A Connecticut Fashionista In King Arthur's Court

by Mari AKA Marianne Mancusi

  "Kat." His voice is tired, drained, sad.

  "Hi, Lance." I smile at him, my heart breaking. I love him so much, I can't bear to be angry at him. Oh, please let him forgive me for my stupid temper! "Can I come in and talk to you for a minute?"

  He nods and ushers me in, closing the door behind me. He turns. "I—"

  “I'm so—" I start at the same time. We both stop. Our eyes meet. A millisecond later I'm in his arms, letting his strength support me both physically and mentally. I nestle my face in his chest, enjoying the rigid contours of his muscles.

  "I'm sorry," I murmur. "I'm so, so sorry." My tears soak his tunic, and he runs a hand through my hair.

  "No more than I," he whispers.

  "I was selfish to expect you to give up everything to come back with me."

  "I have stayed up half the night thinking on your words," he says, leading me over to the bed. We sit on the edge, and I look into his sapphire eyes, only to realize he's fighting tears of his own. "I love you, Kat. I cannot bear to live without you. I have made my decision. I will leave Camelot. If 'tis possible, I will come back with you."

  "No," I cry. "I'm the selfish one. You've got, like, this whole life here, and I just expected you to drop everything to come with me."

  "What is my life without you? ‘Tis better if I die than spend one moment out of your arms."

  Does he mean that? Could there really be a person in the world who feels so strongly about me? It seems impossible, like what he's saying is some romantic bullshit. But somehow, as I study his earnest face and feel his hands squeezing mine a little too tightly, somehow I believe him.

  "I've never met anyone like you," I whisper, trying not to choke on my sobs. Why couldn't he have been born in my world, or I in his? That way we'd have no regrets. Now, no matter what time we decide to stay in, the other person might start longing for their own world.

  "I don't want you to have to give up everything for me," I insist.

  "Do you still not understand?" he scolds. "You are my everything."

  His words, his gaze, cause my heart to flip-flop like a fish out of water. I have to remember to breathe. With a desperate roughness he pulls me into his arms, claiming my lips with his own. It's not his typical soft, slow kiss—this time his mouth is hungry, demanding, wild. Parting my lips, I allow his tongue full penetration, matching its thrusts with my own.

  His hands fumble with my dress, yanking down the front to expose a bare breast. I gasp as he cups it in his hand, running his calloused fingers over the tip, his touch sparking a tremendous ache between my legs.

  He lowers me down onto the bed, his mouth no longer content to let his fingers have all the fun. I moan and dig my fingers into his tousled black hair, dragging my nails along his scalp. Dying to end the ache, I try to wrap my legs around his waist, but he pushes me away, unwilling to satisfy me so soon. His hand reaches under my dress and finds my inner thigh, caressing it, higher and higher until he's stroking the aching part. I squirm against him. He knows exactly how to touch me to make me want to scream. Not too rough, not too gentle. If he could market his skill, he'd make a fortune. Not that I'd want him to. I'd rather keep it all for myself, thank you very much.

  "Oh, Lance," I moan as his tongue glides over my nipple, "I want you inside me."

  He lifts his head, his eyes dark with lust. He unties the sash around my waist and lifts the dress over my head. Then he quickly loses his own clothes and climbs on top of me.

  There's something nice about flesh against flesh. Especially rock-hard, muscled flesh like Lancelot's. My body melts into his, and I stifle a cry as he enters me, as we become one. I want to scream from the rooftops as he rocks against me, thrusting deeper and deeper. But I must stay quiet. Someone could overhear.

  I want to prolong the ecstasy, but my body has other plans, exploding almost immediately and rocking my world. I still can't believe how effortlessly he makes me come. Other guys have tried everything, to no avail. I usually end up faking it to make them feel better, But no more. Now, having experienced the Ritz of orgasms, I'm never going to settle for Motel 6 again.

  He comes with me, another thing I've rarely seen guys be able to do. I can see him biting down on his lower lip as he stifles a groan of pleasure. Then he collapses on top of me, his breath labored and erratic in my ear. I reach around and hold him, squeezing my arms, never wanting to let him go.

  "I love you," I whisper.

