Wicked Games (12 page)

Which was why lusting for him was so very wrong. If it had been Lancelot or Gawain, that would have been bad enough, but Galahad? He was probably still a virgin, for Mary's sweet sake.

After she went to confession in the morning, Father Jacob wouldn't be able to meet Gwen's eyes for a month. She'd still be on her knees in the chapel when Arthur got back.

If he gets back.

If Galahad tells Arthur . . .
Grinding her teeth, Gwen splashed her face with lukewarm water from the pitcher her maid left for her every night. She found the roughest rag in the clothes chest and used it to scrub her randy sex until the last vestige of lust was gone.

She didn't dare touch her nipples.

The scraping cloth did the trick, dousing her desire like a lit candle left on a windowsill at the height of a thunderstorm.

The death of that embarrassing need left her brain able to function again. Galahad wouldn't tell Arthur, because that would never occur to him. Instead, he'd slink around the fortress for the next month, mentally scourging himself for his sin.

And it was all Gwen's fault. Arthur had never lifted a hand to her in all their years of marriage, but he'd paddle her arse bright red for weighing Galahad's boyish soul with such guilt.

The thought triggered a memory of the night Arthur woke, when he'd simply overpowered her in that deliciously erotic way. All the need she'd felt, the inarticulate desire that he'd show that part of him—the instinct to dominate he'd always controlled so carefully. It was as if his lust for her blood fed that sensual darkness she'd always sensed in him—along with her own hunger for his domination. A hunger so intense that even as guilt tormented her about her reaction to Galahad, she found something wickedly exciting about the idea of Arthur giving her that paddling . . .

Why the hell had he left her like this—so desperate with need that even a boy tempted her? She had all but begged him not to abandon her.
And that matters not at all. If I sin, the fault is mine
.

Flinging a cloak around her shoulders, Gwen stalked from the chamber. She'd spend the rest of the night prostrate before the altar in Camelot's chapel. A few hours shivering on chilly stone would cool her lust and remind her of her marriage vows. She'd pray to the Blessed Virgin for strength to battle both her body and her nightmares of her husband's death.

The balustrade was dark and cool enough to drain the lingering heat from her cheeks. It was late, and the fortress was still, dark, and quiet as it so rarely was. All the servants were likely abed. As for Arthur and his new Magus knights, they were no doubt already off on Mordred's trail.

Remembering her vision, Gwen frowned. Had it been no more than a nightmare, as Arthur insisted? After all, the enemy forces' sheer numbers in the dream suggested a full-fledged rebellion. Either the battle she'd seen was months away, or it wasn't precognitive at all.
Saints, I hope not.
But no. Her heart sank as the certainty rang in her like the tolling of cathedral bells: she had seen the future, and unless she somehow got Arthur to believe her, he was a dead man.

Her shoulders slumped, and she slowed her furious strides toward the chapel.
What does a moment's lust matter compared to Arthur's death? Even if I did bed one of his knights, it would at least get his attention . . .

Oh aye, I'd have his full attention—while he killed me and whatever poor bastard I'd committed adultery with.

Besides, the bitter truth was that she'd never wanted anyone but Arthur. Not since she'd watched him ride into her father's fortress at the head of his army, a young god with a body scarred and hard from five years of war, his dark gaze gleaming with fierce intelligence.

It was only when he looked at her that he'd appeared anything like nineteen. Tough as he was, he'd seemed dazzled, as if Gwen were far more beautiful than she'd known herself to be.

There were times even now when he looked at her just that way. As if her beauty was still fresh instead of worn by almost two decades of war, contentious peace, miscarried babies, and a stepson turned viper.

Gwen thought of Arthur's laughter, of his deep voice barking commands, of the hot temper that secretly aroused her even when it was directed at her. Sometimes the sex was at its most perversely delicious when Arthur was in one of his rages. How could any other man compete with that, even a Knight of the Round Table?

She loved Arthur. Man, king, or Magus, it didn't matter. He held her heart and always would, even if her body did give another man its fleeting attention.

Mordred was not going to kill him, vision be damned. If Gwen had to take up armor, shield, and sword herself, she'd see her husband safe.

A groan rang along the balustrade, followed by the slam of a heavy body hitting wood and a woman's cry of fear. The queen went still, listening. Another boom and rattle, another cry, definitely female.

It came from the bachelor wing, where the knights had their chambers. Gwen broke into a run toward the sound.

A red-haired girl sped along the passageway toward her, her lamp swinging in dizzy, panicked arcs. Her eyes looked huge in a paper-white face.

