Queen's Heart: An Arthurian Paranormal Romance (Arthurian Hearts Book 2) Read online

  QUEEN’S HEART

  A sexy historical paranormal.

  Includes M/F, M/M and light menage.

  As if Yseult's life weren't complicated enough...

  The mysterious harper with the sculpted body of a god who she heals of a poisoned wound is actually a nephew of King Mark of Cornwall. He's the renowned knight, Tristan, and he harbors a dark and deadly secret.

  When Yseult's father gives her to the aging King Mark in a marriage of convenience, a love spell meant to ease her heart goes awry, bonding her and Tristan instead.

  Meanwhile, one of the fae—a shifter who runs with The Wild Hunt—has been cursed to live as a man until he can capture the heart of a human queen. Falling helplessly in love with Yseult, he becomes Tristan's greatest friend—and greatest rival.

  Caught between the despair of the king she's married to, the knight who's sworn to her, and the fae who will have her at any cost, it's Yseult who's destined to lose no matter which man wins.

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  MORE TITLES BY PHOENIX SULLIVAN

  Arthurian Hearts Series

  (Arthurian Paranormal Romance)

  HEARTSONG (Book 1)

  QUEEN’S HEART (Book 2)

  ~

  Arthurian

  (Non-Paranormal with Romance Elements)

  SPOIL OF WAR

  ~

  Medical Thriller

  SECTOR C

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  Copyright © 2015 by Phoenix Sullivan

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without the written permission of publisher or author, except where permitted by law.

  PROLOGUE

  EDRUN

  To hell with love.

  No heart deserves to be shattered the way mine was. No life deserves to be reft of the one constant that makes sense out of an increasingly senseless world.

  Brinn was my all—my present, my past, my destiny.

  When she died, I was broken. I thought there could be no greater pain this side of Avalon.

  I was wrong.

  Had our story ended with an iron-tipped arrow and my lifeless Brinn, I would have accepted and conquered that all-consuming grief—in time. But to learn she not only lived who I had given up for dead but that her heart now sang for another was joy and pain bound so tight it left no room for breath.

  Perhaps even at that I could have found my way to forgiveness and peace. I would have howled my grief to the cold stars and my dearest pack would have howled beside me, forever offering their unconditional support.

  But the thing that maddened me beyond all reason, that cut my soul in two and shook each piece in turn as would a rabid wolf, was that she had abandoned me—son of Herne, leader of The Wild Hunt—for two mortal princelings whose lives are mere candle flicks to the wildfires that are fae.

  Fae and men do not bond.

  Fae and men do not mate.

  Fae and men cannot love.

  Some laws of nature are incontrovertible.

  My heart lashed out at this vile and unnatural thing my Brinn had become. For months I fed on my bitterness, blaming Brinn for her weakness and myself for being the fool, and shielding my heart from further pain.

  I did not understand why my beloved father smiled all the while at his broken son when he should have been gnashing his teeth beside me. I grew to hate that patronizing look he bestowed upon me whenever I thought to lay bare my pain before him.

  It never occurred to me Father and Nature were conspiring to teach this fool of a fae a soul-deep lesson about natural laws, pain’s true strength, and heartsong’s benefaction.

  CHAPTER ONE

  YSEULT

  Even when I was but a girl I recognized the cradle-to-grave sameness most women were born to. Arranged marriage and baby after baby for the privileged; back-breaking work, squalor and baby after baby for the poor.

  I knew better than to dream. Regularly my ears were filled with cautionary tales of women who did dare to dream of a different life only to be rewarded with hardship far removed from that which they imagined.

  “You are the daughter of a king,” my mother lessoned me. “Accept the future which that means. Where would you be had I not bowed to the inescapable?”

  Not bound to the same tedious life as you, I wanted to retort, but held my tongue instead to avoid her inevitable sad and withering look.

  Still, privately, in my head and in my heart, I dared to dream: of adventure, of difference, of love so bold and grand even the stars would be abashed.

  Aye, I got all that—and more.

  I should have listened to my mother.

  ~ ~ ~

  “Yseult, come help! Your father needs you!”

  My normal mouse of a handmaid plucked frantically at the hem of my overgown and the mourning cloth in my lap I was stitching tumbled to the stone floor. When Brangien didn’t shrink from the sharp look I turned on her, I knew this wasn’t some imagined slight or overlooked task that needed righting.

  “What is it?”

  “A harper, my Lady. Wounded. Unto death, perhaps. He’s dressed in a noble’s finery.”

  “A stranger?”

  “Washed up to the shores of Whitehaven in a boat with only a harp and sword by his side, they say.”

  Harp and sword. Peace and war. My curiosity was piqued, but it didn’t answer why I was being called to help.

  “Surely the chirurgeon would be better suited to care for a death wound.” I reached to retrieve the cloth on the floor.

  Brangien stepped in closer than courtesy and gripped my hands in hers. “There’s poison in it, they think. It’s both the chirurgeon’s skill and yours needed, my Lady.”

  Poison. That was something I knew about. Mother had taught me its craft along with a potion spell or two. Natural magics such as women knew, not the magics of druids and sorcerers and the fae of the forests.

