American Queen (New Camelot Book 1)

“And so if we turn back further than Geoffrey of Monmouth, back to the Annales Cambriae—that’s the Annals of Wales for those of you not up on your medieval Latin—we see the earliest mention of the Mordred figure, here called ‘Medraut.’”

The clack of keys on laptop keyboards echoes through the small classroom as the students furiously type out notes. The bulk of the undergrads here are actually pre-med or poli-sci, only taking my Arthurian Lit course to fill out their humanities credits, but that doesn’t stop them from striving for the highest scores. Georgetown isn’t cheap, after all, and a lot of the students here need to keep their grades up to retain scholarships and grants. And I empathize completely; only a couple months into this lecturing gig, I can still vividly remember the late nights and coffee-fueled mornings as I finished up my Master’s in Medieval Literature at Cambridge. Sometimes it’s still hard to believe I’m actually done, actually back in the States, actually doing a grown-up job with a nice leather briefcase and everything.

“Mordred is only mentioned as dying alongside King Arthur here,” I continue, moving from behind the podium over to the whiteboard, “and we are given no information as to his role in the battle, whether he was fighting against or alongside Arthur, whether he was Arthur’s son or nephew or simply just another warrior.”

I uncap a dry erase marker and start editing the family tree we’ve been working on as a class throughout the fall semester, writing a question mark next to Mordred’s name.

“The King Arthur legend is famous for many things—the Holy Grail and the Round Table, of course—but maybe it’s most famous for the epic love story between Lancelot and Guinevere.” I draw a heart between their two names on the board, and giggles ripple through the class. “But as we saw moving backward from Chretien de Troyes to Geoffrey of Monmouth, Lancelot was a character invented by the French to satisfy their need for courtly romance. He’s not in the earliest mentions of the legends at all.”

I cross out Lancelot’s name on the board, writing made up by the French above his name. More keys clacking.

“But there is the hint of another romance, older than the Lancelot story and even more dangerous.” I draw a new heart, this time between Mordred and Guinevere. “After the Annals, the next mentions we get of Mordred almost always depict him kidnapping the queen or trying to marry her. This is usually pointed to as the source of the strife between him and King Arthur—who long before being depicted as Mordred’s father or uncle may have simply been a romantic rival.”

I cap the marker and turn back to the podium. “I think Mordred, more than Lancelot, highlights the central problem of King Arthur’s court…which is that trust, love, and family don’t always come packaged together.”

I can hear the old wall clock behind me tick over, and the students slowly begin closing laptops and opening bags, trying to appear attentive but their minds already out the door.

“That’s all for today,” I announce. “Next week, we’ll start into the Welsh Triads. And don’t forget to submit your final project proposals!”

They finish packing up as I walk back to my desk to pack up my own things. A few students stop by with questions and to pick up graded assignments, and then I’m alone in the room.

For a few minutes after they’ve left, I stare out over the vacant seats, as if trying to remember something I’ve forgotten. I haven’t forgotten anything, of course, and nothing is wrong, but an empty restlessness chases after my mind all the same.

You have everything you need, I remind myself. A good job, a nice house, a grandfather who loves you, a cousin who’s your best friend.

I don’t need anything else. What I have is enough.

But then why do I feel so lost all the time?

My office at Georgetown is small and shared with two other lecturers, so it’s crammed with desks and file folders and books and stacks of neatly stapled handouts. I love it. I love it so much that I’ve been known to sleep here instead of my small townhouse near Dumbarton Park (which of course, I can only afford to live in because it belongs to Grandpa Leo and he refuses to hear anything about me paying rent.) It’s something about being in the old stone building, alone in the hallway of mostly empty offices, the darkness falling through the office window…it’s easier to remember why I sought out this life. A life of books instead of kisses. A life where Merlin’s warning doesn’t feel like a curse, but a choice.

