Dark and Stormy Knight (21 page)

Keeping his feet on the pedals, he offered her his mouth. She led with her tongue, which, to her delight, he sucked with gusto. Just when the kiss was getting good, a car horn nearby broke them apart.

A quick glance out the rear revealed a young couple in a Cooper Mini waiting on the space. Leith hit the gas and zipped out, jolting her a bit as he stepped on the brake. The Mini pulled in and Leith steered the Jaguar up the steep, winding road to the highway.

Gwyn, still lightheaded, closed her eyes. Soon enough, the low sputter of the engine lulled her to sleep. The next thing she knew, he was shaking her. Her eyelids fluttered open to find him squatting beside the open passenger door of the car. Behind him, Castle Glenarvon loomed against a luminous twilight backdrop.

“Are we there already?”

“Aye.” He touched her cheek. “How do you feel? Well enough to walk?”

She blinked a few times to clear her head. Her limbs felt distressingly leaden. “I’m not sure.”

Concern creased his face. “You aren’t feeling any better?”

“Not really.”

At that, he scooped her up as if she weighed no more than her clothes, kicked shut the car door, and jogged toward the castle.

* * * *

As Leith sat by Gwyneth’s bedside, grief, guilt, and regret throbbed in his chest like infected wounds. Even in her restless sleep, she grew frailer. There was no way she’d make it another two weeks.

If only he could trade his own life for hers.

His hands fisted in his lap. He was a broken record.
If only. If only. If only.
He needed to stop wishing and start acting. If only he could think what to do.

Och!

The time for right action had passed. He’d made the wrong choice, taken the wrong fork in the road. And now, his poor wee mouse would pay for his mistake with her life.

He could think of just one possibility. Though a long shot and risky, even a remote chance was better than none. He could get to Rosemarkie in just over half an hour. Then, it would be a matter of convincing Sir Axel Lochlann, the portal sentry, to deliver his proposal to Queen Morgan. His life for Gwyneth’s. He’d be the tithe to the Dark Lord come Samhain if Queen Morgan would lift the curse. The thought appalled him, and the chances of Morgan agreeing to sacrifice one of her knights—even one who’d fallen from grace—were slim, but he could see no other avenue. And he had to do something besides sitting here like a useless lump while his heart’s desire withered away.

A knock at the door pulled him from his thoughts. Assuming it was Mrs. King with the tea and soup, he instructed the knocker to enter, not bothering to turn. Gwyneth stirred and opened her eyes. He forced a smile and put his hand over hers.

“How long was I out?” Her voice was weak, her gaze hooded.

“About an hour,” he replied. “How do you feel?”

“Pretty crappy.”

A hand clamped down on his shoulder, making him turn. Tom wore a troubled expression. In Leith’s turmoil, he’d all but forgotten his friend.

“Might I make a suggestion?” Tom asked.

“By all means.” He’d do anything.

“I could go back to the Thitherworld and make an appeal to Glorianna.”

Glorianna, one of Morgan’s many sisters, was the good faery queen who’d given Tom the gifts of prophecy and immortality way back when.

As hope sprouted, Leith fought to keep it from blossoming prematurely. “What can she do?”

“She can’t break the curse,” Tom said, “though she might be able to mediate its effects—restore the poor lass’s strength and prolong her life for a time. Long enough to see the full moon, if we’re lucky.”

Concern for his friend eclipsed Leith’s hope for Gwyneth. Entering the Thitherworld was always risky, but was akin to suicide when the tithe was due. “You’d risk your life for a lass you hardly know?”

“I’m not doing it for her.” Tom squeezed Leith’s shoulder. “I’m doing it for you. She wouldn’t be in this state if you didn’t truly love her, so, consider this my gift—for the wee price of a noble favor.”

Distrust narrowed Leith’s eyes. Tom had always been generous to a fault. He hadn’t thought him the type to demand payment in kind. “What favor?”

Tom gave his shoulder a firm pat. “Live your life, eh? Be happy. Embrace what’s in front of you and let go of the past. Gather ye rosebuds, my friend. And, when you do, I’ll wager the book that’s hanging you up will flow from your heart.”

Gwyneth squeezed Leith’s hand, bringing his gaze back to hers. She offered him a frail smile. “
Carpe diem
, baby.”

They were right. The time had come to bury the past and start living for today. And tomorrow. Leith turned to Tom. “How long will it take to get there and back?”

