Dark and Stormy Knight (36 page)

Aye, that has the ring of truth.

Please, Danu, Cernuous, Jesus, or whoever might be listening up there, let it be so.

Cathbad, eyes open, took up the cup and lifted it to the heavens.

Bran claimed one of the bowls and moved toward the gathered druids. The bowl contained salt, which he poured onto the ground to form a circle around the altar and slab. As he passed by, each robed figure stepped forward and placed his or her candle just outside the perimeter.

“I conjure thee, O circle of power, as a shield between the forces of good and evil.”

The invocation, spoken in old Gaelic, recalled Leith’s attention to the altar. From its surface, two small flames winked through the white smoke streaming from the censer Cathbad swung back and forth. Hints of clove, frankincense, and sage intertwined with the natural fragrance of the woods.

“O circle of power, we ask that you join forces with the ancient and mighty ones to protect and preserve the power we shall raise within thy boundaries.”

Impatience picked at Leith’s scabbed-over temper. While the priest monkeyed about with his incense, Gwyneth’s life hung in the balance.

As the younger druid passed by on his way to the altar, Leith grabbed hold of his arm.

“Can’t he bloody well get on with it?”

“The Old Ones must not be hurried
.
” Bran jerked his arm from Leith’s grasp. “We cannot know what they know or see how all the pieces fit together. We must trust in their wisdom and take refuge in the knowledge that all things work together for the greater good. Peace comes when we allow things to unfold as intended without undue interference.”

Every cell clenched in rebellion. He’d like to
interfere
with Bran’s unflappable serenity with a hard right hook. He could not, would not, accept that Gwyneth’s death—or his curse, for that matter—might somehow serve a higher purpose.

“Lie back.” The druid nudged his shoulder. “And focus on clearing your mind rather than imposing your will on the natural order of things. Magic moves more swiftly through a clear channel.”

Leith still wanted to punch Bran in the mouth. Striking the druid might not help Gwyneth, but it sure as hell would make Leith feel less impotent. Frustration had reduced him to tatters. Limp, useless tatters. Having so little control was beyond maddening. Everything he cared about was on the line and all he could do was sit here like a bump on a rock.

Biting back the urge to lash out, he lay back on the hard slab and looked up. A heavenly violet canopy spread out above him. He shut his mind against the fear of losing her. No, don’t go there. Don’t even think it. Focus on the here and now. The stars, the purple sky, the faint line of pink clouds scudding across the glowing golden moon.

Someone touched his left arm, bringing him back with a jolt. It was Bran with Cathbad by his side. The older druid held the Cup of Truth and a dagger with a jewel-encrusted hilt.

As Bran turned Leith’s arm so his palm faced the sky, Cathbad moved the cup beneath his wrist. He then drew the blade across the bulging blue veins.

Wincing against the pain, Leith watched as blood welled from the wound and dribbled into the chalice.

When the cup was nearly full, Bran gave him back his arm and joined the circle.

Cathbad moved around to Leith’s head and dipped the dagger into the cup. As he touched the bloody tip to Leith’s brow, he said, “In the name of the goddess of the earth and god of the greenwood, I do exorcise thee, O manifestation of sorcery, and cast out all the impurities and uncleanliness of the powers of darkness.”

Leith fought the urge to roll his eyes. He didn’t see how this could work, but it bloody well better.

The priest moved to his left side, dipped the dirk in the cup once again, and drew a pentagram in blood on Leith’s chest. Though cold, the knifepoint ignited something inside.

“Blessing be upon this noble heart,” the priest said. “Let all malignancy and hindrances be cast out and let love and goodness take their place forthwith.”

Leith’s heart felt as if it had caught fire. Sweat broke from every pore, pain radiated through his limbs, and his whole body began to vibrate.

Moving around to his feet, Cathbad anointed his soles before handing the cup to Bran, who took the chalice to the circle and gave each druid a drink of the blood within.

Just as the last robed druid returned the cup to Bran, the sweet music of a harp plucked Leith’s ears. Pushing up on his elbows, he tracked the sound to the woods beyond the clearing.
 
The music grew louder. He knew the melody, but couldn’t pinpoint the song.

All around him, the druids remained as still as the stones at Callanish.

A twig snapped a wee ways off and he could hear footfalls on leaves. Then, a thought struck. A terrible, suffocating thought. The harpist was coming to deliver the bad news.

