A Bear's Bride

by Shari L. Tapscott

  And the princess wants it. With her eyes trained on the golden tool, she nibbles her lip.

  “Promise me you’ll prevent your mother from giving Henri the sleeping draught tonight,” I demand.

  Her expression flickers with indecision. Then, rolling her eyes as if she thinks I’m a bore, she finally agrees. “Yes, all right. Now give me the spinning wheel.”

  She holds her hands out like a greedy toddler.

  Nervous I used my gifts foolishly, I give her the spinning wheel. Once it’s in her hands, she clutches it, the apple, and the comb to her chest, holding them like they are precious.

  “I’ll be beautiful for at least a year with this much gold,” she says, her voice thick with gluttonous satisfaction.

  Johan mutters to himself as he prepares the fire, and I cross my arms. “What does the gold do?”

  Ambrosia rubs the comb against her cheek. “In its molten form, we are able to use it as an amplifier for our magic.”

  “Once we strip the fairy magic,” Johan gripes to himself as he stokes the fire.

  The hot room becomes sweltering, and I wipe my brow with the back of my hand. Johan collects the golden items from Ambrosia, and then, using only his hands, breaks them into small pieces.

  I watch him, vaguely disconcerted. Gold’s soft. But still.

  Sweat rolls down his forehead as he melts the gold. Once it’s in its molten state, he says, “Begin the time now. We have four minutes—not a second over.”

  Then he begins the arduous task of pulling the fairy magic from the metal. His arm muscles bulge, and his jaw is clenched so tightly, a vein throbs in his forehead.

  My task is as simple as breathing. I merely watch, waiting.

  Johan growls several times as he works the metal. At first, the gold turns green, and then it shifts to a silver color as the troll magic fights the fairy’s. Excluding the time Henri’s troll-mother had me writhing in pain, I’ve never witnessed their magic. I don’t know if it’s because the task in front of him is particularly difficult, or if troll magic is simply crude in nature, but it looks far more taxing than the fairy magic I’ve seen all my life.

  “Fifteen seconds,” I warn, growing slightly nervous. “Fourteen.”

  The smith growls as he fights with the silver, viscous liquid.

  “Five, four, three—” I glance at the door, wondering if I should have left when I had the chance. “Two…”

  Before my eyes, the metal returns to its expected golden color, and Johan steps back, filtering a purple, minuscule cloud of magic into a pewter vial by his side. He corks the top and lets out a long sigh.

  “Well?” Ambrosia prods, eager to hear whether Johan was able to remove all the magic.

  Personally, I consider the fact that there was no explosion a success.

  Johan nods and waves a sooty hand to the molten gold. “Go on then.”

  With a girly squeal that shouldn’t leave a grown woman—much less a grown troll, Ambrosia leaps forward and extends her hands, sending her magic into the metal once more. This time, instead of turning silver, it glows white like a diamond. She bounces on the balls of her feet as she works. When it looks like she might be coming to a finish, Johan uncorks another pewter bottle, this one scrolled and lovely, and holds it for her as she sends the diamond-colored magic into it.

  With a satisfied grin, Ambrosia casts the remnants of the enchantment over her body. She glows for several seconds, and then the magic fades.

  “Well?” she asks, turning her head so I can see her profile. “Is it smaller?”

  Her nose is perfectly pert, quite human, and as pretty as a nose can be. Still, it’s a lot of fuss for a troll snout.

  I nod, and she clasps the newly filled vial to her chest. “Oh, how marvelous!”

  More interested in the cooling gold than the princess and her nose, I stare at the metal. It still hasn’t returned to its golden color. It’s white, and it shimmers in the light. Quite beautiful.

  “What do you do with it now?” I ask. “Can you use it again?”

  Johan takes a pair of iron tongs, picks up the entire pot, and tosses it in a bucket of water. The hot gold hisses when it makes contact with the liquid, and an angry cloud of steam rises. After it cools, he pulls out the hardened metal blob and tosses it into the corner of the room as if it’s nothing more than scrap metal.

