Knight of Pentacles (Knights of the Tarot Book 3)

by Nina Mason

  Next came the exchanging of the swords, followed by the exchanging of rings. That morning, for the first time, she had taken off the wooden ring Axel had made for her to make way for her wedding ring: a twisted gold spiral with the hammer of Thor on the end closest to her heart.

  Axel presented the ring to her on the hilt of the sword she’d just given him, saying: “May this sword strike dead any who breaks the oaths we make today.”

  After he placed the ring on her finger, she presented his ring in the same manner saying, “May this sword strike dead any who breaks the oaths we make today.”

  With the rings upon their fingers, and their hands joined upon the hilt of the sword, they exchanged their vows.

  “Those whom the gods have joined, let no lesser being put asunder.” As he said the words, Cathbad doused them with another flick of the blood-soaked twigs before taking the sword from Axel. “You may now kiss your bride.”

  Jenna stepped toward her new husband and lifted her face for his kiss. As his lips met hers, she wanted to pinch herself to make sure she wasn’t dreaming. Not that she wanted to wake up if she was. How much her life had changed in the few short weeks since her car broke down outside Faery Glen—all for the better.

  She was married to a man she dearly loved, would soon be a mother, had wonderful new friends, and was about to take part in a prophesized rebellion in a realm she hadn’t known existed until recently. She had stepped out of a soul-stripping nightmare into a magical faerytale she had every confidence would bring her the happily ever after she’d always wanted and, if not for a dream, might never have achieved.

  —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. Visit her website at ninamasonauthor.com, find her on Facebook, or follow her on Twitter @NinaMasonAuthor

  Read on for an excerpt from Knight of Wands, the first book in the Knights of the Tarot series:

  “A romantic and sexy tale for the discerning paranormal aficionado who appreciates being enlightened along with thrills, chills, and sizzles!”

  —FRESH FICTION

  Knight of Wands

  Paranormal Investigator Vanessa Meadows believes in every kind of magic except love. When her new boss sends her on an assignment to remote Caithness, Scotland, she’s determined to do whatever it takes to prove the Vampire of Barrogill is more than a legend. First, however, she must get inside the castle where the entity is believed to dwell.

  Castle Barrogill belongs to Callum Lyon, a handsome baron and reclusive political astrologer. Their strong mutual attraction proves a boon to Vanessa’s plans, but, once inside his castle, she encounters more paranormal activity than she bargained for. There’s no vampire, but there is a blood-drinking faery knight—and a ghost who will stop at nothing to keep her there.

  Will freedom-loving Vanessa’s feelings for Callum, aided by nudges from the ethers, be enough to persuade her to give him a chance? Or will the dark secrets of Castle Barrogill only reinforce her disbelief in the power of love?

  Chapter 1

  “Have a look at your adoring fan over there,” Duncan said, leaning in. “I do believe she’s visually undressing you.”

  Callum looked up from the book he’d been signing—Political Astrology through the Ages, his latest in a series on the subject. The fan in question stood by the refreshment table, clutching the book to her chest. Was she undressing him with her gaze? A smile stole across his mouth as interest deepened its hook. Judging by the heat of her stare, he was already naked in her mind.

  While delivering his lecture on the same topic, he’d seen her in the third row, giving him equally heated looks. All through his talk, her presence, not to mention her seductive stare, had made it difficult to concentrate on his notes. Luckily, he knew the topic well enough to wing it.

  Licking his lips, he traced the long, smooth contours of flesh and muscle beneath the posh black pantsuit she wore. She was tall and slender—willowy—with an angular face and a wide, full mouth that stretched into an inviting smile as his gaze met hers with an electrical charge he felt in his groin. Her eyes were as blue and deep as a loch. Mesmerized, he returned the smile. How easily he could get lost in those eyes, forget how to swim, and realize too late he was drowning.

  He lowered his gaze to her breasts, which were large, firm, and unharnessed. Did she have an aversion to undergarments? He hoped not, given his penchant for naughty lingerie. He dressed her in a lacy black corset and thigh-high stockings. Oh, aye. She definitely had the figure to indulge his weakness. Swallowing his rising lust, he shifted in his chair to ease the tightening in his trousers.

  Turning to Duncan, he asked, “Who is she? Do you know?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t,” his friend replied.

  Swallowing, Callum shifted his focus to the woman directly in front of him. She was fiftyish, plump, and squat with curly dishwater hair. “What was the name again?”

  “Sorcha.”

  “That’s lovely.” He grinned through the qualm inflicted by the name. “I once had a wife called Sorcha.”

  His statement clearly aroused her interest. “Would you be looking for a new wife by any chance, your lordship? Because, if you are, I ken a bonny lass who’d be just perfect for you.”

  “Oh, aye?” Still smiling falsely, he arched an eyebrow. “What sign would she be then?”

  “She’s a Gemini.” The woman beamed at him in a manner suggesting the lady in question was probably her daughter.

