Knight of Wands

Chapter 1

Twenty-four hours later
John o'Groats, Scotland

"Have a look at your adoring fan over there," Duncan said, leaning in. "I do believe she's visually undressing you."

Callum looked up from the book he'd been signing—Political Astrology through the Ages, his latest in a series on the subject. The fan in question stood by the refreshment table, clutching the book to her chest. Was she undressing him with her gaze? A smile stole across his mouth as interest deepened its hook. Judging by the heat of her stare, he was already naked in her mind.

While delivering his lecture on the same topic, he'd seen her in the third row, giving him equally heated looks. All through his talk, her presence, not to mention her seductive stare, had made it difficult to concentrate on his notes. Luckily, he knew the topic well enough to wing it.

Licking his lips, he traced the long, smooth contours of flesh and muscle beneath the posh black pantsuit she wore. She was tall and slender—willowy—with an angular face and a wide, full mouth that stretched into an inviting smile as his gaze met hers with an electrical charge he felt in his groin. Her eyes were as blue and deep as a loch. Mesmerized, he returned the smile. How easily he could get lost in those eyes, forget how to swim, and realize too late he was drowning.

Atingle with longing, he lowered his gaze to her breasts, which were large, firm, and unharnessed. Did she have an aversion to undergarments? He hoped not, given his penchant for naughty lingerie. He dressed her in a lacy black corset and thigh-high stockings. Oh, aye. She definitely had the figure to indulge his weakness. Swallowing his rising lust, he shifted in his chair to ease the tightening in his trousers.

Turning to Duncan, he asked, "Who is she? Do you know?"

"I'm afraid I don't," his friend replied.

Swallowing, Callum shifted his focus to the woman directly in front of him. She was fiftyish, plump, and squat with curly dishwater hair. "What was the name again?"

"Sorcha."

"That's lovely." He grinned through the qualm inflicted by the name. "I once had a wife called Sorcha."

His statement clearly aroused her interest. "Would you be looking for a new wife by any chance, your lordship? Because, if you are, I ken a bonny lass who'd be just perfect for you."

"Oh, aye?" Still smiling falsely, he arched an eyebrow. "What sign would she be then?"

"She's a Gemini." The woman beamed at him in a manner suggesting the lady in question was probably her daughter.

"Ah. I see." He cleared his throat. "Well, Sorcha, that's too bad. Because, you see, I make it a strict policy never to get tangled up with anyone born under the sign of the twins. They're far too changeable for me, I'm afraid."

He signed her book and handed it back. He made more or less the same claim whatever the answer. Well-meaning women were forever trying to set him up—usually with themselves. He sought out the dark-haired lass again, wondering what sign she might be. Not that it mattered, since what he had in mind would be brief and involve very little talking.

Sending in his psychic tentacles, he glimpsed particles of her life. Odd bits of a puzzle whose pieces didn't quite fit together. A suspension bridge he recognized as the Golden Gate in San Francisco. Ornate wrought-iron banisters like those in New Orleans. A string of not-nice men. Environmental protests. Tarot cards. A small white house with an inviting front porch.

Probing deeper, he looked for her childhood and family, but found only two women. An older one who radiated warmth and a younger one—her mother, no doubt—worn down by years of disappointed expectations. Oddly, he found no father; only a dark-haired man with piercing blue eyes who seemed familiar.