Knight of Cups (Knights of the Tarot Book 2)

by Nina Mason

  While she fell to thinking, he remembered drawing The Tower, the card of ruination. Might the tower on the card and the tower in the dream somehow relate to one another?

  Before he could consider the idea further, she said, “I think the dragon represents your curse. You’re afraid it will hurt me if I try to help you escape from the tower.”

  That sounded right. He was afraid the curse would harm her and yet, he’d risked her life because he was a weak, selfish, loathsome creature who couldn’t control his impulses. If Mistress Chalmers, his old dominatrix, were still alive, he’d visit her first thing and pay her to birch him within an inch of his life.

  But Mistress Chalmers wasn’t alive, and Miss Darling was—alive and well and still in his bed, doing her best to lead him into temptation.

  “I like that you have hair on your chest,” she said, stroking his. “It’s so masculine. Back in L.A., everybody waxes off all their body hair so they look like children, which makes me sick.”

  He didn’t wonder. She’d been molested by a pervert who liked his victims hairless. That was probably the reason she found the trend toward hairlessness repellent. He did, too, but not for the same reasons. Call him old-fashioned, but he liked his women the way nature intended. He also liked that she had a lovely thick bush.

  He lowered his gaze to her breasts. His fingers twitched with the impulse to touch those sweet pink nipples. He fisted his hands against the desire, squeezing until his fingernails dug into his palms. If he was strong, he still might be able to escape the web of seduction she was spinning around him.

  “You’re playing with fire, Gwyndolen…and likely to get burned.”

  “I’ll do whatever it takes to help you,” she whispered. “I want to be with you, Leith. Forever and ever. You’re my knight in shining armor.”

  Maybe once, but not anymore. “My armor’s a wee bit banged up, I’m afraid.”

  “Once we break the curse, it’ll shine up again. I’m sure of it.”

  Say something, you fool. Tell her to get out. It’s the honorable thing to do.

  “Gwyndolen…” He hesitated, torn. If only there was a way to enjoy her and still be noble, but there wasn’t. No way he could see, anyway. He cleared his throat and started again. “Miss Darling, you really must go back to your own room.”

  “Why?”

  “Because if you stay, your fate will be sealed.”

  She brought her face within two inches of his. “My fate is already sealed, my knight…and has been since the first time I read your book.”

  Leith, Leith, throw down your hair to me.

  Christ, how he longed to take her in his arms, to kiss her mouth, to make love to her again. He clenched his fists against the overpowering desire.

  “Go back to your room, Gwyndolen.” His throat was tight, his voice strained. “Before I do something I’ll regret.”

  “I won’t regret it.”

  He arched an incredulous eyebrow. “Even if you die?”

  “I won’t”—her whisky-scented breath was intoxicating—”and even if I should, I won’t be sorry. I’d much rather have a few short hours at the oasis than years and years of wandering alone in the desert.”

  He couldn’t argue with that. He was the king of regret and wouldn’t wish his crown on anyone. God help them both, but he couldn’t deny his needs any longer. He wasn’t a bloody saint; he was a man with passions he’d been forced to deny for a hundred years at great cost to his own well-being. He was miserable. His body might not be human any longer, but his heart still was.

  He pressed his mouth against hers. Her lips parted to invite him inside. She welcomed his tongue with a tantalizing swipe of her own. He was aware of her hands in his hair, sealing his mouth on hers. His arms had found their way around her, and his hands were kneading her bottom. Pleasure rumbled in his throat. He felt her shiver, felt her hand sweep down his arm and push between their bodies.

  Eager fingers caught in his pubic hair. As he winced, a small, warm hand closed around his cock. Pleasure sparked from the point of contact. He groaned and flexed his hips, pushing deeper into her grasp. She began to pump like one of the masturbatory devices he kept in the playroom. Far from off-putting, he found her awkwardness endearing.

  Breaking out of the kiss, he stopped her hand with his own. “Slow down, my darling. We have the rest of the night.”

  What was left of it, anyway. Judging from the dove-gray light slicing through the crack in the draperies, dawn was breaking. He crawled out of bed, padded to the window, and threw the curtains open. Returning to her, he jerked back the bedclothes.

