Dark and Stormy Knight

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by Nina Mason


  All around him, the druids remained as still as the stones at Callanish.

  A twig snapped a wee ways off and he could hear footfalls on leaves. Then, a thought struck. A terrible, suffocating thought. The harpist was coming to deliver the bad news.

  His darling mouse was no more.

  His hands fisted in protest. No, don’t think it! Thinking it might make it so. And it couldn’t be so. It just couldn’t be. Without her, without love, he was an empty, useless husk. He couldn’t go back to the way things were, to pretending.

  The druid circle broke and into the clearing came Belphoebe, softly playing her lyre.

  Leith’s spirits lifted, but only fleetingly before sinking to new depths. He could guess why she’d come and couldn’t bear to hear the news.

  Movement flashed behind Belphoebe. Another lass was with her, most of her hidden from view. She was shorter than the willowy faery and a wreath of flowers crowned her dark hair, which fell in soft waves over her shoulders.

  Just the way Gwyneth’s had.

  Hope pounded on the door to his heart, but he refused to let it in. He must accept fate’s cruelty and refrain from indulging in wishful thinking.

  The time for “if only” had passed.

  Belphoebe entered the clearing, still plucking her harp. Though beautiful, he barely heard the music. All his senses were fixated on that break in the circle.

  As the second woman stepped into view, hope kicked down the door he’d shut against it. He sprang to his feet, the urge to run to her overwhelming. He held back. Grief could play tricks on the mind. After first returning from Avalon, he’d imagined glimpsing Clara around every corner. This wee lass might resemble his beloved, but he must keep a tight rein on his feelings until he was sure.

  The round face, wide-set eyes, delicate chin, and doll’s mouth appeared to be Gwyneth’s, but she’d been deathly pale when he’d left her. This rosy-cheeked beauty was positively radiant. Were it his mouse, she’d been more than restored to health; she’d been raised to the status of goddess.

  When her gaze found his, the usual electrical current surged between them. Joy foamed in his heart, making it full and light at the same time. He turned to Cathbad, his stomach fluttering. “Will you marry us here and now?”

  The old druid smiled wryly. “Shouldn’t you ask the lady first?”

  “Aye.” Embarrassment heated Leith’s face. “Of course.”

  As much as he wanted to run to her, to throw himself at her feet, pledge eternal devotion, and beg for her hand, insecurity kept him standing there.

  He’d failed Clara, Faith, and Belphoebe. He had no reliable source of income. He could offer her little more than his heart, his good intentions, and his useless title. And what about her career aspirations? Would she be content to live with him at Glenarvon or want him to move to Hollywood with her? Could he honestly see himself living in Los Angeles?

  His mind produced the tarot card he’d drawn the day he’d found her broken and dying in the mud beside the burning bus.

  The Tower.

  He swallowed hard as the golden light of realization washed over him. Since she’d come into his life, his reality had indeed been blown apart.

  All for the better.

  Seize the moment, you bloody fool. You’ve wallowed in regret long enough.

  He rushed forward to claim the beguiling heroine who’d won his heart and broken his curse. As he gathered her into his arms, he made two promises to himself.

  The first was to put aside the book he’d struggled with for so long and start afresh with a screenplay. Together, they would write the sequel to The Knight of Cups, the story of how the hero overcame his curse with the help of the bravest woman he’d ever met. They would call the book The Queen of Cups and sell the film rights to the highest bidder. That way, they could afford to fly back and forth as often as needed.

  The second promise he made was this: come what may—be it Queen Morgan’s scorn, the Duke of Cumberland’s cruelty, bloody rebellion, or all three—he’d never, ever leave the side of his beautiful, daring wee mouse.

  “Gwyneth, oh, Gwyneth,” he cried, emotion erupting from his core. He put her away from him so he could see her expressive eyes. “I’m a free man, thanks to you. Free to live, free to love. And I love you. You’re not the wee mouse you’ve shown to the world until now. You’re the courageous, big-hearted lass I’ve come to know—a woman who will stop at nothing to fight for her love; a woman who isn’t afraid to battle her demons, be they in here”—he patted his chest—“or out there.”

  “And I love the man you are, too,” she said, beaming up at him. “With all my heart and soul. But there’s something I have to know.”

  “Anything. I’ll tell you anything you want to know. Just ask.”

  She blinked a few times before she said, “Can you ever love me as much as you loved Clara?” Looking away, she added, her voice soft, “I read one of your letters to her, you see, from when you were off fighting with the Bonnie Prince. I know I shouldn’t have, but I did. And you told her you would never love anybody as much as you loved her.” She met his gaze with tear-filled eyes. “So, I have to know. Do you still feel that way?”

