Knight of Pentacles (Knights of the Tarot Book 3)

by Nina Mason

  A chill went through her at the thought of how close she’d come to crucifying herself. In twenty years, would she have driven off a cliff to escape her miserable marriage? She flung the dreadful thought away. Thanks to her dream, she was free now. Free to live her own life, to be who she really was, and to make better choices.

  Jenna drew in a rattling breath and tightened her grip on her mother’s grimoire, which she’d brought along for reasons she couldn’t explain. She was deep in the glen now, having made her decision. Please, let Sir Axel not run away. Her bruised ego couldn’t endure another rejection.

  The white bird landed on the branch of a nearby tree and watched her with a keenness that gave her the willies. Rather than an owl, it looked to be a falcon or hawk of some sort.

  Cocking her head, she met the bird’s penetrating gaze. “What are you staring at?”

  Crashing from the tree, the raptor took flight. Jenna walked on, her pulse racing from the shock of the sudden departure. The ground was damp and spongy beneath her feet as she left the footpath and headed toward the waterfall, hoping to find Sir Axel where he’d been the night before.

  Clouds covered the darkening sky, but the full moon broke out every now and again to help guide her way. All was eerily quiet. A fine mist hugged the ground and the trees assumed sinister silhouettes.

  As nervous as she was, Jenna refused to turn back. She’d spent her whole life pleasing other people. It was high time she did something to please herself, however crazy the scheme might seem.

  She was almost to the waterfall when the bird appeared again. A flash of white in the shadows flying from tree to tree. Forging on, she followed, keeping her distance. After a few more minutes of hard walking, she reached the falls. As she gazed in awe upon the cascading water, the clouds opened, painting the scene with silvery light.

  “What manner of offering do you bring the faery of the glen?”

  Jenna froze. He was behind her. Heart in throat, she pivoted slowly, half expecting to see the white falcon perched on a branch in one of the trees edging the clearing. What she found instead was the man she’d seen the night before. Bare-chested and broad-shouldered, he wore only skintight tartan leggings over the long, lean lower half of his body. She drank him in as she’d just drunk in the falls. He was equal in magnificence and just as wild.

  At this moment, nothing existed but the moon above, the drifting mist below, the tumbling water behind, and the gorgeous woodland warrior in front of her.

  Now that he was closer and no longer wet, she could see his high cheekbones, straight nose, and deep-set eyes. His beard was trimmed in an odd way she’d never seen before and a few shades darker than his long, sun-streaked hair, which he wore center-parted with the left side tucked behind one ear. To her surprise and relief, the ear she could see had no elven point.

  Numerous scars ornamented his chest and shoulders. Most had faded with time, but one was still quite pronounced. A gnarled round bump on the left pectoral plateau, a few inches above the nipple.

  A heart wound.

  As her gaze jumped to his, electricity crackled through her. Even in the color-shifting moonlight, she could tell his eyes were as blue as a Nordic wolf’s.

  Wearing a puzzled expression, he studied her in return. “Can you see me?”

  “Of course I can.” She puckered her brow. “You’re standing right in front of me.”

  “You are a witch, then?”

  She crossed her arms, both to hide the grimoire and to shield her from his probing gaze, which made her feel naked and exposed. “What makes you say that?”

  “Only witches can see through the spell that conceals me from human eyes.”

  “My mother was a witch, but I’m not.”

  He moved closer. “The daughter of a witch has magic within, whether she chooses to use it or not.”

  She licked her lips, unsure what to say. “Are you the one they call Sir Axel?”

  He nodded and stepped nearer, his gaze holding hers. Her legs were shaking. She might possess untapped powers, but she felt defenseless under his scrutiny.

  “How long have you lived in the glen?”

  “Many lifetimes.”

  “Where do you sleep?”

  “In a cave behind the falls.”

  Looking behind her, she saw nothing through the heavy screen of falling water. Turning back to him, she asked, “Do you ever get lonely?”

  “Aye.”

  “Would you like some company tonight?”

