Wicked Games (10 page)

Leodegraunce had had his measure from that moment. Uther had nothing on that old man in sheer cunning. Gwen's father made Arthur pay well for what he wanted, seeing to it Gwen got dower lands and the means to keep them in their marriage contract.

The king hadn't begrudged her one denarius. He hadn't wanted that laughing girl left impoverished by the vagaries of a queen's fate. He'd made damned sure she would never suffer for his craving for her.

Until last night anyway. Leodegraunce would have had his head.

Arthur stole a guilty glance at his wife. She lay dressed in a white gown that made her look like a virgin, a light coverlet folded over her sweet breasts.

Sometime in the past day, the faint crow's-feet carved into her face by her years as queen had vanished, so she looked no older than twenty. He frowned, discovering he missed those delicate lines. They'd recorded the battles, the losses, the fear and the laughter, the steely will he hadn't noticed as a nineteen-year-old idiot. Those faint lines had made Gwen human, rather than the lovely doll he'd imagined her then. He'd had no idea how lucky he was to get a steel-willed beauty instead. He'd have broken the doll in a year.

And she made him more than he'd ever been.

Gwen had believed in him, had given him the courage to meet and defeat men stronger and more ruthless than he could ever hope to be.

She often accused him of being overprotective, and he supposed she had a point. Yet the fact was, he protected himself and his kingdom as much as he did her by making sure she was safe.

Gwen saw him as a great king. A hero. He'd had no choice except to become exactly that. For
her
. Not for Britain, not for Uther's soulless memory. For Guinevere Pendragon, queen of his heart.

Jesu, that last thought sounded so sickeningly sweet, like honey candy. And yet that was exactly what she was.

He'd nearly killed her, for he'd been so blinded by hunger and unnatural need, he hadn't even recognized his own wife. He didn't dare let it happen again.

Even at this distance he could smell her, that lovely erotic musk that made him crave sex and blood and woman.

His fangs pricked his lower lip, and he grimaced at the sour flavor of his own blood. It tasted nothing like the sensual richness he could smell wafting from Gwen. It made him want to take her, hold her down and fuck her . . . Which was why he had to get the hell away from her before his self-control shattered. Arthur had come in here to watch her sleep with his bowl of grapes in order to build his willpower so he wouldn't hurt her when she was awake and flirting.

And she would flirt, his fearless Gwen. She'd try to seduce him—not that she'd ever had to try all that hard in the first place. But this time, he could not afford to let her tempt him into bed. Not with these unnatural fangs pricking his lips. Not with his cock like a blade in his breeches.

If it were only sex he craved, he'd indulge her joyfully. She'd wrestle him with her maddeningly luscious body, and he'd flatten her beneath his weight and plunge to the balls as his hungry body demanded.

But that was less than half of what Arthur craved. He also wanted to sink his fangs into the delicate throbbing vein of her throat, taste the blood running bright and luscious just beneath her skin. Her sweet, sweet skin.

What kind of beast was he? How could he think of her in such terms? She was his love, his queen, his heart—the very best of what made him a king.

What she was
not
was food.

“You will not hurt her, my king.” Merlin's surprisingly deep voice sounded oddly gentle as he spoke from the chamber doorway. Arthur had locked that door, dammit. “Even if she were no more than one of the ladies of your court, you would not take more than you need. You will certainly not put your wife in danger.”

The king didn't dare look at him. He flexed his hand around the hilt of his sword and fought the bloody impulse to draw it. “Get out of my sight if you value your head.”

Merlin snorted as he moved into the chamber, an absent wave of his hand closing the door. “I'm almost tempted to let you try. You could use a little humility.”

“Get. You. Gone.”

“No.” Merlin looked at him with those black star-flecked eyes. “Your woman will need your body when she wakes, just as you needed hers. Don't deprive her out of fear.”

Arthur's lips peeled off his fangs. “My wife's needs are none of your affair, wizard.”

