saw to it that her wine cup was filled and filled again. For a lonely young country girl, that kind of attention was balm to her nerves. She hadn’t yet learned to smell betrayal.
If only Arthur had known how naive she was—but he’d been a king since he’d pulled that sword from a stone as a child. He’d won wars, conquered tyrants and had an enchanter at his beck and call. She was good with chickens.
At the end of the long feast, he’d taken her to his bed. Nurse had told her—or tried to tell her—what would happen. Gwen had all but died of embarrassment and covered her ears. But in that moment, after her ladies had put her in her nightgown and brushed out her hair so that it lay like a shining cape almost to her knees, she wished she’d let Nurse speak. Gwen shook like an aspen leaf.
When he came to the queen’s bedchamber, Arthur wore only his shirt. One would have thought removing his fine clothes and crown would have made him seem smaller, but the opposite was true. She could see the deep chest and the hard muscles of a swordsman’s arms.
“Don’t be frightened,” he said, leading her to sit on the edge of the bed. “I’ll make this as pleasant as I can.”
Gwen bit her lips, stifling a nervous giggle.
“What?” he asked with a frown.
“Nurse says that before giving me medicine. She at least gives me a spoonful of honey to wash it down.”
Arthur’s expression went strangely blank. “You don’t believe in sparing a man’s pride, do you?”
“I’m sure you have enough to spare.” She regretted her tartness almost at once, but she couldn’t help herself. Her claws came out when she was afraid.
Arthur paced a few steps to the door and back again. Was he nervous? That was utterly impossible, of course, because he was the mighty King Arthur. He finally came and knelt before her. “I will give you sweetness,” he said.
She had a good idea of what he meant. Despite her father’s watchful eye, she’d kissed one or two of the younger knights at the last Yuletide feast, and at least one squire had sworn undying love. But the look in her husband’s eyes had nothing to do with a youngster’s flirtations. He was a man of five and twenty.
I will give you sweetness. With effort, she marshaled her thoughts and formed a word. “How?”
He held her hands, just that, and leaned forward, brushing her lips with his. “A little at a time,” he said, and then did it again.
* * *
Gwen raised her eyes from her cup, meeting Clary’s. “My wedding didn’t start well, but in the end it was a very fine event.”
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: [email protected]. 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
