by Tamara Gill
He’d put his trust in her for nothing, and there wasn’t a damned thing she could do.
“We’ve done everything you wanted!” she cried to the sorceress who’d reneged on her deal. “Are you slow on the uptake? What don’t you get about the fact that I love Wolfe and he loves me? He’s learned from his mistakes. He’s a changed man. A better man. A perfect man! How dare you destroy our future before it’s even begun?”
“How dare I?” Where once blinding sun streamed through the window, now swirled choking fog. Thunder rolled, followed by a high-pitched female laugh that turned Lucy’s blood cold.
Where was hotel security? Surely, she couldn’t be the only one hearing the horrifying sounds?
When thunder and keening laughter reached such a fevered pitch that Lucy wanted to cover her ears, yet couldn’t because she cradled Wolfe, the swirling fog thickened still more until assuming the shape of a willowy blonde.
Mouth gaping, Lucy clamped it shut.
This wasn’t real.
None of it was real.
She was having a bad dream, that’s all.
She’d wake to find everything blissfully normal.
The way it had been the last time she and Wolfe had made love.
The woman laughed again and glided across the room, reducing Lucy’s tortured hope to a cowering tremble. “Want normal, do you? Then I suggest you find another man. For this one is now damned to forever be the diminutive creature I knew him to be.” Instinct told Lucy to crawl under the covers and hide. To run screaming from the room. But how could she do any of that when her mouth had gone dry with terror and her chest ached from the out-of-control racing of her heart?
Even worse, if she didn’t find the courage to fight on Wolfe’s behalf, who would?
He’d been prepared to give his life for her at that conference. Would she repay that favor by cowering? Or from somewhere deep within, find strength to do battle?
“Please, my pet, give him to me,” the sorceress said in a hypnotic tone. She held out smooth, long-fingered hands, beckoning Lucy into her realm. Palms flat, index fingers curving invitation, she smiled. “Closer, my pet...”
As if no longer controlling her body, Lucy rose from the bed, moving across the now vast chamber to where the sorceress stood, long silvery gown fluttering in a sickeningly thick, lavender-scented breeze.
“Come... Surrender him to me... That’s right... Closer... I know you must be frightened, but you needn’t be. I am your friend. And while you are but a mere mortal, I am a god. Bring him to me, bring him to me...”
Lucy wanted to block the hypnotic voice by putting her hands to her ears, but her fingers instinctively wouldn’t budge from where they’d long since frozen in protective cover over Wolfe.
“That’s it, my sweet pet. Closer... All you need do is surrender him to me, then be free... Free to live that bucolic life you so desire. You’ll find a wonderful man and have babies. Lots and lots of babies. Your father will be so proud. No more toil. Only decades of domestic bliss...”
Deeper, Lucy was pulled into the seductive fog. Yes. Bliss. That was what she wanted. All she’d ever wanted.
“You’ve known all along your father was right. You don’t have what it takes to ever be more than the most mundane field mouse. As your own silly pet, Buzzy, runs on his wheel, so you run through life, aimlessly adrift. But that’s okay, dear one. None of that will matter if you’ll just give Wolfe to me.”
“Why?” Lucy dared ask.
The sorceress’s gentle laugh rose above the fog. “Surely even you can’t be so pathetic as to not know the answer? I want him because he’s mine. He rejected my daughter and, if it takes an eternity more, I intend to see he suffers the same cruel fate as she.”
“But he’s changed...” Lucy’s voice sounded flat and unfamiliar even to her own ears. The closer she got to the sorceress, the stronger the scent of lavender grew. As best she could, she tried holding her breath. “I’ve changed. I’m not a mouse, any more than Wolfe’s a frog.”
Again came the laugh.
Lucy trembled anew from lack of air.
“Breathe, my child. Breathe. Being weak is not a crime. It’s delicious relief. Surrender to me, give me control, and I promise... All you’ve ever desired shall come to pass.”
“But all I want is Wolfe. Will you return him to me?”
“ENOUGH!” the sorceress raged, electricity arcing between her fingers. “Give him to me, you pathetic mouse! GIVE...HIM...TO...MEEEEEEE!”
