Knight of Cups (Knights of the Tarot Book 2)

by Nina Mason

  Not funny at all. He felt enough fear for the both of them. A strangling, suffocating fear that made breathing hard as he leaned over her to buckle her in.

  She slid her hand up his arm and into his hair and gave it a tug. “Hey, I’m not dead yet, you big dope, and I won’t have you ruining what little time I have left by getting all maudlin on me. So, pucker up, Lord and Master.”

  He couldn’t help smiling. She was so good, so giving, and so positive. He didn’t deserve a woman like her. He was wicked, covetous, selfish, perverse, melancholic, and a whole lot of other terrible things he couldn’t find names for at the moment.

  He pressed a kiss to her lips—a soft peck of contrition. As he started to pull away, her hands fisted in his hair, holding him there.

  “Oh, no you don’t. Give me a real kiss.”

  He responded with what he planned to be a lingering, closed-mouth appeasement. Tender and full of feeling, but chaste. Dissatisfied, she coaxed his lips open with her own. Their tongues met in an ardent tussle. As the kiss grew more heated, desire fluttered in his groin.

  Slipping his hands under her sweater, he cupped her lace-encased breast. As her nipple hardened in response to his caresses, lust dug its spurs into him. One of her hands found its way to the bulge in his jeans.

  As she stroked him, he resisted. This was wrong on several levels. For one thing, she wasn’t well. For another, they were in the car park of a national monument. He might have his kinks, but exhibitionism wasn’t one of them.

  He broke free of her mouth. “We need to stop this before things go too far.”

  “But I want you.” She rubbed his erection through the denim.

  “I want you, too, my angel…but not here.”

  He scanned his brain for possible trysting spots. An inn was a good option, though also a frightful waste of money when Glenarvon was less than an hour away.

  They could always take a short drive and pull off into a secluded spot somewhere. Glen Urquhart wasn’t far, though the profusion of hikers might prove problematic. Where else, then? Shepherd’s Hill? Divach Falls? The Cover?

  God’s teeth. He shook his head to dispel the idea. What was he thinking? He needed to get her to bed, but not to satisfy his lusts.

  * * * *

  As Leith turned the key to start the car, Gwyn got an out-of-the-box idea. If his blood had the power to mend broken bones, his other bodily fluids might also have restorative powers. Unfortunately, thanks to her foster father, she found the idea of swallowing semen repugnant.

  Come lick it, sweetie, like a lollypop, and if you do a good job, I’ll shoot the cream into your mouth.

  Ugh. What a perverted pig he was. No, not a pig. He was a monster. If he wasn’t dead already, she might be tempted to give his address to Leith. Or, better yet, to the police while filling out a complaint. She’d looked it up. She still had a few years to file charges before the statute of limitations kicked in.

  Personally, Gwyn didn’t think there should be a time limit on the prosecution of pedophiles, especially when their crimes depended on secrecy, shame, and manipulation. It could take decades for victims to come to grips with what was done to them, and even longer for them to muster the courage to press charges.

  Gwyn took a deep breath and cleared her mind. This wasn’t about punishing her foster father. This was about taking back the power he stole from her. She was still squeamish about performing oral sex and didn’t want to be. She also wanted the strength to make the trip to Callanish.

  When Leith started the engine, she summoned her courage. “What would you say to a blow job?”

  He looked aghast—not the reaction she’d expected. “Here in the car park? What if somebody should walk by?”

  “They’d see nothing more than my head bobbing.”

  Disappointment etched his features. “I thought you weren’t feeling well.”

  “I think maybe this will make me feel better.” She forced herself to sound more chipper than she felt, hoping to persuade him.

  “I think maybe this will get us arrested for public indecency.”

  “Since when are you such a prude?”

  “It’s not prudishness, Gwyndolen. It’s common decency. What if a child should happen by and look in?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Do you want me to suck your dick or not?”

  “How am I supposed to answer that?”

  “By whipping it out.”

  He gave her a hard look. “Are you sure you’re up to this? God knows, I feel guilty enough without having you collapse with my cock in your mouth.”

  “That won’t happen.” She might vomit, but she doubted she’d collapse.

