Enchanted Warrior (10 page)

“Gawain,” she said uncertainly. “Something—”

A noise made them both turn. Tamsin's lips parted, but no words came. Beaumains was standing a few feet away, wide blue eyes scanning everything around him. When he spotted Gawain, a profound look of relief flooded his features.

“Brother, this is a wondrous strange place!” he said in a voice deeper than Tamsin had expected. Then he caught sight of Gawain's arm around her waist and one corner of his mouth quirked upward. “But it seems you have already found its secrets.”

Chapter 10

N
imueh stared out the bay window of the Victorian mansion at the garden beyond. A sky the color of ashes turned the thin light to a silvery wash. The mansion was set on a large lot shielded by trees, which provided privacy Mordred liked and scenery he ignored.

The Prince of Faery lurked by the door, demanding her attention. His presence was a claw hooked into her psychic senses, not quite painful but ready to tear on a whim. It was one of his power games, a way of making her address him first. It would have been more effective if she'd still had the capacity to care.

“I would have called this scene lovely once,” Nimueh said softly. “I know it should be. There is a lake and willow trees. Even though it is winter, there are many subtle shades of green and gray. And yet, my soul doesn't feel the loveliness. My mind knows, but my heart does not.”

“Does that bother you?” Mordred asked mildly. “I thought you pureblood fae were no more than walking corpses.”

“That is cruel.” She said it without rancor. Once, she would have tried to scratch out his eyes for saying such a thing. She missed that capacity for rage.

“I'm asking a legitimate question,” he said. “I'm not cruel.”

“Yes, you are. It's your reason for breathing.” She lifted a shoulder slightly, still staring out the window. “It's not just beauty I miss. I miss hating you. That much anger felt clean.”

Once the fae had been the most creative spirits in all the realms. They had danced, laughed, made war and loved like no others. They had been capricious and quarrelsome, generous friends and implacable foes. Now they were dusty shadows bereft of purpose. Worse, they were immortal. There would be no final forgetting to end their loss.

Mordred himself had been spared. His power made him immortal, but with more witch blood than fae, he had escaped Merlin's spell. Rather than sharing the fae's loss, he'd found ways to exploit it.

“You could drink a soul,” Mordred suggested. “I'm told that restores all your lost perceptions. We have prisoners to spare.”

Nimueh turned to the prince, a faint echo of disgust quickening her pulse. “It hardly seems worth it. A few hours of feeling, and then the grayness begins again.” Worse was that brief moment when the fae realized what they'd done. The self-loathing was worse than not caring at all.

“Then have another. There's no shortage of mortal cattle.”

“No,” she replied with a dismissive flick of fingers. “Those who've taken that road cannot stop. They become the fae version of a drunkard seeking their next bottle. It lacks dignity.”

“Suit yourself.” He shrugged.

But Nimueh knew she was right. Addiction was Mordred's ticket to controlling her kind. Once the fae were trapped, he had a system of reward and punishment to exploit. She refused to step into that snare.

Again, a faint shudder of distaste passed through her. It wasn't quite an emotion, but the echo of one. Such episodes came and went like the tingling of a lost limb, leaving her with a sense of profound disquiet.

Mordred was pacing, his mind obviously on other things. “You failed against the witch.”

“You failed to tell me that she is strong.”

“Of course she's strong. She escaped me,” Mordred snapped.

Perhaps that was why Nimueh had abandoned the field and let Tamsin Greene go free. The idea of a young witch no one had heard of—one wily enough to escape Mordred—had stirred what remained of her curiosity. In another time, she might even have hoped.

“You should have crushed her,” Mordred added.

“Maybe.” Nimueh turned back to the window and the greenery beyond. “I'll try harder the next time our paths cross.”

Was that why she'd dropped her car keys? To leave a clue the witch and her knight could follow and maybe, just maybe, put an end to the Prince of Faery?

Mordred caught Nimueh's arm, digging his fingers into her flesh as he forced her to face him. “Indeed, you shall try harder. And while you're thinking of all the ways you are going to carry out my orders to the letter, perhaps you can assist me with some housekeeping. There is another mess I need to clean up.”

He waved his free hand through the air, describing an arc that shimmered and then darkened into a doorway between place and time. With Nimueh still firmly in his grip, he dragged them through. She felt the kiss of cold, clammy air on her face, and the elegant Victorian parlor disappeared. All at once, she stood in Mordred's dungeon, deep underground beneath the hills of the faery kingdom.

