Page 11 of Propriety (le morte d’Guinevere #1)

“No.” He stood at the door, hands clasped in front of him, stance wide, but lax.

“I gave you an order, du Lac. Leave.”

She saw a flicker of hurt cross his features, but it only seemed to strengthen his resolve. “I will not let you out of my sight, my queen. That was my order.”

“Oh, now you answer to him.” She snapped, still trembling. “Fine. If you won’t leave, I’ll help myself to breakfast.”

“Guinevere.”

She didn’t look at him, broke away from his scrutiny as she approached the untouched tray.

Was the rest of it poisoned, too?

Slowly, she reached for the honeyed bread, fingers just about to graze its surface, when his hand locked around her wrist, pulling her backwards. “The only orders I take are ones that protect you, highness.” He growled, grip unrelenting. “Step away from the tray, or I’ll remove you myself.”

“Then remove me, du Lac.” She said through ragged gasps. “My life is no longer my own.”

“Guinevere, please,” He pleaded, voice softening, grip loosening. “Let me keep you safe.”

“I’ve known you for a week, knight.” She spat, yanking her wrist free from his grasp. She moved from the tray. “It’s time we stop pretending this is anything deeper than that.”

And there it was.

She hurt so badly, her heart breaking into pieces inside of her. She wanted someone else to hurt, too.

Lancelot flinched — visibly. Just a twitch of the jaw, the smallest hitch in his breath, but she saw it. Felt it. And gods, it made her sick how satisfied it left her .

“You think I’m pretending?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Guinevere didn’t answer. Maybe it was because she knew she wasn’t pretending. Maybe it was because a piece of her hoped he wasn’t either.

But it no longer mattered.

“I’ll pack my bag.” She resigned, shoulders falling with the weight of the morning.

Lancelot stood, silent, as she moved about the room in tears. Gathering the things she thought she might need. Truth be told, the only time she travelled had been by carriage. She didn’t know how to pack for a moonlit escape.

“Do you have breeches, your grace?” His voice finally broke through the silence that hung heavy in the air.

“No,” she shook her head, refusing to turn to him. “I have dresses I ride in.”

Her guard laughed, and she hated how the sound echoed in her soul. “That might work for a jaunt about town. You’ll be raw and bleeding after a full night of that.” His position finally laxed, “Come.”

The word was gentle, but firm. She turned, brows drawn in irritation even as tears continued to streak her cheeks.

“Where?”

“Just here, my chambers. I’m sure I have extra.”

“Why not go to the armory?”

“Too far, too many eyes.” He opened her door with ease. “I don’t want anyone seeing you. Do you have boots? Your riding boots can suffice. Just… no silk.” He glanced down at her feet with an almost accidental smile.

She sniffed, angry at herself for letting him worm his way back into her bones so easily. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” A small, unwilling smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.

“No,” he said softly. “But I am glad I’ll be with you.”

She didn’t respond. Couldn’t, really.

The words sat heavy between them, and for a flicker of a second, it felt like the world had stilled — like the walls, the cold stone floors. Even the danger waiting in the shadows had taken a breath and leaned in.

Lancelot moved to his chest of drawers, rifling through the top one until he pulled out a folded pair of breeches and a plain linen tunic. “They’ll be big on you,” he said, not looking up. “But they’ll do.”

Guinevere accepted the clothes without a word, her fingers brushing his only briefly — but it was enough. Enough for her to remember the heat in his hand when he’d held her back from the poisoned tray. Enough to remind her of the ache she was trying not to feel.

“I’ll wait outside while you change,” he said, already turning toward the door.

“Why?” she asked before she could stop herself. “I thought you weren’t letting me out of your sight.”

He paused, hand on the latch, and glanced over his shoulder with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Even I have limits, your grace.”

Gwen made quick work of changing into his clothes, trying desperately to ignore how intoxicating it was to be surrounded by his smell.

“Lance,” she called softly, presuming that he hadn’t gone far.

The door opened before she could finish saying his name. “Your grace? ”

She tried not to laugh as she held her arms out. “I look like a child, knight.” She mock scolded. The sleeves of his shirt hung well below her hands, and his breeches puddled at her feet. “I can’t possibly run away under these circumstances.”

Her guard laughed, pressing his hand to his mouth in a failed attempt to stifle the sound. “May I?” He took a step closer, taking one sleeve in his hand.

She nodded, raising an eyebrow as she watched him carefully, so carefully , rolled the sleeves up, folding it over her wrist. He repeated the action before kneeling before her. “Sit, please.” His voice was tender, as if she hadn’t tried to push him just moments ago.

She sat on the edge of the bed without a word, pulse fluttering somewhere behind her ribs. Lancelot knelt before her with quiet purpose, deft fingers gathering the too-long fabric at her ankles. He rolled the cuffs of the breeches with careful hands, his head bowed, brow furrowed in focus.

“There,” He said finally, gently patting her calf as he rose. “Now you won’t trip over yourself.”

He offered a hand to her.

She should have hesitated.

She didn’t.

“Is this what you imagined when you returned to Camelot?” Her smile was warm, but her voice was tight. “Dressing a queen in your old trousers and tunic?”

“I dared not imagine anything, your grace.” His words were as light as the air around them. “I just know I am the luckiest knight-to-be in all the realm.”

They stood there in the silence, eyes locked, frozen. She couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. “Lance,” she whispered, tears burning in her eyes.

“Let me pack my things, then we’ll be off.”