One of the king’s men, the one who can’t seem to tear his eyes away from Etta’s face and dripping wet hair—because that’s all we can see of her—stammers something unintelligible.
“Anything?” I prod, starting to lose my patience with the lot of them.
Not that I had much of it to begin with, not after Puss told me Etta had been attacked and then wouldn’t tell me where she was. He was just “run to the carriage, Beau” and “hurry, Beau, if you tell them she’s the marquise they’ll help her.”
And what did I do? I blindly listened. Idiot.
Etta shivers behind her rock, but if it’s from the stress of the situation or the cold water, I don’t know. Probably both.
Grumbling under my breath, I turn toward the road. “I’ll find something.”
Reluctant to leave Etta on her own, I glance over my shoulder. She meets my eyes and purses her lips. A silent agreement passes between us. It goes something like, “we should drown Puss in the creek.”
My lips turn up in a grim smile, and Etta, despite the predicament and the scratch on her head that is still persistently oozing blood, almost smiles back.
But not with the starry-eyed wonder she reserves for her prince.
I thought I was going to have to wade in the creek after Etta the moment she laid eyes on Kerrick. Her face went white, and she practically hyperventilated on the spot. A sad and embarrassing death it would be to die in three feet of water.
And something tells me I’d likely inherit her cat.
“Is she…?” the king asks, leaning out of the carriage when he sees me coming for it. He looks genuinely concerned, and I feel guilty for having deceived him, even if it wasn’t exactly my fault.
“Fine, Your Majesty,” I answer. “Do you have a blanket to spare?”
Immediately, a small figure leaps to her feet from the other side of the king. I hadn’t noticed her before, but I instantly recognize her now. It’s the blond princess from the palace, the one whose dresses look like they are designed by a pastry chef and appears as if she should smell like a rose garden. She’s in some sort of pink gauzy material today, covered in ruffle after ruffle of the stuff.
“Please, take this,” she says, offering me a lap blanket. Her violet eyes—truly, violet—are earnest with the desire to be helpful.
Doubtful, I accept the tiny blanket, which will only cover the most important—
I stop the thought there, my ears already growing warm. Etta will murder me if I show up with this.
“Do you think there’s something a bit more…concealing?” I ask. “The…er…bandits have stolen her clothes.”
The king looks properly horrified, and, once again, I delight in the thought of dunking Puss in the creek.
“She’s quite all right,” I assure him. Then I realize I left her bleeding. “Except for a few bumps and scratches. Well, and right now she’s cowering behind a rock in the creek for modesty’s sake.”
Standing, the king takes off his long, red robe and hands it to me. “Then what are you standing here for? She’ll catch her death.”
I need no further prodding. I accept the robe and run back the way I came, through the weeds, bushes, and reeds.
By the time I return, Kerrick has resorted to attempting small talk, the simpleton.
“Fine weather, isn’t it?” I just hear him say as I arrive. “I thought with the rain last night it would be a dreary day.”
Etta’s running her hands down her dripping hair. She’s trying to smooth the water out of it, I suppose, as she gives him an incredulous look. Well, mostly incredulous. She also looks slightly besotted.
But when she sees me carrying a cover-up, I have all her attention. Relief softens her features.
At the same time, we both realize that I have to get it to her somehow.
But how?
Without asking her opinion on the matter, I leap to a rock in the middle of the creek and then jump to the other side.
“Beau,” she hisses as I draw near, even though I’m not looking in her direction.
Once on the other side, I stretch my arm out behind me, reaching as far as I can with the cloak in my hand.
“Turn around,” Kerrick instructs his men. It’s the first wise thing he’s said since he arrived. “Everyone back to the carriage.”
The men retreat, and I hear Etta stand—try not to listen to the water as it drips back to the creek. I clench my eyes shut, even though I’m not facing her, and fight a slightly wicked thought that makes me much less of a gentleman. But what man wouldn’t at least think it?
Then I realize that Kerrick is likely thinking it as well, and my shoulders go rigid.
