Dark and Stormy Knight (18 page)

“Maybe the reason you can’t write is because you haven’t yet lived the rest of the story.”

He turned to Tom with scornful eyes. “And taking her to the druids will solve that, I suppose.”

“Who can say?” Tom shrugged. “Still, it’s got to be better than washing your hands of her. Or sitting around here day after day beating your head against the keyboard in futility. Besides, if your feelings for the lass are as strong as you suspect, I can’t see that you have much choice.”

Tom’s words pierced his soul. Was he fooling himself? Had he passed the point of no return with Gwyneth? He’d thought Faith was safe, too. He’d met her in Edinburgh after returning from Avalon. She worked for the architect he’d hired to restore the castle. Though he’d done his best, the attraction between them proved too powerful for his weak will to resist.

Besides, there was that small part of him that wanted to believe the curse might be one of the queen’s wicked tricks. He took a chance and lost. When Faith fell ill, he ended the affair and stayed the hell away from her. He sucked hard on his cigarette before blowing the smoke at the window, where it gathered into a cloud and hovered like a ghost. Faith’s ghost. Or perhaps Clara’s.

The thought punched him in the gut, knocking the wind out of him. He gasped, inflating his lungs with bitterness. He could taste it on his tongue, feel it burning the back of his throat, sense it spreading through his bloodstream like acid. He was a loathsome creature, a despicable scoundrel. He’d abandoned every woman he’d ever loved and was about to do so again.

His mind jumped back to the morning he’d received the telegram from his architect in Edinburgh.

Faith died this morning of a fading illness. Stop. Thought you’d like to know. Stop. Her last word was your name. Stop.

His whole body clenched. No, he would not, could not desert another. Not again. This time, he would fight. Come what may, damn it, he would stick by her.

Now determined, he turned his thoughts to Belphoebe. She was still alive, so perhaps the druids did know a way to break the curse—or, at least, to reverse its effects. Hope buoyed in his heart. If Gwyneth could be saved, they could be together and his lonely days would at last be over.

Reining in his runaway thoughts, he steered them back to more immediate concerns. Namely, how to get to Brocaliande from this side of the veil.

He’d taken Belphoebe to Brocaliande via the Thitherworld route—across the broad channel that separated Avalon and the Borderlands. The druid forest lay a few miles beyond, but he didn’t make it that far. When they landed on the beach, Cathbad, the high priest, was waiting to take her the rest of the way. To fool the queen, Belphoebe gave him a silver casket containing the heart of a sow.

Turning to Tom, who also looked lost in thought, he asked, “How exactly do we get to the druids? Do you know?”

“The portal is through the standing stones at Callanish,” Tom replied with a faraway look in his eyes. “It can only be opened at the stroke of midnight under the full moon. With the aid of a nawglen. And even then, it’s up to the druids to let us in.”

One of Leith’s eyebrows shot up. “Is there a chance they won’t?”

“Aye. There’s always a chance.” Tom’s blue eyes, now clear and intense, met Leith’s. “Cathbad’s not overly fond of Avalonians. As I’m sure you know, he and Queen Morgan are sworn enemies from way back.”

Though Leith knew of the enmity, he 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 during the Thitherworld War. Rumor had it, Queen Morgan put the woman’s eyes out with a red-hot poker. If the story was true, he could understand why Cathbad might hold a grudge.

“I’ll go with you as far as Callanish, but the curse prevents me from crossing the veil. And Gwyneth’s human, not Avalonian.”

Tom arched an eyebrow. “Isn’t she?”

“Not that I’m aware.”

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

Leith had no problem with that. Lyon had turned his bride, and he’d turn his, too. Assuming Gwyneth survived the curse. There was no other way for them to be together for all eternity. “What else did you see in your dream?”

“A golden chalice encrusted with gems,” Tom said. “Any idea what it means?”

He did. He’d titled his pseudo-memoir
The Knight of Cups
for a couple of reasons. The first was that, in the tarot, the Knight of Cups represented a man of passion born under a water sign. He’d been born November 18, 1711, making him a Scorpio, a water sign notorious for its passionate temper and sexual prowess.

The other reason had to do with Queen Morgan and his curse. She’d used a golden chalice very like the one Tom described to work her sorcery. She’d spoken the hex over the cup after filling it with blood—his and hers in equal measure, binding them eternally.

“It has to be Morgan’s cup,” Leith said with a flicker of hope in his heart. “Could it signify the curse will be broken?”

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

Leith’s dream of the tower came into his mind. The dragon, he was almost certain, represented his curse. If Gwyneth hadn’t stolen into his room, the dream might have shown him the outcome. Not that he regretted her being in his bed. In fact, as soon as he finished with Tom, he planned to return to her there. After breakfast, he’d take her to Inverness—not to abandon her, but to shop for clothes. Now that he was going to be a millionaire, he could afford to spoil her. And, if they were going all the way to Lewis, the Hebridean isle where the stone circle stood, she’d need something more modern than the fashions he kept on hand.

* * * *

Heavy hearted and resigned to her fate, Gwyn turned the knob. She might still be a doormat, but she refused to spend her last few hours at Glenarvon weeping into her pillow. This former mouse was having a look around the place, damn it, before the mean old cat packed her off to Inverness.

The lock yielded with a soft click. Pulse quickening, she pushed open the heavy oak door and stepped inside. Holy crap. The room was fit for a queen. The bed, the centerpiece of the room, was a towering, gilded canopy. At its foot, stood a delicate writing desk with curved legs. A dressing table similar to the one in her bedroom occupied a deep window alcove. A massive mahogany wardrobe stood on the wall beside the alcove.

