Knight of Pentacles (Knights of the Tarot Book 3)

by Nina Mason

  She pushed her hand inside his trews, wrapped her fingers around his rigid shaft, and pumped gently. When her thumb glanced across the weeping dome, he groaned his endorsement into her mouth.

  Withdrawing his fingers from her sex, he moved his hands around to her bottom, lifted her up, and carried her to the pile of blankets. After laying her down, he pushed up on all fours. “Your white knight loves you, Jenna. Thank you for saving me from the black queen.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “You are my lady and my defender.” He kissed her softly. “And I shall be forever grateful to you for your bravery.”

  “Does that mean you’ll do anything I ask?”

  “You need only name the deed and it shall be done.”

  The look she gave him was utterly enchanting. “Take off your clothes.”

  “Your wish is my command, m’lady.”

  Rising up on his knees, he removed the gun from his belt and set it beside the pillow. Then, he removed the belt and his tunic. Getting the trews off was a wee bit trickier, but he managed the task without too many contortions.

  Once he was as naked as she was, he crawled over her and planted a trail of kisses from her chin to the top of her pubic hair. Then, he pushed her legs apart with his shoulders, parted her nether lips with his fingers, and set upon her with his lips and tongue.

  As he licked and suckled, he fingered her sheath until she was squirming and moaning in desperation. Not quite ready to push her over the edge, he sat back on his haunches. Candlelight danced in her lovely eyes, which were glassy with pleasure. The flush of passion tinting her face pleased him immensely, but not as much as being inside her would.

  With both hands, he reached out to her. When she clasped them, he pulled her up, saying, “Come here and sit on me.”

  She positioned herself over him, set her hands on his shoulders, and lowered herself onto his erection.

  He shuddered under the thrill of her enveloping heat. “Holy Valhalla, you feel good.”

  “So do you.”

  Pressing one hand between them, he fingered her bud as he drove into her with deep, upward thrusts, like the tide rising to meet the moon.

  She welcomed him, flexing her hips to invite more of him. Locking her fingers behind his head, she pulled his mouth against hers. Her tongue slipped past his lips, soft as moonbeams. He thrust harder, deeper. She pulled his hair and bit his lip.

  When she squeezed him with her sheath, intense pleasure flooded his groin. She circled her hips, pushing him to the edge of orgasm. He drove into her until her sex shattered around his in tiny, thrilling convulsions. Holding her tight, he found his own release in a violent burst of ecstasy.

  As they clung to each other, the drums of their hearts beat out a duet. If he could stay like this forever, he would—safe and happy with his lady fair wrapped in his arms.

  Unfortunately, that was impossible. They needed to get to Brocaliande before the vampire owls discovered their whereabouts.

  * * * *

  In the hours Jenna had lain awake, the owls had made several passes over the crofter’s cottage. Tired as she was, she couldn’t bear to miss a single moment with Axel. He was still asleep beside her, curled on his side under the covers, looking incredibly sexy with his hair falling across one powerful bare shoulder.

  While she’d like nothing better than to make love to him again, there probably wasn’t time. Judging by the light streaming through the broken windows, it was almost noon. Still, it couldn’t hurt to try.

  Pushing up on her elbow, she leaned over and kissed his cheek, lingering longer than was strictly necessary. His beard smelled ripely of both their bodies.

  His eyes opened and found hers. “Good morning, beautiful.”

  “It’s almost noon.” Nestling into the warmth of his body, she reached between his legs, delighted to find him hard. “Do we have time for another go?”

  “I wish we did.” He squinted against the daylight. “But we will miss the ferry boat if we delay any longer.”

  “We’re taking the ferry? Wouldn’t it be quicker to fly? You could turn into a dragon again—or some other winged creature—and carry me on your back over the strait to Lewis.”

  His expression soured. “And attract scads of unwanted attention in the process. The vampires are much more apt to overlook your car, which at least blends in here, than they would be to miss a dragon or other winged creature.”

  Dread punched Jenna in the stomach. Rubbing her arms, she glanced around. “What do you think they’ll do if they find us?”

