Royal Enchantment

by Sharon Ashwood

  Arthur looked down at his hands, clearly gathering his thoughts. The brief awkwardness of small talk was over. “Why are you staying here and not at home?”

  “I—”

  He fixed her with the piercing blue gaze that had made kings and sorcerers quail. “What do you want that you can’t have beneath my roof?”

  You, she thought, but knew he wouldn’t understand. “Me,” she replied instead. “I’m not there.”

  It was plain to see he didn’t understand that, either. His brow furrowed in irritation. “Please explain.”

  Gwen cast a furtive look at her champagne glass, suddenly wishing she’d drunk more. Even liquor-induced courage was something, and he clearly thought her a spoiled child. “I don’t know if I can.”

  “If you don’t try, then we will achieve nothing.”

  As if this was just another project to be tackled and conquered. She felt the heat rise to her face and looked away, staring at the bubbles floating in her glass.

  “Clary told me what has gone on here.” Her body was rigid. “She said Gawain held her sister at knifepoint when they first met. The night Nimueh and Lancelot found each other again, they battled the Queen of Faery’s assassin. That they both nearly died before all was over. And here we sit in a hotel lounge.”

  “Is that what you want? Knives and violence instead of this?” Arthur waved a hand at the half-darkened room. “I didn’t take you for a warrior queen.”

  Gwen flinched. “You know I’m not.” It would have been easier if she had been, but she preferred building things to killing.

  “Then what is your point?” An edge of frustration crept into his voice. Not quite sarcasm, but its cousin.

  She gave him a hard look. “Those men and women have passion between them.”

  “So do we.”

  She flushed. “There is a difference between passion and pleasure. Passion involves the heart and mind as well as the flesh.”

  The corners of Arthur’s lips turned down. “You are frank, my lady.”

  “I am saving us pain. We had six years of doubt. Do we need a seventh? An eighth?”

  The flush of temper crept up his neck. “Yes, I doubted you. After your illness, you kept company with Lancelot and Lionel and any of the other young knights who would sit at your feet and adore you. What was I to think?”

  Agitated, she picked up the tiny paper napkin the waiter had placed under her drink and began tearing it to bits. After her illness, Arthur had kept her confined. She’d been depressed already and his overprotectiveness had made everything so much worse. “You left me alone, day after day. I was lonely and very young.”

  “And so you let them court you under my nose?”

  “Yes, I did.” She lifted her chin. “Did you ever stop to think why?”

  “A girl’s game.” He said it with contempt, probably because her ploy had worked. She knew he’d been jealous and still felt guilty about it. And yet, what tools did a girl that age have?

  Gwen met his eyes. “Perhaps I wanted you to fight for my affection. I was dazzled by you when we wed, and then you put me in your castle and rode away. I was no more to you than a chair or a tapestry. If I’d been a dog, at least you would have had a use for me.”

  They stared at each other, gazes hot with resentment. She’d never been so blunt before now. Arthur had to visibly unclench his teeth before he could speak. “Did those men ever touch you?”

  She made a strangled noise, resentment bubbling up like a fresh wound. “No. They were my friends, not my lovers. And you’ve asked that a thousand times before.”

  He fell back in his chair with a hiss of breath. “I know. You have no idea how well that arrow flew.”

  “Then why did you never change?” It was a simple question, but she’d never dared to ask it. Now, though, there was no chance of retreat. She’d already shown too many cards.

  Arthur glanced from side to side, fingers fidgeting on the tablecloth. Another couple was sitting down at a nearby table, close enough to overhear. “Is there another place we could go?”

  “My room. Clary will be gone for hours.”

  He nodded, rising at once and ordering the champagne to be delivered. Arthur led the way to the elevator, not touching her and not offering a word. He held the bag with his sword instead, gripping the handle in a white-knuckled fist. Gwen didn’t attempt to break the silence, but pushed the elevator button and waited stiffly. This standoff lasted until the hotel-room door clacked shut behind them.

  The champagne arrived barely a minute after, and the fuss of delivery and tipping stalled the conversation further. Gwen kicked off her shoes, feeling more secure in the refuge Clary had offered her. The room was large, with a comfortable sitting area. Compared to Arthur’s apartment, it was pretty, decorated in blue and yellow. Nevertheless, the place seemed smaller with Arthur in it. Gwen sat down in one of the overstuffed chairs, purposefully avoiding the intimacy of the couch.

  He went to stand at the window, looking out with his hands clasped behind his back. “I knew you turned to others for friendship. I never understood why you didn’t trust me. I did everything to protect you, whether or not you appreciated my methods. It was my duty and desire to keep you safe.”

  When she didn’t answer, he released a noisy breath. “I suppose you still want an answer to your question.”

  “I do.”

  “I didn’t change because there was never time.”

  It made sense, up to a point. There was always a war, a fire, crop failure or some other emergency. Good kings barely had a private life, and Arthur had taken his duty to heart. Gwen had never found fault with his care of Camelot’s citizens—just with his care for her. She breathed a sigh, but it did nothing to expel the tension jangling inside her. She snatched up the champagne and filled her glass, drinking it down.

