“Can wait another night, Lark. It looks like we’re going to be partners for a while, so there’ll be other opportunities to make love.” His warm thumbs stroked the backs of her hands. “What do you say?”
She blew out a breath and tried not to feel guilty at her relief. “All right.”
Gawain picked up Kel’s scabbard and looped it over his shoulder as he led the way to the stairs. With every step he took, his randy body growled at him. He tried to ignore it as he showed her to his bedroom.
Lark stopped just inside, lovely brown eyes going wide. “Wow.”
Resting a hand on the small of her back, he glanced past her shoulder. A full suit of sixteenth-century German plate armor stood shining in the light cast by the stone fireplace, while his favorite jousting saddle stood at the foot of the immense canopied bed. Tapestries, rich with color and skillful needlework, depicted battles or scenes of castle life. One entire wall was occupied by a mural depicting the Round Table with all the original knights, including those, like Bedivere, who’d died in combat.
“That bed…” Lark moved toward it, her pretty backside swaying, unconsciously seductive. “You could sleep five in that thing.”
And he had, though he had no intention of mentioning that to her.
She gazed up at the red silk canopy which fell around the bed like a knight’s campaign tent. One delicate hand came to rest on a gleaming oak bedpost carved in the shape of a javelin. “Damn, Gawain, you could get women with this bed alone.”
He laughed. “Well, I’d like to think looks and skill have something to do with it, too.”
“If you ask me,” Kel said, “it’s a bit over the top.”
Gawain looked down at his sword. “I thought you were asleep.”
Your body woke me. It says to tell you it’s pissed.
Tell it I heard it the first time. Aloud, he said, “Maybe you should consider another nap.” He hung Kel’s scabbard over the bedpost.
Why aren’t you seducing her? You need to feed, Gawain. You’ve gone too long without a woman. You’re going to get weak. What if…
She’s afraid of me, Kel.
The dragon went silent, shocked. But…
I’ll explain later. Sleep.
As he watched, the dragon stiffened, his body seeming to solidify as though it were the steel it resembled. Again, the sizzle of Kel’s magical consciousness faded to silence.
“What happened to him?” Lark asked, staring at the sword with an uneasy frown. “It’s like he just…turned inanimate.”
“He shuts himself down when I go to sleep or need some privacy.” Gawain turned to flip down the heavily embroidered coverlet for her. “It’s the only way we can keep from driving each other craz…” He looked over his shoulder at her and broke off.
While he’d been busy with the bed, she’d transformed her jeans and top into a cotton sleep shirt. The points of her nipples were visible through the soft pink fabric. As he gaped, she moved past him and crawled into bed, her rounded backside unconsciously teasing his growling libido. He swallowed and blurted, “You know, you’ve got the most delicious ass I’ve ever seen.”
Lark gave him a wicked look. “Yours isn’t so bad either.”
Gawain stared at her, wrestling with the impulse to pounce. Regaining control, he blew out a breath. “Glad to hear it.” He took off his T-shirt, decided his self-control wasn’t sturdy enough to risk losing the jeans, and slid in next to her.
“Are you sure you don’t want to…?”
“I’m sure,” he lied.
FOUR
Lying next to Gawain’s big body, Lark realized, was conducive to anything but relaxation. “How long before the sun comes up?” The Daysleep would put him out like a light. Then, maybe, she could sleep.
“Another hour yet.” He rolled over on his side and braced his head on his arm. Biceps shifted temptingly in the light of the fire. “I thought we could just lie here and…talk.”
“What about?”
“You.”
She snorted. “I’m not that interesting.”
“What was it like growing up in the twentieth century? With television and computers and all those techno toys?”
“What techno toys? You know what a firefighter makes? We were doing good to afford McDonald’s on Saturday night. Any extra cash we had usually ended up going to people who’d just been burned out of their homes.”
“Your father was a fireman?”
