Sinfully Delicious: Six Scintillating Stories of Sweets, Treats, and Happily Ever Afters

by Gauthier, Crystal L.

  The old man’s lips parted, his eyes narrowed, and fist rose, finger pointing, and then he paused, stopped, the snarl on his face slipped into a cunning smile, one Rol was familiar with from when the old man had an idea, and it was never a good idea, someone usually got hurt or jipped, or found themselves indebted to the baker because of a misplaced lark.

  Rol swallowed.

  “You should have been up hours ago to begin work in the kitchens.”

  Rol frowned, unsure how to respond. “But you said—”

  “The rest have the day off, what with having worked so hard yesterday. I won’t tolerate a laze-about in my shop.”

  “But, Sir, you said I was to have my bags—”

  Unsted stepped into Rol’s chest, portly belly smashing against Rol’s slimmer frame, years of carting bags of flour having given him muscle where the older man had gone to fat. The baker grabbed Rol’s bag from his shoulder and tossed it into the darkness of the stairwell to the cellar below.

  “Sir!”

  “Get in that kitchen, Rollu, or I really will send you to the street!”

  The baker marched off into the solitary office he kept the books in on the main floor. That and the kitchen the only spaces for a meeting to occur or a patron to hide when discussing ill-deeds and patsies.

  He looked at the heavy wooden barrier between himself and the master chef.

  His foot rose to step towards the man, confront him, tell him off, when the bell jingled over the front of the shop, and Rol paused, torn between duty and doing what was right.

  He turned to the kitchen and the patron waiting for his service.

  Patroness, as it turned out.

  Patroness, and her guardsmen, only two where the king had walked with an entourage of ten, but there was no illusion as to who stood in his kitchen awaiting assistance.

  Rol stumbled over his feet, tripped into an awkward bow that ended with him on one knee, stifling his curse as the harsh stone flooring bit into his skin beneath his torn pant leg. “Your Highness.”

  He didn’t raise his gaze, knowing he would be flush with embarrassment, his interaction with royalty limited in the extreme, and somehow his old life and friendship with his own country’s monarch had never felt like this.

  He’d gotten a good look at the princess.

  He might never have seen her before, but there was no not knowing who she was, her elegance, her beauty.

  His heart was pounding too fast.

  She was as light as her father had been dark. Petite where the older man had been portly.

  Gods above, she’d barely reach his collar if he stood at his full height!

  Her blond hair was piled atop her head, ringlets artfully arranged around her heart-shaped face, drawing the eye to the lush pink of her lips, strawberry lips, cherry. He bet not a sweet he’d ever made would taste as good as a kiss from her…

  He squeezed his eyes closed, braced his elbows on his knee and sank lower into his bow, hoping she didn’t notice his shifting, couldn’t read his thoughts.

  “Please stand, there’s no need for such formality.” He heard the smile in her voice. “We’re not that type of monarchy.”

  Damn.

  It wasn’t that he looked that different than everyone else in the city. He was bigger, for sure, taller, bulky with muscle while most of the trolls were simply bulky. He probably would have been fine if not for the reddish tint to his hair, the pallor of his skin, so pale that no amount of sunlight could give him much color.

  He swallowed his sigh and stood slowly, eyes lowered, hands clutched before him. “Is there something I might help you with, Your Highness.”

  Her steps clacked over the stones; he could see the delicately rounded toes of her slippers beneath the hem of her dress when she stopped before him. The heat of her palm against his cheek made him bite his lip with the touch.

  She turned his chin up, not far, as she was too short for him to fully lift his head and meet her gaze. “Better.”

  He’d never seen eyes like hers before. White eyes. No, palest blue, strikes of silver shooting through the winter fog of her gaze to pierce the haze, swirl and enchant, a ring of black around her iris broken through by bits of gray.

