King Me!

by Deborah Blake

  Crap. Now what? Morgan tightened her grip on the phone as if that would allow her to control the situation. “Warn me about what?” She found she was whispering back and tried to talk at a normal volume. “What’s Fay up to now?”

  “She knows about Merlin,” Michael said urgently. “She saw the interview with Morgan Fairchild, and she knows that Merlin is here in California. I’m sorry, there wasn’t anything I could do.”

  “Of course there wasn’t,” Morgan consoled Michael while thinking furiously about what to do next. “Double crap.”

  She looked up to see Arthur standing in the darkened doorway and nearly had a heart attack. As soon as this was all over, she was going to get the man a damned bell.

  “What is the matter, Morgan?” Arthur asked. Concern wrinkled his brow, distracting her only slightly from the impressive sight of the King of the Britons wearing only a pair of Daffy Duck boxer shorts. Note to self: never let Crystal shop for Arthur again.

  She sighed, and gestured at him to sit down while she continued her conversation with Michael. She’d explain it all to Arthur when she was off the phone, but for now she had to talk to her spy before he was found out by the enemy. And to think, a month ago her life had been so simple.

  “Michael, does Fay know we know?” Morgan asked, semi-coherently. “About Merlin and Morgan Fairchild, I mean.”

  “No, I don’t think so,” Michael whispered, so quietly she could barely hear him. “I think she’s trying to get in touch with Morgan Fairchild and arrange a meeting without Merlin knowing. She said something on the phone to Mortimer about a sneak attack being a lot easier than a frontal assault. Whatever that means.”

  Morgan thought about it for a minute. “Um, I think it means that Fay is concerned that Merlin is a good enough wizard to put up a fight if she goes after him directly. From what we’ve seen of her so far, Fay would rather bribe someone to betray the person she’s after than go after that person in an open battle. You know, like how she was trying to get me to turn Arthur over to her.”

  Next to her, Arthur scowled as he listened to her end of the conversation. Morgan patted his hand reassuringly, keeping most of her attention on Michael.

  “Yeah, that would make sense,” he agreed. “And so far, I don’t think she’s actually been able to talk to Morgan Fairchild in person. Just a few rounds of Fay’s people talking to Morgan’s people, trying to arrange lunch. You know Hollywood.”

  Well, she didn’t, really, but she’d take his word for it. “Do you think Fay will get Morgan to agree to meet her eventually?” Her stomach shriveled at the thought. They were clearly running out of time. Damn it, damn it, damn it.

  “Sooner or later. Probably sooner.” Michael talked fast as he got ready to hang up the phone. “I think Fay’s coming back. I’ve gotta go—“

  “Wait!” Morgan wished she could reach through the phone and grab her friend. “Are you okay? She doesn’t know about you, does she?” Her heart skipped a beat at the thought of what an irate Fay could do to Michael. Why had she let him go out there?

  “I’m fine,” he whispered. “As far as I can tell, she doesn’t suspect a thing. But you and Arthur better come out here right away. If Fay gets to Morgan Fairchild first, there’s no telling what might happen.”

  And with that ominous warning, the phone went dead.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Arthur sat in the dark next to Morgan as she spoke to her friend Michael, half his mind on the conversation and the other half still amazed at the ability these people had to converse over so many miles. Think of what that could have meant, back when he ran his kingdom. No waiting days for a messenger to ride across the land, driving his poor horse nigh on to death to bring important news. No sleepless evenings spent wondering where his knights were and if they were alive or dead.

  Of course, he had no knights now, unless you counted Michael, who had crossed the country to spy on Arthur’s nemesis. Well, and to pursue a career as a troubadour, which hardly seemed like the action of a knight. But no matter, he had gone forth in Arthur’s service, and from what little the king could make out from the conversation, it sounded as though he might be in danger.

  Arthur clenched his hands at his side, grimacing as usual at his lack of a sword. This sitting about and doing nothing was going to be the death of him, he was certain of it. Morgan gave him what was undoubtedly intended as a reassuring smile, although the look of concern on her beautiful face made it less than convincing. And why was she staring at his pants in that fashion? He glanced down furtively to make sure he had not put the things on backwards; he still occasionally had difficulty with modern attire. No, they were positioned as appropriately as such flimsy things could be.

