My Once & Future Love (Unsung Knights of the Round Table #1)

by Ruth Kaufman

  “What now?”

  Annora’s mind felt empty as a dry well. “First things first, my mother always said. We need to tend to his wounds. Please gather supplies while I dress.”

  “He might kill us,” Emma whispered, wringing her hands.

  “Any man might.” Like the uncle she’d known all her life and thought she could trust, who’d hidden his violent nature from most of the world. “Any man. We’ve only heard Jankyn ap Lewis’s side of the story.”

  “By the time our ‘guest’ has healed enough to tell us the other—”

  “We’re wasting time.”

  “Very well. I’ll make up one of my poultices,” Emma said with obvious reluctance.

  Annora cleaned the sour taste from her mouth, washed her face and pulled on the frayed gown. A sorry reminder of the fine garments she’d left behind.

  Emma carried water and clean cloths to the foot of the bed. The cat jumped onto the quilt and sniffed daintily at the prone man.

  “Primrose, no.” Annora reached for her pet.

  Morgan ap Myrddin shot up, sending Primrose leaping toward the window seat. His face was inches from hers. His blue eyes glowed, eerily luminous.

  He gripped her arms. “If Jankyn ap Lewis learns you’ve helped me, he’ll kill you.”

  Chapter 2

  The woman trembled in his grasp. Morgan ap Myrddin saw fear in her hazel-gold eyes. Fear of the situation he hoped, but likely of him, too.

  “It’s a bit late for such a warning.” Her smooth skin was ashen. A ribbon held thick auburn hair off her oval face, but a few long waves tumbled over her shoulders to tease his hands.

  She drew herself up as if gathering her composure. Many women would’ve collapsed by now, after receiving and helping a wounded stranger, then hiding him from soldiers who could return at any moment. He admired her strength of will.

  And her fine features, straight brows framing those golden eyes he couldn’t seem to look away from, her delicate nose and lips. Stunning, but thin. Too thin. Her rough, drab wool gown hung loosely on narrow shoulders. He sensed deep distress. What had she suffered?

  H reached to comfort her, but she pulled away.

  “Are you going to kill me?” Her voice faded to a whisper.

  “No.” He hated endangering this woman who had no reason to help him. “You have nothing to fear from me.”

  After a long moment, she nodded. “I’m Annora of Amberton. This is my maid, Emma.” She indicated the stout woman of indeterminate years in a plain brown gown. “You’re Morgan ap Myrddin.”

  A statement, not a question. While he lay unable to summon a single power, a single Mysterie to help the women or himself, Jankyn must have mentioned his name.

  “I am.” He dared reveal no more. Not now, not ever.

  The less she knew, the better off she’d be. But she’d risked her life to help him and deserved better than the only payment he could give her now—a portion of the truth.

  Annora stood, hands on hips. “If that’s all you have to say, you leave me to think the worst. Jankyn ap Lewis said you killed four of his men. While wounded.”

  She didn’t trust him. Why should she?

  “Knowing the truth would increase your danger.” Or make you laugh aloud in disbelief. Or worse. “’Tis best if I leave.”

  “I couldn’t in Christian charity fail to help an injured man under my roof.”

  “No matter what he might have done?”

  One brow raised slightly as her eyes narrowed. She reminded him of a cat about to arch her back and hiss.

  He hadn’t meant to bait her. “Thank you in advance for your care.” Anything to change the subject.

  “Here’s what’s left of the wine,” Emma said with a disdainful sniff. Clearly she didn’t approve of her mistress’s decision. “I’ve a few herbs that might help. A bit of comfrey root I can boil.”

  Annora of Amberton’s slim fingers moved with confidence as she used the dampened cloth to wipe away blood both dried and oozing, exposing the hole in his side left by the arrow. Years of training allowed him to distance himself from pain by breathing slowly and deeply.

  When had a woman last touched him? Her hands wove patterns of temptation on his abdomen. He inhaled deeply of her subtle scent. Rose water. His favorite.

  “Did I hurt you?”

