Knights of the Round Table: Geraint Page 2

  “Aye, although I also serve King Arthur.”

  “The high king at Camelot?”

  He gave her a wry grin. “You sound like there might be another.”

  “Oh, nay, I have heard of the wonders of it, of course, but I have never been there.”

  “I am bound for Camelot myself. I could escort you there—or anywhere else.” He sat back on his heels, letting go of her arm. “Unless you are merely separated from your party.”

  “Nay, I travel alone.”

  He arched a black eyebrow. “A woman alone?”

  She grinned. “Think you I cannot defend myself?”

  “Nay, but I am worried you must defend yourself often.”

  “I have been journeying for several days, and that was the first attempt at robbery.”

  “Probably because you look so fierce.”

  She showed her teeth in a grin. “I am.”

  He grinned back, and for a moment it was as if they shared a communication not of words. His spirit was like hers, full of adventure. The fact that he recognized the same in her and still thought her a woman worth flirting with was an aphrodisiac such as she’d never experienced.

  His smile faded. “You truly are alone?”

  “For right now.”

  “Could I—”

  They heard the neigh of another horse, the sound of undergrowth parting. Enid’s sword was in her hand, and she was halfway to her feet.

  Sir Geraint touched her arm. “He is with me.”

  Even as the second man brought his horse to a halt and dismounted, she told herself that she was now alone with two well-armed knights. But she had always been a good judge of character, and she could not look on Sir Geraint and think he meant her harm.

  Or was she being naïve? Perhaps such a man was even more dangerous to her.

  The second knight was of middling years, with a full gray mustache that twitched with amusement as he looked between them. “Sir Geraint, I did not know that our meeting had turned into a romantic outing.”

  Enid felt herself blushing, another rarity in her life. Men had always joked about such things, and she had responded in kind. Imagining she and Sir Geraint as lovers made her think thoughts that were dark and hot and seductive.

  Sir Geraint rose to his feet. “The young lady is alone.”

  “Ah, and you were rescuing her. I thought I saw a man or two scurrying away from here.”

  “She did not need my rescue,” he said, glancing at her in amusement.

  Not many men would have so easily given up the credit for helping her. He was comfortable with himself. More and more he looked like a man who could help her—though he could not know it. No attraction was worth breaking her oath to her father about the secrecy of her mission.

  The second knight dismounted from the saddle stiffly and gave a great sigh. “These old bones are not what they used to be. I appreciate you meeting me halfway, Sir Geraint.”

  “I am honored.” Geraint turned to her. “Sir Albern, may I introduce the lady Enid.”

  Enid rose to her feet, and Sir Albern had to look up at her. But to his credit, he only grinned and shook his head.

  “Count on you to meet the unusual ones, Sir Geraint.” He pulled a rolled parchment from the pouch at his waist. “What you’ve come for, lad. Send the high king my regards, along with this missive.” He glanced at Enid. “I’ll be on my way.”

  “I was just going to make camp, Albern,” Sir Geraint said. “No need to rush off in haste. Do you not want a warm meal and a night’s rest before you journey back?”

  When the older knight glanced at her again, Enid lifted a hand. “Do not think I mean to interfere. I, too, need my sleep.”

  Sir Albern exchanged a look with Sir Geraint, who shrugged and said, “I am certain that the lady Enid would not wish to share a fire alone with me.”

  She gave him a cocky grin. “In exchange for your company, gentlemen, I will provide dinner.”

  Both knights looked alarmed.

  “Lady Enid,” Sir Albern said, “please, it is not seemly that you should serve us in so common a fashion. I would feel the basest of men should I allow—”

  But with a wave, she entered the forest, leaving the men to discuss their private business while she was gone. To her surprise, Sir Geraint caught up with her before she could take another step.

  “Lady Enid, you have been wounded. Allow me to—”

  “If you insist on helping me, Sir Geraint,” she interrupted, “let us make it a contest to enliven our evening. We will see who can bring back supper first.”