  He visibly shuddered, which only amplified her anxiety. “If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather not think about it.”

  She’d rather not, too. Since the night of the tithe was now behind them, there was nothing to stop Morgan from killing them outright. Or worse, torturing them. She wrung her hands. Clearly, Axel knew things he hadn’t confessed, in spite of whatever magical or physical methods were employed to extract the information.

  Shaky and lightheaded, she put her arm around his shoulder and pressed her face against his chest. “You poor baby. I can only imagine what horrors you were made to suffer at that evil bitch’s hands.”

  “It was at the Duke of Cumberland’s hands, to be accurate,” he said near her ear. “Though I have no doubt he was acting on her orders.”

  Withdrawing, she eagerly sought his gaze. “Who is the Duke of Cumberland?”

  “You may know him by his nickname—Butcher Cumberland.”

  The name sent a chill through Jenna, who’d learned of the duke’s cruel exploits in her history lectures at university. She swallowed hard. “And he’s in Avalon now?”

  “Aye.” The corners of Axel’s mouth drew down and his shoulders noticeably sagged. “As commander of the queen’s army of mercenaries. Apparently, he made arrangements with the Emperor of Sangpagne to turn him vampire upon his death.”

  She was staggered by the knowledge that Butcher Cumberland not only still lived and breathed, but also had gotten his sadistic hooks into Axel in Avalon. “Oh, Axel.” She hugged him again with tears in her eyes. “You poor, dear man. Do you want to talk about it?”

  “No.” He pulled away. “I want to get to Callanish before his owls figure out where we’re going. Because the thought of him getting anywhere near you—” He paused and shut his eyes as if he couldn’t bear the thought. “Well, never mind that. I just pray to the gods it never happens.”

  Goosebumps broke out across Jenna’s flesh as she threw back the blanket—and not simply because the room was cold. She got up, dressed quickly, and gathered the few things she’d brought with her.

  Axel did the same and, when both of them were ready, they left the cottage, uncovered the car, and set off toward the ferry crossing in Ullapool.

  * * * *

  With a mountain of dread pressing down on him, Axel searched the sky from the passenger seat of Jenna’s tiny automobile. There was no sign of the owls, thank the gods, but their absence was unlikely to be of a long duration.

  Beside him, Jenna turned a knob on the car’s gadget panel and, to his astonishment, music poured out of a mesh box on the door. More of her magic, no doubt. Smiling, he stroked her leg. He had sensed the power inside her when they first met, and his intuition had not been wrong. Neither had he been mistaken about her courage. She simply lacked confidence in herself, which she’d somehow acquired in his absence.

  That she had discovered her worth pleased him. She would need all her resources for what lay ahead. He had yet to tell her about his plans to join the rebellion and was unsure if doing so was a good idea. Not until they reached Callanish, leastwise. Though he would never deliberately deceive her, timing the delivery of an unwelcome truth could sometimes spare a man considerable grief.

  Besides, she might surprise him and wish to join the rebellion, too. No shieldmaiden worth her salt would let something as trivial as being with child banish her to the sidelines.

  Freydis Eiriksottir, the siste
r of Leif Erikson, certainly had not. When she was in Vinland, she took up a sword and, bare-breasted and eight months with child, drove off the attacking Red Skins—as the native Greenlanders were then known—when none of her male companions would.

  Perhaps he ought to tell Jenna the story of Freydis, so she would understand her options without him having to explain. Then again, perhaps Freydis was too extreme an example. If he told Jenna the story, she might presume he condoned all of the shieldmaiden’s behaviors, which he absolutely did not. While Freydis’ boldness was admirable, her shrewishness and scheming were not.

  Stroking his beard, he gazed at the sky, which was gloomy and overcast. They’d been on the road for at least two hours and there was still no sign of the owls.

  Rather than relieving, he found this troubling. The vampires might be waiting for them at the stone circle, knowing it was the only place to enter Brocaliande from this side of the vale. He just prayed the weapons he brought along would prove enough to fend them off—and that Bran had remembered to bury the nawglen as agreed.

