Page 47 of Propriety (le morte d’Guinevere #1)

The door slammed behind her. Hard enough to make the candles flicker.

Guinevere tore the circlet from her head and flung it across the room. It clattered against the stone like a thrown gauntlet.

“I should have struck him,” she hissed, voice shaking with fury. “When he lifted that child and called it holy, I should have stood and screamed-”

“And damned yourself,” Lancelot snapped, turning from his spot by the window. “Yes. That would’ve fixed everything.”

She whirled on him. “Because fucking me in the hallway was the more appropriate reaction?”

He stepped closer, eyes narrowing. “I remember very enthusiastic consent from you, dear. Don’t make me sound like him.”

“I would never,” her voice was quieter now, but shaking. “Don’t you dare twist my anger into shame.”

“I’m not,” he said, too quickly. “I just — God, Gwen, I’m angry too. But not at you.”

She turned from him again, pacing like a lioness. “You agreed.” She couldn’t look at him. “They asked you to be the godfather of that abomination and you agreed . ”

“I had to.” He was behind her now, not touching her yet. “Because if I didn’t, if I refused, it would’ve meant something. It would’ve meant everything. ”

“It already does, ” she said, spinning back to face him. “Don’t you see? That was our sentence. That room. That ceremony. That thing in Morgana’s arms. It was all for us.”

His voice dropped. “I know.”

“No, you don’t! ” she shouted. “You left. You forgot for a while. I stayed here. I watched them build a future from your absence, and now-” She cut herself off, breathing hard, lips trembling.

Lancelot moved. Just one step, enough to close the air between them. “You think I forgot you, Guinevere?” he said, low and deadly and trembling too. “Every night I thought of you. Every step. I saw your face when I found the Grail. I saw your hands when I touched it. And I-” he stopped.

Swallowed.

She looked up at him, broken open. He hadn’t spoken of the Grail since that day in the meeting chamber. Not since he had returned. “And you what?”

“I couldn’t take it,” he said. “Because I didn’t want salvation. I didn’t care about purity. I wanted you. ”

And then she was on him. Not with grace, not with ceremony — but like a storm. Her mouth found his like it was the only prayer she still remembered. He caught her with a grunt, stumbling back into the wall with her weight, their teeth clashing before their lips truly fit.

His hands were in her hair, on her back, everywhere. Hers tore at the fastenings of his tunic like she could strip the day off him, strip the godfather out of him until he was just Lancelot again.

Just hers.

“I liked this tunic,” He muttered against her lips, brow furrowing as he teased her.

“Then you shouldn’t have angered your queen.” She stretched up, taking his bottom lip between her teeth.

Lancelot hissed, framing her face with his hands as he shifted, pressing her back against the cool wall. She hummed a note of contentment, fingers coming to curl into his beard. “Tell me, Lancelot,” she whispered, eyes closed. “Say you love me.”

“Like the moon loves the stars,” He kissed the corner of her mouth, her cheek, her temple.

“Like the flowers love the dew.” His hands slid into her hair, forehead resting against hers.

“Like a knight loves his queen.” Another kiss, not desperate, not wild. Just slow and warm and theirs . Like they were two people who had never had to fight for the other.

Like they had always been together.

“I should have called for Lunete.” Guinevere spoke after a while. The silence that engulfed them had been healing.

“Let me help.” His voice was shaky, but no less certain. “I am a knight of Camelot. Certainly buttons on a gown are no match for me.”

He smiled softly. She couldn’t help the way her fingers reached upwards, tracing over the shape of his lips. “I love you,” she whispered, her own smile tugging at her mouth.

His eyes closed like it was a benediction. Like her words were the only absolution he’d ever believe in. “I know,” he murmured. “I know, my love.”

He took a step back, gently turning her around. A low whistle left his lips as he laughed. “Maybe we should have called for Lunete.” His fingers danced down her spine. “This is a lot of fastenings, mon amour .”

A gentle blush spread across her cheeks as she bit back a smile. Even after everything, even after this , he still found a way to nestle into her heart. “I believe in you,” she whispered.

Lancelot untied the fabric that held her tousled braid, tossing it haphazardly to the floor. Coaxing his fingers through her hair, she felt the remainder of the plait coming undone.

Sweeping her hair over her shoulder, he pressed a kiss to the base of her skull, just above where the lace of her gown ended. Gwen tilted her head, a grin playing across her lips. “You’re doing so good,” she whispered, eyes fluttering shut.

“Careful,” he warned, voice darkening. She felt his knuckles brush the back of her neck and he clumsily worked her buttons open. His lips followed after, pressing sloppy, open-mouthed kisses to her now-bare skin.