  He took a step closer to her. The trees surrounded them; the sun was hidden from them. It was an intimate moment that made her realize she didn’t know what to expect of him—and she wanted to find out.

  “And the prize?” he murmured.

  He was not even looking at her eyes, but at her mouth, as if he wanted to kiss it. She had kissed men before, but always in the way of instruction. She had never felt passion from it. She thought that might not be true with Sir Geraint.

  She smiled and backed away from him. “The prize is the right to sleep closest to the fire. What other prize would be so suitable?”

  He reached for her, but she eluded him with a laugh and disappeared into the forest.

  ENID had won their little contest—her rabbit had been skinned and on a spit before Geraint had even returned to their camp. He could not keep his eyes from her. She sat at Albern’s feet, listening enraptured to the tales of his days as a knight under Uther Pendragon. When she glanced at Geraint, she gave him a cocky grin and nodded toward the fire. He bowed low and held his rabbit forward.

  “A meager offering,” he said.

  “And one that is too late,” she answered sweetly.

  Albern laughed. “The girl told me of your wager. It would seem she has got the best of you.”

  “So it would seem,” Geraint said. He did not truly mind losing to Enid, not when she looked so adorable and proud of herself. For the first time, he wondered at what kind of place had raised such a woman.

  When both rabbits had finished cooking, Geraint took over the duty of cutting apart the carcasses and handing over portions. He bade Enid drink the ale from his horn, and she pronounced it finely brewed. He felt as proud as if he’d made it himself, rather than the brewer at Camelot.

  At last the sun set, and they were all sitting on blankets before the fire. Geraint picked at the grass beside his blanket and stole looks at Enid, who, bathed in firelight, looked as remote as a queen. He could recognize no emotion on her face as she stared into the fire. He told himself that he should inquire into her life, into her family, but a deeper understanding told him that she would only tell what she wanted him to know.

  Would such knowledge spoil how drawn he was to her? Did he want her to be of the real world—or like this: mysterious and different, full of strength and shadows?

  When Enid looked at him, his awareness of her boiled higher.

  “Sir Geraint, you say you serve King Arthur.”

  Albern lifted a hand. “He is not a mere knight serving the high king, my lady.”

  “Albern,” Geraint said in a warning voice. Did he want her to know who he really was? Would his identity change everything, drive her away—or bring her falsely close?

  Enid looked at the old knight with interest.

  “My lady, young Geraint here is a future king himself. His father is the king of all Cornwall, and Geraint his only son. Now can that not recommend him in your eyes?”

  Enid’s gaze slid back to Geraint, and he felt it assess him.

  “A prince among other knights,” she murmured, her voice carrying neither approval nor condemnation. “Yet you serve the high king.”

  “Do not we all?” Geraint responded.

  She did not answer, and he found that disturbing. But perhaps she only meant servitude in the military sense.

  “He does not just serve the king,” Albern went on heedlessly. “He has become a
trusted councillor, a man whom King Arthur consults on matters of diplomacy.”

  Geraint barely kept himself from grimacing. He did not want Enid to form opinions about him because of what he did, but rather who he was. He felt that way about her—it didn’t matter her background or her family. All that mattered was this shimmering interest, this . . . desire.

  He admitted to himself that he wanted her. She did not deserve his lust, but she inspired it. It was a raw, sinful, needy emotion that made him forget everything he was, in the need to be part of her. He was grateful that Albern was encamped with them, for he feared his own reaction should he be alone with Enid through the dark night.

  Chapter 2

  THOUGH Enid listened to Sir Albern’s bragging about Sir Geraint’s accomplishments, she surreptitiously watched Sir Geraint.

  He was very uncomfortable being praised, another mark in his favor. He looked only at the fire, except for an occasional grimace when Sir Albern’s boasting irritated him. She found herself smiling at his every wince, hiding it behind her hand when Sir Geraint glanced at her in desperation and tried to guide the conversation down another path.

