Guenivere’s heart ran faster as Lancelot trod over the furs and rugs, coming toward her.
“I am astonished you are standing, my lady,” Lancelot said, his voice harsh. “You should be abed, recovering your strength.” His gaze would not release hers.
“I appreciate your concern, Lancelot, and your counsel. But I am fully recovered, as you see. I have just learned of your sister’s betrothal and have a royal wedding to arrange, and an Imperial ambassador to prepare for.”
“All of which can wait at least a day and not be hampered,” Lancelot replied.
“Clearly, you have never arranged a wedding,” Guenivere replied, her tone dry.
Lancelot considered her. “No, I have not,” he said shortly. “But I have watched many people rise before they should, exert themselves and become even more ill as a result.”
“Thank you, but I know my duty.”
“Duty.” Lancelot spoke the word as if it was an epithet.
She shrank back, startled.
Genuine anger flickered in his black eyes. “You and I know the truth of your illness,” he said. “Do not make me regret keeping that knowledge to myself.”
“You would not tell—” she began quickly.
“No, I have not,” he replied. “But can you not see the position that puts me in?”
She studied his face, uneasiness building in her. “I have made things difficult for you…” she breathed.
He made a chopping motion with his hand. “No. That is not what I mean. You are ever too quick to assume that you are at fault. You must stop doing that.” His tone was harsh. “I meant only that your predicament has put me in a position where I have, in effect, lied to Arthur. Lied by omission, by failing to tell him why you were ill.”
“I’m sorry,” she said quickly.
“No,” he said sharply. “I do not say this to make you feel guilty. Damn it, you are far too accommodating.”
“I live with a man who does not know the meaning of that word,” Guenivere replied, her tone dry. Then her jaw sagged. Where had that come from? She had never in her life spoken a harsh word about Arthur before. And to Lancelot, of all people—the man Arthur considered his closest and truest friend.
Lancelot’s lips parted in surprise. Then he smiled.
Guenivere put her fingers over her lips, holding back her own smile.
“Arthur learned to not give ground. The Saxons taught him that,” Lancelot said gently, his eyes still filled with merriment.
Guenivere nodded. “I am aware of that. It is why I must give way, wherever necessary.”
“You do not have to do that with me,” Lancelot said. “I have lied about you to Arthur, whom I have never lied to before. I speak of it only to assure you it is a lie which rests easily on my conscience.”
Guenivere frowned. “I do not understand what you are saying.”
“I am saying…” Lancelot replied. He glanced over his shoulder and moved closer to her, so there was not the slightest chance of Anwen hearing him, even if her ear polished the door itself at this moment. He lowered his voice. “I am saying that for you, for your benefit alone, I will lie to Arthur.”
Her heart fluttered. Was he standing too close? Was it possible that he was as tall as Arthur? Certainly not as thick across the shoulders, but he was not insubstantial, either.
“I…” she began, struggling to find words to say.
He really was too close!
She made the mistake of looking directly into his eyes, something she had learned not to do with the men of the court, ever. Especially over the back of her hand, or when they stood too close, or a thousand other times when such a look could be far too easily misinterpreted.
So why did she look now?
Because he spoke of doing something for her. For Guenivere, the woman a pace back and to one side of the High King of Britain.
Just as he had given her his shoulder to cry upon.
The words came to her at last, and they were not words she would have dared speak, had she properly considered them. “I was wrong. You do not dislike me.”
His gaze did not let her go. And in his eyes Guenivere saw…something. Too many things to understand. His jaw worked. When he spoke, it was with a harsh, controlled voice, thick with too many more emotions for her to absorb. “No, I do not dislike you.”
And it seemed that for the space of a few heartbeats which stretched out across time and lasted forever, she could at last see and understand his thoughts. She saw the mighty struggle in him, the need to speak words he dammed back with enormous effort.
His gaze dropped.
To her lips.
Guenivere drew in a breath that scalded her throat. Her heart ached. She felt as though she teetered upon the very brink of great danger.
