The Princess, the Pea, and the Night of Passion (Passion-Filled Fairy Tales Book 1)

by Rosetta Bloom

  “So, Amira,” Nassi said. “Tell me about your evening.”

  Adara sighed, took Nassi’s hand and sat on the bench. “Well, I barely got a wink of sleep,” Adara said. She was about to say more when she remembered the prince had eavesdropped on her last conversation with Nassi. She wondered if he was listening again. That might explain why Lionel had brought her to this room, rather than bringing Nassi to her. Perhaps she was being spied on again. She whispered in Nassi’s ear, trying to keep the conversation as private as possible. Nassi was so surprised by what Adara told her that, at some points, she’d gasp and repeat what Adara had said. After Adara had finished telling the girl of her night, Nassi asked if Adara liked the prince and thought him trustworthy. Adara nodded that she did, and Nassi looked relieved at that. Nassi’s reaction seemed odd, but before Adara could delve into it, Lionel came in and told Adara he’d take her to breakfast with the king, queen and prince, while Nassi could eat with the servants in the kitchen.

  Chapter 11

  Lionel took Adara to breakfast via some long winding route, which annoyed Adara. When she arrived for breakfast finally, the royal family — the king, queen and prince were already seated. Surprisingly, the queen greeted Adara with a smile so broad it threatened to extend beyond her face. In fact, the queen looked giddy, like she might actually jump for joy. Maybe the king was as good in bed as his son, Adara thought. If she and the queen had experienced similar nights, Adara could understand why the queen was so joyous.

  The prince stood and pulled out a chair for Adara opposite of where he’d been sitting. She smiled at him, but tried not to make it too intense, lest anyone suspect he’d been with her last night.

  No sooner had the prince returned to his seat than the queen turned to Adara, that same giant grin plastered on her face. “Did you sleep well?”

  Adara thought back to her complete lack of sleep and tried to reply truthfully, but with omissions. “I very much enjoyed the room, Your Majesty.”

  The queen’s smile faded and she looked serious. “Aren’t you polite, my dear,” she said. “But you can be honest with me.”

  Adara tried to look nonchalant, but she was getting nervous. What was the queen getting at? She wondered if she could know. But, if she knew, she wouldn’t ask about it, would she? Adara looked briefly at Richard, but he, too, looked curious about what his mother was asking. “Your Majesty,” she said. “The accommodations were very generous of you.”

  The queen nodded curtly. “I see you’re too polite to be honest,” she said as she clutched her hands and sighed. “Well, dear, I’ll be honest with you. I overheard what you said to your girl. That you didn’t sleep well last night.”

  Adara’s mouth popped open in shock. “You heard?”

  The queen frowned and nodded. “Yes,” she said. “I didn’t hear everything, as you’re a very quiet talker my dear, which is good. Discretion is important in matters such as these, but your maid servant repeated enough of what you said, that I realized what you were talking about. You said it was ‘as hard as a boulder,’” the queen said, shaking her head as if it were the most scandalous comment to ever cross the threshold of her ears. The queen continued, her voice quiet as she repeated what she’d overheard. “You said you were ‘pounded all night.’”

  Adara swallowed and looked at the Prince, who raised an eyebrow. Then she turned back to the queen, who was staring. Adara was unable to hide the horror and embarrassment. “I’m sorry,” she said. “You weren’t supposed to hear.”

  The queen waved away the comment. “It’s alright, dear,” she said kindly. “Now it’s my turn to apologize. The night you experienced is all my fault.”

  Adara was confused. She looked at the queen, then the prince, and then back at the queen. Was the queen saying she’d sent Richard to seduce her? That didn’t make any sense.

  “I’m confused, mother,” Richard said. “What are you saying?”

