First Knight Page 7

  Percy rolled his eyes. Beside him, Lance didn’t answer. Glancing over his shoulder, Arthur caught sight of Tristan’s grimace.

  The four knights marched down the hall side by side as they’d done for years. Down the hall, in battle, in triumph.

  “She’s a woman,” said Percy. “When you turn a woman into a wife they become a completely different creature. Almost as though they were a caterpillar. The wedding is the chrysalis. And then after the wedding night, they emerge into a butterfly. It looks beautiful, but they’ll wreak havoc on your garden, aka your food supply. Do you see how this all lines up?”

  Lance reached around and smacked Percy on the backside of his head. Percy jerked, ready to fight. But they turned a corner and came before other people. So they cooled the antics.

  Gwin stood at the entrance to the hall. She spoke quietly with Lady Constance. Arthur’s gaze skimmed over the two women and continued on around the room. He told himself he was getting the lay of the land. But when his eyes didn’t spot a dark head of hair with a defiant blue gaze, he gave up his surveillance.

  “What does your marriage mean for Lady Gwin?” asked Lance. He’d aimed for casual, but completely overshot.

  “She’ll remain Lady of the Castle so long as she’s still married to the eldest son,” said Arthur.

  “And when Merlin … when Lady Gwin becomes a widow?”

  “Then Lady Gwin will be free to do as she pleases. To take on a new role. A new job. A new husband.”

  Lance’s features didn’t change, but Arthur felt the change in his friend. The other man practically vibrated with emotion. “Well, let’s get this over with.”

  The knights advanced as a unit. But instead of leading the charge, Arthur held back. “I’ll only be a moment.”

  The other three knights exchanged knowing glances, but they said nothing. Arthur didn’t have cold feet. He always took a moment to prepare before rushing into battle.

  And this was a battle. Aside from his men, no one inside the Great Hall knew of his plan. Sure, most suspected his choice would be Lady Constance. It made sense.

  So, he should march in there and get it over with. Percy was wrong. Nothing would change. His job was to hang out with the guys on a daily basis as they protected their people. He had no problem with vegetables. And as more squires came of age it was only logical that he went on fewer quests.

  Everything was happening as it was intended. It was the natural course of things. He just needed to step into the room. Instead, he stepped behind the long hanging banner of his family.

  The great banner hung from the ceiling that led into the Great Hall from a side entrance. The banners of every great family in Camelot hung as well, forming a curtained wall that separated the hall from the wall. If he followed the wall, it would lead to a set of stairs that spilled into the living quarters.

  Arthur remembered sneaking down from his bedroom and peeking through these flags as a kid. He’d watched his grandparents and his parents at a similar event. The two men had whirled and twirled their wives all night, huge grins never leaving their faces.

  Though Camelot was a town that prided itself on family-friendly events, balls and grand parties were the affairs of adults. Arthur had always assumed he’d be dancing with his wife during an event like this after putting his kids to bed. But in all his years, he had yet to meet a woman he’d wanted to pull into his arms at a ball and dance into the night.

  The music had started and a few couples were dancing, including the couple he’d pushed into marriage earlier this day. The lad wore a smile as he looked down at his intended. All traces of fear gone. They were in love.

  Arthur remembered his own father had looked at his mother the same way; as though the sun rose on her face. His grandfather had looked at his grandmother the same, too. With utter devotion.

  Arthur knew love was real. He believed wholeheartedly in it. But he’d never experienced it himself.

  He was a man who lived in a world of magic. He’d seen the spiritual spell that true love cast with his own eyes. He was religiously devout, even before he’d seen God in the flesh. He trusted the bounds of loyalty, never doubting a fellow knight. But love was an experience that had not blessed its light of truth upon him.

  He chided himself to think that that had been the reason he’d held out on marriage for so long. He was still hoping for love. From behind the flag of his forefathers, he looked again at Constance.

