Amelie beams a smile at me, eyes alight with excitement. “I need to grab the rest of my things from downstairs. I cannot proceed without more emerald spider silk.”
I shudder at the thought of silk made from spiders but let her go without argument. Aware that I’m now alone in my room with the king, I take a step away and retrieve the brush from my dressing table. Gesturing toward the chair at the bureau, I say, “Sit. I’ll try to brush out that mane of hair.”
With a curse, he makes his way to the chair—his limp growing less and less pronounced—and sinks down onto it, arms crossed. “Remind me again why I’m doing this?”
I come up behind him and bring the brush to the ends of his hair. “Running on three legs. A body covered in white fur. Eating raw, freshly killed carcasses. You know…that which you value most?”
“Freedom,” he says with a sigh. He turns his head to the side and eyes me from his periphery. “Meanwhile, you’re torturing me for money.”
I attack a particularly stubborn knot, half-afraid the brush will be swallowed by it at any moment. When my own hair falls into my face, I pause long enough to bundle it at the nape of my neck. I now regret not putting it up this morning, but with no pins in reach, it’s held in place by nothing more than a prayer. Returning to my efforts, I say, “I’m doing this for freedom too, you know.”
He scoffs. “Is that so?”
“It is. You were right when you told me humans keep their women as property. It’s one of the most backward and suppressive human traits, in my opinion, and one I want nothing to do with.”
“Money is supposed to help?”
I nod. “As an unmarried woman, I have no wealth of my own. And even if I were married, I’d have an allowance like I had from my father, but no wealth would be mine. Perhaps when he died, I could be a wealthy widow. Regardless, marriage is not in the cards for me.”
“Why is that?”
I bite the inside of my cheek, my heart plummeting at the question. “I’ve…given up on love and matrimony. I’ve had my share of romance. Played the game of courtship. And…I lost.”
He eyes me again from the side. “That’s why you want to move to your childhood country alone?”
“Yes. I want independence. Freedom, just like you. I want to be free from my father’s clutches and his designs for my future. I want to be free from needing to marry just to live a comfortable life. I want a life of my own on my terms.”
“Is that your greatest treasure then?”
I pause my brushing. “It is,” I whisper. “Which is why you can now understand why your tricks never would have worked on me. There’s nothing in the world—no gratitude great enough—that could make me sacrifice my chance at freedom.”
“Then in turn, you must see why I can’t break the curse myself,” Elliot says.
I recall what he told me about the first option to break it. Of the four things I stand to lose, if I sacrifice the one I value most, I will be returned those which I value less.
Elliot continues. “Sacrificing my wolf form means losing my freedom. There’s nothing worth sacrificing for that. Not even if it means my life.”
I return to brushing. “I do understand. We…understand each other. Which is why this alliance of ours will work. We both stand to lose on one side and gain at the other.” That last part isn’t entirely true, but I keep that to myself. For if my scheme fails and the curse remains unbroken, I cannot return to my old life, to my father. I must assure my success either way.
If the king dies, I’ll still need those twenty thousand quartz rounds.
My heart sinks at that. I may not know him well, but I don’t want the king to die. More than anything, I want this plan to work, for Imogen to break Elliot’s curse and give us both the freedom we crave.
But if it fails…
I force the thoughts from my mind, redoubling my focus on his hair. That’s more than enough to consume all my attention, for the brush seems to be doing very little to help. I consider giving up on the back and move to the front to assess if it’s any better. Leaning forward, I lift a tangled lock from his forehead. “Saints, Elliot, have you ever once brushed your hair?”
“No. I never needed a brush as a wolf.”
“But you groomed yourself in your own wolfy way, did you not?”
His frown tells me I’m right. “Yes,” he bites out.
