Hey there, I'm back with a new story. Not mine, it's the property of Sophie Jordan. The title is Wicked In Your Arms and I invite you to give it a try.
I do not own Merlin or the characters, neither do I own Wicked In Your Arms.
Prologue
The Royal Palace of Camelot...
'I'm alive...'
This was Arthur Pendragon's sole burning thought as he advanced down the wide sunlit corridor.
Not the blood seeping from the gash in his forehead and dripping thickly into his eye...
Not the fact that he hadn't slept in days...
And even then that sleep had been fractured and restless with artillery fire ripping deep wounds into the earth outside his tent.
He lived and was not rotting away on a battlefield like so many of his comrades.
He was alive and breathing and whole...
His booted heels clacked a cold, precise rhythm. He'd ceased to leave a trail of mud and blood several yards back. But every inch of him was covered in filth, blood and matter he dared not consider.
He would have nightmares of it later...
He was a wretched sight, his once fine uniform beyond recognition, but he felt invigorated and victorious.
Arthur's footsteps rang out sharply over the marble floor...the same floor his ancestors had trod generations before him.
And a ragged breath tripped from his lips.
This is the same floor his progeny would walk...
Now that the war was over, that much was all but guaranteed.
Whether it happened depended upon him, though. And the weight of this new responsibility settled over him, tightening his shoulders.
His shadow stretched long over the stained-glass windows lining the corridor...
His breath still fell fast from his hard ride to reach here, to be the first one to tell the king that it was finally over...
He nodded to the master guards standing sentry on either side of the massive double doors of the king's bedchamber.
And their heels snapped together sharply at his presence.
Then he knocked once before entering...
The king sat in a high-backed chair before a floor to ceiling window that overlooked the valley Arthur had just ridden hell-bent through to arrive here.
In the distance, where the mountains rose beyond the snow-blanketed valley, dark smoke rose in great plumes, reaching to the heavens...
The old man looked his way, the tight lines of his face easing immediately at the sight of him.
"You're alive," he whispered, his voice cracking with emotion. Moisture filled his eyes...
Arthur nodded...
Then, dropping on a knee before his king, he dipped his head and bowed low.
"The kingdom is yours, Your Highness. The enemy is vanquished. Cenred is dead and the rest of the rebels have surrendered."
The king's gnarled hand came down on Arthur's head in a fierce caress.
"You've prevailed. I knew you would."
Arthur grimaced, watching as his blood dripped onto the king's royal robes... Over the years he hadn't felt the same conviction. He'd only known that he must prevail... Or die.
He rose to his feet...
The king closed his eyes in a weary blink, clearly grappling with the fact that the bloody ten-year-long rebellion had come to an end at last.
It was a struggle for Arthur, too. He'd grown to manhood amid war and death. It was all he knew...
The king seized his hand, his grip surprisingly strong for one in such weak health.
"You know what must be done now. And quickly. This kingdom needs a bright light as we emerge from the dark. You must give them that. Feed them hope...the promise of better days to come."
Arthur's throat thickened.
"I shall not fail you, Grandfather."
"Of course you won't."
"I know my duty. It shall be done."
Two months later...
"You mean Miss Davies?"
At the sound of her name Gwen stopped chewing, her mouth stuffed full of her third frosted biscuit. Or perhaps it was her fourth...
The tasty treats were thus far the highlight of her evening, but hearing her name mentioned with such ridicule amid titters of laughter, turned the food to dust on her tongue.
The voices continued, and she pressed farther back into a column, as if she could somehow disappear into the plaster.
"Well, she is rather..."
The rest of their words were lost in a burst of guffaws.
Gwen sucked in a deep breath, knowing that whatever the biddies had said was far from complimentary. She knew this with the same certainty, that she knew they were speaking about her and not her half-sister.
Not that she and Elizabeth weren't both a favoured subject for the sniggering busybodies of the ton, but somehow, she had received the brunt of attention as they went about Town.
She glanced down at herself, quickly assessing...
The burgundy gown was the height of fashion, the colour rich and flattering against her dusky complexion.
The modiste had assured her she would stand out against all the other watered-down, milksop misses on the market for a husband.
She grimaced...
At the time, she thought standing out was an advantage. What better way to attract some blueblood, after all?
She needed a proper gentleman to give her the stamp of respectability she had long craved.
So standing out amid the other females, she'd reasoned, could only be a good thing.
Now she wasn't so sure...
She'd endured many colourful designations since her entrée into Society a fortnight past. None were complimentary.
And yet, she'd braced herself for that.
Her father's fortune might gain her admittance to the finest drawing rooms, but it did not mean everyone would don a kind smile for the likes of her.
Nothing she'd endured, however, was intolerable enough to send her fleeing London with her tail tucked between her skirts.
