It was true. His booted feet were stirring.
“Nice to see the fall didn’t injure your sunny disposition.” Galahad smirked.
“Ye fool man,” Fionna said. “I had the faerie boar.”
“You’re welcome,” Lancelot muttered, and then slowly, with Arthur’s help, he climbed to his feet, his back hunched.
Arthur wrapped Lancelot’s arm around his shoulders, holding his weight, and helped him walk.
After hobbling over to his horse, Lancelot sagged against the saddle, beads of sweat breaking out on his pale face. “I’m not sure I can mount,” he admitted.
But luckily, the horses of Caerleon were well trained animals. Arthur tapped behind Cheval’s knee, signaling for the stallion to kneel.
Galahad and Percival came around the other side and, between the three of them, they maneuvered Lancelot onto the horse.
Fionna stood back, her face a painted mask of anger and worry.
A crow’s shrill caw broke through the silence, startling Arthur. He looked up and spotted a large black bird sitting atop Twrch Trwyth’s corpse, regarding them with a beady eye.
A shiver ran up Arthur’s spine as he studied the crow. There was something about it—the body was too big, the eye too sharp. The bird’s caw too much like mocking laughter.
“A carrion crow has already arrived,” Galahad mumbled. “Strange. The beast’s foul blood is still warm. Are animals growing that hungry?”
“Make for Maesbury Marsh,” Arthur said, ignoring Galahad. “Find the nearest inn. I’ll meet you there.”
“Meet us—” Fionna wrinkled her smooth brow. “Why won’t ye come with us?”
“Someone needs to retrieve the tusks.” Arthur nodded to the body of the great boar. “Merlin gave us directions to a bone carver. Well, now we have a bone to carve.”
“Ye shouldn’t stay alone,” Fionna protested, hesitating. The others had already mounted and were now waiting at the edge of a copse. “Twrch Trwyth should have traveled south to Caerleon, not north of Talgarth. The faerie monster knew where to find us.”
“I’ll not be far behind,” Arthur said. “See to Lancelot’s comfort. Ride with him, and make sure he doesn’t fall off. He doesn’t look too stable.” A stab of jealousy shot through Arthur at the thought of Fionna doting on Lancelot, soothing his hurt and comforting him. He shoved the feelings down viciously. His friend had nearly died. Was Arthur truly so petty to begrudge him a tender hand or a kind word?
Fionna nodded, uncertain, but followed his command. “Don’t tarry long, My King,” she said, looking back at the great white body and the black bird perched atop the muscular flesh. Then, she crossed over to Lancelot—who sagged forward while astride his horse—and pulled herself up behind him, reaching around his slumped frame to take the reins.
Arthur turned to the task at hand as they left. The boar. And the crow.
He picked up a rock, testing the weight in his hand. And then he hurled the stone right at the bird.
The crow launched into the air with a raucous laugh as the rock sailed by without a hit.
“Get out of here!” he shouted, picking up another rock and throwing it.
The crow flapped its wings, hopping off the corpse and onto the ground.
Arthur leaned over to retrieve another rock and faltered as the sound of hushed whispers reached his ears. The air around him grew cold for a moment and he straightened, his hand on Excalibur. There was magic afoot.
Dark shadows swirled around the crow, stirring the leaves and pine needles beneath its black talons. And then those talons became black boots, feathers became fabric—and the swirl of magic became Morgana. In the flesh. Standing before him.
She wasn’t natural—his half-sister. Her face too wan, her movements too sinuous, her form too sleek and curved to be human. She wore a black dress slashed with deep violet, and her black hair hung over one shoulder in loose curls. How Lancelot had ever felt safe to court this faerie, he knew not. She was desirable, that was plain for any man to see. But she was also terrifying.
“Brother,” she said, a secret smile on her face. “Did you have to kill my pet?” She leaned down and dipped one delicate finger into the cooling blood on Twrch Trwyth’s coat, before drawing a black line from her collarbone to down between her breasts.
Arthur kept his eyes fixed on her face. If she was here to unnerve him, he wouldn’t give her the satisfaction. “I’m afraid your pet”—he spit the word—“escaped from its yard and strayed into my lands.”
