AUTHOR'S NOTE: This will be a quick chapter in between two longer ones. Having Tristan witness Morgan's magical abilities so early in their "relationship" was bound to raise a lot of questions—in Tristan's mind as well as yours, dear readers. Through this chapter I hope to address some of those questions—and possibly raise a few more. Once again, I ask you to please read and review. And if you have any suggestions for the story or concerns regarding my characterization of our "hero," do bring them to my attention!

A BIG THANK YOU to my beta Kris and all of my reviewers.

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TRISTAN'S CHOICE

CHAPTER FIVE

Tristan almost did not go to the tavern that night. Not because he was afraid of Morgan—though he was not above admitting to himself that he felt a certain respect for the magical power she wielded. He would be foolish not to. But fear? No. He did not, would not, fear the girl.

Tristan almost did not go because, as much as he wanted to bed her, he also wanted to avoid complications. And becoming entangled with someone like her portended all kinds of complications—even when such entanglement was strictly carnal. Already, he could feel the first sticky thread of the intricate web that was Morgan weave itself around him, and ensnare him: he knew her secret. And for some reason he could not fully understand—whether it be their one night of shared intimacy or his unwitting admiration for her defiance of the Romans—Tristan felt honor-bound to keep that secret.

So he tried to talk himself out of going. He tried while he stood in Arthur's apartments and gave his commander a precise, detailed account of his reconnaissance mission. He tried as he joined a much-surprised Galahad and an even more surprised Lancelot in the estate's expansive and luxurious bath. And he kept trying when he left them still soaking in the steamy water and went to his bedchamber to put on clean clothes and eat his evening meal.

Tristan tried to talk himself out of going even as his feet carried him out the door and down the cobbled street toward the tavern. In the end the pull of the girl proved too much, and he decided to just go with it—for now.

As he walked, the thought occurred to him that she might have ensorcelled him, but he instantly discarded that possibility. He was under no illusions about Morgan, or his relationship with her.

If she became too much of a complication—if she became a problem—he simply would kill her.

He had never hit or battered or otherwise hurt a woman, but he had killed plenty in battles against the Woads.

Up ahead the bright lights of the tavern came into view, but instead of heading toward them straight away, Tristan moved unseen into the shadows. He stopped at the dark street corner where he had first seen Morgan two weeks earlier, and she had seen him. At the time, her keen perception had surprised him, but now that he knew the truth about her, it made perfect sense. And it unsettled him to accept that he would never be able to hide from her like he did from the rest of the world.

It unsettled him—and thrilled him at the same time. Should they ever cross swords—in a manner of speaking—Morgan would make a worthy adversary.

He stood in the shadows—alert and silent and utterly still—and stalked her with his eyes as she gracefully moved from one end of the open-air tavern to another, serving wine and ale to the early evening crowd. She seldom spoke to the customers, and she never smiled at them—and that pleased him. Sometimes she would disappear behind an arch or column or a too-tall man, and Tristan waited patiently for her to reappear without moving from his spot. Not for the first time, he realized that he enjoyed watching her.

She no longer wore the plain homespun of the afternoon but rather her red Roman dress—her whoring dress, Tristan now knew. The color and severity of the garment suited her, and he apparently was not the only one to think so. He saw other eyes follow her slender form across the open room—admiring, yearning eyes that belonged to men still sober enough to appreciate quality when they saw it. She out-classed each and every one of them.

For a few, short-lived moments, he let his curiosity get the better of him and he wondered at her past. How could someone like her end up a slave and a prostitute? With her gift of healing magic, she would find welcome—and a safe haven—among any number of pagan tribes in Britain. Certainly the Woads to the north would take her in. Did she not realize this? At the very least, she could bewitch her master into freeing her without him ever being the wiser. Weak, unsuspecting men were susceptible to such manipulation. And in Tristan's opinion, brothel keepers were little more than leeches and bullies who preyed on forgotten, unwanted young women.

The scout lowered his gaze and shook his head in bewilderment. The girl was an enigma—one which, he now reminded himself, he was determined not to unravel. So he quelled his curiosity and shifted his attention back to the tavern—only to see her stop and say a few words to Gawain, after the knight grabbed her arm and pulled her close. And it was Gawain—there was no mistaking the hair, though his back was to the street. Tristan nodded his head thoughtfully, as he watched Morgan briefly pat the knight's shoulder and disappear behind another column. The golden knight might have been asking for more ale or some bread and cheese, but somehow Tristan doubted it.

