by Nina Mason
Behind his eyes, he saw 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 brave 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 sequel to Knight of Cups. He would call the book Queen of Cups and demand a sizeable advance from his publisher.
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 lady.
“Gwyndolen, oh, Gwyndolen,” 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. You’re not the frightened mouse you’ve shown to the world until now. You’re the courageous, big-hearted 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.”
“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.”
“You only need 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 and strained, “I might have been her in a past life, but I’m still me in this one…and I want you to love me for who I am, not who I used to be.”
He understood and did love her for who she was now. But how to convince her? 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 Gwyndolen’s beautiful hazel 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, Leith 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? 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, clever, and passionate as you are?”
Gwyndolen 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 a 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 care for 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. “You may call me your darling wife as often as you like.”
Taking her answer as an acceptance, he rose to his full height, 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 on a cloudless day. 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 more than a hundred years.
He broke the kiss first, but kept hold of Gwyndolen. “What about the dungeon, my darling? Shall I have Gavin get rid of it all before we return to Glenarvon?”
Mischief glittered in her nymphish eyes. “Don’t you dare.”
Epilogue
Nine Months Later
Gwyn came awake as another contraction tightened her abdomen. Gripping her constricting bump, she glanced at the clock on the nightstand. The labor pains were getting closer together and increasingly intense. If Leith didn’t get back soon, he’d miss the birth. He’d left Brocaliande two months ago and she hadn’t heard from him since. He had gone back to Glenarvon on matters of business, but was supposed to return well before the baby was due.
Please, let him not be detained too much longer.
In her husband’s absence, Bran and Belphoebe, an experienced midwife, had prepared Gwyn for the birth, which was to take place in a warm, natural pool in the woods not far from the cottage where she and Leith lived in the druid forest.
Druids regarded childbirth as a sacred process, a primal and unspeakably powerful rite of initiation for both mother and infant. “Thus, we celebrate the journey of labor and the mystery of birth with rituals designed to create a sacred space for the safe passage of the soul into a new human existence,” Belphoebe had explained. “But the process can also be a powerful and transformative spiritual experience for you. As you walk this path, think of yourself as a priestess of Aveta, the goddess of birth. Celebrate the blood, fluid, sweat, tears, and pain as essential parts of the journey. And honor me, your midwife, as your guide and mediator through this sanctifying experience.”
When the next contraction bore down, Gwyn let out a groan. It felt as if her muscles were pressing, squeezing harder and harder in an effort to expel the child in her womb. As the contraction subsided, she felt the baby shift and kick as if fighting to make more room.
“It’s okay,” Gwyn said in a soothing voice, softly stroking the bulge. “It will hurt for a while, but then we’ll finally get to meet each other face-to-face. I just wish so much that your daddy was here.”
The next contraction squeezed with such force she could barely breathe. The pain sharply crescendoed to a jagged peak. She gasped and gritted her teeth until it passed, then glanced anxiously again at the clock, which told her only three minutes had passed since the last one. Time to say her prayers to Aveta, and summon Belphoebe, who was asleep in the next room.
Gwyn scooted toward the edge of the bed. As she attempted to rise, another powerful contraction gripped her like a vice. A burst of warm wetness gushed forth, soaking her thighs and nightgown.
Oh, dear. My water just broke.
Just as she opened her mouth to call Belphoebe, she heard a scratching noise. Still clutching her sodden nightgown, she hobbled into the front room and opened the door. There on the stoop sat the same black and white cat she’d seen at Glenarvon.
“Thank God,” she said, deeply relieved to see her husband. “I’ve been in labor for a couple of hours and my waters just broke.”
The cat meowed and took off toward the bedroom. She shut the door and waddled after him, finding her naked husband stepping into a pair of jeans. Perching on the edge of the bed, she watched as he finished dressing.
“Were you able to sell the car?”
“Aye,” he said, meeting her gaze with worried eyes. “Are you in much pain?”Just as she opened her mouth to answer, another contraction started. She put her hands on her hardening belly and tried to breathe through
the pain the way Belphoebe had taught her, but the panting did little to alleviate her discomfort.
Leith hurried over and sat beside her. “What can I do?”
She shook her head and continued to focus on her breathing until the pressure released. When she felt composed enough to speak, she said, “Go wake up Belphoebe—she’s in your office--and tell her my contractions are coming three minutes apart. Also tell her my waters just broke.”
