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He’d been wrong.
“A light meal, Mr. Pendragon?” the air maid asked solicitously of Arthur, handing him a piece of paper with the selections inscribed upon it.
He squinted at the small, concise print and felt frustration and a tinge of shame for not being able to read it. He was starting to learn, but it was slow going. And, to be honest, he hadn’t been much of a learned man even during his time.
He’d been a warrior king, not a studious monk.
As if she knew he was struggling, she spoke the menu items out loud.
“Roasted tenderloin, sauteed shrimp, or vegetarian pasta,” she offered. “Each option comes with a couple of sides and a bread roll. We will be serving a dessert buffet with fruit and cheese once the meal is done.”
He chose the meat in a rough voice, but he smiled up at her for her patience.
She met his eyes with a familiar sparkle in her own and curled her lips invitingly in return.
He knew that look.
Many a female had given him that look from the day he knew what a cock-stand was, and he’d often partaken of their bounty. It was only after he was formally betrothed that he controlled his baser urges to be true to his future wife.
He’d always been a man of great passions. The adrenaline of the battlefield and all the mock battles on the training ground filled a man with verve. It had to be unleashed somehow. ’Twas unhealthy to bottle it in.
But when he made a vow, he kept it. Nothing could sway him from his word. As if the betrothal had shut something off within him, he hadn’t known temptation since.
If he was truly honest with himself, however, he would admit that his abstinence started before his sudden engagement. And his faithfulness had never been to the Queen.
Arthur hated it when he was honest with himself.
When the farce of his marriage ended, since Guinevere had mysteriously disappeared at the end of a tournament in her honor, he’d eventually taken other lovers. A widow here, a courtesan there. No gentle lady expecting more, that was his rule.
Of a certainty, he’d not promise to love and cherish anyone ever again.
“I shall have the shrimp,” Lancelot said from behind him, not waiting for the air maid to present him the supper selections.
His interjection broke the moment of attraction and somehow dampened Arthur’s mood entirely.
He was no longer married, aye, but he was still tied. This magic between Lancelot and him bonded them together differently, of course, but it still…made himdifferent.
Since they had been liberated from the Celestial Realm, he hadn’t sought out feminine comforts. It had been many months, far longer than Arthur had ever gone without. Except for the one anomaly in time that he refused to think about.
It wasn’t that he couldn’t find some hours of privacy away from the knight. It wasn’t that there weren’t plenty of feminine charms in the small village where they dwelled.
Surprisingly, many travelers passed through the territory, and Arthur wasn’t terribly picky. He appreciated women of all shapes and sizes. The most important qualities in a bed partner were joy and humor.
Well, in any type of partner, really. He’d learned that the hard way.
But whatever this was between him and Lancelot made him want to stay by the other man’s side. He was drawn to the warrior’s orbit like gravity.
Which infuriated and confounded him.
There had been a time, long ago, that they’d been closer than brothers. But Guinevere had come between them. Their relationship had been…complicatedafter that. They’d both suffered at the queen’s manipulative hands, but instead of bringing them together with the shared knowledge, Arthur felt that the divide between them was even more unbridgeable.
The air maid prepared the small tables that unfolded from a hidden compartment in their seats. He never would have figure it out for himself. This modern world was often difficult to navigate. Everything was so alien to him, yet somehow familiar at the same time.
She offered him a basket of bread, and he tried to take the whole thing from her hands, thinking this would be a good starter before his meal. But she chuckled and told him that he should choose only one, maybe two. He could call for more after she did her rounds if he wanted.
Oh.
A faux pas.
