“I have. But there’s nae way I can afford it.”
The hopelessness in her sister’s voice squeezed at Vanessa’s chest. She stood and took the three steps to Bonnie’s side. “If I could help ye, I would. I’ll help ye think of a way, I swear it.”
Bonnie’s smile was a bit watery, but it was nice to see, nonetheless. “Thank ye. And now, I suppose I must go write Mr. Grimm a response.”
“Good. And tell him ye hope to one day be able to afford a publishing house. Maybe he’ll save his for ye!”
When Bonnie chuckled, it didn’t sound quite so helpless. “I should be so lucky.” She shook her head and headed for the kitchen door. “If I run into Mother, I shall swear I have nae idea where ye are.”
Which would allow Vanessa more moments of precious, unjudged freedom. “I kenned ye were the best sister in the world!”
Bonnie’s laughter drifted back.
With a sigh, Vanessa glanced around the garden. Without her sister to talk to, the place—beautiful and cozy as it was—seemed emptier. She strolled back to the well, dragging her fingers along the moss-covered stones as she circled it.
Knowing she was alone, and feeling suddenly nostalgic, she leaned over the edge. There, far at the bottom, the inky darkness of the water seemed to suck up all sounds.
“Hullo!” she called in a low voice, just to be certain. Sure enough, nothing echoed back.
Chuckling, she braced her palms on the stones, remembering the fun she used to have out here. When she’d been much younger, she’d even climbed to the top of the posts and teased Bonnie, who insisted her skirts made it impossible to climb.
When she’d been younger and had no worries.
Ye’re beautiful, my angel, and that means people should worry for ye. People will do things—so many things—for ye, as long as ye are beautiful!
Her mother’s words echoed in a way Vanessa’s call into the well hadn’t. It had been a refrain of her life.
And now, that knowledge, that certainty, had resulted in this feeling of shame whenever she thought of how Roland Prince had looked at her.
Ribbit.
Vanessa’s head jerked up.
Ribbit-ribbit.
There, across the well from her, sat the biggest, plumpest frog she could ever recall seeing. Had frogs grown so big when she’d been but a wee lass? If so, it would’ve taken two hands just to hold it, much less catch it.
Catch it.
The wicked, ridiculous thought repeated itself.
Well, why not?
She was alone out here, so there was no one to see her ruin her reputation as the most perfectly beautiful woman in all the Highlands, was there?
Slowly, she straightened. “Stay right there, my fat friend,” she murmured.
Holding the frog’s gaze—was it her imagination, or did it seem as transfixed on her as she was on it?—she softly, deliberately moved around the well, each step measured. The trick, as she remembered, was to move slowly enough the animal didn’t expect her attack.
Sure enough, she soon stood in front of the frog, and he was still sitting there, looking at her. She bent, her arms rising from her sides to drift, gradual as glaciers, to bracket him.
“That’s right. That’s right,” she murmured, and then she pounced.
Before the frog ever knew what was happening, she had it cupped in her palms and was drawing it up to eye level.
“Well, hullo there, little green friend.” The frog struggled for a moment, then froze. “That’s right. I’ll no’ hurt ye. I just wanted to see if I could still do it.”
She kept her voice down, though she knew no one was there to hear. Still, if a maid did happen to poke her head out one of the open windows, Vanessa didn’t want to become known as the most beautiful lady in the Highlands who also spoke to frogs.
But on the other hand…
Thinking about the way she’d joked with Bonnie earlier, Vanessa’s lips curled upward.
“Would ye be a better husband than a man, my little friend? Ye didnae fight me too hard. Ye would no’ bother me if I decided to go into town to spend some money. Ye would no’ complain overmuch about the dinner menu I chose, as long as ye had yer bug cocktail.” Chuckling, she lifted the animal until it was level with her nose. “Maybe I should kiss ye, just to see what would happen.”
No one was looking, and she was feeling nostalgic.
Vanessa puckered her lips softly, brought the frog closer—he only struggled once more—and brushed her lips across the top of his bumpy head.