Rifling my fingers through his matted strands, I shake my head. “Damn it to hell, this is impossible. I might have to tell Foxglove to just cut it all off at the scalp. In fact…” I smooth his hair away from his forehead, then bend down closer to study how it looks. I squint, trying to imagine him with such a short style. It would be ideal if he could keep the top long while trimming the back to his nape so at least some of the sun-kissed gold at the bottom half remains. I lean to the side and gather the back of his hair, then assess him again. Cocking my head to the side, my haphazard updo tumbles loose over my shoulder. I release the king’s hair, preparing to collect my own, when he leans slightly forward.
And inhales.
I freeze, caught off guard as he breathes in deeply, lips just inches from my neck. Then, like it had been the most normal thing in the world, he leans back in his chair.
My heart hammers in my chest as I struggle to compose myself. Straightening, I say, “What was that?”
“What was what?”
I give him a pointed look. “You can’t go round smelling people like that.”
His eyes take on a distant look. “Your hair smells like the wind. Mountains, snow, and trees.”
A blush burns my cheeks, and I can only pray he doesn’t notice. “Well, I was outside much of yesterday,” I mutter. “But you must take better care next time. That isn’t proper. Perhaps with Imogen…during courting…but with me…well, it’s like I said about the staring.”
His gaze slides to mine and there it locks, burning like the heat flooding my face. A corner of his mouth quirks into a smirk, but he doesn’t avert his gaze the way I taught him.
“Damn it, Elliot.” My voice comes out breathless. “You’re doing it wrong.”
For several moments, all I can hear is my raging heart, unable to look away as his gaze traps me like prey. Something moves inside me, but I can’t identify it. Is it fear? Panic? No, neither of those. Excitement? My pulse speeds even faster at the thought. No, it most certainly isn’t that. Not over the wolf king.
“Miss Bellefleur, that’s hardly what I’d call brushed,” Foxglove says from the door, freeing me from the king’s gaze.
I slam the brush on the bureau and stalk away from Elliot, arms crossed. “I’ve given up. Shave it clean off if you must.”
Elliot groans a protest, and I answer him with a glare.
“I’ll do whatever I can,” Foxglove says. “Oh, and by the way. The coach that arrived was not here for me after all. It brought humans and they refuse to leave.”
My eyes go wide. “Who are they?”
“Some Richard Bellefleur,” he says with a shrug. “A relation of yours, I presume.”
The blood drains from my face, and my heart hammers for a whole new reason. “Shit,” I say. “My father’s here.”
20
It takes me several minutes to compose myself in the hall as I gather the nerve to meet my father. I’ve known in the back of my mind that I’d eventually need to confront him, but I hadn’t been prepared to do it this soon. How did he even find me, anyway? When I sent Bertha with my letter informing him of my new employment, I gave no indication where said job was, only that I was being provided room and board and would not be returning to the townhouse.
Then it dawns on me.
Nina. My sister saw the address when I received the invitation for the interview. She warned me not to come here. Torn between feeling betrayed and guilty that I hadn’t sent an additional letter just for her, I take a deep breath and force myself out the front door.
Once outside, the first thing I see is Gray and Blackbeard standing gu
ard before the door, their stern expressions a silent threat barring entry to the manor. Both fae appear to have been gifted new clothes. Neither are outfitted as elegantly as the king, but their linen shirts are clean and their trousers well-fitting. They give me curt nods as I pass, but keep their gazes fixed ahead.
That’s when I see Father pacing alongside the rows of wagons in the drive, his coach-and-four at the very end. His face is beet red, and upon seeing me, he halts his pacing, eyes bulging with rage. “What is the meaning of this, Gemma?”
I stop several feet before him and fold my hands at my waist. Lifting my chin, I wear not the mask of the dutiful daughter, but the one I don for the townspeople. Confident. Cold. Haughty. “If you got my letter, then surely you know exactly what the meaning of this is.”
He bares his teeth for a moment, fingers curling into fists. “You have no right to send me a letter informing me you’ve taken a position of employment. I forbade you from seeking work the first time you brought it up.”
“I’m eighteen,” I say. “You cannot forbid me from taking a job.”