Darting like the deer she just chased down, oblivious to my thoughts or Kerrick’s, Etta grabs the cloak and leaps to my side of the bank.
“Are you decent now?” I whisper.
“Yes.”
I turn and can’t help but smile. The cloak is far too long for her. It pools on the ground, and the bottom hem partially dips into the water. Her hair lays plastered to her head, she trembles slightly, and her cheeks are bright pink.
Etta bites her lip, self-conscious. Keeping her voice low, she asks, “Have you seen Puss?”
“No.” I rip a strip from my undershirt and press the material against the scratch on her head. “He’s wisely making himself scarce.”
“May I turn?” Kerrick calls from the other side. He’s the only one left.
Etta gives me an uncertain look and holds the strip in place so I can move my hand. “All right.”
Kerrick turns slowly, and then he lets out a sigh when he sees her. Swiftly, he jumps over the creek, taking a slightly shallower, easier route than I did.
Wouldn’t want to get his boots wet, after all.
And then Etta’s in his arms, and I’m feeling particularly uncomfortable.
“Etta,” he murmurs as he holds her. “What happened?”
I expect her to sink against him, tell him what a trying experience this has been—it would be no lie. But, instead, and much to my surprise, her eyes slide to me. And not in a way that tells me she wants me to leave, but, rather, in a way that begs for rescuing.
But from the explanation or the prince? I’d rather it be the latter, but I’m sure it’s the first.
Let’s see what I can come up with.
“We were riding,” I begin, and then I nod, liking the direction this is headed. “And Etta’s horse spoo—”
Kerrick gives me a wry look. “Don’t pretend this wasn’t staged.” He turns his eyes on Etta. “It was brilliant, but perhaps a little risqué.”
She gulps. “I assure you, I had nothing to do with it.”
Slowly, Kerrick turns accusing eyes on me.
I hold my hands up. “No, no. Not my idea either.”
“A third player in this ruse?” the prince asks. “Have I met this person?”
And this is the moment Puss decides to join us. He saunters through the grass, only looking as innocent as any cat can look on any given occasion—not very.
For half a moment, I wonder if the cat will declare himself. I wait for him, wondering if he’ll decide to. But, apparently, he doesn’t deem Kerrick worthy. Part of me—a ridiculous part—takes a sick measure of pride in that.
That’s right, Your Highness, this here barn cat holds me in higher esteem than you. How do you like that?
Pathetic.
“It doesn’t matter,” Etta says with a sigh. “I’m cold and wet, and I just want to go home.”
“How will that work?” I ask. “Are you going to have His Majesty drop you off at the mill?”
A line forms between Kerrick’s brows as he thinks. “Tell me the story you’ve concocted, and I’ll take care of the rest.”
Etta turns to him, smiling radiantly. Apparently one of us is comfortable leaving her fate in the prince’s hands.
It certainly isn’t me.
Chapter 27
The king’s carriage is far more opulent than
the one Monsieur Broussard sent for me, and, at the time, that had been the nicest thing I’d ever ridden in. The interior is plush, the fabric red, and every bit of trim is gilt with gold.
The king sits opposite me with Kerrick to his right. A girl who’s been introduced as Princess Sabine of Bethshire perches on the prince’s other side, and a white dog sits on her lap. All three wear a smile, and all are of differing temperatures. The king is warm and cordial, Kerrick’s is cool and nervous, and Sabine’s is filled with worry.
From the moment I was swept into the carriage, with my dripping hair and shaking shoulders, the princess has fretted over me like a mother hen—even though I’m fairly sure I’m older than she is by a year, possibly two. Her hands are clasped in her lap, and her mouth is turned down in a sympathetic pout. Whenever I accidentally meet her eyes, her expression turns falsely bright, as if she’s attempting to bolster my spirits.
And that’s how she’s looking at me right now. I attempt to smile back and then turn to look past Beau, who’s on my left, to gaze out the window. They’ve closed the drapes on my side, all fussing that I’ll catch my death if I’m subjected to the slightest breeze.
