Knight of Pentacles (Knights of the Tarot Book 3) (6 page)

Chapter 5

As appealing as Axel found the idea of spending the night with his beguiling visitor, inviting a witch into his cave seemed foolish in the extreme. Even one whose gifts yet lay dormant. She might not know how to use her powers yet, but the magic within her was potent. It smoldered behind her lovely emerald eyes, just waiting to burst into flames.

The new moon was still a fortnight away, so he could see no harm in sleeping with her—but at the cottage, where they would be beyond Morgan’s reach.

“Wait here, witch.” He started toward the cave, then stopped and turned back. “What name do you go by? Unless you would rather I continue to address you as
witch
.”

“I’d rather you didn’t.” She pursed her lips and wrinkled her nose as if she’d tasted something sour. “Please call me Jenna.”

Jenna.
A pleasing name. Her bewitching face was no less agreeable. She was uncommonly pretty with wide-set green eyes and the fair complexion typical of redheads. Freckles dusted her perfect nose and her full mouth turned up at the corners in a way that lent mischievousness to her expression.

Her figure was equally appealing. Beneath the baggy sweater and blue-jeans she wore, were long legs, a small waist, and substantial bosoms. Desire shivered through him as he imagined the supple fullness of those breasts filling his hands. Oh, aye. The gods had sent him a woman perfectly suited to his tastes, right down to her auburn hair, which, except for the fringe curtaining her forehead, fell in softly layered waves nearly to her waistline. Was the color natural? With a wee bit of luck, he would have the answer well before daybreak.

Slipping behind the waterfall, he hurriedly pulled on his tunic and boots, saw to his horse, and ran a comb through his hair. Checking his appearance in the looking glass brought from Avalon, he stroked his whiskers. Had he the time, he would have run a razor over his neck and trimmed his beard, but he did not wish to leave the witch cooling her heels overlong. To keep someone waiting was disrespectful, and, if she grew anxious, she might come looking for him—or worse, return to the cottage without him.

Outside, the night wind blustered. It rattled in the trees and blew mist from the falls into the cave. That was a good thing. The spray would cool his lusts enough to rejoin the captivating Jenna without appearing overanxious.

He grabbed his pouch of runes before leaving the cave, not wanting to leave them unprotected. Returning to the clearing, he found her looking through the book she had brought with her.

“What are you reading?”

She looked up, but hesitated before answering. “My mother’s grimoire.”

“Please tell me you do not plan to use a love spell on me.” He smiled to make light of the comment, but was only half teasing.

She looked up from the page she had been reading and scowled at him. “I couldn’t even if I wanted to. The whole thing is written in some kind of code. I can’t decipher a single word.”

“May I have a look?” When he held out his hand, she willingly surrendered her grimoire, increasing his trust in her. If she’d meant to use her powers against him, she would not have so readily turned over her spells. He looked down at the page and, seeing what she had interpreted as an encryption, laughed aloud.

“Why are you laughing? What’s so amusing?”

Regaining his seriousness, he said, “Your mother did not encrypt her grimoire, lass. She wrote it in the native tongue of the Highlands.”

Her brow furrowed beneath her fringe. “Do you mean Gaelic? Are you sure?”

She made to snatch the grimoire from his hands, but, being quick, he evaded her attempt.

When she backed off, he flipped through the pages. The foxing, yellowed paper, and faded ink made it clear her mother was not the book’s first owner. It had to be at least a century old.

He perused the washed-out script covering the brittle pages. Among the entries were invocations to entities both Christian and Pagan, instructions for the use of herbs and magical items, prayers, poems, ballads, and spells to guard against everything from pain in childbirth to death in battle.

“Mostly, I see rituals, basic spells, old ballads, and
sians
.”

“What’s a
sian
?”

“A protective charm.” He met her fervent gaze. The energy flowing between them was both palpable and thrilling. “At one time, women put such enchantments on their husbands and sweethearts before sending them off to do battle.”

She stared at him in silence for a long while before asking, “Did your woman do that for you before Bannock Burn?”

The blush that kissed her cheeks told him she was fishing for information. Her interest in his past romances tickled him, though he could not say why.

“For a
sian
to work, three conditions must be met,” he told her. “The first is that the woman who casts the charm must love the man she seeks to protect with all of her heart. The second is that the man must have total faith in the power of the charm. And the third is that he must be a good man who believes wholeheartedly in his cause.”

A bewitching smile stole across her face. “As interesting as that is, it doesn’t answer my question.”

Now, it was his turn to blush. “I had no such woman at the time. Perhaps if I had, I would not have been taken.”

As her soft, cool hand touched his face, the kindness in her eyes touched his heart. “Tell me how it happened.”

He licked his lips and ran a hand through his hair. “Do you want to hear about the battle or the part where I was taken?”

“All of it.” She gave him a dreamy smile. “I’ve always been something of a history buff, and don’t get the chance every day to hear a first-hand account of what it was like to fight alongside Robert the Bruce.”

Her answer pleased him. No opportunity to share his tale of the battle had arisen since Sir Leith was banished from Avalon. Perhaps that was why he dreamed of it so often.

He stroked his beard as he called the day from his memory. “I remember it all vividly. Every step along that foggy, mile-long descent. Listening with my heart in my throat for the braying of their bugles—a sound that could spell our doom. Fortunately, I heard naught apart from the muffled thumping of hooves, the squeak of saddles, the soft clinking of bridles and chainmail, and the gentle clicking together of the runes in the pouch on my belt.”

Her puzzled expression stopped him. “Runes? What are those?”

He cupped the pouch on his belt and gave it a shake. “Stones, bits of wood, or bones bearing the letters of the Futhark, the ancient unspoken language of the Vikings.”

