She married the king. She wanted the man.

Guinevere’s marriage to Arthur was a political partnership, never a romance. Merlin knows that the king’s court, newly restored at a medieval theme park, will only be complete if Arthur has his lady. Little did anyone suspect that once Guinevere gets a taste of twenty-first-century freedoms that this ancient queen would lose interest in belonging to any man—even a royal one.

It takes a dragon, and some passionate nights spent in each other’s arms, to lure her back to her husband’s side. Arthur is willing to accept Gwen’s help in protecting the new Camelot from a fae menace, but the bigger challenge will be wooing back Guinevere for a second chance at love...

“That was quite the kiss, my lord.”

Satisfaction sprawled within King Arthur. “There is no need for it to end.”

Guinevere’s posture shifted. It was a slight thing, but it seemed to put her worlds away. “I think there is.”

He blinked. His need for her was like a runaway stallion. Hauling it back took effort. “There is?”

“One kiss does not heal everything.” Guinevere took a step back from him, straightening the bodice of her dress. “You left me in the past to come here.”

He frowned, confused. “I explained that already, but perhaps I should apologize instead.”

Guinevere shut her eyes a moment, then met his gaze without retreat. “Nothing, not even an apology, makes up for being considered invisible for so long. The only times you noticed me was when I made you unhappy. I don’t want to be that woman anymore.”

“But you kissed me!” he protested, realizing how lame it sounded the moment he spoke.

“I did, and it was wonderful. It wasn’t enough.”

SHARON ASHWOODis a novelist, desk jockey and enthusiast for the weird and spooky. She has an English literature degree but works as a finance geek. Interests include growing her to-be-read pile and playing with the toy graveyard on her desk. Sharon is the winner of the 2011 RITA® Award for Best Paranormal Romance. She lives in the Pacific Northwest and is owned by the Demon Lord of Kitty Badness.

Royal Enchantment

Sharon Ashwood

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

Before you start reading, why not sign up?

Thank you for downloading this Mills & Boon book. If you want to hear about exclusive discounts, special offers and competitions, sign up to our email newsletter today!

SIGN ME UP!

Or simply visit

signup.millsandboon.co.uk

Mills & Boon emails are completely free to receive and you can unsubscribe at any time via the link in any email we send you.

For all the princesses who wanted

the sword and the frilly dress—and maybe

the horse and the dragon, too. Why not?

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

About the Author

Title Page

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Extract

Copyright

Prologue

Once upon a time, King Arthur of Camelot made an alliance with the fae and the witches to keep the mortal realms safe for all the free peoples. The world back then was filled with peril, with dragons and ogres and much, much worse lurking in the dark places. The greatest danger came from the demons who roamed the earth, causing suffering wherever they went. With the help of the enchanter, Merlin the Wise, the allies waged war upon the demons and succeeded in casting them back into the abyss.

At least, that’s what Queen Guinevere was told. Stuck in the castle with her ladies-in-waiting, all she heard was gossip and rumors and thirdhand accounts of how mighty Sir So-and-So had been that day. As a royal princess, her value was measured by the children she’d bear, not the strength of her sword arm—and certainly not by anything she had to say.

So she missed how Merlin’s final battle spells had stripped the fae of their souls—and how the Faery people blamed Camelot for the disaster—until an enraged party of wounded fae burst into the castle threatening to crush humanity to dust. That’s when fear rose from the soles of Guinevere’s slippers, creeping up her body in chill waves of foreboding. Something had gone horribly wrong for her husband and his friends—but, as usual, Arthur had failed to send her word, and so there was nothing Guinevere could do.

In the end, it was Merlin who gave her a full account of the disaster. He came to her sitting room, dusty and disheveled from the road and with his dark face tight with worry. She set down her embroidery and stood, feeling as if she needed to be on her feet for whatever he had to say.

And then he told her. The fae would indeed carry out their threat against the mortal realms, but no one knew which day, year or even century their attack would come. So Merlin had put the king and his knights into an enchanted sleep and, when the fae returned, the heroes of Camelot would arise once more. As Merlin spoke, the mighty warriors of the Round Table were already stretched out upon empty tombs, trapped as effigies made of stone. In that form they would wait out the ages. They had sacrificed everything—fame, wealth and their very futures to stand guard over humankind.

But Guinevere had been left behind. Again.

Chapter 1

“Is this where you saw the beast?” asked Arthur Pendragon, High King of the Britons, as he slowed the Chevy SUV into the gravel beside a remote highway.

“Yes, about a half hour’s walk off the road.” His passenger was the dark-haired Scottish knight, Sir Gawain. “That’s a wee bit close for comfort.”

They were miles from civilization, but both men knew that meant nothing. A determined monster could find a town and crush it in the matter of an afternoon. Arthur parked and got out, a cold drop of rain making him look up. The October sky was baggy with clouds, promising a downpour.

Sir Gawain slammed the passenger door and walked around the front of the vehicle to stand beside him. The two men gazed toward the wild landscape of the inlet, a forest of cedars to their backs. Arthur glimpsed a distant sliver of water crowned with the ghostly outline of hills. The raw beauty of the place only darkened his mood. “Let’s gear up.”

They pulled weapons from the back of the SUV—swords, guns and knives—and buckled them on. Once armed, Gawain loped toward the forest at a speed that said much about the urgency of their hunt. He’d shrugged a leather jacket over a fleece hoodie and looked more like a local than a knight of Camelot. On the whole, he’d adapted to the twenty-first century with enviable ease.

Arthur followed, his heavy-soled boots sinking into the soft loam. Unlike Gawain, he’d spent his entire life as a king or preparing to be one, and blending in hadn’t been a necessary skill. Until now, anyway. Waking up in the modern world had changed more things than he could count—but not his duty to guard the mortal realms.

As they crossed the swath of scruffy grass between the road and the trees, Arthur saw the tracks. He immediately dropped to one knee. “Blood and thunder,” he cursed softly. The print was enormous, as big as a platter with three clawed toes pointed forward and a fourth behind. “Not to ask the obvious question, but what is a dragon doing in Washington State?”

“What’s Camelot doing here?” Gawain countered with a shrug.

“Are you saying there’s a connection?”

Gawain didn’t answer, and Arthur didn’t blame him. Sometimes there was no easy way to tell enchantment from sheer bad luck. As a case in point, after Merlin had sent the Knights of the Round Table into an enchanted sleep, an entrepreneur had moved the church and its contents—knights included—to the small town of Carlyle, Washington, to form the central feature of the Medievaland Theme Park. Arthur had gone to sleep in the south of England and awakened nearly a thousand years later as part of a tourist attraction in the US of A. After that, a fire-breathing monster hardly surprised him.

Arthur rose, dusting grit and pine needles from his hands. “A dragon can’t cross into the mortal realms on its own. It doesn’t have that kind of magic.”

“Then it had help,” Gawain muttered. “I suspect that’s your connection.”

Arthur shifted uneasily, the wind catching at the long skirts of his heavy leather coat. “So do we have a new enemy or an old one we’ve overlooked?” There were too many choices.

Gawain grabbed his arm in a bruising grip. “There!” He pointed, his hand steady but his face losing color.

Arthur sucked in his breath as a ripple of movement stirred the undergrowth. He reached for the hilt of his sword, Excalibur, but his fingers froze as the beast reared from the shaggy treetops. He was forced to tip his head back, and then tip it more as he looked up into a nightmare. “Bloody hell.”

The dragon’s green head was long and narrow with extravagant whiskers. Huge topaz eyes flared with menace, the slitted pupils widened as the beast caught sight of the two men. The eager expression in that gaze reminded Arthur of a cat spotting a wounded bird.

“I told you it was big,” said Gawain helpfully.

Arthur’s thoughts jammed like a rusted crossbow. The dragon was close enough that he could make out its scent—an odd mix of musk and cinders. Through the screen of trees, he could see a bony ridge of spikes descending from its humped back onto a long muscular tail that twitched with impatience. Or hunger.

“Ideas?” Gawain asked under his breath.

Arthur repressed a desperate urge to run. “Be charming. Maybe it will listen to reason.”

Gawain gave a strangled curse.

“Hello, mortal fleas,” the dragon boomed, its deep voice resonant with unpleasant amusement.

Arthur grasped Excalibur’s hilt and drew the long sword with a hiss. It should have made him feel better, but fewer knights than dragons walked away from a fight. He adopted his most courteous tone. “Sir Dragon, pray tell us what brings you to this realm?”

“Are there only two of you?” The dragon’s tufted ears cupped forward with curiosity as he pointedly ignored Arthur’s question. “What happened to your armies, little king?”

Arthur flinched with annoyance. After transporting Camelot’s resting place to Washington State, Medievaland’s founder had sold off most of the stone knights as a fund-raising effort. As a result, Camelot’s warriors now resided in museums and private collections, and there they would stay until awakened with magic. Counting Arthur, Camelot had exactly eight knights awake out of the one hundred and fifty that had gone into the stone sleep and no one knew where the rest of them were. Arthur was hunting his missing men one by one, but it was slow going.

There was no way he was sharing those details. “I don’t need an army to say that this place offers you no welcome. The mortal realms have forgotten the old ways, and dragons are no more than myths. Not even the fae reveal themselves to the humans here.”

The dragon snorted, twin puffs of smoke curling up from its cavernous nostrils. “And what does this world make of you, High King of the Britons?”

Arthur held Excalibur loosely in one hand, the tip resting between his feet. It was a posture meant to look relaxed, but he was balanced and ready to strike. “To my great sorrow, Camelot is forgotten. I keep my true name to myself.”

Amused, the dragon rumbled with a sound like crashing boulders. “But you still tell me to go? You would risk a thankless death for the ignorant rabble who live here?”

“Yes,” Arthur replied with outward calm.

Like a preening cat, the dragon stroked a huge, taloned forepaw over its whiskers. It looked casual, but Arthur detected something else in the dragon’s manner. Anger or sorrow or even disappointment.

“You amaze me, little king,” said the creature. “Once, your Pendragon forefathers held the deep respect of my kind. Now you can do no more than shoo me away as if I were a stray cat.”

“This time is different.”

“Is that why you left the mistress of your forgotten realm a widow?”

Arthur clenched his jaw. Guinevere. The memory of her made him ache with a mix of fury and regret. “That is not your affair.”

“A shame.” There was a dragonish, smoky sigh. “The minstrels of my world still sing of the Queen of Camelot’s beauty. A dragon would have kept his mate close.”

Arthur ground his teeth. Leaving his queen was the only thing he’d done right in their marriage. Back then, even the image of her delicate face and graceful hands had burned like acid crumbling his bones. He’d desired her so much, and yet they’d been so utterly mismatched. His crown and sword, his title and lands—none of it had meant a thing to her. All she’d wanted was—he wasn’t even certain what she’d wanted. He prayed she’d found happiness in the end.

