He watched the play of emotion chase across her face. The flitting of a smile at the formality of his words. The flare of nostrils with the swift exhale of a snort for his propriety. The way her brows drew together, and she seemed to hesitate, her fingers clenching and releasing where she held against him, wanting and not expecting at the same time, deciding.
He watched the way her face smoothed with her decision, determination.
She leaned forward, and if he closed his eyes, he would lie and tell his father it was because her movement made him dizzy from his illness, not the heady rush of her lips coming towards his, of her gaze shuttering as she stole a kiss he wanted badly to hold onto for all time, a reminder of what they had shared in the cottage in the woods, what he had stolen from a princess of Faoust and what she had offered willingly.
Her hand was at his cheek when she pulled away; his hand gently cupping her waist, steadying her when she’d leaned into him.
“You honor yourself, Master Baker.”
“I’m just an apprentice.”
She grinned, and if she spoke quieter so that she had to lean closer so only he could hear, and if that meant her lips continued to tantalize his own, a promise of more in a situation that demanded denial, neither argued against the gesture, and there was no one who would dare deny her desires. “You are as I say you are, my Pastry Prince.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
The news cam e that the king was to throw another celebration for his beloved daughter, and that she was to announce her betrothed at the stroke of midnight with the cutting of the cake.
Everyone was in an uproar, and Rol was as anxious as anyone else.
Four months.
He’d counted the days, felt each one in his tired body, the chill that hadn’t seemed to leave him after his swim in the river, the ache in his shoulder though he did his best to ignore the same rolling out dough all day long in Unsted’s shoppe.
His shoppe.
The bakery was his now.
A gift, recompense, of the king.
He’d hoped that the princess would come for a tasting…
But, like his father had said, like he knew well enough, he was just a baker.
Though his dessert was to be the centerpiece of the princess’ grand festival.
He walked through the front doors of the castle on his own this time, no guards to stop him or leave his masterpiece behind with.
A few of the men even nodded to him, and Rol thought that perhaps he knew them from his time convalescing or they were the ones to hunt him down in the aftermath of the Fox’s chase and his swim.
Either way, entering the castle under his own volition was a thing he had never expected to do, and he stood in as much awe as the next peasant when faced with the majesty of the grand foyer, flying buttresses and decorated arches, stairways that seemed to reach into eternity, and he was barely two steps inside the door.
“Do you know the way to the ballroom?”
He turned at the delicate voice behind him, barely remembered to close his mouth, nod his head before dipping into a profoundly more elegant bow than the last he’d administered before her presence. “Your Highness.”
Rol kept his head down, watched the trailing ends of her gray dress draw closer, her slippered feet stop less than a foot before him so that when he rose, his breath would mingle with hers.
Far too close for propriety.
Not nearly close enough.
“Master Baker.”
His gaze rose, searched past her face for the ever-present shadows of her lady’s maids, her guards.
He blushed to find them observed, but she took his arm despite his hesitation and walked with him from the grand entrance and down a slender hall.
“The kitchens are at the end of the wing, closer to the ballroom and grand dining room rather than the rooms and suits of the residents. Father insists that we dine privately in our own informal chambers most nights, but for state affairs.”
She spoke, her fingers stroking over his arm in absent affection, and it was something out of a dream, to be with her again, feel her against him, know they were together.
Every word she offered was useless blither, neither truly paying attention to what she was saying, but he knew every caress of her hand against his arm, the way her hip would brush his as they walked.
She kept her face steadfastly forward.
He wondered if he would dare offer a kiss to her cheek; what would be the punishment for stealing such from the princess?
Her fingers tightened. “You see. There are four and twenty alcoves along this hall, twelve on either side. My father once said that they were lover’s retreats, but of course, a king would never know of such a thing. They are quiet though, and out of the way of prying ears.”
He glanced down at her, and she winked to catch his eye, the tiniest nod of her head to the left.
He’d counted the alcoves with her.
Twenty-four, she’d said, and yet he could just barely glimpse a twenty-fifth hiding away, waiting to be used.
“Before the strike of midnight, no? That is when your pastry will be presented?” Her fingers squeezed again.
“A quarter till, yes.”
“Good. I cannot wait to see what you will delight me with.”
“Her Royal Highnes s , Princess Tasiya!”
Unlike the last ball, there was no Lord of the Hunt to take her arm and lead her into the crowd, not that she cared one whit about Bajin or his fate.
Nor the gathered assemblage of nobles standing about the room.
The men and women of the city, peers who held no title but who held high esteem to the industries of the country, the architects and masons, the barmaid, Matihilda – they held her attention.
Tasiya had insisted that everyone be invited to the celebration, since it was in honor of a man who was not noble nor titled, but a simple man of good conscious and deserving nature.
Her eyes fell on her baker standing uncomfortably in a place of honor at her father’s side.
Rol stood on the step beneath the king, and in the bright candles of the ballroom, she could just make out the sheen of sweat on his brow at having been so elevated amongst those in the room.
He bore it well though, standing with his shoulders back and his face carefully neutral to those watching him.
