“You’ve had enough.” Galahad strode across the room to the table, prying the goblet from my fingers gently but firmly. “Bed is in order.”
The others protested, their words twining together.
“Now see here—” Arthur began.
“—what makes you—” Lancelot pushed to his feet unsteadily.
“Let the lady stay!” Percival protested.
“All of you drunk fools are going to bed,” Galahad snapped, the dark blue of his eyes roiling like a furious sea. “I will be depositing Fionna in a room where she can sleep off this wine. Alone.” The threat in his tone seemed to mollify the others.
“Oh fine.” Arthur heaved a sigh. “A good night’s sleep would do us all good. We have a long journey in the morning.” He stood and then leaned heavily against the table. I hadn’t seen Arthur this relaxed in so long. Perhaps ever. And now I truly didn’t want the night to end.
I pouted, shoving against Galahad’s bulk. I might as well as have tried to pull a great oak from the ground by its tangled roots. Completely useless.
The world tilted beneath me wonderfully, all heady, every sensation a swirling wave of bliss. Several giddy heartbeats later, I registered that Galahad had picked me up in his arms, as easily as a child. “Put me down,” I said. “I’m not a hapless maiden!” But my head lolled against his strong shoulder even as I spoke, dizziness overtaking me once more. Had I drank so much? Apparently I had.
“I found rooms for us,” Galahad said, peering over his shoulder.
Through drooping eyes, I watched as Lancelot plopped into his seat, leaning back with his boots atop the table, while Arthur poured himself another drink. Percival had retrieved a fourth pastry and was chewing with a look of rapture softening his face, his eyes closed.
“Now you animals!” Galahad barked, and Arthur, Percival, and Lancelot jumped to their feet guiltily, staggering along behind him toward the hallway.
“Fionna,” Percival murmured, stumbling behind Galahad.
“Mmm?” I replied, tilting my head back over Galahad’s meaty bicep to survey Percival upside down.
“I need to let ye down easy, lass. This tart has claimed my heart, and there’s no room for another, ye ken?”
Lancelot snorted and then broke into hysterical laughter. “A fine wedding, if ever there was one. Huzzah!” He tripped, halfway falling onto the stairway Galahad was now climbing. I had never heard such a genuine laugh from Lancelot. And such a glorious sound it was.
“Think we’ll offend your fair bride by eating the rest of her brethren at the reception?” Arthur asked, laughter sputtering through pressed lips as he hauled Lancelot up by his armpits.
“Surrounded by idiots,” Galahad grumbled to himself as he summited the stairs.
“Oh Galahad . . .” I murmured to him, stroking his beard as though petting a loyal hound. “No need to be so serious.”
“Silly me,” he said. “What’s so serious about a deadly quest to find an ancient faerie artifact to end a devastating plague now destroying our land?”
I stuck my tongue out at him and then blew out a crude noise.
Arthur, Lancelot, and Percival roared with laughter—Percival stumbling against the wall, holding his stomach and gasping for breath. Lancelot bumped into him and they tangled together, their eyes locked. A current of something powerful passed between them, and I bit back a smile. Crabapple and eternal sunshine? I started to giggle when Lancelot leaned down and affixed his mouth firmly to Percival’s.
Arthur’s eyebrows shot up before a grin stretched across his face.
“To make your tart jealous,” Lancelot murmured as he pushed off the wall, winking at Percival before continuing up the stairs.
Percival watched Lancelot, a silly smile on his blushing face.
I snorted, which caused the knights to erupt into laughter once more.
“Gods help me,” Galahad said with a groan as he kicked open a door. “Arthur, Lancelot. This suite of rooms is yours.”
I squirmed in his arms as he crossed the hallway and kicked open another door. “Percival. You and I will take this one.” While balancing my weight, he shoved Percival inside and pointed at him—“Stay!”
Galahad walked farther down the hall and opened a third door. A dark chamber lay inside, surrounding a large bed cast in shadows. He lay me down gently upon the coverlet. “Rest, Fionna,” he said, trying to stand.
But I didn’t want to rest. My body was alive with sensation, my blood surging through my veins. I locked my hands around his neck and pulled him back down to me, locking his lips with mine.
