Queen's Heart: An Arthurian Paranormal Romance (Arthurian Hearts Book 2)

by Sullivan, Phoenix

  Yseult trembled in the sea chill. When I laid the harp aside and sat beside her hip-to-hip she didn’t protest. “Share my cloak,” I offered, draping half of it across her shoulders.

  Beneath the cover of the cloak she half-leaned against me, decorum and duty staying her from more. She continued to tremble, but this time I knew it wasn’t from the sea breeze.

  “Another day, another lifetime,” I murmured.

  “Twenty years I’ve gone without someone I could think of a future of long starry nights with. Now within twenty days there are three someones who vie for my heart. And the one I would have least is the one who I must choose.”

  She sounded so very sad. And for all the skills I had, offering her chaste comfort was not among them. Yet I would trade all I owned to give her one moment more of happiness.

  On the deck ladder I saw Brangien’s wide and pretty eyes appear, peeping at us in the closing darkness. There for only a moment, then gone again, ducking away in tacit approval.

  Later, as we sat there still under the shelter of a single cloak, Des came up the same ladder from below. His eyes dazzled in the flamelight of the lantern he carried, its same soft light picking out the deepening frown that angered his face on seeing us.

  With effort, he schooled away the anger as he approached, looking merely disappointed. But he could not banish that pain so easily and it seethed just out of sight like a dangerous volcano.

  I could feel his displeasure, tense and palpable, yet I ceded not a fingerwidth of space between Yseult and I.

  “Feeling better?” Yseult asked as he slumped onto the bench beneath the rail across from us.

  “I was,” Des grumped.

  I would have smiled and taken his answer for a quip but for the ominous undertone to it.

  “Des, I—” Whatever else Yseult would have said was lost to the arrival of Brangien—who must have been watching for Des—and two boatswains carrying up our supper.

  The swains laid out baskets of warmed meats and a pot of mashed vegetables heavily seasoned to counter the otherwise dubious taste. Decidedly less comfortable with strangers—especially nobles—than cargo, the swains bowed hastily after setting the meal out and fled back below deck.

  Brangien handed us each a cup, then, after a moment’s hesitation when she looked to Des and seemed to draw strength from his sullen displeasure as he continued to glower at me, she uncorked the flagon she’d brought up.

  “Queen Isolde sends her thanks for escorting her daughter to Tintagel. She prepared this drink herself from flowers from my Lady’s courtyard, wild grasses from the Irish hills and bluebells from the glen where the Gabriel Hound came to us. There is, she told me, no equal to it in the world. She prayed me serve it this evening in celebration.”

  Yseult smiled warmly. “Mother’s talent with herbs and flowers far exceeds mine. I can think of no better farewell from her.”

  With great care, Brangien poured our cups, taking one for herself as well as she sat beside Des. “First cup in toast,” she said, and none gainsaid her for she’d had her instructions direct from the queen.

  “To Queen Isolde!” Yseult said, and we drank to the fine and gentle queen who’d made such an exquisite gift.

  “Des!” I heard the urgent tone in Brangien’s voice right after as she sought for his attention. My own eyes were filled with Yseult as I tipped back my cup. And over the brim of hers, Yseult’s eyes sought mine.

  “To Lady Yseult—and a happy life!” I toasted next.

  “To Fate’s whims being always in alignment with our hopes!” We drank to Des’ words.

  “To us.” Brangien’s broken whisper was more plea than toast but of course we drank anyway, the honey liquor tasting of all that was good and sweet in life, intoxicating us with its hints of memories and… love.

  At once, Brangien refilled our cups. “Another round,” she pled. And though she should have been filling our trenchers first, we didn’t complain when she sat again by Des.

  “To us!” Yseult cried, and we drank.

  “To us!” I toasted, and we drank.

  “To…”—had not Des’ eyes sparkled so by candlelight, I would not have noticed how they narrowed as he hesitated—“… the Gabriel Hound,” he said at last, and we drank.

  “To us!” Brangien repeated, more forcefully this time, as if it were a command. We drank.

  And Brangien refilled our cups a third time.