Chuckling softly to herself, she held the frog out to peer at him. “See? That wasnae so bad, was it?”
She didn’t expect an answer, so when a voice came—deep and full of laughter—Vanessa jumped.
“Nay, milady. No’ at all.”
She screamed…and dropped the frog into the well.
Chapter 4
“Well, shite.”
“I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!”
“Ye should be! I cannae believe ye were so clumsy!”
“How was I supposed to know the damn thing would break if I knocked it off the table?”
“Broca! Grisel! Calm yourselves, please!”
“Oh dear. Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear!”
“Deep breaths, Willa dear. All is not lost. Luckily, the ball didn’t shatter when poor, clumsy Grisel slapped it—”
“I’m no’ clumsy! Just enthusiastic! And look, Willa. It isnae broken, just…sputtery.”
“Sputtery?”
“See? The images are all there, just jumbled up.”
“Oh dear. Oh dear! How are we supposed to see Roland and Vanessa? My first assignment, and I cannae even follow them?”
“Grasmag t’mink stahp.”
“What? Oh, yes. Um…do ye think you might be able to fix it, Seonag? It is your crystal ball after all.”
“Whizzit fink.”
“Quite. Here you are. Try to fiddle with it, would you? In the meantime—take some deep breaths, Willa—does anyone have any suggestions? Yes, Broca?”
“I might have an idea…”
* * *
Roland couldn’t help it; he burst into laughter at her response.
Granted, he’d known it had been a little cruel to tease her like that, but really, what was he supposed to have done? He’d pushed open the garden gate to find Vanessa speaking in low tones to a frog she held at eye level. Then, for some odd reason, she’d kissed the thing, and had asked if it had been that bad.
Well, of course he had to reply to that. And when she’d screamed and tossed the poor frog into the well she was standing beside, it was exactly the response he had been hoping for.
Unfortunately, his deep laughter had her whirling around; the shock on her beautiful face melting into irritation when she saw him.
“That was ye? Who spoke?” she snapped, though he supposed it should’ve been obvious.
Roland allowed the gate to close behind him and walked into the garden, adding an exaggerated limp for good measure. “Aye, milady.” He knew he should be humbler in her presence, if he was hoping to pull off this deception, but he was still grinning broadly at the way she’d thought the frog was speaking to her.
But his words hadn’t been wrong: the kiss hadn’t been that bad, from the frog’s point of view, anyhow. Though it would’ve been even nicer had Roland been the one under those lips—
Nay. Remember yer purpose here.
Not to ruin her future, as Phin had warned, but to humiliate her and teach her a lesson.
Oh, like that’s any better.
His good humor dissipated as he sent an internal glower at his apparently guilty subconscious.
I’m doing this for her own good. She needs to learn her beauty doesnae make her a good person.
And his appearance today didn’t make him a bad person.
Although judging from the way she was scowling at him, she hadn’t learned that lesson yet.
For the occasion, he’d borrowed one of Lyon’s kilts,
although he hadn’t told his older brother why he’d needed it. Once he’d donned it—and the oldest, roughest shirt in his collection—he’d actually gone out to the corral behind the stables, and while no one was looking, had rolled around in the dirt like a horse with an itch. As a result, the shirt was ripped in three places, his legs were filthy—who would’ve thought he’d be wandering around showing off his knees like some kind of barbarian?—and his affected limp was believable.
The tam he’d borrowed from the stablemaster hid his brown hair, and the mud he’d rubbed into it likely disguised him even further. And of course, a week’s worth of beard hid his jawline so effectively, even his valet had insisted he couldn’t recognize Roland.
But the pièce de resistance was the eyepatch he’d made after Phin’s suggestion. It covered his left eye and affected his depth perception terribly, but there was no way Vanessa would recognize him as the handsome and charming Viscount Blabloblal now.
As he hobbled closer, she ran her hands down the sides of her skirt in a nervous gesture he was sure she wouldn’t have made had she known who he really was. But from the equally nervous way she was eying him, she thought he was nothing more than a hurt beggar. And he’d do his best to make her continue to believe that, at least until he felt she’d learned her lesson.
