Ever After (9 page)

“W
ell hello, handsome,” Guinevere purred, striking a provocative pose in the doorway to the modest home she'd rented in a quiet Connecticut suburb. I'd expected her to have taken an apartment or even a swanky hotel room during her stay in New York City, so it was quite a surprise when the address she'd given me after accepting my invitation to dinner was in a sleepy little town that was a not inconsiderable train ride away from the big city.

The house was a two-story Colonial that could've passed for a typical middle-class family's home. It sat on a wooded lot surrounded by a proliferation of mature trees that had shed their leaves for the fall. Smoke curled from the chimney, lending the scene a quiet simplicity that was in direct odds with the woman in a bright red silk dress that was only long enough to be barely decent and which sported a neckline that plunged down to her navel. Her blond hair was swept up into a messy knot at the crown of her head, giving the illusion that she'd already had a tumble in bed that evening—or, hell, maybe she had.

“You're looking particularly lovely this evening,” I told her, meaning every word of it, for she truly did—even though I found myself preferring a black leather pantsuit and ponytail to the
do me
dress Guinevere was modeling. I offered her my arm. “Shall we?”

But instead of taking my arm, she grabbed my tie and pulled me inside. “I thought we'd dine in tonight,” she informed me, swinging the door shut and pressing her back to it, blocking my exit.

I inclined my head politely. “If that is what you want, I'm happy to comply.” Which couldn't have been further from the truth. Arabella had suggested that I take Guinevere out to dinner for a couple of hours so that she could have the freedom to move through the house swiftly without detection. “But are you certain you wouldn't prefer to dine in the city? A dress such as that is meant to be seen and admired—as is the woman wearing it.”

“A dress like this,” she replied with a sultry grin, “is meant to be seen and admired for only as long as it takes for a man to remove it.” She glanced off to her right, where I could hear the rhythmic cadence of a grandfather clock. She raised a brow at me and stepped back from the door to allow me in. “Tick-tock, Mr. Montrose.”

I inclined my head in a polite nod and stepped inside, hoping Arabella found that damned ring before the situation became too uncomfortable. Thanks to Fabrizio's reconnaissance, we'd been led to believe that Guinevere was alone this evening, most of her staff having been given the night off. Which made me wonder who had prepared the dinner I could smell from where I stood in the foyer. Having an unaccounted for servant certainly complicated our plan.

“This is a lovely home,” I said as I followed her into a room that adjoined the foyer. It was a comfortable sitting room with rather generic furniture that could easily be accessorized to represent pretty much any decorating scheme from rustic to French country. Currently, it was very much a minimalist setting with sharp lines and angles, modern artwork with bright splashes of color, and not much other composition hanging on the walls.

I fought back a cringe at the artwork, not impressed in the least. I wasn't a fan of this particular school of art even on a good day, but the painting hanging to the left of the fireplace, little more than random circles of various colors and a few tread marks, was especially off-putting. There was something about it that made me uneasy—as if I should've seen through the kindergarten quality to something more profound, but it was completely lost on me.

The room's only redeeming quality was the fire that blazed in the hearth behind a glass screen. The soft pop and hiss of the flames soothed away a few of the room's harsh edges, but even the fire was more for décor and ambiance than for warming the room.

“Would you care for a drink?” Guinevere asked, sidling over to a sideboard cabinet that contained an assortment of crystal decanters and matching glasses. “You strike me as a man who would prefer a cognac on a crisp autumn night. Am I right?”

“You're very astute,” I said with a smile.

When she turned her back to pour the drink, I sent a quick glance behind me, startled to see Arabella in the doorway, her mouth agape.

What the hell is she wearing?
she mouthed, gesturing toward Guinevere's barely-there dress.

I gave her a stern look and gestured for her to get out of sight. She looked torn between storming into the room and snatching Guinevere bald and bolting up the stairs, but then her eyes went wide and she darted from the doorway, apparently deciding that the latter option was the better choice. Her cloak flared out behind her but vanished just as Guinevere turned back around.

