Читать книгу Enchanted Warrior - Sharon Ashwood - Страница 12
ОглавлениеTamsin took another swallow of wine—a long one this time. “Okay. So where do you fit in all this?”
His eyes didn’t shift from hers. “Right in the middle.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
“Then be more specific.”
Irritation prickled. He wasn’t making this easy. Tamsin cleared her throat. “Let’s start small. Where did you come from?”
“Recently, California.” His mouth quirked at one corner. “I hadn’t planned to visit, but I woke up one day in a museum basement. A week later and I would have been inside a display case.”
“I don’t understand.”
That hint of a smile deepened, but it was bitter. “Nor do I.”
It was hard to look away from his lips. “What brought you to Medievaland?”
“I believe you call it hitchhiking.”
She gave him a scathing look.
He relented. “I was looking for a means to journey to the Church of the Holy Well in Somerset. Then I saw an advertisement for family vacations in Washington State. Behold, there was the church I was looking for, in a theme park on the wrong continent. That was not just happy coincidence. My fate is bound to the church. Clearly, once it was in my power to travel, any effort to separate me from it failed.”
Tamsin hadn’t followed a word of what he’d just said, but in part that was because her attention was on his injury. She touched him, just a brush of fingertips over his wrist. His skin was hot, almost feverish, and her powers told her the wound was inflamed. “When were you shot?”
“Shortly after we met.”
She gave him a look. “And since then? It’s after six o’clock.”
“I lay in wait, watching the church. There was a good chance the enemy would return to find me, and I could follow them from there. Besides, if they knew I had been talking to you earlier—well, there was no way I could leave you without protection.”
An unfamiliar ache formed in her chest. “You waited hours with a bullet wound in case a bad faery decided to jump me?”
He gave a slight lift of his shoulders, his expression settling into hard lines. “Witch or not, I need your help, Tamsin Greene. I can’t afford for you to die quite yet.”
“Gee, thanks.” She rose. “I’m going to bandage that arm. While I do it, you’re going to tell me everything.”
Faster than thought, his good hand grabbed her wrist in a bruising grip. “Swear on all you hold sacred you will not use anything but common herbals.”
She pulled against him, but he would not budge. Hot anger bubbled up, burning her cheeks, but it was nothing to the hard, stubborn hostility in his eyes.
“No magic,” he said, his jaw clenched.
“What do you think I’m going to do to you?” she replied in icy tones.
He released her, his movements jerky. “Swear.” His gaze held hers with unbending will—and a touch of fear.
She released her breath in an exasperated sigh. “All right, but it’s not my fault if your arm rots and falls off.”
He lifted his chin. “Your pride as a healer would never let that happen.”
She stalked to the bathroom for her medical supplies. He was right, blast him.
* * *
“Take off your jacket,” Tamsin said to Gawain as she set a box of medical supplies on the table.
Slowly, still suspicious, Gawain obeyed. The sleeve of the garment was torn and streaked with dried blood, but it was all he had, so he hung it neatly over the back of the chair. He’d packed Angmar’s wound with his shirt, so that left him with nothing from the waist up. Tamsin watched him, her gaze taking in the show with barely concealed female interest. He felt a lick of pleasure at her regard, but he pushed it aside. She was a witch, and that marked her as someone he could not trust.
He resumed his seat and held out his bandaged forearm. It unnerved him to require her help like this, but the heat of infection was spreading up his arm. No doubt Mordred’s bullets carried sickness. That would be his style.
As Tamsin reached for Gawain, he caught her wrist again, but more gently this time. Her bones were so delicate, the fine tattoo as much artwork as proof of her allegiance. “Remember, no magic.”
“No magic. Just medicine.”
Tamsin gave him a tight smile and set to work at once, her touch deft as she positioned his arm on the table. He could smell the heat of her skin as she leaned close. Her scent was sunlight and herbs, like clean linens dried in a summer wind. There was comfort in it, and for a moment Gawain forgot what she was. Her profile was beautiful, the clean, graceful lines of her features marred only by an impish tilt to her nose. To his dismay, Gawain discovered he was almost smiling.
Witchery! He snapped to attention with a physical start that earned him a searching glance. His ears burned. “Forgive me. I am weary.”
“You’ve been shot,” she said severely. “You’re probably still in shock and need rest.”
“I’ve taken worse blows than this,” he grumbled. “I’ve no time to coddle a scratch.”
He had work to do and lives to save. Angmar’s fate nagged at him like another, deeper wound. He’d combed the theme park, looking for some clue as to where Mordred had taken him, but there had been no sign. He closed his fist tight, imagining Mordred’s throat crushing in his grip.
