Arthur took the drawing from her and studied it, recognizing a sophisticated and yet simple device of counterweights and pulleys inspired by what they’d seen in the mines. “I wish I’d had this for the drawbridge at Camelot.”
“Do you think it will work?” she asked, her fingers twisting the bedcovers.
“Yes,” he said. Gwen had a natural talent. She’d already provided a list of materials so the others could get started gathering them, and from the look of it her estimates had been sound. “You’re good at this.”
Her smile was shaky. “Thank you.”
He understood why she was hesitant. There had been some understandable doubt from the knights. None of them knew this side of the queen, but that was only the beginning of their objections. Even if Gwen’s unusual plan worked, a caged dragon would be an angry one. There would be consequences. However, Arthur had overruled his men. The trap might give the knights the upper hand for a brief window of time, and maybe that was all they’d need.
Gwen put a hand on his knee. “We must find out how to help your dragon.”
With a twist of regret, he remembered her fox trap, and how she’d lectured the bewildered animals. A dragon wouldn’t be so easy to ignore if he came slinking back. “We can try. I can promise that much.”
“And if you can’t?”
Arthur set the drawing aside and sat up to slip an arm around Gwen’s waist. He pulled her close, kissing her hair. It smelled of the sweet hotel shampoo. “Your trap will buy us time. That will save lives.”
She nodded, her expression tight, and tapped the notepad. “I won’t know how to finish the design until Gawain comes back with a description of its lair.”
“You’re going to build the trap where it sleeps?”
“If I can. Owen says dragons prefer caves or other rock formations for their home. We can take advantage of the surrounding landscape to provide some of the walls of the cage.”
“That makes sense.” Arthur was finding it increasingly hard to pay attention. Her lips had taken over his imagination—their shape and softness and his memory of their taste.
She stopped talking and gave him a look of fond exasperation. “I can explain all this later.”
“I’m listening,” he protested.
“No, you’re not.” But she smiled, and everything was all right.
He lifted a hand to her cheek, stroking the silken skin with his thumb. “I can’t stop feasting my eyes on you.”
She caught his hand. “One would think I’d be a commonplace sight by now.”
“Never commonplace.”
“Then what, my lord?” Her gaze searched his face. Now that the aftermath from their time in the mines was fading, uncertainty had crept back into her expression.
His first instinct was to say she was his wife, his queen, but he stopped himself. Guinevere belonged to herself. It was one thing to claim a woman, but first he had to respect her. Arthur took her hand and kissed it. “You are exquisite.”
She glanced down at the hotel robe, which was made for someone with much longer arms. “I am simply Gwen.”
“That is precisely the point.”
Her smile managed to be wry and flirtatious at once. She was exquisite, the golden goddess poets and painters adored. And yet that was just surface, like the gilt decoration of a jewel chest. The real riches were beneath, where so few cared to look. Where he had failed to look for so long.
Shame speared him and he bowed his head, searching for a plea of forgiveness. She brushed his hair back with a soft hand, prompting him to raise his eyes. “What is it?”
She truly didn’t understand the ache of regret inside him. It wasn’t just remorse for leaving her behind, or even a wish that their marriage had thrived sooner. He should have been a better man, one unbroken by the path his life had taken. She deserved so much more.
He’d tried to let her go. Now he didn’t think he could. He was far too selfish, too possessive to attempt that sacrifice again. The collar of her robe had slipped, leaving one shoulder bare. His lips found it, delighting in the smooth, pale flesh.
Her warm breath tickled his ear. “You’re distracting me from my design.”
“I’m concentrating on mine,” he replied.
“You have a design?” Her tone was arch.
“Of course. A good king always does.” He slipped the tie of her robe loose and slid his hand inside the folds of cloth. He palmed her hip, pulling her tight against him. The throbbing low in his body drowned out every other idea. He was only dimly aware of his course of logic—that his men were hunting a deadly beast, that he was guarding Gwen from harm, that he was king and ultimately responsible for them all. Instead, all he wanted was warmth and relief. He wanted to hear his wife laugh and cry out in pleasure. He wanted what any man did—that simple peace that kings rarely enjoyed.
Gwen leaned into him, letting him take her weight. “Then perhaps you ought to show me what you have in mind.”
“I am all obedience, my queen.”
He pulled her down onto the bed, sinking into the soft covers. She threaded her arms around him, rolling so that she balanced lightly on top of him, her hands on his shoulders and her knees straddling his waist. Eyes dancing with expectation, she gave a feline smile. “What should I choose as my first command?”
Her kiss was deep and filled with a sweet, unconscious lust. Arthur wove his fingers through the long curtain of her hair, glorying in its soft caress. She sat up, shrugging off her robe and letting it fall. The pale afternoon light bathed her skin, showing off flawless, slender limbs and breasts soft as silk.
Arthur suddenly felt far less obedient. He raised himself up until they were nose to nose, their breath mingling. Gwen’s neck corded as she arched back, refusing to give ground. “I am queen here,” she whispered, voice dark with need.