  He knew the letter she meant. He’d written those words to Clara right before Culloden. He also knew the depth of his feelings for Gwyneth. He loved her with all his heart and soul. If only he could think of a way to convince her of the sincerity of his feelings. After considering the question for several moments, an idea came to him.

  Stepping back from her, he rounded on the altar where Cathbad now stood. “May I borrow the Cup of Truth?”

  The priest promptly brought him the chalice.

  Holding it between them, Leith gazed deeply into Gwyneth’s beautiful liquid eyes and said, “No one else ever has or ever can possess my heart as much as you do.” The cup remained whole, as he knew it would. Handing the chalice back to the druid, he got down on one knee and took her left hand in his.

  “Now it’s my turn to ask a question.” Strong emotion nearly strangled the words. “Will you marry me, my darling wee mouse? Will you remain at my side through whatever life throws at us? Will you promise to love, honor, and cherish me, even when you’d like nothing better than to wring my neck? Will you always be honest with me, even when you have something to say I’d rather not hear? And will you mother my children and teach them to be as brave and clever as you are?”

  Gwyneth squared her shoulders and pushed out her chin. Clearly, she wanted to have her say, too. “Leith MacQuill, will you promise to love me every day of your life, even when I speak my mind?”

  “I will,” he replied with solemnity.

  “Will you promise to be my partner—not my master—and to share equally in the joys and burdens of parenting our children?”

  “I will.”

  “And, finally, will you swear never to call me your wee mouse ever again?”

  This request startled him. “You don’t like it when I use that term of endearment?”

  “I like the way you say it, but I don’t like what it suggests,” she said, eyebrows puckering. “I’m not a mouse. Not anymore, anyway.”

  “No, you’re not,” he agreed, fighting a smile. “May I ask what endearments I am allowed?”

  A wistful smile played on her mouth. “I think goddess divine might be all right now and then.”

  When the smile bloomed, lighting up her whole face, he knew her answer. Rising to his full height, he gathered her into his arms and pressed his lips against hers. Given their audience, it wasn’t as passionate a kiss as he would have liked, but it was tender, heartfelt, and sealed the promises they’d just made to each other. Joy radiated in his chest like sunshine. He felt buoyant, weightless, and euphoric. Queen Morgan would seek her revenge on them soon enough, but Leith wasn’t about to let future threats spoil this moment of pure elation. He was in love and free to enjoy the feeling for the first time in two hundred years.


  He broke the kiss first, but kept hold of Gwyneth. “What about the dungeon, heavenly one? Shall I have Gavin get rid of it all before we return to Glenarvon?”

  Mischief gleamed in her nymphish green eyes as she replied, “Don’t you dare.”

  —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, educate, and enlighten. When not writing, Nina works as a communications consultant, doll maker, and home stager. Born and raised in Southern California, she now lives in Woodstock, Georgia, with her husband, teenage daughter, two rescue cats, and a Westie named Robert. Visit her website at ninamasonauthor.com, find her on Facebook, or follow her on Twitter @ninamasonauthor

  Keep reading for a special sneak peek of Sharon Struth’s new Blue Moon Lake novella:

  STARRY KNIGHT

  Can these star-crossed lovers bridge two worlds?

  British aristocrat Vanessa Bentley has beauty, fame, and fortune, but she gets no respect for her decision to become a paranormal investigator. Determined to prove the naysayers wrong, Vanessa ventures to the misty moors of Caithness, Scotland. There stands the immense Castle Barrogill, where a vampire is rumored to be stalking the dungeons—a vampire Vanessa is determined to find. She’ll just have to get past the resident shape-shifter…

  Callum Lyon is the gorgeous reclusive astrologer and faery knight who guards the castle. For free-spirited Vanessa, seducing him proves to be easy. After all, he was once a breeding drone to a Queen. But astrologically, their differences are harder to overcome. Will Vanessa’s mission—and Callum’s secrets—be more than their burgeoning love can take? Or will flesh—and blood—win over the ghosts that haunt them both? ….

  A Lyrical e-book on sale Now!

  Learn more about Nina at

  http://www.kensingtonbooks.com/author.aspx/31680

  Chapter 1

  500 years later

  John o’Groats, Scotland

  “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? Och, nay. Judging by the heat of her stare, he was already stark naked in her mind’s eye.

  He’d seen her in the third row, giving him equally heated looks while he delivered his lecture. She seemed vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t seem to place her. With a shameless ogle of his own, he traced the long, smooth contours of flesh and muscle beneath the posh black pantsuit she wore. She was tall and slender with an angular face and a wide, full mouth that stretched into an inviting smile as his gaze met hers with a palpable sizzle. Her eyes shimmered like rare Burmese sapphires. Holding her stare, he dispatched his psychic probes.

