Knight of Cups (Knights of the Tarot Book 2)

by Nina Mason

As Gwyn’s mind raced in a dozen directions, she struggled to keep her focus on the conversation.

  “How long did it take Faith to succumb after you realized how you felt?” the other man asked.

  “Three weeks,” Sir Leith replied. “Maybe four.”

  Gwyn’s curiosity spiked. Who was Faith?

  “That’s good.” The man’s tone was hopeful. “That means there’s still time to figure something out.”

  “My mind’s made up, Tom. I’m tired of living like this. If there’s even the slightest chance I can get back what I lost, I must take Miss Darling to Brocaliande—and hope you will come along.”

  Get back what he lost? What is he talking about?

  “I’ll help in any way I can,” the other man replied.

  “Where do we enter from this side of the vale?”

  “Through the standing stones at Callanish, but only at the stroke of midnight under a full moon, with the aid of a nawglen. Even then, it’s up to the druids to let us in.”

  Gwyn bit her lip. What in the name of Tinker Bell was a nawglen?

  “Is there a chance they won’t?”

  “Aye. There’s always a chance. Cathbad’s not overly fond of Avalonians. As I’m sure you know, he and Queen Morgan have been sworn enemies since the Thitherworld Wars.”

  “I knew of the enmity,” Sir Leith said, “but wasn’t clear on the details. Some ancient feud over the ill treatment of a druid priestess sent to Castle Le Fay as a diplomatic envoy. Rumor has it, Queen Morgan put the woman’s eyes out with a red-hot poker. If the story’s true, I can understand why Cathbad might hold a grudge.”

  “I’ll go with you as far as Callanish, but the curse prevents me from crossing the vale. And, just so we’re clear, Miss Darling is human, not Avalonian.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Leith coughed. “What do you mean?”

  “We’ll, if she’s not Avalonian yet, she will be by the time you reach Callanish. I saw it in a dream last night.”

  What? Not that she minded becoming a faery.

  “What else did you see in your dream?” Sir Leith asked.

  “A golden chalice encrusted with gems,” the other man replied. “Any idea what it means?”

  “It has to be the chalice Morgan uses for her sorcery,” said Sir Leith. “Do I dare hope that your vision might signify the curse can be broken using the same cup used to cast it?”

  “It’s hard to say,” the man replied. “I simply saw the cup, suggesting it will play a role. What that role might be remains to be seen.”

  Gwyn gulped, unable to believe what she’d just heard. Resisting the strong compulsion to burst through the door and demand answers, she turned and hurried toward the stairs. Just as she reached the top, she heard something. Footsteps moving toward her from below.

  Pulse quickening, she picked up her pace, hoping to make it back to her bedchamber before whoever was coming saw her. She would rather not explain why she was wandering around the castle at this hour.

  The footsteps grew quicker and louder. Whoever it was had nearly reached the top of the stairs. To avoid being seen, she ducked into a nook with two doors. Hands trembling, she tried the nearest knob. Finding it locked, she dashed to the other door. Relief washed through her when the knob turned in her hand. She skirted around the door and quietly closed herself inside. Breath held and eyes squeezed shut, she listened at the crack. When the footfalls passed by the alcove, she breathed a sigh of relief and opened her eyes.

  The room, to her surprise, was light. Curiosity aroused, she turned around. As she took in the elegant bedchamber, a strong sensation of déjà vu washed through her. She had been in this room before, though not in this lifetime. Her gaze moved from object to object, each one strange and yet so uncannily familiar. The gilded canopy bed at the center of the room; the delicate writing desk at the footboard; the dressing table nestled in the window alcove; the huge mahogany wardrobe on the opposite wall.

  Across from the bed was a marble fireplace. Over its carved mantle hung a full-length portrait of a lady in a riding habit. Stepping closer for a better look, Gwyn drank in the details of the striking costume. The skirt was a pale shade of silver. Silk, probably, and delicately embroidered with flowers in the same colored thread. The coat was red velvet, low cut, and trimmed in gold braid and steel beads. The subject, who held a riding crop, stood against a landscape with a castle in the distance—a castle very like Glenarvon. That, however, wasn’t the likeness that most startled Gwyn.

