by Tamara Gill
Her father stood and held up his hands. As if he were a scientific messiah, the audience hushed. Eyebrows furrowed, he strode onto the stage. Covering the mic with his hand, he said, “Luce, I think you’d better go.”
“What do you mean?” she asked her father. “Shouldn’t you be asking him to go?” She pointed toward her accuser.
He shook his head. Releasing the mic, he put his arm about her shoulders. “Loosey Goosey, really, trust me on this. Go back up to your room and wait for me. Let me spin this. You know, formulate some kind of damage control.”
“Why?” Lucy shook her head. “I don’t understand. Helena’s Dream is my discovery. I have nothing to be ashamed of.”
“Yes, baby, you do.” The same way he had back when she’d been a kid on vacation from school, living with him in the field, her father patted her head. “What you don’t understand, is that your so-called discovery was mine. Aw, Luce...” He sighed, eyeing the terrarium housing her former pride and joy. “How could you not have known I found the first of these thirty years ago?”
While the crowd burst into still more chortles and chuckles, Lucy closed her eyes and swallowed hard.
Too close to the mic, he broadcasted to over five hundred of the world’s most respected scientists, “Face it, sweetie, you don’t have what it takes to become a carbon copy of your old man. Never have. Never will. Now, once and for all, please...” He planted a patronizing kiss to her forehead. “Be a good girl. Give up on this scientist fantasy and go make me some pretty grandbabies.”
CHAPTER ONE
A few years later...
“I hate him.” Lucy tightened her grip on the electric Mini’s wheel, recalling that afternoon’s meeting with the headmaster of the exclusive school on the English-Welsh border where she taught primary-level biology. “I hate his stupid tweedy clothes. The way he doesn’t laugh, but wheezes. I even hate the way he smells.” A cross between cabbage, liverwurst and kidney beans.
Aiming the tiny car down the ivy-draped, stonewalled lane leading to Sinclaire Castle, Lucy took deep breaths, trying awfully hard to talk herself down from the headmaster-induced bad mood and into her normal happy state.
Okay, so maybe she wasn’t usually deliriously, happily-ever-after happy. And certainly not soul-deep fulfilled happy. But overall—aside from her run-ins with crusty old Festus Grumsworth who disapproved of everything, from her teaching style to her hair to the way she dressed and how she preferred coffee over tea—she was usually content.
And for a woman who’d learned the hard way to take whatever hand life dealt, plain old contentment was a good thing.
Lucy took her eyes off the deserted lane to fiddle with the radio, but static alerted her to the difficulty of her task. Cotswold County only had one radio station, and that was run by Mrs. Greenstreet high in the fourth-floor attic of the Hoof and Toe Inn in the village. Lucy found the station and replaced static with yodeling, which led her to a decision to blow her next paycheck on satellite radio.
She looked up just in time to swerve clear of a barreling Smythe’s Furniture truck. Judging by the rage with which the driver operated his vehicle, she guessed Fortescue, the duke’s butler, had forgotten to tip again.
“The butler,” she said along with her best imitation of one of the duke’s mellow laughs, following that up with one of her own Alabama giggles. Who’d have thought that Lucy Gordon from Springdale, Alabama, would actually be dating a duke?
Even better, word around the castle was that William might even be on the verge of proposing. And why not? He often enough said he thought her quaint. And her hair, far from offending him, reminded him of that portrait of the first Queen Elizabeth hanging in Sinclaire Castle’s great hall gallery.
Lucy tightened her grip on the wheel.
Would hearing news of his little girl becoming a duchess finally make her father proud?
What the—she swerved again, only this time for a bouncing green blob.
Pop!
Crash!
Her Mini’s left front tire blew, which threw the tiny car into an out-of-control slide into the passenger-side rock wall—the American passenger side, seeing as how she never could keep her lanes straight under pressure.
While she rested her forehead against the steering wheel, another pop sounded under the hood, then came a high-pitched metallic shiver.
Delightful.
