Enchanted Warrior (20 page)

She caught the flare of his eyes, the parting of his lips. His hands immediately caressed her breasts, a possessive, greedy gesture that told her far more than any words. Tamsin pressed her hands over his, holding him close, feeling her heartbeat and his pulse in the same moment. Feeling their magic rise and twine together for an instant, as intimate a communion as a kiss.

They were so different, sprung from two utterly different times and cultures. And yet—something more important ran beneath all those divisions. Something that made their hearts beat as one.

Tamsin bent over her knight, her hair pooling around them like a golden curtain as she pressed her lips to his. The taste of wine and spice had faded, and all that was left was heat, desire and man. It was more than enough.

Chapter 23

T
amsin woke as the dawn chorus of birds raised their voices. There were birds in the city, but never so many or at such volume. She opened her eyes slowly, aware of the furs tickling her ears. The air in the room was cool, but the nest beneath the covers was toasty warm. She snuggled closer to Gawain, aware every muscle in her body had been worked hard the day before. He was still snoring lightly, for once completely relaxed. As Tamsin curled against him, his arm tightened around her waist. Even in sleep, he was aware of her.

She allowed herself a moment of cautious hope. Gawain had proved his attraction to her more than once last night. Perhaps he had come to her because he needed help to find his king, but releasing Arthur from his stone sleep did not have to mean the end of their story. Despite everything, hadn't they come too far to pretend there was no bond between them?

Gawain came awake with a snuffle and an enormous yawn. Tamsin took advantage of the moment to straddle him, folding her arms on his thick chest. She lowered herself until they were nose to nose. “Good morning,” she said.

“Good morning, fair lady.” Unshaven and tousled, he looked utterly wicked. He gave her a roguish grin. “I trust you rested well.”

Tamsin reached under the covers. “I find at least part of you thoroughly rested and ready for more action.”

He reached up, lacing his fingers through her hair and drawing her down for a kiss. “I always sleep best in my own bed.”

Tamsin sank into the kiss, nibbling on his lower lip and teasing with her tongue. As she kept his mouth busy, she rocked forward and brushed against his jutting member. Gawain groaned, arching his head back. “Temptress.”

Tamsin broke the kiss and carefully sat back on her heels. The motion pushed the covers down, leaving Gawain bare. She ran her hands down his torso, touching all of him, possessing every beautiful, masculine plane and hollow. In the pale morning light, she could admire each detail, each flex as he moved. Tamsin tried to pretend it was medical interest—to ensure yesterday's wound was still healed. In truth, her inspection was just greed. She enjoyed ogling him.

Now that she was out from under the blankets, she was conscious of the cool air. Gawain's heat was like a beacon. She ran an encouraging hand up his member and then followed it with her lips, tasting salt and musk and man. His expletives spurred her on as she discovered just what he liked and where. Once she had him twisting on the feather bed, she scraped her teeth along his skin, drawing a shudder through him. “Shall I keep going?” she asked sweetly.

He caught her with lightning speed, pinning her on her stomach. It happened so fast, the room swam around her. He drew a deep breath, his lips grazing the skin of her shoulder. “You nearly made me beg for mercy,” he murmured, nibbling at her ear.

“Nearly?”

“That's a hard admission for a man of the sword.”

“As long as it's hard, I'm good with that.”

Gawain nipped her skin, a light pinch that sent a shock of pleasure-pain through her core. “Now it's my turn.”

He was behind her, pulling her up to her hands and knees and positioning her hips to his liking. He was gentle, but there was no mistaking who was in charge. Tamsin closed her eyes, happy to let him have his way. She felt him part her and leaned into his touch, letting the sensation fill her. She felt her own wetness on his fingers like an eager invitation.

Then his weight shifted, and he pushed inside her from behind. She sucked in air, as if filling her lungs would somehow equalize the pressure. She seemed too full, too sensitized to possibly take all of him inside. His hands grasped her hips more firmly, adjusting the angle as he withdrew and plunged again. Tamsin's muscles tightened, trying to hold him, trying to control the yearning that spiked through her with every twist and pull. Her aching breasts swung with each thrust, with every jerk of her hips as she braced to meet him. She had been cold, but now sweat trickled down her spine as their rhythm peaked. Air came in gasping cries. She couldn't hold on to her sanity any longer.