“Don’t speak of my queen,” Arthur growled, all pretense of civility gone. “I ask you again, dragon, why are you here?”

“Ask me rather what I want.” The dragon arched its neck to angle one huge yellow eye at Arthur.

His words echoed Arthur’s thoughts with almost-sinister precision. “Fine. What do you want?”

“It has been long years since I made humans tremble behind their flimsy doors. I was once a destroyer of cities, a fiery death that rained from the skies. The name of Rukon Shadow Wing was the refrain of minstrels’ songs.”

None that Arthur had heard, but he kept that to himself. “Our cities are not your playthings.”

“They are if I make them so, and this mortal realm is ripe for plucking. My name shall be whispered in terror once again.”

“Humans have weapons far greater than my sword,” Arthur said, his voice hard. “You won’t survive.”

“But there your logic breaks down, little king. You don’t have an army, and by your own admission, modern mortals think me a myth.” The dragon gave a sly smile that was horribly full of teeth. “It will be too late by the time the modern generals gather their wits for an attack.”

“I will stop you.”

“Assuming you could find the men to do so, every accord with the hidden world, including the witches and even the fae, decrees that the magical realm must stay hidden. Breaking that trust means war with the few allies you have left, and you can’t afford that.”

Arthur said nothing. Unfortunately, the creature was right.

The dragon chuckled, smoke rolling from its muzzle. “Poor king. Even if you could convince the human world that I am real, the rules won’t let you say a word. What will you do, I wonder? Stand aside and watch me rampage through the countryside, or try to stop me all by yourself?”

Arthur finally lost his temper, gripping Excalibur’s hilt, but the dragon still wasn’t done.

“That would be the finest song of all,” the beast said with a growling purr. “Rukon Shadow Wing defeating the mighty King of Camelot. You see, at the end of it all, that is what I want the most. The trophy of your head in my lair.”

“I will not play the games of a delusional lizard!” Arthur roared, his gut burning. “I will see you dead first.”

The creature’s gaze flashed. “Foolish and rude. An unfortunate move, little king.” And it bared its scythe-like fangs, saliva dripping from their points.

Arthur heard Gawain’s breath hiss with alarm. His friend had been so still, Arthur had all but forgotten his presence. Now, with quicksilver speed, Gawain drew his gun and fired, grazing the long, weaving neck.

The dragon stretched its head high and snarled. White flame shot toward the sky, the heart of it a blue as pale and clear as gemstones. Terror shot down Arthur’s spine, making his heart pound so hard he barely heard the branches shatter as the dragon crashed through the trees. It was coming toward them at a deliberate jog, tail lashing in its wake.

Gawain and Arthur fell back step by step, keeping just enough distance to avoid the wicked jaws. The creature was perhaps eight feet high at the shoulder, but three times that from nose to tail. The huge head bobbed on the snakelike neck, jaws gaping to show its flickering tongue. But despite the danger, Arthur’s thoughts turned to crystalline calm as he tracked its every motion. This kind of impossible fight was what Arthur of Camelot had trained for.

They reached the grassy ground beyond the trees and used the room to run, drawing the monster into the open. Gawain fired again just as the dragon’s shoulders pushed out of the forest. The weak sunlight shimmered along its scales as it twisted away from the shot, but this time the beast wasn’t so lucky. Chips of scale flew as the bullet hit its side. It was no more than a flesh wound, but the dragon bellowed with fury, the sound so loud it was a physical blow.

The beast bounded forward and snatched up Gawain, quick as a heron plucking fish from the water. The knight’s howl of surprise shut off as the dragon’s jaws clamped around his chest. The gun flew from Gawain’s hand as the long neck reeled him skyward. One burst of flame, and he would be cooked.

Arthur swung Excalibur, his only thought to save his friend. Rukon reared up as Arthur attacked, the long belly flashing creamy white. Arthur lunged for one of the pale gaps between scales. It was a suicidal move, but a man defended his brothers, and a king spilled his blood for them. Arthur felt his blade connect, the shock of the blow jolting his shoulder before he spun away. Blood spilled but Excalibur’s edge did not slide far into the flesh. The beast seemed to be made of iron. Still, Arthur bolted in again, refusing to give up.

The next second Rukon’s whiplike tail whirled through the air, hammering Arthur so hard he flew back into the forest. Branches crackled and clawed at his face, turning the world into a mosaic of green and golden leaves—but not before he saw the dragon toss Gawain into the air with a disgusted flick. Gawain spun, arms outstretched, and dropped into the bushes with a mighty crash.

Arthur scrambled to Gawain’s side, dreading what he would find. Just as Arthur reached him, the dragon roared again, then thrust its head through the trees toward Arthur. He scrabbled for Excalibur, but it wasn’t needed. The dragon simply wanted to mock them now.

“This match goes to me. Have a worthy army waiting for my return, and bring reporters so that they can sing the song of my victory.”

“Reporters?” Arthur repeated the word with confusion. What did a dragon know about the human press?

He didn’t get a reply. With a huff of smoke, the dragon drew its head out of the trees and turned its back to the forest. Then it broke into a thundering run across the grass and unfurled huge leathery wings, each spine tipped with a glittering claw. The wingspan was enormous, blotting out the light. With a thunderous flap, Rukon Shadow Wing sprang into the sky, beating hard until the long, twisting form soared above the wild landscape.

As it rose higher and higher, a bright spiral of light appeared in the clouds. It was no bigger than a coin to Arthur’s sight, but he knew it was a rift into another realm—a doorway no dragon should have been able to create. Rukon dived through it, and the light winked out. The sky was suddenly empty of anything but the coming rain.

Gawain moaned and rolled onto his back. “Did I ever mention dragon breath smells like old barbecue?”

“How badly are you hurt?” Arthur asked, helping Gawain as he struggled to sit up.

The knight paused before answering, as if doing a mental check of his bruises. “Hitting the bushes hurt the worst.” He peered at the sleeve of his leather jacket. The fabric was scarred by the dragon’s fangs, but not torn. For some reason, Rukon had spared him.

Arthur clapped his friend on the shoulder, unable to speak. Relief had closed his throat with a burning ache. They had survived, but he had a feeling their good luck had just run out. Too much didn’t make sense. How was the dragon traveling between realms? Was Rukon really so hungry for glory—for the chance to kill Arthur before the cameras of the human media—that it was willing to risk starting a war with every magical creature that preferred to hide from human eyes? And why hadn’t it butchered Gawain?

“Have you ever heard of Rukon Shadow Wing?” Gawain asked.

“No,” Arthur replied, getting to his feet. “And I’d remember if we’d met.”

Arthur picked up Excalibur and scowled at the blade. The strike against the dragon’s scales had dulled the edge. He slammed the sword back into its scabbard and paced the loamy ground, anger and confusion prickling along his nerves. What was going on and, more to the point, how could he stop it?

Both men jumped when Gawain’s phone rang with the sound of a tiny fanfare. The knight was still sitting on the ground, but he unzipped his pocket and extracted the smartphone in its shockproof case. “Hello?”

Arthur watched his friend’s face pucker in confusion. He knew most of Gawain’s trademark scowls, but this was different. The knight held out the phone with a faintly dazed expression. “It’s your wife.”

The clouds picked that moment to unlock their downpour.

Chapter 2

Minutes later, Guinevere handed the phone back to Merlin the Wise. They sat in his workshop, the light dim and the details of the room lost in shadow. It didn’t bother her that she couldn’t see much. Her mind was already far too crowded.

“That voice,” she said, the words faint. “That was his voice.”

She’d heard her husband speak through a tiny square of a slippery, unfamiliar material called plastic. Impossible. Disorienting. A bone-deep queasiness made her clutch the edge of her chair.

“What about Arthur’s voice?” Merlin asked gently.

She wasn’t sure what to say. That hearing Arthur speak had made the blood rush to her cheeks? That she’d thought him lost to her forever? That hearing his words—she could barely recall what those were, she’d been so flustered—brought back bitter disappointment that Arthur had left her behind?

No, she’d never reveal that much vulnerability to Merlin. He was too arrogant and too manipulative for trust. She had no wish to be a pawn on his chessboard.

“Has Arthur changed?” she asked instead. Despite the unfamiliar form of communication, she’d recognized the force of Arthur’s personality through his shock. There had been something different, more grim.

“Yes, he’s had to change. This is a new world,” Merlin said, offering no details as he pocketed the phone. “And, no, he’s the same as he always was. That’s the strength and the curse of Arthur.”

“He left you behind, as well,” she said, suddenly putting things together. “That must have been a blow.”

“There is no need to concern yourself with that. I am here with Arthur now, and so are you.” The enchanter’s eyes were an odd amber color that reminded her of a hawk. She had no idea how old he was, but he appeared to be a man in his thirties, lean and dark and with the air of someone too smart for his own good. He watched her now as if afraid she’d turn hysterical. Maybe she would.

Her eyes strayed to the tomb at the center of the gloomy workshop. On top of it was an elegant effigy made of white marble, every fold of cloth expertly carved. She would have admired its beauty, except the face on that statue was hers. She was that stone woman with the budding rose in her folded hands—and that Gwen was dead. It was a tomb for her, and it was very old. So why was she alive?

She tried to swallow, but her mouth was as dry as the grave. “Tell me again how I woke up inside that statue?”

“Magic,” he said with an airy wave. “I cast the same spell on you as I did on the knights of Camelot. While you were part of the stone, you slept. No age or disease touched you. But now you are awake and fully mortal again. Your life picks up exactly where you left off.”

“Oh.” She didn’t sound enthusiastic even to herself.

Had she asked for this? She couldn’t remember Merlin’s spell, much less discussing it beforehand—and yet somehow that seemed the least of her problems. “Does this mean I shall continue as Arthur’s wife and the Queen of Camelot?”

Merlin gave an affirmative nod.

“Why?” The word came out before she could stop it.

“Why?” He tilted his head. “I brought you here because Camelot requires a queen.” He said it casually, the way someone might say Camelot required a gate or a carpet or new furniture in the reception hall. She was an object taken out of storage.

Gwen had always done what was required of her, but a hot nugget of anger was coming to life, as if emerging from its own block of stone. She hadn’t asked to be abandoned, but she hadn’t asked to be turned into a gigantic paperweight, either. Of course, there was only one man who was ultimately responsible for anything that happened in Camelot. “I want to speak to Arthur. Take me to him.”

Merlin gave a sly smile and bowed low. “At once, my queen.”

Merlin’s obedience was about as reliable as a cat’s but, for the moment, she was at his mercy. She watched with unease while he sketched an arc in the air with his hand. Where his fingertips passed, a bright, tremulous light followed, as if he’d opened a seam in reality. Gwen blinked and stepped back in alarm as the golden luminescence dripped across the air like honey from a spoon. She’d seen many of Merlin’s tricks, but this was new. She swallowed hard, trying to look as if this sort of thing happened every day.

