Page 41 of Enchanted Warrior

Gawain gave another slight shrug and moved toward the couch and his sleeping brother. “Circumstances are never perfect. We couldn’t wait any longer to get the books.”

“But if Mordred had killed you, who would look for Arthur?” The idea of what he’d meant to do made Tamsin’s scalp prickle with alarm.

Gawain turned back to her, his expression bleak. “My brother is here, and I hoped you would help him as you’ve helped me. I am a knight of the Round Table. We don’t fight evil from an armchair.”

Tamsin let out a long breath, exasperated beyond measure. “But you’ll flinch at a healing potion made by a witch?”

He gave a slow shrug. “Fighting is easier for me. It’s clean and simple.”

“Whatever.” Tamsin made a show of checking Angmar’s wounds, but her pulse pounded with an aftermath of emotions. The day had been too full of unexpected blows, leaving her hurt and furious and oddly lonely.

But maybe not alone. Gawain’s presence in the tiny apartment prickled along her skin. He was doing exactly what Richard had done—seeing the witch and forgetting the woman. Seeing, and flinching away in fear and disgust no matter how hard he tried to hide it.

Tears stung Tamsin’s eyes, but she refused to let them fall. She mixed the second potion for Beaumains and watched while Gawain held his brother’s head so that he could drink. Gawain showed such tenderness, it made her throat ache—in part because it was beautiful, and in part because she was beginning to understand that open love was something he would never show her.

In search of relief, Tamsin retreated to the balcony. The cold air slipped over her like an icy glove, but it barely penetrated her mood. She gripped the iron rail, fingers worrying the rusty patches eating through the cheap white paint. A sudden pain made her snatch her hand away as a sliver of metal drew blood. She sucked at the wound, the fresh hurt only adding more fuel to her foul temper.

Tamsin felt a wall of warmth behind her. She hadn’t heard Gawain’s approach but knew he was there as surely as if he’d touched her. She turned, her finger still in her mouth. Gawain’s face was hidden by shadow. Still, she felt the weight of his gaze.

“You are hurt.” He reached for her, but she stepped back, clenching her injured hand into a fist at her side.

“The paint hid the sharp place.” Tamsin’s breath escaped in sharp puffs of mist. “Is that how you see me, as an everyday face painted over creeping corrosion that eventually wounds whoever is foolish enough to touch it?”

His frown was perplexed. “I have offended you.”

“Have I done anything but help you?” she said, her voice dropping to a low rasp. “I’ve risked my life. I’ve healed your wounded. I’ve faced your enemy for you, and you still treat me like something foul.” And she’d slept with him, but she would choke before she brought that into the argument. Her pride wouldn’t allow it.

“Because you are a witch?” The words were soft, almost apologetic. But not quite.

Tamsin’s temper rose another notch. “Yes. You have a problem with magic, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

Gawain made a noise that was almost a laugh and came to stand beside her at the balcony rail. He leaned his arms on it, shaking his head. “I beg your forgiveness.”

“Then I think you owe me an explanation.”

He remained silent for a long moment. “Once upon a time, before she was ever Queen of the Faeries, my aunt, Morgan LaFaye, set a challenge for the Round Table. It was Christmas, and Arthur loved to have games and challenges at his revels. He boasted that, far and wide, his knights were the most chivalrous, honorable and courteous warriors there were. Within the hour, a strange knight showed up to test us. He was, of course, sent by my aunt.”

“Why are you telling me a story?”

“To answer your question.” He kept looking out at the city, not even turning his head. “The strange knight promised to allow one of us to chop his head off if we would allow him to return the favor in a year’s time.”

“And what was your first clue that this was going to end badly?” Tamsin asked, leaning her back against the rail so that she could study Gawain’s face, but he kept it turned away. “And why is this in any way relevant to me?”

“The knight was green, head to toe.” Gawain kept talking, his voice soft. “That should have tipped us off that there was magic involved, for green is the color of enchantment. But we were drunk at the time and more than usually stupid. I volunteered.”

“To cut his head off?”

“He asked for it.”

“But how...” She couldn’t see what this had to do with her being a witch.

“I did the deed as requested, and then he picked up his head and rode away. By the time I sobered up, I was terrified, for I was honor-bound to face him the following Christmas. Face him and die.”

Tamsin caught her breath. “Oh.”

“I went. Honor demanded it. My road led to the Forest Sauvage.”

“That’s where the Green Knight lived?”

---