“Here you are,” Guinevere said, calling my attention back to her. She handed me one of the snifters, stepping closer as she took a sip from her own.

I sipped the amber liquid, enjoying the smooth warmth as it traveled down my throat. I immediately recognized the taste. The king's favorite—and not at all affordable to the average person. If it was the vintage I suspected, the bottle had fetched a price upward of several thousand dollars. Not exactly what one would expect on the income Guinevere claimed. “This is a fantastic Courvoisier L'Esprit—and well aged, if I'm not mistaken. How did you come by it?”

She laughed lightly. “Why am I wasting my money on expensive cognac on my modest income, you mean?” She didn't wait for me to respond before adding, “It was a gift. As was this home and everything in it. It's temporary, of course. I will be returning to London in a week if nothing else should keep me here.”

“And you'll be taking the relics with you?” I reasoned.

She took another slow sip of the brandy, then replied, “All but those that were stolen, of course.”

“Of course.”

“Have you any leads on who might've taken them?” she asked, gliding gracefully to a small sofa just wide enough for two. She draped herself quite artfully upon it, turning her body to allow me a glimpse of the side of her breast.

“Not yet,” I told her truthfully. Since Arabella had confirmed someone else had stolen the relics from the Met before she'd had a chance to get to them, I couldn't even guess at another suspect. All I could hope was that when I talked to Trish Muffet, she might have a lead from the information she'd gathered at the crime scene. “But, rest assured, I will continue to investigate the matter and do everything I can to ensure that the items are returned to their rightful owner.”

Her lips curved into a tight smile. “I'm sure you will, Mr. Montrose. From what I hear, you are a man of your word.”

I narrowed my eyes behind my shades, wondering whom she'd been talking to. And why the words, which were so sweetly said, nonetheless seemed tainted by distrust. “I certainly hope so. I always try to be.”

She patted the couch beside her. “Please, join me. We have a few moments before dinner. I want to hear what it is you do for the king.”

I glanced around the room for a viable alternative, but the larger sofa was far enough away that sitting there would've been such a pointed refusal to cozy up with Guinevere that I feared it would interfere with my ability to keep her attention on me and not on Arabella's mission upstairs. And the only chair in the room was a delicate thing that never would've stood up to my large build.

I moved to join her, sending my gaze toward the foyer once more. The moment I settled next to Guinevere, she turned toward me, placing her hand lightly on my thigh.

“So, tell me,” she drawled, her voice going breathy, “what does your service to His Majesty entail?”

I cleared my throat, hoping she didn't move that lovely hand any higher, biological responses being what they were. “I am primarily his bodyguard and warden of the Seelie family. Their protection is my responsibility. I am also the master of the guards and personal assistant to the king. If there is anything he desires, I am charged with procuring it.”

She arched a pale brow at me. “Indeed? And Queen Mab? Do you serve her as well?”

“She has very little use for me,” I told her honestly.

Guinevere shook her head solemnly on a sigh. “What an idiot this queen must be. Were I in her place, I would have many uses for you, Mr. Montrose, I guarantee you.”

I had no doubt of that. I'd heard enough stories about Guinevere to know that a number of Arthur's knights had been quite delighted to be at her beck and call and to perform whatever task she requested of them. The risk of Arthur discovering them performing such
service
to their queen apparently paled in comparison to the rewards the queen herself provided.

Not quite sure how to respond, I inclined my head. “I am delighted to know that my lady would think me equal to any task she required.”

Guinevere shifted slightly so that her calf caressed mine as she crossed her legs, causing the hem of her dress to rise to a level that revealed she wore nothing beneath. “And I know exactly what task I would set you to first.”

She slid her hand farther up my thigh, damn it all, her lips curling into a lascivious grin. Instinctively, my hand clamped down on hers, halting her progress. When I saw the look of offended pride come into her eyes, I offered her a smile. “My lady,” I said mildly. “I believe dinner is ready.”

