climbed to his feet and slowly walked across the room toward the window. For a long time he stood there, backlit by intermittent flashes of lightning. It was lighter now—was dawn breaking?—and she could see the humble furnishings in her small bedroom. The desk just across where her neglected dissertation waited, the altar where the spell candle flickered, the chair in the corner piled with re-wearable clothes, the bookcase crammed with vampire novels and Scottish romances.
Funny how the man at the window was an amalgamated personification of the two genres she loved best. Was it a bleed-through from her past lives? She licked her lips, but kept quiet, waiting for him to begin. The scene reminded her uncannily of the opening of Interview with the Vampire , in which Louis turned on the light to prove to the boy he was as he claimed.
Graham was fair-skinned too, but not in a ghoulish way. Her eyes brushed his long, copper hair, dyed silver by the night. It looked thick and silky and she yearned to touch it. He still wore the white shirt and dark trousers from the pub, but was now sans jacket, not surprising given how she’d sucked him out of the comfort of his home in the middle of the night. What if he’d already been in bed? Something deliciously wicked twitched in her belly. What did he sleep in? What would she have done if he’d arrived without a stitch? What would he have done?
“Do
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