How delicate we nobles are.
Fields go by, and, slowly, we draw closer to Rynvale. His Majesty insisted I allow them to escort me back to the castle, and he urged me to stay for several days, so I may give myself time to recover before I consider traveling again. That, and he’d like me to wait until his men track down the culprits.
I swallow, feeling more than a little guilty over that. King Deloge has six guards scouring the countryside, looking for bandits and one kidnapped lady’s maid—all who don’t exist.
The king is now under the impression, thanks to Beau, who came up with a quick story to feed to Kerrick, that I was bucked from my horse while out on a pleasure ride and fell fully into a mud puddle. With my delicate nature, there was no way I could consider traveling all the way back to my estate soiled in that way, so I took my lady’s maid and bathed in the nearby creek. It’s at that time the bandits sneaked upon us, stole my fine, jewel-encrusted gown, and took off with my maid.
Such a mercy that the king should, chance of all chances, happen by at that exact moment, saving me. As I glance at the cat sleeping peacefully on my lap, who’s ignoring Sabine’s gleeful, vibrating dog, I wonder if anyone would think it odd if I were to toss him from the moving carriage.
In an attempt to lighten the mood, Sabine asks the king a question about the herring from the supper they shared last night. As he and Kerrick laugh with her about it, I sneak a peek at Beau.
He’s my steward, Kerrick explained to the king—as close to the marquise as a brother and always at her side, Beau had added to Kerrick’s chagrin. For which Kerrick replied in an unusually wry tone, “Except when you’re delivering gifts to my father.”
Beau only smiled.
My faux steward meets my gaze now, his light green eyes bright with the secret shared between us. And the strangest thing happens. My heart, which is fully focused on Kerrick, skips a single, solitary beat before its pace returns to normal.
Beau lifts an eyebrow, a perfected move unique to him, questioning the odd look on my face.
Quickly, I adjust my expression and subtly shake my head. Then I look past him, again trying to focus on the fields and cottages that go by.
Chapter 28
In the beginning, I was intrigued by Etta. Enchanted even. But I’m alarmingly taken with her now. It’s undeniable at this point. Being around her more this last month, getting to know her—it’s taken its toll on me.
But who knows how long it will last? A month? Two? It’s September now. I can’t imagine this…infatuation…will linger past November.
That should be long enough to oust the ogre from my family home, get Etta settled there—as far from Kerrick and Monsieur Broussard as possible, and be about my business yet again.
The tropical port of Vionella is lovely in the winter, and I haven’t seen Mother for almost half a year. Perhaps I’ll buy more land for cocoa trees. It’s a good business, one Father scoffed at to begin with. But now I have eleven chocolate shops, including the one in Glenridge, scattered throughout the kingdoms, and business is good. The nobility can’t seem to get enough of the rich, exotic drink from overseas, and I’m happy to supply it. It’s a win/win situation for us all.
After I train someone to take over my position in the chocolate shop, I’ll sail to the tropical kingdom first. Put the time I spent in Glenridge behind me.
For one split-second, I imagine Etta at my side, standing on the deck of my ship with a warm, tropical breeze blowing through her hair. She’s wearing her breeches with that billowy shirt she favors tucked tight at her waist, and I have my arm wrapped around her back.
I blink the thought away and force myself to focus on the present. But presently, I would rather be at sea than in this carriage.
The ride back to Rynvale has taken hours, and Kerrick’s had his eyes on Etta almost the entire time. Every once in a while, to break up the monotony, he shifts a scowl at me.
I’m getting the distinct impression that His Highness doesn’t like me very much.
But Sabine…well, the princess likes me enough. When she’s not trying to fill the carriage with lighthearted small talk or sending pitying smiles at Etta, she’s watching me from the corner of her eye, curious.
I have no room in my head for Sabine past a fleeting thought. I’m too consumed with whether Etta is warm enough with her wet hair. Or if Etta has glanced at me again. Or, perhaps, if Etta meant to place her hand between us, right there, so close to my leg.
