Quest - Book 2 of Queen's Honor - YA + Adult Fantasy Romance and Adventure (4 page)

I giggled, and Lancelot laughed with me.

"So Clover has won your heart; you don't look afraid of
horses anymore."

"Oh, it's no longer horses I'm afraid of."

Our eyes met again, and a spark of heat ignited between us.

"What do you fear then?"

Our faces hovered close to one another.

"I fear you'll never claim happiness for yourself,
choosing to bury your own needs under other peoples’ wants for the rest of your
life. Everyone deserves love and happiness, Lancelot." My familiar use of
his name sounded soothing to my ears even though I realized I crossed a
boundary with the use of it.

"I gave up that privilege a long time ago, Guinevere.”

His return usage of my familiar name caused my chest to
quiver.

“My sister should have prospered had I not failed to protect
her. With my immediate family gone, I give my service to others in hopes they
may find peace and happiness, thus Clover's name."

"That's why you fight for Arthur."

It wasn’t a question, but a realization. His reasons for
service were seeded as deep as my own. An overwhelming rush of compassion for
him flooded me, and I fought the desire to reach toward his face and caress his
cheek.

Aethelwine shifted on my shoulder. His movement reminded me
of how inappropriate my proximity to Lancelot had become. I needed to find the
strength to leave before I acted on my growing urges; they prompted me to drive
this newfound closeness to a more intimate destination—one I knew neither of us
could risk.

I handed the brush back to Lancelot.

"I should go."

"Where?"

"I need to…" I couldn't admit I must run from him
before I did something entirely ill-conceived, so I said, "Go to the
creek."

"I will accompany you."

"No!" My heart hammered. I wanted his company. I
wanted to fight my logical mind that kept telling me I was betrothed and
represented a long line of noble blood, but I had to remind myself—this man was
off limits. I backed up and started to turn.

"I must. I am your escort."

"Yes, but—"

"It's my duty to see you unharmed," he persisted.

"But I need to be alone." I took a few more steps
away from him.

"Do not fret, I will allow you privacy to speak with
your cousin."

"Elibel?" Confusion swamped me until I realized my
excuse to approach him had been to find my cousin.

"I know her behavior has caused you grief."

He noticed? Here I had thought he overlooked me, and yet he detected
the subtle strain developing between Elibel and me.

“Have you spoken with her about what ails her?”

“She doesn’t seem to want to talk.”

“I see,” he said. “To heal a relationship, one requires the
truth on both sides of the situation. If she doesn’t want to tell you, then the
burden is on her. You’ve done your best to do what you thought was right for
her, Guinevere. Ease your mind that you’ve done what you could until she
decides to tell you her troubles.”

No one had ever discerned my situation like Lancelot just
had. All my rationalities and status-imposed restraints left me. I placed
Aethelwine on a nearby tree branch. My legs pumped into a quick gait as I
closed the short distance between us. He caught me around the waist as I forced
my way into his grip.

I stared up at him, my eyes searching—seeking—his own. A
light fired in his eyes, and I thought his emotions ran as passionately as mine.
His hands tightened around me—broad, gentle hands—hands I longed to feel upon
me. Every bit of my skin ignited at his touch.

His tenderness made me want to weep, not because of our
inappropriateness, but because, for once, someone had recognized my pain and
reached out to sooth it. My entire body loosened at his proximity, and I
pressed into him, my mouth brazenly seeking his.

Unlike my kiss with Arthur, there was no hesitation. I
hungrily sought him; my mouth parted. He pursued me, matching my appetite for
him with cravings of his own. I spiraled into passion—thirsting for him,
desiring him to consume me. His arms tightened around me, kneading my back and
squeezing me close. I responded with the same fervor as if neither of us could
get close enough to the other. My chest pressed against his. Our hearts
hammered in rhythm. My entire body combusted as if flames burned in every
private place.

Then he pulled away. His eyes filled with disbelief. "Forgive
me."

The heat still rushed me, and I wanted to reach out and pull
him back, but the shock in his stare kept me from acting on the impulse.

"I never meant to lose control." He reeled backwards
as if our act was an abomination.

I sucked in a breath, trying to catch the spiral of emotions
threatening to break.

As he staggered away, I fought for words. Nothing came but a
pang of rejection.

