Royal Enchantment

by Sharon Ashwood

  And she couldn’t face it now, when her defenses were crumbling. She jerked back, away from his touch. “I lost every chance of having a child!”

  Arthur fell utterly silent, his face a blank mask. “You what?”

  Chapter 22

  By the blessed angels! Gwen had blurted out the words without thinking, and she panted now, her pulse thundering in her ears. She put her palms to her face, feeling wetness and the heat of her flushed cheeks. There was no point in trying to bury the truth now. “I was cursed. There was a witch. I nursed her sons, but they died.”

  Gwen suddenly lost all the strength that had sustained her. She swayed where she stood, feeling stranded far from help.

  “You never told me,” said Arthur, his face drained with shock. “For years, you never told me.”

  “I’m sorry.” The words were a whisper.

  He opened his arms to reach for her, but she backed away. She felt soiled, as if finally dragging the secret into the open had exposed a seeping wound. “I disappointed you. Giving you an heir was the one thing I was supposed to do.”

  “That’s not true,” he said. “Honestly, you’re enough for me.”

  But Gwen knew better. “Every king has the right to expect an heir.”

  “That’s what we’re told, but my heart is yours, Gwen. I want you most of all.”

  His kindness only made her feel worse. She’d failed because she’d disobeyed him. If she’d been obedient, none of this sorrow would have come to pass. The words rang in her head, but even now she couldn’t bear to give them voice. There were tears standing in Arthur’s eyes, and each one pierced her like a blade made of glass. This was his tragedy, too. And she hated herself still more.

  “I love you,” he said, saying the words slowly as if to reassure her. “And I’m sorry. I knew you were sick, but I had no idea you were grieving about this, as well.”

  But she had been, and he’d ordered complete bed rest. Only calming music, only pleasant visitors. No books, no news, no gossip that might unsettle her mood. He’d meant it with kindness, but it was like being stuffed in a box with no air. You don’t understand me at all. But she couldn’t say that. It would only be selfish to hurt him that much more.

  “You didn’t trust me,” he finally said, sorrow hardening to resentment. “Or you would have told me. We could have asked for Merlin’s help, or Nimueh’s. They might have broken the curse.”

  She folded her arms, bracing herself. “How could I tell you? By the time I recovered, I wasn’t welcome in the council chamber or your private discussions about affairs of state or anywhere that mattered. I was no longer queen, whatever title you gave me.”

  “I would not risk your health. You were fragile.”

  “You were barring the door because I dared to make my own decision when I offered comfort to the sick.” She gulped air, refusing to cry. “I was wrong, but it was my risk to take. You had no right to punish me, and you’re still doing it every time you leave me behind.”

  “Is that how you see me?” His eyes were wide with frank surprise. “And you say that I don’t trust you. You never told me anything about how you felt!”

  “I disappointed you, and you lectured me! What could I expect?”

  Silence simmered between them. They’d backed away from each other until they stood on opposite sides of the puddle of lamplight. The distance was a physical pain to Gwen, a twist of desire’s knife. She still wanted Arthur, even though she could barely look at him right then.

  And why were they arguing now? They’d just begun to build something fresh—or was that true? Hadn’t the same mistakes just been waiting like bandits in their path? Or perhaps she’d had to feel confident enough to tell him what had truly hurt her?

  She’d finally been honest, but did it even matter now?

  “Well,” Gwen said, staring at the floor. “There we are.”

  “There we are.”

  She forced herself to raise her chin, but it was hard, her neck almost throbbing in protest. Meeting his cold blue gaze was even worse. “Is there a road forward from here?”

  A heartbeat passed. All she could see was destruction, an avalanche begun by a few careless words. She felt hollow, as if all her insides had vanished.

  With a sudden, startling motion, Arthur snatched up his coat. “I don’t know. I don’t know anything anymore.”

  “Where are you going?” Gwen demanded.

  “I don’t know that, either.”