After a particularly long day of teaching Europe’s richest—not to mention most precocious, to put it in polite terms—group of young lords and ladies, to be stranded on the shoulder of this desolate lane was the last thing she needed.
Climbing out of the car to survey the damage, she breathed in the chilly mist capping the rolling hills in a depressing shroud. Somewhere in the thickening fog, a sheep bleated. The air smelled heavily of wet weeds and fecund earth.
Brushing rioting curls back from her face, Lucy figured that, once and for all, she had to grow up. She had to stop caring about making her father proud and stop braking for every frog that hopped across the road. Because, face it: just like she was never going to find a new species of frog in Cotswold, she was never, ever going to be the famous scientist she’d once dreamed of. She was never going to find even a new ant species, let alone her own special frog.
Bottom line, she was a boarding-school biology teacher, destined for a nice, normal life that, if she got lucky, might even include marriage to a real live duke.
Wasn’t that enough?
She even lived rent-free in a cottage in Sinclaire Castle’s grounds—which was how she’d met the charitable duke who also housed several of her fellow teachers on his ample estate.
A flash of bouncing green caught her eye.
How ironic it had been a frog that had initially caused her professional ruin, and now another one was responsible for her Mini’s ruin. If she hadn’t been so stubborn in insisting she could do everything on her own, right this minute she’d be humming down the lane in the Duke’s chauffeur-driven Bentley.
For good measure, she kicked the blown-out front tire that’d caused this whole mess.
Or wait a minute—wouldn’t the original cause be that overly jumpy frog?
Ribbet. Hop, hop.
Lucy darted to her left, then right, but there was no sign of the annoying creature.
Hop, hop.
There it was again, and this time she wasn’t about to let it get away.
Ribbet, ribbet, hop—
“Gotcha!” She pounced on it, cupping both hands around the creature’s sleek form. “There, now,” she said, leaning against the backside of her car. “Let’s take a look at you, you little troublemak—”
Lucy’s heart pounded as if she’d just completed a marathon, as opposed to chasing down a mischievous country frog. “No way...”
Not after all she’d given up.
The professional dreams she’d finally abandoned along with the certain knowledge that, just like her father said, she didn’t have it in her to become a field scientist. She’d finally accepted his words of wisdom stating that those who can’t do—teach—and she was happy with that.
Teaching was a noble profession. She had nothing to be even remotely disappointed about.
Oh, yeah? Then how come the mere sight of what you’re holding has your legs quivering like a stand of pussy willows in a summer storm?
Just to make sure, she peeked at the creature again and, sure enough, he was just as unique. Just as spell-bindingly, magnificently, downright miraculously scientifically undocumented as he had been before.
Somehow, someway, at a time when she’d least expected it, Lucy Gordon had come across the new species of frog that she’d spent nearly a decade searching for and she’d done it in the most serendipitous way.
Tears springing to her eyes, she took another peek, this time brushing her thumb along the creature’s blazing purple and black ventral. But wait, were the black spots shaped like diamonds? Purple and black diamonds! Who’d ever heard of a diamond-belli
ed frog?
And his eyes—those beautiful dark-lashed eyes. Frogs didn’t have eyelashes—at least none she’d ever seen. Which meant he—he was a he, wasn’t he?
She flipped him over. Judging by his scarlet red nuptial pads—yes.
Which meant he was her very own discovery.
Every glorious centimeter of him, from the tip of his black head to his green-spotted back to the tippy toes of his little webbed black feet.
“You’re beautiful,” she said in a hushed voice, not caring that the mist had turned into a soaking rain. She didn’t know how or even why, but finally, finally, her every dream had come true.
Heart still pounding, cheeks streaming with cold rain intermingled with warm tears, Lucy held the frog to her mouth and kissed him square on his lips.
Poof!
She fell to the mucky dirt lane, pinned beneath the weight of well over two hundred pounds of manly muscle—naked manly muscle.
“Jesu,” the man with inky-dark eyes said in a thick Welsh brogue. “That was a damned intolerable nightmare I am gladly rid of.”
