Knight of Wands (Knights of the Tarot Book 1) (35 page)

As she gazed into his eyes, which were clear and sure, a smile bloomed across her mouth. “It’s not the Mile High Club, but it will do in a pinch.”

“Wouldn’t you rather wait until we get to the room?”

She brushed her lips across his, relishing his whisky flavor and humid breath. “I thought we might start here and finish there.”

“You’re quite the wanton,
mo bhilis
.” His voice was husky, his eyelids heavy. “Did you know that?”

She lifted an eyebrow in question. “Are you complaining?”

Rather than answer, he pulled up her skirt and pushed his hand between her legs. His fingers slid, slowly, deliciously, from her sweet spot to her entrance, awakening sensations as thrilling as they were torturous. She shuddered and exhaled in strangled bursts.

As they passed the twelfth floor, she lowered his zipper, reached through his open fly, and wrapped her fingers around his sex. He groaned, shivered, and thrust into her grasp, but didn’t abandon his efforts on her behalf.

The car stopped with a jolt on the fifteenth floor. He stepped behind her just as the doors glided apart to reveal a middle-aged couple on the other side.

Vanessa offered them a shamefaced smile. “Going up?”

“Down, actually,” the man returned with a sweeping glance that took all of her in. She swallowed the lump of guilt in her throat. Could he tell they’d been fooling around?

When the doors closed with the couple still on the other side, she heaved a sigh and collapsed against Callum, feeling boneless and doughy. He was her lifeboat and she had been alone in the cold, dark water for far too long.

“I have a surprise for you upstairs,” he whispered, “but it can wait.”

The next moment, he lunged forward, swept her with him to the panel, and punched the button to stop the car before pinning her against the wall.

“You are mine,” he said, eyes ablaze with a golden fire that burned her to her soul. “Mine and only mine. Now and forever. Do you hear me?”

“Yes,” she said in a breathless gasp. “And you’re mine and only mine, too.”

“Aye,
mo dearbadan-de
.” He kissed her mouth. “And very happy to be so.”

He took hold of her wrists, raised her arms above her head and held them there with one hand while the other snaked its way down her body. As he groped his way under her skirt, he plundered her mouth with his tongue. She moaned her surrender, cognizant of the metaphor. He’d caught her and pinned her like the butterflies he collected as a boy.

She didn’t mind. She wanted to be his, wanted to be the one who finally loved him the way he deserved and to spend the rest of eternity making him happy. He would do the same for her. She was sure of it, because he loved her for who she was, not in spite of it.

He dropped his trousers, pleasantly surprising her. She swallowed as her wide-eyed gaze slipped to his jutting erection. Her back was still against the wall. Stepping up to her, he lifted her skirt, slipped a hand between her legs, and made her wetter than she already was.

Seizing his cock like a lever, she yanked him to her. The hard plains of his chest crushed the soft roundness of hers. She swung up her legs and captured his hips in the vise of her thighs. He impaled her with a savage thrust. The thrill of his entry, the unbelievable feeling of fulfillment, forced a ragged moan from her throat. She tipped her hips to take him deeper. He buried his blade to the hilt again and again and again—a crime of passion. Her body, rejoicing in the violence of his stabs, coiled tighter and tighter until an explosion of ecstasy blew every cell into oblivion.

Seconds later, she felt the breathless break of his climax and the bursting of his seed deep within her. When he stilled, he captured her mouth and kissed her with feeling. She untied her trembling legs and let them drop to the floor. He released her mouth, pulled out of her, and stepped back, eyes as glassy and dark as amber.

“Promise me you’ll still want me this much after we’re married.”

Heart wrenching, she threw her arms around his neck and hugged him hard. “Oh, Callum. I’ll want you so much you’ll have to beat me off with a stick.”

He squeezed her hard and kissed her neck before letting her go. After zipping up and straightening his clothes, he released the lock, sending the car on its way. When it stopped a few seconds later, they emerged from its dark womb into the bright hallway, rubber-limbed and love-drunk. A quick survey of the ornately framed paintings lining the walls revealed all were Scottish portraits and landscapes.

Draping a possessive arm around her shoulder, he pulled her along, his weight and mass making walking difficult. At the door to the bridal suite, he let her go and pulled out the credit-card key the clerk had given him at the registration desk downstairs.

Anticipation fluttered in her belly at the thought of his romantic surprise. As he inserted it into the slot, she noticed the portrait on the opposite wall—a full-length depiction of an 18th-century Scotsman dressed resplendently in tartan from head to toe. A thrilling realization broke through the euphoria clouding her mind.

“Callum.” She touched his arm. “What did you have Hamish send you to wear?”

“What do you think?” His leonine grin warmed her to her backbone. “I might be a double Leo and a faery knight,
mo dearbadan-de
, but first and foremost, I’m a Highlander.”

Epilogue

Election Night

John o’Groats, Scotland

Callum was back in the auditorium where he’d first set eyes on his butterfly, who was now his wife. In just a few moments, he’d be making a speech, but which kind? Victory or concession? Holding tight to Vanessa’s hand, he kept his focus on the television set. Any second, Miranda Hornsby, the new evening anchor for the local news, would announce the results.

Since coming home, he’d campaigned like a maniac with his new bride by his side. Marriage and the campaign had changed both of them for the better. He’d found his lust for life again and she’d grown to trust him and her heart. They still made love all the time, but now talked afterward in the easy, open way he’d always longed to but never could with his first wife.

Speaking of Sorcha, her spirit, it seemed, was finally at rest. The castle only grew cold now when he said the wrong thing to Vanessa. Luckily, she forgave him quickly and the make-up sex was out of this world.

