“We . . . had some time to kill.” She dropped her gaze to a cluster of ferns near her bare foot, crossing her arms beneath her supple breasts. It took all of Lancelot’s focus to keep his attention on the lecture she deserved, rather than the beauty of her lean form.
“So, you thought you would just enjoy yourselves, here within a stone’s throw of the might of Morgana’s and O’Lynn’s invading army? My gods Fionna, you’re smarter than this. I would expect this idiocy from a green warrior, but not seasoned ones like you and Percival.”
Heat suffused her face. “The Grail Quest is over . . .”
Lancelot’s anger softened ever so much at that. Of course, a virile young man like Percival would be eager to take advantage of his new-found freedom.
She narrowed her eyes to slits. “I don’t need this from ye,” she hissed, pushing to her feet. “It’s not like ye’ve never made a mistake.”
“I paid for my mistakes.” Lancelot followed her while she gathered up her clothes, her armor. “I pay for them still.”
“So did we.” Fionna dramatically motioned at Percival, and a shadow crossed over her face that gave Lancelot pause. He looked back at the two corpses, then Fionna, who now stalked behind a tree with a bundle of clothes and boots and armor in hand. “They didn’t—” he cut himself off. Burning anger filled him at the very thought of those unclean animals defiling their Fionna. His Fionna.
She turned from the copse of trees. “No.” Her voice was hard. “But not for lack of trying.”
Percival groaned and Lancelot turned back to him, grateful for the distraction. He couldn’t bear the thought of what the Uí Tuítri had tried to do to her. What they might have done if Lancelot hadn’t trusted his gut and followed after Fionna and Percival’s hoofprints.
Lancelot knelt at Percival’s side as his sword-brother’s eyes began to flutter open. His copper lashes were long and as soft as silk, dusting the sun-kissed apples of his cheeks. Percival’s muscled body was stretched out before him, and though Lancelot shoved the thought to the back of his mind, a part of him appreciated what a fine body it was. Full of the coiled energy of youth and health.
Percival sat up with a curse and then groaned again, his hand flying to his injured temple. “Fionna,” Percival cried out, his eyes wild and unfocused while attempting to surge up to his feet.
“Easy.” Lancelot grabbed Percival’s shoulder to hold him down gently but firmly. “She’s safe. The men are gone.”
“They were going—” Percival sucked in a sharp breath, unable to finish, seemingly lost in the horrible moment.
“It’s okay. We stopped them. They’re dead.”
Percival looked at him, his eyes clearing as he registered Lancelot’s presence. “Crabapple? How are ye here?”
Lancelot’s mouth twisted in a smile at the name. What had once infuriated him, he was coming to regard with . . . fondness?
“Something struck me as off about your and Fionna’s explanation. I had a bad feeling. I went to find you beside the wall, and you were nowhere to be found. I followed your tracks.”
Percival sprang at Lancelot, pulling him into a crushing embrace. “Thank ye, Lancelot. If you hadn’t followed . . .” The words were choked.
Despite his surprise, he wrapped his arms around Percival’s strong back, gently rubbing a circle between his shoulder blades. Percival’s skin flushed with heat beneath his touch. “It’s all right. All is well.”
Percival clung to him for a moment longer, before pulling back slowly. But he lingered, leaning his forehead against Lancelot’s with a heavy sigh, one hand pressed to Lancelot’s chest.
Lancelot’s own hand settled behind Percival’s neck, tangled in the soft strands of his hair. He had known other men before. But he had never yearned for another man like he desired Percival. A man who owned his heart. A man he never once believed could be his, even though he flirted and teased. And, for years, a man whom Lancelot secretly ached to touch in this way.
The moment on the stairs at the Castle of Maidens rushed back to him, and his pulse quickened. Heady with the enchanted feast, and silly with wine, he had kissed Percival. It had seemed a moment of levity at the time, silliness. They were all growing so close, their lives and stories becoming more intertwined by the day. But now, with Percival’s sweet citrus smell washing over him, their lips mere inches apart . . .
“You have to be more careful,” Lancelot whispered hoarsely. “Arthur would never forgive me, if I let anything happen to you.”
