Chapter 8 #3
“You have been a boon to Galen,” Mordred said, because it was true, and because he could not think about the ways he wanted his turn about the floor with this strange, feral maiden to break the confines of courtly dance.
“It is hardly a wardship given your skills in healing. Camelot is lucky to have you.”
Something in her expression shifted, gone raw and open. “Has Galen spoken of my skill?”
“Yes,” Mordred replied, resisting the urge to draw her closer against him. “At length, in fact. Many have requested apprenticeships. Until you, he has not yet kept anyone for more than a few days.”
It was true, but apparently Galen had not told the girl, because for a moment, a dazzling smile broke the measured, even expression on her face. “Seems inefficient,” she sniffed a moment later, having recovered herself, “and reckless, even, to leave such an important role to chance.”
Mordred shrugged, taking a deep breath and regretting it, his senses overrun by summer meadows and river stone.
“Camelot has many skilled healers and midwives, as you know,” he replied.
“Though Galen will be a great loss to this citadel one day, that does not mean we would be left without caretakers.”
“I suppose none thought that his apprentice could be a woman,” Nyneve said, her gaze trailing back to meet his. He liked the way she tilted her chin up so defiantly, as if she were offended at his height and felt owed a thorough apology.
“No, unfortunately,” Mordred agreed, pulling her into the dance’s tight turn as the music swelled.
The maiden knew her steps, too, though they were less polished and practiced than his.
“Queen Guinevere has spent many years fighting for more equity between the sexes. You arrived at the right time with the right talents.”
Her eyes narrowed as she watched him carefully, but he knew she would find nothing in his stone-cold expression. “And what about you, Sir Mordred?” she asked with a smile that was little more than bared teeth. “Surely you never expected for there to be a place in Camelot for you.”
He returned the wolfish smile, opening his fingers against the curve of her waist. She flushed again.
It was no maidenly pinking at the suggestion of any man’s touch.
Whatever tide he was fighting against, she appeared to be caught in it as well, trying to swim through the nameless current to the safety of shore.
“Certainly not,” Mordred replied with a laugh.
“My aunt, Morgana de Bois of Tintagel, pushed quite hard for it, but the crown’s difficulty with producing an heir cemented my place here.
” Surprise glimmered on her features for the barest of moments before she controlled her expression.
“Oh, yes. A bastard son weighed down by a prophecy is still a son, Lady Nyneve. Still proof the king is not impotent.”
His courtly education told him a man was not meant to speak to an unwed maiden in such ways.
But he was no mortal man, and she was clearly much more than a simple maiden fresh to court.
She kept her aura closed down tightly, just as he did.
And yet he could still feel her power crackling beneath her skin like a thunderstorm on the horizon.
Gods, Mordred wanted a taste of her might.
“Of course,” Nyneve replied in a low murmur. “You do not seem terribly weighed down by that prophecy any longer, though.”
He caught her gaze in a sidelong look as she followed the other women spinning away from their partners. But their fingers remained intertwined, and as she returned to his arms, Mordred wondered how hard it would be to let her go when the dance ended. She had, after all, only offered him one.
“I am a good knight,” he said with a shrug. “My skills are useful. Nothing more.”
Nyneve arched her brow, mouth curling into something so sharp he wanted to cut himself on it. Perhaps, for her, he might remember how to bleed. “Surely your appearance helps,” she said, a challenge. “People enjoy beautiful things.”
Hidden by the throng of moving bodies, Mordred pulled her against his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of her dress. He bowed over her, his forehead nearly brushing hers. She went still against him and then softened, just a little. “And do you, Lady Nyneve,” he breathed, “enjoy me?”
The lutist offered a final flourish, and the song came to an end before she could answer.
Just as he had promised, Mordred released her, taking two strides back.
To his surprise, Nyneve followed him for half a step and then halted abruptly, her face reddening, as though her body had moved of its own accord before she could stop it.
He suppressed a smile. Good. That might make things easier, provided he did not succumb first. Which seemed terribly possible considering that the moment her mouth parted, his focus clung to what she might say next, heat simmering in his belly.
But then the sound of glass shattering filled his ears. Mordred turned on his heel and watched as a black arrow soared into the great hall, aimed directly at the king.