Gwenevere's Knights- The Complete Knights of Caerleon Trilogy

by Jesikah Sundin

  “What about tonight?” I heard myself whisper.

  His smile turned sultry, and my pulse thrummed through my veins in response. He traced the line of my face, my ear, down to my chin, which he gently held between his fingers. “You’re sure?”

  I gave a little nod, as sure that this was a terrible idea as I was that I wanted him more than I had wanted anything in a very long time.

  In one lithe motion, he scooped me up in his arms. His smell of cedarwood and leather teased my senses.

  “Tonight,” he murmured as he pushed back through his door, closing it with a bare foot, “you are a queen, and I your humble servant.”

  A spasm of need jolted through me with his words, and my breath grew shallow.

  Wanton.

  In one playful motion, he tossed me down upon the coverlet. I scrambled back as he pounced on top of me, finding myself giggling like a maid. My fevered grin was matched by one on Galahad’s handsome face. And when he kissed me, his lips tasted as sweet as honey. All thoughts of O’Lynn and Excalibur and tomorrow fled from my mind, leaving only Galahad.

  FIONNA WAS IN his chambers. Beneath him on his bed. In a dress sewn from folds of the night sky by Freya herself. Stars above, what delicious madness was this?

  Two princes and a king slept on either side of his walls. He flirted and teased, but he didn’t expect her to choose him. Especially not choose him over Arthur. As the son of a blacksmith—in a home of ten—as the one who was squired at a young age to help provide food for his sisters and brothers, he could not fathom why a princess would choose him.

  Galahad nibbled on her lower lip before pulling away to confirm that he was not lost in a dream. He stilled at the sight before him.

  A wicked gleam glimmered in her silver eyes—one that disarmed his hold on her waist and puddled every thought at her feet. And then she rolled out from underneath him as though they sparred in the paddock.

  Galahad boomed with laughter, ready to pounce again.

  But Fionna’s lips, the ones he had just tasted, curved into a flirtatious smile as she rose onto her knees—and he stared, beguiled by the toned muscles of her arms, her long, graceful neck, and the way her gown dipped low between her breasts. Lifting an elegant arm, she pulled a few pins from atop her head. A waterfall of braids joined the moonlit tresses spilling to her waist.

  His breath caught. Just to feel the fall of her hair about his face, her breasts pressed to his bare skin—it would be heaven and hell rolled into one. And she wasn’t done tormenting him yet.

  Tilting her head, Fionna trailed the tips of her fingers down his broad chest in a feathered touch, down his stomach ribbed in muscle, lower still. Galahad’s muscles jumped and flexed. She was killing him. When her fingers reached the drawstrings of his breeches, she dipped forward and kissed the broad expanse of his pectorals.

  “Gods,” he whispered as his head fell back against his shoulders.

  Her tongue explored his skin, roaming southward to his abdomen. His chest heaved as he watched her, mesmerized by every little movement, every languid sensation. Silver eyes locked onto his hungry gaze and she grinned, right before her pink tongue flicked below his navel, where a thin patch of hair traveled below his breeches.

  A white-hot flame blazed through his groin and Galahad growled her name. He was unraveling by the second. Fionna laughed at the sound, as if taunting another warrior in the round. If a fight was what she wanted, a fight was what he’d give her. And this time, there would be no tie.

  Tangling his fingers into her hair, Galahad lifted her cruel mouth to his. Their lips crashed in a bruising kiss, drinking each other in. Desperate for more. Longing for release. His hands slid up her waist until his thumbs brushed along her pebbled nipples. She moaned into their kiss and sagged against the hard planes of his body.

  But only for a moment.

  As if remembering herself, Fionna pushed away and narrowed her eyes. She thought she could take him. Do with him as she wanted. But he had other plans. Tonight was about her pleasure. Control, he knew, was a climax all its own. The corner of her mouth lifted in a challenge—come and get her—if he could.

  Fionna tried to scramble off the bed, but he curled an arm around her waist and then flipped her onto her back in an easy motion. She thrashed beneath him, laughing, feigning a struggle. She wanted a chase. He wanted to win.

