Page 60 of Enchanted Warrior

Gawain sat down with his own bowl. “Then I am delighted to supply your needs.”

She tilted her head and pointed with her wooden spoon. “You are the master of double meaning.”

“I have been called Gawain of the Silver Tongue.”

“Was that by your publicist or your stylist?” She nibbled at a dried apple.

“The court at Camelot prizes chivalry in all its forms. I’m more than just a big sword, you know.”

A crease formed between her brows. He could tell she was trying not to laugh. “So you’ve given me your opinion of Merlin. How about your king? Arthur sounds like such a paragon, but was that what he was really like? The way you talk about him, he sounds barely human.”

Gawain was taken aback, and he chewed a mouthful of ham to give himself time to frame an answer. “Your world does not understand kings. The concept has lost most of its meaning.”

“A lot of kings went bad,” said Tamsin. “We made other choices.”

So Gawain had heard. He tried to put it in simple terms. “Kings are responsible for every single person they rule—those who go hungry, those who die, and those who need justice. Kings swear to shed their blood for their people, and that oath binds them until death. Arthur never goes to war lightly and, when he does, he leads from the front lines of his men.”

That was all true, but Gawain knew he had barely captured a tenth of who Arthur was. He tried again. “He welcomes everyone alike to his court. He is fair and a good listener. He makes sure every maid has a partner when it is time to dance. No concern is too small.”

“Sure, but does he have any bad habits?” Tamsin asked.

Gawain smiled. “He laughs at his own jokes. It’s best to pretend he’s actually witty, or he sulks.”

That made Tamsin grin. “Good to know.”

But a kernel of doubt was forming in Gawain’s heart. He had never seen it as a flaw in his king, but Arthur was no lover of magic. Merlin had been the exception, but then Merlin had failed the way he did everything else—with over-the-top spectacle. When they had gone into the stone sleep, Arthur had ordered Merlin to stay behind. There would be no more magic at Camelot. So where did that leave Gawain’s relationship with Tamsin?

A clatter of hooves broke through his thoughts.

“Who’s that?” said Tamsin, clearly wary.

“Let me see.” Gawain grabbed his sword from where he’d leaned it by the door and strode into the courtyard. What he saw made him whoop with joy.

“Sir Hector!” he called. “I thought I was going to have to search the length and breadth of the forest to find you!”

The old knight swung down from a tall gray gelding. Hector was of average height, squarely built, with a mane of iron-gray hair that stuck up in spikes when he pulled off his helmet. “No need, Gawain, my lad. Thanks to that blasted demon, the forest is abuzz with your arrival, and there’s no time to waste.”

Gawain gripped the man’s forearm in greeting. “Even so, we have much to speak of. Angmar of Corin told me you have kept watch over Arthur’s tomb.”

“Ah, yes.” Hector harrumphed uneasily. “There’s a tale to tell. I fell in with the fae resistance after Arthur banished me.”

Gawain was stunned. “Banished you?” And then he remembered—Hector was witch-born, and Arthur had scoured all magic from his court. Hadn’t he just been thinking about that? “But if he sent you away, why are you looking after him?”

The old knight gave a mighty snort as he tied up his horse. “Arthur is my foster son. I can’t very well leave him to Mordred. Never you mind, when we thaw him out, I’ll knock some sense into him. King or no king, he’s never too old for a slap to the head.”

Gawain squeezed Hector’s shoulder. He’d never been close to the man—or to any of the court who dealt with magic—but he had always respected Hector’s level head. “I am glad you are here, and there is much I have to tell you. I have met your daughter, Tamsin.”

“Have you, now?” Hector asked quickly, with a lift of his shaggy gray brows.

Then Tamsin was in the kitchen doorway, and Gawain’s worlds collided. In his reality, he’d seen Hector only months before, whereas she hadn’t seen her father for ten long years. The stunned look on both their faces made his chest ache.

Tamsin’s face crumpled. “Dad?”

A long moment passed while Hector studied his daughter, recognition dawning on his face. The last time he’d seen her, Tamsin would have been little more than a child with one foot on the path to womanhood. Now she was fully mature, a poised, graceful beauty in full flower.

Hector wheeled on Gawain, the color draining from his cheeks. “Why did you bring my daughter here, to this dangerous place?”

Gawain’s ears burned. Unbidden, a vision of what he and Tamsin had been doing in his bed that morning exploded in his brain. “It is a long and colorful tale.”

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