  “And now?” she asked quietly. “Is there time for us now?”

  He turned from the window. “Is that what you want? Time? Passion? Lazy afternoons to share our thoughts?”

  Gwen sucked in a breath. “Yes.”

  He frowned. “What else?”

  She set down the glass, pulling her thoughts into order. She might only get one chance to say what she needed to say. “I will not live the way I did before.”

  He actually looked shocked. “You do not wish to be queen?”

  “A queen rules by her husband’s side. I can’t do that if I’m, um, if I...” She stumbled, wanting to say that she wanted him very much, but that wasn’t the sum and total of who and what she was.

  “Gwen?”

  “I want to matter,” she finally said. It sounded selfish, though she didn’t mean it that way.

  “You do matter. I want you at my side,” he said, but she couldn’t decipher his tone.

  “Do you really? A real queen would be involved with the running of whatever kingdom you establish here. Otherwise, I have no purpose in Camelot.”

  And if she had no reason to stay, there were other places she could go. All the rules governing women and marriage had changed over the centuries. She finally had choices.

  By the look on Arthur’s face, he knew that, too. Time seemed to stop. So did Gwen’s breath.

  “You were indeed very young when we wed,” he said.

  “I’m old enough now, my lord. I’ve learned much about the responsibilities of the throne.”

  Something shifted in his expression. “So you have, my lady.”

  Was this the reassurance she’d been waiting for? Uncertain, Gwen rose from her chair, her bare feet sinking into the soft carpet. “Then tell me what’s going on with the dragon. If you want me at your side, I need to understand what Camelot is facing.”

  For an instant, Arthur’s composure slipped and she saw a flash of unexpected sadness. He turned back to t
he window before she could fully read his expression. “There is more than one dragon involved. I may well have seen one die today, after I left you and the witch. She was a female of breeding age, I think.”

  “Where?” Gwen demanded, perplexed. One beast finding its way into the world was an unhappy accident. More than one spelled a plot.

  “Are you certain you want to know? It is not a pleasant tale.”

  “Trust me, I do.”

  So he told her about what he’d seen at the gas station and about the fight with Rukon Shadow Wing. Gwen listened carefully and didn’t interrupt. He was making an effort to restore peace between them.

  “There is a fae involved,” he said as he finished, “but I’m not certain how.”

  “There are dragons in the Faery Realms.”

  “But Rukon Shadow Wing lives in the Crystal Mountains, deep in goblin territory. No fae would dare set foot there.”

  Guinevere shook her head. “In our time, that was true, but centuries have passed while we slept. Perhaps the fae have made peace with the goblin king.”

  “That’s possible.” He rubbed his eyes. “I can’t get the image of that unfortunate creature out of my head. I have fought many of her kind, but nothing deserves that suffering. Why are they coming here?”

  The sadness in his words moved her. “Perhaps she had no choice.”

  He reached out, his fingers tracing her cheek until she caught his hand. A spark of angry confusion streaked through her. “How could you sit drinking wine with this fresh in your mind?”

  “We needed to talk.”

  Gwen closed her eyes, exasperated and grateful at the same time. “How can you block something like that out?”

  “I don’t feel it any less, but there are many terrible things, all wanting attention.” He freed his hand from hers, and then ran his fingers down the length of her hair. “I wished to contemplate beauty for a time.”

  She couldn’t help but smile, although it was bittersweet. “Have you borrowed a poet’s tongue for the night?”

  “I always speak the truth. Once in a long while I do it well.”

  They were standing close together now, sharing the same breath. Her arms and face tingled as if he gave off an electric charge, but it was just his presence. It was always like this, the anticipation of touch a kind of fire beneath her skin. She lowered her gaze, hoping her need for him didn’t appear as naked as it felt. She gave a light sigh, and then met his blue, blue eyes. “Can we make this work?”

  Chapter 9

  Arthur didn’t respond—not in words. Instead, he slid an arm around her waist, stepping into her embrace as smoothly as a dancer. Or a swordsman. He had a deadly grace Gwen had seen in no other man and it left her dry-mouthed and hungry in places no decent woman would name.

  Her hands were around his neck, though she did not remember reaching for him, or when they’d started to kiss. When the times were peaceful between them, making love came naturally, needing no thought or will, nothing but instinct. As easy as breathing, and as necessary. Maybe that was why the last years had been so hard—he’d been gone, and in the empty, loveless halls of the castle, she’d been fighting for air.

  Her fingers eased beneath his jacket, finding the satin lining warm with his heat. He shrugged off the coat, letting it fall, and pulled her close. His mouth was on her lips, her jaw, the sensitive place just below her ear. Everywhere, and each lingering touch was more inviting than the last. It was like being pulled into the ocean, the current too strong to resist. A reckless part of Gwen yearned to be swept under. Love—or whatever it was Arthur offered when he was in this mood—wasn’t about caution. Her response was the hunger of a flower for the sun.