“Grandfather, and he was a paid fire chief. Little southern town. My grandmother was the president of the Ladies’ Auxiliary. We used to follow Granddad to fire calls and serve lemonade to the firemen.” She folded her arms under her head and stared up into the folds of the canopy bed, remembering. “One of my earliest memories was sitting next to a little girl whose kitten had died in a fire. I felt so sorry for her, I gave her my doll.”
“Sounds grim.”
“Actually, it made me feel pretty good. I did something to help someone in an awful situation. You can get addicted to that kind of thing.”
The conversation settled into a comforting rhythm after that, as she told him about her grandmother’s fatal stroke, her mother, and her endless childhood speculations over just who her father had been. “My favorite theoretical candidate was Mick Jagger.”
Without cracking a smile, he said, “I’m happy to say you don’t look a bit like your daddy.”
She laughed. “How about you? What were your folks like?”
His expression went oddly distant. “It’s…hard to recall them now. I remember my father’s great boom of a laugh, and I remember the long red fall of my mother’s hair. Horseplay with my brothers. But when I try to see their faces…” He broke off.
“I’ve often wondered what it would be like to have lived all those centuries. My God, you were there when the Magna Carta was signed.”
“Actually, I think I had a dentist appointment…”
She picked up her pillow and hit him. Laughing, he fended it off before continuing more seriously, “After a while, you learn not to think of how long it’s been.” His voice had acquired an odd cadence, a hint of an accent she couldn’t identify, almost Irish, yet not. “You come to live in a bubble of now, because if you think too much about the past, the sheer weight of it will crush you. You have to focus on the present. The music, the books, television programs, the video games. All those things anchor us. Keeps us…human.”
“Arthur and his Elvis obsession.”
“There you go. Personally, I love television. Especially cop shows.”
“You actually admit to watching television? Most people swear they watch nothing but CNN.”
“Most people say they don’t masturbate either, but they lie.”
She laughed. “So what else do you like to watch?”
He didn’t answer.
“Gawain?”
Deep, even breathing.
The sun must have risen, she realized. He’d fallen into the Daysleep between one breath and the next.
With a sigh, Lark rolled over and curled against Gawain’s muscular ribs. In moments, she, too, was asleep.
Lark woke to her body’s purr of desire. She was enveloped in the scent of warm male, and a hard body spooned the length of her back as she lay on her side. One brawny arm lay possessively around her waist. Her eyes widened as she felt a thick ridge pressing against her panties-clad butt. Even through his blue jeans, it was obvious her bed partner had one heck of an erection.
She lifted her head and looked back over her shoulder at him. The enchanted fire had put itself out, and the room was too dark to make out anything. Either it was night—and Gawain would be awake if it were—or there was a spell shield on the windows. Vampires didn’t actually burst into flame in the sunlight, but they did get really nasty burns, so magical shielding was required.
For a moment, she wished for a flashlight, then remembered her magic. A quick spell, and a tiny globe of light floated on the tips of her fingers.
&nb
sp; Lark sat up, easing regretfully from Gawain’s loose hold. He was in the Daysleep anyway. He wouldn’t wake up until the sun set.
So she turned around and looked at him. And caught her breath as her body’s hum of need grew louder.
Even asleep, with all that thick blond hair tumbled around his face, he looked tough and competent. And his body—she’d never seen a chest like that outside of a hunk-of-the-month calendar. Unlike the hunks, though, he was dusted with blond body hair that somehow made him look more real than their shaved and airbrushed perfection.
In the light of her spell, she suddenly noticed a thin raised line running across his biceps. Looking closer, she saw more of them snaking over his pecs, abdomen, even across his shoulders and down his back. They looked as straight as if someone had laid them out with a ruler. She puzzled over them several minutes before realizing they were scars from old sword wounds that must have predated his becoming a vampire. Anything afterward would have healed whenever he turned into a wolf.
Damn, he’d led a hard life even before he drank from Merlin’s Grail.
Who’d have thought a man who’d been a warrior so many centuries could be so…sweet. She smiled slightly, realizing Gawain would probably hate hearing himself referred to in those terms.
