And more.
Iris didn’t know it. Nobody knew it. But there was a side to me that would be ours alone, if I could ever let her into that secret.
When the milking was done, she reluctantly admitted that the stalls needed to be mucked out, so I scooped her up in my arms and off we went to the stables. She wasn’t one of those wilting, skinny women that I saw so often at court. I liked that about her a whole hell of a lot. It assured me that she was strong enough to take whatever I could give her. Goddamn it, how I wanted to give it to her, right there over the saddles that lined one side of the stables.
But for the moment, I forced myself be more gentlemanly. I mucked out, swept and scattered bedding. As I worked, we talked. I learned about all the work she had to do and all the responsibilities she had. It was way too much for one person.
“Do you have any help here?” I asked her, scooping some hay into a wheelbarrow. I knew full well she didn’t, but it was only logical that I would ask.
“Umm,” she said, with an awkward laugh, “sometimes. My father isn’t always here, but he’s usually pretty helpful when he is.”
Sometimes. Usually. Pretty helpful. Fucking bullshit.
A woman like her deserved round-the-clock servants, not some absent father who made her life one endless stream of chores. Asshole. But I held my tongue. It wasn’t my place to judge, no matter how strong I felt.
There was a moment of hesitation as she met my eyes with a sidelong glance, the blush rising on her cheeks.
“Sometimes I wish I had someone to just tell me what to do. To take away the responsibility. But the farm won’t run itself.”
Her words took me by surprise. “You don’t want to be your own boss?”
She shook her head on a shrug. “I do…” She hesitated and I could see the tension in her jaw. “I just wish I could let someone else take control sometimes.”
I met her eyes and thought I saw a glimpse of longing. “I understand.”
Back to work. I emptied the water buckets, scrubbed them out, and refilled them with cold water from the pump. She instructed me how to pick out the horses’ hoofs and how to clean the tack. Aside from one of the horses nearly kicking me squarely in the balls, I enjoyed all of it—it was work I’d never gotten a chance to do, and I reveled in the opportunity to live a normal life, even for one afternoon.
My own life wasn’t all that great even as a royal. I lived in a world of shadows and silent stares. Hers, though hard, at least didn’t make me feel ashamed. She lived in the light and I lived in the dark.
Hidden. Reclusive.
Despite my world of privilege, I was by most accounts unnamed and unknown to the world. I’d lived in the tunnels and lower levels of the castle most of my life. Some staff and a few guards came into regular contact with me but otherwise I was a ghost.
The time I spent with her that day was gold; getting to know her, getting to talk to her, getting to enjoy her presence up close rather than from afar. She was even more beautiful than I could have imagined. And I knew I would love her fucking always.
Once we finished in the stables and the chicken coop, I carried her back to the milking shed where I’d bandaged her leg earlier.
She turned to me with a smirk.
“If you go inside, open the cupboard under the milk jugs. You’ll see my secret treat there. You have to move the chicken feed aside, though. I have to keep it well hidden.”
I was on it. In the cupboard behind the feed, I found a few bottles of cider, sealed with wax. It was excellent cider, from one of the best brewers in the Aramoor valley. The bottles were small, and I knew they were valuable. Though I was thirsty from a long day’s hard work, I didn’t want to deplete her supply, so I brought a single bottle out to her.
She furrowed her brow at me when I handed it over.
“I meant for you to bring two.”
“Tough,” I said, and pulled up a milking stool. The thing was fucking tiny, but I made it work.
“We’ll share then,” she said, yanking the waxed cord off the seal with her teeth and popping open the cork.
She was a contrast in every way. Such delicate beauty, matched equally by her unabashed strength, had my cock seeping and my heart nearly ramrodding out of my chest.
She took a sip first, and then handed the bottle to me. Our fingers brushed against each other on the cool glass bottle. As I drank, I thought that this might be the closest I’d ever get to kissing her, to tasting her. But looking at her there, sun-kissed and stunning beyond words, I knew I could never go back to just watching her. I loved her and I had to make her mine. I fucking had to.
We passed the bottle back and forth until it was almost gone. One last sip in the bottom. She offered it to me, but I raised my hands.
“Ladies always finish first.”
She eyed me over the bottle, blushing. I wasn’t completely sure she understood the innuendo in my words, but I believe she felt the truth in them.
Fuck yes. That blush. I wanted to see that blush all the goddamned time.
She wiped the cider from her lips, using her sleeve. Same as she had that day with the apple at the harvest festival. I didn’t know how such a simple goddamned thing could make me so weak. But there it was.
“I’ll get you squared away inside,” I said. “But first, I’ve got a question for you.”
Yet again, she gave me that wide-eyed, innocent look. Christ almighty, I wanted to devour her whole fucking body right fucking now.
“Yes?” She said, pressing her hands into her lap, tracing the edge of her milking apron over the curve of her thigh.
Patience, you asshole. She would be mine. I knew she would. But anticipation is half the fun.
“What time do the cows need to be milked in the morning?”
Chapter 4
Iris
I was dimly aware that it was just a dream, but the fear was very real. The man loomed over me, taller than real life, and as the light moved I saw his face.
