His thumbs hooked into his sword belt, Galahad whistled a bawdy tune as he strolled past clan lords who were clustered together for a hearty debate. Galahad wore his finest tunic—a rich woven linen fabric of maroon and gold, cinched with a leather belt stamped with interconnected lines and knots—a gift from his father when Galahad had left home for Caerleon. He had even bathed and trimmed his beard, wanting to look his best this evening, his hair brushed to a sheen and falling around his shoulders.
The moment he stepped past the visiting lords and their families, his eyes were searching for her. They found Percival instead, who popped into his line of sight, his expression eager. Percival grabbed Galahad’s tunic and gave him a little shake.
“What is it man?” Galahad said with amusement, clapping his sword-brother on his shoulder.
“Wait ‘till ye see her!” Percival said with unadulterated delight. “She’s a beauty. An enchantress. Nae—a goddess!”
The youngest knight’s tongue seemed to trip over itself while searching for the right word. The poor lad was akin to an awkward lamb trying to walk on shaking legs for the first time. And this, just by noticing a woman at a feast. Still, Galahad had no doubt of whom Percival spoke. And when he caught sight of her, his own legs grew shaky. She was all the things Percival had said—and none of them. Because no word could encompass the vision that was their fifth knight.
Fionna stood against the far wall amongst a gaggle of nobles from neighboring chiefdoms, a pewter goblet held daintily in her hand. Her white-blonde hair hung free, cascading in ripples to her waist but for a few pieces pulled back from her temples and braided around the crown of her head. She wore a dress of the deepest blue embroidered in silver, and the shimmering yards flowed over her form like a moonlit river. His eyes snaked up the same path, following her curving hips past her trim waist, leading to firm breasts that begged to be kissed. Her dress bared the milky skin above her plunging bodice line—as though a Roman goddess carved of marble—revealing the faerie necklace nestled atop her cleavage.
“Yer hurting me,” Percival choked, and Galahad turned to him with a start.
“Sorry.” Galahad released his crushing grip on Percival’s shoulder.
The young man rubbed his neck with a grimace. “Not verra sporting to kill yer competition, arsehole.”
“Competition?” Galahad raised an eyebrow. He slung his arm around Percival, leading him toward the head table, where a goblet of wine waited with Galahad’s name on it. “With that little vow of celibacy, I’m not sure you’re even allowed to play the game.”
“There are plenty of ways to play without . . . taking the queen, ye ken,” Percival said, nearly rolling his eyes.
Galahad guffawed. “Been skulking around, listening to the maid’s gossip, have we?” he asked.
Percival was well on his way to becoming a powerful fighter, but in the ways of women, the lad was greener than a newly budding leaf. Stars shone bright in the young man’s eyes, but Percival wasn’t real competition. Not when it came to a woman like Fionna. He’d known a few women like her before, though none so remarkable. She was capable and crafty and above all—in control. She needed a lover to ignite her passion until she blazed white hot, not as a warrior or noble, but as woman set on fire by the kind of searing, breathless pleasure that could only be given by a man. Galahad would be more than happy to fill that role.
“Hardly need to eavesdrop on the maids,” Percival was saying when Galahad pulled out of his head. “Lancelot shares every intimate detail of his exploits. Or at least, he used to.”
That was true. Lancelot had some most interesting conquests. And he was never shy about kissing and telling. Until Morgana that was. “Where is Lancelot?” Galahad craned his neck to take in the crowd, searching for a familiar mop of curly black hair. His sword-brother was conspicuously absent.
“He won’t be joining us,” Arthur said, approaching. The king shone like the high-noon sun in a tunic of gold and black thread, matching the auric tones of the oak-leaf crown resting on his brow.
Galahad frowned, but swallowed the question as Fionna joined them. “I kept waiting for someone to rescue me over there,” she said, blowing out a slow, measured breath.
“Are you now the type of lady who needs rescuing?” Galahad winked.
“I would much rather face a Saxon horde than a grasping clann lord who’s maneuvering for power.”
“We share your sentiments,” Arthur remarked.
Percival flashed Fionna a wicked grin. “Did Lord Tyrin tell ye about his goat breeding program?”
