Knight of Wands (Knights of the Tarot Book 1)

by Mason, Nina

  “Callum.” She touched his arm. “What did you have Hamish send you to wear?”

  “What do you think?” His leonine grin warmed her to her backbone. “I might be a double Leo and a faery knight, mo dearbadan-de, but first and foremost, I’m a Highlander.”

  Epilogue

  Election Night

  John o’Groats, Scotland

  Callum was back in the auditorium where he’d first set eyes on his butterfly, who was now his wife. In just a few moments, he’d be making a speech, but which kind? Victory or concession? Holding tight to Vanessa’s hand, he kept his focus on the television set. Any second, Miranda Hornsby, the new evening anchor for the local news, would announce the results.

  Since coming home, he’d campaigned like a maniac with his new bride by his side. Marriage and the campaign had changed both of them for the better. He’d found his lust for life again and she’d grown to trust him and her heart. They still made love all the time, but now talked afterward in the easy, open way he’d always longed to but never could with his first wife.

  Speaking of Sorcha, her spirit, it seemed, was finally at rest. The castle only grew cold now when he said the wrong thing to Vanessa. Luckily, she forgave him quickly and the make-up sex was out of this world.

  His pulse quickened at the first notes of the opening fanfare of the special broadcast. He gave his wife’s hand a reassuring squeeze as Miranda’s familiar face filled the screen. She wore a purple jacket and had changed her hairstyle, but otherwise looked the same.

  “Good evening. In tonight’s top story, Callum Lyon, the democratic challenger, has defeated the incumbent conservative Alasdair Sinclair by more than two thousand votes.”

  When Callum’s headshot flashed on the screen in the background, Vanessa gave him a congratulatory peck on the cheek.

  “Lord Lyon, thirty-four, the Baron of Duncansby, is a political astrologer who’s written numerous books on the topic. The turnout for this general election was high at almost forty-nine percent.”

  “Oh, baby,” Vanessa said, kissing him again. “I’m so proud of you.”

  His heart swelled with a heady mixture of pride and gratitude. Running for office, as crazy as it seemed, had forced him to face just how removed he’d become from his passions. Before he could thank her for nudging him into it, his picture was replaced by one of a dark-eyed deer.

  “And this just in from the States,” Miss Hornsby said, looking more serious. “Another death in Louisiana has been attributed to a bizarre attack by what appears to be a rogue deer in Bayou Manac, a notoriously haunted swamp. This brings the death toll to two in the past two months. Local authorities believe both victims were poachers who’d been hunting in the swamp illegally. U.S. Fish and Game officials are looking into the causes of this unnatural behavior, to determine if it’s the result of genetic mutation or a new strain of disease.”

  Shaking his head, Callum looked at Vanessa. “Well, mo dearbadan-de. I think we can safely say your environmental footprint just got a whole lot bigger.”

  Before she could say anything in response, Duncan burst into the room and pulled him into a back-pounding embrace. “Well done. Well done. Let me be the first to offer my congratulations. On the election as well as your other news.” Letting Callum go, he took Vanessa by the hands and kissed her on both cheeks. “I’m so happy for you both. Do you know the sex yet?”

  “Yes,” Vanessa replied with a beaming smile. “We just found out this afternoon.” She rubbed her belly. “We’re having a little girl.”

  —The End—

  Meet the Author

  Nina Mason is a hopeful romantic with strong affinities for history, mythology, and the metaphysical. She strives to write the same kind of books she loves to read: those that entertain, edify, and educate. When not writing, Nina works as a communications consultant, dollmaker, and Pure Romance consultant. Born and raised in Southern California, she now lives in Woodstock, Georgia, with her husband, teenage daughter, two rescue cats, and a Westie who’s afraid of the dryer. Visit her website at ninamasonauthor.com, find her on Facebook, or follow her on Twitter @ninamasonauthor

  Read on for an excerpt from the next book in the Knights of the Tarot series:

  KNIGHT OF CUPS

  When Gwyndolen Darling, a sexual abuse survivor who lives in a fantasy world, travels to Scotland to meet her obsession, she soon finds herself in a dark faery tale of epic proportions. Sir Leith MacQuill, the object of her quest, isn't just a reclusive author who’s into BDSM, he also is a shapeshifting faery knight who carries a curse that will kill any woman who captures his heart.

