The Queen of Swords: A Paranormal Tale of Undying Love

by Nina Mason

  “Will you let me watch sometime?”

  “Why, you dirty wee lass.” He laughed again. “I’m shocked to the core of my being.”

  She rolled over, sloshing water over the sides, and moved her face close to his. “How about right now?”

  His brow furrowed. “You seriously want to watch me have a wank?”

  “Why not?”

  Arching a ruddy eyebrow, he asked, “And what do I get for my trouble?”

  She fought to suppress a grin, but lost the battle. “You mean besides a self-inflicted orgasm?”

  “Aye.” With a quick kiss, he added, “Self-inflicted orgasms are easy to come by.”

  Her eyebrows waggled. “What would you like in return?”

  “How about if I handle the opening monologue and you come in before the final act?”

  A laugh broke free. “Deal.”

  She gave him a swift kiss and sat back. A thick froth of bubbles sat atop the water, obscuring her view. Lust pulsed low and deep as he took himself in hand. As he worked, his breathing grew ragged, his lips parted, and his eyelids half closed. Damn, it was hot. As she observed, taking careful note of his ministrations, the pulsing grew more intense and insistent. Sensing her cue, she moved in and took over, teasing the tip with her tongue while he held the base.

  “Oh, aye,” he groaned, placing his free hand on her head. “Oh, God that feels good.”

  His breathy utterances sent an electrifying thrill rippling through her. She twirled her tongue across the spot he’d worked with his thumb. He made a growling sound deep in his throat. His fingers fanned out across her scalp, holding her head as he flexed his hips, pushing deeper. She sucked and swirled, giving it everything she had. In response, he gasped, hissed, clenched, and shook—a total turn-on.

  “Enough,” he rasped, abruptly pulling her off. “You’re going to make me cum.”

  She arched an eyebrow in his direction. “Wasn’t that the objective?”

  “Aye, lass. But not in your mouth, eh?”

  Confused, she wrinkled her nose. “Why not?”

  “Because my spunk is like pure adrenaline.”

  * * *

  Reaching to the dashboard for his Gauloises, he drew one from the pack and pressed the unfiltered end between his lips. He punched the lighter and cracked the window. The smell of wet earth and asphalt infiltrated his nostrils. It was starting to rain, despite the morning’s promise of clear skies.

  They’d set off a couple of hours ago, after she’d returned from the university. In addition to agreeing to cover her finals, Maud Edenfield had told her Fitzgerald would return to the Unseelie Court on Midsummer’s Eve, only a couple of days after the new moon. If they failed, he’d have to wait another hundred years to try again. And next time, if there was a next time, Fitzgerald would be wise to their scheme.

  They were on M6, a busy highway. Cat dozed against the passenger door. Wallace and Bruce slept curled up together in their crate in the rear compartment. They were somewhere in Northern England, whizzing past a whole lot of nothing. The classical station he’d put on was playing one of Mozart’s symphonies.

  He went over their itinerary again in his mind. They’d spend tonight in a pet-friendly boutique hotel in Edinburgh. After checking in, they’d walk the dogs, have a quiet drink, and order something from room service for her. He’d have to eat too. Feeding from her wasn’t enough. Plus, it wasn’t good for her health. So, he’d hunt, with her if she was up for it and alone, if she wasn’t. Tomorrow, they’d leave the dogs and do a bit of sightseeing. The next day, they’d head up the coast. It was the long way round to Druimdeurfait, but he wanted to show her certain places along the way. And they had time to kill.

  The lighter popped. As he reached for it, she stirred against his shoulder. He lit his cigarette, blowing the smoke at the open window. Lifting her head, she smiled at him groggily.

  “How long have I been asleep?”

  Flicking a glance toward the dashboard clock, he saw it was just after two o’clock p.m. They’d left Wickenham around noon and she’d been quiet for the first hour. Though he’d sensed she was worried about something, he couldn’t get her to open up.

  “Not long.”

  After she dozed off, he realized he’d shared a great deal about himself, but knew next to nothing about her. She’d not mentioned her family, for instance. Where had she grown up? Were here parents still alive? Did she have any siblings? He hoped to learn all of those things and more over the next few days.

