The four knights turned and looked at Fionna’s quiet sleeping form, her white-blonde hair peeking out from beneath the blanket. Galahad didn’t envy her the choice. Or the fallout.
HOT PAIN RIPPLED through my shoulder as my eyelids fluttered open. I gulped in a startled breath before the pain stole the air from my lungs. Darkness filled my space. As did a strange, unnatural silence. Not even the low crackle of embers drifted to my pricked ears. Where was I?
Unsure, I remained still, not wanting to alert anyone nearby to my return to consciousness. I glimpsed a sliver of light in the corner of my eye and turned toward it, achingly slow, gritting my teeth until I locked onto the source. A narrow band of moonlight crept through large, heavy drapes and across the wooden floor, illuminating timber-constructed walls. Mentally, I took stock of my surroundings. I was in a spacious room atop a luxurious feathered bed. My armor was on the floor beside me, and a man slept in a separate bed across from me.
My heart thundered at the many possibilities. Our ambush defeated O’Lynn’s men. Why wasn’t I under the stars on a bedroll beside my fellow knights? Was I still with my knights?
The word “my” twisted my insides. I had no right to claim those I would destroy. And, yet, I found the treacherous organ in my chest equally as treacherous as the woman I would become.
Memories flashed in my mind as the last thought spurred my rapid pulse—of Galahad sewing my wound shut, of Lancelot cupping my face and whispering words of encouragement, of Arthur burying his face in his knees, as if ashamed. The only face I couldn’t remember was Percival’s. Did he live? He must. I would know.
And then I felt the knowing ache, the sharp pang bleating behind my ribs. Not for Percival, but for them all. These men had wedged their way into an unknown chamber of my heart and this occupation, this residency was almost more than I could bear. Pushing up with my good arm, I clenched my jaw and rolled to a seated position. My breath came quick and heavy after such a simple task. But the pain was welcome compared to the breaking of my heart. How was I to do this? I forced myself to turn from my haunting thoughts to the body in the bed across from me.
Pale silvered fingers of light caressed the planes of the man’s face, and I relaxed. Even dusted in moonlight, Arthur appeared boyish, all freckles and muscle, hair cut short but long enough to be disheveled by sleep. Such a contrast to the large presence he commanded when awake. My gaze trailed the length of him, uncovered and still fully armored. Except Excalibur, which no longer hung from his hip, but rested upright against the bed near his head.
“Goddess no,” I whispered under my breath. I wasn’t ready, not while injured. But when would I find a better opportunity? If my instincts proved true, we were back in Lord Bronn’s fortress, which meant the Irish Sea was only a few hours up the River Dee from the port in Chester. I could hire a sailing vessel and be on my way long before the men awoke from their battle and travel fatigue.
Inching from the bed, I crept over my armor and tip-toed toward Arthur. My hands shook as hard as an untested warrior facing her first blood-stained field. This was all wrong; I should have prepared, gone through my ritual before I faced battle—even a fight with myself. My injured shoulder screamed similar sentiments with each step. Too late. I could brush the faerie sword with my fingertips this very moment. Just one more step and . . . cold metal branded my palm with guilt. Arthur would lose his gifted sovereignty as king. His land and people would suffer until a new king was appointed by the Otherworld.
And, yet, my father’s land and people suffered now, and for similar reasons. Brin Allán’s sovereignty was in question, for what king is taken from battle? Better to fall on his own sword than become paraded, tortured, and demeaned by his enemy.
Excalibur glinted in a pocket of moonlight as I used every breadth of control to lift the steel and jeweled scabbard. A shudder dragged long, jagged nails down my spine and I fell to my knees as gracefully as possible, my face contorted in a grimace. Pain seared down my arm and I nearly dropped the sword. Excalibur was too heavy for me to carry. Or perhaps the weight was in my mind—the weight of power over kings and men and land.
“Fionna?”
I whipped my gaze toward Arthur and stilled.
His face was mere inches from mine. Sleep softened the lines around his mouth and eyes, and he appeared so young without the weight of duty on him. So vulnerable. So incredibly beautiful, as if each feature were hand carved by the gods.