  He took another moment before switching off the ignition. From behind the seats, he produced an old tartan driving blanket. “I’ll keep an eye out and if anybody comes near the car, I’ll throw this over you.”

  “Good plan,” she said. “Now let’s get on with it before I change my mind.”

  He looked out the windows and checked the review mirror as he undid his fly. He was hard, probably the reason he’d given in. Leaning over his lap, she wrapped her hand around his shaft, swallowed hard, and flicked her tongue against the tip of his glans.

  He gasped and set a hand atop her head. As she swirled her tongue around the flange, he finger-raked her scalp. His breath hitched as her lips closed around the head. She sucked hard, twirling her tongue in all the most sensitive spots.

  “Holy fuck,” he rasped, clearly pleased.

  He tasted salty and smelled of herbal soap and sweat. She took him deeper, sucking, swirling, and scraping oh so carefully with the edges of her teeth.

  He flexed his hips, forcing her to take him deeper. Still sucking, she zig-zagged her tongue up and down his length. He released a strangled sound and locked his hand on her head. She moved up and down his shaft while working the head with her tongue. He groaned and flexed his hips, pushing himself against her tonsils. She jerked her head upward, breaking free of his grip.

  “Don’t do that,” she rebuked. “You almost gagged me.”

  “Sorry,” he muttered. “Your mouth just felt so good.”

  She got back to work, moving up and down, licking, flicking, and sucking with increasing vigor as he started to come unglued.

  She found his reaction arousing. If there was a way to screw him in the car, she would have gone for it. But, even if they could work around the bucket seats, steering wheel, and gearshift, too many people were around. A blow job was pushing the envelope on propriety as it was.

  Leith’s breathing was hot and heavy, his muscles were clenched and twitching, and the hand on her head was pulling her hair. She dragged her tongue around his bell as her mouth pumped furiously.

  “Oh, God. Oh, fuck.”

  He made a guttural sound, as if lifting something heavy. His hips jerked, his cock started to pulse, and warm, salty semen spurted into her throat. She grimaced, swallowed, and let go.

  Leith zipped up and set his hand on her thigh.

  “Thanks.” He gave her leg an appreciative squeeze. “That was very nice. But, more to the point, do you feel any better?”

  “Not yet.” She still felt weak-limbed and lightheaded, but remained hopeful.

  “Aye, well.” He started the engine. “I’ll remain hopeful…and, if you’re feeling up to it when we get back to Glenarvon, I’ll return the favor.”

  He shifted into reverse and, as he turned to look out the back, she leaned toward him. “Don’t I at least get a kiss for my trouble?”

  Keeping his feet on the pedals, he offered her his mouth. She led with her tongue, which, to her delight, he sucked with gusto. Just when the kiss was getting good, a car horn nearby broke the mood.

  A quick glance out the rear revealed a young couple in a Mini Cooper waiting on the space. Leith hit the gas and zipped out, jolting her a bit as he stepped on the brake. The Mini pulled in and Leith steered the Jaguar up the steep, winding road to the highway.

  Gwyn, feeli
ng woozy, closed her eyes. Soon enough, the low sputter of the engine lulled her to sleep. The next thing she knew, he was shaking her. Her eyelids fluttered open to find him squatting beside the open passenger door of the car. Behind him, Castle Glenarvon loomed against the luminous violet backdrop of twilight.

  “Are we there already?”

  “Aye.” He touched her cheek. “How do you feel? Well enough to walk?”

  She blinked a few times to clear her head. Her limbs felt distressingly leaden. “I’m not sure.”

  Concern creased his face. “You aren’t feeling any better?”

  “Not really.”

  At that, he scooped her up as if she weighed no more than her clothes, kicked shut the car door, and started walking with all due haste toward the castle.

  Chapter 13

  As Leith sat by Gwyndolen’s bedside, his chest throbbed like an infected wound. Even in her restless sleep, she grew frailer. There was no way she’d make it another week.

  If only he could trade his own life for hers.

  His hands fisted in his lap. He was a broken record. If only. If only. If only. He needed to stop wishing and start acting. If only he could think what to do.