  She was lovely and kind. His loins stirred as any red-blooded man’s would. Still, he felt nothing in his heart. But he couldn’t wait forever. He had a duty to perform and now was the time. He would make her a good husband, and she would make him a good wife.

  Arthur took a step forward but stopped. A flash of darkness caught his eye. Something else was moving behind the banners. Or rather someone.

  Dark tresses skimmed the edges of the flags. A flash of blue eyes peeked between the fabric. As she came nearer to him, Arthur’s heartbeat increased, his mouth watered, his adrenaline pumped up.

  Morgan moved at the edges of the room like she didn’t want to be seen. Her shape came into view. She was dressed like a 21st-century woman, her curves on full display. That wasn’t what tightened his body. She was glowing.

  Morgan was smiling again. The look of pure joy and happiness. What was she up to?

  “Morgan?”

  She halted. The moment she saw him her smile dropped, as though it clattered to the floor. He stopped in front of her, wanting to reach out and catch it, but unsure how to.

  “Where have you been?” he demanded, his voice gruffer than he meant for it to be.

  “Cardiff.” Morgan squirmed. “At a school. The university.”

  She began to brighten again at those words. Arthur knew she loved learning, always had. Morgan had had her head in books, her hand in the dirt, while other witches were casting spells.

  “You went alone?”

  “It’s not dangerous,” she said. “It’s a school. The worst that could’ve happened was I’d get into a philosophical debate.”

  Arthur could imagine worse. He suspected there was more to the story as he watched her fidget. Morgan only ever fidgeted when she was uncertain of herself. All three Galahad girls were the most self-assured witches he’d ever known.

  “The science department is interested in one of my theories of matter.” Her fidgeting ceased. Her eyes lit up as she spoke. Her lips tugged upward in joy.

  “Well,” he said, “you are a brilliant woman.”

  Morgan tilted her head up and looked at him. The motion was small, but he felt something shift inside him as her eyes widened. “You think I’m brilliant?”

  Arthur’s heart stopped. He had to force air into his lungs before he could get out any words. “I know you're stifled here, Morgan. I just want to protect you. I want you to be safe.”

  He watched her throat as she swallowed. Those blue eyes burned as though she were trying to find her way to the heart of the matter. Then she blinked and her gaze cooled.

  “You can’t learn anything new from a point of stasis,” she said. “You would never make a breakthrough. There needs to be agitation, commotion.”

  Arthur grinned. “Am I the stasis in this equation?”

  “Depends,” she said. “Am I the agitation?”

  They stared at each other. They’d been in this position before. But he’d always been wary of what was going on in her head, knowing retaliation was coming. It was likely coming now since she obviously thought they were at odds. But he felt no animosity toward her. He felt … he wasn’t sure what this was?

  His gaze shifted. Above her head, between two flags, hung a bundle of hart flowers. A sprinkle of gold dust rained down on her head, leaving a shimmer atop her dark head.

  “I’ll get out of your way,” said Morgan. “You’re headed in to announce your engagement. I don’t want to ruin it. We can talk later.”

  She turned to go. As she turned on her heel, the feeling—whatever it was�
��seeped away. It was as though the sun was setting and clouds were moving into a dark night.

  “Morgan. Wait.”

  Arthur reached out and grabbed her. He’d grabbed her mid-step and she lost her footing. To prevent her from falling, he yanked her to him, and she came crashing into his chest.

  And now they were chest to chest. Their mouths were inches away from each other. Their lips and noses were like puzzle pieces waiting to be slid into place.

  Morgan’s chest pressed into his reminding him of lounging on a beach blanket under the noon sun. Her hand on his bicep was the sun sneaking in behind closed curtains in the early morning. Her breath on his lips was the taste of sun-warmed tea in the afternoon.

  They both yanked away from each other, taking a step back. There was a halt in the music and a ripping sound tore through the air. The next thing Arthur knew, cloth was raining down over his head. He pulled Morgan back to him as they were covered in a large, heavy cloth, the flag of his family.