The portal to Elphame was at Loch Katrine, a four-hour drive from Nairn, but the length of the drive wasn’t what worried Leith. How long Tom would be detained after crossing the veil was. Time moved at a different pace in the Thitherworld. A day there equaled a week in the Hitherworld.

“It’s hard to say,” Tom replied with a shrug. “But, time being of the essence and all, I’ll be back just as quick as I can.”

Leith wasn’t encouraged. Even if Queen Glorianna could help, chances were good she’d detain Tom too long. The last time the prophet paid the queen a visit, she kept him in her thrall for three years.

Tom let go of his shoulder and started to leave. Releasing Gwyneth’s hand, Leith rose from his chair.

“Tom,” he called, stopping his friend mid-stride. “Thanks a million, and Godspeed.”

After his friend departed, Leith turned back to the bed to find Gwyneth watching him.

“You look worried,” she said weakly. “Will he be okay?”

“I hope so,” he muttered, wringing his hands.

She held out her arms. “Come here and hold me.”

He lay down on the bed atop the covers, leaving the bedclothes between them like a protective barrier. He felt stiff and awkward and unsure. She rolled toward him and set her head and one arm on his chest. They lay there for a long while before she spoke.

“When was the last time you spent the night with a woman without having sex?” Her voice was as soft as her touch.

He swallowed. “In the same bed?”

“Yes.”

“Never.”

Her head came up and surprised green eyes found his. “Not even your wife?”

“My wife only came to my bedchamber when summoned for marital relations,” he quietly explained. “When I wasn’t in the mood, she kept to her own.”

“You had separate bedrooms?”

“It was the custom back then.” He gave her back her hand, but kept his atop it. “To do otherwise would have shocked our social circle.”

“Will we have separate bedrooms?”

He squeezed the frail fingers under his. “Not if I have anything to say about it.”

* * * *

Over the next week, Leith did all he could for Gwyneth while waiting for word from Tom. To keep her strength up, he spoon-fed her a variation on
melas zomos
, the staple black soup of the famously fearless armies of Sparta, substituting his own blood for that of a pig. His reasoning: it might not help, though neither could it hurt. And one never knew, did one?

The first time Gwyneth tried the soup, she screwed up her face in revulsion. “Holy smokes. Now I understand why the Spartans weren’t afraid to die.”

Surprised and amused by her comment, he asked how she knew about the soldiers of Sparta.

“From the movies,” she replied with a shrug.

Gwyneth seemed stronger in the mornings, but grew weaker again toward sunset. During one of her more robust moments, she e-mailed the executive at Pinnacle Pictures who’d sent her after the film rights. The contracts had arrived a few days later and were now under review by Leith’s barrister in Edinburgh.

Leith stayed with her all day and held her all night. When she was awake, they talked and watched movies. When she slept, he read, hunted, or curled up beside her, sometimes as Heathcliff the cat.

At the moment, he was writing out his last will and testament with a red-hot cannonball lodged in his gut. When his new mobile started buzzing on the desk, he jumped like a nervous feline. He snatched up the phone. If the caller wasn’t Tom, he’d be leaving for Rosemarkie in an hour. Mrs. King and Gavin would look after Gwyneth, one way or the other. As much as he hated to leave her, his errand would be in vain if he delayed any longer.

A glance at the smart phone’s screen told him the call was from an unknown number. Please let it be Tom. He pressed the button to accept the call. “Hello?”

“Leith? It’s me, back from Elphame. I’m on my way to you as we speak with a vial of restorative potion from Herself. Glorianna said the elixir should set the lass to right for another fortnight or so, which means the trip to Brocaliande is back on.”

A violent rush of relief set Leith’s pulse to racing. “That’s wonderful news, Tom. My gratitude is beyond description. How will I ever begin to repay your generosity?”

“Let’s have none of that, eh? ’Twill be enough if you keep up your end of the bargain and grab yourself a wee bit of long-overdue happiness.”

“Ever been to Lewis?” Tom asked.

They were in the prophet’s circa-1975 Econoline van, heading toward Ullapool and the ferryboat that would carry them across the fifty-mile span of sea separating mainland Scotland from the Outer Hebrides.