  He looked back up at Morgan as she slowly put down the telephone, worry carved deep into the lines of her face.

  “Morgan?” Arthur put out a hand tentatively in the nighttime gloom. The moonlight coming thought the window shed enough light to see by, barely. It reminded him of long nights spent by the campfire waiting for battle to begin. “Is the lad in trouble? What has happened?”

  Morgan leaned over and turned on the lamp next to futon, then slumped against the quilt-covered back. “Michael’s okay for now,” she said, her voice rough with emotion, “but Merlin could be in trouble.” She looked up at Arthur, and his heart contracted to see so much concern in her eyes. Truly, she did care for him. It was a wonder, but there was no time to think of such things now. A pity.

  “Fay has learned of Merlin’s whereabouts?” he asked, not very surprised. Fay had always been a capable adversary. “Does she have him?”

  Morgan seemed bemused by his calmness in the face of her dire news. “Michael says she knows Merlin is in California with Morgan Fairchild, but doesn’t know exactly where yet.” Her lovely green eyes gazed up at him anxiously. “But he says Fay is trying to arrange a meeting with Morgan. The other Morgan, I mean.” She twisted her hands together, the silver rings she wore cutting into her flesh.

  Arthur gently separated the tangled fingers and wove his own larger digits between hers. “There is no point in worrying about things we can do nothing about tonight, Morgan,” he said softly. Her skin was so smooth against the roughness of his work-hardened hands. It felt like silk resting against his palm and without even intending to, he lifted one slim hand and kissed it. Her eyes opened wide and her cheeks blushed a becoming pink.

  “Um, Arthur, shouldn’t we be planning some kind of counter-measure?” she asked. But he noticed she did not pull her hand away, as she might have done not so long ago.

  He shrugged massively, retaining his hold on her fingers and moving his lips gently down to her wrist as he spoke. She tasted sweet, like May wine.

  “We will need to go out to this Holly Woods place as soon as possible, aye?” he responded. “And try to find Merlin before Fay can do so.” He nibbled his way delicately up her arm, watching the blush spread from her face down over her chest in faint waves of color.

  “Er, yes,” she said, a bit breathlessly. “I need to call the airport and make us reservations for the first flight tomorrow morning. Let’s just hope there’s one with empty seats.”

  Arthur lifted his head from the enticing curve of her elbow reluctantly. “Must you do this now?” He returned her arm to its owner with one last lingering kiss on her fingertips.

  She blinked up at him, looking slightly dazed, then seemed to pull herself together. “Oh, ah, yes. Now. I should call now.” She glanced down at his shorts, blushed again and jumped up from the couch as if he’d bitten her. “I, uh, the phone book’s in the kitchen. I’ll call from there.”

  He watched her walk away, hips swinging from side to side underneath the long shirt she had worn to sleep in. Such a lovely woman, he thought to himself. How had he ever thought otherwise?

  He knew he should be worrying about Merlin, but in truth, there was nothing he could do right now to help his old mentor. And for once, he and Morgan seemed to be getting along. It w
ould be a shame to waste such a rare and precious moment.

  The king ran one large hand through his sleep-tousled hair, thoughtlessly disarranging it even further. Morgan would be back as soon as her task was accomplished. And no doubt, she would still be fretting, since that was her way. Perhaps he could think of something to distract her from her anxiety on his behalf. It was only fair, since he was, indirectly, the cause of her sleeplessness. And Arthur, King of the Britons, was always fair.

  When Morgan came back into the living room, it was empty. Arthur must have gone back to bed, she thought, torn between relief and regret. The room seemed much larger without him in it, but she couldn’t decide whether that was a good thing or not. A few weeks ago she would have been sure, but now she’d gotten used to his presence taking up space and using all the air in the room.