  She looked so small and defenseless in his large bed. She also looked like a goddess. With hungry eyes, he devoured every curve and swell of her beguiling form.

  She was lying on her side, face turned toward him, one bare arm and shoulder bathed in moonlight so bright he couldn’t believe it didn’t burn. There was a painterly quality to the chestnut curls spilling across the ivory pillow and that graceful arm positioned just so.

  Her bouquet was just as inspired. Fermented breath and citrus scented skin; the lifeblood flowing through her veins; the sleep-warm tang of her sex.

  The smell of her wakened something within. Not the cat, which only killed critters. This creature had more ancient roots and much darker appetites. He was Cernuous, the horned god, the Lord of Wild Things, the master of the cycle of life, death, and rebirth.

  That part knew there was a way to be one with her, to join his being to hers in one transcendent moment of communion and surrender. All her secrets, all her treasures, all her divinity, would be his in that moment. It was a dark secret passed through the blood, an ancient truth of the followers of Danu.

  Drinking the blood of the one you loved was the ultimate intimacy.

  She blinked up at him, looking puzzled. “What are you doing?”

  “Drinking in your beauty.”

  “Do you really think I’m beautiful?”

  “I think you’re a goddess, my darling.”

  She reached for him. “Then come worship me.”

  He got on the bed on all fours, crawled next to her, and laid on his side.

  Rising on one elbow, she placed her hand on his chest, pushing a little. “Lay back. I want to admire you, too.”

  He did as she’d requested, struck by a modesty he hadn’t felt since his wedding night. Clara had been a virgin when they married, and he spent half the time revering her.

  My Queen, My Bride, I offer

  myself entirely to thee.

  And to show my devotion to thee,

  I offer thee this night, my eyes,

  my ears, my mouth, my heart,

  my whole being without reserve.

  Gwyndolen drew her finger down the dark trail leading from his chest to his pubic hair. Desire shivered through him as her fingers jumped to the head of his erection. Her touch moved down his length, over his balls, and back up again, amplifying his passion.

  He moved his nearest hand between her legs, parted her lips, and gently rubbed his middle finger against her clitoris.

  “Are you squeamish about being kissed here?”

  “Not at all,” she said.

  That was all he needed to hear. He moved down the bed, grabbed her by the ankles, flipped her on her back, and pulled her legs apart. As he situated himself at the apex of her thighs, he met her gaze and offered her a fang-revealing grin.

  “Prepare to be eaten, Red Riding Hood.”

  She laughed. “Are you the big, bad wolf?”

  “No, my darling. I’m Rapunzel in the tower…and you’ve climbed up my hair to rescue me.”

  She laughed, warming him. “I thought you were rescuing me from the tower.”

  “Perhaps we’re rescuing each other.”

  He lowered his head and partook of her feminine flesh. He licked, flicked, and circled until her body grew tense and her breathing thready. Then, he pushed his tongue into her, straining for depth as he wiggled the tip against
her g-spot.

  She rolled her hips and moaned, making him harder. He withdrew his tongue, took her tender bud between his lips, and gently suckled. Groaning, she twined her fingers in his hair.

  Ghosts rose from their graves as he pleasured her. Geordie on the field at Falkirk with his thigh bones exposed…Belphoebe sucking the blood from his leg…Morgan riding him through the halcyon haze of opium…Clara screaming in pain and horror as the soldiers cut her open.

  He saw himself in the tower with his hair out the window like a rope. Gwyndolen was climbing up, risking the dragon, risking everything, to save him. He was afraid for her, afraid of the dragon, of the fall, afraid something terrible would happen to her before they got away.

  The full moon was still a week hence. She might die before then or be too weak to make the trip to Brocaliande. So much could go wrong. So goddamned much.

  Under his mouth, she was trembling on the brink of climax. He was drenched in the scent and flavor of her arousal. The hunger rose from his depths like a shark, swallowing him whole. He moved down her thigh and sunk in his fangs. She bucked and opened her mouth to scream, but only made a small choked sound. Ecstasy strangled by breathlessness.

