He looks horrified and rightly so. I'm such a bitch. He's done nothing to suggest that he has any sexual intentions toward the queen. Nothing. But I, knowing the future, can see what lies deep in his heart, even if he's unwilling to admit it. And that puts me in a tough spot.
"I do not understand," he moans. "Why are you saying all of this? Have I done anything to make you doubt me?"
I can't take it anymore and decide to come clean. "Look, Lance. I'm from the future, right? Well, I know exactly what happens in the legend of Camelot." I rise from the bed, my hands fisted in fury. I stare down at him. "You and Guen hook up. You become lovers. So whatever you're feeling for me now, forget about it. You're supposed to love Guenevere, not me."
"Lady, how can you say this?" he cries, scrambling to his feet. "Guenevere is the queen. Arthur's wife. She and I could never become lovers, even if I wanted it. Which I do not," he adds quickly.
"Yes, you can. And you do. Of course, it leads to the destruction of the whole kingdom, and Guenevere gets sentenced to death. But hey, don't let a little death and devastation distract you from your destiny."
"I don't want Guenevere. I want you." He grabs me by the waist and pulls me tight against him. His face is desperate, anguished. "Why can you not accept that? Why must you torture me with your words?"
I feel the tears start welling up in my eyes, and I angrily try to squeeze them away. But it's no use, and they start to flow.
"Let me go." I try to squirm out of his hold.
"How can you punish me for something I have not done?" Lancelot asks, refusing to acknowledge my request to be freed. "A thing I swear to you now I'll never do?" He wraps me in his arms, and I give in, pressing my face into his warm chest, trying to choke back my sobs. "Please believe me."
"I want to. I do," I say. It's true. I do want to believe him. But how can I when I have this major Cassandra complex? It's not like I suspect a boyfriend's cheating through women's intuition. This case of infidelity is on record in a hundred historical texts.
Texts that have not yet been written.
Have I changed the future? Is Lancelot being honest? Will he love me until his dying day and never once steal a lustful glance at the queen? Or should I go with the destiny theory? Is Lancelot predestined to fall in love with Guenevere? In that case, why do I even bother trying to stop it? I should walk away now and save myself any future pain and suffering.
But I can't. I'm in too deep now. I love him. I need him. I want him with me for as much or as little as he can give. I wrap my arms around him, allowing my fingers to caress the small of his back, rejoicing in his hard, muscular body.
"I'm sorry," I whisper.
He turns a bit, deftly shutting the door without letting me go. Then he picks me up in his arms, as if I weigh nothing, and carries me over to the bed.
"Let me prove my loyalty to you," he murmurs, laying me down on top of the furs. "Even if it takes all night."
"What about dinner?" I ask as he traces my lips with his finger.
He smiles. "There is a cook. The queen will be well-fed."
"And you? Won't you be hungry?"
"I have all the sustenance I need right here beneath me," he says, his mouth leaning down to devour mine.
Ditto.
* * *
After hours of yummy lovemaking followed by even yummier hours of lying together, caressing each other tenderly, I'm about convinced that my knight really does have no interest in the queen and was merely doing his job.
"What are we going to do about Guenevere?" I ask, tangling my fingers in his chest hair. "I hate to see her so unhappy. And she certainly can't live here forever."
Lancelot sighs, staring at the ceiling. "I do not know. Mordred's arrival came as a terrible shock to her."
"That's the understatement of the millennium. I thought she'd keel over right then and there." I shake my head. "Poor thing."
Lancelot props himself up on his side, meeting my eyes with his own. "I wish she could be as happy as I am right now."
Aw. I smile and drop my gaze. He's so sweet I can't stand it. Once upon a time I'd be horrified to be this doted on. I always went by the Groucho Marx theory of never wanting to join a club that would welcome me as a member. In the same vein, a guy who was in love with me must be a loser. I was always looking for the one who was out of reach. As if his acceptance of me could make me cool. Of course, if he ever did by some remote chance fall for me, then he automatically slipped into the uncool category. So basically, there was no winning.
