The Dark Forest: A Collection Of Erotic Fairytales

by Zoe Blake

  “Yes, miss.”

  “I will wear the green taffeta now. Lay out my purple riding habit for later,” instructed Beatrice as she pulled the silver top off an elaborate porcelain jar. Using a small sterling silver spoon, she placed a tiny amount of powdered dried elderberry and hibiscus flowers onto a silver platter. Opening another jar, she spooned out a dab of beeswax before blending the ingredients together to create a bright red paste. Using her fingertips, she smoothed the mixture onto her nails, rubbing in small circles till they were stained the perfect shade of crimson. She then buffed them till they shined.

  Holding out her arm to admire her vermilion, claw-length nails, Beatrice snapped, “And hurry up! I have no intention of spending the rest of my day cloistered in my bedroom with you!”

  Careful to be sure she was not within view of the mirrored reflection, Dolores rolled her eyes before sighing a resigned, “Yes, miss.”

  Over an hour later, Beatrice swept into the morning room just as her father was finishing his breakfast.

  “Morning, Papa,” she intoned sweetly as she kissed his bald head. “I thought you might join me later for some riding?”

  Her father did not look up from the various ledgers and papers scattered among the empty plates and saucers.

  “Papa?”

  “What is it?” he asked gruffly without raising his eyes.

  “I thought we could go riding together. It’s been ages.”

  Her father rose as he wiped his mouth with his napkin, straightening his waistcoat, he absently returned, “Couldn’t possibly. I leave for Florence within the hour.”

  “Florence?” asked a crestfallen Beatrice. “But you only just returned from Brussels. You were gone for six months.”

  “Don’t whimper like a petulant child,” scolded her father. “I have to tend to business.”

  Hiding her brief flash of disappointment behind a mask of indifference, Beatrice flounced over to her seat and sat with a huff. Ever since her mother passed away three years ago, her father, never a very affectionate or attentive man in the first place, had grown increasingly more distant. Staying away from the estate for months at a time, she barely existed to him anymore. Even her rather childish and pathetic attempts to grab his attention with temper tantrums and disobedience had failed.

  In fact, the only time he ever spoke to her was to give instructions for the perfumery or to…

  “Beatrice, we must discuss your marriage,” he huffed as he dug in his waistcoat pocket, pulling out a gold watch. As if to ensure he spent not a moment longer than necessary on the subject.

  …to discuss her marriage prospects.

  “My marriage?” she rejoined, with forced brightness. “I believe one must first find a bridegroom before discussing marriage.”

  “Don’t play smart with me, girl.” He snorted. “I have had enough of your sass and stubbornness. Your maiden state is an embarrassment to this family, and I will stand for it no longer.”

  Beatrice stirred some honey into her tea as she perused the pastries before selecting a warm, buttery croissant. She had heard this speech so many times, she could recite it by heart. Every time he returned from one of his trips, it was with some suitor in tow. Whether it was the wealthy son of some fellow merchant, the second son of a nobleman or even on one occasion, an English duke, the result was always the same. She sent them away with their tails tucked firmly between their legs. With only the barest of interest, she wondered where her father had the latest victim hidden away.

  “The marriage contracts have already been agreed upon. There is no use arguing with me.”

  Wait. What? Beatrice sat up straighter in her chair, gripping the handle of her bread knife. “Sorry, Father. Did you just say the marriage contracts?”

  “Yes, I did, daughter,” he responded with conviction. “You didn’t think I would let you ruin a proposal from the King of Dessin Animé on behalf of his son, did you? You are beautiful for a reason…to make me rich through your marriage.”

  Beatrice slowly rose, still holding the knife. Her lips felt bloodless, as she breathed, “I refuse.”

  Working his jaw, her father nodded. “That is precisely why I didn’t bother to ask you.”

  “Father…”

  Raising a hand in warning, he stated flatly, “It is far past time you married. I will not discuss it. Dammit, Beatrice, you will be a princess! If not for yourself, think of what that will do for the family’s prospects. Why our perfumes will be the most distinguished in all of Europe! We will be rich beyond imagining.”

