The Beggar Princess (Fairy Tale Heat Book 4)

by Lidiya Foxglove

“No answer?” he asked.

  “You’re mistaken,” I said.

  Jack pinched the hem of my shift and slowly lifted it away from my body, revealing the dewy wet folds spread open above the demure little ribbon garters holding up my stockings.

  “You’ve shaved yourself down there,” he said. “Strange for a girl who didn’t intend on getting married. You intended on something, didn’t you?”

  I’d thought about Ithrin, a little bit…

  “You’re no green maiden, are ye?”

  I glared. “Not quite, if you must know.”

  “That’s a pleasant surprise,” he said. “When you beg for my cock I want to know you can handle it. That improves my chances.”

  “I’m not going to beg for your cock.”

  He laughed through his nose, with the condescension of a man who knows his own worth. It was—admittedly—intriguing.

  “Who was it?” he asked.

  “Captain of the guard. He was very gentlemanly.”

  “Too gentlemanly?”

  “You can’t be too gentlemanly.”

  “With some girls, I suppose, but has anyone ever told you you’re a bad liar? It does explain those eyes of yours. They know a little too much already.”

  “They really don’t…” The words came out unbidden. I wasn’t acting like a lady should, and a part of me was furious at him for stirring this up in me, but at the same time I thought I would snap if he didn’t touch me.

  And he knew it. He knew everything he was doing to me.

  He slid a hand between my legs, and I moaned. I was so sensitive. Lightly, he stroked a finger over the folds and lips, as he held another spoonful of stew up to my mouth. I bit the spoon. “More,” I said, writhing. “Deeper.”

  He grinned. “You are comfortable with demands. Patience now, little wild cat. Remember the rules.”

  You’d like that, wouldn’t you? He wanted me to beg for his touch. I wouldn’t.

  He kept offering me the spoonfuls of stew, and the entire time he kept gently caressing my wet sex, coaxing more and more heat out of me, until I was breathing hard. His touch would occasionally grow firm, stroking my clit, and I would try to lean into it, but the moment I did, he would go back to a fluttering tease of his long fingers. The stew was good but I barely tasted it. When the bowl was gone, I felt entirely undone. I was imagining him tearing off my corset and shift and claiming me there on the table.

  He picked up the bowl and went back to the pot, spooning out more, and then he walked back over and leaned against the table. “Not bad,” he said, taking another bite himself. “But it really could have used a rabbit.”

  I quickly realized he had no intention of touching me again.

  Was this a test of my dignity?

  I attempted to master myself, to suppress the scorching need that had built up inside me. It was difficult when he was still so close to me, when the entire world seemed narrowed down to this little room of firelight and woodsmoke. I was two days from home, but it might as well have been a million miles.

  He finished the bowl. “Would you like a cup of wine, lass?”

  “No,” I said, mostly because I didn’t want any of that spilling down my breasts.

  “What if I untie you? I’m feeling benevolent.”

  “I just want to go to bed now,” I said, out of pure stubbornness. I wasn’t sure I could bear sharing a cup of wine with him, freed from my bonds. What might I do?

  “Suit yourself.” He waved his hand and the ribbons fell away. I immediately pulled my shift down and drew my legs together.

  “Feel free to take your leave,” he said, waving a hand at the bed. “I’ll join you in a bit, and don’t worry, I won’t lay a finger on you.”

  “I’m sure you won’t,” I said coldly. I slipped inside the bed curtains, making sure to yank them closed again, and climbed under the blankets. The bed was surprisingly fine and soft, stuffed with feathers, almost as nice as my own back home, which was another signal that Jack was not who he claimed to be. He was playing a part. He was a wealthy man, maybe even nobility.

  Maybe our marriage was real. Maybe this was my father’s intention after all.

  I listened to him drinking his wine, the sound of his body shifting. I had never been so aware of another person, had never wondered what someone else thought and felt.