“They are if your fears destroy you, her, and your people.” Merlin studied him as if deciding on a new tack. “You may wish to consider a Truebond—a kind of magical link between you. Nimue and I have such a link, and it allows each of us to sense what the other feels and thinks. You'd know if you were drinking too much of her blood, and you'd be able to stop in time.”

Arthur looked at him, intrigued out of his rage. “How would we do that?”

“She'd use magic to bind your minds. You'd find it quite useful in everything from ruling to combat. You could consult her without having to speak aloud, or be able to ask her to work spells for you on the battlefield.” He paused. “There is, however, one very significant drawback.”

“I'm not surprised. I'm not sure I want my wife knowing my every stray thought.”

Merlin smiled. “Neither would I. Fortunately, you quickly learn not to project everything you think, any more than you always speak at the top of your lungs. She won't be any more eager to have you know her every thought, either.”

Arthur frowned. “Then if not that . . .”

“The real problem is that if something kills one of you, the pain of sharing that death would kill the other.”

Arthur stared at him, appalled. “Merlin, I'm a warrior. The probability that I will die in combat . . .”

“You're also a Magus. Killing you is now far more difficult, especially since you can heal virtually any injury short of decapitation or cutting out your heart, simply by shifting to wolf form . . .”

Arthur blinked. “We can do that? You didn't mention this.”

Merlin shrugged. “If you but concentrate, picture a wolf in your thoughts, and will yourself to transform . . .”

Before the wizard could finish, the king closed his eyes and thought of the wolves he'd seen over the years, imagining himself changing. Heat exploded over his skin, a sense of bones and muscles twisting, reshaping themselves . . .

When he opened his eyes again, he thought for a moment he'd fallen to the floor, but when he glanced down, he saw a pair of narrow wolf forelegs where his arms should be. A high-pitched canine sound of alarm made his ears twitch, and he looked up.

Merlin gazed down at him, a smile curling his lips. “Very good, sire. Now reverse the process, and you can turn back.”

He obeyed. Once he was human again, the wizard continued, “Even if you were hurt so badly you didn't have time to shift, Gwen would sense it and heal your injuries before they posed any danger to her.”

Arthur frowned as his instincts growled in rebellion. “Battlefields are no place for women. Particularly not my wife.”

Merlin stared at him, his expression first stunned, then appalled, then disgusted. “You're such a brilliant man, I sometimes forget you're also the product of a primitive culture.”

Arthur stared back, puzzled by his reaction to an obvious truth. “How is it primitive to wish to spare my wife the blood and terror of war?”

“It's not primitive at all, given females with but a fraction of male strength. But the queen is now stronger than most men . . .”

“What? You didn't mention that.” It was comforting to know she could defend herself against attackers, once he taught her how.

Merlin lifted a brow. “I didn't mention it because magic is a far greater advantage than muscle. As you may discover the hard way, if you insist on treating your wife as less than she is.”

Stung, Arthur glowered at him. “I never treat Gwen as less than she is.”

“I hope that's the case, not just for the sake of your marriage but for your entire species. As it is, I fear you're in for a very unpleasant education.”

“You let me worry about that.”

“Nothing would please me more. But whatever you decide about the Truebond, I must stress the importance of meeting your wife's needs when she wakes. Don't be fool enough to leave her alone out of some stupid impulse to protect her. The Grail's spell affects not just you, but all your descendants as well, and it's incredibly powerful. It therefore intensifies the body's need for sex, for reproduction. That will be as true for her as it was for you. Don't refuse what she must give you. She is no longer human, Pendragon. If you try to treat her as though she is . . .” His voice dropped to a lethal whisper. “. . . you will rue it. Of that I assure you.”

Then the wizard was quite simply gone. Only a few golden sparks remained, floating lazily above his seat.

Arthur turned his gaze to his sleeping wife again. She'd stirred while Merlin had distracted him; the coverlet had fallen to her waist. He could see the elegant rise of her breasts, full and sweet, capped by delicate pink nipples that were clearly visible beneath the gown's diaphanous silk.

God, he wanted to taste those nipples. He wouldn't bite. He only wanted to lick that tempting flesh, discover if it tasted anything like the scent that tormented him from across the room.