“Forgive me, milady.” A man in his position—a poor farmer, or an actual beggar—might pull his cap off, but Roland couldn’t for fear she might recognize him. “I didnae mean to startle ye.”
“Aye, but ye did.” Her chin came up in challenge. “And ye played a dirty trick on me.”
He hesitated, surprised that she was calling him on his actions. “Well…aye, I suppose I did. But ye have to admit, it was too good an opportunity to pass up.”
To his surprise, her mulish expression faded to a grudging smile. “Aye, I suppose ye’re right. I didnae think anyone was watching, or I wouldnae have—have spoken to the frog.”
That moment of hesitation spoke volumes. “Nor kissed it, I suspect.”
Under his layer of dirt, his smile flashed. Perhaps it was the wrong response, because she flushed and turned just enough to present him with her shoulder.
“Ye are no’ supposed to be here, sir. This is my family’s private garden, and ye are trespassing.”
Her haughty tone was back, and it was almost a relief. He didn’t want to like her.
“Please, milady.” He tried his best to make his tone beseeching. “Dinnae send me away without hearing my plea.” He needed to make himself sound as pitiful as possible. “I’ve no’ eaten all day.”
With a scowl, she gestured to the well. “There’s a plump frog in there who’d roast up a treat.”
His lips twitched at her pique; amused, despite his intention not to like her. “Eat him? Are ye mad? After the gift ye bestowed on him? He is likely the luckiest frog in all of Christendom, and I cannae ruin that by eating him.” Besides, a man would have to be truly desperate to eat a frog.
Which ye are supposed to be, ye idiot.
She rolled her eyes as she turned back to him and planted her hands on her hips. “How is the poor thing lucky, sir? He just got thrown into a dark hole!”
Roland lowered his voice, then his chin. “Aye, but before that, ye kissed him. Men must throw themselves at yer feet, begging for a mere glance, or the simplest favor. And here ye go, offering an actual kiss to a reptile.”
This time, he could see the blush crawling up her neck to stain her cheeks, and he didn’t give her a chance to deny his words. “What, milady? Ye cannae deny ye are the most beautiful creature in all the Highlands. Surely ye ken that.”
Surely ye spend hours in front of yer mirror each day telling yerself that.
But she didn’t answer him. Instead, she lifted her chin. “Amphibian.”
“What?”
“The frog is an amphibian, sir. No’ a reptile.”
Amphibian, reptile, who cared? How was Roland supposed to know the difference?
A little voice in the back of his mind whispered, Ye didnae expect her to ken the difference either, did ye?
But he could use that to make him seem even less desirable. With an obsequious bow, he said, “Forgive me, milady. I am no’ a man given to reading many books.” She would interpret that as he was uneducated.
But she snorted softly. “No’ many men are, I suspect.” Before he could defend the rest of his sex, she continued. “But surely ye dinnae sneak into my private garden and spy on my private conversations just to discuss taxonomy.”
“Private conversation, milady? Is that what ye call it when ye kiss a frog? Ye ken, that is how one gets warts.”
She blinked. “Is it? I had nae idea.”
Roland shrugged easily, settling on his heels, wishing the broken-down old boots he’d had his valet find for him—the poor man nearly fainted at the thought—didn’t pinch his toes quite so much. Soon, he’d be limping for real.
“I confess I dinnae ken, but that is what my auld—” He stopped himself before he said “nurse,” knowing the man as he appeared to be wouldn’t have been raised by nursemaids. “My auld mother told me that once.”
“Ah.” She nodded sagely. “And I imagine she had to tell ye such a thing to quell yer propensity for kissing frogs?”
For the second time since stepping into the garden, Roland was unable to hold back the laughter which burst from his lips. She had a sharp wit, this “angel” of his, even if she was using it to insult him.
The reminder she was insulting him caused him to sober. He had to remember why he was there and not take the time to appreciate her wit, as well as her beauty.