  Only this time there were no spoken toasts. I found myself drunk in Yseult’s eyes. Beyond the sweet potion that craved to be quaffed, my world narrowed to a single point on which time and life itself revolved: Yseult. In haste, I downed Isolde’s wine to its last dregs and threw the cup aside. My Yseult was not near so fast as I. Panting, I stroked her pale, golden hair with one hand and helped tip her cup with my impatient other.

  Her eyes, riveted to mine, burned with passion, branding my soul. When she dropped her cup at last, her lips, moist, stayed parted in invitation. I crushed mine to hers, sucking every last taste of Isolde’s wine from them. When she responded in kind, I took further license, plunging my tongue in to the sweet hollow of her, pulling her into me, my body responding to her as would any man’s.

  I expected rebuke. Instead, she wrapped her arms about my neck and pressed me closer still. I heard her soft, quiet panting in my ear, smelled the heady mix of wine and lilacs that wafted off her. “Below deck,” she breathed.

  I didn’t hesitate but swept her into my arms, her laugh of delight goading me to the ladder. Vaguely I knew that Des roared up from his bench and that Brangien threw herself before him. Des might have meant murder at that moment, but I didn’t—couldn’t—care. The only thing that mattered was Yseult.

  The ladder, little more than knotted rope, meant we had to descend separately. I went first, turning when I reached the lower deck to grip Yseult’s hips, holding to them as I guided her down the ladder then to the tiny hold she and Brangien were sharing. Most of the cabin was taken up by a rope bed slung waist high from the rafters, a thin, straw-stuffed mattress the only concession to Yseult’s sex and station. A boatswain, or maybe Brangien earlier, had already lit a lantern.

  There was precious little room left to maneuver but I stripped my cloak and tunic away as Yseult fumbled for the knot on her backlace. I released it for her and spread the laces wide, hardly believing the fortune that had brought me here. She slipped the arms down and stepped out of the russet dress, only an undertunic now between us.

  “With your permission,” I whispered. I waited for her answer, to be sure she knew to what she committed, though what my plan was should she say nay, I didn’t know. I was fast losing control over action or thought. Had perhaps lost myself already.

  “Not only permission, but command.”

  My heart soared. She wanted this, tonight, me, as much as I wanted her. I bowed to catch the tunic’s hem then dragged the garment slowly, oh so slowly, up, revealing her bow-shaped calves, her knees, the silk of her white thighs… I lifted my eyes to hers and, breath pent, she nodded. Reverently, I lifted the tunic higher, pausing only for a breathspace to appreciate the golden curls that gave way to flared hips and a trim waist that fluttered with her own anticipation.

  Nor was I indifferent to that same anticipation. Already my body was readying itself.

  Yseult lifted her arms, her hands nearly reaching the low rafters. I rolled the tunic over the swell of her breast and she shivered as the rough cotton brushed the rose-pink buds at their tips. Impatient now, she shrugged out of the mass of cloth as I held it.

  Then she stood free, naked and luminous as the moon. The look on her face made me love her all the more. Pride, embarrassment, passion and desire played across her features, raw and unreserved as they had never been.

  My heart had been lost from the moment I opened my fevered eyes onto her in her father’s Great Hall. I just never knew how lost till now.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  YSEULT

  Well I remembered those
bared shoulders and the wide expanse of that firm chest. Candleflame picked out the tiny white scars I could trace in my sleep. New bruises and cuts had been added since last I’d seen him, but there was not time tonight to play nursemaid over them. There were more urgent matters to attend.

  The first was to see him as bare as I. Not that I found shame in this body that God wrought. It pleased me. And by the desire so intense on Drustan’ face, it pleased him too. And while I was relieved I had not disappointed, I still felt vulnerable in a way he was not.

  At least not yet.

  Pushing him to the edge of the rope bed, I bade him sit with no more than a hand to his chest. Heat seared at the touch. Obligingly, he sank down. Kneeling as any squire would do, I removed first his left boot then his right.

  Hands on my shoulders he rose again. The movement in his breeches surprised me, the thin cloth concealing all while concealing nothing.