Morgana sulked, looking at the boar. “You were always far too serious. Do you never have fun?”
“None of this is fun, Morgana,” Arthur grit slowly, his jaw clenched as anger surged within him. “People’s lives are at stake.”
“Human lives.”
“Yes, human lives.” He opened his hands before her, pleading. “Sister, what Lancelot did to you was unforgivable. But don’t punish the people of Caerleon. You punished me. You played your jest on me by locking Excalibur in its sheath. You cursed Caerleon, poisoning her waters. Now you send this faerie boar? Enough, Morgana. Your grief is acknowledged. Two curses is enough.” He hadn’t been able to speak to her since the night of Lancelot’s betrayal. Perhaps she had calmed down. Perhaps he could reason with her . . . get her to remove the curse—
“Two curses?” She threw her head back and laughed, her shriek sounding eerily like the crow’s caw.
Arthur frowned, his hand straying back toward Excalibur. Was she mad?
“Two curses.” Her lips curled in a wicked grin as she sauntered toward him, every sway of her hips calculated. “My poor foolish brother. You don’t even know about the third curse, do you?” Her violet-hued eyes flashed with humor.
Arthur froze. “Do not mock me. What is this third curse of which you speak?”
“King of Caerleon, overking of Gwent, the Pendragon of Briton.” She cocked her head, as if a bird angling to better see their prey. “So many titles, yet still you cannot inspire the loyalty of even those closest to you.”
“You lie.” Though, her words stung like salt in a wound.
“Do I?” She traced a fingernail down the drying line of boar’s blood on her chest. “I do not think so. Whether kings or paupers, mortals are squabbling idiots. They are not fit to rule.”
Morgana leaned over in a graceful arc and picked up an object from the dirt of the forest floor that glinted in the low light of dusk.
His crown.
He swallowed, stilling his hand at his side, refusing to touch his brow like he wanted.
“You and your treacherous father may have fooled Vivien, but the faeries of Tintagel see the truth of you, Arthur Pendragon. You are weak. You are failing. And soon enough, you will be nothing.” She tossed the crown at his feet with a contemptuous motion. And then the whispers and dark enveloped her, and she was a crow once again.
The great bird cawed in delight, swooping toward him.
Arthur threw an arm up and ducked as Morgana’s crow dove where his head had just been, before winging toward the dipping sun in the darkening sky.
He took in a deep shuddering breath as he watched her disappear, the ebony of her form melding into the black shadows of the forest.
Arthur leaned over slowly and picked up his crown, turning the gold circlet in his hands. A clod of dirt was caught between two prongs. He brushed it off and buffed it on his tunic. There.
He placed Gwent’s crown back onto his head with shaking hands before pulling Excalibur from its sheath. He turned to the boar and began cutting, trying with all his power not to think upon the words now echoing in his mind.
A third curse.
LANCELOT WANTED TO weep with relief when the first lantern light of Maesbury Marsh came into view. Every swaying step of Cheval’s walk was torture. Shooting pain seared up his spine and down into his legs.
He hadn’t been thinking. When he had seen Fionna standing there, so small compared to the might of the boar . . . his mind had fled com
pletely. He would have done anything in that moment to keep her from harm. Even, it appeared, sacrifice himself.
It was a surprising feeling, this gallantry that had come over him. Surprising and bloody dangerous. The type of foolhardy action he would expect from Percival or Galahad. Not from himself.
The only good thing to have come out of this whole debacle was how Fionna was now sitting behind him, her arms wrapped around his waist.
Lancelot ground his teeth through the pain, trying to focus his mind instead of the feel of her breasts pressed into his back, the way her strong thighs moved beside his, the sweet yet herbaceous smell of her. Fionna’s hot breath tickled his neck and his cock stirred painfully against his breeches. He muttered a muffled curse. So much for distracting himself.
“An inn,” Galahad called out, pointing at the swinging sign that hung from a sturdy two-story timber and white-washed structure ahead. He let out a boom of laughter. “You’ll love this. ‘The Dancing Boar.’”
Lancelot hissed. “If I never saw another boar, it would be too soon.”
“Are ye in pain?” Fionna’s words were knitted with concern.
“What do you think?” he snapped.