He kissed her cheek and gave her a smile before leaving the room. He returned just as the contraction ended. “She’ll be here as soon as everything’s ready—unless you need her sooner.”
Gwyn gave him a smile. “I’ll be fine until she gets here.”
He came to where she sat on the bed, plumped the pillows behind her, and helped her to lay down. Once she was settled, he hurried to the dresser, withdrew a fresh nightgown, and, returning to the bed, helped her put it on.
As she breathed through the next contraction, he said, “Clara said God made childbirth painful to punish women for Eve’s transgressions in the Garden of Eden.”
“Do you believe that?”
“I did when I still believed God was judgmental and punishing.”
“Belphoebe says we must light candles and offer prayers to the gods of childbirth and blood.”
“Will she give you something for the pain? I don’t want you to suffer unnecessarily.”
Another contraction prevented her from replying. As she puffed through the pain, Belphoebe came into the room and checked Gwyn’s progress and the position of the fetus.
“You are six centimeters dilated,” she said with a smile, “and the baby is in the ideal position for birthing.”
Leith, who watched from a short distance away, said, “Can you give her something to ease the discomfort?”
“I will use hot towels to ease the pain until she is ready for the Pool of Parturition,” the midwife told him. “It will also help her to meditate and pray to the gods for strength and courage.”
Belphoebe lit some candles before leaving the room. When she was gone, Leith positioned himself on the other side of the bed, determined to stay with her for the duration.
A few minutes later, the midwife returned with ice chips and warm towels, which she applied to Gwyn’s lower back and abdomen. Leith held his wife’s hand the whole time.
Little by little, the contractions grew closer and more intense. The next time Belphoebe checked Gwyn’s progress, she said, “You’re eight centimeters dilated now, but it might yet be a few more hours. You should try and get some rest. You’ll need all your strength when you hit transition.”
Gwyn dozed for about an hour, during which the contractions seemed to slow and ease. Leith never left her side or let go of her hand. When she awoke in the midst of a contraction, the pain was much worse. Belphoebe came in and told her things would progress faster if she walked around instead of lying flat on her back. With great care, Leith helped her off the bed and supported her weight as she walked back and forth across the floor. Each time the pain came, she bent, clasped her belly, and stomped her feet.
After they’d been walking for close to an hour, the midwife returned. “You can get back on the bed now, but don’t lie down. Instead, kneel and put your arms around your husband’s neck for support. This will intensify the contractions and allow them to do the most good.”
* * * *
Leith helped Gwyn assume the suggested position. When the next contraction came, she panted through it, sweating and shaking. Leith was beginning to feel distraught on his wife’s behalf. Was there nothing they could give her for the pain? Surely, the druid’s knew of some herbal formula to ease a woman’s labor. When he suggested as much to Belphoebe, she gave him a humoring smile and this unsatisfactory answer: “The blood, the sweat, and the pain are all part of the sacred process of birth…and should be embraced rather than allayed.”
“If you’d like, I can go into the woods and gather a bundle of Mothan.”
The offer was made from the doorway in Bran’s Irish brogue. Turning to address him, Leith said, “Mothan? What’s that?”
“It’s a plant,” the druid replied. “Also known as Trailing Pearlwort, it’s thought to relieve the pain of labor when placed under the right knee.”
Though it sounded as ridiculous as the old practice of placing a knife under the bed to cut the pain, Leith was willing to try anything to give Gwyndolen some relief.
“Do, then, and be quick about it.”
Bran left them just as another painful contraction besieged his wife. Helplessly, he stroked her damp hair. As the pain eased, she fell against him and released a breath. He felt awful for her, guilty for having done this to her, and angry with the druids for letting her suffer.
When she looked up at him, he offered her a smile. “How are you holding up?”
She groaned and hung her head. “I knew it would be painful, but never imagined anything could hurt this much.”
* * * *
Another hour had passed and the contractions were now rolling one into another in undulating waves of agony. The pressure was so intense at times, Gwyn felt as if her pelvis had caught fire. Bran’s wreath of Mothan under her knee was having no effect. She was drenched in sweat, shivering, and writhing in pain. Feeling desperate and pushed beyond her limits, she looked up at Leith, whose lavender eyes were glassy with distress.