When he met her gaze, the stiff line of his body loosened, and she sighed in commiserated relief.
She made her way down the aisle that opened before her, nodded her head to those who reached out to touch her, stopped to clasp hands with the few she considered friends within the crowd, lingered at the common-folk, ensured they felt welcomed and knew her appreciation of them.
Gasps and conversation sped around her at that.
She didn’t care, and those she lingered over blushed and curtseyed and bowed far more than they should, but they were honored, and she smiled at them, kept an eye on the slight turn of her baker’s lips as he watched her approach.
Tasiya stopped at the heavier woman who stood staring at her in awe. “I have heard many things of you, Matihilda of The Drunken Dog . I should like to know you better, I think.”
“My lady.”
Tasiya did not correct the woman, instead reached out to raise the rounded chin and stare into deep brown eyes. “Rollu speaks highly of you, of how you offered aid when no one else would, of how you have always been a harbor of the same to those in need in this city. It is my honor to share this hall with you tonight.”
The woman stuttered in response, and Tasiya left her with a smile, resumed her trek down the hall to the man who knew her city, and who sought its protection even when so few fought for him.
A good man.
He bowed to her when she ascended the steps to her father’s throne.
“Master Baker.”
He blushed, and she grinned, turned her gaze to meet the king’s and the laughing frown upon his face at her mirth.
“Father.”
Igd
eon bent to press a kiss to her cheek. “Behave, Daughter. You must wait until midnight.”
“Of course, Your Majesty.”
The king sighed, a long-suffering sound that carried to Rollu a few steps below and had the baker turning to see what the king needed.
Even her father could not help but grin at that.
She raised her eyebrows, and Igdeon shook his head, the tip to his chin acknowledgment that she was right.
“The nobles have outweighed the working class-men of this city for far too long. Men and women who labor to ensure that our country is prosperous while dukes and earls and whatever else they call themselves sit in tiny chairs and eat tarts for tea. The nobles who approve of me do so not because I will marry one of their ilk, but because they know I will work for the betterment of our country. It is time to turn the common man to us as well, Father. What better way than to honor the one who sacrificed the most for my salvation?”
“He is a foreigner, Tasiya.”
“Which gives us ties to Spinick.”
Igdeon shook his head. “I chose a match for you once before to a man who would benefit the people in some way. I was wrong then. Do not do the same now. I would have you have more in your marriage, Daughter.”
“Father,” she let more than the resolute princess shine in her eyes, the emotions that may well be misplaced, but were real all the same, that she wouldn’t speak of until she spoke them to the man himself first, “I will. With him.”
“A dance, I think, to begin the festivities. No long speeches tonight. Fetch your baker and have him swing you about the floor some. That should get the people moving.”
“Father—”
“Your Majesty, I don’t—”
Igdeon waved at her and Rollu, ignoring them to sit in his chair and clap his hand for the musicians to begin their concert.
Tasiya looked at Rollu and extended her hand. “Will you dance with me, Gingerbread Man?”
She ignored the laugh at her back to watch her baker’s face as he pinkened further though didn’t rebuke her.
He took her arm chivalrously and she allowed him to lead them to the dance floor, slipped easily into his embrace to the first strains of a waltz.
“I hate that nickname.”
“I know.”
She fidgeted i n the arms of her dance partner, her eyes seeking out the clock again and again, waiting for it to read a quarter to midnight, hoping Rollu would be able to disengage from the bevvy of women surrounding him to meet with her in the hallways above-stairs.
Her heart beat heavier with the waiting.
They’d managed to circle near each other the whole night, though only having danced the one song.
She’d partnered his quartets during the reels, but no words had passed between them.
What if he hadn’t understood her intent earlier in the day?
He’d escaped with her once.
Surely, he would be game to run again, and this time in exceedingly less tense conditions.
The minuet ended, and she curtseyed, as required, to her partner, and the architect bowed in return, laughing as he stumbled, and she helped right him. All through the night the nobles and the commoners had danced together and found that titles meant little to the people beneath the names.
It was glorious.
She waved off the waiting hand of a viscount. “Apologies, I need but a moment to collect myself.”
“Shall I fetch you a drink, Your Highness?”
“Quite all right.”
That she managed to escape the ballroom was a miracle. That he was there, in the alcove, waiting for her when she reached him, was fate.
He pulled her into his arms and pressed his lips to hers, the first and last and best kiss she’d ever shared.
Her hands rose to his shoulders, sifted through his auburn hair to hold him close.
They’d had just the one night together.
One night, and he felt like home.
“I’ve missed you, Gingerbread Man.”
Rol leaned bac k , kept one arm around her waist and raised the other to brush his hand across her cheek.
Gods she was beautiful.
Everything about her, from the way she dealt with her people, a queen preparing to rule, to the woman who stood before him, stealing a moment with someone she loved…
Rol bent his forehead to hers.
He shouldn’t think like that.
He didn’t dare whisper the words he wanted to, words that spoke of emotions far more than he should have for a princess. “Don’t call me that.”
She grinned and settled deeper into his embrace, her cheek against his chest, pressed to the pounding of his heart.
“We will miss the cutting of the pie.”