When the light had filled in the impromptu doorway, he bowed again and reached for her hand. Stiffly, she allowed him to take it, and they stepped through the brilliance. A buzzing sensation rippled across her skin and, in the time it took Gwen to gasp, they emerged into a long hallway punctuated with closed doors. Merlin began walking, Gwen trailing after him. When she twisted her head to look behind her, the arc of golden light had vanished.

“Where is this place?” Gwen asked.

Merlin stopped before a plain and very unmagical-looking door at the end of the hallway. “The king’s dwelling, as you desired.”

The enchanter put one long-fingered hand around the doorknob and spoke a word. Pale light flared around the brass knob, and a series of clicks followed. Gwen guessed that was the sound of the locks surrendering.

“Why not simply knock?” Gwen asked, suspecting Merlin was just showing off now.

“Arthur’s not home, so we’ll let ourselves in.”

“I may have hurtled through centuries,” Gwen said under her breath, “but I can’t imagine any reality in which my royal husband welcomes uninvited guests.”

“We’re not guests,” Merlin said smoothly. “This is your home as much as his.”

He pushed the door open with a flourish. Gwen stood on the threshold, suddenly uncertain if she wanted to step inside. “This is Arthur’s home? Where is his castle?”

The enchanter gave a nervous cough. “Things work slightly differently in this day and age. This is my lord’s apartment, which he rents. These rooms are his, but not the entire building.”

On one level, Gwen understood the concept. Merlin’s enchantment had given her information about the modern world, but the tumult of facts had come too fast for her to grasp them all. Not yet, and what she had absorbed seemed random. Modern clothes were a blank, but she was certain the standard measurements for an entry door like this were thirty-six by eighty inches.

Merlin was waiting for her to react, a concerned frown creeping onto his face. She stepped inside, reminding herself she was queen of this domain. Ahead was a large room with a balcony beyond tall glass doors. There were dark leather couches suitable for sprawling males. There was a bowl of something on a low table she assumed was food, although it was nothing that she recognized.

She continued her inspection, keeping emotion from her face. She didn’t need Merlin to see her mounting distress. The function of the other rooms—a kitchen, bathroom and bedroom—were clear, although they lacked warmth or interest or personality or the slightest hint of being a home. Even the grand castle at Camelot, with hundreds of inhabitants, said more about its king than this sad place. Arthur was utterly absent. Gwen bit her lip. Come to think of it, absent was rather his style.

She turned back to Merlin. “Is this everything? Where do the servants sleep?”

“There’s an office.” He pointed to the one door she hadn’t opened yet. “No servants.”

“No servants?” That explained the dirty dishes in the kitchen sink and the crumbs around the bowl of whatever it was on the table. Words formed on the tip of her tongue, hot and burning. This was an insult. Royalty had men and maids to do their bidding. Gwen curled her fingers, indignation sharp in her chest. Then she swallowed it down. Arthur, for all his flaws, did everything for a reason. There had to be an explanation.

“Will I have my own chambers?” she asked, quieting her voice. “Will there be ladies to tend me?”

Merlin actually shuffled his feet like an embarrassed squire. “That’s a conversation you should have with Arthur.”

Which meant she wouldn’t like the answer.

“Very well.” She walked to the nearest couch and sat down, folding her hands in her lap. “When will the king arrive?”

Merlin gave a slight shrug. “Not long. He’s meeting with his men.”

“I understand,” she said with a touch of acid. “His wife returning from the grave is a small matter compared to his knights.”

The enchanter winced. “There was a dragon.”

“Oh?” She raised a brow. “This is not the Forest Sauvage. How did a dragon get here?”

“We don’t know. That’s half the problem.”

“And the other half?”

Merlin opened his mouth, and then closed it. “Arthur will tell you.”

Which meant Arthur had asked Merlin not to say more. This, at least, was familiar territory. Battling monsters was a man’s business. Never mind that it was the women, left at home, who had the most face time with whatever horror was tearing the village apart. They typically had the beastie on the run by the time Sir Whatever showed up to poke it with a sword.

Gwen paused, wondering at her thoughts. Merlin’s spell had introduced a lot of unfamiliar—and usefully sarcastic—words and phrases. She rather liked that.

“I can wait. There’s always a dragon. Or a troll. Or a quest.” Closing her eyes, Gwen leaned back against the squishy cushions, discovering the ugly piece of furniture was actually comfortable. “While we wait, you can tell me why Camelot needs a queen.”

Merlin’s voice was soft. “That’s also something Arthur needs to say.”

Gwen sighed. She considered trying out one of the useful modern phrases, but when she looked up again, Merlin had disappeared. The only thing left was a faint curl of smoke drifting toward the spackled ceiling.

Gwen huffed. Coward. It was Merlin’s fault she was here. She hadn’t asked to be dragged forward in time.

She rose, too nervous to stay still. The prospect of seeing Arthur turned her insides cold. She was angry with him, of course, but there were other emotions, too—ones that she really didn’t want to examine. Fear, maybe? Shame? Anytime she’d tried to fix things between them, it had all gone wrong. They were just too different. And then there was the fact she’d never done the one thing required of a queen—she’d failed to give him an heir.

She drifted around the space, picking things up and putting them down again. The circuit didn’t take long. To the left was an alcove with table and chairs, but she couldn’t imagine it had ever seen a dinner party. The kitchen was filled with marvelous devices, but little food. She avoided the bedroom.

The office door beckoned. Why was it closed when every other room was open for inspection? There was no lock, however, and in a moment she was inside. She froze before she’d taken two steps.

Now she understood the closed door. This was the room where Arthur lived. It was not large, but there was a substantial desk in the corner covered with papers. The clutter had the feel of determination and excitement, of boundless enthusiasm colliding with rigorous organization. She approached it, her hands at her sides, touching nothing.

A map hung on the wall, poked full of colored pins. Gwen studied it, not sure what it signified but recognizing the hand of the high king who had made a conquest of Britain. He’d been barely more than a child when the lesser rulers had bowed to his sword. Give Arthur something to conquer, and he was in his element.

Once upon a time, that confidence, that strength of purpose had stopped her heart. Who wouldn’t revere a man who could pluck kingdoms like ripe fruit and make them his own? But she might as well have loved the sea or a range of mountains. Great works of nature had no time for mortal women. She had been a clause in a treaty between Arthur and her father, King Leodegranz. Marriage had been the price of peace, and her dowry had been the famous Round Table.

The table had got more of Arthur’s attention. Gwen frowned and turned away from the map.

There was a computer on the desk, and she experimentally touched a key. The black screen jumped to life, displaying words and pictures. She bent closer to look, her brain catching up to the spell that made it possible for her to read the modern text. Once she began, Gwen lost all awareness of the room around her. She pushed the arrow buttons, making the lines of type move. The novelty of it intrigued her.

So did the words themselves. It was a report of mysterious destruction outside the town. Was this the dragon Merlin had mentioned? Her pulse quickened.

A thickly muscled arm caught her around the waist. Deep in thought, Gwen jerked away from the desk, surprise quickly turning to alarm. The grip tightened, pulling her back against a wall of chest. And then she knew him. She knew the scent, the feel of his body.

“Arthur.” She put both hands on his confining arm, but he didn’t release her.

“What are you doing in here?”

He’d spoken to her on the phone, but the device had done his voice an injustice. Up close, the deep, rich sound was something touchable, like warm fur. Gwen closed her eyes, wishing it didn’t enchant her quite so thoroughly. He’d left her behind. That said enough about his true feelings.

“Shouldn’t you be asking why I’m here at all?” She put an edge in her voice out of reflex, as if that would hold his magnetic effect at bay.

“You forget I spoke to Merlin. I know how you arrived.” His tone was carefully neutral.

His coolness burned her. “And no more needs to be said?”

“What would you have me say?”

“You could begin with hello. I am your wife.”

He relaxed his grip enough that she could turn and pull away. She took a step back, looking up into his face. Her breath hitched then. The encounter with the dragon hadn’t been gentle. His left cheekbone was purpling over raw scrapes that said he’d skidded on hard ground. Without thinking, she reached up and cupped his wounded face. “How badly are you hurt?”

“Gawain got the worst of it, but he walked away.”

Arthur’s clear blue eyes finally met hers. Their expression made it plain that he was unsettled to see her. That made everything worse. His anger was easier to fight.

Gwen dropped her hand, her mouth gone dry. The bruises did nothing to hide the clean, strong symmetry of his face. He was eight years older than she was, but that only put him in his early thirties. His neatly trimmed beard had not changed, but his hair was longer. There was something lionlike about the shaggy mass—it was no one color, but a wealth of autumn shades from gold to dark auburn. She yearned to touch it.

He was dressed strangely in what she assumed was the modern style. Her hands fisted in her skirts—the same ones she’d slept in for centuries. The clothes made the gulf between them seem even wider.

They stared at each other for a long moment, teetering at the edge of...something. Could it be he was glad to see her? There was so much unsaid, so many hurts and so many things she didn’t understand.

In all their years together, she’d never come to grips with what drove him. Most of all, she’d never known what drove him away, exactly, beyond the fact that she wouldn’t sit still and say nothing for years on end.

All Gwen’s unspoken questions rose up, almost a physical pressure under her ribs. At times—though not often enough—she would have swallowed her questions back, bowed her head and retreated. But she’d been ripped from her century and dumped here without permission, and she was done with silent obedience.

“Why am I here?” she demanded.

Chapter 3

Once, Guinevere hadn’t been bold enough to hold Arthur’s gaze, but she did so now. He could see her irises were not the perfect blue that minstrels described. Rays of green and gold gave them an iridescent depth. In a similar way, Guinevere was never just one thing. Arthur’s life would have been so much more predictable if she were.

He took a step back, taking in her tall, slim form. By all the saints, she was lovely. Her golden beauty cut him to the quick, reminding him why he had tried so hard to wipe it from his thoughts.

“Why, Arthur? Why bring me here?” Guinevere asked again, her voice shaking.

Why had he brought her here? He’d done no such thing, but he wasn’t ready to admit that. Not until he knew more. “Why are you rifling through my private space?” he countered.

“Your private space? Is there something here the Queen of Camelot cannot see?” Her color was rising to an angry pink.

“There are confidential matters that I would keep to myself.” Such as the many places he believed stone knights might be languishing. If his research fell into enemy hands, their lives might not be safe.

Gwen clenched her fists. “You’re not content unless I’m locked in a tower, deaf and blind to the dangers at our door!”

“You meddle,” he growled. “You have from the first day you set foot in my realm.”

That wasn’t exactly true. Their disagreements had grown with time. At first, he’d been conquering a realm and far too busy for his young wife. After the first few years, they’d begun to get along. But then she’d been ill, and then trouble had started: the scandal with Lancelot. She’d always claimed he was just a friend, and Arthur believed her now. But that hadn’t always been the case, especially after the incident with the Mercian prince. Then there had been their endless fights. In the end, he’d ridden off to war as often as he could. They couldn’t make each other unhappy if they were miles apart.