  He lifts his head to look into my eyes. His gaze is full of wonder, awe. Do I really have that effect on him? He reaches to brush a wayward strand of hair from my face.

  "As I you," he says with a small smile. "Though the word love seems a feeble understatement. If I knew a stronger one to describe my feelings for you, I would surely use it."

  I giggle. Man, I love chivalrous speeches like that. "We could invent one," I suggest coyly. "A brand-new word that's stronger than love."

  He nods solemnly. "How about"—he squints his eyes and scratches his chin—"abba? As in, I abba you."

  I shake my head, laughing. "No, no! ABBA's, like, this terrible seventies disco band. I am so not going to be your dancing queen."

  He smiles uncertainly, by now used to me babbling about things he doesn't have a clue about. "Well, then how about... bubba?"

  I shake my head. "Former intern-screwing-president or a big ol’ Southern man. Try again."

  "Rubba?"

  I groan. "New England-accented word for condom."

  He groans in mock exasperation. "You pick then." He grins. "For your world seems more cluttered with words than mine."

  I laugh appreciatively, putting a finger to my temple, trying to think. "How about... lubba? Yeah. That's it. From now on lubba means the feeling that's greater than mere love."

  He smiles, kissing me softly on the forehead. "Well, then, I lubba you. More than anything on this earth."

  I laugh. He laughs. I feel warm and safe. I never want to leave his arms. Screw the twenty-first century. Screw lattes and fashion week and 7-Eleven. Screw TV and elevators and DVDs. None of the material things I remember are worth leaving what I have here.

  "I'll stay." I can't believe I'm saying this, but I mean it. "I'll stay in Camelot. I can't leave you."

  "No."

  I furrow my brows. "No?"

  "No. I have given this a lot of thought. I will come back with you."

  "But—"

  "No buts." He rolls off me and onto his back, staring at the ceiling. "You have already lived in my world. It is my turn now to see yours."

  I scarcely dare to breathe. Is he serious? Or is this one of those reverse-psychology things where I'm supposed to argue that I really think we should stay here? Then again, reverse psychology has yet to be invented, so he must be for real. He wants to come back with me. Oh, happy day!

  "Are you sure?" I ask, praying that he is. "I don't want you doing something you'll regret, just for me. I mean, once we get there there's most likely no going back."

  "I'm sure. Very sure." He props himself on his side, hand cradling his head. "I want to live out my days with you by my side. Besides, you have said in your world that people can live a hundred summers. That will give me many more days to spend making you happy."

  Very true. Though I'm not quite sure the damage to his body hasn't already been done—lack of nutrition and inoculations and all. But I don't think I'd better spoil this by mentioning the pesky details.

  "What about the king?"

  "He has other knights. And I fear that soon his son, Mordred, will be the one leading the Knights of the Round Table. Do you think the prince would allow me to remain in his service once he becomes king?"

  Mordred. Oh, shit, I almost forgot. I rise from the bed, grabbing my dress. "Listen, Lance, we've got other problems." I relate what I heard from Gawain and Agravaine.

  He shakes his head. "Silly gossip. Nothing to concern ourselves with."

  "I think it is." I frown and pull the dress over my head. "What if it got back to
Arthur? They could try you for treason. You know Mordred's completely out to get you after the Morgause incident."

  "Arthur would not believe idle tales over the word of his first knight and lady queen."

  "Maybe we should come clean," I suggest. "We could tell everyone that we aren't really brother and sister, but boyfriend and girlfriend. Or we could say we're married."

  Lancelot looks aghast. At first I think it's 'cause I mentioned the dreaded M-word, feared by men everywhere, but then I realize he's more worried about the idea of letting his boss in on our relationship.

  "To admit we have been lying to the king for months? You cannot be serious." He shakes his head. "What you heard is merely careless talk that will evaporate in a day. 'Tis not worth the trouble admitting our lie would cause. The truth would only give Mordred a chance to declare you a spy and me a traitor. And for that we could be not only banished, but executed."

  "I'm not sure what's worse, Lance," I say, not ready to give in. This is too important. "After all, remember what I've told you: in my future, everyone thinks you and Guen were lovers. Maybe this is how it all starts. Maybe the legends are due to a case of mistaken identity. If this turns out how I think it might, it could lead to the destruction of Camelot. And that," I conclude, "is bigger than just admitting a lie that didn't hurt anyone to begin with."