His darling mouse was no more.

His hands fisted in protest. No, don’t think it! Thinking it might make it so. And it couldn’t be so. It just couldn’t be. Without her, without love, he was an empty, useless husk. He couldn’t go back to the way things were, to pretending.

The druid circle broke and into the clearing came Belphoebe, softly playing her lyre.

Leith’s spirits lifted, but only fleetingly before sinking to new depths. He could guess why she’d come and couldn’t bear to hear the news.

Movement flashed behind Belphoebe. Another lass was with her, most of her hidden from view. She was shorter than the willowy faery and a wreath of flowers crowned her dark hair, which fell in soft waves over her shoulders.

Just the way Gwyneth’s had.

Hope pounded on the door to his heart, but he refused to let it in. He must accept fate’s cruelty and refrain from indulging in wishful thinking.

The time for “if only” had passed.

Belphoebe entered the clearing, still plucking her harp. Though beautiful, he barely heard the music. All his senses were fixated on that break in the circle.

As the second woman stepped into view, hope kicked down the door he’d shut against it. He sprang to his feet, the urge to run to her overwhelming. He held back. Grief could play tricks on the mind. After first returning from Avalon, he’d imagined glimpsing Clara around every corner. This wee lass might resemble his beloved, but he must keep a tight rein on his feelings until he was sure.

The round face, wide-set eyes, delicate chin, and doll’s mouth appeared to be Gwyneth’s, but she’d been deathly pale when he’d left her. This rosy-cheeked beauty was positively radiant. Were it his mouse, she’d been more than restored to health; she’d been raised to the status of goddess.

When her gaze found his, the usual electrical current surged between them. Joy foamed in his heart, making it full and light at the same time. He turned to Cathbad, his stomach fluttering. “Will you marry us here and now?”

The old druid smiled wryly. “Shouldn’t you ask the lady first?”

“Aye.” Embarrassment heated Leith’s face. “Of course.”

As much as he wanted to run to her, to throw himself at her feet, pledge eternal devotion, and beg for her hand, insecurity kept him standing there.

He’d failed Clara, Faith, and Belphoebe. He had no reliable source of income. He could offer her little more than his heart, his good intentions, and his useless title. And what about her career aspirations? Would she be content to live with him at Glenarvon or want him to move to Hollywood with her? Could he honestly see himself living in Los Angeles?

His mind produced 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 beguiling 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 screenplay. Together, they would write the sequel to
The Knight of Cups
, the story of how the hero overcame his curse with the help of the bravest woman he’d ever met. They would call the book 
The Queen of Cups
 and sell the film rights to the highest bidder. That way, they could afford to fly back and forth as often as needed.

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 wee mouse.

“Gwyneth, oh, Gwyneth,” 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. And I love you. You’re not the wee mouse you’ve shown to the world until now. You’re the courageous, big-hearted lass I’ve come to know—a 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.”

“And 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.”

“Anything. I’ll tell you anything you want to know. Just 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, “I read one of your letters to her, you see, from when you were off fighting with the Bonnie Prince. I know I shouldn’t have, but I did. And you told her you would never love anybody as much as you loved her.” She met his gaze with tear-filled eyes. “So, I have to know. Do you still feel that way?”

He knew the letter she meant. He’d written those words to Clara right before Culloden. He also knew the depth of his feelings for Gwyneth. He loved her with all his heart and soul. If only he could think of a way to convince her of the sincerity of his feelings. 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 Gwyneth’s beautiful liquid 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, he 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 wee mouse? 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 and clever as you are?”

Gwyneth 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 your wee 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 like 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. “I think goddess divine might be all right now and then.”

When the smile bloomed, lighting up her whole face, he knew her answer. Rising to his full height, he 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. 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 two hundred years.

He broke the kiss first, but kept hold of Gwyneth. “What about the dungeon, heavenly one? Shall I have Gavin get rid of it all before we return to Glenarvon?”

Mischief gleamed in her nymphish green eyes as she replied, “Don’t you dare.”

—The End—

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, educate, and enlighten. When not writing, Nina works as a communications consultant, doll maker, and home stager. Born and raised in Southern California, she now lives in Woodstock, Georgia, with her husband, teenage daughter, two rescue cats, and a Westie named Robert. Visit her website at ninamasonauthor.com, find her on Facebook, or follow her on Twitter @ninamasonauthor

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