Her eyes flashed. “The realm is not just your business, husband. I am the queen. These are my people, as well.”

The air between them sang with frustration. Within seconds, they’d picked up the threads of their old argument. Arthur cleared his throat, cursing his anger. Her stubborn will ignited his temper at every turn.

“It’s dangerous in this time,” he said softly. “Even worse than before. This world is deceptive in its illusion of order and safety.”

“And you would protect me through ignorance? I’m not a child.”

His chest burned. “Remember the prince of Mercia.”

The man had been rotten through and through—young, handsome, a good dancer and witty conversationalist. He’d flattered Gwen when she’d first come to court, and later that flirtation had grown more serious. In the end he’d coaxed information out of her that broke a treaty and all but started a war. Gwen hadn’t even suspected trickery until it was too late. By then, both Gwen and Arthur looked like fools. It was plain he had no control over his wife—and any weakness in a king made their enemies bold.

“I know better now,” she said through clenched teeth. “I’ve said a thousand times how I learned my lesson.”

Anger made his voice cold. “Self-knowledge is good. Trusting you to stay out of the kingdom’s affairs is another matter.”

“When will you trust me?”

“I would take that chance if I was an ordinary husband with an ordinary life. I’m not that man.”

She visibly flinched. “And what would you have me do?”

“I would have you at my side.” He reached out, cupping her cheek and hoping to take some of the sting from his words. “As you say, you are the queen. A queen has a household to run and official duties to discharge. You make guests welcome, smile at our subjects and grace my arm at official functions.”

She lifted her chin, the movement breaking contact with his hand. “In other words, you want me to sit quietly like a good little mouse.”

It was a harsh statement but true. He didn’t want her involved in matters of state. Guinevere’s intentions were good, but she had always underestimated schemers. And now? Nothing had changed. Enemy fae were skulking around every corner. Many foes would try to attack him through his curious, trusting wife, and that meant neither of them were safe with her here. But here she was, his greatest vulnerability wrapped in an exquisite female form.

Arthur released the breath he’d been holding. She hadn’t moved—her arms still folded as if to protect her vital organs. Sadness took him then, an ache for the gulf that forever yawned between them. He reached out, taking one of her hands and unwinding that closed posture.

“Come sit down,” he said, with all the gentleness he could muster. “We need to talk.”

She frowned. “Why does no one say that for a happy reason?”

Despite himself, Arthur gave a rueful chuckle. “I don’t know, but you’re right.” He led her from the office and closed the door firmly behind them. He hadn’t been in the apartment long enough to invest in a lock for his office, but clearly it was time.

Arthur led Guinevere to the black leather couch and guided her to a seat beside him. The familiar swish of her long skirts stirred memories. At every step, a fresh storm of emotion ran through him—regret, desire and a strong conviction that she would bring nothing but trouble.

And yet...

This was Guinevere, the queen who made hardened warriors stand gaping like witless boys. Her beauty wasn’t just flesh and features, but a lively kindness that burned like a lantern through a winter night. It was her forthright ease with strangers, her wit in conversation and the charm that had turned his warrior’s castle into a shining court. In a small, secret corner of his heart, he was in awe of her. She made people love her with a smile. He’d needed an army before anyone would spare him a glance.

They sat and regarded each other for a long moment, as if neither knew how to begin. What was there to say? They’d faced the same problems so many times before: her independence and his need to rule, her curiosity and his protectiveness. There would be a fight, and usually he’d end it by leaving.

But what about reconciliation after the storm? That was the one consolation of their relationship, and he would rather begin again with sweetness than fury. Perhaps if he tried harder this time, maybe, just maybe he could make her accept his rule.

Arthur picked up her hand from where it lay on the black leather and kissed it. He lingered over the act, feeling her soft warmth. Her fingers were long and delicate, the palms slender and graceful. They smelled of scented oils and, beneath that, the richness of her skin.

When Arthur finally looked up, there was a flush high on her cheekbones. He felt a surge of pride that he had the power to stir her blood. But instead of smiling, the corners of her lush mouth turned down. “It has been a long while since you did that, my lord.”

“Too long.” He tasted her warmth on his lips, and it awakened old hungers. “An unforgivable oversight.”

“You left for battle and never came home again.”

He looked away, back into a battlefield strewn with carnage. “The fae swore to destroy Camelot, and then all the mortal realms. We just never knew when or how. We had to come up with a plan.”

“Merlin told me,” she replied. “You went into the stone sleep and woke up here. The fae have returned to carry out their threat.”

He nodded. “Morgan LaFaye is their queen now, but she is in a magical prison. It should hold her long enough for Camelot to strengthen its forces.”

Guinevere’s eyes were intent. “How will you accomplish that?”

This was information she’d find out anyhow. There was no harm in answering. “The knights were scattered during the stone sleep, and I’ve had to locate them one by one. I’ve only found a handful of my warriors so far, but I will keep searching.”

“Where did they go?” Guinevere’s brows furrowed.

“The tombs have turned up in museums and private collections.” Arthur was still holding her hand, but his grip had tightened. He released Guinevere, afraid of crushing her bones. Suddenly weary, he released a sigh. “I had to buy Percival at auction.”

A smile twitched the corners of her mouth. “I hope you didn’t overpay. That would surely go to his head.”

For the first time since she’d arrived, they laughed together. Merriment was scant in his life. Female company was even rarer. For all their difficulties, he’d been faithful to his wife, and having her near stirred heated memories. Arthur’s heart gave an odd skip at the thought of Guinevere’s sleepy face in the pale light of early morning. They’d had their moments.

He snapped himself back to the present. “I shouldn’t be troubling you with unpleasant tidings.”

“Trouble me,” she said. “How did you come out of the stone sleep?”

“Not easily. Gawain found my tomb in the Forest Sauvage.”

“And then?”

“There was a battle. It’s a long story.”

“I want to hear it.”

“Why?”

“First, you are my husband.” She said it with a bittersweet smile that speared his heart. “And I’m part of Camelot, too.”

She was more than that. Guinevere was royalty, but noble birth meant little in these modern times. A difficult truth struck him. With no skills, no occupation, how would she survive? Whatever he’d done in the past to protect her—and he would lay down his life in an instant—he had to keep her close now. Without him, Guinevere was alone. The thought filled him with an odd mix of dread and desire.

Her expression was expectant, waiting for him to say more. He smiled, feeling the bruises on his cheek and jaw. “I promise I’ll regale you with the entire story, every last dull detail of it. But right now I’d rather tell you what this modern age has to offer.”

Her eyes widened with interest. “All right. Please do.”

“This is a strange world, filled with extremes. Most obvious is the wealth of information and experience. Books are readily available, and travel is breathtakingly fast.”

“Really? And who are the books for?”

It was a reasonable question. They’d been born in a time when relatively few learned to read. “Schools are available to everyone, rich or poor.”

“Do women go to school, as well?”

“Yes, they are regarded as equals here.”

Guinevere said nothing, but her breath had quickened, a sure sign of emotion. An uneasy feeling crept down Arthur’s spine—had he just opened Pandora’s box?—but then she put a gentle hand on his knee. The unexpected touch sent a flood of heat up his thigh. Without quite knowing what he did, he leaned forward, needing to be closer.

“Then perhaps things can be different,” she said. “We can live as the modern people do.”

Her words did not quite sink in—other sensations were elbowing their way to the fore. Enchanted, he reached over, touching the slight cleft of her chin. The skin there was like satin, beckoning him to explore further. She stilled, growing watchful again. Only the muscles of her long, graceful throat moved as she swallowed.

Arthur was mesmerized. Her scent enveloped him, the space between them growing warm. All his earlier reservations melted, and he didn’t care that he was dropping his guard. Right then all that mattered was Guinevere. His Gwen. She should be at his side, where he could touch her silken skin whenever he liked.

“Things will be different,” he said, believing it for a heady moment. “Things will finally be right.” He would rule Camelot, and she would be at his side, bonded together in this strange new time. The challenge of finding their way in the modern world would give them the common ground they’d always lacked. An image formed in his mind’s eye of them seated before the assembled knights, hand in hand and finally united. They looked deliriously happy.

“Right?” she asked softly.

“As they always should have been. As I always meant them to be.”

His daydream faded when she rose with a sigh, crossing to the balcony door to look outside. Rain splattered the glass, blurring the lights outside. At some point, dusk had fallen.

“How do I know we want the same thing?” The question was hesitant.

A familiar knot of confusion made Arthur frown. He never understood exactly how her mind worked. It was as if tiny demons lived inside her skull, coming up with ways to torment him. “How could it be otherwise? You’re my queen.”

She turned from the window, her expression defiant. “You didn’t ask me to follow you into the future.”

Arthur got to his feet, wary of her mood now. “The fae had sworn vengeance on me. I was the one they wanted, so it was safer for you to remain in Camelot. With danger gone, I believed you’d find happiness.”

“Happiness?” She gave a mirthless laugh that fired his skin with shame. “You left me alone.”

His anger rose in self-defense, but he held it in check as she lifted her hands in a helpless gesture. “Never mind the past,” she said. “What am I supposed to do now?”

Arthur took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. A moment ago, he’d been certain everything would be fine. He wanted to recapture that mood. “You’re wondering if there’s a role for you here, in this world?”

“Precisely.” She looked ghostly in the soft light, twilight deepening behind her silhouette.

He covered the distance between them in a single stride. The energy of their argument prickled beneath his skin, and it made his hands rough as he grasped her slender waist. She went rigid at his touch, resisting until he ran a hand down her spine. Yes, she needed comfort. Another long stroke and she arched into him, her body remembering his. The skirts of her dress floated around her as he pulled her close.

Relief made him ache as he realized there was still a welcome for him in her arms. Arthur bent his head, murmuring into her ear. “Let me reassure you that there is no one else I would consider as my queen.”

Lashes veiled her eyes, with a hint of mischief lurking beneath her sadness. “And why is that?”

“I wanted you the moment I saw you dancing in your father’s garden. You were everything I was not.”

Her lips quirked. “A girl, you mean?”

He buried his nose in the cloud of her hair, her scent filling his soul. “You knew nothing of the ills of the world. You were innocent.”

She pulled back to search his face. “No one stays that pure. That ignorant.”

“Not when you become a wife,” he said, letting desire sharpen his smile. Then he kissed her.

He was forced to bend while she rose on tiptoe. They flowed into the embrace naturally, her arms winding around his neck. His hands inched down her ribs and over her hips, reclaiming her curves. Desire, already invading his thoughts, pushed its way to the fore.