Percival looked up then, his brown eyes filled with something that Lancelot thought he recognized as disappointment. “Right. Arthur,” Percival said. He touched his wound and winced, before examining the blood on his fingertips.
“Not . . . just Arthur,” Lancelot choked out, looking away.
“What do ye mean?” Percival whispered back.
“I would miss you Percival.” Lancelot swallowed thickly, his breath coming in quick. Fionna had helped him pull down the walls used to shield his heart, and the remnants were still crumbling. No more running. No more hiding. “You bring light into the shadows of my life. Your jokes, and your stupid nicknames, your smile and laugh . . . they warm me.”
Percival reached out a trembling hand and tilted Lancelot’s chin, forcing Lancelot to meet his eyes. “I still remember the first moment I saw ye and Arthur ride into the forest, where I lived with my mother. The first time I had seen men in years. Arthur was majestic on his horse, every bit a king. But it was ye I couldn’t take my eyes away from. I still can’t.”
Lancelot smiled. “I remember. You were so . . . beautiful. Gangly as hell, but you’ve always been the most beautiful man I know.”
Percival laid his hand against Lancelot’s breastplate. Warmth filled Lancelot’s chest, radiating out from where Percival touched him. The gesture was an invitation—one which Lancelot wasn’t going to squander, despite the lecture he had just given Fionna. Lancelot closed the gap between them.
Their mouths touched tentatively at first—curious and light. But a kindling spark quickly caught flame and the roar of heat blazed hot between them. Percival mouth was warm and sweet, his tongue soft as velvet. Unable to help himself, Lancelot tugged Percival closer until their chests pressed together. The younger man moaned. A sound that aroused Lancelot instantly, the hardening bulge in his breeches growing even tighter. Percival’s hands moved up Lancelot’s chest to cup his face. Percival’s thumb traced along his cheekbone, his jaw, softly brushing along his stubble.
The forest was fading from Lancelot’s awareness. All he knew was their tongues intertwined, their mouths moving in a fevered rhythm, their breaths mixing, their bodies caressing each other’s in delicious strokes. And, in this stolen moment, Lancelot swore that Percival’s heartbeat galloped in tandem beside his own trembling pulse.
A gentle, feminine throat-clearing sounded behind them, and Lancelot pulled back, more than a little reluctantly. Percival peered up at Fionna with a silly grin, his eyes almost sleepy.
“Ye appear to be well, Percy,” Fionna said, a hint of a smile brightening her otherwise stoic expression. She stood, clothed and armored once more, a few feet from them.
“Aye, I will be,” Percival replied. “My head is pounding, but Lancelot relieved my discomfort fer a spell. He's better than bitter willow bark tea.”
Lancelot arched a humored eyebrow. “You may sip from my cup any time you wish.”
Percival coughed, and then pushed to his feet, suddenly shy. “I should dress.” As he stood, Lancelot took in his beautiful body, including the cock as hard and as throbbing as his own. Then, with a look that seemed to say that what had started in this grove would be continued—Percival grabbed his things and began dressing.
Lancelot pretended to inspect the surrounding woods, feeling a bit sheepish as he said to Fionna, “We need to get the hell out of here. We don’t know when O’Lynn plans to move.”
“Not until morning, surely,” Fionna said. “And we can’t leave yet
. We haven’t rescued my father.”
Lancelot eyes rounded slowly, incredulity dawning. “Surely you’re not still intent upon that mad plan.”
Fionna stiffened. “I wasn’t aware saving a king of Tara and one of the only two family members I have left in this world was mad. If we retrieve him, we’ll manage to remove one of O’Lynn’s major bargaining chips.”
“It’s too dangerous.” Lancelot arched an eyebrow. “That army is two thousand strong. And we don’t even know where they’re keeping him.”
“We have a strong suspicion.” Percival had his pants and boots on now and was pulling his tunic over his head. “And Fionna knows how they organize their camps and keep watch. We’ll be in and out like ghosts.”
“No . . .” Lancelot drawled the word out, long and slow. He couldn’t believe how they persisted in carrying out such a dangerous task. “Caerleon needs you back in the keep. Arthur does. Your King. What happens if our king comes back and finds you two captured? Talk about handing O’Lynn a bargaining chip!”
