Guinevere perched herself on the edge of the basin, pulling her shoes off. She dropped the dusty things on the floor, and Arthur’s hands were on her again. Peeling off her shirt, cradling her face in his hands.
His touch roamed her now-bare torso, eyes narrowing as he saw fading bruises on her hips. “What’s this?” He asked, fingers brushing the purple marks.
Her breath caught. She hadn’t realized he had marked her.
“I’m not very graceful on horseback, it seems.” The lie rolled off of her tongue so easily. “Du Lac had to do more than his fair share of keeping me upright.” She laughed, backing away from him.
But his hands lingered, tracing up her spine, over her shoulders, down her arms. “I’d like to take a bath, your grace.” She muttered, avoiding his gaze.
“Please, don’t let me stop you.” He pressed his lips to hers. “I have missed you.”
With a gentle sigh, she undid the tie on her trousers —histrousers. She bit back tears as she realized he was just standing there, watching her.
She had never felt more on display.
As quickly as she could, she stripped the breeches off and slid into the tub. She hummed a note of contentment as the warm water licked at her aching muscles.
Her hair splayed out in the water around her, sticking to her neck, her chest, her back.
“This is why you should keep your hair up.” His voice came from behind her, sweeping her hair out of the tub. “It gets everywhere, dear.”
“I know,” she whispered, trying not to succumb to the grief she already felt. Trying not to think about how Lancelot had begged her to keep her hair loose. How he had run his hands through her curls like she was a work of art, like she had been sacred.
Arthur sat back on his haunches, watching her every move. She was trapped. A prisoner in her own home. “Are you quite well?” He asked, hands clasping the side of the tub.
His eyes weren’t on hers, though. They traced her curves, a gentle smile tugging on his lip. “You are so beautiful, my queen.” He breathed, his gaze focused on her chest.
A tear escaped, and she ducked her head under the water, fearing that an outward display of grief would get her into trouble.
No longer able to enjoy the base comfort that a bath could offer, she stood, wrapping a linen towel around her. “I’m so tired, your grace.” She said, trying to dry herself without revealing her skin to the man whose eyes were dripping with lust.
“Of course you are.” He wrapped her up in his arms once more, but she felt anything but held. “Let’s lay down, let us rest.”
“Us?” She asked, voice cracking.
God.
She ought to have anticipated this. He always claimed her after he was gone for a diplomatic event. Why would he see this any different? He left to make trades with other kingdoms. Arthur forced her to leave for her own protection.
Of course,they were the same in his eyes.
“Yes, wife,us.” His eyes cut daggers at her, but only briefly. “Let me lay with my wife.”
“No,” she said, the word tumbling from her mouth before she could stop it. Her cheeks flushed, heart pounding.It took all of her willpower not to clap her hand to her mouth, to force the words back.
“No?” He sneered, pinching her chin between his fingers. “Why, of course, little queen. Why should I expect to spend the day with my wife?” His voice dripped with disdain, with a barely covered rage. “Go on, Guinevere. Go and rest your heart out. I will fetch you for dinner, if itpleasesyou.”
He was gone in an instant, slamming the door to her room behind him.
She stumbled to the mattress, still wet from the bath, still wrapped up in her towel. She curled into herself, as if she could hold her bones together with her arms alone.
Her body ached.
Her soul ached more.
The tears came, and they didn’t stop. She wasn’t sure they ever would. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. Her chest was tight, lungs unwilling to expand.
She shut her eyes tight, praying for the relief of sleep to capture her.
