Enchanted Warrior (8 page)

“I hope from now on you will think better of me,” Gawain replied quietly.

She cleared her throat, a small, nervous sound. “Thank you.”

“What happened to you?”

“Give me a minute,” she said, her expression so vulnerable it made his chest hurt.

The physical pull of her swamped Gawain's reason. He'd lain next to her for hours, and so much contact had wound him to a painful pitch. Still, he read the awkward uncertainty in her eyes. “Do you want me to go?”

She shook her head. “I'm not ready to be alone yet.”

“Then I would like to kiss you,” he said, drowning in the heat still trapped between their bodies. He had held himself in iron restraint, but his discipline was spent.

Tamsin gave a startled jerk. “What?”

“I want to kiss you,” he repeated.

“Oh.” She hesitated so long he was certain she would push away. But then she gave a slow blink that changed the knot in his gut to a liquid heat lower down. “If you're sure you want to.” The statement was half a tease, but there was a painful honesty in it, too.

“I am.” He brushed her cheek with the backs of his fingers. “I can think of nothing more pleasant right now.”

She sank down onto one hip, her mouth curving into a bemused smile. “Really?”

Her expression was shy, but she tilted her mouth up to his, inviting him. It was something Gawain had never expected after she'd thrown him out just last night, and he wasted no time. He had kissed his share of maids, and more, but this was different. Maybe it was because his nerves were raw after nearly losing her, or he was far too lonely, but he was utterly without defense.

The press of her soft lips was warm, filled with the lingering essence of woman and magic. And the spice did not end with her taste—it was in who she was. Her teeth nipped at his lower lip, inviting him to explore. He didn't need prompting. As her lips parted, he made a conquest of her sweet, silky mouth. Tamsin moaned slightly, the note of hunger urging him on.

Once permission had been granted, he pushed forward, savoring everything she gave. The first spark of passion had been physical, the effect of her beauty and the closeness of their bodies for so many hours. But beyond that was her courage, and the sheer will that had made her survive. Few came back from wandering a vision. He had to respect her strength.

Gawain rolled to his knees, pulling her up with him. His fingers tangled in her long, sun-bright hair. He loved the thick, shining wealth of it. Wanted it against every inch of his skin.

The movement had broken their kiss, but still their breath mingled. Tamsin was panting, eyes hazed and lips swollen. Gawain held her gently, not sure of her yet, not certain what pleased her. She was a puzzle he was determined to solve, but he would do it the right way.

“More?” he asked.

“More,” she whispered, a bare movement of air shaped by that lovely mouth. At the same time, her hands were stroking the muscles of his abdomen.

Gawain groaned. His body ached with need as he traced the edge of Tamsin's collar with his fingertip. The blouse was prim and tempting at once, and his fingers found their way to the top button that sat at the notch of her collarbone. They were small buttons for his big fingers, but determination was a powerful thing. The softness beneath was a more than adequate reward. There was a delicate undergarment beneath and he bent, pressing his lips to the curve of lace cupping her breast. He slid his hands down, cupping her backside, ready to sink into her.

Ready to give in to an attraction that broke every one of his rules. Tamsin was a witch, and they were all but strangers. The aftermath of magic had them in its thrall.

A flicker of caution broke through the haze of arousal. When he raised his eyes to Tamsin's, he saw the same hesitation in her eyes. They had come a long way toward mutual trust, but they were not there yet. Gawain snapped his mouth shut before he unleashed a dragon of a curse. To take her now would be the act of a wastrel.

He released her, sliding off the bed and grabbing his shirt. Tamsin watched his retreat with startled eyes that quickly darkened to hurt. “Did you suddenly remember I'm a witch?”

That caught him off balance. He wanted her to the point of painful frustration. “That is not my concern at the moment.”

“Then what is?” She sank down on the bed, her hands folded between her knees like a child.

Gawain went still, not sure how to frame what he needed to say. “You were in trouble. I held you. If I make love to you now, you will regret it after. Gratitude only goes so far.”

Tamsin's cheeks colored. Her jaw set in a way that said he'd struck close to the quick. “Maybe you're right.”

“It happens after a battle. Danger makes us crave intimacy.” He pulled the shirt over his head, ignoring the pang of disappointment hollowing his chest. “Did you see the tombs?”

She shook her head. “No, I'm sorry.”

Gawain ducked his head so she wouldn't see the frustration crushing him. His fist tightened, but there was nothing to punish. She had tried, and nearly lost her life doing it. “I thank you for the attempt.”

“Not so fast,” she replied. “I saw the books I was after and I think I saw your missing friend. They might be in the same place.”