  He started whistling again as he gathered up the dishes. I heard him scrubbing them and rinsing them. For my entire life, people had been cooking for me and washing my dishes, but I had never been present for any of it. It gave me a strange feeling. He tended to the fire, which was dying back into almost nothing, but the cool autumn night was pleasant. Finally, I heard him take off his boots. I pretended to be asleep when he climbed into bed.

  “Good night, lass,” he whispered, like he knew perfectly well I was awake, but I didn’t respond.

  Not long after that, I realized I had fallen asleep when the sound of a mournful howling woke me up. A wolf. It sounded too close. I shot up in bed, terrified, and looked at him.

  He was also awake, and listening, but his head was still on the pillow.

  “Wolvenfolk,” he said, and I didn’t miss a note of uncertainty. He didn’t expect this. My dread increased.

  “Are we safe?”

  He sat up now. “I assure you, lass. The cabin is secure and I have no quarrel with their clans.”

  There was another howl. “See?” he said. “There’s another. They’re speaking to each other across a distance, that’s all. It’s autumn. They usually move their camps before winter hits.”

  “You said that if they break off from the pack, they’ll eat a man for dinner.”

  “Aye, but what I’m telling you is, they haven’t broken from the pack. They’re a part of these woods. You will hear them from time to time. They’d be foolish to come to my cabin. But in the morning, when I go to the village, I’ll ask if there’s anything brewing.”

  “What about me?”

  “You’ll be safe here. You don’t want to go to the village in naught but your necessaries, do you?”

  “I do have a dress.”

  “A dress I’ll be selling. And I haven’t seen you earning your replacement yet. I would not leave you here if there was any danger. The wolves won’t come. You’ll be as safe as you would be in the arms of the gods, I promise you.” He threw back the covers and I heard a chest creak open. When he got back in bed, he was holding a blade in a scabbard. “You won’t need this, but it might give you peace of mind. Have you used a sword before?”

  “Why would I have used a sword?”

  “Some princesses like to know how to defend themselves. But it’s all right. It’s still a very pointy object and that goes a ways.”

  “Thank you, Jack…”

  “Now, try and sleep.”

  I was a little stunned that he would hand me a sword. I had never wanted one, but when I felt the weight of the weapon it was unexpectedly exciting. He really trusted me, to give me this, despite all his maddening games.

  I fell asleep with the sword beside me like a lover, while Jack himself kept a polite distance, only to wake into the sunlight. The howling of the wolves seemed like a dream, and Jack was nudging me with a gleam in his eye. “You’ve slept in, lass. You’ll pay for that.”

  Chapter Nine

  King Brennus

  I gave the princess a moment to rub her eyes and comb her fingers through her hair. I had already set the table with oatcakes I’d baked this morning, fresh butter, and sugared raspberries. She looked eager the moment she saw them, as anyone would.

  “Wait,” I said. “See that rope hanging from the ceiling?”

  She looked up warily. A loop of worn, thin rope hung from one of the rafters. I had tied up herbs there to dry once. “Yes…”

  “If you want any of this, I want you to grab hold of it.”

  “I can barely reach it.”

  “I know. But I won’t give you any breakfast unless you can do it.”

 
; She stood on her tiptoes and grabbed the loop. Her face was rosy with indignation and arousal at once, her muscles straining to reach, her toes dancing around a little to find the best position. In all my days on this earth I doubted I’d ever find another girl so thrilling. I marveled at how she could seem so deeply willing and deeply unwilling at the same time. She was a hundred times better than the heroines in her novels.

  “The rope hurts my hands.”

  “It might chafe a bit but I’ve handled ropes often enough to know you can manage it.”

  “Maybe my hands are more delicate than yours. And I can’t keep standing like this.”

  “I’ll make it quick.” I slathered butter and berries on an oatcake and broke off a piece, putting it in her mouth, which was still complaining. At the same time, my hand dug under her shift, going straight for her bud. I stroked her firmly, which made her eat a little faster, made her hungry for something more than an oatcake. Then I thrust my fingers inside her. I drove her to the brink, feeding her carefully as I did so. I’d seen how she’d bitten that spoon and I was rather fond of my fingers. And then I stopped abruptly. She had tears in her eyes.