Her gaze drifted down to his groin, where that erection of his still pressed hopefully against his fly. Not even the Daysleep had been able to discourage it. Yet all he’d done was hold her.
She let herself imagine making love to him, feeling that strong body move against hers, that luscious cock sliding deep. His mouth on her throat…Unease rose, but it was paler this morning. As if somehow he’d taught her body to trust him during the night.
“Enjoying the view?” His voice sounded deep and drowsy. Lark looked up at him, surprised, and he gave her a smile. “The sun just set.”
Gawain rolled over onto his back and stretched out his powerful arms as he arched his spine. His washboard belly rippled, and his chest expanded as he gave vent to a jaw-cracking yawn. Lark stared. He seemed to completely fill his aircraft carrier of a bed.
She was still drooling helplessly when he rolled to his bare feet to tower over her. She blinked at his naked torso and listened to her heart pound.
“Hungry?” he asked.
“God, yes.” Lark licked her lips and reached for him.
“Great. How does an omelet sound?” He turned just before her fingers touched him, sauntered to the headboard and scooped up Kel’s scabbard.
“That was not exactly the breakfast I had in mind,” she told him dryly.
“You need to keep up your strength, darling.” Wicked white fangs flashed in his grin. “You’re going to need it.”
After a breakfast that was just as tasty as her abandoned dinner—the man really was a great cook—Lark discovered what he’d meant by that “you’re going to need it” crack. And it wasn’t going to be nearly as much fun as she’d hoped.
“Kel, armor me up please,” Gawain said, as he led the way to the huge round practice chamber that occupied the bottom floor of the house. “Lark, you, too. And blunt your blade.”
Obediently, she conjured a practice weapon, making sure the point was rounded off and the edge nonexistent. Kel grimaced as he morphed the Dragon Sword to match.
Automatically, she looked around, assessing their surroundings as Tristan had taught her. The stone walls threw back ringing echoes that could potentially be deceptive; she made a mental note to watch out for them. Overhead, massive wooden ceiling beams added to the medieval effect of all that rock, while the floor was covered in a thick, soft layer of sawdust they kicked up with each step.
At least it wouldn’t hurt when she fell on her ass.
Despite a jittery suspicion she wasn’t ready for this, Lark called her magic and conjured her armor. She felt it shimmer in around her body, first light as foam, then solidifying until it covered her in sturdy magical plate.
The weight of it instantly brought back the last time she’d worn it. She saw the fireball, felt the sorcerer’s body crushing down on her chest, the pain of fangs ripping into her throat….
“She’s having a flashback,” Kel warned.
“Hey, Lark!” Gawain snapped, dragging her out of her sick preoccupation.
She sucked in a breath and flipped up her visor to see him watching her with concern. Her brows flew upward as she registered what he was wearing.
The knight’s armor was constructed of thousands of tiny interlocking scales that seemed to flow around his big body like water. Intricately designed plate armor covered points of particular vulnerability—his chest, knees, elbows, shins, and forearms. Each solid section was engraved with dragons, soaring or rampant in the attack, wings spread wide, long necks snaking. Protective runes were worked in around the dragons in a language she didn’t recognize. Probably Draconian.
Good God, Lark thought, staring up at him in uneasy awe, he’s bigger than Fangface the Sorcerer. Hell, he’s bigger than a space shuttle. Her unease spiraled in on itself, building into panic. He’s going to kick my ass. He’ll ask Morgana to assign him somebody who isn’t a gutless spastic. And Tristan will disown me.
“Snap out of it,” Gawain said sharply.
“What?” Jolted, she glowered at him, feeling defensive and embarrassed.
“You’re getting worked up again. I can smell it from here.” He raised his own visor and gentled his tone. “Look, this is only a training session, just like the ones you’ve been having with Tristan for the past six months. No big deal.”
Lark gave him a smile that felt a little sickly even to her. “Wouldn’t you rather just have sex?”
“Yeah, actually, now that you mention it. But we could get sent out on a mission any minute, and I don’t want actual combat to be your first time using a sword again. We need to get you over the hump now.”
