“I know,” He whispered, brushing a lock of her hair off of her cheek. “The stable hand has prepared my horse. Come.” He offered an arm to her.
She laced her arm through his without reservations. Dressed in his clothes, with no adornments or fineries, no passersby would suspect she is the queen.
Especially not after Lance pulled the hood up over her cloak, tucking her hair back. “You stand out, your grace.” He muttered quietly as he adjusted her hood. “I would recognize that fiery hair from leagues away.”
As they approached his horse, two figures emerged from theshadows. Guinevere couldn’t help the way her heart clenched, the way fear struck in her veins.
“Lance. Sister.”Morgana.“I’m so glad I caught you. There’s been a change of plans.”
Gwen’s hand tightened in the crook of his arm, trying to calm the trembling in her fingers.
Lancelot took a step forward, shielding the queen from whatever may come to pass. “And what is that, Morgana?”
“Bertram will see to her highness.” Her voice was venomous, disguised by a regal lilt. “His Grace has requested your presence at the Round Table, Lance.”
“No.” He said firmly. “If Arthur wanted a different guard for his queen,” His voice tight, like stone. “He should have come himself.” The anger in his voice was rising. Gwen could feel the tension roiling off of him.
“And who are you, du Lac, that you can deny the king’s orders?” Morgana moved towards them, her steps lithe and smooth. She laid her hand on Lance’s chest, her own fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. “Lance, love,” she practically purred, “Trust me.”
Gwen’s breath hitched. Morgana’s fingers tightened in the knight’s shirt, trying to draw him closer to her. And still — he did not flinch.
“Unhand me, woman.” He circled her wrist with his free hand, tugging her hand backward.
Lance turned, throwing his arm around the queen’s shoulders, shepherding her towards where his steed waited impatiently. Morgana was still speaking behind them, but Gwen couldn’t hear her over the pounding of her heartbeat.
He turned, offering his hand to her. “I’ve got you.” He whispered for her ears only. And for a moment, she could believe that he meant more than just help onto his horse.
He swung up behind her in a single motion, one arm curling protectively around her middle. “Tell Arthur that I will correspond with him once we are out of Camelot.” He snapped over his shoulder, cracking the reins. “The queen is under my protection.”
They rode through the night, keeping a breakneck pace. If it wasn’t for Lancelot’s unyielding grip on her, Gwen was certain she would have fallen off.
Never had she ridden a horse to this extent, with this much purpose.
About halfway through the night, the muscles in her thighs started to ache, tired from clinging to the saddle, from fighting to stay upright. No sooner had the thought crossed her mind when she felt his lips by her ear. “Lean back,” He muttered, his breath hot on her skin — even with the wind whipping around them. “I’ve got you.”
She should have felt guilty, how easily she melted into him, into the firm planes of his chest. But…
His hand had, somehow, slipped just under the hem of her shirt, his hand splayed across her stomach.
Warm.
Protective.
Possessive.
And she suddenly did not have it in her to care about propriety any longer.
“Almost there, Guinevere.” His voice came again, the timbre of it rumbling in his chest. She could see lights ahead of them, barelyvisible over the rising sun.
As the horse slowed, she finally recognized the aches that threatened to shatter her very bones. On the edge of the town, Lancelot slid off of his horse with ease. Gwen went to follow suit, but a firm hand on her thigh stopped her.
“Stay,” He said, quietly. “Not much farther now.”
The town was just beginning to stir. A pair of shutters opened across the street. The scent of baking bread wafted from a nearby stall. Guinevere clung to the ordinary — anything to anchor her from the whirlwind still thrumming in her chest.
As they neared the inn, his hands gently grasped at her waist, and with a quiet command to “jump”, she was on the ground beside him.
Gwen was thankful that his hands lingered. She convinced herself that her gratitude came only from her shaky legs, but she knew it was more.
