Enchanted Warrior. Sharon Ashwood
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unwilling to take her eyes off him. Then she complied, viewing the place with a historian’s eye. This wasn’t a typical church by any stretch, seeming to adhere to no defined period and no typical design. The main area was a large, perfect circle with a ring of black marble slabs set into the floor. Tamsin knew from nineteenth century sketches that each slab had supported a tomb topped with the effigy of a sleeping knight. In the middle was a space for a larger monument guarded by enormous stone lions. The beasts had many symbolic meanings, but the basic message was clear—the knights who slept there were sworn to protect, even beyond the gates of death.
And now the army of knights was missing. Tamsin made a slight noise of understanding. “You’re right, there are some pieces gone.”
Gawain was silent for a moment, that hot blue gaze considering her from head to toe until it came to settle on her mouth. For a moment, Tamsin’s heart pounded with tension, a push-pull of attraction and wariness making her skittish. She’d seen that look on men about to kiss her.
Then, just as suddenly, he turned away. “There were one hundred and fifty knights buried in the church. Ten here, and the remainder in the crypt.”
Tamsin shook her head. “The crypt was filled in when the main structure was moved from England.”
He closed those startling blue eyes and ducked his head, almost as if she’d struck him. “By God’s bones,” he muttered, so low that she barely heard.
Still, the old oath made her catch her breath. “I’m sorry. Did you have ancestors buried there?”
“No.” He took a shaking gulp of air, staring again at the empty space. “Where did they go?”
“I think they’re on loan to different places. Museums. Universities.”
“Scattered.” His jaw muscles flexed, as if he clenched his teeth. His dark mood was gathering like a storm. “I need the exact locations.”
Tamsin cast a glance toward the door, wondering if she could escape. “I don’t know those details.”
“Then you will find out.” The words were hard, but beneath them there lurked pain and need.
Tamsin froze, still staring at the gray day outside the door. Right then, in that brief moment, he slipped under her emotional guard. She hadn’t—not for one instant—forgotten that he had crept up on her, eluding even her magical senses. But now she could feel his grief and desperation, and it was impossible not to respond.
Her power opened again, almost of its own accord. He was no longer trying to hide, and she could touch his words, touch him, with her inner senses. She’d expected a lunatic. What she found instead was enough to raise the hair along her nape. This man was a killer, brutal and steeped in violence. More than that, he was surrounded by danger.
He was danger.
“I need your help,” he said, making it a quiet demand.
Before she could answer or turn back to him, he reached out, laying rough, warm fingers against her cheek. It was gentle, almost a caress, but he had her rattled. She jumped, gathering her power to defend herself. “Don’t touch me!”
The instant her magic rose to strike back, his mouth dropped open and he pulled away as if she’d stung him. He recovered in a heartbeat, though now he was clearly wary.
He grabbed her wrist, glaring at the tattoo as if he hadn’t noticed it before. “Witch,” he said in a low, threatening growl.
Tamsin turned cold at the word. Most thought witches were extinct, and the covens preferred things that way. But her temper was roused, and she pulled away, heat mounting in her cheeks. “Felt that, did you? I think you’ve got a touch of the blood yourself. You certainly have impressive shields.”
“No.” He said it with fierce finality. All trace of softness was gone from his face, reducing it to bloodless, harsh angles. “Now you will tell me what I want to know.”
“I don’t know where the tombs are,” she snapped. “I’ve already tried to locate some of the artifacts that should be in the church, but the old owner died and the information was lost. What paper records they have here are a mess. That’s why the new owners have hired me—to figure all this out.”
Silence hung heavy between them, and his face darkened again, promising thunder. “Then have answers for me the next time we meet.”
“And why would I do that for you?” Her temper was up and the words out before she could stop herself. Her gut knotted, bracing for the backlash.
“Because scholars like riddles, witchling, and there is a cost if you fail to find the answer.” Gawain wheeled and headed for the door.
Alarmed, Tamsin followed only to see him clear the steps in one graceful leap.
“Wait!” What consequences? How did he know about witches, anyway? And what was the big deal about the tombs? But by then, Gawain had disappeared into the throng, gone as fast as he’d burst into her universe.
Urgently needing to sit, Tamsin sank to the cold steps, suddenly shaking. “By Merlin’s pointed hat,” she muttered, and wondered if historians ever got hazard pay.
Flushed with temper, Gawain stormed away from the Church of the Holy Well. He rounded the edge of a green-and-gold pavilion and slipped into the stream of foot traffic passing by—or rather, he tried to. Business had picked up in the theme park and crowds filled the pathways, slowing progress to a crawl. Bright tents and fluttering pennons conjured a vision of the past—but it was an image distorted by a fractured mirror. Medievaland was nothing like the world Gawain remembered.
He cursed, shouldering his way through a knot of tourists. He was a knight of the Round Table and friend and relation to the great Arthur of Camelot. He’d sacrificed everything when he’d agreed to this mission—his family, friends, rank and authority—but it had been the right thing to do. The men and women of this present day were innocents who had never seen actual monsters. If he did his job properly, they would stay that way.
However, to use a modern phrase, sometimes his job sucked. Today, it sucked more than usual because his entire quest was in ashes. The tombs were gone, and they were key to stopping Camelot’s enemies. Gawain had heard whispers of witches and fae plotting in the shadows. The doomsday that Arthur had foreseen—and that had inspired the entire plan to put the Round Table into the stone sleep—was almost upon them.
Worse, the information he needed to find the tombs was in the hands of a very pretty witch who inspired thoughts of bedchamber revelry. Tamsin Greene—a witch’s name if there ever was one—was a fair beauty, long legged and slender with a silver-blond braid that fell to her waist. Most would call her beautiful—exquisitely so—but that description missed the best part of her. The young woman’s big brown eyes had been cautious and bold by turns, as challenging as a clever swordsman testing his guard. Everything about her had stirred his blood until he’d felt her power and seen the mark on her wrist. It meant she was a sworn member of a group of witches, bound to them by blood and magic.
The situation could not get more complicated. He half believed her claims of ignorance, although it could not be a coincidence that he’d found a witch on duty at the spot where the huge stone tombs had mysteriously vanished. No, lovely as Tamsin was—and lonely as he was—witches were dangerous. Gawain knew that firsthand. His own mother had been the worst.
Tamsin’s words came back to him with the cold chill of a nightmare: I think you’ve got a touch of the blood yourself. That was his horror and his shame. He’d spent a life in service to his king, spilling his witch-tainted blood over and over in an effort to cleanse it. Five minutes in the company of the little historian, and she’d found his flaw. Ten, and he might have been dragged down into the claws of sorcery once more, a corrupted victim of his bloodline unable to control his own intrinsic evil.
Gawain