Sinfully Delicious: Six Scintillating Stories of Sweets, Treats, and Happily Ever Afters

by Gauthier, Crystal L.

  He groaned, stared up at the patch of bare sky surrounded by branches above him.

  An avalanche of debris followed in his wake. The dead underbrush covering him as it fell in his passing.

  He held his breath, buried beneath the mound of leaves and grass and Gods alone knew what else.

  “Did you survive, baker?”

  Surely the huntsman couldn’t see him in the dark, buried as he was, sitting his horse atop a hill while Rol wallowed, unsure he could stand in the aftermath of his fall?

  “Get down there and see if he’s alive.”

  “But sir, it’s pitch—”

  Whoever the Fox pushed cried out as he fell.

  Rol didn’t dare remain still, wait for the man to crash at his side, living, dead, didn’t matter. A trained soldier knew how to fight wounded, and Rollu wasn’t anything like a trained soldier.

  It hadn’t taken the Fox long to find Rol’s trail when he left the princess behind.

  He was damn lucky the soldiers had taken the bait and failed to realize he was alone for a time before the knowledge dawned and some had broken off to retrace their steps in the hopes of finding the woman they’d been sent to hunt.

  Rol hoped he’d bought her enough time to escape.

  He didn’t have as high hopes for himself, but then, for some reason, that didn’t bother him nearly as much as the thought of her not making it from the woods and back to her home.

  He scrambled from his leaf strewn bed and bolted deeper into the trees.

  For the Fox to follow him, the man would have to ride around the ravine, find a safe way for his horse to forge a path in the darkness.

  Hopefully it would take the man time.

  And hopefully the man hadn’t sent horsemen in the opposite direction already closing in on Rol’s position while Bajin found his way down the cliff side.

  The waters wer e churning far closer than Rol thought they’d be.

  He hadn’t remembered any rises or paths when he and Tasiya had been searching for the cabin. They’d climbed no hills nor fought steep ascents that first night.

  Hadn’t he left the cabin in the same direction that they’d come from?

  He’d thought he was heading towards the city, back to a destination he knew, somewhere he might be able to navigate.

  Perhaps Matihilda, with all her spirits, might be able to remove the arrow for him without calling attention to the deed.

  What the hell kind of thinking was that?

  Rol clutched at his shoulder, the arm nearly numb now, or perhaps he was just numb and should be grateful for the same.

  How long had he been running this time? When was it that he’d actually left the cabin? If she’d found her soldiers, how soon until she was back in the safety of the castle and he could stop to rest?

  He needed to rest.

  His knees were trembling and when he stopped to catch his breath, hand against a tree, his skin was pale beneath the flaking red of drying blood.

  He couldn’t feel his bare feet anymore.

  He was grateful for that, knowing that the thorns and the roots and whatever else he’d stepped on in the woods, that had cut at his toes and heels…

  Rol panted, tried to catch his breath.

  There was a rustling in the woods behind him.

  He couldn’t turn his head to look, not with the arrow in his shoulder, each minute movement enough to spark a fresh shoot of pain, quelled when he remembered not to think of the injury, when he remembered to simply run, don’t move his arms, don’t turn his neck, don’t look back.

  His cough was wet.

  He wiped the splatters of blood from his hand on his pant leg, used the trunk of the tree to push off and forward.

  The braying of dogs sounded in the distance.

  The dogs wouldn’t fail to find his scent this time, and no amount of muddy bank would hide him now.

  He thought he heard the cheering of soldiers or was that their call to arms somewhere up ahead.

  A better chance of survival at the water’s edge.

  At the very least, he could make a stand there.

  He could pretend to make his stand there, while the Fox chased him to ground.

  Caught between the waves and the hunter.

  He was just a baker.

  Chapter Twenty

  He stumbled t o his knees, exhausted, the arrow in his shoulder growing unbearable in the heavy rain, his legs long since numb from trying to flee the party that was relentless in its hunt.

  The bank of the river splashed up at him.

  The water was too swift to even risk bending over and stealing a sip from the surf.

  A horse whinnied behind him, and he hung his head, not enough time for a drink regardless.

  Rol forced himself to his feet, turned to meet the gaze of the man who had stalked him.

  He straightened his spine, arm clenched tight to his chest.

  “Pathetic.”

  Rol tipped his chin up, refused to respond.

  “Little gingerbread man.” Bajin dismounted from his steed, one against one, though the fox withdrew his sword from its sheath, and the only weapon Rollu had was the arrow protruding from his shoulder. “Looks like I’ve caught you.”

  Yes, apparently, he had.

  Rol shook his head, tried to clear the shadows closing on his gaze.

  “Where is she, baker? Where did you stash the little bitch before taking flight?”

  He blinked. “I didn’t stash her anywhere. She doubled back the moment you took my trail and left the cottage without guard.”

  “I’ve had men on that path all day, boy. She wouldn’t have escaped me.”

  Rol smiled, his lips pulling back in more of a grimace than a grin though he did try, meeting the crazed gaze before him. “You were not alone on those paths, not the only ones in pursuit of her.”