“Tell me what’s going on,” Tamsin said in a soft voice as she unwrapped his makeshift bandage with warm fingers. Her hands were delicate but practical, the nails cut short and unpainted. They fascinated him as they eased away the torn strips of linen he’d used—a towel stolen from one of the theme park’s food trucks. Using warm water, she softened the blood that had cemented the cloth to his arm, taking care not to aggravate his already torn flesh. The action brought her face close to his. Her tantalizing scent engulfed him again.
She gave him the full force of her brown eyes. “Begin at the beginning.”
Gawain steeled himself against that gaze, making his words brusque. “Do you know the old tale of the demons and the alliance who cast them back to the darkness?”
Tamsin’s expression grew troubled. “Funny you should mention that old story. I was thinking about it today, in fact.” She bent her head to inspect the wound. Her hair shone in burnished waves, and he yearned to feel that golden silk against his skin. Gawain raised his other hand to touch and caught himself just in time.
“What have legends of ancient wars to do with you?” she asked.
How was he to answer that? He’d wanted to ease up to a full explanation, but she was a witch and therefore understood magic. Gawain decided to save time. “I was there.”
Her hands stilled a moment, then resumed their work. She began swabbing his arm with something that stung and smelled of bitter herbs. “Go on.”
He did, and he told her about Merlin’s spell that turned the knights of Camelot to stone. She worked silently while he spoke, applying ointments and fresh bandages. Her lovely face went still and smooth, a mask of concentration making it impossible to guess her thoughts—but he noticed she refused to look his way. Tension wound tight in Gawain’s chest, but he pushed on with his story, refusing to falter.
“That must be how I came to wake up in a basement,” he finished. “If the church was moved to America and the contents scattered, my tomb must have been sent to the museum in Los Angeles.”
“You woke up from being a stone statue?” Her voice was utterly neutral.
“There is a rising threat. Mordred’s invasion of the human realms must be what triggered the enchantment to wake me.”
Tamsin finished knotting the bandage and sat back, a faint crease between her brows. “How long ago did you awaken?”
“I’m not sure. Months.”
She shook her head, that glorious fair hair sliding over her shoulders. “Your story makes no sense.”
Gawain’s gut turned cold. “Why not?”
“After so many centuries, it would take more time to get your bearings and start to function in this day and age. You should still be speaking—well, we would call it Middle English. Your version of the language would be hard for us to understand.”
It was a logical objection. A bubble of panic slid through him as he answered. “Making myself understood was all part of the spell. The magic was designed to provide enough factual knowledge to function in whatever time or place we rose again. I understand firearms and subways. How to buy food in a store. It’s not perfect, but I can get by.”
All the same, the experience of waking had nearly broken him. Merlin’s enchantment did not buffer the shock of moving through time. “Still, escaping the museum was just the start of the nightmare. Crowds of people, whole villages’ worth of men and women on one street. Strange vehicles. Pictures made of light. I could name what was around me, but I didn’t understand it. There was one day when the only thing I recognized was an apple.”
Tamsin was clutching the roll of bandages, her knuckles white. Damn and blast, he had frightened her again. “How did you survive?”
“However I had to.” Gawain’s voice had gone rough with remembered anger. “I disappeared into the shadows, where a warrior of my skill had respect.”
Her lips parted, as if she was about to speak, and then she closed her mouth tight. She swallowed.
Gawain watched, trying to assess every nuance of her expression. “You don’t believe me.”
Her voice shook. “I don’t know if you’re mad or on drugs.”
At least she had returned his honesty with her own. Gawain found himself close to pleading, something he wasn’t used to. “You have the means to find out where the rest of the knights have gone. That’s all I’m asking.”
She drew herself straighter, still clutching the roll of bandages. “Why? Won’t your friends wake up if it’s the right time? You found your way here. They can, too.”
She was humoring him. It stung worse than her medicines. “Something has gone wrong. They should be here, but they’re not.” Gawain broke off, hearing the heat in his words. Frustration was a physical ache, but he could not afford to lose his temper. “I need my brother knights.”
Tamsin’s expression declared him moonstruck or a liar. Anger crawled through him, but he hid the emotion behind courtesy. He flexed the fingers of his injured hand. “Thank you for tending my wound.”
“You’re welcome. I think we’re done here.” Tamsin kept her eyes lowered as she tidied away her jars of ointment and rolls of bandages in their box. Tension pinched the corners of her mouth.
Gawain stared at the table, too angry and confused to look at her again. Faces flashed through his mind—Arthur’s, Mordred’s, Angmar’s. He needed help, and honesty had clearly failed. “I have very little to my name. My lands and castles are lost to me. But if you aid me in this quest, I will repay you however I can. You have only to name the service you desire.”
