First Knight Read online

  “We both know I’d make you a terrible wife,” she continued. “Constance would make a far better lady.”

  Arthur nodded, but he still didn’t let go of her hand.

  “This doesn’t make any sense, Arthur. Why me?"

  He shrugged his shoulders again, then waggled his head, and finally, his brows lifted to his hairline.

  “I don't know?” he said. “But the hypothesis is in my head. I figured we could do the experiment together. Test the variables and see what we come up with."

  Morgan’s breath caught at the scientific proposal. She felt the synapses in her brain firing to get started on the trial. He was still holding onto her hands, only lightly. Morgan’s fingers curled around his.

  13

  “Maybe you hit your head yesterday during training? Or while out hunting?”

  Arthur tried and failed to hide his smile at Morgan’s latest query. For the past quarter of an hour, she’d tried to explain away his sudden interest in her. She’d considered he’d eaten mushrooms and was hallucinating. She’d outright asked if he was on human drugs. Or just plain drunk.

  Arthur wasn’t seeing or hearing things that weren’t there. Neither had he taken any medication; prescribed, illegal, or magical. He had all of his senses and wits about him as he walked with Morgan’s hand tucked into the crook of his arm.

  Each time she presented a new theory, she squeezed his bicep with excitement. She’d tilt her face up, blue eyes blazing bright as a bulb lit with an idea. That shine dimmed the insult of her accusations against his misdiagnosed insanity and imaginary drug use.

  Morgan felt right on Arthur’s arm. The brush of her body against his side sent thrills coursing through his blood. He wanted to tighten his grip on her, to turn her to him, and taste the next preposterous premise that parted her lips.

  He no longer cared why he felt this way. This way of being was his new reality. Morgan, by his side, cradled in the crook of his body, was his future.

  Coming back to the present, Arthur laughed at her next conjecture. She’d gone so far in search of an answer that now she pondered if he was experiencing a past life regression.

  “Morgan La Faye and King Arthur were enemies in the lore,” she said. “And everyone in Camelot knows there’s an element of truth in each of those stories.”

  “Morgan, we knew these people. If not directly, then we know the truth of their lives. There was no incest in my family history. Nor was there any infidelity. All of my male ancestors were devoted to their wives.”

  “Because they were in love.”

  Arthur nodded.

  “But you don’t love me.”

  “I like you.”

  “No, you don’t.” The chiding smile on Morgan’s face sweetened the sting of her words.

  “Well,” he conceded, “you have been a pain.”

  “Well,” she huffed, “you have been a fascist.”

  Morgan tugged away from him, but he wouldn’t let go. He settled his free hand over hers and rubbed the rough skin over her knuckles.

  “I’ll say this,” he said. “You’ve certainly kept me on my toes.”

  They stood in a grove not too far from the castle grounds. A few of the hart’s blooms poked up through the loosening earth. Their golden stamen eyes twinkling at them as though they approved this pairing.

  From the flowers poking out of the ground, Arthur’s gaze roamed from Morgan’s booted feet that had to take two steps in order to keep pace with his. His eyes trailed up to the peak of flesh between the top of her boots and just above her knee. The skirt she wore was the weakest chainmail, made of cotton instead of metal. He’d need no sword to penetrate that thin layer of protection.

  He had to swallow before continuing up over curves that rivaled the sharp bend of a scythe. His gaze lingered on the mounds on her chest. The twin spikes that pushed at the fabric caused his vision to flail.

  Morgan crossed her arms over her chest and looked away from him, her face flaming. “When you look at me like that I don’t know what to do.”

  Arthur had to remember that she was untried, unpracticed. He’d have to take his time with her. There were so many reasons she would scare.

  The notion that they didn’t belong together.

  The notion that someone else was more suited for him than her.

  The notion that she was a woman of intelligence who wanted to leave the confines of this town and explore the academic world.

  The notion that she was a lady untouched and unwise to the base desires of a man.

  “I’m sorry.” Arthur’s voice croaked.

