Disarmed by Desire: Sons of Britain, #7

By Mia West

Sometimes it's love at first sight.

This is not one of those tales.

 

Once upon a time, Uthyr was young and strong, a warrior without peer. He had a son who someday would follow him into battle. A beautiful new wife to ease the pain of losing his first one. And he'd just wrested power from his abusive father to ensure his people's safety from Saxon invaders. Fortune was smiling on him.

 

Or perhaps having a good joke. For just when he thought he possessed everything he could ever want, she arrived.

 

~

 

On that day long ago, Britte was weary and uncertain. Driven from their homeland by a corrupt king, she and her family had crossed sea and mountains to find refuge. But she hadn't lost everything. She had a husband she loved deeply. Two healthy sons. A good trade—what village wouldn't need a blacksmith? And a mind too practical to allow fear to rule her.

 

But not so practical she could ignore the man who would rule her in nearly every respect.

 

DISARMED BY DESIRE is the 7th novel of the SONS OF BRITAIN series.

 

Tropes: enemies to lovers, unrequited love, hurt/comfort, slow burn

 

Content Notes: This story involves depictions/descriptions of abuse of power; pregnancy and childbirth; death in childbirth; battle violence; injuries including limb loss; ableism; terminal illness; spousal death; grief; homophobia; drugging of another person; murder. While this story does not involve physical cheating, the emotions of its protagonists are complex and conflicted.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mia West
• Release date: Dec 21, 2023
• ISBN: 9798224664955

Mia West

Mia West writes epic romance, two heroes at a time. Her story universe features warriors and blacksmiths, rescue swimmers and hockey players, treasure hunters and time travelers, and quite a few shifters. Her favorite hero: a grumpy f*cker who'll do anything for the man he loves. Most days, you can find Mia on AO3, where her universe is growing in real time, including bonus stories and works in progress.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Northern Cymru

Late winter, 530 CE

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Arthur glanced up from the muddy track toward the mountains in the distance. Almost there.

Lying cub, Bedwyr said behind him. What I wouldn’t give to be a bird shifter just now.

They knew five such folk, Arthur mused. Two magpies, two hawks, and an owl, his old mentor Philip. They were on this track thanks to Philip’s latest visit.

Back in deepest winter, he had brought them word that Arthur’s father had died. They’d been expecting it, but knowing it was coming and fully comprehending a world without his father in it had turned out to be two very different things. He’d spent several of the long, dark days walking alone in the forest that surrounded their refuge, trying to come to terms with it. With understanding that he and Cai and Mora were now the only physical evidence that their father had existed. That they were his legacy, for better or worse, and he wondered if his father had felt the same weight of responsibility after his own fathers had died.

Eventually, he emerged from the forest and his thoughts and rejoined winter life at the refuge. It was a time of rest for his men, and this winter a time of training for Medraut. And since Arthur had finally acknowledged Medraut as his son the previous autumn, that training had taken on a deeper dimension. He didn’t know if Medraut had felt the difference, but Arthur had, fed by an impulse to begin giving the lad something of what his father had given to him. He’d probably overdone it, keeping Medraut occupied between training sessions with tactical instruction and survival skills. More than once, the firm, warm weight of Bedwyr’s hand had come to rest on his shoulder, telling him without words that he could stop for the day. That the boy needed rest to allow his mind to work over what Arthur had tried to teach him. Then Bed had ensured that rest by dragging Arthur off to their own chamber and occupying him in closer pursuits.

All in all, it had been a good winter. He and his men had repaired what needed repairing. For once, they’d not run any missions for Rhys, but they hadn’t felt restless for it. Perhaps they’d all needed the rest.

Then, a few days ago, just as the snowdrops had broken through the mottled remains of snow cover, Philip had flown into the hall again. He’d accepted a hot cup of cider after he shifted, and a spot close to the fire pit to warm himself.

The cider, though, went mostly untouched. Uthyr has asked me to summon you and Bedwyr to the mountains, he said to Arthur.

Only us?

Yes.

Why?

I’m to tell you only that it’s imperative you come.

Is Mama well?

