by Tamara Gill
With his knee, he parted her robe’s lower slit and the soft, smooth heat of her legs met with the coarse, cool muscle of his. Calf to calf, thigh to thigh. Just the tip of him grazing the humming heat between her open legs, he slid partially off of her, easing one of his rough, strong hands low, gripping the scorched flesh of her upper thigh, then sliding it down.
Out of her mind with thrilling, forbidden heat, she tossed her head to and fro on the pillow when he urged her legs spread wider, exploring further with his fingers. And then he was once again kissing her, mimicking his actions down low, sweetly urging her mouth open with his tongue while stroking her into a frenzied need.
Lower, much lower, past her swollen, aching breasts, past the tight knot of anticipation in her belly, past the thatch of red between her legs, he stroked her wet core until she was opening herself wider still, wanting more, needing more, demanding more. He was obliging, sliding in one finger, then two, priming her, promising her with each masterful stroke that there was something more, so much more yet to come.
“I want all of you,” he said, his breath steaming her upper lip.
“Y-yes...” she could only manage a dazed nod.
He fiddled with the knot at her waist but couldn’t work it free. “Argh!” he said with a frustrated roar. “Help me, wench!”
Wench?
Wench!
What was she doing? As if dragging herself from a deep dream of insanity, Lucy shook her head, then, elbows braced on the mattress, scooted herself up in the bed. The prince was still hard at work on her robe, but she gently pushed him away.
Still breathing hard, she summoned the strength—the courage—to say, “No!”
Glancing up, he tumbled her heart with the smile of a plundering rogue. “You are right. I will use a dagger instead of my hands. ’Twill ruin your garment, but that is good as it does not suit you.”
Grinning at the kind of logic only he would dream up, Lucy rested her hand on his shoulder. “No, I meant no, as in this isn’t going to work.”
“I know, are ye daft? I just said that. Wait here, while I scour your scullery for a knife.”
“No,” she said with another shake of her head, crossing her legs, then tucking the now joined halves of her robe firmly between them. She clutched the upper half of the oversized garment discreetly closed as well, then said, “I can’t—won’t—have sex with you. While your performance just now was everything you’d promised and more, I don’t normally—more like, ever—do those kinds of things unless I’m with a man I love. A man like the duke.”
“I thought we had been over this?” High, proud forehead furrowed, the prince said, “You, bedding me is a good thing for all parties. If it pleases the duke, from behind discreet cover he may even watch to ensure no acts beyond the realm of normalcy are performed.”
Covering her face with her hands, Lucy sat even straighter and drew her knees to her chest.
He drew her hands down. “Tis obvious by your manner of speech that you are not from these parts. Therefore, it is my duty to inform you yet again that, as I am a prince, it is customary for you not to cover your gaze while I am speaking—even that damned sorceress who cursed me knew better.”
“Cursed you?”
For a moment, he looked at her with pure incredulity, then broke into another of his great, booming laughs.
Staring at him, eyes wide with amazement at his acting ability, Lucy slowly shook her head. “Who are you?”
“Forgive me, milady, for this inexcusable social faux pas.” Pinning her to her pillows with nothing more than his dark-eyed stare, he gently lifted her hand to his lips, gracing it with a simple kiss. “I am the prince. Prince Wolfe Graye of the undefeatable kingdom of Gwyneddor.”
CHAPTER SIX
Gwyneddor...
Why did that name sound familiar?
Possibly because Gwynedd had been one of the earliest kingdoms of Wales. But then, that was easily enough discovered in any good tourist shop.
As the prince scooted her legs over, then eased onto the bed beside her, she said, “Tell me more about this supposed curse.” Not that she wanted to know, but maybe if he opened up a little she’d at least figure out how to contact his family.
“Certainly,” he said, with a formal bow of his head. “First, however, I must preface your request by explaining that, for quite some time, I have watched you on your occasional visits to my pond.”
She gulped.
Oh, boy, here we go, straight to Stalker City!
