she rode him.
Without doubt, she was the most skilled seductress he’d ever encountered. Just the mention of her name was enough to send a rush of heat pulsing into his groin.
Usually.
Tonight, the thought of her didn’t even bring a single twitch.
His trusty male parts—and, indeed, all of him—remained as cold as the chill night air seeping in through the shutter slats.
A discreet downward glance proved it. Bed-naked as he was, there could be no mistaking.
Bran scowled. “Give Serafina my felicitations and my regrets.” He reached to rub the back of his neck, hoping Saor would believe him. “The pain in my head this e’en is too great for even her wonders to be of service.”
“You truly wish to stay abed? Alone?” Saor’s grin faded. He flicked a quick glance down the dimly lit corridor, back toward the turnpike stair. “Serafina will no’ be pleased.”
“Perhaps these”—Bran flicked his fingers to produce two gold coins—“will sweeten her disappointment.”
“Aye, and the sun will fall from the sky on the morrow.” Saor looked skeptical, but he took the coins.
He also eyed Bran a bit longer, then shrugged and turned on his heel to sprint down the passageway. He vanished a few paces from the arched entry to the stair tower, apparently preferring to sift himself back into the hall rather than take the narrow, winding stairs.
Any other time, Bran would have thrown back his head and laughed. He certainly understood Saor’s eagerness to return to Serafina’s side.
But his own lack of desire to be there troubled him more.
Indeed, it took all his control not to slam his fist into the doorjamb. Something he was even more tempted to do when he turned back to his room and caught the faint glimmer of blue winking at him from deep inside the Heartbreaker’s charmed pommel stone.
“Hellfire and damnation,” he growled, not for the first time that night.
If the sword heard him—or cared—it gave no sign.
Sadly, his gut told him plenty.
Disappointing, or even angering, Serafina was the least of his worries. In truth, his troubles hadn’t even begun. And when they did, they’d be worse than anything he’d faced in seven hundred long years.
Much worse.
Gods help him.
Chapter 3
“Ghosts?”
Margo Menlove’s voice rose on the word. Her eyes rounded and she grabbed Mindy’s arms, squeezing tight. “A whole troop of them here at the Folly—bearded, kilt-swinging ghosts—and you didn’t tell me!”
“I’m telling you now.” Mindy broke free of her sister’s grasp and went to stand beside the kitchen’s antique refectory table. Its solidity soothed her. As did the ultramodern kitchen appliances lining the thick stone walls. Gleaming state-of-the-art ranges and refrigerators didn’t smack of spooks and things that go bump in the night.
Better yet, the quiet hum of the dishwasher made it difficult to imagine the zing of a sword being whipped out of its scabbard.
The lingering scent of breakfast bacon helped, too.
Mindy doubted ghosts had much of an appetite.
Even so, she was grateful that no ancestral portraits hung in the huge barrel-vaulted space.
Only the massive double-arched fireplace hinted at the room’s medieval origins, but she took care not to glance in that direction. The Folly’s staff—invisible and discreet as in the Age of Victorians—took great pains in keeping the kitchen fire blazing, and its crackling, well-doing flames were just a tad too atmospheric.
Under the circumstances, that was.
Mindy shivered.
She also refused to think about the flicker of eerie blue light she’d seen earlier—a large man’s silhouette reflected near the warm glow of the fire. Nor would she dwell on the faint skirl of pipes she’d heard coming from one of the kitchen’s darker, more echoey corners.
Above all, she wasn’t going to mention last
Without doubt, she was the most skilled seductress he’d ever encountered. Just the mention of her name was enough to send a rush of heat pulsing into his groin.
Usually.
Tonight, the thought of her didn’t even bring a single twitch.
His trusty male parts—and, indeed, all of him—remained as cold as the chill night air seeping in through the shutter slats.
A discreet downward glance proved it. Bed-naked as he was, there could be no mistaking.
Bran scowled. “Give Serafina my felicitations and my regrets.” He reached to rub the back of his neck, hoping Saor would believe him. “The pain in my head this e’en is too great for even her wonders to be of service.”
“You truly wish to stay abed? Alone?” Saor’s grin faded. He flicked a quick glance down the dimly lit corridor, back toward the turnpike stair. “Serafina will no’ be pleased.”
“Perhaps these”—Bran flicked his fingers to produce two gold coins—“will sweeten her disappointment.”
“Aye, and the sun will fall from the sky on the morrow.” Saor looked skeptical, but he took the coins.
He also eyed Bran a bit longer, then shrugged and turned on his heel to sprint down the passageway. He vanished a few paces from the arched entry to the stair tower, apparently preferring to sift himself back into the hall rather than take the narrow, winding stairs.
Any other time, Bran would have thrown back his head and laughed. He certainly understood Saor’s eagerness to return to Serafina’s side.
But his own lack of desire to be there troubled him more.
Indeed, it took all his control not to slam his fist into the doorjamb. Something he was even more tempted to do when he turned back to his room and caught the faint glimmer of blue winking at him from deep inside the Heartbreaker’s charmed pommel stone.
“Hellfire and damnation,” he growled, not for the first time that night.
If the sword heard him—or cared—it gave no sign.
Sadly, his gut told him plenty.
Disappointing, or even angering, Serafina was the least of his worries. In truth, his troubles hadn’t even begun. And when they did, they’d be worse than anything he’d faced in seven hundred long years.
Much worse.
Gods help him.
Chapter 3
“Ghosts?”
Margo Menlove’s voice rose on the word. Her eyes rounded and she grabbed Mindy’s arms, squeezing tight. “A whole troop of them here at the Folly—bearded, kilt-swinging ghosts—and you didn’t tell me!”
“I’m telling you now.” Mindy broke free of her sister’s grasp and went to stand beside the kitchen’s antique refectory table. Its solidity soothed her. As did the ultramodern kitchen appliances lining the thick stone walls. Gleaming state-of-the-art ranges and refrigerators didn’t smack of spooks and things that go bump in the night.
Better yet, the quiet hum of the dishwasher made it difficult to imagine the zing of a sword being whipped out of its scabbard.
The lingering scent of breakfast bacon helped, too.
Mindy doubted ghosts had much of an appetite.
Even so, she was grateful that no ancestral portraits hung in the huge barrel-vaulted space.
Only the massive double-arched fireplace hinted at the room’s medieval origins, but she took care not to glance in that direction. The Folly’s staff—invisible and discreet as in the Age of Victorians—took great pains in keeping the kitchen fire blazing, and its crackling, well-doing flames were just a tad too atmospheric.
Under the circumstances, that was.
Mindy shivered.
She also refused to think about the flicker of eerie blue light she’d seen earlier—a large man’s silhouette reflected near the warm glow of the fire. Nor would she dwell on the faint skirl of pipes she’d heard coming from one of the kitchen’s darker, more echoey corners.
Above all, she wasn’t going to mention last
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