Page 46 of Propriety
“I didn’t know where else to go,” she whispered against his skin, voice coming unraveled on the last word.
“Here,mon amour.” He muttered into her hair, one hand cradled the back of her head, the other splayed wide across her back, holding her steady. “You come here.”
They stood like that for a long while, wrapped in silence, wrapped in each other. She let herself be held, let the tears fall. His breath was warm against her hair, his body solid and real andsafe.
Eventually, he guided her toward the bed, but didn’t lie down until she did. He stayed beside her, on his side, facing her.
His thumb skirted gently over her cheekbone, a touch so faint she wondered if she had imagined it. “You dug me up too late.” She whispered around the knot of grief in her throat.
“What?” His voice was so soft, she could feel the heat of his hand hovering just above her cheek. “No, no. Just in time, Guinevere.”
“I have been buried under the weight of being his queen. I didn’t know what it was like to breathe fresh air.” She was fighting against sobs now, fingers clenching against his bare chest. “You dug me up too late. I…” Her breath hitched. “I will never be free.”
He leaned in, pressing his forehead to hers. His fingers clutched softly at her cheeks, as though anything sudden would cause her to detonate. “You are free,” He breathed, and she felt her body shake with tremors she couldn’t control. “I will spend my life fighting for your freedom, Guinevere.”
“Kiss me,” she rasped, swiping tears off of her face.
“No, love.” He pressed his lips to her nose. “Not like this.”
She shook her head, tears falling freely now, sliding down the bridge of her nose and onto his skin. “His hands-”
She felt him tense beneath her. She prayed he wouldn’t leave.
“I can’t-” A gasp. “I feel so dirty.” She clenched her eyes shut, couldn’t look at him. “I feel his hands on me. Lance, please.”
He didn’t cave, arms pulling her to him, crushing her against his skin. She whimpered as he ran his hands through her hair. “Please,” she pleaded with him, stretching to press her lips to his throat. “I need you.”
He shushed her softly, continuing to smooth her hair.
She lay curled on her side, trembling still, tears drying sticky on her cheeks. Lancelot pressed a kiss to her temple, then shifted, untangling his limbs from hers. She made a soft noise of protest, her fingers brushing his arm.
“I’m not leaving,” he whispered, touching her cheek. “Just a moment. Stay warm.”
He crossed the room in the hush of candlelight, the chill slipping in around the stone walls. She watched him move — barefoot, bare-chested — toward the trunk near the hearth. He crouched and rifled gently through his things, then stood with something soft and light in his hands.
It was a tunic. His tunic.
He came back to her with quiet purpose, kneeling beside her on the bed. “Gwen,” he said softly, holding it out like an offering, “will you let me?”
Her throat bobbed. She nodded.
She sat up, watching as his fingers trembled above the ties on her shoulders. His usually deft touch struggled with the knots, cursingquietly under his breath.
The gown slipped down, pooling around her waist, but his eyes did not leave hers. When he removed the dress, it felt like he was peeling back a layer of hurt.
His jaw tensed, eyes traveling to her rib cage. She tried to follow his gaze, but his fingers stopped her, holding her in his sights.
With a gentle smile, he pulled the tunic over her head. It was soft and warm, sleeves coming past her hands, the hem fell to her thighs. It was entirely too big.
It was perfect.
It smelt like him.
Without thinking, she surged forward, wrapping her arms around the knight that knelt before her.
It took him a minute to recalibrate, but he followed suit, holding her close to him. He sank into her arms, his body curving to fit the shape of her grief. One hand found the small of her back, the other came up to cradle the back of her head again, as if he could hold her together by sheer will alone.
“You smell like smoke and ash,” she whispered into his neck, her voice ragged.