  There. She’d finally found the courage to be truthful about why she’d come. In the silence that followed, she died a thousand deaths. If he turned her away, she would die a thousand more. The temptation to flee surged through her blood, but something more potent than fear kept her standing there.

  Drawing nearer, he stopped inches from her and reached out to push a strand of hair behind her ear. She had to tilt back her head to see his face. Though she wasn’t big on beards, she didn’t mind his. There was something incredibly virile about it.

  “Your hair is the same vivid shade of red the maples of the glen turn in October,” he said.

  He was even more attractive up close, and smelled as good as he looked. Like fresh apple blossoms—one of her favorite fragrances.

  “Were you the bird I followed here?” She was willing to believe anything was possible at this point.

  “Aye.”

  Her mouth had gone dry and her heart was pounding hard. “What kind of bird were you?”

  “A gyrfalcon.”

  She’d never seen a gyrfalcon before, as it was an arctic breed rarely found in Scotland. He was so close she could smell his breath. Apple blossoms, again. Did he somehow know apple blossoms were her favorite flower or was it pure chance that he smelled that way? Her memory produced a picture of him bathing naked beneath the waterfall with the moonlight kissing every masculine ripple and curve. Possessed of an overpowering urge to do the same, she licked her lips and mustered the nerve to ask again, “Do you want me to keep you company tonight?”

  “Aye, lass.” He stroked her hair. “But let us go to your cottage—after I dress myself and see to my horse.”

  Jenna swallowed and stepped away. His proximity was making her head swim. “You have a horse?”

  “Aye.” His lovely Viking eyes twinkled. “For what is a knight without his faithful steed?”

  “True.” She glanced around, half expecting to see Pegasus grazing somewhere nearby. “What sort of a horse is it?”

  “The four-legged kind.” He smirked. “What other kind is there?”

  A blush warmed her face. “I meant, is it a faery horse or a regular horse?”

  “Faery horses are forbidden on this side of the vale.” His expression and tone were sober.

  Jenna took a moment to select from his straightforward-yet-intriguing statement which thread to pull first. “What vale do you mean?”

  “The vale between Hitherworld and Thitherworld.” He shrugged one powerful, moonbeam-bathed shoulder. “That is why I must guard the glen. To prevent humans from passing through the vale separating the realms.”

  “There’s another realm?” She blinked up at him, blown away by his disclosure. “And the vale between them is right here in Faery Glen?”

  “One of them is.”

  “Are you telling me there’s more than one?”

  He nodded. “There are as many as there are Thitherworld domains.”

  “Domains?” His eyes were so blue and hypnotic, she was having trouble focusing on the conversation.

  “Aye. Lands or kingdoms, more or less.”

  “I see. And which land do you come from?”

  “Scotland, originally,” he said. “But now serve the Queen of Avalon.”

  Avalon, Jenna knew from her studies of Arthurian legend, was the magical otherworld isle ruled by the sorceress Morgan Le Fay. “Serve her how?”

  “As a knight and a portal guardian.”

  “So, you’re an actual knight?”
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br />   “I’ve been knighted twice. The first time was at Bannock Burn when King Robert knighted me the morning of my last battle.”

  Shock weakened Jenna’s knees. The Battle of Bannock Burn was fought in 1314, which meant he’d been walking around for more than seven hundred years! It was all too staggering for her brain to take in. She looked around for a place to sit down. Finding a nearby boulder, she made her way over and parked herself upon its smooth, cool surface.

  “What year were you born?”

  “Twelve eighty-one.” He closed the distance she’d opened between them in two long strides. “I was taken by the faeries after being felled by an English arrow.”

  Hard though it was to think clearly, she did the math. He would have been thirty-three when the faeries abducted him, and did not appear to have aged a day since. Though centuries old, he was still handsome and virile. Brave, and yet gentle. Real, and yet…otherworldly.

  “You strike me as remarkably content. Are you?”

