by Nina Mason
Lyon and Gwyneth, now alone by the window, continued chatting amiably, galling Leith to the core.
Tom came over, refilled his glass, and nodded toward the golden-haired claim-jumper.
“He won’t say why he’s really here with the lass in the room.”
Tom’s disclosure pulled Leith’s attention from the pair at the window. Narrowing his eyes, he muttered, “I should have known the golden boy was up to something.”
“He’s come to bury the hatchet.”
“Where? In my skull?”
Tom let out a small laugh. “Do you know the reason he’s had no use for you all these years?”
“Aye,” Leith said. “He blames me for Belphoebe’s unfortunate fate.”
“Exactly.”
“So, what’s changed?”
“She’s still alive.”
Leith could not believe his ears. When he’d delivered Belphoebe to the druids, she’d been carrying his child. He’d assumed all these years both were lost to the curse. He’d loved her back then. Not the way he’d loved his Clara, but enough to put her in jeopardy.
“Did she have the bairn?”
“Aye,” Tom said, “though Finn’s not been a bairn for some time.”
Leith’s pulse quickened as he absorbed the news. She’d had a boy. Named Finn. All these years, he’d had a son and didn’t know it. Why had no one told him before now? Anger soon usurped his amazement. He tightened his grip on his empty glass.
Where the devil is Gavin?
“Are they still with the druids in Brocaliande?”
“She is.”
“Where is my son? I should like to meet him.”
Tom set a hand on his arm. “That, I can’t tell you.”
Leith fixed him with a distrustful glare. “Can’t or won’t?”
“He’s more than your son,” Tom said. “Think about it, Leith. He’s the only natural-born drone to survive infancy.”
Confusion furrowed Leith’s brow. “What the devil are you talking about?”
Tom’s blue eyes widened in surprise. “Are you telling me you don’t know about the prophecy? I thought sure that was the reason you put them under the protection of the druids.”
“No. She never uttered a word about it.”
When she’d told him she was with child, she seemed pleased, which he’d thought odd under the circumstances, but dismissed as a female thing. She’d told him where to take her and how to fool the queen into believing he’d carried out her orders. Now, he understood how she knew the trick would work. Because she’d fooled the queen in the same way when she’d aided Lyon’s escape.
Leith’s gaze flicked to his adversary, who, to his vexation, was still conversing with Gwyneth by the window. As resentment heated Leith’s blood, he fought the urge to throw his drink at the wall. The glass was Irish crystal and hardship had taught him to prize the few fine things he still had.
He set the tumbler on the bar tray and glowered at Lyon. Damn the man and his good fortune. He got everything he wanted with the snap of his fingers. Well, Lyon wouldn’t add Miss Morland to his trophy case, if Leith had anything to say about it.
Lyon’s topaz eyes met his hateful gray glare. “I gather Tom’s told you the news?”
“I have,” Tom confirmed. “And he swears Belphoebe never breathed a word about the prophecy.”
Gwyneth’s pretty mouth fell open. “There’s a prophecy? What does it predict?”
Better questions Leith couldn’t have asked himself.
Tom’s worried gaze darted between Leith and Gwyneth.
Leith, understanding his concern, said, “It’s all right. She knows what I am and, well, all can be erased, can it not?”
Tom shrugged. “The prophecy says a natural-born drone will rise up one day to overthrow the queen.”
“And because of it,” Lyon put in, “she kills and eats all the lads she bears.”
“How vile.” Gwyneth’s disgusted gaze met Leith’s. “Isn’t Belphoebe the faery in your book? The one you were ordered to kill?”
“Aye. Only that’s not quite what happened.”
Her eyebrows shot up. “No? Then what did happen?”
“He took her to the druids of Brocaliande,” Tom proffered. “To protect her and the child.”
“And gave the queen the heart of a sow,” Leith tacked on. “Queen Morgan is ruthless, to be sure, but she’s not particularly astute.”
Gwyneth gave Leith a probing look he couldn’t comprehend. “So, Belphoebe’s still alive?”
“She is,” Lyon confirmed. “Alive and well, as is her son, Finn MacKnight.”
Leith, suddenly aware his palms were sweating, wiped his hands on his breeches. “If he’s my son, why’s he called MacKnight and not MacQuill?”
“For the same reason you call yourself Leigh Ruthven,” Tom replied, smirking. “He doesn’t know of his parentage or his destiny, and won’t learn the truth until the time is right.”
It felt to Leith like another loss in a lifetime of losses. He had a son, but couldn’t meet him; had a heart, but couldn’t use it. Biting his lip to stem his growing regret, he turned his gaze on Gwyneth.
Suspicion stirred when he saw the same gleam in her eye Clara used to get when she was up to something. He licked his lips as he searched her face for clues. He found only beauty he ached to possess. Even through the shock of everything he’d just heard, her pull on his heart was too strong to ignore. It was also potentially lethal.