  Her fingers twitched against his cheek, stroked the stubble where he’d failed to shave for the past two days, barely a trace of hair when considering her father, but he felt the touch to his very bones, sucked in a breath in response.

  She smiled.

  Her hand trailed down his throat, his chest.

  A moment outside of time, no baker’s apprentice nor high-born lady.

  If he’d thought his heart was speeding before, he’d been wrong.

  Her lips parted, and his eyes moved to watch her inhale, his back bent just the slightest as though to lean down and claim a kiss for himself.

  One of her guards cleared his throat.

  Rol stepped back, no way to hide his blush this time, the red of her cheeks not nearly as embarrassed as his own, but she stood her ground as he retreated.

  “Apologies, Your Highness, it was a long day last evening. Not that it is any excuse, but I beg your forgiveness. I’m not usually so inept.”

  She blinked, and he watched the fog clear from her gaze. “I quite understand. You and your master must have worked all night to create such a wonder for the party. However did you construct the castle so that it fell so perfectly at my touch?”

  He couldn’t help it, he grinned at her compliment, the way she acknowledged his involvement in the masterpiece even as he knew his name would never have met her eyes.

  “A trade secret, Your Highness.”

  Rol choked back his response, all enjoyment, all pride, deserting him at Unsted’s emergence into the room, the Fox his companion, one hand on the heavy sword hanging from the Lord of the Hunt’s hip.

  No, the noble had not been part of the princess’ retinue.

  His gaze slipped to her face, her horror quickly hidden behind a placid mask, a royal doing her duty to another liege.

  I will not be sidelined to the bitch .

  “And this is your apprentice, Master Unsted? You show kindness, to invite foreign hands into your kitchen.”

  “I think it brilliant, Bajin. To embrace new flavors so willingly as Master Unsted has done. The ginger, that is from your homeland, no, Apprentice…?”

  She trailed off, waiting for his name.

  “Rollu, Your Highness. Rollu Secul.”

  Chapter Seven

  “ Rollu Secul. Tha t is Spinichian, is it not?”

  “Yes, Your Highness.”

  She smiled at the uncertain formality of the baker’s response.

  He seemed so earnest, standing there before her, his eyes, so dark a green she’d not seen the like but for the trees that never lost their needles in the dead of winter, begged her to stare at him for an eternity, wanted to watch him in his kitchen, hard at work, the way his face would relax when not confronted with uncertainty and forbidden desires.

  She wanted to watch him blush at each stolen glance he made of her.

  She wanted to see that spark of heat in his gaze when she held his stare and smiled.

  “How wonderful. We do not have many humans here in the city. It is good to meet one of your people. Have you been here long, Rollu Secul?”

  “Rol, Your Highness.”

  “Of course.”

  She waited, patiently, while her guards fidgeted and Bajin’s stare bored into her shoulder blades, ignoring the lot of them for the man before her.

  “Three years this coming spring, my lady.” His eyes widened at his slip, propriety demanding he call her highness, though for one unused to dealing with her station, he was doing remarkably well, considering his slip and fall into a bow from earlier. “Apologies.”

  “None required.” His shoulders relaxed, but he didn’t look away from her, compelled to keep watch, unable to turn aside while she held him captive. “Please, show me your kitchen, Mr. Secul. Show me the space you c
laim as your own.”

  She said it to make him blush.

  His master would be displeased at having his kitchen allocated to another, but, while Unsted had always been one of her father’s favorites, the older man’s sweets had never truly inspired Tasiya to swoon.

  The ginger snap cookies of the night before were not something the baker would make.

  He was too posh to present something so domestic for her pallet.

  But the display and the taste had been so superb, so unique, that she’d insisted upon venturing to the bakery to meet the chef herself.

  Rollu was not what she’d expected.

  She was used to her countrymen being portly, like her father, or stocky, like Bajin and the soldiers who guarded her.

  In comparison, Rol was, well, he was tall and, though she wouldn’t say lanky, his were muscles born of his trade, not trained in the lists.