  Lancelot stares at the wall, evidently lost in thought. "I do not know," he says as last. "Perhaps we should wait and see if the rumor spreads. A few loose tongues do not the end of a kingdom make. I will stay clear of the queen for the next moon, and there will be no new stories to feed the fire. Thus, 'twill die out."

  "I know, but..." I pace the floor, trying to quell the nervous ache in my stomach. What he's saying makes sense, but at the same time, knowing how the legends are supposed to play out, it still makes me nervous.

  "Besides," Lancelot adds, "they have no proof to their claim. For a case of treason to be substantiated, they must catch us in the act. Which," he says with a grin, "certainly will never happen."

  He's got a point there. According to the legends, the knights catch him and Guen in bed together. They don't burn Guen on account of a rumor. Maybe I'm overreacting.

  Then again, maybe I'm not.

  ###

  The next month goes by quickly. Lancelot and I spend many hours discussing our future together. I inform him of everything a man needs to know about twenty-first-century life: what he'll wear, how he'll talk, what he'll eat. I teach him about never wearing navy blue with black, the importance of shaving regularly, and how to make a perfect dirty martini. When I get through with him he'll be a regular metrosexual.

  I also talk to Merlin and ask him if it's possible for Lance to come back with me. He says yes—once the portal has been opened, anyone can step through. In fact, the old magician is more than thrilled at the idea of Lancelot taking off with me. This way, he says, there'll be absolutely no chance the queen and her knight could ever get together once I'm gone. I think about mentioning the rumor I heard, but since it seems to have died down, I figure it's not worth it.

  I tell Guenevere that Lance is coming back with me, and she's totally psyched, though a little sad for herself, being left behind and all. She will miss me, she says. I have become her best friend. I ditto that. If she wasn't all in love with Arthur, I'd suggest she come back too. She'd adore the twenty-first century; I know she would. But she'd never leave her true love; that's for sure.

  Not that Arthur's been spending much time at the castle lately. His dealings with the lords and other kings over how to keep the precarious Saxon peace are taking up a lot of his time. He's hardly ever home, and I know Guen misses him dreadfully.

  Of course, there's now a proxy king in place at Camelot. Whether officially sanctioned or not, Mordred has stepped up to the plate and embraced his role as heir to Arthur's often-vacated throne. He talks a good game—of action, battles, and blood. In reality, the dude's probably never picked up a sword in his life, but his ideas ignite a fire under the knights' feet, and they become restless. Fighting breaks out frequently between those still loyal to Arthur and Mordred's growing regiment.

  Guenevere is especially worried at Mordred's popularity. She obviously has no interest in seeing her husband's throne usurped, and has sent messages to London on several occasions to try to convince Arthur to return and reclaim his kingdom. But when Arthur does return for short periods of time, he laughs at Guenevere's worries and insists his son is simply exerting the power of his birthright and has every right to do so. In fact, I think he's kind of proud of the prince. I guess it's a dad thing. Or maybe one where love is blind. Oh, well, what do I care? I'm leaving soon anyway. I'm simply looking out for Guen.

  Three nights before summer solstice, I find myself in Lancelot's chambers. Our last night in the castle. Lance, Guen, and I have decided to leave for Stonehenge a couple of days early so she can practice her spell casting. She's extremely nervous about messing it up, which, of course, puts me on edge, too. I don't want to have it fizzle, and end up stuck in Camelot for another year.

  "Are you excited, my darling?" Lancelot asks, pulling me into his arms. We've just made love, and I'm feeling warm and fuzzy all over.

  "You don't know the half of it," I purr. "Just think, the next time we get it on, we'll be in the twenty-first century."

  "Aye," he whispers, dragging a finger down my bare shoulder. "And I am sure you will feel as delicious."

  I roll over to face him. "Do you have any regrets?"

  He shakes his head, and I see his eyes are clear, with no worry or doubt clouding their brilliant blue. "Nay," he says, leaning over to give me a soft kiss on the lips. "In fact, I'm greatly looking forward to it—to spending the rest of my life with you."

