by Ines Johnson
“We’ve already told you,” said Lance. “There’s a Templar after the Philosopher’s Stone. But it’s a pipe dream. Humans will never be able to transmute things. Even Morgan said so.”
“Do we know where this man is?” asked Arthur.
“He’s gone to ground,” said Lance. “If he surfaces, our informants will get word to us.”
“Interesting story about that one, though,” said Percy. “He bagged a Banduri a few decades ago. Even went so far as to marry her. Can you imagine the children?”
Arthur couldn’t. Templars considered Banduri fake witches, but witches nonetheless. How a romance could evolve from two such opposing sides baffled him.
“But like we said,” Percy continued. “Malegant Accolon is not a concern at present. Though seriously, anyone who calls themselves Malegant needs to be locked up.”
“Face it, Arthur,” said Lance. “This is a time of peace.”
They were right. Peace is what Arthur wanted so that he could enjoy his new bride. He needed peace for his wedding. He needed that peace to hold weeks after the wedding night while he got to know his bride properly. The thought of stripping Morgan down to her bare flesh and curves once again tightened his body.
“Easy there,” said Lance.
Arthur looked down to see that his knuckles were white as they gripped the table.
“Never imagined her for you,” said Percy. “Figured someone more docile, quiet, and nurturing.”
Arthur would’ve thought the same. Truth was he hadn’t truly contemplated marriage, not until Morgan was in his arms behind the family flags. Now, he couldn’t think of anyone else being his betrothed.
“Lady Morgan is nurturing in her own way,” said Tristan. “She loves to teach the children.”
“How to blow things up,” said Percy. “She’s always been my favorite.”
“She’s quiet when she has a book or a beaker in her hand,” said Tristan.
“And who wants a docile chit in the bedroom, eh?” said Percy.
Arthur gave Percy a stony glare. It didn’t cow him. Percy’s grin spread.
“I think our fearless leader might be in love,” cooed Percy.
“We don’t talk about any witch in that way,” said Arthur.
The witch in question had made her getaway and was headed to him. Arthur held out his hand to her and like a magnet, she came to him. He felt the pull between them, that invisible force snapping them back into place.
“I will murder you in your sleep if you do that to me again,” were her words of devotion.
Arthur chuckled as he tucked her into the chair beside him. Just barely stopping himself from pulling her onto his lap.
“Am I allowed at the big boys' table now?” she said.
“You’re to be my wife.” He loved the sound of that. “Your place is at my side wherever I might be.”
“Does that mean I get to come into the Throne Room? Or the weapons room? Oh, can I learn the secret handshake?”
“There is no secret handshake,” said Arthur.
“Loren said there was,” said Morgan.
“She lied,” said Lance.
“She did try to institute one,” said Tristan. “But she kept changing it and no one could remember.”
Morgan and the knights fell into an easy conversation. People continued to stop by and congratulate them. Arthur kept a firm hold on Morgan, not allowing any more old biddies to pull her away again. Not that he was afraid of being murdered by her in his sleep. Because he simply wanted her there.
He watched her laugh, watched her eat, watched her listen to those around her with attentiveness. She relaxed back into him as she did. It felt natural. Perhaps this was a love match? Whatever it was, he was happy and he had no intention of letting her go.
22
“Why can’t this just be a casual affair? You know, a barbecue out on the jousting fields. Dancing in the dining hall. Didn’t a few of the squires form a band? They could play.”
Aghast didn’t begin to describe the looks that the elder women of Camelot gave Morgan.
“You’d have such a momentous occasion as the union of our Lord be done in the backyard with plastic cups and spicy tomato sauce?”
Morgan knew the answer to that question was no. Though it actually sounded pretty good to her.
“Isn’t this wedding my day?” she tried instead. “Isn’t this about me and Arthur? Not the whole town?”
The women looked from her to each other as though she were spouting an alien tongue.
“I’m going to be terrible at this, aren’t I?” she said to Gwin after the women released her to plan her wedding on their own.
“You are going to be brilliant like you always are,” said Gwin. “They’ll simply have to get used to your flair. You’re the Lady of the Castle now.”
The first part of Gwin’s statement had sounded upbeat and light. But the second part, the part where she signed over the duties she’d held for the last half-century, sounded leadened.
“Am not,” said Morgan.
“Are too,” Gwin chided, her voice still caught in the downbeat. “You’re marrying the Lord of the Castle, which makes you the Lady.”
“I don’t have any magic to reinforce the covenant.”
As she said it, Morgan’s attention went to her gut, that place where all witches’ and wizards’ magic resided. Her gut had been hollow for months. But today it was warm, not burning and brimming as it had been every day of her life as a powerful witch. The only thing that had changed in her life was her feeling for Arthur. She supposed that now he would take up that space there.
“That’s where people are mistaken.” Gwin shook her head. “The magic is in the bond, not the person. And it’s clear that you and Arthur have forged a very strong, very special bond.”
Gwin’s look was a bit green. Morgan never knew her sister to envy anyone or have an ounce of jealousy. She was the most giving and caring person likely in the universe. Which was the reason she hadn’t married the man she truly loved.