  I hesitated, my ragged panting drowned only by Drustan’ anticipation. He strained against the laces. Desperate was I to see what lay on the other side, yet fearful too. Not of Drustan, of course. Never once did it occur to me to be afraid of the king’s champion who had bested a score of armed and armored men. Only afraid of the unknown. Of my own uncertainty in what to do. Of not knowing enough. Of disappointing him.

  Cupping my chin, he tilted my face to his. Passion flamed from him. “Go on,” he urged. “Do honor to me tonight.”

  I released the knot at the top of his leggings and pulled the waist cloth wide. Wider still when the main obstacle to overcome leapt into sight. Attending to the task at hand, I pulled the breeches all the way down and Drustan kicked them the rest of the way off.

  Enraptured, I worked my way back up, touching palms first to calves of corded muscle then to thighs that bulged with matchless strength.

  And risen high above them, displayed for me alone and quivering in the candlelight, stood Drustan’s elegant staff. I slid my hands from the tops of those magnificent thighs around him to splay across his firm hips. I caught my breath, not so much at my own daring but at how right my hands felt there, intimate, proprietary, claiming Drustan as mine.

  I blew gently on the underside of the staff from base to tip, locking my eyes to Drustan’s when I reached the end. He groaned and grabbed my hair. “Taste it,” he begged.

  I considered that. Considered wrapping my mouth around and devouring him. My stomach tightened delightfully at the thought. But the plea in his eyes and voice delighted me just as much. He had strength and more to control me, control his world. As queen-to-be, I held control of lives and loyalties. But as a woman, I wished control of heart and body.

  That I craved consummation as much as he, I couldn’t deny. That was absolute. From the first taste of his honeyed lips on deck, I knew how this night must end. We would not leave this cabin before knowing the ecstasy of our souls. Of our love. Without that certainty, I would have already been in his arms and he in me, pledging ourselves first before either could change its course.

  Now, though, I could indulge my control for as long as my own desire allowed. Stretching out my tongue, I touched him, feather-light, gently licking the same path I had breathed across him, swallowing the slight trace of salt left on my tongue at journey’s end.

  “Again,” Drustan pleaded.

  I captured the tip of him delicately between my lips, flicking my tongue rhythmically as I slipped my lips up and down him, butterfly-soft. His tightening around my hair and the soft moans he made in time to the rhythm of my tongue would have pleased me more if a flood of desire hadn’t crashed over me, demanding in its need.

  With a half-sob, half-growl, my lips tightened around him, drawing him deeper, my tongue blunting frantically against him, around him. My splayed hands on his hips clenched, pressing him closer. Of their own, my eyes squeezed shut. When I dragged them open again, Drustan’s head was thrown back, the bearded line of his throat all I could see above me.

  Then I felt his hands on my face. Incredibly, they urged me backward. He lowered his head with effort till he could once again hold me eye to eye.

  “Not yet.” Desire burned hot within him still or I would have taken offense. My lips slipped from him, the night air chilling them where they had been warmed by his touch. He raised me up, feasting his eyes on my body, lingering on its most intimate mounds and hollows. “I want to pleasure you too,” he said. “For our first time to be pleasure to us both.”

  Cupping a breast, he rolled his thumb across its peak. Lightning shot through me as it responded, hardening to his command. And just like that, I knew I had ceded what control I had to him.

  Dropping his lips to my other breast, his tongue teased its tip to a similar state. When he placed his free hand on my stomach, I tensed in anticipation, my breath coming now in slow, deep gasps, my own hands gripped around his head and at his broad back. Already delirious with the sensations at my breasts, the slow crawl of the hand working its way down maddened me.

  He watched my face as his fingers tangled there in my curls, being sure of permission for every invasion he dared. When his middle finger crept lower I nearly cried out at the shock of so intimate a touch. No matter that I knew where the night must lead, guilt and embarrassment were my first reactions.

  All sensation ceased as Drustan froze at my sudden reticence, so in tune was he. That was more unbearable than anything—anything—Drustan could do to me.

  “Don’t stop.” It was my turn to beg.

  I felt Drustan smile against my breast. A breathspace later, Drustan’s finger thrummed against me, playing me as exquisitely as he played his harp. I did cry out then, clutching to Drustan at the unexpected thrill. I waited expectantly for whatever Drustan would do next, each touch of his bringing a new pleasure.

