Page 45 of Propriety (le morte d’Guinevere #1)

Seated at the head of the Great Hall, an assortment of cheeses and fruits in front of them, the battle raged on. Mordred lay in a bassinet at Morgana’s side, blanketed in silks.

Lancelot sat to her right, a place he had demanded from Arthur shortly after the fallout. The king had not been pleased, but conceded with a well-placed threat from her knight.He wouldn’t tell her what he exposed to Arthur, only that he would be by her side in the Great Hall as well.

“Will you be dancing tonight, my queen?” He ducked his head towards her, his breath brushing against her skin.

“No.” She responded with a curt shake of her head. “Unless it is in your arms.”

“Understood.” Under the table, his hand came to rest on her thigh. “Can’t say I’m feeling jovial enough myself.”

Guinevere didn’t touch her wine. She trusted nothing poured by Arthur’s hand, even when presented to her by someone else.

The room sparkled — candlelight on glassware, gold-threaded tapestries glowing like firelight. Laughter rang, but it was brittle. Forced. Everyone knew the shape of things now, even if they didn't speak of it.

Across the table, Morgana leaned forward to adjust the infant’s blanket, her smile edged like a blade. “Isn’t he perfect, sister? Not a cry. Not a blemish. Just destiny, asleep.”

Guinevere’s gaze didn’t waver. “Some things only look innocent while they’re dreaming.”

Morgana blinked once, slow and feline. “Careful. That sounds like a prophecy.”

Lancelot’s thumb moved against her thigh — not comfort. Restraint.

She covered his hand with hers, and for the first time that evening, smiled. A quiet thing. Dangerous. “No,” she said. “I leave prophecy to the mad.”

Arthur stood then, goblet raised high. “To the new dawn of Camelot. To strength, and the son who will carry our blood forward.”

Guinevere stood, goblet held aloft. “And to the strength of loyalty.” She felt Lancelot tense beside her. “In blood… or otherwise.”

The king’s smile faltered, only momentarily.

She returned to her seat, setting her wine down without taking a sip. A low rumble of disapprovement in Lancelot’s chest. “That was reckless.” His grip on her leg tightened. A lick of heat curled low in her stomach.

She bit back the grin that was unfurling across her lips.

“Reckless?” she murmured, still facing forward, still smiling faintly for the room. “Or necessary?”

His fingers didn’t move. Firm and steady on her thigh, anchoring her even as her words tempted the edge of a blade.

“You’re playing too close to fire,” he said, voice low and taut.

Her eyes flicked sideways, catching the shadow in his jaw, the way his gaze never left Arthur. “Darling,” she whispered, “You’re the one that stokes the flames.”

He turned to look at her fully then, and whatever he meant to say burned out on his tongue. The music started again. Somewhere, couples were rising to dance, the clink of goblets and stifled laughter filling the hall like smoke.

“We should leave soon,” he said at last. “Before I do something idiotic.”

Her smile turned genuine this time. Slow. “I hope you do.”

Before he could answer, a shadow fell across their table. Sir Bors, flushed from wine and riding high on celebration, bowed low.

“My queen,” he said, offering a crooked grin. “Would you honor me with a dance?”

The question silenced the space around them. The courtiers nearby turned their heads, subtle as whispers. Lancelot stilled — his hand not budging from her thigh, his thumb now a single, pointed press.

Guinevere tilted her head, eyes calm, assessing. “You flatter me, Sir Bors,” she said, the corners of her mouth just barely lifting.

Lancelot didn’t move. Didn’t blink. But the energy around him shifted — like a sword sliding half from its sheath.

Bors, perhaps emboldened by the wine or simply unaware, held out his hand anyway. “Just one dance, Your Grace. It’s a night for celebration, after all.”

Guinevere looked up at him and said sweetly, “And yet, you seem to mistake me for someone celebrating.”

That was when Lancelot rose. Slow. Purposeful. One hand still on her leg, the other now braced on the table beside his untouched wine.

“The Queen is not accepting dances tonight,” he said, voice low and full of teeth .

Bors paled, wisely bowing again. “Of course, Sir Lancelot. Forgive the intrusion.”

He walked away quickly.

Guinevere let the silence linger, then glanced up at him with a wicked little smirk. “Jealous?”

Lancelot didn’t sit.

He leaned down, lips brushing the shell of her ear. “Possessive,” he murmured. “There’s a difference.”

And then, just to keep her tethered, he kissed her shoulder, quick and burning, before sitting once more.

“Now who’s reckless?” She teased.

He didn’t answer. The glare on his face said plenty.

It didn’t end with Bors.

Later in the evening, when the minstrels had shifted to something slower — courtly, elegant, thick with unspoken meanings, Sir Elric approached.