  He stormed out, slamming the door. She froze, listening to his steps stomp down the hallway. When they’d finally faded, she let out a shuddering breath. She felt calm, but it was the calm of devastation. They’d fought before, but this was different. This was falling off a cliff.

  Because they’d finally bared their souls. That was supposed to be healing, but it felt like death.

  She sank to one of the chairs, staring at the spot where she’d been sitting with Arthur just minutes before. The drastic change wrought by so little time stunned her. And yet? And yet a piece of her felt different. Not relieved, but maybe unburdened. She had no hidden resentments now—they were in the open for all to see.

  Sadness overcame her in a sudden wave, and with that came tears—messy, hot, angry sobbing. She gave in to it, letting herself cry in a way she hadn’t since her mother’s death. There was nothing to hide anymore. She wept for the child she’d never have, wishing she’d been able to hold it and say how much love there was in her heart. She wept for Arthur, who didn’t know how to be anything but a king. Finally, she let loose the private griefs, the voices that said no one should be punished for wanting to make their own reasonable choices. There was compromise and sacrifice, and she was more than willing to make them, but as an equal partner. She would not be pushed away like an impertinent kitten, or left behind like someone who doesn’t know her proper place.

  When the tears stopped at last, loneliness moved in. It was crushing, but when Gwen picked up her phone, she immediately threw it back down. She was heartsick, and there wasn’t anything she was ready to share, not even with Clary. She went to the bathroom and washed her face, doing her best to avoid the mirror. She idly considered the freshly stocked minibar, but set the notion aside. These emotions, difficult though they were, held importance. Dulling them would get her nowhere.

  But when she left the bathroom, she paused. Something was wrong. At first she thought her nerves were simply raw, but when her gaze swept the room, she saw her instincts were on point. There was a stranger standing beside the couch, a satisfied smile on his lips. An involuntary cry left her lips when she took in his silver hair, olive skin and the bright, predatory green of his eyes. The man was a fae.

  “Queen Guinevere, I presume,” he said. “My name is Talvaric.”

  Gwen stood her ground. She was afraid, but she was also a queen, and this creature had interrupted a very private moment. “What are you doing here?” she demanded.

  “Tonight, I am here to see you.” Talvaric gave a smile, but it was a movement of lips, no more. “The legend of your beauty was not a lie.”

  Given her red eyes and tear-blotched face, he had to be insane or lying. “What do you want?” she snapped.

  “You shall be of use to me.”

  Like the smile, his words held no emotion. She’d heard the fae had been stripped of their souls, but she’d never quite understood what that meant. She saw it now in the fae’s flat, almost-reptilian expression. There was life there—cold, calculating and hungry—but it was vile. Horror rose until Gwen thought she might be sick. Once the fae had been poets and painters, noble warriors and creators of great beauty. Some had even been her friends. Now they were monsters.

  “I’m not yours to use,” she said evenly, hiding her nerves with a cutting tone. “I am the Queen of Camelot.”

  “So you are.�
�� Talvaric took a step toward her. “You will be coming with me. It’s up to you whether you struggle.”

  Gwen calculated the distance to her cell phone. It was on the bed, too far away to do her any good. She was nearer the door to the hallway, but fae were fast. Instead, she shot backward into the bathroom and slammed the door shut.

  Or tried to. Talvaric’s boot wedged itself into the gap just in time. Gwen put her shoulder to the door and heaved. There was a grunt of pain, but the foot didn’t budge. Gwen shoved for all she was worth, but fingers appeared in the gap, using the door frame to brace against her weight. Slowly, her feet began to slide across the bathroom tile. She was losing the fight.

  This was not the moment to be proud. Gwen screamed every curse word she’d learned from Camelot’s soldiers, then ones she’d learned from all the ambassadors to Arthur’s court. Desperately, she hoped someone would hear and pound on the hotel-room door to complain. Talvaric was going to use her as a weapon against Arthur, holding her life in the balance as cruelly as he’d used Rukon’s family against the dragon.