  When his usual methods fail to protect Gwyn, a dead ringer for the wife he tragically lost back in 1746, Sir Leith must find a way to break the curse or lose his One True Love a second time. Unfortunately, the article he needs to reverse the hex is in the otherworld land he was banished from by the ruthless faery queen who cursed him.

  Gwyn must, therefore, undertake the dangerous mission alone. Will she find the courage within herself to fight for herself and her knight? Or will she choose to stay inside the imaginary tower she’s built to keep herself safe from the world?

  Chapter 1

  With a weight on my heart I had not felt since I watched my father die on the gallows, I pulled my plaid tighter around my shoulders. The bitter north wind blowing across the desolate heath burned my face and cut like a knife through my ice-encrusted tartan garments. Drumossie Moor had to be the worst possible place to challenge the Duke of Cumberland’s army.

  What were our chances of winning this battle? Somewhere between slim and none, I would wager. The luck we enjoyed at Gladsmuir and Falkirk, it would seem, had finally run out.

  The English enemy had canons, rifle-muskets affixed with bayonets, ammunition, horses, archers, and some nine thousand well-rested, well-fed soldiers trained and drilled for just this sort of line-to-line confrontation.

  We Jacobites, in contrast, were a rag-tag bunch of frozen, starved, and exhausted volunteers. If the duke’s army stood firm in the face of our charge, we were doomed. Not that we stood much chance either way.

  Even so, my father would have wanted me to fight for the rightful king and the One True Faith. Was he looking down from Heaven right now? Was he proud of his only son for taking up the cause for which he gave his life?

  A braw man with a passionate heart, he was hanged, drawn, and quartered twenty-three years ago—when I was on the cusp of manhood—for his role in the Atterbury Plot, a Jacobite conspiracy to restore the House of Stuart to the throne of Great Britain.

  His head, which I stole from its place of display atop Temple Bar, the ceremonial archway between London and Westminster, was buried in the walled garden of my castle, beside my gold, to prevent my most prized family treasures from falling into thieving Sassenach hands. I might not love the Stuarts as much as did my father, but I hate the heretic English even more.

  If only I could have hidden my wife and unborn child from the enemy as easily.

  Please, Father in Heaven, keep them safe.

  Biting down to still my chattering teeth, I urged my mount onto the sodden field where the prince was doing his best to bolster morale. Some poor sods dozed where they stood; others lay along the road like plaid-shrouded corpses awaiting the death cart. Still more had abandoned their posts altogether—out of futility and hunger.

  Our best fighters had yet to show up and the promised reinforcements from France were naught but a pipe dream, regrettably.

  From the look of things, we were about to be handed our bollocks.

  Feeling as if I were being forced to dig my own grave, I reined my horse into position beside the other mounted officers. The sun was at high noon now and the lines were drawn within cannon-shot of one another. Despite our dismal prospects, the clansmen took off their bonnets and gave a great whooping cheer. The enemy answered with a resounding huzzah.

  Cannons boomed, one after the other, and I remembered those nights in my youth when I b
elieved the thunder was God expressing his wrath for the sins I was too ashamed to confess. Fornication, impure thoughts, inordinate affection, evil concupiscence, self-pleasuring, and covetousness, among them. I was far from an evil man, but neither was I a monk.

  Heracles danced under me, champing at the bit to have his head. I kept the horse reined in and an eye out for the order to engage.

  When it came, the front line charged, swords drawn, guns blazing. The English showered them with grapeshot and bullets. The sulphuric smoke of gunpowder clouded the air. Lord Murray’s regiment swung off to the right, leaving the MacDonalds wide open.

  Drawing my sword with a surge of adrenaline and a whoosh of steel, I kicked my horse, ready to fill in the gap. Men and cannonballs fell all around me. I swiped and stabbed at anything rushing toward me in red. The onslaught seemed endless.

