“Lance,” she whispered, her face tucked into the crook of his neck. She could feel the rise and fall of his chest in time with her racing heart. “Lance.” Her hand slipped up to his cheek as she pulled back.
Whatever she thought she had been imagining stirring between them had taken flight. It was not her mind, running away with folly. It was unspoken, but alight, as they stood in the small inn room, running from her past.
“You should rest.” His words finally broke the silence. He stepped away from her, taking all the heat in the room with him. “The physician said you would need to recuperate.”
“What about you?” Her hand lifted of its own accord, hovering in the air between them.
“Sleep, I’ll be here.”
12
The sun still hung in the sky when she opened her eyes. Its gentle rays filtering in through the window. Before she could muster the strength to open her eyes, she felt a gentle touch, fingers threading through her hair, barely grazing the skin of her scalp. A touchso gentle, she thought she must be dreaming.
She tried not to move, tried to keep herself as still as possible — she didn’t want him to stop.
But… a sigh escaped her throat as she nestled deeper into the blanket she was under. He froze, “Don’t stop,” she murmured, voice still thick with sleep.
“Shhh,” he whispered, brushing a curl off of her cheek. “Go back to sleep, Guinevere.”
“Mnh-mnh,” she hummed, lips sealed tight in disagreement.
“Stubborn thing.” He laughed, tugging gently on the lock of hair he had wrapped around his finger.
When she finally opened her eyes, the sight before her sent an ache straight to her heart. Lancelot lounged on the bed next to her, legs crossed loosely, one hand behind his head. The other, of course, in her hair. “What time is it?” She yawned, relishing the way his lips ticked upwards.
“Just before evening, I think.” His thumb brushed softly along her cheekbone, leaving a trail of fire behind it.
“What have you been doing?” She asked, unwilling to sit up, unwilling to risk losing this little slice of secret.
“Protecting you, my queen.”
“What an odd way of saying ‘watching you sleep’.” She finally rose, sitting cross-legged beside him. Something inside of her must have snapped, because it took every ounce of her self control not to curl up against his side, not to press herself into the warmth of his body and stay there.
“Are you hungry?” Lance asked, tilting his head as he quietly assessed her.
“No, I’m not.” But her stomach revolted, growling angrily. “Oh,” she muttered, pressing a hand against the noise. “I guess so.”
“Up,” he said, rising from his spot next to her. “There was a tavern on the way in. Let’s get some food in you.”
Gwen stood, attempting to stretch out the aches in her body as she did. “We’ll have the innkeeper draw you a bath tonight,” He suggested, reaching around her. “Should help with the soreness.”
He plucked his cloak from the bed behind her, draping it over her shoulders. “Can’t have you cold,wife.”
Her heart stuttered, mouth suddenly dry as his fingers deftly clasped the buckles beneath her chin. He tilted her chin upwards so there was nowhere to look but at his eyes, filled with mischief. “That is our story, right?” His face fell into perfect innocence, the kind of smile that would haunt her dreams for years to come.
She nodded, tongue made of ash under his gaze.
Her head spun as they took to the cobbled street. With her handtucked securely into the crook of his arm, she felt anything but steady. She was aqueen. The wife of King Arthur, this wasn’t right.
It wasn’t decent.
Itcertainlywasn’t proper.
So why couldn’t she stop thinking about the gentle turn of her knight’s smile?
Why was she desperate to hear his laugh? To feel his fingers brush her skin in that not-so-accidental way of his?
She didn’t remember eating, didn’t remember sitting close to him, knees touching.