Opposite the bed was a marble fireplace. Over its carved mantle hung a full-length portrait. Stepping closer for a better look, she drank in the details of a man’s impressive costume: shoes with silver buckles, knee socks tied with ribbons, an old-style kilt belted at his waist, and a fitted tartan jacket edged in gold lace. Across his chest, a wide strap festooned with an ornate buckle held the sword at his side.

Her breath caught when she saw his face. Holy crap on a Triscuit. It was Sir Leith. No, it was Sir
Heath
, the man he’d been before Culloden and Avalon.

She spun around, wondering why he’d hung the portrait here—so far away from Clara’s. The room’s purpose also perplexed her. The bedchamber was closed off, but well maintained. There was no dust on the furniture, no cobwebs in the corners. Did he maybe use the room for role-playing? Sure that must be its purpose, she took a turn about the space, examining and touching objects here and there. A fancy dresser set engraved with the initial
C
. A pair of inkwells on a pretty tray. Silver candlesticks and porcelain figurines. Everything was antique and extremely feminine.

She moved to the little desk and opened the middle drawer. There were old letters inside, bound with a red ribbon. The top one was addressed simply to Castle Glenarvon in Nairn, Scotland. The handwriting looked very like that on the note she’d received from Sir Leith.

Pulsing with curiosity, she took the bundle to the bed and sat down, trying to work it out. Should she read them? Her conscience flared in protest. No, that seemed wrong. Letters were private.

The devil on her shoulder whispered:
Even if written to somebody long dead?

The urge to untie the ribbon sizzled in her fingertips. No! She mustn’t. He wouldn’t like it. The devil whispered,
Why should you care what he does or doesn’t like?
That was true. She shouldn’t care. He’d deceived her with all his talk of forever, just like all the others, so to hell with him and what he wanted.

With great care, she untied the frail ribbon. The paper, too, was yellowed around the edges and brittle throughout with age.

12 April, 1746

To my beloved wife,

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 so love? 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.

The letter’s date was less than a week before the Battle of Culloden. Gwyn bit her lip and looked up, deeply touched but also pained. She found it hard to believe the deceitful man she’d overheard downstairs had written such a heartfelt letter. The man who’d made love to her last night, however, might very well have penned such poignant sentiments.

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

As she refolded the letter, the sound of footsteps stopped her heart. Shit. If Leith caught her snooping in what she now understood to be a shrine to his dead wife, he’d probably be cross with her.

The footsteps grew louder. Panic skyrocketing, she leaped off the bed, stuffed the letters back in the drawer, and looked for a place to hide. There was a door on the wall beside the bed. She sprinted over. The knob turned and the door opened, revealing a small closet fitted with shelves. Damn, there was no room for her to squeeze in. The footsteps echoed in the corridor just outside.

Leaving the closet door ajar, she made a beeline for the armoire. Pulse pounding in her ears, she climbed in and shut the door behind her just as he entered the room.

A bouquet of musty smells tickled her nose. Furniture polish and old fabric laced with dust and faded perfume. She did not want to think about the gruesome way his wife had met her end. The poor woman! She pressed her eye to the keyhole. Her heart shot into her throat when she saw Sir Leith scowling about the room.

“I know you’re in here, my wee mouse,” he said, still casting around. He wore a white button-down shirt open at the collar, tight jeans, and black shoes. He looked really hot. Her heart swelled with a mixture of affection and apprehension. If there was a graceful way out of this, she couldn’t see it. If she suddenly climbed out of the armoire, she’d look like an idiot. She’d also look guilty as sin.

Holding her tongue and her breath, she peered at him 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 while casting about for her, “but not while you hide as though a naughty wee lassie hoping to escape her punishment.”

Punishment? Sudden heat flushed her skin.

“I’ve done nothing wrong.”

“Haven’t you? If that’s so, why are you hiding from me?”

“I was just looking around,” she said. “I didn’t hurt anything.”

“Then you have nothing to fear.”

“Promise?”

“I swear it. All ye, all ye outs come free. Isn’t that what children say?”

Funny, she’d always heard the line as
Olly, Olly Oxenfree
, but maybe that was a modern butchering of what he’d just said.

“You won’t spank me?”

He got a gleam in his eye she didn’t like. “Oh, that’s right. I still owe you a spanking, don’t I?” He laughed, the rat bastard. “I’ll tell you what? If you come out, I’ll table the spanking until I can do it in a way you’ll enjoy.”

She could not imagine being spanked in a pleasant way, but the wardrobe was stuffy and claustrophobic. Plus, a million questions jostled inside her brain.

“I’m waiting, my wee mouse.” He looked at his wristwatch. “I was rather hoping to find you still in my bed so I could ravish your beautiful body a few more times before we head off to Inverness.”

What? She bristled as tears sprang into her eyes. “Last night, you said I could stay with you. Are you going back on your word?”

He faced the armoire. “I’m taking you shopping, dearest. That is all. Don’t you trust me?”

Hell, no. Still, she could hardly admit to eavesdropping as well as snooping. “What are we shopping for?”

He laughed. “You can’t very well go all the way to the Hebrides dressed as an eighteenth-century abigail. Not that I wouldn’t enjoy it.”

Her forehead wrinkled in confusion. “What’s in the Hebrides?”

“Islands, islanders, an arse-load of birds, a clan of testy blue mermen, and the Callanish standing stones.” He looked at his watch again. “Please come out, my love. I don’t want you afraid of me. I give you my solemn vow, I will never strike you unless you want me to.”

Her heart felt lighter. He’d given her his solemn vow and she couldn’t ask for more than that. She pushed open the door and climbed out, feeling more than a little ridiculous.

Wearing an adorable crooked grin, he held out his arms to her. She froze. Holy smokes. He ran as hot and cold as a faucet.

Holding her ground, she eyed him warily. “Are you really only taking me to Inverness to shop?”