Enchanted Warrior (15 page)

And yet, she had to know what was passing between them. “I thought we were back to merely keeping our bargain.”

“Is that what you wish?” Gawain's fingers slid beneath the hem of her sweater, stroking the small of her back. The rough strength of his fingers alerted every nerve and sent a prickle up her spine. Tamsin rose to her knees, leaning close until their bodies met in a single, full-body caress. Her nipples ached as her breasts pressed against him, a delicious pain that grew even as she squirmed to ease it. A hot, winding tension formed in her belly.

The blanket had slipped to the floor, pooling behind her. She leaned back, allowing the soft folds of cloth to accept her as the carpet below cushioned her back. Gawain was leaning over her, his lips never far from hers as they reclined. There was no more talk, no acknowledgment of what was happening. The moment between them was too fragile.

Tamsin closed her eyes, feeling the sting of spent tears. Working by feel alone, she touched Gawain's face, pushing back the thick softness of his curling hair. His breath fanned her face as he bent close to lay kisses along her cheekbone, working his way to her temple. She dug her fingers into his shirt, pulling him closer. After all the emotional battering she'd taken, all she wanted was the forgetfulness of sensation.

His hands slid upward, pushing up her shirt. The air in the vacant apartment was bright but cool, chilling her skin. It made her want more of him touching her, and she slid her hands beneath his clothing and along the ridged muscles of his back. She loved the way they bunched and flexed as he moved, the power of his body waiting for action. As if reading her thoughts, Gawain rose up, peeling the shirt off in one easy movement.

Tamsin opened her eyes to study the play of lean muscles as he stretched and cast the garment aside. It was daylight, with nothing but the flimsy curtains to filter the light. No detail was left to her imagination. As he moved forward again, she caught his forearms, sliding her hands upward over his biceps as he came to her, finally letting her palms rest against the pads of his chest.

Tamsin could have remained there, lost in sensation, but he kept coming. Within a moment, his lips were on her bare stomach, each taste pulling desire deep from inside her core. She writhed, seeking closer contact, but he held himself back, balancing on his elbows and leaving air between them. He worked his way up the midline of her belly, pushing fabric out of the way as he went. His shoulders flexed with the effort of holding himself still, sometimes balancing on one hand, sometimes the other. It was an impressive show, driving the need inside her to a keen pitch. She felt damp and swollen, ready for him to banish every thought from her head.

She reached for his belt, preparing to take matters into her own hands. Gawain put his fingers over hers. “Not yet,” he said, his voice low and husky.

Tamsin wanted to scream, but then he straddled her, knees on either side of her hips. An elusive thrum of power danced just at the edge of her perception, like a moon hidden by clouds. It had to be Gawain's—less pronounced because he was not a full-blood, repressed because he denied it, but strong enough to wake her own magic in response. Her instinct was to reach for it, wind her own power through his, but surely he would shy away. So she kept that part of her still, as cautious as if she were trying to tempt a wild beast to eat from her hand.

He helped her pull her top over her head, fanning her hair about her like a living carpet. Tamsin was so acutely aware of him, so keyed to the pitch of desire, that every movement was agony. Then he bent, taking her nipple between his full lips, the hot wetness of his mouth tantalizing through the lace of her bra. His teeth came into play, pinching her with just enough pain to make pleasure. Tamsin arched beneath him, pulses of sensation knifing through her.

“Lie back,” he murmured. “You're going to forget everything but this.”

Chapter 17

M
uch later, Gawain slipped back to Tamsin's apartment, leaving her in a deep, exhausted slumber in the nest of blanket. He had slept, too, for a handful of hours, but those hours had been broken by nightmares of fire and screaming. Such dreams had plagued him for years. Right now the cause was obvious—there was no clear path forward when it came to Tamsin. She was a danger to him in all the best and worst ways possible—more treacherous by far than the Green Knight's wife because Gawain wanted Tamsin so much more. Besides that, Tamsin had no idea of the trap she set for him even as she'd snared his heart, and Gawain had no intention of telling her to what depths magic had led him in the past. He'd told her too much of his history already.

The antidote was action. He fully intended to be on his way to retrieve Merlin's blasted books long before Tamsin realized he was gone. After all her help, shouldering the burden of this task was the least he could do for her.

Gawain checked on the patients and found them both asleep. Unwilling to disturb them, he washed and dressed once again in battle gear. But when he stepped out of the bathroom, his brother was awake and sitting up.

“You're going somewhere,” Beaumains said, rubbing his eyes. “Since you're dressed for a fight, I assume you're about to do something foolish.”