The gown slid from her shoulders, a slow cascade of silk pooling at her feet. She stepped out of it carefully, Lancelot’s hand hovering. He stooped to gather the gown, folding with care before setting it aside.

He tilted her chin up, pressing a kiss against her lips. A shiver ran down her spine, over her arms. Gooseflesh peppered her skin. “Don’t move,” he whispered against her kiss.

He rummaged through his chest of drawers, pulling out a threadbare tunic and something else that she couldn’t quite place. Returning to her side, he unfolded the shirt. Gwen bowed her head as he slipped it around her.

It was warm and covered in the smell of him.

“I love wearing your tunics.” Her voice was almost indiscernible from the crackle of the fire as a gentle blush covered her cheeks. “They feel safe.”

He didn’t answer right away, setting upon the task of rolling the sleeves of his shirt. Once they were folded neatly above her wrists, his hands found her waist, pulling her close. Their foreheads touched, breath warm between them. No kiss this time — just closeness, just the pulse of each other.

“Hearth?” She asked, looking up at him through her lashes.

A mischievous grin spread across his lips as he scooped her up in one motion. She squealed, clinging to his neck. “Lancelot!” But she was laughing, breathless, in his arms.

He walked across the room with her in his arms, entirely too pleased with himself. “Lancelot, I can walk,” she muttered against his shoulder, though her laughter betrayed her.

“You could, yes,” he said, adjusting his grip dramatically, “but then I wouldn’t get to prove that I will cater to your every whim.” He pressed a kiss to her hair. “And frankly, mon c?ur , I think you owe me that much after attacking me.”

She gasped, mock affronted. “Attacked? You said you wanted me!”

“I always want you,” he said easily, kneeling to set her down with exaggerated care onto the rug by the fire. “But I didn’t say I wanted my buttons ripped open like I was a dying man.”

“I was gentle,” she sniffed.

“You were a menace. ” He flopped down beside her, narrowly missing her foot. “A beautiful menace, but still.”

She rolled onto her side, propping herself up on an elbow as she squinted at him. “Did you fold my gown?”

“I’m not an animal.”

“You are something . ” She reached out, tugging a lock of his hair playfully, and he let her. Something about his softness brought a warmth to her chest. The way he was so quickly able to leave the world outside their door and just be with her.

She envied that about him, and a part of her wished she could do the same. He turned the rage off like a switch as soon as they were alone.

Anger had no place in a room that was finally full of love.

They lay like that for a beat — the fire cracking, the heat on their faces, the weight of everything else slipping away.

He turned toward her with a little smile, resting his chin on his palm. “Feeling more like yourself?”

She blinked. Then nodded. “A bit.”

He reached out and brushed a knuckle across her cheek. “Good. Because I was about to sing if you didn’t.”

She gave him a bewildered look. “What would you have sung?”

“Oh, something tragic and loud. About betrayal. Or horses. Or how my queen has too many damn buttons on her dresses.”

That earned a laugh, unguarded and real. “Poor knight.”

He grinned. “It's all right. I like a challenge.”

Guinevere narrowed her eyes, propping her chin in her hand to match his pose. “You like a challenge, do you?”

“I serve a queen who has left me alone with a raging king on several occasions,” he said, arching a brow. “I’ve made my peace with it.”

She smirked. “And yet you still love me. ”

He sighed dramatically. “Yes. Deeply. Tragically. I’m afraid I may never recover.”

“Recover from loving me?”

“No, from the bruised ribs. The king throws a terrible punch.”

She swatted at him, but he caught her wrist and kissed it like he was accepting a holy relic. “All worth it,” he said solemnly. “For my wayward, sharp-tongued, button-laden lady.”

“I will end you,” she said sweetly.

“You’ve tried,” he murmured, eyes gleaming. “Frankly, it’s half the appeal.”

She made a sound of protest, but he only grinned wider, entirely too pleased with himself. “You’re lucky I love you.”

He leaned in close, their noses brushing. “I know.”

“Smug bastard.”

“Your smug bastard,” he corrected. “Who was unjustly attacked, stripped, and forced to carry his queen to the hearth.”

“You offered! ”

“Semantics.”

She couldn’t help it — she laughed, full and bright. He softened instantly at the sound, like her joy lit something in him that nothing else could reach.

Then she looked at him slyly. “Didn’t you say you were going to sing ?”

His face fell. “No.”

“You absolutely did.”

“I did not.”

“I remember it vividly. Something about betrayal. And horses.”