And the thought came to her, clear and sure, that Lancelot was about to kiss her.
Her whole body leapt at the idea.
Lancelot closed his eyes and turned away, breaking the invisible, heated connection.
Guenivere let out her breath. It shook. So did her limbs. She moved back to the bed and sank upon the edge of it, trembling.
Lancelot did not look at her directly. He moved toward the door and put a hand upon the latch. “If you will not rest and recover properly for your sake, then do it for mine.” His voice was strained. “If I have any influence with you, then I would spend it all upon this request.”
Guenivere wrapped her arms around her middle, trying to warm herself. “I will rest, then.” She wasn’t sure she had the strength to rise again, anyway.
Lancelot’s gaze met hers once more. Short. Heated. Then away. “Thank you.” His voice shook. Then he wrenched the door open and was gone, before she could draw another breath.
Guenivere stayed in her bed for the next two days.
Chapter Thirteen
On the last night of the full moon, the folk and lords of Camelot once more moved through the fens to the river, this time to say farewell and send Cadoc on his way to the afterlife.
And at sunset of the next day, Bricius walked Tegan to the great hall of Camelot, to wed to Prince Gawain of Lothian, in a ceremony that was both Christian and pagan, to the satisfaction of everyone assembled in the hall to witness the union.
The array of finery and glittering weapons and armor, all shined for this moment, staggered Tegan. “But…it is just a wedding,” she breathed to her father.
“A wedding of two houses and two kingdoms, who will between them prop up the foundation of Arthur’s Britain. You are royalty, daughter. You are marrying royalty, the High King’s cousin. You know this.” Despite his lecturing, her father patted her hand on his arm with a gentle reassurance.
“I do know it all very well,” she whispered back as they moved along the aisle to the front of the great hall, where Gawain and his brothers waited, along with Arthur, Merlin and Guenivere. The Queen’s smile was radiant, for she was overjoyed by her friend’s wedding.
“All I can seem to think of is that I am marrying a man who makes me angry just by looking at him,” Tegan finished.
Her father made an odd noise in his throat and murmured, “Anger is better than indifference, daughter. You will learn that swiftly enough.”
Then they were before Arthur, where they bowed and curtsied, before Bricius put her hand into Gawain’s.
Gawain’s armor shone, each small iron plate sewn to the leather polished to a golden glow. His cloak fell from his shoulders to the floor in a sweep of dark green. The lion of Lothian clawed upon his chest.
His gaze met hers as he took her hand. “I wondered if you would wear your armor, too,” he breathed.
Tegan drew in a startled breath. Her gown was glowing blue, with white fur along the edges of the sleeve. It was pretty even to her eyes.
Then she saw the glow of amusement in Gawain’s eyes and managed to smile in return.
He turned her to face Merlin, who would officiate along with the head of the monastery on Avalon, Father Cadfan.
The
ceremony itself and the feast, afterwards, were a blur to Tegan. She felt disconnected from everyone around her, most especially Gawain. The merriment of the feast sounded as though it was reaching her from the end of a long, narrow valley.
The last three days had been similar. She had moved through them, a leaf upon a current, helpless to change directions or steer in any way. The current had strengthened as the wedding approached. There were so many ceremonies and traditions she was forced to endure, and so many wives who came to offer her advice for the days ahead.
She barely absorbed the wisdom and could only nod and murmur her thanks.
Guenivere had been absent for most of those three days and Tegan missed her friend more than she missed the Queen’s guiding presence.
She also missed Elaine. She wished her stepmother had lived just a little longer, to be here for this day.
Lancelot had been subdued, too—perhaps for the same reason.
Tegan ate very little of the wedding feast. She had no appetite, not even for wine. She sipped water and nibbled at the delicate luxuries which Cai had somehow coaxed the cooks into making, all without Guenivere standing behind them and staring the cooks into submission.