  Nudging her legs open with his knee, his hand slipped under the folds of her skirt and caressed her calf, behind her knee, her thigh. She drew in a ragged breath of anticipation. The curve of her hip fit perfectly into the palm of his hand. Her eyes fluttered closed and her lips parted.

  Galahad lowered his weight onto her and ground his throbbing cock between her thighs. Fionna arched, moaning, her breasts offered to his lips. He rolled his hips into hers again, sucking her breast into his mouth through her bodice. Her nails dug into his back as she bit back a cry.

  He was dying. Heat curled violently in his blood. Vicious tendrils that burned and consumed. His muscles tightened and shook with need. And, Odin save him, he wanted her to know the same torture a tongue could inflict. A fair fight. Not that she fought fair, not even once since arriving. She didn’t take kindly to losing either, a thought that billowed his determination.

  Biting the edge of her bodice with his teeth, he tugged the fabric away until her breast sprang free. Fionna was perfect, ample and soft, cold moonlight caressing her skin. Her curves rose dangerously near his lips and then falling away. He wanted her rendered immobile. Unable to escape his returned attack.

  Gently, Galahad grasped her wrist, freeing the nails that dug into the flesh of his back. He placed one hand above her head, then the other. She was now pinned down, but he knew she submitted willingly—for a moment, at least. Finding her heated gaze, he held it, allowed a wolfish grin to form, and then he licked her nipple with the tip of his tongue—flicking, toying, drawing circles—as his hardened length pressed against her once more.

  A moan escaped her mouth, rumbling through him. He moved against her again and again, desperate for every sound. She melted into the sheets and bucked her hips to increase their friction. He dragged his lips to her mouth to silence her heavy breaths and hums of pleasure. And stars, his pulse was drunk, intoxicated by the feel of her body, the taste of her lips, the way she moved beneath him. Especially when her hips danced to his in a rhythm that grew frantic.

  “Tell me what you want, My Lady,” he whispered in her ear, breathless. “Command me and I will obey.”

  “Taste me,” she sighed in answer.

  He nipped the skin beneath her earlobe and whispered back, “Only if you remain silent.”

  “If I—”

  “Silent,” he repeated. “Do you accept my challenge?”

  Fionna lifted herself up onto her elbows to glare at him. “Am I not in command?”

  “Command comes with a price. Self-control.” A devious smile curved on his lips.

  “I have plenty of discipline,” she parried. “Or have ye forgotten how I matched ye during the tourney?”

  Galahad winked, rubbing the rough edge of his thumb against her exposed nipple. “Then what are you afraid of?”

  Her eyes narrowed farther, and she tried—unsuccessfully—to suppress the shudder his motion was sending through her.

  “Fear you will lose to me?” He pressed his cock to her sex next, grinding—lazily, erotically—his gaze never leaving hers.

  Fionna’s eyes widened in a flash of sensual anger and something else—want. The liquid heat in her gaze almost unraveled him. Almost.

  “Fine,” she said. The reply was meant to be sharp, he knew. But the single word came out in a quivering breath. “I’ll be silent.”

  “Good,” Galahad breathed into her ear. Then he kissed her jaw, her neck, her breasts, down to her stomach. “I want to drink my fill and not be interrupted.” He smiled into her gown, bunched at her waist, when her hands fisted his coverlet, white-knuckled with frustration.

  But her
legs willingly opened for him as he pushed the skirt of her dress up, running his hands up the smooth expanse of her thigh. Her scent enveloped him and his arms nearly weakened at how beautiful she was while spread out before him. . . and how beautifully wet with arousal. To test the waters, he kissed the inside of her thigh and waited. Fionna sucked in a quiet gasp.

  “Silent,” he purred from between her legs.

  His hot breath on her skin sent a tremor across her body—both in frustration and desire. He knew she was ready to raze him to the ground and it took everything in him to not laugh. Instead, he kissed the inside of her other thigh. Happy when she didn’t make a sound, he flicked her swollen nub with the tip of his tongue. Her entire body tensed as she gripped the coverlet tighter, sinking her other hand in the long strands of his hair.

  It was the sight Galahad desired, and he buried himself in her. Her thighs shook with the effort to not cry out in deep-sated moans as he lapped and drank, as his lips slid between her seam. The taste of salt, honey, and sex danced in his mouth as she writhed against his tongue.

