Royal Enchantment

by Sharon Ashwood

  His voice held teasing regret. Gwen had no words to respond. Desire pushed sore muscles and fatigue aside, but it couldn’t restore her wit. Instead, she kissed him again, nibbling at the strong muscles of his throat. He released a pleased groan, rolling her so that she lay on her back. She was warming up now, their cozy nest all the sweeter for the crystalline night around them. This was stolen time, an unexpected gift of intimacy.

  Arthur knew how to make use of it. He pulled the covers over their heads to trap the warmth around them, and then set about exploring her form. His hands were rough, but his touch was a caress, arching over her ribs with a firm but gentle pressure. Gwen pushed into it, gasping a little as his lips found her breasts. He had always known exactly how to please her, but tonight—tonight there was a difference in his touch. He was taking his time.

  Gwen ran her hands over his shoulders, feeling the tracks of old scars. Her fingers played over them, remembering their shape. It had been a long time since the two of them had twined together this way. The exact months and days were impossible to calculate, with centuries spent in magical sleep. All she knew was that it had been long before the demon wars, before her world had cracked and fallen to bits. Some would say lovemaking might mend any breach, but nothing so broken could ever be put back together. Nor should it, when she’d been so unhappy. And so she’d closed the door to Arthur’s bedroom the night she’d come to Carlyle.

  But Arthur hadn’t left her behind today, so Gwen was willing to relent and build something new. She stroked down the curve of his back, using her nails. He arched into her, finding her mouth and parting her lips with his tongue. She let him in, tasting his unique flavor with a mild shock of recognition. They’d kissed before this, but there was a difference when it was in bed, and all his thoughts were of her.

  His lips traveled to her throat, his teeth scraping over the skin as if he might devour her. She drowned in the sensation of it—hard and soft and slick and warm. His hands mounded her breasts, and then his mouth was there, too, closing around one nipple, then the other, leaving her restless and hot.

  Her hands found his hardness then, and she teased it with her fingertips. This, too, was familiar but in an entirely different way. They both wore so many masks, and some they kept especially for each other. That was the way of husband and wife, king and queen in a world where only those with nothing could afford to marry for love. She had grown into the role of willing wife, mixing the truth of her desire with the lot she’d been given. And yet tonight, she had a new awareness. He had fought for her life, held her when she’d grown weak with fear and brought her whole out of danger. And he’d let her help him, so she could meet him here as an equal.

  The terms of their bargain had changed. He’d earned her honesty, and somewhere tonight she’d earned the right to insist that he accept it.

  She guided him home, fitting herself to his embrace with frank need. When he filled her, she cried out, as if the hunger she felt echoed through the vast darkness and into the caverns beyond. It was pleasure to the knife-edge of pain, her ache for him an appetite that only increased with feeding. When he began to move inside her, she was lost to everything but the knowledge of him. It was a claiming of her soul that she had never allowed, but now she wanted it. She wanted Arthur, immediately, tonight.

  And he gave himself, hard and furiously. By the end, his gentle, slow caresses hardened to insistent demand. She surrendered, weeping and laughing at once, mad with her own sweet destruction.

  Afterward, they tangled together and abandoned to the night.

  * * *

  Gwen dreamed she was back in her father’s castle, kneeling on the straw-covered floor of the barn. She was barely sixteen; her dress was covered in dust, her hair in a braid down her back, and she was hammering a wooden frame together. She’d stopped to suck at a splinter in her thumb when she realized someone was watching her.

  It was that young man again, the one named Arthur. Everyone said he was the king, but she found that hard to believe. Kings were crusty and ancient and prone to chopping off heads. So far, Arthur had betrayed no signs of any such flaws. All the same, she scrambled to her feet and managed a curtsy, holding her dress in a way she hoped hid her dirty, bare feet.

  “What are you doing?” he asked. He looked at the scraps of wood scattered around her feet, his eyebrows furrowing in an intense frown.

  “I’m building a trap.”

  “Really?” he replied. “What for?”

