Royal Enchantment. Sharon Ashwood
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release her.
“What are you doing in here?”
He’d spoken to her on the phone, but the device had done his voice an injustice. Up close, the deep, rich sound was something touchable, like warm fur. Gwen closed her eyes, wishing it didn’t enchant her quite so thoroughly. He’d left her behind. That said enough about his true feelings.
“Shouldn’t you be asking why I’m here at all?” She put an edge in her voice out of reflex, as if that would hold his magnetic effect at bay.
“You forget I spoke to Merlin. I know how you arrived.” His tone was carefully neutral.
His coolness burned her. “And no more needs to be said?”
“What would you have me say?”
“You could begin with hello. I am your wife.”
He relaxed his grip enough that she could turn and pull away. She took a step back, looking up into his face. Her breath hitched then. The encounter with the dragon hadn’t been gentle. His left cheekbone was purpling over raw scrapes that said he’d skidded on hard ground. Without thinking, she reached up and cupped his wounded face. “How badly are you hurt?”
“Gawain got the worst of it, but he walked away.”
Arthur’s clear blue eyes finally met hers. Their expression made it plain that he was unsettled to see her. That made everything worse. His anger was easier to fight.
Gwen dropped her hand, her mouth gone dry. The bruises did nothing to hide the clean, strong symmetry of his face. He was eight years older than she was, but that only put him in his early thirties. His neatly trimmed beard had not changed, but his hair was longer. There was something lionlike about the shaggy mass—it was no one color, but a wealth of autumn shades from gold to dark auburn. She yearned to touch it.
He was dressed strangely in what she assumed was the modern style. Her hands fisted in her skirts—the same ones she’d slept in for centuries. The clothes made the gulf between them seem even wider.
They stared at each other for a long moment, teetering at the edge of...something. Could it be he was glad to see her? There was so much unsaid, so many hurts and so many things she didn’t understand.
In all their years together, she’d never come to grips with what drove him. Most of all, she’d never known what drove him away, exactly, beyond the fact that she wouldn’t sit still and say nothing for years on end.
All Gwen’s unspoken questions rose up, almost a physical pressure under her ribs. At times—though not often enough—she would have swallowed her questions back, bowed her head and retreated. But she’d been ripped from her century and dumped here without permission, and she was done with silent obedience.
“Why am I here?” she demanded.
Once, Guinevere hadn’t been bold enough to hold Arthur’s gaze, but she did so now. He could see her irises were not the perfect blue that minstrels described. Rays of green and gold gave them an iridescent depth. In a similar way, Guinevere was never just one thing. Arthur’s life would have been so much more predictable if she were.
He took a step back, taking in her tall, slim form. By all the saints, she was lovely. Her golden beauty cut him to the quick, reminding him why he had tried so hard to wipe it from his thoughts.
“Why, Arthur? Why bring me here?” Guinevere asked again, her voice shaking.
Why had he brought her here? He’d done no such thing, but he wasn’t ready to admit that. Not until he knew more. “Why are you rifling through my private space?” he countered.
“Your private space? Is there something here the Queen of Camelot cannot see?” Her color was rising to an angry pink.
“There are confidential matters that I would keep to myself.” Such as the many places he believed stone knights might be languishing. If his research fell into enemy hands, their lives might not be safe.
Gwen clenched her fists. “You’re not content unless I’m locked in a tower, deaf and blind to the dangers at our door!”
“You meddle,” he growled. “You have from the first day you set foot in my realm.”
That wasn’t exactly true. Their disagreements had grown with time. At first, he’d been conquering a realm and far too busy for his young wife. After the first few years, they’d begun to get along. But then she’d been ill, and then trouble had started: the scandal with Lancelot. She’d always claimed he was just a friend, and Arthur believed her now. But that hadn’t always been the case, especially after the incident with the Mercian prince. Then there had been their endless fights. In the end, he’d ridden off to war as often as he could. They couldn’t make each other unhappy if they were miles apart.
Her eyes flashed. “The realm is not just your business, husband. I am the queen. These are my people, as well.”
The air between them sang with frustration. Within seconds, they’d picked up the threads of their old argument. Arthur cleared his throat, cursing his anger. Her stubborn will ignited his temper at every turn.
“It’s dangerous in this time,” he said softly. “Even worse than before. This world is deceptive in its illusion of order and safety.”
“And you would protect me through ignorance? I’m not a child.”
His chest burned. “Remember the prince of Mercia.”
The man had been rotten through and through—young, handsome, a good dancer and witty conversationalist. He’d flattered Gwen when she’d first come to court, and later that flirtation had grown more serious. In the end he’d coaxed information out of her that broke a treaty and all but started a war. Gwen hadn’t even suspected trickery until it was too late. By then, both Gwen and Arthur looked like fools. It was plain he had no control over his wife—and any weakness in a king made their enemies bold.
“I know better now,” she said through clenched teeth. “I’ve said a thousand times how I learned my lesson.”
Anger made his voice cold. “Self-knowledge is good. Trusting you to stay out of the kingdom’s affairs is another matter.”
“When will you trust me?”
“I would take that chance if I was an ordinary husband with an ordinary life. I’m not that man.”
She visibly flinched. “And what would you have me do?”
“I would have you at my side.” He reached out, cupping her cheek and hoping to take some of the sting from his words. “As you say, you are the queen. A queen has a household to run and official duties to discharge. You make guests welcome, smile at our subjects and grace my arm at official functions.”
She lifted her chin, the movement breaking contact with his hand. “In other words, you want me to sit quietly like a good little mouse.”
It was a harsh statement but true. He didn’t want her involved in matters of state. Guinevere’s intentions were good, but she had always underestimated schemers. And now? Nothing had changed. Enemy fae were skulking around every corner. Many foes would try to attack him through his curious, trusting wife, and that meant neither of them were safe with her here. But here she was, his greatest vulnerability wrapped in an exquisite female form.
Arthur released the breath he’d been holding. She hadn’t moved—her arms still folded as if to protect her vital organs. Sadness took him then, an ache for the gulf that forever yawned between them. He reached out, taking one of her hands and unwinding that closed posture.
“Come sit down,” he said, with all the gentleness he could muster. “We need to talk.”
She frowned. “Why does no one say that for a happy reason?”