Gawain looked up at her. There was a look of triumph that hadn't been in her eyes a moment ago. He thought he'd ended the dance between them, recalled himself to duty, but she'd just changed the rules. Gawain found himself giving in to a slow smile. Tamsin really was full of the unexpected. “You found Angmar?”

“Maybe.” She rose from the bed, moving slowly as if every joint ached. “But getting him back isn't going to be easy. The place is guarded by a heavy-duty magic user with an affinity for frost.”

Gawain sobered in an instant. “Mordred. Cold is his trick. By the saints, he was the one who attacked you!”

A shadow of fear crossed her features. “He didn't win, though.”

“Maybe.” He took her hand, cradling her delicate fingers in his. This time, the warm physical contact was for his benefit. He needed tangible proof that she was safe and well. He wasn't leaving her unguarded, even if that meant sleeping outside her door.

He met her eyes, holding her deep brown gaze. “Mordred never counts a battle over until he is the victor. Victory to him always means death.”

Chapter 8

T
he next afternoon, Tamsin hissed in frustration as a stack of files slithered to the floor of her office. An avalanche of yellowing paper and fading mimeographs fell with a crash. Pages fluttered across the tiles, destroying what little order she'd managed to create. Belatedly, Tamsin grabbed the last of the stack before it toppled off the desk, then wiped her hands on her jeans with a grimace.

She'd found another mildewy box from the 1970s. After handling the papers for an hour, she was dreaming of a hot shower laced with disinfectant. Getting down on her hands and knees, she began scooping the pages into a messy stack. It would have been nice to have a spell that could bring order to the mess, but she'd never heard of such a thing, and after the night before, she had no stomach for more magic.

To be perfectly honest, she didn't feel well after last night's adventure. She'd known the spell was risky—all visioning spells were. She should have had her coven around her, but she'd only had Gawain for support. Gawain, who hated magic and witches. It was just good luck that he knew how to help her when she'd needed it.

And then there was what had come after. Heat, and then pleasure, and then—what? It was as if Gawain had taken off protective armor long enough to drive her wild, and then donned it again the moment things got interesting. He didn't trust her—that much was clear—but his unexpected respect for her feelings said something had changed between them. Gawain had put her needs before his own and Tamsin wasn't sure whether to be glad or wary. Such restraint made her admire him far more than she cared to admit.

Crawling on hands and knees, Tamsin slid the last piece of paper from under the desk and added it to her stack. She sat back on her heels, exhausted by doubt. To be fair, Gawain had stayed with her until she fell asleep. After that, she was certain he didn't stray far. He was watching over her like a scowling guardian angel, afraid because Mordred now knew Tamsin existed. Just like Stacy had warned, using magic had put Tamsin on the bad guys' radar and that had nearly killed her. If Gawain hadn't coaxed her back to her body, she would have died.

Based on that, Tamsin knew two things. One, if Mordred had Merlin's books, as her spell suggested, they were in trouble. In the wrong hands—which Mordred's undoubtedly were—that much knowledge would be an unbeatable weapon. Two, if finding the tombs would stop Mordred in his tracks, she was all over the problem like a terrier determined to find its bone.

Tamsin dumped the stack of paper back onto the desk and resumed her seat in front of the computer screen. She'd been making notes in a spreadsheet, cross-referencing the paper records with a list of artifacts from the original sale of the church. Much of the church's contents—including the famous tombs—had been warehoused, but there the trail went cold and the warehouse had burned down since. She'd been hoping these files—boxed up for forty years, from what she could tell—would give her a hint as to the fate of its contents.

She picked up the top piece of paper. It peeled away from its neighbor with a tacky sound that spoke of damp and ancient photocopier ink. It was an inventory of reliquaries, complete with an assortment of saints' bones. Tamsin wondered what a DNA test would reveal. Most of those old relics turned out to be the bones of pigs or other animals.

The next page was a memo for the purchase of acid-free packing materials, and the next was someone's job application. On the fourth, Tamsin hit pay dirt.

It was a bill for transport, just a few words on a preprinted invoice form from what looked like a small local company. Tamsin's stomach flipped, a wash of excitement making it hard to concentrate on the words in front of her. It was the second page of a carbon copy form, and the ink had faded to a pale gray. At the bottom was some writing she didn't understand, but the top looked like directions for delivery. All she could make out there was “stone” and “knight” and “Pacific College for” and “History.” Pacific College for the Study of European History, she guessed. It had been absorbed by Oceanside University in Seattle back in the nineties, but the campus itself hadn't moved. This was the first real clue she'd found.