  Blood bubbled from the wound, warm and savory. The cat purred. The horned lord danced. The man drank. He wished he could speak to her. Wished with all his heart he could say, “I love you,” but he couldn’t let go. Not yet. He needed the blood and the intimacy it would bring. He had been a deserted island too damn long.

  He started to get fragments of her life. She was brought into the world by a nun, on the gurney while her mother was being wheeled to the delivery room. Her early years were happy, thanks to her loving parents. She read a lot—fantasies and fairytales, mostly—and liked to play dress up. He saw a canopy bed covered in roses, a plastic pink castle, and a carousel horse with a horn on its forehead.

  He saw her in the car when her parents died, saw her being operated on by a white-masked surgeon, who patched the hole in her skull with a piece of metal (the barrier, he presumed, between him and her thoughts).

  Her energy shifted after that. Less love and trust; more feelings of fear, betrayal, and abandonment. She was in a group home for a few months, then was taken in by a couple. What seemed like a dream come true turned into a nightmare. As a consequence, she withdrew from herself and the world.

  Her adult life was a mirror of his: isolation, loneliness, and roleplaying to keep anyone from getting too close.

  As his drinking slowed, the impressions grew more figurative. He saw a fly wrapped up in a spider’s silks, which became a chrysalis with a butterfly inside—the true self, waiting to emerge. Or was it the rebirth of her soul?

  He withdrew his fangs and looked at her face. She was watching him, her eyes alert, but glazed. He saw the Six of Swords reflected in her gaze—an unhappy woman sailing from rough to smooth waters. Was he the gondolier helping her along? He could only hope.

  “How do you feel?” he asked, still tasting her blood.

  “Drained,” she said and closed her eyes. “But also happy.”

  * * * *

  When Gwyn opened her eyes, pale morning light filled the room. Squinting against the luster, she sat up and looked around for Leith. To her great dismay, he wasn’t in the bed or anywhere else within view.

  She got up and picked up the dressing gown she’d shed at the foot of the bed after stealing into his room. Leith, she presumed, had laid the robe over the chair when he got up. As she pulled the robe on, she crossed to the window and looked out.

  His room overlooked a pretty garden enclosed by a brick wall. A gravel path meandered through beds of flowers bordered by hedges. The setting was romantic and inviting. Perhaps she could persuade him to take a walk with her there before they left for Inverness. First, however, she had to find him.

  Determined to do just that, she pulled the dressing gown around her body and tied the belt. All the clothes she’d worn since arriving at Glenarvon were designed to make a woman feel beautiful and elegant. Modern fashions, in comparison, were so uninspired. Why didn’t anybody design romantic things like this robe anymore?

  She shook the thought away. She had more important things to think about than frills and lace. His curse, for starters. She’d meant the things she’d told him last night from the bottom of her heart. If they could break his curse, she’d stay with him as his eternal beloved.

  Opening the door, she hurried into the hall, which was quiet. She crept down the drafty hallway towards the staircase, hugging herself for warmth. Though beautiful, the dressing gown wasn’t warm.

  She stopped at the top of the staircase and looked down to find Mrs. King coming up, carrying some folded clothes and an old pair of sneakers.

  “Good morning, Mrs. King,” Gwyn said to alert the housekeeper to her presence.

  “Oh, good morning, lassie,” she returned, looking startled. “You gave my poor heart a shock. I was just coming to bring you these old things from the charity bag, and didn’t expect to meet you at the top of the stairs.”

  “I was looking for Sir Leith,” Gwyn told her. “Do you know where I might find him?”

  “He went for an early ride with his other guest.”

  “Oh,” Gwyn said, surprised and disappointed. “I didn’t know he had horses.”

  Mrs. King had reached the top of the stairs. “He does, though not as many as he once did. He’s had to sell quite a few of them to pay for the upkeep on Glenarvon.”

  “Oh, dear. I hadn’t realized…”

  When the housekeeper started down the hall, Gwyn followed her into her bedchamber. The older woman set the old clothes on the bed before turning to face her.