  He balled his hands at his sides to keep them to himself. But he continued to invade her space nonetheless. He wracked his brain for the words to make her comfortable, to set her at ease.

  Morgan rounded on him. Her hands thrown up in frustration. “So, this isn’t a bet between you and Percy?”

  “A … what?”

  “Like in one of those bad teen movies where the popular guy makes a bet with his douchey friend that he can make over the ugly, friendless, nerdy girl into the beautiful, popular prom queen.”

  Arthur didn’t watch a lot of movies. Not the action movies where play actors blew things up and left a trail of bodies. He’d seen enough real-life action in his days to be entertained by the sets and props.

  He didn’t care for the romantic comedies either. He found them wholly unrealistic. Especially at the end with the fault always lying with the man who would then have to make an over the top gesture at the end of the film over a misunderstanding that could’ve been avoided if the woman had only talked to him.

  And forget about teen movies. He hadn’t been a teenager in two hundred years. Needless to say, he couldn’t relate to whatever it was Morgan was trying to say to him.

  “You think my courtship of you is based on a dare?” he asked.

  Morgan hesitated, still avoiding his gaze. Arthur didn’t like the way she was closed off to him. He unballed his fists and reached out one hand to her. He tugged at the fingertips of one of her hands until they uncurled from her forearm. Then he went and worked on the other hand.

  Morgan chanced a look at him. Her gaze shaded and vulnerable. He wanted to press a kiss to her eyelids, to press his certainty into her. But he held onto his patience and pressed their palms together instead.

  “It just defies the laws of physics,” she said.

  “Really? Name one infraction?”

  “Newton’s First Law of Motion. It states that a body at rest remains at rest, while a body in motion stays in motion.”

  “I know this one.” Words rolled off his tongue, but all of his focus was on the fleshy part of her palm. He had the strongest urge to bite it. “The law of constants.”

  “Yes, exactly.”

  “How did we break that?”

  “The other part of the law has to do with force,” she said. “A constant velocity is only stopped by an unbalanced force.”

  Arthur nodded as he tried to follow along with her logic. But he was more interested in the way her lips constantly moved in the formation of words. He was feeling rather off balance himself.

  “I was minding my own business,” Morgan said. “Moving at a constant speed nowhere near you. Yet here you are and my world has stopped.”

  Yes. That was exactly how he felt. Like there was a sudden crash and, when he found his way out, she was standing there. Right in front of him. Blocking his way. Just like she was now.

  Her blue eyes gazed up at him; open, clear. But there was a crinkle at the edges. “Where did the force come from?” she asked.

  “Neither of us believe in magic, Morgan. We know magic to be real. Even though others can’t see it.”

  He took another step closer to her. He wanted to eliminate the distance entirely. But he knew better. He had to move slowly upon his prey before he could snare her.

  “There’s something here.” Arthur indicated the open space between them, still holding both her hands in his. “I t
hink you feel it too.”

  She didn’t answer. Her eyes searched his, moving rapidly as though reading a book she didn’t understand, but still wouldn’t put down.

  Keeping her hand in his, Arthur ran a fingertip over her brow. Her lids hooded with his motion, and he felt sorry for the loss of her full blue gaze.

  “You think me capable of such a cruel joke?” he asked.

  “Well …” She bit the inside of her lip and looked down.

  It was a good thing she looked down. Otherwise, she would’ve seen the desire flare in Arthur’s eyes. He felt his face flame, his body tighten with want. Had this been a true hunt, he’d have already released his bow and taken a shot. Holding still and laying in wait for Morgan was the hardest thing he’d ever had to do.

  “Maybe not you,” she said, “with your overdose of chivalry. But Percy?”

  “He wouldn’t …” But Arthur’s voice trailed off as he gave it more thought.

  Morgan raised a doubtful brow. Her blue eyes filled with mirth. A small smile tugged at her lips.

  “With a human maybe,” Arthur conceded. “But not with a witch.”