“Wipe that stricken look from your comely face, wench. Believe me, when I am courting a woman—she damned well knows! But tis rather difficult to court someone lovely as you while in the body of a loathsome frog.”
“A-a frog?”
He sighed. “Sometime during what I presume you would call the mid ninth century—” Hand to his forehead he grimaced. “Forgive me for not knowing a more precise time, but after having spent the past thousand years and more as an amphibian, I no longer have a head for dates.”
“You’re quite forgiven,” Lucy said. Should she grab a pen and paper? This guy was really something. He’d make a fortune as a re-enactor on a haunted castle tour.
“As I was saying, over the years, I had pretty much accepted that I was to forever be trapped in that wretched little bugger’s body—until, a number of years back, I saw you.” His gaze focused on something so far off she knew it couldn’t be found within the room, he said, “You had a certain quality about you. A determined sadness as you stared into the water. I saw you handle one of my green compatriots with the most exquisitely gentle touch and wondered what it might feel like to have you examine me in such a way.”
She leaned forward. “You mean, you saw me handling frogs?”
“Yes. That is exactly what I mean. Are you deaf?”
Scowling, she said, “You don’t have to get snippy.”
“Snippy. Yet one more word for my ever-growing vocabulary. Back to my tale. I used to see you wearing the most unflattering black boots made from a peculiar substance I had no prior experience of. You would carry a notebook, oft sketching insects and flowers, or larger scenes of the changing seasons.”
Lucy’s heart skipped a beat.
How could he know that? How could he possibly know all of that unless he had been stalking her, not for days but years? Clutching the collar of her robe even tighter, she leaned into her pillows, further away from him.
“I would hear you softly singing. Ghastly songs. Nothing at all like the lyrical clochettes I prefer. Anyway, suffice to say, in you I sensed a kind soul. One who could quite possibly be my savior. I took to following you, but your long legs were no match for mine—even if I do admit to being quite the jumper.”
A hot queasy rush seized Lucy’s stomach and her pulse surged. She had to escape, but how? The man truly was certifiable. She was a fool for not having called authorities.
“It took me half the day to hop to the castle lane just to watch for your conveyance. I had always meant to meet you at the pond, but you have not been in a long while. With the moon new, I—”
“I-I’ve been busy. You know, work.” Besides, obviously it’s high time I forget my work with frogs. I’m on the verge of becoming a real live duchess, and duchesses do not kiss frogs!
“Of course.” He graced her with another formal bow of his head. “Back to my woeful tale—beginning at the true start, I had just been handed false news of my having planted another of my seeds within a fertile womb when the sorceress struck. I still have no concept of her quarrel with me. While I may not have married my babes’ mothers, I always gave all parties concerned ample coin. No child of mine ever went hungry or unclothed. But, by God, a fact any man of my station knows is that he does not marry for ample bosom and hips, but ample quantities of land and jewels.”
“Oh—of course.” Lucy searched frantically for a weapon. Could she bludgeon the man with a paperback?
“Having grown up in a fine castle full of men who ra
ised me from the time I was but a lad to this high standard of beliefs, you can understand my surprise when the sorceress consulted by my father, the King, as to the preferred scheduling of his battles, declared herself as disliking my views. ’Course, at the time, I had just refused to marry her lovely daughter—a comely, fiery-tempered wench who stirred my loins like no other—until meeting you.”
A box of tissues!
That’d stop him cold. Those sharp corners would definitely draw blood!
“Well, even though I was immensely taken with Desdemona, I knew I could not marry her. She had naught to offer my kingdom but a tempting smile and petal-soft skin.” He snorted. “Fine lot of good those would do me when next we needed funds for battle!”
“Fine lot of good, indeed.”
Fingernail clippers!
Nah, the little pointy thing that swung out of the middle had long since broken off.
“The sorceress did not much ken my views and she warned that if I did not marry Desdemona, she would cast powerful spells of famine and poverty upon the land. Well, I knew her to have visions of battle outcomes but never did I think her that powerful a witch, so I mocked her. Telling her that if she was prepared to go that far, why not go one step further by transforming me into the loathsome pond creature she obviously believed me to be.”
