Magic, damn Arthur’s stubbornness, could be useful.
After tying the bags into neat bundles, Gwen went to work packing the rest of the king’s gear. Removing the hauberk, shield, and helm from the carved chest at the foot of the bed, she laid a spell of protection on them and packed them into his saddlebags.
As she dropped them on the bed to wait for his squire, she realized Merlin’s spell had made her stronger. Much stronger. Prior to her transformation, Gwen would have been hard-pressed to even lift his mail. Now it seemed to weigh no more than a silk shift.
And that scent. Jesu, Mary, and all the saints, that hot male Arthur scent seemed to stroke her right between her nether lips, sending teasing, insubstantial fingers to brush her stone-hard clit.
The maddening frustration of it sparked her temper like steel to flint. Why had he refused her? He had never refused her, not in all the years of their marriage. Not in the midst of diplomacy with some stubborn rebel lord, not even still smelling of smoke, blood, and combat. Arthur had ever been ready to meet her passion with his own. Especially since his blazed even hotter.
Yet tonight, he’d turned away. Had shown all the signs of a man who wanted to get as far from his randy wife as fast as his horse could take him.
Perhaps he does need to find Mordred, but right now? Right at the moment I need him most?
Hungry claws of need raked her nipples, clit, and every inch between. Blood of the saints, she wanted to fuck her husband. She’d craved his touch many times, often fantasized about making love to him whenever war and duty separated them. Every time she’d grown especially needy, Gwen usually found an excuse to ride wherever he was for an amorous little visit. He’d always welcomed her with slow kisses and slower thrusts that drove her to the apex of pleasure.
Now she remembered all those hot trysts and felt heat flash over her desperately needy body. She wanted to throw herself down on the bed, fling her legs wide, and masturbate to a blistering climax. It wouldn’t take longer than three or four frantic minutes.
But what she needed was Arthur.
Hefting the saddlebags in either hand, Gwen dropped them by the fireplace. Arthur’s squire would no doubt show up looking for them any moment now.
Heat streamed from one bare nipple. She looked down to find her hand absently stroking and tugging the aching peak. With an effort, Gwen pulled her fingers away, though she wasn’t sure why she bothered. Why not pleasure herself when her husband had left her aching?
To hell with it. Five minutes should be more than enough time to climax. Then at least she’d be able to sleep.
Likely only to dream of Arthur’s death at the hands of that wretched boy. Again. How many times had it been now? She’d lost count.
Gwen cursed as she rarely did, vicious, rolling invective learned from years among warriors. Sliding a hand between her aching thighs, she plunged two fingers deep. Wet. She was so very wet. Dropping onto the bed, she began to pump furiously, her free hand twisting her nipple almost viciously.
Two minutes later, Gwen trembled on the verge of coming, when knuckles rapped the door. “My queen?” a deep male’s voice called. “The king sent me to pack his equipment. We ride out as soon as I have the pack horses readied.”
The orgasm vanished like candle smoke in a draft. Gwen wasn’t sure whether to curse or cry amid her body’s frustrated howls.
Another short rap. “My queen?”
Tell Arthur to muster the balls to come for his own bloody gear. Instead she sighed and rolled out of bed, dressing herself with a quick conjuration. Decent again, she opened the door.
The man who stood on the other side was big, broad, and powerfully built, with long dark hair and vividly green eyes.
And she’d never seen him in her life.
Considering Gwen knew every man in Arthur’s service, that was not good at all. Mordred has sent an assassin!
Before she could either fry him with a spell or slam the door in his face and scream for Arthur, the man’s eyes widened. “My queen, it’s me—it’s Galahad!”
Gwen gave him a confused blink. “What?” Now that she looked at him, he bore enough resemblance to Lancelot to be the champion’s brother. He was definitely no longer a youth, being taller by inches and at least two or three stone heavier than he’d been the day before. “The Grail made Arthur younger.” She stepped back to let him enter. “How did you end up aging?”
