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Chapter Seven
He wanted tokiss her. He’d never wanted to kiss any another woman as much as he wanted to kiss her. He’d been wanting to do it since he saw her again. He didn’t want to steal a kiss. He wanted her to want it to.
They were in France on a breezy night, standing beneath the Eiffel Tower. It was pretty perfect. He took her hand. She didn’t resist.
This felt good. Better than anything he could remember. His heart felt light and all was quiet within. He liked holding her hand. He would like to do it for the rest of his life. He laughed at himself.
“What?” she asked, smiling. She was so perfect. How could she be so perfect? She wore very little make-up or adornment. She needed no help in drawing attention to herself. She was tall and elegant, and painted in hues of red, blue-green, and coral. Now that he knew her a little better, he could see the compassion in her eyes, the adventure in the quirk of her mouth, and inner strength in the tilt of her alluring jaw.
“I was just thinking how nothing in my life has ever been this perfect.”
“Yes,” she agreed with a soft sigh. “Being here is—” she laughed and rattled his existence “—magical.”
He shook his head. “’Tis not France. We could be in a small room with a curtain for a door and fairy lights across the walls and I would feel the same way.” He stopped walking. She went another three steps before he pulled her back and into his arms. “’Tis being with you.”
He leaned in slowly. If she resisted—she didn’t. Her arms came up and rested on his shoulders while she tunneled her fingers in his hair. His lips pressed against hers as his hands traversed her back, and lower. With all the magical things going on in his life tonight—ever since he traveled here—kissing her made him feel afloat, above the clouds, above the stars. If man was truly meant to find his true love, Sebastian had found his.
His tongue swept into her, familiar with the taste of her, the scent of her. His arms closed around her tighter. He wanted to tear off her dress, pull down her hair, and watch her come undone beneath him. He tugged at the silk around her shoulders. No. This wasn’t right. It was too soon. He severed their kiss and stepped away.
When she looked at him, her eyes grew wider.
“Sebastian. Your eyes are gold.”
“It has been happening more often,” he replied, swinging his arm around her. “I’m fine. Don’t worry.”
He wanted to smile but he felt like a savage was inside him trying to claw his way out. His chest itched at first, and then hurt. What if the darkness erupted when he was with her…if he kissed her again? What might he do to her, besides the obvious?
He wanted to go back and think about these things. He’d have to walk away from her. He couldn’t risk releasing whatever was inside him with her around.
He was about to tell her when the smell of apples wafted through him. He pushed Noelle behind him and looked around. “The knights, Noelle! We have to get back to Arthur!”
“But how? Call out to him? Arthur!” she tried. Nothing happened.
And then the Eiffel Tower began to disintegrate. Sebastian didn’t know how he knew what to say, but he did. He lifted his arm and the fantasy was gone. They were left standing in Arthur’s kitchen. He did it. He was a wizard. He shook his head. Wild. The smell of apples was stronger now.
Sebastian called for Lancaster, but the king was busy shielding them the way he had at Starbucks.
“You cannot run from them forever,” Sebastian told him. “You have me here now. Let me help you face them. They will soon break this spell.”
Arthur smiled at him. “Thank you.”
“Don’t take his advice, Arthur!” Simeon yelled. “He is not to be trusted!”
The king turned to him, looking livid. “I told you it doesn’t have to end the same way.”
“You will change history,” Simeon warned.
“What history?” Arthur asked. “We are all myths and legends to them. We are not their history. Yes, their tales and how they ended might change, but I am not disturbing their history.”
Simeon glanced at Sebastian with hatred him his eyes. “Very well, Sire.”
“Who am I?” Sebastian breathed out.
Simeon opened his mouth, but the king silenced him with a motion of his hand.
“You are my son, Mordred.”
No. No. No! Sebastian held his head and shook it. But it all made sense now. The knights were going to kill him. He was Mordred. He took a step back, rubbing his palm over his knotted belly. He was Mordred, who supposedly killed his father. Mordred, whose mother, according to some authors, was Morgan, an evil sorceress who wanted to kill the man she hated, her half-brother, whom she enchanted one night and seduced and later used their son to finish her plans. No. No. Not him!