Fionna gaped. “How did ye—”
The knights laughed. “He can talk about his goats for hours,” Galahad said. “Trust me, if he hadn’t yet spouted poetry about the flavor profiles of Cheviot versus Snowdonian goats milk, you are lucky indeed.”
“Isn’t a goat a goat?”
“Nooo.” Arthur shook his head in mock horror. “Never let him hear you say that.”
Fionna heaved a withering sigh. “I do believe I need more wine.”
“See? And ye lads were worried. Our Fionna is already familiar with our ways around here.” Percival threaded his arm through hers, a waggish smile on his proud face. “Regardless of the question, the answer is usually ‘more wine.’”
THE FEAST NOW reveled in full swing. The musicians played a toe-tapping reel, the courses were plentiful, and the company was excellent. Fionna had just finished regaling their group with a tale of one of her fiann mates tangling with an angry mother badger, which had sent them all into roars of laughter. The woman was funny, too? Galahad groaned inwardly. It was hardly fair.
The merry atmosphere between them dimmed slightly, however, when their guest of honor arrived. Alworn had fashioned his long silver hair in a braid, and he had changed into an even more elaborate tunic of white linen beaded in tiny pearls. Galahad stifled a snort. Never had he seen a more impractical garment in all his twenty-four years.
Tucked under his arm, the fae male carried a bottle that piqued Galahad’s interest, though. The ambassador approached the head table where Arthur and the knights sat, inclining his head.
“Little Dragon King,” Alworn began, preferring to use Arthur’s nickname among the Túatha dé Danann. The male’s voice was like snakeskin, smooth yet slithery. “Another gift, to add to tonight’s festivities. Sweet woodruff wine, one of Tintagel’s finest May vintages.” He offered the bottle to Arthur, who took the gift from his outstretched hands.
Arthur dipped his head in answer. “Shall we have a toast?”
A servant hurried over with a tray of fresh goblets and wild strawberries. Alworn came around the table and settled into the empty seat on Fionna’s right as the servant poured the wine, plunking in a wild strawberry or two per May wine tradition.
Galahad accepted a goblet and sniffed the libation with interest, savoring the ambrosial scents of vanilla and honey from the sweet woodruff. He hadn’t much of a nose for wine, preferring ale. But this smelled tasty and brought him back to village days with the Manor Lord who squired him.
Arthur stood and raised his cup. “A toast, to our honored guest, Alworn of Tintagel. To a long and prosperous friendship between our two lands.”
“Hear, hear,” the revelers cried, raising their own cups in answer.
The wine’s taste was even richer than the aroma—the sweet flavor was lush and full on Galahad’s tongue. Utterly intoxicating.
Even Arthur regarded his goblet with an expression of pleasant surprise. “I’ve enjoyed May wine countless times, but I have never tasted one quite like your vintage.”
“I brought a second bottle, Your Majesty.” Alworn leaned in conspiratorially, a wide smile breaking across his pale features. “When you’re ready.”
On Arthur’s other side, Fionna set her goblet down, her pink tongue flicking across her lower lip to capture a stray drop. Heat coursed through Galahad and pooled into a singular ache to know how good that tongue would feel. Would taste. Sharing more st
ories suddenly seemed a waste of an evening. Why weren’t they dancing? He wanted to pull Fionna’s lithe body against his, to feel the fit of her hipbones in his firm grip.
Galahad downed the rest of his May wine in one swallow, pushing back from the table. He strode behind Arthur and held out his hand. “Fionna, would you do me the honor of this dance?”
Fionna looked from his outstretched hand to his face, a flicker of indecision in her eyes. “I’m not sure I know the steps . . .”
“I’ve been told I’m an excellent teacher,” he pressed, not willing to take no for an answer. He needed her in his arms. Yesterday. “And if this is to be your home now, learning a dance or two might come in handy.”
She slinked out of her seat in a graceful arch, laying her hand in his. As soon as their palms touched, a buzz of energy—of awareness—coursed through Galahad and his chest tightened. He led her around the table onto the dance floor, feeling more alive than he had in years. Galahad took her into his arms, tucking her against him more tightly than was strictly necessary.
