Knight of Pentacles (Knights of the Tarot Book 3)

by Nina Mason

  “Even if he wanted a partner, which he did not, he was chattel. A breeding drone. A white knight captured by the black queen. His life was no longer his own to command.”

  The future looks bleak for Jenna Cameron when, after a five-year engagement, her fiancé breaks it off the night before the wedding. Hoping to regroup, Jenna decides to drive alone to the cottage on Scotland’s mysterious Black Isle where she was supposed to spend her honeymoon. When her car breaks down, Jenna wonders if her troubles can get any worse. Then, while cutting through a secluded glen, she sees a handsome man bathing in a waterfall. The next day, she learns the man she saw is the faery knight who guards the portal into Avalon, the otherworld island ruled by Morgan Le Fay.

  Jenna, ready to be rid of the virginity she’s saved in vain, offers herself to Sir Axel Lochlann, the shaman knight of Faery Glen. From that moment on, she finds herself inside an Old Norse fairytale complete with magic, danger, and true love. She also discovers powers she didn’t know she had—powers she might be able to use to break Sir Axel’s bonds to Queen Morgan.

  First, however, she must persuade her knight to put his desire to be free ahead of his duty to the queen he’s sworn to serve and obey.

  Books by Nina Mason

  Royal Pains

  Devil in Duke’s Clothing

  The Duke’s Bedeviled Bride

  The Devil’s Masquerade

  The Devils Who Would Be King (July 2016)

  Sins Against the Sea

  Knights of the Tarot

  (Revision and re-release of former Knights of Avalon series)

  Knight of Wands

  Knight of Cups

  Knight of Pentacles

  Knight of Swords (January 2017)

  Out of Print

  The Queen of Swords

  The Tin Man

  Starry Knight

  Dark and Stormy Knight

  Knight of Pentacles

  Knights of the Tarot, Book Two

  Nina Mason

  Copyright

  Copyright © 2016 by Nina Mason

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be produced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the author, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  Acknowledgements

  For their support and encouragement along the way, I thank my wonderful family; my critique partner, Amanda Siemens; and my beta readers: Anne Rindfliesch, Rosemary Hendry, Patricia Statham, Meaghan Royce, Monique Daoust, Pam Swan, Elizabeth Burns, and Darlene Suber.

  For the gems of history, mythology, and runic wisdom mined from the following reference books, I offer gratitude to the authors: Futhark: A Handbook of Rune Magic and Runecaster’s Handbook by Edred Thorsson; Rune Magic by Nigel Pennick; The Book of Runes by Ralph Blum; and Highland Martial Culture and The Fighting Heritage of Scotland by Christopher Scott Thompson.

  PART ONE

  The Faery of the Glen

  Chapter 1

  Faery Glen

  Rosemarkie, Scotland

  Modern Day

  When the English arrow pierced his breast, Sir Axel Lochlann awakened to find he was still on the simple cot in the hidden cave he called home. He had been dreaming of Bannock Burn again and the enemy bowman who had stolen his life.

  Not literally, of course. Obviously, he was still among the living. If one could apply the term “living” to an existence as mundane as his had become.

  He filled the endless chain of days with ritual and routine. In the mornings, he would sit at the table he’d made from bark and branches, and read his runes, the ancient glyphs his mother, a powerful Viking vitka, had taught him to use for divination, protection, and spellcasting. Then, he would go outside and take a cold-water bath under the falls, a practice he’d learned from his father, who’d taught him the ways of a warrior. Not only how to fight and defend himself with broadsword, dirk, and stave, but also how to ride with aplomb, hunt and fish, navigate the sea, read and write, and embody the qualities expected of their class.

  “A warrior is brave, strong, and vigorous, a protector and defender of his people,” his father would say. “He is invulnerable and victorious, refusing to yield or retreat in fear. He is tenacious in pursuing enemies and ruthless in applying his vengeance once he catches them. He is fierce, especially when roused, and his enemies fear him.”