  “Foxes. They’ve been bothering the chickens.”

  A speckled hen approached, picking at the frame and prancing around it with bobs of her head. Gwen picked her up, tucking her in the crook of an arm before the silly bird could scatter the nails. The hen gave a squawk of protest but settled in happily enough. Gwen could see Arthur trying to assemble the pieces of her trap in his head, but she doubted he could. This was her own design, and not even the gamekeeper believed it would work.

  Gwen kept looking at Arthur—he was handsome enough to look at for hours at a time—but couldn’t help wondering why he was there, in her barn. She knew plenty of men-at-arms, but he was different. His clothes were never stained with ale or worn through at the elbows and knees. He stood straighter, his shoulders squared as if in constant combat. It clashed oddly with his tendency to stare at her. If she were honest, she found their encounters rather uncomfortable. But she tended to ignore the honest part of herself when confronted with a gorgeous young man who was supposedly a king greater even than her own father.

  He looked up from the frame with an amused frown. “A bow and arrow is less work than nailing all this together and then having to cut their throats.”

  “I don’t kill the foxes!” she said in horror. “I take them out to the woods.”

  He gave a surprised laugh. “You know they’ll just come back?”

  “No, they don’t,” Gwen said defiantly. “I give them a stern talking-to. I tell them to stay away or they’ll end up lining my father’s cloak.”

  “And do the foxes listen to you?”

  “Yes.”

  His blue eyes shone with hilarity. “Really?”

  “Really,” she said with annoyance. “I can tell you don’t believe me.”

  “I am devastated to say it, but I’m afraid I don’t.”

  In her fury, Gwen clutched the hen hard enough that it began to flap. Gwen tossed the bird away, and it settled on one of the low rafters. “I know it’s the truth. Not one of the foxes has returned.”

  “How do you know that?” Arthur asked, a little less certain now.

  Gwen shook her skirts back into place, ignoring the dust that billowed from their folds. “Because otherwise the foxes are dead and all I’m left with is heartbreak. I won’t accept that.”

  His slow smile was the first real one she’d seen from him. “I think I understand. You have to try.”

  The dream ended abruptly when the heavy insulation of the bedcovers was jerked from Gwen’s head. Her eyes flew open at Arthur’s yell and the rattle of Excalibur’s sheath. Cold air slapped her face and she clutched the blankets close—only to see Merlin’s astonished face. Excalibur’s point was all but tickling his nose, but his eyes were flicking from Arthur to Gwen and back again. She burst out laughing at his mix of embarrassment and amused curiosity—and then realized she was naked. She sank back beneath the blankets, feeling blood rush up her cheeks.

  “Did I startle you?” Merlin asked drily.

  Arthur lowered his sword, fury fading to annoyance. “The least you might have done was bring coffee.”

  “Tea,” said Gwen, refusing to be cowed. “I like tea better.”

  Merlin tossed bathrobes marked with the hotel crest onto the bed. “I suggest you get up and follow me back through the portal. I’ve got it stabilized, but I don’t know how long that will last.”

  He tur
ned his back, and stalked toward a shimmering doorway that rose out of the long grass. Gwen grabbed a robe and pulled it on, her arms disappearing into the oversize terry-towel sleeves. She noticed the sun was high and the air was only slightly cool. They must have slept for a long time.

  Arthur offered his hand with a gallant bow. “Your escort awaits, my queen.”

  Gwen took it, rising on her toes to give him a kiss. She should have felt foolish, standing in bare feet and a robe, her unbrushed hair falling in a tangle, but she felt more herself than she had since childhood. By the light in Arthur’s eyes, he was happy, too.

  Merlin kept his expression blandly neutral and held out a hand toward the portal. “If Your Majesties would care to step through, I shall return the meadow to its pristine state. I doubt the squirrels have a use for the minibar.”

  “Hard to say,” replied Arthur, retrieving Excalibur. “The bottles are about the right size.”

  Merlin gave him a withering look. “Not even you can look regal in a hotel bathrobe.”