  Their perfume was already the most distinguished in all of Europe and they already had more wealth than any family deserved. Not that she was complaining about her privileged position, she just never thought her father would sell off his only daughter for even more wealth and power…and to a man who couldn’t even be bothered to meet her before arranging a marriage. Did her father care so little for her?

  “You cannot do this,” she said through clenched teeth.

  “It is done. Upon my return from Florence, we will receive a formal visit from Prince Jeanne-Marious de Rhysmont, the heir to the Dessin Animé Kingdom. If he approves of your appearance and demeanor, the marriage will take place within a fortnight,” stormed her father before marching out of the room to his waiting carriage.

  So her supposed fiancé intended to peruse her like some prized mare he was purchasing, free to toss her aside, while she was expected to just meekly accept her fate, all the while being supremely grateful his princely highness deemed to take her as a bride? Well, we would just see about that. When he arrived, she would send that prince scurrying home just like all the other lily-livered suitors her father had thrown before her.

  In her rage, Beatrice took the knife she was holding and pierced the portrait of herself hanging over the dining room fireplace. She did not stop till she had put several slashes in the precious canvas. The gypsy was right. Beauty was a curse.

  The two men rode their horses to the cliff top edge over-looking the floral valley.

  “Is everything in readiness?” asked the first.

  “Yes, your highness.”

  Prince Jeanne-Marious de Rhysmont, Rhys to his friends, continued to look over the valley with the sharp-eyed look of a hawk. His features closely resembling the sleek, black Friesian stallion he rode. Tall with a muscular build and commanding presence. His thick hair, worn unfashionably long, so black it shone midnight blue in the sunlight. An angular nose, strong jaw and lowered brow framed sharp emerald green eyes which missed nothing.

  “Tell me,” he ordered.

  The smaller man by his side, his valet Gonsalvus, obliged. “According to my sources, the father, Frederick de Villeneuve, should have already departed for Florence.”

  “Sources?” asked Rhys with a raised eyebrow in Gonsalvus’ direction.

  Gonsalvus gave an only slightly conciliatory look. “Your father has had spies within the household for several months, long before he approached the father regarding marriage.”

  Rhys smiled. His father made Machiavelli look like a pandering weakling. One might think a father arranging a marriage for his son had the makings of a Shakespearean tragedy, especially an equally strong-minded, intelligent son like Rhys. On the contrary, Rhys trusted his father’s instincts. If the man thought this woman had the spirit and intelligence to make a good future queen, he would give him the benefit of the doubt. However, that didn’t mean he wouldn’t verify it himself…in his own way. His father had spies. Rhys had a different plan.

  “Proceed.”

  “We have given purses of gold to Mr. Watchman, the butler, Mrs. Pans, the housekeeper and Mr. Candal, the head steward. They have all agreed to…ahem…look the other way no matter what may transpire between you and your intended as well as intercept any letters she may send to her father,” continued Gonsalvus.

  Rhys’ mouth quirked up at the right corner. “They sound more like a collection of animated objects rather than the head staff of the
largest, most profitable estate in southern France.”

  Gonsalvus rolled his shoulders. “They are English. Brought over with the mother’s household as part of her dowry when she married de Villeneuve. Who can account for the English?”

  Rhys laughed. Gonsalvus was Spanish and still held a grudge against the English for that whole misunderstanding several hundred years ago around 1588.

  “We thought we would have to use…ahem…persuasive methods beyond just the gold to get the staff to comply, but as it so happens, they were all too willing to turn a blind eye. They didn’t even require much gold to be convinced.”

  “Really?”

  Gonsalvus cast the prince a cautious look. Hesitating to proceed. After receiving a pointed look from Rhys, he reluctantly supplied. “It seems your intended is well…ahem…a bit as they say…temperamental. As it so happens, they have a rather colorful name for her. Beatrice the Beastly.”

  Rhys let out a bark of laughter so sudden and loud that had his horse been less disciplined under his hand, it may have shied and started.

  “Beatrice the Beastly?” repeated Rhys. “You are sure?”

