Lancelot raised a brow. “Yes, my queen.”
“Damn right.”
She helped him ease out of his tunic, fingers brushing his ribs, careful of the stitches. His skin was warm, still tender, and her touch lingered longer than it needed to. He said nothing about it — only watched her, like the air between them had thickened.
“In the bath? Or with a rag?”
“Oh,in the bath, my sweet. My aching bones deserve it. And I deserve to see more of you, too.” He tugged her closer, fingers curling into her own shirt. “Take this off, now.” He practically growled.
“You have an open wound, you fool.” She chided him, but leaned her forehead against his.
He huffed a breath that was somewhere between a laugh and a groan, but didn’t press her. Instead, he let her help him into the basin — warm water climbing over bruised hips, stitched side, limbs that stretched awkwardly in the long wooden tub. He winced, but settled in with a satisfied sigh, arms resting lazily on either side.
Guinevere knelt beside the tub, sleeves rolled, dipping a rag into the water. She started with his shoulders, methodical and gentle, trying to ignore how his eyes never left her face.
He said nothing. Just watched her — the way her brow furrowed in concentration, the soft pinch in her lips, the brush of her fingers over his chest. Watched, and watched, until she narrowed her eyes.
“What?” she asked flatly.
“You’re very lovely when you’re trying to pretend this is purely medicinal.”
She swatted the rag against his collarbone. “You have an open wound.”
“Yes. I’mterriblyfragile.” His hand found her wrist and held it just so. “And the tub is very large. And I may pass out from effort unless I’m supported by a warm, willing body.”
“You’re a manipulative bastard.”
Pulling his wet hand out of the tub, he curled his fingers into her tunic, properly soaking her sleeve. “You’re all wet.” His voice was laced with the teasing mirth she was annoyingly so fond of. “Take this off. You’ll get sick.”
Guinevere rolled her eyes, trying to focus on her task of cleaning this wretched man in front of her.
“Mon amour.” Sound all too melodramatic as he pretended to slur his words with a grin. “Do you know the last time I saw a pair of breasts?” A pout pulled at his lips as he batted his eyelashes. “Yoursaremy favorite.”
“You’re incorrigible.”
“I’m dying.”
“You arenot.”
“I might be. My vision’s going fuzzy, and I swear I see an angel glaring at me.”
“You want me to shove your head under and keep it there?”
“That might kill me quicker.” He sighed dramatically, then glanced down at her dripping sleeve. “Besides, it’s cruel to leave a wounded man alone in all this water. I could slip. Drown. You’d never forgive yourself.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “You just want me naked.”
“That, too,” he said cheerfully.
She stood, jaw clenched, and for a moment he truly believed she might walk away. Then her hands went to the laces of her tunic.
He blinked. “Wait, that worked?”
“Don’t talk,” she warned, tugging the damp fabric over her head with a resigned sort of elegance. “You’ll ruin it.”
Lancelot clamped his mouth shut so fast it made a littleclick.
She stripped quickly, then stepped into the tub behind him. The water sloshed as she sank down, knees bracketing his hips, arms sliding around his chest. He let out a sound so indecent it made her laugh against his shoulder.
