Wicked Games Read Online Free Page A

knees, then settled down opposite him with a sigh of appreciation. “This tub has to be the most wonderful gift you’ve ever given me.”
    â€œIncluding the emeralds?”
    She considered the question, head tilted, expression judicious. “Those were truly beautiful . . .” Her smile turned wicked. “But I do believe the view from here is even better.”
    â€œI can say the same of you, though honesty compels me to admit that necklace was as much a gift for me as for you. I do love the sight of those stones against your pale, pretty breasts.”
    â€œAnd here I thought you were just generous.”
    â€œOh, I am.” He grinned at her. “I’ve also been fascinated by those lovely tits since the day I met you.”
    Gwen gave herself a glance far more critical than the view deserved. “They are not as firm as they were when I was sixteen.”
    â€œThose were a girl’s breasts, my dear. Now they are a woman’s. Don’t underestimate the attractions of a lover who knows what he’s about.”
    Gwen laughed. “Flatterer.”
    â€œYou know better than that. I’ve never had the patience to think of pretty lies. The truth is so much easier to remember.”
    He smiled, relishing her return smile of appreciation. Her oval face looked soft and lovely, her large blue eyes smoky over full lips. Her maid had used combs to secure her hair atop her head in a messy pile of blond curls. If there was any silver among that gold, he’d never found it. Her body was still as lithe as a girl’s, her breasts pert, her legs long, lovely, and strong.
    His one regret in seventeen years of marriage was that he’d never been able to give her the child she’d wanted. And now, of course, it was too late.
    We’re left with Mordred, unless I can contrive to kill him.
    The thought made his gut coil into a sick knot of guilt and pain. When he was growing up, his own father’s love had seemed as unreachable as the moon; he’d been determined to serve his son better.
I should have saved myself the effort.
    Mordred had grown up to be as big a cold-blooded bastard as Uther. More so.
    At least Uther hadn’t wanted Arthur dead.
    â€¢Â Â Â â€¢Â Â Â â€¢
    K notting the thick leather belt around his waist, Arthur strode into the sleeping chamber, his chain mail hauberk ringing softly. As he closed the door behind him, he could hear women’s voices as the maid dressed Gwen’s hair.
    Knuckles banged the balustrade door in a decisive knock. “My liege?”
    â€œEnter, Lance.” He sat down on the bed and began pulling on his boots.
    His dearest friend strode in, dressed in a mail shirt almost as finely made as Arthur’s, his helm tucked under one arm. At thirty-nine, he was a big, dark-haired man, hard-eyed and steady. He was also the best swordsman Arthur had ever known—and the king had known many fine warriors over the years.
    â€œMy lord Lancelot.” Arthur gave him a formal nod and dropped into one of the chairs sitting beside the cold fireplace.
    Lance had never been slow at picking up on cues. He promptly dropped to one knee and bent his head, though as boyhood friends, they weren’t normally so formal. “My liege, how may I serve you?”
    â€œBe seated.” Arthur waved him toward the high-backed wooden chair Gwen normally occupied. “I would give you your orders before I begin this day’s work.”
    â€œOf course.” Lancelot rose to his feet as easily as if he wore wool rather than chain mail. The knight’s expression was coolly attentive, but there was a certain tension around his eyes that suggested some strong emotion roiled beneath his courtier’s mask.
    Arthur could make a pretty good guess what he was thinking. “You have my permission to speak, Sir Knight.”
    Lance paused as if choosing his words carefully. “Am I still your champion,