He sighed, already regretting everything. “I take it back. I want the tunic-tearing attack again. It was quieter.”

“Oh, you’re going to sing,” she grinned, already shifting to sit upright, playful and gleaming. “And it better be loud.”

“I will leave. ”

“You’re on the floor. Wrapped up in me. You’re trapped. ”

Lancelot looked down at her curled beside him and groaned, dramatically draping an arm over his eyes. “This is how I die.”

“Serenaded to death,” she agreed, smug. “Go on, brave knight. Woo me.”

Lancelot let out the most tragic sigh known to man. “Very well. If it pleases Her Majesty.”

“It will ,” Guinevere said, barely containing her grin as she tucked herself against his side, chin on his chest. “Go on.”

He cleared his throat with grand ceremony. Paused. Then, in a voice just off-key enough to be terrible, he began, “ Oh, ”

Guinevere slapped a hand over her mouth, already wheezing. “Nevermind, nevermind, nevermind. I’ve changed my mind.”

She collapsed into full laughter, face buried in his chest as he dramatically gestured to the rafters like he was on a stage. “You want me to stop?” He frowned. He pointed at her, deadly serious. “You wanted a serenade . This was destined to be bardic excellence . ”

“You’re ruining music,” she wheezed, and he grinned like a man victorious in battle.

He pressed a kiss to her temple, still humming under his breath as he gathered her close again. “It was a single note, my queen.”

“You’re ridiculous,” she murmured, heart thudding with something warm and ancient and soft.

He rested his chin on her head. “Only for you. ”

The fire popped, a lazy ember crackling to life. Guinevere sighed against his chest, her laughter trailing off into a sleepy hum. Lancelot’s arms tightened slightly around her, one hand smoothing up her back.

“Are you proud of yourself?” she murmured, cheek pressed to the worn fabric of his tunic.

“Immensely,” he said. “I made you laugh, got called a bastard, and, most importantly, I feel confident in my life as a minstrel once this knight thing goes south.”

She let out a sleepy snort. “Oh heavens. The world isn’t ready.”

“I know. Some lights burn too bright.”

She swatted weakly at his side, but her fingers just curled there, resting. He turned his head slightly, catching the scent of her hair, and closed his eyes.

They stayed like that for a while. The fire dipped lower. Outside, wind moved softly past the windows, rattling gently.

“You warm enough?” he asked eventually, his voice quieter now.

She nodded. “You’re very smug and very warm.”

“Excellent. I strive to excel in both.”

She yawned without meaning to, one hand drifting up to rest just beneath his collarbone. “I could fall asleep right here.”

“You are asleep right here.”

She smiled faintly, eyes still shut. “Lancelot?”

“Mmm?”

She tipped her head up just enough to meet his eyes. “Why don’t you leave?” Her words trembled as she spoke them. “You could be free of this torment.”

Her knight sat up quickly, tugging her up with him. “Don’t be ridiculous.” His brow was furrowed, words tight.

“I’m not being ridiculous, Lancelot.” She brushed her fingertips along his jawline. “I’m serious. You could walk out of here, be entirely released from this hell I’ve trapped you in.”

“Guinevere…”

His voice broke a little on her name.

She didn’t look away. “You could live. Grow old. Find peace. A life without this constant danger.”

“Without you ?” he repeated, like the words offended him.

She said nothing.

Lancelot took her face in both hands, gently but with urgency, like he needed her to feel every word. “Do you really think I’d be free if I left you behind?”

Her eyes shone in the firelight, unshed tears blurring the edges.

“I’d survive, maybe,” he said. “But I would never be whole. I would never be me without you.”

She shook her head, lips trembling. “You deserve more than I can give you here, inside these walls.”

“Run away with me.” He said suddenly, the reflection from the hearth blazing in his eyes.

“Lance,”

“I’m serious. You and me. We’ll ride to your parent’s kingdom. Surely they’ll offer us sanctuary, right?”

A sad sort of smile appeared on her face. “Oh, I wish we could.” She cupped his cheek, trying not to cry. He shifted, pulling her into his lap, cradling her against his chest.

“We can try.”

“We can’t,” she whispered through her tears. “Arthur would find me. He believes that an heir born from my womb will be the downfall of his kingdom. He wouldn’t let me leave.”

“But your father-”

“Is loyal to the crown far before he is loyal to his family.” The steady thrum of his heartbeat was a balm to her soul. “You were supposed to break me,” she said, softer now. “Arthur wanted you to destroy my spirit, crush the rebellion in me, Lancelot.”

He laughed, her cheek jostling against his bare chest. “I have never been prouder of a failure in my life.”