  “None of us can choose our fate.” His wolf eyes shimmered in the moonlight. “That task belongs to the Norns. We can only choose how we react to where we find ourselves.”

  While the truth in his words was indisputable, she couldn’t help wondering if he would choose a different life if he could. “If you could escape the faeries, would you?”

  “And do what? I’m not exactly equipped for life in the modern world.”

  A strange, deep, unconscious knowing awoke within her. All at once, she could see the truth clearly. Everything that had happened to her in life, good and bad, was a stepping stone on the path that led her here. To him—the man who waited for her. So she could free him from the faeries and look after him. She didn’t know the how or why of the plan just yet, but she had a feeling the answers would present themselves when she was ready.

  Chapter 5

  As appealing as Axel found the idea of spending the night with his beguiling visitor, inviting a witch into his cave seemed foolish in the extreme. Even one whose gifts yet lay dormant. She might not know how to use her powers yet, but the magic within her was potent. It smoldered behind her lovely emerald eyes, just waiting to burst into flames.

  The new moon was still a fortnight away, so he could see no harm in sleeping with her—but at the cottage, where they would be beyond Morgan’s reach.

  “Wait here, witch.” He started toward the cave, then stopped and turned back. “What name do you go by? Unless you would rather I continue to address you as witch.”

  “I’d rather you didn’t.” She pursed her lips and wrinkled her nose as if she’d tasted something sour. “Please call me Jenna.”

  Jenna. A pleasing name. Her bewitching face was no less agreeable. She was uncommonly pretty with wide-set green eyes and the fair complexion typical of redheads. Freckles dusted her perfect nose and her full mouth turned up at the corners in a way that lent mischievousness to her expression.

  Her figure was equally appealing. Beneath the baggy sweater and blue-jeans she wore, were long legs, a small waist, and substantial bosoms. Desire shivered through him as he imagined the supple fullness of those breasts filling his hands. Oh, aye. The gods had sent him a woman perfectly suited to his tastes, right down to her auburn hair, which, except for the fringe curtaining her forehead, fell in softly layered waves nearly to her waistline. Was the color natural? With a wee bit of luck, he would have the answer well before daybreak.

  Slipping behind the waterfall, he hurriedly pulled on his tunic and boots, saw to his horse, and ran a comb through his hair. Checking his appearance in the looking glass brought from Avalon, he stroked his whiskers. Had he the time, he would have run a razor over his neck and trimmed his beard, but he did not wish to leave the witch cooling her heels overlong. To keep someone waiting was disrespectful, and, if she grew anxious, she might come looking for him—or worse, return to the cottage without him.

  Outside, the night wind blustered. It rattled in the trees and blew mist from the falls into the cave. That was a good thing. The spray would cool his lusts enough to rejoin the captivating Jenna without appearing overanxious.

  He grabbed his pouch of runes before leaving the cave, not wanting to leave them unprotected. Returning to the clearing, he found her looking through the book she had brought with her.

  “What are you reading?”

  She looked up, but hesitated before answering. “My mother’s grimoire.”

  “Please tell me you do not plan to use a love spell on me.” He smiled to make light of the comment, but was only half teasing.

  She looked up from the page she had been reading and scowled at him. “I couldn’t even if I wanted to. The whole thing is written in some kind of code. I can’t decipher a single word.”

  “May I have a look?” When he held out his hand, she willingly surrendered her grimoire, increasing his trust in her. If she’d meant to use her powers against him, she would not have so readily turned over her spells. He looked down at the page and, seeing what she had interpreted as an encryption, laughed aloud.

  “Why are you laughing? What’s so amusing?”

  Regaining his seriousness, he said, “Your mother did not encrypt her grimoire, lass. She wrote it in the native tongue of the Highlands.”

  Her brow furrowed beneath her fringe. “Do you mean Gaelic? Are you sure?”

  She made to snatch the grimoire from his hands, but, being quick, he evaded her attempt.

  When she backed off, he flipped through the pages. The foxing, yellowed paper, and faded ink made it clear her mother was not the book’s first owner. It had to be at least a century old.

