“I had no choice. ’Twas either me or her, and I knew if she left Nicky, he would go mad.”
He had to admit, she had a good enough reason. He asked and she told him about Nicholas’ family and the day they were attacked in the woods when Nicholas was seven. King Edward had taken him in, and she helped raise him.
“He’s fair and generous, honorable and stern,” she let him know. “Kes will continue to be very happy with him.”
It was what every father wanted to hear—that his daughter was married to a good man, but to know his son-in-law was a knight was more than he could ask for. Kestrel’s marriage to a true knight was worth coming here again, living a life here again.
It almost made him forget Guinevere for a moment.
Ah, the thorn in his and Merlin’s enchantment. They knew it was best, and they had both agreed. No one remembers. No one recognizes. They would never meet again. It was best.
But when it was all over, Arthur still remembered. He didn’t know how or why that part of the spell hadn’t worked on him. He remembered. He remembered them all. Their laughter had haunted him for fifty years. Well, all right, not fifty. When Kestrel was born, the voices quieted, laughter faded and was replaced with images and memories of his second wife and daughter.
But he remembered and it was agony remembering and not recognizing them. Elia could be Guin. The waitress could be her. Anyone. It was enough to drive him mad.
“So you’re coming here was a sacrifice you made for my daughter.”
“And for my Nicky,” she corrected.
He smiled.
“And,” she blushed. “As I said, for you.”
“But why?” He had to know why a fifteenth century woman would give up her life for a futuristic widow. “You didn’t know me.”
“I felt as if I did. Kes spoke of you often. She said you were a knight to her.”
Kestrel saw it in him. Nothing could have made him happier. Would she ever forgive him for not telling her who he was? It would have put her at terrible risk.
“And then when Sir Gawaine came—”
“What does he look like, this, Sir Gawaine?” He’d stayed away from everyone, so he never knew if it was just the remembering part of the spell that didn’t work on him.
“He’s tall, dark hair, straight nose, somewhat somber eyes—”
Did Gawaine remember him? Or had Morgan reversed the enchantment on him since he was working for her now? More likely if Gawaine was using the brooch to find him, he could have only gotten it from Morgan, and if Gawaine remembered him, he would never be working with Arthur’s enemy. So the answer to that question was no. He was hunting for him for Morgan. He wondered if she’d approached all his knights to help her search for their lord. What if this was Guinevere and she had been trying to find him for Morgan when Kestrel had arrived and spoke of him?
“Is everything all right, Mr. Lancaster?”
“Call me Art.”
“Not Charles?”
“My friends call me Art.”
“Or Arthur?”
Whoever she was, he wasn’t ready to tell her that. “Arthur feels very formal. I prefer Art.”
He paid the bill plus a generous tip and then helped her out of her chair.
“I just need a pair of boots,” she told him. “There is a small shop near the apartment that has a pair I like. And I will pay for them with my own money, Art.”
Delicate and bull-headed—just like Guin. No. He had to put Guin away for now. He could do it. He’d done it before.
“Very well. We shall do as you ask, Elianora, and then have a quiet dinner at home.”
She smiled and looked at him over her shoulder. “I would like that.”