He shifted, freeing his legs so he could trap her between his knees, but still she met him, skin to delicious skin. She grasped the lapels of his robe and pushed it off his shoulders. He was breathing hard now, almost panting. It was all he could do not to shudder as her nails traced down his chest and belly with sharp, exquisite strokes.
Then she took possession of him in her hands, and he groaned with the hot, throbbing pleasure of it. He suddenly doubted the wisdom of letting Gwen take charge. He might not survive her regal commands. She bent, her lips brushing his tip before she slid her body upward, giving him the full benefit of the soft friction.
“Take me,” she whispered. “I’m ready for you.”
Arthur was all too happy to oblige. He took her by the waist, lifting her. She settled over him in a tight, wet heat, her wordless cry vibrating through him. They began to move as one, and his mind slid from thought to sensation. All that remained was color and heat and a kaleidoscope of imagery—a slender shoulder, the translucent curl of an ear or the rosebud perfection of a breast. And the mindless, heartless need to possess it all. When it came to Guinevere, he had always been mad with greed.
To keep her had meant putting her in danger. To release her had meant tearing out his heart. And now he was once again the bridegroom drunk on the scent of her skin. He had lost his willpower. Perhaps his mind. He didn’t care.
At last they fell apart, sweat slicked and boneless side by side. His limbs were leaden, but his head felt light, as if he’d drunk too deeply of a strong wine. With the last of his strength, Arthur took her hand in his. This was what he wanted, to be man and wife in full enjoyment of each other. She was bold, clever, demanding and his.
“Is Your Majesty satisfied?” he asked, turning to stare into her eyes.
Her pupils were dark, swallowing the blue. Her features were flushed and soft with relaxation. “That was very, um, majestic.”
They laughed like drunkards until Arthur’s cell phone cut them off with an emphatic buz
z. He turned to glare at it, hating the way it turned his stomach hard with the anticipation of trouble. With fae and dragons on the loose, what else could it be?
He snatched it up, fully alert now. “Hello?” He realized too late his greeting was a growl.
“My pardon, Your Majesty.” It was Sir Owen’s voice, the Welsh accent unmistakable. “We’ve located the dragon’s lair. We thought you would want to know at once.”
“Of course.” Arthur cleared his throat. “Where is it?”
Gwen stirred as the knight gave directions. By the time Arthur ended the call, she had slipped back into her robe. “The dragon?”
“They found its nest five miles west of town.” Arthur tossed the phone aside, too aware his respite from duty was over.
“So what do we do next?” she asked, sitting on the edge of the bed.
The innocent question struck hard. He asked himself again if he should ignore the misgivings of the knights and trust Gwen’s design. The chance for success seemed slim, and then there was the question of how to help the creature once it was confined—or even if it wanted help. If it got loose, its vengeance would be deadly.
“Arthur?” Gwen said, prompting him when he didn’t answer.
The alternative was to forget the trap and battle the beast until it fled back to its home or died. In all probability, at least one knight would not survive.
And what of Gwen? Did he insist she remain behind, when every path he could see ended in peril? And yet he needed no imagination to foresee how that conversation would unfold.
“Arthur?” She put her hand over his.
Ultimately, his word would shape the events to come. This was what he hated most about rulership—the knowledge that a bad decision could end in pain and death. Whatever happened would be his fault.
Some days it sucked to be king.
He squeezed her hand. “We go investigate the lair.”
Chapter 19
For the first time ever, Gwen became a partner in one of Arthur’s adventures without the need to threaten, cajole, blackmail or sneak her way onto the team. She should have been delighted. Instead, she clutched her notebook to her stomach like an improvised piece of armor as she stood beside him in the elevator, watching the numbers count down to the lobby. She’d been given a chance to prove herself, but by extension she’d also been given the opportunity to fail. It was all part of the same package.
The fact pressed on her like an anvil crushing her skull. It was actually hard to breathe past the knowledge that her failure—a flaw in the design or getting in the way at just the wrong moment—could cost the life of someone she knew. Owen. Percival. Arthur.
Shying away from that thought, she put on her most queenly face and hoped that confidence would find its way to her roiling stomach. In the past, she’d guessed at the kind of pressure Arthur was under, day after day, but this was as close as she’d ever come to that much responsibility. How could he stand it? Then again, what choice did he have?
Gawain was waiting for them in the hotel lobby, his usual scowl in place. They’d never liked one another, and his expression said nothing had changed. “Arthur,” he said, with a nod that added the implied “Your Majesty.”
Then he turned to her. “My lady, did you get the photos I sent?”
Gwen handed him the notepad. “I used them to complete the design.”
The knight flipped from page to page, rapidly scanning what she’d drawn. Then he looked up, still scowling, but with something in his eyes she’d never seen before—approval. “This should do the job. It’s better than anything I’ve seen from a master builder.”
Gwen kept her face still, but she knew she’d hoard that brief moment as carefully as any dragon. Impressing Gawain wasn’t easy. “I’m glad. I know better than to expect empty compliments from you.”
The knight gave a wry grin as he led the way to the front doors. Arthur stayed at her side, a hand resting on the small of her back. Gwen looked up at him, and he dropped a quick kiss against her lips before giving a smile of his own.