  A moment later, they were back in the hotel. Clary jumped up from where she sat on the floor, her expression wild with concern. “Are you all right? You aren’t hurt, are you?” She bowed to Arthur, then clasped Gwen’s hands and finally gave her a rib-crushing hug.

  “I’m fine. We’re both fine,” Gwen squeaked, realizing her ribs hurt from hitting the wall during their fight with the troll. She probably had bruises.

  Clary let go, looking her up and down with a raised brow. “So it seems. I take it the trip was a success.”

  “Yes.” Gwen might have said more, but was distracted by the state of the room. There was a dusty patch on the floor where her bed had been, and the nightstand that had stood beside it was missing. Her gaze went quickly to the pile of shopping bags that held her beautiful new clothes, the black dress tossed carelessly on top. At least the portal had left those alone.

  “I met Merlin,” Clary whispered in Gwen’s ear. “And I’m devastated. He’s horrible.”

  There was a flare of light and Merlin emerged from the hotel closet, dusting off his hands. “Next time you want a portal, call a professional.” He gave Clary a dark look.

  “Hey,” the witch protested. “I got the job done.”

  “And I’m certain the hotel proprietor appreciated the bull moose who traded places with the bed. Somebody needs to review their homework on the principles of portal stabilization.”

  “I was in a hurry,” Clary protested.

  Merlin folded his arms. “Get the spell right, unless you want to keep swapping furniture for livestock.”

  “Nobody died.”

  “Tell that to the breakfast buffet.”

  Clary folded her arms and stuck out her chin. “Moose like waffles. Who knew?”

  Gwen and Arthur exchanged a look. “Everybody likes waffles,” Arthur suggested. “I’ll call room service.”

  Gawain picked that moment to come through the door. His gaze flicked from one face to another, finally settling on Arthur. “I hope you got some rest.”

  Gwen saw Arthur’s expression shift, face settling into hard lines. It was as if an artist had erased and redrawn his features in a single heartbeat, deleting the man who’d slept at her side. She yearned to cry foul, to turn the clock back and bar Gawain from the room. Instead, she took Arthur’s hand and squeezed hard.

  “What’s happened?” he asked, returning the pressure of her fingers.

  “Rukon Shadow Wing has been sighted in the woods near where we first encountered him. This time we ride as a company and finish this once and for all.”

  “No,” said Arthur.

  Gawain scowled. “Why not? We’ve tried being nice. We’ve tried single combat. This is no time to send a basket of home-baked cookies.”

  “The dragons are under the influence of a fae named Talvaric,” said Arthur. “He’s the quarry we want.”

  “And in the meantime?” Gawain demanded. “Sir Hot and Smoky has to be dealt with.”

  “The dragon is our connection to the fae.”

  Merlin gave an evil grin. “You’re going to use the dragon to draw Talvaric out.”

  Arthur shrugged. “Or at least provide information on him.”

  Gawain appeared less than convinced. “One does not simply interrogate a dragon.”

  “Sure you can,” Merlin said helpfully. “You just have to catch it first.”

  Arthur’s expression said everything Gwen was thinking. This wasn’t the dragon’s fault, and punishing it was unfair—and yet somehow they had to stop it before innocent people were hurt.

  “I have an idea,” Gwen said before she could stop herself. Last night’s dream was fresh in her mind, as if a hidden part of her was already working on the problem. “We could build a trap.”

  Arthur turned to her, his eyes narrowing. She expected him to tell her to be silent, but he paused a moment before speaking, speculation in his gaze. “Explain.”

  Chapter 18

  Once in a while, it was good to be king.

  Arthur, freshly showered, lay on the remaining bed in the hotel room, his hands behind his head and Excalibur propped against the nightstand. Clary had changed to a different room, and Merlin was running interference with the hotel staff. Opening an interdimensional portal in a hotel closet probably wasn’t covered by guest-room policy, and even though the portal had now been closed, it would take wizardry to dispel awkward questions. Everyone else was off tracking the dragon in an effort to locate its lair in the woods outside town.

