Knight of Pentacles (Knights of the Tarot Book 3) (12 page)

Concern etched her features. “Objectionable? How so?”

“As a portal guardian, I have been granted certain freedoms. I am, however, still a knight, still one of the queen’s drones.”

She withdrew and bit her lip as she regarded him. “Did you say
drones
? As in a male bumblebee?”

Unable to bear her gaze, he looked away. “Aye, and, in the manner of male bumblebees, the main function of a knight is to populate the colony with workers.”

“Oh, my God, Axel. You sleep with her? How often?”

“As often as she summons me to do so.” He returned his gaze to her face, which had lost all its color and looked pinched.

“Do you have children with her?”

“Aye, but I am not a true father to them.”

The ensuing silence was excruciating. She just sat there staring at the ring as she turned it in her fingers. What was going through her mind? He resisted the urge to read her thoughts. Better to wait for her to share her response than intrude upon her private reflections.

Finally, she looked up at him, meeting his gaze head-on. There were tears in her eyes, but also a gleam of steely determination. She took a deep breath, lifted her chin, and threw back her shoulders. “I have to get you away from her—whatever it takes.”

“No.” Breaking away from her gaze, he licked his lips and ran a hand through his hair. He would much rather continue as they were, deficient though their situation was, than risk losing her in a reckless quest for perfection. “It is wiser to go on as things are. We can see each other in secret, pledge our hearts to each other without her suspecting. If she discovers my disloyalty, she will do to me what she did to Sir Leith.”

Her brow furrowed under her tousled fringe. “The knight you’re supposed to bring back for the tithe?”

“Aye,” he said, twinging with guilt. “The very one.”

Jenna licked her lips, which were as pale and drawn as her face. “What did she do to him?”

“She commanded him to kill his beloved, who was one of her scouts, and to bring her the lady’s heart as proof he had carried out her orders. After the deed was done, she banished him from the Thitherworld for evermore—but not before putting a curse on him.”

“What kind of a curse?”

“A curse that ensured any woman he henceforth cared for would die.”

It was his turn to fall silent and look away. He could not bring himself to tell her the rest. If he did, she would despise him as much as he loathed what he must do. And, if she detested him, she would never agree to be his.

“I want to ask you something, Jenna.” He swallowed to moisten his dry mouth. “It might seem too hasty, but I should like you to wear my ring on your left hand, as if we were betrothed. Is that too much to ask?”

“No,” she said. “I’m glad you asked it, and will proudly wear your ring, but would prefer you place it on my finger yourself.”

She held out the ring, locking him in her gaze. Taking it from her, he placed the ring on her finger before lifting her hand to his mouth. He pressed a kiss to each of her knuckles. “Your heart belongs to me now, as mine belongs to you.”

* * * *

Jenna felt wonderful with Axel’s arms around her as they cantered through the glen on Odin. So wonderful, right, and romantic. He was a dream come true; an honest-to-goodness knight on a charger; the man she was meant to be with. She was now more persuaded than ever that she’d come to Rosemarkie to free him from Queen Morgan.

She just needed to convince him of her purpose—and figure out how to achieve her aim.

It was a beautiful night for a ride. The sky was dusted with billions of stars and a blanket of mist covered the ground. Though they were the only ones in the glen, she’d never felt less alone.

As they rode around, he pointed out several plants and told her their names and uses. One was pennyroyal, an herb once used to terminate pregnancies.

“I saw the recipe in your mother’s grimoire,” he said. “It is important to get the dosage right, because too much pennyroyal will kill the mother as well as the unwanted bairn.”

“I don’t believe in abortion,” she replied, horrified to know her mother’s spell book contained a formula for inducing miscarriage.

“Nor do I, as a general rule. But, in some cases, it is the best thing for all concerned.”