Lucy coughed, no easy feat considering the guy had straddled her, pinning her in the mud with his tree-trunk arms. Questions spun through her head. Who was he? Why was he naked and on top of her? “Most importantly,” she voiced this last thought aloud, “what have you done with my frog? You didn’t crush him, did you?”
“Frog?” His laugh was a great booming affair that sounded nothing like the always polite duke. This was the kind of brazen outburst one would expect from a medieval knight while he had his way with a comely serving wench. “Oh,” he finally said, scratching his rakishly thick beard. “Ye must mean me.”
“No.” Lucy struggled out from under him, eager to be safely locked into her car and away from this mad vagabond. “I mean, the one-of-a-kind, brand-new species of amphibian I’d discovered right before you unceremoniously dumped yourself on me.”
“Dumped myself on you? And here I thought it had been the other way around—you accosting me with that kiss.” His dark eyes gleamed with devilish, dangerous fun, and then he was laughing again, and standing, drawing himself to his full—even awe-inspiring—height that had Lucy leaning her head back just to see the whole of him.
Whew.
His shoulders’ breadth called to mind great warriors, swashbuckling pirates and gallant knights. On his chest he carried countless jagged scars. He was a breed of man she’d never dreamt existed outside of fairy tales and the bodice-ripping romance novels she devoured lazy Saturday afternoons.
As she stood, too, he swept his eyes boldly up the length of her, the whole time unaware—maybe uncaring—of his undressed state.
His ravishing stare made her shiver. At first, she’d blamed her tremors on the cold rain, but it couldn’t have been, as ever since setting eyes on him, her body had been consumed by a curiously shimmering heat.
She willed her pulse to slow.
This couldn’t be happening.
No way could she have actually abandoned what could quite possibly be the most unique species of frog on earth in favor of ogling a naked lunatic.
With any luck, the frog hadn’t strayed far.
And as for this...this...
She couldn’t think of a label for the man, outside of pure crazy, but that was okay. Just as soon as she found her frog, she’d be on her way. Flat tire or no, she’d make it to the castle on the car’s rims if it meant escaping the man’s unabashedly hungry stare—for though she was far from being an expert at sexy-time activities, even Lucy wasn’t naïve enough to believe him merely to be craving cheese and crackers.
***
“Well?” Prince Wolfe Graye of Gwyneddor raised his chin. “Are ye not going to break my curse by declaring your undying love?”
“E-excuse me?”
“Go ahead...” He settled his hands on her ripe hips, appreciating her cheeks’ heightened color as she struggled to keep her gaze from straying lower. “Take a peek. After all, for the moment at least, I am in your debt. Tis only natural for you to wish to inspect your goods—I can assure you, there is naught in that region of which I am ashamed.”
While she coughed, seemingly more determined than ever to look away, Wolfe released her to indulge in a good, long stretch. Such bliss was this to be in possession of his human form. For the first time in over a thousand years, he once again knew the meaning of life. Being trapped in a frog’s body had been no meaningful existence, but a torturous nightmare from whence he had feared he might never wake.
And now, after all those years of searching for the perfect woman who might break his curse, here she was.
Aye, dazed, but her physical state mattered not.
Twas the condition of her heart garnering his concern. For now that she had kissed him, the terms of his imprisonment were quite clear. Either she, and only she, declared her true and most heartfelt love, or his curse would be eternal. The sorceress had given him but one chance to find a wench willing to devote herself to a loathsome frog, and in this fiery-haired beauty Wolfe knew he had finally found the one.
“You must declare your love,” he repeated. “After all, that is why you saved me, is it not?”
“Saved you?” She coughed.
“Honestly, wench.” He delivered a hearty slap to her back. “Why must you answer my every question with further question?”
Arms folded atop her ample bosom, she sassed, “Maybe because I’m not accustomed to running into naked men roaming the lane in broad daylight.”
“Ah, but tis nearly dusk,” he pointed out, graciously sweeping his hand toward the horizon’s growing gloom.
“That’s not the point and you know it.”
“Then pray tell, what is?” While bracing himself against the trunk of her carriage, he crossed his legs at the ankles.
