First Knight Page 4

  He had a pleasant voice. He was British, but with a hint of some other accent. Morgan couldn't tell its origin. She didn't get out much. Trace elements she could classify, but sociocultural details she had a decided lack in.

  “Dr. Accolon, I feel there's something you should know about me." Morgan's voice was husky, but nowhere near the deep baritone of a man's.

  By his silence, Dr. Accolon now knew her big secret.

  Morgan pressed the button to engage the video conferencing. Dr. Accolon’s face popped onto the screen.

  The professor looked like a young Hugh Grant. He had floppy hair and puppy dog eyes. His collar was askew and his tie twisted, almost as though it wanted to be a cravat. He had suspenders and a pocket protector.

  His smile seemed uncertain as to how wide it wanted to go. It kept stretching and shrinking. And he fidgeted in his seat as though he were unused to the camera.

  "My apologies …” he said.

  And here it went. The grand apology tour. I’m sorry, but the position has been filled. I’m sorry but your qualifications aren’t what we believed. I’m sorry you have breasts and not the flat chest of a twelve-year-old boy whom we would hire over a female pretending she knew the sciences.

  “ …I just assumed—"

  "That I was a man," said Morgan.

  "Well, yes.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, a pained expression darkening his features. “I’m so embarrassed."

  And now he'd blame her for not correcting him in their initial correspondences and wasting his time.

  "It's so lovely to finally meet you, Ms. Galahan."

  It wasn't even Miss or Ms. It was Dr. Galahan. But Morgan's degrees were decades old, earned through correspondence. She didn't look too far beyond her twenties. No one would believe the hard-earned degrees were hers, just as due credit to women had been severely lacking in the field of science.

  "What is it that you wanted to tell me?" asked Dr. Accolon.

  Morgan stared at the screen. "Is there something wrong with the video feed? Can you not see me?"

  "I can see you fine, Ms. Galahan."

  "Then you can see that I'm a woman."

  “Again, I’m very sorry, Ms. Galahan. I hope you can accept my apology and still agree to meet with me. I'm truly not a misogynist. I was raised by two feminists. One of my mothers was a chemist. She nearly disowned me when I decided to go into physics."

  Morgan could only stare. "So, you still want me to come speak with you at Cardiff University?”

  "Of course," he said. "We're very excited about your ideas. I think it may help us make a breakthrough. How soon can you come?"

  5

  The sun rose up into a new sky calling the hunters into the wood. With the bright disk burning up the last of the snow, time was of the essence. Arthur had no plans to sit and wait this time. The sooner he had that hart’s crown, the sooner things could return to normal.

  And by normal, he meant everything would change. He would be married by this time next year, likely with a Bambi of his own on the way. Though the hart’s tracks were clear in the melting snow, Arthur’s steps slowed.

  He would have no interruptions in his pursuit today. He'd left the women in the castle with activities to do under Gwin's supervision. Now that the word was out that he was also on the hunt for a bride, witches were coming out of the woodwork. More squeeing had ensued. Arthur doubted the excitement had much to do with his charm and more the effects of the hart.

  It was no matter. His path was set. His future had finally caught up to him. It was time for him to step into its snare. And so he picked up his pace and made his way forward.

  Snow made Arthur's footsteps silent as he followed the trail of the hart. The silence was good because the hart had sensitive ears. It wasn’t the only four-legged creature in this wood. There were regular deer as well. Unlike deer or men, the hart wasn't distracted by females.

  Arthur picked over the various tracks afoot. He knew he was on the right trail when he saw flat-footed imprints with outward pointing toes. The steps were wide-spaced, as though its owner had a staggered stride.

  The hart, like all bucks, walked unlike does who had heart-shaped steps. How Arthur knew it was the hart and not a normal buck was the messages he read in the sky. Looking up over his head, Arthur saw that a few branches were free of snow. No buck stood as tall as the hart. Only the magical stag’s rack was statuesque enough to have brushed the branches seven feet tall.