Her body fit perfectly against his, the warmth of her hands in his, the firm press of her breasts against his chest, her low neckline giving him an excellent view. And gods, the way she shifted against the bulging length of his throbbing cock. He couldn’t breathe. He hissed in a breath when she shifted again. Without her armor on, she was softer, disarmed. A woman—a strong and fearless one, yes—but still tender too. Yielding. And impish. She knew what she was doing to him.
“I believe this is the part where we begin dancing,” Fionna said, amusement sparkling in her eyes. He had been studying her, noticing every freckle, the silver of her eyelashes.
“I thought ye were teaching me,” Galahad said, struggling not to growl the words. His longing for her was pulsing within him like a feral beast, roaring to be set free.
“I believe that’s the opposite of what I was promised,” Fionna pointed out, arching a single pale eyebrow.
“Well, I’m a man who delivers what he promised.” Galahad pulled her tighter against him, running his thumb up the arrow of her spine. “Let’s dance.”
The musicians struck up a slower tune, the melody all the invitation Galahad needed. He pulled her into the steps, moving around the floor, weaving between the other nobles who spun around them. Heat flooded his wildly pounding pulse as they danced. Each time he spun her away, he pulled her back closer and, in such a way, she pressed against his length until he wished there was nothing between them but gasps and moans. The feel of her softness against his hard lines was maddening, her scent of heather and steel a headier concoction than he had ever known. The bodies around them seemed to fade away, and it was only him and her, and one possible end.
Galahad lowered his head to her ear, growling into it, made breathless by his need for her. “You have enchanted me, My Lady, leaving me utterly defenseless against your charms.” He had planned to wait, to bide his time, to woo her as a man should. But his plans were but ash on the wind in the face of the power she had over him. “Come to my chamber with me,” he murmured. “And allow me do the same to you.”
GALAHAD SURROUNDED ME. The pressure of his fingers splayed against my back, the scratch of his beard against my cheek, the heat of his words in my ear. My senses galloped about like an unfettered wild horse. Dance. I needed to focus on dancing. My hand clutched the soft linen of my skirt and I moved to the drumbeat.
Clann wars and power plays by greedy kinsman perpetually decorated me in leather and shields. Not since we visited the High King of Ireland four years past had I worn an elegant dress such as this, or known the melodious footwork inspired by instruments instead of clanging metal on metal. Or received an offer that I hadn’t responded to with a bawdy retort or knife blade to the man’s throat. I can’t remember when I had last received an offer I wanted to accept. And I wanted to accept Galahad’s offer. Badly.
My lungs seemed to press against the ties of my dress. Was the large hearth stoked too hot?
My feet had a mind of their own, happily following Galahad across the dance floor.
“From your silence, I believe you’re considering my invitation,” Galahad said with a little laugh. A pleasant buzz tingled down to my slippers at the husky sound.
I really shouldn’t. But oh, how I really should. I was wading through the argument in my heated, sluggish mind when the music stopped, breaking the spell. The crowd clapped politely while dance partners bowed to one another. I pulled back from Galahad, relieved as cool air flooded the space between us.
“I need to sit, Sir.” I tore my hand from his grip and my gaze from the intense expression on his flushed face.
He was like a man possessed at the sight of me, and the aroused expression he wore both thrilled and frightened me in turn. I took a much-needed deep breath, trying to slow my heart’s staccato beat. Getting involved with Galahad romantically would be a terrible idea, I told myself. No matter how toe-curling our dalliance might be. My body protested, however, refusing to relinquish its memory of his strength and vitality as he pressed his hard-muscled chest to mine. Goddess help me, I would need a cold bath tonight. But first, a chair.
I rounded the head table toward my blessed seat in a rush. My thoughts were so tangled that I didn’t notice a body blocking my escape until I ran right into its solidity. “Percival!”
“Fionna . . .” Instead of flashing a smile and cracking a joke, as I was coming to learn was his way, he snaked a strong arm around my waist and threaded his other hand through my hair. Percival pulled me flush against him, tugging my hair so my head tilted back, my lips at the perfect angle for kissing.
The quick bite of pain in my scalp shocked me, but nothing surprised me so much as the expert way Percival seemed to fit me against his body. A bolt of desire coursed through me. Any other man might have received a knee to the groin for his impertinence, but I balked, trying to reconcile the smoldering heat in this man’s brown eyes with the playful Percival I knew.
