The Queen of Swords: A Paranormal Tale of Undying Love by Nina Mason Read Free Book Online Page A

drawer and her head on the pillow. No sooner had she closed her eyes than a new scene began to take shape inside her mind. It was fuzzy at first, an indistinguishable collage of shadow, light, and color. Little by little, it sharpened until she saw herself in another time.
    Strangely, she was both inside and outside herself at the same time. The woman she saw and inhabited was herself, but also someone else. She had the same dark hair and willowy figure, but wore a peacock blue gown, a strange sort of fur wrap, and an enormous hat ornamented with ribbons and plumes.
    Her dreams were often vividly realistic, but this seemed more so somehow. Setting aside the explanation for now, she took a breath and sank into the experience. The morning air was cool on her face and the sky above clear and luminous. She walked alone, but passed several people in old-fashioned clothing: men in suits with starched collars and women in elegant lace and velvet gowns. Most wore hats as large and ostentatious as her own. Others donned smaller chapeaus and carried parasols.
    Over the rushing water, she could hear clopping hooves and carriage wheels grinding on cobblestones. She also could hear the sputter of early automobiles. The aromas of strong coffee and fresh-baked bread teased her nostrils. In the distance, she spied a brasserie and somehow knew it was her destination. She also somehow knew the woman frequented fashionable salons and had a self-confidence she lacked. She was meeting a friend, a fellow writer from the Federation of Freethought. She was late, though the narrowness of her ankle-length skirt made it impossible to lengthen her stride.
    As she approached the cafe, she scanned the sidewalk tables in search of the friend , Henriette Boyer, but did not see her. Had Henriette, for some mad reason, opted to sit inside? Moving toward the front window to check, her wrap caught on the back of a chair, pulling it over with a crash. Face heating, she turned to both right the chair and offer an apology. Her eyes skimmed over a solitary gentleman in a tweed driving cap and round-rimmed dark glasses.
    “Please forgive my clumsiness, monsieur ,” she said in French, stooping to grab the chair.
    “There is nothing to forgive, mademoiselle ,” he replied, also in French, as she set the chair back on its legs.
    His words hinted of a foreign accent, provoking a second look. Peering at her over the top of his glasses were the most extraordinary golden eyes she’d ever seen.
    He tipped his cap. “Je m'appelle Graham Logan. ”
    “ C'est un plaisir, Monsieur Logan .” Warming under his gaze, she made a small curtsy. “Je m'appelle Catharine. Catharine Le Croix .”
    The Catharine part of her found him both oddly familiar and intoxicatingly attractive. The Cat part of her was shocked to find the man she’d met today looking exactly the same during Le Belle Époque.
    “ Where do you hail from, monsieur ?”
    “Scotland, originally .” He said it in English, which she understood perfectly. “But now reside here.”
    Though Catharine had never been to Scotland, she’d long wanted to go. She was a fan of the novels of Sir Walter Scott and those depicting Scottish country life by Ian MacLaren, S. R. Crockett, and others of the Kailyard School.
    “What brought you to Paris?”
    He gave her a knee-weakening smile. “Ennui.”
    His hair, unfashionably long, fell around his shoulders like a skein of copper silk. His herringbone suit was slightly out of date, but finely tailored. Over his chair lay a pla id wool overcoat, also quality. Feeling a trifle dizzy, she pulled her eyes away from his and glanced down at his table. Surprise pricked when she saw tarot cards laid out in a spread. Curious about the nature of his query, she let her gaze roam over the layout.
    The Queen of Swords. A cerebral woman who hid her heart. Was it, perchance, a harbinger of their meeting? A smile pulled at her lips, but retreated the instant her eyes landed on the