Why? She insulted ye as ye insulted her. Is that no’ fair?
This time, he allowed his scowl to show, even if it was his irritating internal monologue he was annoyed with. “Milady, that was no’ kind.”
“Och, well, I suppose I dinnae care if ye think me kind,” she said with a dismissive sigh as she turned back to the inn.
And he took that as the opportunity he’d been waiting for. “Why?” he barked, remembering to limp as he hurried toward her, intent on making her realize her mistake. “Because I’m dirty, poor and ugly? Ye think my opinion doesnae matter?”
“Yer opinion doesnae matter to me, sir,” she said in exasperation, turning once more, “because ye have trespassed on my privacy and teased me most cruelly. Be gone with ye.”
He tamped down the spike of guilt which had accompanied her accusations and tried to make himself look humble. Unfortunately, he did that quite satisfactorily by running into the side of the well, bruising his left hip, and causing him to bite off a curse. And when he reached for the upright post to steady himself, he missed completely, and lurched forward quite awkwardly.
“Shite! Damned peripheral vision!” The eyepatch meant he was walking around half-blind.
“Are ye alright, sir?”
Was she pitying him? Nay, he wanted her disdain, didn’t he?
Roland made a show of pushing himself upright once more—the bruised hip might actually help remind him to limp—and gave her an obsequious, if pained, bow.
“Apologies, my most beautiful lady, for offenses caused. I beg yer forgiveness.”
“I’ll be more apt to give it if ye swear to leave and never return. And”—she added, as an afterthought—“I am no’ yer lady.”
“Why could ye no’ be? Because I am ugly, poor and dirty?”
She frowned at him as she raked her gaze over him, as if surprised by his words. “I’m no’…” She shook her head. “I cannae be yer lady, because I am my own lady.”
“A lady who kisses frogs.”
In exasperation, she threw up her hands. “Why are ye here? Because I warn ye, I have only to scream and four—nay, eight—large footmen will come hurtling through that door to rescue me. They’ll give ye a good thrashing and ensure ye never trespass on a lady’s thoughts again.”
He knew good and well there were only two footmen in the inn’s employ, an
d both were likely busy at that moment attending to guests. But a pitiful beggar, such as he was trying to be, wouldn’t know that, would he?
So he bowed again, trying for a more flattering manner, when he held out his hands to her. “Forgiveness, milady, please. Ye’d have a poor man beaten just for requesting alms?”
“Alms? What is this, the Middle Ages?” She scoffed. “I have nae money for ye. Begone.”
No money? She was wearing silk, was she not?
The thought made him bolder, and he limped closer. “Food then, milady? For a starving man?”
To his surprise, she hesitated, then glanced over her shoulder. When she sucked her lower lip in between her teeth to worry it, Roland’s eyes went wide at the way his body reacted to such a sight. Of course, since one of his eyes was trapped behind a bloody annoying layer of black wool, that only caused him to wince, then blink to dispel the discomfort.
But his cock was ignoring all the goings-on in the upper part of his head apparently. And that included his brain. Because as soon as she’d started to worry that lip between those two perfect rows of pearly teeth, his lower regions decided they verra much wanted to taste it as well.
And he realized just what a bloody nuisance this thrice-damned kilt could be.
Because there wasn’t a single thing keeping his arousal from tenting the front of the plaid material.
Shite.
Her face was still in profile, and his hands were still in front of him. Before she turned back to look at him, he dropped them to cover the damning evidence of his arousal and tried to arrange his expression into mild curiosity instead of irritation at his body’s betrayal.
Luckily, she didn’t notice. However, she surprised him by finally nodding. “Aye,” she said quietly. “I’ll have one of Mrs. Oliphant—the cook’s—assistants see if there’s any leavings to be spared from luncheon.”
His immediate response was to rebel. Leavings? Scraps? But then his brain caught up with his pride and slapped it around a bit.
Ye’re a beggar, remember? Table scraps would be a boon.
So he swallowed down his defense and bowed again. “Thank ye, milady.”
The Lass Who Kissed a Frog Page 5