My kiss met an impenetrable wall—Galahad’s lips were pressed firmly together, unwilling to be swayed by my own. “Fionnabhair—” he said, trying to extricate himself from my ensnaring arms.
“Stay,” I pleaded, trying a new tactic by pressing kisses across his jaw line, then up and around the curve of his ear. I snaked my tongue deftly against his earlobe and I felt him shiver above me. Now we were getting somewhere.
“My Lady, no,” Galahad snapped. He pried my hands apart, twisting them up above my head where he pressed them into the pillow above me. I struggled briefly against his strong grip, discovering myself well and truly caught. My pulse quickened, and my nipples hardened as desire coursed through me. Perhaps this was a fine tact after all. I surged up to try to capture his mouth with mine, but he shied back.
His handsome face hovered above mine in the dark, his breathing labored. “You are not yourself. If you wish for me tomorrow, I will give you pleasure until the Grail Maiden herself hears you screaming my name all the way from Caer Benic. But tonight, you sleep.”
He shoved back from me and crossed the room quickly, closing the door with a decisive click.
I sat up on my elbows, watching the dark door with a pout, before flopping back on the bed with a heavy sigh. How could I sleep? My head was heavy, but my body was alive with desire that flamed through me, the fire pooling insistently between my legs.
Should I go to one of the other knights? I blew out a breath. No, Galahad was right. We needed to sleep. But memories burned bright—the sweet agony of Galahad’s length deep within me; Arthur’s deft tongue between my legs and his boyish freckles, gods his freckles; Lancelot’s weight atop me as his lips spoke what his heart could not; and Percival’s hot breath on the crook of my neck as my fingers trailed over his beautiful heart. I squirmed. Perhaps I didn’t need a man to reach some satisfaction this night.
My hand was drifting southward when a click sounded across the room—the quiet sound of my door opening. “Who’s there?” I looked up, peering in the darkness, my hand flying to the hilt of my dagger.
“Shh, only me.” Arthur’s voice reached me as he moved quietly toward the bed.
My heart trilled at the sight of his chiseled jaw, his strong form. His green eyes seemed to flash with preternatural light in the dark. But the thought fled my mind as his weight settled atop me and as his heated lips found mine.
Surely, the flash was merely a trick of moonlight, nothing more.
GALAHAD SAGGED AGAINST the wall outside of Fionna’s room, pushing a stray strand of hair from his eyes. By Odin’s beard, did the woman have to be so compelling? Did she understand the amount of supernatural strength needed to resist her advances? Yet, he knew he had made the right choice. None of the others were themselves after eating the fare banqueting the large table. To take advantage of her flushed state would have been wrong. No matter how tempting Fionna was, even while intoxicated.
Galahad’s empty stomach yowled within him. He was chilled to the marrow of his bones, growing weak from endless hunger, and his balls now ached something fierce. Still, he was strangely proud of himself. As frustrating as the antics were of his king and fellow knights, he was glad to allow them the gift of this night. The curses and Blessed Grail quest consumed their every breath and had for weeks—no, months. Each second was wrapped tight in numerous apprehensions. And these tensions had only grown worse since
journeying to Alba. Hearing their genuine laughter, even if summoned forth by an unnatural spell, had done Galahad’s heart good. And seeing Lancelot kiss Percival? Well, that was strange. But perhaps not. They would be an interesting pair, if anything moved forward beyond their enchanted food moment. And less competition for Fionna, that way. That could work in his favor.
His head rolled to the side along the stone wall, and he blinked back images of Fionna in his arms, giggling.
A shadow moved down the hallway toward the staircase they had just summitted.
Galahad froze a single heartbeat before his hand flew to his sword’s hilt. He held his breath, his eyes searching in the dark. Slowly, he pulled his sword from its scabbard, the telltale ring of metal-on-metal breaking the corridor’s silence.
A flash of white moved quickly, disappearing down the stairs.
“Halt!” Galahad yelled, bolting down the corridor after the apparition. His boots hammered down the stairs until skidding to a stop on the main floor, his head swiveling back and forth wildly as he searched for whoever—or whatever—he had seen.