He felt her stiffen behind him, and he closed his eyes against his stupidity. No need to take his frustration out on her.
“Serves ye right,” he heard her mutter under her breath.
“What?” Lancelot asked incredulously, trying to turn to regard her with disbelief. But the pain exploded through his back and radiated through his legs, stealing his breath. A groan escaped his lips when his chest loosened, and he tilted in the saddle, suddenly dizzy and unsteady.
Fionna caught him, her arms circling him like a ship’s rail, keeping him from plunging to his doom below. She reined Cheval to a stop before The Dancing Boar. “Can you hold yerself while I dismount?”
Lancelot grunted a nod.
Fionna swung down from his horse. “Galahad, Percival, will ye help?”
Embarrassment warmed Lancelot’s face as the knights helped him off Cheval and into the inn. The Dancing Boar’s common room was a cheerful, tidy wood-paneled room filled with chatting and laughing townsfolk. A lute player sat by the hearth, plucking out a jaunty tune, and several couples spun and danced in the space before the yawning fireplace.
Lancelot tried to ignore the curious faces who peered at him as he sucked the breath in and out through his clenched teeth. The room felt too hot, and then too cold.
“All right,” Percival said, appearing in front of Lancelot’s line of vision. When had the lad left his side? “I secured us two rooms on the ground floor. Let’s go.”
Lancelot shuffled through the common room, much of his weight leaning on Galahad on one side, Percival on the other. In some corner of his consciousness, he saw the looks cast Fionna’s way—appreciative . . . predatory. He wanted to face them down, to tell each man to place their eyes elsewhere lest they have them plucked out. But he was in no shape to intimidate anyone.
They pushed into the small room, just large enough for a two-person bed, a storage chest, and a little cupboard. Galahad and Percival lowered him down as gently as they could, but still the jostling sent stabbing pain through his body. “Easy,” Lancelot panted, finally letting his head collapse back on the pillow. The bed was hard and lumpy, but it was blessedly still.
Lancelot opened his eyes and saw the other knights standing in a line, regarding him with worried eyes. “He shouldn’t ride,” Galahad was murmuring. “He likely bruised his spine or the muscles in his back.”
“We need him,” Percival said. “The standing stone said the blessed five.”
Galahad frowned. “We’ll have to wait.”
“Arthur won’t be happy about that,” Percival murmured.
“Arthur can stuff it,” Fionna said. Her voice grew soft. “But can Caerleon wait?”
“Quit talking about me like I’m not here,” Lancelot practically barked. “I had a fall, I’m not dead. Give me more than five minutes to shake off the injury.”
Galahad squinted his eyes. “His head seems in working order.”
“And his attitude,” Percival added.
“Should we find a chirurgeon?” Fionna asked. “Perhaps he could supply a tonic for the pain and swelling.”
“Excellent idea,” Galahad said. “I’ll see if I can locate one. Percival, you see to the horses, and keep an eye out for Arthur?”
“Fine,” Percival sighed. “But then I’m having an ale.”
“Get me one of those too,” Lancelot demanded hoarsely. A cold ale sounded heavenly.
Fionna pressed her lips together. “I’ll stay here and make sure he doesn’t do anything heroic.”
“Little chance of that with the frosty reception I received last time,” Lancelot shot back. “You’re welcome, Your Highness.”
“Oooh . . .” Percival’s eyes grew wide.
“Let’s leave them to it,” Galahad said, pulling Percival from the room.
Fionna closed the door behind them, rounding on Lancelot, her hands on her hips. It wasn’t fair to face her like this—her standing strong and proud—while he lay prone like an invalid.
“What do ye have to say for yerself?” she asked, crossing her arms beneath her breasts.
“I saved your life!” he shouted. “And nearly died in the process. I suppose it’s too much to expect a little gratitude from the great and might Fionnabhair Allán.”
“Ye didn’t save my life, ye arrogant donkey!” Fionna shouted back. “I had the boar in my sights. I had a plan. I was ready for the beast.”
“Apologies for not reading your mind, My Lady. What I saw was an eight-stone woman about to be trampled by a supernatural beast the size of two war horses!”