“Yveri.” Gwen caught the servant's shoulder before she could fly past. The girl winced at her strength and teetered to a stop. “What happened? I heard someone cry out. Are you hurt?”

“No, my queen.” A trace of shame darted through Yveri's blue eyes, followed by a kind of sullen defiance. “Not yet anyway. Though I would be, right enough, if I stayed in there with him.”

“Who?”

Again that mix of fear and resentment. “Lord Lancelot, that's who. They told me he'd need blood when he woke. I thought t'would be no more than a nip, p'haps a bit of bouncin' on the sheets—begging your pardon, my queen.” She bobbed a quick, apologetic curtsy. “They didn't tell me he'd be a bloody ruttin' beast with teeth like a boar hound. I'll serve you willingly, but I'll not die in sin with some hell-spawned devil.”

Sympathy fleeing at the venom in the servant's tone, Gwen gave her an icy glower. “You forget yourself, girl. Lord Lancelot is a Knight of the Round Table who has saved my life more times than I can count.”

“Yes, well, now that wizard and his cursed cup have made a beast of him.”

The queen's temper exploded into a fine Pendragon rage that would have done her husband proud. “He is no beast! Get your things and get you from Camelot. And if I hear of you spreading such malice, I'll have you whipped.”

The servant sneered. “Suits me. I'd not stain my soul in this den o' sin any longer.”

She flounced away just in time. Gwen had never struck a servant in her life, but she was sorely tempted to fetch Yveri a slap that would make the girl's ears ring for a week.

As for Lancelot . . . Another thud shook the door of his chambers until it rattled in its frame. Fortunately, the door was bolted, the key still protruding from its lock.

They were lucky Lance hadn't already broken it down. Another blow or two like that one, and it would fly right off its hinges.

But I can stop it,
a seductive voice whispered in Gwen's mind.
I can use magic to bind him, then feed him enough of my blood to bring him back to himself.

She could feel the power like a bonfire burning, just waiting to leap to her will. It was intoxicating, as if she could do anything. As if she could contain any man's strength, even that of a Knight of the Round Table.

Even a Magus's.

Still, it might be wise to practice the use of that magic on Lancelot; her husband had a way of turning the tables on his opponents. Though Gwen had never considered herself Arthur's “opponent”; husband or not, he was still her king.

Which didn't mean he was always right. An image flashed through her head: Mordred, sword lifted over Arthur and his broken blade . . .

She'd do whatever it took to keep that vision from coming true, even if she had to make Arthur listen. If she could use her power to force his champion to submit, that would certainly be a good start.

Gwen moved to the door and leaned to speak through it. “Lord Lancelot? It's Guinevere. I'm coming in.” Her heart began to thunder, but she squared her shoulders, threw out a hand, and sent a stream of power at the door.

It flew open and hit the wall with a reverberating boom that made Gwen jump. Recovering quickly—she'd found appearing confident a vital weapon when dealing with arrogant men—Gwen strode into the chamber and gestured the door closed. This time it obeyed far more quietly.

She gave it a satisfied smile, and turned . . .

To find Lance looming before her, stark naked, fangs long and white in his smile. A smile that looked more than a little evil.

So did his erection, which was every bit as impressive as Arthur's.

He didn't even look like the man she knew. Not only had the strands of gray vanished from his hair, but his face also looked sharper, more animal. And it wasn't just the fangs she could see in his hungry, too-male smile.

He reached for her . . .

“Lord Lancelot, you forget yourself!” Gwen snapped with such ice in her voice, it brought him up short, his feral expression dissolving into confusion. Seizing the opportunity, she sent a ribbon of magic out to wrap around his powerful arms, lashing them tight to his sides.

Saints and devils, the man was huge. He was taller than Arthur by two inches or more, though she'd rarely noticed, given the king's way of taking over any space he occupied.

Cheeks blazing at Lance's intimidating nudity, Gwen struggled to keep her gaze from dropping below his waist. Unfortunately, that left her nowhere to look but his furious eyes as he snarled and fought her power. Unlike Arthur, he didn't appear to know her at all.

And God's teeth, he was strong. His big body surged against his magical restraints, on the verge of breaking free
. I should have conjured chains.

Too late now. If she diverted her attention to creating something more substantial, he'd escape for sure. As it was, he fought her like a trapped wolf. With the way his arms were pinned, that made the thrust of his cock even more menacing.