A sun-faded shade of blue, the van was riddled with dents, dings, and patches of rust. The cab smelled of baked dust and vinyl. Crushed cigarette packets and empty beer bottles littered the floor. A split in the dashboard revealed a crumbling foam underbelly, a lightning bolt cracked across the windshield, and the ashtray overflowed with odiferous butts.

In the passenger seat, Leith was doing his best to ignore his surroundings as he read the map he’d unfurled to play navigator.

Lewis crowned the archipelago. A black star marked Stornoway, the main port on the island’s east coast. That’s where the ferry would land. Callanish lay all the way on the western side of the island.

Using the legend, Leith made a quick calculation. The distance was just over sixteen miles—a drive of less than thirty minutes, allowing for stray flocks of sheep and such.

“They still speak the Gaelic there.” Tom threw a glance over his shoulder at Gwyneth.

They’d fixed up a bed in the back so she could rest, but she’d insisted on sitting up front with them. Tom had thrown a blanket over the bench seat to cover the stains and exposed springs.

At the moment, she was leaning forward to look over his shoulder at the map. Glorianna’s potion had restored her strength, but for how much longer?

“Do they?” She touched his shoulder. “Do you speak Gaelic, baby?”

“Aye.”

A smile tugged on the edges of his mouth. In the past week, she’d taken to calling him “sweetie” and “baby” and other such gooey terms of endearment, which, truth be told, he found, well,
endearing
.

“Say something romantic to me.” She tapped his shoulder. “In Gaelic, I mean.”

Letting the smile bloom, he moved his face around to hers and lifted his chin. “
An toir thu dhomh pag?
”

Her gaze met his with a spark. “What’s that mean?”

Tom, grinning, twisted his neck to address her. “Tell him, ‘
Cha toir, ach bheir mi dhut sgailc!
’”

Doing her best to parrot the difficult pronunciations, she sounded a bit like she was hawking up phlegm. “Chah TUH-r, ach vehr mee ghoot skahlk!”

Both men burst out laughing.

“What?” She looked between them. “What did I just say?”

“He asked if you’d give him a wee kiss,” Tom explained, still overcome by mirth. “And you said, ‘No, but I’ll give you a slap.’”

“Oh.” She swept a hand down Leith’s face. “That’s so sweet. And of course I’ll give you a kiss, baby.”

Fighting a grin, Leith offered his mouth to her. She met his lips with a quick peck before sitting back and looking out the window.

As dread pooled hot and hard in his belly, he did the same. He loved her so much. What would he do if the druids couldn’t save her or refused to help? Breathing the thought away, he gazed out at the scenery.

They were on A86, a two-lane highway which, for the next wee stretch, doubled as the High Street. Quaint stone cottages, row houses, and shops—most with slate roofs, chimneystacks, and front gardens—lined the road on both sides.

“This is cute,” Gwyneth observed. “Where are we?”

“Dingwall.” Leith craned his neck to look at her. “Known to Gaelic-speakers as
Inbhir Pheofharai
, which means ‘the mouth of the Peffery.’”

Her dark eyebrows gathered together. “What’s the Peffery?”

“A wee river emptying into the Cromarty Firth, which lies over yon.” He pointed eastward.

“Does Dingwall have a claim to fame?”

He returned his attention to the map. “It used to boast the biggest castle north of Stirling.”

“Used to? What happened to it?”

Tom snorted. “What didn’t?”

“What does that mean?” she asked.

“Murders, duels, intrigues, and a good deal of political hand-changing.” Leith spread the map across his lap as he retrieved the ferry schedule from the sun-beaten dashboard.

“Is it still there?”

“Nay.” He checked the schedule. “The crown abandoned it after the death of King James the Sixth. Back around sixteen hundred. It was used as a quarry for a bit, then finally demolished.”

She let out a sigh. “Seems a shame that something with that much history should be reduced to rubble.”

“Aye,” he agreed, “but castles are incredibly expensive to maintain. As I well know.”

“There’s still a folly on the site,” Tom put in, “built from some of the original stones, if that helps you feel better about it.”

Her brow puckered. “What’s a folly?”

“The story of my life,” Leith muttered.

“A purely decorative structure, basically,” Tom inserted. “You see them quite a bit in the gardens of grand houses.”

She still looked lost, so, to clarify, Leith said, “Remember the other day when we watched
Pride and Prejudice
?”

“Of course.”

“And the scene in the pouring rain when Mr. Darcy proposes to Elizabeth?”