  After saying his prayers, he would stand there under the icy spray imagining himself to be Odin hanging upside down from the sacred tree whose branches and roots reached into the nine worlds.

  The rest of the day, he remained inside the cave, reading, meditating, or carving runic talismans. Though an enchantment shielded him from the eyes of the tourists who visited the glen during the daylight hours, he would rather not venture out among mortals. Doing so only reminded him he would never achieve his greatest goal: to die in battle and be taken by the Valkyries to Valhalla.

  Because he’d been taken from the battlefield by the faeries instead, and made a breeding drone to Queen Morgan Le Fay instead of an einherjar to Odin.

  Still, the life of a portal guard was vastly preferable to the life of a knight. At least he enjoyed a modicum of autonomy here in Faery Glen. Provided he remained at his post, he could govern his turf as he saw fit. On occasion, he was still summoned to the bedchamber of his queen, but the rest of the time, thankfully, he was at liberty to live as he chose.

  He relished his freedom, limited though it was. The glen, a beautiful and tranquil alternative to the barracks he had been confined to in Avalon, was thickly wooded with beech, rowan, ash, hazel, and oak, and contained a millpond and two waterfalls. In the spring, bluebells and primroses carpeted the ground. Apart from missing the brotherhood of war, the thrill of battle, and feeling a bit lonesome at times, he was content.

  Ready to start his day, Axel flung away the quilt of animal pelts he slept under, climbed off the cot, and crossed the cave to the natural shelf where he kept his runes.

  His little make-shift altar displayed the figures of Odin, Thor, and Freya he had carved from a branch of ash, the most hallowed of the nine sacred woods. Around the statues, he’d placed offerings gathered in the glen: a chunk of smoky quartz, a raven’s black feather, assorted pebbles he found pleasing for one reason or another, and small bundles of wildflowers and herbs.

  He took the leather pouch in which he kept his runes to the rustic chair he had built from logs and hides when he was first reassigned as a portal guardian. Setting the bag upon the crude table he had fashioned from fallen limbs, he reached inside and randomly selected a stone—the topaz inscribed with what looked like a letter “x” with one short leg.

  Nauthiz, the glyph of constraint, necessity, and pain.

  In the position of his past, the symbol made sense. He had suffered because of his enslavement, but also found his way through the pain by using it to know himself better. And self-knowledge was the first step on the never-ending journey toward illumination.

  Reaching into the bag again, he chose another stone and placed it beside the first. This time, he drew the amethyst depicting the solitary parallel line of Isa—the rune of standstill and impediments. Isa, which symbolized the ice of winter, advised patience and reflection while awaiting the spring thaw.

  In the position of his present circumstances, this rune, too, seemed right. He was at a standstill, unable to move because of his bondage.

  As he pulled the next rune from the pouch, surprise pricked his heart. It was the ruby bearing the X of Gebo, the rune of partnership.

  Surely, the runes were not forecasting his marriage. Though he had felt lust many, many times, he had never had the seeds of physical a
ttraction flower into deep affection, which was just as well. He was a spiritual warrior, first and foremost. His duty was to the gods and his queen. A relationship would only bring him trouble and distract him from his higher calling.

  So, why had the gods shown him Gebo?

  Even if he wanted a partner, which he did not, he was chattel. A breeding drone. A white knight captured by the black queen. His life was no longer his own to command.

  Opening his eyes, he returned Gebo to the pouch and blindly chose another gemstone. This time, he pulled out the emerald inscribed with the upward pointing arrow of Teiwaz, the rune of the warrior.

  Axel rubbed the smooth gem between his fingers, heartened by the glyph’s simple yet challenging counsel: undertake your quest with courage, dedication, compassion, and with complete trust in the will of the gods.

  He stood ready to do so, apart from one tiny hiccup. To what quest did the rune refer?

  Whatever it turned out to be, it would involve self-sacrifice. Teiwaz was the rune of the god Tyr, the deity who’d sacrificed his hand to save the cosmos from destruction.