Something flickered across Philip’s expression, but too quickly to interpret. His smile was genuine, though. Yes, she’s well. I promise it.

And so he and Bedwyr had packed supplies and set out for the village high in the mountains of Cymru where they’d grown up.

They hadn’t been back since they’d left, fifteen years before. He had no reason to feel nervous; their old friends and neighbors knew of the bond he shared with Bedwyr—Uthyr had long since revealed it to his people with his own support behind it. But Arthur hadn’t seen his mother in all those years, and though he was a man grown, with countless battles under his belt and the scars and ink to remember them by, the fact that she had never traveled down the mountains to the river lands to visit had him wondering how she might greet him now.

They trekked, he and Bed, and the land rose under them. The change was gentle at first, and the roads well-worn and broad enough to walk side by side. Rolling meadows became high hills, and the roads narrowed to tracks, and then there they were: the mountains of their boyhood, rugged and snow-capped in the distance. He looked over at Bed to find him grinning.

Too long, eh?

Aye.

Their pace picked up the nearer they got, and they began to recognize things. This south-facing slope that served as protected grazing even in inclement weather. This lake, awfully cold to swim in and thus excellent for private trysts. That ridge, the third one over, near the top of which was the small cave where his grandfathers were laid to rest.

The northeast watch tower.

The unassuming woodland that hid a favorite hot spring.

The shepherd’s hut.

He was tempted to suggest they spend a night in the tiny structure, enjoy what warmth they might find there—what heat they might rekindle on their own—and he could read the same thoughts in Bedwyr’s expression. But they were too close now and the draw of curiosity too strong.

Curiosity and something else. Something like home, though they’d made a solid home for themselves and their men at the refuge. Nothing would ever supplant the place that had raised them both to men, he supposed. He felt it beneath his boots, the ancient yet ageless stone of the mountain, and the power in it rose up his limbs to beat in his chest. He halted on the track and turned to Bed. Took his head in his hands and kissed him. Bedwyr gripped his hair, kissing him back fiercely, and then, after a brief resting of their brows against each other, they walked the last short distance over a saddle and down the other side into their village.

It was nearly dark when they arrived. Arthur had thought he might catch his mother in her smithy, working late as she’d often done, but all was quiet as they made their way toward the hall. As they neared it, the low din of voices grew, as did Arthur’s excitement. He would see his sister, Mora. And Tiro, who was bound to be telling a tale over the fire. And the men he and Bed had trained with when they were lads themselves. Smoke rose from the hole in the hall’s roof, drawing them even as it disappeared into a darkening sky.

Arthur took hold of the great door’s handle. Ready?

As I’ll ever be.

Arthur opened the door, and they entered Uthyr’s hall.

It was much as he remembered it. Full of people eating and drinking, talking and laughing. Children and hounds galloped about, dodging among the support posts in the usual sort of chases. Fur and other trophies hung from the walls and beams, and fire danced in the central pits. The last time he’d been in this place, he was being banished from it. It’d been the worst night of his life, as certain as he’d been that he’d never see his family again. Never see Bed again, or hear him or touch him. But that night felt as distant now as the river lands. As far off as the Orcades, or Constantinopolis.

There was Tiro, gesturing as he spoke, just as Arthur had imagined, with Philip seated beside him. Arthur scanned the hall, and there! There was Mora, nearly as tall as he was, her copper hair in a plait on her shoulder. There, Lord Uthyr, who had summoned them, sitting on his great chair.

Someone noticed them then, and a cry went up. They were swarmed by old friends, pressed with smiles and exuberant embraces. When Mora threw her arms around him, she squeezed so tightly, he thought his ribs might crack. He held her away from him. When did you grow so tall?

While you were traipsing about the borderlands. But here, come greet Mama.

Grabbing his hand, she hauled him not to one of the benches along the wall, where his mother had always sat during the fire but toward the center of the hall. Uthyr rose from his chair to meet them with back-pounding greetings. Then he stepped away, uncharacteristically subdued, and looked to the woman seated beside his chair. Arthur hadn’t noticed her in the hub-bub of their welcome, for she sat as still and solid as the mountain itself.

And because her hair was no longer the fiery red it had remained in his memory, but nearly as gray as the iron she forged.