Though Lucy’s nostrils flared from fear, just as Wolfe would have done in the face of battle, she held her shoulders straight and thrust her chin high.
“He’s mine!” Lucy warred. “By your very own curse, you vowed that if he found love, he’d live the rest of his life as a mortal man.”
“Oh, he might’ve found love,” the sorceress said with a cruel laugh. “But even as his seed now grows within you, he still hasn’t learned his lesson. For he still hasn’t made even you, his so-called beloved, his wife.”
“But he soon will!” Lucy cried. “You haven’t given him a chance.”
“A chance? You want another chance?” The sorceress laughed. “Very well, I’ll give you until the moon rises tonight to find a priest willing to marry you to a loathsome frog. But be warned, Lucy Gordon, should you fail, you’ll spend eternity together, all right. Wolfe as a frog, and you—as a mouse!”
As if the witch’s warning had been nothing but a nightmare, sunshine once again flooded the room. As if Lucy had been nothing more than a puppet being held in battle by strings, she crumpled to the floor.
See?
It had been just a dream. If she dared look over her shoulder, she’d find Wolfe sleeping soundly, his dark hair a stark contrast to the white pillow, his own battle-scarred features finally at peace.
Ribbet. Ribbet.
Her heart thundered.
Palms sweat. Stomach roiled in pain.
Body trembling anew, she found the courage to look down. Lifting her top hand, she peeked at the frog she’d once thought the answer to her every prayer, cursing herself rather than him.
Gazing at him now, her previous day’s humiliation at the conference seemed stupid. If only she and Wolfe had known of this addendum to the curse, they could have been out getting married instead of wasting precious time on those pompous scientists!
Scrambling to her feet, she said to Wolfe, “Hang on, sweetie. I might be a mouse—but I’m mighty. Even a big, strong warrior type like you is afraid of mice. Can you imagine what your typical mild-mannered vicar will think?” Tenderly placing him on his pillow, she kissed the top of his green head. “Just like you didn’t let me down, Wolfe, I promise, promise, to do the same for you.”
***
Several hours later, Lucy—padded train case in hand with its air holes she’d cut with cuticle scissors—stormed into her twenty-eighth church. Though she wasn’t for a second thinking of backing down, for all of her earlier bravado, she was now just plain scared.
After getting directions from a handyman and several industrious, brass-polishing parishioners, she found her latest man of the cloth seated behind a desk. Ordinarily, she’d have found his oak-paneled nook of an office, aglow with late afternoon sun, enchanting. But for now, all that sun represented was impending doom.
And the air smelled stale—a little like old tuna. “Excuse me,” she said, knocking on the open door.
“Yes?” The kindly-faced reverend glanced up from his paperwork. “May I help you?”
Licking her lips, Lucy raised her chin a notch higher and entered the room. “Do you do perform weddings?”
“Certainly.” His easy smile gave renewed hope. “We’re rather booked over the coming Christmas season, but if you’re willing to settle for a time other than Friday night or Saturday, I’m sure we can fit you in.”
“No,” Lucy said. “I’m afraid you don’t understand. I need to get married now—today. This instant.”
“Oh dear,
” he said, bushy eyebrows furrowed. “That might be a problem. You see, marriage being the lifelong commitment that it is, I insist on at least six weeks’ premarital counseling for any couple I agree to marry. So sorry.”
“That’s good. I mean, yes. I appreciate your diligence. But I’m not talking about any ordinary marriage.” She faintly smiled to cover impending tears. “You see,” she awkwardly unzipped the train case, then scooped out her betrothed. “This is who I want to marry. So if you could just get on with the till deaths do us part, and all that jazz, I’d—”
“Miss, it’s not my place to judge, but perhaps instead of seeking marriage, you might consider finding a good drug counseling center.” Tugging open a squeaky desk drawer, he retrieved a well-worn pamphlet, then stood, holding it out to her with great aplomb. “In here are the names of several highly respected hospitals that have far more experience than I in such matters.”