Gwen lifted her chin and took another bite from her biscuit... She'd be a proper lady yet. In time, she'd marry a gentleman and everyone would forget her low beginnings.
She'd have respectability at last, the pains of her youth forgotten...
Stiffening her spine with this heartening reminder, she swallowed her bite and took a sip from her glass... Besides, nothing awaited her at home. Nothing save loneliness.
Long, looming years where she would suffer everyone's pity. Or censure. And she was hard-pressed to say which was worse.
Ready to rejoin the masses, Gwen peered through the fronds of the large potted fern that hid her from view.
The two busybodies still lingered, their turbaned heads angled close, as if that would somehow stop anyone from overhearing their indiscreet voices.
"You do mean Miss Gwen Davies, of course." The other woman tsked and Gwen supposed the sound was meant to be sympathetic. "She's such an unfortunate female. So...short."
The way the word short was uttered, Gwen was certain she meant to say something else.
"Indeed." The other matron clucked. "And so very dark, too. Did she labour in the fields before Davies unearthed her?"
They shared a look and burst out laughing.
Gwen snorted...
They weren't far from the truth.
She rolled her eyes at their guffaws, understanding perfectly their nasty humour. And yet, her sturdy form and sun-browned complexion were the least of her flaws in their eyes.
She wondered what they would say if she told them how she came to be so sun-browned...which should be quite obvious to all.
But before coming to Town she'd also spent her time riding across the countryside in men's trousers, shooting game, jumping fences, and then, to cool off, stripping her garments to swim in secluded ponds...nothing between her and God's eyes, except the wind.
A secret smile curved her lips as she imagined their horror.
Short and dark... They could've described her much worse indeed.
They could've called her a bastard... She'd heard that often enough growing up.
They could've declared her unfit for their elite company... And yet, they dared not.
Her father was none other than Reginald Davies...a renowned gaming hell owner...better known as the king of London's underworld for all his dabbling in vice and corruption.
Perhaps not the most sterling of recommendations, but here she stood, in the ballroom of one of the ton's finest homes, the special friend of Her Grace, the Dowager Duchess of Sussex.
The guests could titter all they liked behind their hands, but abide her they would. Her fat dowry guaranteed that.
The dowager had made it widely known that Reginald Davies' daughters had her full-fledged stamp of approval. And if one wished for the dowager and her three grandsons to attend any fête, then the disreputable Davies were to be invited as well.
Gwen harboured no misconceptions concerning the dowager's generosity...
She knew she would never have gained the old dame's favour and entry past the doorman tonight, if not for the dowry her father dangled like a carrot before every bride-seeking blueblood of the ton.
The dowager possessed three grandsons... All as destitute as she was. And the only thing left to the Sussex title was...well, the title.
Just then the biddies discussing Gwen's flaws noticed her amid the fronds.
Their eyes bulged in affront... And it took every ounce of will she possessed not to stick her tongue out at them.
They might not like rubbing elbows with her kind, but their kind clearly needed her. At least they needed her father's money.
With noses in the air, they marched away...
Gwen pressed her fingers to her mouth, stifling a giggle. Then she moved from her hiding spot to refill her glass of lemon water...
With replenished drink in hand, she moved back down the buffet table and tucked herself once again behind the fern.
Once again out of sight...
Even better, two gentlemen chose to stand before the fern at that moment, making her even more inconspicuous. Especially as one of them was quite tall and successfully towered over the potted fern.
Feeling safe again, she took a refreshing sip and munched on another biscuit. Perhaps she could hide here all night until her father collected her...
But the mention of her name quickly quelled such daydreams...
'Holy hellfire! Again?'
Need she endure further slurs against her person?
Even though she knew she should simply turn and leave, she froze, her feet rooted to the parquet floor as she eyed the two figures before her.
While one was exceedingly tall, the other man barely came passed her chin...
"The Misses Davies are quite the catch, Arthur. We should not leave them off your list," the shorter man said.
Unease settled in the pit of Gwen's stomach at mention of a list... She failed to recognize either gentleman, but then she only had a view of their backs.
Still, the shorter man's shock of red hair would be hard to forget...
"These are the two bastards you mentioned?" the tall man demanded in a flat, emotionless voice.
Gwen bit back a gasp at this bald question, and glared at the back of his blonde head, her skin prickling with indignation at his rudeness.
He continued, his speech rolling and rich...
"The daughters of some unsavory criminal? And God only knows what female? Truly, Nigel, you must jest. They scarcely sound eligible. My kingdom is in dire straits, but not that dire. Grandfather would have a seizure at the mere suggestion of tainting the Pendragon bloodline with bastard blood. And you should well know that, cousin."
'He's a royal then? That explains the haughty attitude,' Gwen thought. She sniffed... 'Explains. Not pardons.'