She didn’t stand, and his steps faltered. In her lap, her hands gripped one another, hard enough to make her knuckles shine in the firelight. Her mouth was set in a twist, her brow in a frown, and Arthur understood suddenly that she looked uncertain.

Then Uthyr reached over and laid a hand to her hair. Eigyr, he said, and in that touch—in the intimacy of it—Arthur realized his mother was seated in a place that had always been reserved.

For Uthyr’s woman.

He looked at Bed, who appeared to have worked this out a few steps before him and was watching for his response.

Arthur turned back to his mother, to Uthyr, to his mother again.

Seems you have a tale to tell, he said.

Chapter 2

Northern Cymru

Late autumn, 496 CE

––––––––

See there?

Where?

Uthyr bent and pointed, so that Bedwyr might look along the length of his arm to sight the figure. That bright star there is his eye. Those three, his head. Then up his back and curling ’round, his tail.

I see it!

Uthyr smiled at his son’s excitement. On a night like this one, long ago, his own father had shown him the great dragon in the sky, and he too had felt the power of it. It might have been the last useful thing his father had done. That’s the sign of our house.

Bedwyr looked up at him with wide eyes. It’s why folk call you Pen y Ddraig? The dragon in the sky is you?

It’s all of us.

Me too?

Something expanded in Uthyr’s chest. He enjoyed these moments with his son. A father couldn’t begin the teaching too early, and there was so much of Betrys in the boy. The quiet curiosity, the delight of recognition. Her loss still pained him sometimes, but seeing her in Bedwyr soothed the ache in his chest. She would be proud of their son, he was certain, if not proud of Uthyr himself. He made his expression stern, willed his voice to remain steady. You, especially. One day, when I can no longer lift my sword, you’ll take it up. Then you will be Pen y Ddraig.

As you did for Grandfather?

If the gods were good, the transition would be nothing like the one from Emrys to himself. Just so.

Bedwyr turned to gaze up at the stars again. What else?

Have you shown him the Bear?

They both turned at the low rasp of the Myrddin’s voice. Old Mabyn stood a few paces away, her long robes drawn close around her against the late-season chill. Her milky eyes gleamed in the moonlight.

There’s a bear in the sky? Bedwyr asked him.

Aye, just there. Next to the Ddraig’s tail.

Are they shieldmates, like you and Huw?

Uthyr chuckled. Because they stand side by side? Perhaps.

Is Huw the Bear?

No.

No, Old Mabyn echoed, and it reverberated through Uthyr’s bones.

The identity of the Bear had been a mystery among his people for a long time. Once in a while, someone tried to claim the sign, but none had ever lived up to its place next to the Dragon. And so Mabyn’s denial might have been only confirmation of that.

But on this night it felt different.

He pulled Bedwyr to his chest, assuring himself of the warmth of his small, sturdy body. Run along and get ready for sleep. Tomorrow will be a big day.

Goodnight, Ta.

Goodnight, son.

He rose and watched the lad run toward their house. Light from the hearth swept over the hillside as Bedwyr opened the door to go inside. He slammed it shut behind him, and Uthyr grunted ruefully. Anwen would try to train that out of him.

How is the night, Mistress Mabyn?

Dark and chill, as any night.

But it wasn’t just any night. Then how does tomorrow look?

Strange. Not a day for a wedding.

He turned to her in surprise. What do you mean?

She shook her head, and her silver plaits slithered over her shoulders like serpents. Something is coming.

Trouble? he nearly asked but bit it back. Bad luck even to think it, with so many of Cymru’s chieftains in the great hall at this moment. He couldn’t afford conflict among them, had his hands full convincing the more doubtful among them that wresting power from his father had been the right decision.

Instead, he pretended to peer at the sky. Snow?

Not snow.

And not that it mattered. Nothing short of an ice storm would keep him from marrying Anwen on the morrow, and in the event of such weather, they would simply move the ritual from the meadow into the hall. It would be a squeeze, but he would have no delays. The sooner he was bound to Anwen, the sooner his reign would appear steady.