  Now he was truly dying. Never had a woman tasted so divine nor felt so right in his battle-worn hands. It drove him deeper, made him more desperate to earn his name on her lips. Especially when her hips began grinding against him. When her fingers clawed his shoulders, fisted in his hair. Her back arched, her breasts swelled, nipples taut as she climaxed under his torment. Every part of her trembled and he was heady with the power she granted him over her.

  A wild heartbeat later, Fionna’s fingers released. Her thighs no longer straining under his pleasure. Still, he wasn’t quite done with her yet and licked her one last time right as her body seemed to fully relax. Her reddened lips, swollen from his kisses, parted as a faint moan escaped before closing into a furious line.

  She had lost.

  And she knew it.

  A surprise attack to repay hers on the tourney green.

  Amused, he sat back on his knees, his cock hard and his balls tightening with need. But not tonight. He would make her wait for victory against him. Perhaps even beg. A bout he looked forward to fighting in, if he was lucky enough to receive a second match. He prayed he was.

  “I think I won that round,” he said, a triumphant grin on his face. “Perhaps you need another lesson in self-control.”

  Fionna sat up, emotions warring on her beautiful face. Her eyes blazed and he stole a quick kiss, wanting her to taste herself on his lips. She struggled to appear unmoved, though he knew she was affected when her eyelids began to droop in a drowsy blink. He pulled back from her and she straightened, head thrown back, shoulders squared. To a warrior as fierce as Fionna, defeat was unacceptable. Galahad flashed his most cherubic grin in reply, almost challenging her to a second duel.

  “I shouldn’t linger here,” Fionna forced out to cover for her slip in reaction. “I will sleep well now, thank ye.” In a proud huff, she extricated herself from his bed and marched toward the door, a little wobbly on her feet. Pride rushed through him. He had weakened the mighty Fionnabhair Allán, knocked her off balance.

  Before pulling on the iron ring of his chamber door, she peered over her shoulder at him, her face imperious, the plunging seams of her bodice pulled closed in her fist. “Actually, I have won Sir Galahad. For it seems I’m the only one who will depart satisfied this night.”

  And, with that, she left his chambers in a rush of skirts and wild, white-blonde hair.

  Galahad released a thunderous laugh, one that rumbled clear to his toes. He hoped she heard his humor too.

  PERCIVAL PULLED A pillow over his head to muffle the banging on his door. The stuff of nightmares. The day wasn’t even light yet! Perhaps if he didn’t answer, the offender would just skulk away.

  The knock sounded again—louder this time.

  “Go away!” he shouted, instantly regretting his movement. He felt like he had been trampled by a pair of cart-horses. His head pounded; his mouth tasted as if a small rodent had crawled behind his tongue and died; and his balls ached with unmet need.

  Bloody faeries.

  Percival let out a groan when his door opened.

  “Good, you’re up,” Arthur said, pushing farther inside the room.

  “Am I being punished?” Percival asked as Arthur crossed the room and threw open the heavy drapes. Dim, watery moonlight pooled through the windows, laying shadowed diamonds on the large rug beneath his bed.

  “It’s not even dawn.” Percival had hardly slept an hour last night, tossing and tangling in his covers, thinking about Fionna. He was torn between embarrassment and longing, remembering the feel of her body against his as the faerie wine stole his better judgment. His behavior had been wrong, yet . . . touching her had felt so very right. Her scent of heather and moss, the catch in her breath as he seized her. Gods, he wanted this Grail business to be over, so he could be a real contender in the race for her heart. So, he could give up this ridiculous vow of chastity.

  “I was in the library all night,” Arthur said, plopping down on Percival’s bed with a bounce.

  Percival pushed himself up gingerly, trying not to jostle his pounding head. Arthur looked wild-eyed, stubble shadowing the cut of his jaw. A far cry from his normally immaculate self. “Is everything all right?”

  Arthur waved a hand. “Besides the Túatha dé Danann meddling in my court and making us all fall like idiots over our newest knight? Things are fine.”

  “About that . . .” Percival said, trailing off. He didn’t know what to say. None of them should have drank that wine. He remembered the ominous shrill ring of metal as Arthur pulled Excalibur from its sheath. Percival shivered. They were lucky Fionna and Lancelot had arrived when they did.