  Aargh!

  The time for right action had passed. He’d made the wrong choice, taken the wrong fork in the road, and now, poor, dear Gwyndolen would pay with her life for his mistake in judgment. It was so unfair, but it was also too late to turn back.

  He needed to act, to do something to help her. Sitting here like a useless lump bemoaning his mistakes would help neither of them.

  He could think of only one possibility. Though a long shot and risky, even a remote chance was better than none. He could get to Rosemarkie in just over half an hour. Then, it would be a matter of convincing Sir Axel to act as his envoy, and Sir Axel, in turn, convincing Queen Morgan to lift the ban.

  A knock at the door pulled him from his thoughts. Presuming it was Mrs. King with the tea and soup, he instructed the knocker to enter, not bothering to turn. Gwyndolen stirred and opened her eyes. He forced a smile and put his hand over hers.

  “How long was I out?” Her voice was weak and her eyes were heavy-lidded.

  “About an hour,” he replied. “How do you feel?”

  “Not good.”

  A hand clamped down on his shoulder, making him turn. Surprise sparked when his gaze fell on Tom. In his turmoil over Gwyndolen, he had all but forgotten his friend was still at Glenarvon.

  “Might I make a suggestion?” Tom wore a troubled expression.

  “By all means.” He would do anything to help her.

  “I could go back to Elphame…and make an appeal to Glorianna.”

  As his withered hope sprouted new buds, Leith fought to keep it from blossoming prematurely. “What can Glorianna do to help?”

  “She can’t break her sister’s curse,” Tom said, “but she might be able to mediate its effects—restore the poor lass’s strength and prolong her life for a time. Long enough to see the full moon perhaps, with a little luck.”

  Concern for Tom and hope for Gwyndolen warred within Leith’s chest. Returning to Elphame when the tithe was due was dangerous. “You’d risk your life for a woman you hardly know?”

  “I’m not doing it for her.” Tom squeezed Leith’s shoulder. “I’m doing it for you. She wouldn’t be in this state if you didn’t truly love her, so, consider this my gift—for the wee price of a noble favor.”

  Distrust narrowed Leith’s eyes. Tom had always been generous to a fault. He hadn’t thought him the type to demand payment in kind. “What favor?”

  Tom gave his shoulder a firm pat. “Live your life, Leith. Be happy. Embrace what’s in front of you and let go of the past. Gather ye rosebuds, my friend, and, when you do, I’ll wager the book that’s hanging you up will flow from your heart.”

  Gwyndolen squeezed Leith’s hand, bringing his gaze back to hers. She offered him a frail smile. “Carpe diem, baby.”

  They were right. The time had come to bury the past and start living for today…and tomorrow. Leith turned to Tom. “How long will it take to get there and back?”

  The portal to Elphame was at Loch Katrine, a four-hour drive from Nairn. The length of the drive, however, wasn’t what worried Leith. What concerned him was how long Tom would be detained after crossing the vale. Time moved at a different pace in the Thitherworld, as he’d discovered upon his return in 1946. Even a day there might be too long.

  “It’s hard to say,” Tom replied with a shrug. “But, time being of the essence and all, I’ll be back just as quick as I can.”

  Leith wasn’t encouraged. Even if Queen Glorianna could help, chances were good she’d detain Tom too long. The last time the prophet paid the queen a visit, she kept him in her thrall for three years.

  Tom let go of his shoulder and started to leave. Releasing Gwyndolen’s hand, Leith rose from his chair.

  “Thanks a million, Tom…and Godspeed.”

  After his friend departed, Leith turned back to the bed to find Gwyndolen watching him. “You look worried,” she said weakly. “Will he be okay?”

  “I hope so.”

  She held out her arms. “Come here and hold me.”

  Happy to oblige her, he lay down on the bed atop the covers, leaving the bedclothes between them like a protective barrier. He felt stiff and awkward and unsure. She rolled toward him and set her head and one arm on his chest. They lay there for a long while before she spoke.

  “When was the last time you spent the night with a woman without having sex?” Her voice was as soft as her touch.

  He swallowed. “In the same bed?”

