All the noise of the banquet’s festivities buzzed in his skull like insects as he slipped through the crowd. His body ached. Humbling Lancelot had not been worth the price. Arthur was furious, and all the older noblemen who already had a distaste for the king’s bastard son were in a collective rage. He sighed, sinking down on one of the low stone benches that marked the entrance to the Queen’s Green.
Mordred did not care about the farce of the duel. He did not care if people thought Lancelot the better fighter. Setting his goblet down at his side, Mordred searched the crowd for a second time and tried to pretend that he had little idea what had made him fight so very hard.
He pretended it was not because of those sharp eyes on him, that clever little spellwork with his saddle leathers, that rosebud mouth cursing him with ancient charms. The very thought of her sent heat flooding his body, invading all the spaces of cold, deadly calm.
Perhaps he should ask for a brief leave. Just long enough to ride out to Tintagel and seek Morgana’s assistance with the Druid girl’s spellwork. Mordred was no longer sure he could wait until her annual autumn visit. Whatever hold Nyneve had managed to get on him was driving him mad. Besides, no one understood the rare instances of mortals besting the Fair Folk like Morgana did. She had practically invented the art.
Letting out a long breath, Mordred surveyed the gathered court for a distraction that might see him through another encounter with Lady Or’Afon, but he had tasted most of what was on offer already. No one excited him. He glanced toward where Guinevere gathered off to the side with her own court, watching the candlelight turn Palamedes’ dark curls to gold. If not for Gawain’s utter infatuation, he would likely rekindle his comfortable dalliance with the clever, well-read knight. But Gawain was his oldest friend at court, and he knew the man to love singularly and intensely.
Guinevere’s closest two ladies-in-waiting were deeply in love and uninterested in others. His relationship with the queen was more intense and meaningful than he would prefer given his true purpose, but it was and always had been platonic on both sides. He had no interest in the young noblewomen barely out of girlhood that half the court circled like prey. Mordred had been plenty of people’s first tumble. He preferred experience, especially for the sake of a distraction.
A cool breeze tugged at his hair, and he drew in a deep inhale. River water and meadow grasses bloomed in his senses. The knight turned in a sharp movement, peering over the wall into the queen’s little pleasure garden. Of course a Druid girl would seek the solace of the willow tree on a night like this one. He let himself smile as he stood, abandoning his goblet. For all Nyneve’s cleverness, she was young and mortal. Predictable. He could exploit that.
Without another look at the thrumming banquet, Mordred left the courtyard, his eyes keen for the flash of an auburn curl or the glimmer of her pale golden skin.
And it never took the faerie knight long to find his quarry.
Nyneve stood alone beside the willow tree, peering up into its boughs. Her long hair tumbled down her back, delicately outlined by the moonlight. Her skin glowed like mother-of-pearl. A heartbeat later, Nyneve turned to look at him, her mouth parting.
Something in his chest swelled, too big for his ribs. Mordred hesitated, all the sureness fleeing his body. He suddenly felt as though he might be losing his mind.
“Is a lady not permitted a simple stroll without a man intruding?” Nyneve demanded, crossing her arms in a way that unfortunately brought his attention to her bust.
“Aladywould be, perhaps,” Mordred replied, prowling closer, his blood pounding as he fought the wave of Druid spellwork. “But you are something far more complicated, are you not?”
Her eyes flashed in the low light, upper lip curled. “Make your threats and begone, Sir Mordred. Gods forbid I have a moment’s peace beneath a willow.”
He hated the way his chest panged at her words, hated the way his entire body keened to bring her something far different than this sharp-edged displeasure. “No threats tonight,” he murmured as he drew even with her, before his true nature won out. “Unless,” Mordred added in a low, husky drawl, “you enjoy them, of course.”
To his surprise, Nyneve gave him a coy smile, her eyelashes fluttering like a moth’s wings. She stepped closer, her skirts pooling over the toes of his boots. “What Iwouldenjoy,” she replied, a purr from the back of her throat, “is spilling your blood and pulling your entrails from your body.”
Heat unfolded in his chest, a boundless wildfire. “Lady Nyneve,” Mordred breathed, half-delirious with her closeness, “why do you hold such a fascination for me? Twice now you have tried to take my life.”
“Twice?” she echoed with that derisive scorn he nearly admired.
“Do not play the fool,” Mordred replied, surprised at the low, breathy tone of his own voice. He pitched himself forward, bringing his lips closer to her ear. “It does not suit you, Lady Nyneve.”
The Druid girl drew in a long breath, trying to disguise her reach for the dagger no doubt hidden away in her skirts. Something like excitement, perhaps even arousal, stirred low in his belly.
“Why are you here, Sir Mordred? For revenge, then?” Nyneve demanded, her voice tight and cold, like her flame had gone out.
Reflexively, he stepped back, schooling his expression into something more diplomatic than open hunger. “I come with a proposition,” he replied, looking down at her. The moonlight turned her hair to silver, just as it had in the meadow.
Nyneve sneered up at him. “For all your flaws,” she said flatly, “I did not think you would so crudely proposition an unmarried woman when she is alone and defenseless.”
He could not contain his amused smile, much as she could likely not contain the expression that told Mordred she desperately wanted to punch him. “I daresay you are never defenseless,” he replied, arching a brow. “Furthermore, what would cause you to assume such base intentions?” He paused, clasping his hands behind his back. “Unless, of course, you wish to fuck me as badly as you want to kill me.”
Her laughter came too late, too forced. “The only wishes in this garden, Sir Mordred,” Nyneve said, her upper lip curled, “areyours. I have no interest in your desires.” Her face flushed anyway, he noticed, her pupils blown wide. She swallowed hard, collecting herself. “Go on,” she added with all the haughty superiority of a much older noblewoman. “Tell me your little proposition so I can return to my peaceful stroll.”
Mordred took the invitation to slink closer, unstitching just a little of the humanity he wore like a mask. The Druid girl offeredno reaction. No fear trickled from her like honey from the comb. The breeze slipped over the tall stone walls, filling his nose with her smell: river water, petals crushed underfoot, the iron of fresh blood, meadow dew.
“It is the queen’s proposition,” he clarified, his attention skipping over her cheekbones and the curve of her mouth, her collarbones and the flare of her hips. “Not mine.”
Nyneve nodded hurriedly, one hand gesturing for him to get on with it already. Mordred buried his amusement at her impatience. He had already grown overly fond of too many mortals.
“Her Highness is not pleased with Merlin’s return,” he said, keeping his tone level. “I am unsure what you know of him, coming from the Druids.”
Nyneve merely crossed her arms, one eyebrow arched, and pressed her mouth into a firm line. Again, Mordred fought to stop himself from smiling. He should have known the Druid girl would not offer information for free.
