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

by Gauthier, Crystal L.

  Chapter Sixteen

  He held he r while she slept, traced idle patterns over her skin, and stared at the ceiling over his head.

  He should sleep while he could.

  Once the sun set, they would have to run, have to hope and pray that her men were out looking for her and that they were found by her soldiers before the Fox found them instead. It was a fervent wish, and unlikely in the extreme.

  They’d been gone too long.

  A day.

  Only a day, and everything about his life had changed.

  He should be sleeping, yet all he could do was listen to the soldiers puttering around outside the house, arguing and bickering with one another as they mucked out stalls, thinking about the sounds in a bakery, his bakery, his apprentices moving around the kitchen in the process of making some pie or cookie or some new treat to tempt the senses.

  She could stay with him. She could learn to bake too.

  What princess would want that though?

  She had servants and maids to cook for her every want, prepare her feasts and delicacies he’d only ever dreamed of, wished on, thought fairy tales spun out of sugar and icing.

  “But you created a fairy tale castle for me.”

  He blinked and looked down at her, next to him where she sat at his side.

  The light was sinking, and the cabin was growing dark and cold with the coming of the night.

  She’d pulled his shirt around her shoulders, forewent her chemise or the dryer, warmer clothes that belonged in the hut to wrap herself in his scent.

  His heart beat faster at the thought.

  Until his mind made sense of what she’d said, and he frowned up at her.

  “You talk in your sleep, Master Baker.”

  “Oh Gods.”

  How much had he said out loud? What had he said out loud?

  The space was bright enough still that he didn’t doubt she could see his red cheeks, the way he flinched away from her smile.

  “It’s a fine dream, Rol. And simpler than I’ve ever dared dream for myself. I know it mustn’t feel simple to you, and I’m sure it’s not nearly as simple as I would wish it to be, but to be a baker, to worry about pleasing my customers and not ruling their every moment…I have not been afforded that dream for a very long time.”

  “Apologies, Your Highness. I didn’t mean to imply—”

  “You didn’t. And you don’t know what your implication would be regardless. I imagine, Rol, that you would do well standing at the head of a party in search of a leader. At the head of a throne room, deciding what was just for the people you ruled.”

  “I don’t think I could ever do that job.”

  “Neither did I. Neither do most of the nobles who see me in line for the throne after my father. Most would prefer Bajin in my place. His plot,” she shrugged, “it is not so far-fetched a thing for the people to believe. It would be easy enough to disappear in these woods, find a new city, a new town, a new baker to apprentice to.” Tasiya slid her hand over his chest, gentled her fingers over his heart, scratched lightly at his skin, made a fist, her head turned down so he couldn’t see her eyes. “I could learn to cook. I could spend my days sewing or reading or writing or doing whatever I wanted instead of attending countless functions where I’m a face in the crowd, acknowledged but not yet tried. Sugar and icing, no?”

  “No,” he caught her hand between his, held it to his heart as he sat, drew her close by his grip on her cold fingers. “I do not know the life you live, Princess, but I can tell you, it is not untried or unappreciated. Do you know how many of your people speak of you? Worship you?”

  “Because they say I am beautiful.”

  Rol cupped her cheek, her very soft cheek, pale skin rose touched with color, moon-kissed irises perfectly framed by thick lashes. “Incredibly beautiful, but that is not what they speak of about you. Matihilda, from The Drunken Dog , extolls your virtue over every pint, how it was your judgment that saw her wages increased from barely livable to being able to sustain herself. She’s a manager now, at the Dog . One day she’ll own that place, despite the old bastard’s claims against a woman owning anything.”

  “A woman. One woman won’t make a difference; they’re not listened to, even women in positions of power like me.”

  “One woman,” he tipped her chin up, met her gaze, “saved my country. She sacrificed so that we thrived. One woman can change the world.”

  “You loved her.”

  His breath caught at the knowledge in her eyes.

  He sighed out his response. “Yes.”

  She tried to pull away and he held her tighter.

  The slow, sad smile that came to his lips wasn’t from the thought of Amarice or the loss of her. “I loved her, but she’s been gone a long time, and I think, if I’m honest, it was always just an expected sort of love. It was, so I thought we were, and when she died, I needed to mourn, and she’d be happy that I have moved on.”

  “You don’t sound like you are.”

  He snorted, shook his head. “I didn’t realize I had until you.”

  It was far too forward a thing to say to a woman he barely knew, a princess at that.

  He held her gaze, the harsh edge to his smile soothed, the weight he hadn’t realized he’d carried with him for three years, eased. “I don’t expect anything…I know that there can never be anything…” He closed his eyes, stumbling over his words as he always had. “It is my truest honor to have been your rescuer, my lady.”

  It was her hand that held them together, kept him from moving away.

  She bit her lip, the white of her teeth bright in the dimming light around them. “Thank you, for your honor, and for rescuing me, and for your gingerbread castle which brought me to your door in the first place, Rollu Secul.”

  She didn’t say anything about expectations or what came after their time in the loft, if they survived or not.

