by Nina Mason
Cover Copy
She’ll risk everything for their love—even her life.
Aspiring screenwriter Gwyn Morland is ready for her big break. That means securing the film rights to elusive author Lady Ruthven’s acclaimed novel—which means traveling to Scotland. It’s a trip timid Gwyn isn’t prepared for, and her fears seem justified when her tour bus careens over a cliff outside of Castle Glenarvon. But the plot thickens when Gwyn is rescued from the brink of death by a handsome and mysterious stranger…
Leith MacQuill is not only the writer behind Lady Ruthven’s novel, but a shape-shifting faery knight bearing a tragic curse: the woman he gives his heart to will die. Saving Gwyn proves to be a dangerous choice when he finds himself falling for her the longer she stays in the castle. Not even his usual BDSM role-playing games are enough to thwart the intense desire they feel for each other. But to stay together, Gwyn and Leith must embark on a dangerous mission into Avalon, the realm of the faeries. Will their love be strong enough to conquer the curse? Or will Gwyn’s new life be stolen from her before it’s even begun?
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Books by Nina Mason
Knights of Avalon
Starry Knight
Dark and Stormy Knight
Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation
Dark and Stormy Knight
A Knights of Avalon Novel
Nina Mason
LYRICAL PRESS
Kensington Publishing Corp.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
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Copyright © 2015 by Nina Mason
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First Electronic Edition: January 2016
eISBN-13: 978-1-61650-681-0
eISBN-10: 1-61650-681-4
First Print Edition: January 2016
ISBN-13: 978-1-61650-682-7
ISBN-10: 1-61650-682-2
Printed in the United States of America
Chapter 1
With heaviness in his heart, Heath pulled his plaid tighter around his shoulders. The bitter north wind burned his face and cut like a skinning knife through his ice-encrusted clothing. The snow-driven moor had to be the worst possible place to challenge the Duke of Cumberland’s army.
Their chances, he’d wager, lay somewhere between slim and none.
The English had cannons, rifle-muskets affixed with bayonets, ammunition, horses, archers, and some nine thousand well-rested, well-fed soldiers trained and drilled for just this sort of line-to-line confrontation.
The rebels, on the other hand, were a rag-tag bunch of frozen, starved, and exhausted volunteers. If the duke’s army stood firm in the face of their Highland charge, they were doomed. Not that they had much chance either way.
Biting down to still his chattering teeth, Heath urged his mount onto the sodden field where the prince was doing his best to bolster morale. Some poor sods dozed where they stood. Others lay along the road like plaid-shrouded corpses awaiting the death cart. Still more had abandoned their posts altogether—out of futility and hunger.
Their best fighters had yet to show up, and the promised reinforcements from France were naught but a pipe dream, regrettably.
From the look of things, the Scots were about to be handed their bollocks.
Discouraged, he reined his horse into position beside the other mounted officers. The sun was at high noon now, and the lines were drawn within cannon-shot of one another. Despite their dismal chances, the clansmen took off their bonnets and gave a great whooping shout. The enemy answered with a resounding huzzah.
Cannons boomed, one after the other.
Heracles danced under him, champing at the bit to charge. He kept the horse reined in and an eye out for the order to engage.
When it came, the front line charged, swords drawn, guns blazing. The English showered them with grapeshot and bullets. The sulphuric smoke of gunpowder clouded the air. Lord Murray’s regiment swung off to the right.
Jesus, the MacDonalds are wide open.
Drawing his sword with a whoosh of steel, Heath kicked his horse, ready to fill in the gap. Men and cannonballs fell all around him. He swiped and stabbed at anything rushing toward him in red. The onslaught seemed endless.
Bullets and grapeshot zinged past his ears. Smoke burned his eyes and throat. Somewhere in the din of screaming men, clashing blades, and popping gunfire, their bugler sounded the retreat.
Thank God for that. They might yet make it out of this melee with their lives.
The Highlanders fled, falling as they ran. His hope fell with them.
Cumberland’s cavalry rode them down, showing no mercy.
An English officer on a black horse headed straight for him, blade raised.
Bloody hell. He’d be gutted like a pike if he didn’t make a run for it. Heath jerked the reins around and kicked hard. Heracles squealed, reared, and spun. Heath dug in his spurs, set his focus on the hills, and rode as if Lucifer himself were on his heels. He was, and hard.
Heath’s heart pounded and sweat leaked from every pore.
Something struck his shoulder with searing force, nearly unseating him. A lightning bolt of agony ripped through him. He held on, gritting his teeth against the pain.
Two strides farther, Heracles shrieked, stumbled, and went down. Mortal fear snared his rider. Heath hit the ground and rolled out of the stallion’s way.
A redcoat was on him in an instant.
Heath swung his broadsword. The blade sliced through meat and bone. He shuddered involuntarily at the revolting sensation.