  “Quite sure, your highness. The staff were eager to share their many…interesting…stories regarding Miss Beatrice and her spirited nature, shall we say.”

  That would explain his father’s amusement as Rhys left his home to travel to France to meet his future bride. He had warned Rhys not to assume his choice of a marriage match for him would be easily managed. Rhys knew his father would not be so foolish as to choose some milksop of a female. Rhys’ refusal to settle his fate on some inbred, weakling of a royal princess was why the King had finally resigned himself to finding a bride among the wealthy merchant class throughout Europe. The marriage contracts would only be binding if Rhys approved of the match. The lady’s opinion on the matter was of no consequence.

  Rhys had refused to read the papers the King’s courtiers had prepared on Beatrice. Refusing to even glance at the small oval portrait her father had provided to show her beauty as an enticement to the match. Beauty was a shallow farce, a mere reflection in glass. He wanted more from a wife. He wanted someone with intelligence and spirit. That was true beauty in his mind.

  Rhys preferred to draw his own impression of his intended bride without another’s influence. It was also how he determined his current course of action, arranging for her to be alone so that he may engage with her without the formalities of a royal courtship…without her knowledge of his royal blood.

  “As it so happens, I hear she is also a very, very beautiful woman. A man can forgive many, many things if the woman is beautiful, no?”

  Gonsalvus was a first rate Lothario. Once while in their cups, Gonsalvus confessed a list of his femme galantes. Rhys reluctantly had to face the fact his own valet had surpassed him…far surpassed him if truth be told…in number if not in quality.

  “That is so,” agreed Rhys with a knowing smile. “Now, quick, help me off with this waistcoat and boots,” ordered Rhys as he easily alighted from his horse.

  Gonsalvus rummaged through the bags secured to the sides of his horse’s saddle. Shaking his head, he voiced his concerns, “Once again, I must protest, your highness. This plan is foolish. Who will see to your needs? Who will run your bath? Who will iron your shirts? Who will make sure the kitchens do not overcook your eggs in the morning. Who will…”

  “Enough,” barked Rhys, effectively ending Gonsalvus’ rant. “I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself. I seem to recall several dicey years on a not too distant battlefield where I somehow managed to muddle through without your ministrations and a perfectly temperate bath.”

  “As it so happens, it took an entire regiment to replace me,” responded Gonsalvus cheekily with his favorite retort whenever reminded of his employer’s years as an officer in his majesty’s army.

  Discarding his brocade waistcoat in favor of a buffed ox blood leather jerkin, Rhys braced against a tree as Gonsalvus pulled off his polished riding field boots, exchanging them for a pair of tall, chestnut brown hunt boots with a canvas cuff appropriately scuffed and worn. Rhys had transformed himself from a high-born prince to country laborer.

  “Really, your highness,” moaned Gonsalvus as he raised his hand in a pleading gesture, “if the other valets of the Esteemed Society of Royal Gentleman’s Valets could see this now, I would be tossed out on my ear.”

  “For starters, there is no such thing. You created that society as an excuse to go drinking with compatriots once every fortnight. Secondly, I am resolved. I have no intention of meeting my intended as the prince she is expecting.”

  Ignoring his employer’s completely accurate jibe about his beloved valet society, more accurately drinking society, Gonsalvus persisted, “But a stable master?”

  Rhys thought of the various tack found inside a stable; riding crops, leather straps, bits, halters. As happenstance would have it, he had chosen the perfect disguise for his subterfuge. “Absolutely. It has everything I need to tame my wild bride.”

  Chapter Three

  After seeing to her morning tasks, Beatrice changed into her favorite riding habit. A rich plum cashmere skirt and tight bodice with long sleeves capped by deep cuffs of azure blue. The hem was edged with black leather to protect it from the muddy country roads. A three-corner hat with peacock and pheasant feathers worn low over her forehead completed the ensemble.

  Leaving the bright sunshine of the yard behind, she entered the cool, dark stable, making her way directly to her favorite mare. A Haflinger with a rich chestnut coat and light gold mane. Her father purchased the mare for her when her mother died three years ago. It was easier than giving his grieving daughter any real affection or support during the difficult time.