Gwin’s marriage to Merlin had been arranged. She’d had little choice in it, down to the color of her dress. She’d gone along willingly, repeating her mother’s words that this was for the good of their society and that Merlin needed her.
All of which was true. The marriage was good for Camelot in bringing people together. Merlin did need her healing powers. Beneath her smile, Morgan knew her sister secretly would’ve preferred a different path. Just as they didn’t speak of Merlin, they also didn’t speak of Gwin’s feelings for Lancelot.
Morgan knew that her sister flourished in the role as Lady of the Castle. And so Morgan would not take her one true happiness from her.
“Lady of the Castle is your role. You married the eldest Pendragon. You’re still his wife. You both made and kept your vows. You’ll keep that title even after he dies.”
Conflict deepened the grooves of Gwin’s pretty features.
“You know I’m not cut out for that job,” said Morgan. “I tried to tell Arthur.”
“I think Arthur mostly wants you as a wife.”
Morgan felt a blush rise to her face. She would be Arthur’s wife soon. She knew the kiss they’d shared was only the beginning. She’d felt his powerful body against hers and knew there was so much more to the new role she’d agreed to take.
“Do you realize that Lady of the Castle is a job where you have to sleep with someone to get the gig?” Morgan chuckled.
Once again, Gwin turned green. But Morgan suspected there was no jealousy this time.
“I take it you didn’t enjoy the bed sports part of your marriage duties?” said Morgan.
“Morgan, that’s personal.”
“It’s gonna happen to me soon. You have to tell me what to expect.”
“Mother will do that.”
“Mother already did that.”
They both cringed at the memory of their mother’s sex education lessons. Unlike in the human world, the talk was a stan
dard and expected practice with all young witches. Somewhere along the lines of history, human women were taught that their bodies were shameful. That knowledge never passed to witches and they learned that their bodies, like their magic, were gifts that they had to master.
Still, their mother, Gwynfar, was not the ideal teacher. She was very clinical in her explanations. While Morgan knew the physical ins and outs of coitus, she had no clue about the emotional or spiritual side. And wasn’t that funny. The scientist who preferred facts above all else craved experiential knowledge.
“Were you overcome with passion that first time?” asked Morgan.
“I … We …”
“Or was it disgusting? Did it hurt?”
Gwin fidgeted, looking away from Morgan.
“That bad?” Morgan chewed at her lip. “The first time is said to be uncomfortable. But they say it gets better with time.”
Now Gwin chewed her lip and fluttered her hands as though she were looking for something, anything else to occupy herself.
“It didn’t get better for you, did it? The bastard. I bet Lance would’ve been a great lover.”
As if on cue, the man in question turned a corner. He walked beside Constance Bors. Lance leaned down to Constance, tilting his ear toward her mouth. After Constance spoke, Lance pulled away with a grin on his lips. They both laughed and continued on their way down the hall, neither having seen the Galahad sisters.
“What kind of lover Sir Lancelot is, or is not, is none of my business.” Gwin smoothed out the pleats of her skirts. Then, without another word, she folded her hands at her middle and walked in the opposite direction of the couple.
Morgan stood still. Her mind focused on a single direction. The whole idea of a wedding night was ridiculous. When the bride and groom left the wedding party, the entire guest list knew exactly what they were getting up to. No wonder there was performance anxiety. At least no one displayed bloodied sheets the morning after the wedding to prove a woman’s virginity as they’d done in medieval times.
The planning of the wedding was already getting out of hand. The whole day of the event—or weekend if the women of the town had their way—would be exhausting. It would have nothing to do with her or Arthur. It would be about everyone else, as Morgan was summarily informed moments ago.
Everyone had witnessed her first proposal and it had been a disaster. Her second proposal, which had been perfect, had been about her, and only she had been witness. Her first time with Arthur in bed should be a private matter that no one knew about.
The sun was setting out of the picture window in the Great Hall. Morgan saw a trickle of bodies headed toward the castle from the path that led into the town square. The dinner bell would ring soon. She had just enough time to enact her plan.
Morgan hurried to her room. Did a quick wash. Took considerably longer to find an outfit and change before slipping out of her room.
She headed for the stair, but she didn’t go down. Instead, she went up. Up to a corner of the castle, she’d never once visited before.
It was an ordinary looking door. Oak maybe? Old but not a single sign of rot. It looked like it was still living and soaking up nutrients from the soil beneath the castle.
The door was unlocked. Of course, it was unlocked. The great Arthur had very little fears, to begin with, and definitely nothing to fear inside his home. Morgan shut the door behind her and looked around the room.
It was as though she’d walked outside into the forest on a cool day. The interior of the room was done in deep brown and mahogany. The posts of the four poster bed reached up to the ceiling and stretched down to the floor, as though it was carved from the same tree as the door. A deep green blanket covered the bed.
All around the room were accents of colorful tapestries; lush reds, vibrant yellows, stunning oranges. It reminded Morgan of the interior of a sheik’s tent. Which was fitting since Arthur was the ancestor of desert nomads.