Staring at him in fascination, Gwen realized he wasn't built precisely like Arthur. His greater height made him appear leaner, though the muscle of his big body was just as thick and beautifully sculpted, from massive shoulders to brawny thighs to big bare feet. Her gaze lingered on the straining V of his torso as he fought his magical bonds, only to drift back down to that forbidden erection. Was he bigger than Arthur there, too?

Traitorous thought.

No, she decided a moment later. He was just very aroused and very, very angry. Not to mention hungry, judging from the length of his fangs. Gwen had intended to give him her wrist, but in his current mood, she was afraid he'd bite her hand off.

And wouldn't that be tough to explain to Arthur?

This had been a colossal mistake—one of her worst ever, in fact. She needed to get out of here, lock the door again, and find some witch who wasn't married to Arthur Pendragon to feed his best friend.

Instead she hesitated, her gaze helplessly tracing all that long, brawny muscularity one more time. Her own frustrated body clamored.
Surely it won't hurt anything just to touch him? Maybe it would even calm him down. Arthur would understand
.

Like hell.

Before she could flee the room, Lance's back arched as he grunted in agony, and slumped in his bonds.

Gwen gaped at his limp, motionless form.
Oh God, did I hurt him?
Had she used more force than she'd thought and crushed his bound arms? Had she mistaken cries of pain for lust?

Horror sent her jolting forward. Lance had always been her most loyal supporter, second only to Arthur himself. If she'd hurt him . . . Worried, frantic, she lowered him to the floor and dissolved his magical bonds . . .

And thought,
I'm an idiot,
about half a second too late.

L
ancelot tore free of her magic and pounced on Gwen like a wolf on a lamb. His arms clamped around her as the room wheeled dizzily before her back hit the knight's narrow bed.

Frantic, she reached for her magic, meaning to blast him across the room, Arthur's best friend or not.

Long fingers curled around her jaw without exerting pressure, though the threat was definitely there. His eyes blazed red down at her. “Don't.” If a lion had been capable of speech, it would have sounded just like that. He leaned lower until his eyes were barely three burning inches from her own. “Mine.”

“No,” she corrected frantically. “Arthur's. King Arthur's.”
Who will kill us both—if I live.

Rage blazed up into his savage gaze. “Mine now.”

Gwen's heart sank. She could tell from the animal gleam in Lancelot's eyes that not only did he not recognize her, he had no idea who Arthur was, either.

Again, she considered blasting him. Or at least, blowing him across the room. But that big hand still gripped her jaw, and she knew if he chose, he could crush it, perhaps even break her neck.

“Don't hurt me.” The words emerged without her conscious intent, followed instantly by a hot wave of shame. She'd never begged anyone for anything. Well, except for Arthur, and her pleas then could be summarized by the word “more.”

“Won't. Hurt.” He paused, looking frustrated, then managed, “If you don't fight.”

I'm the least of your worries,
Gwen thought.
Arthur is going to kill us both.

Lancelot shoved his face against her throat. He inhaled hard, deeply, like a starving man in the kitchen on feast day. With a low growl, he closed his mouth over her carotid. His lips felt like warm velvet on her skin, brushing over the pulsing vein. He purred in pleasure and bit. Gwen cried out at the sharp pain, but as he drank, the sensation changed, going hot, arousing, as if he were suckling her nipples instead. Simultaneously, he began caressing her breasts, milking both tight tips with twisting tugs. Gwen panted, eyes closing, as the desire that had been simmering in her blood since she'd awoken from the Grail sleep burst into full boil. Wrong, she thought.
This is wrong!

And yet she couldn't seem to do anything about it. The need she felt made it impossible to concentrate enough to summon her magic.

Lancelot rumbled in satisfaction and reached down to pull up her skirt and palm her sex, stroking her there as if she were a cat. Her hips rolled. Even as she struggled to control her growing desire, her body readied itself, thighs loosening, sex swelling and flooding with thick cream. The hunger was so intense, so stark, that she felt as if she were skidding out of control, with no way to keep herself from plunging over the edge.

Still feeding, the knight slid one finger into her sex. Stroking deep, he purred against her skin at her slick heat. Carefully, he withdrew his fangs so he could lift his head and stare down into her face, triumph in his amber eyes.

Lance didn't look at her as he always had, with that respectful courtier's distance, that loyal knight's attention. He looked at her as if she was something delicious, and he was starving.

No, more than that. As if she were prey, and he, the ravenous wolf who'd caught her—and now was playing with her before his feast.

And why in the name of all the saints do I find that thought arousing?
Gwen stared up at him, feeling wet inner muscles burn and flex shamefully.