  His shoulders rose and fell on a breath, and he smiled at her.

  Tasiya wrapped he r arms around his neck, shifted so she could sit in his lap, laughed when he turned them, and she was lying on their bedding and his warm fingers found the cool flesh of her skin beneath his shirt and laid her bare to his gaze, he to hers.

  She closed her eyes when he entered her, his body a heated weight she held tightly to her, clutched to her like the lifeline he was.

  She hadn’t dared speak about the future between them.

  There was too much left uncertain, too much fear and too much threat and if she thought about him, about his cooking or the way he’d smiled at her when he showed her his kitchen, his passion, not just in the bakery but for everything, the way he held her, the way he’d protected her, worshipped her…

  She squeezed her eyes closed, turned her face to bury against the side of his neck, pretended he couldn’t feel the tears that slipped down her cheeks.

  If all they had was this moment in the woods, this moment in the Fox’s cottage, one moment to be together, she wanted all of it.

  He thrust, and sparks flew behind her eyes.

  Her head fell back on the wood and he slipped his fingers between her and the floor, cared for her comfort even in this.

  She tightened her legs around his hips.

  His back arched and if she’d seen sparks the first time he did that, the world burst into a starry night of dancing sugar spirals and frosted sunbursts that burst across her mind with pleasure.

  Her lips parted on his name.

  He stopped.

  Clamped his hand over her mouth.

  Pressed his body tight against hers, holding her to the ground with his greater weight.

  “Told you he wouldn’t stay another night.”

  The flush of pleasure that had been building inside her burst with fear.

  “Thought he would have been back sooner than dusk though.”

  Heavy boot tread walked across the room beneath them, the sound so loud lying against the floor that it shook the boards and had her flinching at
every footfall.

  “Eh, at least we’ll be out of the woods by morning.”

  “Did he say if there’d been any word?”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Rollu slipped fro m on top of her, did his best to time his movements to those of the men below, slipping into his trousers, handing her the willowy chemise she’d discarded that morning.

  He squinted in the darkness, trying to see his way to her dress or at least the other shirt, another layer to put on to protect against whatever awaited them outdoors. The corset he’d leave behind, didn’t think she’d mind losing.

  Her shoes were another matter entirely.

  She’d had a hard-enough time the night before in the delicate slippers, better suited to walking carpeted palace floors than the hard ground overgrown with tree roots and stones.

  Better she wear his boots.

  Better she be able to run to her men, and he the distraction to ward against them.

  “Did you hear that?”

  She clutched at his arms and even in the darkness he could see the blanching of her features, the way her face paled at the men’s voices down below.

  “There’s nothing up in the rafters. It’s probably just a rat or something.”

  “That sounded too large to be a rat.”

  “You’re off your hat, Strome. Best get these bags saddled.”

  The door to the cabin squealed open and shut.

  He stood up as best he could with the low hanging ceiling, pulled her to her feet beside him, the light a little better standing though not by much. It allowed him to see their meager supplies, and he bent to snatch up what clothes he could and bundle her into the same, disguise what little white remained of her chemise beneath the darker colors of the hunter’s clothing they’d commandeered.

  “What are you doing? They’re right outside!”

  He pulled the shirt closed over her chest, buttoned it haphazardly, probably missed one or two in his haste, didn’t care enough to go back and redo the mess.

  “Rollu!”

  She grabbed for his hands and he brushed hers aside, cupped her cheeks with his cold fingers.

  “We have to go now.”

  “They said Bajin would be here soon.”

  “And that he’s found no sign of us. They will look here next. It’s the last place they can look. We can’t be here when they do.”

  “There are guards outside!”

  He sucked in a breath. “Better the two here now than however many men will return when the Fox does.”

  He released her only to move for his boots, kneel at her legs and lift her feet to slip into the heavy, worn shoes.

  “What in the Gods’ names—”

  He ignored her, knew better than to tell her his thoughts when she still had time to argue against them.

  If there was nothing else he’d come to know about the woman before him, it was that she was as damn stubborn and honorable as she claimed he was.

  When he forced her to run and he went in the opposite direction—

  Wait to plan it out later.

  He laced the boots as tight as he could to her slim ankles and slimmer calves.

  She looked at his bare feet.

  Rol turned and heaved the ladder from its place against the railing and ignored the way it nearly slipped from his grip when he turned to lower it to the ground, straining to keep it from falling completely away and anchor it to the rail before he motioned for her to descend.

  “Rollu—”

  “We don’t have time, Tasiya.”

  The use of her name either shocked her into silence or implied his sincerity enough that she didn’t stop to question him, navigating the steps in his too-large boots as quickly as she could.

  He followed, his shirt hanging loosely from his shoulders, ties at his neck unlaced, tails untucked into his trousers.

  They made a pair, for certain.

  A princess in stolen and mud streaked clothing.

  A baker debauched in a hunter’s cabin.

  The door opened three rungs from the floor.

  His gaze rose to meet the startled gaze of the soldier entering from the back of the hut.