  Axel turned his mind to the story, which he first heard as a boy. Fenrir, the eldest child of the trickster god Loki and the giantess Angrboda, was a warg—a gigantic and terrible wolf-like creature. When the gods learned of a prophecy in which Fenrir and his family would one day destroy the world, they brought the warg to Asgard, the home of the gods. There, they locked Fenrir in a cage and charged Tyr with his care and feeding.

  As Fenrir grew in size and ferociousness, the gods decided more must be done, but were too afraid to approach him. So, resorting to trickery, they challenged the warg to break the chains they gave him. Fenrir put on the fetters, but broke them easily. The gods then sought the help of the dwarves, who devised a magical ribbon to secure Fenrir.

  When presented with the seemingly fragile binding, Fenrir, suspecting trickery, asked the gods for a token of good faith: one of them must put his hand in the warg’s mouth while they secured him. Only Tyr, the bravest among them, was willing. Fenrir struggled, but could not break free, so, in retaliation, he bit off Tyr’s hand.

  Teiwaz, thus, represented a sacrifice made for the larger good.

  Axel returned the runes and their pouch to the altar and took up the ash-wood staff into which he had carved the runic sequence for making fire. Striding to the mouth of the cave, he lit the wall-mounted torches with a tap of his stick before stripping off his saffron tunic, boots, and tartan trews.

  Naked, he stepped through the icy waterfall into the cool, pre-dawn air. Cold-water baths, an age-old warrior practice, rejuvenated his body, mind, and spirit while attuning him to the temperature and essence of the natural world. Only before sunrise and after sundown, when the glen was closed to visitors, was he assured the privacy the ritual demanded. Though none but witches could see him, thanks to an enchantment he had cast over the glen, other mortals could still hear his prayers.

  As the icy water tumbled over his naked flesh, he said to the sky, “Father Odin, far-wanderer, grant me wisdom, knowledge, and understanding. Mother Freya, goddess of beauty and battle, give me heart. Brother Thor, hammer-wielding god of thunder, grant me courage and strength. I ask that all of you walk beside me in trinity this day and always.”

  * * * *

  As the sputtering engine gasped its last, Jenna Cameron set her forehead against the steering wheel and groaned. Could this day get any worse? As if it weren’t enough her world had turned upside down, now her car decided to quit in the dead of night on a desolate stretch of road with no bloody cellular signal.

  If not for the dream she’d had last night, she’d be Mrs. William Comstock right now, on her way to the honeymoon cottage she’d rented with the man she’d waited five long and frustrating years to marry.

  The thought of William sent a chill through Jenna. In the dream, she’d seen herself driving off the edge of a cliff. She was married to William and utterly miserable. As her car soared over the edge of the precipice, she heard her mother’s voice. “The right man is out there, waiting for you to find him. But it will never be if you bind yourself to a man you don’t love.”

  As soon as she awoke, she rang William. When she told him about the dream, he said, as she’d secretly hoped he would, “I was willing to overlook that your mother was a witch because I believed your father had safely guided you away from the path of darkness, but now I see that, like her, you have been led astray. I pray someday you will embrace the Light of God, Jenna. I truly do. But, for now, I cannot risk my own immortal soul by marrying someone so susceptible to the darkness.”

  William, a Presbyterian pastor like her father, blamed everything he did not understand on the devil.

  As relieved as Jenna was to have escaped, the sudden change of course had thrown her life into chaos. Expecting to be married, she’d given up her job and flat in Edinburgh and, consequently, was left with no source of income and nowhere to live.

  So, she was on her way to the rented cottage in Rosemarkie, a small seaside town on Scotland’s Black Isle. Since she couldn’t get her deposit back, it seemed like a good idea to use the cottage to reflect and regroup.

  Coming all this way alone had suddenly lost its appeal, but here she was—and wallowing in self-pity was not going to solve anything. According to the Google map she’d printed out, she wasn’t far from her destination. She might as well suck it up and walk the rest of the way. When she got there, she could ring a garage about her car.