It smelled like Gwen. But . . . not. As if Merlin was right, and whatever that potion had done had changed her into something no longer human.

Blinking, he realized he stood over her. A moment ago he'd been sitting all the way across the room. He had no memory of crossing the distance.

It was obvious why he had. The scent of her flooded his nose until he could almost taste her. The lavender from her soap, achingly familiar, blended with the light musk he'd always associated with Gwen. Then there were the new notes in her scent: the copper tang of the blood running beneath her skin, mixed with something else. Something not Gwen that taunted him like sex distilled. It made his fangs ache almost as much as the cock-stand bucking in his britches.

Sweet mother Mary, he had to get away from her. Now. Before he woke to find her truly dead, not simply drained to pallor.

He should go find Merlin and kill the little fuck. Arthur spun on his heel, meaning to seek out his armor, his shield, and his blades . . .

“Arthur?” Gwen's lovely voice sounded throaty.

From sleep, not seduction,
he told himself.
Just sleep
. He headed for the door, desperate to escape before his fangs and his dick drove him to something he could never forgive himself for.

“Arthur, I dreamed Mordred killed you.”

Devils take him, there were tears in Gwen's voice. Turning back, he spread his arms wide and forced a smile. “I'm well, as you can see. I kicked that bastard's arse two days back.”

She frowned at him, troubled and lovely. Saint Sebastian's blood, he'd forgotten how very beautiful she'd been before worry and royalty had aged her. “I saw a battle on a hill. Thousands of men fought. And most of them weren't ours. They followed Mordred, Arthur.”

A chill stole over him, but he made himself scoff. “That oath-breaker? Not likely.”

“Better an oath-breaker than a blood-drinker.”

He stiffened. “Is that what you think me?”

“You know better. In any case, the problem is not what I think, it's what do our people believe? I'm a witch now. The Bible itself says I should not be allowed to live.”

“Some priest jealous of your influence might interpret it thus.” He bared his teeth, fangs and all. “He'd best not say it in my hearing. I speak Latin as well as any jumped-up peasant in a miter.”

“Arthur, you do almost
everything
better than anyone.” She gazed at him, her eyes huge in the dim lamplight. Vulnerable and seductive all at once. “Come here, my king. I need you.” The way she said “need” made it damned clear what she meant. His cock, which had softened at the talk of priests, hardened like forged steel.

And the scent of her—musk, and heat, and that maddening copper tang.
Gwen. Saints and devils, Gwen . . .

No. Despite her pleas, despite Merlin's warnings, he knew he didn't dare give in to his clawing sexual hunger. What if he started drinking her blood and couldn't stop? “Gwen, I can't. Percival, Marrok, and Cador rode in while you were sleeping. I sent them off to accompany Mordred to the Channel, to make sure he left the country . . .”

“Yes, I remember.” She frowned. “Was there a problem?”

“You might say that,” Arthur said grimly. “They were ambushed by a troop of Varn's rebels barely five miles from the Channel. They were so heavily outnumbered, they barely escaped with their lives. Mordred fled with the rebels.”

Gwen stared at him, appalled. “Arthur, we have to recapture him. You can't just let him run loose; saints know what he'll do.”

“Exactly. I've sent several contingents after him, but nobody's managed to bring him in yet. I'm going to join the search. We've got to find him before he starts gathering more followers for Varn, or that dream of yours could well come true.” And dammit, his new fangs made him lisp like a four-year-old.

Her lids dipped over those remarkable eyes. “Come here, Arthur.”

He didn't dare. He knew damned well he couldn't make love to her without drinking from that sweet throat. “I can't, Gwen. I almost drained you the last time.”

“I was human the last time.” The way she said it, like sin and sex given voice. She rose from the bed, as gracefully seductive as Salome.

Get out boy, or you're lost. And she will be, too.
“Gwen, I can't let Mordred escape while I dally between your lovely thighs, no matter how I wish to.”

Forget the armor. He'd take Gawain, Galahad, and their fastest horses, then send the boy back for his hauberk. He reached for the door, meaning to jerk it open.