  She turned to her son. “Oh yes, dear. You would be confused, because I didn’t tell you. If you must know, I didn’t believe Adara was a princess, so I decided to put her to the test. It’s a test any true princess can pass, and Adara did, with flying colors. I had the staff set a single pea in the bed frame and then stack twenty mattresses on top of it. Only a real princess would feel that pea through the mattresses. Clearly Adara did. She was pounded all night by it, and it felt as hard as a boulder. I mean, as soon as I heard her say she didn’t sleep at night, coupled with the other things, I knew she had felt it. Such sensitivity. Sensitivity only a princess would have.”

  Adara managed to suppress the laughter that was threatening to break loose. She nodded and lowered her head. “Yes, Your Majesty, it was the pea,” she said. She looked over at the prince. “It was as hard as a boulder, and so, so big. I felt it all night long. It was relentless.”

  Richard looked at Adara, raised an eyebrow. “It must have been so difficult for you,” he said, pausing, licking his lower lip, “being on top of something so large all night.”

  The queen let out a sigh. “Well, it felt big, but really it was just a pea, Richard,” she said. She turned to Adara. “I’m so sorry it troubled you. I hope you’ll forgive me for both the pea and the eavesdropping. You see, I had to listen in, as I knew a real princess with good manners would never complain to her host. And you’ve been so proper not to complain. Please don’t hold this against me.”

  Adara smiled at the queen. “Of course not,” she said, deciding flattery was her best option. “You’d be a fool to believe every girl who showed up at your doorstep and claimed to be a princess. It was a wise test, Your Majesty.”

  “But an unnecessary one,” the prince chimed in. He looked at the queen. “Mother, you’ve been pressing me to find a princess bride, and I’ve liked none of the ones you suggested. So, on the advice of someone wise, I’ve found my own. I’d like to marry Adara.”

  The queen smiled. Adara was stunned. She said nothing. Her heart hammered in her chest as she tried to get her bearings. Yes, she had done with him what husbands do with wives, but it had just been because she thought it was over, that she was being taken back. Was this his plan? To wed her so that when her father’s men came, she could claim status as his princess and refuse to go? If that was his plan, was she simply trading one bad marriage — one to the sultan — for another— one here with him? She liked him and he seemed kind, but she’d just met him. What if he was cruel? What if she ended up like her mother?

  “Well of course, she’ll marry you,” the queen said, her smile bright and cheery.

  The prince looked at Adara. She looked down at her lap.

  Richard spoke. His voice lacked its usual confidence. “I sent word to her father’s men of my intentions this morning. The reply arrived just before we came in for breakfast.” Richard turned to a servant standing in the corner. The servant brought a piece of parchment over, and the prince took it and handed it to Adara. “It’s in Arabic.”

  Adara looked at the paper tentatively, then took it. The reply would be no. Her father’s men knew she was already betrothed. She opened the paper, and indeed it was in Arabic. Only it was in Nassi’s handwriting. Adara read the note to herself:

  Adara,

  I asked your girl to write this for me, for I wanted to pour my heart out to you in a way that you would understand, without alerting others here in the castle, except for Nasiha, whom you seem to trust impeccably.

  Last night was the most exhilarating, wonderful night of my life, and I can’t imagine not having another, in fact many other, nights like that with you. I ask that you consider what I’ve proposed here in this room with my family. If you say yes, we can be together, and I promise you that I will love you and you alone. I will treat you well and listen to your opinions.

  I have a confession. Since I overheard your conversation last night, I knew it was imperative that my mother not send word to the delegation searching for you. I stopped my mother’s man before he left and gave him new orders. I told him
to ask your father’s delegation why they had come to our kingdom. I thought there might be a chance their visit was coincidental and they were not seeking you. However, the man returned this morning, and said the delegation from Bastalia was indeed looking for two maidens who had escaped. Upon learning this, I asked Nasiha for something of yours. She said there wasn’t much, only a bracelet of your mothers that you had kept with you because it was sentimental. Unfortunately, my solution for keeping you safe required its sacrifice. I have sent it with one of the servants into town. He is reporting to your delegation that it was found among the belongings of two women who died a few days ago, and were buried in a pauper’s grave. That should send them home to tell your father that you have perished. You are free of your father and your betrothal.