  But not even the barest ‘please’ left her mouth.

  I wondered how long it was going to take to break her. Truly, she would test my patience as I tested hers, but that was a large part of the pleasure.

  “You can let go. I’m leaving now,” I said.

  She dropped her arms and rubbed them, scowling at me. “What do I do while you’re gone?”

  “Sweep the floor, wash the dishes, wipe down the table, set it for dinner. Pick apples from the tree outside, peel them, and get them stewing in the pot. We could have applesauce with our meat tonight. There’s a recipe in the book there on the top shelf.”

  “I still need proper clothes before I’ll do all that.

  “If you insist.”

  “When you go to town…” She hesitated. “Is it…possible…to get me paper and ink? So I can write letters home?”

  I don’t think she wanted to write letters home. She wanted to write books.

  It was probably the one thing I didn’t wish to deny her. “I’ll see what I can manage,” I said.

  I saddled one of the horses and went to the village with the dress and hair combs. I met a few of my guards along the way. They were stationed around the forest for my protection, operating from a small post just out of sight from the cabin.

  “My king, did you hear the wolves last night?”

  “Aye…I’m not too worried. They were speaking to one another. Not making threats, by the sound of it, unless you’ve heard otherwise?”

  “Well…there have been rumors.”

  “What sort of rumors?”

  “That perhaps it isn’t a pack, but two wolves on their own. The village people said they haven’t had any trading. They would have wolvenfolk coming to trade if a whole clan was about, that’s what they said.” This guard, a man named Orithel, was quite young yet. He had a high elf grandfather and had been trained in the Palace of Waterfalls. Better with a blade than reading the moods of the forest.

  Still, the last time I’d been out at the cabin, I had heard nary a howl from the wolvenfolk. It always jangled the nerves when they were afoot. You could never truly trust them; ordinary men were dangerous enough, but wolvenfolk had beastly instincts that consumed their sense when they were hungry. This caused a variety of problems. First, they were always hunting in my woods, killing my game. Second, in a hard winter they could turn violent. No king welcomed their presence in the region.

  But they would move on. They always did. We knew their cruel deeds from stories, but it had been more than fifty years since they made any real trouble. The village folk always spread rumors. I think they rather enjoyed the excitement of it.

  Still, when I reached the village, I couldn’t help but think of all this as I looked at the people. My people, going about their work, but the air crackled with vague anxiety that always stirred up in what we called a “howling autumn”, one where you could hear the wolves close as the leaves turned.

  Wolvenfolk were no different from other sorts of men. Some good, some bad. All of them very, very strong.

  I met with my guards for a thorough discussion of the matter. Patrols would be stepped up at the border towns, as a precaution, and any wolfkin who came to town would be watched closely. Winter was still two months away but we’d all be better off if they moved on.

  “How long are you intending to keep the queen in ignorance of her new title?” asked Torsin, my closest counsel. He was a scholar’s son with a brilliant head for strategy, and we’d been friends from our first meeting, discussing books.

  “Not too long…I hope.”

  “I’ve heard she’s very spoiled.”

  “Truly, I don’t she’s ever known a day of work in her life.”

  “I remember when your father used to take you out to the cabin and make you toil over your own meals.”

  “Aye, and he was tough about it too. The skin peeled off my fingers from all the scrubbing.”

  “But it works. You were no pampered prince, and the people would never accept a pampered princess.” He said it like a challenge. “She must be worthy of the wood elves.”

  “Her spoiled ways will unwind. The best things in life are not for sale. She is already beginning to understand that.”

  “I fear she might enjoy the lesson a little more than she should.”

  “If she does, more’s the better, as long as I’m the teacher.”

  Torsin sighed. “You can’t stay tucked away in the woods for long, Bren.”