  “Are we in Scotland yet?” she asked, yawning.

  The landscape was flat, the road a divided highway edged by businesses, lorry yards, and working-class row houses. He wasn’t sure exactly where they were, he just knew they hadn’t crossed the border.

  “Not yet,” he told her, “but we should be before too long.”

  “And how far after that until we reach Edinburgh?”

  “Two or three more hours.”

  It had started to rain, but not enough to use the wipers. Just a fine mist.

  “There’s something I should probably tell you.”

  The words plucked his heart like a harp. Nothing good ever followed an introduction like that one. “Oh, aye?”

  “I read my tarot cards again.”

  “And...?”

  “This time, I did draw the card of Death.”

  Alarm chimed, and then grew into a gong of panic. He clenched his jaw and took a drag of his cigarette. She’d drawn Death, which wasn’t good. Though it didn’t necessarily portend physical death. Or hers. Maybe it foretold Lord Fitzgerald’s death, which would be a blessing, or the death of his curse, also good, or maybe Branwen’s demise. Aye, that could be it. She’d drawn it before Branwen, right? That must be what it meant.

  “Why did you not tell me before?”

  “It slipped my mind.”

  He glowered at her in disbelief. “You drew the card of Death, knowing our history with the card, and it slipped your mind?”

  She shrugged. “What can I say? I’ve had a lot of distractions.”

  Chapter 18: The Birds and the Bees

  “What was it like the first time you made love?”

  Surprised by her question, he looked at her and wrinkled his nose. They’d been on the road several hours now and were nearly to Scotland.

  “What brought that on?”

  “Call it idle curiosity.”

  He smirked. “Haven’t you heard curiosity killed the cat?”

  Her lips pursed and her face colored inexplicably. “I hate that expression.”

  “Do you?”

  “Tell me,” she demanded more forcefully. “I want to know.”

  “Aye, well. To tell the truth, I don’t remember all that much about it.”

  Her gaze hardened. “How is that possible? Doesn’t everybody remember their first time?”

  “Everybody hasn’t lived for more than two hundred years. And all I really remember is how it felt rather strange and awkward at the start and pretty bloody brilliant at the end.”

  She eyed him speculatively. “And was it brilliant for her too?”

  Licking his lips, he harkened back to his first partner, a barmaid who’d gone with him into the alley behind the pub, a popular spot for such trysts. She’d leaned against a fence and pulled up her skirts and he’d lifted his kilt. He shot his load after a few quick pokes. “I rather doubt it. But I flatter myself I’ve improved over time. But you tell me.”

  A grin stole across her mouth. “For all I know, you’re total rubbish.”

  He arched a brow. “Do you get off?”

  Mischief glistened in her eyes. “Do you have to ask?”

  “How do I ken? You could be faking.”

  She laughed. “It never occurred to me to fake.”

  With a chuckle, he said, “I’m relieved to hear it.”

  “So, was it her first time too?”

  Shaking his head, he let out an exasperated sigh. “And what’s to be gained by speaking o
f this?”

  “It’s called sharing.” The brusqueness of her tone gave him pause. “And greater intimacy between us is what’s to be gained.”

  Jaw clenching, he fixed his eyes on the road ahead. “As long as I’ve lived, I still don’t understand women. And probably never will if I live a thousand more years. If you’d had affairs in the past, I’d have no desire to hear the details.”

  She was quiet for a minute or two before she said, “What if I’d been raped? Would you want to know about that?”

  “Aye. I would.” He swallowed his surprise. “Have you been?”

  His eyes narrowed as he considered this. How could she have been raped and still be a virgin? Perhaps she’d been assaulted in some other way. Forced fellatio, for instance. Or digital penetration, which might not have broken her hymen.

  “Let’s just say I would have been, had he been able to get it in.”

  He shot a concerned glance at her. “When was this?”

  “Back in secondary school.” Her voice was a wee bit shaky. “I had a bit of a crush on a guy who tried to take advantage. I stopped him before things went too far, but he told all his mates we hadn’t stopped. The lot of them started sniffing around me like dogs, asking me out and the like. I thought they genuinely liked me until one of the more decent among them clued me in. Then, another less-decent bloke decided not to take no for an answer. I’m just thankful he didn’t know what the hell to do.”