“You should know better than to make an offer like that. You have no idea what I might ask.”
He looked up to see her studying him from under her lashes. He picked up his glass and drained what was left in two swallows. “I need your help. There is very little I won’t promise, witch.”
She flinched at his final word. “You don’t have anything I want and I’d be happiest if you left,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
Desperate, he glanced around the tiny apartment. It was neat and clean, but hardly luxurious. And, it clearly showed she slept alone. He’d tried simple honesty. He’d offered his sword. He had nothing left but himself to offer. “I’m good company on a cold night.”
Tamsin had the box in her hands as if she meant to put it away, but his last words made her freeze in place. Her lips parted in surprise. “I beg your pardon?”
Gawain narrowed his eyes. He’d been called a charmer, but his famed silver tongue had obviously tarnished. He rose from the table, feeling blood loss, hunger and wine swirl to his brain. “No offense meant, Mistress Greene. Most women are glad of a knight at their beck and call, and I’ve never had any complaints.”
Taking charge of the moment, he took the box from Tamsin’s hands and set it back on the table. She didn’t resist, though her cheeks flushed a delicate pink. Curiosity and caution warred in her eyes. By all the saints, she was beautiful.
Once her hands were empty, he took them in his and pulled her closer. She was still wearing her costume and, for a brief moment, time fell away. Gawain was himself again, a famed warrior and heir to a kingdom of his own. He was a powerful and wealthy man—a man every woman would desire, whether for a husband or a single night of bed play.
He raised Tamsin’s hands to his lips. They smelled of her salves, sharp and clean. He kissed them slowly, one fingertip at a time, tasting the mix of bitter herbs and sweet woman.
“What are you doing?” she asked in a tone of horrified fascination. She tugged against his grip, but her strength was no match for his.
“Has no one ever done homage to you, my lady?” He gave her his best smile. “Has no one sung your praises or worshipped your beauty?”
Her brows lifted. “You don’t even like me.”
“Strange times make unexpected friends.”
He drew her yet closer, until he felt the brush of her skirts against his legs, the silk of her hair against his bare chest. Then he lowered his mouth to hers. She leaned away, but Gawain meant to give her nothing but pleasure. Surely she would come to life with his infusion of pure heat.
Gawain wasn’t disappointed. Tamsin parted her lips, and her taste was an explosion of honey, as if someone had distilled summer into a kiss. Gawain’s blood surged with desire as centuries of cold fled in a single rush. Only bone-deep fire remained, drawing a groan from his throat.
Tamsin shivered beneath his touch, making tiny noises of surprise. His hands cupped her cheeks, stroking the silk of her skin. She was just tall enough to fit him comfortably, her body slender but luscious. Fitting words to thought, he allowed his hand to clasp her waist, then stroked downward over her hip.
“Stop,” she said, her voice small but firm.
He pulled her closer, his ability to form thought compromised by the luxurious curves pressed against his chest. He could feel the magic deep inside her, pulling to forgotten pieces of his soul. They called to each other, power to dangerous power, though he told himself it was simply lust. “There’s no need to deny yourself. I’m here for your pleasure.”
“No!”
This time the word penetrated his overheated brain. Gawain immediately let go, but it was too late to put space between them. Her powers surged, and a blow like a charging bull slammed him hard enough that his feet left the floor. There was a moment of giddiness before his back smashed against the wall. Stars swam in his vision for a sickening second, and then he slid to the floor.
“I said no,” Tamsin repeated, but there were tears in her voice. “I hate that you made me do that!”
Gawain scrambled to his feet, hands loose at his sides and ready to defend his life. Alarm rose inside him, bringing every nerve to alert. “You turn your magic against me?” he growled.
“And why do you think I did that?” Tamsin folded her arms across her chest. Anger sparked in her dark eyes, reminding Gawain of a storm at sea. “I don’t know who you really are or what you’re really after, but I’ve patched you up and now it’s time for you to leave!”
Beneath the sharp words was pure misery. He’d behaved with the manners of a troll. He swallowed hard, trying to force down the uncomfortable emotions jammed in his throat. No woman had ever turned him down before—and none had ever knocked him on his backside, either.
Dread seeped through his limbs, as if he was turning to stone once more. He had come to ask her for help, and he’d bungled it horribly. First, she’d believed him mad. Now she believed him a scoundrel. “Please allow me to earn your pardon. My honor demands it.”
“Honor?” She glared at him. “How about you honor my demand for you to go?”
Gawain had lost. He cursed himself for his stupidity—his search for the tombs was urgent, but now he was forced to fall back and regroup. It was no more than he deserved—he’d approached the witch with all the finesse of the lowest blackguard.
But battles didn’t end at the first skirmish. It was time to rethink tactics.