He shrugged those massive shoulders. “Merlin told me the spell determines what your ideal age is for peak strength and speed, and remakes you accordingly.” Giving her a smile, the big man stepped inside. “If you’re older than that, you get younger. If you’re younger, you age. And you apparently gain the muscle to match in either case.” His smile grew into a grin, and Gwen suddenly saw the eighteen-year-old he was. “The girls do seem to like it.”
She laughed. “Best watch your step, lad, or you’ll find yourself married to one of your flirtations before you can blink. As to Arthur’s gear . . .” She gestured toward the pile on the bed. “. . . It’s ready to go.”
“Oh, thank you, my queen.” Galahad sounded surprised. Arthur had likely warned him her temper was so foul, he’d have to pack while she pitched crockery at his head.
“By the way, I conjured bags you can sleep in during the day. Take the ones you need, and I’ll give the rest to whomever else Merlin chooses.”
Galahad’s eyes widened as he stared at the pile by the hearth. “You made those, my queen? With magic?”
“Yes. Not only will they protect you from sunlight, but they’ll block sword strokes better than armor as well.” At his questioning glance, she explained, “I tested them with Arthur’s blade myself.”
“Thank you, my queen. They should be quite helpful.” Giving her a grateful smile, he grabbed three of the bags, then collected the packed saddlebags from the bed.
Gwen watched him, her attention reluctantly caught. Galahad wore riding leathers that looked vaguely familiar; she suspected they belonged to his father. Probably nothing the boy owned fit anymore. As he bent to pick up the bags, muscle leaped and worked in his powerful upper arms. His shoulders looked impossibly wide, especially compared to his narrow, muscular flanks.
Lust torched her like a flame running from her juicing pussy to her stone-hard nipples. She gasped before she could swallow the sound.
Galahad turned, the heavy saddlebags dangling negligently from his big hands. His gaze met hers.
They both froze.
The knight inhaled sharply at whatever he saw in her face. His green eyes widened as the muscle she’d been ogling went rigid across his shoulders and down his arms. His nostrils flared as if he scented her.
He likely had, being a Magus now.
An image flashed through her brain—Galahad’s newly brawny arms around her, his mouth on her throat, suckling . . .
Mortified, guilty heat flooded Gwen’s face.
As if he’d somehow shared that incendiary mental image, Galahad jerked his eyes from her, blushing like a maiden. Without another word, he exited the chamber with leggy, hasty strides, both hands full of bags.
Shame hit Gwen in an acid bath of guilt and mortification. True, it hadn’t been the first time she’d noticed one of Arthur’s knights. They were all big and very male, and she was only human.
But to feel such a thing for Galahad, of all people . . . No matter what he looked like now, he was still a boy beneath it. One who’d almost died saving Arthur’s life, to boot; he’d leaped between his king and an assassin’s arrow and had damned near bled to death for his trouble. It had been all Morgana could do to save him. When he’d survived, Arthur had knighted him and made him the twelfth member of the Round Table.
Which was why lusting for him was so very wrong. If it had been Lancelot or Gawain, that would have been bad enough, but Galahad? He was probably still a virgin, for Mary’s sweet sake.
After she went to confession in the morning, Father Jacob wouldn’t be able to meet Gwen’s eyes
for a month. She’d still be on her knees in the chapel when Arthur got back.
If he gets back.
If Galahad tells Arthur . . . Grinding her teeth, Gwen splashed her face with lukewarm water from the pitcher her maid left for her every night. She found the roughest rag in the clothes chest and used it to scrub her randy sex until the last vestige of lust was gone.
She didn’t dare touch her nipples.
The scraping cloth did the trick, dousing her desire like a lit candle left on a windowsill at the height of a thunderstorm.
The death of that embarrassing need left her brain able to function again. Galahad wouldn’t tell Arthur, because that would never occur to him. Instead, he’d slink around the fortress for the next month, mentally scourging himself for his sin.
And it was all Gwen’s fault. Arthur had never lifted a hand to her in all their years of marriage, but he’d paddle her arse bright red for weighing Galahad’s boyish soul with such guilt.