  Or he’d try to. Gwen wasn’t having any of it. She would battle to the end.

  But then the bathroom door burst open and she flew backward, crashing against the shower door. Her skull pounded, ears ringing as she rebounded, bracing herself against the sink. She’d hit her head already when the troll had tossed her against the wall, and this hurt even more. Her stomach rolled with the pain, but she kept screaming insults.

  “Be quiet, human!” Talvaric grabbed a handful of her hair and pushed her down until her cheek squashed against the countertop, muffling her cries. Suddenly, she could barely breathe. His weight bore down on her, an elbow digging into her spine. The hold was impersonal, as if she were no more than a sheep to be sheared. Methodically, he jerked her arms behind her and heavy rope bit into her wrists. Gwen had given every ounce of her strength, but the fight was over in the matter of a minute.

  “Arthur will be back at any time,” she snarled, wondering if that were true.

  “How unfortunate that he’ll miss us.” Talvaric pulled her upright, his grip back in her hair.

  She kicked backward, aiming for his shin, but he shoved her out of the bathroom, letting her stumble before he snatched her back to her feet. Moving was surprisingly awkward with her hands tied behind her.

  “Be still,” he growled, his lips close enough to her ear that the warning was almost intimate.

  “How did you get in here?” she demanded. Her stomach was a cold ball of fear. She was forced to pant around it, her pulse a quick, dizzying beat.

  “Someone conveniently built a portal,” he observed, opening the closet door with one hand while he gripped her bound hands with the other. “I sense Merlin’s hand in it, though he was not the only maker.”

  “How can you tell?”

  “How can you distinguish one painter from another? Every magic user has his own distinctive style. Merlin’s is unmistakable.”

  He said it bitterly, and she remembered it was Merlin’s spell that had damaged the fae so completely. She’d even heard they feasted on mortal souls in an attempt to rekindle their dead emotions. The high didn’t last, but it turned the fae into desperate addicts.

  For a moment, she was at a loss for a retort. It didn’t matter—Talvaric kept talking. “I hope the hotel gave you a discount for a room with a breach like this.”

  “Merlin sealed it.”

  Talvaric’s green eyes glittered. “A portal can be sealed, but it never completely disappears. A competent sorcerer can find a way just as a thief finds an open window. He can also alter its destination.”

  “You’re kidnapping me?”

  “Thank you for pointing out the obvious.”

  When would Arthur come back? Or would he? Their argument hadn’t been the kind that would heal quickly. She clenched her jaw, wishing she had one tiny shred of magic that would let Arthur know how badly she needed him now.

  As if he could sense her distress, Talvaric was watching her almost eagerly, his pupils large and dark. His nostrils twitched as if scenting her fear. “It will be a brief trip. The portal now leads directly to my front hall.”

  When she drew breath to scream again, he slammed her head against the door frame of the closet. Her head swam, and time slid away as she desperately gathered her wits again. By the time her eyes focused, it was too late. The portal was open.

  The fae’s magic burned icy blue, licking like a flame around a hole between realities. Gwen tried one more time to pull away, but there was no hope. When Talvaric spoke a word, the portal flashed so bright Gwen squeezed her eyes shut and twisted her head away. Even then, bright spots danced behind her eyelids.

  “Let me go!” she screamed one last time.

  Talvaric’s reply was a push between her shoulder blades. With a stomach-churning lurch, she fell through an ocean of space and magic.

  Chapter 23

  Dawn seeped into the sky through cracks between the clouds. To Arthur’s eyes, it looked as if the heavens were bleeding. He was taking his turn at watching the dragon, but there was not much to see. The grays and blues of the early morning sparkled with heavy dew, stirred only by a fitful breeze. Rukon was immobile as a large green stone.

  Merlin and Owen were also on watch, hidden so well in the trees that Arthur couldn’t see their still forms. He alone was restless. He’d chosen a perch on the opposite side of the valley from where he’d sat with Guinevere, not wanting to trigger memories of their temporary truce. The tactic was pointless—thoughts of her permeated everything.