  Torsin spoke words of wisdom, but I wasn’t about to admit that. “This gown of hers, you can send along to the castle. Have it mended. She can wear it again when she returns to courtly life…if we tone it down a bit.”

  Before I left town, I picked up the writing implements she had asked for. It was possible I might be giving her an outlet for her feelings when it would be better to let her simmer, but in the end, I couldn’t resist.

  When I found her, she was napping in bed and had eaten all the remaining oatcakes. No dishes washed, the broom still leaning against the corner in precisely the same way as when I left. The cookbook was on the table, but she hadn’t picked any apples. Just asking for trouble, this one, but this level of stubbornness sparked annoyance within me. Torsin’s words weighed on my reputation. I couldn’t bring my queen to the palace and have her behave this way.

  She stirred when she heard me shut the door.

  “You ate all the oatcakes,” I said. “And what else have you done? Not a thing, by the looks of it. Surely even a princess knows how to sweep the floor?”

  “I was still hungry,” she said. “And I told you, I’m not going to do all that stuff until you bring me proper clothing.”

  “So be it,” I said. “Take off everything. No—leave the stockings, I rather like those. And the choker. Everything else, put in this basket.” I put the basket I used for carrying in vegetables from the garden on the floor in front of her.

  “Even my shoes?”

  “Even your shoes.” I kicked the edge of the basket so it hit the tips of her toes. “This is a game, princess, but at the same time, it isn’t. I want you to understand. Someday…if you became queen of a realm…”

  “But I won’t,” she said. “I’ve married a humble basket maker who hasn’t made a single basket this whole time.”

  “Where d’you suppose this basket came from?” More seriously, I said, “Even a princess should know what it means to work.” I put my hands around her waist. She was looking at me in a way that would put any sensible thought out of a man’s head.

  “Who are you?” she asked. “You can cook, grow food, make baskets, hunt…”

  “My parents taught me how to take care of myself.”

  She grabbed the cookbook off the table and opened it. “Is this your handwriting?” she asked, pointing at a note in the margins of a bread recipe.


  I nodded, instantly realizing I had made a mistake.

  “Mr. Elmwood,” she said. Her tone was scolding, but her eyes took on warmth like a candle lighting. “I knew it! I knew it all along.”

  Chapter Ten

  Princess Bethany

  “You think I’ll go easy on you now?” he asked me. “Aye, I am your Mr. Elmwood, and what does it matter?”

  “What do you really do for a living? A learned man like you?”

  “I kidnap fine ladies and tell them to sweep floors.”

  “You don’t really care about that,” I said, excited and relieved. “I understand now. I’m Lady Celeste…and you’re my Lord Stormwild.”

  “You’re half right, lass, though you will never call me anything as ridiculous as Lord Stormwild again.”

  “You like my books, though.”

  “I think your books are improbable, and repetitive, and poorly researched,” he said. “And written by a woman with an absolutely wild imagination.”

  “Is that a good thing?”

  “Aye,” he admitted. “Far better when I realized they were written by a noble lady—by a princess—”

  “How did you know?”

  “I have my ways. However—as much as you intrigue me, that is no excuse for thinking you are the center of the universe. You have no care for the feelings of princes, and less care for beggars. I told your father I’d teach you humility. Thus far, I think you’ve enjoyed it far too much. Tonight, you’ll have no supper. You’ve had oat cakes enough to feed a whole family of farm laborers; you will hardly starve. And take off those clothes or I’ll take them off for you.”

  “I can’t live on nothing but oat cakes!” He was right. Not having dinner? That was perfectly cruel. “It wasn’t really that many and there are still hours left in the day! I’m already feeling hungry again.”

  “Take—off—your clothes.”

  His tone had changed as if once and for all, amusement turning to frustration. I finally submitted to the order. I was a little relieved to get out of my corset and the shift that had not been changed. Back home, I would have always had a clean linen shift in the morning.