  They tumbled to the floor, a tangle of limbs and fabric. With one hand, Arthur strove to shield Morgan. With the other hand, he moved aside the fabric, trying to gain his own freedom.

  The rip had been loud, but the collective gasp that tore through the hall was positively deafening. Every pair of eyes in the village were on them as they lay, his body on top of hers, in a tangle on the floor.

  “Well that’s one way to ask a lady to marry you,” said Percy.

  10

  Morgan couldn't decide where to stare. At the crowd of people staring disbelieving at her. At her sister who was as dumbfounded as she was. At Igraine who seemed to be the only person smiling as though a surprise she'd been waiting decades to unveil was finally revealed. Or at the large knight looming over her who wasn’t looking at her in disbelief at the conundrum they found themselves in. As Arthur helped her to her feet, he looked at her with resignation.

  Morgan decided that her best bet would be to close her eyes. None of this could be real. Either she was dreaming or she was drunk.

  Drunk made the most sense. She had a bottle of hooch in her bag to celebrate. Half of the contents were to drink; the other half would be for later to use in distilling some chemicals.

  But the bottle of dark liquid was unopened. Maybe the fumes had seeped into her brain? But that wouldn’t have been enough to make her drunk.

  So that left a dream. But this couldn't be a dream. Dreams were the wishes your heart wanted to make true. She didn’t have a heart’s wish. She only had logical thoughts.

  Her dreams were orderly equations aligning into solutions. Her fantasies were of chemical compounds joining to form a new element. She had never been one of those girls to dream of bagging a knight of her own. While the other young witches played with dolls or practiced their spells, Morgan had mixed chemicals and memorized the Periodic Table. Being caught in a knight’s embrace wasn’t a dream. It was her worst nightmare.

  Well, maybe not her worst. She did sometimes dream of the platypus. That animal simply made no sense and its arrival into her perfectly ordered dreams always caused her to jerk awake. Seriously, what was the creator thinking with that one?

  Tonight Morgan had come home through the kitchens because she'd had no desire to attend the grand ball. She hated all this ceremony. And her presence wasn't necessary.

  Arthur was sure to pick Lady Constance to marry. The two of them together made sense. Both of them were age appropriate, having been on this earth for two centuries. Both of them were pillars of their community who put duty over all else.

  Morgan wasn’t any of those things. She wanted to eventually leave this town and devote her life to science. Whatever was happening right now, dream or drunkenness, made no logical sense. She was sure it would be cleared up in a matter of moments.

  Morgan tried to take a step back. But she couldn't. Something was holding on to her. Rather someone.

  Arthur.

  Why was he holding on to her? This was the first time Morgan could even remember Arthur touching her. Through all of their confrontations, he'd never laid a hand on her. Even though she was sure he wanted to strangle her more times than naught.

  But of course, he wouldn't harm her. He was a knight. She was a witch—even without powers. Witches were untouchable. Literally. Both in aspects of violence, as well as in aspects of carnal activity—unless you intended marriage.

  So, why wouldn’t Arthur stop touching her?

  He wasn't squeezing the life out of her. He was holding her gently, carefully, but securely like he didn't want her to get away.

  He was looking at her inquisitively like he was trying to solve a puzzle. It wasn't the way he normally looked at her like he was trying to figure out what she'd done wrong.

  His features weren't pinched. His eyes were dark, but not burning with a raging fire. They were smoldering, as though trying to build something new.

  She and Arthur had had a strange moment behind the flags. It had felt almost intimate, the way he’d held her, the way he’d looked at her. As though he’d wanted to kiss her.

  But that was preposterous. He was Arthur. She was Morgan. Their names didn’t belong in a sentence together.

  "Will you?" Arthur said.

  "Will I what?" she asked.

  "Will you marry me?"

  Morgan's heart stopped at those words. Her senses left her. Something fluttered in her belly.

  Her belly never fluttered unless she was hungry. Fluttering was a sign of malnourishment or dehydration due to an imbalance in electrolytes or the lack of fluids for the proper functioning of the organs and nervous systems. Those poor conditions caused spasms in the abdominals which translated into a feeling of fluttering.