  She decided to help him. To change the subject, she said to Sir Albern, “Are all of King Arthur’s diplomats trained as knights?”

  “Nay, Sir Geraint is an unusual man,” Sir Albern said jovially, giving the poor younger knight a broad wink.

  “Are the knights trained at Camelot or at their own estates?”

  Sir Geraint’s gaze focused on her so quickly, she wondered if she had betrayed too much interest. But he let Sir Albern keep talking.

  “Training must continue at all times,” the older knight said. “Camelot’s tiltyard is full of Britain’s finest warriors, preparing in case the Saxon threat becomes an invasion.”

  She nodded as if only in politeness, when instead her mind was racing. Camelot would be the ideal place for her to study and learn the knights’ skills. Had the Lady given her gifts she didn’t know of, perhaps the ability to find luck in her favor? For surely her meeting with Sir Geraint could not be mere coincidence.

  Yet this awareness between them would make things difficult. For the first time she was attracted to a man, and he to her. How could she reconcile her mission for her people with her interest in this prince of Cornwall? She told herself she could not give in to it, could not be distracted. But he might be the key to her tribe’s very survival.

  She glanced at him again, only to find him watching her with eyes the same green of the forest. She held his gaze and told herself that she would be the one to control this attraction they shared.

  But he looked down her body boldly, and she felt herself shiver. This might be a dangerous game to play.

  “And where do you call home, Lady Enid?” Sir Albern suddenly boomed.

  She collected herself enough to remember her rehearsed answer for such a question. “I am from a small woodland tribe far south of here. We are hunters and farmers.”

  “And the women are warriors?” Sir Geraint asked softly.

  “Nay.” She lowered her eyes, wondering how she was going to get out of saying more.

  “Then you were forced into something not meant for women?”

  She mutely lifted her eyes to his, only to find him suddenly angry. He broke a stick in half and tossed it into the fire. She wanted to know what he was thinking, but she could not ask, not without risking even more questions. It suddenly seemed important not to have to lie to this man.

  He didn’t seem angry with her, for he served her another portion of rabbit with the gentlest of hands. He even blew on the hot meat before handing it to her. In his face she saw sadness now. Did he regret his display of anger? She was relieved.

  Sir Albern looked between them, and seemed to have finally run out of things to say. He bid them both a good night and rolled into his blanket near the fire.

  Enid and Sir Geraint stared into the fire in silence for several minutes. She listened to the call of the owls far overhead and the buzz of crickets. It was a peaceful, intimate moment, worth savoring.

  Sir Geraint cleared his throat. “Where do you travel on the morrow?”

  She sighed. “I have nowhere to be.”

  Seeing his jaw clench, she held her breath.

  “Then allow me to escort you to Camelot. You shall have all the time you need to decide what to do next.”

  She gave him a tremulous smile and felt ill having to do it. “I accept your offer. My thanks.”

  He grinned back with a relief that amazed her.

  “Then sleep now, my lady Enid. And trust that I will protect you.”

  And she did.

  Geraint heard her breathing even out, knew the moment her consciousness left her and she slept. He was humbled that she trusted him, when it was obvious she had had little reason to trust the men in her life. When he had cleansed her wound, he had seen other scars on her arms, some faint, some more recent. Her family must have neglected her, and the thought still made him so angry. He wondered if she had been forced to learn to defend herself because her family wouldn’t. Or was she truly alone in the world, though she claimed herself a member of a distant tribe? She needed protection—his protection. He wanted to offer his sword arm to her. The fact that she was strong in her own right made him feel even more certain that she needed him. He would take her to Camelot and show her what the civilized world had to offer. Perhaps she would stay. Perhaps . . .

  He fell asleep imagining the possibilities.