But this, for some indescribable reason, is different. I still respect, desire, and, yes, love Lancelot, even though he constantly declares his feelings for me. Is this how it's supposed to be when you find "the one"?
It would be my luck. Spend my whole life searching for "the one," only to find out the reason I can't find him is because he lived and died over a thousand years before I was born. Figures. I wish someone could have told me that from the get-go. It would have saved me the agony of a lot of awkward Tinder dates and tears from reading "Dear Kat" breakup texts.
I just feel so comfortable around Lance. So safe. So warm and fuzzy. He's amazing in bed. He's strong. Protective. Loving. Sexy as hell. Sweet. Caring. Did I mention sexy?
He leans into me, kissing the hollow of my throat. My breath hitches. Here we go again. But wait…
I gently push him away. "We haven't finished talking about Guenevere."
"I want to talk about this," he says, planting a kiss on my nose. "The most wonderful nose I have ever had the pleasure of kissing. Wherever did you acquire it?"
I giggle. "Stop changing the subject."
"Or mayhap we should speak of your ear." He traces the outside with his index finger, sending chills down my spine. "A maddeningly beautiful receptacle for sound."
"Stop it!"
"Or"—he grins wickedly—"let us speak of your mouth." He gently pinches my lower lip with two fingers and pulls it down. Then he leans in, his tongue running along the inside of my lip. "The most luscious instrument of all."
I erupt in giggles, destroying the moment. I roll over onto my back. "Guenevere. We must talk about Guenevere."
"What is there to speak of?" he asks, reluctantly resigning himself to the task at hand.
"How can we make her happy?"
"I do not know."
"Well, are you happy?"
"Aye, very." He smiles. "Happy with you in my bed." He leans in to kiss me again, but I playfully push him away. He groans.
"Focus, Lance," I scold. "Now, we're both happy 'cause we have each other. Therefore, we need to find Guenevere a lover to be happy with." I roll onto my side to face him. "You know anyone single at the castle? I know Mordred is, but that might be a little awkward, him being her husband's son and all. I'm thinking we should probably be steering the love away from the family. They've got enough insider trading going on as it is."
"But Guenevere cannot take a lover," Lancelot says in a horrified voice. "She is married to the king."
Of course. He's exactly right. Duh. What on earth was I thinking? I succeed at keeping Guen and Lance from getting together, only to get her burned at the stake because she fell in love with some other random dude that I set her up with? Think, Kat
An idea comes to me. "Maybe we should try to get her back together with Arthur. I was talking to him in the banquet hall today, and he was pretty adamant about how much he loves her. If we could get the two of them together, maybe they could make up for lost time or something. If Guen would forgive him for the whole Mordred thing…"
"'Tis not an easy thing to forgive."
"Is it, though? I mean, he did it way before they were married. It's a little disturbing—don't get me wrong. But he swears he hasn't cheated on her."
"That's true…"
"Here's what we do. We work to get Guen and Arthur back together. It'll be good for everyone. Them and the whole kingdom."
"And us." Lance grins. "For I will no longer have to accompany
her when she decides to abandon the castle."
"Yes. And I won't have to come track you down," I admonish him, poking my finger into his chest.
"But I like when you do that," he says saucily. "Very much indeed."
"Oh really?" I ask, pressing my lips against his. "What about this?" I say, coming up for air after the kiss. "Do you like when I do this?"
He groans. "Very, very much." He leans in for a second taste.
Talking time is now officially over.
* * *
A rooster crows, effective as an alarm clock with a broken snooze button, and I groggily crawl out of bed. Lancelot is evidently a deep sleeper—the annoying rooster doesn't rouse him. Careful not to wake him, I tiptoe to the door, pull it open, and slip out into the main room of the cottage.
Guenevere rises from her seat at the table and smiles at my approach. "Kat," she greets me. "Good morn. I trust you slept well. Or," she adds with a wink, "not at all?"
I snort at her not-so-subtle implication.