  Normally, Arthur would have been in charge of the search party, but not today. They had too little information about their fae enemy, and Talvaric had made a veiled threat against the queen. Arthur’s self-appointed job was to watch over Guinevere, who sat at the desk sketching furiously on hotel notepaper. Like him, she was still in a bathrobe, her hair pinned up in a knot that left her neck bare. Arthur was transfixed by the curve of her spine as she bent to her task.

  The notion of trapping a dragon seemed ludicrous to Arthur, but he was curious to hear her idea. Their adventure in the Crystal Mountains had reminded him just how much Gwen could surprise him.

  She’d been dancing when he’d first seen her. It was hot, even for July, with the sky a merciless sapphire. Arthur was on horseback, Merlin at his side and a company of men behind him. They were near the castle of King Leodegranz when he looked down from the road and spied a hollow of cool grass shaded by elms. There she was, leading a mob of children in a round dance. The children ranged from babies to ten or twelve years, but she was at the threshold of womanhood. Flowers wove a drunken crown around the spill of her gold hair and her skirts were knotted up to display coltish, grass-stained shins. She was hardly elegant, but she drew his eye. How could she not, with so much joy shining from her face?

  “Who is that?” he asked Merlin.

  “I don’t know,” the sorcerer replied without much interest. “Some servant’s daughter, I expect.”

  And yet Arthur stared, watching her as his column of men wound up the hill and between the castle gates. That year had been nothing but war, and his soul echoed with the clash of steel. He’d forgotten what innocence looked like, and he’d forgotten about dancing. Now he yearned to bound across the soft green grass to join them, shedding pieces of his armor as he ran.

  “She’s a pretty thing,” Merlin said, amused.

  Arthur tore his eyes away, suddenly uncomfortable. “The children look happy, that’s all. It’s a pleasant change from battle.”

  A thoughtful look crossed Merlin’s face. “Indeed.”

  Much of that year’s war had been with Leodegranz. Eventually the old wolf had surrendered his sword and agreed to a treaty, which was why Arthur and Merlin had come. Arthur’s goal was to unite the petty kingdoms of Britain into a single political force
, and Leodegranz was the fifth to swear allegiance to Arthur of Camelot as high king. Earlier that month, Arthur had turned twenty-three.

  They were received with every courtesy, and a banquet was prepared. To Arthur’s surprise, it was no page who filled his wine cup that night, but the dancing girl. She was dressed in a gown of soft gray, the sleeves lined with cloth of silver and her shining hair bound in a fillet of gold. Clearly, she was no servant’s child, but a maiden of rank.

  “Do you like her?” asked King Leodegranz, eyeing the girl with the same assessment he might show a prize hound. “That’s my daughter, Guinevere.”

  She lowered her eyes as she poured the wine, tawny lashes hiding her thoughts. In the dark and smoky feast hall, the pale dress made her shine like a piece of lost moonlight. “She is very beautiful,” Arthur said, fascinated by the graceful curve of her long neck.

  Her gaze flicked to his before she moved away, her slim back spear-straight. Furtive though it was, there had been a dare in that look. Guinevere was bold, for all that she was young.

  Merlin leaned close. “You know it’s no accident that she’s here. Leodegranz wants a marriage as part of the treaty. His grandson will be high king, if he has his way.”

  Arthur watched Guinevere and remembered her joy. If he was her husband, he could protect that bright spirit, or that’s what he told himself. In truth, he needed that happiness as a balm to his soul. Happiness and beauty and innocence. Guinevere held the promise of them all the way a new flame holds light.

  Arthur lifted his goblet, touching it to Merlin’s. “Make it happen.”

  And Merlin had. Almost two years later, after a long and complicated negotiation, they were wed.

  Back on the bed in the present day, Arthur opened his eyes. He’d been drowsing and yawned with the drugged lethargy of daytime sleep. Gwen was sitting on the edge of the bed, the pad of notepaper in one hand.

  “I have the door figured out,” she said. “The other parts may need magic.”