  You are also free to make your own choice. If you do not like my proposal, then you should tell my parents that your father’s men want you to return to them. I will personally escort you wherever you wish to go and bid you farewell, so that you may have the life that you want and deserve.

  But remember that you are free to say yes to me, too. It would make me enduringly happy for you to say yes.

  Love,

  Richard

  “Well, what does it say?” the queen asked impatiently.

  Adara looked at Richard. He was pale and biting his lower lip, as if waiting for bad tidings. She wasn’t sure what she wanted to say. He’d given her a choice, though. She could stay or she could go. Her father would think she and Nassi had died, no matter what. She was free.

  “Adara,” the queen said, clearly annoyed Adara had yet to follow her instructions. “Translate it, dear.”

  Adara looked up at the queen, then at Richard. “It says,” she started, holding the paper up in front of her. “It says that my grandfather, Hakeem, received the prince’s request,” she said, swallowing. “My grandfather was among the traveling party. He’s very wise and can serve as proxy for my father in certain decisions.” She looked at the paper again, thinking of what she wanted. She took a deep breath. “It says that my grandfather will consent to the prince’s request, so long as I consent to it.”

  The prince looked slightly relieved. “Do you?” he asked.

  His mother chimed in, “Well of course she does, Richard. I’ve seen the way she looks at you. She’s definitely smitten. And who wouldn’t be? You’re perfect.”

  The princess looked into Richard’s blue eyes, so desirous of an answer. She thought about everything she’d experienced with him last night, about how connected she felt to him, about the choice he had given her.

  He had freed her from her father, from possible death or a horrendous marriage. He’d also freed her from him, if that’s what she wanted. Her future was free, but where is it that she wanted to go?

  The truth was, she couldn’t think of any other place she wanted to be, and of any place she’d felt more at home since leaving her country. She didn’t know what the future would hold, but she felt it would be a good one with him.

  “If you need more time,” Richard said, softly.

  Adara shook her head. “As usual, your mother is right,” she said, smiling. “Of course I want to marry you.”

  THE END

  If you enjoyed the Princess, the Pea, and the Night of Passion, please leave a review. If you can’t wait for the next book in the series, turn the page to read the first chapter of Beauty and her Beastly Love.

  Beauty and Her Beastly Love (Preview)

  Chapter 1

  Beauty ran her finger over the imprint of the rose on the leather-bound book, savoring the supple feel of it beneath her fingertips. It was smooth and firm, yet soft enough that it felt almost like skin. She wondered briefly if it felt like the skin of a man’s erection. The type of man she’d read about in this book. In the other books like it.

  She smiled to herself, her red lips curving crookedly as she thought about what she’d just read in this book’s pages. The man and woman in their bedroom, the passion with which he’d removed her clothing: speedy, furious, ripping, tearing, beastly. The moans of pleasure that escaped her as he took her. Their bodies naked, groping, clinging to each other.

  Beauty wondered if these books were true. Yes, she knew that men and women bedded each other, but the passion with which the people in these books acted and reacted seemed unreal. Were there really people out there that loved each other so fully, that reacted so primally, fiercely and all-consumingly? Did people really do those things? Did they really touch each other like that? The warmth between her legs hinted that it was very real indeed, but she didn’t know for sure. She might never know. Beauty was rarely allowed around others. She lived in the country with her father, Pierre LaVigne. He was a kind man who made his living farming. He grew grapes and made wine, but he lacked spirit.

  He was a man broken by loss. The loss of her mother, Celine. Renowned for her beauty and horticultural skills, her mother had taken ill suddenly and died when Beauty was just six years old. Pierre had persevered, and her older twin brothers, Marcel and Maurice, had pitched in to help. The vineyard had run smoothly until Beauty turned 12. Until then, Beauty had been able to walk the two miles to town and attend school or visit the shops or market. Then Marcel and Maurice had become ill working in the fields. They died within a day of each other. It was so sudden, so quick, that Pierre was in shock. He could do almost nothing.

