Читать книгу Royal Enchantment - Sharon Ashwood - Страница 14

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.”