Fionna’s legs curled around his lower back, her fingers tracing the indigo knots and swirls peeking out from his tunic. Then she leaned forward and her tongue flicked out, to lick along the lines of his tattoos.
He groaned softly, his head falling back. A breath fluttered free from his chest. More. He needed more.
Their lips collided in a thrilling rush, a wildness breaking through their carefully built walls. She clawed at his back, her nails raking his skin even through the wool tunic. Narrow hips and flexing stomach muscle ground into his, her rhythm fast and urgent. His hands roamed the expanse of her shoulders, her arms, wanting to feel the flex and pull of her strength. Wanting to know both her softness and hardness simultaneously. And her fight. Gods, her fight. He snaked his hands up her back, until his fingers grasped her braids and yanked her head back. A wicked smile played across her swollen lips. Skies above, she would ruin any lingering self-control he possessed.
Skin, as breathtaking as a first snow, called to him. Her neck lay bared to the night, the same expanse he had once held a sword to. The memory shuddered through him. His foolishness. His anger. As he lowered his lips to her submissive stretch of skin, he breathed deeply her scent of heathered moors, of moss-covered rocks, and the biting cold of a Northern sea breeze. His tongue flicked out and tasted her sweetness first before he scraped the edge of his teeth along the tender skin.
Fionna moaned, and his cock hardened tight at her pleasure. And so, he bit her—hard—where her shoulder met her neck.
“Lance . . .” she breathed, deepening the grind of her hips, the tight grip of her fist in his tunic. The sound twisted his heart until he bled out, his treacherous organ aching to die in her arms. But a thought battled against his arousal, a thought that blazed hot as a refining fire. The only person who ever called him Lance was Arthur.
Arthur.
Lancelot wrenched back, shoving himself out of her embrace. “Gods, I’m a bloody idiot!”
Fionna fell on her arse and gaped at him, shock and hurt glittering in her silver eyes. A gaze he could perfectly see from the sliver of moonlight breaking through the storm clouds and fog outside.
“Done with me already, are ye?”
“No, nothing like that.” Lancelot huffed out an irritated breath and a dark curl floated away from his eyes. “I . . . I can’t . . . this . . . goddess save me.” He stood and began pacing the short stretch of the hallway, back and forth. His pulse galloped loud in his ears. His breath came quick and hard, almost matching the shaking in his hands. In a moment of weakness, he had almost unleashed another curse on Arthur, on Caerleon. “Sorry,” he muttered before turning his back to her.
“Sorry?” she spat. “I’m not some trifling maiden to conquest and discard.” Lancelot winced, a muscle pulsing in his clenched jaw. Fionna shuffled to her feet behind him and then grabbed his arm, spinning him toward her. “Nor is my body available for whenever the mood fancies yer famous cock.”
He remained silent, his gaze unyielding.
“Do ye still love her?”
“Morgana?” Lancelot reared back, as if slapped. “Hell no.”
“Is there something wrong with me, then?”
Lancelot relaxed his body further into an aloof posture and derisively said one word—the one he knew would seal his betrayal in her mind. But would save Arthur.
“Yes.”
Fionna stumbled back a step. The pain in her gaze ripped through him, but he remained steady, staring her down. The angrier she was with him, the better. For everyone.
“I don’t believe ye, Lancelot du Lac. Ye wanted me, begged to know my love.” Fionna stepped into his space and pushed on his shoulder with two, strong fingers. “Fight me until yer last breath, but I will still care for ye, no matter what. But do not touch me again until yer sure of yer heart.”
She swiveled on her heel, hair whipping through the shadows, before fading down the hallway and into the nightmare that had become his life.
When he was certain she was gone, he breathed again. But it hurt—to breathe. Every draw of air ached hot between his ribs. Every exhale chilled his tattered soul.
Lancelot fell to his knees and buried his face into his hands, slowly lowering his forehead to the bitter cold floor. The icy shock on his skin rippled through him. His body began to shake, but not from the unnatural wintered air or the frozen floors. Tears, long buried, surfaced with a vengeance. A sob loosened in his chest as his heart continued to bleed out.