  “No.” Morgan closed his eyes, willing away sudden desire as he did the pain. For the first time he’d been wounded so seriously he couldn’t continue on his way without assistance. Worse, his powers had all but disappeared. Without them, he felt uncomfortably empty and weak.

  And for the first time, a mortal woman aroused his desire without even trying. An intrepid, brave woman at that.

  But too much was at stake for him to lie here, doing nothing, until his abilities returned. Tonight, under cover of darkness, he’d continue the mission that had consumed so many years. His father depended on him. ’Twould also be safer for the women should ap Lewis return.

  He’d simply ignore his attraction to Annora. He retained sufficient self-control to appreciate without acting on it. Not that he should enjoy her even if she shared his interest. She deserved more than a quick tumble, no matter how pleasurable. He couldn’t offer anything else.

  Only one woman in the world could be his mate, a woman who shared his gifts. Despite this beauty’s resourcefulness and kindness, despite his attraction, she couldn’t be the one. Even if she wanted to.

  Because she was mortal.

  Mortal women entrapped men like him, whether they meant to or not. Look what’d happened to his father. Lust had destroyed him. A single moment of weakness, of trusting a mortal woman, had lured him into a trap for all eternity. Morgan sought her, the only person who could recite the incantation to set his father free.

  “There’s no surgeon nearby. But you must be stitched,” Annora said, drawing him back to the present.

  “Can you do it?”

  She worried her lower lip with her teeth. Morgan had a craving to taste her, to have those white teeth tease his lips. And other parts of his body. Perhaps he’d lost restraint along with his powers.

  “I’ve mostly stitched minor wounds,” she said.

  “Do your best. ’Tis all any can do. Proceed. I must be on my way.”

  “Is that a joke?”

  “No.” Morgan no longer knew how to jest, a skill siphoned by ordeals faced by his family and those they served. By being halfblood amongst people who esteemed the pure. “I must leave when night falls. The sooner I’m gone, the safer you’ll be.”

  “Then there’s no point waiting for stitches.” She folded her arms, anger staining her cheeks a becoming shade of pink. “If you leave tonight, you’ll face certain death. You’ve lost a lot of blood. How could you outrun ap Lewis and his men? Too much movement too soon would tear my stitches open. Then where would you be? Bleeding again. Exposing yourself to greater risk of infection.”

  Except he couldn’t die and would heal far faster than any man she knew. How could he tell her such a tale? Annora had a point. He would benefit from a few days of rest. By then some of his strength and powers should return. But he didn’t like the fact that she drew his interest more than any woman but his destined mate should.

  “There is someone who can heal me quickly,” he said.

  Emma stepped into view. He’d been so focused on Annora, he’d forgotten the maid’s presence. Had his injury caused his wits to fail him, too?

  “My son is nearby at my sister’s. He could go fetch this person. But Annora, I don’t dare leave you alone with any man, much less a murderer. Not that I want to stay here with him, either,” she grumbled.

  Morgan respected the maid’s frank speech.

  The arrow must have weakened him emotionally as well as physically, for he suddenly wished he could tell these women everything. For once he cared what others thought of him. She, the auburn-haired beauty, by caring for him even in this most awkward situation, made him care.

  “At th
is point, you going to your son is the best solution,” Annora agreed. “I don’t dare go—” She exchanged a harried glance with Emma.

  What hadn’t she said? Instinct urged him to help her. But how could he forsake his life’s goal to help a stranger?

  A nagging voice in his mind whispered, “The same way she risks her life to help you.”

  Another added, “She’s not the one. Remember that.”

  He sighed with relief. If he could hear his ancestors’ voices, his healing had begun. Not that he often took heed of their counsel, offered whenever he questioned himself.

  “My debt to you grows. Someday I’ll repay your kindness, I swear,” he said.

  “Whom do you seek? Where is he?” Annora asked. She bustled about, gathering thread and needle, her hair swishing temptingly across her slim hips.

  “She is a healer and apothecary named Ninian, who happens to be in Wales seeking rare herbs.” Stop. You reveal too much. A deep breath sparked a jolt of pain. “She’s in Conwy, on High Street. I need to write a note to ensure that she’ll make the journey here. And, Mistress Emma, your son must bring her this.”