  She rather liked his look, even as he towered over her, the red of his hair, the slight bristles against his cheek, unshorn and unkept unlike she was used to by her people. He had an unassuming air to him, with a quality of leadership she found hard to reconcile, found compelling at the same time.

  “Perhaps Master Unsted would be better—”

  “But I have asked you, Mr. Secul.” Her eyebrows rose in a look perfected from years of staring into a mirror. It had helped her get her way numerous times in the courtroom of her father, standing judge before some such petitioner or other.

  A haughty look, lips upturned just at the corner that bespoke contempt while not quite being aggressive about her station.

  It was a look most looked away from, bowed to be released from its glare.

  The baker’s apprentice fought back a grin, the smile threatening reemergence when her eyes widened at his lack of respect, his lack of fear at her response.

  She grinned in return.

  “Of course, Your Highness.”

  “No.”

  She turned, her enjoyment fading when met with the glower of her fiancé, the way his hand swayed to the sword at his hip as he stared from her to the chef at her back. “Bajin.”

  “He is a foreigner and a commoner. I don’t care what he cooks, he is unworthy of your attention and you dishonor yourself by bestowing it on him. It is disgraceful, Tasiya, and I will not stand for it.”

  “You are not king yet, Bajin.”

  She didn’t say he might never be, but left it unspoken in the air between them.

  Chapter Eight

  Rol had forgotte n about the threat hanging over her head, so caught up in the beautiful woman’s antics that he’d not remembered his master’s plot or her fiancé’s anger.

  Now the same came back to him in full measure, far too full, as he stared between princess and her huntsman and no escape between them.

  Unsted stepped close to the Fox’s side.

  “Lord Bajin,” it was the simpering tone the baker used to placate any disgruntled customer who came into the shop.

  Rol remembered his father’s version of the same, though those who came to complain to Cinta were far fewer than those who made their way to Unsted’s bakery. His father was always calm, never self-effacing. Unsted had reason to fear reprisal, some of his treats did not taste as promised, where Cinta’s critiques had often been about a haggle over the price.

  Lord Fox turned to the baker, and Rol watched the older man’s eyes widen, his head notch just slightly to the side in Rol’s direction, the flash of eyes Bajin turned on him and away.

  “Let Rol show Her Highness the kitchens and pantries.”

  Let Rol be seen in the princess’ company, his foreignness already implied, disquiet ensured at his presence with her.

  Rol heard the unspoken addendum, cast his gaze to the lady, noted her stare on her fiancé, the consideration in her eyes, wondered if she could guess at the same.

  How was he supposed to tell her that the two men foisting them together planned her demise?

  His demise as well!

  She’d call him insane.

  He had no proof but his word.

  Why would her fiancé and a town baker, one in the king’s good graces, conspire to move against their kingdom?

  Gods, but he didn’t know, and he’d missed something in his musings, the gathering of people looking at him as he stared with his mouth open between guards and baker and fox and princess.

  “The shop, Mr. Secul, if you please?”

  She smiled comfortingly at him.

  He looked at Unsted, the cruel grin on the man’s face, hidden quickly behind a snarl.

  Rol turned back to the lady. “Of course, Your Highness.”

  “Apologies, but th e steps are quite old. We will need to descend one at a time, or we can skip the cellars, whatever best suits you, Your Highness.”

  He was very proper, this baker’s apprentice from a far-off land.

  He offered his hand quite regally, opened each furnace and stove and drawer and cupboard for her to view within.

  When she marveled at the cleanliness of his kitchen, he gave her a smile, but the smile was far off, filled with thoughts he didn’t wish to share. Thoughts he’d begun hiding the moment Bajin had rebuked his nature as a foreigner to their lands.

  She hadn’t hid her inspection.

  She’d been very clear that she’d been staring at him.