The soldier’s head, wearing a startled expression, fell one way whilst his body fell another.
Heath, shivering and breathless, shut his eyes. His shoulder throbbed beneath the warm blood saturating his shirt. The metallic smell of it filled his nostrils. His stomach lurched. He rolled onto his side and retched.
A tempest of hooves thundered past. Gunfire popped like a Beltane bonfire. Clashing steel and anguished screams echoed in his ears. To hell with the pain. If he didn’t move, he would die.
He looked about for anywhere he might take cover. Spotting a copse not far away, he dragged himself toward it, doing his best to traverse the grisly obstacle course of carnage strewn across the field. Under him, the ground was soaked with rain, piss, and blood. The vile stench rising from the grass made his stomach turn.
Upon reaching the trees, he was sick again. Only bile came up. He wrapped himself in his plaid and collapsed, drenched in sweat.
Clar
a. Would he ever see her again? Or meet the child she carried? Would she bear him a son to carry on the family name? Or a sweet lass with her mother’s bonny smile? That smile had bewitched him the first moment he saw her. Would he ever know its charm again?
The prospect seemed unlikely. He tried to hold onto his wife’s image, but encroaching blackness wiped it away. He let the darkness claim him.
A touch as soft as the wings of a moth.
He opened his eyes and turned, wincing as pain tore through him. He blinked, unable to believe what he beheld. Surely, God had sent one of his angels to fetch him home.
Her face was as white as milk; her hair black, thick, and wavy.
“Am I dead…or dreaming?” His throat was so parched he had to force the words.
“Poor, poor man.” Her deep blue eyes gazed upon him with pity. “Poor, hurt Highlander. You are not dead—but soon will be.”
Her image shimmered like a reflection on the surface of a loch.
“Have you come to take me to meet my maker?”
Her expression grew puzzled. “I have come to heal you. And to take you to Avalon.”
Avalon was a myth. He must be delirious. From the folds of her diaphanous frock, she produced a golden chalice adorned with stones and Celtic engravings.
She pressed it to his lips.
Plagued by a terrible thirst, he drank deeply. Whatever was inside was as cloyingly sweet as honey mead, but also earthy. The pain eased almost at once. His strength returned with a surge. The fever passed. He stopped shivering.
A hand brushed his thigh.
Startled, he swallowed hard.“What are you doing there, lass?”
“Appraising.”
Appraising? What did he look like, a cut of meat in the butcher’s window?
Boldly, she took the measure of his manhood.
His blood answered the call of her touch. He did not believe he’d strength enough to respond, but respond he did. Desire ignited in his groin. His cock swelled and stiffened. A potent mixture of lust and guilt bubbled in his gut.
“I have a wife.”
Undeterred, she took his member into her mouth. His body welcomed the pleasure even as his heart and mind rebelled.
“Lass, please….”
Deaf to his protests, she twirled her tongue against the most sensitive part of his anatomy.
Thrilling sparks enlivened every nerve. How could this be happening? What should he do? He’d never been so brazenly seduced by any but his own dear Clara.
Something sharp pricked his inner thigh. He strained his neck to see the cause. The lass had done it, but what in the name of the devil was she about? When he demanded an explanation, she gave no answer. She was too busy sucking the blood from the bite she’d made on his upper leg.
“Oh, my. I do love that part!”
Gwyn turned to find her seatmate, a round-faced, grandmotherly type, reading over her shoulder. Stomach tightening against the invasion of privacy, she shut the book.
Mrs. Dowd seemed nice enough, albeit a bit of a busybody. The woman’s mouth and knitting needles had been going non-stop from the moment they boarded the tour bus that morning in Glasgow.
Hence Gwyn’s retreat into The Knight of Cups by Leigh Ruthven, which she’d already read a hundred times.
She offered Mrs. Dowd a disingenuous smile. To her relief, the old hen went back to her knitting. Cracking the book again, Gwyn continued reading from where she’d left off.
“What the devil do you think you’re doing there, lass?”
She lifted her face. Her lips and chin dripped with his blood.
He shuddered in horror.
“Queen Morgan will be most pleased with you, my lord,” she said softly, sweetly. “You are both fair of face and well endowed.”
Revulsion tightened his throat as the faery went back to drinking his blood. He wanted to protest, but words escaped him. He’d heard tales of the blood-drinking White Women of the Highland forests, but had always dismissed them as superstitious nonsense.
Clearly, the stories were true. He searched his mind for the details, but found only particles floating in haze. Iron. They didn’t like it and couldn’t touch a man on a shod horse.
The sudden thought of Heracles lying dead on the field tore him in two. The stallion was a wedding present from his father, the best colt born that year. The loss of so fine an animal was egregious indeed. He’d hoped to breed the beast to some of his mares come spring, but now…
Mental haze covered the tail of the thought. The creature, whatever she was, went on drinking. His limbs were growing weak. He could no longer wiggle his toes or make a fist.