“Father, what are you…?” My heart began to race as he shook his head, his expression dark.
“You’ve disappointed me. You’ve neglected your duties.”
“Father, I’m—”
There was something in his hand. A manacle. He was going to tie me up and leave me, leave me to rot. Someone else lingered in the background, just beyond my reach, and every time I tried to catch proper sight of him my father moved into the way.
“No, please,” I begged. “Let me go. Please. I’ll work harder.”
As he stepped towards me, I felt the panic rise in my throat, and thrashed against my bedding, kicking it away, a chill in the air making me shiver as I awoke in a cold sweat.
A pit-pit-patter of drizzle against my window helped to ground me, though my pulse still thundered. Laying in bed, my thoughts went straight to Randal, calming my nerves and replacing them with...something else.
My stomach hadn’t stopped fluttering since he left the barn yesterday. While he certainly was scarred, and his huge presence was a bit overwhelming at first, all of that just faded away behind what I knew he was at heart: a kind, warm, hard-working man.
It meant the world to me that he had spent so much time helping me. Nobody had looked after me like that since my mother’s death in childbirth, and the subsequent deterioration of my father’s health. It made me feel like the most special girl in the world; at once it reminded me of my mother’s love—and my father’s in those happier times—and helped me come to terms with what had happened since.
And to think, he was coming back. This morning!
I listened for any noises from my father moving about the cottage, but heard none. Relieved, I gave myself a few more minutes of daydreaming of Randal, as I snuggled deeper into my bed and listened to the rain. But try as I might to think only of him, other thoughts crept in. Like water leaking into a rickety dinghy.
The night before, after Randal left, had been horrible. My father came home, drunk as a rabid skunk and twice as mea
n. I’d known it as soon as I saw him, walking up the road to our cottage—there was even something about the way he walked that told me from a long way away that I was in for a difficult night.
He had a kind of hair-trigger rage these days, that made me tremble in spite of myself. It made me remember so many horrible things that he’d screamed at me, so many nights spent crying myself to sleep.
Always, the next morning, he would sheepishly ask that we start afresh. I hated that—that idea of starting over, that all the anger and sadness could vanish, like winter turning into spring.
But in spite of myself, I always forgave him. I forgave because it was easier than fighting; I forgave because it was easier than being constantly, endlessly afraid. I forgave because I told myself that it wasn’t his fault.
He’d always wanted a son, he’d loved my mother dearly, and to lose them both in childbirth like that had been a tragedy. I forgave him, because I remembered how happy they’d both been, how proud in the face of jealousy from the other townsfolk that his wife had fallen pregnant so late in her childbearing years, after so many seasons with naught but a daughter.
But without fail, despite all my forgiveness, the cycle would begin all over again. And because I forgave him, it always felt like my own fault.
If only I could stand up for myself, but no. I was a beaten dog, trying to take up as little space as possible and cause no trouble. But no matter how kind or helpful I was, it never was enough to stop his rage.
When my father had returned home to find me seated at the kitchen table, my leg elevated on a stool, he’d taken one look at the bandages and exploded at me about being a careless, stupid, idiotic girl. He went on and on about the farm income, about tenancy fees, about lost earnings. He talked about me the way most people talked about oxen.
And, I suppose, that was exactly how he saw me. A working animal, no more and no less.
While my father’s anger was no surprise, the difference between the way he treated me and how Randal had cared and quietly helped, made it all the more hurtful.
I might as well have been some poor creature that had been kept in darkness, only to get a chance to see the light that Randal emanated from his kind and lovely soul, but no sooner had I gotten a glimpse at it than I was shoved back into the darkness once again. I knew those feelings were dangerous.
Wanting, hoping, dreaming of something better? So foolish for a girl like me.
Even though I had been seated with my leg up when my father came home, he’d said, “Get up off your ass, girl, and stop being such a fat, lazy cow.”
It hurt so much to put weight on my leg, but I did so in spite of myself, in order to get his dinner ready. I knew from experience that the physical pain of preparing his dinner was much less of an inconvenience than the inevitable night full of drunken hollering there would have been if I’d refused. He had a way of getting under my skin and making me feel broken and hopeless; I had learned to do anything—everything—to avoid that kind of agony. I called those nights of anger the brutal tellings. He had a way of finding your softest spot and ripping it to pieces.
But now it was morning, thankfully. He was passed out and I was safe. I tried to cast off those thoughts and sat up, but as soon as I did, my leg throbbed with pain. Wincing, I gingerly slipped it out from under the covers, and saw that at least the swelling had gone down.
The bruises were still shockingly dark, but I was relieved to see it wasn’t worse than it had been the day before. Using the post of my small bed for support to stand, I sucked in a big breath of air and braced myself for the pain, placing my foot on the floor and slowly and shifting my weight onto my bad leg.
It hurt, but not nearly so badly as I expected. Though it made me limp quite a bit, I could hobble around my room. I breathed a sigh of relief as I looked out at the farm through my window. The drizzle was lessening, to show off a beautiful sunrise. And it wouldn’t be long before Randal would arrive to help me milk the cows.
