Gwenevere's Knights- The Complete Knights of Caerleon Trilogy

by Jesikah Sundin

  “I dunno,” he replied, a silly grin in place. “We have history.”

  “Kit has good taste in men. For a horse.”

  “He doesn’t like to share my attentions.”

  I arched an eyebrow and flirtatiously whispered, “I would share ye. Perhaps, next time, I’ll roll on the forest floor with ye and Lancelot together.”

  Percival shivered, his eyes shuttering for a wild heartbeat as his hand traveled southward to the bulge pressing against the laces of his breeches. “Och, I might end before we begin, if ye keep up this talk.”

  “Then no more talk.”

  I placed my hand over his, massaging his cock by moving his fingers over his own body. He moaned, increasing the friction. With my other hand, I cupped his hip and dragged him back and forth against my sex, pressing his hardening length to our joined hands. Long copper lashes brushed along his cheeks as more soft moans escaped his mouth. Unable to take my eyes off every flutter of pleasure coloring his face, I slipped my fingers beneath his and then gently stroked up and down his throbbing cock. His eyes snapped open, his breath hitching. This was the first time someone had touched him in this way. And I wanted nothing but the feel of skin and sweat and pleasure-laden breaths between us.

  But I was still in armor.

  Removing my hand, I began unfastening my chestplate. At first, he frowned until he saw what I was doing and then he began to help. In a matter of minutes, we had both undressed, reveling in the feel of each other’s nakedness.

  I sighed and sank into the feathery moss as Percival explored the curves of my breasts. Goddess save me, his lips—full, soft, and playful. Made for kissing. My pulse trilled when his mouth met mine once more, his kiss gently reverent yet gloriously fevered.

  I had never longed for a man like him before, one who was as seductive as he was boyishly innocent. But he had captivated me from first sight, his masculine beauty the kind that made maidens jealous and men take notice. And men did, often. I had caught Lancelot shooting dark, possessive glares at several interested men during our travels. Percival, as usual, was unaware of his own bewitching attractiveness, or how his magnetism drew people to him. His guileless affect only added to his allure.

  Arthur, Galahad, and Lancelot were intense lovers—emotional and serious, always. Intimacy was more a race to release the building energy between our attraction. But, with Percival, my body felt young and untouched. As though this was also my first time with a man. Every breath, every caress, every soft, enthralling sound of pleasure, was filled with wonder and beauty, as if I were falling in love with him all over again. And again. Losing myself to an endless cycle of discovery and reverie.

  My heart halted a beat.

  I loved Percival. Loved him, truly, and had for a long time, I realized. From the beginning, he has been my champion and my haven. I could talk to him about anything and he always provided the words and humor and acceptance I needed to remain strong. Nor has he ever felt intimidated by my sex or my battle prowess, unlike the other men. Rather, he was almost always the first to offer his support and forgiveness.

  A sob tightened my throat as joy warmed my chest. What did I ever do to deserve such a man? Tears threatened to spill, but I pushed them back by smiling into our kiss.

  “What, lass?” he asked, smiling back, caressing my cheek.

  “Ye make me so happy,” I whispered. “I love ye, Percy.”

  He kissed me sweetly. “I love ye too. Until my dying breath.” His words bolstered me, filling me with tangible relief. The necklace was gone, but Percival’s love remained. His love, too—like Lancelot’s—had been true.

  I gripped his hip tighter, lifting my thighs off the ground to deepen the sensations from our rocking rhythm. His head fell back with a rumbling moan. I could watch him savor every delicious sensation forever. And I longed to memorize the aroused, soft look of him when his body joined mine.

  Releasing his hip, my hand tugged on his cock, my palm sliding up and down his velvety shaft. Skies, he was long. And hard. His Adam’s apple bobbed and a hot, heaving breath rushed from his body. The muscles across his chest and shoulders rippled and his stomach flexed. The heat of anticipation curled through me as I guided him to my opening.

  Percival pushed in slowly, gasping for breath. Pleasure tensed every muscle in his face, a rosy hue warming his neck and cheeks. With mouth parted, lips swollen, and every muscle tight with need, his hips began to move. Unsure at first, but then he found a rhythm and I moaned with the wondrous feel of him.

