Enchanted Warrior. Sharon Ashwood

her ribs. Her sigh made a cloud of mist that floated upward to the shadowy stone ceiling of the Church of the Holy Well. The ancient English structure had been relocated to the Medievaland Theme Park decades ago, but it seemed to hold part of the past inside it, as if time itself had seeped into the stone. Or maybe that was just the frigid temperature. November in the Pacific Northwest wasn’t a snowy deep freeze, but the damp air held a savage bite. At first she’d been annoyed at having to wear a costume to her workplace, but now she was glad of the floor-length gown of green wool. She should have sewn herself a cloak, too.

      She told herself her shivers were just the result of the cold. What kind of threat could there be at Medievaland Theme Park, anyway? Even in winter, it was a place for family fun, with costumed performers, games, feasts and make-believe. The worst that could happen was a stomachache from too many jalapeño Dragon Fries. The only thing remotely serious—or truly medieval—about the park was the church where she stood now, and normally the old stones echoed with the holiday mood.

      But today was different. Tamsin rubbed her arms as the feeling of being stalked crept behind her on stealthy paws. Although a glance confirmed she was alone in the church, fresh wariness settled in her belly. Tamsin turned slowly, senses probing.

      Nine times out of ten, being a witch meant nothing more than having a knack with cold remedies and some very odd family dinners, but once in a while her sixth sense was useful. She scanned the space, feeling first the layers of history that shimmered in the air, then the small living things that ran and squeaked in the walls. There was ancient magic sleeping there, but it was too old and dormant for her to understand its purpose. And beyond that...

      She probed just a little more before she snatched her psychic senses back, all too aware there were creatures that would sniff out spells and come looking. In the past months, victims—witches and humans both—had been turning up dead, their souls ripped from their bodies. Tamsin wasn’t a coward, but that was enough to spook anyone who was far away from the protection of her family and coven.

      Habit made her rub the delicate vine tattoo that circled her left wrist—the mark of the Shadowring witches. It should have given her comfort, but it only reminded her how isolated she was. An icy chill rippled down her spine. She spun, reacting to a sound she’d felt more than heard. A movement of air. A phantom footfall. No one but a witch would have caught it. Tamsin’s senses strained until they ached. Nothing.

      She stood perfectly still, nervous sweat trickling down the small of her back. Light slanted through the stained glass, creating an otherworldly atmosphere. There were crowds outside, but the thick walls blocked the noise. The echoing silence made her feel incredibly small and alone.

      That did it. As much as Tamsin hated to admit it, she was giving herself a case of the jitters. Time to stand on the porch for a while, where she could see plenty of people. She started for the door.

      Huge hands grabbed her from behind, pulling her backward until she collided with a rock-hard chest. Tamsin inhaled, about to scream, but a palm clamped over her mouth. A moment later, the man’s free arm grasped her middle. Tamsin lunged forward, but his grip was an iron bar. Her next move was to kick back, aiming for the man’s knee. She missed, catching only his shin with the soft sole of her boot. He grunted and pulled her against him so tightly she could barely breathe.

      “Don’t,” he said, the word clipped and cold.

      Tamsin froze, going utterly still. Whoever this was, his psychic shields were so powerful he’d been completely hidden from her scan. After fretting about evil creatures stalking witches, she was too scared to reach for her magic. Every instinct warned her this stranger would not tolerate further defiance. This was a professional. A predator. A true threat. She knew it on a level so primitive it was coded into her DNA.

      Her obedience seemed to work, because the hand clamped over her mouth slowly moved away. He tasted of salt, sweat and man. He hadn’t used weapons to overpower her, just brute strength. That show of confidence made him seem all the more deadly.

      “You will not cry out.” His words had traces of a brogue—Scottish, perhaps. His deep, masculine voice vibrated through the line where their bodies touched and sank into her bones.

      “Please,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “What do you want?”

      “Turn around.”

      The arm locked about her loosened, allowing her to move but not to escape. Tamsin shrank away as far as she could, the heat of his body a sharp contrast to the cool November air.

      “Turn,” he repeated. “I want to see your face when I question you.”

      Tamsin obeyed, sliding within the circle of his arm. It put their faces barely twelve inches apart, and that was only because he was so tall. Her first instinct was to avoid eye contact, to rebel at least in that small way, but curiosity won. She snatched a glance from under her lashes.

      She froze all over again as he nailed her in place with a brilliant blue gaze. He was younger than she’d expected—maybe in his late twenties—and handsome enough that she forgot to breathe. His face had strong bones, the features bold and almost sensual. Heat rose to her cheeks as her insides curled into a protective ball. He was far too magnetic, far too there for comfort.

      He studied her face a moment longer, his gaze filled with bold assessment. It finally broke when the corners of his mouth quirked. “You are the historian who is supposed to explain this place to visitors, Tamsin Greene?”

      Tamsin cleared her throat. “Yes. How did you...?”

      He gave a pointed look at the name badge pinned to her dress, and she flushed more deeply. He made a noise of amusement. “Historians are meant to be old men in robes and soup-stained beards. A golden-haired sylph is a pleasant surprise.”

      “Hey, that’s sexist—”

      “You may call me Gawain,” he interrupted, as if he had no time to waste. He had an oddly formal way of speaking, as if English wasn’t his mother tongue. “I do not intend to hurt or rob you. I simply want answers. Keep that in mind and we will go our separate ways in peace.”

      There was enough arrogance in the statement to break the spell of his overpowering presence. Gawain was roughly dressed in jeans and a dark green T-shirt beneath a battered leather jacket. He had a few days’ growth of beard and a mass of curling dark hair long enough to brush his collar. In truth, he looked half-wild. She stepped away, putting more distance between them, and felt the press of the wall against her back. The cold stone sent a chill up her spine.

      Her neck aching with tension, Tamsin forced herself to nod. None of this made sense. “If you want information, why not just ask? You don’t need to scare me half to death.”

      His eyes narrowed. “I have enemies. I never know what face they wear. Thus far, you have not attacked. Perhaps you are what you seem.”

      Tamsin felt her pulse jump with alarm as she swallowed against the dryness of her throat. The man was a paranoid lunatic. “What do you want to know?”

      “There should be tombs here,” he said in that same impatient manner. “Where did they go?”

      Gawain’s stare penetrated right through her, boring deep into private places she barely admitted to herself. It was too much, especially from an utter stranger. He advanced a step, closing the gap between them again. The movement was almost a glide, showing the perfect balance of someone trained to use his body. Whether he meant it or not, it was intimidating and—she freely admitted this went against all common sense—incredibly sexy.

      Tamsin held up her hands in a placating gesture. “Which tombs are you talking about? There is a lot of statuary in this place, and much of it’s been moved to make room for the exhibits.”

      His eyes flashed with impatience. Without warning, he pulled her into the center of the church, his strides long enough that she was forced to trot. Rough calluses grazed her skin when he finally let her go, and she automatically rubbed the spot where his fingers had been. The guy was clearly used to working with his hands.

      He