Page 60 of Propriety (le morte d’Guinevere #1)

They kept to the road after the attack. Lancelot couldn’t mount the horse with his injury, and they were far enough from Camelot that he didn’t seem to mind walking.

Guinevere quite enjoyed it. Walking hand in hand with him on the cobbled streets, listening to him talk about nothing at all.

His wound had begun to heal, and although it was far from pretty, they had seemed to stave off infection.

With Gwen and horse in tow, her knight could hardly keep the smile from his face. They moved slowly, making frequent stops for rest and re-bandaging, but he seemed intoxicated, the way joy emanated off of him.

“I think Kineton is just up ahead.” Lancelot pulled her hand up to his lips, pressing a kiss against her wrist.

“Like… ‘sleep in a bed tonight’ just ahead?”

“Like a ‘warm meal and bath’ just ahead.” With a grin stretching across his lips, he squeezed her hand. “If you pick up the pace, that is.”

“Do we…” Voice trailing off, Guinevere worried her bottom lip. “Can we…” With a groan, she shook her head. “Nevermind.”

“I have coin, mon amour .”

A faint blush heated her cheeks, but she didn’t respond.

So he continued. “Knights don’t exactly receive a bag of gold at the end of each day. But Arthur did give me some land on my return from the Grail quest.” He shrugged like they discussed the weather. “I sold mine several fortnights ago. Pocketed the money and old King Arthur was none the wiser.”

“I don’t think that’s allowed.” But she giggled.

“I don’t much care.”

It took the two of them the better part of the afternoon to reach Kineton, but once the warmth of the sun mixed with the smell of freshly baked bread, Guinevere nearly wept.

They had fled over a week ago, living off roots and stolen apples, sleeping beneath damp canvas and dirt-stained stars. The promise of soup — hot, seasoned, served in a bowl — felt almost obscene. A chilled glass of wine?

Luxury.

Civilization.

Salvation .

Gwen shifted her weight impatiently as Lancelot handed over a few coins to a stableboy, shouldering their packs as the boy lead the horse away. “Let me carry something,” she said, reaching to tug on the strap slung over his shoulder.

“Don’t be daft.” He bent down, kissing her quickly. “It’s just our clothing and the rest of our coin.” He nodded to the horse. “The tent poles and the canvas can stay with the saddle. I don’t think we’ll need them.”

“We’d better not.” A scowl formed on her features.

“Of course, ma femme .” Another kiss between her brows, an attempt to smooth out the wrinkles from her pout. “What first?”

“Bath. Bath first. You reek.” She waved her free hand in front of her scrunched nose. “And I’d like to clean your wound with actual soap and water. Not just whatever herbs you claim are good for infection.”

He laughed, throwing his head back. The sound warmed her to her very core. “I’m still standing, aren’t I?”

They crossed the inn’s threshold like beggars at the gates of paradise. It was small, but clean — polished wood, a warm hearth, the faint scent of stew and rosemary hanging in the air. Guinevere leaned in close as Lancelot spoke to the innkeeper, pressing a few more coins into the man’s palm.

“A room with a bath,” he murmured, quiet enough that only she could hear. “And privacy.”

“And soap.” She chimed in, earning her a gentle elbow in the ribs .

Upon being shown to their quarters, the sight of a steaming basin nearly undid her. She didn’t wait for permission. She tugged off her boots, dropped her cloak to the floor, and turned toward him with her hands on her hips.

“Sit,” she said, firm and fond all at once.

Lancelot raised a brow. “Yes, my queen.”

“Damn right.”

She helped him ease out of his tunic, fingers brushing his ribs, careful of the stitches. His skin was warm, still tender, and her touch lingered longer than it needed to. He said nothing about it — only watched her, like the air between them had thickened.

“In the bath? Or with a rag?”

“Oh, in the bath , my sweet. My aching bones deserve it. And I deserve to see more of you, too.” He tugged her closer, fingers curling into her own shirt. “Take this off, now.” He practically growled.

“You have an open wound, you fool.” She chided him, but leaned her forehead against his.

He huffed a breath that was somewhere between a laugh and a groan, but didn’t press her.

Instead, he let her help him into the basin — warm water climbing over bruised hips, stitched side, limbs that stretched awkwardly in the long wooden tub.

He winced, but settled in with a satisfied sigh, arms resting lazily on either side.

Guinevere knelt beside the tub, sleeves rolled, dipping a rag into the water. She started with his shoulders, methodical and gentle, trying to ignore how his eyes never left her face.

He said nothing. Just watched her — the way her brow furrowed in concentration, the soft pinch in her lips, the brush of her fingers over his chest. Watched, and watched, until she narrowed her eyes.

“What?” she asked flatly.

“You’re very lovely when you’re trying to pretend this is purely medicinal.”

She swatted the rag against his collarbone. “You have an open wound.”

“Yes. I’m terribly fragile.” His hand found her wrist and held it just so. “And the tub is very large. And I may pass out from effort unless I’m supported by a warm, willing body. ”

“You’re a manipulative bastard.”