“Maybe.”

“Get me up. I'm not an invalid.”

Gawain didn't argue, but instead helped his brother into one of Tamsin's spindly chairs. Beaumains was pale, but his eyes were clear and steady. “How are you feeling?” Gawain asked.

“Like I've been chewed on by something large and bad mannered.” His brother fidgeted, casting another look over Gawain's outfit. “I'll be fine in a day or two. Your witch's skill at healing is unsurpassed.”

Two impulses collided inside Gawain. “She's not my witch,” he said automatically, and yet a possessive pride warmed him at the praise, proving his words false. Once again, she had him tied in knots. Was it any wonder he was having nightmares? “I need you to look after her and Angmar.”

Beaumains raised his eyebrows. “Even though she is not yours?”

Gawain cursed. “Just do this for me. I owe her a debt for saving us, and I cannot let it go unpaid.”

“Does this payment involve getting yourself killed?” His brother's tone grew an edge, a flush of temper darkening the scar on his cheek. “If you wait until I am at full strength, I'll leap into danger with you. There is no need to play the hothead on your own.”

Gawain loved his brothers for their courage and camaraderie, and in this far and strange time that emotion flooded back with the force of a hammer blow. “I wish you could, but time is our enemy. Once Mordred discovers what he has in his library, it will be better guarded than a dragon's cave.”

Beaumains sagged in resignation. “Not to mention the untold destruction Mordred will reap once he finds his new toy. Still, how are you getting into the library without a return trip to the dungeon?”

Gawain picked up the sports bag with his armor. He would put on the rest once the Henderson house was in sight. “This time, I'm not entering the house in the usual way. Not even Mordred can enchant a door that isn't there.”

“What about Tamsin?” Beaumains asked, his eyes dark with worry. “She's the expert on magic.”

Gawain's pulse skipped at the very notion. “Would you ask her to go back to that place?”

His brother fell silent. There was only one answer to that, and so Gawain left and started walking to Mordred's lair.

It was late enough in the afternoon that the cloudy sky had assumed the charcoal shade of twilight. The air smelled of wood smoke and coming rain. Gawain strode quickly, wanting to make good time and to burn off some nervous energy. He was about to make one of those gambles that Arthur swore would get him either sainted or dead. The fact that this immediate risk seemed the least of his problems told him a lot about the way his life was going.

Gawain reached an intersection and waited for the traffic signals to change. From there, he could see the lights on the Ferris wheel at Medievaland, spinning slowly against the darkening sky. Another few miles beyond them, Mordred was waiting. Mordred, who celebrated the same foul blood Gawain wished he could drain from his veins.

His cousin was younger, but there had been a time when their mothers had set the two boys competing against each other. Gawain, barely nine years old, had believed in his mother's love and had done everything asked of him, even learning to cast simple spells. To his shame, he had enjoyed it with a child's uncomplicated delight in the miraculous.

Gawain's specialty was fire, just as Mordred's was ice. Gawain had been proud of his flames until Mordred had dared him to set a fireball afloat. It was a trick that took control that no child possessed, but Gawain had been ever anxious to show off. Disaster fell. The older children had escaped unhurt, but their sister, just a babe of a few months, had died.

The streetlight changed, and Gawain resumed his path. Memory weighed like lead, slowing his steps. Tragic as her death was, he barely remembered his sister. But Beaumains, still crawling, had been horribly burned before Gawain had pulled him from the flames. Every time he looked at his brother's face, he was reminded of the terrible power inside him. There was no way to forget.

The months after the fire were still etched on his soul. Gawain, just a boy, had grieved until his own life had been in peril. After that, he refused to touch his power—a sacrifice as traumatic as losing a limb. The pain grew to an emptiness he suffered as just penance for his crime of murder. No one else would blame a child, so he had blamed himself.

Then came Tamsin. She was everything Gawain had ever wanted in a woman—kindness, wisdom, welcoming arms—and many things he had never expected. She was a scholar, a brave fighter, and she could make him laugh. How many had ever given him that gift?

Except that her power called to his in a way he had never felt before. At first, he hadn't been sure—it had been faint when he'd held her after the ritual, calling her back to life, but he had definitely felt it the last time they made love. If that monster was unleashed, what was to stop him from following the same vile path as his mother? As Mordred and LaFaye? Their blood was his, and Gawain was no saint. Pride and temper had always been his devils. What would stop him from indulging every desire—titles, wealth or revenge—when magic made such trifles easy to get? Gawain had seen such power break Merlin—the wisest of them all—who'd then turned around and broken the world.

