Page 12 of Propriety (le morte d’Guinevere #1)

She returned his cloak to him before they left the castle. It only seemed right. She had her own shawls and wraps she could wear — that she could pack. Gwen would never admit to the loss she felt when he took it out of her hand, though.

“Are you ready?” He asked, hand hovering in the space between them.

Like he wanted to comfort her.

Like he knew he shouldn’t.

“No,” she laughed, too tired for lies. “No, Lance, I’m not.”

“I know,” He whispered, brushing a lock of her hair off of her cheek. “The stable hand has prepared my horse. Come.” He offered an arm to her.

She laced her arm through his without reservations. Dressed in his clothes, with no adornments or fineries, no passersby would suspect she is the queen.

Especially not after Lance pulled the hood up over her cloak, tucking her hair back. “You stand out, your grace.” He muttered quietly as he adjusted her hood. “I would recognize that fiery hair from leagues away.”

As they approached his horse, two figures emerged from the shadows. Guinevere couldn’t help the way her heart clenched, the way fear struck in her veins.

“Lance. Sister.” Morgana. “I’m so glad I caught you. There’s been a change of plans.”

Gwen’s hand tightened in the crook of his arm, trying to calm the trembling in her fingers.

Lancelot took a step forward, shielding the queen from whatever may come to pass. “And what is that, Morgana?”

“Bertram will see to her highness.” Her voice was venomous, disguised by a regal lilt. “His Grace has requested your presence at the Round Table, Lance.”

“No.” He said firmly. “If Arthur wanted a different guard for his queen,” His voice tight, like stone. “He should have come himself.” The anger in his voice was rising. Gwen could feel the tension roiling off of him.

“And who are you, du Lac, that you can deny the king’s orders?” Morgana moved towards them, her steps lithe and smooth. She laid her hand on Lance’s chest, her own fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. “Lance, love,” she practically purred, “Trust me.”

Gwen’s breath hitched. Morgana’s fingers tightened in the knight’s shirt, trying to draw him closer to her. And still — he did not flinch.

“Unhand me, woman.” He circled her wrist with his free hand, tugging her hand backward.

Lance turned, throwing his arm around the queen’s shoulders, shepherding her towards where his steed waited impatiently. Morgana was still speaking behind them, but Gwen couldn’t hear her over the pounding of her heartbeat.

He turned, offering his hand to her. “I’ve got you.” He whispered for her ears only. And for a moment, she could believe that he meant more than just help onto his horse.

He swung up behind her in a single motion, one arm curling protectively around her middle. “Tell Arthur that I will correspond with him once we are out of Camelot.” He snapped over his shoulder, cracking the reins. “The queen is under my protection.”

They rode through the night, keeping a breakneck pace. If it wasn’t for Lancelot’s unyielding grip on her, Gwen was certain she would have fallen off.

Never had she ridden a horse to this extent, with this much purpose.

About halfway through the night, the muscles in her thighs started to ache, tired from clinging to the saddle, from fighting to stay upright.

No sooner had the thought crossed her mind when she felt his lips by her ear.

“Lean back,” He muttered, his breath hot on her skin — even with the wind whipping around them. “I’ve got you.”

She should have felt guilty, how easily she melted into him, into the firm planes of his chest. But…

His hand had, somehow, slipped just under the hem of her shirt, his hand splayed across her stomach.

Warm.

Protective.

Possessive.

And she suddenly did not have it in her to care about propriety any longer.

“Almost there, Guinevere.” His voice came again, the timbre of it rumbling in his chest. She could see lights ahead of them, barely visible over the rising sun.

As the horse slowed, she finally recognized the aches that threatened to shatter her very bones. On the edge of the town, Lancelot slid off of his horse with ease. Gwen went to follow suit, but a firm hand on her thigh stopped her.

“Stay,” He said, quietly. “Not much farther now.”

The town was just beginning to stir. A pair of shutters opened across the street. The scent of baking bread wafted from a nearby stall. Guinevere clung to the ordinary — anything to anchor her from the whirlwind still thrumming in her chest.