Guenivere leaned toward Tegan, for she sat on Tegan’s right, as her attendant, while Arthur sat on Gawain’s left, as his. “I hope you will remember more of this night than I remember of mine, Tegan.”
Tegan glanced at her. She gave Guenivere a small smile. “It all seems very…distant.”
“Yes, I remember that,” Guenivere admitted ruefully. She patted Tegan’s arm. “I enjoyed every moment arranging it for you, though. I will tell you all about it in the days ahead, so you can pretend you remember everything to those who do ask.”
“You?” Tegan looked at her. “But…you have been abed…”
Guenivere laughed. “Yes! I promised I would stay in bed and I did, but I arranged everything from my bed. There has been such a parade in and out of my bedchamber these last three days.” Her eyes were warm as she smiled at Tegan. “My dear, you did not think Cai managed all this on his own?”
Tegan smiled. “I did wonder,” she admitted and picked up the morsel of sweetbread on her plate. “He would never have thought to include something like this.” And she bit into it.
Guenivere’s smile was radiant. “But to everyone else, I was resting, alone and in the dark, yes?”
Tegan nodded.
A few minutes later, the matrons of the court came to Tegan, to take her to the bedchamber where she would spend her wedding night. It was a large chamber in the palace itself, provided by Arthur for this occasion. The furs on the floor and the wall hangings were grand but dwarfed by the enormous bed in the center of the chamber. A fire roared at the fireplace, taking even the smallest chill out of the air.
Tegan trembled as the women stripped her and slid her into the bed beneath the covers. Even though she was acquainted with what was to come, it had been a very long time since the last occasion…and Gawain had been there on that night, too.
A lamp was left burning for Gawain to find his way to the bed. The ladies left her and shut the door.
Tegan expected it would be hours yet before Gawain made his way to the chamber. He was a prodigious drinker and enjoyed the company of men. She had seen new husbands drink themselves into a stupor, dazzled by being the center of attention for the evening. They sometimes remained in the feast hall until dawn was threatening. Then, to the jeers and ribald encouragement of those left at the wedding feast, they would stumble to the wedding chamber. It was possible Tegan would enjoy a full night’s sleep before Gawain arrived.
Yet only a little while later, the chamber door opened and Gawain stepped through.
Tegan had been resting on her side, reaching for sleep. She blinked, pulled to wakefulness, as Gawain shut the door and stood with his hand upon it, his head down, as if he was deep in thought.
She could not simply lie there and wait for him. It was too accommodating. Tegan sat up, bringing the furs up with her, to hide her form. Her heart strummed.
Gawain turned to face her. He showed no surprise to find her sitting and waiting for him. He did not smile.
Neither did he seem drunk.
The silence, which writhed between them, thick and tense, prodded her to speak. “I thought you would be ages, yet.”
He didn’t move. “A practice that has always struck me as an ill omen for the rest of the marriage. If a man isn’t eager to tend his new wife on his wedding night, what will the rest of their days be like, once the novelty has worn off?”
Tegan’s cheeks flamed. “You are…eager, then?”
Gawain didn’t flinch or even look uncomfortable. “I agreed to work at this.”
“Oh.”
He raised a brow and reached for the clip at his shoulder to release his cloak. “Is that disappointment I hear, Lady Tegan?”
A denial rose to her lips. But refuting him, turning the conversation to his flaws…that was the old way, the easy way to deal with him. And she had agreed to work at this, too.
So Tegan said flatly, “You found me agreeable enough, once, to pursue me through the army camp and spend the night seducing me. I thought that perhaps that same ardor remained.”
Gawain paused from laying the thick, heavy cloak over the chest against the wall to look at her, startled.
“Was it really only the prospect of bedding a hellcat for the night that drove you?” she added and was alarmed to hear the revealing wistfulness in her voice.
