Читать книгу Enchanted Guardian - Sharon Ashwood - Страница 13

Chapter 6

The next afternoon found Nim at her bookstore. Mandala Books rambled through an old house, piles of new and used volumes overflowing shelves and stacking the stairways like a literary avalanche. The place was bright and clean, but it was crowded. The store was filled with browsing customers and the scent of new ink as the staff unpacked a shipment of paperbacks.

Nim stood behind the front desk, her mind curiously blank after the barrage of unexpected events the night before. Last night’s attack had been painful enough, but Merlin’s spell had hit her like a cudgel. A pounding headache made her queasy, enough that all she wanted was to lie down and whimper. But there was no time to be ill—she was putting her escape plan in motion that very day.

The paperwork was in place so that Mandala Books would transfer to Antonia’s oversight the instant Nim gave the word. In the little while she’d owned it, Nim had revived the business and wouldn’t abandon it without a new caretaker. Jobs depended on the store, as did the many, many loyal customers.

She closed her eyes, her headache pounding as her thoughts scattered like loose marbles. Merlin and Tramar had played their roles in reducing her to a state of confusion, but she really blamed Lancelot. She raised a hand to her lips, fingertips brushing where the knight’s mouth had touched hers. His breath had been hot, his kiss hungry and urgent. By all the stars, what had he hoped to gain with that kiss? Did he believe himself so fine a man that his caress could restore her soul after centuries of loss?

Arrogant fool. She pursed her lips, hiding the movement behind her fingers as she relived the moment. Then she dropped her hand, astonished by her sudden lapse into daydreams. She was overwrought, addled by trauma and Merlin’s magic. She checked for witnesses but thankfully no one was looking her way.

The service desk sat opposite the wall painted with a huge, colorful image that gave the store its name. From there she had a view through the bay window that overlooked the sunny street. At that moment she saw Lancelot walk up the steps, wearing a faded T-shirt and jeans that hugged the muscles in his long, strong legs.

“No, no, no,” she muttered under her breath as he sauntered in. How on earth had he found her store?

“Looking for something to read?” she asked in a bland tone.

“Are you a bestseller?” He leaned on the shelf beside her desk, seeming to take every inch of space around the desk. His T-shirt strained with the movement, showing off the thick muscles of his chest.

“What is that supposed to mean?” She performed a quick visual survey, determining that he was unhurt from the night before. Of course, Lancelot had always been the kind to hide his injuries out of an impractical manly pride. Once, it had driven her into a frenzy.

“You’re the only subject I’m interested in at the moment,” he said, drawing her gaze from his chest to his face. “Not my best opening line, but it’s the truth. We need to talk.”

He was so close, she had to crane her neck to look up at him. “Again? I thought you’d said your piece last night.”

“Yes, again,” he said, bending down to speak softly. “And it’s about what happened last night.”

“Why? As you can see, I’m fine.”

He was looking at her the way she’d looked at him, checking for bruises—except his eyes heated as they traveled over her form. The corners of his mouth flattened in an expression she couldn’t interpret. “We need to decide where we’re going from here.”

“I’ve moved on.” She straightened the items on the desk, suddenly in need of order. “I can’t go back to the Dark Ages.”

His dark eyes flashed. “I’m not asking you to.”

“Oh?”

“We can do better than that.” He reached out, brushed the back of his rough fingers to her cheek. The contact was electric, sending chills all the way to her toes with a mere graze of skin on skin. That should have been impossible, given what she was.

Needing to take charge of the situation, Nim stepped out from behind the desk. “Let’s have this conversation in private.” She signaled to the staff member stocking books to cover the till.

Lancelot took a step back in response to her crisp tone, but followed her when she led the way up the stairs to a small office. She closed the door and turned to face him. “You saved my life last night. I salute your prowess,” she said, deciding to be blunt. “I think that covers everything that needs saying beyond goodbye.”

He looked uncertain a moment, but then seemed to recover. “I’d rather begin our recap with the fact that you kissed me.”

Her breath caught, but she hid the reaction. “I think that was the other way around. You dragged me into the dark like an apprentice lad at his first May Day Fair.”

“Perhaps, but you kissed me back.”

It was a gentle tease and if she was utterly, mercilessly honest, she had to admit there had been a flash of feeling during that kiss. There and gone, it had passed as swiftly as the sun dancing off a blade—but it had happened. A strange, hollow feeling grew inside her, leaving her with the sense that she might fall into some inner abyss. “Don’t waste your time.”

His fingers skimmed over her shoulders, the touch beginning light and deepening to a caress. She spun away from him before he could see her shiver. She could feel his breath then, warm and strong on the back of her neck. Closing her eyes, she let that strength wash over her. She’d forgotten what comfort there had been in these moments where Lancelot had blotted out all the demands of the world. For a heartbeat, everything was simple, just the meeting of a man and his woman.