Finally, Tamsin let go, allowing the maddening fullness to take her. She shuddered around him, hungry pulses of exquisite need. Gawain thrust deep with a triumphant moan, his pleasure frank and lusty. When they finally sank back beneath the covers, they stayed wound together long after the sun streamed through the high windows. Finally, they both fell back into the profound sleep of utter surrender.

* * *

When Gawain finally convinced himself to rise, he left Tamsin sleeping and went to explore in daylight. His first stop was to tend to the stallion, the next a quick bath in the icy-cold pond outside. Once dressed in fresh clothes, he went to find breakfast. Now that it was daylight, he could see more precisely what the storerooms held. He gathered an armful of provisions and set to work on breakfast. His cooking skills were basic, but he knew how to make a pot of boiled oats.

Keeping busy helped Gawain think. As Tamsin said, they'd found the books. Now it was time to find Hector and Arthur and escape back to the real world—preferably before the demon found a way to cross the river. They'd been lucky to escape it yesterday, but there was no reason to believe it would give up.

But if—when—they made it back safely? Gawain paused, a sack of oats in one hand. The black iron pot hung over the fire was bubbling, waiting for the grain. He dropped a few handfuls in, measuring by eye. He cooked like he did most things, by instinct. Most of the time it worked out.

But now, he had no idea how the future would unfold. He would be at Arthur's side, living in a strange future. Their purpose was to fight a foe bereft of any compassion and to rally the rest of their brotherhood—who were all no doubt equally bewildered. Once, he would have said duty and companionship were enough to fill his life.

He desperately wanted to say they still were, but Gawain's traitorous heart was reluctant to answer. Against all odds, against everything he'd experienced in his life, he was deeply attracted to a witch who stirred his own despised magic. Sooner or later, his blood would fully waken and then what? His mind shied away from the implications.

Decisions—when they really mattered—came slowly for Gawain. He was reluctant to trust because his loyalty once given was iron. He swore few oaths because they always bound him for life. His heart—well, beyond his brothers and his king, he'd never given it to anyone.

Tamsin had done everything to earn his faith, but believing in his own goodness was harder. He was afraid of what she might unleash in him. He was afraid of trusting himself.

Working by habit, he added a pinch of salt to the oats and set about slicing thick slabs of cured ham. If this had been his real castle, there would be dogs under his feet, a bustle of cooks and potboys and stablemen yelling in the courtyard. There would have been a large, bright life he knew and loved all around him. Now there was silence, the castle an empty tomb. He could feel the Forest Sauvage watching him, testing his resolve. Making sure he felt vulnerable.

“Bugger that,” he muttered under his breath. He could hear Tamsin's feet on the stairs, and his spirits lifted. As long as she was there, he was anything but alone.

She came pattering into the kitchen, wearing the clothes Gawain had given her. She was a vision, her long golden hair combed and braided and her cheeks pink from the fresh air. “Is that food? I could eat a horse.”

“I wouldn't advise it. We've only got one.” He motioned her to a stool at the big kitchen table and set a wooden bowl of porridge in front of her. There were honey, walnuts and dried apples to add to the breakfast, as well as the sliced ham. He kissed her ear. “This is plain fare, but—”

“It's delicious,” Tamsin said, waving away his apology. “Hot and filling is what I need right now.”

Gawain sat down with his own bowl. “Then I am delighted to supply your needs.”

She tilted her head and pointed with her wooden spoon. “You are the master of double meaning.”

“I have been called Gawain of the Silver Tongue.”

“Was that by your publicist or your stylist?” She nibbled at a dried apple.

“The court at Camelot prizes chivalry in all its forms. I'm more than just a big sword, you know.”

A crease formed between her brows. He could tell she was trying not to laugh. “So you've given me your opinion of Merlin. How about your king? Arthur sounds like such a paragon, but was that what he was really like? The way you talk about him, he sounds barely human.”