  And then Arthur spotted the beast. Its white fur caught the sun. It was in a cluster of bushes. Its head bent down as it ate, so Arthur couldn’t see its rack. But he could see that he had a clean shot.

  It had been easier than he’d thought. He’d only been out of the castle for a quarter hour. The other hunters couldn’t be too far behind as he was still close enough to see Tintagel’s drawbridge. Seemed everyone, the hart included, was eager for Arthur to get on with it.

  Arthur lifted his bow. The hart was perfectly positioned in his crosshairs. He need only loose the arrow. Just lift his forefinger and end this pursuit. Just a shift in his grip to seal the deal.

  He heard steps in the distance. A shift in his peripheral vision told him that the other hunters were close on the trail. They’d arrive within a moment. It was now or never.

  Even if he didn’t make the kill, another hunter would. And that would be the end of it. And the beginning of something new.

  Arthur gave a final tug of his bow. The hart hadn’t noticed the impending invasion. Which was odd. If Arthur had heard it, then surely the hart’s superior hearing would’ve picked up on it.

  But its head was still bent over, grazing. No living creature cared for sustenance more than its own livelihood. Something was wrong.

  Arthur moved closer. Still, the hart didn’t dart off. With another step, Arthur felt a fallen branch under his boot. Instead of lifting his foot off the bark, he gave it his full weight. The crunch brought up the hart’s head.

  Only there was no silver-gold rack in sight. Lush black hair fell in waves over the white fur. The white fur split open to reveal the curves of a woman’s body. Blue eyes peeked from beneath a furry hood in search of the source of the sound.

  Morgan.

  She was bent over picking, of all things, flowers. It confused Arthur. Because it was such a domesticated task. And it was Morgan doing it.

  Morgan collecting rocks and stones? Sure. Morgan digging in the dirt or in the weeds? He’d buy it. But Morgan carefully picking flowers? Nope. It did not compute. She had to be up to something.

  Not finding the source of the sound, Morgan turned back to the patch of flowers before her. Her white fur hood fell back over her black locks. Her fur coat hid her curves and the fact that she was a woman and not the hart. She didn’t hear the approaching crunch of boots signaling a new clear and present danger.

  Arthur lowered his bow. Another glance over his shoulders told him that the other hunters did not know the true nature of the creature they approached. He saw the glint of an arrow tip in the distance.

  He didn't think. He acted. He ran forward, and thank God for his superhuman speed. He tackled Morgan, drawing her body to the ground beneath his as he rolled them both out of danger.

  "What are you doing?" Morgan screeched as they came to a halt.

  In answer, the arrow impacted the ground where she’d knelt a second ago with a decided thunk. They both whipped their heads to the side to see the shaft quiver from its impact. The feathers of the fetching bore the colors blue and red for the House of Bors.

  Arthur felt Morgan gulp beneath him. His hand was on the back of her neck so he felt the knot get lodged in her throat. It was shaken loose by the shiver that ran through her body. The shiver pressed her breasts into his chest. He felt the definite outline of the twin mounds even through both of their outer garments.

  He should let her go. But she’d had a fright. He should hold her until she stopped shaking.

  “Would you kindly get your oafish body
off mine,” she said through gritted teeth. “You’re ruining my sample.”

  Sample? Oaf? Off? None of her words made any sense.

  "What were you doing?" Arthur growled down at her.

  The hand at her neck tugged the skin, tilting her head back so he could see her clearly. His other hand pressed down on her hip to hold her in place. Only because he didn’t want her to flee into the still present danger.

  “Science stuff,” she said. “You wouldn’t care or understand.”

  “You know the hunt is going on. It’s dangerous to be out here. In a white fur coat. You had arrows aiming for your heart.”

  Morgan’s breath caught, but then she raised a dubious eyebrow. “And you dodged in ... to save me instead of letting me get shot or trampled by the hart?”

  Arthur wanted to shake her. Why did she always think the worst of him? He stared down at her while she waited for his response. But he had none at the moment.

  He couldn’t stop staring at her lips. She wasn’t smiling like she’d been last night. Her lips were quirked in their normal smirk of superiority. But he got a good look at them. It was rare to see Morgan quiet. To see her lips hold still.

