Page 14 of Propriety (le morte d’Guinevere #1)

She was warm.

That was her first thought as she woke slowly, caught somewhere between a dream and the steady thrum of reality. Her muscles had finally relaxed, and her body sank deep into the mattress, comfortable and content.

Guinevere could not remember a night where she had slept so soundly. Her entire body felt boneless as she lay wrapped up in the down blanket.

She shifted, nestling down in the sheets, trying desperately to cling to the last bit of sleep before she had to rise.

It was then that her mind woke enough to register the weight across her middle, the heat at her back.

The breath on her neck.

Lance’s hand was pressed against her stomach, holding her firmly against his chest.

A chest that, Gwen noted, hadn’t been bare when she drifted off last night.

Her breath caught.

Guinevere’s eyes blinked open fully, gaze landing on the golden light spilling in from the edges of the curtains. Morning. After dawn, judging by the warmth and stillness of the room.

Her heart pounded, a stuttering drumbeat in her chest. She didn’t dare move — not yet. Her mind scrambled for a reason. Maybe he’d turned in his sleep. Maybe it was instinct, muscle memory from years of battle and cold tents, from clutching warmth when it could be found.

Maybe.

But she wasn’t exactly pushing him away, was she?

She could feel every inch of him — his bare chest pressed against her back, his breath brushing the curve of her neck, the solid weight of his arm keeping her anchored.

And then… there was something else she felt, stiff… pressing into the small of her back.

She bit her lip, trying to ignore the warmth that coiled in her belly. This was madness .

And yet —

A quiet sigh escaped her lips, entirely unbidden.

That was when he stirred.

His movements were slight. His hand flexed against her stomach before going still again. She didn’t breathe.

She couldn’t.

He was awake.

Guinevere squeezed her eyes shut, mind and pulse racing. Should she say something? Should she move?

She feigned sleep. She was so tired of pretending.

Propriety or not.

As the fates would have it, it seemed he might be as well. His arm tightened around her middle, pulling her further into him.

Improper thoughts aside… Gwen couldn’t remember the last ti me she was held. She felt so wholly safe, and she wasn’t ready to give that up just yet.

A contented hum crept up the back of her throat, startling both herself and Lance. “I’m sorry,” he said almost instantly. His voice was still thick with sleep, a deep and raspy sound that curled in her stomach. “I didn’t mean to. I’ll move.”

“Don’t.” She blurted, before she could think better of it. The words hung in the air around them.

The silence stretched like a bowstring pulled taut.

“Guinevere…” His voice was tight, barely restrained.

“I know,” she whispered, pressing her palm against the hand on her stomach, lacing her fingers through his. “Just a minute more.”

“This is a terrible idea.” But his lips pressed into her hair. But he bunched her dress up, slipping his hand beneath the thin fabric.

“Lance,” she gasped as his hand grazed the skin below her navel, fingers clutching.

“Tell me to stop,” He moaned gently against the shell of her ear. “Guinevere.” His hips rocked gently against hers, eliciting a whimper from her.

“I can’t,” she breathed.

The world froze around them. All she knew was the fire in his fingertips, his breath on her neck, the quiet pants that left his lips.

A knock on the door doused her lust-fueled haze, dragging her back from the brink.

She shot up, putting as much space between her and the bed as possible. Face redder than her hair, she stammered, “Y-yes?”

His eyes were still on her, pupils wide as he took in the sight before him. Lance sat up, letting the blankets fall from his torso. It was everything she could do not to stare at him, mouth agape.

Arthur was a lean man, a man built for speed, not strength.

Lancelot was just the opposite. Tight lines defined the muscles in his arms, running down his arms, over his shoulders.

His pronounced figure cut sharp edges across his stomach, and Gwen found her eyes traveling those lines — lingering just below where the blankets stopped.

Lance cleared his throat, causing the queen to jump. A voice came from the other side of the door, slicing through the tension in the room. “The baker dropped off some pastries this morning!” It was the innkeeper. “I’ve left them just outside your door.”

“Thank you,” her knight responded, the rasp in his voice sending a rekindled wave of desire through her veins.

Guinevere buried her face in her hands, turning her back to the half dressed man on the bed. She needed…

She didn’t know what she needed, beyond what her body was screaming for.

“Good morning,” she muttered lamely, through clenched teeth.

“Get dressed,” he responded. She heard the bed creak. But she couldn’t force herself to face him, not yet. “We’ve got a long ride ahead of us.”

She plucked her clothes up off of the floor, thankful for the screen that hid the bath. She dressed quickly, not daring to ask for help with the too-long shirt sleeves or breeches this time. If he touched her again, she was certain she would combust.

Unceremoniously, she stuffed her remaining belongings into her pack, planting herself by the door.

“Ready, your grace?” He slid the bag from her shoulder cautiously. He avoided touching her, too.

Either he was just as addled as she was… or he was less than pleased with the events of the morning.

A knot wedged in her throat at the thought of the latter. Could it be that she was still imagining things between them?

The once comfortable silence between them ached. She doubted every step she took — wondered how ridiculous she looked at each pass. More than once, she caught herself stumbling over her own feet as they found their way to the stable.

Lance’s tawny horse was waiting for them, saddled and raring to go. Wordlessly, he took the reins in his hand, leading both horse and queen out to the road.

“What’s his name?” Gwen blurted out, suffocating in the silence that had swallowed them up.

“Zeus,” he said with a smile.

“Like the Greek god?”

“The very same.”

“That’s wildly improper, knight.” She couldn’t help but chide him, fighting the smile that threatened her lips. “What would the king think about your paganistic name?”

“I think the king would find issues with some of my more recent decisions, queen.” He laughed, but the sound was tight.

She blushed deep, casting her eyes back down to the ground.

“Up you go.” His hands were on her waist, forgoing all pomp and decorum. He hoisted her up, causing her to awkwardly throw her leg over the saddle.

Once situated, she finally came to terms with what she had been trying to avoid. He would be sitting in this saddle with her.

For an entire day .

“Maybe we should walk?” Gwen suggested, moving to slide off of the horse.

“No,” Lance put his hand on her thigh, firm but kind. “We ride.” He was behind her in the saddle before she had time to think. She shifted forward, trying to put as much space between their bodies as possible.

The knight laughed. “Don’t be ridiculous, love.” He grabbed her hips, trying to coax her backwards. “You’ll be stiff in an hour's time, sitting like that.”

She tried to protest, but stood very little chance against the definition of his strength.

Which she wasn’t thinking about.

Her back was against his chest, an arm wrapped tightly around her waist. “Besides,” his lips were at her ear, “This way, you can continue to feign innocence — pretend that your skin doesn’t catch fire when I touch you.

” She could hear the grin in his voice. “Blame the contact on the horse, my queen.”

She gasped, but before she could form a response, they were off.

She was trapped, caged between his thighs, his chest, and his arm. Every jostle of the horse, every breath he took. The very beat of her own heart was enough to send her over the edge.

And he was enjoying it. She could tell by the way his hands would linger in one place just a little too long. How his fingers would grip at her thighs just a little too tight.

But, as difficult as being on horseback was proving to be… she knew that the respite would be worse.

There was nothing left to hide between them.

He had her every move pegged. She had let all of her guards down in the morning light, and she knew she would be hard pressed to build those walls again.

She was riding straight to hell on a tan horse named Zeus.

And yet… as much of her that was anxious and even a little ashamed — there was a part of her that felt alive.

This was reckless, dangerous, and downright sinful.

But… the feeling of being desired? Of being cherished just for being Guinevere? Not the Queen, not the wife of Arthur… Just Gwen.

That almost made the entire ordeal worth it.