Nimueh looked around, certain here at least it was better to be numb. The dungeon was vast and dark, honeycombed with tiny caves that served as cells. Roots crawled through the dirt walls and ceiling of the caves and twined around the limbs of the helpless prisoners, trapping them in damp, black oblivion. Scuttling things rustled in the shadows, the hard shells of their bodies scraping as they passed. Scavengers, Nimueh supposed. There was plenty of dead meat down here in Mordred's playrooms.

“You have been keeping busy,” she observed.

“Housekeeping.” Mordred smiled, but there was nothing pleasant in the expression. “A few of your people still had opinions about my mother taking the throne.”

The rebels who had escaped Merlin's spell. “I see.”

“Do you?” There was threat in the two words. “I wonder if you understand the brilliance of my plans. Conquering the mortal realms is a question of stealth. I could bring an army, thousands of fae warriors, but there is an easier way. The modern world is different from old Camelot. For all their fancy weapons, humans are even less prepared now than they were in the so-called Dark Ages.”

He was right there. In the old days, every peasant knew monsters were real and most had a few charms around the house for basic protection. “So you do not plan on a full-scale invasion?”

“No. A handful of fae here and there, strategically placed where the power brokers can fall prey to their beauty and influence. I'm thinking corporate boardrooms, political functions, cocktail parties for the rich and famous. No one will notice the soulless among them.”

“And then what?”

“Once the right people are under fae power, numbers won't matter. Armies and weapons won't matter. The human realms will be mine for the taking.”

As plans went, it wasn't bad. Still, Mordred had forgotten his mother. The mortal realms would ultimately be hers. Unless he meant to fight her for them? That could get interesting.

They'd reached a long row of cells. Nimueh noticed a spider the size of a dinner plate webbing one of the entrances shut. She turned away. “Why are we here? You said there was a mess to clean up?”

Mordred waved her forward. She went, although her feet refused to hurry toward whatever he had to show her.

“I thought, after your unsuccessful venture to capture the witch, that perhaps it was time to review our plans,” Mordred said smoothly. “I find it useful to clarify priorities from time to time.”

Nimueh stopped when she came to the end of the tunnel. There was a figure huddled in the last cave in the row of cells.

“I find explanations go better with visual aids.” Mordred nodded toward the bound form.

“Angmar,” she said softly. The fae was bound to the earth with so many pale, twining roots that he was immobilized. Even so, he'd been in a recent fight because there were savage bruises wherever his clothing was torn away.

“Angmar is an example of what does not work in my regime. You, at least on days where you do not fail me, are an example of what does. The difference is a spirit of obedience.” Mordred pushed ahead into the cell and grabbed Angmar's tangled hair, lifting the fae's head so that Nimueh stared right into his broken face. “Those with souls have difficulty following my orders.”

Mordred made a gesture before Angmar's face. The fae's eyes cracked open beneath swollen, bruised lids and he began to struggle against the roots that pinned him tight. It was useless. A trickle of light escaped through his clenched teeth. Mordred bent down, inhaling it with a connoisseur's pleasure. Angmar began to howl, the sound rising to a scream of protest and despair.

His soul
. Nimueh's heart hammered with desperate hunger. It did not matter that Angmar had once been her friend. She yearned to fill the aching void within her. Through the haze of numbness, she was aware that she should be disgusted, horrified, revolted. Merlin had damaged the fae, but Mordred made them monsters by tempting their hunger.

Nimueh had refused Mordred's offer to feed her craving, and now he was dangling the bait again. If she took it, she would be his slave. She drew herself up, setting her jaw in refusal, but she couldn't look away from the spectacle of Mordred tearing out Angmar's soul.

“My lord, you don't need to feed,” she said with cool precision. “Merlin's spell never touched you.”

“That's part of the joy in stealing it,” he retorted. “Excess is its own delight.”

Nimueh made no response, giving him nothing. With a loud sigh, Mordred stopped, letting Angmar's head drop. The fae collapsed, sobbing in pain.

“There's quite a bit left if you want it,” Mordred said, sulking. His flat expression said that he knew he'd failed to seduce her.

Nimueh stared at a spot just above Mordred's head. The urge to wipe him from existence welled up in her like a madness. There were so few things that could kill the faery prince or his mother, and she'd possessed the greatest of them all—the sword, Excalibur. She'd given it to Arthur Pendragon to bring peace to the mortal realms, and now the sword was lost along with the king's effigy. If only she still had it so that she could skewer Mordred's slimy carcass!