  “If he even considered it on me, I’d go total Carrie on his ass. Pigs’ blood over the gaming room door.”

  Arthur chuckled. She was a firebrand. Funny; that same thought used to irk him. Now, it delighted him. There would be no monotony with her by his side. Every day would be an adventure. But that was enough for today.

  “Hush now,” he growled low. “Watch your language.”

  “You’re not the boss of me.” But there was a tremor in her defiance.

  “Be a good girl,” he chided.

  Morgan inhaled sharply at his command. Before she could come up with a retort, Arthur pressed his lips to her forehead. There was a deep crease there at the first touch of his lips. But as he lingered a second longer than prudent, he felt the crease lines loosen, and then disappear completely.

  Her nose rested just beneath his chin and he felt her nostrils flare. Her lips were aimed at the column of his neck and he felt the heat of her exhale. He looked down at her. She looked up at him.

  He could do it. He could take her right now, at this moment. The entire town already believed them to be engaged. He’d be breaking no rule. He’d overstep no boundary.

  Arthur stepped away from her and offered her his arm. Morgan stared at the proffered appendage. Confusion evident on her beautiful face.

  “I’ve taken enough of your time,” he said. “Let’s get you back to the castle before you’re missed.”

  Arthur only felt a slight pang of remorse when she heeded his command. Instead, he felt a surge of joy that she’d listened to him. She walked with him, taking more of the necessary steps to enact his plan. Everyone else might have accepted the engagement, but the most important person still wasn’t convinced.

  Arthur promised himself that he wouldn’t take that first kiss until his intended came to the realization, the undeniable belief, the irrefutable truth, the magical actuality, that she was meant to be his.

  14

  At some point in her second decade of life, Morgan’s mother had bound her with a tutu, strapped her into soft, pink slippers, and deposited her in the town’s only dance class. The other girls twirled around and leaped past Morgan who could never keep the beat.

  Sure, she could do the dance moves when called to the center of Madame Guillaume’s class to demonstrate. Her pirouettes were perfect. Her jettes were grand. But once the music started, Morgan was all over the place and nowhere near where she should be in the dance line or on the beat.

  Beat deafness it was called. It afflicted a small, minuscule portion of the planet’s population, but it was real. Its victims were people who couldn’t catch a beat, clap to a rhythm, or move in synch.

  Every living creature had a natural internal rhythm. Their heart beat at a steady clip. They walked or slithered or swam to a particular pace. There was even a particular gait at which animals made vocal or sonar communications.

  This internal measure came from an oscillating wave somewhere deep within the body. Unless you were beat deaf. For the rhythmically challenged, that same internal oscillator had a different frequency.

  Meaning Morgan had truly marched to the beat of her own drum for her entire life.

  When Arthur had pulled her near, she’d felt in tune with something outside of herself for the first time in her life. It was dizzying. And now that she walked on her own, her internal rhythm was off.

  This would not do.

  She was an autonomous child of God. She had not given her sovereignty for a man to lord over her. Although, she had allowed Arthur to take liberties with her body that no man had ever inquired about.

  The thought of that kiss on her forehead sent her reeling. Now inside the castle, she reached out for the wall but met with a shelf. Bumping into the shelf made it oscillate and a vase shook, scooting to the edge.

  It was an expensive vase from the 12th century. The vase teetered just at the edge of Morgan’s grasp. Morgan opened her palm to call it back, but no magic pulsed out of her hand. The vase sailed to the ground, preparing to shatter into tiny, depreciated fragments. But at the last second, it hovered in the air.

  An inch above the ground, the vase’s downward trajectory stopped. Morgan’s palm was still open. Warmth pulsed at the center of her hand. Her gut burned with an unsaturated desire.

  Could it be? Had her magic come back? Igraine had said it was possible, that the Spear of Destiny’s blade may not have taken every last drop of her powers from her.

  “I’ve got it,” said a voice from behind her.