  “I’m sorry, lass.” He swallowed. “That must have been a waking nightmare.”

  She lit one of his cigarettes and smoked it in silence looking out at the view, a pastoral scene of fields, farms, pastures, and fences. This part of Scotland hadn’t changed much.

  “So, Graham. Is it the curse...or were you always an insatiable horn-dog?”

  A scoff scraped his throat. “Since you asked, I had a normal sex drive. And values. I wasn’t a saint, mind. But neither was I a libertine. And once I became engaged to Caitriona, I never so much as looked at another lass twice.” Pausing, he heaved a sigh. “I hate what the curse has done to me. With a bloody passion. But what am I to do? Pull a Boston Corbett?”

  “Who?”

  “Boston Corbett, the soldier who killed John Wilkes Booth, the man who shot Abraham Lincoln. He’d castrated himself with a pair of scissors earlier in life to avoid the temptation of prostitutes.”

  The color drained from her face. “Bloody hell.”

  He arched an eyebrow as a smirk played on his lips. “I should think so.”

  “And I should think self-castration a little extreme. Besides, wouldn’t they only grow back?”

  “That I couldn’t tell you…nor have the least desire to find out.”

  She got quiet again for several minutes, and then, “If you can’t remember your first time, can you tell me something else? Something really personal you’ve never told anyone else?”

  His eyes rolled. What was he supposed to tell her? He was total shite at sharing, relationships, and reading female minds. He searched his memory for something, anything, digging deep. Finally, thinking he’d resurrected something fitting the bill, he cleared his throat. “I recall a rather mortifying exchange I once had with my Granda concerning the birds and the bees...or, rather, blades and scabbards, if you will. Is that the kind of thing you’d like to hear?”

  “That’s just the kind of thing. Will you tell me the story?”

  “Only if you promise not to laugh,” he said with a tense laugh. “Because it’s bloody embarrassing, the reason I’ve never shared it before.”

  “No laughing.” She held up her hand as if pledging. “You have my solemn oath.”

  He flicked a nervous glance her way, and then shifted his eyes to the road, taking a few moments to collect his thoughts. “Aye, well,” he began, eyes forward, “when I was a lad of about eight, my Granda told me the story of the part he played in the Forty-Five, and how he came to lose his leg. But he wouldn’t tell me of the evils that followed, insisting I was too young to be troubled with such atrocities. But he also promised to tell me when I was older.”

  Pausing to puff on his cigarette, he shot a glance at her. She eyed him intently, but didn’t say anything. As he blew out the smoke, he went on. “Well, I never forgot it, but said no more about it for the next five years. Then, one morning, shortly before I turned four and ten, I decided it was time. After looking high and low for the old man, I found him down at the stables. He and the groom—Duncan was the lad’s name, I believe—were trying to get a stallion up on one of the mares.

  “I took the place beside him at the fence. I can still picture him as if it was yesterday. His heavy tartan hunting coat and an old-style kilt, the kind we call a Feileadh Mòr. In the dull morning light, his complexion looked sallow and pale, though his cheeks were ruddy. A few tufts of gray poked out from underneath the slouching tam on his head. I was nearly as tall as he was by then and, like him, I leaned against the fence, set my foot on the lowest rail and draped my arms over the highest, letting my hands dangle. Neither of us spoke for a bit. We just stood there like men, side-by-side, watching the horses, breathing in the dung, listening to the groom’s coaxing clicks and soft commands while the stallion squealed and stomped in protest.

  “After a bit, I turned to him. ‘I believe I’m old enough now to hear about Cumberland the Butcher. I’m nigh enough to a man now to hear it, wouldna you say?’ His eyes moved up and down the length of me, sizing me up. ‘You may well be at that, lad,’ he replied with a thoughtful smirk. ‘But you ought to ken time alone willna make a man of you. It’s what’s in the heart and in the head that makes a man a man.’ I frowned at him. ‘Are you suggesting I’m not man enough to hear it? Even now that I’m nearly four and ten?’ He laughed. ‘I’m not saying that a’tall. I just want you to be right-headed about what makes a man a man. I want to see you grow into the right sort of man. One who’s brave and honorable, who commands the respect of his family, friends, and neighbors. And, most importantly, man who can respect himself.’

