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  “Well,” said Dulac, “when we find her we should introduce her to Beaumains. She sounds like his type. Or maybe Palomedes. For all his talk of quests, he likes his domestic comforts.”

  Nimueh let out an exasperated breath. “Why not you?”

  “I have you.”

  “I am fae.”

  “The fae love ardently.” He pushed a lock of hair from her eyes. It was thick and springy, full of life. “I have tried mortal women and found them wanting. You are my first and only real love. I swear this.”

  A moment passed during which neither said a thing. Then Nimueh caught his hand, bringing it to her lips. Her breath was hot, sending a surge of electricity along his nerves. With her eyes closed, she gripped his fingers as if he were a lifeline and the only thing keeping her from a fall into darkness. “I shall try for you. I shall try to be the woman you want and need, but I can promise nothing.”

  There was no more he could ask. He cupped her cheek and she leaned against it, a pucker between her fine eyebrows. Slowly, slowly, she sank down until she rested against his chest, their legs tangling together on the couch. Her fingers gripped his shirt in a tight fist as if he might escape. Strangely humbled by her surrender, he wrapped his arms around her, holding her close. He could feel the beat of her heart, quick and urgent as a fine trembling ran through her, as if she were a bowstring drawn tight.

  She was afraid, but he knew it was not simply of Morgan LaFaye.

  Chapter 14

  Nim dreamed, and it began beautifully.

  It had been a brilliant April day when the procession from Camelot had ridden into Nim’s part of the Forest Sauvage. The green meadows were starred with wildflowers and the treetops filled with joyous birdsong.

  First, she had heard the silver bells hung from the horses’ bridles, and then the lilting voices of the minstrels. She’d been picking herbs, but put down her basket to search out the unexpected visitors.

  Nim had been startled to see it was the royal court from Camelot. Arthur had ridden at the head of the party, resplendent in scarlet silks. He’d been little more than a youth, his face still shining with an open innocence that he’d slowly lose as the years passed and the crown grew heavy on his brow. But back then, his merriment was almost childlike, yearning for laughter and the wonders of magic. Knights and ladies followed the young king two by two, each one in costly finery and dazzling jewels. They were the handsomest company Nimueh had ever seen.

  “Where do you go, King of Camelot?” Nimueh had asked. “May I offer you bread and wine?”

  “My kinswoman tells me there is a mighty warrior beneath your roof,” Arthur answered. “I would make him my sworn knight.”

  The sun hung in a clear sky, but Nimueh felt its warmth no longer. “Who is this kinswoman and how does she know my affairs?”

  “Her name is Morgan LaFaye,” said the king.

  That was the first time Nimueh had heard of the woman who would someday become Queen of Faery. Still, the name stirred a dread premonition. With a cold feeling in her stomach, Nimueh invited the king and his company to feast with her, sparing nothing that might tempt the appetite or slake the courtiers’ thirst. There was honey wine and wild game, exotic fruits and sweetmeats fragrant with spices. But she warned Lancelot to remain in his chambers, so keeping him away from the king. She could not admit the truth to herself, but she loved Lancelot too much to risk that he might leave her.

  The moon had risen and the guests were yawning when LaFaye at last crossed the feast hall to sit and speak with Nimueh. “For shame,” said the dark-haired sorceress, “you keep your warrior hidden.”

  “How do you know of him?” Nimueh asked.

  LaFaye lowered her lashes. “I have some small skill in magic. I asked for a vision of the mightiest warrior in all the land, and my spell led me here.”

  Something in the young woman’s manner put Nimueh on alert, but she would not be rude to a guest. “It was very clever of you to find my hero, but I am not ready to let him go.”

  Morgan LaFaye set a pale hand on Nimueh’s sleeve. “I entreat you to reconsider. With Arthur, your warrior will be knighted and earn a name of great renown. It would be cruel to deny a young man his destiny. Love is not love if it holds its object too tight.”