  No one else had seemed to notice nor care at the way his shoulders had tensed, his face pale. The way his gaze moved from Bajin to Unsted, back and forth, the horror, quickly masked, when he looked at her.

  It sent a chill down her spine, and she didn’t know why.

  His smile was open enough, friendly enough, but he was cautious.

  She could understand caution in the face of royalty. Most were, after all. If something were to happen to her under his watch, her father would ensure the apprentice paid hell.

  But she was equally cognizant of it.

  She was careful in turn.

  His look had meant something else entirely.

  And she was too curious not to push for the truth.

  “I would like to see. It seems that the pantry is an all-important part of baking. I would be remiss if I chose to ignore it for fear of some old steps.”

  “It’s dark and dank in the pantry as well.”

  She grinned, knew that the low light hid the feral gleam of her expression from her men though he should have been able to see it clearly enough.

  He swallowed.

  “I was a child once, dear baker. I found my way to the larder often enough and the treats hidden within. Show me your pantry, and I’ll tell you if I’ve seen the like before.”

  She wondered if he heard the rest of her command.

  Tell me what you’re hiding from me, and I will judge you on your truths.

  Likely not.

  He cleared his throat and nodded. “As you wish.”

  The stairs creaked at his weight but seemed sturdy enough.

  He waved up at her from the bottom of the steps, the torch in his hand not nearly enough illumination, though she’d made comment that she was not afraid, and she would not back down now.

  She bundled her aubergine dress in her arms, one hand on the arm rail as her guide, and descended the stairway.

  Compared to the heat from up above, the cellar was dank.

  She’d expected some residual warmth from the furnaces to saturate the lower level, but there was nothing and, though she wore a light shawl, she was chilled when she reached the last step.

  His hand was there to steady her, and she looked up into his eyes, there the warmth she’d expected to feel.

  A good man.

  In his very bones.

  Caught with a heavy weight upon his shoulders.

  She turned her head towards her guards, Erasto already taking his first step down the stairs. “Stay there. There’s not much room to maneuver down here. We’ll be right up.”

  “Highness, that is highly improp—”

  She raised her ey
ebrows, and as Rol had chuckled at her response, and as her guardian and friend would likely do the same in private, the soldier nodded, and she turned her attention back to the apprentice. “Lead on.”

  “My lady—”

  The whisper of his voice was of a lower timbre than most of her countrymen could affect.

  Her voice lowered in turn. “Lead on.”

  Only, he wasn’ t leading anymore.

  And he didn’t know how to deal with the look on her face, the determination and the concern as she led him from the small antechamber into the pantry beyond.

  The door swung closed behind them.

  He couldn’t hear the mad rush of guardsmen coming to her rescue beyond the heavy wood.

  Her gaze spanned the small space, noted the cellar door that allowed for deliveries in off hours for the shop, the carefully stocked shelves with their flours and sugars and eggs and fats on them, before she turned to face him, her hands clutched behind her back, a soldier at rest, a commander surveying her troops. “You have something you would say to me, Sir Apprentice, away from the ears of your master and my men. I would hear it now.”

  His eyes widened. “N-n-no.”

  He flinched.

  The lie was as plain as curdled milk.

  “Would you like to try again?”

  “My lady—”

  “Highness.”

  Damnit. “Highness, I do not,” he stuttered, “it’s not that,” Gods…

  “Take a breath. Start at the beginning.”

  “I will sound crazed, Your Highness. I have nothing to substantiate my claims.”

  “And yet I am willing to listen, and as such, you should take the opportunity to share what you know.”

  Rol bit his bottom lip, no good response to that. “I overheard my master and Lord Bajin this—”

  “The door is locked! He’s locked himself in there with the princess! The bastard is after our princess!”

  What in the hells?

  He turned to the door, no lock upon it.

  He’d not touched it since he entered the pantry.

  She’d been the one to let it close behind them.

  Her brows furrowed, and she shook her head. “Bajin, I’m—”