She sniffed, angry at herself for letting him worm his way back into her bones so easily. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” A small, unwilling smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.
“No,” he said softly. “But I am glad I’ll be with you.”
She didn’t respond. Couldn’t, really.
The words sat heavy between them, and for a flicker of a second, it felt like the world had stilled — like the walls, the cold stone floors. Even the danger waiting in the shadows had taken a breath and leaned in.
Lancelot moved to his chest of drawers, rifling through the top one until he pulled out a folded pair of breeches and a plain linen tunic. “They’ll be big on you,” he said, not looking up. “But they’ll do.”
Guinevere accepted the clothes without a word, her fingers brushing his only briefly — but it was enough. Enough for her to remember the heat in his hand when he’d held her back from the poisoned tray. Enough to remind her of the ache she was trying not to feel.
“I’ll wait outside while you change,” he said, already turning toward the door.
“Why?” she asked before she could stop herself. “I thought you weren’t letting me out of your sight.”
He paused, hand on the latch, and glanced over his shoulder with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Even I have limits, your grace.”
Gwen made quick work of changing into his clothes, trying desperately to ignore how intoxicating it was to be surrounded by his smell.
“Lance,” she called softly, presuming that he hadn’t gone far.
The door opened before she could finish saying his name. “Your grace?”
She tried not to laugh as she held her arms out. “I look like a child, knight.” She mock scolded. The sleeves of his shirt hung well below her hands, and his breeches puddled at her feet. “I can’t possibly run away under these circumstances.”
Her guard laughed, pressing his hand to his mouth in a failed attempt to stifle the sound. “May I?” He took a step closer, taking one sleeve in his hand.
She nodded, raising an eyebrow as she watched him carefully,so carefully, rolled the sleeves up, folding it over her wrist. He repeated the action before kneeling before her. “Sit, please.” His voice was tender, as if she hadn’t tried to push him just moments ago.
She sat on the edge of the bed without a word, pulse fluttering somewhere behind her ribs. Lancelot knelt before her with quiet purpose, deft fingers gathering the too-long fabric at her ankles. He rolled the cuffs of the breeches with careful hands, his head bowed, brow furrowed in focus.
“There,” He said finally, gently patting her calf as he rose. “Now you won’t trip over yourself.”
He offered a hand to her.
She should have hesitated.
She didn’t.
“Is this what you imagined when you returned to Camelot?” Her smile was warm, but her voice was tight. “Dressing a queen in your old trousers and tunic?”
“I dared not imagine anything, your grace.” His words were as light as the air around them. “I just know I am the luckiest knight-to-be in all the realm.”
They stood there in the silence, eyes locked, frozen. She couldn’tmove. Couldn’t breathe. “Lance,” she whispered, tears burning in her eyes.
“Let me pack my things, then we’ll be off.”
11
She returned his cloak to him before they left the castle. It only seemed right. She had her own shawls and wraps she could wear — that she could pack. Gwen would never admit to the loss she felt when he took it out of her hand, though.
“Are you ready?” He asked, hand hovering in the space between them.
Like he wanted to comfort her.
Like he knew he shouldn’t.
“No,” she laughed, too tired for lies. “No, Lance, I’m not.”