“Let me start over.” Lucy shook her head in hopes of clearing it. “You seem to have misunderstood. I don’t have a problem with drugs, but with getting married. I have to marry this frog by tonight, or he’ll stay a frog for all eternity and I’ll turn into a mouse. Get it?”
Judging by the speed with which he summoned the police, Lucy soon found herself out on yet another sidewalk, assuming that no, this pastor, just like all the other ministers and reverends and rabbis she’d seen, hadn’t gotten her plight even a little bit.
And so she climbed into her tired mini, set Wolfe’s case on the passenger seat, then dropped her head with a thump against the wheel.
What was she going to do?
Where would she ever find a priest willing to go along with her oddball request?
Ribbet, ribbet.
“I know,” Lucy said. “No doubt you’re hungry and tired and frustrated with me for not being able to get you out of this mess. Can’t you see, I’m trying?” A fresh batch of tears streamed her cheeks.
Ribbet, ribbet.
“Oh, right. Just sit there ribbeting like you’d know what to do.”
Ribbet, ribbet. Ribbet, ribbet.
“Hush. You sound just like you did the first day I found you on the castle lane—all talk and no action. If I had any sense at all, I’d march right down to the river, and—”
The castle lane.
Cotswold!
Crazy old, dear Reverend Bart!
Heart thundering, Lucy unzipped Wolfe’s case, scooped him out and planted a big ole kiss right between his beady eyes. “You’re a genius! If anyone’ll perform a nutso quickie marriage, it’ll be a nutcase like him. Now, if only I can get to him in time...
***
Four hours later, Lucy turned her Mini onto Cotswold’s main street, then seconds after that, careened into the church lot.
The sun had already set, bathing the always spooky cemetery in an especially morose glow. Orange and red laughed in malicious glints off of the polished marble of new gravestones, merely smirking off the dull stone of centuries-old markers.
High in the branches of a gnarled oak, a lone raven cawed.
The scent of lavender left Lucy again holding her breath.
Snatching Wolfe from his case, she cradled him between her breasts before dashing from her car and up the church’s few steps. Once she reached the door, giving it a hard tug, tears loomed anew.
It was locked.
“Nooo!” she cried, jiggling the handle.
Her protests proved of no use. The place was locked up tighter than the guest list at a World Biological Conference.
Ironic—since before meeting Wolfe, that had been her life’s sole purpose—regaining entry to that snooty bunch of boring scientists.
But now, with Wolfe, she realized she could’ve have had so much more.
A real life filled with love, laughter, babies and the joy she’d felt in not just teaching Wolfe to read, but in teaching students like Randy and Regina and so many others to share her love of science.
With Wolfe’s help, she’d have hauled all of her pets and plants and posters back into her classroom where they belonged. Together, they would’ve raised their children into fine, strong prince and princesses.
“What if like the sorceress said, I really am already pregnant?” she asked him on a fresh batch of tears.
Ribbet.
“I’d be scared to death of raising a child on my own—as for the thought of me being a mouse when I give birth...” She laughed hysterically, then once again started to cry.
Ribbet, ribbet.
“Oh sure,” she said with an ugly sniffle. “I put on a brave show back there for the sorceress and all those men of the cloth, but I really am the mouse that Castanea claimed me to be. I can’t even—”
“I say? Is that you, Lucy Gordon? Carrying on whilst talking to a frog?”
She looked up. “Reverend Bart?”
“Of course, it’s me. Did you think I was your Yank Tooth Fairy?” He jangled his keys.
“No.” With the back of her free hand, she swiped away her tears.
“Well, then? What’re you doing here? Blubbering all over my fresh-swept stairs? And just when Napoleon’s finest regiments are preparing to march.”
“I, um,” she bit the inside of her lower lip. What was the use? Just like all the others, he’d only turn her down.
“Well? Spit it out, girl. I don’t have all night. Got a fish fry to attend over in Farthingdayle—that is if our lovely Princess Kate doesn’t stop to shop on the way over. She does take a fancy to fashion.”
“Yes, well, you see, it’s like this. I need you to marry me to this frog.”
He rolled his eyes. “I’ve got no time for a wedding.”
“Please, Reverend Bart.”