Gawain did not seem to hear that sad note, though. He came over to the high bed where she sat, unbuckling the heavy leather armor, with the clawing lion on the front, and sat on the edge of it, turned so that he was facing her. He worked at the buckles as he spoke. “I tell you this not to make you angrier,” he said, his voice low. “I do not remember that night at all. I cannot explain what drove me to anything I did. It was a hard battle that day, and I lost many friends. Wine and the oblivion it brings was my only comfort.”
He lifted the chest and back plate away and lowered them to the floor and straightened. “Perhaps not the only comfort,” he added. “You were another. At least, my gut must have considered you to be, for only my instincts were working that night, and they made me reach for you.” He paused. “Did I seek you out? Did I come and find you?”
“You really remember none of it?” Tegan asked. Her heart was thundering, and it was not simply because of this painful conversation. He was far too close to her…but now, as her husband, he could sit as near to her as he wanted. She could feel the warmth of his hip against her thigh, through the thick furs.
His brows came together. “I remember the battle itself.”
“As you never forget a single blow or strike. Yes, you said so that night.”
Gawain frowned, his gaze shifting as he focused upon his memory of Badon. “Yes…I remember saying it, too,” he said. Then his gaze snapped back to her face. “You were the one the Saxon had pulled to the ground. You gutted him the same moment I ran him through.”
Tegan grimaced. “Now I have reminded you of my fighting ways. That was not my intention, tonight, as you find warrior women so unappealing.”
Gawain’s gaze was frank and unmoving. “We both have much to overcome, don’t we?” He brought his hand to her cheek. His fingers hovered very close to her flesh, so she could feel the heat of them. Then he settled his hand against her face. His thumb slid over the corner of her mouth. “Soft…” he said, as if this surprised him.
Tegan’s breath betrayed her. It came faster and harder.
Gawain leaned and kissed her. She thought perhaps he meant merely to touch his mouth to hers, a type of reassurance before he got to the business of sealing their marriage.
Yet his lips lingered.
Then she forgot to think at all. The kiss continued. Deepened.
Only when his hand touched the bare flesh at her waist did Tegan realize she had allowed the furs to drop.
Did Gawai
n lower her to her back, or did she fall back by herself? She realized she was lying down, with Gawain bent over her, only when he raised his mouth from hers and studied her.
He breathed quickly, too. “A promising start.” His voice was deeper, touched by hoarseness and Tegan’s pulse leapt once more, as she recognized he was understating his reaction.
Gawain rose from the bed and shed the rest of his clothes and armor with a complete lack of self-consciousness. She pulled the furs back up over her and watched his body emerge from the layers of tunic and trews and boots, unable to pull her gaze away.
He raised his brow. “You observe closely, madam.”
“Yes.” It was the truth, but admitting it made her cheeks burn.
Gawain padded back to the bed, all lean flesh and taut muscles. “Does it please you, what you observe?”
Tegan swallowed and met his gaze. “Yes.”
Gawain’s smile was brief. Then he gripped the edges of the furs laying over her. “My turn.”
She let them go and took a deep breath as he pulled them away to reveal her body, and held still.
Gawain’s gaze moved over her, from head to foot. “The promise beneath your gowns is not a false one at all.” He pushed the furs aside and settled on the bed next to her. His hand rested on her belly, making the muscles beneath twitch and ripple. Tegan just barely stopped herself from squirming.
Gawain slid his hand farther, to curl over her hip. He tugged her toward him. “Come here.”
Tegan rolled up against him, directed by his hand. The contact against his hard, heated body made her gasp.
It was not the last gasping sound she made that night.
The first time, Gawain took her in a swift storm of intense sensations which left her quivering and panting, as he lay beside her, breathing as heavily as she. He rolled his head to the side to look at her.
Tegan saw wonder in his expression. “That was…”
“Yes,” she agreed. She leveraged herself up on to one elbow, so that it was she leaning over him. “More,” she breathed and kissed him.
Gawain growled and pulled her on top of his body, his hands smoothing over her length, and then holding her still as he plundered her mouth with his.
Abduction of Guenivere (Once and Future Hearts Book 7) Page 14