Free Lancelot by Gwen Rowley Page B

repeating.
    But this kiss was nothing like the first.
    It was so hesitant, so soft—the merest brush of lips against her own—yet, strangely, she felt it through her entire body, a sweet fire that seemed to melt her very bones.
    Her only complaint was that it was over too quickly, leaving her bereft. But only for a moment. The next time they kissed, her hand cupped the tender nape of his neck, and when he responded in kind, a delicious shiver rippled down her spine. She gasped softly in surprised delight, her lips parting beneath his, and he went very still for a momentbefore he tilted his head, deepening the kiss, his mouth firm and supple on her own.
    Greatly daring, she traced the contour of his lower lip with the tip of her tongue, and he made a sound—something between a sigh and a moan—and caught her in his arms, throwing her off balance so they fell together, laughing, onto his cloak. Lifting himself on one elbow, he gazed down at her, and she saw her own astonished happiness reflected in his eyes. “You are so beautiful,” he said, his voice filled with wonderment, and smiling, he bent to her again.
    This, this is what I have been waiting for all my life,
she thought, dizzy with his kiss. Every hurt she had suffered, each failure and disillusionment were magically redeemed into steps upon the path that led her to this moment, this perfect moment that she hoped would never end.
    When he drew away, it was only to bury his face against her neck, his lips moving against her skin. She sighed and ran her hands down his back, feeling each separate muscle beneath her fingertips, breathing in his scent—something spicy and exotic—longing for this precious time to go on and on, yet knowing it could not. Not like this.
    They had come to a parting in the road. She could almost see it, two ancient wooden signposts pointing in opposite directions, the writing faded yet very clear. One was marked Dishonor, the other, Respectability. She wound her fingers through his springing curls and tugged him up so she could look into his eyes.
    He placed one callused fingertip against her mouth as though to still the question hovering upon her lips, and yet it must be asked.
    “Who are you?”
    Even before he spoke, she read the answer in his eyes. “I cannot tell you.”
    She pulled free of his embrace and sat up, smoothing her tumbled hair. Surely that tearing pain in her breast could not be her heart breaking. That was only an expression, after all.
    He sat up, as well. “I would tell you if I could, but I
can
not.”
    “Why?”
    “A vow.”
    “Oh, a
vow
. Well, then, I mustn’t meddle. I’d hate to see you damned forever just for
my
sake.”
    “Elaine—” He caught her hand in his. “The name you seek would tell you nothing—less than nothing—of the man I really am. But perhaps another—”
    “A false name?” She shook her head and attempted to withdraw her hand. “Thank you, but you needn’t bother.”
    “Not false,” he said quickly, tightening his fingers. “’Tis mine—at least it was. I bore it long ago, so long that I have no memory of ever having heard it spoken. It would please me very much to hear you say it.”
    “What is it?” Elaine asked.
    “Galahad.”
    It seemed a hush fell over the glade in which they sat, silencing the chatter of the birds and the rushing of the river. Sunlight fell through the budded branches overhead, striking sparks off the rings upon the long brown fingers, still clasped tightly around hers.
    “Galahad,” she repeated softly. A shiver passed quickly down her spine, as though she had unwittingly uttered some forgotten word of power.
    “Yes.” He raised her hand to his mouth, brushing his lips across her palm, then laughed aloud. “
Yes.”
    And somehow, in a way she could never possibly explain, all was made right. When he bent to her, she swayedto meet him, her arms rising to clasp him round the neck. All the questions she might have asked, the ones tugging at