“There was Guinevere.” She seemed to choke on the name.
And there was the elephant’s mate. Dulac was speechless, not because he had no answer, but he was so unutterably weary of giving it again and again to those who refused to believe the truth. But Nimueh had not asked until now, so he owed her the story. “It was not what you think.”
“What do I think?”
“The same thing Arthur thought. The same thing everyone believes. That we were lovers.”
“And weren’t you?”
“No.” He reached for his sword hilt as if it were a comfort object, but found he was wearing only jeans. He folded his arms instead. “No.”
“But she was as lovely as a May morning. All the poets said so.”
Nimueh was jealous. He could hear it in her voice. He hoped that meant she still wanted him. If that was true, maybe she would be willing to sweep away this barrier between them.
“Guinevere was lovely,” he admitted. “I was dazzled by her, as I was dazzled by everything at Camelot. It was so much larger and richer than my father’s castle, and so full of people and feasts and tourneys and wonders. Arthur—the high king, no less—offered me friendship and praised my feats of arms. For a young knight, that was a heady brew. I lost my way for a time, but I swear to you I did not lose my honor.”
“Arthur swears you did.”
Dulac hung his head. “The lies about myself and Guinevere were repeated over and over—by Morgan, by Mordred and eventually by everyone. What was he supposed to believe?”
“He was your friend. He should have believed the truth.”
As she should have believed the truth, but he did not say it. Nimueh had been alone, abandoned by him, and letting rumors work on her imagination. Pointing that out wouldn’t heal this breach. They both bore some of the blame.
“Arthur couldn’t afford to believe me. That would have been an admission that his great, royal marriage was a simple, everyday failure. Betrayal is much more stylish.” Lancelot sighed. “Arthur knows the truth, he simply doesn’t want to face it.”
“I don’t understand,” said Nimueh. “He lost you as a friend.”
“The wedding was a foolish business. Arthur admired Guinevere’s beauty, but they had met only once before, when the wedding contract was signed. A high king consolidating his power over thirteen fractious vassals has no time for courtship, and poor Gwen was homesick and bored. I knew what it was like to be alone at a strange court and showed her what courtesies I could.”
“And she fell in love with you,” Nimueh guessed.
“No.” Dulac leaned against the wall. “It was never so simple. Perhaps at first she saw me as a romantic figure, perhaps not. Guinevere was barely sixteen and sold for her looks and breeding to a king who barely remembered he had a bride.”
“Of course she wanted someone to rescue her.”
“Hardly.” Dulac felt a spike of temper, even after all this time. “Gwen wanted revenge. She wanted to make Arthur jealous. It would have been ridiculous except it worked.”
Nimueh sat slowly, folding her hands in her lap. “When did you figure that out?”
“Too late. I believed her lonely and felt sorry for her. You see, we had common ground. People only saw her pretty face and my mighty sword arm. We made it our business to see the rest of each other.”
“You were friends?”
“Yes. I took her riding, read to her, and showed her how to fly her falcon. We talked for hours.”
Silence fell except for the hiss of the coffeemaker as steam collected and fell on the hot plate. “That is sad,” Nimueh said at last. “For their marriage, I mean.”
“Arthur and Guinevere never learned how to love one another. I became a weapon they used in their endless fights. When I finally saw how things stood, I left the court. I wanted no part in their misery.”
“I thought Arthur sent you away.”
“I left,” he said, anger rising at the memory. “Camelot paid the price for our collective folly. The king couldn’t afford to take his mind from running the kingdom, and in the end Gwen and I were the ultimate distraction. Things fell apart. That was the work of Mordred and Morgan, you can wager upon it.”
Nimueh simply watched him with grave green eyes.
Dulac cleared his throat. “That was the fall of Arthur’s reign. It crumbled when all anyone could talk of was the royal scandal. At the height of his fury, Arthur threatened to burn Guinevere at the stake. Then, for better or worse, we went to war with the demons instead.”