  Particles of her life presented themselves—odd bits of a puzzle whose pieces didn’t quite fit together. Smart parties and balls. Environmental protests. Political rallies. Charity affairs. A string of unwelcome suitors.

  Looking deeper, he found an older man whose ambitions mattered more than his family and a woman who cared only about her social standing.

  Her parents.

  Oh, aye. He could feel it, feel everything. She was the quintessential “poor little rich girl,” the black sheep of the blue bloods who’d been given everything money could buy while being deprived of the things she wanted most. Love, affection, and approval, mainly. Consequently, she’d erected barriers to protect herself.

  Not unlike himself.

  Pulling out of her psyche, he sought the pulse in her swanlike neck. The dark hunger awoke with a ferocious roar. His gaze dropped to her breasts, which were large and firm, despite the lack of a brassiere. Given his proclivities, he sincerely hoped she wasn’t disinclined toward undergarments.

  He put her in a satin corset and thigh-high stockings—the sort with seams up the back. A searing bolt of lust ripped through his pelvis. She definitely had the figure for risqué lingerie.

  Shifting in his chair to ease the tightness in his trousers, he turned to Duncan. “Who is she? Do you know?”

  “Only from the papers,” his friend replied. “She’s William Bentley’s daughter—a real rebel with a cause, from what I hear.”

  Callum remembered her now. Lady Vanessa, the one the papers called “Madam Butterfly” because she couldn’t be caught. She looked better in person than in those grainy newsprint photographs. Ten times better.

  Good enough to eat, one might say.

  Licking his lips, 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?”

  “Deirdre.”

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

  “Is that so?” the woman asked, her interest clearly aroused. “And would you be married still, your lordship? Because, if you’re not, I ken a bonny lass who’d be just perfect for you.”

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

  “She’s a Gemini,” the woman replied, beaming in a way that suggested the fix-up in question was probably her daughter.

  “Ah. I see.” He cleared his throat. “Well, Deirdre, 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 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 Lady Vanessa again, wondering what sign she might be. Given what he’d seen when he probed her mind, his money was on Aquarius. Unconventional and unsentimental—the opposite of himself.

  Still, there were worse signs. Water-bearers were unpredictable, so she’d keep him on his toes, and fiercely loyal once they’d made up their minds to commit—no small feat for someone born under the influence of freedom-loving Uranus. And, well, whatever her other attributes, she was stunning, highborn, and clearly wanted to hook up.

  “What do you suppose she’s doing all the way up here?” he asked Duncan, keeping his eye on the lady in question.

  “From the looks she’s giving you, I’d say she’s hoping to get into your kecks,” his friend returned. “And from the one you’re giving her, I’d wager she’ll get what she came for.”

  Warmed by another burst of lust, Callum tore his gaze away. A twenty-something lass with frizzy blond hair stepped up and, beaming at him, held out her copy of Political Astrology Through the Ages.

  “I can’t believe I’m meeting you in the flesh,” she exclaimed as he took it from her. “I follow your blog every day and have all of your books.”

  The smile that bloomed in response 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 hopeful glance toward the refreshment table.

  Aye. Good. Madam Butterfly 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, in fact. Something in her air gave the impression of self-sufficiency. Or was it superiority? She was standing there so coolly, like she owned the whole bloody room and, soon enough, meant to own him, too.

  Not that he objected.

  Swallowing hard, he shook his head to clear the thickening cloud of lust. The room was cold, bu
t 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 butterfly. Her father was a liberal, like himself, but unlikely to support the dissolution of the political foundation upon which his power rested. Especially after the failure of last year’s referendum on Scottish independence. Still, Lord Bentley couldn’t know Callum had quietly poured money into the cause of Scottish freedom for decades, nor could his daughter. It was a secret shared only by Duncan and a few other die-hard nationalists who, like him, weren’t about to give up the fight just because the majority of Scots had fallen prey to English fearmongering.

  Duncan was a wolver, a benevolent type of lycanthrope found in the Shetland Islands. Most worked as fishermen, as Duncan had done, before he realized he could help more indigent people through politics than by donating part of his catch to the local soup kitchen.

  Shutting his eyes against her allure, Callum took his emotional temperature. He was already fraying around the edges and still had to get through dinner with some of Duncan’s and his political pals. Another hour or two of forcing himself to be sociable would likely unravel him completely. How would he divide himself between a crew of rapid nationalists and the lass, let alone have anything left to give her afterward?

  He made another lingering appraisal. As raw need pulsed through his bloodstream, he decided to try. He wanted her, damn it, and was sick to death of denying himself the pleasures of female company—human female company.

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

 

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