  Nothing but pull in the reigns. He farmed less land, grew fewer grapes, made less wine, and demanded that Beauty stay at the homestead only. He allowed her to help press the wine, but never to work in the fields the way her brothers had. She milked the cow, tended the vegetable and flower gardens and sometimes read over the gardening journals her mother had left.

  Often she read. Her father indulged her love of books, letting the local shopkeeper, Giselle, bring her books from Giselle’s personal library. Giselle was also supposed to answer feminine questions that Pierre, as a man, would have no clue how to answer. Beauty loved Giselle’s visits and all the books she brought. When Beauty was younger, she offered to read to her father or asked him to read to her, but he wasn’t a man who enjoyed whimsical books like she did. He enjoyed the farmer’s almanac and sometimes books on hunting, but nothing like the fantastical things Beauty enjoyed reading. In the last year, Beauty had been glad of her father’s disinterest in her books. He rarely looked at the books Giselle brought.

  About a year ago, right after Beauty had turned 17, Giselle had looked Beauty in the eyes and handed her a leather-bound book with the imprint of a flower on it. It had no real title, in terms of what one thought of as a traditional title. It simply said “Volume I” at the top. In the center of the cover was the imprint of a rose pressed deep within the leather, and at the bottom, in seductive script, was the author’s name: Ferus Lucunditas.

  The old woman, her graying brown hair wrapped neatly in a scarf to keep out the oncoming winter chill, whispered to the girl: “These are special books.” Giselle’s dark brown eyes glanced around the room, as if she expected Beauty’s father to come in from the fields and chastise them. “This is the first volume, and it discusses things women should know, things you ordinarily might learn only when you are in your husband’s home. But, your life is so sheltered here, I worry that your father will not ensure your betrothal, or that you will fall into a pattern of contentment here, that you won’t push to leave him. Read this so that you may learn there is more out there.”

  Beauty had looked down at the book, the curiosity Giselle seeded already beginning to grow. More. Giselle had called it more. Yes, there was more to the world than this quaint vineyard outside of town. There were bakers, shoemakers, blacksmiths, artisans, bookkeepers. There were families with husbands, wives, and gaggles of children. Beauty knew all these things, but the way that Giselle had said “more,” she’d known it meant something else, something that was so much more.

  She’d known instinctively by Giselle’s demeanor and words that she should not read the book around her fathe
r. Even though he never expressed much interest in her books, she knew this one should be kept from him, that it would not be right to even read the book in the same room with him.

  She was so glad that she had trusted her instincts. The night she’d read that first volume, she had been so shocked she gasped. Then she read it again, because she liked it. She read it a third time and touched herself, her fingers getting slick as she tried to create the sensations that had been described so vividly on the pages. She could almost feel the young man from the volume caressing her breasts, the way he’d caressed the heroine’s, sliding his fingers slowly, softly down her abdomen until he reached the tuft of wild hair that shrouded her womanhood. The thought made her shiver with desire.

  The door to the house banged open, and Beauty sat up straighter, lifted the book from her lap and tucked it into her sewing basket, just as her father entered the room.

  “Beauty,” he said, pronouncing her nickname with warmth. Though her given name was Angelina, everyone had called the girl Beauty since she was old enough to walk. “Are you alright, dear? You look flush.” He turned and looked at the roaring fireplace, then at the windows, which were shuttered for the winter. “Are you too hot?”

  Beauty shook her head at her father. Pierre was a stout man, with white hair atop his head and a matching beard. Some of the school children thought he looked like St. Nicholas, but Beauty simply laughed at the notion. Her father was a kind man, who happened to look older than his years because he was so marred by experience.

  “I’m well, Papa,” she said. “Don’t worry about me.”

  He sighed. “Sometimes, I think that’s all I do, Beauty.” He took off his coat and hung it on a hook near the fireplace in their cottage. The front door opened into the main room. The house also included a kitchen and two tiny bedrooms. One for Beauty and one for her father. Had Beauty’s mother, Celine, lived, there might have been more children. But they all had died: Celine, Maurice and Marcel. Now, it was just Beauty and Pierre.