  Morgan couldn’t conceal a wince as he reached for the gold chain hanging around his neck. He kept the circular amulet, the symbol of his destiny, but handed Emma the distinctive chain fashioned of tiny links. She dropped it into a small leather pouch. His fingers closed around the charm, the familiar raised image of a jeweled chalice pressing into his palm.

  Damn. He’d have to stay in this cottage until Ninian arrived. Stay and face his unusual attraction to this woman. His father and his king had failed when put to such a test. How would he succeed?

  His ancestors had no comment.

  Emma placed a small writing desk on his lap and handed him a sheet of parchment, pen and ink. He scrawled the note, praying Ninian would believe his words and not fear some mortal’s or immortal’s trick.

  Emma folded the note and added it to the pouch. “I’ll be on my way, then. Because the sooner Alfred goes, the sooner you’ll get well.” And out of my mistress’s life, the frown on her plump face told him she wanted to add.

  “If I see that Jankyn ap Lewis or his men, I’ll say I’ve gone to fetch medicines. Thanks to you, they know we don’t have any. My prayers are with you, Annora.”

  “And mine with you. Thank you, Emma.” She gave Emma a hug.

  “Not happy about this, not at all.”

  The door closed with an air of finality. To Morgan, the silence seemed awkward, as though Annora just realized she was by herself, in the middle of nowhere, with a half-naked man. Who might be wanted for murder.

  The small cottage had few and somewhat battered furnishings. A single gown hung on a peg. Annora spoke and carried herself like a lady, yet lived like a peasant. Curiosity filled him.

  She brought an armful of supplies to the bed and sat next to him. She bent so close he could see the soft swells of her breasts. Again he smelled her delightful rose scent. After threading the needle, she looked at him, worry in her gaze.

  “Do what you must,” he encouraged.

  She placed one cool hand on his hip as she brought the needle close with the other. Her simple touch sparked desire. His shaft twitched. He gasped in surprise.

  “I haven’t done anything yet.” She held the needle up as if for his inspection. “Oh. My hand. It must be cold as ice.”

  “Something like that,” he muttered.

  The needle pierced his flesh, followed by the long drag of the thread. A deep breath helped him will away the pain. Focus on something else, he thought as she sewed.

  “What happened? I heard Jankyn ap Lewis ask for me, then all went black again.” His voice came out harsh, reflecting the strain of the moment. How did mortal men survive without the abilities he’d never again take for granted?

  “I pretended that we had the plague.” We. He liked that. “Jankyn ap Lewis told us you were dangerous. And had abilities beyond our imagining.” She continued sewing. “What did he mean? Why is he chasing you?”

  “Why did you help me?” he countered.

  “It seemed like the right thing to do at the time.” Annora looked up. “I had a situation where I could have used aid, but no one who could take action knew of my plight. Is it true? Are you a murderer?”

  “Is the soldier who kills for his cause, for his king, a murderer? The man who fights to save himself from his enemies?”

  Annora took several stitches. “That depends on the cause. And if the soldier or man is on the right side.”

  “Ah. Who is the judge of what’s right?”

  She knotted the thread and cut it with a loud snap of her scissors. “What are you hiding? Why won’t you answer me?”

  “Because I fight a battle with myself over how much you deserve to know and how much I dare tell you, for your safety and mine.” And I don’t know what you’ll believe.

  Their gazes locked.

  The white cat jumped gracefully onto the bed, then approached with great stealth. Morgan couldn’t commune with animals like his cousin Rhys had, but those of his race had strong connections with living creatures, tame and wild. The cat stared even as she boldly climbed onto Morgan’s lap.

  “Primrose, move.” Annora set her needle aside and reached for the cat.

  “The cat may remain.”

  Primrose settled and began to purr noisily. The heavy warmth and subtle vibrations soothed him. Again Annora bent close, her hair brushing the cat’s fur, her mouth inches from his. He could see the fine lines on her lips, their seductive curves.

  He wanted to kiss her.

  “You can’t be all bad if Primrose has taken to you so quickly.” Annora clapped a hand over her mouth as if surprised to have spoken her thoughts aloud.