  “I talked to Fionna, she understands. We’re all forgiven for our impertinence.”

  “Good.” Percival heaved a sigh of relief. “It’s her own fault for being so beautiful. She had to know something like this would happen. If she were ugly, this would be so much less complicated.”

  “You cannot blame a woman for your own behavior, Percival, regardless of her fairness of form and face.”

  “Och, I know, forgive me. My brain is still addled. I speak more of my own ability to resist my attraction to her.”

  Arthur pursed his lips, holding back a smile. “Perhaps we should demand that she wear her stag helm each day, to make things easier on you.”

  “That’s the first good idea I’ve heard in days,” Percival said. “Ye’re king. Make it happen. Though . . .” he paused. “Her figure is quite distracting. Anything you can do about that?”

  “Shapeless sackcloth shift? Will that do?”

  “Perfect,” Percival said, grinning. “Make sure the sackcloth hangs down to her toes though. I’m not sure I can resist a flash of ankle. A man can only endure so much.”

  Arthur shook his head, a laugh escaping from him. He seized the pillow from Percival’s hands and smacked him with it. “You’re an idiot.”

  “Yes, well, I’m yer idiot. So, what does that make ye?”

  “King of idiots, I suppose.” Arthur tossed back the pillow to Percival, who tucked it behind his head while leaning back against the headboard, his hands interlocked behind his neck. “Now, I assume this isn’t a social call. If it is, we need to talk about yer timing.”

  The mad gleam in Arthur’s eye flared back to life. “Like I was saying . . . I found something.” He pulled out a folded piece of parchment from his tunic’s pocket and held it out.

  Percival took the aged, wrinkled parchment, unfolding it. He blinked his eyes to clear them, to make out the cramped scrawl. “A letter?” Percival asked.

  “To your father,” Arthur replied. “And not just a letter. The missive references a secret.”

  Percival blinked at that, scooting up. “The note is from a Lord Bronn.”

  “Do you remember him?” Arthur asked eagerly. “Is the name familiar?”

  Percival nodded slowly, searching his memories. “Aye. He was an old friend of my f
ather’s. If I recall, he helped my father when he was ill.”

  “Yes, that’s what the letter says. He tells your father that he could not leave a wounded man to die on his manor lands.”

  Percival nodded, barely. Gods, his head. Drawing in a long, deep breath, he exhaled slowly, then said, “Nae, not an illness. He was injured. Lance to the thigh or some such thing. When he was hunting. I think Bronn lived nearby. He found my father bleeding and took him in.” Percival scanned the letter. Lord Bronn did mention a secret. He read the note aloud. “Lay your fears to rest that I will spill your secrets, or usurp the knowledge for my own uses. The things you said while you were wracked with fever are yours to keep. I understand the heavy burden resting upon you as Keeper of the Grail. I would be a man without honor were I not to respect your noble task.”

  Arthur’s face was alight with excitement. “Don’t you see? Your father said something when he was beside himself with fever. Details about the Grail. This man, Lord Bronn, promised to keep your father’s secrets. He could know the location of the Grail!”

  “Where did ye find this?” Percival asked, his mind racing. Arthur was right. This could be a clue. A real clue. It seemed like a lifetime ago, when he had lived with his parents in his father’s grand manor at Caer Benic. Before his father died. Before his mother had gone half-mad, stealing him away to the darkest woods of Strathclyde in Alba, where they lived like hermits, away from the prying eyes she thought were searching for them. Before the Otherworld shrouded Caer Benic from mortal eyes to protect the Grail in the absence of a Fisher King. Before the sun had broken through the dark clouds of his life in the form of Arthur Pendragon. His way out of the gloom.

  “The note was tucked inside a book in the library,” Arthur answered, unaware of Percival’s thoughts. “A dusty tome with your father’s name scrawled on the front page. I think the book was from his personal library.”

  Percival stilled. “My father’s books are in the library here?”

  Arthur’s brow softened. “When your father died, and you and your mother disappeared, I believe my father visited your father’s known holdings in Northumbria. He must have brought a few of your father’s personal books back with him. It’s the type of thing Uther would do. He always took what he wanted, regardless of whom the property belonged to.”