  She bit her lip as she sat back down on the futon. What had gotten into him before, anyway? She couldn’t believe he’d started kissing her arm like that. Not that she’d minded, exactly. In fact, her fingers still tingled where his lips had touched them. If she hadn’t had to get up to call the airlines, who knew what might have happened?

  A sigh escaped before she could corral it. Never mind asking what had gotten into him—what had gotten into her? Not so long ago, she’d thought King Arthur was a myth. Then she’d summoned him here and decided instead that he was an egotistical, arrogant Neanderthal. But lately, he hadn’t seemed so bad. In all honesty, she’d grown quite fond of the man. She sighed again.

  The truth was, she was more than fond. But she wasn’t going to admit that to him, or anyone else for that matter. How she felt was irrelevant. Tomorrow they would get on a plane, fly out to California and find his wizard. And if Fay didn’t turn both of them into toads while they were there, Merlin would send Arthur back where he belonged and Morgan would have her normal, boring life back. Just like they both wanted. Right?

  So why was she feeling so depressed? She tried to get a grip on herself; it must just be the late hour and the thought of confronting the intimidating Fay LeBeau. I just need to get some sleep, Morgan told herself. I’ll feel better in the morning. She reached down to grab the comforter, only to realize it wasn’t lying on the floor where she had left it. She glanced about wildly, trying to see where it had gone. She couldn’t go to sleep without a blanket or something to pull over her. It might be summer, but the nights were still cool.

  That damned Arthur. He must have taken the comforter with him. It wasn’t enough that he had her damned bed, now he had to steal her comforter, too? Morgan jumped to her feet, charged up by having something to confront him about. It was a lot more natural to be arguing with him than to have him nibbling on her arm, by golly.

  Quietly, so as not to wake her grandmother (although the old woman slept like a rock), Morgan stomped down the hallway to her bedroom. (Stomping quietly was hard to do, but not impossible, if you put your mind to it.) She’d get her comforter back, give Arthur a piece of her mind, then get some well-deserved sleep before they took off for the airport in the morning on their wild-wizard chase.

  At least, that was the plan.

  When Morgan pushed open the door to what used to be her bedroom, she was taken aback by an unexpected sight. The comforter she was looking for was neatly folded at the foot of the bed and ET was curled up on it as if he planned to stay there all night. That much was pretty predictable.

  But she hadn’t expected the half dozen candles that shed a golden glow around the room or the large red-haired man who lay back on the bed, propped up by her lace-edged pillow shams and twirling a long, white satin ribbon casually around his index finger. With a corner of her mind, she recognized it as the belt for her robe, currently hanging off the back of the bathroom door. How it had gotten from the dream the phone had interrupted into the current reality, however, she was less clear on. Or why Arthur was sitting there like a Roman god, obviously waiting for her to come and retrieve her stolen comforter.

  “Um, hi,” Morgan said, sidling up to the bed and trying unsuccessfully to move her huge orange cat from off his current perch. The furball just gave her a jaundiced look from beneath half opened eyelids and went back to purring. Traitor.

  “You have taken care of the arrangements for the morrow,” Arthur asked, sitting up a little further. “All is in readiness?”

  Morgan shrugged, suddenly self-conscious. Now she was just being silly; she walked around in her sleep tee all the time, why should it make any difference that they were both in her bedroom? She pulled the bottom of the shirt down anyway.

  “Yeah, the tickets are booked. In the morning, I’ll call the rest of the coven and tell them what we’re doing, but for now, we might as well get some sleep.” She tugged futilely at the cloth ET was holding down with his bulk. “I just came to get my comforter.”

  Arthur gave her a subtle smile, the corners of his lips edging upwards. “Do you truly believe you will be able to sleep, knowing what the morning brings?” He shifted on the bed, the muscles in his bare chest moving under their dusting of rust-colored hair. “Myself, I could never rest the night before going into battle.”

  Morgan tried to speak, but something seemed to be wrong with her voice. “I, uh, what were you suggesting?” She took a step back towards the door without looking, torn between running away and staying to see this through. Whatever this was.