That was anger!
Nimueh schooled her face, hiding the fact that she'd just had a bout of genuine rage. Sweat slipped down her spine, a symptom of her episode. Mordred could never find out she had a scrap of individuality left or she would end up like Angmar. Mordred's smile speared her as her gaze slowly, painfully crept toward her old friend's shuddering form.

“There is a disturbance in the aether that tells me the witch has awakened another knight,” said Mordred. “That would be the witch you failed to destroy. I suggest you rectify that situation.”

Nimueh struggled to find her tongue. “Yes, my Lord Mordred.”

Chapter 11

T
amsin gaped as Gawain and Beaumains embraced with back-thumping, shoulder-pounding affection. Her astonishment wasn't at watching two time-travelers from the Middle Ages overcome incredible odds and arcane magic. It was because Gawain was actually smiling, a big grin that lit up his eyes with real joy as he ruffled his little brother's hair. He almost looked friendly.

For his part, Beaumains tugged at his brother's shirt. “These are strange garments, but I see you're still wearing green. You never change, brother. Stubborn as an ox.”

“So I have noticed,” Tamsin put in with a smile. “I am Tamsin.”

She put out a hand to shake, but Beaumains bowed over it instead, the picture of chivalric grace. “Madam, I owe you many thanks for reviving me.”

“Think nothing of it,” Tamsin replied. If she hadn't already met Gawain, she'd be tempted to swoon. Beaumains was utterly charming, the scar on his cheek giving him a rakish air.

“Nevertheless, I am entirely at your service.” He gave her a wicked grin.

“We'd best go,” said Gawain, clapping his brother on the shoulder hard enough to make him stumble.

Beaumains cast him a wry look and released Tamsin's hand.

It wasn't hard to get Beaumains out of a building filled with theater majors. His chain mail and surcoat might have been explained away as a better-than-average costume, and his bright-eyed good looks could have belonged to any undergraduate. He obeyed Gawain's command to remain silent until they were in the car, but the questions started once they were on the road back to Carlyle.

“I don't understand,” Beaumains said, his accent a touch thicker than Gawain's. “Are you telling me that we have all been asleep for hundreds and hundreds of years?”

“Yes,” Gawain replied. “There is much you must learn.”

“Well, I would say that's obvious,” Beaumains said drily, looking around the interior of the car. “What did I miss? Have they sorted the Vikings out yet?”

“They have their own television show,” Gawain said, disgruntled.

“A what?”

“I'll explain another time.”

“Very well.” The young man's tone was tense, but he sounded more excited than afraid. Tamsin spared a glimpse in the rearview mirror. He had his face all but pressed to the passenger window, watching the world speed by. He reminded her of a cat with its ears pricked, alert to every sight and sound.

“There are so many lights,” Beaumains murmured. “Are we at war? Are the torches built that high up to convey a signal to the enemy?”

“Those are streetlights,” she offered. “I thought Merlin's spell helped you understand the modern world.”

“Not all at once,” Gawain said. “It takes days. I still do not understand the words to most popular songs, and mathematical reasoning behind cellular plans still eludes me.”

Tamsin laughed. “That's probably because the phone companies are run by dragons looking to increase their treasure hoard from your pocket.”

Beaumains gave her a look of alarm.

She took the ramp onto the highway and turned the car toward Carlyle. She wasn't sure what to do with Beaumains. Gawain had been acclimatized by the time he'd arrived on her doorstep, but his brother was another matter. She hadn't thought about the consequences of acquiring a mob of knights in need of housebreaking. She sincerely hoped Gawain had a plan.

“I am hungry,” Beaumains said, breaking into her thoughts a moment later. “Is there a place to hunt? Or a tavern?”

They were all hungry, Tamsin especially. Spells took huge amounts of energy. She settled on a drive-through and they pulled into a parking lot to devour the greasy, salty food. Beaumains approved of the fries but gave the burger patty a suspicious look. “I am not sure what beast this was.”

“A common question,” Tamsin replied. “It's better not to think about it too hard.”

Beaumains smiled, showing a slight gap between his front teeth. “It has always been that way, Mistress Greene, with hostels upon the road.”

“I can imagine,” Tamsin said. She'd read about pilgrimages and the booming medieval tourist trade.