“Mmm, you smell of heaven and earth,” he murmured, his eyes fluttering closed. Then, to my horror, he adjusted closer to the bed’s edge and reached out. With eyes still closed, his fingers touched my cheek and slid to my mouth—as if he had touched me a thousand times. As if he always found me, even when separated by darkness. “With your permission, a kiss?” His voice held the same moonlight illuminating the hard lines of his armored body.
My thoughts tumbled like racing leaves in a black wind as a whirlpool of dread formed in my already soured gut. I wasn’t sure how to respond, how to fight the shiver of desire coursing through me. His hand cradled my cheek and pulled me closer. His breath pulsed on my lips.
My mouth parted in anticipation, eyes closing, body leaning forward, wanting to feel the soft warmth of his lips on mine.
Tipped off balance, I dropped the sword. Metal clanked on the wooden floor and I bit back a curse.
Arthur’s eyes flew open and he instinctually grasped for the sword no longer by his side. Not finding Excalibur, he jolted upright, his attention snapping wildly onto me.
My heart galloped through my veins as I knelt before him, hands now empty. At least I didn’t wear my armor, an oversight that was now a blessing. Forcing myself to breathe, I pulled my gaze up to his and prayed that the guilt wasn’t plain in my eyes.
A worried expression flitted across his face while he picked up and then rested his blade against the timber wall. “Did you tear your stitches?”
“I don’t think so.”
He scrubbed calloused hands over his handsome face before they fell to his lap. “Are you in . . . pain?”
“A little.”
Even in the shadows I could see a blush color his stubbled cheeks. Did he think I approached his bed for pleasures? The sharp pang returned to my chest as I held my king’s humbled gaze. I would steal away his inheritance and he looked at me as if I were his very salvation.
“Where are we?” I somehow managed to ask.
“Lord Bronn’s estate.” Arthur swallowed and blinked back shyness. “We buried him this afternoon.”
“Ye stayed by my side . . . “
“Yes,” he breathed. “I caused your injury with my foolish anger.” He looked like he wanted to say more but didn’t. Instead, he took my hand in his and bowed his head. “I am so sorry, Fionna. Please forgive me.”
The vise in my chest ratcheted even tighter. “I am a warrior and I swore upon my life to follow ye into battle, King Arthur Pendragon.”
A sad smile played across his lips as he stared at my hand in his.
“In Ireland, men do not fuss over women so,” I continued when he didn’t offer a reply. “We are their equals, not a delicate object to protect from harm’s way. Not unless that is what the lass desires.”
Arthur bashfully met my gaze once more. “I fuss for other reasons.” Then his gaze dipped to my lips before he looked away, whispering, “I dreamed of you consenting to a kiss just now and I awake to find you real and near as if . . . as if you—”
“Almost kissed ye?”
“This guilt I carry over your pain is mine to bear.” The voice of a king returned and I almost flinched. “You may be my sworn warrior, but I am responsible for you, for all of my knights.” His shoulders slumped and his fingers gripped mine tighter, then he lowered his voice to an intimate whisper. “If I could, I would take your pain as my own, Princess Fionnabhair Allán. I would have you know only pleasure and happiness.”
Tears burned the back of my eyes. Though the gesture seared hot across
my shoulder, I rested my head against his leg. Never, in all my years, had I yielded myself before a man in such a way. But, as I knelt before my king, before a piece of my heart, I only wanted him to know pleasure and happiness too.
I blinked as the tears threatened to roll down my cheeks. My shoulders began to shake. Gently, Arthur lifted my face until our gazes touched.
“You are in pain,” he said simply.
I was, but not in the way he believed. I couldn’t confess my dilemma or how the very thought shattered me. Nor how my sister and father held captive by O’Lynn already tormented me until I wanted to double over in agony. I didn’t want to think of it. I didn’t want to think of anything.
Raising my hand, I cupped his face and whispered, “Help me to know only pleasure and happiness.”
He sucked in a quiet breath.
“I give ye permission, Arthur.”
Our breaths mingled as we held each other’s faces. Vulnerability pooled in Arthur’s gaze and I understood. He didn’t give himself easily to another, not intimately at least. The realization lanced me anew.