I’m used to working late into the night, to being the last one left in the English department, and tonight’s no different. I grade a few papers and then move on to the book I’m trying to write—a literary examination of kingship as chronicled through the multiplicity of Arthurian legends throughout the ages.

I know it sounds boring, but really, I promise it’s not. At least not to me. After all, I met a real wizard once, my very own Merlin…even though as an adult I can laugh down the idea of magic and tell myself that his warning was nothing more than nonsense.

After all, I ignored it twice and nothing happened.

Other than my heart breaking both times, nothing happened.

I’m buried deep in my own mind, trying to recreate a line of thought I had last night about leadership in the Dark Ages, when the back of my neck prickles with awareness, as if someone is standing behind me.

Someone is.

I turn in my chair to see a man leaning against the doorway, arms crossed over a muscular chest, his bright blue suit stretching across his shoulders. Even with the jacket buttoned, I can see the way his tailored pants hug his hips and thighs, the way his white silk tie lies flat against the tight button-down underneath.

I tilt my face up to his, swallowing.

Ice-blue eyes and day-old stubble. High cheekbones and a straight nose, full lips and a tall aristocratic brow. A face made for brooding on a moor somewhere, a face made for Victorian novels or Regency period dramas, the face of the prototypical elitist stranger at a ball in a Jane Austen book.

Except this man’s no stranger to me.

Embry Moore.

Vice President Embry Moore.

I scramble to my feet. “Mr. Vice President,” I manage. “I didn’t—”

His eyes crinkle at the edges. He’s actually a year younger than President Colchester, who took office only six months before turning thirty-six, but years of sunshine and four tours of duty have given him the tiniest lines around his eyes, visible only when he smiles.

Like right now.

I swallow again. “How can I help you, Mr. Vice President?”

“Please don’t call me that.”

“Okay. How can I help you, Mr. Moore?”

He steps forward into the office, and I can smell him. Something with bite—pepper maybe. Or citrus.

“Well, Ms. Galloway, I wondered if you were free for dinner tonight.”

Oh God.

I peer around him, and he waves a hand. “My security detail is waiting for me at the end of the hall. They can’t hear us.”

I should ask him why he’s here, why he’s at Georgetown, in my office, at nearly midnight. I should ask why he didn’t call or email or have some secretary chase me down. Instead, I ask, “Isn’t it a little late for dinner?”

He glances at his watch without uncrossing his arms. “Maybe, but I’m confident that any restaurant you’d pick would be happy to open up for me. Or open up for you—I’m pretty sure there isn’t anyone in this town that doesn’t still owe Leo Galloway a favor or two.”

“I don’t throw my grandfather’s name around,” I say, a little reproachfully. “I don’t like the way it makes me feel.”

“Just because you want to forget who you are doesn’t mean the rest of us can forget you.” His voice is soft.

I take a step back. I swallow. A subdued and dignified anger, sculpted into a careful, quiet shape after five years, rises from its slumber. Because, of course, Embry had once been very good at forgetting me.

“Why are you hiding away here?” he asks, uncrossing his arms and taking a step forward. His voice is still soft, too soft, the kind of soft that croons promises in your ear and then breaks them.

I should know.

“I’m not hiding,” I say, tilting my head at my desk, stacked high with papers and books and Moleskin journals. “I’m working. I’m teaching, I’m writing a book. I’m happy.”

Embry takes another step forward, swallowing up the space in my office with one long stride. He’s close enough that I can smell him again, a smell that hasn’t changed after all this time.

I close my eyes for a minute, trying to reorient myself.

“You never were a good liar,” he murmurs, and when I open my eyes, he’s so close to me that I could reach out and run my fingers along his jaw. I don’t, turning my head away and looking out the window instead.

“I’m not lying,” I lie.

“Come to dinner with me,” he says, changing tactics. “We’ve got a lot to catch up on.”

“Five years.” The words are pointed, and to his credit, he doesn’t parry them away.

“Five years,” he acknowledges.

Strange that such a long time can sound so short.