“What are they used for?”

“Divination and spell-casting, mostly.”

She smiled and set her hand on his chest. “As much as I would love to hear all about the runes, I’ve interrupted your story of the battle. Please, do go on.”

The strong desire to kiss her fountained within him. Resisting the urge, he licked his lips. “You have made me forget where I was.”

Her sweet smile warmed him to the cockles. “You were descending the hill toward the enemy camp, listening for the sound of their bugles.”

“Oh, aye. I remember now.” He put himself back on his garron and took a moment to recall all he sensed on that long-ago morning that still felt like yesterday. “I had on a helmet, which, truth be told, was about as comfortable to wear as a bucket. The air carried the scents of trodden grass and stinking quagmire, but no fires or cooking.” Her bright gaze was glued to his face. “That was a good thing. If they stirred too early, we stood no chance, being vastly outnumbered and outmatched. They had four times our numbers, as well as long bowmen and armored destriers. We had only light horses and ponies, the pikesmen who clustered into hedgehog-like formations called
schiltrons
, and the shrewdness of our king to rely upon.”

“Why was it so important that you confront them where they camped?”

She seemed to be genuinely interested in his account, which pleased him immeasurably. Most of the women he had bedded in recent years had vexingly short attention spans. He enjoyed telling stories—his own as well as the ones he had grown up on—and needed a companion who appreciated a good yarn as much as he did.

Taking a breath, he returned his focus to her question. “Because without the soggy ground and the element of surprise, we had little chance of winning the day. Or the freedom we had fought so hard to win for so many long and bloody years.”

She touched his chest. “If I recall my history correctly…didn’t you booby-trap the battlefield in advance of the attack?”

Her knowledge of their strategy impressed him further. “We did indeed. By digging pits we lined with spikes before covering them over again.”

“Another reason you needed to engage the English in the carse?”

“Aye,” he said, delighted once more by her cleverness.

Her mouth quirked and she shook her head before pulling her gaze from his. “I still can’t believe the outcome of the referendum.”

Frowning, he ran a hand through his hair. He had no idea what a referendum was or how it might be relevant to what he just said. “What are you talking about?”

She shook her head and gave him a tight-lipped smile. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter. Just continue with your story.”

Turning away, he rubbed his furrowed forehead as he regathered his wool. When she interrupted, he was descending the hill toward the carse, making every effort to keep his horse and weapons quiet. With some reluctance, he picked up the story from that point.

“We made it as far as the edge of the bog before the English outposts sounded their trumpets. With a roar that eclipsed the alarm, we surged forward—if you can call an assault on a muddy bog a surge…The startled English quickly formed into platoons, but, as hoped, the mire proved too much for the armored knights, who took refuge on an isolated hogback—the only spot suitable for their archers.

“This was a boon for us, too, as their bowmen posed a serious threat. Unfortunately, someone in the English command realized the error and started herding the knights off the rise. When the archers started marching toward the knoll, I tried to head them off. We worked our way through the puddle-pocked sludge, stumbling, splashing, and swearing all the way. Some of the archers beat us there. Arrows whizzed past my ears. Several bounced off my helmet and breastplate. One struck my horse’s withers. He whinnied and faltered, but kept going.”

He paused, considering his words, then drew a deep breath and let it out. She seemed interested in what he had to say, which gladdened his heart. “When we reached the mound at last, we rode down the bowman who attempted to hold the rise, swinging our broadswords like sickles. Those left standing fled into the bog. As I looked out over the bedlam, an arrow from out of nowhere pierced my armor. I slipped from my horse and must have lost consciousness, because the next thing I knew, the battle was over. I was buried so deep in the mire, I could scarcely move or breathe. Then, I heard an approaching horse and ringing bells. I wiped the mud from my eyes in time to see a bonny lass with long black hair jumping down from a pure white pony.”

His mouth had gone dry, so he swallowed and licked his lips before continuing. “She pulled the arrow from my chest and gave me mead to drink from a golden cup, which healed my wound. I thought sure she was a Valkyrie, come to take me to Valhalla. When I was revived, she remounted, pulled me up behind her, and rode off—but to Avalon. And instead of becoming an
einherjar
—one of Odin’s immortal warriors—I was enslaved as a breeding drone to the queen of an Amazonian colony of faeries.”

Her perfectly arched red eyebrows drew together. “Amazonian? Are there no men in Avalon?”

“There are men, but they serve no purpose beyond pleasure and procreation.”

Her wonder-filled green eyes held his gaze. “That must have been awful for you.”

“
An rud a thig gu dona falbhaidh e leis a ghaoith
.” He shrugged one shoulder.

She squinted at him. “What does that mean?”

“What cannot be helped must be put up with.” Handing back the book, he gave her an affable smile. “Are you interested in learning magic?”

“Are you offering to teach me?”

“I cannot teach you witchcraft, but I might be willing to pass along the basics of the sort of magic I practice—if you are truly interested in learning.”

“
Might
be?” Her radiant emerald eyes challenged him.

“Aye.” He cleared his throat. “Depending on how things go.”

Swallowing hard, he looked away from her bewitching stare. He was falling under her spell. Why else would he volunteer so much about himself? Why else had he offered to instruct her in runic magic?

There was his quest to prepare for. The last thing he needed or wanted right now was to form a romantic attachment. Were he not already enchanted, he would have ordered her away and put the notion of bedding her out of his mind completely.

When his gaze returned to hers, she batted her fiery red lashes at him. Something in her wrapped around something in him—a lustful serpent that wanted to be inside her more than it wanted her gone.