Taking great care to not aggravate my wound, he tenderly scooped beneath my knees and lifted me to his chest before laying me upon the covers. I rolled to a seat before he could protest or join me on the bed. Then, unable to resist the temptation, I reached for his side and unbuckled a strap. And another. Arthur stood before me, his gaze unwavering, as I removed his armor piece by piece. Until only a loose tunic and breeches remained. My shoulder throbbed, but still I continued until I tugged up on his tunic. Arthur pulled the soft linen over his head, tossing the garment to the floor.
Goddess above, he was beautiful. A king forged from grace and battle. And as I had often secretly hoped, faint freckles covered his chest and muscled abdomen like a spill of stars. I wanted to kiss each one, to touch every mark and scar—to know every part of this incredible man.
Arthur leaned down until his hands settled on either side of my hips and then he brushed his lips across mine. He pulled back just enough to catch my gaze and gauge my reaction.
I smiled to encourage him. Where Galahad was all fire and fight, Arthur was sweet wine and the simmering warmth of home.
Home.
It wasn’t the first time Arthur birthed this feeling in me. But I didn’t have long to question why or ponder the strange emotions the word conjured.
His lips had returned to mine as he tipped my head back, reverently lowering me to the pillows below. My injury jolted with sparks of fire as my shoulder pressed into the bed. Breath fluttered free from my tightened chest, and I held back a grimace. But every ounce of pain dissolved when Arthur slowly crawled over the length my body, his skin practically glowing in the dusty moonlight. I watched, bewitched by the play of muscle and sinew across his chest, arms, and shoulders as he trailed soft kisses up my legs, around my navel, then between and under my breasts, before he buried his face into my neck.
“I feel as if my body knows yours already,” he whispered across my skin. “As if I were made for you and you were made for me. Do you feel it?”
Pain tightened my chest once again as I whispered the word. One word that fully sealed my betrayal. “Yes.”
I did feel this connection, and strongly. The pleasure was unlike any I had known before, slow and languid and devastating. He seemed content to explore the expanse of my skin with lips and soft caresses, ever careful of my wound. And yet my body reacted as though he were making love to me.
Perhaps he was, emotionally. And perhaps I wished him to.
We couldn’t get enough of one another, memorizing each other’s bodies in reverence, tasting passion’s sweetness with one kiss after another. His affections were one of the most fulfilling experiences of my life. Every touch felt as though we joined completely, even though he remained respectful of my injury. We continued our exploration until the moon shifted from the window and the room shadowed into blissful darkness, a stillness broken only by our ragged breathing.
Until Arthur fell asleep, lips flushed and skin salted with sweat.
I stared at the ceiling, listening to the rise and fall of his peaceful slumber. This time I let the tears fall as my heart withered into brittle leaves and crumbled beneath the weight of my guilt. My choice was made, however.
My toes touched the cold floor and I crept back to the other bed where I gathered my armor, sword, and daggers. In the quiet hallway, I dressed, the tears still slipping down my flushed cheeks. When finished, I strode into the room, giving Arthur every opportunity to wake and stop me. But he remained sprawled across the bed, lost to pleasant dreams.
“Ye’re a beautiful man, Arthur Pendragon,” I whispered to his shadowed form. “It is I who asks for yer forgiveness.”
My breath shuddered. Then, I pushed past the pain in my shoulder and in my chest and grabbed Excalibur.
I expected a knight to call out, “Traitor!” as I barreled out of the building and across the field. Yet, the only sound I heard when I reached the stables was a crow on a nearby branch, cawing. Strange for a crow to be active before dawn. I shook off the omen and threw Zephyr’s saddle over her back.
The last sound I heard before Zephyr and I thundered onto the road that would carry us to the river port was that same crow. But this time the bird sounded as if it laughed.
THE CROW SWOOPED low and trailed behind the witch’s shadowed side unseen. Hooves turned up clods of dirt and grass. Her beast heaved and the charger’s coat glistened with sweat. Occasionally, the crow could hear the witch hiccup with pathetic sobs. The task had broken her fierce spirit and weakened her focus. Good. The smell of her sickened grief was delightfully bitter and fed the crow more power to remain aloft.