Perhaps it was time for him to come out of the shadows. Perhaps it was time for him to stake his own claim. But no sooner did he take a step forward than Morgan appeared at the arched entrance of the tavern and turned to face his corner on the far side of the street.

Despite the darkness that surrounded him, her large, solemn eyes immediately locked onto his. Tristan drew in a sharp breath, and his tall, black-clad figure stiffened and stilled. He should have expected it—and truly it came as no surprise. Yet, once again, it unsettled him. She unsettled him.

For a while the two of them remained frozen in place, neither making a move toward the other, neither speaking. Only watching, but what she could actually see of him he did not know.

There was an air of isolation about her person that struck a chord inside of him, as she stood beneath the stone arch with the bright lights and revelry behind her and the dark, silent street in front. Her expression was carefully guarded—almost serene—but her hands clutched her heavy skirts so tightly that Tristan could see the white of her knucklebones from where he stood. Morgan was afraid. And well she should be, he thought, if she had indeed spotted him in the alleyway earlier that afternoon.

When at last she took a step toward him, Tristan also moved forward. They slowly walked toward one another until they met midway in the dimly lit street. No more than a pace separated them now. He could feel the heat from her body; it warmed his insides. He could feel the tension rise between them—a living, breathing thing—even as she casually leaned her head back and stared into his eyes with an equanimity he knew she did not feel.

She searched his face for a long moment, as if trying to reach into his thoughts, then finally said, "You saw." Her voice was little more than a whisper.

It was not a question and Tristan knew she referred to the incident in the alleyway.

"I saw."

Morgan bit her lip. "Are you going to tell?" And he almost smiled at how childlike she sounded. He looked at her with enigmatic eyes and did not immediately answer. She cleared her throat and repeated more firmly, "Are you going to tell?"

The Romans? Never, he thought to himself, but said, "Not unless you give me cause."

She let out a slow breath, and released her skirts from her hands' stranglehold.

"I have never hurt an innocent person," she told him. She sounded calm and confident now, yet her eyes beseeched him to believe her. They both knew he held her life in his hands.

"What about Gilley?" Tristan asked, deliberately misunderstanding her. Bors' son was only a young boy, after all, and Morgan had hit him hard.

She flinched at the reminder, and amended her words. "I have never hurt an innocent with magic."

This time Tristan did smile. Those were telling words indeed. She had never hurt an innocent with magic. He leaned ever so close until his nose almost touched hers. "And the guilty?" he asked softly.

He had meant the question more as a joke, really, and expected her to take it as such. Instead, Morgan's eyes went wide, and for an instant, he saw a wild, panicky look come over her face before she lowered her head and stepped back. When she met his eyes again a moment later, the guarded expression was back in place. She said nothing.

He could almost have imagined it—the panicky look was so fleeting—but Tristan knew better. He had his answer, and her continued silence confirmed it. Morgan might balk at hurting the innocent with sorcery, but the guilty might not be so lucky. Once more he reluctantly found himself wondering what she was doing here in Camboglanna. Why did she remain a whore and a slave? And who might she consider "the guilty" to be if not her master?

Tristan studied her face with curious intensity for answers that did not come—answers to questions he would never ask her directly. He did not want complications.

She lifted her chin a notch—was it in fear? Or defiance?—when he closed the distance between them and raised his hands to her shoulders. Her body instantly stiffened when he touched her, and the soft skin of her face tightened over delicate cheeks. Still she did not speak. Tristan knew that she was bracing herself for his next words.

"Your secret is safe with me," he told her at last, emphasizing each word with a gentle squeeze from his long fingers. The ends of her collarbones felt fragile beneath his hands—he could probably snap them into pieces without much effort. But why would he ever want to? Why would he ever want to when what he really wanted, was to pull down her bodice and run his fingers and his tongue down their narrow length?

"You are safe with me," he reassured her further. Even if she wasn't.

Morgan visibly relaxed at his words and offered him a tentative smile. "Thank you."

Tristan smiled back and let go of her slender shoulders, as he shook free of his disturbing thoughts. And then, because he had wondered earlier about the animal, he asked, "Was it yours?"

Surprisingly, she understood him. "The dog? No…just a stray."