  "Ditto." I sigh contently. "This has worked out perfectly. I only wish I had a chance to thank Nimue personally."

  "Nimue?" Lancelot's eyebrows shoot up in surprise. I gulp. Oops. I forgot for a moment he doesn't know Nimue and Merlin's plot. Major duh. "Why would you thank her?"

  "Er, um..." Shit, Kat, think! "I would thank her for, um, saving my life when I was ill."

  Lancelot frowns, sitting up in bed, and taking my hand. "You are a terrible liar, Kat. What is it you are not telling me?"

  "Nothing. Really." I pull my hand away and stare at the ground. What am I supposed to say? That I was brought back in time to make sure he stays away from Guenevere? I can't tell him that now! He'll totally freak.

  "Kat..." His voice sounds a stern warning. "What are you keeping from me?"

  "Keeping from you?" I ask, laughing nervously. "I would never keep anything from you."

  "Woman, I am leaving my whole world for you. It is not fair for you to keep a secret from me."

  "I know." I sigh, resolving to tell him the truth. He deserves to know. Besides, he's usually very understanding. In fact, I don't know why I'm even nervous about it. "Um, well, it turns out I didn't travel back in time randomly. Evidently I was sent for by Nimue and Merlin."

  Lancelot's eyes widen. "What? What ever for?"

  Okay, here goes. "For you. They say I'm the only one you would fall in love with."

  "And they would care about my love life why?" he asks in a tight voice. Uh-oh. The hands-balling-into-fists thing he's got going on is not looking good. But it's too late to turn back now.

  "So you wouldn't fall in love with Guenevere and thus start the roller-coaster downfall of Camelot and the rise of Christianity." I try to make it all sound very casual, no big deal.

  "You knew of this?" Lancelot says in a loud and very angry voice. "So that means you seduced me on purpose in order to help them in their political gain?" He rises from the bed and grabs his tunic, throwing it over his head. This is not going well—at all.

  "No!" I cry. "That's not how it was!" I get up from the bed and try to pull him back. "Sit. Let's talk about this," I beg.

  He shrugs my hand away. "When did they tell you this?" he demands, grabbing me by both shoulders, "Ho
w long have you known of their plan?"

  I know I should be lying through my teeth at this point—like, say I found out yesterday. But stupidly, the truth spills from my lips. Blame it on love, I guess, but something inside me insists he deserves to know everything. "When I was sick. At Avalon. Nimue told me."

  "So all these moons you have been deceiving me?" Lancelot says in a furious tone, dropping his hands. "By the goddess, this all makes perfect sense. Your jealousy and suspicion of the queen and me. Your following us to Camelot Cottage and accusing me of lying with her. Your insistent attempts to save the marriage of Guenevere and Arthur. Your begging me to come back to the twenty-first century." He slams his fist against the wall, actually cracking the stone with the force of the gesture. "What did Nimue promise you in exchange?"

  I bow my head. I'm a loser. A total loser. "She said she would send me back to the twenty-first century." My heart aches as I see his face turn white with rage. The man I love more than anything now thinks I hooked up with him only to secure my one-way ticket back to Connecticut.

  "Of course. You would sacrifice anything to get back to your precious twenty-first century." He paces the room, his steps eating up the distance between walls. "What would you have done when I got to your world, Kat? Deserted me? Left me to fend for myself in a foreign land?”

  "Lance, it wasn't like that!" I cry, desperate to explain. I grab his hand, try to still his pacing, but he shrugs away. "I fell in love with you. It was never a lie. It was a total coincidence that Nimue asked me to seduce the one man I already wanted. And besides, it's for the best. If you and Guen got together, history says you'd be caught by the other knights. And Guen would be tried for treason and burned at the stake. You would be cast out of Camelot forever. This is a much better scenario."

  "Rather you should have murdered me in my sleep," he growls. "Then I would not have gotten together with the queen as well, and 'twould have spared me this agony."

  "Please try to understand. I didn't manipulate you. I realize I should have told you, but I didn't know how. I was worried that you'd act like you are acting now. And I thought that, since I really do love you, it didn't make any difference in the end."