Fionna reared back, her smooth face darkening with fury. “That’s all ye see when ye look at me? A frail woman who needs protecting?”
“No—” he protested, but she cut him off.
“Would you have pushed Galahad out of the way? Arthur?”
Lancelot bit his tongue. No, he wouldn’t have. He would have trusted his fellow knights’ training. But they knew the risks. They had trained for years. But so had Fionna, though not under his tutelage. So why had he felt the need to dive between her and the faerie boar?
“Curse it Lancelot, I’m a knight first, a woman second! When will ye get it through yer thick skull that I don’t need ye to save me?”
Lancelot warred with himself, refusing to meet her sparking gaze. Bloody hell, he knew why. Hissing through the pain, he struggled to push himself to a seat. Some words shouldn’t be spoken while lying down—this moment no different.
But Fionna was at his side in an instant. Her angry words were all but forgotten, gentleness and care taking resentment’s place as she pushed him back down onto the bed. “Don’t move,” she said softly. “Ye could injure yerself worse.”
Lancelot squeezed his eyes closed for a several heartbeats before meeting her piercing, silver-hued eyes. “I didn’t push you out of the boar’s path because I thought you weak, or female, or unable to defend yourself. I did it because . . . the thought of losing you terrified me beyond reason. I acted on instinct.”
Fionna licked her lips as she processed his words. When she spoke, her voice wavered. “And do ye not think it terrified me to see ye lying there? To know not if ye were still alive? I have fought beside my brothers and sisters countless times, yet never did I know the fear I experienced today. If ye were dead . . .” A tear glistened at the corner of her eye, clinging to her white lashes.
Gods, she was beautiful like this. Raw and real, even more formidable in her vulnerability. Lancelot drew a hand up and cupped her cheek, wiping the tear with the pad of his thumb. Her skin was as soft as silk, as smooth as he had imagined.
She tilted her head into his palm, her eyes fluttering closed.
And then she opened them and reached out to brush a stray curl from his forehead. Her touch burned like sweet cinnamon, and their eyes loc
ked. Sensations, as dark and sensual as a new moon, doused their fiery pulses with even darker desires. Fionna leaned forward, and awareness surged within him anew as her curtain of white braids swept around him, and then her lips caressed his.
Though the kiss was tender and sweet, almost chaste, her touch set his blood racing like he was a lad of sixteen, like this was his first taste of a woman. Energy and warmth surged through him, dulling the pain, banishing each wince and pang from his thoughts, from his body. For what other sensation could compete with the feel of her? Goddess, take me now.
“Fionna,” he murmured against her lips.
“I do not mean to lose ye, Lancelot du Lac,” she whispered back. Fionna pulled away a few inches, her lips and cheeks flushed. “Not now, not ever.”
Her soft words wrapped around his lonely heart, and he nearly started at the foreign feel of genuine devotion. Acceptance. Brushing her lips across his once more, she smiled before nestling gently against him, her head tucked against his shoulder.
Lancelot stared at the shadowed ceiling and stroked her silken hair, her words echoing within him. No, she would never lose him. For Morgana had ensured that he would never be hers in the first place.
I WOKE TO Lancelot stirring beside me. His warm presence was a comfort I was unused to enjoying; I had never slept beside anyone but Aideen. My heart spasmed painfully as I thought of my sister. Surely Arthur’s messenger was already on his way to Lough Insholin to treat with Donal O’Lynn. I prayed Arthur’s coffers were deep enough to secure my family’s safety.
Lancelot’s blue eyes blinked open beside me, and I banished thoughts of home. If I was to help my family, I needed to see this quest through. And to do that, we needed Lancelot well again.
“How are ye feeling?” I asked, laying a feather-light hand on his arm. I felt strange—touching him. As though I wasn’t sure I could do so, that I wouldn’t be scorned or have my head bitten off per his usual response toward me. But after last night’s kiss, surely laying a hand on him was allowed, if not welcome.
Lancelot pushed himself to a seat gingerly. One hand strayed to his back, and he straightened his spine, twisting one way and then the other. “Better,” Lancelot said, the word a sigh of relief. “Much better.”
Gwenevere's Knights- The Complete Knights of Caerleon Trilogy Page 25