Soaring on the wings of Arthur’s destruction, the crow cawed with laughter. And if the witch heard? The better. Let the crowed triumph settle in the witch’s bones. Let the mocking sound turn her blood to ice as she raced against the night and dawn and her failed destiny.
Arthur would spurn the witch now and, thus, his salvation. The crow laughed again, her caws growing louder when swollen silver eyes peered over an injured shoulder.
The witch pulled on her reins, and the horse slowed to a canter. The beast huffed large, hot puffs of vapor from her nostrils before shaking her head and flattening her ears.
The acrid smell of smoke still hung in the air. Crude wooden structures lay splintered in charred heaps. Bodies of villagers littered the dirt streets and soaked the ground with their innocent blood. And their boats—the ones the witch needed—rested half-sunk, still tied to posts in the River Dee.
The witch kicked her beast in the flanks, turning her away from the ruined village. Ghostly white strands of hair streamed after her in a macabre dance as she galloped along the river bank toward the Irish Sea.
O’Lynn’s men were idiots. How did they plan to sail away? Or was this a suicide mission from the onslaught?
The crow no longer laughed. Plans that were firmly within her claws now loosened and slipped. When Arthur and his knights gave chase, they might catch their little white whore. No, she couldn’t allow Excalibur to touch the Little Dragon King’s fingers ever again.
With a furious beat of her wings, the crow soared past the witch and her heaving beast toward the next big port town.
ARTHUR AWOKE TO a honeyed kiss of morning light streaming through the drapes. He stretched slow and deep, his body alive and humming with the pleasure of last night’s exertions. Fionna. Even her name tasted sweet on his lips. He closed his eyes, letting the memories wash over him.
It had been like a dreamscape—Fionna an enchantress, spinning his world into a string of miracles and wonders. The heat of her lips on his, the silken feel of her skin beneath his hands, the exquisite press of her lithe body against his. Arthur shivered at the memories, unable to keep the smile from breaking across his face. Every touch, every movement was careful, with her injured shoulder. But Arthur hadn’t minded taking things slow or waiting for their coupling. The kisses
and caresses they had shared last night had been gentle and deliberate and perfect.
Arthur heaved a soft sigh. He couldn’t remain floating in a pleasant haze of daydreams all day. They needed to return to Caerleon and start the hunt for the Grail all over again. They had turned every inch of Lord Bronn’s house upside down last night while Fionna slept, and found nothing that even mentioned the Grail, let alone contained a clue to the vessel’s whereabouts. Arthur sighed, pushing himself up and out of bed. The bed where Fionna had lain was empty. He frowned. Perhaps she had already left for breakfast. Had he lingered abed so late?
Arthur pulled on his tunic and pants, sitting on the edge of the bed to lace up his boots. Once finished, he reached for Excalibur’s familiar weight. And froze.
The sword wasn’t there.
Arthur spun in a circle, his panicked gaze searching the room. He remembered setting his sword by his bedside last night. And . . . he wracked his mind, trying to recall details through the fog of sleep. Yes, Fionna had knocked Excalibur over. And he had set his blade against the wall. He stared at the empty spot where the sword should be. It was gone. His eyes swung to Fionna’s bed. Fionna was gone. His heart seized in his chest. Panic charged through his veins. Perhaps she had taken Excalibur downstairs with her?
Arthur flew down the stairs and swung around a stone doorway leading into the dining room.
Lancelot, Galahad, and Percival sat at a long wooden table with trenchers of food and goblets of ale before them.
“Morning sleepyhead,” Percival said cheerfully.
“Fionna . . .” Arthur breathed, his mind racing almost too quickly for words. “Where is Fionna?”
“You were the one who insisted that you stay with her.” Galahad wrinkled his brows in a scowl. “And now you’ve lost her?”
“Excalibur is gone,” Arthur rushed out, ignoring Galahad’s impertinence. He couldn’t believe it. This couldn’t be happening. “And so is Fionna.”
Gwenevere's Knights- The Complete Knights of Caerleon Trilogy Page 17