  “Gods,” he breathed.

  His eyes pinched shut as he thrust harder, his hips rolling in the most erotic grinding motion I had ever felt. A move that liquified the blazing heat in my core. I felt as though magic swirled in my veins each time we joined. The feeling was so incredibly intense, I sank my fingers into the loamy soil beneath my body just to ground myself. The landscape of muscles across his blushed body tensed into defined lines as his shaft slid in and out, the soft skin and fiery curls of his pelvis rubbing along my clit with each smooth, sensual pumping motion.

  The earth cradled my floating body. Vibrations tingled across the skin pressed into the moss, ferns, and leaves. Percival increased his rocking motions, the thighs touching mine flexing with each thrusting arc of his narrow hips. I explored the undulating ribbed muscles of his stomach as he ground into me—deep, hard—his balls slapping my sensitive skin, my swollen clit groaning with each caress. I grabbed his arse with both hands and dragged him harder across my pelvis until a lance of pleasure arrested the wild beat of my heart. I felt myself shattering into a million scintillating beams of light. I wanted to keep shattering until I was nothing but glittering ash.

  Tilting my hips and spreading my legs wider, my fingernails digging into his soft flesh, I pulled him tight to me and held him there. I became rippling, spasming sensation. My core tightened around the length of him until his thick, hard body ignited my every nerve ending.

  The ground began to gently tremor. I cried out as a soft rush of energy surged through me, my body becoming all the elements, the moon and stars, and the sun’s golden fire.

  “Oh gods,” he moaned loudly. “Oh gods, oh gods . . .” His body stiffened despite the desperate, crazed rhythm of his pounding hips. Goddess, the way he moved. He was sensual grace and erotic bliss. His frenzied moans faded into breathy grunts until he cried out, “Fuck!” Followed by, “Foos yer doos!”

  I almost orgasmed again, watching him peak. He was mesmerizing.

  Wait.

  I stilled, my brows furrowing as I pushed up on my elbows. “Foos yer doos?”

  His eyes opened on an embarrassed smile, his cheeks reddening. “Uh, aye,” he said, nodding his head comically, as though his awkward slip was intentional. “It means, ‘how are yer pigeons.’ In Doric, that is. It’s the Gaelic language we speak where I’m from. Our way of asking, ‘how are ye?’”

  I stared at him for one more confused heartbeat before falling back to the moss in a fit of laughter. “My pigeons are cooing at present. Ye’ve made them quite happy.” I laughed again, unable to help myself. “Foos yer doos?”

  A silly, lopsided grin stretched across his handsome face. “Aye, peck’n away, peck’n away.” Then he rolled his hips once more, before flashing another cheeky grin.

  “Kiss me, ye fool man.”

  “Anything ye want, dove.”

  His lips returned to mine, both of us trying to hold back our sputtering laughter.

  And then I heard a human sound nearby. A throat cleared, and I stilled. “Don’t move,” a man with a gravelly voice said in Gaelic—Irish Gaelic.

  PERCIVAL’S HEAD SNAPPED up from where he was kissing my breasts. His eyes rounded as the tip of the man’s blade came to rest just below Percival’s Adam’s apple.

  My eyes darted to-and-fro, surveying the scene quickly. The man with the gravelly voice was as tall as Percival, and well-muscled, with dark brown hair braided down his back. Though he wore a thick beard, he was young. Younger
than I. And quite convinced of his superiority, his immortality. He would be impetuous. Stupid and cocky. Another warrior circled us too, perhaps ten years older than me.

  I grabbed the edge of my cloak and pulled the wool over my naked form as best as I could, not wishing to give these men—these Uí Tuírtri warriors—any more sight of me than they had already enjoyed. Which appeared, from the one man’s lewd grin, and the other’s quiet intensity, was everything.

  “Enjoying the afternoon, were ye?” the other said. His voice was as low and quiet as his placid features, but his tone held a hint of mockery. Fairer than his companion, twisting tattoos ran up arms that were lean with muscle and sinew. His dark brown leather armor was well-cared for and oiled, but the nicks showed how he had seen many battles. Bright blue eyes examined each of us, picking us apart piece by piece. Goosebumps rose on my skin as he watched me. A hunter, catching the scent of prey. Here was the more dangerous man of the two.

