“It was so hard, Lancelot.” She couldn’t breathe. “Itwas so hard to know what was truth, what was a lie, and what I had imagined in my head. I lost so much of myself.”
His fingers tightened against her cheeks. “You thought I left you? ThenightI confessed my love for you, you thought I left to fuck someone else?” He wasn’t angry, he washurting.
“No, no, no, of course I didn’t.”
“Guinevere…” He was shaking.
In the light of the day, withdrawn from the safety of their bed, she looked at him.
He was covered in mud, in grime, and in blood. His hair was matted, his face taut. The once defined lines of his muscles had softened. He was no less beautiful, but he looked haunted. “Stay here,” she whispered, reaching up to kiss him softly.
“Don’t go.” His eyes were filled with unshed tears.
“I’m just going to have someone draw a bath, my love.”
“No, I don’t need that.”
She laughed, gently cupping his face in her hand. “Oh yes, you do.”
His brow knotted, a tear escaping with the motion. Gwen reached up, brushing it away with the pad of her thumb. “I’m sorry,” she murmured, “I’m sorry I let them tarnish my memory of you.”
Lancelot turned, pressing a kiss to her palm. “You owe me nothing,mon amour. They will pay for all they have sowed.” His eyes flickered with a fire that startled the queen, an anger she hadn’t seen in him before.
Guinevere’s breath hitched. The man before her wasn’t the soft-tongued rake who once seduced her with a glance, nor the desperate knight who clung to the memory of her voice through fevered dreams.This was something else.
This was fury with purpose. A storm ready to be unleashed.
“Lancelot…” she whispered.
He turned his eyes back to her, and the fire softened — but it didn’t vanish.
“I won’t let them rewrite me,” he said. “I won’t let them smear the only part of me that was ever pure.”
Her eyes burned. “You’ve always been pure to me.”
He reached for her hand, pressing it over his heart. “This is yours. It always was. And if they want a battle, they’ve earned it.”
She stepped into him again, rested her head against his chest, just over the slow, thunderous beat of his heart. “There will be time for the fight another day, knight. Please, let me take care of you.” She echoed her statement from the night before.
Reluctantly, she stepped away from him, out of the safety that his arms offered her. “Let me go find one of my maids. I’ll be right back.”
Lancelot frowned, but relented, sitting on the edge of the bed.
Guinevere slipped out the door, trying to be as quiet as possible. She didn’t want to draw attention to herself.
Her wild hair, her swollen lips, the vigor and life returned to her cheeks.
She… was still in her nightclothes.
“Oh,” she whispered, finding a familiar face. “Lunete,” she waved the woman over.
“Your grace,” the older woman gave her a once over, confusion written across her features. “Are you quite well?”
“Yes, thank you. Could I have a bath drawn?” Guinevere hoped that her wringing hands and uncomfortable stance weren’t as noticeableas it felt.
“Of course, your grace.” Lunete bowed her head politely. “I’ll get on it right away.” But when she met the queen’s eyes, there was a question in her gaze.
One that Guinevere wasn’t ready to face yet.