He turned her slowly so she faced him once more. When she felt his lips against her brow, she hissed in a breath.

“Hush,” he said, his kisses brushing her nose, then her eyelids.

Her eyes automatically flicked open, needing to see what he was going to do next. His hands caressed her shoulders again, his skin pale against her dark olive complexion. She’d always found the contrast arousing. Lancelot had been exotic, other—the only human she’d ever taken to her bed.

His warmth fanned across her lips, and instinct made them part. But Lancelot didn’t crush her with his kiss this time. Instead, he continued his featherlight touches, teasing her until she leaned in to capture more of his mouth. Then, and only then, did he unleash the passionate eagerness she’d once craved. Her mouth opened under his, responding to his hot tongue. Granted permission, he plundered her.

A skitter of fear reminded her of being face-to-face with Tramar, his mouth just above hers. But this was the opposite of what he’d done. Rather than ripping out her soul, Lancelot was trying to make her whole. For a moment, she let him, waiting for a spark to ignite in her. It had been so long, surely she would combust in an instant. And yet—a ghost of sadness claimed her.

“Take your time,” he said softly. “You’re only just remembering how to be with me.”

“Don’t be arrogant.” She pushed him away.

“I know the way your body bends into mine, the sound you make deep in your throat when you surrender.”

“I didn’t surrender. I don’t.” She stepped back to put distance between them.

“No, but you thought about it just now.” His gaze grew bolder.

When he reached for her hand, she grabbed his wrist and pushed him away. “You aren’t the first to get a reaction from me. It doesn’t mean I’m whole.”

His eyebrows rose. “Care to explain?”

“Prince Mordred enjoyed torture. For a moment, I remembered what it was to hate and now the Queen of Faery wants my head on a spike for betraying her son. So yes, I had an instant of caring. It will probably mean my death.”

Clearly troubled, he considered her for a long moment. “That’s why LaFaye sent Lightborn? Vengeance?”

“Yes.” Nim leaned against the desk, glad of the support of its heavy oak. The nausea that had plagued her earlier roared back with redoubled force. “I knew it was coming and planned to vanish. If I’d been quicker about it, you and I would never have met.”

The silence that followed pushed at her like a physical force. “You ran last night,” he finally said. “I could have helped you.”

“No,” she said again. “I didn’t stay the lonely fae woman you met at the edge of the lake. I don’t need you.” More to the point, she couldn’t depend on him. One day he’d leave again and the lack of a soul wouldn’t matter. She wouldn’t survive it.

“Nimueh.” He reached for her, but she stepped back out of reach.

“Please go,” she said. “This discussion is pointless.”

A tiny claw seemed to catch at her voice, but not so much that the words sounded anything but cool reason. Confusion crossed Lancelot’s face, but it quickly froze into a mask she knew too well. She’d finally managed to push him away.

“Do you not trust me?” he asked, his voice gone hard.

“You would never betray me. It’s not in your nature,” she said, and then remembered Guinevere. There had been plenty of rumors about Lancelot and the queen. “I mean, you wouldn’t turn me over to LaFaye.”

The lines around his mouth deepened as if he’d read her thoughts. With a muttered curse, he turned and stalked to the door. Nim sagged against the bookcase, watching his broad, strong back. Unfamiliar tension crawled through her chest until she could not breathe. Lancelot had always pushed her to impossible places, good and bad.

He’d just reached for the handle when the door swung open from the other side.

* * *

In a temper, Dulac barely jerked to a stop before he mowed the newcomer down. The bride from the wedding stood in the doorway, wearing an expression no newlywed woman should ever wear. With a muttered apology, Dulac stepped aside. It spoiled his grand exit, but something had happened and intuition told him he needed to know what that was.

The bride glanced up at Lancelot, her blue eyes growing large before her gaze shifted to Nimueh. “I need to talk to you.”

“Antonia,” Nim said, a faint edge of surprise in her voice. “You should be leaving on your honeymoon.”

“I can’t.” The words were grim.

Dulac watched Nimueh’s reaction, struggling to be objective about what he saw. As with the other fae, her expression was oddly flat. The flow of normal emotion created thousands of barely seen muscle movements—ones that he’d only noticed now that they were missing. And yet, as she gave a slow nod to the bride, urging her to continue, he was certain Nim cared. He hadn’t lied about feeling the heat in her kiss.

“I can’t leave.” The bride—Antonia, he reminded himself—paced the small workroom, her arms hugging her chest. “My cousin Susan didn’t come home last night.”

“I spoke to her,” Nimueh replied. “She was the redhead with the violin.”

Dulac searched his memory, but found nothing. He’d only had eyes for Nimueh.

“Are you sure she’s not staying with a friend?” Nimueh asked.

“Susan’s not like that.” Antonia shoved a hand through her riot of fiery curls. “Not that she’s a saint, but she’s not stupid. She would have left a message if she went home with someone. The police told us it’s too soon to say she’s missing.”