  With worry gnawing at his gut, Axel searched his mind for a distraction. Finding one quickly, he turned to Jenna. “What sex do you think the child will be?”

  She smiled and flicked a glance his way. “What sex were the children you fathered with Morgan?”

  “Lasses, mostly. And thank the gods for that or I would have seen even more of my offspring slaughtered. But what does that matter?”

  “The sex of a child is determined by the father’s sperm.”

  Her declaration stunned him. All these centuries, he had believed Morgan’s punishment of the knights who fathered sons was utterly baseless and irrational. “How do you know this?”

  “It’s a proven scientific fact.”

  “So,” he said, swallowing his discomfort, “the chances are good I’ve fathered another daughter?”

  She shot him a worried look. “Is that a problem?”

  “No.” He would be happy to be a real father to any child he sired. “Have you given any thought to names?”

  “Only a little,” she said. “If it does turn out to be a girl, I’d like to name her after my mother.” Her gaze met his as she added, “Unless you have another name in mind.”

  “I do not,” he returned, “but may I still know the name?”

  “Claire.” She shot another glance his way. “What was your mother’s name?”

  “Erica.”

  Her whole face brightened. “Oh, I like that, too. She could be Claire Erica Lochlann. What do you think?”

  “I think you are wonderful.”

  She was beaming. “I meant about the name.”

  “I approve.” He grinned, too. “And if it’s a laddie?”

  Her cheerfulness dimmed, and her brow crinkled. “I don’t know what name I’d choose. I only know it won’t be my father’s.”

  Surprised by this, he lifted an eyebrow. “Whyever not?”

  “Because he made me feel ashamed of who I was, and the last thing I want is to attach that memory to my son.”

  “Our son.” After a pause, he added, “Am I allowed to know the name you’ve taken off the table?”

  “Niall.”

  Niall was the name of King Robert’s brother who was drawn and quartered by the English after he tried to help Queen Elizabeth evade capture. “I like the name Niall, but will concede to your wishes for the sake of matrimonial harmony.”

  “Thank you.” She gave him a sideways glance. “Will we get married for real in Brocaliande?

  “Aye, lass. As soon as it can be arranged.”

  “Good.” Her face relaxed and took on a glow. “And what was your father’s name?”

  “Thorbrand.”

  Turning back to the road, she appeared to consider this for a moment before saying, “What if we called him Thor?—to honor your father as well as the god who helped us escape Queen Morgan.”

  He was pleased with her choice. More than pleased, to be truthful. Through a broad smile, he said, “I approve your suggestion wholeheartedly. If the child you carry is male, we shall call him Thor Robert Lochlann—after my father, the god of thunder, and my long-ago king.” With a stab of concern, he added, “Unless, for some reason, you object to the name Robert.”

  “I don’t. I only object to Niall and William for personal reasons.” She shot a fleeting glance at him. “Though, to be totally honest, I’m not all that keen on Athol, either.”

  He laughed. “We are in full agreement on both Athol and William. For as much as I might wish to honor Sir William Wallace, the name has been forever tainted by so-called Sweet William—an epithet as ill-suited as was Black Douglas for Good Sir James.”

  “That’s right. You would have known James Douglas.”

  “Aye.” The memory of his old friend both warmed and grieved him. Good Sir James had been killed by Moors while attempting to take King Robert’s heart to the Holy Land. “And he was as good and brave a soul as ever set foot on Scottish soil. I was traveling with him when he joined the king on the road to Scone and knighted beside him on the field at Bannock Burn.”

  “I sometimes forget, when I look at your handsome face, that you’re seven centuries my senior.”

  He smiled as heat radiated through his chest. “It pleases me to hear you find me easy on the eyes.”

  “Very easy, though I do wonder sometimes what you might look like without the beard.”

  Seeing his chance, Axel said, “I will make you a bargain. If you do not object to me joining the rebels when we reach Brocaliande, I will shave off the beard so you can see the whole of my face.”