  I put aside the mourning cloth I’d been stitching in honor of The Morholt, my uncle, slain and put to ground not two days ago.

  “Take me to this harper lord.”

  ~ ~ ~

  They’d laid him on a pallet in a corner of the Great Hall. I had to push past my father and a half dozen knights to get to him. Ranulf, the chirurgeon, was already there. On a brazier set beside him, a small pot of pennywort had taken smoke, the sweetly acrid scent tingling in my nose as I drew near.

  On sight of the harper, my breath clutched in my chest. Either one of the knights or the chirurgeon had stripped the harper to his waist. The deep gash at the peak of his right shoulder was red and rude against his light tan. The breadth of those shoulders was staggering, certainly surpassing that of any of the men currently in the Hall, though each of them practiced at the quintain almost daily with greatswords and the new fashion of shields half the size of doors that, locked together during battle, presented a near-impenetrable wall to the enemy.

  The burl of the harper’s shoulders flowed easily into the hard curves of his chest pleasingly thatched with dark hair that thinned as it reached the ridges of his taut waist.

  I could only guess at what lay between the narrow flanks modestly covered by
linen breeches, but my imagination eagerly supplied the details.

  When I peered into his face, looking beyond the sweat-sheen of pain and fever that gripped him, I saw the strong-jawed profile of a fierce and confident yeoman.

  In all, this extraordinarily fit and handsome man had doubtless seen more sword play than harp play. And when I knelt beside him to further examine the heated wound at the base of his neck where a blade had bit deep into the flesh, I saw also the myriad fine scars that traced his skin. The mystery, though, of who and what he was would have to wait.

  “What manner of knave would use a poisoned blade on another knight?” I hissed.

  “If you can cure him, we’ll doubtless have the answer,” my father said, most reasonably.

  “If Ranulf can keep the contagion from the wound, I can draw the poison from it. But if it’s spread too thoroughly already into the rest of his body…” I sincerely hoped to save this errant harper-knight. “The wound is at least two days old. Where did he come from?”

  “He washed up in a skiff, strumming and singing like a madman or fool. When my men went to collect him, he collapsed from the fever. Perhaps someone here will recognize his sword. Otherwise, none of his rings identify him and he carried only a small blank buckler. Do what you can for him. Both of you.” Father swept Ranulf the chirurgeon into his glance as well. “If you need your mother, I’ll see she’s available.” He strode off then to whatever duties awaited, taking the knights with him.

  Brangien hurried to my side as soon as they left. Not for the first time was I grateful for her attentiveness. In some ways, my pretty handmaid and I were as close as sisters despite our different stations. Her gaze lingered over the bare chest of our visitor before she asked, “What medicants do you need?”

  I named the herbs I thought would help. “Ranulf, do you need others?”

  The chirurgeon shook his head and pointed to the small bag he was already pulling bandages and balm from. Then he frowned. “I could use a fat-bladed dagger and a cloth to wrap the hilt.”

  Brangien left at a run to fetch the items needed.

  Meanwhile, Ranulf laid a slim, finely tempered knife with an edge as keen as I’d ever seen on the grate directly over the fire in the brazier. After a few moments he turned the blade to heat the second side and handed me a wooden stick. “Put this between his teeth and hold it there so he doesn’t bite through his tongue.” He tossed a pinch of dried dead-nettle into the brazier and the smoke sweetened in response.

  I ran my hand up along the other side of the harper’s neck from where the gash was, feeling the fever-heat beneath the surprisingly soft skin. My own heart echoed the race of pulse that beat kestrel-quick under my fingertips. My palms ached to follow the hard curves of his chest, and only Ranulf’s presence tempered that temptation.

  “My Lady, I’m ready.”

  I nodded and slid the stick over full and perfect lips. “Bite,” I instructed, unsure whether he was too far gone with fever to understand. His lower jaw twitched in response. Or it could have been my imagination so faint was the pressure applied.

  A flurry of footsteps announced Brangien’s return. “Will this do?” She held a dagger half the length of her arm with a blade as wide as her hand at its base.

  “As well as any,” Ranulf said. “Now heat the flat side as hot as you can.” He removed the slim knife from the brazier grate to make room. “He’s lucky he came to us when he did.”

  I nodded. I had seen wounds filled with contagion that took weeks to cure. Without the complication of poison, this one would heal quickly. As it was…

  Easing my left hand beneath the harper’s jaw, I held the bite stick in place with my right.

  Two swift cuts and the first of it was over, with only a small whimper and a hardening of his jaw to indicate he was half-aware enough to feel the pain. The chirurgeon let it bleed out. Although I knew it necessary to cleanse both wound and body, I grew alarmed at the amount Ranulf let flow when the harper grew so weak that his jaw slacked around the bite stick.

  “Surely that’s enough—” I began.

  Apparently Ranulf thought so too as he moved almost at the same time to snatch the dagger from the brazier by its winding cloth handle. “Hold him,” he commanded.