Morgan heard the shower stop. She hadn’t noticed that the water had been running. The patter of drops had fit in the oasis of a room. Now that she heard Arthur padding around behind the bathroom door she lost her nerve.
Too late. The door to the bathroom opened and Arthur stepped out. Feet bare, torso glistening, only a damp towel wrapped around his waist to preserve his modesty.
He ran a second towel through his hair, which was why he didn’t see her immediately. When he pulled the towel down his face and over his beard, his gaze finally met hers.
He didn’t startle. There was some surprise in his gray gaze, tinged with a hint of curiosity. He tossed the hair towel back into the bathroom and turned to her, smiling patiently, waiting for her to speak.
“I’ve made a decision,” said Morgan.
Arthur lifted an eyebrow and sighed. He padded over to her, stalking her slowly like a big cat. She hadn’t noticed how big he was until this very moment. His broad shoulders filled her vision. The heat coming off of him turned the room humid.
“It’s too late to back out,” he said as he prowled.
“Oh, no. No. You’re stuck with me.” She took a deep breath, her lungs filling with the spicy scent of his soap. “I’ve decided I don’t want to wait.”
“To be married? We can’t elope. The town wants a grand wedding.”
Arthur captured a strand of her hair between two fingers and rubbed. He’d kissed her just the other night. He’d held her close this morning in the dining hall. But watching him roll a few strands of her hair between his thumb and forefinger somehow constricted her chest, making her breaths go shallow and her pulse race. She may have imagined it, but she thought she saw sparks between them, like the connection was a living, breathing thing.
“I’m not talking about the ceremony,” she said.
Arthur was busy concentrating on the curl of her hair. Slowly, realization dawned. He let the strands of her hair slip through his fingers, and he took a step back.
“It’s supposed to hurt the first time,” said Morgan. “Not because of the woman’s hymen. That’s an erroneous belief. I know it’s because the penis entering the body for the first time is an adjustment.”
Arthur choked as though he’d taken a swallow of something spicy and it went down the wrong pipe. He took a couple more steps back until the backs of his knees hit the edge of his bed. He dropped down onto the mattress as though hit by a truck.
“My body will need to stretch to learn to accommodate you,” Morgan said. “My proposal is that we begin the process now so I’ll be stretched enough to enjoy the actual wedding night.”
“Your research is flawed.” Arthur found his voice. “I would never hurt you, Morgan.”
“Prove it.” Morgan made her way over to him.
Arthur held up his hands as though to ward her off. “I am not taking your virginity before we say our vows.”
“One,” Morgan held up her index finger, “I’m sharing this experience with you. You’re not taking or plundering my bounty like some carnal conqueror. Two,” she added her middle finger to her index finger, “we can say vows now if it makes you comfortable.”
Arthur said nothing.
“What is it with men and virgins?” Morgan huffed. “My virginity doesn't belong to you. It’s not a commodity. I know how to pleasure myself, you know. I’ve grown up around witches.”
Now, he groaned. He turned his body away from her, but there wasn’t anywhere he could escape. To his left and right were the posts of his bed. Behind him was the vast expanse of his mattress. Standing before him was the woman who was destined to join him in that bed someday. Morgan was determined this would be that day.
“I don’t like the unknown,” she said. “I don’t like things beyond my control. Can’t we just get it over with now? So I’ll know what to expect later.”
“Get it over with?” Now he faced her. Indecision replaced with righteous indignation. “When I’m inside you, I plan to stay for days.”
“That’s not possible,” she said. “T
he average erection lasts thirteen minutes.”
“I’m no average man.”
“I say again; prove it.”
23
This was not how Arthur had planned for his night to go. He’d taken a cold shower trying to chill the fever that had taken over him since that kiss. That kiss when he’d finally taken her into his arms and had the first of many tastes.
Arthur had planned to take it slow with her. She was an innocent, though she’d kissed him like she’d been hungering for him for years, centuries.
It had been first a nibble. Then she’d taken a bite out of him. And now she wanted the full course. That was not on the planned menu.
But when did anything ever go as planned with Morgan? The witch never did as she was told. Well, she’d have to learn to mind him now that she would be his wife. And that lesson would start now.
Morgan reached out to touch him.
Arthur caught her hand. Was it proof she wanted? He’d give her a few facts and then leave the problem to be solved on their wedding knight.
“Be a good girl,” he said.
Those lush lips turned down in a frown, making Arthur’s mouth water. With his free hand, he captured her face. With her cheek in the palm of his hand, he pulled her to him and took a bite of his own.
Her lips were parted. She had been ready to say something, to offer a retort to his command. But it was lost in the wanton tangle of tongues, in the light touching of teeth.
With the hand at her chin, Arthur pulled her closer. Bending and twisting her head to his will. With the hand that held hers, he placed her palm over his heart so that she would feel its powerful pounding and come to understand just how strong his desire for her was. More importantly, that she would understand the enormous amount of will he exerted to control it.
But she was Morgan. He should’ve known that if he went right, she’d charge ahead. So as he focused on the north, she went south.
