Royal Enchantment. Sharon Ashwood

say something, but Gwen put a hand over hers. “Soon. We have one more stop to make.” Gwen had no idea what that would be, but she was grateful for a moment to think.

      Arthur hesitated a moment, but then bent and kissed Gwen’s cheek. “Hurry home, wife.”

      “Of course,” she said, suddenly awkward, but he was already halfway to the door. He never seemed to hurry, but his stride ate the distance at a pace few could match.

      Silence fell over the two women, all their previous lightness gone. Gwen’s thoughts of the future, of an expanding world unfolding before her shriveled to nothing. Cold nausea weighed in her stomach, but she sucked in a deep breath, doing her best to dispel it. “I don’t want guards. I had them in Camelot, and I felt like a nuisance—or a prisoner—every time I wanted to go for a walk.”

      Clary stared at her, no doubt hearing the strain—and the uncertainty—in her voice. “Seriously? He’s done this before?”

      “He’s worried,” Gwen said, trying and failing to bury her bitterness. “I had a talent for trouble when I was younger. Years have gone by, but he’s never forgotten.” And he’s never trusted me.

      Gwen knew she’d said too much. She began gathering her parcels, the rattle of shopping bags hiding her confusion. Clary followed suit.

      As they left, Gwen walked two paces behind Clary, her thoughts slowed to a dead crawl. She knew how to make drawbridges and catapults work, but not her marriage. An all-too-familiar confusion dragged at her like quicksand. A wife’s first duty was to please her husband, a subject’s first duty was to serve her king, and yet Arthur was a puzzle she’d never solved.

      Once they reached the street, Gwen’s fortitude ran out. She stopped walking, unable to push on. The cycle of unhappiness that was her marriage had started all over again. “I can’t go home. I don’t want to do what I’m told anymore. I can’t be invisible, and I can’t be a precious object always under guard. It’s too much.”

      Clary turned and walked back to Gwen, coming to stand at her side. Clary’s lips were thin with anger, but it clearly wasn’t aimed at Gwen.

      “What do you want to do?” Clary asked. “I won’t take you anyplace you don’t want to go.”

      The witch held Gwen’s gaze with her own, her expression gentle. It was oddly unsettling, for Gwen had never had many female friends, especially after becoming queen. She wasn’t sure how to respond. “Merlin has to send me back.”

      A car honked, and all at once Gwen was aware of the busy street around them. Vehicles swooshed past at unimaginable speeds. Pedestrians pushed by, arguing into their little squares of plastic. All around was color, sound, signs and a thundering bounty of objects and ideas. Gwen wanted it all with a sharpness that made her want to weep.

      “I doubt Merlin has that power,” Clary mused. “Even if he did, are you sure that’s what you want?”

      Gwen gripped the handles of her bags, feeling the weight of the pretty, bright clothes that should be part of a new freedom. She blinked hard, refusing the impulse to cry. “No, but where else would I go?”

      “I don’t understand,” Clary said flatly.

      Gwen sucked in her breath, letting it out in a heavy sigh. She wasn’t allowed in Arthur’s office, but couldn’t leave their rooms without a guard. Arthur didn’t trust her to take part in Camelot’s councils, and yet he wanted to keep her close. She was too naive and impulsive to let roam free, and yet he didn’t want her in his private business. He judged everything she did, and he judged it harshly. “I was far less trouble as a piece of history.”

      Clary made a rude noise. “Sister, this world is full of opportunity. Forget Arthur and his chain mail boy band.”

      Clary slipped an arm around Gwen’s shoulders, pulling her close. “You’re in our time now. You get to decide what you want to do, and I think Arthur needs to know that.”

      Gwen’s mind went blank, a hollow sensation stealing over her. It took her a moment to recognize it as a species of fear. “This is going to cause trouble.”

      They began walking again, drifting in the direction of Clary’s car. “You don’t need to decide everything at once,” said Clary. “In fact, you shouldn’t. You need time to breathe and clear your head, and so does he.”

      “But where?”

      “You can stay with me at my hotel,” Clary suggested, warming to the plan. “I have a double room, and we’ve got all your clothes right here. It’s as if this was meant to be.”

      It made sense. It made perfect sense, and Gwen’s instincts grabbed at the offer. Yet, old habits died hard. “What do I tell Arthur?”

      “That there is one more thing you need to buy,” Clary replied. “Every independent woman needs a suitcase.”

       Chapter 7

      The king pushed his way out of the café and strode down the street, his temper steaming. Other pedestrians cleared a path, pulling dogs and children to safety. He was aware of it all, but barely, as he stormed down the sidewalk with no sense of direction or purpose.

      Arthur had reassured himself that Guinevere was safe, but he was far from satisfied. There had been a few moments when he’d seen her before she’d noticed him, and those moments had been a revelation. She’d glowed from within, as if a long-forgotten hope was awakening. It was a glimpse of the girl he’d first met, the one he’d wanted for himself before danger and politics and arguments had crushed that light out of her. And then, of course, there had been the modern clothes, with those tight black jeans caressing her thighs. He had witnessed many unanticipated marvels in his lifetime, but those legs had pride of place at the top of the list.

      And then he’d seen the life die out of her the moment he’d opened his mouth. It was one thing to believe she was better off without him, and quite another to see the evidence with his own eyes.

      Arthur crossed the street, dimly aware of the bustle around him as he grimly replayed the scene in the café. The image of Guinevere’s soft curves, so evident in those modern clothes, tangled his thoughts badly enough that he almost didn’t hear his phone ringing. He pulled it from his jacket pocket, finding a quiet doorway before he answered. “Yes?”

      “Pendragon?”

      “Who is this?” One more misgiving crowded into Arthur’s mind. The male voice was unfamiliar, and no one addressed him by his surname. It was always “my lord” or “Your Majesty” or simply “Arthur.”

      “We haven’t met, but you encountered my associate in the woods.”

      The statement cleared Arthur’s head in an instant. This was about the dragon. “You mean your associate with the fiery temper?” Arthur asked drily.

      “The same. I assume you got my email?”

      Arthur cast a quick look around the street, just in case he spotted someone else talking into a phone. There was nothing but the usual busy street under a fitful sky. “What do you want?”

      “I’m curious.”

      “About what?”

      “I’m conducting an experiment.”

      The voice was rough, but the timbre and accent suggested it belonged to a fae. That was enough to make the skin at his nape prickle with foreboding. Still, Arthur let the moment stretch on. As a king, he’d learned the power of silence long ago.