Enchanted Warrior. Sharon Ashwood
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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.”
Gawain seethed as he slipped away from the building, using the shadows to disguise his retreat. Too many needs had been frustrated at once, and all of them by Tamsin Greene. He spun to look back. She was standing on the balcony, arms folded and shoulders hunched against the wind that tugged at her gown. With the light behind her, Tamsin seemed fragile, a slim, barely substantial silhouette. She should have been inside, out of the cold wind and shielded from unfriendly eyes.
A sudden, hot protectiveness burned through him, completely at odds with the empirical