  Bullets and grapeshot zinged past my ears. Smoke burned my eyes and throat. Somewhere in the din of screaming men, clashing blades, and popping gunfire, our bugler sounded the retreat.

  Thank God for that. We might yet make it out of this melee with our lives.

  My comrades fled, falling as they ran. My hope fell with them.

  Cumberland’s cavalry rode us down, showing no mercy.

  An English officer on a black horse headed straight for me, blade raised.

  Bloody hell. I’d be gutted like a pike if I didn’t make a run for it. Jerking the reins around, I kicked hard. Heracles squealed, reared, and spun. I dug in my spurs, set my focus on the hills, and rode as if Lucifer himself was on my heels. He was, and hard.

  My heart pounded and sweat leaked from every pore.

  Something struck my shoulder with searing force, nearly unseating me. A lightning bolt of agony ripped through me. I held on, gritting my teeth against the pain.

  Two strides farther, Heracles shrieked, stumbled, and went down. Mortal fear ensnared me. The same mortal fear I’d felt at Gladsmuir, my first real battle. Until then, I didn’t know what kind of damage a cannonball could inflict on the human body. Even now, I can’t close my eyes without seeing Geordie McLaren, my closest boyhood friend, lying on the field at Falkirk with his legs blown off.

  I hit the ground and rolled out of the stallion’s way.

  A redcoat was on me in an instant.

  I swung my broadsword. The blade sliced through meat and bone. I shuddered involuntarily at the revolting sensation.

  The soldier’s head, wearing a startled expression, fell one way whilst his body fell another. As images of my father’s execution stole across my mind, I shut my eyes and concentrated on my current pain. My shoulder throbbed beneath the warm blood saturating my shirt. The metallic smell of it filled my nostrils. My stomach lurched. Rolling onto my side, I vomited what little I’d eaten that morning.

  A tempest of hooves thundered past. Gunfire popped like a Beltane bonfire. Clashing steel and anguished screams echoed in my ears. To hell with the pain. If I didn’t move, I would die.

  I looked about for anywhere I might take cover. Spotting a copse not far away, I dragged myself toward it, doing my best to traverse the grisly obstacle course of carnage strewn across the field. Under me, the ground was soaked with rain, piss, and blood. The vile stench rising from the grass made my stomach turn.

  Upon reaching the trees, I was sick again. Only bile came up. I wrapped myself in my plaid and collapsed, drenched in sweat.

  Clara. Would I ever see her face again? Or meet the child she carried? Would she bear me a son to carry on my name and bloodline? Or a sweet lass with her mother’s bonny smile? That smile had bewitched me the first moment I set eyes on her while accompanying my mother to Blair Castle to call upon her uncle, the Duke of Athol. We had gone there to petition for the return of my father’s confiscated lands. The petition was granted after I signed an oath of allegiance I knew was a lie.

  Would Clara and I ever meet again on this earth? Would we meet in Heaven? I suddenly regretted not confessing the sins of my youth to Father Mackenzie. Was it too late to ask the Heavenly Father for forgiveness?

  I struck my breast and tried hard to remember the prayer, but encroaching blackness wiped it away. Too fatigued to fight, I let the darkness claim me.

  A touch as soft as the wings of a moth brought me back.

  Opening my eyes, I turned, wincing as pain tore through me. I blinked, unable to believe what I beheld. Surely, God had sent one of his angels to fetch me home.

  Her face was as white as milk and her hair was black, thick, and wavy.

  “Am I dead…or dreaming?” My throat was so parched I had to force the words.

  “Poor, poor man.” Her deep blue eyes gazed upon me with pity. “Poor, hurt Highlander. You are not dead—but soon will be.”

  Her image shimmered like a reflection on the surface of a loch.

  “Have you come to take me to meet my maker?”

  Her expression grew puzzled. “I have come to heal you…and to take you to Avalon.”

  Avalon was a myth. I must be delirious. From the folds of her diaphanous frock, she produced a golden chalice adorned with stones and Celtic engravings.

  She pressed it to my lips.

  Plagued by a terrible thirst, I drank deeply. Whatever was inside was as cloyingly sweet as honey mead, but also earthy. The pain eased almost at once. My strength returned with a surge. The fever passed. I stopped shivering.