  His hands found the bare skin beneath the fall of her hair and caressed it lightly, trailing his fingers down to her waist. Gwen shivered, but kept her attention on the buttons of his shirt. They weren’t what she was used to—shirts in her mind pulled over the head, with strings to pull the neckline closed. This was like a puzzle box, each little fastening revealing a few more inches of masculine skin. The process was tantalizing but slow.

  And Arthur wouldn’t stand still for it. He was kissing down her throat, his tongue leaving hot licks as he progressed toward the low neckline of her dress. Gwen arched into it, feeling the brush of his hair as he bent his head, the beard a coarser sensation against her sensitized skin. Her nipples ached, wanting the hot wetness of his mouth on them. If she could have torn the dress away, she would have, but she’d lost command of her limbs.

  He looked up, revealing a man who had abandoned any pretense of civilization. Appetite dominated his gaze, the raw need of possession. These moments were as close as she ever got to reaching his soul. She ran her palms up the delicious planes the open shirt now revealed—the hard stomach, the swell of his chest, the thickness of his shoulders. Finally, Gwen took his face between her hands and kissed him full on the mouth, her tongue meeting his and tasting sweet champagne beneath the richness of the man. He returned her ardor, demanding more. Gwen gasped as he lifted her, the sudden weightlessness adding to her sense of abandon. She hooked her legs around his waist and let him carry her to the bed.

  He laid her down with exquisite care, everything in his manner declaring her a rare prize. “You are so beautiful,” he rumbled, pressing his lips to the base of her throat. That nearly undid her, right then and there. She had no more will than warm candle wax, ready to be coaxed into any shape he desired.

  And she could tell he was eager to do it, the swell of him plain against her belly. Her hands went to his belt, finding a new challenge—but also something passing strange. “My lord, you are vibrating.”

  Arthur pulled the phone from his pocket with a colorful oath, and tossed it onto the bedside table. That only made the insistent buzzing worse. He snatched it up again, glaring as if looks alone could make the phone burst into flames. He jabbed the screen to silence, only to have it burble a moment later as a text message popped into view.

  “By Saint Sebastian’s bleeding arrows,” he snarled, tossing the phone to the coverlet.

  He jammed both hands into his tousled hair. From Gwen’s vantage point on the bed, the gesture did interesting things to his chest muscles.

  “What is it?” she asked, sitting up.

  His eyes were wild. “There’s another dragon. It’s at the park.”

  “Medievaland?”

  He nodded. “I’m sorry. I need to go.”

  “Of course you do,” she said, and meant it. This was serious.

  As she watched, his frantic expression vanished bit by bit, as if a series of walls slammed into place. One moment he was filled with emotion—desire and distress—and the next he was all icy control. Watching the change sobered her faster than any cold shower. She sat up and slid off the bed.

  “Wait a moment and I’ll change,” she said, padding to the closet.

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m going with you.” She pulled out the jeans she’d worn earlier. Surely they’d be practical enough if she had to run or climb.

  “No, you’re not.” His voice was a whip crack.

  She spun, all her anger pouncing on his words. “What did you say?”

  “Dragons are dangerous, Gwen. I can’t let you walk into that.” He buttoned up his shirt with brisk movements, erasing all her careful work before retrieving his jacket from the floor. “You’re my wife. It’s up to me to protect you.”

  “How can you protect me when I’m here and you’re at Medievaland?”

  “I’ll call for one of the men to guard you. I already told you I’d do that.”

  If he was reverting to the plans already in place, nothing she’d said that night had mattered. Frustration exploded inside her, a huge and unreasoning beast. She tossed the jeans at him, but they only flopped to the bed in a de
feated sprawl. “What happened to having me at your side? What happened to me being a grown woman? Don’t you think I have a right to serve our people, too?”

  His expression hardened. “I don’t have time to argue about this now. We’ll talk when I get back.”

  “If I’m here,” she snapped.

  Annoyance twisted his features, settling into the angry scowl she knew too well. “That is, of course, entirely your decision.” He jammed his phone into his jacket pocket, picked up his sword and strode toward the door.

  With that, he left her alone.

  * * *

  Arthur bolted from the hotel, furious with Guinevere. She thought she’d join the dragon hunt? That was pure insanity. The one time he allowed her to march with his army—during a simple, dragon-free engagement—she’d nearly died from a fever that ran through the ranks like wildfire. And she’d caught it because she wouldn’t listen to him and keep safe in her tent but insisted on nursing the sick and dying.

  How would she fare against a monster that had nearly killed a seasoned warrior like Gawain?

  The notion of Gwen anywhere near a fire-breathing monster brought a prickling sweat to his skin. If something happened to her... He couldn’t find an end to the statement. There was no room for that possibility. Why couldn’t she understand that always, always he’d been doing his best to protect her? Yes, sometimes that meant leaving her behind, but wasn’t that better than death?

  He pulled out of the hotel parking lot at breakneck speed, sailing down the main drag that would take him out of the downtown. Three blocks later he ran a red light and only after that forced himself to slow down. The witches—mostly Tamsin and Clary’s family—had shepherded the knights through the labyrinthine process of establishing fake identification. The last thing he needed to do was risk it all for a traffic violation.