Lance's fingers curled around her jaw even as his free hand probed her swollen sex. “Mmmmm. Yesssss. Ready . . .”

“Stop!” she gasped.

“No.” His eyes narrowing in the dim light of the room's single oil lamp, he rolled on top of her. “Ready to be fucked.” He rolled his hips, pressing that heavy erection against her belly. It felt so damned tempting. He'd fill her so full, finally satisfy the need that had been clawing at her since she'd opened her eyes earlier tonight. Since Arthur had denied her, had rejected her to go chasing after Mordred.

I've got to stop him
. But she couldn't think how, couldn't seem to muster the will for magic, not with her blood boiling like a dragon's breath with frustrated need.

The lamp behind him painted golden highlights on his dark hair and broad shoulders, the brawny arms that rippled as he stroked her sensitive flesh.
Beautiful,
she thought, dazed.
He's so beautiful . . . But he's not my husband. He's not . . .
She closed her eyes, trying to fight the ripping hunger even as Lancelot worked to build it with his big hands and clever mouth.
I can't. I can't, I . . .

But it felt so
good
. The warm hands that tugged her hard and aching nipples, the thick cock pressing against her belly . . . All those delicious sensations strengthened her need, driving it higher and higher. When she opened her eyes again, looked up at the silhouetted figure looming over her, guilt and Grail-born desire made it seem she looked into the face of a different dark-haired man. Made her think she recognized the touch of those skillful hands, the stroke of his soft lips, the arousing rake of his teeth, and the suckling swirl of his tongue.

The entire rigid length of Arthur's cock slid inside her in one delicious stroke. The heat in her exploded into a roaring conflagration as he began to thrust. He ground in hard, filling her so completely, there was room for nothing else but pleasure. Not thought. Not conscience. Just deep, rolling pulses building toward ecstasy. Her mind went white. Mindless, lost, she hooked her calves over her lover's arse, spreading herself wider. His heavy body rocked hers, each stroke a knifing pleasure.

Gwen writhed, feeling a climax gathering, her sex swelling tight around the thick length. “Arthur,” she moaned in shuddering delight. “Jesu, Arthur!”

He broke rhythm, hesitating in the midst of a stroke, as if reacting to the sound of a name that wasn't his
 . . .

This isn't Arthur.

Cold horror snuffed Gwen's building climax. Her mind registered that Lancelot's teeth were no longer locked in her throat, and he no longer gripped her jaw. He'd ceased holding her down, instead bracing his hands on either side of her shoulders as his hips pumped. His fangs gleaned in the lamplight as he growled again.

This was her chance.

Magic blasted out of Gwen in a furious wave of gold that picked him up and swept him off her body, carried him across the room, and slammed him into the wall with a thud.

Stunned, he went limp.

Her outstretched fingers curled into a fist. Chains wrapped around him, solid steel links this time, coiling tight around arms and legs until he couldn't even twitch.

Pulling down her skirts, Gwen rolled off the bed and stalked over to him. Lance shook his head like a man who had suffered a hard blow to the skull. Which he likely had, given the way she'd flung him against the wall.

Registering that he was no longer riding Gwen like a tavern wench, he snarled in frustrated rage. “Let go!”

“Silence,” she snapped. “Or I'll walk out of here, seal that door, and leave you to starve.” At the moment, she was furious enough to do it.

Surprisingly he subsided, his lips closing over those threatening fangs. Something more human, more aware, flashed in his eyes.

Good
.

“Now, listen,” Gwen snarled. “You and I have just thoroughly wrecked our lives, but it's not your fault. I'm the one who is at least nominally sane here, so I'm the one who must save us.” Though it wasn't at all clear they could be saved.

She studied him. At least that distracting cock-stand had subsided. “Tell me you didn't come.”

He blinked, obviously having no idea what she meant, much less the implications of fathering a bastard on the wife of Arthur Pendragon.

Quit panicking, Gwen. Solve this problem one step at a time.
Oddly, the advice sounded like Arthur's voice. Probably because he'd uttered it during various other crises. Not that anything had ever been this incredibly, mortally bad . . .

“Well, the first problem is that you're still not you,” Gwen told Lance, “which means you need blood. And since the last thing we need is a witness, I can't call in some other woman to give it to you.”

He growled and bucked, rattling the chains alarmingly.

“Stop that!”

Surprisingly, he obeyed.

“Yes, you'd better look wary,” Gwen snapped. “I could conjure a sword as easily as those chains. I could end you, Sir Knight.”