  She threw a puzzled gaze his way. “This is the first I’m hearing about these rebels. Why have you kept this from me?”

  “I was waiting for the right moment to tell you.”

  “I see,” she said sharply. “And may I ask what they are rebelling against?”

  “Queen Morgan’s enslavement of her drones, for the most part.” His mouth suddenly felt dry. “While in Brocaliande, I learned of an ancient prophecy foretelling the queen’s overthrow by a natural-born drone—the reason she murders all the sons she bears and turns the wounded men she steals from battlefields into breeders.”

  “If overthrowing Morgan is their aim, why would I object to you joining them?”

  He shrugged one shoulder. “Because some wives prefer that their husbands remain nearer the hearth fires.”

  Mouth pinched, she leveled her gaze on him. “I would never stand in your way, Axel. Especially in this case. In fact, I would join the rebels myself if I could.”

  He arched an eyebrow. “What is stopping you?”

  “I’m a woman, for one.” Her eyes darkened to forest green. “Pregnant, for another, and Christian, for a third.”

  Reaching over the median, he squeezed her thigh reassuringly. “You are also a powerful witch, a shieldmaiden, and a skilled archer—three attributes that could greatly aid the rebellion.”

  She narrowed her eyes and licked her lips. “Jesus preached that we should love our enemies.”

  He laughed and shook his head. “And his followers have been persecuting their enemies since they escaped the lion’s den.” With a sideways glance, he added, “You forget that I was born in the time of the Holy Crusades.”

  She fixed her gaze on her hands, which still gripped the steering wheel. “That doesn’t make killing right.”

  “No.” He patted her leg. “But death is not the end—and fighting for what you believe in is sometimes necessary.”

  Raising her eyes, she looked out the window toward the stones. “Are you honestly telling me you’d allow me to fight?”

  He plucked one of her hands off the wheel and lifted it to his lips. As he kissed her knuckles, she turned back to him, as he hoped she would. “I am your partner, Jenna. Not your master.”

  Chapter 22

  Axel and Jenna made it to Ullapool barely in time to catch the last ferry to Stornoway, the main port on the isle of Lewis. Worn ou
t from the sleepless night and the long drive, she slept while he kept watch for the owls.

  As he stood at the rail, relishing the feel of the sea wind on his skin and in his hair, he drew odd looks from his fellow passengers—as if he were a freak simply because his mode of dress did not reflect the fashions of the day. Apparently, they’d never seen a man in trews and a tunic before.

  There were no owls within view of the boat. Only a flock of scavenging seabirds following behind and wheeling overhead. He broke off a piece of the bannock he had bought at the onboard snack bar with the money Jenna had given him. The thought of her warmed his heart. If they made it to Brocaliande safely, he had no doubt he would be happy with his choice of wife.

  She was his perfect partner, as the runes had foreseen.

  Gripping the rail, he leaned out as far as he could and waited until the swell lifted the groaning hull. Drawing back his arm, he flung the hunk of biscuit with all his might. A gull, spying the treat, swooped in and snatched it out of the air moments before it hit the water.

  Suddenly missing his wings, Axel, still leaning over the rail, looked fore and aft. There was no land in sight in either direction. There was yet time, though perhaps it was not the best idea. The queer looks he attracted from the other passengers now would be nothing compared to their shocked expressions when he suddenly stripped off every stitch and turned into a great white falcon.

  Entertaining as the prospect was, he daren’t risk exposure or leaving Jenna unprotected. There was no telling when Cumberland’s vampires would appear—or if they would assume the form of owls. Like him, they could shift into any sort of creature—the gulls circling overhead, for instance.

  The seabirds were not they, he knew now, because the bannock had been a test. If the gulls were vampires, they would not have gone after the morsel.

  Growing bored with the watery view, he returned to the car. Jenna was asleep on the back seat under her green cloak. Watching her through the window, his heart overflowed with affection. He had not realized how much he longed for a family until she’d told him she was expecting his child.