  “Ah. I see.” He cleared his throat. “Well, Sorcha, that’s too bad. Because, you see, I make it a strict policy never to get tangled up with anyone born under the sign of the twins. They’re far too changeable for me, I’m afraid.”

  He signed her book and handed it back. He made more or less the same claim whatever the answer. Well-meaning women were forever trying to set him up—usually with themselves. He sought out the dark-haired lass again, wondering what sign she might be. Not that it mattered, since what he had in mind would be brief and involve very little talking.

  Sending in his psychic tentacles, he glimpsed particles of her life. Odd bits of a puzzle whose pieces didn’t quite fit together. A suspension bridge he recognized as the Golden Gate in San Francisco. Ornate wrought-iron banisters like those in New Orleans. A string of not-nice men. Environmental protests. Tarot cards. A small white house with an inviting front porch.

  Probing deeper, he looked for her childhood and family, but found only two women. An older one who radiated warmth and a younger one—her mother, no doubt—worn down by years of disappointed expectations. Oddly, he found no father; only a dark-haired man with piercing blue eyes who seemed familiar.

  Pulling out of her psyche, Callum slid his gaze to her swanlike neck. The dark hunger reared its head as his focus alighted on her throbbing pulse. Swallowing, he looked away, returning his attention to the person at the front of the line—a twenty-something lass with frizzy flaxen hair.

  “I can’t believe I’m meeting you in the flesh,” she said excitedly as she handed him her book. “I follow your blog every day and have read everything you’ve published.”

  The smile that bloomed across his face was genuine this time. As much as he hated these events, they did boost his ego. They also taxed him, mentally and physically. He was ready for it to be over, ready to be home in bed—though not necessarily alone. As he robotically scrawled his signature line—Let the stars be your guide, Callum Lyon—he shot another lustful glance toward the refreshment table.

  Aye. Good. She was still there, still watching.

  Why didn’t she join the queue to have him sign her book? She didn’t strike him as the bashful type. Far from it, i
n fact. Something in her air gave the impression of self-sufficiency. She was standing there so coolly, like she owned the whole bloody room and, soon enough, meant to own him, too.

  Not that he would allow it. He’d bed her and turn her out, just like he always did. Swallowing hard, he shook his head to dissipate the thickening cloud of lust. The room was cold, but he was sweating. He wanted to shed his jacket and loosen his tie, to get away from all these people, but he only smiled and handed the blonde back her book.

  He took the next one from a young man in wire-rimmed spectacles, keeping one eye on his prey. He was her quarry, too, judging by the hungry look in her cool blue eyes. God, she was lovely…and far too distracting.

  Get a grip on yourself, you randy prick. You’re too old to get hard every time a bonny lass gives you a come-hither look.

  Callum shut his eyes. He was already fraying around the edges. Another hour or two of forcing himself to be sociable might unravel him completely. As badly as he wanted her, he couldn’t begin to imagine how he might divide his attention between a bunch of politicos and a sexual conquest, let alone have anything left to give her afterward. Opening his eyes, he gave her another longing look.

  When their gazes met with a searing charge, lust surged through his bloodstream. Perhaps a meal and a couple of drinks would restore his vigor. He rechecked the queue. Only two more, thank the stars.

  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 brunette once more. Their gazes met with a high-voltage shock that crackled all the way to his brogues.

  There was only one more person in line—a woman with chin-length dark hair, enormous gray eyes, and delicate features. Curiously, she held no book.

  “What can I do for you?” he asked, sure he knew the answer.

  It’s not you I’m here to see,” she said in an English 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 bluntness of her comment startled Callum. If she thought astrology naught but bollocks, why was she here?

  He got his answer when she turned to Duncan and said in hushed tones, “My name’s Miranda Hornsby. I’m a reporter for the Caithness Crier and I’ve got a tip for you.”

  Leaning across the table between himself and the journalist, Duncan arched an eyebrow. “Oh, aye? What kind of tip?”

  “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 clever as I’ve heard, you’ll have a challenger ready in time for the election.”

  “B-but,” Duncan stammered, clearly caught off-guard, “the election’s only a few weeks away.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know.” With the smile of a fox, she turned on her heel and strode off.

  Rubbing his chin, Callum considered what she’d disclosed with growing excitement. As the representative for Caithness in the House of Commons, Sinclair was an important and powerful politician. He also 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 stole Castle Barrogill, killed Callum’s son, and drove his first wife to suicide.

  Casting the long-past offenses aside, he said to his friend, “Can you have a candidate ready to run in time, do you think?”

  “To be sure. In fact, I’ve already got one in mind.”

  Intrigued, Callum arched an eyebrow. “Are you at liberty to divulge the name?”

  “Aye.” Duncan gave him a cock-sure grin. “Lord Lyon, the Baron of Duncansby.”

  Callum sputtered in surprise. “What? Me? Are you mad?”

  Duncan’s earnest blue gaze held his like a lock. “I’m perfectly sane—and perfectly serious—I assure you.”

  “But…I prefer to pull strings from behind the scenes, as you well know.”