  A smile tugged at his lips. He couldn’t remember the last time anyone or anything had brought humor into his life. Not since Rhys died four years ago. Proof of what could befall a child of mixed blood when the mortal outweighed the immortal.

  How could Morgan have thought for even a moment that he could be with anyone but his true mate?

  “There. I hope the stitches hold and don’t fester,” she said. “The wound on your back still needs care.” She wiped her bloodstained hands on a cloth, then rethreaded the needle. “Would you prefer to turn over or move forward?”

  He didn’t know if he could bear the sweet torture of her hands roaming his back. “I’ll move.”

  Carefully, he leaned toward her. The cat shifted as Annora slowly removed the pillows.

  “The bleeding has slowed.” Annora held up a folded cloth, stained but not soaked, which she must’ve placed beneath him to protect her linens. Practical even in a crisis.

  Swiftly and silently she stitched. He heard the scissors snip.

  “Now the bandage.” After a brief hesitation, she wrapped several strips of cloth around him. Her breasts pressed his chest as she reached behind him, triggering a jolt of hunger. He wished she’d meet his gaze so he could see if touching him affected her as strongly as it did him. She didn’t, but her breathing quickened.

  After she replaced the pillows, he collapsed into their softness with a sigh. His limbs felt heavy.

  “I’ll get you some soup,” Annora offered. “You must be hungry.”

  ’Tis you I hunger for, he thought.

  “Then comes the time for some answers.”

  • • •

  Morgan ap Myrddin had fallen asleep, Primrose dozing by his side.

  Bowl of soup in hand, Annora looked at her patient. The flawless contours of his upper body surpassed those of the knights she’d seen training at Amberton. Despite his size, despite his obvious strength, he didn’t make her nervous or spark fear as many men had since Roger took over her life. No matter how many times she reminded herself that not every man was like her uncle. Surely some truly meant what they said.

  He unsettled her, nonetheless. The look in his changeable blue eyes, hungry and intense, mixed with secrecy. She wanted to unco
ver those secrets. Annora’s stomach fluttered. The strangest urge possessed her to run her hands over his muscular arms and across his broad shoulders, to know more of him. She wanted to press close and hold him through the night.

  What about Morgan ap Myrddin made her feel this way? The combination of his physical beauty and the intrigue emanating from him…or the need to rebel against a world that had abandoned her? No man, not even Jasper, her deceased betrothed, had interested her so. Suddenly, Emma’s absence weighed heavily.

  Morgan didn’t look or behave like a murderer. But then, he was too weak to be threatening, and he needed her. Perhaps he hid his violent tendencies just as Roger concealed his evil until he had her alone, at his mercy.

  Morgan ap Myrddin wasn’t like other men. She couldn’t quite figure out why, yet knew the differences were less tangible than his silvery hair and vivid eyes. His uniqueness went beyond the attentive way he looked at her, which made her feel important and valued.

  Annora almost dropped the bowl. She’d noticed another distinction.

  Morgan ap Myrddin didn’t have a single scar, except for the newly sewn arrow wounds now concealed by bandages. She’d never seen an adult male without scars. Men fought too many battles, trained on too many fields. But Morgan, this perfectly formed man, had none.

  Annora poured the soup back into the steaming kettle hanging over the fire, then stirred it. What else was there to do until he awoke, except worry that ap Lewis’s men might make another unwelcome visit? She wanted to run outside and spend the tension coiled within, but didn’t dare in case the soldiers saw her and wondered at her speedy recovery.

  Her mending lay next to her abandoned bread. She sat in the chair and picked up her spare chemise, washed so often the fragile linen had torn. She couldn’t focus on her stitches. Instead of the soft fabric she saw his flesh, the bleeding wounds she had sewn. Again she heard him suck in a breath as her needle pierced his skin, recalled his warmth and woodsy scent as she leaned close.

  Primrose purred, clearly content by his side. A strange sensation tweaked her heart. Primrose despised Roger. The cat had hissed every time he entered her chamber, then hid under the bed and refused to reappear until her uncle departed. Could a cat judge a man’s character?