  Our weapons were beyond arm’s reach, buried beneath the hastily discarded pile of our clothes and armor. I could get to my sword, but not before the man speared Percival through. What idiots we had been, utter and complete fools! To get so wrapped up in each other when Uí Tuírtri camped mere leagues away. I wanted to rail at the tall trees—at the forest creatures—for not warning us. But I knew it was no one’s fault but my own.

  “My lady and I were enjoying a private retreat in the country,” Percival said, his voice managing to sound imperious, regal. Like a king.

  I wanted to cringe, to tell him that nobility would only get him speared more quickly here. Better to be common, low born. Beneath notice. Though, without clothes on, we were unrecognizable—perhaps the only blessing of being found naked by enemy soldiers. I prayed this small silver lining at least bought us a few moments before they spotted my Dál nAraidi armor and the birch tree ogham rune of clann Allán etched into my sword’s hilt.

  “Methinks your fair lady is in need of more of a man than ye.” The younger man stepped closer, trailing his blade’s edge to rest on the side of Percival’s throat while gazing at me.

  My hand itched for my sword, for my knives. To crush this man who looked at a woman and saw only a thing to have. To take.

  “We have no quarrel with ye,” Percival replied in Gaelic, his brown eyes flashing angrily. “But I will not allow ye to mistreat my lady in word or deed.”

  Gravelly-voice laughed, a cruel, mocking sound. “Hear that Níall? He won’t let us.”

  Percival stiffened at the taunt, and then the other man—Níall—spoke. His words were soft as he stepped forward. “Haven’t ye heard? The Uí Tuírtri rule these lands now. Not yer bastard-born king. And we take what we want.” His gaze flicked back to me.

  Percival growled, his muscled form tense, as if ready to spring.

  “Don’t feel left out,” gravelly-voice said, looking over his shoulder at Níall with a smirk. “Ye’re pretty enough. We have some lads back at camp who would love a turn with ye.”

  The moment the warrior looked away, Percival surged forward. He knocked the warrior’s sword aside, barreling into his chest like a storied Greek wrestler.

  I scrambled for my blade, the protection of my cloak forgotten. I seized my sword belt and whirled, only to see Níall club Percival over the back of his head with the hilt of his sword.

  Percival crumpled in on himself, his strong form now limp.

  A sharp gasp escaped from my lips as the younger warrior shoved Percival off him with a roar while jumping back onto his feet. Spitting on the ground beside Percival’s body, he pulled his sword from its sheath. And coiled back, preparing to stab Percival through.

  “Wait,” Níall barked, putting a hand out. The gravelly-voiced warrior lowered his sword slightly, waiting for his superior’s instructions.

  Níall’s eyes were fixed upon me. Upon the sword belt in my hand. Upon my naked form. My skin crawled beneath his assessment, and my rage burned brighter within me.

  “Drop the sword belt, princess,” Níall cooed. “Ye don’t want to hurt yerself.” The word buffeted me like a gusting, biting wind. Did this man know who I was? Or was princess merely a term he used to ridicule? Indecision wracked me. I wished for nothing more than the chance to spear these men through. But Percival was unconscious. At their mercy. It would only take one vicious thrust and my sweet Percival would be torn from this world forever. I would endure whatever I must in order to save him.

  “Drop yer blade and I will spare him,” Níall said, and the decision was made for me, even though I didn’t know if I could trust his word. I could only pray that they were too intent upon their sport of claiming me to dispatch him.

  I let the leather slip from my clammy fingers. And I kept my face slack, letting him see what he wanted to see. The poor, helpless maiden, ripe for the plucking. Let him be blind to the truth. That even without a blade, I was not helpless.

  “Watch him,” Níall said, striding toward me. He crossed the distance between us in three strides and then loomed over me. Even knowing myself, knowing my skill, I was momentarily struck still with a sense of vulnerability I had never felt before—being bared before my enemy. My pulse pounded in my ears, drowning out the other clannsman’s words, most likely complaints of having to go second.