"This can never be," he whispered, his speech
faltering.

Then Sir Lancelot stumbled out of my sight, into the blanket
of the night.

I sat there, heaving in deep breaths, until tears leaked
down my face—tears of embarrassment and humiliation, but mostly of hatred for my
momentary loss of control.

Suddenly, a cawing noise came from overhead. When I looked
up, I spotted a raven sitting on a branch and stifled my sobs.

"Morgaine?" I asked.

But the raven flew off at my question. Perhaps, there was no
raven present—only my surging guilt fueling a hallucination.

Aethelwine squawked from his perch. I forced my limbs to
carry me back to him. He hopped onto my arm and climbed to my shoulder,
nestling his beak in my hair. His concern caused another wave of sobs before I
managed to stifle my outburst.

Then I cleaned my face with the back of my hand,
straightened and pushed one foot in front of the other until I made my way back
to the campsite. Father’s words,
Promise
not to disappoint me,
haunted each and every step, and I swore to myself
that I would be stronger from now on.

"Arise, Lady Guinevere."

My eyes burned from the restless sleep the carriage
provided; Lancelot had insisted upon riding straight through after our first
and only overnight stop. The bumpy road kept my head thumping against the
leather seat whenever I tried to doze, and I remained mostly alone during
daylight hours.
 

I had wanted to talk to Elibel, and tell her what had
happened, but I was too ashamed. Plus, her general avoidance of me told me she
needed her distance, and with the recent turn of events, I needed time to get
my thoughts straight, too. My emotions were raw from both Lancelot’s rejection and
my shame over throwing myself at him like a presumptuous chit. Consequently, any
conversations between my cousin and me remained infrequent over the journey as
she stayed, for the most part, in the company of the horseback riding soldiers.

Lancelot evaded me as well, which brought the occasional
sting of tears to my eyes. I sucked those down with the determination that we
would arrive at Camelot soon, and I would be married, and none of what happened
between us would matter.
 
But I knew that
was a lie—what happened would never stop mattering. Ever.

Aethelwine and my harp had been my only constant traveling companions.
Exhaustion, or perhaps loneliness, had finally taken me late the night before,
allowing me to nod off.

I awoke with my cheek pressed against the seat, a river of
drool escaping my open mouth, and the brightest beam of sunlight, seeming
straight from the lands of fey, streaming through the carriage doorway to
accost my sleep-ridden eyes. Pushing myself upright, I wiped my lips, and
squinted at the figure standing in the door frame.

The figure jostled me with a hand on my leg.

"You must prepare, My Lady."

"Elibel?" My voice garbled with morning lethargy
and too much saliva.

"We have arrived, Lady Guinevere."

My vision cleared; the figure was indeed my cousin. Her tone
sounded more mannerly than usual, which was quite a feat for a woman of
flawless enunciation, and I realized a few strangers stood behind her. The
women giggled and covered their mouths at the sight of me. Apparently, my
salivating and unladylike appearance made quite the impression.

Elibel caught my gaze, scrunching her eyebrows in slight
warning. "King Arthur sent ladies in waiting to help you prepare for your
arrival to Camelot."

I sat motionless, trying to orient myself until my cousin
took my hand and guided me from the carriage, as if I were an invalid—as if I
couldn't outrun her in a full-on
 
race. I
would have been annoyed had I not been so famished for her attentions, so I
allowed the action without a fuss.

No doubt Elibel's conduct doubled in proper etiquette with
Arthur's ladies examining her every move. They curtsied with flawless
perfection as I exited, spreading generous folds of their satin gowns over the
ground as they did—each dress far more fashionable than anything my cousin
owned, or I did, for that matter.

If Elibel noticed her inferior attire, she made no
indication. In fact, she glowed with sheer beauty as if she rose before dawn
and groomed herself for hours. She had let loose her braid and a cascade of
dark ringlets sprung down her back. Her cheeks shone with a delicate peach tone,
and her already wide eyes seemed accentuated by the generous frame of her
curls. She donned her best gown—a purple overdress with silver lacing down the
arms, paired with a flowing lace underskirt. The hue of the gown contrasted the
hazel color of her eyes, enhancing them; I felt like a toad in her presence.

With all the grace of a queen, Elibel introduced my new
ladies.