The young man chewed and swallowed. “Your kindness and hospitality is beyond question. I am yours to command.”

“I am hers to command,” Gawain frowned. “Find your own lady.”

“Don't be so sure of yourself,” Beaumains retorted. “You are the only knight of Camelot in her acquaintance. Soon she will see the error of her ways and make a better choice.”

“Hold your tongue, devil,” Gawain growled.

“I am no devil.” Beaumains laughed from the safety of the backseat. “I am younger and far more sweet-tempered than you. Besides, I can cook.”

“That's a bonus,” Tamsin said, mostly to annoy Gawain.

“Indeed. I spent my first months at Camelot as a kitchen boy.”

“Why did you do that?” Tamsin asked.

“Because all my brothers had left home to become knights and I refused to be left behind. Unfortunately, I had to keep my identity a secret if I did not wish to be sent home. With no noble name behind me, the only position I could get was in the kitchens. I was willing to work, but the other kitchen boys teased me mercilessly, for they could tell I was no peasant's son. That is how I earned the name Beaumains—pretty hands—unused to hard labor. Then one day Lancelot found me out and made me his squire. By then I could bake a good loaf of bread and roast a chicken to perfection.” Beaumains popped a fry into his mouth. “So you see, mistress, I could be of far more use than this loutish brute.”

Deep in his throat, Gawain made a noise that sounded like an angry wolf. “I said hold your tongue, or I shall see that it ceases to flap so freely.”

“Boys,” Tamsin said in a warning tone.

Beaumains sucked on the straw of his milk shake, already having figured out how to make a rude bubbling noise. However mighty a swordsman he might have become, he was still a little brother.

A wave of nostalgia washed over Tamsin. She missed Stacy, and their little sister, Clary. As they finished their meals, she absently rubbed the tattoo on her wrist and listened to the two brothers argue.

As she'd told Gawain, she needed Merlin's books to please the Elders if she was going to return home on her own terms. Unfortunately, if Tamsin's vision was correct, she was going to have to steal the tomes from Mordred, and that put everything in a different light. The mission wasn't just personal anymore. Even if her own freedom hadn't been at stake, Merlin's spells were far too powerful to be left in the Prince of Faery's hands.

As she gripped the steering wheel again, her fingers trembled. She was afraid, but she was in the company of knights. If she was going to keep up, she was going to have to pick her weapons and show she could fight.

* * *

“You worked a spell strong enough that Mordred will certainly have felt it. You can't remain alone tonight,” Gawain declared in a tone that brooked no argument. “You need protection, and we shall stand guard outside your door.”

They had arrived home a little after midnight. Though the food had done her good, Tamsin was exhausted. So was Beaumains, judging by his yawn. Apparently waking from a centuries-long sleep was hard work.

“I think two big guys loitering in the halls would upset the neighbors,” Tamsin replied, envisioning the cops showing up and trying to arrest the knights, one of whom was still in armor and carrying an enormous sword. Yeah, that would go well. “I have an idea.”

The apartment next door was empty, and locks were no match for her magic. Under ordinary circumstances she'd never commandeer the landlord's property, but tonight was far from normal. She gathered extra blankets and pillows and put her knights to bed on the carpet of the empty suite. Or at least she managed to settle Beaumains.

“I am forever in your debt,” Gawain said softly as he came through the door to Tamsin's apartment a few minutes later, closing it behind him. “I cannot tell you what it means to have my brother safely returned to me.”

Tamsin was lying on her bed, the lamp shining on a book she was too weary to read. She'd showered and changed into an oversize T-shirt, letting fatigue creep over her. But now she sat up, Gawain's presence alarming and enticing. All at once, she wasn't tired. “Is Beaumains asleep?”

“As sweetly as a babe.”

Tamsin smiled at the image. “Good.”

“If his experience is like mine, he will rest until late tomorrow morning. After being trapped by magic, the body craves a normal rest above all else.” Gawain stopped in the middle of the room, a shadowed figure just outside the pool of light. “You are a special woman, Tamsin.”

The tone of his voice struck a spark inside her. Suddenly she was too awake to remain in bed. She rose and crossed the floor between them in a few steps. Hesitantly, she placed her palms against his chest. “I know that spell probably pinged on Mordred's radar, but I'm glad I did it.”