  “What might you like for breakfast this morning?”

  The thought of food made Gwyn blanch. Not only wasn’t she hungry, she also felt queasy. “Nothing, thanks. For some reason, I have no appetite this morning.”

  Mrs. King’s expression shifted from cheerful to concerned. “You’re not unwell, I hope.”

  “I don’t think so. I just feel a little…off. It’s probably just nervous excitement. Sir Leith is taking me shopping in Inverness this morning.”

  “Aye. He told me, and left instructions to have you dressed and fed when he returns from his ride.”

  “Well,” Gwyn said, forcing a smile through her increasing biliousness. “At least I’ll be dressed.”

  After Mrs. King left her, Gwyn put on the clothes: a pair of old dungarees that were too big in the waist and a few inches too long, a baggy sweater that was at least two sizes too large, and an old pair of sneakers that fit reasonably well.

  Though neither flattering nor romantic, the clothes would have to do. Beggars couldn’t be choosers, after all, and she would soon have new things that fit her better in size and style. Taking a seat before the dressing table, she ran a brush through her hair. She was starting to feel weak as well as queasy. Was it the curse kicking in?

  Gwyn struggled to keep a lid on her anxiety as she continued brushing her hair. Freaking out wouldn’t help matters. Everybody died sooner or later, and she had already had two near misses. Leith had saved her life, granting her a reprieve. Every hour she had lived since the bus accident—the happiest of her life—had been windfalls.

  Plus, the curse was concrete proof of his love.

  Then, in a sudden burst of insight, she saw the truth: all the bad things that had happened were part of her preparation. The death of her parents, her foster father’s abuse, her obsession with Sir Leith, and the bus accident outside Glenarvon.

  If she’d skipped any one of those trials along the way, she wouldn’t have been ready to fulfill her purpose.

  He was wrong. He wasn’t Rapunzel in this fractured fairytale; he was the Beast. She had come to Scotland to break his curse, not to be killed by it.

  She had survived accidents and abuse and would survive this, too. She didn’t need to know how, she just had to have faith all would turn out well. Fortunately, believing in t
he seemingly impossible was her forte.

  Chapter 12

  “The story goes that Thomas, a laird from somewhere called Erceldoune, met up with Glorianna, one of Morgan’s many sisters, in the woods one day,” Leith told Gwyndolen after she’d asked him again about Tom’s background.

  They were halfway to Inverness on A96, a two-lane highway flanked on both sides by open fields, scattered shrubs, and the occasional stone cottage. Now and again, the firth popped into view on the right-hand driver’s side.

  “Clad all in green silk and velvet, she rode a milk-white steed with fifty-nine bells attached to its bridle and the mats in its mane,” he continued, gripping the steering wheel. “She asked for a kiss and, in exchange, showed Thomas three marvels: the lily-filled meadow leading to heaven, the thorn-covered road to hell, and the way to her homeland in the Thitherworld.”

  “The queen took him to her palace in Elphame for a time, warning him not to eat anything or speak to anyone but her. Eventually, she sent him back to the Hitherworld, fearing he might become the tithe, a sacrifice the faeries make every seventh year to appease their overlords. Beforehand, though, the queen offered him his choice between the talents of harping or carping. Thomas chose the latter, the gift of second sight.”

  “So, he’s a prophet?”

  He flicked a glance her way. “Aye, and one of his prophecies tells of a rebellion to be raised against Queen Morgan by the son I didn’t even know I had until a week ago.”

  She looked as surprised by the news as he’d been. “You have a son?”

  “Aye, but they won’t tell me where he is.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because the fewer people who know a secret, the easier it is to keep.”

  “Did you and Clara have any children?”

  The question pierced him. “She was pregnant when I left her to join the prince’s campaign.”

  “What happened to her? You said you’d tell me. Would now be a good time?”

  He fixed his eyes on the road ahead. He did not like thinking about what happened to Clara, let alone talking about it. Still, he had promised to tell her at a more opportune time, and this moment seemed as good as any. “They were killed by the Duke of Cumberland’s men when they came looking for me after Culloden.”