It was the Lady of the Lake's voice in my thoughts—not for the first time. I immediately clenched my eyes shut tightly and forced her out of my head. My grip tightened around the goblet in my hand, the cool metal grounding me in the here and now. I couldn't think of that… problem now. Not when so many other issues were taking precedence.
Like the dragon tattoo on Arthur's chest that I had dreamed of weeks before. It wasn't so much the tattoo that was bothering me, but what it represented. Because if the dream actually wasn't a dream at all, but a vision—if I'd somehow seen a sliver of the future in my mind's eye, then… the dead kings… the sword through my chest…
No. I could not think about such things!
Furthermore, there was no use in worrying about things I couldn't control, like water slipping through outstretched fingers. It was a thought meant to reassure and calm me, yet it did little to soothe the rising tide of uncertainty that was threatening to drown me.
Across the hall, I sensed someone watching me.
I looked up—and locked eyes with her.
Elenora stood among a throng of men, but she was facing me, watching me. While the others laughed and drank from their tankards, she remained perfectly still, framed by firelight and shadows. Her honey-blonde curls tumbled artfully over one shoulder as if she had pinned them there. Meanwhile, her kirtle strained in all the right places—all the men around her taking notice. She looked like temptation incarnate.
But her expression was unreadable.
She wasn’t watching me the way the knights did—with camaraderie or suspicion, in Kay's case.
No, she was studying me.
Not Sir Lioran.
Me.
Lancelot then walked up to her, and she melted into his embrace as he pulled her away from the entourage of men who had just been admiring her. Yet, even as she walked away, she kept her gaze on mine. And I made a crucial mistake. I allowed my attention to remain on Lancelot. And I shouldn't have because I was more than certain Elenora could read the obvious desire in my eyes. The second I remembered myself and glanced back down at her, her eyes narrowed slightly, and then, very slowly, she smiled.
Not warm.
Not friendly.
A smile like a knife drawing blood.
My stomach dropped.
She knows I'm attracted to Lancelot. And she believes me to be a man.
An attraction that was punishable by death.
What was more? I'd denied her the other evening. When she'd forced my hand to her breast, instead of attacking herlike most men would have, I'd tucked tail and run away like a frightened boy.
And she'd just caught me gazing at Lancelot.
Oh, no.
She might not know,I told myself as the awful truth dawned on me.Perhaps you are simply overreacting?
How could she have missed it? Once he'd walked up to her, I hadn't been able to pull my attention from him or the swell of his shoulders, the blackness of his hair, the way he carried himself.
Whatever she’d witnessed, it was enough—proof was that smile she'd given me.
I looked away, feigning sudden interest in my trencher. My appetite had long since vanished, but I ripped off a piece of bread anyway, just to give my hands something to do.
When I dared to glance back, Elenora had already resumed her performance—smiling sweetly at Lancelot, who whispered in her ear. She giggled just enough to seem innocent, her eyes lowered beneath thick lashes.
But the damage was done. I was sure she'd seen the plain desire written in my eyes and on my face.
My fingers trembled as I reached for my goblet. The storm outside roared louder than ever, its wind rattling the windows, as though it were thousands of ghosts demanding entrance.
I needed to leave. Now. Before I gave her more to see, more to think about.