“You’re right.” She sighed and flipped her visor closed. “I really hate that in a guy.”
“He does that being right thing a lot,” Kel agreed. “Except when he’s wrong, and then he’s even more annoying.”
Despite her anxiety, she found herself grinning. “What’s so annoying about that?”
“He still thinks he’s right.” The tiny dragon grinned back.
Gawain lifted an eyebrow. “Whenever you two are done with the comedy routine, we can get started.”
“If you insist.” But the teasing had relaxed her a little, and she was able to fall into guard as Tristan had taught her, only a light film of sweat dampening her palms.
Instead of charging her as she’d half feared he would, Gawain glided sideways, starting a spiraling pattern she recognized from her practice sessions. Automatically, she slid into a counter circle. For such a tank of a man, he moved with grace, as light on his big feet as a dancer.
In any real fight, he’d eat her alive.
Abruptly, sparks began to gather around Kel, surprising her. That’s right—the dragon could work magic, though for a practice like this, a spell would be more light than force. Even as the energy ball shot toward her, Lark tossed up a shield and ducked aside, letting it splash harmlessly away. Then—what the hell—she moved in to engage her opponent.
Gawain met her with a sword swing she figured was about half speed. Lark parried and hit back, aiming for his right arm. He blocked—again not nearly as hard as she suspected he could. Instead of dancing apart again, they settled into an exchange of sword work that was almost slow enough to qualify as lazy.
Lark caught the flash of his smile through his visor. “Good. You’re getting the rhythm.”
He’s right. This isn’t so bad, she realized, relieved. I can do this…
Steel flashed out of nowhere. Lark jerked up a parry a little too slow. The flat of Gawain’s blade landed against her helm with a sharp thwack!
“Pay attention.”
“Ass,” she muttered inside her ringing helm. Temper steaming just a bit, she sent a blast of light rolling off her left hand and right i
nto his face.
Kel blocked the spell, but in the instant Gawain was dazzled, she came up inside his guard and landed a solid thump alongside his ribs.
Pleased, he nodded. “Good one.”
She didn’t even see the return swing that picked her up and dumped her on her backside hard enough to jar her teeth.
The nerves she’d been so worried about disappeared in a flash of temper. Unhurt thanks to her armor, she rolled to her feet and charged in. He parried, pivoted smoothly aside from her charge, and caught her right on the ass with the flat of his blade. She hit the sawdust on her face.
Growling, she jerked onto all fours and spun to glare at him.
Gawain just watched her calmly. “You know better than that. You get pissed off, you get dead.”
Lark curled her lip, barely even noticing that she wasn’t afraid anymore. She really, really wanted to put him on his butt. Just once. Her left hand fisted in the sawdust…
And gave her an idea.
“Up and at ’em, Lark,” Gawain told her, moving closer.
“Give me a second,” she rasped, dropping her head as if winded.
Just as she’d known he would, he frowned and took another step forward. “Hey, are you…”
Lark shot a spell into her handful of sawdust and flung it at him like a fastball.
Kel didn’t quite shield fast enough. It hit his visor with a wet plop and promptly exploded into goo. Before the dragon could burn it off, Lark surged upward and swung.
This time it was Gawain’s helm that rang like a bell. He hit the ground on his back.
“Yes!” Lark did an impromptu end-zone boogie around his astonished, prostrate body.
He promptly hooked her ankle with his foot and jerked. She tumbled and he pounced, flattening her under his weight.
Flipping up his gooey visor, he growled, “Peanut butter? You took me down with a ball of peanut butter?”
She couldn’t breathe. Weight crushing down on her chest, a fanged face looming over her… Terror jerked her heart into a ball of ice.
“Gawain!” Kel snapped.
“Shit!” He jerked off his helm and threw it aside, then rolled away, lifting his free hand in an I-mean-no-harm gesture. “Lark, baby, it’s me. You’re okay!”
Master of Swords Page 7