The hallway remained empty. Torches burned low on the walls and illuminated the space before him. No other soul was here. Galahad’s pulse thundered in his ears as he crept forward, sword held aloft. He burst into each room lining the hallway, ready to face whatever beast or man he might find. But each room only held furniture, tapestries, draped windows, and cobwebs. Nothing living.
Toe-to-heel, he prowled into the great hall where the other knights had dined. Panic-stricken shock chilled his blood to ice. The table, heavy-laden with food mere minutes prior, now sat desolate in a room as dark and quiet as the grave. Gone were the dishes, the pitchers of wine and ale, and the roaring hearth that had lured them in from the haar fog.
Galahad whirled around in a circle, his senses firing in alarm. They weren’t alone here. Someone was moving. Someone had cleared the feast.
His skin crawled with disquiet as he hurried back up the stairs, sword clutched in his clammy fist. He needed to tell Arthur. They should leave this place. Immediately.
Galahad pushed into the sitting room of Arthur and Lancelot’s suite, relieved to find the space empty. He opened the door to the larger of the two attached rooms next, hoping he would find his king within.
“Arth—” Galahad began but stopped. His eyes widened at the vision before him. Then his gaze narrowed in anger. Arthur wasn’t alone. His king’s muscular back blocked much of the form beneath him, but little imagination was needed to guess whom he entertained. Apparently, Fionna hadn’t intended to take no for an answer this night.
Wrapped into each other and oblivious to Galahad’s presence, Arthur rolled over in the bed with a satisfied moan. Fionna’s white-blonde braids trailed across her bare back as she maneuvered on top of him. Then her body began to move, much as she had moved against Galahad as Percival pleasured her beside him.
He pressed his lips into a thin line, a strange, bleating ache pounding within his heart at the sight. Softly, he let himself out of the room, closing the door behind him. Emotions ignited into a war between his heart and mind, and his hand curled into a fist. Still, as much as he wanted to break up his king and Fionna’s coupling out of spite, he wasn’t that petty. His brows knitted together. His lips dipping into a frown.
What was he doing? This territorial jealousy wasn’t like him. Not really. She could bed and love each of them. Why not? He and Percival were able to share her without ruffled feelings toward one another. And, sharing Fionna with one of his sword-brothers was a pleasure unlike any other—more arousing than he expected. Feeling a bit lighter, Galahad decided he would leave Arthur to his moment and, instead, tell Lancelot and Percival of what he had seen.
Galahad crossed the sitting room and opened the door to the other bedroom, slipping inside. And then sucked in a sharp breath.
No—it wasn’t possible. Galahad closed his eyes, rubbing his temple and clearing his thoughts, then snapped his eyes back open. But the vision didn’t clear.
In the dim light, Galahad took in the white-blonde of Fionna’s braids, the slender curve of her bare waist. She sat astride Lancelot naked as the day she was borne, her hips grinding against Lancelot’s in a tantalizing, sensual rhythm as Lancelot’s fingers dug into the soft flesh of her arse.
Their moans filled Galahad’s ears as he looked uncertainly back at the closed door of Arthur’s room. Was he going mad? But he hadn’t eaten or drank a thing!
Fionna threw back her head with a gasp as Lancelot reached up to cup one perfect breast. The waterfall of her hair fell across her shoulder as she arched, baring her back.
Galahad’s breath hitched. His vision narrowed in on her shoulder blades. Her back was far too smooth—no puckered red skin from the healing wound he had stitched up himself. This wasn’t Fionna.
The hair on his arms stood on end.
Panic surged through his veins.
He was a humble blacksmith’s son and knew not what to do in the face of such strange enchantments. If he confronted this false Fionna, would she turn on him? Would this being hurt Lancelot?
A thought blazed through him as clear and bright as a shooting star. He shoved his hand into his pocket and pulled out the adder stone.
His fingers closed around the talisman, and the shadowy vision before him changed. The white-blonde of Fionna’s braids disappeared, along with her familiar form. In her place writhed a curvaceous woman with hair as red as a Beltane fire.
“Get off him!” Galahad surged forward, seizing the faerie by the shoulder and yanking her off Lancelot. She tumbled backwards, but twisted nimbly, coming to her feet with lithe grace. Her exquisite face was twisted in a snarl of rage, her lush lips bared, revealing teeth topped with savage points.