  “Yes.”

  “Never.”

  Her head came up and surprised green eyes found his. “Not even with your wife?”

  “My wife only came to my bedchamber when summoned for marital relations,” he quietly explained. “When I wasn’t in the mood, she kept to her own room.”

  “You had separate bedrooms?”

  “It was the custom back then.” He gave her back her hand, but kept his atop hers. “To do otherwise would have shocked our friends and relations.”

  “If we ever get married, will we have separate bedrooms?”

  He squeezed her frail fingers. “Not if I have anything to say about it.”

  * * * *

  Over the next week, Leith did all he could for Gwyndolen while waiting for word from Tom. To keep her strength up, he spoon-fed her a variation on melas zomos, the staple black soup of the fearless armies of Sparta, substituting his own blood for that of a pig. His reasoning: it might not help, though neither could it hurt. And one never knew, did one?

  The first time Gwyn tried the soup, she screwed up her face in revulsion. “Now I understand why the Spartans weren’t afraid to die.”

  Surprised and amused by her comment, he asked how she knew about the soldiers of Sparta.

  “From the movies,” she replied with a shrug.

  Gwyndolen seemed stronger in the mornings, but grew weaker again toward sunset. Leith stayed with her all day and held her all night. When she was awake, they talked and watched movies. When she slept, he read, hunted, or curled up beside her, sometimes as the cat.

  At the moment, he was writing out his last will and testament with a red-hot cannonball lodged in his gut. When his new mobile started buzzing on the desk, he jumped like a nervous feline. He snatched up the phone. If the caller wasn’t Tom, he’d be leaving for Rosemarkie in an hour. Mrs. King and Gavin would look after Gwyndolen, one way or the other. As much as he hated to leave her, his errand would be in vain if he delayed any longer.

  A glance at the smart phone’s screen told him the call was from an unknown number. Please let it be Tom. He pressed the button to accept the call. “Hello?”

  “Leith? It’s Tom…back from Elphame. I’m on my way to you as we speak with a vial of restorative potion from Herself. Glorianna said the elixir should set the lass to right for another fortnight or so, which means
the trip to Brocaliande is back on.”

  A violent rush of relief lightened Leith’s chest. “That’s wonderful news, Tom. My gratitude is beyond description. How will I ever begin to repay your generosity?”

  “Let’s have none of that, eh? It will be enough if you keep up your end of the bargain and grab yourself some long-overdue happiness.”

  * * * *

  “Ever been to Lewis?” Tom asked his passengers from behind the wheel of his sun-faded blue van, which was riddled with dents, dings, and patches of rust.

  Leith was riding shotgun with the smell of sunbaked vinyl and the dead cigarettes in the overflowing ashtray offending his nose. He was reading a roadmap he’d found in the glovebox, doing his best to ignore the cracked windshield and littered floor.

  Gwyndolen was perched on the bench seat behind him, looking around Leith’s seatback at the map. Tom had thrown a blanket over the bench seat to cover the duct-tape patches, ugly stains, and exposed springs.

  They were heading toward Ullapool and the ferryboat that would carry them across the fifty-mile span of sea separating mainland Scotland from the Outer Hebrides.

  Lewis crowned the archipelago. A black star marked Stornoway, the main port on the island’s east coast. That’s where the ferry would land. Callanish lay all the way on the western side of the island.

  Using the legend, Leith made a quick calculation. The distance was just over sixteen miles—a drive of less than thirty minutes, allowing for stray flocks of sheep and such.

  “They still speak Gaelic there.” Tom threw a glance over his shoulder at Gwyndolen.

  They’d fixed up a bed in the rear compartment of the van so she could rest, but she’d insisted on sitting up front with them.

  At the moment, she was leaning forward to look over his shoulder at the map. Glorianna’s potion had restored her strength, but for how much longer?

  “Do they?” She touched his shoulder. “Do you speak Gaelic, baby?”

  “Aye.”

  A smile tugged on the edges of his mouth. In the past week, she’d taken to calling him “sweetie” and “baby” and other such gooey terms of endearment, which, truth be told, he found…well, damn endearing.