Page 59 of Propriety (le morte d’Guinevere #1)

Hours passed, and she remained frozen in place. She couldn’t feel any aches in her bones. There was nothing but worry and fear.

But… after a while.

Just a flicker.

A flutter of his eyelids.

“Gwen?” She could have easily mistaken his voice for the wind, had she not been glued to his side.

“I’m here, I’m here.” She sobbed, lurching forward to look at him. “I’m here.”

His lashes fluttered again — and then he winced.

She caught his face between her hands, her thumbs trembling as they brushed over his clammy cheeks. “You’re safe. You’re alive.” Her voice broke on the last word.

His brow furrowed faintly, like even that was too much effort. His mouth moved without sound for a second, then finally, he spoke again. “I didn’t… go anywhere.”

A laugh escaped her. Or maybe a sob. They sounded the same to her ears now.

“Guinevere,” He croaked, trying to shift.

“Stop, stop, stop.” She pushed gently on his shoulders, keeping him from moving.

“Need you to do something for me.”

“Anything,” she said quickly, lacing her fingers through his. “Everything. Always.”

It was several moments before he spoke again, sweat gathering on his brow as he pulled in deep breaths. “There’s a willow. Passed it on our way in.”

“I remember.”

“Take my knife,” He blanched, color draining from his already ghostly face. “Get some bark.”

“I’m not leaving you.” She meant for her words to be stern, but they came out as a whimper instead. “I can’t.”

“Have to,” He squeezed her hand lightly. “The bark is…” Another long pause, another wince. “Medicinal.”

Her heart leapt to her throat, already searching for his dagger. “How much?”

Lancelot gave the faintest shake of his head. “Not much. Handful… maybe two.” His eyes opened again, glassy and bloodshot.

“Very well,” she whispered, sliding his dagger out of his discarded belt. “I’ll be quick just-” Her words faltered again. “Please stay awake.”

“Why don’t you,” His face scrunched up, letting out a pained groan. “Give me something to wait for?”

She could have smacked him if he wasn’t falling apart in front of her. “Are you serious?” Gwen scowled. “You were bleeding out in my hands, and you’re trying to flirt ?”

“Still me,” he murmured, voice nearly lost to the rasp in his throat. “Still yours.”

She pressed a kiss to his forehead, fast and desperate. “Stay awake,” she whispered one last time before peeling back the tent flap.

The bodies of the men still laid strewn about their small campsite, her stomach lurching at the sight.

Careful not to step in any of the gore that lie around her, she made quick work of finding the willow tree.

It was easy enough to find the tree. Its branches hung low over the path they had taken in. Guinevere slid the knife out of her belt, carefully carving into the bark of the large tree.

She collected the shavings in a small pouch on her hip, her heart still thrashing in her chest.

Have to get back.

Have to get back.

Have to get back .

Someone could have attacked her again, and she would never see it coming. He consumed her every thought.

Quickly cinching the bag, she turned, not bothering to tuck her knife away.

Sliding back through the tent flap, Gwen found herself holding her breath, afraid of what lay on the other side of the canvas.

Her knees nearly buckled with relief. Then the fury hit — hot and wild. “You’re an idiot,” she hissed, collapsing beside him. Lancelot was sitting up, leaning back against the larger pack. “You shouldn’t have moved.”

“Doesn’t hurt too bad,” he said, and his voice did sound stronger, if only by a little. “I would have slipped back under.” A roguish grin tugged at his mouth, instantly tugging on her heart.

“Besides, you’re more likely to kiss me if I don’t look like I’m laying on my deathbed.” Her brow furrowed as she looked at him. Words caught in her throat.

He was reckless.

Infuriating.

But god it was good to hear his voice.

“You shouldn’t have moved,” she repeated as she untied the small pouch from her wrist.

“I didn’t want to miss you,” he rasped, a flicker of mischief through the pain. “Or your adorable excuse for wrath.”

“You should be dead.” She whispered, tears pricking at her eyes now. “There was so much blood, Lance.” She cupped his face, relishing in the way he leaned into her touch. “You were so still, I didn’t think-” Her breathing hitched.

All she could see was his pale frame, the blood covering his chest and his hands. She couldn’t see past the fear of losing him.

It threatened to pull her under.

So instead, she grabbed his face and kissed him.

It wasn’t soft.

Wasn’t sweet. She sobbed against his lips, feeling tears wet her cheeks as she clung to him.

There was nothing gentle in it. It was desperate and furious and alive , her lips crashing against his like she wanted to punish him and save him at once. He made a sound — half gasp, half groan — but kissed her back, weak but hungry, clutching at the front of her tunic with blood-stained fingers.

He groaned underneath her, wincing slightly.

“Oh my god,” she pulled back, furiously wiping the tears from her face. “I’m so sorry. Did I-”

“No,” He shook his head, fingers still curled into her shirt. “Not you, never you. Just hurts.”

Her face crumpled. “I shouldn’t have-”

“No,” he said, jaw tight. “I wanted to. I just… couldn’t.” Their foreheads touched. Her hands trembled where they cupped his jaw.