Put in that context, Gawain's desire for a pretty witch seemed a small, pitiful thing. Yet from inside Gawain's heart, Tamsin was a shining treasure he longed to win. Yet how could he love someone who would be his downfall?

There was no good answer, and there wouldn't be one in his immediate future. Gawain had reached his destination. The roofline of Mordred's lair was fading into the sky and the branches shadowing its gables. Like a beast hiding among camouflage, the house waited, windows glowing gold against the dark. Gawain moved into the woods, silent as a panther, and put on his gear. In a sea of unanswered questions and moral uncertainty, retrieving Merlin's books was the kind of concrete, specific goal Gawain needed.

He'd been speaking the truth when he'd told Beaumains he would break into the library in a fashion no doorway spell would anticipate. He'd seen the opportunity on his last trip—the enormous trees that reached the roof. The roots of the one he wanted dug into the rising ground on the side opposite the kitchen garden. Gawain unbundled his sword and cloak and got down to knightly business.

The rocky, sloping ground was no challenge, and he moved noiselessly into position. Climbing the tree was harder. For one thing, it was decorated with tiny, glittering bulbs that illuminated the yard below, and it would be far too easy to draw attention to himself by joggling the lights. For another, he had a sword. The best he could do was sling the scabbard over his back and hope he didn't hang himself on a branch.

He was halfway up when fae patrols passed beneath him. Neither of the guards spoke, though Gawain felt the brush of a probing spell, as subtle as a bird's wing across his skin. He froze, suspended between one tree limb and the next, waiting for the tendrils of psychic energy to pass by. Sudden movement would trigger the roving magic and bring the patrols running. He had felt no such power the night they had landed in the dungeon. If Mordred was taking extra precautions, they'd rattled him. Gawain couldn't help a satisfied smile.

He waited until the coast was clear before making his way to the roof. Remembering the plans he'd seen, he knew the library was on the top floor with a study on one side and a bathroom on the other. The bathroom had a skylight, and someone had left it cranked slightly open. That was all Gawain needed to force his way inside. Once there, the library was only steps away.

The room was just as Tamsin had described, with stained glass and bookshelves to the ceiling. There had to be thousands of volumes, many of them old and all of them radiating the tang of magic. Gawain spun around, wondering where to begin looking. The sheer quantity of pages was overwhelming. In his day, a single shelf of books had been the most even a rich man owned.

Magic fluttered the air behind him, and he wheeled around, sword singing from its scabbard. Then he froze. It was Tamsin, dressed in dark clothing and with her backpack over her shoulder. At first glance, she looked like a burglar.

“You shouldn't be here!” he growled, but he did it softly. There were footsteps in the hall, and sooner or later someone was going to find the broken skylight. “How did you get in?”

“Angmar gave me instructions to make a simple portal,” she replied.

Gawain's gaze landed on a shimmer right behind Tamsin, bending the light like ripples in water. It made a faint hum that set his teeth on edge.

“You need an exit plan and you tried to go without me,” she said, her tone accusing. “Not even spectacular sex makes up for that kind of idiocy.”

Gawain knew without asking that Beaumains, in the fine tradition of little brothers, had sold him out. “Go home,” he said. “I'll follow.”

But Tamsin gave him a very female glare. “Don't brush me off. I don't deserve it.”

He knew she was powerful, but the urge to keep her from harm's way blunted every other argument. “This is too dangerous.”

Tamsin's cheeks flared a delicate pink. “Do you even know what books you're looking for?”

“If they are as powerful as you say, I should be able to detect them.”

Tamsin gave him a sharp look full of questions he didn't want to answer, then began scanning the shelves. “That depends on what else is here. This place reeks of old, powerful grimoires.”

It was clear he wasn't getting rid of her. Choosing the next best option, Gawain let her search while he drifted closer to the door on silent feet, sword ready. Angmar might have been well enough to give a portal-building lesson, but he obviously wasn't thinking straight. Mordred would notice a flare of magic inside his own lair. The longer the portal existed, the worse their exposure.

“Not there,” Tamsin muttered, moving to the next bookcase. “In my vision, they were somewhere over this way.”

He glanced over to see her reading the spines of archival slipcases that held the most ancient works. Her fingers walked across the covers, ensuring she didn't miss a single book. Gawain shifted his weight, frothing with impatience. The footfalls beyond the door had become filled with purpose. Gawain took a better grip on his sword and braced himself. “Hurry up.”

He didn't need a spell book to see this could go bad in a heartbeat.