Dressing quickly, I re-braided my hair and tied the end with my favorite dark green ribbon, before making my way softly and carefully into the kitchen. My father was sound asleep in his room and wouldn’t wake for hours.
It gave me time to do something nice for Randal without him questioning what I was up to. The very last thing in the world I wanted was for my father to see I’d packed anything extra. I could not have him knowing anything about Randal. I had never been courted by anybody, but I’d been through enough with my father to know that the prospect of losing me—his prize ox—would bring out his worst and most awful cruelty.
Was I being courted? Or was it just wishful thinking?
I didn’t want Randal knowing about my father, either. I was embarrassed by his nastiness, laziness, and drunken ways. If Randal knew my father, I was sure he wouldn’t look at me like I was so special any longer.
They say that the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, and I couldn’t bear to think of Randal realizing that, as my father’s daughter, I was just as rotten to the core. I believed in my heart I was different, but I knew how judgmental people could be as well.
From the larder, I gathered not only my own food for the day, but some for Randal as well. I cut an extra-wide bit of Gouda and put in a generous portion of that day’s loaf of wholemeal bread for us to share. Then I grabbed a small pot of butter that I had churned myself, as well as a small jar of raspberry preserve.
It wasn’t much, but it was something, and it would have to do. With my basket in hand, I limped through the backdoor to head for the stables.
It was much earlier than I usually left, but I couldn’t wait to see Randal. My early departure was rewarded by dozens of ripe cherries hanging low on the cherry tree, still untouched by the birds. These I picked quickly and added them to my basket, and then hurried toward the stable, allowing myself to dream for a little while that maybe, just maybe, Randal could be the man for me.
And my heart sang at the thought of calling him mine.
To my surprise, Randal was already hard at work when I arrived. I saw him from a distance, lugging two big bales of hay, one on each shoulder.
His hulking frame was sweaty and shirtless. I clutched my basket and pressed my hand to my chest. He was enormous, like one of those massive foreign lumberjacks that come through the valley every spring with the carnival, lifting huge boulders and whole uncut logs while the townspeople marvel at them, and children dangle from their curled biceps.
His shoulder muscles were so defined, I could actually see the sinews ripple. As he moved in and out of the barn, he made the massive door look tiny. I had only ever seen a body like his in paintings on the chapel ceiling in town. What a man. My entire being responded to him with a thrumming excitement.
Even from a distance, I could see that the burn marks covering his face also covered a great deal of his body. They were terrible scars. I knew that only a raging fire could cause so much damage, and though I never wanted to intrude on his pain, I wondered what tragedy had befallen him to make them. I ached at the thought of how he must have suffered for his body to be marked so. To imagine such a huge, strapping man in so much terrible agony.
My bosom rose beneath my palm as I took a deep breath. I told myself not to be such a swooning. stupid girl. He was just a man. I knew that.
Nonsense. I knew that he wasn’t just a man. These feelings I had for him weren’t just feelings either. He tossed one bail up into the loft, one-armed, and then turned to grab the second, so that he was facing me across the yard. I waived to him as I approached.
When he saw me, his face lit up and he beamed at me from across the farmyard. He looked so very handsome when he smiled. In that moment, I only saw the man, not the scars, and the shiver that traced through me defied the heat gathering in the air.
“How are you feeling?” He called out to me, shielding his face from the rising sun with one massive hand.
“I’m fine!” I called back, maneuvering around a muddy puddle. “It’s getting b
etter! Brought us something to eat!”
He set down the second of the two bails and splashed a bucket of water over his head. Water glistened down the deeply defined borders of his carved muscles, rippling through the curls of hair across his wide chest and running through the thick scarred skin. As I neared him, he seemed to remember he was bare-chested and snatched up his shirt. But now I was close enough that I didn’t have to yell to be heard.
Lowering my voice, I said, “You don’t need to cover yourself on my account.”
Randal looked at me, searching my face that same way he had the day before—on the lookout for horror or fear. There was none to be found, I could guarantee it. But it didn’t seem like enough. He shook his head, drawing away from me slightly.
“You don’t want to see me like this.” He ran his hand through his short-cropped hair and turned away.
Oh, how it broke my heart. There was such shame and sadness in his words; so many years of hiding. I knew I couldn’t undo all that hurt, but I could show him that he’d never be treated that way with me.
I set down my basket of cheese and bread. And then, mustering all my courage, reached out my hand for his, and said, “I do want to see you, though. I like you exactly as you are.”
Chapter 5
Iris
My dreams that night were unexpectedly strange.
After spending the day just inches from Randal, and sometimes closer still, you might have expected me to dream of surrendering myself to him, of laying back against the wobbly kitchen table as he climbed on top and took me hard and fast.
Instead, somewhere in my mind I recalled the dream of the night before, of my father’s cruelty. Once again he loomed over me, my wrists already shackled. He threatened to leave me there, alone, never again to see the light of day.
And then the figure behind him drew closer, and I felt a sense of calm. Randal seized my father by the scruff of his neck and dragged him away from me. I thanked him. I told him I would do anything to repay his kindness.
Masked Prince (Fated Royals Book 2) Page 3
