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

spread’s final card, the outcome.
    Death.
    She swallowed hard and spoke her thoughts aloud. “Death can herald many things. Change, for example, which is inevitable.”
    Desire sparked when her eyes met his. Her gaze dropped, landing on The Lovers. Would they become intimate? It seemed likely, given the stirrings in her womb. She bit her lip, keeping her eyes on the cards while he studied her. His gaze was as arousing as an intimate caress. She pressed her thighs together to douse her growing desire, but the flames of lust only leapt higher.
    Suddenly remembering Henriette, she glanced around. Her friend was still nowhere to be seen. Not that she gave a fiche at this point.
    “ What do you make of The Devil?”
    His question brought her attention back to the spread. Taking a moment to study it again, she now saw The Devil beside the queen in the position of influencer.
    She lifted a gloved hand to her perspiring face. “ The Devil represents...our bestial lusts, monsieur .”
    “Or, might he represent” —he arched a beguiling auburn eyebrow—“a dark wizard?”
    “Oui.”
    He must be familiar with the Tarot de Marseille , the ancient deck she used. In it, the card depicting the baphomet was called The Black Magician. His penetrating eyes still held hers. She lowered her gaze to his mouth, a sculptural masterpiece worthy of Le Louvre . She yearned so badly to kiss that mouth she almost couldn’t breathe.
    “Forgive me for staring, Mademoiselle Le Croix .” He seemed oblivious to his effect on her. “But, you bear an uncanny resemblance to a lady I knew once upon a time back in Scotland, a likeness I find most distracting.”
    She kept her eyes on the cards. If she looked at him again, she would surely swoon. “Where is the lady now, monsieur ?”
    “In the grave,” he said with a rueful sigh. “Or so I have long believed.”
     
    * * *
     
    “Someone was asking about you,” Benedict told Graham, only half-listening until now, “after you decided to bugger off so abruptly.”
    “Oh, aye? And who might that be?”
    Did he really need to ask? They were in the gentlemen’s withdrawing room, Benedict drinking sherry while leaning on the fireplace mantel, him by the window staring out at the rain with a Gauloise and a dram of single-malt whisky he’d been cellaring for at least fifty years. When his friend came in, he’d abandoned the hunt for his diaries, but was itching to get back to it.
    “ You know ,” Benedict replied, confirming his suspicions, “the one you were practically shagging with your eyes.”
    He shook his head, still kicking himself over his indiscretion. He was supposed to be avoiding her, not striking up conversations and rushing to her rescue. Then again, he couldn’t really fault himself for coming to her aid, but still. He must resolve to absolutely avoid her from now on.
    “She asked how long I’d known you, how long you’d be in town, where you were from. That sort of thing.”
    Graham licked his lips. “ What did you tell her?”
    “The truth. Without elaboration, of course.” Benedict’s grin broadened. “Not about how long we’d been mates, obviously. I mean, I could hardly tell her I’ve known you for more than a century, now could I?”
    “Hardly.” His mind jumped back a century to the night he first met the O’Lyrs while hunting in Green Park. In those days, the woods were thick with highwaymen and pickpockets lying in wait for unsuspecting passersby. The O’Lyrs appeared to be a well-bred couple out for a romantic stroll. Approaching to warn them of the lurking dangers, he caught their scent, which told him they also were of the Fae. They’d fled Ireland, he later learned, during the Cromwellian conquest and had no desire to return. Not that he blamed them. He hated Ireland too, but for different reasons.
    “She seemed quite keen on you,” Benedict was saying “and, as it happens, she lives with the lass I was chatting up. I got her number...and thought