His pulse quickened at the first notes of the opening fanfare of the special broadcast. He gave his wife’s hand a reassuring squeeze as Miranda’s familiar face filled the screen. She wore a purple jacket and had changed her hairstyle, but otherwise looked the same.

“Good evening. In tonight’s top story, Callum Lyon, the democratic challenger, has defeated the incumbent conservative Alasdair Sinclair by more than two thousand votes.”

When Callum’s headshot flashed on the screen in the background, Vanessa gave him a congratulatory peck on the cheek.

“Lord Lyon, thirty-four, the Baron of Duncansby, is a political astrologer who’s written numerous books on the topic. The turnout for this general election was high at almost forty-nine percent.”

“Oh, baby,” Vanessa said, kissing him again. “I’m so proud of you.”

His heart swelled with a heady mixture of pride and gratitude. Running for office, as crazy as it seemed, had forced him to face just how removed he’d become from his passions. Before he could thank her for nudging him into it, his picture was replaced by one of a dark-eyed deer.

“And this just in from the States,” Miss Hornsby said, looking more serious. “Another death in Louisiana has been attributed to a bizarre attack by what appears to be a rogue deer in Bayou Manac, a notoriously haunted swamp. This brings the death toll to two in the past two months. Local authorities believe both victims were poachers who’d been hunting in the swamp illegally. U.S. Fish and Game officials are looking into the causes of this unnatural behavior, to determine if it’s the result of genetic mutation or a new strain of disease.”

Shaking his head, Callum looked at Vanessa. “Well, mo dearbadan-de. I think we can safely say your environmental footprint just got a whole lot bigger.”

Before she could say anything in response, Duncan burst into the room and pulled him into a back-pounding embrace. “Well done. Well done. Let me be the first to offer my congratulations. On the election as well as your other news.” Letting Callum go, he took Vanessa by the hands and kissed her on both cheeks. “I’m so happy for you both. Do you know the sex yet?”

“Yes,” Vanessa replied with a beaming smile. “We just found out this afternoon.” She rubbed her belly. “We’re having a little girl.”

—The End—

Meet the Author

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, and educate. When not writing, Nina works as a communications consultant, dollmaker, and Pure Romance consultant. Born and raised in Southern California, she now lives in Woodstock, Georgia, with her husband, teenage daughter, two rescue cats, and a Westie who’s afraid of the dryer. Visit her website at ninamasonauthor.com, find her on Facebook, or follow her on Twitter @ninamasonauthor

Read on for an excerpt from the next book in the Knights of the Tarot series:

KNIGHT OF CUPS

When Gwyndolen Darling, a sexual abuse survivor who lives in a fantasy world, travels to Scotland to meet her obsession, she soon finds herself in a dark faery tale of epic proportions. Sir Leith MacQuill, the object of her quest, isn't just a reclusive author who’s into BDSM, he also is a shapeshifting faery knight who carries a curse that will kill any woman who captures his heart.

When his usual methods fail to protect Gwyn, a dead ringer for the wife he tragically lost back in 1746, Sir Leith must find a way to break the curse or lose his One True Love a second time. Unfortunately, the article he needs to reverse the hex is in the otherworld land he was banished from by the ruthless faery queen who cursed him.

Gwyn must, therefore, undertake the dangerous mission alone. Will she find the courage within herself to fight for herself and her knight? Or will she choose to stay inside the imaginary tower she’s built to keep herself safe from the world?

Chapter 1

With a weight on my heart I had not felt since I watched my father die on the gallows, I pulled my plaid tighter around my shoulders. The bitter north wind blowing across the desolate heath burned my face and cut like a knife through my ice-encrusted tartan garments. Drumossie Moor had to be the worst possible place to challenge the Duke of Cumberland’s army.

What were our chances of winning this battle? Somewhere between slim and none, I would wager. The luck we enjoyed at Gladsmuir and Falkirk, it would seem, had finally run out.

The English enemy had canons, rifle-muskets affixed with bayonets, ammunition, horses, archers, and some nine thousand well-rested, well-fed soldiers trained and drilled for just this sort of line-to-line confrontation.

We Jacobites, in contrast, were a rag-tag bunch of frozen, starved, and exhausted volunteers. If the duke’s army stood firm in the face of our charge, we were doomed. Not that we stood much chance either way.

Even so, my father would have wanted me to fight for the rightful king and the One True Faith. Was he looking down from Heaven right now? Was he proud of his only son for taking up the cause for which he gave his life?

A braw man with a passionate heart, he was hanged, drawn, and quartered twenty-three years ago—when I was on the cusp of manhood—for his role in the Atterbury Plot, a Jacobite conspiracy to restore the House of Stuart to the throne of Great Britain.

His head, which I stole from its place of display atop Temple Bar, the ceremonial archway between London and Westminster, was buried in the walled garden of my castle, beside my gold, to prevent my most prized family treasures from falling into thieving Sassenach hands. I might not love the Stuarts as much as did my father, but I hate the heretic English even more.

If only I could have hidden my wife and unborn child from the enemy as easily.

Please, Father in Heaven, keep them safe.

Biting down to still my chattering teeth, I urged my mount onto the sodden field where the prince was doing his best to bolster morale. Some poor sods dozed where they stood; others lay along the road like plaid-shrouded corpses awaiting the death cart. Still more had abandoned their posts altogether—out of futility and hunger.

Our best fighters had yet to show up and the promised reinforcements from France were naught but a pipe dream, regrettably.