  The man’s mouth dropped open and Rollu didn’t hesitate to jump from the final steps, pull an equally startled princess from her staring towards the front door and through the portal before the man could scream out a warning and call the rest of the guards to them.

  His first step landed him on a broken stick and he hissed, ignored the cut to the sole of his foot to pull her across the clearing between the cabin towards the tree line.

  Shouts for pursuit rang out behind him.

  Something whizzed past his ear and thudded into a tree before him.

  She gasped, and her hand slipped from his.

  He turned back for her, bent to pull her to her feet, didn’t see the second arrow that flew from the archer’s bow, stumbled back at the impact when it jarred into his shoulder and she screamed.

  Chapter Eighteen

  She scrambled fro m the ground and into the underbrush, followed the path of crushed bramble to his side where he laid staring up at the trees overhead. “Gods, Rol, please—”

  He didn’t respond.

  She stifled her cry against the back of her hand.

  He blinked.

  Her sob tore from her throat and his head turned towards her, grimaced, groaned.

  “Don’t move. I’m here. Stop, don’t move.”

  She settled on her knees at his side, the dark stain of his blood spreading against his shirt.

  The shaft of the arrow was slick when she tried to grip its length.

  His left hand rose, grabbed her wrist, his head tipped back, eyes closed, and lips drawn in a pained grimace. “It’s a hunter’s bolt.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  He blinked, his eyes unfocused before he managed to settle his stare on her. “Don’t remove the arrow.”

  “You can’t be serious!”

  He shifted, and she blanched to match the whiteness of his face, the way he nearly crashed back into the vegetation before she reached out to keep him upright and he nearly screamed when she grabbed his arm beside the wound.

  “Rol—”

  “You can’t take it out. Worse. More damage. Bleed out.”

  “We need to run, and it can’t stay in you!”

  He looked up at her.

  She expected to see his agony, the confusion, pain and anger in his gaze, but beside the grimace turning his lips, he was clear and focused on her.

  “You need to run. And I can buy you a few minutes to escape.”

  It took her too long to realize what he was suggesting, process the meaning behind his words that she must have misunderstood.

  He held her gaze, calm, un-phased by what he considered to be a common truth between them.

  “You cannot! I forbid you to do this thing, Rol.”

  He smiled at her, and her heart sped at the look, the longing and the determination and something else that she didn’t dare give a name to, didn’t dare hope to see for it had been barely a day and one could not fall in love with another in so short a time. “Your men hunt the woods for you as well, my lady. If you get to them, they will protect you. You will be safe, and you can turn them against the Fox. He must be stopped above all else.”

  His hand, bloodied from his injury or Gods knew what else, stopped before touching her cheek, and she realized he did it for her benefit, realized that he would protect her no matter the cost.

  Damn honorable baker.

  She took his hand, pulled it to her heart, blood and all, wound and all, she pulled him close, ignoring, for the moment the clomping sound of boots gaining on their position.

  His breath rasped along with hers.

  She squeezed where she clutched, knew it had to hurt, that any movement, every breath had to be an agony all its own, the flimsy shaft of the arrow a morbid reminder of what was between them, how truly deadly their situation was.
>
  She shuddered.

  He tightened his fingers against her in support.

  “Not above all else, Rollu.”

  She watched her meaning settle in his gaze, his recognition of the same.

  His life was more important to her than punishing Bajin.

  “Perhaps, when we make it through this, you would deign to allow me to bake for you. I am not as grand as Master Unsted would have me be, but my pastries are just as sweet, and I can promise you tastes you’ve never had before.”

  Tasiya was by no means ignorant. She understood the goodbye he offered even though he didn’t say the words aloud.

  She sniffed back her tears, straightened her spine as a princess must. “I will hold you to that, Gingerbread Man.”

  His lips quirked, and she could not tell if it was pain or humor in the dark. “Don’t call me that.”

  She cupped his cheek, closed the distance between them, careful of his injury, just as determined to prove to him that she wasn’t letting him go so easily, that he would not be forgiven for reneging on his promise if he failed to cook for her. “Survive, my Pastry Prince.”

  She pressed her lips hard against his in the dark, knew he couldn’t fail to feel the tears on her cheeks.

  It lasted only a second, and then she pulled back, helped him to his feet, let him push her away, hide behind a tree, and watched as he clomped his noisy way through the underbrush, his injured arm held tight to his chest, his body swaying with pain and exhaustion in every step, and fled from her.

  “Here! I can see them! This way! Here!”

  She turned into the tree, hoped its great bulk would hide her against the crashing of men swarming the forest.

  When the noise disappeared, she turned to look.

  Guards and bakers were out of sight.

  Chapter Nineteen

  “Run, run, a s fast as you can. I’ve got you now, little gingerbread man!”

  Rol slipped, his bare feet sliding over the rain slicked leaves covering the forest floor. In the dark, he didn’t see the edge of the ravine before him, wouldn’t have known to beware it either way, knew only the press of root and fallen branch, the thunk of fallen trunks against his body as he tumbled down the hill and over the obstructions, not sure however he stopped would be better than the fall.