Euphoria sluiced through him, rinsing away his concerns. Had he died and gone to heaven? While it felt like heaven, the stench of death and distant wailing aroused fears he might be in hell instead.
Mother Mary knelt beside his head and pulled him into her arms. Her breasts—large, firm, high, and as pale as fresh cream—were exposed. They were the loveliest he’d ever seen, and he’d seen his share.
He was in heaven, all right. But would God boot him out for gazing upon his sainted mother with lustful thoughts?
Holy Mary, Mother of God,
Blessed art thou amongst women
And blessed art thy beautiful paps
Oh, aye. He was going to hell for certain.
She took hold of his face and pulled him against her, coaxing him onto one of her wee rosy teats as if he were a drowsy bairn. He closed his lips round her nipple and sucked. A sea of black ink rose inside his mind and carried him away.
When he returned to himself, it was night. He was still under the tree, lying on a bed of pine straw. Cold air touched every part of him. He lifted his head to have a look around.
His clothes and the White Woman were gone.
Had he imagined her? If so, how the devil had he ended up naked? His plaid, shirt, and coat were no more. Had looters stripped him, believing him dead? Maybe, but if scavengers had found him, why had they not taken his broadsword as well? The weapon was worth a vast deal more than his sorry garments.
Bewildered, he scratched his chin. Smooth skin rather than coarse whiskers greeted his fingertips, surprising him. Who’d shaved him? Not scavengers, surely. He sniffed his armpits, detecting none of their usual stink. His body, too, felt clean. And, saints be praised, his hair was louse-free for the first time in months.
Sitting up, he reached around to his back. There was no wound, no swelling, and no pain.
He blinked several times. Was he hallucinating?
The crunch of footsteps on dry leaves raised his inner shield. He started to scramble for cover, but abandoned the effort when he saw the raven-haired lass coming through the trees.
His missing clothing was draped over both her arms like a priest’s holy vestments.
“We have little time.” She knelt beside him. “Once you are the queen’s knight, you will be forbidden other partners.”
Queen? What queen? He opened his mouth to ask, but her question cut him off.
“By what name are you called, my lover?”
“MacDubh,” he croaked through his parched throat. “Heathcliff MacDubh.”
“I am Belphoebe.” She spread the plaid over him. “My sister, Amoret, is tending another not far from here. The rest of the wounded have been killed. Those who escaped were burned alive, shot, or hung. Any still on the moor have had their skulls bashed in.”
Her disclosure scourged him to the bone. Struck dumb, he took a moment to recover his wits. “What of the prince? Has he been killed or captured?”
“Nay.” She kept her voice low. “He and some of his officers got away, but are being hunted as we speak.”
Heath swallowed hard, shut his eyes, and lay back. In the stories, any taken by the faeries did not come back for hundreds of years, if they came back at all.
A precious moment from the past came into his mind. His beloved Clara out
stretched beneath him, both of them naked, his stubbled face perched atop the dome of her pregnant belly. They’d just made love, and he was saying his farewells to her and the bairn.
Chest constricting, he lifted his gaze to the heavens.
“Please, God, keep them safe and let them know in some way how sorry I am and how much I loved them.”
Gwyn let out a satisfied sigh and closed the novel. Leigh Ruthven’s first and only book, The Knight of Cups had never been adapted for the screen—something she’d come to Scotland to change.
If only she could get access to the reclusive author.
For weeks, she’d tried to contact Leigh Ruthven through the official channels, but without success. Then, while surfing online for another avenue, she stumbled upon “Castles and Cairns,” a two-week excursion offering a brand-new feature: a night at Castle Glenarvon, the hermetic author’s Highland hideaway.
A lucky break, for once in her life.
Beside her, Mrs. Dowd was still knitting.
Click, click. Click, click.
Turning toward the window, Gwyn tightened her grip on the book. If the author was at home, she’d leave the screenplay where Ms. Ruthven would happen upon it the same way she’d done with Mr. Robbins, the head of production at the Hollywood movie studio where Gwyn worked as an assistant.
Thunderheads now filled the sky, but she didn’t care. In fact, she rather hoped it would rain. She would take brooding ambiance over sunny superficiality any day of the week.
Rain was so atmospheric and romantic. Like in that scene in The Quiet Man where John Wayne, his wet shirt clinging to his bare chest, kissed Maureen O’Hara in the cemetery as the rain poured down.
God, yes. Bring on the rain. And with it, a man like Sean Thornton or, better yet, Heath MacDubh, to kiss all her fears away. And the pain she worked so hard to deny. Too bad they didn’t make men like them anymore. Not that, even if they did, any dashing leading man worth his salt would give a wimpy bit player like her the time of day.