His blue eyes danced with a happiness she hadn't seen in him before. Gently, he pressed a kiss to her forehead. Tamsin released a sigh and leaned closer, resting her cheek against his chest. The fabric of his T-shirt was comfortably soft, but the muscles beneath spoke of hard strength. “Is that why you came back to my room tonight? To tell me your brother is asleep?”

“No.” He curled one hand around her nape, cradling her head against him. “I came to ask if you want me to stay here for a while.”

“Aren't you forgetting what I am?”

“No.” He held her gaze, his fingers tracing the tattoo about her wrist. “I know your powers. I do not trust them or your kind. But I am coming to trust you.”

She could have argued, but it was a giant step for him. “Then stay.”

He pulled her close. Tamsin closed her eyes, listening to the strong beat of his heart. She could still smell the ozone scent of magic clinging to his clothes, but beneath that was the warm musk of his skin. She liked the way he held her, gently but with the confidence of a man who knows his strength. It opened a well of longing inside Tamsin that had never been filled. She wanted to be loved without reservation, but more than that she wanted to be accepted for what she was—not just a witch but a woman with a mind of her own. Gawain had seen both and was still at her side. How long that would last was uncertain. Maybe only for as long as he needed her. At least until his king was found.

At least for tonight.

That would have to do.

She tilted her head up, finding his mouth. Gawain's kiss began as a soft, caressing thing, but a wave of desire rose in Tamsin. All at once, tenderness wasn't enough. Her hands slid upward to lace behind his neck. Gawain made a soft grunt of pleasure.

Slowly, she drew him down until their lips met again. She opened to him, inviting him to deepen the kiss. The invitation drew an instant response. His hands tightened on her, pulling Tamsin into the embrace until she was on tiptoe. Gawain's kiss was no mere meeting of lips. It was a deep, plundering exploration that went on and on until her core began to glow red-hot with need.

“Did you like that?” he murmured, rich amusement shading his words.

“What do you think?” she replied, so close that their breath mingled, the ghost of another kiss.

His hands circled her waist, finding the hem of her shirt. And then he was touching her skin to skin, the rough heat of his hands stroking upward over her ribs. Tamsin arched into the sensation, craving it, finding it not quite enough. She grasped the T-shirt and began to pull it over her head. Gawain, ever the quick study, slid it off her, letting the cascade of her long hair sweep over her shoulders. With a slow gesture, he pushed her hair behind her shoulders, his touch lingering on her collarbone. Then he stepped back enough to admire the view. His expression was all male pleasure, but there was reverence in it, too.

Tamsin felt the sweep of his gaze like a physical thing. It left her vulnerable but bold, as if he'd granted her some of his warrior's spirit. She moved to step into his arms again, but he raised his fingers to the lace of her bra, the light caress stopping her. He ran his fingers over the arch of her breast, his eyes intent with fascination. “I have seen pictures of these garments, but they do not do justice to reality.”

It would have been easy to deflect the compliment with a smart remark, but for once Tamsin held her tongue. There was nothing mocking in Gawain's manner. He made her feel worthy of being adored in a way no man had done ever before.

“But how do you remove this infernal temptation?” he muttered. Tamsin unhooked the front. Gawain caught her hands. “Please allow me.”

She did, and he unwrapped her like a present. The bra hit the floor with the barest whisper of fabric, and Gawain's hands instantly caressed her. Tamsin's breath hissed inward, her mind briefly short-circuited with sensation.

“Not fair,” she complained. “You're still dressed.”

Gawain pulled off his shirt. The low light showed every dip and valley of his torso and softened the silver tracery of long-healed wounds. Tamsin stroked her hands over his muscles, unable to resist petting him as she might a cat. Everything about Gawain's body demanded to be touched. He gave a growl that might have been a purr.

“Come here,” he commanded, lifting her as if she were no more than a child.

She wrapped her legs around his waist, gasping as he caught one nipple in his teeth. It was the lightest nip, but her body was so aroused that the sudden flame it created struck all the way to her core. Gawain chuckled, a low, male sound that had her squirming against him. In three strides, they were at the bed and she slipped from him, taking her time as she slid her body down the front of his jeans. It was his turn to make a quick, hissing inhalation.

Tamsin pressed her lips to his chest, kissing slowly down and down, lingering on a jagged white scar that cut across his abdomen. Gawain's muscles tensed beneath her lips, but he made no move to stop her. When she finally reached the button of his jeans, she unfastened it with care, leaving a kiss on the warm flesh of his stomach. Then she grasped the tab of his zipper.