She screamed and leaped at Galahad, moving faster than he would have thought possible. Galahad barely managed to lift his sword in time. But he did—spearing the faerie through her naked abdomen.
“What in the gods’ name did you do?!” Lancelot’s eyes were wild and unhinged. He leaped off the bed with a growl and then barreled toward Galahad, crashing into him with a powerful fist to Galahad’s gut.
“It . . . wasn’t . . . her!” Galahad coughed out.
The faerie slid off his sword to crumple on the floor, blood bubbling through her sharp teeth.
Lancelot threw another blow, this time straight at Galahad’s head. But Galahad managed to deflect Lancelot’s punch with his forearm. He caught his sword-brother’s hand in his own, crushing the adder stone into the man’s fingers. “Look at her!”
Lancelot did so and then staggered into Galahad. The man blinked, his eyes adjusting in the darkness while his mind was no doubt trying to reconcile what he now saw.
“But—” Lancelot stumbled back, falling to the ground, his hands gripping his tangled hair.
Galahad sagged with relief as Lancelot came back to himself.
“A glamour,” Lancelot said as the horror of the situation washed over him.
“Someone is with Arthur,” Galahad said, pulling Lancelot to his feet. “I don’t know if she’s the real Fionna.”
“You saved me before our king?” Lancelot grabbed his scabbard and then pulled his sword free, not bothering with clothes. Galahad bit back a sharp reply and followed the infuriating man.
He crossed the sitting room once again and then Galahad opened the door. Lancelot burst in and wrapped one arm around Fionna’s waist, pulling her body from Arthur’s. And with the adder stone grasped in Galahad’s hand, he now saw that she wasn’t Fionna. A different faerie had violated their king, this one plump with long golden tresses.
The faerie struggled against Lancelot’s grip, shoving free of him as Arthur stood. “Unhand her!” their king barked.
“She’s not Fionna,” Galahad shouted back, leveling his sword at the sneering creature.
Lancelot did the same.
The faerie tensed to move, her dark eyes flicking between Lancelot and Galahad.
“Stand down!” Arthur cried out, trying to throw an arm across the creature in protection. “Have you two gone frothing mad?”
“Your Majesty, if you have ever trusted me, then listen,” Lancelot said, his voice low and hard. “You need to move away from her and toward safety.”
“I will not—” Arthur began, but the word was cut off by a garbled cry.
The faerie moved with impossible speed. A spear had materialized in her hand and, in one fluid motion, she had turned on Arthur, stabbing the spearhead into his gut while screaming indecipherable words in the sídhe tongue.
“No!” Lancelot released a war cry and surged forward, stabbing the faerie through the breast with his own blade.
She crumpled backwards, the wicked spear falling from her grip and clattering to the floor. Lancelot stabbed again with another roar of fury, this time driving his sword through the faerie’s throat.
She fell still.
Arthur staggered backwards, his hands covering his side where the faerie’s weapon had pierced him. A look of incredulity crossed his face as crimson blood seeped through his fingers.
Galahad grabbed the coverlet off the bed as Lancelot helped Arthur sit.
“Easy,” Galahad said.
“The others,” Arthur coughed. “Fionna is undefended.”
“She can hold her own for a moment,” Lancelot said as Galahad pressed the bunched cloth to the wound.
“Percival,” Arthur coughed. “His vow . . . the Grail . . .”
Galahad and Lancelot looked at each other in horror. If one of these vile faeries successfully seduced Percival, he would lose his connection to the Grail.
The two knights sprang to their feet.
“Go to them,” Arthur said, grimacing in pain. And when he saw the hesitation on their face at the prospect of leaving him, he shouted, “That’s an order!”
MY DESIRE FOR Arthur was an all-consuming blaze, and I was slowly becoming ash beneath his touch. I didn’t know if it was the food or the wine or this strange unfamiliar castle, but I found myself unmoored—overcome by the magic that always stirred between us. A connection even more heady with magic this moment. His weight on top of me was an exquisite thrill; his kisses burned hot as fire. I wanted to be destroyed by loving him—to let our passion devour me until we were nothing but skin and moans and soft whispers—no walls, no secrets.
Gwenevere's Knights- The Complete Knights of Caerleon Trilogy Page 34