He kissed her hard, reminding her that he was the master, and yet leaving coaxing nips behind. When they were together like this, there had never been a question about the spark between them. Her mouth opened, welcoming his exploration, letting their tongues twist and mingle. The gentle swell of her breasts pressed into his chest, demanding to be stroked and when he obeyed—even a sovereign sometimes obeyed—a sound of pleasure escaped her throat. Heat tore through his body, making him drive her back against the cool glass door. He held her head, gentle and yet not, as he plundered her mouth. Her fingers twined with his, her body arching up, straining to meet him.

How long the kiss lasted was impossible to know, but the sky was fully dark when they were done. The lights of the city shone behind his Gwen as if this new age had fashioned a celestial crown for his queen. Arthur ached with desire, eager to put his seal on this conquest. It was a healing, yes, and a reunion, but he also wanted her to know beyond doubt that she was his.

He took her hand, pulling her with him until he paused at the door of his bedroom. He touched a switch and a soft light bloomed from the bedside lamp. Praise all the saints that the room was acceptably tidy. He placed his hands on her shoulders, turning her to face him.

Guinevere’s eyes were soft and dazed. “That was quite the kiss, my lord.”

Satisfaction sprawled within him. “There is no need for it to end.”

Her posture shifted. It was a slight thing, but it seemed to put her worlds away. “I think there is.”

Arthur blinked. His need for her was a runaway stallion. Hauling it back took effort. “There is?”

“You want me as your queen. I understand that.”

“And?” Arthur was confused. What more was there to add?

“Is that what I want now, in this new world? Did you ever think to ask?”

She waited, but he had no answer to give. That said enough, and they both knew it. He felt his temper begin to fray beneath the sting of awkwardness. Why should he ask? He was king and she had made her vows when she was little more than a girl.

Then again, was it fair to ask her to keep them when so much had changed?

“You left me behind—not just once, but over and over again.” Guinevere shut her eyes a moment, then met his gaze without retreat. “I know you believed you were doing the right thing. You saw my desire to participate fully in your reign as naive and dangerous because of the fae and magic and the kings who hated the fact you’d conquered them.”

She was completely right. “And?” he asked.

“And nothing, not even an apology, makes up for being considered invisible—dispensable—for so long. I don’t want to be that woman anymore.”

None of what she’d just said made sense to him. He’d never thought of her that way—not in the fashion she meant. “So what is it that you do want?”

“I’ve been in this world for only hours, but what you’ve said intrigues me. You say women have access to education? That they have equality? I’d like to find out what that means.”

“How does that matter? You’re the Queen of Camelot. What more could you desire?”

Gwen caught her breath, as if he’d slapped her. “There is a whole new world in which to answer that question.”

She stepped into the bedroom and closed the door. “Good night.” The words were muffled and very final.

“Gwen!” Chagrined, he pressed his palm against the hard barrier. He’d said the wrong thing. He’d known it the moment the words left his lips. Stupid.

And now the door was firmly closed. Arthur could easily break it down, but that was no answer. Reason demanded that they both cool off before the argument escalated to a fight, but his temper didn’t want to listen. Self-discipline alone made him back away from the blank, infuriating blockade.

Right then, the dragon problem looked simple.

Chapter 4

Gwen’s eyes snapped open. Bright sun streamed in the window, pooling on the carpet. Her eyes, sore and sandy from crying herself to sleep, protested against the glare. Squinting, she sat up, mind scrambling to reassemble yesterday’s events. Statue. Merlin. Arthur. Gwen pressed a hand to her head, as if the memories might shatter her skull.

She’d shut Arthur out of his own bedroom. He was her husband. He was the king. What had she been thinking?

Gwen sagged back to the pillows. That was the whole point—she’d been trying to think, and with Arthur charming her, that was hard. He’d kissed her, and the heat of it still simmered under her skin. But bed sport, however delicious, wasn’t the only thing she desired from her husband. She’d pushed him away, but she’d done it in hopes he would consider everything she’d said. If their marriage was to get better, someone had to make the first move.

She wanted Arthur’s conversation, his confidence and his trust. She needed the same respect he gave to his knights. No, she demanded more. He should love her, Guinevere, and not just the idea of a wife or queen.

Gwen clawed her way out from under the covers. It was a large, soft bed, and it took her a moment to put her feet on the floor. When she finally stood, shivering slightly in her thin chemise, she could see the streets beyond the apartment window. She was high up, higher than the tallest towers of Camelot, and the men and women below seemed tiny. How on earth had these people built so many enormously tall buildings, with so much glass and so little stone?

She took a step closer, momentarily hypnotized. Merlin had said the name of this city was Carlyle, Washington. The streets ran in perfect lines, brightly colored vehicles speeding along them like ambitious beetles. Merlin’s spell provided the proper words for what she saw—trucks, cars, buses and stoplights. But the knowledge had little meaning. She had no experience of any of it.

A sudden need to sit down put her back on the bed. Gwen pressed her face into her palms, willing her thudding heart to slow down. All the bizarre things that had happened yesterday were still true. She’d half expected to wake up in her own chambers far, far in the past.

She dropped her hands to her lap. She had to find courage. After all, this wasn’t the first time her life had changed utterly from one sunrise to the next. One day, her mother had died. One day, she’d been betrothed. One day, she’d left the only home she’d known for Camelot. She would face this trouble like every other, even if she’d been catapulted centuries into the future. What other choice was there?

As she sat, she slowly became aware of the world around her. There were deep, rumbling voices sounding through the walls—Arthur’s definitely, and perhaps Gawain’s brogue, and then others she couldn’t name. The last thing she wanted to do was to face the knights on her first day here, when everything was unfamiliar and awkward. But again, what choice did she have?

She padded into the tiny bathroom that adjoined the chamber. Merlin’s spell had been helpful here, but the sight of water appearing without pumps or buckets—hot water, no less—was still fascinating. And oddly overwhelming. Taking a breath, she turned a tap over the sink. She must have turned too hard, because the water hit the porcelain with so much force that it bounced back, blinding her with the spray. She jerked it off again, panting with the surprise. An impulse to cry rolled over her—to cry and be comforted and told everything would be fine. But that was a weakness she couldn’t afford if she was ever to earn respect.

Grimly, she washed and pulled on her gown, wishing for her ladies-in-waiting. They would have made sure her hair was perfect and her dress free of dust or wrinkles. Most of all, they would have distracted her with gossip and silly jokes. They had been her friends, and now she had none. She was alone.

Once Gwen had tidied herself, she stepped into the rest of the bland, spare apartment. The living room was crowded with big men draped over the black leather furniture. Arthur saw her first and looked up. As if that were a signal, everyone fell silent and rose to their feet, then, as one, they bowed.

“Be at your ease,” she said, the words made automatic from long habit.

There was a rustle as they straightened, every face turned her way. She paused, frozen by the weight of their stares. She recognized the knights: Gawain, Beaumains, Percival and Palomedes. There was also a young woman she did not know, with short fair hair and a smartphone in her hand. Gwen scanned the young woman’s clothes and the confident way she carried herself. There was no question she was from the modern age.

Gwen forced herself to take another step into the room until she faced Arthur, and then sank into a deep curtsy. “My lord.”

“We’re not so formal here,” he said. “Please rise.”

She did, feeling an unaccustomed shyness. She’d at least been able to count on her manners, but even that was different here.

“I’m glad to see you awake,” said Arthur. “I trust you slept well.” He, on the other hand, had dark circles under his eyes. Gwen wondered if he’d slept at all.

“Well enough.” She barely noticed what she said, for she was studying her husband with care. The warmth of the night before had been replaced by a more impersonal friendliness. She knew it of old—the mask of Arthur the King, friendly, jovial and utterly impenetrable. It was as if they hadn’t kissed or touched or had a real conversation. Disappointment throbbed like something wedged under her breastbone.

Gwen swallowed hard. Had she destroyed everything by pushing him? For asking for a voice in their marriage? She wanted to talk everything through, but now was not the time. As always, the business of court pushed her needs aside. She was aware of the others, staring as if she were an exotic beast. Her breath hitched, but she found her voice.

“How long did I sleep?” she asked with complete casualness. “It must have been some time, judging by the light.”

“My lady,” said Beaumains, who was Gawain’s younger brother and her favorite among the courtiers. “We all crash when we first come out of the stone sleep.”

“Crash?” The word confused her.

“Sleep for a long time,” explained the woman, who was standing beside Gawain. “Don’t be surprised if you feel disoriented at first. Everyone’s reaction on waking is different. Arthur held my sister at sword point for the first few minutes after he regained consciousness.”

The king gave the young woman a pained look. “I’m not a morning person.”

“You were in a paranoid delirium.”

“That’s something like your resting state, isn’t it?” Gawain quipped, giving Arthur a sidelong glance.

The banter didn’t hide the tension in the room. Gwen looked quickly from face to face. The young knights—the ones she considered friends—were subdued. Gawain, on the other hand, scowled at Gwen. She groaned inwardly. He had always blamed her for making Arthur unhappy, and clearly that hadn’t changed.

Well, she would just have to work around him. She gave a confident nod to the room. “I did not mean to disturb your conversation, but here I am.” She approached an empty chair next to Arthur. “What were you discussing?”

“Nothing of importance.” Arthur waved a dismissive hand. “By your leave, my lady, I have summoned a friend to take you into town. You need clothes.”

Gwen stopped in her tracks. Arthur was close enough to touch, but she kept her hands by her sides. “My lord,” she began quietly, “by your own account there is a dragon marauding through the countryside, and fae armies threaten Camelot’s welfare. Surely my wardrobe can wait?”

Arthur met her gaze and held it with his own. Despite his smile, the warning in his eyes was clear—he would not tolerate defiance in front of his men. “You need appropriate dress,” he replied, his voice reasonable. “You don’t need to remain here. There is nothing you can do.”

The urge to protest rose up, but something made her look at the others in the room. Their expressions were carefully blank, but she could read the discomfort in their eyes. That made her back down. They didn’t need to witness a fight.

“I’m sorry,” she said quickly, turning to the young blonde woman. “We have not been introduced.”

“My name is Clary Greene,” she said. She had a pretty, triangular face and bright green eyes. “I’m one of the new kids in Camelot.”

Gwen marveled. Clary’s manner was quick and assured, as if certain she was the equal of the knights. If this was what living in the modern age meant, Gwen craved it with her entire being.

She smiled at Clary, plans already forming in her thoughts. “I trust you will show me everything. There is a great deal I want to learn.”

Shortly after, the two women left. The scene Gwen had viewed from the apartment window was twice as frantic once she stepped onto the streets. Perhaps she should have been frightened, but there was too much to know where to start. Cars—including the old Camry Clary drove—intrigued her, but those tall buildings entranced. So did the more modest buildings, the houses and malls and gas stations. There was a dull sameness to many of the structures, but every one of them was airy and light compared to Gwen’s old home. As they drove to Carlyle’s downtown shopping district, Gwen tried to figure out how the seemingly flimsy walls held together.