  And complicated didn’t begin to describe his feelings. A chill, heartsick pain seeped through him. In truth, they’d both wanted children, but he’d meant what he’d said about loving her above all things. Discovering that she’d been cursed and kept it secret was an unfamiliar, awkward ache. They should have been able to face the problem together. She hadn’t given them that chance.

  He should have suspected something had happened when she’d lingered so long in her sickbed. They’d had a stormy marriage, but after that time, they’d begun to drift apart. There were demands of state—Arthur was busy and often away—but Gwen had turned inward, as well. Now he knew she’d been dealing with a terrible loss.

  Arthur picked up a pebble, working the cold, hard shape between his fingers before tossing it down the hillside. Had Gwen really believed he would blame her? In truth, he was angry about that. They’d fought, but had he really made her think so poorly of him?

  He shied away from answering that. Perhaps he was reluctant to share his burdens, but how could he ask such a young woman to take on such a crushing task? True, she was the same young woman who sweet-talked a goblin king, helped him kill a troll and figured out how to cage a dragon. Utterly helpless. Obviously.

  Arthur cursed, rubbing his sleep-deprived eyes. He’d done everything wrong. He’d protected her more than she liked—she’d made that perfectly clear these last few days. And she’d been afraid of disappointing him. Disappointed? That made him sound like an old, cranky father.

  The father he’d never be. A grim sorrow surged through him. In modern parlance, a painful bandage had been ripped off. Beneath it was grief, anger and lack of trust. At least he finally understood the wound. That meant there was a chance to heal, even if it was a slender thing.

  The silent dawn magnified the crack and rustle of footsteps coming up the slope toward him. It was Merlin, his hands stuffed in his jacket pockets. His breath steamed faintly, as if he’d borrowed some of Rukon’s fire. He crouched beside Arthur.

  “You’re brooding,” said the enchanter. “I can hear it clear across the forest.”

  “Gwen and I disagreed.”

  Merlin lifted his eyebrows in question. “Do tell.”

  Arthur tossed another rock. “Have you begun a career as a marriage c
ounselor?”

  “I would sooner teach a pit of demons how to crochet.” Merlin turned his gaze toward the dragon’s cage. “I suggest you put your differences aside for the moment. This is not the time to be distracted.”

  “It never is,” Arthur replied. “Maybe that’s the problem.”

  Merlin was silent, but gave Arthur a significant look.

  “There is no such thing as work-life balance for kings,” Arthur snapped. “She wants to solve the problem by involving herself in everything I do.”

  “Seriously?”

  Arthur stopped and rubbed his temples. “I’m exaggerating, and I’m tired. Forgive me.”

  “When you were a boy, you didn’t think it was fair that you had to rule Camelot all by yourself. Now you’re complaining that someone wants to help you.” Merlin sounded amused. “If anyone should share your burden, it’s your wife.”

  Arthur studied the enchanter. Although he looked about Arthur’s age, he was centuries older. He probably did remember whatever it was Arthur said when he was five, but that wasn’t the point. “You think I’m shutting her out?”

  “I’m merely pointing out an inconsistency.”

  It sounded more like a character flaw to Arthur. “You told me once good men don’t make good kings.”

  Merlin shrugged. “There will always be sacrifices. Sometimes kingship leaves no room for the heart.”

  Arthur didn’t want to hear more. He rose. “I’m going to check on Rukon.”

  “I think if he was digging his way out of the cage, we’d know it,” Merlin grumbled, but he followed him down the hill.

  Owen was sitting on a fallen tree near the dragon’s lair, hands on his knees and his expression almost meditative. The only sound emerging from the cave was a slow, rhythmic rumble Arthur guessed was the dragon snoring. A glance inside the lair revealed a haunch and the tip of its tail, but the rest was lost to shadow.

  “Report?” Arthur asked Owen.

  The Welsh knight was instantly alert and on his feet. “All is quiet, Your Majesty.”