Gawain was taken aback, and he chewed a mouthful of ham to give himself time to frame an answer. “Your world does not understand kings. The concept has lost most of its meaning.”

“A lot of kings went bad,” said Tamsin. “We made other choices.”

So Gawain had heard. He tried to put it in simple terms. “Kings are responsible for every single person they rule—those who go hungry, those who die, and those who need justice. Kings swear to shed their blood for their people, and that oath binds them until death. Arthur never goes to war lightly, and when he does he leads from the front lines of his men.”

That was all true, but Gawain knew he had barely captured a tenth of who Arthur was. He tried again. “He welcomes everyone alike to his court. He is fair and a good listener. He makes sure every maid has a partner when it is time to dance. No concern is too small.”

“Sure, but does he have any bad habits?” Tamsin asked.

Gawain smiled. “He laughs at his own jokes. It's best to pretend he's actually witty, or he sulks.”

That made Tamsin grin. “Good to know.”

But a kernel of doubt was forming in Gawain's heart. He had never seen it as a flaw in his king, but Arthur was no lover of magic. Merlin had been the exception, but then Merlin had failed the way he did everything else—with over-the-top spectacle. When they had gone into the stone sleep, Arthur had ordered Merlin to stay behind. There would be no more magic at Camelot. So where did that leave Gawain's relationship with Tamsin?

A clatter of hooves broke through his thoughts.

“Who's that?” said Tamsin, clearly wary.

“Let me see.” Gawain grabbed his sword from where he'd leaned it by the door and strode into the courtyard. What he saw made him whoop with joy.

“Sir Hector!” he called. “I thought I was going to have to search the length and breadth of the forest to find you!”

The old knight swung down from a tall gray gelding. Hector was of average height, squarely built, with a mane of iron-gray hair that stuck up in spikes when he pulled off his helmet. “No need, Gawain, my lad. Thanks to that blasted demon, the forest is abuzz with your arrival, and there's no time to waste.”

Gawain gripped the man's forearm in greeting. “Even so, we have much to speak of. Angmar of Corin told me you have kept watch over Arthur's tomb.”

“Ah, yes.” Hector harrumphed uneasily. “There's a tale to tell. I fell in with the fae resistance after Arthur banished me.”

Gawain was stunned. “Banished you?” And then he remembered—Hector was witch-born, and Arthur had scoured all magic from his court. Hadn't he just been thinking about that? “But if he sent you away, why are you looking after him?”

The old knight gave a mighty snort as he tied up his horse. “Arthur is my foster son. I can't very well leave him to Mordred. Never you mind, when we thaw him out, I'll knock some sense into him. King or no king, he's never too old for a slap to the head.”

Gawain squeezed Hector's shoulder. He'd never been close to the man—or to any of the court who dealt with magic—but he had always respected Hector's level head. “I am glad you are here, and there is much I have to tell you. I have met your daughter Tamsin.”

“Have you, now?” Hector asked quickly, with a lift of his shaggy gray brows.

Then Tamsin was in the kitchen doorway, and Gawain's worlds collided. In his reality, he'd seen Hector only months before, whereas she hadn't seen her father for ten long years. The stunned look on both their faces made his chest ache.

Tamsin's face crumpled. “Dad?”

A long moment passed while Hector studied his daughter, recognition dawning on his face. The last time he'd seen her, Tamsin would have been little more than a child with one foot on the path to womanhood. Now she was fully mature, a poised, graceful beauty in full flower.

Hector wheeled on Gawain, the color draining from his cheeks. “Why did you bring my daughter here, to this dangerous place?”

Gawain's ears burned. Unbidden, a vision of what he and Tamsin had been doing in his bed that morning exploded in his brain. “It is a long and colorful tale.”

“I don't doubt it,” Hector growled. “You had better start explaining yourself, boy.”

Gawain didn't get a chance to reply. Tamsin flung herself at her father, thumping him once on his breastplate with the flat of her hand. She was crying, her face mottled with tears. “Why did you leave me? Why did you lie about who you are?”

“I didn't leave you,” said Hector. “Benjamin Waller trapped me in the Forest Sauvage and locked the portal tight.”