“Then we won’t get captured,” Fionna said.
“I forbid it, soldier,” Lancelot snapped.
“Good thing no one asked you,” Fionna shot back, squaring her stance to face his.
Lancelot took a step toward Fionna and leaned in close to her face. “I am second-in-command of the knights of Caerleon. And you are a knight of Caerleon, last I checked. Unless you betrayed our king again while I wasn’t looking.”
Percival winced at that, and Fionna narrowed her eyes to slits.
Lancelot knew as soon as the comment escaped his lips that it was a bridge too far. But why couldn’t she understand? He had just witnessed her near-violation and murder by two foul Irishmen! And now she wanted to walk into a camp of thousands?
Percival finished buckling on his sword belt. “Perhaps this isn’t the best place for a shouting match.”
“Agreed. We go back to the keep,” Lancelot gritted out.
“I’m not going,” Fionna said, her grit matching his. “I feel him within my reach. I’m not giving up on my father.”
Lancelot closed his eyes, willing patience. How to convince her? How to make her see sense? Why was it even so important to her? He understood that he might not have the closest connection to family, and of course she worried for her father, but he had been a prisoner for months. Why now? Fionna was normally so pragmatic. He breathed out slowly. He didn’t want to fight with her anymore. He didn’t want that to be their relationship.
“Why . . . why is this so important to you?”
Fionna and Percival exchanged a glance.
She took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Because of what Merlin and Vivien shared. That my father is the only person who can tell me about my mother. Whether I really do possess a strange sort of power.” She hurried on. “If we are to war against the might of O’Lynn’s clann and Tintagel, if there’s a way my power could help . . . we need to know. I need to know.”
Lancelot chewed on his bottom lip, his gaze flicking from Fionna to Percival. Percival nodded imperceptibly at him, his expression asking Lancelot to understand. This was why the other knight was here. He had seen the importance of Fionna’s mission. What the information could mean for them all. It wasn’t just a personal quest for a family reunion. If Fionna was a Gwenevere, if she was sovereign blessed, then her joining with Arthur would secure his kingship in a time when he desperately needed it. And if she was a Gwenevere, she had power. Perhaps even surpassing that of Morgana and her sisters.
Rescuing Fionna’s father could be the difference between winning and losing this war. Between losing all they held dear or saving it. Lancelot muttered a curse. Damn it. They would have to infiltrate their enemy’s camp and rescue a king.
Lancelot was weakening—the indecision playing across his face. I pulled in a breath, not wanting to say something that might cause him to dig in his heels—again. After my and Lancelot’s wild intimacy, I was now truly beginning to understand our dark second-in-command.
He was entirely too much like me.
“Fine,” Lancelot said with a hiss of exasperation, raking a hand through his curls. “We’ll rescue him.”
“Thank ye!”
I hardly recognized the delighted squeal that escaped my mouth as I threw my arms around his neck. My gratitude was palpable. I felt unsteady and filled with the adrenaline of our near miss, and Lancelot’s solid presence grounded me. He would be the needed counterpoint to Percival’s optimism and my desperation. Together, the three of us could pull this off.
Lancelot squeezed my torso, burying his nose in my hair. His fresh scent and warmth permeated my being, and my body reacted, need blooming low and hot. I was still turned on after watching him and Percival kiss with barely restrained passion. Gods, I almost joined them, if not for the feel of my freshly dressed armor and boots and the corpses’ bloody mess nearby. But it was easy to forget the dead with the relief of being alive and relatively uninjured. The rush of emotions was overwhelming. I couldn’t fault Lancelot’s slip in kissing Percival after his high-and-mighty speech.
I pulled back reluctantly, pressing a kiss to his cheek, doubting that I could control myself if I fastened my lips to his. Memories of our coupling in the hallway and on the stairs heated my cheeks, setting my blood to racing again. I glanced at Percival, who was once again exploring the goose egg on his temple with gentle fingers. What was it about these knights that robbed me of my good sense? When I was around them, I was little more than a wild woman buffeted by the winds of her desires—the demands of her body. And her heart. She was diametrically opposed to the warrior—the brutal fighter that I had cultivated so carefully over these years. And yet . . . I wanted to be both. I was both. Surely there was a way to reconcile these parts of myself.