  She had lush lips, plump and juicy with no lip gloss or added coloring. She wasn’t smiling, nor was she frowning. Just looking at him. He supposed it was hard to frown while lying on her back. Gravity was likely working against her. But her brow rose.

  He had the urge to smooth it out, to see what her forehead looked like relaxed. He couldn't remember the last time he'd seen Lady Morgan relaxed. She was a bundle of energy, constantly in motion.

  "I don't want you to die," he said finally.

  Morgan opened her mouth, and then licked her lips. Arthur tracked the motion. His belly grumbled as it pressed into hers. She wasn’t flat and hollow there. She had a bit of give. He wanted to test that skin.

  "Wouldn't it make your life easier if I were out of your hair?” she asked. “If I were gone from Camelot?”

  Arthur had to focus to understand her words. He knew that Morgan had a genius IQ. He hadn’t been a bad student himself. He’d earned two degrees over his lifetime. But he still had trouble following her logic most times.

  "No,” he finally answered. “It wouldn't make my life easier if you were gone. It would make my life easier if you would mind what you were told."

  And there it was. That flash of fire in those blue eyes. It chilled a hole straight through him. So why did he feel so warm?

  "Get off me,” she repeated, enunciating each of the three words.

  Arthur frowned at the command in her voice. Off her? He didn't want to move from this warm spot. Because he was doing his duty; protecting her. There were other hunters out there who would—

  That thought brought him to his senses. There were others out there coming near. Likely already within sight of them. If they saw the two of them like this, a man and a witch alone in the woods in a tangle of limbs, there would be a wedding sooner than he’d planned with a woman he’d never even considered.

  Those were the rules of his society. He would be honor bound by them. He’d insist upon it if it was anyone else caught with a witch under his protection. Morgan was a pure witch, even though she was the devil incarnate. He’d leg shackle any man that dared sample with no plans to purchase.

  No. This would not do. He needed to get up.

  Arthur let go of Morgan’s neck. When he did, she lifted her knee. It came dangerously close to his groin but thankfully missed. Unfortunately, their simultaneous movements brought them both off balance. As Morgan tried to rise, and Arthur tried to shift, they wound up crashing back into each other in an even more intricate weave of limbs.

  Luckily, no one was about to see the debacle. Famous last words. He heard the crunch of boots before he saw them.

  Arthur knew the men had arrived by the horrified look on Morgan’s face. The first face to appear was Lance's. His brows rose at the sight of the two of them as his steps slowed.

  Arthur sighed with relief. This situation could be salvaged. Lance would know Arthur would never do anything to ruin a witch's reputation. He and Morgan just needed to disentangle themselves before anyone else showed up.

  A cold breeze sailed through the air. Arthur struggled against his instinct to pull Morgan to him. To shield her from the elements, of course.

  Like always, Morgan paid no heed to Arthur’s chivalrous inclinations. She lifted her knee again in an attempt to rid herself of him. “Let me go,” she insisted.

  “I’m trying to help.” Arthur's fingers dug into her sides to help her to stand. But he was pulling her toward himself rather than pushing her away.

  Once again, he and Morgan tried to move at the same time and only wound up getting more tangled. This time she landed with her ass on his groin. He felt as though he would explode from the welcome heat.

  More faces came into view. Arthur’s eyes were so crossed from trying to manage the growing bulge in his pants that he couldn’t recognize a single soul. What his brain did parse was that it was all over for him. The hart roamed free, but Arthur had been caught. With Morgan’s ass in his lap, there was no way they could talk themselves out of this mess.

  "My Lady, are you quite all right?” Arthur recognized Sir Bors’ voice.

  “I slipped,” said Morgan. “Lord Arthur was trying to help me up but this patch of ground is a bit treacherous.”

  “Here, let me help you up."

  Arthur’s vision cleared as Sir Bors came over with his hand extended. Bors had no trouble on the melted patch of snow. He took Morgan’s hand and lifted her out of Arthur’s grasp.