As they neared the inn, his hands gently grasped at her waist, and with a quiet command to “jump”, she was on the ground beside him.

Gwen was thankful that his hands lingered. She convinced herself that her gratitude came only from her shaky legs, but she knew it was more.

“You are not the queen. I am not a knight.” His words were low. “We are just travellers passing through.”

She nodded, following in step beside him. A soft bell chimed as he pushed the door open to the inn. With one hand still lingering around her waist, he dropped several coins on the counter. “We need a room.”

“Of course, sir,” The older woman behind the counter took the coins, looking them up and down. “We’ve got a few rooms available now, if you like.”

He nodded, and the innkeeper quirked a brow.

“My sister’s expecting her first.” Guinevere drawled, leaning around her knight. “We’re just so excited.” She did her best to stretch her words out, disguising her accent.

As she spoke, she placed her hand on Lance’s chest, reveling at the way he tensed under her touch. “Isn’t that right, darling?”

He nodded once, too quickly, as though the endearment had short-circuited his ability to speak.

Feeling bolder than she had in perhaps days, she gently took her chin between her fingers, forcing him to meet her gaze.

“It was his idea, you know.” She grinned.

“Thought it would be good to see family.” Gwen faced the woman again with a wink.

“We both know what’s actually on his mind, though.

” And with an arrogant smirk, she took the keys from the innkeeper’s hand. “Thank you kindly.”

“What was that?” Lance said as soon as the door to their room had shut behind them.

“You looked like a murderer, dear.” Gwen perched on the edge of the bed — the only bed. “You scared that poor woman.”

“Too much information, your grace, and you look like you’re trying to prove something.”

“Too little, knight , and you look like you’re abducting a poor, innocent girl.”

“I’m not a knight.” He concluded, slinging their packs onto the ground next to him. “I’m just a man.” He turned, securing the door behind them.

“Let’s change that.” Gwen whispered into the static that enveloped the room, a little surprised by her own words. She rose, approaching him slowly.

Reaching around him, she unsheathed his sword, holding it precariously in her hands. “Kneel, Lancelot du Lac.”

“Gwen-”

“Kneel.” Her voice snagged. She had attended several knighting ceremonies before, but she had never been permitted to confer knighthood.

Beside the bed, in a damp room, he fell to his knees, head bowed.

“Lancelot du Lac, do you swear to protect the innocent, even at risk to your own life?”

His head tipped back, eyes met hers with an almost primal fire. “I swear it.”

“Do you swear to speak only the truth?”

“I swear it.”

“Do you swear,” her own breaths were coming faster. “To protect your lord, no matter the cost?”

“I swear to protect my lady, no matter the cost.” His fingers twitched at his sides.

The sword shook in her hands as she gripped the hilt tightly. Gently, so carefully, she lay the flat of the sword on his right shoulder, face heating with the gasp that sprung from his lips.

She repeated the motion, caught in the fire in his eyes. “Rise, Sir Lancelot, knight of Camelot, champion of the Queen.” She couldn’t hear her own words over the pounding in her ears.

He rose, removing the sword from her hands and discarding it with a clatter next to him. He gripped the fabric at her hips, holding her.

His face was a breath away from her, and her eyes fluttered shut. The world around them ceased to exist. All she knew was his breath on her face, his hands on her hips.

“Thank you,” He whispered, lips brushing her cheek. “It is an honor to serve you, my queen.”

Her fingers trembled as she clutched at his tunic, holding him against her. She had no recollection of how long they stood there, only that his hands drifted from her hips to her back, holding her .

“Lance,” she whispered, her face tucked into the crook of his neck. She could feel the rise and fall of his chest in time with her racing heart. “Lance.” Her hand slipped up to his cheek as she pulled back.

Whatever she thought she had been imagining stirring between them had taken flight. It was not her mind, running away with folly. It was unspoken, but alight, as they stood in the small inn room, running from her past.

“You should rest.” His words finally broke the silence. He stepped away from her, taking all the heat in the room with him. “The physician said you would need to recuperate.”

“What about you?” Her hand lifted of its own accord, hovering in the air between them.

“Sleep, I’ll be here.”