  Shame filled Nimueh, burning her cheeks a dusky rose. Lancelot yearned to make his fortune and restore his family’s good name, and the king could give him that chance. LaFaye saw her embarrassment and shook her head, jeweled combs winking in the masses of her dark hair. “Ah, my lady, the fae are so jealous of their mortal servants.”

  “Lancelot is no servant.”

  “Isn’t he?” chided Morgan. “Then bring him here and let him decide his own fate.”

  * * *

  Nim woke with a start, her heart pounding. She was disoriented, half in the past and—well, in truth she didn’t know where she was. Morgan’s smirk seemed to hang in the darkness around her, mocking as a sense of dread ruffled the hairs along her nape.

  It was a dream, she told herself. That was what they did, clinging and trailing cold fingers down a person’s mind. She hadn’t dreamed since... She couldn’t remember when.

  Nim’s fingers explored, finding a bedsheet beneath her hand. It was a long, tense moment before she fought free of the dream and recalled the night before. She and Lancelot had kissed until fatigue and wine had won out. They had fallen asleep on the couch and, at some point in the night, he had carried her upstairs to his bed. She’d taken off her clothes but he’d let her sleep, rightly guessing she needed comforting more than sex. She lay next to him now, curled in the soft sheets. The night had finally grown cool, but Lancelot was a long line of warmth at her back.

  That heat was a detail she’d forgotten about him, but she burrowed into it now, listening to the slow rhythm of his breaths. He’d draped an arm over her waist, one big hand curled loosely before her. Slowly, not wanting to wake him, she brushed her fingers against his. Touch revealed so much—the callus where he held his sword, the fine lines of scars, the broad strength of his palm. He’d killed with those hands far too often, but few knew how capably he could comfort. Those who only saw the swordsman in Lancelot missed the best part of him.

  She slid her fingers between his, barely able to fit his massive grip. They had so much history, even long before the night she had dreamed about. He had come to her when he had just crossed the threshold into manhood. Young Lancelot had been oddly innocent and world-weary at the same time. He’d been a challenge to teach until she’d won his trust and then, as the years passed, he had begun to teach her. Nim had been young then—at least by fae standards. She’d never experienced a mortal’s love, or indeed much romantic love at all. Lancelot had been a revelation.

  The memory, which should have been a comfort, made her muscles stiffen. Waves of apprehension coursed through her—there was no other name for what she felt. She had changed since the days of her castle in the Forest Sauvage. True, her ability to experience emotion was gradually returning, but she wasn’t sure why it was happening, much less why now. Was it Lancelot and all the memories he brought with him? Or—more likely—exposing herself to more of Merlin’s magic?

  Whatever the reason, experience had reforged Nim, but she had no idea of her new shape or purpose. When her new self was finally revealed, would Lancelot still want her?

  He’d left her once. Nim squeezed her eyes shut. Without feelings, she’d experienced a kind of deathly peace because nothing ever mattered. A tiny part of her missed that stability. The little bit of emotion she’d regained already had her tied in knots.

  Lancelot’s hand squeezed hers, letting her know he was awake. Welcoming the contact, Nim turned in the circle of his arm so they were face-to-face. Automatically, her hands went to his chest. She seemed unable to stop herself from touching the hard ridges of muscle every chance she got.

  “You’re petting me,” he murmured.

  “Are you complaining?”

  Instead of answerin
g, he slid a hand to her hip, his palm warm and pleasantly abrasive. He hooked her knee, drawing it over his thigh so that the space between them disappeared. Then he found her mouth with his. The closeness, the touch reawakened memories of nights long ago—and memories of joy. A hot, aching pressure grew inside Nim’s chest, threatening to suffocate her, but at the same time making her spirit soar. She felt giddy, tears burning and an urge to laugh competing until she had to break the kiss and gasp in a great lungful of air.

  “What is it?” he asked, concern softening the words. “Are you well?”

  “I think I’m happy.” Her words sounded small and bewildered.

  “Good.” He kissed her temple. “You’re out of practice.”

  She was, and she felt clumsy and stiff with the experience, as if all her protective armor had been stripped away. Numb was predictable. This was most certainly not.

