He pressed forward, delivering a feint to the dummy’s left side and a strike to the right, his heart pounding from the effort. Sweat beaded his brow, but he didn’t stop to catch his breath before he tried the move again.

He didn’t understand what it was about the sarding wizard that got to him like this. Perhaps it wasn’t Merlin in particular, but the feeling of someone in his arms.

Maybe, if he spent more time with Guinevere, he’d start to dream of pressing his lips against hers, too. Although he doubted it. He found the princess beautiful, but ice cold. Like a sword worn too long in the snow. Whereas Merlin was a glowing blade, one he ached to hold.

No. Stop, he told himself forcefully, trying the feint again. The practice dummy wobbled at the force.

So he had feelings for the lad.

He’d get over them. He had to.

Because the last thing in the world he needed was to feel the way he did about that smug, insufferable wizard. Or to feel so indifferent about the girl who was going to become his wife.

Arthur sighed, wishing he knew what was going on. His head had never turned at the sight of another lad before. And when it came to beautiful women, he wasn’t without experience.

There had been the lady-in-waiting who was thrilled to be caught in his bed the next morning. Another girl who’d gathered a flock of courtiers eager to hear every sordid detail. A third who’d seized the opportunity to whisper in his ear about her father’s debts, hoping they might be forgiven. A fourth who had come to his room smelling of herbs that increased fertility, and had sworn it was merely perfume.

At sixteen, he’d been too eager to care about the girls’ motivations. But with each betrayal, he’d felt more and more foolish.

So he’d begun to make excuses, or slip unnoticed from the banquet hall through the servants’ stair. Alone in his room, he’d told himself a story about the girl he’d meet at university. He’d imagined her whenever he felt lonely.

And then his mother had died, and his heart had broken, and when he closed his eyes, he couldn’t imagine anything, or anyone, that would make him feel better.

So he didn’t understand what it was about the boy wizard that made his heart pound and his trousers go tight whenever the lad got near.

Merlin was on his mind whenever he went riding, or sipped a mug of coffee, or ducked into the library. And he couldn’t take his eyes off the wizard at supper. That was the worst. He didn’t understand how he was so painfully aware of Merlin’s presence, even from the other side of the Great Hall.

Sard, this was a mess. He was a mess.

And on top of everything, guests would start arriving for his father’s birthday festivities in a matter of days.