Starry Knight Read Free Page B

people through politics than by donating part of his catch to the local soup kitchen.
    Shutting his eyes against her allure, Callum took his emotional temperature. He was already fraying around the edges and still had to get through dinner with some of Duncan’s and his political pals. Another hour or two of forcing himself to be sociable would likely unravel him completely. How would he divide himself between a crew of rapid nationalists and the lass, let alone have anything left to give her afterward?
    He made another lingering appraisal. As raw need pulsed through his bloodstream, he decided to try. He wanted her, damn it, and was sick to death of denying himself the pleasures of female company—human female company.
    A white-haired crone stood before him now. He held out his hand for her book, opened to the title page, and scrawled his signature line. With a tight-lipped smile, he handed it back and sought the cool brunette once more. Their gazes met with a high-voltage charge that crackled all the way to his brogues.
    There was only one more person in line, thank the stars—a woman with chin-length dark hair, enormous gray eyes, and delicate features. Callum regarded her warily, noting she held no book.
    “And what can I do for you?” he asked, sure he knew the answer.
    “It’s not you I’m here to see,” she said with a Sassenach accent. “While I’d gladly swing among the stars with you anytime, Lord Lyon, I believe your astrology to be—now, how shall I put this delicately?—a lorry load of New Age horseshit.”
    The comment both startled and bewildered Callum. If she thought astrology naught but bollocks, why was she here?
    He got his answer when she turned to Duncan. “My name’s Miranda Hornsby. I’m a reporter for the Caithness Crier and I’ve got a hush, hush tip for you.”
    Leaning closer, Duncan arched an eyebrow. “Oh, aye? And what might that be?”
    “I’m about to do a take-down piece on Alasdair Sinclair.” She kept her voice low so only the two men could hear. “So, if you’re as smart as you look, you’ll have a challenger ready in time for the election.”
    “But,” Duncan stammered, clearly caught off-guard, “the election’s only a few weeks away.”
    “Tell me something I don’t know,” she said before turning on her heel and striding off.
    Rubbing his chin, Callum considered what she’d disclosed with growing excitement. Sinclair was the Member of Parliament for Caithness, a Scottish representative in the House of Commons, the elected body of representatives in the British Parliament. The Scottish Parliament, re-established in 1997, enjoyed only limited authority over domestic policy, so the real power still resided with the larger legislature in London.
    Alasdair Sinclair was a total party puppet who routinely ignored his constituents while committing flagrant adultery. In addition to being a conservative who opposed independence—bad enough on its own—Sinclair was a descendant of the ruthless bastards who’d stolen Castle Barrogill, killed Callum’s son, and driven his wife to suicide.
    “Can you have a candidate ready to run in time, do you think?”
    “To be sure,” Duncan said. “In fact, I’ve already got someone in mind.”
    Callum arched an inquisitive eyebrow. “Are you at liberty to divulge his name?”
    “Aye,” Duncan said with a cock-sure grin. “Lord Lyon, baron of Duncansby.”
    Callum sputtered in surprise. “What? Me? Are you mad?”
    Duncan’s earnest blue gaze held his. “I’m perfectly sane, I assure you.”
    “But…I prefer to pull strings from behind the scenes, as you well know.”
    “Be that as it may,” Duncan said, his grin gaining confidence, “your party needs you, man. As does your country. So, it’s time for the Great and Powerful Oz to step out from behind the curtain.”
    The room was emptying, but there was still a tangle of people by the door. Callum scanned the cluster for a willowy figure, dark hair, and a