Nimueh sat back in her chair. “You’re right. Arthur wouldn’t have believed such lies if he hadn’t felt guilty. He knew he was in the wrong.”
Dulac held her gaze, all but losing himself in those brilliant green depths. “Then you believe me?” He needed her to say yes. His fists clenched, holding back the need to grab Nimueh until she absolved him.
“I believe you about Guinevere,” she said, the words hushed.
The elephant crushing his lungs vanished, and he hauled in a deep breath. “Good.”
“But you still left me for Camelot. Now Arthur wants to give me to LaFaye. How do I know you won’t choose him again?”
“I will show you why.” He was done talking.
Nimueh’s eyes went huge and wary as she rose from her chair. With her messy dark hair, the effect was waiflike, as if she had never been a grand lady of the fae.
The kitchen was small, and one stride was enough to close the distance between them. The wall was at her back, trapping her in place. He put his hands on her hips, stroking the silk of her skin above the rough denim of her skirt. The contrast of texture lit a fire in his blood and a pleasurable ache began to pound low in his belly—but he knew he had to take this slowly. He pressed his lips to her forehead, making the gesture almost a benediction.
“Do you believe me yet?” he asked.
Her eyelids fluttered closed, then snapped open to catch his gaze. “Keep going. You’ve only got twenty-four hours, remember?”
“Then don’t interrupt.” It wasn’t easy to hold the green fire of her gaze. Her power wasn’t just magic; it was Nimueh herself. Instinct told him he had one chance to reclaim her, one chance to do what he had traveled through centuries to accomplish.
He grasped Nimueh’s hips and lifted her. She gasped, hands bracing against his shoulders, but he sat her on the table, putting his body between her knees. The table behind her was clear of dishes and debris, but then he hardly ever ate there. That meant eating alone, and he was done with solitude.
With unmistakable intent, he lowered his lips to hers. Nimueh stiffened, holding back until finally his will prevailed. As if coming to a decision, she released a breath and allowed her mouth to soften under his. Dulac leaned closer, drinking her in at his leisure. The kiss went straight to his sex, but he forced himself to be patient. Taking his time, he trailed kisses down her long, graceful neck, tasting her pulse with his tongue. Her crisp white blouse set off the rich hue of her skin, enticing him to explore the arch of her collarbone and the valley beneath the V of her prim cotton top. But the more skin he claimed, the more he desired.
He reached for the tiny buttons of the blouse but she was there first, her long fingers deft. Whatever decision she’d made, she’d made it completely. The garment parted with a rustle, unveiling a dainty confection of white lace. Dulac groaned in approval, but she unhooked the bra and let it fall before he had a chance to fully study its effect.
The loss didn’t matter. Nimueh herself was revealed, the dark buds of her nipples ripe against the smooth globes of her breasts. She arched her back as he bent to take her in his mouth, a moan coming from low in her throat. The sound spoke to the primitive male inside him, making him go hard. He moved to the other breast as she shivered beneath him, cradling his head until he’d teased her to a tight peak.
Dulac spoke better with action. He needed her to stay with him, needed her to know that he had always wanted her and that nothing had changed. Perhaps
it was working. Nimueh was flushed, her expression at once aroused and furtive. With a darting glance, she parted her lips as if to speak, but gave a quick shake of her head as if falling in with his silent conversation. Then she was eagerly working at his waistband, giving her own message loud and clear.
“Gently,” he admonished.
She flicked him a look from beneath lowered lashes, her expression coy. Those long, clever fingers slid his zipper down, and Dulac’s mind went blank as his erection sprang free. Nimueh stroked his length, her nails lightly teasing. “You still seem to have at least one point to make,” she whispered.
“Come here,” he said roughly, words almost beyond him. Uncertainty flickered in her eyes. He didn’t need an explanation. She was groping her way back to herself, lost in the maze of sensory give-and-take. She slowly slid off the table, obeying his command with a trancelike air. He stepped out of his jeans and then they were face-to-face, almost touching. He traced her collarbone with one finger, following where it dipped toward her breasts. “Take off the skirt.”