She began chewing again, her teeth working with a vengeance as she glared between leafy fronds at this, this... Arthur.
He was big. And not just tall. Broad shoulders stretched the fine fabric of his evening attire.
She could not detect an ounce of fat, or a stitch of padding.
She sniffed again, indelicately...
His waist was trim, his hips narrow and lean... Not the standard among gentlemen of the ton. He reminded her more of the men back home... Men accustomed to hard work.
It was odd, to be certain. This arrogant peacock probably spent all of his time practicing fencing or some such worthless activity that kept him in passable shape.
She doubted he could do anything truly manly or strenuous...
She yanked at her biscuit with a savage tear, sending crumbs tumbling to the floor as she assessed what she could see of his rigid form...
'Bloody prig!'
He probably couldn't even sit a mount properly or shoot a rifle with enough skill to actually hit his target...
Why should his opinion matter?
Why should it sting so?
He was a faceless man that she could probably trounce.
'Because he only speaks what everyone here already thinks.'
Gwen shook her head slightly, frowning at the unwelcome thought. She'd known this wouldn't be easy... She was seen as an intruder and tolerated, not embraced.
Much as at home...
"I've been here a fortnight, Nigel," Arthur's voice rumbled deeply over the air. It was a manly rumble, Gwen was thinking. She might even have found his voice attractive if he hadn't proven himself an arrogant boor with every word uttered. "You promised to present me with viable candidates and this is all you can suggest to me? A pair of bastards with an ignominious father? Are the chits even lettered?"
Gwen's hand shook, the contents of her glass sloshing dangerously near the sides...
She inhaled an indignant breath... She was not one to lose her temper, but this man went too far, royal pedigree or not.
She might not have had the finest education, but the man she considered to be her true father, had taught her to read and write beside the evening fire in their small cottage.
What's more, he'd taught her about dignity...
About what it meant to possess true character...
Who was this jackanapes to make such aspersions against her?
He might have been born royal, but he clearly lacked any true sense of nobility.
"Well, you said you wanted to wed one of the wealthiest heiresses in England, and posthaste. It's not even the Season yet, Art. Half the ton is wintering in the country. And the Davies girls are perhaps the best to be had."
"Bloody hell!" Arthur ran a strong, capable-looking hand through hair that was a bit longer than fashionable on the top. Perhaps that was the style in his homeland. "I should've taken that ship for America. I require an heiress with an impeccable pedigree. I can't present some nobody with ignoble roots as the future queen of Camelot. Grandfather would perish on the spot."
Gwen swallowed...
He was a king?
Or soon to be?
She stood an arm's throw from a prince?
Her stomach heaved...
And she suddenly longed for home...
For cool, rolling hills of green and woods so thick, one could lose themselves forever.
That was home... That was familiar...
This ballroom with its columns and glittering chandeliers and liveried servants with silent, watchful gazes...was not.
In her world princes existed only in the safety of fairy tales. And there they were...well, princely. Honourable and charming and not above rescuing a simple maiden with ignoble roots.
They didn't sneer at the mention of someone like her... No. They would look her in the eyes, see the beauty within and sweep her off her feet.
He continued crisply,
"All the treasure in the world wouldn't tempt me enough to wed someone so common. Heiress or not. Come, Nigel, you dragged me here. Is there no one else to consider this night? If not, then let's waste no more of our time and take our leave. I have an audience with the queen on the morrow. Perhaps she will have a recommendation."
Gwen seethed...
'Indeed. Take your leave.'
"I'm certain you'll wish to linger," Nigel started. "I spotted the lovely Lady Barclay beckoning you. Apparently, she did not get enough of your company at the dinner party she hosted last week."
"Evidently not." The prince's voice took on a decidedly lascivious tone and Gwen could well guess at the lewd turn of his thoughts. "She served a welcome diversion," he ended.
Gwen felt her lip curl at his mild tones... Lady Barclay was a married woman. Apparently, he wasn't too noble to dally with a married lady.
'Arrogant pig!'
"Perhaps we can linger, Nigel," the prince continued lightly. "She might provide a diversion yet again and make this evening not a total loss."
"It needn't be a loss. Look, there's Lady Phillipa. I did not realize she was in attendance this eve. Her father is an earl with deep pockets. He made a fortune in railway. You may recall she's on the list I gave you. You should most certainly make her acquaintance."
"An earl's daughter certainly exceeds the thoroughly ineligible Davies chits you suggested."
Again, that cool, unfeeling tone chafed Gwen nerves...
"The kind of woman you wed, not bed, eh? That it?" Nigel chuckled.
"Precisely!" the prince agreed.
That did it!
Before she could stop herself, Gwen peeled back a handful of fronds and lifted her glass high, watching in rapt horror as her hand tilted the cup high against the prince's blonde haired head...
Tilting, tilting...