“What’s so amusing?” she asked.
“You two. Your endless arguments.”
Some of those had been spectacular. Gawain had a temper equal to hers and was deeply loyal to Arthur. The Scottish knight had gone ahead far enough to be out of earshot, so Gwen ventured a complaint. “He used to shout at my greyhounds.”
Arthur made a face. “You spoiled them until they were impossibly ill behaved.”
“Well, so was he.”
That made Arthur laugh, a rich sound that turned every head in the lobby. Gwen noticed people smiling. No doubt they looked like a couple in love and on holiday, about to head out to enjoy the outdoors. It was a good feeling, and Gwen was so absorbed in it that she barely noticed when Gawain came to a dead stop as the automatic glass doors to the lobby whooshed open.
The hotel driveway curved from the main road to the doors and back again, giving easy access for tour buses and taxis to load passengers and luggage. Camelot’s large black Escalade waited among the vehicles, with Clary leaning on the front bumper and typing on her smartphone. Merlin stood a few steps away, for once looking concerned.
And so he might have been, because three news vans crowded the drive, along with their cameramen, reporters and a swelling mob of onlookers. Red-jacketed hotel staff were trying to wave them off, but all they’d managed to do was keep the cameras out of the lobby.
One of the reporters caught sight of Arthur and visibly brightened. She charged forward, but was blocked by a wall named Gawain.
“What do they want?” Gwen asked, letting Arthur drag her back to the safety of the lobby. “Do they still think the dragon was your fault?”
“Right now they believe it was a machine or some other construct the theme park invented to draw more visitors.”
That fit with what Gwen had seen on television, though she didn’t fully understand how anyone could imagine the dragon was a fake. Many things about the modern world still confused her, and the media was right at the top. “And they think it was a dangerous invention because of the fire? Why not tell them the truth?”
“The shadow world is secret here.”
“I know that, but—”
“That secret is the only thing that keeps frightened humans from turning against anyone different.”
“Why?” she protested. “In our time—”
“Times have changed,” Arthur explained. “Once all the peoples lived side by side, but after the demon wars that’s no longer true.”
Gwen realized that he was right. Almost everyone she saw was human, and she felt the loss of the others like a missing limb, or a feast reduced to a single, uniform dish. “What happened?”
“There is no time for a history lesson,” he said, speaking quickly. “But in short, the witches were nearly wiped from the earth, thousands burned at the stake, and they wouldn’t thank us for dragging them back into the public eye. And that doesn’t begin to describe what would happen to those like the sprites, dryads or merfolk, who don’t even appear human. We keep the shadow world secret for their safety. Even the fae—or most of them—respect that.”
Gwen rubbed her forehead, feeling the start of a headache. “And so we have to find a way to put the media off the scent of dragons.”
Their conversation had taken no more than a minute, but it had been long enough for the crowd outside the doors to muster their forces. The hotel staff wouldn’t hold them off much longer. Gawain returned to Arthur’s side. “Should we find a back way out of the hotel?” the knight asked.
Arthur shook his head. “Giving them a chase will only sharpen their hunger for blood.”
“Please tell me that’s metaphorical,” Gwen muttered.
Arthur shook his head. “We will face the lions head-on, and let the
good people of this establishment continue their day in peace.”
Gwen linked her arm through his as he started forward. She hadn’t come this far to be left behind now.
Camera flashes exploded in her face as they stepped outside, and several mics thrust forward. Gwen raised a hand to shield her eyes, and Arthur drew her closer, making it clear Gwen was his to protect.
“Mr. Pendragon, how do you explain the phenomenon everyone is calling the Dragon of Carlyle?” said one reporter.
“Care to comment on the accusations of public endangerment?” asked another.
“This story is beginning to spread to the national media. Was that your intention all along?”
“How do you feel about your increasing celebrity?”
The questions weren’t so much asked as hurled. Arthur stopped, drawing himself up as if delivering a speech from the stone balcony of Camelot’s tower. An instant hush fell over the crowd, and when he began to speak, he sounded every inch the king.
“I assure you my only desire has been to ensure the safety of the public. This has been in no way a design to increase my own reputation.”
Through the forest of cameras, Gwen saw Clary advancing through the crowd. The young witch’s eyes were snapping with annoyance.
“Mr. Pendragon has no additional comments,” Clary said firmly.
“Who are you?” asked a reporter Gwen recognized as Megan Dutton.
“I’m his social media advisor,” Clary announced, sounding rather like Camelot’s old court chancellor about to order an execution. “Anything that needs to be said will be said under the Pendragon hashtag. Keep your eyes on Camelot’s feed.”
She took Gwen’s arm while Merlin took the king’s. Clearly, the two were working together to get them safely through the crowd.
“And who are you?” The cameras swung toward Merlin.
One corner of the enchanter’s mouth turned up. “I’m special effects.”
That started a murmur of speculation, and they managed to inch toward the Escalade before the cameras closed in again, halting all progress. Would they never make it out of here? Even with two magic users, the trap wasn’t going to build itself, and every hour that passed was another opportunity for the fae to use Rukon Shadow Wing against them.
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