Carefully, as if she might melt beneath his grasp, he lowered her into the bath water. A faint sigh escaped her lips as the warm water lapped at her freezing bones.
“Rest in the warmth for a moment, love.” Lancelot pressed a kiss to her forehead. “We’ll clean you up.”
Her eyes fluttered shut as she sank lower. She heard her knight speak again. “We need a cool basin of water, too. Some towels, small enough for her forehead.” There was a panic in his voice she hadn’t noticed before.
“Yes, sir,” Lunete answered, sturdy as an oak. “We’ll see to it.”
“And if Arthur asks where I am — lie.”
And even in her sickly state, her cheeks warmed when she heard her handmaiden laugh. “You don’t have to worry about that, knight. I would take a lashing for her grace any day.” Delphine and Edith agreedboisterously. “You, sir knight, have brought our queen joy. Joy she has always deserved. Your secrets are safe with us.”
“Thank you,” His response was quiet, “If you could change the linens and bring new nightclothes, I will tend to her.”
They must not have answered aloud, because he was kneeling by the wash basin within moments, brushing his thumb along her cheek.
“May I wash you, your grace?” He asked quietly,reverently.
Guinevere’s lashes fluttered, the steam curling soft as silk around her face. She nodded faintly. “Yes,” she murmured. “Please.”
Lancelot dipped the cloth into the basin, wringing it out with care before trailing it along the side of her neck. His hands were gentle, reverent, as though she were carved from glass. He did not scrub, did not hurry — hesoothed. Hehonored.
“I’ve got you,” he whispered, his voice a thread of smoke. “Let me take care of you.”
She leaned into the touch like a prayer answered.
The water lapped at her skin, warming the bones that had ached for days, chasing the chill from where Arthur’s shadow had once settled. Her head lolled against the rim of the tub, eyes fluttering closed.
“Too much?” Lancelot’s voice again, low and hushed, like he was afraid to break her.
“No,” she breathed. “Just… don’t stop.”
He didn’t. He ran the cloth down her arms, over her collarbone, to her hands, each finger given the attention of something precious. Not a queen now. Not even a woman.
Justloved.
Justhis.
When he reached her legs, he paused, voice low. “Tell me to stopif it’s too much.”
She didn’t. She wouldn’t. So he washed her — calf to thigh, all the places she was too weak to reach. Not with hunger, not with lust, just with aching care. As if he could undo every bruise ever left on her skin, every touch that hadn’t been asked for, every moment she’d been claimed instead of cherished.
When he finished, he cupped water in his hands and rinsed her shoulders again. “Better?” He had discarded the cloth, his hand laying softly against her cheek. She leaned into him, nodding. “Let’s get you out.”
His arms came around her again, lifting her from the water. Balancing her with one hand, he set her down in front of him, feet unsteady on the ground, as he wrapped her up in a plush towel.
“It’s cold.” She tried not to chatter.
“I’ll fix it.” He cradled her against his chest as he brought her beside the hearth, settling down before the smoldering fire. Her head lolled against his shoulder.
The maids were gone now. They had left behind a stack of clean clothing and a steaming cup of tea. As they sat in front of the fire, he convinced her to take a few sips.
She drank, but only for him.
Lancelot took to rubbing soothing circles on her skin using the towel, drying up the last of the water.
Guinevere felt him lean, saw him grab the clean dress that Lunete had left behind, and saw a smile tug at the corners of his lips.
He unwrapped the towel from around her before slipping the nightdress over her head. “Bed? Or hearth?” His breath was warm against her skin.