"Rhosyn, Crystin, and Aerona, all from the Kingdom of
Ceredig, one of King Arthur's strongest allies. Rhosyn is King Ceredig's niece
and Crystin and Aerona are King Ceredig’s cousins on his mother's side."

Each woman curtsied with the proper amount of respectability,
giving me a moment to memorize them. As cousins they bore a resemblance to one
another in coloring and stature—all golden-haired, all well-formed, but each
exhibited a specific characteristic I could glean.

Aerona spoke first, "A pleasure, My Lady. I am pleased
to make your acquaintance." Her lips and cheeks matched in color—bright
berry red—and her features were rounded, giving her an almost child-like
appearance.

"By the grace of Mary, Joseph and Jesu, I am honored to
be in your service." Crystin curtsied deeply and stared at the ground when
she spoke. A bejeweled Christian cross dangled from the chain belt hung loosely
around her waist.

Rhosyn, by far the most beautiful of the three with comely
features and startling blue eyes, said, "Delighted," with a tad too much
disdain to find her statement believable. I thought her beauty marred with a
thorny attitude.

As they made their introductions, my gaze swept the
perimeter, compulsively searching for Sir Lancelot, but as usual, I found him
absent. Until Elibel pinched me. Hard.

My cousin turned into me, hushing her voice for my ears
alone, "Behave, My Lady. They dissect you like a festival day hen."

Elibel led me into a tent where a bath awaited. The ladies
treated me like a rag doll as they pulled off my dress; Aerona and Crystin
proceeded to sit me in the tepid water, then scrub my back as if, along with
the travel grime, my skin needed removing, while Rhosyn poured in scalding
water. Though her face seemed docile enough, a wicked smile appeared each time
I jumped with the new addition of burning water, and she'd smile and say,
"The heat is needed to loosen the dirt, My Lady."

The scent of the bath was pleasant enough—perfumed with dried
wild rose petals—but my thoughts soured. Lancelot's rejection—the shock in his
eyes—still burned within, yet I sat in a rose scented bath, preparing for my
husband-to-be. For the first moment, I considered what happened after our
marriage. I would be expected to perform wifely duties—womanly duties. Had it
been Lancelot, my anxiety would be laced with longing and expectation, but with
Arthur? I cringed.

When I was dressed in my finest silks, hair strung with
pearls and sapphires, and my crown upon my head, we departed from the tent and
started the processional towards Camelot.

"Wait!" I yelled. "Where's Aethelwine?"

"Still in the carriage, My Lady," replied Elibel.

"I must fetch him." I started to hike up my
skirts, but Elibel grabbed my elbow, holding me back. Rhosyn turned around,
managing to smile and scowl at the same time.

"It would not be proper," Elibel whispered.

"But I can't leave him."

Then my body heated, and I knew Lancelot neared. I swiveled
and caught sight of him riding up, atop Clover. His armor shone in the morning
light and blinded me for a few breaths. Aethelwine sat on his hand, blinking in
my direction. "No fear, Lady Guinevere, I will mind Aethelwine while you join
your king."

I thought I detected emphasis on the words "join your king"
but with Sir Lancelot, it was hard to tell, especially since his words had
become more cloaked since our kiss.

Turning, I continued to walk. Elibel tore away from me as if
to join the other ladies who strolled ahead of us. I coaxed her back by her sleeve;
she stiffened as I pulled her nearer.

"I know some upset has captured you, Cousin. But please
know that I am here for you if ever you wish to discuss the matter."

She didn't acknowledge me, keeping her concentration on the
walk ahead.

As we cleared our campsite, Camelot spread before us. The
city sprawled alongside a river; a massive stone bridge acted as an entrance to
the towering walls encircling hundreds upon hundreds of buildings and streets. Spires
and church steeples jutted from the wall line as if to touch the sky; it
dwarfed Camelaird in comparison. The sheer mass and opulence of Camelot
overwhelmed me. Though I possessed the legitimacy to an ancient right for
kingship that Arthur desired, Arthur's riches and power were far beyond any I
could have fathomed. Elibel’s bard was correct in his praises, and I wondered
what that meant about his accuracy of Arthur. Why couldn’t I see him the way
others did? My life would ease in complications if only I could.