  Gazing at the portrait was like looking in a mirror.

  Startled by the resemblance, Gwyn stumbled backward, dizzy and breathless. Reaching out for something to steady herself, she found the writing desk. Pulling out the small chair, she took a seat and endeavored to calm her frazzled nerves. Everything made sense now. Her terrible childhood. Her obsession with Sir Leith. Surviving the accident. Everything had worked together to bring her here—to Castle Glenarvon and her husband, who’d been taken from her by the faeries and cursed to lead a loveless life. Now, her soul had come back to be rejoined with him and to save him from his terrible fate.

  She opened the desk’s middle drawer, somehow knowing she would find within the letters he’d written to her long ago. Her hunch proved correct. There was a stack of envelopes bound with a red silk ribbon. The top one was addressed to Clara MacQuill, Baroness of Glenarvon, Nairn, Scotland.

  With trembling fingers and tears in her eyes, Gwyn untied the frail ribbon. The paper, too, was yellowed around the edges and brittle throughout with age.

  12 April, 1746

  To my beloved Clara,

  Though still in my cot, my thoughts are of you, my darling, now and then joyfully, then sadly, waiting to learn whether or not fate will see fit to reunite us when this sorry campaign has come to an end. Aye, I must be away from you, but pray soon to fly into your arms. No one else can ever possess my heart—never—never—Oh, God, why must I be parted from one I love so dearly? Without you, my life is wretched. Knowing you await my return is all that keeps me going. As you see, my dearest, your love makes me at once the happiest and unhappiest of men.

  My angel, I have just been told the mail must go. So, I will close now so that you will receive this token of my devotion as soon as may be. Until I am with you again at Glenarvon, my heart and soul enwrapped in your arms, continue to love me—and never misjudge my heart or motives, which are ever true.

  Ever thine. Ever mine. Ever ours.

  Your most faithful and devoted husband,

  Leith

  Tears streamed down Gwyn’s cheeks as she refolded the letter. It was as if he’d written the letter to her. At the same time, she couldn’t imagine ever being the object of such deep and enduring devotion. Longed for it, yes—with every cell—but also felt utterly unworthy.

  As she returned the letters to their place, the clomp of footsteps stopped her heart. They were heavy, as if made by boots, and growing louder. What should she do? If Sir Leith caught her snooping in what she now understood was a shrine to his wife, he wouldn’t be happy.

  When the footfalls echoed in the corridor just outside the door, she swept off the chair and looked around for somewhere to hide. There was a door on the wall beside the bed. She sprinted over and turned the knob. The door opened to reveal a small closet fitted with shelves. Darn, there was no room for her to squeeze in.

  Meanwhile, the knob turned on the outer door. Leaving the closet door ajar, she made a beeline for the armoire. Quaking with fear, she managed to shut herself inside just before he entered the room.

  A bouquet of musty smells taunted her nose. Furniture polish and old fabric laced with dust and faded perfume. Pressing her eye to the keyhole, she watched Sir Leith scowling about the room in search of her.

  “I know you’re in here, Miss Darling, so you might as well show yourself.”

  Her insides churned as distressing memories rose from the place where she kept them locked up tight. Her foster father looking for her while sh
e hid in the closet in her bedroom under a pile of clothes. He never found her there, but sometimes, when they were alone in the house, he’d play what he called “the tickle game.”

  The first time it happened, Gwyn had only been with them a couple of weeks. While she was lying on the couch watching television, he came into the room, sat at the far end, and started tickling her feet.

  “Doesn’t that feel good?” he asked.

  She told him it did, so he moved his fingers up her legs. When he got past her knees, she became uneasy and told him to stop. He said the “tickling game” felt even better higher up. She tried to push his hand off her, but he kept creeping upward, telling her how good it would feel between her legs.

