“What was that?” He spun on her, an eyebrow arched as he closed the distance between the two. “I don’t believe I’ve said anything about propriety, my queen.”
Her face flushed a deep red, quickly avoiding his gaze. The conversation she was recalling… was from the night of the revel. He wasn’t supposed to recognize her. She had been doing her best to keep the woman he danced with that night, and the queen that stood before him, separate.
“You’re entirely improper. What if I told the King of your wicked words?”
He took a step closer, pinching her chin gently between his fingers. “I would tell him I plan to fuck the rebellion out of you, Guinevere.”
“I-” Her jaw hung open, scowling at the man before her. A lithe smile plastered across his face, a smug arrogance that made her want to scream.
“Speechless, queen?” He teased. “The way I hear it, that’s on the line of impossible. I am honored.” He released her chin, bowing to her. “Now, come,” he moved around her, placing his hand on the small of her back and giving her a gentle push. “Before everyoneelsehears the unruly noises your stomach is making.”
He opened the door for her, offering another grand salute before entering. Lancelot stepped past her — or he tried to.
Before he could get too far, Gwen seized a handful of his tunic, dragging his face down to hers. With her lips near his ear, she breathed, “If you’re so eager to see what I am made of, knight, perhaps we should discuss thisin private. I would be more than happy to teach you proper manners.”
He opened his mouth to retort, but she was already several steps ahead of him, taking her place at the dining table. She settled herself, posture perfect as the servants made up a plate for her. “Won’t you come and eat, Sir Lancelot?” She called, looking up through her lashes.
Pushing her food around her plate, Gwen stole a glance at the knight sitting near her. He was absorbed in his meal, and the queen felt a hint of shame rising within her. She didn’t know this man.
She had been so wrapped up in the modicum of attention that he had been giving her, that she had beencraving, that she could have very well fallen into his trap.
He had all the makings of a rake — a man who knew what he wanted, and how to get her into his bed. And she had fallen for it not once, but twice now.
She was such a fool.
Angered a king, enamored with a knight, locked inside her own home. How had one evening detonated her life so entirely?
“You’re not eating, highness.” A voice dragged her from her thoughts, the venom behind the words giving her a start. “Something not to your liking?”
Her eyes met a pair as dark as coal, unyielding and unkind. “Good morning, Morgana.” She managed, bowing her head at her sister by marriage.
The woman’s smile didn’t meet her eyes. She was the antithesis of the queen, tall, with dark hair that framed her face like a painting. She could have been a goddess, if such a thing existed.
“My, sister,” Morgana sat in the seat to Gwen’s right, setting her goblet down in front of her with an almost feline grace. “You’re looking flushed. I do hope you aren’t falling ill.”
She had eyes everywhere — she always had. Guinevere could never measure up to the standard Morgana had set for a sister-in-law. No one would have been worthy of her younger brother.
But it seemed, over the years, that Gwen fell even shorter than that.
And after her midnight adventure… Morgana had been the one to incriminate her.
What else had she seen?
“It’s quite lucky you’re under Lance’s charge, sister dear. He’severso loyal. Did my brother tell you that the three of us grew up together? We wereinseparable.”
Gwen felt her ears burn, kept her eyes trained on the untouched meal in front of her. Her appetite had receded quickly.
“In fact,” the other woman continued, swirling the wine in her goblet. “Lance was always so protective. Once, when I pricked my finger on a thorn bush, he carried me all the way back to the palace.” She leaned forward, eyes alight with something dangerous as she looked on at the knight in front of her. “I imagine he’s just as… attentive now.”
“You and I remember that day much differently, my friend,” Lance interjected, laughing lightly. “You pricked your finger, but acted as though your legs wouldn’t support you. Arthur practicallybeggedme to carry you, so he didn’t have to do it himself.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Gwen watched as Morgana’s perfectly built mask slipped just a smidge. “Ah well, such a vivid imagination I must have had as a young girl. But you were always protective,weren’t you, dear?” Her gaze flicked back to the queen quickly. “To a fault, some might say.”
Guinevere swallowed hard. The walls felt as if they were inching closer, like the room itself knew she didn’t belong in it.
“You - you must remember those days so fondly.” She let out a small laugh — brittle and too soft. “He’s very kind,” she offered, hating the way her voice wavered at the edges.
Lancelot turned his head toward her, the corners of his smile dimming just slightly. Not enough to draw attention. But enough for her to feel it — the weight of his eyes. The quiet question in them.