What a ridiculous fool this infatuation makes a man. I feel like a bumbling schoolboy about to kiss a girl for the first time, but unable to figure out what to do with my wretched hands.
The carriage finally stops in the courtyard in front of the castle, and the king’s men scurry out to greet us. They remain expressionless as they help Etta down the steps, but I have no doubt there will be gossip in the servant’s quarters later. It’s not every day a beautiful young woman shows up looking more like a drowned rat than the mysterious marquise she’s rumored to be.
When we enter the castle, eyes linger on Etta, and people lean close, murmuring speculations between them. One quick glance at the girl tells me she’s overwhelmed.
“I’m afraid my lady is quite exhausted from this dreadful ordeal,” I say to the king.
His Majesty nods. “Of course.”
He snaps his fingers, and, immediately, a steward runs forward. They exchange quick words, and then a maid materializes from a hall door and sweeps Etta away. I start to follow, but Kerrick shoots me a look so full of warning, I decide it’s in everyone’s best interest if I stay put.
The last thing I want is to start a duel right here with the crown prince in the middle of the hall. It would be a shame to best him in front of his people…and a good way to get myself booted out of the castle altogether.
In fact, the best thing to do is show Etta as little attention as possible. She laughs at something the maid has told her, and she disappears around the corner.
I clear my throat and pull my eyes away.
Chapter 29
A maid cinches me up so tightly, I swear I won’t be able to draw in a breath. After I’m trussed more securely than a roasting hen, another maid lowers an elaborate gown over my head. With my hands up in the air, I feel like a child, but I don’t make a fuss. The pair seems to know what they’re doing, and I certainly don’t…and they don’t need to know that.
After what must be another half hour of fussing, I barely recognize myself in the mirror. They’ve brushed my hair to a shine and elaborately piled it on top of my head. My gown is pale lavender and gold, so beautiful I’m scared to touch it. My skin is pink from the tortuous scrubbing I endured. The whole time they murmured that it must have been some mud puddle I stumbled into to have become so filthy. As they worked, I shivered in that scalding hot water, terrifi
ed they’d notice that my skin isn’t as soft as it should be, that it’s too dark from my hours in the sun. Polite or oblivious, they said nothing.
“Is there anything else we can do for you, my lady?”
I shake my head, dismissing them. It’s only when they shut the door behind them that I realize I’m alone, virtually a prisoner in this very lovely room. My eyes sweep over the quarters that are to be mine for several days, longer if the king has his way.
I’ve never seen so much fabric in my life. The draperies, bed covers, canopy, and rugs are all done in the palest of blues. There are pillows—huge, fluffy pillows—adorning the bed, and even though I never nap during the day, I can’t think of anything more lovely than crawling upon them and sleeping until the next morning. Since I don’t know how I’d manage it in this gown, I refrain. With nothing to stop Puss, he’s asleep in the very center of the bed. He stretches, content, and rolls to his other side.
Upholstered benches and soft-looking chairs dot the room, along with a table that’s just large enough for taking tea. A fireplace sits asleep on the side wall, and a bookcase stands next to it.
Everything is sleek, scrolling dark wood with accents of silver.
It takes several moments to take it all in, and I stand here, gaping at the finery around me. I can imagine the looks on Eugene and Thomas’s faces if they could see me now.
Oh, no.
I have to send word to Eugene. He’ll worry when I don’t return by late this evening and have rounded up a search party by morning.
With purpose, I push my door open and peer into the hall. I shut it softly, imagining that’s what a marquise would do, and then set off to find Beau. I wander for the longest time, enjoying the way my heels click on the marble floor and studying the art. I’m hopelessly lost, but there are far worse pastimes than wandering the palace in a beautiful gown.
Finally, a helpful manservant with kind eyes takes pity on me and asks, “Are you turned about, my lady?”
“Dreadfully so.”
The Marquise and Her Cat: A Puss in Boots Retelling Page 11