  A hand brushed my thigh.

  Startled, I swallowed hard.

  “What are you doing there, lass?”

  “Appraising.”

  Appraising? What do I look like, a cut of meat in a butcher’s stall?

  Boldly, she took the measure of my manhood.

  My blood answered the call of her touch. I did not believe I had strength enough to respond, but respond my body did. Desire ignited in my loins. My tarse swelled and stiffened. A potent mixture of lust and guilt bubbled in my gut. I thought of Clara with a knot in my gut. I might have been a rake in my bachelor days, but I had been a faithful husband, and wished to remain true to the woman I loved.

  “I have a wife.”

  Undeterred, she took my member into her mouth. My body welcomed the pleasure even as my heart and mind protested.

  “Lass, please…”

  Deaf to my objections, she twirled her tongue against the most sensitive part of my anatomy.

  How could this be happening? What should I do? I had never been so brazenly seduced by any but my own dear Clara.

  Something sharp pricked my inner thigh. I strained my neck to see the cause. The lass had done it, but what in the name of Old Nick was she about? When I demanded an explanation, she gave no answer. She was too busy sucking the blood from the bite she had inflicted on my upper leg...

  “Oh, my stars!”

  Gwyn turned to find her seatmate, an apple-cheeked, grandmotherly type, who’d been reading over her shoulder. Annoyed by the invasion of privacy, she shut the book.

  Mrs. Dowd’s mouth and knitting needles had been going non-stop from the moment they boarded the tour bus that morning in Glasgow.

  Hence, Gwyn’s retreat into the book she brought along, Knight of Cups by Leith MacQuill, which she had already devoured at least a dozen times.

  She offered the meddlesome Englishwoman a disingenuous smile. “Haven’t you read Knight of Cups?”

  “I can’t say that I have...”

  “But you do know we’re spending the night at the author’s castle, don’t you?”

  “Oh, yes.” Mrs. Dowd’s milky blue eyes twinkled behind the oversized, rhinestone-studded bifocals she wore on a lanyard. “Though I only signed up for the tour because I was…well, let’s just say I was in the mood for a little company.”

  When Mrs. Dowd went back to her knitting, Gwyn wondered uneasily if she would use tours like this one when she was old to keep loneliness at bay the way she used books and roleplaying now.

  Not that being all alone in the world didn’t have its advantages, like wearing the same yoga pants day
after day because there was nobody there to notice or care and ordering pizza for dinner every night so she didn’t have to cook.

  She loathed cooking almost as much as she detested going to the grocery store, mostly because she hated leaving the safety of her mobile home, which she had decorated so comfortably with her vast collection of dragons and unicorns.

  Sometimes, though, she would stand over the sink in the kitchen, eating a flavorless slice of cold pizza, and wonder if anyone would notice if she suddenly dropped dead. She would think about her parents and the drunk driver who had plowed into their car when she was only eight. Why had she been spared, but not them? She liked to believe she had survived because she had a purpose to fulfill, even though her life seemed utterly pointless.

  Then, she read Knight of Cups, and her purpose became clear. Well, maybe clear was too strong a word, but she definitely saw a glimmer.

  Gwyn took a breath and started to read again.

  “What the devil do you think you’re doing there, lass?”

  She lifted her face. Her lips and chin dripped with my blood.

  Horror shuddered through me.

  “Queen Morgan will be most pleased with you, my lord,” she said, softly, sweetly. “You are both fair of face and well endowed.”

  Revulsion tightened my throat as the faery went back to drinking my blood. I wanted to complain, but words escaped me. I had oft heard the stories of the White Women of the Highland forests, but, being educated and a good Catholic, had always dismissed them as superstitious nonsense.

  Clearly, the stories were true. I searched my mind for the details, but found only particles floating in haze. Iron. They didn’t like it and couldn’t touch a man on a shod horse.

  The thought of Hercules lying dead on the field tore me in two. The stallion was a wedding present from the Duke of Athol, the best of his colts born that year. The loss of so fine an animal was egregious indeed. I had hoped to breed the beast to some of my mares come spring, but now…