* * * *
Gwyn’s head was spinning with all she’d heard, starting with the first bomb of the evening: Tom Earlston was really Thomas the Rhymer, the legendary soothsayer of thirteenth-century Scotland. Her father used to call him “True Tammas” and used to sing her his ballad to lull her to sleep:
True Tammas lay on Huntly bank, a
ferlie he spied wi’ his e’e.
And there he saw a lady bright
come riding down by the Eildon tree.
The story went that Thomas, a laird from somewhere called Erceldoune, met up with the good faery queen in the woods one day. 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. 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 made every seventh year to keep the forces of darkness at bay. Beforehand, though, the queen offered him his choice between the talents of “harping” or “carping.” Thomas chose the latter, the gift of second sight.
And now, to her astonishment, here he was in front of her.
The second surprise of the evening was that Belphoebe yet lived. Sir Leith hadn’t killed her, as he’d reported in his book.
Nor had his curse.
This boded well for their future together, but only if he’d truly loved Belphoebe. It seemed probable, given that he’d risked everything to be with her and save her life. Still, Gwyn wouldn’t know for sure until she asked him, and that wouldn’t be possible while he and Tom had their heads together near the fireplace.
Luckily, Mr. Brody had brought in another bottle of whisky just before Callum Lyon took his leave. Evidently, Sir Leith didn’t care for his fellow knight, though she couldn’t see why. Lord Lyon was handsome, charming, concerned about the environment, and politically liberal—all pluses in her book.
She was probably wicked to go out of her way to make Leith jealous, but he deserved a little payback for his behavior in the dungeon. Besides, his possessiveness told her his feelings went deeper than he’d let on.
“It’s a shame Lord Lyon had to leave so early,” she mused to the room with a sigh. “I was
so enjoying his company.”
Leith, as she’d hoped, looked her way with fire in his eyes. “You must be tired. Tom and I have loads to catch up on. Perhaps you should go up to bed.”
She was tired. Dead on her feet, in fact. It’d been a long day, and she’d had a lot of excitement and whisky, but this went beyond fatigue. Her head was light and her limbs heavy. Even so, she wasn’t about to go anywhere until she extracted more information about the druids of Brocaliande.
Yes, it seemed implausible that druids—real, honest-to-God ancient druids, not merely modern followers of the old Celtic ways—inhabited a secret forest in another realm. Then again, everything she’d experienced since coming to Scotland defied logic.
Her father had been right. Scotland was ancient, mysterious, and magical. There were faeries, knights, castles, and druids here. Hollywood was phony, shallow, and plastic. Everything was a façade. The irony wasn’t lost on her. Scotland, for all its faery tale qualities, was more authentic. Given half a chance, she would stay here with Sir Leith forever.
First, however, they needed to break his curse.
“So, Tom.” She seized the moment. “What can you tell me about the druids?”
Tom arched a dark gold eyebrow. “What would you like to know?”
“Might they have the power to reverse Leith’s curse?”
Tom, wearing a surprised expression, looked from her to Leith and back again. “He’s told you?”
“He has.” She sensed Leith’s gaze boring into her face. Surely, he’d wondered the same thing.
“Miss Morland is an incurable romantic with a delightfully vivid imagination.” Leith sputtered a laugh. “She still believes in happy endings. I’d set her straight, but I don’t have the heart to shatter her illusions. Neither do I see what’s to be gained by it. Soon enough, she’ll be back in Hollywood, where frivolous notions are grist for the mill.”
Wounded by his mockery, she turned on him with heat in her eyes. “Yes, I believe in true love and happy endings. I also believe in helping others.”
Leith arched an eyebrow. “Even if helping endangers you?”
“Yes.” Broiling inside, she turned to Tom. “Do you think the druids might have given Belphoebe an antidote of some sort?”
“It’s possible,” Tom said. “The druids are powerful magicians.”
“Is it possible for me to cross the veil?”
“Aye, if you’ve got a nawglen.”
She furrowed her brow. “What’s a nawglen?”
“A specially prepared mixture made from the ashes of the nine sacred woods,” Tom explained. “Willow, hazel, alder, birch, ash, yew, elm, rowan, and oak. Each has its own power when used on its own. When combined, they can dissolve the veil long enough to cross over.”
Sir Leith stared down at his empty glass. “Even if you could cross the veil, there’s no guarantee the druids can break the curse.”
Gwyn opened her mouth, ready to argue, only to snap it shut again. What was she thinking? What was she doing? Securing the film rights to The Knight of Cups should be her prime concern.
Getting her big break.
Making her father proud.
Proving herself at the studio.
She was this close. This close. Once he signed the contracts, her dream would come true. So, why was she so keen all of a sudden to visit the druids?
Don’t be an idiot, fear whispered. Go back to Hollywood and forget you ever met Leith MacQuill, the mad, bad, dangerous laird of Glenarvon. He’s not your fictional hero. Maybe he used to be, but not anymore. He can’t love you without killing you. Is that what you want? To die for love? Don’t be a fool. Go back to your safe little life, Gwyn. Go back to the devil you know.