  When he slipped his finger inside me, I squirmed against him, muscles I didn’t know I had clutching at him demandingly. Against my hip his staff leaped.

  Then all were gone—fingers, lips, thumb and staff. There was only Drustan moving against me, sweeping me into his arms then onto the bed. Ropes and beams creaked as he climbed in, the narrow platform buckling with our weight. It held, though, as Drustan nudged my legs open with his knees and took my lips in his. Once again I felt his incredible finger on me. Then it was gone, only to be replaced by another more urgent nudging as Drustan shifted above me, coming to rest on his elbows.

  I lost myself in the rapt expression that joyed Drustan’s strongly handsome face. His pleasure got me through the first moment of pain that transformed rapidly into rapture to match his. And just when I thought there could be no better bliss, all heaven shattered, catching us up in ecstasy so sublime I swore I heard the angels sing.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  BRANGIEN

  “Des!” I pleaded. “Des, look at me!” I threw myself between him and where Drustan and Yseult kissed the philtre from each other’s lips. Anger shook through him, a rage so complete I feared for Drustan’s life. But more, I feared for my own love.

  What had gone wrong?

  He swatted me out of his way as though I were nothing more than an unwanted cur as he watched Drustan and Yseult descend to the deck below. Even the normal glitter of his beautiful, unnatural eyes was gone as he shook there in wrath when he should have been kissing me.

  Desperate, I pressed a cup with the last drops of Isolde’s wine into his hands. He threw it against the rails.

  “Des, please, I’m here.” I circled him in my arms. “I want you. More than life itself. Look at me. You have to love me too.” I bowed my head into his chest. He had drunk the philtre as had we all. It wasn’t possible he could be so indifferent to me.

  When he grabbed my elbows to set me aside again, I panicked. “It worked for Drustan and Yseult!” I cried. “How could it not work for you? For us?”

  That caught his attention at last. Instead of pushing me aside, he pulled me closer, shaking me as he yelled in my face, “What worked for them? What have you done?”

  “A
potion… a love spell,” I stammered, still not believing Des could be so thoroughly unaffected. I winced as his hard fingers dug into me.

  “Witch!”

  I shook my head. “Not me. No. Queen Isolde…”

  “What about the queen?”

  “She made the philtre and gave it to me, just as I said.”

  “The queen wanted them together? To destroy the one chance of peace Ireland has? She never struck me a fool. And what cared she about you and me? Brangien, the truth. Now!” he roared at me.

  I collapsed at his feet, hugging his legs, rocking uncontrollably now. “You shouldn’t be yelling at me. You shouldn’t be acting this way. We should be in the other cabin right now. You should be…”

  “Be what?” His tone was dark, dangerous. Why wasn’t he murmuring love songs to be now? “What!” he repeated.

  “Bedding me!” I sobbed. “You should be bedding me just like Drustan is Yseult.”

  Des howled like a wounded wolf. It pained me to hear him as much as it pained him to think of Yseult with another. Out of love, I struck back. “She isn’t yours, Des. She wasn’t before and now she can never be. Don’t you understand? You have to let her go. She and Drustan—”

  “No!” Rage and denial warred with the terrible beauty in Des’ anguished eyes.

  “—are laying together right now. Why else would they have gone below? It’s where we should be too. You’ve lost her, but you still have me.” Composed again, I laid my cheek against his knee and stroked his thighs. “Let me comfort you tonight. And maybe by day you’ll see things more clearly.” We were beyond subtlety now. I rested a bold hand in the cusp of his thighs. He twitched at my touch. Lightning shivered through me from stomach to toes. Rising to my knees I slid my head from knee to hip. Parting my lips, I ran the tip of my tongue around them. When he quivered again, I firmed my hand upon him. “I’ve wanted this night since I first laid eyes on you,” I whispered. “You carried my favors. Don’t I deserve something more than your scorn?” The linen barrier between my hand and him magnified sensation as I ran my hand up and down the length of him. “If they can take joy in this night, why not you too?”