  I didn’t notice the pile of discarded precious metal before, but now I gape at it. The rounded, uneven lumps look nothing like they did in their previous state—nothing like gold at all. Indeed, they look like they were made from pearls, if pearls were somehow transformed into a meltable, maleable metal.

  The troll gives me a grim smile when he catches me staring. “It takes a good deal of gold to keep Her Highness looking beautiful.”

  Ambrosia, in a move that finally convinces me there’s a troll underneath that lovely exterior, cuffs the side of his head.

  Johan winces, rubbing his ear. As the two bicker, I have an epiphany.

  “Your mother wants Briadell for its gold,” I say out loud.

  The princess looks over. “Well, of course. Why else would we want it? I hate to break it to you, since you’re probably fond of the little kingdom, but it’s infested with humans.”

  Ignoring her, I point to the pile. “Is it worthless now that you’ve used it?”

  Ambrosia sighs, realizing I don’t intend to move on. “It can’t be used twice, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “I mean, it’s still gold, isn’t it?” Gingerly, I walk to the pile and pick up one of the opalescent blobs. It’s cool to the touch, a bit cumbersome, and warms in my hand.

  “I suppose.” She doesn’t look terribly interested.

  “What do you do with it?”

  Ambrosia shares a look with Johan, as if she’s thinking her pet human is a bit daft. “We toss it out. It’s no use to us now.”

  “It’s beautiful. Have you ever tried to craft anything out of it?”

  Johan scoffs, but Ambrosia steps forward, her eyes narrowed.

  I offer her the metal, hoping she’ll take a closer look. “If you can work this, people will buy it. If you have smiths willing to experiment with crafting, you could sell it and purchase all the regular gold you want.”

  And not try to steal my husband’s kingdom.

  “Do you think so?” the princess asks, though she sounds skeptical.

  Johan shakes his head, dismissing the idea, and grunts, “Who would do business with a troll?”

  “Briadell will,” I immediately offer, knowing Henri likely won’t be pleased I’m making business ventures in his stead. “Free Henri, let us go, leave Briadell be, and we will trade with you. In fact, we’ll buy all that discarded gold in your pile there—a pound of gold for a pound of your pearl-gold creation.”

  It’s a lot of money—more than I’ve ever seen in my life, but Briadell is known for its mines. Surely Henri won’t mind me buying his freedom.

  Well, he might, but I’ll deal with that later.

  Ambrosia purses her lips, thinking. Finally, she says, “Pound for pound?”

  I nod.

  “Fine. You have one night to convince Henri.” A radiant smile spreads over her face, her eyes already dreamy at the thought of all the gold I’m offering her. Then her tone cools as she meets my eyes. “If he agrees, I will deal with Mother.”

  Despite the heat of the forge, I shiver at the ominous tone of Ambrosia’s promise.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  I lie under Henri’s bed for the second time, waiting for him to return. Ten minutes after midnight, the door opens. I tense, waiting.

  “Sophie?” Henri calls, his voice far more confident than yesterday.

  I crawl from under the bed. He waits for me this time, his expression light. Halfway out, I freeze when I spot him. His arms are crossed loosely over his chest, and he leans against the door in a relaxed manner. He seems freer than last night, far less panicked.

  Without my permission, my eyes
wander over him, taking him in. Even here, in this grand palace, he continues to dress like a warrior prince, wearing a dark brown jerkin made of smooth, supple leather. His trousers are a shade darker than the jerkin, but his shirt is cream and fine.

  Oddly, his hair remains white-blond, and it’s a striking contrast against his tanned skin. I assumed it was a product of the curse, but it’s either the color he was born with or hints of magic linger. He wears it back, in a short tail at his neck.

  He cleans up very nicely, this husband of mine.

  “I understand you bought a cartload of scrap gold from Ambrosia.” Henri says the words brusquely, but there’s humor in his eyes.

  I shimmy the rest of the way from under the bed and pull myself to my feet. “Ambrosia told you about that, did she?”

  “And you didn’t think you should perhaps ask my permission first?” He pushes away from the wall, walking toward me.

  Gulping, I take a step back—and not because I’m afraid of him. No, I’m afraid of myself, of the fluttering in my stomach and the way my heart races when he looks at me as he is now. I skirt the bed and finally bump into a wardrobe.