And the sooner he’d have her in his bed, her body tight and grasping around his prick, begging for his seed. He had agreed to wait until they married, had respected her insistence on that measure of security for herself, but he wasn’t going to wait longer than necessary. The thought of her moonlight hair spread across the furs of his bed, her mysterious eyes drinking him in, her lips parted as she urged him deeper—

Keep your wits about you, Mabyn said, her voice like the scratch of a thorn.

He shrugged away from it. My wits are fine.

You should wait.

I marry tomorrow. Is everything ready?

She was silent for a few breaths. All is in place.

Good. I’m off to sleep. If you’d care to bless my marriage bed, it wouldn’t go amiss.

Old Mabyn squinted at the sky as if she could see anything there. Your bed will bear fruit.

He heaved a sigh at her grudging tone. Thank you. Goodnight, Mistress.

Goodnight, Lord Uthyr. May the Ddraig visit your dreams.

They would be graced by visions of his betrothed, more likely, but he nodded to the Myrddin and turned for his house, leaving the old woman and her vague words to the night.

~

Damn the crone.

Uthyr cursed her as he pulled on one boot, then again with the second, for he’d not spent the night before his wedding dreaming of Anwen. Instead, he’d tossed with nightmares in which he’d been beset by a great woolly bear, and for hours he’d tried to fend it off, again and again, until all he could see of it were its curving claws and gnashing teeth. The worst of it was he’d not fought it as the Ddraig, as should have been the case, but in his own form. By the time day broke, he was exhausted. He might never have gone to bed at all.

At least he was a few hours closer to finally claiming Anwen. As he fastened his belt, he smiled in grim satisfaction. Soon, he would take this same belt off again, and these boots and every other scrap he wore, and bury himself deep inside her, as was his right.

They walked in procession to the high meadow. Holding his arm with her small hands, Anwen looked like a creature from another plane. Short and slim, her long hair paler than summer sun on a lake. She favored him with a glance, and he couldn’t remember what had snagged his attention that first time at Rhys’s—her hair, her eyes, the softness of her hands, the low, beguiling pitch of her voice.

All of it, probably. He’d been ready, finally, to put away his grief for Betrys, and as if they’d been listening for him to decide that, the gods had presented him with this woman. She was nothing like Betrys. He wouldn’t lose half his heart to this one.

The ceremony happened much the same as it had the first time he’d married, though this time his impatience had a different edge to it. With Betrys, he’d smiled like a damned fool the entire time, and she’d radiated the same giddiness. Anwen’s smile was more reserved, prouder, and he let it feed his hunger. They said the words in turn, and Old Mabyn bound their wrists in the crimson leather. The moment she declared it done, he scooped Anwen into his arms and made for his house, to the hoots and cries of his people and guests. The ale and cakes would keep.

She seemed as eager as he did, and they fell onto the bed, rolling and tussling, all lashing tongues and scraping nails, until finally he pinned her under him.

I want you, he growled.

So take what’s your’s, she said.

He didn’t bother to undress further than jerking his trouser laces loose enough to shove them to his thighs. Pushing her skirts up, he slid into her wet heat, hard and throbbing, and stayed there, thrusting and striving to the sound of her breath in his ear and raucous chants outside, until the power gathered in his core and he shot inside her.

He would have liked to lie there for a time, feeling her soft pliancy beneath him, but her small hands pushed him off with a surprising strength. Still panting, he watched with approval as she slid a bolster under her hips, elevating them. That he recalled from Mabyn’s instructions before his first wedding, and he leaned in to kiss his wife.

She turned her head just before his lips could meet hers. I need to rest, my lord. You’ve planted your seed, and I won’t waste it.

He’d have been quite content to take his chances. He had plenty more where those shots had come from—what man of twenty-five years didn’t?

But he was pleased with her loyalty to his line and her determination to play her part in its continuance, and he did enjoy how she said my lord.

Rest then. I’ll send in the women with food and ale.

He emerged from his house to cheers. Rhys, his old friend and lord of the river lands northeast of the mountains, clapped him on the shoulder with a chuckled Well done

Reviews for Disarmed by Desire

[denny sargent · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Rillisnt writing and increasingly complex an interesting- nicework- keep it y
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