“So what do you need to get?” Clary asked as she parked by the side of a teeming road.

“I don’t know,” Gwen confessed.

“What do you have?”

“What I’m wearing.”

Clary grinned, green eyes filling with mischief. “We’re going to have some fun, girlfriend.”

Gwen narrowed her eyes. “Who are you?”

“My big sister, Tamsin, is Gawain’s sweetheart.” Clary made a gagging noise, which said everything about being a younger sibling. “She and Dad went back home to the East Coast to see the family, and I came out here to keep an eye on things.”

“What for?”

Clary shrugged, gathering up the phone that seemed to be part of her hand. “Camelot needs a witch on hand to thaw out any stone knights they find. Merlin’s not always around. Plus, a modern guide comes in handy when a medieval queen needs to go shopping.” With that, she got out of the car and waited while Gwen figured out how to do the same.

Shopping in the modern era was a revelation. Gwen had always been required to select a fabric and design, and then wait for a seamstress—or herself—to make a new gown by hand. Now she could try on as many outfits as she liked, then walk out the door with her purchase in hand. And the choices!

“I want some trews like you’re wearing.” Gwen had worn boy’s clothes when running about the farms as a child. As much as she loved miles of swishing skirts, the option to choose something else once in a while was attractive.

“We call them pants,” Clary corrected her. “Or slacks. They’re on the list. So is lingerie.”

The lingerie was intriguing, the pants marvelous and the three-way mirrors hateful. She dressed and undressed more times in a single afternoon than she had during her entire life. And there were so many colors and shapes of footwear! Every shoe had a personality, and Gwen saw a slice of herself in each—feminine, adventurous, bold or hardworking. Picking a pair—or several—was almost impossible.

Nowhere, not even in Camelot’s greatest markets, had she seen so many goods for sale. The abundance was dazzling at first, but after a few hours of rambling from store to store, it became overwhelming.

“I need to stop,” Gwen finally admitted. “Surely I have enough shoes.”

She was wearing her latest purchase, low ankle boots of maroon leather. According to Clary, they paired perfectly with Gwen’s new black skinny jeans and turquoise silk sweater. Compared to the gown that was now packed away in the trunk of the car, the clothes felt tight but almost weightless.

“It’s not possible to possess enough shoes,” Clary said, threading her arm around Gwen’s. “Trust me on this. I’m an expert, and you have the king’s credit card. I won’t be happy until it melts.”

“I need to sit down,” Gwen moaned. “My new boots are pinching my feet.”

The restaurant Clary chose was cheerful, with large windows overlooking the street. They crammed a mountain of shopping bags in beside them as they squeezed into a booth. A moment later, menus sat open before them, promising an abundance of treats. It was sunny, and the golden light felt good on Gwen’s skin. She turned her face toward it for a moment, soaking in the warmth.

Her companion typed on her phone, engaged in a world as ephemeral to Gwen as the Faery kingdom. Over the course of the day, Gwen had learned Clary and Tamsin were Sir Hector’s daughters, though they had been born in modern times. The circumstances of it all formed a convoluted tale she’d have to hear again before she understood it. It was enough to know the young woman was part of Camelot’s extended family. Finally, Clary closed the case of her device.

“We’ve been talking nonstop all afternoon, but it’s mostly been about clothes. I’m sure you have more questions about this time,” Clary said. “Feel free to ask whatever you like.”

Gwen didn’t hesitate. “What is a woman’s life in this time like? Surely you don’t go shopping like this often?”

“Not often,” Clary said. “Arthur doesn’t usually loan out his charge card.”

He probably never would again, judging by the number of shopping bags they’d accumulated. They gave their order to the waitress as Gwen smothered her guilt about everything she’d bought that day. She liked nice things, but had no desire to empty the treasury. “But what else makes up your daily routine?”

Clary played with her napkin. “I’m not sure a witch is the best person to ask about the average experience.”

“Because you used your power three times this afternoon to summon clerks to help us?”

Clary shrugged. “In some department stores, it’s the only way to get service. It helps with finding parking spaces, too.”

Coffee and blackberry pie arrived, the sturdy dishes filling up the table of the booth. Gwen was hungry, and the pie wasn’t that different from what she was used to, so she ate it with relish. The coffee was hot, but bitter and she spooned a lot of sugar into it before she could get it down.

“Then again, maybe I’m wrong. I don’t think magic makes us all that different from other women,” Clary said once the first few bites were savored. “We go to work and pay our bills just like everyone else.”

“What do you work at?” Gwen asked.

“Computers.” Clary shrugged. “I’m bored with the job I’m in and looking around for something else. While I’ve been visiting in Carlyle, I went for a few interviews. I’d like to get into social media marketing.”

“And you can find employment wherever you wish?”

“Pretty much. I have good skills.”

Gwen pondered that. Such independence! She’d never earned money herself.

No wonder she felt invisible. How was she supposed to be equal to someone who paid for everything she ate or wore? “How did you learn your skills?” Gwen asked, suddenly aware this was important.

“I went to school,” said Clary. “That’s normally how people learn their trade.”

That fit with what Arthur had said.

Gwen chewed her lip. Could I study at a school? Maybe she could learn how the great, towering buildings of this time were made. “I’ve always had a knack for constructing things—fences and sheds and even my father’s war machines. I understand siege towers and catapults better than most soldiers.”

Clary looked impressed. “You’re an engineer at heart?”

“I don’t know,” Gwen said. “Some people carry a tune or bake perfect bread. I know what makes things stand up or fall down. Is there a school for that?”

“Yes.” Clary nodded. “People pay well for that expertise. It’s a long course of study, though.”

Gwen didn’t say more. This was a ridiculous conversation. She hadn’t been in this world for a day, so any plans she made were castles in the air, without foundation or substance. And yet, the idea intrigued her. She’d always envied the monks their great libraries. Here, she could read her fill and become whatever she liked.

Or could she? What would Arthur do if she spent her days with her nose in a book, too busy to meddle with Camelot’s affairs? Would he be grateful to be rid of her, or would he consider it disloyalty?

Sudden doubt seized her, and she stared down into her coffee cup. The drink was half-gone, for all she disliked it. Sugar only masked some of the taste, but the bitterness lingered. She’d swallowed it because it was expected of her, just like she did most things.

“Is there something wrong?” Clary asked.

“I’m sorry,” Gwen said. “I don’t think I like coffee.”

“Then try something else,” Clary said with a laugh. “There’s lots to choose from on the menu.”

Would it be that easy, Gwen wondered, to place an order for a completely different life?

Chapter 5

Swords rang and whistled in an elaborate dance, splashing shards of light on the walls. Tall windows opened onto a vista of wind-tossed trees, but inside the long fencing gallery, all was pristine order. Except, of course, for the deadly dance of the fae.

Talvaric executed an expert feint, swinging in a circle to cut high. His step was light, barely making any sound—though the force of his blow sang against his opponent’s saber. Barto, Lord of Fareen, was almost his equal, which was saying something. Though of insignificant lineage, Talvaric had made his fortune as a professional.

Barto doubled his attack, striking over and over in a pattern that should have brought Talvaric to his knees. For an uneasy moment, Talvaric retreated. Fear needled through him, exhilarating and rich. It was said the fae had no souls—not since Merlin’s spells had stripped them away at the end of the demon wars. It was also common knowledge that the lack of a soul meant a lack of feelings. That was and was not true. Fae were immortal, but they could be killed. The desire to survive and the fear of defeat remained. That was why Talvaric had taken up the sword as his life. It was a splash of red against an otherwise-eternal gray.

With a pounding heart, he let Barto drive him back another step, then twisted away. He went low this time, aiming for his opponent’s legs. It was a move of cool precision, but Barto escaped with a backward leap. It didn’t matter. With a turn of the wrist, Talvaric changed direction, sweeping the blade upward until it pricked Barto’s chin.

There he stopped, his control of the weapon absolute. Talvaric held Barto’s gaze, waiting for acknowledgment. Talvaric could have taken his head with ease. Slowly, Barto nodded, the gesture releasing a drop of scarlet blood where the sword tip pierced his skin. Talvaric waited until the trickle reached Barto’s collar before he withdrew. They were both panting hard.

“A good match,” Barto conceded. He wiped his neck and looked at his blood-streaked hand with clinical interest.

Waiting servants—two of the many dryads Talvaric kept as slaves—hurried to attend the two males, taking their weapons and handing them soft white towels. Barto wiped his face. Like all the fae, like Talvaric himself, Barto was tall and slender, with dark olive skin and hair so pale it was almost white. The coloring made a startling contrast to the brilliant green of fae eyes.

“You are a worthy opponent,” Talvaric returned, compliment for compliment. “I fought for many years at the pleasure of the queen and rarely saw the like.”

Barto bowed and finished mopping his face. When he dropped his towel to the floor, a servant dashed forward and gathered it up.

“I appreciate the compliment,” Barto said. “I would like to fight in the palace games this winter. There is no better preparation than practicing against our foremost swordsman. Will you compete?”

“Perhaps.”

Barto shrugged. “You have won several times. I suppose the honor of victory begins to pale.”

“Not really. But I wonder if the games will go forward in the queen’s absence.”

“Good point,” Barto sighed. “This business with LaFaye is tiresome.”

Queen Morgan LaFaye was under lock and key, captured by the allies of King Arthur of Camelot. That left an interesting vacancy on the throne, but none had immediately jumped to fill it. If the queen ever got free, she would not welcome a usurper.

“It’s a pity I could not cross swords with Arthur,” Barto said lightly. “He is said to be almost your equal.”

Talvaric narrowed his eyes. “I doubt it’s a fair comparison. His blade is enchanted by the Lady of the Lake. Excalibur has magic enough to cut through even Morgan’s spells.”

Which was why the queen feared it. Excalibur was the only real weapon the mortals had against a fae invasion. Morgan had been on the cusp of attacking the mortal realms when she’d been captured. Now hostilities were suspended while the leaderless fae milled about like sheep.

“I suppose you’re right.” Barto wandered over to the rack of swords suspended on the wall. He fingered one hilt, then another. “Is this the weapon you used in the last contest?”

“The same.”

“And this?”

“I used that one in the match against the Giant of Trevayne.”

“That was quite the contest. I wagered on you and won.”

Contests? Talvaric felt a twinge of impatience. Who cared about sports when the whole of the mortal realms were ripe for plucking? But Talvaric knew better than to blurt that out. Barto was Lord of Fareen, and Talvaric was a commoner with no right to an opinion. Yet.

“Would you care to see my other collection?” he asked.

Barto looked up, curious. “Your beasts? Yes, I would.”

Talvaric led the way through his manor. It wasn’t a palace or a castle, but it sprawled through an endless maze of corridors and wings. Although his property sat far from the fashionable cities, the inconvenience was made up for by privacy. Soon they were traversing a long passageway lined with cages on either side.