“And?”
The alarm clock!
Mickey Mouse’s plastic ears were nothing to mess with. Shoot, Mickey was as fierce as it got—tantamount to calling out the Marines!
“And the next day I woke to find that I had indeed become just that. A loathsome frog, so hideous in complexion that even other frogs would not pay me the time of day. And that is it. For the past millennium and more, I have hopped up and down the lane forever searching for a woman to declare her eternal love.”
Leaning forward, Lucy saw an opportunity to catch him in his own convoluted story. “So, you’re saying you’ve been right here, right on the duke’s land for over a thousand years?”
“I just said it was so, did I not?”
“Sure, but I mean, if you’ve been hanging out all that time, then you must’ve seen some pretty amazing things.”
“Aye. That I have.”
“Okay, then, how do you explain the fact that for the most part, you speak like a modern-day man?”
Shrugging, he said, “I suppose because I have long been in the company of modern-day men—and women.” He grinned. “I have picked up much of your language and a passing knowledge of how most things in your time are done.” Appraising the open vee of her robe she’d unintentionally let fall open during her search for weapons, he added, “Then there are some things—matters between a man and woman—that even in a thousand years more will never change.”
Clutching her robe beneath her chin, she swallowed hard.
He skimmed his hand beneath the hem of her robe and up her calf. “You disagree?”
“N-not at all.” She moved her leg away, mortified to find her body reacting to his simple touch. “It’s just that...” I’d like to get back to kissing you! No, no, no! “I mean, I’d like to get back to asking you more about your time. For instance, from what I’ve read, the first castles weren’t built until 1050. So if you’ve been around as long as you say, you couldn’t possibly have lived in a castle—let alone this one, which is supposed to have been built around 1240.”
Eyes narrowed, he asked, “Were you there to see it built?”
“No, but—”
“Then I suggest you drop the matter. Trust me. I was there.”
“O-okay, then...” Looked like someone hadn’t done his homework and he was more than a little cranky at having been caught. “Tell me what Gwyneddor was like.”
Arching his head back, he sighed. An indescribable sadness darkened his proud features. “Ah, my fair Gwyneddor. Where to begin...”
***
“You did well today, wee brother,” Prince Rufus patted Wolfe’s head as they mounted the five stone steps leading to the castle keep. Wolfe knew there were five because each morning Rufus made him mount them in a grueling series of trials he claimed would make his legs strong and mind agile. More than anything, Wolfe wanted to be like Rufus, who, during times like these when their father had been called to battle, ruled all within their kingdom with what villagers called an unyielding hand joined with unparalleled justice. Just as his father was thought kind for allowing so many wenches to work within the castle, Rufus was thought remarkable for his good humor toward all—save his enemies who feared him like pox. “Keep up this level of training,” he said, “and before your tenth year you will ride alongside father’s strongest warriors in battle.”
“Do you think so?” Wolfe skipped ahead of his brother, then whirled about to face him. “And will I get my own armor and broadsword, and take turns at the springald?”
“Aye,” Rufus said with an affectionate rub to his back. “But first,” he snatched an apple from a wooden bowl, “we must get nourishment into that scrawny belly of yours and learning into your head.”
Wolfe’s lips fell into a pout. “I do not like learning. At the monastery they said I have the concentration of a trout.” Gazing up at his adored older brother, Wolfe asked, “Is that bad?”
“Nay.” Rufus grinned, giving Wolfe another affectionate rub. “Tis a most splendid thing indeed, for fish are swift, fearsome creatures.”
“Fish are not fearsome.”
“Ah, then you have never seen a razor-toothed giant of a fish washed upon the shore.”
“There is no such thing!”
“What? A razor-toothed fish or shore?” Rufus winked, before offering Wolfe a bite of his apple. He happily accepted, opening his mouth wide as it could possibly go which, much to his great disappointment, did not come near the size of his brother’s.