“I can so long as you live beneath my roof.”
“That’s just it, Father. I no longer live beneath your roof, for my new position provides room, board, and ample salary. Your threats to disown, disinherit, and displace me will now fall on deaf ears, should you choose to repeat them.”
“Was one scandal not enough?” he growls.
I narrow my eyes. “I fail to see how me gaining employment is worthy of the term scandal.”
“It is when your employer is a stranger whom you take room and board from. Who is he?”
“How do you know my employer is a he?”
“Are you his mistress, hiding out at his country estate? Is that what this is? Another case of the Viscount of Brekshire?”
The Viscount of Brekshire. The name crushes my chest, making my lungs feel too small, sending my head spinning. My mask falters.
“When will you learn, Gemma? You will ruin yourself once and for all if you keep throwing yourself at the feet of taken men.”
I bite the inside of my cheek, seeking the sting of pain. Anything to free myself from the whirl of sound that beats at my mind, invades my senses.
Seductress.
Harlot.
He didn’t belong to you.
Father takes a step closer, his voice a barbed whisper. “Get in the coach.”
I close my eyes and breathe the memories away. When I open them, I form a word with all the strength and calm I can manage. Even so, it comes out with a tremor. “No.”
He crosses the remaining distance between us, bringing his face inches from mine. Expression twisted with rage, he shouts, “Get in the coach!”
I clench my jaw. “No!”
At the same moment, Father lurches back, and in his place stands a towering Elliot, his hand locked on my father’s shoulder. The king’s voice comes out low, dangerous. “Are you harassing my steward?”
Father shrugs roughly from Elliot’s grip, face crimson as he adjusts his jacket. His eyes fall on the king’s pointed ears, and his lips pull into a sneer. “Who do you think you are to lay your hands on me, you filthy fae?”
Elliot takes a slow, swaggering step, shoulders rigid as he stares down at my father. “I’m the filthy fae who pays your salary, human.”
Father’s chest heaves as he stands his ground beneath the king’s seething stare. Then, in a rush, the redness melts from his cheeks, eyes widening. “Who are you?”
Elliot’s words come from between his teeth. “I will forgive you this once for not knowing the face of your king, for I am not here for recognition. In fact, if I hear word has gotten out that I am here at all, I’ll know exactly who to punish. As king, I have a right to live where I please, seek discretion when I please, and employ whom I please, and that includes your daughter. Any questions?”
Father seems to shrink as he takes a step away. His voice comes out tremulous. “Your Majesty—”
“So long as my presence remains outside public knowledge, you will refer to me as Mr. Rochester.”
“Mr. Rochester,” he says in a rush, “might I ask what your intentions are with my daughter?”
“What the freezing fuck do you think?” Elliot puts his hands on his hips. “To pay her for her duties as my house steward. If you’re suggesting—”
Father lifts his hands and retreats a few steps back. “No, Your Ma—Mr. Rochester. No. I meant nothing like that.”
A low growl rumbles in Elliot’s chest. “Get off my property at once.”
Father nods and starts to turn around, pausing only to meet my gaze for a few tense seconds. Then, with a departing glare, he stomps down the drive toward his coach.
Elliot faces me, teeth bared in a snarl. “No wonder you seek freedom from that wretched human.”
Taking in his face for the first time since he came to my rescue, I’m rendered mute. In the time I spent preparing to speak with my father, the king’s beard has already been trimmed close to his jaw and his mane of hair pulled back from his face with a leather strap. While the job isn’t nearly complete—in fact, upon further scrutiny, the beard trim is haphazard at best—I’m given my first look at the decent jaw I claimed to believe he has. Seeing the shape taking place beneath the grizzly hair, I must say his jaw is decent indeed. More than decent, maybe.
“Don’t look at me like that, Miss Bellefleur,” he says. “Have you no manners? It isn’t proper to stare.”
My eyes slowly lift to meet his, and it takes me a moment to recognize the amusement in them. I blink a few times, shaking myself from my stupor. What’s wrong with me? My encounter with my father must have me truly flustered.