"The caretaker's wife has not yet risen," Guen says. "So there is no food prepared. I can wake her if you like."
"No need." I slip onto the bench beside her. "I'm not really hungry."
"I should think you would be famished after the night you had with Sir Lancelot," Guenevere teases.
I grin sheepishly. "Yeah, yeah."
"Kat, I am thankful to have you here, but why did you come?" she questions.
My face heats. I can't tell her the real reason. It's too embarrassing, for one thing. I mean, what am I supposed to say? "I came here to make sure you don't seduce my boyfriend like history says you do"?
"Arthur sent me,"" I lie.
Guenevere furrows her brows. "He did?"
"Yes." I nod enthusiastically, a plan forming in my head. "He was quite upset when he learned you had taken off."
"Then why did he not come after me himself?" she asks. "Too busy with his sister?" She spits out the last word. Ouch.
"No way, Guen." I shake my head. "He's got no time at all for that witch. In fact, the only reason he hasn't kicked her out of Camelot yet is 'cause he's afraid she'll put an evil spell on you."
Guenevere's eyes widen. Did I mention I'm a damn good liar? I had lots of practice in high school with my strict curfew-setting mom. "What kind of spell?"
I hate follow-up questions that require additional lying. "I don't know, Guen. He didn't say. A bad one, I'm sure. Real bad. Like turning-you-into-a-frog bad."
"That was good of Arthur to protect me, then," Guenevere says thoughtfully. "He has always been a good protector." She stares into the distance.
"He loves you, Guen," I say—truthfully this time. "He told me so. He called you the sunshine of his dark life. Said he couldn't bear to live without you. And he swears he hasn't taken on any lovers the whole time you've been married."
Guenevere turns to look at me, and I realize her eyes are glistening with unshed tears. "Really?" she asks. "He said that to you? Tell me the truth, Kat. I cannot bear to be lied to again."
"I am telling the truth." At least about the last part. "Look, Guen. The whole thing with Mordred happened ages ago. You can't really hold that against Arthur, can you? In my time, it's really common for people to bring kids from other marriages into the relationship. Sure, it's tough, but a lot of time the kids and the stepparent become really close."
"I did feel bad for Mordred," Guenevere admits. "'Tis not his fault, and he looked so lost standing there. So confused. Like a lamb on slaughtering day."
Knowing Mordy a little better, I don't share her fond recollections, but I keep my mouth shut.
"What about Arthur?" I ask, trying to steer the conversation away from the kid and back to the relationship.
Guenevere stares down at her hands. "I was always scared to let myself care for him. After all, our partnership was formed to secure the kingdom, not for any notion of love. Though I do know he reserves fond thoughts of me. After all, he kept me as his wife even after it became apparent that I could not conceive the heir he wanted. Most men would have put me away in exchange for a more fertile spouse. But love me?" She looks up, tears spilling down her cheeks. "I never dared dream that he would love me."
I smile, placing my hand over hers. "He does love you, Guen. He just doesn't know how to express it. You know how men are. Well, maybe you don't, actually." A thought strikes me. "Never fear. I can explain the mystery of men to you right here, right now."
"You can?" Guenevere's eagerness shines through her tears. She leans forward in anticipation of my words.
"Yes," I say, suddenly feeling quite wise. "All the complexities of mankind can be boiled down to one simple statement."
"They can?" I think the queen's actually holding her breath.
"Yup. Guenevere, my darling, all you need to know is this: Men are from Mars, and women are from Venus…"
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
After my quite detailed paraphrasing of the main points of the John Gray classic and several more recent best-selling self-help books, I manage to convince Guenevere that trying to make her marriage work instead of running away over something that happened years ago might be a good long-term strategy to save her marriage. By the time Lancelot wakes, she's already packed and ready to move back to Camelot.
I smile as she eagerly relates to Lancelot all I've told her. If this magazine-editor thing doesn't work out, at least I have a career in marriage counseling to fall back on. He, on the other hand, looks completely baffled at her newfound vocabulary of codependency, self-esteem, and midlife crisis. But then again, most twenty-first-century guys are too.