  Duncan’s grin gained confidence. “Your party needs you, man. As does your country. So, I’m afraid the time has come 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 long dark hair and a willowy figure in a black pantsuit. When he saw none of those things, a sick frightened feeling took him over.

  Duncan touched his arm. “Callum? Are you all right?”

  He wasn’t. Not by a long shot. Though he wasn’t sure whether it was the lass leaving or Duncan’s unexpected suggestion that had thrown him off-kilter. He dragged his hand down his face. “I’m fine. Just knackered is all.”

  “I’m sorry about the lass.” Duncan checked his wristwatch as he rose from the table. “I guess it just wasn’t in the stars. But come on. After a good meal, a few drinks, and a bit of verbal sparring, I’m certain you’ll feel better.”

  “I’m sure you’re right,” Callum said, even though he wasn’t. He should be relieved not to have to juggle a conquest and Duncan’s friends, but instead, he felt like a man who’d lost a sizable investment in what promised to be a sure thing.

  * * * *

  “Why did you disappear on me?”

  Vanessa’s heart jumped at the sound of the deep and dreamy Scottish burr she recognized as Callum Lyon’s. As she pivoted on her barstool, her knees grazed his thighs, shooting a thrilling dart straight to her sex. Taking a breath, she drank him in like an expensive specialty cocktail with more alcohol than was good for her. His long golden hair was pulled back, giving her a clear view of his chiseled features, tempting mouth, and dazzling topaz eyes.

  She didn’t normally care for beards, but his neatly trimmed one lent a sexy ruggedness to his Adonis-like appearance. He still wore the well-cut suit from earlier, but had shed the tie and opened the collar of his crisp white shirt. A tuft of golden hair peeked over the top button—a welcome teaser. She might not like beards, but she did appreciate a light dusting of manly chest hair.

  There was such power in his presence he almost seemed to glow with an inner light. His closeness, mixed with the booze in her system, was making her head spin. Forcing herself to concentrate, she said, “Let’s just say, I don’t like competition.”

  Her excuse wasn’t completely false, but neither was it wholly accurate. The real truth was, she’d suffered a fit of conscience and lost her nerve. As much as she wanted to get inside his castle—and his trousers—she couldn’t stop thinking about what the medium had said. If he was indeed her Knight of Wands, sleeping with him would endanger the thing she valued even more than her career.

  Her freedom.

  “She wasn’t competition,” he said with a heart-stopping smile. “She was a reporter who had business with my friend.”

  Vanessa looked around for Duncan Faol. “And where might your friend be now?”

  “In the restaurant, having a heated debate with his pack.”

  She blinked up at Lord Lyon, still reeling from his sudden appearance. “Why aren’t you with him?”

  “Because I’d rather be here,” he replied in a sultry way that heated her blood.

  She let her gaze run over him again. He had the leonine good looks characteristic of his sign. Did he also have the enormous ego, fierce temper, and suffocating possessiveness typical of those ruled by the sun? Probably. Not that it mattered. Whatever the cards might have intimated, she’d come to Scotland to find a vampire, not a husband.

  She offered him her coolest smile. “Then have a seat, Lord Lyon. Unless you’re in a rush to get back to your party.”

  Slipping onto the barstool with feline agility, he hailed the bartender—a dark-haired Scot named Robert who, for the past hour, had kept her glass full. She was staying at the inn and, sure she’d blown her first assignment, she’d stopped in for
a nightcap both to take the sting out of her failure and to give her the courage to call Mr. Armstrong.

  “What can I get for you, Lord Lyon?”

  Clearly, the bartender knew the baron, or at least knew who he was. She now was glad she’d resisted the urge to question him about the Vampire of Barrogill. If he let it slip she’d been asking about Lord Lyon’s castle, he would give away her intention and ruin the second chance she’d been given.

  She still couldn’t believe her good fortune. She thought she’d blown it and now, here he was, as if by magic…or fate…or maybe just coincidence. Not that she believed in coincidences. For better or worse, they were destined to meet. Unfortunately, she’d had one too many single-malts to carry out her plan, even if she could charm him into taking her to his castle.

  “A dram of Oban—neat,” the baron replied, “and another of whatever the lady is having.”

  Vanessa almost said no, but then changed her mind. She’d accept the drink to avoid giving offense, but would leave it untouched. Barrogill, according to her research, was in the middle of nowhere. If she went home with him, she’d better have her wits about her.

  Lord Lyon turned to her with a devastating smile. “Do you have a name, lass?”

  “Yes, of course.” She offered him a smile along with her hand. “I’m Vanessa. Vanessa Meadows.”

  He took her hand, but instead of shaking it, he lifted it to his lips. Flames of lust crackled in her abdomen as he pressed a kiss to the back. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Meadows. What brings you to John o’Groats?”

  Luckily, she’d had the foresight to invent a cover story. “I was on my way to Orkney to join a Green Peace protest against arctic drilling when I happened to see you were lecturing this evening—a lucky coincidence, given my interest in astrology.”

  “Very lucky. For both of us.”