He could hear the grin in her response. “Pie? I thought you were making me a cake?”
He smiled in response, delivered the lightest of pinches to her side, made her jump, raise her face to his so he could steal a kiss, lost for another moment in being near her, no guards hot on their trails, no fox stalking them through the night. If he dared, he would have lifted her from her feet and carted her far from the presence of the castle patrons around them, beyond the ears of the hall or the dancers in the ballroom, her guards, the king.
Maybe to the hunting cottage where they didn’t have to hide in the attic.
He shook his head, pulled away from wistful thoughts. “A cake seemed too commonplace, too blasé for such a lady as yourself.”
“Blasé?” She laughed, buried the sound against his shoulder when she leaned into him so as not to be overheard by the guards.
“It was a fancy enough word.”
“Rol!” Her fist beat a small tattoo against his shoulder, and though it didn’t hurt, he flinched all the same, and she smoothed her hand over the ache. “I would you had never been injured because of me.”
He leaned back, far enough against the solid stone at his back that he could turn her face up to his, meet the eyes he knew were likely molten with emotion if he but had light to see by. “A hundred arrows. Two. Three hundred. It wouldn’t have mattered, so long as you were safe.”
“You barely knew me.”
He snorted, they barely knew each other, but if he were someone else, and she someone else, “I would spend a lifetime getting to know you, if I was but allowed.”
Her hand moved from his shoulder to press against the steady pounding of his heart. “And I you.” She rose on her tiptoes. “I would have you always by my side, to know you. To love you.” She pressed a delicate kiss to his lips, light as a butterfly’s wing in the heat of summer.
His heart stuttered to a stop. “I’m just a baker.”
“To me, you are the world.”
“Princess—”
“Rol,” she smile d , breathed in his scent, flour and sugar, so very strange on a man, so tempting. “His choice was for me to marry a man more interested in taking my crown than in protecting my life. My choice is the exact opposite. A man who has no interest in my crown but risked his own life and limb to save mine.”
“Tasiya—”
A round of wild gasps and applause, cheers that shook the entire castle, sounded from the ballroom down the hall.
“The king has cut the pie, Rollu Secul.” She bit her lip, smiled at him, happiness and joy lighting her gaze. “He’s named my fiancé.”
“I’m just a baker.”
“You’re my baker. My Gingerbread Man. My Pastry Prince.”
“My Princess. My love.”
“Your love.”
Epilogue
Rol looked acros s the sleeping form of his daughter, her body curled beneath the pillows, her hair already mussed from the braid her maid had bound it in before bed. She was the perfect image of her mother, a gift he couldn’t imagine loving any more than he already did.
He raised his gaze to her mother, the woman who had stolen his heart and he didn’t even know how.
“She always falls asleep before the end.”
“It’s a fairy tale, husband, she knows the end. And the Beautiful Princess and her Pastry Prince—”
He smiled. “Lived Happily Ever After.”
Rollu stood carefully, bent to press a kiss to his daughter’s cheek, waited for her mother to do the same before opening the door to his princess’ bedroom and closing it silently behind them.
Tasiya turned to him, wrapped her arms about his neck. “I think our story is a fairy tale too.”
He chuckled, brushed back a strand of blond hair from her pixie face, met her star sparkled eyes, the mischief and glee in them.
Lucky.
He was the luckiest man in the world.
“I think it’s magical, wife. A princess who fell in love with a baker…what, if not, a fantasy cooked up in some fevered brain living in a fantasy world?”
“Good that we share that world with the storyteller then, no?”
He grinned, “Very.”
Cupcake Kisses and Dragon Dreams
Julia Mills
Chapter One
“That’s all fo r me today. And, Remember, always add a little magic to your recipes with X’s and O’s. See y’all next time on Kalliope’s Kupcake Kitchen. Bye for now.”
“And…Cut. Great job, Kallie, another winner.”
“Thanks, Jack. You’re the best,” she smiled, giving her cameraman a wink as she took off her mic, untied her apron and slipped out of her signature four-inch, red heels. Heading towards her dressing room, the Witch-turned-TV-cooking-show-host thanked everyone who helped make her show a success by announcing, “Thank y’all so much! There’s about a hundred-and-fifty-two salted caramel, devil’s food cupcakes on the shelves and in my ‘magic’ ovens, have at it. They’re awesome with two gallons of nice cold milk in the fridge.”
“Thank you, Kalliope,” came the chorus of gratitude. She loved her crew. They were the best. It was a shame not a damn one of the good-looking guys she was surrounded by nearly every day of her life make her nose tingle and her heart go pitter-pat, but they were all good people, and that’s what mattered most.
Grabbing an everything bagel and a banana from the luncheon table, Kallie turned to head to her dressing room and ran right into her producer, who also happened to be one of her very best friends, Jesse James, no relation to the outlaw, or so he always said. “Now, how am I ever gonna be your best bride’s man if your breath smells like onions and garlic? You do know men don’t get into kissing stanky lips, right?”
Sinfully Delicious: Six Scintillating Stories of Sweets, Treats, and Happily Ever Afters Page 42