Excitement pounded in her chest. She had to tell Gawain. Unfortunately, he was out wandering around Medievaland in search of bad faeries and he didn't have a cell phone.

Without warning, the door opened, letting in a gust of cool air. Tamsin looked up, shock sliding through her like a slim blade of ice.

There was a fae standing in the doorway. Tamsin had never actually seen one before, but there was no mistaking what species the female belonged to. She was exquisite, her skin a dark honey brown so smooth and fine it look polished. Her hair was frost white and fell in a thick tumble to her hips. In that exotic coloring, her eyes seemed to shimmer like green gems. Tamsin noted with surprise that the fae held a set of car keys in her hand. She'd never thought about such creatures driving, but she supposed they had to get around somehow.

The female took a step into the office, the heels of her boots clicking on the tile. Tamsin's first thought was of the newspaper article Gawain had shown her, and his tale of soul-devouring hunger.

Tamsin jumped slightly as the office door clicked shut. She licked her lips, fighting the urge to panic. The woman was exquisitely lovely, but her eyes were empty as a doll's. A creeping dread began to rise in Tamsin, protesting the presence of such utter wrongness. Forcing an outward calm, Tamsin folded her hands across the invoice, obscuring the fading text.

“May I help you?” she asked, her voice cracking on the last word. Where was Gawain?

“My name is Nimueh, and you are Tamsin Greene, the historian.” The woman's voice was low and rich, though spoiled by an odd, flat quality. “Am I correct?”

“Yes.”

Tamsin would have expected her visitor to look around for a chair, perch on the desk or make some move to get comfortable. Nimueh stood stiff as a wind-up mannequin, staring at Tamsin with unblinking eyes. It was, in a word, creepy.

“I was sent by Lord Mordred, son of the Queen of Faery,” announced Nimueh.

Tamsin scrambled for options as her spine went rigid. “What does Lord Mordred want?”

“He should have destroyed you last night,” the fae added without emotion.

“Which begs the question of what else there is to say,” Tamsin snapped, her temper rising. “Sorry to disappoint.”

“Lord Mordred is curious. He is not accustomed to setbacks.”

As if Tamsin had lived just to spite him. She bit back nervous laughter.

The fae regarded her coolly. “Accordingly, he generously offers safe passage to you so that he might learn why you survived his power.”

“How thoughtful.” All the aches from last night throbbed in reminder of how close Tamsin had been to extinction. “Why didn't he come himself?”

“I am less threatening. You are more likely to respond favorably to me.”

“Really?” Tamsin asked, unable to stifle sarcasm. “Are we going to exchange tips on manicures and boyfriends?”

“How you approach this is your decision.”

Tamsin sat back, keeping the movement relaxed. She was sure Mordred had the books she wanted, but she wasn't about to walk through his front door. “I think I'll decline your invitation to visit.”

Nimueh's eyes glinted dangerously. It was the first sign of emotion Tamsin had seen. “I have been given my orders.”

Tamsin's mouth filled with the copper taste of fear. Her fingers gripped the arms of the chair, forcing herself not to flinch. “I've heard of you. You're in the old stories, the one they called the Lady of the Lake. You gave the sword Excalibur to the king.”

“And?”

“You don't seem like the same person at all.”

“I'm not,” Nimueh said, almost sounding wistful.

Tamsin's chest felt tight. “Whatever it was Merlin did, surely it can be undone.”

“Do you think we have not tried?” The fae's voice sank to a whisper. She leaned forward, bracing her hands on the desk. “Do not waste time seeking our redemption.”

Pity wrenched Tamsin, but also fresh fear. “Maybe the Round Table can help you.”

“Do you cling to the dashing Sir Gawain?” Nimueh's voice was still soft, but the flicker of sadness was ironed away, as if it had never been. She pushed away, holding her hands out in a gesture of negation. “Do not be fooled. He despises your kind. You would be far wiser to ally yourself with Lord Mordred and tell him what you know of the lost tombs.”

Tamsin barely heard Nimueh, because now she was conscious of the fae's power winding around her like a deadly, strangling vine, sapping her will. She could almost see it, a twining tendril of light sliding with a serpent's grace. The touch of it was silken, but it was also hideously strong. When it finally caught her, she would be unable to refuse anything Nimueh asked. For a fleeting, horrible moment, she saw herself handing over the invoice with the clue. Walking into Mordred's lair and becoming his pawn.

The snake of power was a thousand serpents now, tendrils weaving a web that would strangle her will. Nerves finally cracking, Tamsin pushed away from her desk and jumped to her feet. “Stop it!”