We arrive back at Camelot later that afternoon, and Arthur looks so happy to see Guen I think for a moment he's going to faint. When she waltzes up to him and plants a passionate kiss on his mouth, I'm almost sure he will. But somehow he manages to retain consciousness long enough to scoop her effortlessly into his arms and carry her off to his royal chambers, where I'm sure the two of them will sit and talk politics until dawn.
Ah, love.
* * *
Before I know it, summer turns to autumn, and the castle starts to get cranking with preparations for winter. And unlike at home, that doesn't mean hitting Walmart to stock up on everything under the sun—they've got to do it all from scratch. There's meat to be caught and smoked, blankets to be woven, grain to be ground and made into bread.
I try to make myself useful, but Guen has assigned me kitchen duty, which is not really my forte. More often than not I'm just in the way, and the cook shoos me out. I end up spending a lot of time with Lancelot, riding around the countryside on horseback.
I'm actually becoming a darn good horsewoman, if I do say so myself. Lance assigns me my own horse, which I dub Dior (after my hero, Christian), and even teaches me how to jump. At first, it's totally scary—after all, if Dior throws me and I get hurt, I obviously can't go to the emergency room. But at the same time, it's so darn thrilling—flying through the air on a horse—that in the end, I decide it's worth the risk.
We have a blast together, Lance and I. With him, there's no pretense of having to act cool and aloof. I can totally be myself. I love that. I only hope he feels as free with me as I do with him. There is one thing that worries me a little as our relationship deepens. He's never told me he loves me. To be fair, I haven't told him either—I so don't want to be the one who says it first! But I hope upon hope that he does. At least a little bit. 'Cause by this point I'm totally head over heels.
Honestly, I'm really starting to get used to this living-in-medieval-times thing. Sure, there are things I miss: venti caramel macchiatos from Starbucks, microwaves, Lucky jeans, central heating, and Taylor Swift songs. But many things I don't: alarm clocks, McDonald's burgers, reality TV, and country line dancing.
Sometimes I even wonder if, when the time comes, I'll want to go back. I mean, I can't help but imagine staying here, marrying Lancelot, and having some little Knights of the Round Table of our own. It wouldn't be so bad, h
onestly. But at the same time, I miss my friends and family. I don't know if I could bear never seeing them again. Of course, by that token, how can I leave Lance? It's a total catch-22. I try not to think about it too much, but seriously, at times I lose major sleep over the whole thing.
One day, Lancelot and I are out in the stables, grooming our horses, when the king's trumpets sound, summoning us to court. We exchange glances. What could this mean?
After all the nobles and knights are gathered, King Arthur calls out a courier, who has been standing in the back. The man looks like he's been riding for days, dirty and exhausted.
"What news have you, sir?" Arthur asks from his throne. To his right sits a well-dressed Mordred, in his new place of honor beside the king. Guenevere is not present. She's busy still organizing the winter preparations. A little workaholic, that queen, let me tell you.
"The Saxons who reside on the eastern shore are restless," the courier replies, still sounding a bit out of breath. "They've been attacking the good King Pellinore of Listinoise, raiding his people's livestock. The king begs Your Majesty send an army to oust the barbarians from his lands."
A cheer rises from all the knights.
"Why are they so happy?" I whisper to Lancelot. To me, the words bad guys attacking would seem a bad thing.
Lancelot frowns, his face troubled. "They are happy at the prospect of taking up arms," he whispers back. "Under King Arthur's peaceful rule, many complain of boredom. Evidently they would rather risk being run through by a sword than be forced to spend their lives at home with their wives and children."
We watch as the king rubs his beard with his thumb and forefinger, deep in thought. "However, Arthur is not of this mind-set," Lancelot adds. "After spending his younger years at war, uniting Britain by the sword Excalibur, he now longs for a land of peace, even amongst the savage, uncivilized Saxons."
"But at the same time, he can't just have them go around taking out his subjects' cattle," I conclude.
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