I grin. “Elliot Rochester, was that…humor coming from your lips?”
“Certainly not. All I do is brood.” His mouth curls into a sly grin. It’s not quite the smile I glimpsed last night when he was sitting by the fire, but this one isn’t too hard on the eyes either.
“Gemma.” The voice comes from the back of the drive near Father’s coach, but it isn’t Father who speaks. It’s Nina.
The king takes a forbidding step forward, a growl beginning to reverberate in his throat, but I put a hand on his chest to still him. His eyes fly to my hand, and I snatch it away, blushing at the contact. I try to erase my mental note regarding how firm he’d felt beneath the brocade waistcoat. “It’s all right,” I say. “I’ll speak with her.”
With a nod, he gives my sister a warning look, then makes his way back to the manor. Not daring to get too close to Father’s coach, I motion Nina to me. Her eyes are red and glazed with tears when she stops before me. “A letter, Gemma? Was there ever going to be a real goodbye?”
My heart sinks, and a lump rises in my throat. “I had to take this opportunity, Nina. You know I couldn’t come back to the townhouse if I got a job. Not if I found a suitable arrangement.”
“That’s not an excuse,” she says. “I understand not telling Father, but…you could have come back to see me.”
“I was going to,” I say, and it’s true. I would have come to see her alone, once she could assure me Father wouldn’t be home. Eventually. “I…needed a couple days.”
My sister’s lower lip trembles and her resemblance to Mother is enough to take my breath away. I rarely saw Mother cry, but when she did, she looked just like Nina does now. “I’m not ready to lose you, Gemma.”
Blinking back tears, I pull my sister to my chest. One of her arms circles my waist. “You haven’t lost me.”
“But I will,” she says through her sobs. “I lost Mother and Marnie already. I’ll be married to James soon and then…and then what, Gem?”
Another painful lump rises in my throat, one bearing the secret I haven’t dared share with her—about my plans to leave Faerwyvae and return to Isola. So I tell her the only honest answer I can give. “I don’t know, Nina. I really don’t know.”
Once our tears have somewhat dried, we manage to extricate ourselves
from each other’s grasp. Only then do I see what kept my sister from hugging me with both arms; against her side she carries a book. With a sniffle, she holds it out to me. “I thought you might want something to read.”
I take the book gingerly in my hands, caressing the cloth-bound spine like the body of a lover. My lips curl into a smile as I read the title. The Governess and the Earl.
My sister straightens, composing herself and clasping her hands at her waist. “If you want the rest of your books, you’ll have to visit me.”
“You’re holding my books for ransom?” I laugh, then give her arm an affectionate squeeze. “Thank you.”
With a sad smile, she nods and returns to Father’s coach. I remain in place, watching as the horses take the black coach away, then stare even longer after they’re gone. Only then does my heart feel lighter, relief settling over me. With a sigh, I hug my book to my chest and turn back toward the manor. I’m halfway to the door when I recall how Elliot had stepped between me and my father. The way he revealed his identity just to get him to stand down. It was unexpected to say the least. And I’m grateful for it.
A smile tugs my lips, but I force the thoughts from my mind. For just beneath them lies my poorly discarded mental note, one involving a brief touch and the king’s chest. I squeeze my book tighter to stop the tingling that dances over the surface of my palm.
21
I’m surprised how quickly the manor starts to improve. Walls are scrubbed, some are repainted or repapered. With the help of the manor’s residents, the floors are cleaned, corners dusted, and windows polished. As the week goes on, I continue to dole out tasks, helping with some myself, and assign official positions to the king’s pack of wolf people. I’m impressed with how amenable they are to work, as if the prospect of keeping busy is a tantalizing thing. I suppose five years trapped in one place without task or purpose will do that to a person, whether human or fae.
Curse of the Wolf King: A Beauty and the Beast Retelling (Entangled with Fae) Page 14