  My hands crept up on their own accord to cover my nakedness, a gesture which only made Níall grin. “Ye are a rare beauty, lass,” he said, his eyes glittering. “I shall enjoy ye until my balls are empty. And then again as payment for all my men who were cut down by clann Allán.”

  When his last word finished, he gripped me, leaving me no time to process his comment. Or that he knew who I was. His hand fisted in my hair, yanking me back down to the earth where Percival and I had just shared the most beautiful gesture of love. Pain bit into my scalp, into my skin where the weight of the warrior settled upon me. The sharp buckles of his armor dug scratches into my body. But I ignored it all: the foul stench of sour ale on his breath, the sea’s grime still on his skin, the vile feeling of his rough hands pawing at me. For I was focused on the one point where I knew I would find my salvation.

  There was one thing clann Uí Tuírtri and Allán shared, and that was the design of our armor. And the sheaths for our knives. My hand reached around the man as he struggled to unlace his breeches, far too intent upon his task to pay attention to the creature he was about to violate. And so, he moved far too slow to stop me as I grabbed the knife sheathed at his hip, the one I plunged directly into his spine.

  He stiffened atop me and, with a scream, I shoved at his bulk, jerking the bloodied knife out with the movement. But he was a hardened Dál nAraidi warrior, and such men don’t die easily.

  He lunged at me. One large hand closed around my throat while the other clamped around the wrist that held his knife, arresting my movement before I was able to stab the sharp point into his eye.

  We grappled, but he was strong. I wheezed in air, struggling to draw breath. Then the hand around my windpipe squeezed even harder. His other hand gripped my wrist until I thought the delicate bones might snap from the pressure. I let out a garbled scream of frustration as the knife dropped from my numb fingers.

  “Ye bitch,” the other warrior was screaming now.

  He thundered toward me, his sword blade gleaming. I tried to wrench my body to the side, but I was unable to move much. The older warrior held me fast and sure. Oh goddess. The darkness of unconsciousness began to claim me. I wasn’t going to be able to fight my way out of this situation. And, this time, there was no pregnant pause giving me a chance to consider my life, my choices. Or the men I loved who I would leave behind. There was only one quicksilver realization—I was going to die.

  But . . . I didn’t feel the sword pierce me through. Not when I expected it. Instead, the sound of blades clashing met my ears. My attacker—distracted by whatever new challenge had presented itself and weakened from my inflicted wound—loosened his grip on me. In a vicious blow, I twisted my arm up and brought my elbow d
own onto the forearm holding my throat. His grip on my burning throat broke. I gasped large breaths of precious air, trying not to grimace with pain.

  Without wasting another beat of my still-living heart, I lunged toward my sword. My hand closed around its hilt, the supple leather in my palm as welcome a feeling as I had ever known. I pulled my blade from its hilt and, with a smooth, powerful arc, severed Níall’s head from his shoulders.

  Instinct had my sword up before me and my body crouched in a defensive position, even as my mind tried to catch up with what had happened. My eyes locked onto the younger Uí Tuírtri warrior, now slumping to the ground. Dead.

  And then I focused on the blessed vision of Lancelot standing behind him, sweat dripping down his face, bloody sword in hand.

  LANCELOT’S CHEST HEAVED as he surveyed the scene before him—his mind barely able to comprehend the horror. How close he had come to losing Fionna. Percival.

  “Percival,” Fionna cried out, running to the young knight’s prone form, caring little for her nakedness.

  “What happened?” Lancelot leaned down to wipe the blood from his sword on a patch of moss.

  She gently rolled Percival onto his back. The copper-haired knight moaned. Fionna deflated in relief and scrubbed at her face with shaking hands, before murmuring, “The Uí Tuírtri caught us unaware.”

  “I can see that,” Lancelot snapped.

  He sheathed his sword and then knelt next to Percival, probing gently at the clot of blood that was forming on his temple. One of the warriors must have hit him with something blunt. The wound didn’t look too bad. Percival was already stirring. Good. Because now he could level both to the ground for their foolishness.

  “The real question is,” he began, “what in the bloody hell were you two doing out here?”

  “We came to rescue my father.” She raised her chin a notch.

  “Naked?” Lancelot shot back.