  Tucking her riding crop under her left arm, Beatrice pulled on her sable leather gauntlets. Her call shattered the quiet in the shaded, empty stable. “Is there anyone here? Groom? Stable boy? Hello?” She paused a moment to listen but all she heard was the faint rustle of mice as they wove their way in and out of the fresh hay filled stalls and the occasional snort from one of the horses.

  With a resigned sigh, Beatrice stomped to the tack room to retrieve a saddle for Athena. Giving another glance around to ensure none of the grooms or stable master had appeared, Beatrice picked up one of the forward seat saddles. It was for riding astride during fox hunts and perfect for jumping. Years ago when she turned fifteen her father had forbade her from riding astride, saying she was a lady now and needed to conduct herself accordingly. So she only did so when her father was traveling and there were no servants about to tattle on her. Giving a special thanks that her maid what’s-her-name thought to lay out her riding trousers for under her skirts, Beatrice quickly made her way back to Athena. After adjusting the billets and securing the girth buckle guards, Beatrice moved to the left side of her mare and mounted up with the assistance of the mounting block. After reaching down to secure the loops of her skirt to the stirrups to prevent them from flying up as she jumped, Beatrice eased Athena out of the stable and into the yard. With one last glance about her, she took off across the yard for the open countryside.

  Never noticing the tall figure in the shadows staring at her with hard determination. The moment she left the paddock, he turned to saddle his own horse.

  Her father’s land holdings were vast. There were countless pastures filled with flowers and herbs for the perfumery, each one separated by low brush or rock walls…perfect for jumping. Beatrice gave her mare full rein, recklessly flying over higher and higher jumps. At one point, a low hanging branch ripped her peacock-feathered bonnet right off her head. Her long, tawny curls streamed loose down her back like a wanton. She didn’t care. Her laughter carrying with the wind, Beatrice leaned forward to urge her mount faster. The late summer air was filled with the rich, dark scents of rose and sage. Seeing the sky turn a brilliant orange with streaks of purple, Beatrice knew that dusk was upon her. As imprudent as it was to go jumping, she was not so f
oolhardy as to linger out in the countryside alone after dark, even if they were her father’s lands.

  Seeing the large wooden gate surrounded by a waist-high stone wall to hedge in the lavender fields, she could not resist one last jump. In the dimming light, Beatrice did not see the ground on the other side was covered in soft, waterlogged moss. The moment Athena cleared the fence she stumbled, throwing Beatrice to the ground. Landing in a bed of lavender bushes, she was spared any real injury. Before she could get her bearings Beatrice felt a tug on her skirt. It was still looped to her stirrup. The mare, having regained her footing, was fleeing in fright.

  “Athena, no!” cried out Beatrice as the horse started to drag her through the lavender. She could hear the thunder of galloping hooves approaching. Before she could even cry for help, a hulking figure flew off his horse to run alongside Athena, grabbing the horse’s bridle before it had gotten up to a full gallop.

  With darkness already setting in, Beatrice could not make out the man’s features…only that he was powerfully built. Pulling a knife from his boot, Rhys grabbed hold of her trapped ankle.

  Beatrice let out a small squeak of maidenly protest. Blushing hotly at his intimate touch. Her riding trousers saved her from some embarrassment, as they are intended, but that did not quell the fact a strange man was touching her limb!

  Rhys clenched his jaw as he threw an agitated look over his shoulder at the woman, before easily cutting through the leather loop which secured her skirt to the saddle.

  Beatrice scrambled to her feet. Brushing the small purple blossoms from her skirt, she said with a slight embarrassed fluster, “Thank you kindly, sir. I do not know what I would have…”

  “Damn, foolish woman, I ought to lift your skirts and tan your hide right here and now in this field,” snarled Rhys as he angrily flipped his knife closed, returning it to the cuff of his boot.

  “I beg your pardon?” scoffed an affronted Beatrice. No one spoke to her in that manner. No one.