I shoved my troubled thoughts aside, together with the fear that throbbed at the sight of the dead Uí Tuítri bodies on the ground. How close Percival and I had come . . .
“Percival,” I said softly, clearing my throat. “Will ye be up to a fight, if it comes down to it?” I walked over to him and brushed the strands of his copper hair back gently, examining the wound. The injury wasn’t too bad. Thankfully, it wasn’t bleeding any longer. The bruise was concerning, though. Especially as he had been rendered unconscious.
“Aye, I’m feeling much better, dove.” A sly smile crossed Percival’s face at my nearness, and I fought an answering smile. His was the languid look of a man who had known a woman for the first time, and my heart was gladdened to see such a blissful expression. He continued, “Better than I’ve felt in some time, actually.” He reached out to stroke my cheek and I pushed off his chest, turning. We didn’t have time to go down that road again.
“He can fight.”
“So, what’s the plan?” Lancelot asked.
I filled him in quickly on our rough plan, wincing at the parts I knew sounded shaky and full of holes. I expected Lancelot to scoff and tear the plan to shreds. But he merely nodded. As if he were in for a pinch, in for a pound.
“We will wear the armor of these men.” Lancelot gestured to the two dead warriors. “Fionna’s armor looks similar so long as no one looks closely. It’s your hair that will draw attention.”
Dusk had fallen over the camp below us, and fires and torches were winking to life like will-o-the-wisps.
“I’ll keep my hood up,” I said. “Unless ye have a better idea, Faerie Prince.”
“You’re the Gwenevere,” he shot back, and I scowled, opening my mouth with a crude retort on the tip of my tongue.
“Shall we get changed?” Percival popped in-between us, cheerful as ever.
Lancelot grunted stiffly.
We dragged the two warriors deeper into the shelter of the trees, pulling off their armor and cloaks. I vacillated between watching the quiet camp and watching them don the attire of my enemies—a mix of unease and gratitude swirling within me. The dark leather armor didn’t suit them, these brash knights of Caerleon. The
se two princes. I didn’t know when it had happened, but something had shifted within me. The boiled leather of the Dál nAraidi looked crude to my eye, the dark burnished buckles dim. I had grown used to the bright color and shining beauty and finery of Caerleon and Arthur’s court.
I swallowed back a forming knot in my throat. Every thought of seeing my father again made my stomach clench. Would he see the changes in me and scorn them? I had set out for Caerleon to save him and Aideen, to save the life I had built for myself and the clann that I loved. And, somehow in the process, Caerleon had changed me. Arthur and his knights had changed me. I had found a new family.
“Ready?” Percival asked quietly, stepping up beside me.
I softly smiled, grateful for the distraction.
Lancelot flanked us, his cut profile shadowed by his hood. “Swift and silent as a wraith. If we are identified, we must abort. There is no way we can fight our way out of this camp. It is stealth, or nothing at all.”
“Agreed,” I whispered. As much as I wanted to protest, Lancelot spoke sense. Arthur needed us alive even more than I needed my father. An all-out fight was a risk we couldn’t take.
We padded down the hillside, our cloaks swathed around us to keep the light from glinting off our buckles or swords. The tents stretched around the village like a vast sea. I shoved aside the part of me that needed to count, needed to assess. So many had come to pluck the ripe fruit that was Gwent. To take what wasn’t theirs.
We paused in the shadow of a massive oak as two sentries strolled by, their words carried off into the night air. The guards didn’t seem particularly concerned with security. That could work in our favor.
Lancelot motioned us forward as the man passed, and we darted across the stretch to the nearest tents, pausing between two. “We stay out of sight. If we’re spotted, act like we belong.”
Percival and I grunted our assent. Part of me prickled at Lancelot seizing control of this mission, but I knew that was foolish. He was second-in-command. And if it was the price of him being here, it was a price I was happy to pay.
Gwenevere's Knights- The Complete Knights of Caerleon Trilogy Page 49
