CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX #3
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 her like 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.
No one questioned my departure—Sir Lioran’s obsessive dedication to his craft had become a joke among the other knights. I crossed the Great Hall with measured calm, forcing each step, one after the next.
Confidence. Control. Poise.
I kept my head high and did not look toward the table where Elenora was now sitting on Lancelot's lap.
But I felt him.
Lancelot’s gaze on me—sharp, sudden, there.
I didn’t look to ensure it was true. I couldn’t. If I did, everything would unravel.
So I walked on, my boots striking stone in an even rhythm, my cloak whispering behind me.
The corridors outside the hall were blessedly cool, and once I was outside the hall, I inhaled deeply, trying to exhale the tightness from my chest. The storm howled louder here, wind driving sheets of rain against the narrow windows.
Lightning flashed, followed a breath later by a thunderclap that rattled the bones of Camelot.
The water in the air responded to me like an extension of thought—mist gathering at the corners of the hallway, droplets clinging to the windows with more weight than they should. Magic stirred beneath my skin like an undertow.
I was unraveling.
And Elenora had seen it.
What had she picked up on, exactly? My lingering glances at Lance? Or something deeper—something more dangerous? Had she seen through my disguise, even for an instant?
No. It wasn’t impossible.
And yet… something within me continued to worry, to struggle with thoughts of what if?
Elenora was a woman who had survived the brutal game of Camelot’s court not with power but with insight.
She read people the way others read poetry—looking not at what was said but at what was left unsaid.
And now I was fairly sure I was her favorite unread page.
I turned sharply down the corridor toward the knights’ quarters, heart hammering. My boots struck stone louder than they should have. And the storm seemed to follow me like a hunter. Every drop against the window echoed my pulse.
What would Elenora do with whatever she suspected about me?
Whisper it to Arthur? Use it against Lancelot? Use it to control me?
I reached my chamber door and paused, palms flat against the wood. The hall behind me remained empty. No footsteps. No whispers. But the feeling of being watched lingered like smoke after flame. I felt like I was losing my mind.
Inside, I locked the door with shaking fingers and pressed my back to it, exhaling slowly. Peep wasn't on the sill, no doubt taking cover from the rain wherever it was he lived. So I was left with only myself for company, and that company wasn't the best at the moment.
You are unraveling, I told myself. There is nothing saying that Elenora knows anything! She simply caught you looking at Lancelot—who cares? It means nothing!
No, I thought back. Her gaze said otherwise. She knows.
I was certain she did. It was all in her expression. The way she'd smiled victoriously. Maybe she didn't know everything, but I was sure she knew enough, and that made her a threat.