“Percival!” I pushed against his chest, pulling in a ragged breath. His scent of bergamot and sage washed over me, fresh and clear. “Have ye lost yer wits?”
“Ye have bewitched me, lass. There’s only one way I will be free from yer spell.”
Dread fluttered in my belly at his strange words. My heart thundered as though a mere yearling in battle, feet frozen to the blood-soaked ground. But I was a battle-hardened warrior who knew how to listen to the warnings in her gut.
I pushed harder against his chest. “What about yer vow? The Grail?”
“My vow means nothing. There is nae dish I would rather drink from than ye.”
He wasn’t talking sense. I shook my head, my heart sinking into my churning stomach. Something was definitely wrong. “Percival, no. I’m returning to my seat.” I shoved my elbow against him, breaking his hold on me.
Thankfully, he released me, but not without a pained expression on his face. I hurried to my seat, crumpled onto the ebony wood, and then hid my shaking hands under my thighs. What was going on? Galahad had been forward, yes, but I knew he was attracted to me. I had seen his interest when we sparred. But Percival?
“Are you well, My Lady?” Alworn leaned over to me, concern written on his ageless face.
“No need for worry.” I struggled to paste on a smile. “A friend is acting a wee bit strange, nothing more.”
“Perhaps he can’t hold his wine.” Alworn touched a hand to his chest. “I hear tell it’s a problem some mortals have.”
I chanced a look to the dance floor, where Galahad and Percival now danced with new partners. The knights’ flushed faces pressed close to the women’s own, a preternatural gleam in their eyes.
A faintly predatory smile teased Alworn’s lips. He hadn’t touched the wine in his own goblet or the food on his plate.
“Remind me, what kind of wine did ye gift?” I asked.
“Sweet Woodruff. A special May blend.”
I nodded slowly, my thoughts racing. Alworn was an emiss
ary from Morgana and her sisters. Wasn’t this the family Lancelot had offended by breaking his engagement to Morgana? What if this wasn’t a diplomatic visit at all, but a veiled attack? The blood drained from me, the rich food roiling in my stomach. Had Arthur and his knights been poisoned? But no, Galahad and Percival didn’t seem ill. They only acted strangely. And I had drank the wine, and I felt fine.
I needed to talk to Arthur and warn him that something might be amiss. But how, with the ambassador sitting next to us? I turned to Arthur, who watched the dancing, his chin resting on a fist. “Yer Majesty, would ye do me the honor of a dance?”
Arthur was on his feet in a blink, his hand out to me.
I started at his sudden movement, but stood cautiously, placing my hand in his long fingers. His hand felt warm—feverishly hot.
As we approached the dance floor, the other revelers began to clear for their king to claim the floor.
“Carry on!” Arthur called out, and then gestured to the musicians to take up a tune once again. As a lovely ballad began, Arthur wrapped his arm around my waist like a vise.
My breath hitched in surprise.
He leaned in, his voice low and purring in my ear. “Less prying eyes this way.” His hard cock pressed into my stomach.
My whispered warning died on my lips. By the goddess, Arthur was infected too!
We began to dance, my mind racing for a solution.
“You are more beautiful than a starlit night,” Arthur murmured, burying his face into the crook of my neck. “Your hair like the fall of moonlight on a snowy field.”
Skies above, I couldn’t concentrate with his whispered poetry. Still, I tried to remember what I had learned about faeries. All I recalled were children’s stories and fireside myths. I had no idea how to break the spell of tainted faerie wine. And if I didn’t, would my knights dance and dance until their feet fell off? Was that Morgana’s plan?
And then two conflicting realizations struck me like bolts of lightning. First, I had thought of them as “my” knights. When had they become mine? Second, Arthur was addled beyond belief. Now would be a perfect time to steal Excalibur and get the hell out of Caerleon. Arthur and his knights wouldn’t be able to pursue me for some time. Zephyr and I could be on the next boat for Ireland before Arthur even stopped dancing. If he stopped dancing. Guilt needled at me. I couldn’t really leave him like this, could I? Leave all of them like this?
Gwenevere's Knights- The Complete Knights of Caerleon Trilogy Page 10
