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.
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