  “I rather assumed it was my place as your wife to care for Briadell in your absence,” I explain. “And what better way to care for it than bring you home?”

  Henri closes the distance between us. He’s so tall, my gaze is level with his chest.

  “I see.” He leans down until we are face to face. His eyes light with humor, but that doesn’t help the situation. My hands itch to move along his arms, his neck, his chest. I clench them into fists at my sides.

  His palms find the sides of my hips, and I bite back a soft exclamation. He shifts even closer.

  The nearness is enough to make my mouth go dry, and my eyes travel to the topmost buckle of his jerkin. Unable to help myself, I lean toward him and breathe in the woodland scent he carries.

  It’s a heady fragrance, and it makes my knees soft. If that’s a product of his curse, then, by all means, he may turn back into the bear occasionally.

  “I think it’s acceptable if my queen makes a few business transactions of her own,” he murmurs.

  My eyes fly to his. His queen?

  Princess, yes—all right. But queen? Heaven help Briadell.

  “You’re not upset?” I ask.

  “No.” Henri shakes his head. “But Ambrosia must still convince her mother.”

  I nod as if I’m paying attention to the conversation, but I’m not. My whole being is focused on the heat of Henri’s hands. On the way he towers over me, making me feel small but so very safe. He’s saying something else—something about the troll queen, but I couldn’t care less at the moment.

  “Henri?” I interrupt.

  “Hmmm?”

  “We’re finally alone, you’re no longer a bear, and you aren’t asleep on your feet, yet we’re talking about your awful stepmother. Why?” I ask, my voice tinged with irritation and need. “Am I allowed to ask you to kiss me now? Is that what you’re waiting for?”

  He goes still. Finally, with his voice a shade darker, he says, “You didn’t wait for permission the first time.”

  I move closer. “I don’t make a habit of asking for permission ever.”

  “Then why bother now?”

  Growing exasperated, I shift closer. “Because I—”

  Without letting me finish the sentence, Henri tugs me flush against him. He pauses briefly, almost as if he’s prolonging the moment, and then, just when I think I will surely die if he doesn’t follow through, his lips claim mine.

  I let out a sound of surprise, and he smiles before he deepens the kiss. I lean into him, wishing I’d broken the awful curse sooner.

  He cradles the back of my neck and twines his fingers through my hair. My hands travel his chest and eventually hang with my arms draped over his shoulders. I lean against him, temporarily unable to stand on my wobbly legs.

  When Henri pulls back, my brain is delightfully fuzzy.

  “Better?” he asks, his voice still husky.

  I give him a mischievous smile. “And here I thought you were avoiding it because you were so dreadfully out of practice.”

  He growls under his breath, laughing darkly, and moves to kiss me again as if to prove, once and for all, he wasn’t staying away from me due to his lack of prowess.

  Just as our lips barely touch the second time, Henri’s door swings open with a bang.

  Queen Amara stands in the doorway, looking livid. Ambrosia’s with her, though the princess doesn’t appear to be as concerned as I feel she should be.

  The troll queen fixes her eyes on Henri. “You are a fool, even for a human. Why would you want her when you could have my daughter?”

  Ambrosia begins to speak only to have her mother jerk a hand up, demanding silence. The princess closes her mouth and rolls her eyes. She seems calm, but I’m a rabbit ready to dart. Fear courses through my veins, making my already lightheaded-self dizzy.

  It took me a full twenty-four hours to recover from my first meeting with the troll queen. My muscles ache at the memory of her magic.

  Henri nudges me behind him. “Your own daughter agreed to the bargain.”

  The troll queen points at me, and I shy back. “There isn’t one thing that pathetic, scrawny human can do that my daughter cannot do better. Ambrosia is beautiful, poised, witty—she’s everything you could possibly want in a bride.”

  “Except I’m a troll,” Ambrosia says wryly, earning another nasty look from her mother. “He doesn’t seem to care for that.”

  “What if I give Ambrosia a task,” Henri says abruptly, startling the queen and the princess both.

  “A task?” Amara asks, narrowing her eyes.

