Lord of the Highlands Read Free Page B

quick, fun reading. But now she sensed she should’ve waited for Livia to do the reading for her.
    Should now wait for her to finish it.
    Felicity rubbed the edge of the last card with her fingertip. She had to know. She could ask her aunt what it all meant later. She needed to see what was hidden beneath this last card.
    She turned it before she could chicken out.
    “No . . .” Her voice was tiny. She looked at the hideous card in front of her and groaned. This last card, the one that defined the entire reading. And it represented a total breakdown in one’s life and world.
    Lightning struck a great spire into flames. There was a toppling crown, and people falling to the earth. “No, not that.”
    The Tower.
    Only a fine thread of anger stopped her despair from turning to tears. Why couldn’t she have happiness? For once, something simple and pleasant. Felicity had always been dealt the bad hand.
    Her parents had died when she was still in elementary school, and she’d never been the same. She’d never been quite a part of things, something always just slightly off as she made her way through the world.
    All she wanted was for the loneliness to go away. For a decent boyfriend, someone who was who he said he was. It wasn’t so much. A good man.
    Felicity abruptly raked her hands through the cards, sweeping them before her on the shag rug. “I wish . . .”
    She plucked the Chariot card from the pile and rubbed it between her fingers. “Where are you?” The glowing, triumphant warrior. “I wish . . . I wish I could meet you .”
    The dying light drew Felicity’s eyes. Her candle was guttering out. She looked back down at the cards, and the movement set her head to whirring. Please no nausea. She pursed her lips. Damned sangria.
    Her hands still on the cards, she slid down onto the rug. She’d lay there a moment, waiting for the spinning to stop.
    Waiting, and wishing for her one, true man. Her Viking.

Chapter 2

London, 1658
    Not again , Will Rollo thought sourly. He’d saved his friend Ormonde from many a scrape, but the Tower of London? Frowning, he pulled his cowl further over his head. An escape from the Tower far exceeded the obligations of friendship.
    He nodded to his companion, and they pulled the oars up to skim near the surface of the water, dragging the small boat to a stop. Traitor’s Gate loomed just ahead, connecting the Thames to the moat that encircled the Tower complex.
    “Who goes there?” the guard shouted, jangling his keys as if to stress the gravity of his position.
    It was early evening, and though there were hours yet before the gate would be locked for the night, traffic that time of day was uncommon.
    His hired man shifted nervously at his side, and Rollo put his hand out, gesturing for calm. Coin bought men, but it didn’t always buy composure.
    Truly , he thought, this is the last time .
    Rollo cleared his throat, trying his best to shed the Scots from his voice. “I’ve come wi’ ale, gov’ner.”
    He frowned at the answering silence. He had one shot to get Ormonde out and needed to think quickly.
    “It’s for his lordship,” Rollo added. He’d grown up on the other side of the servant-lord relationship, and knew invoking the wrath of an angry nobleman—even an anonymous one—was good for getting results. “He says I deliver it before the gates is locked for the night, or it’s all our hides.”
    Rollo let out a quick, sharp cough. Keeping up the false accent was a struggle and an annoyance. Ormonde might thrive on these sorts of intrigues, but Rollo much preferred fighting his battles in the light of day. Preferably on horseback.
    There was a pause, then a strained, “Be on your way then.”
    Rollo’s shoulders eased. Without question, the last , he thought, giving the guard a nod as they rowed past.
    He noted the man’s greedy eyes paused on the cask, and fought the urge to heave a visible sigh of relief. The thing was empty, but for a stretch of rope, over