Younger than Bors. Sharper. Handsome in that clean, cold way. The kind of man who smiled with his mouth but never his eyes.

He bowed before her with impeccable form.

“Your Grace,” he said smoothly, “it would be my honor to have this dance.”

Guinevere set her goblet down, slow and deliberate. “Is it honor you’re after?” she asked. “Or favor?”

“A little of both, perhaps,” he said, smiling. “One rarely has the chance to stand beside Camelot’s most radiant flame.”

She said nothing. Her gaze was unreadable.

But Lancelot stood again.

This time, there was no gentleness. No shadow of play. His hand came down heavy on the table, rattling a silver dish of berries.

“Step away,” he said. It wasn’t a request.

Elric’s eyes flicked over to him. “My lord. I was merely-”

“You were warned.”

He moved between them, entirely blocking Guinevere from view. The hall had quieted again. Even Arthur had turned to watch.

Lancelot did not care.

“She has already refused once,” he said, voice low and deadly. “You presume too much.”

Elric lifted his hands. “Forgive me. No offense meant.”

“Then take none as you walk away.”

He did.

Lancelot did not sit right away. He turned to Guinevere instead, offering his hand. “Come,” he said, rough around the edges. “Dance with me. Before I put my fist through someone.”

She took his hand without hesitation, a wry smile blooming across her lips.

The music swelled, and she stepped into his arms.

Lancelot’s hand found her waist — firm. Possessive. His other hand cradled hers, but not like a knight cradles a queen. Like a man cradles what he would burn down the world to protect.

“You’re shaking,” she murmured.

“I’m furious.”

Their feet moved in time with the slow, lilting rhythm of the court musicians, but everything between them was off the beat — tighter, tenser, closer than propriety would ever allow.

She felt the ripple of heat flash through her body. Not just desire — power. This man, with fire in his blood and thunder in his hands, was hers.

The dance ended, applause scattered like raindrops. But Lancelot did not release her. His hand at her waist tightened.

“Come with me,” he said.

The corridor behind the Great Hall was dim, lit only by torchlight, the hum of celebration muffled by stone. Lancelot didn’t speak. He took her hand, gentle only in contrast to the fury in his grip, and pulled her after him.

Down the passage.

Past the chamber doors.

Until they were alone in some alcove, lost to time, shadowed and cloistered, with dust in the corners and heat in their blood.

Her back hit the wall, his arm moving fast enough to cradle her head from the blow.

“Lancelot-”

“No.” His mouth was on hers, devouring. “Not yet. Not-”

He broke off to kiss her again, hard enough to bruise. His hand slid around her waist, pressed her into him, anchoring her to the rage and need in his body. His voice came ragged between kisses. “They look at you like you’re something to claim.”

Her laugh hitched in her throat as he kissed the corner of her mouth. “They always have.” She breathed. “Even before you.”

His hand curled around the back of her neck, tilting her face to his. “I was going to start a war tonight.”

She smiled, unafraid. “The night is still young, dear.”

His mouth crashed back to hers like he’d run out of words — and needed to speak in desire instead. Guinevere gasped as he kissed her, pinning her between his body and the stone wall .

His hand fisted in her skirts, dragging them up as quickly as they would allow. “Too much godsdamn fabric.”

“I can still hear the music of the Hall.” She wasn’t trying to stop him, she would never . But there was the lingering fear of being seen.

But even that sent pleasure licking at her core.

Once he had hiked up her skirt, his hand dove between her thighs. “Soaked already,” He growled, pressing a finger into her wet heat. “Stay quiet, dove.” His lips worked her pulse point greedily. “Wouldn’t want someone to hear.”

Guinevere managed a nod as her trembling fingers tore at his belt, his sword clattering to the ground. “Harder,” she whimpered as his thumb brushed over her clit.

Lancelot pulled his hand from her core, grinning wickedly. “Not a sound, mon amour .” Her breaths were ragged. She nodded again. “Not a sound, or I stop.” His lips crashed into hers again as his hand traveled down the length of her body.

He paused for just a moment to thumb over her nipple. “So sensitive,” He pulled back. “Even in all of your silken armor.”

He didn’t wait for a reply.

In one brutal motion, he lifted her — legs around his waist, back scraping the stone. She choked on a moan when he thrust inside her, burying himself to the hilt.

She swore she saw stars.

He was unrelenting. His movements were erratic, hips jerking against her. He pressed sloppy, open-mouthed kisses along her neck, not bothering to be gentle.

Guinevere had one hand curled tightly in his hair — an anchor in the pleasure that he offered to her. She pressed the other against her mouth, keeping all of her whimpers and pleas locked again.