“I can’t do this anymore. Please make it stop.”
“Hang in there, darling.” He stroked her hair and kissed her damp forehead. “The finish line is within sight.”
As he spoke, the urge to bear down overpowered her. “I need to push.”
Belphoebe was at her bedside the next instant. After checking her progress, the midwife joyfully announced, “It’s time to move to the birthing pool.”
Leith lifted Gwyn off the bed and carried her out the door and across the clearing to the stone-lined pond. As he slipped her out of her nightgown and into the water, she felt a deep, instinctual wave of relief. The water was a perfect temperature, neither too cold nor too warm.
He climbed in behind her, still in his clothes. With the next contraction, she again felt the irresistible urge to bear down. “Can I push now?” she asked through clenched teeth.
“Yes,” said the midwife, who had joined them in the pool.
Digging deep for her strength, Gwyn gave the effort everything she had.
With Belphoebe’s encouragement, she got the hang of concentrating and making two long pushes with each succeeding contraction. Finally, she felt something give.
“The head is out,” Belphoebe exclaimed.
Relief washed over Gwyn. Soon labor would be over and she would get to hold her new baby.
“Give me one more good push,” said the midwife, “so I can deliver the shoulders.”
Gwyn bore down and, after a brief unpleasant grinding sensation, the baby slid out of her.
Leith retrieved his new daughter from the bottom of the pool and handed her to Gwyn. Elation fountained within her as she took the infant into her arms. Her face was wrinkled, her cheeks were plump and rosy, and her head was covered with thick black hair—just like her father’s. She had ten tiny fingers, ten pudgy toes, and a fat little tummy. When she opened her eyes, Gwyn saw they were the same gorgeous shade of lavender as Leith’s. Her heart filled with a love more dear than she ever thought possible.
“Isn’t she beautiful?” she said, beaming at her husband.
“Aye,” Leith replied with tears in his eye. “Every bit as beautiful as her mother.”
—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, and educate. When not writing, Nina works as a communications consultant, dollmaker, and Pure Romance consultant. Born and raised in Southern California, she now lives in Woodstock, Georgia. Visit her website
at ninamasonauthor.com, find her on Facebook, or follow her on Twitter @NinaMasonAuthor
Read on for an excerpt from the next book in the Knights of the Tarot series:
Knight of Pentacles
The future looks bleak for Jenna Cameron when, after a five-year engagement, her fiancé breaks it off the night before the wedding. Hoping to regroup, Jenna decides to drive alone to the cottage on Scotland’s mysterious Black Isle where they were supposed to spend their honeymoon. When her car breaks down, Jenna wonders if her troubles can get any worse. Then, while cutting through a secluded glen, she sees a handsome man bathing in a waterfall. The next day, she learns the man she saw is the faery knight who guards the portal into Avalon, the otherworld island ruled by Morgan Le Fay.
Jenna, ready to be rid of the virginity she’s saved in vain, offers herself to Sir Axel Lochlann, the shaman knight of Faery Glen. From that moment on, she finds herself inside a faery tale complete with druids, goblins, runic magic, and vampire owls. She also discovers powers she didn’t know she had—powers she can use to break Sir Axel’s bonds to Queen Morgan.
First, however, she must persuade Axel to put his desire to be free ahead of his duty to the queen he’s sworn to serve and obey.
Chapter 1
Faery Glen
Rosemarkie, Scotland
Modern Day
When the English arrow pierced his breast once more, Sir Axel Lochlann awakened to find he was still on the simple cot in the hidden cave he called home. He had been dreaming of Bannock Burn again and the enemy bowman who had stolen his life.
Not literally, of course. Obviously, he was still among the living. If one could apply the term “living” to an existence as mundane as his had become.
He filled the endless chain of days with ritual and routine. In the mornings, he would sit at the table he’d made from bark and branches, and read his runes, the ancient glyphs his mother, a powerful Viking vitka, had taught him to use for divination, protection, and spellcasting. Then, he would go outside and take a cold-water bath under the falls, a practice he’d learned from his father, who’d taught him the ways of a warrior. Not only how to fight and defend himself with broadsword, dirk, and stave, but also how to ride with aplomb, hunt and fish, navigate the sea, read and write, and embody the qualities expected of their class.