I sigh. “I can’t have dinner with you. If I’m seen out with you, then my face will end up on Buzzfeed and all over Twitter, and I can’t handle that.”

Embry is listening to me, but he’s also reaching out to touch a strand of white-gold hair that’s fallen free from my bun. “That’s why we’re going late. To an unannounced place. No one will know but me and you and the chef.”

“And the Secret Service.”

Embry shrugs, his eyes starting to crinkle again. “They won’t write their tell-all memoirs until after they’ve retired. Until then, our dinner is safe.”

I can say no. I know I can, although I’ve never been able to say it to Embry. But I don’t want to say no. I don’t want to go to the pristine townhouse, impeccably furnished and impossibly soulless, and spend another night alone in my bed. I don’t want to be staring up at the ceiling of my bedroom, replaying every moment, every glance, my hand stealing under the sheets as I remember the citrus-pepper scent and the way the shadows fell across Embry’s cheeks. I don’t want to be whipping myself for another wasted night, another missed chance…especially with him.

Just for one night, I can pretend I’m someone else.

“Dinner,” I say, finally conceding, and he grins. “But that’s it.”

He holds up his hands. “I’ll be as chaste as a priest. I promise.”

“I hear not all priests are that chaste these days.”

“Chaste as a nun then.”

I reach for my trench coat by the rack near my desk, and he grabs it for me, holding it open for me to step into. It’s attentive and intimate and charming while being dangerous—all the things I remember Embry being, and I can’t make eye contact as I step into the coat and belt it closed over my blouse and pencil skirt. For a moment—just a tiny, brief moment—I imagine I feel his lips on my hair. I step and turn, facing him and trying to keep my distance all at the same time.

Embry notices, and his smile fades a little. “I’ll take care of you, Greer. You don’t have to be afraid of me.”

Oh, but I am. And not a little bit afraid of myself.

Teller’s is a small Italian restaurant a few blocks away from campus, and it’s one of those delicious tiny places that’s been around forever. Embry doesn’t seem surprised when I suggest it, and after a few phone calls and a very short trip in a black Cadillac, we are inside the old bank building being seated. We’re the only ones there, the waiter’s footsteps echoing on the cold marble floor and the lights dimmed except for those around our table, but the chef and the servers are nothing but polite and happy to feed us. The Secret Service find discreet and distant points in the dining room to stand, and for a moment, without them in sight, with Embry’s suit jacket thrown carelessly over the back of a nearby chair, I can pretend that this is normal. A normal dinner, a normal conversation.

I take a small drink of the cocktail on the table, trying to wash away history, drown it in gin. My history with Embry is hopelessly tangled up in my history with someone else, and as long as I let that someone else cast a shadow over our dinner, there’s no way I can hope to have a conversation that isn’t strained with pain and regret. The only answer is to put everything in a box and shovel gravel on top and bury it until it suffocates.

“How have you been?” Embry finally asks, sitting back in his chair. I try not to notice the way his shirt strains around his muscular shoulders, the way the lines of his neck disappear into the bleach-white collar of his shirt, but it’s impossible. He’s impossible not to notice, he’s impossible not to crave; even now, my fingers twitch with the imagined feeling of running them along his neck, of slowly unbuttoning his shirt.

“I’ve been fine,” I finally manage. “Settling into my new job.”

He nods, the candlelight at the table catching on his eyelashes and casting shadows along his cheekbones. “So it seems. I bet you’re an amazing teacher.”

I think of my lonely classroom, my silent office, my pervasive restlessness.

I change the subject. “And your job? Being Vice President? There’s more to it than being photographed with a different woman every night, I’m sure.”

The old Embry would have laughed at this, grinned or winked or started bragging. This Embry sits forward and stares at me over his cocktail glass, his hands coming together in his lap. “Yes,” he says quietly. “There is more to it than that.”

“Mr. Moore—”

“Call me that one more time, and I’ll have you arrested for sedition.”