Unfortunately, this mess was more her fault than his. She was the great fool who'd walked in that door.
Thus hurtling both of us into adultery and treason
. Drawing her belt knife, Gwen pressed the blade to her left wrist.

“No. Do not!” He began to struggle again, his expression alarmed.

Well, he grasped that concept at least.

“I'm not going to kill myself, Lance.”
Not that the thought doesn't have merit.
What's one more mortal sin, if it means I wouldn't have to face Arthur?
Ignoring that lethal temptation, she glared the king's champion into stillness. “I'm going to give you my wrist, but if you hurt me, I swear I'm going to stick this blade between your ribs.”

She made the cut in one stinging swipe. Red blood welled as she stepped quickly up to Lancelot and pressed her bleeding wrist to his lips, resting the point of the knife over his heart as she did so. “Now drink—but if you move anything except your mouth, you will not enjoy the consequences.”

Lance hesitated, glowering at her, before his mouth finally closed over the cut. He began to swallow, and his gaze went hot again with sensual bliss.

Something deep within her coiled and heated again
.
Gwen thrust the rising desire down again. She had more important problems, like keeping Arthur from killing his dearest friend.

And making sure that friend came back to himself.

Grimly, Gwen fought to ignore both the champion's feral gaze and the erotic, pulling sting of his mouth at her wrist. The effort grew much easier when she imagined her husband's reaction.

There was no doubt in her mind that Arthur loved her—and Lance, too, for that matter. But they'd also put the king in a completely untenable position. Cuckolding any man was the ultimate humiliation, but to cuckold the High King of Britain? How could he rule with the whole world snickering at him? He'd have to kill Gwen and Lance even if he weren't insanely furious. A dead queen and champion weren't the sort of thing anyone snickered at.

Shocked silence—and more than a little fear—was an infinitely preferable reaction from the standpoint of discouraging potential rebellion. Especially if Arthur and his men failed to find Mordred.

God's teeth, look at the weapon I've just handed the little bastard. And think of what he could do with it.

It was enough to make her want to plunge the knife into Lance's ribs herself—and then into her own.

An idea with a certain merit
. The thought blew into her brain like a cold wind.
It spares Arthur the ugly necessity of executing us.

He'd think Gwen had killed Lance for raping her . . . And that would not do. The knight may have tricked her and taken advantage of her body's helpless lust, but it hadn't been rape. She wasn't even sure it had been Lance who'd done the tricking.

Her attention drifted to the way his mouth drew on her wrist, the gentle suction. The movement of his lips felt like the stroke of silk over her skin, so incredibly erotic . . .

But he's not Arthur.

With a gasp, she jerked her arm away. Lance snarled at her, his handsome face going as fierce as a frustrated wolf's.

“Sir Lancelot!” Gwen snapped.

His icy glare didn't waver.

His mind has not yet returned
. Which meant she couldn't stop, or this whole hideous incident would be futile. So would letting him drink from her if it meant that Arthur executed him the moment the king returned to Camelot.

She had to come up with an explanation that shifted the blame entirely to her own shoulders.

What's more,
Lancelot
had to believe it—and be furious enough not to later lie and take the blame for everything, if only to spare his friend the pain of Gwen's betrayal.

For there
would
be pain, and it
was
a betrayal.

She winced, imagining Arthur's reaction. He'd be devastated, not to mention utterly enraged.
Maybe it would be better to tell him the truth
. Neither of them had intentionally betrayed him . . .

“
So it was an accident?
” Gwen could almost hear Arthur's sarcastic drawl.
“Did you trip and fall on his dick?”

Except he'd probably sound far more murderous. Gwen was his queen; her betrayal was undeniably the worst. Yet Lancelot obviously hadn't been taken against his will, or sex wouldn't have been possible.

Perhaps she could use a spell to make Lance forget any of it had ever happened. Then she could just keep her own mouth shut.

Gwen stared at her captive. He glared back, hungry and resentful in his magical chains. “Lancelot,” she breathed, and sent a gentle tendril of magic questing out to curl around his head.

He snarled and started fighting, his fury a red-hot barrier that sent pain screaming through her brain. She kept trying anyway.

Hungry. He's so very hungry. So very desperate
.

Gwen blinked and found that without even knowing it, she'd stepped against his chained body and pressed her bloody wrist to his mouth again. The painful need abated, his rage fading as he began sucking in furious pulls, as if he feared she'd take her wrist away again.

It feels so . . . good.
Her nipples hardened as hot cream flooded her sex. Her arousal began to build again.