Читать книгу Royal Enchantment - Sharon Ashwood - Страница 10

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.