It would kill him anew each time he rejected Fionna’s gift of love. A love he had desperately wanted to know for so long. Every day he would have to hold himself apart, to be cruel to her—the most magnificent woman he had ever known. He was useless to Arthur now, to his sword-brothers, to himself.
Perhaps he should have just given his head to Morgana. Perhaps they would all be better off without him.
ARTHUR PEERED THROUGH the window. The storm from last night had moved on, leaving only the Haar fog that had greeted them when first arriving in this cursed place. His eyes narrowed as he caught sight of something. Craning his neck, he moved closer, squinting his eyes at the foreboding fortress high on the hill above them.
Was that? . . . It was! A light in the castle window.
Excitement surged Arthur’s pulse into a gallop. Light meant people. And people meant food. And perhaps an explanation for the madness behind this ghostly village.
Arthur woke Galahad, Percival, and Lancelot quickly, and they rose without much complaint. Though, it was evident that a good night’s sleep had also eluded his sword-brothers.
He paused before Fionna’s bedroll, inhaling a breath. When he knelt beside her, the splay of her white braids across the pillow seized his heart. A sight he wanted to wake to each morning.
Lost to his fevered thoughts, he bent over her to softly press a kiss to her cheek, forgetting about the knights behind him. But then he froze, his animal instincts kicking in and snapping him back to reality. Something cold and sharp nicked his neck.
Her eyes were wild, her teeth bared. A dagger was clutched in her fist, the naked blade held steady against his exposed throat.
“Arthur,” she breathed, and then her hand dropped as the confusion in her face cleared.
“Remind me not to surprise you in bed,” Arthur joked as he straightened. His hand strayed to his throat and his fingers came away with a tiny drop of blood.
“Waking to yer face each morning would be a welcome surprise,” she said, standing. “If not for this place, that is. Eiden’s Burgh sets me on edge.”
Fionna’s words warmed him and he fought a creeping flush. “You’re not the only one,” he said. “I want to be gone from here as quickly as I can.”
She pulled on her boots and then trailed Arthur to where the other knights were gathering their saddlebags and donning cloaks. Dark shadows lined their faces, as if the cold and hunger of last night had aged them beyond their years.
“I saw a light in the castle,” Arthur announced. “I think we should investigate before we leave the village.”
“A light could mean people,” Galahad said.
“Could mean food,” Percival added.
“My thoughts exactly.” Arthur nodded.
“Aye, what are we waiting fer?” Percival asked.
The knights quickly saddled their horses and set off into the empty streets.
Arthur had visited Castellum Puellarum once before, when he was a boy. He remembered how impressive the keep had seemed—what a feat of engineering and construction—how many men and beasts it must have taken to get those stones so high upon the hill. He was struck by a similar sense of awe today, but the wonder warred with the trepidation this empty village stirred within him. He prayed the castle would provide much-needed answers.
They remained silent until they finally summited the high hill. Though worry etched lines into each face, it seemed like no one wanted to express their hesitation.
They rode through the castle’s gaping front gates to find a courtyard
as lifeless as everything else in Eiden’s Burgh.
“Perhaps they’re inside?” Percival finally asked. The absence of his kinsmen had seemed to dim even Percival’s unflappable good mood.
“Perhaps,” Arthur concurred. Despite the light he had seen, he knew not what they would find within the castle walls.
Inside the huge oaken front door, the fortress resembled the village. Empty hallways furnished for invisible inhabitants. But the air inside the castle was warmer and grew even warmer the farther they walked.
“Do I feel a hearth fire?” Fionna asked, her face lifted to the shadows as though the very sun.
They were towed down the hallway by the blissful heat, the walls they passed ornamented with dark tapestries and crossed swords and impressive antlers.
“In here,” Percival said, turning a corner.
Percival was right. Around the corner, two open doors welcomed their party. Light and heat emanated from inside.
Arthur held his breath, not sure of what to expect, for nothing here was as it should be. But here—here was an even bigger surprise.
Percival laughed in delight, and Fionna clapped her hands over her mouth.
“I think I’m dreaming,” she said.
“I’m in the same dream,” Lancelot agreed. “Because I see a feast before me, set for a king.”