The thought triggered a memory of the night Arthur woke, when he’d simply overpowered her in that deliciously erotic way. All the need she’d felt, the inarticulate desire that he’d show that part of him—the instinct to dominate he’d always controlled so carefully. It was as if his lust for her blood fed that sensual darkness she’d always sensed in him—along with her own hunger for his domination. A hunger so intense that even as guilt tormented her about her reaction to Galahad, she found something wickedly exciting about the idea of Arthur giving her that paddling . . .
Why the hell had he left her like this—so desperate with need that even a boy tempted her? She had all but begged him not to abandon her. And that matters not at all. If I sin, the fault is mine.
Flinging a cloak around her shoulders, Gwen stalked from the chamber. She’d spend the rest of the night prostrate before the altar in Camelot’s chapel. A few hours shivering on chilly stone would cool her lust and remind her of her marriage vows. She’d pray to the Blessed Virgin for strength to battle both her body and her nightmares of her husband’s death.
The balustrade was dark and cool enough to drain the lingering heat from her cheeks. It was late, and the fortress was still, dark, and quiet as it so rarely was. All the servants were likely abed. As for Arthur and his new Magus knights, they were no doubt already off on Mordred’s trail.
Remembering her vision, Gwen frowned. Had it been no more than a nightmare, as Arthur insisted? After all, the enemy forces’ sheer numbers in the dream suggested a full-fledged rebellion. Either the battle she’d seen was months away, or it wasn’t precognitive at all. Saints, I hope not. But no. Her heart sank as the certainty rang in her like the tolling of cathedral bells: she had seen the future, and unless she somehow got Arthur to believe her, he was a dead man.
Her shoulders slumped, and she slowed her furious strides toward the chapel. What does a moment’s lust matter compared to Arthur’s death? Even if I did bed one of his knights, it would at least get his attention . . .
Oh aye, I’d have his full attention—while he killed me and whatever poor bastard I’d committed adultery with.
Besides, the bitter truth was that she’d never wanted anyone but Arthur. Not since she’d watched him ride into her father’s fortress at the head of his army, a young god with a body scarred and hard from five years of war, his dark gaze gleaming with fierce intelligence.
It was only when he looked at her that he’d appeared anything like nineteen. Tough as he was, he’d seemed dazzled, as if Gwen were far more beautiful than she’d known herself to be.
There were times even now when he looked at her just that way. As if her beauty was still fresh instead of worn by almost two decades of war, contentious peace, miscarried babies, and a stepson turned viper.
Gwen thought of Arthur’s laughter, of his deep voice barking commands, of the hot temper that secretly aroused her even when it was directed at her. Sometimes the sex was at its most perversely delicious when Arthur was in one of his rages. How could any other man compete with that, even a Knight of the Round Table?
She loved Arthur. Man, king, or Magus, it didn’t matter. He held her heart and always would, even if her body did give another man its fleeting attention.
Mordred was not going to kill him, vision be damned. If Gwen had to take up armor, shield, and sword herself, she’d see her husband safe.
A groan rang along the balustrade, followed by the slam of a heavy body hitting wood and a woman’s cry of fear. The queen went still, listening. Another boom and rattle, another cry, definitely female.
It came from the bachelor wing, where the knights had their chambers. Gwen broke into a run toward the sound.
A red-haired girl sped along the passageway toward her, her lamp swinging in dizzy, panicked arcs. Her eyes looked huge in a paper-white face.
“Yveri.” Gwen caught the servant’s shoulder before she could fly past. The girl winced at her strength and teetered to a stop. “What happened? I heard someone cry out. Are you hurt?”
“No, my queen.” A trace of shame darted through Yveri’s blue eyes, followed by a kind of sullen defiance. “Not yet anyway. Though I would be, right enough, if I stayed in there with him.”
“Who?”
Again that mix of fear and resentment. “Lord Lancelot, that’s who. They told me he’d need blood when he woke. I thought t’would be no more than a nip, p’haps a bit of bouncin’ on the sheets—begging your pardon, my queen.” She bobbed a quick, apologetic curtsy. “They didn’t tell me he’d be a bloody ruttin’ beast with teeth like a boar hound. I’ll serve you willingly, but I’ll not die in sin with some hell-spawned devil.”