  Nim put a hand to his cheek, her fingers exploring the shape of his cheekbone. The touch should have been natural, but voices chattered in her mind, wondering if she was moving too slowly, or if she should hold herself back. Suddenly she, an ancient fae, felt as awkward as a teenager.

  “Hush,” he murmured. “I can hear you thinking.”

  “I can’t help it.”

  “I can.” With that, he rolled onto his elbow, leaning over her until she had no choice but to lie back on the pillow. He traced the curve of her breast, cupping it with exquisite care. Yet, for all his gentleness, there was a burning possessiveness in the gesture, as if he was measuring the territory he meant to reclaim. He slid his thumb around the nipple, rolling it until it ached. Instinctively, she pushed into his touch, needing the pressure to still the electric need pulsing through her. She pressed against him until she could feel every beat of his heart.

  She slid a hand toward his shaft, which lay hard and thick against her hip, but he pushed her hand away. “No, this time is about you.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Trust me.”

  This time his kiss demanded more, his tongue teasing until a spark caught fire deep in her belly. She shivered as his long, rough fingers glided to the inside of her thigh, working their way up and up until they found the cleft at the top. Nim inhaled sharply as they stroked the curls and folds of her, working that burn of need until she squirmed restlessly beneath him.

  She had remembered his touch, but as a faded image of the original. Now brilliant reality came crashing back, primal and demanding. A desperate sound tore from her throat as his finger slipped inside her, reawakening sensations she’d long believed lost. She felt the slide of wetness as she pushed up, greedily seeking more.

  “That’s it.” He stroked and coaxed, sliding in a second finger as her hips rolled, questing for resistance. She was on fire, burning and imploding at once. Nim dug her fingers into the hard flesh of his shoulders, wanting him inside her. Darkness rose, a yearning to claw and bite to get her way, but he had her firmly under his control.

  Nimueh hated it. She hated him for making her desire him so completely. She adored him for the same reason, needing him never to stop. Her emotions were new and raw, vulnerable as fledglings.

  It was too much at once. She shuddered, the world turning dark and blindingly bright at once, smashing conscious thought to splinters. Her back arched, straining against Lancelot’s solid form as ecstatic release swept through her after centuries of nothingness. Nim cried out, a brief exclamation of shock and relief, and then she could say no more as her body wrung every last drop of pleasure from the moment. Consciousness flared and splintered, tearing her mind wide open.

  When she finally fell back, the room spun. After so long, her every nerve was overwhelmed.

  Lancelot bent and traced her forehead with soft, barely tangible kisses, lingering against the closed lids of her eyes, her nose and finally her lips. They weren’t kisses to arouse, but to reassure and seal the experience with meticulous care. He seemed to know she had experienced as much as she could take that night. Any more, and she would shatter completely.

  “Will you sleep now?” he asked softly.

  “I don’t know.” Languor melted her bones, but she was still strangely wakeful.

  “What kept you up?” His fingers rested lightly on her forehead, as if he could feel her thoughts.

  “I dreamed of LaFaye. I dreamed of the night she convinced me to introduce you to Arthur.”

  He made a considering noise. “She persuaded me that going with Arthur was the only possible future for me. It took me a long time to understand Morgan was playing a complicated game and I was just a piece on the board. I’d seen the brutality of war and the savagery of my father, but I’d never experienced that kind of cunning. I was clay in her hands.”

  “So was I,” said Nim with brutal honesty.

  “That’s the past. This is the future.” Lancelot leaned over, pressing his lips to her temple. The touch settled her and she curled into his chest, basking in the male warmth of his body. She fell asleep.

  * * *

  Nimueh dreamed again.

  In that dream Nimueh awoke in her castle in the Forest Sauvage. It was early, the sky still pearly with a false dawn. The first thing she felt was the cooling place in the bed beside her. Lancelot often rose before her to go for a ride, but that morning felt different, as if a storm hung in the air. Panic touched her and she grabbed her robe, running over the flagstones of the castle floor in her bare feet. When she reached the door, she hesitated, looking out into the morning mist limned by the first rays of morning. Then, obeying only her troubled spirit, she sprinted forward.