“Well, we have a king here. Two if ye count me,” Percival said with a sly smirk at Arthur. “So, let’s feast!”
The room was warm and cheerful and brightly lit. Sconces flickered on the wall, candelabras graced each table, and a wooden chandelier spilled amber light from above. Near the banquet, two half-wall hearths roared merrily ablaze. And set before them on a table, as long as a jousting tiltyard, was a cornucopia unlike anything Arthur had ever seen.
Glistening roast quail and duck; crisp, lovely apples as green as a spring field; loaves of bread, fresh and warm. Pies—of what type he didn’t know—but with crusts so flakey, his mouth watered as he imagined each bite melting on his tongue. The smells wafted together in a heady perfume—warm spices and cool mint and the yeasty smell of fresh bread.
“Is that—” Fionna began to ask, gravitating toward the table, her eyes wide. “This can’t be!” She retrieved a sliced pastry reverently, turning the morsel toward them. “These are like the caraway seed cake Aideen makes.” And without another word, she bit into the dessert, her eyes fluttering closed. “Ohmuhgahddess,” she murmured around a full bite. She swallowed thickly. “Perhaps sacrilege to say, but I think this caraway seed cake is even better than Aideen’s.”
Percival floated toward the table, too, his fingers snagging a glistening sausage. “They made these cured meats back home,” he said and took a bite, the juice dripping down his chin. His eyes closed as he shuddered in delight. “Lamb, just as I remembered . . .”
Arthur found his feet moving. There were drinks calling to him—pitchers of ale so cold condensation dripped down the side—a rare treat—plus a half-dozen carafes of sweet wine. He picked up a pomegranate, and he could feel his mouth soften into a sad smile. “My mother used to feed these to me when I was a child,” Arthur said. “I always felt like a little heathen with the red juice all over my fingers.”
“What a beautiful fruit,” Fionna said, tilting her head in wonder.
“And delicious,” Lancelot added. “I remember those. Traders would bring pomegranates to our shores with tales of a new god from the East.”
“How is this possible?” Arthur asked.
Fionna polished off the pastry with a last bite. “I am too hungry to care. Are not ye?”
Galahad was the only one hanging back, Arthur noticed, his knight’s face grave. “Something is wrong. This smells of magic.”
“Nae, it smells of minced meat pie!” Percival had retrieved a slice of pie and was biting into the dense fruited filling.
“Lancelot?” Galahad asked. “Think of the faerie wine Morgana sent us. This could be a trap, don’t you think?”
“I tend to agree,” Lancelot said. “But, Fionna and Percival have already eaten. Do you feel anything?”
“I feel like I’m going to eat someone’s arm off, if they don’t let me eat this food,” Fionna snapped, picking up a cluster of grapes and popping one into her mouth.
“I don’t feel any different,” Percival said. “Except fuller than I’ve been in days.”
“Perhaps this was left for us by someone who is on our side,” Arthur said. “Like the standing stones and faerie-scribed plaque. Not all magic has harmed us. We desired food, did we not? This may very well be a gift that we shouldn’t squander.”
“Ye’re a smart man, Yer Majesty,” Percival said, pointing a caramelized duck leg at him with a hasty bow before taking a large bite. He still held a half-eaten pie in the other hand.
“What about the adder stone,” Galahad suggested. “Perhaps the talisman will reveal a warning?”
Percival gestured toward the pocket of his tunic with his head, raising his pie and duck leg. “Grab it, ye fussy old woman.”
“Fool Scot,” Galahad grumbled, but crossed to Percival and riffled around in his pocket, seizing the stone.
“That tickles,” Percival laughed, and Galahad mock cuffed him.
“Anything?” Arthur asked.
Galahad surveyed the table from one end to the other. “I don’t see any sign of enchantment. The food looks . . . normal.”
“Thank the gods,” Lancelot said, falling upon a dripping slice of roast beef like a dying man while pouring himself a goblet of wine.
Arthur pulled up a chair, retrieving a silver trencher, and then carefully began to select perfectly prepared food from various platters and bowls.