He picked up his jacket. “Then I bid you good night, Mistress Greene.”
* * *
Mordred dropped a limp form on the carpet. Nimueh, once called the Lady of the Lake, rose from her chair and stared, uncertain at first who was crumpled at the Prince of Faery’s feet. All of her people had the same white hair and dark skin, green eyes and long, delicate bones. This male, however, was barely recognizable beneath the swelling bruises on his face.
“Angmar of Corin,” she said finally. She felt only a mild shock of recognition, followed by an intellectual curiosity as to how the high-ranking fae had ended up this way. She’d lost all capacity for emotions like pity or anger thanks to Merlin’s spell. She remembered them, though, and knew she should have felt horror at the sight of Angmar’s pain. Once, he’d been a dear friend.
“Nim-oo-ay,” Mordred drawled, stretching out the syllables of her name. “How lovely to see you lurking about the place. Here to report my deeds to my mama?”
She didn’t answer. They both knew that was precisely why she was here. He pulled off his gloves and tossed them onto a side table. They were in a Victorian mansion on the outskirts of Carlyle. Mordred had charmed it away from its owners, convincing them to sign over the deed right before throwing them to his hungrier pets. The house had four stories and dozens of rooms, all appointed in velvet and fine crystal chandeliers. Mordred liked the opulence of the place, especially the high-backed armchairs that looked almost like thrones.
Nimueh watched as Mordred moved to a magnificent gilded buffet and sloshed liquor into a balloon-shaped snifter. “Why is Angmar here?” she finally asked. “What happened to your face?”
“Angmar is a present to myself.” Mordred swirled the amber liquid, his cold gray eyes almost jubilant. “He was chatting up Gawain of Lothian, who naturally tried to kill me on sight.”
That caught Nimueh’s interest. “Your cousin? The knights are truly awake, then?”
Mordred nodded. “It’s like Gawain to be first out of the gate. Always trying to impress.”
“It seems strange to me that you two are kin,” she observed, stooping to examine Angmar. He was still breathing, but barely.
“Our mothers were sisters, more or less. Mostly less. I lost track of the family drama ages ago. It’s simplest to assume everyone slept with or killed everyone else—or maybe both—and leave it at that.”
Nimueh understood what he meant. In truth, the intermarriages of the old families—human, witch and faery—were as intertwined and complex as they were ancient. And that didn’t even touch on their tangled relationship with Arthur of Camelot’s kin, the Pendragons, and all the bad blood there.
Mordred set down his glass. “Gawain hasn’t changed one bit. He’s still strutting around like a barnyard cock.” Mordred gave a cold grin. “I managed to put a bullet in him.”
“Not very subtle.”
“I didn’t have the time for subtlety. Gawain was throwing knives.”
She turned to look up at him. “Did you learn anything about the tombs? Your mother will want to know.”
Mordred’s cheek twitched, as it often did when the subject of his mother came up. “I can handle this matter.” He kicked Angmar, and the fae grunted in pain.
Nimueh felt anger pass by like the shadow of a faraway cloud. Or maybe it was her imagination supplying what might have been, as men felt limbs they had lost in battle. She gave a slow, impassive blink, wondering if this was what it felt like to be dead. “Are you sure that is wise? The queen expressly ordered that she be told at once if there was news of Excalibur.”
It was the one weapon that could kill the immortal, indestructible Queen of Faery and her son. King Arthur had taken it with him into the stone sleep, which was one reason why everyone wanted to find the tomb.
Mordred lifted his brows with pretend boredom. “I’m not about to give Mama the opportunity to micromanage. And you’re not going to, either.”
Mordred grabbed Nimueh’s arm, squeezing until a primitive fear swam into her heart. The fae could still feel the desire to survive, and the prince used that without mercy. In fact, the smile playing around his lips said he enjoyed it.
“Stay focused on pleasing me,” he said in a pleasant, smooth voice. “Forget my mother. I’m the lord here in the mortal realms.”
Nimueh jerked away from his bruising fingers. “Your mother sent me to be your advisor. I advise you don’t forget she is your queen.”
Mordred’s fingers twitched, as if itching to cause more pain, but she was spared when Angmar rose to his hands and knees. The fae gasped and twisted his neck, straining to look up from beneath the fall of his white hair. Nimueh could see the full extent of his injuries now, one eye swollen shut and the blood staining the front of his clothes. When Angmar saw where he was, his breath hissed inward.
Fear. The one experience Nimueh could still share.
“Welcome to my home,” Mordred purred. Then he delivered a sharp kick to Angmar’s wound. The fae fell with a moan. “You’re going to tell me everything you learned from Gawain. After that, I’ll find all kinds of uses for you.”