Mechanically, her eyes locked with his, she undid the top buttons and let it fall. Her obedience gave him a sense of power, but he knew it was only temporary. This moment would end. Whether he kept her afterward was what mattered. No, whether she wanted to stay was what mattered. Nimueh could not be kept like a piece of art, however much he might want it.
He took both her hands, leading her from the kitchen to the living room, where the patio doors were open to let in the warm morning breeze. No neighbors could see in and they could see no other dwellings. This space was utterly their own. The filmy curtains billowed, sounding the wind chimes, and Nimueh closed her eyes. The air was not as fresh as it was in the woods, but it still carried the scent of the garden. When his feet reached the soft throw rug before the fireplace, he stopped and pulled her down to the floor.
Dulac had been right to appeal to her senses. As soon as Nimueh spread herself out on the thick white fur, she stretched like a cat, sensually and slow. He devoured the sight as he lowered himself to all fours above her. The only garment she wore was a tiny triangle of silk, and he soon dealt with that. He caged her with his limbs, the soft breeze caressing his shoulders as he bent to kiss along the midline of her lean stomach, working his way down to the curls at the peak of her thighs. She buried her fingers in his hair, kneading and tugging at him as he readied her for pleasure. When she pulled him to her to kiss his mouth, their tastes mingled salty and sweet.
“Whatever happens, know that I’m yours,” he told her.
“Then remind me who I am,” Nimueh whispered. “You’re the only one who knows this piece of me.”
Her words conjured emotions Dulac couldn’t begin to name, but they were sweet and painful at once. They were everything that he had lost and hoped to regain, and everything she had been to him before he had known her true worth.
“You remember,” he said. “All that’s inside you.”
He eased inside her slick heat with care, holding back lest his eagerness make him rough. She was tight, her body yielding slowly but deliciously as he thrust a little at a time. She writhed under him with small, needy moans.
The sensation of being with her was familiar but not. He knew the scents and softness of her body, but he had changed as much as the world around them. Innocence was long behind him, and his heart far harder to unlock even to himself. But still, if he had kept a piece of her—this intimate experience, this private pleasure—she’d kept a piece of him in turn. Being with Nimueh was everything he remembered and far more precious for having waited so long.
Chapter 16
Nim drowsed in Lancelot’s arms, deliciously limp after the onslaught of desire and sensation. They were still on the floor, tangled together on the soft, fluffy rug. She could tell by his slow, regular breaths that he was asleep, his arm curled around her possessively. Through slit eyes, she studied his hand and forearm, the dusting of hair dark gold against his pale skin. His fingers curled loosely, but the thick muscle of his arm spoke of ready strength. She wanted to trace the line of bone and sinew with her fingertips, but she didn’t dare. Lancelot never slept deeply and the slightest movement would break the spell.
Summer breezes stirred the curtains, caressing her bare skin and letting the sunlight play against the white ceiling. As the filmy curtains moved she caught glimpses of green and brilliant pink blooms that soothed her fae nature. Lancelot couldn’t have chosen a better oasis in the city if he’d searched with her in mind. Maybe he had.
But the certainty of his affection only made her more confused about what being together meant for them. Oh, what he’d said before this seduction made sense. Nim believed his explanation about Guinevere. The truth in his voice and manner had been plain, and she knew not to doubt his word in a matter of straightforward facts. Lancelot was incapable of an outright lie.
Nim remembered the painfully young queen all too well, the girl’s pretty face frozen into a tight mask of determination. Was it any wonder Guinevere had used a handsome, kind hero to survive a court full of strangers and a disastrous marriage? Nim could not blame either of them, as much as she had to fight her own jealousy. In any case, she could afford to be generous. Guinevere had turned to dust centuries ago.
Nim studied the light dancing across the room with every flutter of the curtains. She loved this room with its comfortable furniture and ordinary, human clutter. It had everything that was important to make a home. Something she’d not had for a very long time.