The rooms were bright, with plenty of windows, and clean. The steel of the bars was polished, the floors of the cages always strewn with fresh straw. The pristine conditions weren’t due to Talvaric’s love for animals; it was simply that his collection was expensive and hard to replace.

Each cage held something unusual. Barto’s gaze whipped from side to side, his eyes wide with wonder. “Wyvern. Manticore. Pixie. I’m not even certain what that is. How do you control them?”

“A variety of methods. The dragons are hardest to manage, but I’ve found a way.”

“Dragons?”

Talvaric gave a careless wave. “It’s always easy to impress your friends when you have dragons.”

Barto’s expression hardened, but he said nothing.

“There is a great deal of power here.” Talvaric tapped on the bars of a particularly large cage. “Any magical beast can be a weapon if you know how to control it. And the study and acquisition of such creatures is never dull.”

Barto said more nothing, but peered into the cage. It contained a large black dog with red eyes and shaggy dark fur. It smelled like something dead. “A barguest?” The question was sharp—not quite fear, but recognition of something dangerous. Barguests were best known for devouring lone travelers, especially after dark.

“Yes.”

“How long have you been building this collection?”

“Hundreds of years.” About the same amount of time as his ambition had been growing. The two were closely intertwined.

Barto straightened, his eyes cautious now. “You call these creatures weapons. That makes this manor a vast armory. Why have you gathered all this?”

Talvaric was forced to concede Barto was smarter than expected. Talvaric could all but taste the tang of his anxiety, and liked it. “I occasionally send my beasts abroad to deal with annoyances.”

“Annoyances?” Barto really was starting to sound like a parrot.

“The goblins of the Crystal Mountains developed an irritating attitude. I sent them a gift. A troll.”

Barto blinked in surprise. “On whose authority? The fae trade with King Zorath’s people! This could start a war we don’t need.”

Talvaric almost wanted to laugh. “Trust me, the goblins are too busy for that at the moment.”

Barto’s mouth dropped open a moment before he snapped it shut. “That’s unbelievably irresponsible.”

Talvaric lifted a brow. “Are you actually angry?”

After Morgan’s capture, some fae seemed to be regaining scraps of their souls. That raised some interesting questions, especially since many fae, including Talvaric, now regarded emotion as a weakness.

“No.” Barto flushed, proving his denial a lie. “But I think it’s time for me to leave.”

“Come now, won’t you stay and drink wine with me? I never like to see a guest depart without showing him the best hospitality I can offer.”

“I—no.” Barto had gone stiff, his shoulders rigid. “I have other commitments to attend to.”

Talvaric didn’t argue. If he’d had the capacity, he would have been amused. The servants showed Barto the door, because no one ever found the door in Talvaric’s manor unless he wanted them to.

Talvaric poured himself a glass of ruby wine, made from the wild snowberries that grew high on the Crystal Mountains’ peaks. That’s where he’d found his dragons and formulated his plans. Rukon had performed his first task well and Arthur had received the message. Talvaric hadn’t been sure the dragon would cooperate, but his added controls had worked. Of course, the message had only been the first step in a long progression of calculated mayhem, but one thing at a time.

Talvaric watched from an upstairs window as his erstwhile guest mounted a fine gray stallion and galloped off across the manor’s rolling lawns. A minute later, he returned to his collection and unlocked the barguest’s cage. The huge, black nightmare backed to the far corner of its cage, cowering like a terrified puppy. Talvaric felt a knot of something warm and tingling in his gut. This display of subservience was the best part of mastering his beasts.

“That male I was with has annoyed me, and I believe he might just squeal to the council about the troll. I trust you have his scent?”

With a nod of its huge head, the creature crouched still more, its nose almost resting on its paws.

“Dispose of him, but bring the horse back unharmed. It looked valuable.”

In a rush of fetid air, the barguest vanished to do his bidding. Talvaric finished his wine and dreamed of what he would do next.

Morgan’s throne was vacant, and someone had to fill it—someone with courage enough to seize the opportunity and brave the consequences. Why not Talvaric? The titled fae might look down their noses at an upstart commoner—but not if he could prove, very publicly, that he was the most powerful of their number.

Talvaric would succeed where Morgan had failed, and destroy the fae’s greatest enemy, Arthur of Camelot. And, he would do it in a way no one could ignore.

* * *

“See?” Clary turned her cell phone toward Gwen. “Wedding dresses look like cakes. Wedding cakes look like dresses. There’s a kind of weird symmetry involving layers and fluff.”

They’d been talking forever, still sitting in the coffee shop. They were becoming fast friends in a matter of hours, and Gwen was thoroughly enjoying the process. “So when will Sir Gawain and your sister wed?”

“When she’s done planning, which could be never.” Clary shrugged. “Tamsin wants what she wants, and Gawain lets her have her way.”

“That hardly sounds like the same man,” Gwen said, shaking her head. “The knight I knew was gruff, to say the least.”

“That hasn’t changed. If he was a dog, they’d say he was unsuitable for adoption.”

“Except for Tamsin?”

“Yeah.” Clary sounded unimpressed. “Meanwhile, it’s all wedding, all the time. Plus, she’s a historian, which means a medieval wedding has to be accurate to the period.”

“Why?” Gwen wondered. “What’s the point of that?”

“It’s a thing historians do. So what was a real medieval wedding like, anyway?”

“Mine was—it was not at all what I had expected for myself.” Gwen had switched to tea and held the cup in her hands, warming her fingers. She hadn’t been cold until a moment ago, but memory changed everything.

* * *

Gwen recalled standing at the window with her nurse, looking out on the summer-green hills. Below, the sound of saws and hammers broke the morning peace. Growing bored, she leaned on the wide stone sill, her chin in her hands. “What are they making?” she asked.

“A great wooden table, I’m told.” Nurse smoothed Gwen’s hair. She was a plump, homely woman who had been with Gwen since infancy. She’d fed and bathed her as a baby and been a mother when the lady of the castle died and Gwen had just turned eight. “The table will be your dowry.”

“A table?” Gwen said with disgust. “That’s a silly thing for a dowry.”

“A special round table,” Nurse said, “so all the knights who sit there will be equals. It will be grand, large enough to seat all of your Arthur’s mightiest warriors, and he has many and more champions, let me tell you. It will fill the whole of his feast hall.”

“That’s a stupid idea,” said Gwen with all the certainty of her sixteen years. “I’ll go down in history as the queen with the silly table.”

“You mustn’t call your father’s gift stupid, chickling. Men don’t like that.”

“It’s my dowry, and it’s a poor design if it’s going to fill up a whole banquet hall. They should build the table like a ring. If they did it in sections, the servants could serve the food from inside the circle. It will take less wood that way.”

“What a clever girl you are,” Nurse said, but she sounded sad. “Don’t tell your father.”

Gwen didn’t understand why, but the wisdom of her nurse’s advice became clear once she went ahead and shared her idea with King Leodegranz. Her father saw the advantages of her design at once, and the round table was built her way. Gwen was delighted until he told everyone the innovation was his own. The world of men had no place for young girls with ideas.

By the time she married Arthur, the table had been finished and delivered to Camelot and Guinevere had turned seventeen. The wedding itself was a dream—or a nightmare. Camelot was far larger than her father’s lands, the castle grander and filled with strangers. Gwen was expected to be a fine lady, fit to rule at her new husband’s side. She felt like an utter fraud.

It was easy to stand tall and proud during the wedding and the feast afterward. Her gown was so stiff with gold embroidery it might have stood on its own. Her handsome new husband was all merriment, drinking and dancing with everyone. He danced with her of course, but only a few times. Gwen knew that was proper, that the host had to make sure everyone had a little bit of his attention, but she selfishly wanted more. She hardly knew anyone there, after all.

That was when she first met the Mercian prince, who told her she was a beautiful bride and saw to it that her wine cup was filled and filled again. For a lonely young country girl, that kind of attention was balm to her nerves. She hadn’t yet learned to smell betrayal.

If only Arthur had known how naive she was—but he’d been a king since he’d pulled that sword from a stone as a child. He’d won wars, conquered tyrants and had an enchanter at his beck and call. She was good with chickens.

At the end of the long feast, he’d taken her to his bed. Nurse had told her—or tried to tell her—what would happen. Gwen had all but died of embarrassment and covered her ears. But in that moment, after her ladies had put her in her nightgown and brushed out her hair so that it lay like a shining cape almost to her knees, she wished she’d let Nurse speak. Gwen shook like an aspen leaf.

When he came to the queen’s bedchamber, Arthur wore only his shirt. One would have thought removing his fine clothes and crown would have made him seem smaller, but the opposite was true. She could see the deep chest and the hard muscles of a swordsman’s arms.

“Don’t be frightened,” he said, leading her to sit on the edge of the bed. “I’ll make this as pleasant as I can.”

Gwen bit her lips, stifling a nervous giggle.

“What?” he asked with a frown.

“Nurse says that before giving me medicine. She at least gives me a spoonful of honey to wash it down.”

Arthur’s expression went strangely blank. “You don’t believe in sparing a man’s pride, do you?”

“I’m sure you have enough to spare.” She regretted her tartness almost at once, but she couldn’t help herself. Her claws came out when she was afraid.

Arthur paced a few steps to the door and back again. Was he nervous? That was utterly impossible, of course, because he was the mighty King Arthur. He finally came and knelt before her. “I will give you sweetness,” he said.

She had a good idea of what he meant. Despite her father’s watchful eye, she’d kissed one or two of the younger knights at the last Yuletide feast, and at least one squire had sworn undying love. But the look in her husband’s eyes had nothing to do with a youngster’s flirtations. He was a man of five and twenty.

I will give you sweetness. With effort, she marshaled her thoughts and formed a word. “How?”

He held her hands, just that, and leaned forward, brushing her lips with his. “A little at a time,” he said, and then did it again.

* * *

Gwen raised her eyes from her cup, meeting Clary’s. “My wedding didn’t start well, but in the end it was a very fine event.”

Chapter 6

As the last knight left Camelot’s council about the dragon—Sir Gawain with the last slice of pizza in one hand—Arthur stifled a jaw-cracking yawn. They’d been talking since the morning, examining every theory about where Rukon had come from and why. Now it was nearly four o’clock and they’d talked the matter of the dragon to death. Merlin had been invited, but, as usual, was never there when he could actually be useful.

After Gawain’s footsteps retreated toward the elevator, Arthur shut the door and turned the dead bolt, relieved to be alone with his exhaustion. Sleep had been impossible last night, with Guinevere in his bedroom and him not.

Anger had slowly spiraled around and around his gut as the clock had ticked toward dawn. A lesser man might have raged and demanded, but Arthur had his pride. He’d reacted the only way he knew how—by being the king. And so he had summoned a council to deal with Camelot’s problems and pushed his own away.