Sure she could never kill her baby under any circumstances, Jenna looked down at her hand and the carved wooden ring gracing the third finger of her left hand. A few days ago, she had worn another man’s ring on that very same finger. The wrong man’s. Now, she wore the right man’s ring—a magical one he had carved himself.

“Tell me the story you mentioned earlier. About the unlucky ring.” She looked up at him. “What were the names of the lovers again?”

“Sigurd and Brunhilde.” He smiled down at her. “Though, it behooves me to warn you not to expect a happy ending.”

His statement unsettled her until she realized he was referring to the story, not their relationship. At least, she hoped that was what he meant.

“Sigurd was a warrior, a member of the royal family, and a descendant of Odin,” he began. “He was raised by a blacksmith named Regin, who made him a special glaive from pieces of one owned by Sigurd’s father. Sigurd used the sword to kill a dragon called Fafnir, who, like all dragons, guarded a great treasure. After roasting and eating the dragon’s heart, he was able to understand the language of the birds around him. They warned him that Regin would one day betray him, so Sigurd beheaded the blacksmith and claimed Fafnir’s treasure, which included an enchanted ring. He put the ring on his finger, unaware it was cursed to bring misfortune to its wearer.”

Jenna relaxed against him. Though they were riding bareback, she felt secure with his body anchoring hers. The air was cool, but she felt warm. Warm, safe, comfortable, and acutely aware of his every movement.

“After slaying Fafnir, Sigurd came upon a castle, where he awakened Brunhilde, the beautiful warrior maiden whom Odin had cast into a deep sleep inside a ring of fire. After Sigurd and Brunhilde fell in love, he gave the ring to her, along with the promise to return so they could be married. On his journey, Sigurd was tricked into marrying the Princess Gudrum instead, after her mother, a witch-queen, gave him a potion that erased Brunhilde from his memory.

“Then, the princess’s brother, Gunnar, tried to win Brunhilde for himself, but he was unable to cross the wall of flames surrounding her castle. Sigurd, having forgotten his true love completely, assumed Gunnar’s shape and courted Brunhilde in his place. Believing that Sigurd had abandoned her, Brunhilde agreed to marry Gunnar, even though she did not love him. When Brunhilde discovered that she had been tricked, she was both angry and heartbroken. To get her revenge on Sigurd, she had him slain and then, in her grief over what she had done, threw herself upon his funeral pyre.”

Jenna frowned up at him. While her brain appreciated the poignantly tragic prose of Thomas Hardy, Henry James, and Edith Wharton, her heart vastly preferred Jane Austen’s happy endings. “I can’t believe he forgot her.”

“He forgot her by magic and trickery, not by choice.”

“Still, it just seems like his love would have been strong enough to overcome the enchantment.”

“I do not think it works that way, Jenna. Not in real life, leastwise.”

“Maybe not, but if that’s the type of love stories you heard growing up, I don’t wonder that you avoided marriage like the Bubonic Plague.”

He smiled down at her, his Viking eyes twinkling in the moonlight. “I avoided marriage because I believed my first duty was to my king and country. As a warrior, it was safer to be unattached. Married men were more open to attack.”

“How so?”

“The English were ruthless, Jenna. They would break our spirits by any means necessary, no matter how savage or inhumane. They hung our women from the walls of captured castles in open cages. Day and night, in all weather, like livestock. How those poor creatures survived such shocking mistreatment is beyond comprehension. But this I can tell you with surety: any man who attempted their rescue paid for his valor with his life. The king himself only got his wife and daughter back through a prisoner exchange.”

“My God,” she said, deeply appalled. “I can’t imagine living in such barbaric times.”

He bent to kiss the top of her head. “In that case, I strongly advise you to avoid crossing paths with Queen Morgan or any of her undead English soldiers of fortune.”

Chapter 9

Just before dawn, Axel left Jenna with a heartfelt kiss and his promise to return to her the following nightfall. This time, she trusted him to keep his word. Closing her eyes, she tried to go back to sleep. Tried, but failed. She was far too keyed-up. Last night had been so amazing, she was still high on the lingering fumes.

