"Bested you, did he?" Vanora smiled and reached over, tugging his loose tunic off his shoulder and hissing at the angry welt. "Oh, wounded man."

"And what made him seem a better catch than me?"

"Oh, wounded pride." She leaned in and inspected the wound further, her fingers brushing the raised, swollen skin. Her voice was low and quiet, only between them. "Sometimes a woman wants satisfaction of her own, Lancelot, and she's not likely to get it on her knees in front of you."

"I don't need my own horde of bastards for Rome to claim." He hissed again as she tugged his tunic back over his shoulder. His dark, intent eyes stayed on her face. "I recall more than a few instances when I gave you the satisfaction you craved."

"Your memory is as damaged as your arm." She patted his head, her fingers ruffling the short curls. "But here," she lifted her other hand and poured a healthy measure of mead in his tankard. "to soothe the wounded beast."

"I've another beast that needs soothing."

Vanora smiled and offered him a hot gaze to meet his own. "I could introduce you to our newest maid." She didn't look away as she nodded toward the girl standing beside Bors's table. She laughed as Lancelot shuddered.

"I'd as soon keep company with my hand."

"It's good that you say that, Lancelot." She trailed a finger along his cheek and smiled. "As you're no doubt to be good friends."

"You're drunk." Vanora poured another splash of mead into Lancelot's glass and sat across from him, out of reach of his roaming hands. "Everyone else has gone to bed."

"I'm trying," he assured her, reaching for her again. "Come here."

"I like you too much to let Bors actually get his hands on you, you know." Vanora grabbed his mug and drained it herself then moved around to the side of the table and leaned down, draping his arm around her. "Come on."

Lancelot groaned softly as he stood, his body sliding along the soft curves of hers. Vanora wrapped an arm around his waist and turned. "So soft," he murmured in her hair. "Gods and demons, so soft. Arthur would call you an occasion of sin."

"Arthur would have no cause to do so," she reminded him shortly, guiding him out of the drinking area to the darkened path that led to the sleeping barracks. "Come on."

He stumbled along with her, one hand gripping tightly at her shoulder. The other flattened against her stomach, pressing lightly but firmly, his fingers feeling her warmth through her thin dress. His hand slipped higher, cupping the curve of her breast and she pulled away, sending him in a sprawled tumble to the ground.

He winced, the slight motion the only indication of his pain as he landed hard, catching himself with his sore arm. She stood over him and glared down at his unrepentant smile. He got to his knees and crept forward, burying his face in her skirts and exhaling a hot breath before he pulled back and stared up at her, his dark eyes like fire as his hands caressed her upper thighs. "We can both find satisfaction on our knees."

She laughed and grabbed his hands, tugging on him. "Get up, you cur. You're likely to get lost."

"Come, Vanora." He let her lift his hands, his fingers dragging her skirt higher. "I know my way beneath a woman's skirt."

"So your reputation would have me believe," She caught his wrists and pulled his hands free of her skirt. "But then, it would also have me believe you have sense enough to get out of the way of an axe."

"Bors got lucky."

"And now you think perhaps you'll do the same?" She crossed her arms over her chest as he stood. Lancelot moved his hands to her shoulders, turning her and guiding her against the stone wall. She raised an eyebrow and a small smile curved her lips.

He matched her smile, moving closer. His leg pushed between both of hers, her skirt pulling taut against the smooth leather of his pants. He released her, then let his fingers trail up her arms, the tips of them grazing the swell of her breasts.

She shivered slightly, inhaling deeply, her chest rising to meet his glancing touch as her arms fell to the side. Lancelot growled low in his throat, bending his head to press a heated kiss to the curve of her shoulder, the cloud of his breath laying a moist trail on her skin as his fingers tugged her bodice away to expose the pale flesh.

Vanora's hand rested against his neck, rubbing the short darkness of his beard before trailing it up to his hair. He made a soft noise and tilted his head, catching the honey-sweet taste of her lips.

Her tongue slid against his, her breath soft and short as it collided with his. Lancelot ground against her, his hips rolled forward. Her hand tightened in his hair and she pushed back, thrusting against him.

He pulled back then swept in to find her kiss again. Vanora let her fingers snake down to his chest, fingering his tunic before pressing against him. His lips left hers for a moment, before they both moved in again instinctively. Her palms met his chest, stopping him, and she pushed, turning them both until his back was to the wall.

He moaned into her mouth as she relaxed into him, his hands stroking her sides before cupping her breasts, swallowing her gasp as his thumbs rode over the tight nub of her nipples. Her body jerked against his and his head fell back, his hips thrusting forward against hers.

"Lancelot."

He brought his head forward, his mouth finding the rosy blush of her neck, tasting the skin sensitive from the rasp of his beard, murmuring against her skin.

She threaded her fingers through his hair, tightening them and pulling him away from her. "Lancelot."

"Yes," he panted roughly, his body straining toward hers. "Yes."

"It's not just my body that belongs to Bors." She spoke softly as she released him and pulled away, her smile tinged with dark emotion. "But my heart as well."

She turned and walked away without looking back. Lancelot sank slowly to his knees, his jaw clenched as he let out an angry, frustrated growl. He grabbed a fistful of dirt and flung it after her before jerking to his feet and whirling, kicking the dark gray stone of the wall. He let out an anguished yelp and shoved off the wall, storming toward the barracks.

"There he is!" Bors laughed and clamped an arm over Lancelot's shoulder, grinning as he winced. "No hard feelings, eh."

Lancelot jerked free of his grip and glared at the larger man. "Fight your own battles."

Bors stared at him, confusion written across his face. "What do you think, Dagonet? Maybe I hit him too hard?"

Dagonet shook his head, his dry voice following Lancelot as he walked away, pain evident in his stride. "No. Not hard enough."