Galahad frowned, shaking his head. “Still doesn’t feel right. If this food isn’t enchanted, then servants should be bustling about. Where are they? Why did their Lord abandon this feast?”
The questions swirled in Arthur’s mind, filling him with disquiet. Galahad was right. Something was going on here that baffled the mind. But, if they were to solve this mystery, at least they could do so on a full stomach. So, he took a bite.
I LEANED BACK in a pleasant haze. My belly was taut with the delicious meal, my head buzzing with the heady wine I had guzzled. I had eaten my fill, my stomach blessedly cooperating for the first time since leaving Wales.
Percival sat in a chair beside me. Lancelot watched below lowered lashes, I noticed, as their cheerful knight, with drooping eyelids, licked the sticky sugar off his fingers from his third pear tart. “Och, I’ve never had such wonderful fare.” Percival patted his belly happily, pouring himself another goblet of wine.
“Galahad, any luck?” Arthur asked drowsily from the head of the table, before he downed the dregs from his jug of ale.
Galahad prowled the far edge of the long room, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. “Nothing. Not hide nor hair of whoever cooked this feast, nor even scraps of ingredients. The food is magic, I’m telling you.”
“The only magic I feel is the delightful headiness of wine,” I said, pouring myself another goblet full. “Nothing more, nothing less.”
While the rest of us gorged ourselves, Galahad had refused to eat even the tiniest crumb. I frowned, remembering the sparse provisions he had shared with me the night before. His longing for the food was plain, and his stomach grumbled noisily several times. The poor man had to be beyond starving at this point. Perhaps the delusions of hunger had altered his good sense. Instead of partaking among his friends, he stormed from the room to explore the castle, vowing to discover every secret. Seemed like the secrets had eluded him, though.
“We aren’t disputing that magic could be at work here,” Lancelot said.
He waggled his fingers toward the wine nestled near me, and I passed the pitcher over.
“What the charming prince said.” Percival gave Lancelot an official-looking head nod. “We just don’t care at this particular moment.” He then released an appreciative belch. “‘Sc
use me,” he added, looking at me apologetically.
Like I hadn’t heard ten times worse living with my fiann. I let loose a belch of my own, even louder than Percival’s. All the knights’ heads swiveled my way, their eyes wide with shock.
“Princess Fionnabhair Allán!” Arthur whistled appreciatively as I started to laugh. The wine was filling me with a drowsy warmth and silliness I hadn’t felt in so long.
“My father only had girls,” I gushed out. “But he raised me to be his heir. So, naturally, I had to hold my own with the boys. I could drink any of ye under the table.” I wiggled my eyebrows at them.
“That sounds like a challenge, My Lady,” Lancelot leaned forward, a wicked gleam in his eye and a flirty smile on his lips.
“Even Galahad?” Percival arched a copper brow. “He drinks as much as a war horse. Don’t ye, chipmunk?”
“Our dear Galahji . . .” I tried to say his full Norse name but garbled each foreign sound terribly as my tongue tripped over itself.
“I’ll go under the table with ye,” Percival said to me with a rascally grin and a wink.
I snorted with laughter as I continued. “Our Gally has been replaced by a boring, serious old man.” I lowered my voice to sound like Galahad and said, “I am Galahad the Gallant.” The knights all burst into laughter, encouraging me on. “For fun, I like to wear the color green, skip across meadows, and ruin my friends’ happiness at finally filling their empty bellies.”
Galahad glowered at me from his position by the far fireplace, ignoring our laughter. “Someone has to keep you fools from getting harmed. Or am I the only one who remembers the incident with the faerie wine?”
Memories of the night with the faerie wine heated my blood as images flashed by my mind’s eye—of Arthur’s passionate kiss, Galahad’s sultry moves, and Percival’s grip on my hips. I wouldn’t mind a repeat of Alworn’s enchanted vintage just now. Need coiled deep within me, low and hot, as my eyes flitted from Lancelot to Percival to Arthur. I wasn’t sure what I wanted in this moment—who I wanted—only that going to bed alone would be an unnecessary shame.
Gwenevere's Knights- The Complete Knights of Caerleon Trilogy Page 33