  Arthur took the decision away from her, rising smoothly from the bed to grasp her hand and guide her back to sit next to him. A shiver ran down her spine, but she went with him, unresisting. A part of her felt that this moment was inevitable, although she hadn’t seen it coming. Her dream from earlier flitted through her mind, and she blushed again. Well, maybe she’d seen it coming after all. At least on some level.

  Arthur put one strong finger under her chin, tilting her head up so her eyes were looking into his. A strange look haunted the edges of his brown gaze; some muddled confusion of lust, affection and possibly fear. Morgan realized that in some ways, Arthur was as unprepared for this moment as she was, and strangely, the thought made her braver.

  She leaned forward, putting one palm on his tanned chest, enjoying the crisp feel of his hair curling under her palm. “Arthur?”

  “Yes, Morgan,” he breathed, running his hand up from her chin to tangle in her long hair.

  “So what do you do?” Her voice went up a half octave. “The night before a battle, I mean.”

  “It depends on the battle,” Arthur’s fingers tightened on the back of her head, moving it in closer to his. “And on my companions at the time.” He smiled down at her mischievously. “Lancelot and I used to play chess, as I recall.”

  Morgan blinked in confusion. “Chess? You want to play chess?” This wasn’t going the way she thought it was going.

  Arthur chuckled, clearly pleased to have rattled her. “No,” he said, deep voice reverberating in his chest, “ I want to do this.”

  He bent his head down and placed his lips over hers. He was surprisingly gentle at first, then more forceful as Morgan got over her initial stunned amazement. She kissed him back with enthusiasm, wrapping her arms around his massive torso, and she heard him chuckle again.

  “What’s so funny?” she asked indignantly, pulling away from him again. “Is there something wrong with the way I kiss?”

  Arthur shook his shaggy head, smiling at her. “There is not one thing wrong with your kissing, Morgan,” he said. “I was merely thinking that if I had known you would respond so well to being kissed, I would have done it weeks ago.”

  Morgan scowled at him. “If you’d tried that weeks ago, I probably would have slugged you.”

  He nodded in agreement. “That much is true. We do seem to have trust issues.”

  Morgan looked at him, aghast. “Trust issues? Where on earth did you pick up a phrase like trust issues?” She thumped him on the shoulder with one fist. “Do you even know what it means, you big jerk?”

  She couldn’t believe he’d started kissing her, only to
stop in mid-make-out to laugh at her and accuse her of having trust issues. That was it—no more daytime television for him, ever. If necessary, she’d get the cable disconnected. The man was enough of a menace without being corrupted by Dr. Phil.

  “I know you have a difficult time trusting me, Morgan,” Arthur said. “And yet, I have learned to trust you. With my life, if it came to that.” The small smile came and went again, making Morgan think he was planning something underhanded. But what?

  “What are you up to, Your Highness?” she asked warily. “Whatever it is, I’m not going to go along with it. So either kiss me again, or give me back my comforter and let me go get some sleep.” She tried to slide off the bed, but Arthur’s long legs were in the way.

  “I believe it is time for you to learn to trust me, too, Morgan,” Arthur said, his eyes twinkling. “There is nothing for you to do, except lie back and allow me to help you relax. You are much too tense.”

  He leaned forward and kissed her again, over and over, until she was almost dizzy with pleasure. If this was his idea of how to relax her, she thought it might be working. Then somewhere in the back of her mind, she noticed a strange tugging around her right wrist. Coming reluctantly back to reality, she looked up to see white satin being wound around her wrist, then threaded through the posts of her wooden headboard. Before she could recover from the shock, Arthur had gracefully eased her back onto the bed and tied her second wrist to the first.

  “Oh, no!” Morgan cried. “We are so not doing this! Let me go this instant!” She squirmed around trying to loosen the satin tie, but although it didn’t seem tight enough to be uncomfortable, it also wasn’t coming undone.

  Arthur slid down next to her on the bed and brushed the hair out of her face. He looked at her with what she could only interpret as tenderness; unexpected, to say the least, considering what he had just done.

  “Do not worry, Morgan,” he whispered in her ear, “ I will do nothing you do not desire me to do. But I will show you that you can trust me.”