“Fine. Embry…what am I doing here?”

He takes a deep breath.

“The President wants you to meet with him.”

Off all the things he could have said…of all the reasons I thought I might be sitting across the table from a man I haven’t spoken with in five years…

“President Colchester,” I say. “Maxen Colchester. That President?”

“As far as I know, there’s only the one,” he replies.

I take a drink from my cocktail, trying to keep my motions controlled and my expressions blank, although I know how pointless that is with Embry Moore. When I first met him, he was a servant to his emotions, impulsive and moody. But in the last five years, he’s become the master of deliberate, studied behavior, and I know by the way his eyes flicker across my face that I’m not fooling him at all.

I set down my drink with a sigh, abandoning all pretense of calm. Like he said before, I’ve never been a good liar and I hate lying anyway.

“I’m a little confused,” I admit. “Unless the President wants to talk about the influence of Anglo-Saxon poetry on Norman literary traditions, I don’t see why he’d want to talk to me.”

Embry raises an eyebrow. “You don’t?”

I glance down at my hands. On my right pointer finger, there is the world’s smallest scar—so small it can’t be seen. It can only be discerned in the way it disrupts the looping whorls of my fingerprint, a tiny white notch in a tiny white ridge.

A needle of a scar, a hot knife of a memory.

The smell of fire and leather.

Firm lips on my skin.

The warm crimson of blood.

“I don’t,” I confirm. I have hopes, I have fantasies, I have a memory so powerful it punishes me nightly, but none of those things are real. And this is real life right now. This is the Vice President, that is the Secret Service over there, and I have a stack of papers waiting to be graded at home.

I’m not sixteen anymore, and anyway, I told myself that I was putting that other man in a box and burying him.

“He saw you at your church last week,” Embry finally says. “Did you see him?”

“Of course I saw him,” I sigh. “It’s hard to miss it when the President of the United States attends Mass at your church.”

“And you didn’t say hello?”

I throw up my hands. “Hello, Mr. President, I met you once ten years ago. Peace be with you, and also the left communion line is the fastest?”

“You know it’s not like that.”

“Do I?” I demand, leaning forward. Embry’s eyes fall to my chest, where my blouse has gaped open. I straighten, smoothing the fabric back into place, trying to ignore the heat in my belly at Embry’s stare. “He was surrounded by Secret Service anyway. I wouldn’t have been able to say hello even if I wanted to.”

“He wants to see you,” Embry repeats.

“I can’t believe he even remembers me.”

“There you go again, assuming people forget about you. It would be sweet if it wasn’t so frustrating.”

“Tell me why he wants to see me.”

Embry’s blue eyes glitter in the dim light as he reaches for my hand. And then he lifts it to his lips, kissing the scarred fingertip with a careful, premeditated slowness. Kissing a scar that he should know nothing about.

My chest threatens to crack open.

“Why you?” I ask, my voice breaking. “Why are you here instead of him?”

“He sent me. He wants to be here so badly, but you know how watched he is. Especially with Jenny—”

Darkness falls like a curtain over the table.

Jenny.

President Colchester’s wife.

Late wife.

“It’s only been a year since the funeral, and Merlin thinks it’s too soon for Max to step out of the ‘tragic widower’ role. So there can’t be any emails or phone calls,” Embry says. “Not yet. You understand.”

I do. I do understand. I grew up in this world, and even though I never wanted to be part of it, I understand scandal and PR and crisis management as well as I understand medieval literature.

“And so he sent you.”

“He sent me.”

I look down at my hand, still held tightly by Embry’s. How did I end up tangled with these two men? The two most powerful men in the free world?

This is real life, Greer. Say no. Say no to Embry, and for God’s sake, say no to the President.

I breathe in.

Fire and leather. Blood and kisses.

I breathe out.

“I’ll see him. Tell him I’ll see him.”

I don’t miss the pain that flares in Embry’s eyes, pain that he quickly hides.

“Consider it done,” he says.