“Argh!” She tried moving him but her thrashing proved futile. What she thankfully did not know was just how effective her efforts had been upon his body. For when she had splayed her fingers upon his chest, he was momentarily lost in the crush of his galloping heart, the sweat on his palms and an awakening in a field-long fallow. Gratitude burned hot at the back of his throat. For only a second, he indulged himself by closing watery eyes. Oh, how he had missed the gentle warmth of a woman’s touch. Oh, how he must never, under any circumstances, fall victim to that damnedable curse again.
Eyes open, resolve firm, he pulled this womanly treasure into the great circle of his arms. “It seems wenches in your time have not changed as much as I had presumed. For while your initial kiss was pleasant enough, I now see it was but a clever ruse designed to leave me wanting more.” And seeing how in his former life he had grown quite fond of seizing that which he had desired, Wolfe figured, why not start off this new life in the same spirit.
While the wench seemed a trifle dazed, he cinched her closer still, crushing her lips to his to get her past any notion of further struggle. She did not disappoint, for, aye, there was indeed a brief tussle of wills. However, then he softened his kiss, hoping to not only imply his desire for their upcoming bedding, but his most heartfelt thanks to her for having saved him.
He slipped his fingers into her riotous curls, cupping the back of her head, urging her sweet mouth open so they might indulge in a mingling of tongues. They shared that and so much more until she was melting against him, molding her curves to the wall of his chest until it was no longer enough to merely kiss her.
He must have all of her—here.
Now.
One hand still buried in her fiery curls, with the other he lifted her up the length of him, hand on her ample backside, pressing her against his swollen need. When she groaned again, the damp heat of her breath, her longing, spilled into him, threatening to wholly consume what little remained of his once legendary control. What new variety of sorceress was she to have so thoroughly seduced him with a mere kiss?
“Ah, wench... What have ye done?” Beyond caring, he deepened the kiss still. “In my time, a hot-b
looded vixen such as yourself would have been worth her weight in rubies.”
“Your time?” As if angered by his words, she pulled back. “Are you still stuck on this whole time-travel thing? And as for me being hot-blooded—remember, big fella, you kissed me.”
The wee one launched her struggle anew, until finally, tiring of her pretense to not want him, the prince let her go. Bearing a scowl that would have frightened his most battle-hardened warrior, she tugged the hem of her sodden white tunic, crossing her arms over hardened buds. Oh, to be sure, her speech may have been a valiant one, but the reddening of her cheeks told him she was not so pure as to believe she had not wholly enjoyed returning his kiss.
“I was innocently minding my own business until you showed up.”
“Tis a good thing ye did,” he said, allowing her to change the subject. “After only recently escaping being flattened by that odorous oversized carriage, I could not believe my luck to have finally happened upon you traveling my lane.”
“Your lane?” She laughed. “I’ve lived at Sinclaire Castle for years and know quite literally every inhabitant of Cotswold County. If, as you say, this were your lane, why wouldn’t I have seen you at any of the duke’s holiday parties?”
“Simple,” he dragged her back into his arms. “In my cursed condition, I was not exactly a suitable guest. But now all of that has changed. I will resume my rightful station as prince and you, my savior, shall be gifted with one night in my bed and then be on your way.”
Lucy hated herself for even momentarily thinking that, after that epic kiss, his plan didn’t sound all bad, so it was with only marginal sarcasm she said, “Sounds fun. Just as soon as I find my frog.”
Once again, she found herself wrestling free of his hold, only this time a little more reluctantly. As strange as it sounded, something about being in his arms felt right. More right than anything she’d done in a long time. Which only added to her current state of confusion.
While the naked man watched her with a mocking smile, Lucy looked under the car and all along the rock wall for her missing frog.
Crossing the lane, she peered along the other wall as well. Beneath a sprawling beech tree. Behind at least five large stones. Only after searching all of those places and more, did she realize she’d allowed her momentary enjoyment of this naked—quite off his rocker—stud to interfere with the one thing she’d searched her whole life to find.
