Goddess of Legend (18 page)

Like hell she didn’t. Brian Gordon had been just as clumsy and clueless as Arthur. And, hell yes, it had hurt like hell. But she got over it. Rather quickly, actually.

“You could have been just as gentle with me as with Gwen.”

“I could not.”

“Why not?”

“Because with Gwen I was in full control of my faculties. I had learned from that first experience with Elizabeth. And Gwen was more of a piece of fragile artistry. ’Twas easy to treat her as such.”

“I know I’m not a piece of fragile artistry, although the jury’s still out on how offended I am. But just what is so very different here?”

“I have told you, Isabel, with you I was not in control. ’Tis a fact that I have ne’er wanted a woman as I do you. Even as a lad, and full of lustful thoughts, ’twas not as this.”

Isabel wanted to scream. He was making no sense and at the same time too much. He was a gentleman and a gentle man. But her thrumming body was simply pissed off.

Then again it felt really good to hear that he had wanted her that badly. Why hadn’t she just said that of course she wasn’t a virgin? That she had had several lovers over the years? Good lord, at her age you’d think her vagina had closed over permanently if it had never been penetrated.

The moment had come and gone, however, and her hesitation had cost her. Big time. To blurt out now that in truth she was very familiar with what he would call bed sport would seem disingenuous. And would probably anger him because she hadn’t spoken the truth to begin with.

She stood up, feeling a kind of defeat like no other. “I thank you for your honesty, Arthur. I wish only that I had done the same when you asked.”

He, too, stood. “Your meaning?”

She couldn’t seem to meet his eyes. “It doesn’t matter now.”

He reached out and took her chin, forcing her to meet his all too probing gaze. “To me it matters a great deal. In the end, Isabel, truth is all we have.”

Oh, jeez, could she feel any worse? Her entire life in this land was a lie.

“May we discuss this at another time? Right now I am spent, and may I say, not in the way I had hoped. But I have much to do before the evening meal and need to get to it.”

He stared at her for what seemed an eternity, then gave a short, curt nod. “Another time, then. I, too, have obligations. I have not gone through my swording and bow skills as yet today, and must needs do this, lest I become fat and lazy. This evening, perhaps?”

Her laughter shook. It would take at least a year or more of total sloth for Arthur to gain a pound or lose an ounce of muscle. His body was finely toned from shoulders to toenails. At least it felt that way. How she wished she could have explored for herself. “Perhaps. We’ll see.”

“I will see you at the evening repast, then?”

“You will. I never miss a meal if I can help it.”

He chuckled. And then before she knew it, he cupped her head and ravished her mouth. Her hormones, which had finally started to go back into dormant mode, sprang back to life as if zapped with electricity.

Arthur kissed like no other man she knew. His lips were firm and sure, intent on molding hers to their bidding. His tongue made only an occasional appearance, to taste her mouth and touch her own tongue. He didn’t try to shove it down her throat as too many men had done, didn’t use it as an oral fuck, just playing and teasing and basically driving her crazy.

Long moments later he broke the kiss, but then laid his forehead against hers. “Oh, Isabel. Your taste and your scent and your feel are almost too much to bear,” he whispered.

“Oh, right back atcha,” she said.

“Until this evening?”

“Yes.”

He stood back, albeit appearing totally reluctant to do so. His eyes swept over her, from face to feet. “Trust me, Isabel, you have no need of shyness. You are so beautiful.”

He went to move past her, but she touched his arm and he turned back. “Yes?”

“So are you.”

He grinned. “You are presuming. You may take back those words some day. I have many a battle scar on this body, Isabel.”

Although the thought of him being hurt nearly made her shudder, she understood this was the way of this world. And then she thought of Curtis and Afghanistan, and realized brutality hadn’t changed, only the nature of it. Still, she couldn’t wait to explore every single one of those scars. If she ever got the chance.

She walked with him to the door, but before he opened it she stopped him again. “Arthur? The next time we have the chance to speak, I promise the truth. Because you’re right. In the end it is all we have.”

He smiled. “I look forward to it. You have an endlessly fascinating life, Isabel.”

If he only knew.

“Until this evening, then,” he said with a slight bow.

“Yes. Be careful out there. Sword play isn’t for sissies.”

He laughed. “I know naught what a sissy is, but I can well imagine.”

They were both smiling as he swung the latch and opened the door.

Their smiles fizzled instantly.

“Mordred,” Arthur said.

The smug little bastard shoved off from the wall across from Isabel’s door. “Father. Countess. I feared that you would not emerge the entire day.”

 

 

ARTHUR knew that Isabel’s first desire was to lunge at his son and claw his eyes out. So he quickly blocked her path to thwart disaster. “Did you have issues to discuss, Mordred?” he asked. “You had but to knock.”

“Oh, issues aplenty,” he said. “And another to add to my list.”

“Then let us do so, at some other—”

“You smug little stalking, animal-abusing, ungrateful creep,” Isabel hissed, attempting to break through Arthur’s barrier. With no luck, thank the gods.

“Please, Isabel,” Arthur said, “allow me to handle this situation.”

Her breaths were coming fast. “How do you think he knew where you were if he didn’t follow you?”

Mordred’s grin widened. “The countess is very astute. And lovely. You have chosen a lover well. Should you care to share her services with your son, I would not object.”

Arthur felt a rage like no other. He leapt forward and grabbed Mordred’s tunic with both hands, shoving him back against the wall. “You will apologize to the lady. This very moment, Mordred.”