Sympathy fleeing at the venom in the servant’s tone, Gwen gave her an icy glower. “You forget yourself, girl. Lord Lancelot is a Knight of the Round Table who has saved my life more times than I can count.”
“Yes, well, now that wizard and his cursed cup have made a beast of him.”
The queen’s temper exploded into a fine Pendragon rage that would have done her husband proud. “He is no beast! Get your things and get you from Camelot. And if I hear of you spreading such malice, I’ll have you whipped.”
The servant sneered. “Suits me. I’d not stain my soul in this den o’ sin any longer.”
She flounced away just in time. Gwen had never struck a servant in her life, but she was sorely tempted to fetch Yveri a slap that would make the girl’s ears ring for a week.
As for Lancelot . . . Another thud shook the door of his chambers until it rattled in its frame. Fortunately, the door was bolted, the key still protruding from its lock.
They were lucky Lance hadn’t already broken it down. Another blow or two like that one, and it would fly right off its hinges.
But I can stop it, a seductive voice whispered in Gwen’s mind. I can use magic to bind him, then feed him enough of my blood to bring him back to himself.
She could feel the power like a bonfire burning, just waiting to leap to her will. It was intoxicating, as if she could do anything. As if she could contain any man’s strength, even that of a Knight of the Round Table.
Even a Magus’s.
Still, it might be wise to practice the use of that magic on Lancelot; her husband had a way of turning the tables on his opponents. Though Gwen had never considered herself Arthur’s “opponent”; husband or not, he was still her king.
Which didn’t mean he was always right. An image flashed through her head: Mordred, sword lifted over Arthur and his broken blade . . .
She’d do whatever it took to keep that vision from coming true, even if she had to make Arthur listen. If she could use her power to force his champion to submit, that would certainly be a good start.
Gwen moved to the door and leaned to speak through it. “Lord Lancelot? It’s Guinevere. I’m coming in.” Her heart began to thunder, but she squared her shoulders, threw out a hand, and sent a stream of power at the door.
It flew open and hit the wall with a reverberating boom that made Gwen jump. Recovering
quickly—she’d found appearing confident a vital weapon when dealing with arrogant men—Gwen strode into the chamber and gestured the door closed. This time it obeyed far more quietly.
She gave it a satisfied smile, and turned . . .
To find Lance looming before her, stark naked, fangs long and white in his smile. A smile that looked more than a little evil.
So did his erection, which was every bit as impressive as Arthur’s.
He didn’t even look like the man she knew. Not only had the strands of gray vanished from his hair, but his face also looked sharper, more animal. And it wasn’t just the fangs she could see in his hungry, too-male smile.
He reached for her . . .
“Lord Lancelot, you forget yourself!” Gwen snapped with such ice in her voice, it brought him up short, his feral expression dissolving into confusion. Seizing the opportunity, she sent a ribbon of magic out to wrap around his powerful arms, lashing them tight to his sides.
Saints and devils, the man was huge. He was taller than Arthur by two inches or more, though she’d rarely noticed, given the king’s way of taking over any space he occupied.
Cheeks blazing at Lance’s intimidating nudity, Gwen struggled to keep her gaze from dropping below his waist. Unfortunately, that left her nowhere to look but his furious eyes as he snarled and fought her power. Unlike Arthur, he didn’t appear to know her at all.
And God’s teeth, he was strong. His big body surged against his magical restraints, on the verge of breaking free. I should have conjured chains.
Too late now. If she diverted her attention to creating something more substantial, he’d escape for sure. As it was, he fought her like a trapped wolf. With the way his arms were pinned, that made the thrust of his cock even more menacing.
Staring at him in fascination, Gwen realized he wasn’t built precisely like Arthur. His greater height made him appear leaner, though the muscle of his big body was just as thick and beautifully sculpted, from massive shoulders to brawny thighs to big bare feet. Her gaze lingered on the straining V of his torso as he fought his magical bonds, only to drift back down to that forbidden erection. Was he bigger than Arthur there, too?
Wicked Games Page 11