“You idiot,” she whispered. “You beautiful, reckless, stupid man.” Her eyes flicked down to the bandage. While the bleeding had slowed significantly, blood was already beginning to seep through this dressing.

Guinevere sat back on her knees, giving him a once-over. “How are you feeling?” She asked, fingers brushing against the shallow gash on his arm.

“Never better,” He grinned. His hair was matted with blood, his chest streaked with it as well. His… and their assailants.

“You need a bath.” She scrunched her nose, untying the knot in the bandage.

With another wince, Lancelot shifted. “You are the most beautiful creature to ever walk this earth.” Fingers brushed her cheek gently.

“You sure you didn’t hit your head?” A laugh, followed by a quiet gasp. The stitching had held, but it was gruesome looking. “Should I clean it again?”

Lance shook his head quickly. “Not yet. Just wrap it back up. We’ll clean it once the pain dulls.”

With a nod, she tore another piece of clean fabric off of the tunic. He leaned forward so she could wrap the bandage around him, and while he tried to keep his brave face, Gwen heard his quiet gasps. The way his breathing hitched as she tightened the cloth.

“Did you find the willow?” He asked, settled back against the pack.

Opening the pouch, she dumped the shavings into her hands. “ What do you need me to do?”

Lancelot blinked at her, dazed but trying to focus. “You’ve got to crush it. Fine as you can.”

She nodded, reaching for a flat stone, tipping the shavings onto it. She started grinding with the hilt of her knife, slow, even pressure. Her hands shook anyway.

“Finer,” he rasped. “It won’t help if I choke on it.”

“Don’t joke,” she snapped. “You’re barely breathing as it is.”

“Then it’s good you’re here,” he said, lips twitching. “I’ll die slower just to spite you.”

“Lance-”

“I mean it,” he murmured. “No one yells at me like you do. Makes a man feel special.”

She didn’t answer, just ground the bark harder, faster, until the rough bits were powdered and dark against the stone. She scraped it into her hand with the edge of the blade.

“This enough?” she asked.

“Almost.” He shifted again, teeth gritted. “I’ll need water or wine. Something to wash it down.”

“I don’t have—”

“Spit, then,” he said with a weak grin. “I’m not picky.”

“You’re disgusting.”

“Mm,” he managed, eyes fluttering. “You love it.”

Her heart ached so fiercely she thought it might rip open. “Open your mouth,” she said, scooping the crushed willow into her palm.

He obeyed. Good knight. Loyal soldier. Idiot man. She fed him the bitter shavings like communion, pinching bits between her fingers and pressing them past his lips.

He choked on the first bite. Cursed softly. Swallowed anyway. “Again,” he rasped.

She did.

It went on like that — her hands steadying, his breathing ragged — until it was gone. His head lolled back onto her arm. “You would have made a terrible physician.”

“I ought to stab you again.”

He laughed, or… tried to. The sound came out as a ragged wh eeze. “I’d thrust myself deeper onto your blade just to be nearer to you, ma femme. ”

Her brow furrowed as she fought back the urge to curl into his good side. “That’s a new one.”

As if reading her mind, Lancelot snatched her wrist with his uninjured arm, pulling her against him. “It only recently became relevant.” His lips pressed against her temple.

“What’s it mean?”

“My wife.”

She stilled against him.

Forgot to breathe.

“Did you think I did not mean those words with my very soul?” His question hung in the air between them, suffocating her.

“We cannot be wed.”

“Says who?”

“The church, Lancelot.” Guinevere avoided his gaze. She could feel his eyes boring into her very soul. “I have a husband in the eyes of the church, of Camelot.”

“Fat lot of good he does you.” He snapped, arm tightening around her. “A husband should be a protector, a worshipper, and a lover. He is none of those things to you.”

“But you are,” Her voice was so quiet, she wasn’t sure he would hear her.

“I am yours .” His breath was hot against her ear. “Look at me, Guinevere.” And when she hesitated — “Do not make me tear a stitch meeting your gaze, wife.”

Fighting the urge to roll her eyes, she turned.

A fire in his visage that made her stomach lurch.

“Whether you call me husband, friend, or lover, do not doubt that I belong wholly to you.” He leaned closer, lips brushing hers.

“We are not in Camelot anymore, Guinevere. You took my name when you took my ring. You made me a man.”

Her eyes filled, vision blurring as his words lodged themselves in her soul. “You made yourself my wife, Guinevere du Lac — don’t pretend you didn’t mean it.”

“You’re still burning up,” she tried to change the subject, pressing the back of her hand to his forehead .

“I am not feverish enough that I do not know of what I speak, Guinevere.” His voice was stronger now, serious. “We have bound ourselves to each other in the only ways that truly matter. The church never would have recognized our marriage, anyways.”

He shifted, inhaling sharply. “You are mine, and I am yours. That is wed enough to me.”

“Lance-” she whispered, shaking her head as she tried to blink away the tears. “You know I…” A pause. A tear. “You’re all I want. In this life and the next.”

“Then have me, my queen.”

“It’s forbidden.”

“And when has that stopped us before?”