  Morgan shut her eyes, extinguishing that feeble ember of hope. She balled her fist, her fingers cold as they met her palm. As the vase retook its place on the mantel, Morgan fixed her features carefully before turning to face Constance.

  Once she was certain the vase was secure, Constance lowered her magic-filled palms and met Morgan’s gaze. “Congratulations on your engagement, Lady Morgan.”

  Morgan’s forehead wrinkled as she studied the other woman. Those wrinkles had a hard time finding their groove. One reason was that Morgan still felt the lingering pressure of Arthur’s kiss there. The other reason was that Constance spoke without any malice. Constance’s own brow furrowed with disappointment. But her smile, though not as bright as usual, was honest.

  “I don’t know how all this happened.” Morgan lifted her hollow palms skyward, as though their emptiness were evidence. “It wasn’t my intention. Just yesterday, I couldn’t stand the man. And now …”

  Morgan let the sentence trail off. But she watched its trajectory with interest. Because she had no idea where this thing between her and Arthur was going.

  “I must admit I was surprised,” Constance was saying. “And I am disappointed for myself. But I am happy he’ll be with the woman he loves.”

  Love? No. That’s not what was happening here. Morgan backed up, her hands in front of her brushing away the idea.

  “Oh, no,” she said. “He doesn’t love me. It’s just … You see …”

  But how could Morgan explain something she didn’t understand herself?

  She couldn’t deny that there was a thing between the two of them. All she wanted to do was go to her lab, pull out her books and measuring tools, and examine this thing from every angle until she understood what, exactly, was happening.

  “I’ve seen the way he looks at you,” said Constance.

  “The way he looks at me?” Morgan parroted.

  “I just never thought you were interested.”

  “I wasn’t.” Not before. But now …?

  “You’ve always been so independent and against much of what the Knight’s Code of Chivalry entails.” Constance gave Morgan a chiding smile that lacked any sting.

  Even though there was no bite to the other woman’s words, Morgan’s hackles went up. “Just because I’m a feminist doesn’t mean I hate men. And just because I don’t want to be coddled
doesn’t mean I don’t want to be treated like a lady.”

  As Morgan’s voice rose, Constance’s smile faltered.

  Morgan shut her eyes and took a deep breath. She placed her index finger behind her ears and massaged, hoping to regain her equilibrium.

  “I’m sorry, Constance. I’m just a bit off balance today.”

  “It’s understandable.” Constance’s voice was polite, but that politeness was now at a distance.

  “Would you excuse me? I think I’m going to go to my room and lie down.”

  “Of course.”

  Constance nodded and stepped out of Morgan’s way. But down the hall, Morgan saw other ladies lying in wait for her. None wore the sincere smile that Constance had shone her. Fake happiness coated their faces like the icing on a cake left out overnight; hard, flaky, and lacking its original sweetness.

  Luckily, her sister was an angel of mercy.

  “Morgan,” Gwin called from the stair in the Great Hall. “You have an urgent phone call. You can take it in my office.”

  Morgan rushed past the receiving line of women who had been in competition for Arthur’s hand. She tried to hold her head high and regal as she walked the line. But her ears twitched as she caught unflattering whispers. Her nose itched as she smelled green envy. Her molars ground as she held her tongue instead of lashing out at the busybody naysayers.

  When she made it to the stair, Gwin looped Morgan’s arm through hers and ushered her up the stairs. And by ushered, Gwin yanked Morgan up the planks and shoved her sister inside the office.

  “Gwin—”

  Gwin continued her yanking and shoving, closing the office door and pushing Morgan down into the seat behind her desk.

  “Lucy, you got some ‘splaining to do!”

  Morgan turned her confused expression from her sister to the open laptop. Another blonde haired woman filled the screen. Blue eyes peered at Morgan, glossy red lips twisted.

  “Hey, cuz,” Morgan sighed.

  “Don’t you ‘hey cuz’ me,” said Loren. “You and Arthur?”

  “You said this was an emergency.” Morgan glared at Gwin.