Nimueh's elegant brows arched. Her magic still tickled and scraped against Tamsin like tiny crawling feet, straining to pierce down to her soul. Tamsin brushed at her skin, although she knew it did no good. “Get off me before I make you regret it,” Tamsin said with more bravado than she felt.

“Really?” Nimueh raised an elegant long-fingered hand, then clenched her fist. The weave of magic drew tight.

Tamsin gasped, instantly suffocated, and felt the power burrowing into her. Rage swept through her like sudden fire. Grabbing that white-hot anger, Tamsin pushed Nimueh away with her power, sending her skittering backward. Then Tamsin followed up with a blast of power. The fae slammed into the door and grabbed the knob for support as her heels skidded on the tiles.

“Well done.” Nimueh pushed her long, pale hair away from her face and blinked, her expression almost surprised.

The magic crawling over Tamsin's skin faded. She should have been relieved but knew it was just a change of tactics.

Nimueh raised her hand again, this time to snap her fingers. Tamsin heard the heavy boom of the front doors of the church slamming closed. “Don't worry,” said the fae. “The moment I arrived, the visitors and your docent had a sudden desire to go see the tourney. You and I are alone.”

Tamsin listened. She could hear no voices, but something rustled outside the office door, making a thin, dry, leathery sound. She sat up slowly, the hair on her nape rising when she heard the scrape of... Was that claws? “You lie. There is someone else in the church.”

“Not someone,” Nimueh said calmly. “A helper of a different kind. You seem to need persuasion.”

Tamsin's palms went clammy. “What have you done?”

By way of reply, Nimueh turned the handle of the door and pulled it open. Almost panting with fear, Tamsin came out from behind her desk. Afraid or not, she wanted space to fight. She gripped the heavy tape dispenser, then released it. Whatever Nimueh had conjured was probably immune to something as mundane as a crack to the head.

The space beyond her office door seemed dark, lit only by the light falling through the stained glass windows. Nevertheless, Tamsin saw something move. She stepped forward, then hesitated. The fae swept an elegant hand toward the door. “By all means. Escape if you can.”

Sucking in a breath, Tamsin barged past, reluctant to put Nimueh at her unguarded back. The church echoed with her hurried footsteps, each scuff resounding in the stone ribs of the vaulted ceiling. The fae followed but turned the other way, giving Tamsin a wide berth.

Within seconds, Tamsin knew why. Something flew from her left, diving at a steep angle. She ducked, dropping nearly to the cold stone floor, but her attacker pulled up sharply in a flap of leathery wings. Tamsin glanced up, her jaw dropping when she saw a creature with a wingspan as wide as her office desk circle to land on the edge of the largest window. For a moment it was backlit, a silhouette of pointed ears and clawed bat wings, but it shuffled along a ledge until the light caught its features. It had a face like a demonic lemur, all huge eyes and fangs, with a tufted lion's tail that twitched with impatience. Tamsin gaped, all danger forgotten while she absorbed the strange sight.

“You brought one of the gargoyles to life,” Tamsin said, her voice trembling. This was power of a kind she'd never encountered before.

“Indeed I did,” said Nimueh. “And it's rather hungry.”

The monster hopped off the ledge with a screech like nails on a chalkboard. It swooped toward Tamsin, wings spread and tail flying straight behind it. Tamsin ducked again, using a fat pillar as cover from its slashing claws. It wheeled in the air, far more agile than Tamsin would have guessed, and came at her again.

Tamsin slipped around the pillar again, but the creature was wise to her now, rolling end over end in the air and using its tail like a rudder. Tamsin bolted for the safety of her office, but it outdistanced her immediately. There was no easy escape.

“You aren't pledged to the Round Table,” said Nimueh. “You aren't one of their human subjects—you're a witch. You owe them nothing. Lord Mordred could offer you much.”

Tamsin whirled, running for the stone lions now. Her feet were slipping on the floor, her braid bouncing against her shoulders as she ran. Behind her, the gargoyle's wings beat like thunder. It would have been easy to give up and tell the fae about the clue she'd found. Maybe it would buy her some time, give her a chance to plan a defense. But every one of those knights was a man like Gawain. Turning them over, even a single one, would be little better than murder.

Tamsin's lungs burned. She was gasping with fright as she dove between the stone lions, hiding in the space where Arthur's tomb should have been. She crouched under the shelter of the nearest head, making herself as small as possible, as the gargoyle landed close by. It swiped with one claw-tipped hand, but Tamsin jerked out of reach. Up close, the gargoyle's face was something out of a nightmare, with fangs jutting from its lower jaw and slits where there should have been a nose. Its eyes—huge, watery green marbles—were worst of all. For all Nimueh's magic, they held no more life than the stone.