  Henri nods, growing confident. “That’s right—a test if you will. Whichever girl can complete it will be my wife. If Ambrosia wins, I won’t fight you any longer. If Sophie wins, then you leave us and my kingdom be.”

  The queen looks understandably suspicious. “Why would you do that? Why offer a test when that human girl has already made a bargain for your freedom?”

  “I know you’ll never let us go, not unless it’s your choice. And I would rather marry Ambrosia than watch you hurt Sophie again.” Henri turns to me slowly, waiting until our gazes meet. “I love her.”

  Warmth spreads over me, making me feel as if I’m in a meadow in the dead of summer and not in this cold, lonely palace.

  Henri loves me.

  “Fine,” Amara says, sounding disgusted as she flips her long black hair over her shoulder. “But there is no test you can give my daughter that she won’t excel at.”

  Henri flashes me a grin.

  “There might be one.” He begins to unlace his fine jerkin. “You see, some time ago, I got candle wax on my favorite shirt.”

  Ambrosia’s eyebrows raise as the prince pulls the jerkin over his head, followed by the shirt. I would glare at her, but my gaze also finds Henri’s toned upper body, and I’m helpless to look away.

  He must have been a formidable knight.

  Oblivious to the effect his bare, muscular torso is having on the room, Henri offers Ambrosia his shirt. “If you can remove the wax—without using your magic—I will marry you.”

  The princess’s eyes wander over Henri before she finally meets his eyes. “That’s impossible. No one can wash away tallow wax.”

  “Sophia can,” Henri says, glancing over and catching me staring. He suppresses a smile when my eyes fly to his. “Can’t you, Sophie?”

  Slowly, I nod.

  “To the washroom.” Amara leads us from Henri’s chamber. We travel to the ground floor of the palace. When the queen opens the door, we’re met with heat and steam.

  “Go on,” she snarls at Ambrosia, who looks rather put out to be asked to do something so common.

  The laundry maids gape at us, most likely surprised to find the queen in their lair. Like Johan, they haven’t bothered to enchant themselves. They’re tall and perhaps a bit homely, b
ut nothing how I envisioned trolls to look.

  Ambrosia flounces in and stops in front of a vat of hot water. Holding the shirt between her thumb and finger as if it's poisoned, she dunks the fabric twice and then lets it drip.

  “Hmmm,” she says thoughtfully as she looks over her shoulder and flashes her mother a wicked look. “Looks like I failed.”

  Losing patience, the queen rips the shirt from her daughter and scrubs the wax with her own hands. The wax begins to spread in the garment, turning black.

  “Soap!” Amara hollers at the troll girl closest to her. The poor laundry maid peeps in fright and hastens to find the queen a bar.

  The queen scrubs and scrubs, growing angrier by the minute. The maids tremble by the walls, terrified they are going to take the brunt of the queen’s anger.

  “You can do it, can’t you?” Henri whispers after thirty minutes have gone by.

  Slowly, I nod and whisper back, “I think so, but it would have been easier before Her Royal Trollness got her hands on it.”

  Apparently having overheard me though I tried to be quiet, Ambrosia chokes back a laugh. It’s enough to catch the queen’s attention, and she whirls around to face us. Her hair is soggy, and her face is red from the steam. Her hands look scorched, yet the stain is still there.

  One of the laundry maids lets out a small sound of distress, but the queen’s eyes are firmly fixed on me.

  “You think you can do better?” She stalks forward, and Henri’s soaked shirt drips on the stone floor as she walks. Once she reaches me, she thrusts the soggy garment into my hands. “Be my guest.”

  Hoping it will work even when the fabric is saturated, I glance around the room, looking for an iron. There’s one in the fire, already hot.

  Here goes nothing.

  “I need two pieces of scrap fabric,” I say to one of the maids. “Anything you have will do.”

  Immediately, she fetches me a rabbit skin.

  “Anything but that. I need cloth.”

  Several minutes later, I have the two pieces of fabric on either side of the wax stain, and I carefully lower the iron onto the cloth. The water hisses as it meets the hot metal. After several moments, I pull the iron back. To my relief, the wax is beginning to transfer to the scraps.