Nimueh cast a glance at Dulac. He could tell she was making up her mind what to do. She’d always been elusive, a scholar more likely to retreat than engage in life’s battles, but people had always turned to her for thoughtful advice. Evidently, that at least hadn’t changed.

“What do you need me to do?” he asked. Whatever she said, he was still hers to command.

When Nim frowned but didn’t answer, he turned to Antonia. “Do you have any idea where Susan might be?”

“I talked to her friends already. After the wedding reception, the diehards went to the White Hart.”

“The bar downtown?” Nim asked.

Dulac frowned, remembering what Gawain had said. There had been problems there before.

“Susan’s bandmates saw her in the parking lot around two o’clock,” Antonia continued. “One moment she was there and the next she was gone. Her car is still there. She’d left her violin on the hood. That’s how we know something’s wrong. She’d never leave her instrument sitting out where it might be stolen. It’s her baby and the most expensive thing she owns.”

Dulac drew closer, folding his arms. He was next to Nimueh now, their shoulders nearly touching. “Go on.”

“Right before that she was talking to a pair of strange-looking young men.”

“What do you mean by strange?” Nimueh asked.

“Tall, with their hair bleached white.”

He exchanged a glance with Nimueh. Fae. He did a quick calculation. Tramar would have been dead by that time. This was a different pair and from the sound of it, they were hunting. A young, pretty human female would be a choice target—sport and a soul to drink in one convenient package.

Nimueh’s fist clenched in the fabric of Dulac’s sleeve. “Please give us a moment,” she said to Antonia in a voice that brooked no argument. “Wait for us downstairs.”

Confusion settled over Antonia’s features, but she left, closing the door behind her. Nimueh turned to Dulac. “You were leaving.”

“I was.”

She pressed her hands to her temples, as if her head was aching. “You should have left this room before Antonia came to me just now. I should have left Carlyle before you found me here. I desire nothing more than to disappear from sight, and yet at every turn I find you back at my side.”

He folded his arms. “The forces of lore and magic seem to want us together.”

She gave him a dry look. “Either that or you simply will not go away.”

“Admit that you need my sword. I’m a knight and there is a job to do.”

“Yes.” She closed her eyes. “I need your help. These hunters hurt my people.”

The words might have confused someone from the twenty-first century, but Dulac understood. The Lady of the Lake protected those who served her, no matter what century it was. Anyone who touched her staff or their families was asking for swift retribution. Beneath the disguise she wore—so plain, so banal, so human—he could see the shining creature she’d been, the sorceress and lady of a white stone castle deep in the Forest Sauvage.

Time meant nothing in that moment, and he was again the penniless young knight who had adventured from France into the wilds of the Western Isles. He’d been nothing—desperate to make his name and restore the honor of his family. His armor had been so dented and mismatched he’d been called “the ill-made knight.”

One day, he’d gone deep into the Forest Sauvage and there he’d found a lake as still as glass and crowned with mist. He had stood on the shore, his old horse cropping the long, lush grass, when a silver boat had come soundlessly across the water, barely a ripple creasing its surface. And then he had beheld the Lady of the Lake, sitting in the prow and wrapped in a cloak of gray, her long white hair unbound and flowing like a second cape. All Lancelot’s cares had melted away beneath a wave of dumbstruck awe. He’d never seen a fae before. After Nimueh, he would have sworn he’d never seen a female. She’d eclipsed every woman before and since.

And here she was again, at her best in defense of someone she cared for. The trials she’d suffered hadn’t changed this one essential thing. This was the lady he knew.

“A human won’t survive the loss of her soul. The pain alone—” Nimueh broke off, leaving Dulac to imagine what she might have suffered the night before. “The pain alone will rob her of reason. Fae sometimes keep their victims alive for days, drinking them a sip at a time so they can savor the rush of sensation. Death will only be the last torment this young woman suffers.”

She stood with her fists clenched as if holding something back with sheer will. Dulac would have called it grief or fury, but she would deny emotion and he didn’t know what to believe. He would reach her far more easily with a practical solution. “Where is the White Hart?”

“Across town. It’s near an abandoned house the neighbors say is haunted. I would say it’s haunted by rogue fae and we should start looking there.”

“Wouldn’t that be the first place Susan’s friends would go? It’s an obvious hiding place.”

Her face was set and pale. “All the more reason to get there first. We will survive an encounter with hunters. Ordinary humans will not.”

The “we” wasn’t lost on him, but he kept his expression cool. She’d given him an opening and he wouldn’t ruin it by spooking her now. He pulled out his smartphone—as marvelous a device as anything Merlin had ever dreamed up.

“What are you doing?” Nimueh asked, almost with suspicion.

Lancelot tapped his contact list. “I have a few friends who jump at any chance to rescue fair maidens. They would never forgive me if I kept this all to myself.”