In a brilliant flash of clarity, Gwyn the Brave drew her sword. En garde, foul fear. She was having no more of its defeatist monologues, no more of Gwyn the Doormat, no more of the lonely life she’d settled for before.
Her dream of a career in filmmaking was wrapped up in the past, in her father, in getting back what she’d lost. Breaking Leith’s curse was about her future, about moving on, about grabbing the brass ring with both hands.
Carpe diem.
She set a hand on Leith’s arm. “We’ll never know if we don’t try.” She expected him to argue, but he didn’t. Neither did he try to deflect her hand. Tightening her grip on him, she turned to Tom. “Will you help us?”
“Of course, though we’ll have to wait for the full moon, which isn’t for another fortnight.”
When disappointment nipped at her insides, she refused to let it bite down. “But, that’s good, right? It will give us time to prepare. And get the contracts drawn up and signed.”
Leith set his hand atop hers. “Are you sure about this?”
“Yes.”
She wasn’t just sure, she was pumped. This promised action, adventure, and romance—the triple crown of carpe diem.
“Don’t you need to go back to Hollywood?”
“No. The screenplay’s done. Once they pay me, it becomes their property. And you’ll have the right to veto any changes you don’t like, so we’re covered.” She scowled at him, bewildered by his obstructionism. “What’s the matter with you? Don’t you want to break the curse?”
“Of course I do.” His eyes were fiery gray agates. “But we can’t know if this will work. And if it doesn’t, you’ll die. And I’ll go on, plagued by the knowledge that I could have prevented your death by sending you home.”
“I’m not going anywhere except Brocaliande.” She tightened her grip on him, determined to hold her ground. “Besides, I have the uncanny sense your feelings for me are stronger than you realize.”
Chapter 11
Leith turned over in bed for the umpteenth time and spewed yet another frustrated sigh. Why Belphoebe had survived was anyone’s guess. Maybe he hadn’t loved her as much as he’d thought. Maybe the curse didn’t affect the Fae. Who the hell knew? If the druids didn’t, Gwyneth would die. And he would never forgive himself for not sending her home in time.
He was an animal caught in a trap. The only way out was to chew off the caught limb.
She must go. Tomorrow, he’d inform her he’d changed his mind about Brocaliande. While losing her would pain him, he’d get over it. He couldn’t say the same for her if they carried on for another two weeks.
There. He had a plan. Come Monday, he’d drive her to Inverness and be done with her. In the meantime, he saw no reason not to enjoy her company to the fullest.
* * * *
Gwyn slept in the nude, hoping Sir Leith might come to her in the middle of the night. Clearly, her wish had produced no horses. She was alone in the room, though the drapes were open and the fire going, suggesting Mrs. King had been and gone.
She looked around, but spied no breakfast tray. There was, however, something on the floor just inside the closed door.
An envelope. Throwing back the covers, she climbed off the bed and padded over. Her pulse quickened when she saw her name scrawled across the front in an elegant hand.
Exhilarating butterflies chased caution away. The handwriting was Sir Leith’s. She looked around for something sharp, not wanting to spoil the pretty envelope. If it was a declaration of his feelings, she wanted to keep it as a souvenir. Finding a metal nail file on the dressing table, she neatly slit the top and removed the folded paper inside.
My dearest Miss Morland:
It would seem our lusty footman 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 suspect 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 sc
oundrel at once to punish his misdeeds as well as to remind him he’s naught but a lowly ghillie.
Please put on the riding habit (sans blouse) this morning and meet me in the dungeon after you’ve had your breakfast. (Hearty meals build strapping whip arms, do they not?)
Yours etc.
YL&M
YL&M? She scratched her head a moment before it came to her. Your Lord and Master! Of all the rotten nerve. Seething inside, she propped the note against the dressing mirror and went to the wardrobe. She only took a moment to locate the riding habit, which was made from heavy brown velvet. The skirt was simple, the jacket tight on top with a long, circular peplum all around. The whole thing 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.
At the rear of the wardrobe, she found a pair of riding boots. As she put on the elegant ensemble, she pictured Sir Leith in the dungeon down on his knees, face to the wall. She imagined herself standing behind him in her costume, the buggy whip in her gloved hand. Her gaze traced the long muscles of his back, the taut globes of his buttocks, and the shapely trunks of his thighs.
Could she whip him the way her stepmother had whipped her?
Maybe, if he really wanted her to.
She closed her eyes and imagined herself striking his back. He flinched, but did not cry out, so she whipped him again. He still made no sound, so she went on hitting him until his back was covered in welts. He stoically took his licks, which only enraged her. How could he keep quiet? She had bawled her eyes out when her stepmother thrashed her over the ruined laundry. Did he think himself above her?
Fuming, her fantasy self strode around to face him, delighted to find he sported a raging erection.
“What is this?” She tapped his cock with the hard end of her whip. “More of your impudence?”
“On the contrary, m’lady,” he said contritely. “’Tis a tribute to your comeliness and skill.”