  IN the morning, Albern left them, and Geraint watched Enid wish him a farewell with the respect she’d obviously been taught for her elders. Someone had molded compassion and kindness into a woman with the body of a warrior, making her intriguing.

  More than intriguing—her very differentness jolted him once again. As he filled his water skins in the stream, she began to disrobe a little way down the bank. Her beautiful face was serene, unperturbed that he watched. Was she giving herself to him? Did she think his offer of escort came with a price? From his knees, he gaped up at her, but he couldn’t speak, couldn’t protest—and felt like the very worst sort of man because of it. Just like the men who’d abused her.

  She pulled the jerkin over her head, leaving only a thin shirt without sleeves. It hung low to her thighs, rippled in smooth folds across her hips. And then she pulled it off, and she wore braies about her hips, a man’s low-slung undergarment. And above it—

  He dropped the horn he’d been filling into the shallows.

  Her breasts were full and rounded, glowing in the early morning sunlight. When she lifted her arms to release her hair, he barely held back a groan. The fall of yellow curls swept along her shoulders and obscured her breasts from his hungry view.

  She waded into the water, splashing herself and shivering. He realized she was taking a morning bath, and he didn’t like himself for the disappointment that swept through him. But his cock certainly didn’t care, for it pulsed with a hard, continuous ache.

  But how could he remain disappointed when he had such a glorious sight to behold? And in what tribe was it permitted for men and women to bathe so openly?

  When the water reached her thighs, she bent over to reach below the surface. He choked trying to swallow. She came up with a handful of sand and began to rub it into her skin, shivering all the while. He watched while she cleaned her body, felt his mouth fall open when she submerged herself to clean more intimate places.

  At last she turned toward the shallows, her wet hair streaming down her shoulders. Geraint looked away, fumbling for the horn he’d forgotten just as it had begun to float away. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched her don a clean shirt over her wet skin. It clung to her. He turned away, trying to control a shudder as he used every bit of willpower not to take what seemed offered to him.

  But she was not of his people; she didn’t know what she did to him.

  Or did she?

  “Sir Geraint?”

  He glanced over his shoulder at her
; she had not donned her leather jerkin yet. She was tying back her hair, arms upraised, her shirt riding just high enough that he could see the edge of her wet braies peeking out.

  “You seem . . . shocked by my bathing,” she said hesitantly, letting her arms fall to her sides. “Do your people bathe infrequently?”

  He gave a shaky laugh. “Nay, it is not that. In my kingdom, men and women do not usually bathe so freely before each other.”

  Her lips parted in dismay. “I have . . . embarrassed myself before you?” She reached for her jerkin and couldn’t seem to find the opening in her haste.

  Geraint rose to his feet and went to her, taking her hands to still them. She looked up at him in distress, drops of water falling from her hairline to merge with her wet shirt.

  “You could never embarrass yourself before me,” he murmured, reaching to cup her face.

  He knew he shouldn’t have touched her, but once he did, he was lost. Her skin was soft as the finest silk. He let his thumb brush her lips; they were moist and full and trembling. Her eyelids fluttered, and she swayed. He wanted to gather her into his arms, to hold her close, to protect and keep her safe.

  Instead he bent down and kissed her lightly on the lips. Her eyes went wide, and they stared at each other, mouths separated by but a breath.

  “Stop me, Enid,” he whispered. “I should not—”

  But she put her hand behind his head and pulled him to her. She did not kiss like a shy maiden; her mouth was open to him, and her tongue darted between his lips with a boldness that shocked and aroused him. With her body she caressed him, fitting herself against him until he desperately wished he were without garments. They kissed and licked and clung to each other. It took every inch of his control not to thrust himself against her for relief.

  He broke the kiss, gasping. “Ah, Enid, you are wondrous. You should marry me.”

  She laughed at him, and he gave a shaky laugh in return as they parted. But what had him so confused was that in that moment, he meant it. He wanted to spend his life learning everything about her, because she would be the adventure of a lifetime.