Chapter 6 #2
Merlin had been right, in a way. The actual bastard son of Arthur was long dead thanks to the king’s purge of noble baby boys.
There was only the powerful changeling who had stolen the real Mordred’s name, his place, his prophecy, raised by Morgana of Tintagel to blend seamlessly into Camelot’s court. And destroy it, if necessary.
The darkness that two goddesses had stitched into his chest leapt at the mere thought of such destruction.
He exhaled and turned Awen as they reached the end of the aisle, patting the mare’s shoulder.
Her skin had begun to cool, her breathing no longer so harsh.
As it should be. Mordred had already healed her with his magic, but the stablemaster insisted on sending for herbs.
Powerful allies, plants were, but no match for twisted guts inside a large mammal.
“How did she come to be in such a bad way?” Nyneve asked, even though she could take her jars of herbs, her crutch, her mortar and pestle, and go away from here whenever she damn well pleased.
“Stablemaster left her out on spring grass for too long, I am afraid,” Mordred found himself replying, though he wanted to tell the Druid girl she had better places to be than alone in the stable with a knight who was nothing he claimed to be.
Nyneve frowned. The expression was genuine, he realized.
So this maiden did not take well to poor management of animals.
He resisted the way that made him like her.
It was still quite possible he would need to be rid of her, if Guinevere bid it—or if he disagreed enough with the queen to take matters into his own hands.
But Mordred had played with his prey before.
There seemed no harm in doing it again. At this moment, though, all he wished for was for her to be gone.
To cease her distractions: those nimble hands and pale golden skin, the mane of curls he wanted to wind around his fingers, the slender neck he wished desperately to feel between his hands.
“Needless suffering due to foolishness,” Nyneve said as she crossed her arms. “Quite infuriating.”
“Indeed,” Mordred replied, his gaze reaching for her of its own accord, like his eyes were no longer his own.
Could a Druid bewitch a Fey? Unlikely, he knew.
Besides, he felt no sticky web of a Druidic working, effective but rudimentary, always palpable on the skin.
“You realize I have no further need of you, yes?”
“Oh, do pardon my ignorance,” Nyneve replied, though something like amusement slid onto her features. “I thought a chivalrous knight of Camelot would surely never let a wounded lady walk to her dwelling alone this late in the evening.”
He slowed to a halt, Awen standing beside him.
Mordred took a deep breath, examining the mare’s breathing before he said anything.
“You certainly made your way here alone quite safely, did you not?” he murmured, arching a brow at the maiden perched on the tack trunk.
His tack trunk, though she had no way of knowing that.
“I fear the stablemaster escorted me,” she replied, her eyes gleaming wickedly.
“And I thought you would prefer to steal another horse than remain in my company,” Mordred shot back, unbolting the half-door to Awen’s stall.
He had pulled her evening meal of grain and hay, but had no qualm with her drinking from her water trough.
“You were quite eager to be rid of me this morning.”
He kept his gaze on the mare, unable to meet Nyneve’s eyes, not when thoughts of her waist beneath his gloved hands, her chest heaving into his, plagued his mind. Perhaps there was some working here. Maybe even Fey in nature. How else could he explain this strange hunger for a mere mortal girl?
“And what makes you think that has changed?” Nyneve asked with near-glee as he closed Awen’s door. “But alas, do you see another proper escort for a noblewoman here?”
He turned just in time to see her gesture about the empty stable.
Leaning onto the half-door, his arms folded beneath his chin, he considered her, letting his head cant to one side.
There was little reason she would seek something such as this; perhaps she wished to start rumors about an attachment between the two of them?
But certainly that would only harm her. There had to be a reason, and though he should not care, Mordred badly wished to know.
He told himself Guinevere would want him to find out.
He told himself it had nothing to do with the peculiar way she made the beast inside him strain against its constraints.
“If you will have me,” he replied in a deep, grave tone, unfolding to his full height. Behind him, Awen seemed to have passed the blockage, so he placed her hay back into her stall, giving the mare one more scratch behind her ears.
“Sir Mordred?” came a voice that was not Nyneve’s. He glanced over his shoulder to find that one of the overnight stableboys had arrived. “Cynan said you’d be here with Awen.”
“She is all right,” Mordred told the young lad, glad for a distraction from Nyneve’s thick braid and pouting mouth. “Do keep a close eye on her, would you? I need to escort Galen’s new apprentice back to the cottage.”
The stableboy nodded, noticing the maiden perched on the tack trunk for the first time. The lad of maybe sixteen years let out a little stutter and then bowed to Nyneve. “A pleasure to meet you, milady,” he managed, his face gone red in the lantern’s glow.
Nyneve returned his pleasantries, slipping down from the trunk and reaching for her crutch.
She gathered up Galen’s supplies and then moved toward the stableyard, expecting Mordred to follow her like a well-trained hound.
And he did, but only because the queen had specifically requested he watch Nyneve closely.
And why should he refuse how easy the Druid girl was making it for him?
“Would my lady allow me to carry her effects?” Mordred asked dryly as he caught up to her, watching Nyneve struggle to balance the linen-wrapped bottles and her crutch.
“If you would be so kind,” she replied, looking up at him suspiciously, like she had not expected even this scrap of cursory politeness from him. Perhaps she saw him more clearly than he realized. Wordlessly, he took the herbs from her, careful not to brush her fingers with his.