After their ride in the glen, they’d made love and talked until it was time for him to go. He’d explained the runes on her ring signified partnership, happiness, loyalty, and marriage, and that he was making more protective objects to place around the cottage. He’d also shared some of his adventures with Robert the Bruce and, in response to her request for a Viking tale with a happier ending, he told her the story of Volund the smith.

The tale started out as a promising love story. Volund, a princely goldsmith who fashioned exquisite rings, fell in love with a spirited Valkyrie, who came to him in the form of a swan maiden. Things started to go downhill when his new wife abandoned Volund to resume escorting slain Viking warriors to Valhalla.

As he grieved her loss, Volund was abducted by an enemy king who imprisoned him for refusing to marry his daughter. The story hit a low point when the hero got his revenge by murdering the girl’s brothers and fashioning their body parts into grisly jewelry, which he presented to his unwitting captors. In a final twist, he forged himself a pair of golden wings and flew away to resume the search for his wife.

“You call that a happy ending?” she’d asked at the conclusion of the tale.

“Aye, when compared to Sigurd and Brunhilde. Do you not agree?”

She did, and enjoyed the story despite its morbid undertones. Axel was a natural-born storyteller with a deep, soothing voice she could listen to all night.

He’d been gone less than ten minutes, and she already missed him. Giving up on sleep, she threw off the covers, wrapped her woolen cloak around her shoulders, and padded into the kitchen. After putting on the kettle to boil, she fired up her laptop, which she’d set up on the kitchen table after returning from Cromarty. She’d started compiling her C.V. yesterday, but it still needed work.

Parking herself before the computer, she called up the file and got busy. By the time the kettle whistled, she’d completed a rough draft.

While enjoying a cup of tea and some buttered toast, she polished her résumé and compiled a list of references that included the head librarian at the university and a couple of her favorite professors. Surely, they would say good things about her.

She finished her CV and her breakfast, located Mrs. Emerson’s card, and dispatched the e-mail with a cordial note. That done, she showered, put on a pair of gabardine trousers, a button-down silk blouse, and a floral scarf. No sense in not looking smart—especially when she stood a good chance of running into future colleagues.

While showering, she’d decided to visit the nearer library in Fortrose to check the rental ads and continue her hunt for the ballad of Tam Lin. Call it women’s intuition—or witch’s intuition, perhaps—but her gut told her that fable in particular held the key to freeing Axel.

If, God forbid, he failed in his quest, there was no way in hell she was going to stand by and let him be tithed to Lord Morfryn—whatever he might say about it.

After pulling on her favorite tweed blazer, she grabbed her purse and made her way to her car. The scenic coastal drive, which took under ten minutes, ended at a stucco bungalow the color of farm-fresh butter. An iron fence surrounded the property, which boasted an ocean view and a pretty back garden. A small gravel lot offered limited parking near the library’s front porch.

Jenna drove through the open gate, parked where she could, and, while bolstering her confidence with lungfuls of brisk sea air, strode across the gravel to the covered entrance.

The holdings were relatively small, so it took no time to locate the folklore section. Her pulse quickened when she saw the collection was more extensive than the one in Cromarty. Maybe, just maybe, one of them contained the fable she sought.

She ran her fingers along the spines, hoping one of the books would speak to her. One of them did. A book titled
English Folktales
. She overrode the impulse to pull the book down from the shelf. Tam Lin was Scottish, not English.

Moving on, she took down the same book she’d been reading yesterday when Mrs. Emerson interrupted her. Skipping the “Nursery Stories” and “Stories of Animals,” she turned to the section marked “Faery Tales.” She skimmed the legends in search of anything to do with retrieving a human captured by the faeries. Most told of encounters with helpful faeries, offering nothing to aid her cause. Then, she found a story titled “The Farmer’s Wife.”