  Quickly he laid the heated steel over the raw wound. At its first touch the harper flinched, but pain and poison drove him into a blessed swoon. My nose wrinkled at the stench of branded flesh.

  After a moment it was over. Ranulf returned the dagger to the brazier in case the flow of blood was not fully staunched and it was needed again. I held my breath, my eyes riveted on the wound until after the space of a hundred heartbeats it was clear Ranulf’s ministrations were successful.

  “My part is done.” Ranulf was curt but confident as he packed away his tools and medicants. “The rest is up to you. Send for me only if contagion sets in. He looks to be a strong young man otherwise. If the poison hasn’t spread too far, you have a chance to save him.”

  He must have sensed my doubt for he laid a sure hand over mine. “Trust your abilities, my Lady. Your Queen Mother taught you well.” With that he claimed his bag and headed off to other duties, leaving Brangien and me alone to tend the half-naked stranger washed upon our shores.

  CHAPTER TWO

  TRISTAN

  Under a pair of the fairest and wisest hands I’ve ever known, I woke to a world I thought never to see again. Wounds I’d known before—my body was traced with the scars of them. But the poison… only a base-born villain would tip his weapon with so vile a means to defeat his foe.

  I shuddered. I had ears and a brain and lay in a corner of one of the busiest rooms in this fair woman’s keep. Fate does indeed have a sense of the most perverse of humors. When I could gather wits and voice enough, I asked, “My Lady, why do your men mourn?” if only to hear her confirm what I already guessed.

  When she stopped spreading balm into my wounded shoulder I wished I hadn’t spoken. When she curled a hand against my chest and peered with concern into my opened eyes, I was glad I had. Gladder still when she broke into a smile so radiant my poisoned heart skipped a beat at the sight.

  “Seems Ranulf was right. You will live.”

  I did my best to smile back. “I hope that wasn’t the answer to my question.”

  Her laugh was like springtime. And ended just as quickly when I hoped it would go on forever. “Of course not. They mourn my uncle. Who didn’t live.”

  “I’m sorry. You were close?”

  “He was a very powerful man, in body and holdings both. And he was kin. It is our duty to mourn, but I doubt any were close to The Morholt.”

  My poisoned blood froze. “The Morholt? Sir Marhaus? I’ve heard songs of him. A giant among men and first knight to the Irish king, was he not? How did he die?”

  “In battle. King Mark of Cornwall refused to pay his yearly tribute and sent a champion in its place. He and The Morholt fought and by some deviousness Mark’s man slew my uncle.”

  “Deviousness? You believe the fight was not a fair one?”

  The flawless expanse above the lady’s storm-colored eyes creased as she gave thought to that.

  “Cornwall has had no champion before now skilled enough to defeat The Morholt. Whitehaven’s knights do not wish to believe there is one now. It makes it easier to hate.”

  “And what of you, my Lady? Do you wish to hate as well?”

  Her hauntingly naked stare bore its way into my very soul. “I wish the truth, whatever may come of it.”

  Did she already know what I’d just come to realize? In my delirium I’d landed upon the Irish shore at Whitehaven, home to The Morholt’s sister and his closest kin. Who were even now providing succor to the champion who’d slain him. Fairly I might add, while it was the great and respected Marhaus who had struck me with a poisoned blade.

  I struggled to sit, though still so weak the lady easily pushed me down again. “Not yet,” she whispered.

  Fever clawed at me still. Not ye
t? Whitehaven was home to fifty knights who all answered to the queen who was The Morholt’s sister. One word of revenge from her while I lay helpless on a pallet in her hall and I could be beheaded or quartered or run through by a score of swords.

  Was that what the queen’s daughter meant when she entreated Not yet? That I was to lay here till my punishment could be decided? Willing myself calm, I glanced about, finding my harp and sword against the near wall, a good two arm-lengths away.

  In haste I made a decision that had little of valor in it, but that gave me my only chance at life so long as I remained at Whitehaven. “If you would, my Lady, I would have my harp by me. The Morholt’s death needs a song. I will fashion one for him—for you—and sing it when I am whole again. If it pleases you.”

  Here in Whitehaven Hall I would play the harper not the knight, hoping if God wanted me alive he would see to it no one recognized me during my convalescence. Which, the longer I gazed upon the halo of hair spun from the sun’s very rays and her skin of freshest buttercream, the more I hoped my stay would be a long one.

  She moved my harp to within arm’s reach. “That would please me very much… and I would be even more pleased if the harper would tell me his name.”

  So lost was I in the gray-blue sea of her eyes fixed so intently on mine, I could barely remember the name her household would all despise me by let alone devise a cunning one to replace it.

  “Drustan,” I told her, embarrassed at once by the vulgarity of simply taking on another form of my own name. Cupping my wound, I eyed the bandages, pretending it was pain distracting me and making me hesitate over offering up a name that should be as close to thought as a second skin.

  “Drustan,” she repeated, and the name didn’t sound half so inadequate seasoned by the sweet lilt of her voice. “Call me Yseult.”

  “But my Lady—”

  “You are a guest and clearly not of Whitehaven. My name should not frighten you.”