  Arthur watched after the two as Bors guided Morgan out of the clearing. No one remarked on the position they'd found the two in. No one even raised an eyebrow as Bors escorted Morgan from the field. The hunters who had arrived set their sights on the ground searching out the hart’s trail.

  "Everything okay?" asked Lance as he offered Arthur an arm.

  Arthur took the proffered arm. But once he was on his feet, he wasn’t sure he’d regained his balance. Something about his worldview appeared askew.

  "I assume you missed the hart?” said Lance

  "Yes. It got away." Arthur scratched at his chest. "For now."

  6

  Morgan looked at herself in the mirror. The blouse she’d pulled on was a bit more revealing than she was used to. Which made sense. It wasn't her blouse. She wasn't in her room.

  She was in her cousin Loren's room as evidenced by the 80’s vomit on the wall. And by vomit, she meant hot pink and electric purple animal print wallpaper. A poster of John Cusack holding a stereo over his head was taped over the wallpaper. A square television sat on a rectangular box called a Betamax. A lightsaber from Star Wars crossed with the Ghost Gun from Ghostbusters over the headboard.

  Loren had grown up in the human world outside of the confining chivalry of Camelot. But her cousin's closet was filled with enough fashion runway fair to make a supermodel binge Oreos. From the hangers in Loren’s closet hung low cut blouses that gave every man hope, strappy sundresses that never touched the knee, and skyscraper high heels that could double as weapons.

  Loren mostly wore leather pants, sturdy boots, and chainmail these days. Lady Loren had been knighted not too long ago and had taken their grandfather, Galahad's seat. She was the first woman to do so.

  Not because there hadn’t been capable women. Witches and their powers were forces to be reckoned with. It was just that no woman had ever thought to try before. But for two generations, there had been no males born to the Galahad line for the sword to choose from. Last year, tired of waiting for a boy, the sword chose Loren.

  Morgan hadn’t gotten mad over that. She had never had any desire to be a knight. She'd always been happy with a beaker in one hand and a magnifying glass in the other. She only ever envied her cousin the adventures she got to go on with her best friend, the immortal archaeologist Dr. Nia Rivers. The things those two got up to and discovered
in far-off places was what Morgan envied.

  Morgan rarely got to leave the grounds of Camelot. For a long while, there had been too many dangers. Witches and wizards were often hunted by religious human zealots, misguided Templar Knights, and misinformed Banduri priestesses. In a cruel plot twist that no one saw coming, the citizens of Camelot had recently become hunted by one of their own kind.

  Merlin, one of the most powerful wizards in generations, wasn’t content with the amount of power he had unto himself. He’d discovered a way to siphon power from other witches. He’d learned the trick from his wife, Gwin.

  Gwin had used the siphoning technique to save her husband’s life. Since Merlin was a child, the magic in his veins was too much to contain and it attacked his body.

  Without anyone knowing, Gwin had begun pulling his magic from his body and then sharing some of her own magic with him. But it wasn’t enough and Merlin went Hannibal Lecter in the community.

  Now, Merlin was on his deathbed. The Banduri had thrown up the white flag. And the Templar Knights had been disbanded. There was no real threat to witches out in the real world any longer.

  The only present danger was at home with wayward arrows aimed at magical deer. Or the women who had the poor fashion sense to look like the hunted animal.

  Satisfied with her choice of a simple skirt that met her knee and a pale peasant blouse, Morgan ignored the white fur and pulled on a bright red coat over her outfit. The leather felt heavy and warm on her sensitized skin.

  She’d recently come in from the cold. Her pores were open and hungry for more warmth. But for some reason, she still felt the heat of Arthur’s body on hers.

  Morgan had never had a man on top of her before. She'd never had a man that close to her outside of dancing. She'd never even kissed a man and wasn't that sad.

  She was one hundred forty-nine years old. But because she was a witch of Camelot, she hadn't had the opportunity to fool around with the opposite sex. No knight, squire, wizard or man would ever conceive of dallying with a witch without permanent intentions.