Enchanted Warrior. Sharon Ashwood
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up to a full explanation, but she was a witch and therefore understood magic. Gawain decided to save time. “I was there.”
Her hands stilled a moment, then resumed their work. She began swabbing his arm with something that stung and smelled of bitter herbs. “Go on.”
He did, and he told her about Merlin’s spell that turned the knights of Camelot to stone. She worked silently while he spoke, applying ointments and fresh bandages. Her lovely face went still and smooth, a mask of concentration making it impossible to guess her thoughts—but he noticed she refused to look his way. Tension wound tight in Gawain’s chest, but he pushed on with his story, refusing to falter.
“That must be how I came to wake up in a basement,” he finished. “If the church was moved to America and the contents scattered, my tomb must have been sent to the museum in Los Angeles.”
“You woke up from being a stone statue?” Her voice was utterly neutral.
“There is a rising threat. Mordred’s invasion of the human realms must be what triggered the enchantment to wake me.”
Tamsin finished knotting the bandage and sat back, a faint crease between her brows. “How long ago did you awaken?”
“I’m not sure. Months.”
She shook her head, that glorious fair hair sliding over her shoulders. “Your story makes no sense.”
Gawain’s gut turned cold. “Why not?”
“After so many centuries, it would take more time to get your bearings and start to function in this day and age. You should still be speaking—well, we would call it Middle English. Your version of the language would be hard for us to understand.”
It was a logical objection. A bubble of panic slid through him as he answered. “Making myself understood was all part of the spell. The magic was designed to provide enough factual knowledge to function in whatever time or place we rose again. I understand firearms and subways. How to buy food in a store. It’s not perfect, but I can get by.”
All the same, the experience of waking had nearly broken him. Merlin’s enchantment did not buffer the shock of moving through time. “Still, escaping the museum was just the start of the nightmare. Crowds of people, whole villages’ worth of men and women on one street. Strange vehicles. Pictures made of light. I could name what was around me, but I didn’t understand it. There was one day when the only thing I recognized was an apple.”
Tamsin was clutching the roll of bandages, her knuckles white. Damn and blast, he had frightened her again. “How did you survive?”
“However I had to.” Gawain’s voice had gone rough with remembered anger. “I disappeared into the shadows, where a warrior of my skill had respect.”
Her lips parted, as if she was about to speak, and then she closed her mouth tight. She swallowed.
Gawain watched, trying to assess every nuance of her expression. “You don’t believe me.”
Her voice shook. “I don’t know if you’re mad or on drugs.”
At least she had returned his honesty with her own. Gawain found himself close to pleading, something he wasn’t used to. “You have the means to find out where the rest of the knights have gone. That’s all I’m asking.”
She drew herself straighter, still clutching the roll of bandages. “Why? Won’t your friends wake up if it’s the right time? You found your way here. They can, too.”
She was humoring him. It stung worse than her medicines. “Something has gone wrong. They should be here, but they’re not.” Gawain broke off, hearing the heat in his words. Frustration was a physical ache, but he could not afford to lose his temper. “I need my brother knights.”
Tamsin’s expression declared him moonstruck or a liar. Anger crawled through him, but he hid the emotion behind courtesy. He flexed the fingers of his injured hand. “Thank you for tending my wound.”
“You’re welcome. I think we’re done here.” Tamsin kept her eyes lowered as she tidied away her jars of ointment and rolls of bandages in their box. Tension pinched the corners of her mouth.
Gawain stared at the table, too angry and confused to look at her again. Faces flashed through his mind—Arthur’s, Mordred’s, Angmar’s. He needed help, and honesty had clearly failed. “I have very little to my name. My lands and castles are lost to me. But if you aid me in this quest, I will repay you however I can. You have only to name the service you desire.”
“You should know better than to make an offer like that. You have no idea what I might ask.”
He looked up to see her studying him from under her lashes. He picked up his glass and drained what was left in two swallows. “I need your help. There is very little I won’t promise, witch.”
She flinched at his final word. “You don’t have anything I want and I’d be happiest if you left,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
Desperate, he glanced around the tiny apartment. It was neat and clean, but hardly luxurious. And, it clearly showed she slept alone. He’d tried simple honesty. He’d offered his sword. He had nothing left but himself to offer. “I’m good company on a cold night.”
Tamsin had the box in her hands as if she meant to put it away, but his last words made her freeze in place. Her lips parted in surprise. “I beg your pardon?”
Gawain narrowed his eyes. He’d been called a charmer, but his famed silver tongue had obviously tarnished. He rose from the table, feeling blood loss, hunger and wine swirl to his brain. “No offense meant, Mistress Greene. Most women are glad of a knight at their beck and call, and I’ve never had any complaints.”
Taking charge of the moment, he took the box from Tamsin’s hands and set it back on the table. She didn’t resist, though her cheeks flushed a delicate pink. Curiosity and caution warred in her eyes. By all the saints, she was beautiful.
Once her hands were empty, he took them in his and pulled her closer. She was still wearing her costume and, for a brief moment, time fell away. Gawain was himself again, a famed warrior and heir to a kingdom of his own. He was a powerful and wealthy man—a man every woman would desire, whether for a husband or a single night of bed play.
He raised Tamsin’s hands to his lips. They smelled of her salves, sharp and clean. He kissed them slowly, one fingertip at a time, tasting the mix of bitter herbs and sweet woman.
“What are you doing?” she asked in a tone of horrified fascination. She tugged against his grip, but her strength was no match for his.
“Has no one ever done homage to you, my lady?” He gave her his best smile. “Has no one sung your praises or worshipped your beauty?”
Her brows lifted. “You don’t even like me.”
“Strange times make unexpected friends.”
He drew her yet closer, until he felt the brush of her skirts against his legs, the silk of her hair against his bare chest. Then he lowered his mouth to hers. She leaned away, but Gawain meant to give her nothing but pleasure. Surely she would come to life with his infusion of pure heat.
Gawain wasn’t disappointed. Tamsin parted her lips, and her taste was an explosion of honey, as if someone had distilled summer into a kiss. Gawain’s blood surged with desire as centuries of cold fled in a single rush. Only bone-deep fire remained, drawing a groan from his throat.
Tamsin shivered beneath his touch, making tiny noises of surprise. His hands cupped her cheeks, stroking the silk of her skin. She was just tall enough to fit him comfortably, her body slender but luscious. Fitting words to thought, he allowed his hand to clasp her waist, then stroked downward over her hip.
“Stop,” she said, her voice small but firm.
He pulled her closer, his ability to form thought compromised by the luxurious curves pressed against