Determined to equal Rufus in something far greater than his bite, Wolfe trailed after him into the castle kitchen.
“At last...” Rufus said with a teasing smile. “I have wondered where all the fairest wenches had gone.” After lobbing his apple core to Honey, Wolfe’s hound, who presently lounged in a strip of golden afternoon sun, Rufus slipped his arm around Cook’s ample waist, kissing her boldly on her weathered cheek. She shrieked and made a great show of smacking him on his behind with a wooden spoon, but Wolfe did not miss the sparkle in her eyes nor ill-concealed mirth in her scolding.
“If you plan to go on havin’ those handsome lips, young prince, you had best be keepin’ ’em to yourself, or I’ll be tossin’ ‘em into my supper pot.”
“And thus deprive yourself of my many pleasures?” Rufus teased, all the while deftly snatching a strip of dried venison right out from under her, then kissing the hands of her two blushing helpers, before moving on to the big-bosomed serving wench Wolfe had oftentimes seen his brother making grunting sounds over in the knoll behind the pond. At the time, Wolfe had thought the pair looked an awful lot like rutting hounds but, after the act, when Rufus had lain beside her, stroking her prettily flushed cheeks with a dandelion, Wolfe had decided that this, as with all things his brother did, must be good. For, at least in Wolfe’s eyes, Rufus was incapable of doing wrong.
“Shame,” the girl said with a laughing shriek as Rufus nuzzled her neck.
“What?” Hands cinched about her waist, he leaned back and grinned. “How can there be shame in kissing beauty rare as yours?”
She tried slapping his roving hand with a cabbage leaf, but on her hand’s downward path Rufus caught her wrist, snagging a bite of cabbage, along with a nip of her finger.
“Off with you,” Cook said, while the serving wench giggled. “You, too,” Cook said to Wolfe, slipping him sugared crust.
Rufus clutched his hand to his chest, making a great show of being hurt.
When Wolfe laughed at his brother’s antics, Rufus said, “You find me amusing, wee brother?” After winking to his wench, he lunged for Wolfe, sweeping him high, before tickling him low on his belly and ribs.
�
�Off! Off!” Cook shrieked over the merriment of all assembled. “Tis unseemly for the masters of this castle to carry on so.”
“All right, then,” Rufus said, setting Wolfe to his feet before easing his great arm about the boy’s shoulders. “If Cook says we must behave, my brother, then it seems we have no choice but to await the delivery of our meal.”
Rufus blew the ladies a final kiss before leading Wolfe to the great hall. Once they had taken their seats, Rufus occupying their father’s chair, while Wolfe sat beside him on a wood bench, Rufus said, “There are many kinds of education, little brother. What you just witnessed was your first lesson on the fine art of diddling.” Leaning closer, in a merry whisper, he added, “To be true, winning battles is a most satisfying pastime, but if you nay have warm breasts to rest your head upon after the battle has been won, tis no reason for you to fight in the first place.”
Pretending he knew what his brother meant, Wolfe sagely nodded.
Outside, day faded to night and inside, the great hall sprang to life. Tables were assembled along the walls, and a light meal of meat pie, bread, eel and cheese was served. After which, a traveling acrobat amazed all present with his skill.
Rufus’s mother, the king’s first wife, had long since died. Sabina, Wolfe’s mother, had claimed herself afflicted with a headache and, as such, hadn’t left her solar to partake in the evening meal. A good thing in Wolfe’s eyes! Not that he wanted his mother ill but that meant he got to shift from his bench to her big chair beside his brother.
After the meal had been cleared, and tables and benches stored away, couples wandered into isolated corners where naught disturbed them but the fire’s dancing glow. Aside from occasional feminine giggles, manly grunts or baying hound, the great hall had fallen silent.
This was Wolfe’s favorite time of day, for it was then, sated by the weight of a good meal and drink, that his father and brother expounded on all nature of things, such as how to most efficiently spear a blade through one’s enemy for a quick kill. Or how to best train a mighty horse for battle. Or scale an enemy’s castle walls.
