Page 145 of Propriety
“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 wheeze. “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 amyours.” 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?”