Pulling his wet hand out of the tub, he curled his fingers into her tunic, properly soaking her sleeve. “You’re all wet.” His voice was laced with the teasing mirth she was annoyingly so fond of. “Take this off. You’ll get sick.”

Guinevere rolled her eyes, trying to focus on her task of cleaning this wretched man in front of her.

“ Mon amour .” Sound all too melodramatic as he pretended to slur his words with a grin. “Do you know the last time I saw a pair of breasts?” A pout pulled at his lips as he batted his eyelashes. “Yours are my favorite.”

“You’re incorrigible.”

“I’m dying.”

“You are not .”

“I might be. My vision’s going fuzzy, and I swear I see an angel glaring at me.”

“You want me to shove your head under and keep it there?”

“That might kill me quicker.” He sighed dramatically, then glanced down at her dripping sleeve. “Besides, it’s cruel to leave a wounded man alone in all this water. I could slip. Drown. You’d never forgive yourself.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “You just want me naked.”

“That, too,” he said cheerfully.

She stood, jaw clenched, and for a moment he truly believed she might walk away. Then her hands went to the laces of her tunic.

He blinked. “Wait, that worked?”

“Don’t talk,” she warned, tugging the damp fabric over her head with a resigned sort of elegance. “You’ll ruin it.”

Lancelot clamped his mouth shut so fast it made a little click .

She stripped quickly, then stepped into the tub behind him. The water sloshed as she sank down, knees bracketing his hips, arms sliding around his chest. He let out a sound so indecent it made her laugh against his shoulder.

“Better?” she asked dryly.

He leaned back until his head rested against hers. “Divine.”

“You’re still filthy. ”

“So clean me.”

And she did — hands slow and reverent now, gliding over the firm lines of his chest, careful of the wound but not of the way he trembled slightly under her touch. His eyes had fallen shut, but not from pain. She pressed a kiss to the side of his neck, just below his ear.

Lancelot, for all his teasing, had gone quiet. Still. His fingers toyed idly with hers where they rested over his chest, but there was a tension in him now. Not pain. Not quite.

Desire.

“Gwen,” he said, voice low, the syllable a little hoarse.

She hummed in acknowledgment.

“I’m trying to behave.” He tilted his head just slightly, brushing his temple against hers. “But you’re naked. And you’re touching me. And it’s been so long since I’ve felt your hands in any way other than as my nurse.”

She froze — just a heartbeat — then moved to rise. “You’re injured.”

“I’m also desperate to feel you beneath me.”

“Lancelot-”

He twisted just enough to catch her wrist again, keeping her from climbing out. His grip wasn’t strong — she could break it easily. But the look in his eyes made her stay.

“I’m not trying to be careless,” he said, softer now. “I swear it. But I miss you. I miss those breathy little moans you make. I miss the way you arch into my touch. I miss knowing you.”

Her face flushed, but she shook her head, slipping her hand from his. “You will not bleed out just so you can fuck me in a bathtub.”

He groaned in protest. “The wound isn’t even deep.”

“Stitches. Bruising. Fever.”

“You’re inches from my lap and somehow still thinking of that damned fever.”

She stood, water cascading down her body in rivulets, and he swallowed whatever protest was rising next. She turned, grabbing a towel, her spine sharp with resolve — and her body flushed and glistening and right there . Torture.

“Out of the tub,” she said, voice tight .

She turned her back to him deliberately, dragging a clean shift over her damp skin. The towel dropped to the floor. She didn’t look, but she heard his breath hitch.

“Lie down,” she said, calm and cool as she knotted the laces at her hip. “Let me redress the stitches before they pull.”

But Lancelot hadn’t moved. Behind her, the rustle of linen and water-slicked skin had stilled. Silence pulsed in the air, thick and expectant.

“I said lie down.”

“I heard you.”

She turned.

He was still standing beside the bed, half-wrapped in a towel that hung devilishly low on his hips, hair wet and curling at his temples, steam clinging to his shoulders. His wound was red and raw, yes, but his eyes…

His eyes were molten.

“You’re not listening.”

“I am listening.” He took a step toward her. “I just don’t care.”

“Lancelot.”

“I love you.”

It wasn’t new. He’d said it before. But here, now, with his chest rising and falling too fast and his hands flexing like he didn’t know what to do with them — it made her breath catch, anyway.

“You need rest.”

He nodded once. “Yes. After.”

“After what?”

He reached for her, slow and reverent, and took her face in both hands. “After I touch you until you forget we were ever hunted.”

Her lips parted, but he didn’t kiss her. Not yet. Just pressed his forehead to hers and breathed like he was trying not to fall apart.

“Let me lie down,” he murmured, voice cracking. “Let me lie down with you and remember I’m alive.”

“Let me change your dressings,” she was falling into him. “Let me take care of you before….”

A nod.

“And when I lay with you, you’ll keep your hands where I tell you.”

Lancelot laughed, the sound chasing the chill from her bones. “I’ll try.”