  But Morgan had eaten on the way home, stopping at a fast food drive-through. It had taken only moments for her order to be made ready, as opposed to cooking all day in the kitchens with fresh ingredients. The greasy, chemically processed food was pure magic. But it did weigh heavy on the drive home.

  So, maybe it was all the grease that was causing the sensations in her belly. Those chemicals could have an effect, especially for a body unused to highly processed foods.

  Now that she’d started searching for answers to the problem before her, her brain wouldn’t turn off in its efforts to find the right answer.

  Abdominal fluttering was also the sign of pregnancy. But no! That was definitely not her condition since sex had to be had at least once to invoke that.

  Abdominal fluttering was a sign of stress. Hmmm? That had to be it. She was under stress having all of these eyes on her.

  But that still didn’t account for Arthur’s words. It had sounded as though he’d asked her to marry him. That couldn’t be right. She had to be hearing things. Luckily, that problem was easily solved.

  "I'm sorry,” she said. “I think I hallucinated for a second. Could you repeat what you just said?”

  Arthur cleared his throat. He took a deep breath. He also finally let her go. But not entirely.

  Arthur steadied her on her feet. Then he took both her hands in his own. His hands were large and rough. Morgan’s finger pads felt the calluses of his palms. One of her index fingers landed on his lifeline. It was a long and thick groove. It felt as though her index finger could fall into the groove of his life.

  But then he shifted and her fingertips were held in his. His thumbs rested on the backs of her knuckles. Morgan’s head tilted down to find Arthur on bended knee.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Percy fist pump with approval. He was the only one. A gasp swept through the entire hall, like a wave crashing out to sea instead of on land. On the faces of the ladies gathered, Morgan spied the looks of horror, of disbelief, of envy.

  Morgan knew they all wanted Arthur's attention. They all wanted to be the Lady of the Castle. And they could have at it. As soon as whatever was happening was over. She'd slip away to her room and they could get back to their revelry.

  Hopefully, Arthur would be in a good mood in the morning
, after he made his proposal to Lady Constance, and then Morgan could tell him of her plans with little to no issue. He'd be too busy with a wedding to prepare for and a fiancée on his arm to spare too much attention to her.

  What Morgan still couldn’t puzzle out was why Arthur was down on his knee? Maybe he was checking to see if she were injured? Yes, that had to be it.

  But he was looking up at her. There was something in his light eyes that she’d never seen before. Something dark and warm. It felt palpable and dangerous. But she had no fear of it. Instead, she was curious.

  Arthur squeezed her hand. It brought her attention back to the rest of his face. "Morgan, would you do me the honor of being my wife?"

  This time Morgan's heart stopped. It tripped and skipped a beat. The irregular rhythm could be a sign of A-Fib. Atrial fibrillation was a known phenomenon when the upper and lower chambers of the heart became out of synch due to the timing of the heart’s contractions which was controlled by the impulses from the heart's electrical system. But a man on his knees couldn't bring that on.

  Morgan was running out of explanations. Whenever that happened, she always resorted to Occam's Razor; the idea that when presented with a number of answers to a hypothesis it was typically the simplest one that was the explanation.

  A man on his knee. Looking up at a woman. Asking her to be his wife. Perhaps, just maybe, and this was a far-fetched idea, but it was statistically possible that Arthur was proposing to her.

  Best to be clear.

  "Me?" Morgan said. "You want me to marry you?"

  "Yes," Arthur said.

  "You want the two of us to partake in an ancient ritual that would legally and formally recognize that we are no longer singular individuals but a union?"

  Arthur shifted on his knee but didn’t get up. "Yes."

  "You want to take me as your dutiful wife, who will remain under your protection, bare your children, and serve as your helpmate to run this castle?"

  Now Arthur stood. But he did not let go of Morgan’s hands. He opened his mouth to speak but Morgan wasn't done with her search for clarity.