Not that he’d accomplished much. There wasn’t enough information to track the creature to its lair. They were at a dead end until it appeared again. With a frustrated grunt, Arthur returned to the living room, stacked the empty pizza boxes and carried them to the recycling bin.

Basic cleanup complete, he poured himself a mug of coffee and went to his office. Immediately, a feminine scent distracted him. There was no mistaking the light floral musk of Guinevere’s perfume, left over from her invasion of his space. It was faint, but his senses were attuned to its sweetness. Arthur set down his mug and scanned the papers on the desk, seeking any evidence that she’d disturbed his methodical chaos. Finding no signs of meddling, he woke his computer and saw the screen was just as he’d left it. Clearly, she hadn’t had time to wreak her usual havoc.

Not like the time she tried to play peacemaker between the dwarves and goblins and nearly started a war, or the time she amended the peace treaty with Cumbria by giving away a forest or two because it seemed fairer that way. She’d been utterly sincere when she’d tried to make a match between a fae noble and the elven Queen of the Isles. Arthur closed his eyes, almost smiling despite the memory of drawn swords and angry oaths. No, as a newly minted queen, Guinevere had never stood aside when she thought she could make things better. Disaster after disaster had kept things...interesting. It would have been amusing if the kingdom hadn’t been on the constant brink of war.

To be fair, she had learned her lesson after the prince of Mercia had played her for a fool. Arthur had been relieved but strangely sad, and a voice had nagged at him to say none of it would have happened if he’d been a mentor instead of consigning her to a life of embroidery and love poems. But politics was a bloody game, and he’d wanted her to be safe. Somehow, that never worked with Gwen.

Stifling another yawn, he sat down at the desk, determined to put in another few hours of work despite the need for sleep. There was no time for rest. The knights supported themselves by staging tournaments and feasts at Medievaland, Carlyle’s medieval theme park, and there were schedules to make up and special events to plan. And then there were missing knights to find and fae to battle and... Arthur rubbed his eyes and willed himself to focus. Kings didn’t get to take naps.

He opened his email program, his sword-calloused hands feeling clumsy on the tiny keys. He used the computer because that’s what the modern world required, but he didn’t relish the confined world of screen and desk and keyboard. This would be Guinevere’s domain, once she discovered it—a place with more information than even her boundless curiosity could devour.

There was the usual slew of unread emails waiting, most of them routine items related to business at Medievaland. He scanned for something from Merlin, but there was nothing. However, one unfamiliar sender caught his eye: BeastMaster13@spellbound.com. A fan? Someone selling sword polish? Or another fellow with a make-believe quest? Medievaland attracted some very odd people, even by the standards of a time traveler with a magic sword.

With mild trepidation, King Arthur opened the message. It had only a single line, written in capital letters.

YOUR QUEEN IS BEAUTIFUL.

Arthur stared at the words, cold spreading from his core as if melting ice were trickling into his veins. Who knew his Gwen was here? Although the words were nothing, Arthur could read the threat beneath. Gwen had caught BeastMaster13’s notice.

He jumped up from his chair and paced the tiny room. His logical side—the one that had been trained from boyhood to understand the ways of war—told him not to react. Threats were sent to goad. But his imagination conjured a thousand dangers—madmen, evil fae, sorcerers and demons. Logic didn’t help when the enemy came this close to home. All he wanted was to find his queen and guard her with his own sword—and he wanted it with a fury that made him shudder.

Arthur took a deep breath. He knew better than to reply, but that was as far as his discipline went. Guinevere was out of his sight, wandering around the city without a care. She was his beautiful wife, and as the Queen of Camelot, she was also a symbol of his power. Harming her would hurt Arthur on several fronts—not just as a man, but as a king.

This was his fault. He had carelessly allowed Guinevere to run loose. That had to end at once.

* * *

Gwen noticed Clary looking toward the door and followed the woman’s gaze. Arthur was striding toward them with a thunderous expression, and every thought about her future evaporated with an almost-audible pop. His mood radiated outward, clearing a broad path on all sides. Although the people of Carlyle had no king, they recognized his absolute authority as if by instinct. Arthur wore a long coat that hid Excalibur, but he may as well have been holding it in one of his massive hands. Everything about the commanding giant said he was a warrior king on a mission.

From the force of long habit, Gwen rose as he entered and barely stopped herself from dropping into a low curtsy. The gesture had the unintended consequence of showing off her new clothes. Arthur stopped a few feet away, his gaze lingering on her soft sweater before sliding over the curves of her tight black jeans. Gwen knew she looked good, and his expression sparked a glow of satisfaction. Unfortunately, it wasn’t destined to last.

“May I join you?” he said in a tone that wasn’t really a question.

Gwen sat down again and he slid into the booth beside her, waving away the waitress before she could offer to take his order. “What brings you here?” Gwen asked.

“I came to ensure you were well,” he said in a quiet voice that didn’t carry beyond their table. “I am not positive, but I think the enemy may be aware that you are in Carlyle. I received an email that concerned me. I did not recognize the sender’s name.”

Gwen stared. Arthur rarely shared information in such a straightforward manner. The fact that he’d bothered to explain himself meant he wanted her to understand. She nodded slowly, feeling the weight of his clear blue gaze. It seemed to pierce through to her bones, as if gauging her response at the deepest level. “Thank you for the warning,” she said.

Irritation flickered in his expression. He’d been expecting more. “It was a simple matter to find you. You’re sitting in the window in full public view.” He gave her another look up and down, as if he found her dress slightly indecent.

“Are you telling me to go back to your apartment now?” she asked, although she was sure that was exactly what he meant.

To Gwen’s surprise, it was Clary who spoke up. “We’re not without our defenses, my lord.” Her look was polite but full of meaning. “I’ve spun a few battle spells.”

His brows lowered. “I don’t know who this enemy is or if he wields a gun or a pack of wolves. I would not be overconfident.”

“Are you saying that there is danger here, in the full view of all these people?” Gwen aimed the question at both of them.

“Based on what’s happened since yesterday,” Arthur replied, “I’d assume nothing.”

Clary toyed with her phone. “But as I said, my lord, you can trust me to get Gwen home safely.”

Arthur’s nod was stiff, as if he didn’t want to agree but knew he was being unreasonable. He turned stormy eyes on Gwen, their expression possessive. “Very well, but I will assign guards to accompany you in the future. I will not have you walking the streets alone.”

The words were roughly spoken, almost rasping. It was as close to emotion as Arthur would show in so public a place. Gwen stared, hating what she was hearing. Guards?

He rose with seeming reluctance. “When will you be home?”

Clary looked as if she was about to say something, but Gwen put a hand over hers. “Soon. We have one more stop to make.” Gwen had no idea what that would be, but she was grateful for a moment to think.

Arthur hesitated a moment, but then bent and kissed Gwen’s cheek. “Hurry home, wife.”

“Of course,” she said, suddenly awkward, but he was already halfway to the door. He never seemed to hurry, but his stride ate the distance at a pace few could match.

Silence fell over the two women, all their previous lightness gone. Gwen’s thoughts of the future, of an expanding world unfolding before her shriveled to nothing. Cold nausea weighed in her stomach, but she sucked in a deep breath, doing her best to dispel it. “I don’t want guards. I had them in Camelot, and I felt like a nuisance—or a prisoner—every time I wanted to go for a walk.”

Clary stared at her, no doubt hearing the strain—and the uncertainty—in her voice. “Seriously? He’s done this before?”

“He’s worried,” Gwen said, trying and failing to bury her bitterness. “I had a talent for trouble when I was younger. Years have gone by, but he’s never forgotten.” And he’s never trusted me.

Gwen knew she’d said too much. She began gathering her parcels, the rattle of shopping bags hiding her confusion. Clary followed suit.

As they left, Gwen walked two paces behind Clary, her thoughts slowed to a dead crawl. She knew how to make drawbridges and catapults work, but not her marriage. An all-too-familiar confusion dragged at her like quicksand. A wife’s first duty was to please her husband, a subject’s first duty was to serve her king, and yet Arthur was a puzzle she’d never solved.

Once they reached the street, Gwen’s fortitude ran out. She stopped walking, unable to push on. The cycle of unhappiness that was her marriage had started all over again. “I can’t go home. I don’t want to do what I’m told anymore. I can’t be invisible, and I can’t be a precious object always under guard. It’s too much.”

Clary turned and walked back to Gwen, coming to stand at her side. Clary’s lips were thin with anger, but it clearly wasn’t aimed at Gwen.

“What do you want to do?” Clary asked. “I won’t take you anyplace you don’t want to go.”

The witch held Gwen’s gaze with her own, her expression gentle. It was oddly unsettling, for Gwen had never had many female friends, especially after becoming queen. She wasn’t sure how to respond. “Merlin has to send me back.”

A car honked, and all at once Gwen was aware of the busy street around them. Vehicles swooshed past at unimaginable speeds. Pedestrians pushed by, arguing into their little squares of plastic. All around was color, sound, signs and a thundering bounty of objects and ideas. Gwen wanted it all with a sharpness that made her want to weep.

“I doubt Merlin has that power,” Clary mused. “Even if he did, are you sure that’s what you want?”

Gwen gripped the handles of her bags, feeling the weight of the pretty, bright clothes that should be part of a new freedom. She blinked hard, refusing the impulse to cry. “No, but where else would I go?”

“I don’t understand,” Clary said flatly.

Gwen sucked in her breath, letting it out in a heavy sigh. She wasn’t allowed in Arthur’s office, but couldn’t leave their rooms without a guard. Arthur didn’t trust her to take part in Camelot’s councils, and yet he wanted to keep her close. She was too naive and impulsive to let roam free, and yet he didn’t want her in his private business. He judged everything she did, and he judged it harshly. “I was far less trouble as a piece of history.”

Clary made a rude noise. “Sister, this world is full of opportunity. Forget Arthur and his chain mail boy band.”

Clary slipped an arm around Gwen’s shoulders, pulling her close. “You’re in our time now. You get to decide what you want to do, and I think Arthur needs to know that.”

Gwen’s mind went blank, a hollow sensation stealing over her. It took her a moment to recognize it as a species of fear. “This is going to cause trouble.”

They began walking again, drifting in the direction of Clary’s car. “You don’t need to decide everything at once,” said Clary. “In fact, you shouldn’t. You need time to breathe and clear your head, and so does he.”

“But where?”

“You can stay with me at my hotel,” Clary suggested, warming to the plan. “I have a double room, and we’ve got all your clothes right here. It’s as if this was meant to be.”

It made sense. It made perfect sense, and Gwen’s instincts grabbed at the offer. Yet, old habits died hard. “What do I tell Arthur?”

“That there is one more thing you need to buy,” Clary replied. “Every independent woman needs a suitcase.”

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.