For the longest while he stood, jangling his keys, darting his gaze between her and Wolfe. He didn’t say a word, which worried her more than all of the other condemning priests combined. Finally, he cleared his throat. “If I agree to marry you to the frog, will you then be on your way?”
Her heart leapt with joy. “Yes! Yes, yes, yes!” Laughing, crying, crushing him in a one-armed hug, she said, “Marry us fast as you can, and we’ll even drive you and Princess Kate to that fish fry.”
“Come along, then.” Frowning, he freed himself from her rather desperate hold, then found the church door key and slipped it into the lock. “Let’s get this over with. My Kate doesn’t like to be kept waiting—and for heaven’s sake, stay off of Napoleon!”
At the front of the small stone chapel, the vicar lit three candles to ward off night’s approaching gloom. “Power’s out,” he said. “Damnedest thing. Went out early this morning, and hasn’t been on since.”
Did the sorceress’s magic reach this far? Or was Cotswold still her home?
With all of that lavender in the air, did she even have to ask? Lucy shivered.
Reverend Bart’s stomach growled. “Let’s be on with it before me and my princess starve.”
He began with the usual singsong vows about love and honor, then cleared his throat before whispering, “What’s the groom's name?”
“Wolfe, Prince Wolfe Graye of Gwyneddor.”
As if he’d heard it all before, the priest nodded. “Do you, Prince Wolfe Graye of Gwyneddor, take thee, Lucy Gordon, to be your wedded wife? And vow to be faithful unto her and only her, until God shall separate you by death?”
Ribbet, ribbet.
“And do you, Lucy Gordon, take thee, Prince Wolfe Graye of Gwyneddor, to be your husband? And to be faithful unto him and only him, until God shall separate you by death?”
“I do.”
“Then I now pronounce you frog and wife. Lucy, you may kiss your frog.”
Eyes filling with hot, liquid hope, Lucy closed them and swallowed hard. Heart pounding, cradling Wolfe in her palms, she said, “I love you. Please, God, let this have worked.”
Eyes closed, she kissed him square on his lips.
And then—poof!
She fell to the hard stone floor, pinned beneat
h well over two hundred pounds of manly muscle—naked manly muscle.
“Jesu,” Wolfe said, voice back to its thick Welsh brogue. “That was a damned intolerable nightmare I am glad to be rid of.”
“Wolfe?” she asked, cupping her hand to his whisker-stubbled cheek. “Do you remember me? It’s me? Lucy.”
“Now I know it’s way past time for my evening meal.” The vicar calmly stepped over them both. Tossing a key clanging to the floor beside Lucy’s head, he said, “Be a dear, and lock up when you’re done. Leave the key in the rectory birdhouse.”
“Aye,” Wolfe said, brushing mischievous hair back from his wee one’s eyes. “For what we have to say may take a while.”
The vicar’s only answer was to let the heavy church door fall shut.
“Then you do know it’s me?” Lucy asked. “You didn’t forget?”
He laughed. “Does that knocking at your lower door tell you anything?”
“Yeah, but practically the first thing out of your mouth when I met you a month ago was all of that egotistical bravado about you wanting to bed me.”
“Aye, and I still do. Have a problem with that, wench?”
Face wondrously aching from the size of her smile, she said, “Nope.”
He cupped her cheeks with his one hundred percent mortal hands, crushing his lips to hers for the first of a lifetime’s claiming kisses. Nope. At this magnificent moment in time, held in the arms of this magnificent man, for the first time in her life, Lucy Gordon had no problems at all.
Well...except for that eternally pesky dilemma of how to get her once-again-naked prince discreetly home!
EPILOGUE
“Look, Mummy!”
Lucy glanced up from her sketch of the pond. Dark-haired Colin, only three and already rakish as his father, proudly held a frog in his chubby hands. Golden summer sun backlit him, surrounding him in an ethereal twilight glow.
Perfect; the entire scene was perfect.
Not a breath of wind marred the glassy pond; all manner of insects happily hummed; that mossy, musky smell she so loved mingled with the scents of wildflowers and ripe earth, still damp from a recent shower. And there was her son clasping a frog wriggling to be free.