  Outside, the grass was heavy with dew and it was easy to see which way he’d gone. She found Lancelot at the edge of the woods, astride his horse and staring down the path where Arthur and his courtiers had ridden away a month before. Lancelot had stayed with her out of loyalty, but the seed of his future had taken root. He dismounted when he saw her, guilt plain on his features.

  The look seared her, branding her as a selfish, controlling creature. He’d come to her like a sculpture half-carved and unfinished. She’d smoothed edges and shaped what she could, but her work was done. It was natural that he had to find his own way from here.

  And yet her heart would surely break. She clutched her robe tight, an ache in her throat beginning to build. “Go. I cannot keep you to myself anymore.”

  He closed his eyes, so still he seemed an artwork instead of a man. “I wish the king had never come.”

  So do I, she thought, but she had to be better than that for his sake. “I will keep you in my heart.” Her voice broke on the last word, destroying all the dignity she’d held around her like a shield.

  “I’m so sorry.” Lancelot grasped her then, holding her so hard she could barely breathe. “Please understand that I will never have a chance like this again.”

  Never was such a mortal word, filled with urgency and doom. Her world was forever, with all the loneliness that implied. He kissed her mouth and then the tears from her face, his caresses stiff with misery. Loss shattered her resolve. “Don’t go.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said, finally pulling away.

  “I’m sorry,” he repeated, mounting his horse.

  “I’m sorry,” he said yet one more time as he crushed her heart.

  He rode away and never looked back. Nimueh stood and watched him go, her bare feet chilled by the morning dew.

  Chapter 15

  Dulac rolled out of bed before registering the fact he was awake. He’d learned to be instantly alert on the battlefield, but this time the enemy was no horde of goblins or shrieking Northmen. This time his foe was an empty bed. The sheets were cold where Nimueh should have been.

  He pulled on his jeans and hurried downstairs to the kitchen, cursing his shoulder as he struggled into his shirt. He found Nimueh sitting at the wooden table. As if the sight of him filled her with anxiety, she rose as he came in. She was neatly dressed in a blouse and slim denim skirt, her legs and feet bare, but dark circl
es underlined her eyes. She’d pushed her fingers into her hair, leaving it wild. He was reminded of a windblown bird, its feathers too broken to fly.

  This was a different Nimueh than he remembered. The lady he’d known had never faltered—at least not until that last day when he’d left. He’d hoped never to see that look on her face again, but this was perilously close.

  He took a step toward her but she tensed. “Did you still have trouble sleeping?” he asked.

  “I had more dreams,” she replied, wrapping her arms across her stomach. “Did you know the fae don’t dream anymore?”

  “Then it’s a good sign that you had them.”

  “I would have said yes until last night.”

  Her tone left little doubt it had been a nightmare. “What did you dream about?”

  She didn’t answer. Giving her time, he went to the sink and began making coffee. He’d discovered he liked the dark, strong brew and today he had a feeling he’d need it. The silence dragged from seconds to minutes.

  “When I fell back asleep, I dreamed about the day you left to join Arthur.” The words rushed from her on a single breath. “I’ve always remembered how much you hurt me but this time I remembered how I hurt you, too. That was worse.”

  Dulac flipped the switch to start the brew, but he’d lost interest in beverages. Iron bands of tension gripped his chest. He’d heard the expression about the elephant in the room, and this was theirs. That elephant was standing on his lungs.

  He turned to face her. “That was long ago. Longer even for you than for me. Don’t bind us to the past.”

  “I don’t have anything else to go on.”

  “Then believe this. I have never loved anyone but you, but you made that very hard to prove. You would visit Camelot, but I’d never learn you were there until you were gone. Then I would try to visit you, but you kept the castle hidden from me.”

  He saw her flinch. “I was angry.”

  “Why? I was trying to keep us together. You made it impossible for me to see you alone.”