  Stopping for another hit off his cigarette, he gave her a chance to comment. When she said nothing, he went on. “He just stood there for the longest time, leaning on the fence, looking from the agitated animals to me. ‘You see what the stallion is doing there?’ I looked hard at the big black stud. His eyes bulged and his ears were flat. He reared and pawed wildly at the air as if he strongly objected to what the groom would have him do. ‘You mean mounting the mare?’ ‘Aye, well. Most members of our gender have the capacity to do that. ‘But in my book, that doesna make them men. Do you ken what I mean?’ ‘I’m not certain that I do, Granda. Are you suggesting that I’m not a man until I’ve bedded a lass?’ He let out a cracking laugh. ‘Has your Da not yet had the talk with you about the ways of the world? About growing up and what to expect and how to behave?’ I was beginning to feel unnerved. This was not the conversation I envisaged having that day, or any other day, if I could help it. ‘What in the name of the wee man has any of this to do with Cumberland the Butcher?’ He laughed. ‘I’m speaking to you of manhood, laddie. I’ll tell you about the Butcher after our wee chat. Can you live with that, do you think?’ I regarded him with suspicion. ‘I can, I s’pose, provided you dinna go embarrassing me apurpose.’

  “He grinned and shook his head. ‘You’re bound to be a wee bit abashed due to the subject matter, but I’ll go as easy on you as I can.’ He stopped and licked his lips. ‘I can hear the change starting in your voice and see the whiskers sprouting just there above your lip. Have you noticed any other changes in your person of late?’ ‘Ah, Christ, Granda,” I groaned, rolling my eyes. “You’ve driven the carriage right past abashed to total humiliation.’ He snorted. ‘Let’s talk freely, eh? Man to man. And let there be no shame in the sharing of wisdom and experience between an auld man and his grandson.’ I eyed him skeptically. ‘What kind of changes might you be referring to?’ He looked at me with a troubling glint. ‘Primarily things transpiring below your navel.’ I coul
d tell by the determined set of his face he was like a dog with a bone. I turned then, pressed my back up against the fence and looked out toward the stand of evergreens in the distance, willing myself there instead of where I was.”

  Turning toward her, he found her looking out the window. “Are you sure you want to hear this?”

  “Yes. I like thinking of you as a little boy. And your Granda sounds like quite a character.”

  “That he was.” Suddenly missing the old sod something fierce, he bit his lip and waited for her to prod him before continuing his story. “After we stood there a long while, he asked what I knew about copulation. Only he used the Gaelic word. I wanted to say I’d rather be bled by leeches than continue this conversation, but I didn’t. Instead, I looked at the ground and mumbled, ‘I ken enough.’ He scoffed. ‘Just enough to be dangerous, I reckon...like most rascals your age.’ I shot him a searing look. ‘I’ll have you ken I saw Mackay the cooper in back of the tavern t’other day having his way with one of the serving wenches.’ I regretted it as soon as the words left my gob, and even moreso when he arched a bushy gray eyebrow with a glint in his eye. ‘Did you now?’ There was no turning back, so I went forward. ‘I came flying around the corner, heading home from the shops with a sack of sweeties, and there they were. At first, I thought Mackay might be hurting the lass, the way she was moaning and all, so I ducked around the corner and watched for a wee bit to see if I should try to be of service.’

  “My Granda looked right at me as bold as anything. ‘And just what did you observe?’ I snapped my eyes away from him. ‘What d’you think?’ ‘There’s no need to be coy, lad. I’m merely trying to get at what’s inside your heid. So, I can set it straight where it might need straightening. So quit hedging and tell me what you witnessed.’ I eyed him warily. My face felt like a red-hot poker as I begrudgingly began to explain. ‘She was leaning on a barrel with her skirts pulled up. I could see every bit of her legs and a wee bit more besides. The front of his kilt was up over his belly...and he was bumping against her like a wild man. To tell you the truth, I found it all fairly disgusting. But at the same time, kind of...well, fascinating.’