  The more she protested, the more insistent he became. Holding her down with one hand, he put the other between her legs and slipped his fingers inside her underpants. Mortified, she broke from his grasp, ran out of the room, and hid in her closet, feeling frightened and ashamed.

  Later, when his wife came home, he made up some lie to get Gwyn in trouble. While his wife took the belt to her bare bottom, he wore a sick grin on his face.

  That night, after she was in bed, he came into her room, crawled under the covers, and ran his hands all over her while he played with himself. She didn’t understand what he was doing at the time, but she did now. After he got off, he said, “If you tell my wife or anyone else about our games, I’ll see that you go back to the foster home with a report that will guarantee nobody ever takes you in again.”

  Gwyn bit her trembling lip and blinked the awful memories away. Sir Leith wasn’t her foster father and she was no longer a child. She wanted to be with her knight, to have sex with him—but nice, normal, participatory sex. Not the creepy, docile, soul-murdering kind she was forced to have with her foster father.

  She peered at Sir Leith through the keyhole, her stomach in knots. Though the armoire was uncomfortable and claustrophobic, she couldn’t bring herself to open the door.

  “We have things to discuss,” he said, playing with the tongue of the whip while casting about for her, “but not while you hide from me like a naughty child.”

  Sudden fury heated her, inside and out. “I’ve done nothing wrong.”

  “Then, why are you hiding from me?”

  “I was afraid you’d be angry with me.”

  “I’m not angry, Miss Darling, just…puzzled.”

  Tears stung her eyes and tightened her throat. “Then, why do you have that whip with you?”

  He looked at the crop as if unaware he’d been holding it. Then, he tossed it onto the bed. “There. I’ve thrown it away. Now, please come out, Miss Darling, so we can have our discussion.”

  “Do you promise not to punish me?”

  He looked right at the wardrobe, his pale purple eyes radiating sincerity. “You have my solemn vow.”

  She believed him, but still couldn’t bring herself to open the door. Nor did she dare say a word about what she’d overheard. If he wasn’t angry with her for snooping, he’d definitely be furious at her for eavesdropping. “What do you want to talk to me about?”

  “Nothing I care to discuss while you’re cowering inside a wardrobe.”

  “I’m not cowering,” she timidly pointed out. “I feel safe in here.”

  His brow furrowed. “Do you? How strange. May I know the reason?”

  With a hard swallow, she turned away from her peephole. She’d never told anybody about her foster father, but, for some unknown reason, wanted to tell Sir Leith. Should she? Would he understand? Would he think less of her? God knew, she thought less of herself both for tolerating the abuse and keeping silent all these years. Not that telling would do any good now that her abuser was dead. Still, baring her soul to Sir Leith might prove cathartic, but only if he, too, shared his darkest secrets.

  “I will tell you if you, in turn, tell me the truth about your book.”

  Returning her eye to the keyhole, she saw him run a hand through his hair. Then, he started pacing, hands clasped in the small of his back. After picketing for several minutes, he stopped and faced the wardrobe. “Well, I suppose there’s no harm in disclosing the truth--especially in light of my plans for you--but I really must insist you come out of there first, as I do not enjoy addressing myself to a piece of furniture.”

  Part of what he’d said caught in Gwyn’s filter. “Plans for me? What do you mean?”

  “I will gladly reveal all to you,” he said, “when we are face to face.”

  “Very well.” She heaved a sigh, swallowed her embarrassment, and set her palms against the door. “I’ll come out, but only if you turn around.”

  “Why must I turn away?”

  “Because I feel stupid.”

  To his credit, he turned his back on the wardrobe without further inquiry. Burning with embarrassment, she climbed out and, on trembling legs with downcast eyes, waited for him to face her.

  “May I look at you now?”

  “You may.”

  She saw him turn, but couldn’t bring herself to meet his gaze. “You were taken by the faeries, weren’t you? From Culloden Moor. Just as you reported in your book.”

  “Aye.”

  “And I look just like your wife.” It wasn’t a question.

  “Aye.”

  “Am I her reincarnation?”