  He perused the washed-out script covering the brittle pages. Among the entries were invocations to entities both Christian and Pagan, instructions for the use of herbs and magical items, prayers, poems, ballads, and spells to guard against everything from pain in childbirth to death in battle.

  “Mostly, I see rituals, basic spells, old ballads, and sians.”

  “What’s a sian?”

  “A protective charm.” He met her fervent gaze. The energy flowing between them was both palpable and thrilling. “At one time, women put such enchantments on their husbands and sweethearts before sending them off to do battle.”

  She stared at him in silence for a long while before asking, “Did your woman do that for you before Bannock Burn?”

  The blush that kissed her cheeks told him she was fishing for information. Her interest in his past romances tickled him, though he could not say why.

  “For a sian to work, three conditions must be met,” he told her. “The first is that the woman who casts the charm must love the man she seeks to protect with all of her heart. The second is that the man must have total faith in the power of the charm. And the third is that he must be a good man who believes wholeheartedly in his cause.”

  A bewitching smile stole across her face. “As interesting as that is, it doesn’t answer my question.”

  Now, it was his turn to blush. “I had no such woman at the time. Perhaps if I had, I would not have been taken.”

  As her soft, cool hand touched his face, the kindness in her eyes touched his heart. “Tell me how it happened.”

  He licked his lips and ran a hand through his hair. “Do you want to hear about the battle or the part where I was taken?”

  “All of it.” She gave him a dreamy smile. “I’ve always been something of a history buff, and don’t get the chance every day to hear a first-hand account of what it was like to fight alongside Robert the Bruce.”

  Her answer pleased him. No opportunity to share his tale of the battle had arisen since Sir Leith was banished from Avalon. Perhaps that was why he dreamed of it so often.

  He stroked his beard as he called the day from his memory. “I remember it all vividly. Every step along that foggy, mile-long descent. Listening with my heart in my throat for the braying of their bugles—a sound that could spell our doom. Fortunately, I heard naught apart from the muffled thumping of hooves, the sq
ueak of saddles, the soft clinking of bridles and chainmail, and the gentle clicking together of the runes in the pouch on my belt.”

  Her puzzled expression stopped him. “Runes? What are those?”

  He cupped the pouch on his belt and gave it a shake. “Stones, bits of wood, or bones bearing the letters of the Futhark, the ancient unspoken language of the Vikings.”

  “What are they used for?”

  “Divination and spell-casting, mostly.”

  She smiled and set her hand on his chest. “As much as I would love to hear all about the runes, I’ve interrupted your story of the battle. Please, do go on.”

  The strong desire to kiss her fountained within him. Resisting the urge, he licked his lips. “You have made me forget where I was.”

  Her sweet smile warmed him to the cockles. “You were descending the hill toward the enemy camp, listening for the sound of their bugles.”

  “Oh, aye. I remember now.” He put himself back on his garron and took a moment to recall all he sensed on that long-ago morning that still felt like yesterday. “I had on a helmet, which, truth be told, was about as comfortable to wear as a bucket. The air carried the scents of trodden grass and stinking quagmire, but no fires or cooking.” Her bright gaze was glued to his face. “That was a good thing. If they stirred too early, we stood no chance, being vastly outnumbered and outmatched. They had four times our numbers, as well as long bowmen and armored destriers. We had only light horses and ponies, the pikesmen who clustered into hedgehog-like formations called schiltrons, and the shrewdness of our king to rely upon.”

  “Why was it so important that you confront them where they camped?”

  She seemed to be genuinely interested in his account, which pleased him immeasurably. Most of the women he had bedded in recent years had vexingly short attention spans. He enjoyed telling stories—his own as well as the ones he had grown up on—and needed a companion who appreciated a good yarn as much as he did.

  Taking a breath, he returned his focus to her question. “Because without the soggy ground and the element of surprise, we had little chance of winning the day. Or the freedom we had fought so hard to win for so many long and bloody years.”