Something that should not be hers at Lancelot’s expense.
Lancelot should turn her over to Arthur, but he wouldn’t—and that was a breach of his sworn duty. Is it fair to ask him to choose between his king and his lady?
She should have asked that question back in the Forest Sauvage. He needed to earn his way in the world, even if losing him tore her in two. She should let him go now—he could find the good wife she’d seen in her vision and live out his days in happiness. A bittersweet ache lodged in her throat.
All at once staying still was impossible. She wormed her way out from under Lancelot’s arm. He rolled like a lazy cat, yawning and stretching every limb. Against her will, her eyes fixed on his naked form, every hollow and valley highlighted by the summer sun. He was breathtaking.
“What gives?” he asked sleepily.
The phrase struck her the wrong way. I gave. I gave you everything but it wasn’t enough to save our love. You left and I changed. She swallowed back a sudden sadness, certain that their time together wouldn’t last. How could it, when it meant compromising his duty?
“I’m taking a shower.” She needed the comfort of the water on her skin. It wasn’t her lake, but it would have to do.
“Very well.” His eyes darkened, clearly anticipating a soapy playtime.
“I need a moment alone,” she said, trying not to see his expression falter. “I won’t be long.”
Nim left before he could respond, gathering her clothes and going upstairs to use the en suite shower. After turning on the water, she caught her reflection in the mirror and was almost startled by the green of her own eyes. She’d grown used to hiding behind brown contacts.
Experimentally, she tugged at a strand of her hair, aware her naturally white roots were showing. She missed the long waterfall of pale locks that had been one of her best features. She’d cut and dyed them when she’d gone into hiding after Prince Mordred’s death. Suddenly the loss of her true appearance galled her beyond reason. LaFaye had taken Nim’s appearance away along with her freedom, her emotions, and her safety.
Disgusted, Nim turned away from the mirror and stepped under the hot spray to wash. Now here she was poised to give up again, to let everything Lancelot was trying to give her slide away. Was she letting him go for his own sake, or was she running? Was she letting LaFaye win once more? The worst thing was she didn’t know. Her new, raw emotions were tangled together in an ugly mess.
Long ago, it was only after Lancelot had
left her that she realized what it was to be lonely. Now she could feel the shadow of an empty ache biding its time, waiting for her to make a mistake so she could learn that lesson all over again.
She was impossibly confused.
Nim turned off the water and grabbed towels, wrapping herself in one and her hair in another. She opened the bathroom door to find Lancelot sitting on the bed. He was dressed in fresh clothes, his hair damp from the downstairs shower.
“Something’s wrong,” he said. “What is it?”
The question caught her off guard. “I was thinking about the first time I came to Camelot.”
He nodded, his expression growing grim.
“Every time I tried to speak to you, the queen called you to her side,” Nim said. “She didn’t like to share.”
He dropped his gaze. “I did not love her. I told you that.”
Nim rushed on, interrupting. “Merlin was just as bad. I’d heard of him, but I’d never seen his like. Everything he did flashed or sizzled, exploding into doves or sparkles of color. The court lapped up his spectacles like children at a fair. Then he challenged me to a duel of magic, but I declined and said such displays were beneath me. The truth was that anything I did would have seemed dull and I couldn’t bear to lose. I was afraid of the court’s contempt.”
Lancelot took her hand, pulling her down to sit next to him. “What does Merlin have to do with anything?”
She wasn’t sure. Words were simply tumbling out unbidden. It was as if she was pulling threads together, realizing to her surprise that they made a pattern. “Everything. It’s the same as my hair.”
He blinked. “Pardon me?”
“I lived alone in the forest. When Merlin asked me to show my magic, I ran instead of showing who I was. Perhaps I would not have won, but I could have stood up to him. Instead, I walked away.”
“And?”
“I’m still hiding and in disguise.”
Lancelot wrapped his arm around her bare shoulders. His touch reminded her that all she had on was a towel. “What are you saying?” he asked.
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