Nyneve drew in a deep breath, daring to look up at the scene unfolding before her.
“Sir Oran,” Mordred said, the syllables drawn out in his low voice. “Pray tell, what caused Lady Nyneve to take such drastic measures for the sake of your wellness?”
Nyneve looked up at Mordred, appraising him. The line of his shoulders was all hard and predatory, his eyes locked on the older knight.
“I—well, you see...” Oran mumbled, looking very much like a dazed, cornered mouse.
“No,” Mordred said, leaning toward Oran, his eyes impossibly dark. “No, Oran, I fear I do not see at all.”
“She’s mad,” Oran spat, as if remembering himself, launching off the table to stand. The top of his head barely reached Mordred’s clavicle—which Nyneve could, to her dismay, see above the neckline of his dark blue tunic.
“Oh,” Mordred mused. “And whatmadeher that way, I wonder?”
Nyneve glanced at Mordred with begrudging gratitude as Oran sputtered. The knight started toward her, fists clenched at his sides, before Mordred prowled even closer. Without hesitation, Oran backed up against the table, nearly tripping.
“This is your last warning,” Mordred murmured, leaning over the other knight like a beast about to disembowel its prey. “Touch another maiden against her wishes, and Iwillremove your hand.”
Oran said nothing, staring up at the taller knight, eyes bright with fear, though Nyneve could see the anger in his clenched jaw, the fingers curled so tight his knuckles turned pale. For a moment, she held her breath, wondering if she was about to witness a brawl.
But then Oran turned on his heel and limped away without another word. She watched him go, only because it was preferable to meeting Mordred’s gaze. When she realized she could no longer ignore the knight, she heaved a sigh.
“I do not need you to save me,” she said as she lifted her chin to look at him, crossing her arms.
He arched a dark brow. “After last evening, I am quite aware you require no such thing,” he replied with a slow, sensual smile that sent her heart galloping again.
“Then leave me be,” Nyneve spat. She gestured around the high-ceilinged room and its throng of knights in various degrees of distress. “There are many injured men I must tend to.”
“Yes,” Mordred replied with a grave nod, settling onto the table just as Sir Oran had only moments ago. “Of that I am, too,quite aware.” Then he calmly raised one hand to the neckline of his tunic and pulled it lower, exposing a nasty cut just below his collarbone.
For a long, embarrassing moment, Nyneve was utterly lost in the elegant movements of his long-fingered hands, in the sharp ridge of strong bone beneath moon-pale skin.
She bit down on her tongue and shook her head, pushing off the wall to step closer. “How did this happen?” she asked, not daring to meet his gaze.
“You might remember the confrontation I had yesterday,” he said, his breath ghosting her skin. “Sir Bellicus wished to have more words with me in the stables this morning.”
The cut was jagged, deeper than she’d like, and in a location that would hinder healing. She reached for her kit, moving it away from Mordred’s long, muscular thigh for the sake of her sanity, and dug for clean scraps of linen.
“And how did Sir Bellicus fare after this confrontation?” she asked, dipping the linen in a shallow bowl of water.
“I would not know,” Mordred replied emotionlessly. “I do not believe he has regained consciousness yet.”
Nyneve cleaned the blood from Mordred’s wound, recalling that she’d come back to an empty cottage after discovering Caedmon’s body. Not a half-hour later, Galen returned, explaining that knights were stupid and always hungry for violence. She gritted her teeth. She should’ve known Mordred had something to do with it—but at the time, she’d still been reeling from Caedmon’s death and the faerie-bound knight’s willingness to murder so blatantly.
“You killed my messenger,” she said in a low voice, digging her fingers deeper into his wound than necessary. She felt his muscles tighten, but no pained sound left his full, sculpted lips.
“You wanted to expose me,” he replied, leaning into the pressure like a madman. “Do recall that I permitted your messenger to fly those little messages home for weeks.”
“Our deal,” Nyneve spat, setting aside the bloodied cloth and reaching for a tincture that she knew would sting badly, “forbade me from speaking of your truth with tongue or ink, in song or speech. I am bound against doing precisely what you’re accusing me of.”
She made the mistake of looking up at him. There was a dangerous gleam in his eyes, and she hated the way it made her pulse throb, some kind of call and response she had no time to understand and even less interest in exploring.
“Yes,” Mordred replied, holding her gaze. “And so you thought you might try to write instead with your own blood.”
Nyneve resisted the urge to sink her fingers into his wound. “I did not break our bargain. You only specified ink. Your failings are not my concern.” She held her ground, so close she could feel the heat of him rolling off the knight’s skin, their gazes locked.
His expression darkened, something ravenous swimming in the depths of his eyes. “I only specified ink, yes,” he echoed in a low tone that rumbled like thunder on the horizon. “You clever thing, finding your little loophole. But now, Lady Nyneve, I have known your blood upon my tongue.”
Fear should have coursed through Nyneve’s body, she understood. She should have stumbled back. She should have told anyone who would listen that Sir Mordred Pendragon was an absolute madman, a danger to Camelot, a terrible influence on Arthur. And yet she stayed exactly where she was—so close that a deep breath would make her skirts brush against his legs. Senseless, errant desire bloomed between her thighs, damp as dew, warm as the spring sun.
