Arthur does not look pleased. His eyes glance over me without seeing me, and the scowl on his face makes me lift my chin and glare right back. He turns around and sails down the corridor.

  What just happened? My mind whirls. Did I just—did he—

  “Well, don’t just stand there, boy.” The king wallops the back of my head with his hand. “Go after him. He’s your master now.”

  My legs hurry to keep up with Arthur’s fast pace, but my mind is tripping. Manservant. I am manservant to Prince Arthur. Manservant to Prince Arthur! Is this a cruel trick of fate? A mockery for my sins?

  The keepers of Annwn know my sins are many. The constant buzz of the du’s whispers grows in my head.

  Prince Arthur turns down a corridor and goes up the stairs to the top floor of the manor, then leads us down a long, narrow hall. He disappears into a room near the end of the corridor, and I run to enter before the thick wooden door closes.

  My eyes sweep around the chamber. A tapestry depicting scenes of battle adorns the outer wall. Light enters the room through a tall leaded window beside the tapestry, revealing a stone platform with a metal brazier in the center of the room. The large canopy bed near two ornate wooden chests leans against the north wall, wood frame draped with fabrics in colors of deep red and gold. A thick fur rug rests at the foot of the bed.

  Torches mount the wall, though enough sunlight enters still that they are unlit. The beams on the ceiling are carved with the motifs of the Roman religion. A long table rests under the window, bearing a collection of vessels and weapons and even a quill.

  Purchased with the blood of the people, forced to labor and pay taxes to support his sumptuous lifestyle. My ruined village flashes behind my eyes, and the bitterness burns me.

  I’ve never seen such an embellished room.

  The room. His bedroom.

  We are alone in his room.

  I force myself to breathe calmly. He doesn’t know you’re a woman, I remind myself. He won’t hurt you.

  But I can’t shake the terror in my heart. This man is not like Gar or Rhys or even Hywel.

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  He takes what he wants.

  Kill him.

  The thought whispers through me, and I touch the outline of the dagger in my tunic. The du buzz closer, humming, and I remember the power that swept through me when I gave into the blood lust and the gwaed hud and slaughtered Prince Madoc.

  My inner thigh burns, and I bite my lip to keep from making a noise.

  He deserves to die.

  “What’s your name?” Arthur says, his voice gruff as he opens one of the chests and throws items onto the bed.

  “Myrddin,” I say, trying to control the tremble of my voice.

  “Myrddin.” He gives me a quick, stony look before throwing more clothes on the bed. “Do you know anything about being a manservant?”

  I shake my head. “No, sir.”

  He grumbles under his breath. “And who’s going to train you? Me, I suppose? Fine.” He selects a red tunic from the mess of clothing. “In the future, it will be your job to select what I wear.” He unbuckles his tunic and tosses the belt on the bed beside the clothing. “You’ll need to bring me my meals. Clean my room. Polish my armor and ready my horses if I’m leaving to hunt, or to fight, or to travel. Do my laundry. Prepare my bath.”

  His list goes on, but I’m not listening anymore. I suddenly realize what it means to be his manservant. I will be in close proximity to him—intimate proximity—daily.

  “Have you ever dressed someone?” he asks, holding out the red tunic.

  “No,” I say, and this time there’s no masking the quaver in my voice.

  He rolls his eyes, clearly put out with me. “It’s not hard. I’ll hold my arms out, you take off the gray tunic and slip on the red one.”

  That’s it? That’s all I have to do? “You can’t do that yourself?”

  He turns his head and glares at me. “Excuse me?”

  “Sire,” I amend. “You couldn’t do that on your own?”

  “Have you ever—never mind. I can get my hose on by myself, but these tunics are fitted to my size, and I would rip one if I tried. Satisfied?”

  He shakes the tunic at me again, but my heart rate has already slowed with relief. Only the tunics. If he can handle the trousers and under shift, I can handle the tops. I step forward and take the tunic from him. Immediately he lifts his arms forward and lowers his head. I avoid looking at his face and tug the light tunic off. For a moment, the fabric of his shift catches on the tunic and rises also, revealing his chest. His sculpted abs.

  My stomach clenches in an instinctive, visceral response at the sight of his body, startling me. My fingers splay outward with the sudden impulse to press my skin against his. I grab the fabric of his shift and yank it down, dousing the feverish desire. Clenching the tunic in my fist, I toss it aside, then push the red tunic over his head. I have to touch his hair to get his head through the hole, have to pull on his arms, then tug on the hem of the tunic to get it past his torso. I put as much space between his skin and my hands as I can, determined to touch him as little as possible.

  Then I step away, shaking with the effort. He eyes me as he belts the tunic, and his gaze arrests me. I want to gouge his eyes and put them in a box so I can look at them whenever I wish.

  I am torn between a desire to kill him and preserve him at the same time.

  “It’ll be all right,” he says, his tone abruptly gentler. “It gets easier.”

  I avert my eyes, breaking the hold his stormy gaze has on me. I force myself to nod.

  “Come on, then. Let’s see if you’re any better at serving food.”