She watched as if the hand was not her own... And the glass someone else's...
The moment the lemon water struck Arthur's head, he burst out with an exclamation... An expletive, Gwen was certain from the fierce growl-like sound.
And she took immense satisfaction at the reaction.
She jumped back, letting the fronds settle back into place...
She held her breath, every muscle freezing as if that would make her somehow invisible...
Whirling around, Arthur swiped a large hand at the frothy green fronds, clearly determined to see just who had dared to give him a soaking...
His incensed gaze landed on her... And the breath she had been holding escaped her in a hiss at the sight of his glowering face.
Not precisely what she had been expecting...
Where was the weak-chinned dandy?
The pale-faced aristocrat who couldn't even lift a dainty hand to blow his own nose?
She scowled, exceedingly discomfited as she stared into a pair of fiery blue-grey eyes.
Blue-grey? She would not have thought such eyes were possible.
She finally found her breath again, recalling how to operate her lungs. And a ragged breath broke from her lips as she faced a single glaring truth...
His arrogance derived from more than his royal pedigree... He was gorgeous...
Those extraordinary eyes gleamed like fire down at her. Then his gaze drifted to the cup she had clutched in her fingers...
The now empty cup, which she rapidly tucked behind her skirts.
A sound that sounded suspiciously like a growl rumbled from the prince...
Blinking, Gwen snapped herself from her shocked stupor.
"I beg your pardon," she said in a sweetly false voice. "Did I spill my drink on you? How clumsy of me." She extended her crumpled napkin to him in offering. "It's such a mad crush in here. I must've been nudged."
She almost choked to hear herself suggest that she had spilled her drink accidentally... Through a potted plant no less...onto him.
Those blue-grey eyes flicked around them, clearly taking measure and seeing that no one stood near her.
Nigel, his cousin with the shock of red hair, stared wide-eyed at her...
There was more than scandalized horror in his gaze. It was almost as though he recognized her.
And, she realized, he very well could. Especially if she'd made it onto his blasted list.
Her father had dragged them about Town a good deal during the last fortnight, parading his long-lost daughters to a bevy of fortune-hunting bluebloods...
"Um, Art," Nigel began, but was silenced with a swiping hand.
That gesture, that swift slice of the prince's hand through the air, said everything about him...
That he was a man accustomed to being obeyed...
That he would expect nothing less than total deference... All for the mere matter of his birth.
A foul taste filled Gwen's mouth as he stared down the straight line of his nose at her.
Sadly, she knew firsthand that the matter of one's birth was not a mere nothing in this world. It mattered. She'd learned at an early age just how much.
Her lack of pedigree had marked her for ridicule...
Only marriage to a respectable gentleman would show the world that she was more than a circumstance of birth... More than a nothing.
But she would become a proper, respectable lady, and no one would dare toss slurs upon her again.
"Clumsy?"
Arthur arched an eyebrow superciliously. He studied the proffered handkerchief for a moment, as though fearing it tainted, before plucking it from Gwen's hand and wiping at the back of his hair and neck.
She held his accusing gaze, her eyes wide with feigned innocence even as anger simmered at a low burn in her veins.
With only a few words, the pompous jackass had brought out the worst in her, flooding her with memories of all the times the village children had taunted her.
"I do apologize," she lied sweetly.
"No need," he replied brusquely, staring at her with cold eyes. "I shall dry."
She bobbed her head.
"Indeed. No lasting damage."
'More the pity. You deserved more than a soaking,' she thought.
He angled his head to the side, staring at her almost in bemusement. He'd clearly detected her lack of sincerity.
Indifferent to the fact...even glad that he caught it...a satisfied smile curved Gwen's lips.
Lifting her skirts, she turned and marched away.
Even if she regretted her rash actions later, in this moment it felt good. She felt vindicated...
That imperious voice of the prince rang in her ears as he demanded of his cousin,
"Who in the hell was that?"
"I was trying to tell you. That is Miss Gwen Davies."
A heavy beat of silence fell. And then...
"Oh!"
Her smile deepened...
'Oh, indeed.'
Let him feel embarrassed...
Let him pursue her with an apology...
Then she heard his next words, and all her smug humour vanished...
"She's entirely what one would expect from a woman of low breeding."
Gwen hesitated for the barest moment, contemplating turning around and giving him a piece of her mind. Inhaling a deep, fortifying breath, she marched on, her steps quickening as she went, unable to hear any more...
Unable to bear it.
Thank you for your patience and concern. My boys are well and so am I. I'm just tired. Work is still as hectic as ever (6-7 days every week and sometimes split)
So, yay or nay?
I have two chapters(out-takes) of Masquerade that will shed some light on what happened to Penelope when she went to live with Lady Pendragon and so on... I will try to get them out between updates of this new story.
Stay safe!