  Grabbing her purse, her forest-green wool cloak, and the battery-powered torch she kept in the glove box, she climbed out of the car and set off along the rural tree-lined road, which was dark and a little spooky. No cars passed her in either direction. Crickets chirped all around and small rustlings from the surrounding woods startled her sporadically. Senses alert, she stopped repeatedly to check her mobile for a signal.

  Her heart pounded and, despite the chill in the air, she was sweating under her cloak and sweater. The only good thing she could say about her present predicament was that her fear of being torn to pieces by wild animals had temporarily eclipsed her other worries.

  She didn’t know how long she’d been walking when she came to an old stone bridge. Just beyond was a sign. She shone the beam of her torch at the words carved into the wooden plaque.

  Faery Glen.

  Jenna took heart. She’d read something about the glen on the website for the cottage, so she shouldn’t have much farther to go. Unfortunately, she needed to pee rather urgently. Might there be somewhere to go in the glen?

  Venturing into a forest in the middle of the night might not be the smartest thing she’d ever done, but her bladder was bursting and she wasn’t about to tinkle by the side of the road. Just because no cars had gone by since she’d started walking, didn’t mean one wouldn’t appear the moment she dropped her knickers. Besides, there was a carpark abutting the glen, so there might be a public lavatory there as well.

  Up above, the sky was an indigo canvas splattered with specks of white, some larger than others. She crossed the small asphalt lot. Finding no bathroom, she squatted in the bushes. When she’d finished her business, she shone the torch into the glen. Everything outside the beam was pitch black. Water ran somewhere nearby. Thirst drew her down the footpath. All that crying had made her as parched as a dry sponge.

  I’ll only go a little ways, find the stream, and take a wee sip.

  The hollow clomp of her footsteps disturbed the silence as she crossed a wooden bridge. On the other side, the path curved sharply. In a clearing just beyond the turn were the falls. In the silver light of the full moon, the cascading water reminded her of the bridal veil she might never get a chance to wear.

  Then, she saw him. A man in the pool below the falls. He was stark naked, soaking wet, and had his back to her.

  Alarm electrifying every nerve ending, she stepped back into the shadows. Her first thought was that he might be a homeless man who’d taken refuge in the woods. He ha
d a beard and long hair, so it seemed the most logical explanation. Her next thought was that he might be performing some sort of ritual. She was on the Black Isle, after all, in a place called Faery Glen on the night of a full moon, so his being a New Age warlock or druid didn’t seem all that infeasible. A long shot, perhaps, but not meters outside the realm of possibility.

  When curiosity overrode her apprehension, she stepped closer to get a better look at him. The moonlight bathing his glistening physique revealed a tall, slender frame with broad shoulders, narrow hips, and a shapely bum. Wetness and poor lighting made telling the color of his hair impossible. Light brown, maybe, or dark blond. She started a little when he bent over and shook his head like a dog. As he threw it back, he raised his muscular white arms to push the clinging wet hair off his face.

  Despite her long engagement and having achieved the ripe age of twenty-five, she’d never seen a naked man before. Not in the flesh, anyway, and watching this one bathing in the wild was making her feel things she shouldn’t. The prospect of being caught spying on him was even more unsettling.

  Ducking behind the thick trunk of the nearest tree, she watched as he continued his bath. Drunk on a tart cocktail of shame and lust, she took in the graceful slope of his shoulders, the long muscles supporting his serrated spine, and the alluring dimples just below the small of his back. His beautiful form and the way the moonlight sparkled on the droplets clinging to his skin made her pulse race and her knees weaken.

  A strong urge to touch him welled up inside her. How badly she wanted to run her hands over every glistening curve and indentation of his manly form—both for prurient reasons and to absorb some of his confidence the way plants absorbed sunlight. As exposed as he was to the elements, he seemed admirably comfortable in his skin.