Just a stray? "You risk much for something you don't love," he observed.

"So do you. Every day." Morgan countered, and he quirked an eyebrow in surprise. She tilted her head to one side and eyed him quizzically. "Tell me, do you love the Romans? And the cause you fight for? Do you even love your commander and your fellow knights? I think perhaps not. Yet you risk your life for them every single day."

She was not mistaken, Tristan conceded. But it was different for him. While he might not love them, he shared a certain camaraderie with Arthur and the other knights. And if that was not reason enough to risk his life, there was always the other, more important reason. He loved the thrill of the kill.

"I am a warrior, Morgan." He always would be.

"I am too," she affirmed. "Not all battles are fought with swords and spears, my Lord Knight."

Indeed. Tristan slowly nodded his head, and tried to ignore the small stab of pleasure he felt at the way she had addressed him.

Then she gave him a small, ironic smile. "I may be the lowliest of slaves…yet, unlike you, I get to choose my own battles. And I chose to fight for that stray," she told him in a quiet voice.

Tristan's eyes narrowed. He had underestimated her yet again. Morgan might not talk much, but when she did, she did not waste her time on frivolities. Behind her subdued, unassuming manner, she possessed a keen intelligence and independence of spirit that he could only admire—not to mention a fiery temper. The lowliest of slaves? He no longer believed it.

And because he honestly wanted to know—and against his better judgment—he now asked, "But why did you choose?"

Morgan did not answer right away. Instead, she dropped her gaze to his shirt, and busily chewed on her lip. Tristan knew she was debating what to tell him, and he regretted asking.

Complications. He could almost feel the next sticky thread wrap itself around him.

She sighed, loudly enough for him to hear her exhale, then looked up again. Her gaze was steady and her voice calm and resolute when she replied, "I thought that dog more worthy of life than I do most people. Does that shock you?"

"No," he said simply. And it did not, coming from her. He understood Morgan, because he himself felt that way about his horse and his hawk. He himself felt that way about people. He did not like people as a rule, let alone love them, and she obviously did not either. He recalled what she had said earlier about never hurting an innocent, and almost asked her, "Who are the guilty?" but refrained. He had asked enough questions already—too many, in fact.

Tristan came here with a purpose in mind, and it was time he followed through with it. His eyes boldly roamed her slight figure before settling on her face again. He let them smolder and let her see—there was no mistaking his intentions. He heard her gasp in surprise, and a brief, satisfied smile tipped the corners of his mouth. He withdrew a coin from his pocket and took hold of her small hand with both of his. Then he placed the coin in her palm and gently closed her fingers around it one by one, and caressed the inside of her wrist with his thumb.

She made no move to reclaim her hand or return the coin, but shook her head regretfully. "I cannot. I am already claimed."

"Who?" he asked—as if he didn't already know.

"The golden-haired knight."

Gawain. Tristan let go of her hand. "Keep my coin, Morgan. Return his. I will be waiting in the corner for you to finish your work." It would be a long wait—hours possibly—but as a scout, he was used to it and if he could settle his business with her here, then there was no need to enter the tavern at all. He preferred to stand alone and watch her from the shadows.

Morgan quickly nodded her agreement. Whether she felt indebted to him for his silence or actually favored him over Gawain, Tristan did not know. When he started to walk away from her, she grabbed the sleeve of his black linen shirt. He stopped but did not turn around, and she stepped closer until she was almost pressed against his back.

"Why me?" she whispered, and he twisted his head so that he could look down at her upturned face. Her expression gave nothing away beyond simple curiosity, but there was an earnest, pleading quality to her voice that she could not quite hide. It disturbed him.

"Why would you want to, knowing what you do about me?" she insisted.

Why, indeed. The girl reeked of complications.

"Do not make more of this than it is, Morgan. A man has needs—and your body suits me," he told her bluntly. He looked away, but not before he saw the raw hurt enter her dark eyes. He did not tell her that he almost always took care of his own needs—and that tonight was all about want.

Then, as he resumed his walk toward the corner, he added, as an afterthought, "You do not frighten me, girl. You do not frighten me…"

By the time he disappeared once again into the shadows and turned around, she was back inside the tavern. And as his eyes followed her graceful figure from one table to the next, he smiled grimly and reflected that his short interlude with Morgan was quite possibly the longest conversation he had ever had with a woman in his life…

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