She opened her mouth to refute me, but at that moment a lovely maid in an old-fashioned black-and-white uniform entered the room with a polite cough. “Your dinner awaits, m'lady.”

I rose and offered my hand to Guinevere to help her rise.

“Oh, you
are
good,” she breathed, letting her hand drift across my chest as she turned toward the doorway.

Relieved to have avoided offending Guinevere with a more pointed refusal of her advances, I blew out a quiet sigh and shook my head, wondering how Arabella was doing upstairs.

The dinner that had been prepared for us rivaled anything I'd eaten at the king's palace or elsewhere. Each dish was more delicious than the previous, and the wine that accompanied each course was beyond compare. I gathered that each of the bottles was also a gift from Guinevere's benefactor as the least expensive of them I knew to cost over 300 dollars.

As the wine continued to flow, Guinevere became less fixated on her intention to drag me to bed and more focused on the relics that had gone missing from her collection at the museum.

“I know everyone thinks that I didn't love Arthur,” she mused over our filet mignon, “but I truly did. I loved him so desperately. All I ever wanted was for him to love me in return.”

I frowned slightly at this, finding it a strange remark, considering the stories we'd all learned of their time together. “But I thought yours was a love match.”

She laughed bitterly. “On my end, but to Arthur, I was merely an advantageous connection. I was beautiful, accomplished, and considered to be a proper queen for him. But he never loved me, never wanted me. My God, we only slept together once the entire marriage. Why do you think we had no children?”

I shook my head, surprised by the information she'd imparted. “I always assumed that it was because of Morgana. She was certainly powerful enough. Everyone has pretty much assumed that she placed a hex upon you to keep you barren.”

Guinevere shook her head. “Poor Morgana. So misunderstood. I wish she'd come over to the Here and Now with us to make a fresh start instead of being trapped in her horrible story in Make Believe. You see, she held no malice toward me or toward Arthur. Yes, Arthur rejected Mordred as his son, but who wouldn't? I mean, the boy was born of incest. But neither Morgana nor Arthur realized they were brother and sister when they were together.”

My brows shot up. “Indeed?”

“Arthur was the only one who mattered to Uther, you see,” Guinevere explained. “He sent Morgana away to be raised by a witch in the village. His offspring grew up with no knowledge of their relation to one another. And Arthur was barely a man when he met Morgana and bedded her. Neither of them knew how to keep a child from being conceived and nature took its course. But when the truth became known, Arthur couldn't acknowledge such a child as heir to the throne. Morgana understood and accepted that.”

“And so, the animosity between them?” I prompted.

Guinevere shrugged. “Nonexistent. Mordred knew his father, spent time with us at the castle, was raised as a nobleman. He died in battle, this is true, but it wasn't at Arthur's hand. And Arthur was quite devastated by his loss. As was I. I'd always craved a large family, and Mordred was the closest thing to a son I was ever to have.”

“Unbelievable.” I sat back in my chair, marveling at how the legend had been misrepresented. But I shouldn't have been surprised when this was the case for so many of us. Still, it made me wonder even more at Arthur's dual existence in Make Believe and the Here and Now and how he came to know Nimue.

“I know people think me a heartless trollop because of my relationship with Lancelot,” Guinevere told me, her speech slurring just a little but not enough to hide the sorrow in her voice at the mention of her infamous lover. “But what would you have done? If you were living a lie and the person to whom you were wedded didn't return your affections? Would you have wallowed in loneliness forever, hoping by some miracle that person would one day grow to love you in return? Or would you accept the love and adoration that was so freely offered elsewhere?”

“I don't know that anyone would blame you if they knew the whole story,” I told her. “Living without love isn't easy for anyone, let alone a Tale.”

The look she gave me was so filled with gratitude it pained me. I felt sorry for Guinevere now that I understood her better. I saw through her advances. She wasn't just some oversexed siren. She was deeply, miserably lonely and longed to be loved and adored just as any other person would be. And like so many others of us Tales, she was a victim of her reputation, most of which was woefully misrepresented.