Mordred’s smile had gone missing, yet the malice in his eyes still gleamed bright. ’Twas such a sad sight for Arthur. He shook his son. “Apologize. Afore I have you escorted from Camelot and ban your presence for all time.”

“If what I have said is untrue—”

“’Tis untrue. Isabel and I are not lovers. I say again, Mordred. Apologize to the lady.”

“Forget it,” Isabel said, coming up beside them. “This kid is incapable of an honest apology.”

And then she performed an act that was remarkable and shocking all at once. She twirled once and then with one leg raised, rammed it into Mordred’s knee.

Mordred yelped in pain and might have collapsed, were it not for Arthur’s hold on him.

“And
that
is for Samara. How does it feel? Should you ever come near my horse again, you will receive worse. Understand, you little shit?”

Arthur then witnessed something in his son’s eyes directed at Isabel that had never been directed at his own father. A spark of respect.

Mordred winced as he tried to regain his footing on his own. “My apologies, Countess, if I spoke out of turn.”

“I don’t give a good damn about your meaningless words, Mordred,” she said. “Your actions are what define you. Just shows that nurture won out over nature in this little genetic pool battle, you creep.”

Even though Arthur had Mordred at least five inches above the ground, Mordred managed to ground out, “You are allowing a mere whore to berate your only son and the heir to your crown?”

“Oooh, you had me at mere whore,” Isabel said, and wound up once again to attack.

“Isabel, no!” Arthur said. “Allow me to finish this.”

He dropped his son back to the ground, knowing the pain it would inflict on his leg.

Mordred yelped.

The pain to his son was hurtful, but the words against Isabel hurt as much. “You will accord the countess the respect and courtesy she so rightly deserves,” Arthur prompted. “She has never wronged you. It is you who appears to have wronged her, with words and deeds. Make this right, Mordred, or I shall drop you on that leg many more times. Or worse, I will allow the countess to have at you.”

“I will.”

“You will what?”

“I will attempt to set things right.”

“Not good enough,” Isabel said, the heat of her anger in her eyes still so strong, it could manage to warm the entire castle.

Arthur nearly groaned. “He has apologized, Isabel.”

“To me, not to you.” She glared daggers at Mordred. “Your father loves you. He has been doing his best to make up for the years he didn’t even know that you were his son. And you have repaid him with nothing but hatred and retaliation in mean, evil ways.”

“Isabel,” Arthur began, but was apparently not allowed to finish, since she was . . .

Once again he knew not where that voice in his head was coming from, but it seemed appropriate, as Isabel appeared to be able to tear Mordred limb from limb.

She stepped even closer, right in Mordred’s face. “He
loves
you, you little brute. He would have gladly taken you and cared for you had he known.
But he did not know!
He is paying penance for something that was not his fault. And you are adding to it, forcing guilt upon him. A burden he doesn’t deserve to carry. So you either straighten up and treat your own father with the respect he deserves, or I will be certain to make your life as much of a living hell as you are making his.

“He has the resources to make it happen, but you are counting on his love to keep you cozy and safe. I also have the resources to make that happen, Mordred, but I do not give a rat’s ass what happens to you, so hiding behind your father’s love in my world is just not going to happen. Do not underestimate me.
Capisce?
”

“Capisce?” Mordred and Arthur said at the same time.

“Understand?” she enlightened.

Mordred nodded. “I . . . Capisce.”

“Apologize.”

“He needs not—”

“He absolutely does.”

Mordred swallowed hard, and for the first time since e’er Arthur laid eyes upon the lad, there seemed to be no menace in his eyes. “I . . . apologize, Father.”

“For?” Isabel persisted.

“For believing you had abandoned me. That you cared naught what had become of me.”

“Not true, my son. Had I known ...”

Arthur couldn’t go on because he felt choked by unshed tears.

Isabel pushed off from the wall. “Then I suppose it’s time that you take him to your healer. He probably needs a brace on that knee.”

Arthur took Mordred’s waist, then hoisted him up into his arms.

“Father! I cannot be seen carried this way.”

“Do you think you will be able to navigate those long steps on your own? I assure you that I will set you down should I hear another coming along. To keep up appearances, of course, that father and son are just upon a walk, discussing father and son things.”

He swiveled, his son cradled close, as he so wished he had been able to do since Mordred was a babe. “Isabel?”

She turned, just as she was about to reenter her quarters. “Yes?”

“Do you know the whereabouts of your healer, Dick? I know that mine is far off this day, visiting the outlying huts of our farmers.”

“Last I heard, he was cracking the necks and backs of many of your men. He is in what I believe you call the healing quarters.”

“Thank you,” he said, and it held meaning much beyond just directing him to her own healer. He had high hopes that she understood just how much.

“You are welcome. And again, sorry, Mordred, though you had it coming.” Then she looked again at Arthur. “Yes, I do understand.”

She stared at Mordred, cradled in his father’s arms. “And you, you little jackass, try to figure out who is caring for you right now. He loves you, more than you know. Without his love for you, there would be a ton of his loyal men and women who would have demolished you by now. Including me.”

As they navigated the steps that would take them to the healing rooms, Mordred looked up at Arthur. “She is a fierce warrior, Countess Isabel.”

Arthur nodded, trying not to show strain. After all, Mordred was no babe at this time. “That she is, most when those she holds dear are threatened or hurt. Did you harm her horse, Mordred?”

“I ne’er meant it to be a lasting injury.”

“’Twas a nasty, horrid thing to do.”

“Yes, I understand now.” He laid his head against Arthur’s face, which was such a feeling unlike any Arthur had ever felt afore with his own son.