  “I don’t know…but have my suspicions you might be.”

  “Then why did you take me into the dungeon and tie me up? Did you do things like that to her?”

  “No.”

  “Then why did you do it to me?” Looking up at last, she found him gazing out the window, arms crossed over his chest.

  Without looking her way, he said, “Because you seemed up for it.”

  “I wanted to be,” she said thickly.

  He glanced her way, brow creased. “But you weren’t? So why did you pretend as if you were?”

  She shook her head and chewed her lower lip. Then, she blurted, without meaning to, “Because I wanted you…and because I thought it might help. As counter-intuitive as it seems, I thought submitting to you would free me of my demons.”

  He returned his gaze to the view and stood there for a long time just staring out the window. Then, without turning, he said, “I know what it is to be forced into sexual submission without the power to raise a protest. Perhaps that’s the reason I like to be the dominant partner.”

  “Yes.” She licked her lips. “I can see how having total control would have a certain appeal.”

  Several agonizing minutes passed before he said, “I have an idea that might help you work through what was done to you. Had I known your history, I would have proceeded differently with you. I don’t claim to be a therapist, but I do know from personal experience that BDSM can help heal those who’ve been victimized by sexual predators.”

  Saying nothing more, he went to the desk, withdrew a sheet of paper and pen from the center drawer. After writing something down, he retrieved his riding crop and strode toward the door. Just before exiting, he turned back to her. “Read what I’ve written and, if you wish to explore the therapeutic potential of roleplaying, follow my instructions and meet me in my playroom after breakfast tomorrow.”

  She regarded him cagily, wondering if she should say something about the druids. Deciding she shouldn’t for now, she asked instead, “What if I don’t like your suggestion?”

  His expression remained grave. “I’ll take you into town and leave you with the police. You’re no good to me if you’re fearful of intimacy.”

  Before she could say anything in response, he exited the room. Trepidly, she went over to the desk and took up the note.

  My Dear Miss Darling,

  It would seem our lusty groomsman persists in his wicked ways. Not only has he ruined her ladyship’s abigail, the impertinent swine has now made lewd advances toward the baroness herself. Do the man’s rakish ways know no bounds? I shudder to think! Needless to say, her ladyship is fit to be tied (though, between us, I susp
ect her outrage stems more from his assignation with her maid than his improprieties toward herself, as I have noted the saucy gleam in her eye on more than one occasion when the blackheart is serving at table). Motive aside, she insists upon horsewhipping the scoundrel at once to punish his misdeeds as well as to remind him he’s naught but a lowly ghillie.

  Come morning, please dress in the riding habit you will find inside the armoire in your room and meet me in the dungeon after you’ve had your breakfast. (Hearty meals build strapping whip arms, do they not?)

  Yours etc.

  P.S. Were it within my power, I would tear the scurvy dog who mistreated you from limb to limb with my bare hands and leave his broken bones for the vultures to pick clean.

  She smiled at his inventiveness, his postscript, and the fact that he was giving her another chance. She did not want to be dropped off at the police station; she wanted to go with him to the druids. First, obviously, he needed her to deal with her issues, so she would be worthy of him. Surely, that was what he meant when he said she was no good to him if she was fearful of intimacy.

  She might be hurt by the comment if she didn’t agree with it. Despite all her self-talk about courage and change, she’d behaved like a big baby the first time she was asked to stretch herself.

  The ugly truth was, she was still a mouse trapped in a cage she was too cowardly to escape, even when the door was opened for her.

  She took a breath and blew it out. This was not the time to recriminate herself. He was giving her another chance to prove her worth. She must not let her courage fail her again.

  Chapter 8

  The next morning, after a night spent tossing and turning, Gwyn found the riding habit he’d referenced in the note. Made from heavy brown velvet, it was similar in style to the one in the portrait of his wife. The fitted jacket had a long, circular peplum all around and was elaborately trimmed with a wide band of lace that zigzagged down both sides of the front, around the flap pockets, and up and down the open pleats of the back.