Imagine mine, too, Isabel thought. And she wondered just how alone she’d been when she’d had to stop to empty her bladder. She felt her cheeks heat up at the idea.

“My sincerest gratitude for your concern and care.”

“My sincerest gratitude for your gracious acceptance to visit us at Camelot.”

“Then, I suppose, we’re all happy campers! Once again, sir, I have yet to know to whom I speak. Are you, perchance”—let us pray—“Sir Lancelot?” Even as she asked, she was fairly certain she couldn’t be that lucky. This man was older by a decade or more than the young knight she’d read about. He was seasoned just right, with laugh lines around his eyes and brackets around his mouth that bespoke of harder, longer living. And there was a wisdom and even hint of weariness in his eyes.

His laughter was again deep and deadly. “All beautiful women want Lancelot. I apologize for not being him.”

“No apology necessary. But who then, are you?”

He bowed again. “My name is Arthur.”

“No way.”

“Way.”

He’s the king, Izzy.

And that means what?

That means get your aces off your horse and curtsy.

Lady, you have kind of left out a lot.

Isabel dismounted, most definitely not gracefully, then took Arthur’s hand and did her best to bend into a curtsy. Since she hadn’t curtsied since a tenth grade play—of all things, Camelot—she was a little rusty.

“King Arthur, my apologies for not recognizing you before now.”

She went to bring his hand to her lips, because she was pretty certain she was supposed to kiss his ring or something, but then she began to wobble, not being all that versed lately in bowing to someone without wanting to kick him in the gonads.