  He turned his stare to the riders approaching at a gallop from the tree line, the lead soldier riding pillion with another in flowing white at his back, the edges of her gown dirt and mud stained from her foray through the woods.

  His mouth opened in awe, in blessed thanksgiving that she was safe.

  She was safe.

  Thank the Gods, she was safe.

  Her companion stood in his stirrups and waved at Rollu.

  Not in greeting, as it turned out, the heel of the Fox’s boot crashing against Rol’s sternum, forcing him back, back and back to the very edges of the river, back to where the first drops of moisture sucked at his feet and threatened to drag him in.

  All he heard was the rushing of the water.

  He watched a rider knock Lord Bajin out of the way, coral the man on his knees.

  The princess and her horseman rushed towards him.

  Rol felt the passing wind of Tasiya’s hand miss his as the water took him.

  “No!”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  She stood i n her tower room, staring out over the countryside, out over the forest and its hated tree line, the river just barely visible marking its furthest boundary.

  It had been three days since she was returned to her father’s home.

  Three days, and no word of her baker.

  King Igdeon had ordered Bajin and Unsted thrown into the dungeons, their punishment to be determined once Rollu’s fate had been declared.

  A man couldn’t be executed twice.

  The pair had conspired to kill their princess. There was no other fate left to them. And while she wished she was as bloodthirsty as a goblin or as ruthless as a gnome, Tasiya wouldn’t advocate for a harsher end to her would-be-killers lives than a short drop and a sudden stop provided.

  The sun was beginning to set.

  She’d promised to have dinner with her father, to be seen at the head of the royal table, undeterred by the actions of her once fiancé, unafraid, believing in the faith and the love of her people, not fear of them.

  Her meals were all tasted beyond the sight of the banquet hall, served cold to ensure they wer
e untainted by poison before reaching her side.

  One threat, and the world changed.

  She closed her eyes, leaned her forehead against the stained glass of her window.

  The sound was distant, but the clanging of the bells to raise the gates reached her ears even so high above the main entrance to the castle.

  She could just barely make out the rider galloping towards her home, something weighing across the front of the man’s saddle, too large to be a bag, large enough to be a man…

  By the tim e she reached the entrance hall, the rider and his burden had been ushered inside and beyond her sight, her father’s men speeding around her in the confusion and scramble that ensued in the aftermath. She couldn’t stop anyone to find an answer, silently prayed, because if she stopped someone he needed, it could cost him the life she’d already thought lost.

  She waited.

  In the quiet of an alcove, away from the bustling steps of the palace staff, she stood silently praying to the statue within the small space that her hopes be answered, that her baker, her baker, was returned to her and that he would be well.

  Please, Gods, let him be well.

  The hand that touched her shoulder made her jump.

  The soldier whom it belonged to mimicked her reaction at her sudden jerk. “Apologies, Princess, I did not mean to disturb you.”

  She waved his response away, ignored propriety to demand answers. “Is he alive?”

  The man frowned, clearly not someone who was in the know, having only done his duty in ensuring she was without need before he ventured off to his next mission or other.

  Tasiya raised her hand to forestall his second apology. “Never mind. Be on your way, Soldier. Your attention is appreciated.”

  She did not add that it was also unnecessary, unsought, crossing her arms over her chest to hold in the warmth, cold, though the castle’s furnaces were burning brightly with the advent of winter.

  “Jalai is young, but he’s a good lad. He’s attentive to everything around him.”

  She sighed.

  Finally, someone who would have answers, who she trusted to tell her the truth no matter how harsh it was.

  Erasto hadn’t changed from his riding clothes, the leathers covered in mud and damp with rain and whatever else he’d travelled through. His hair was disheveled, and his face was drawn, eyes sunk deep in their sockets, dark marks beneath them.

  He’d gone personally to look for Rollu, because she had asked it of him.

  She clenched her jaw waiting for him to continue.

  “He was washed up near Agraot. I don’t know how long he’d been there, but apparently no one had seen him, or no one had decided to help him. Nigh frozen, when we managed to get him on the horses.”

  “We?”

  His arms crossed, a match to her posture. “I couldn’t go out alone, Tasiya. It’s unsafe with Bajin’s men still unaccounted for. And it’s a lucky thing I had men with me. He was unresponsive when we found him. He wouldn’t have been able to ride, to lift himself onto a horse.” He shook his head, not at her, at the absurdity of the situation.

  Soldiers sent to find a baker.

  But for her, he’d gone.

  It would be unseemly to be friends with her guardsmen, but Erasto was a court noble, outside of uniform. They had been raised together. He was the brother she’d never had and cared for her as the same.

  “The healers are with him now.”

  “And their prognosis?”

  That he met her gaze should have been comforting, but they’d known each other too long for his stare to be the same.

  He always met her gaze when ill news was to be delivered.

  She braced herself as best she could, shoulders back, arms let loose to hang at her sides, fingers straight against her skirts, uncurled. Her chin tilted up, her guard against the world’s judgments.

  “It is not good.”

  Her eyes closed and if a tear spilled from the corner, neither mentioned it. “Have they said aught else?”

  “Fever set in, likely from infection and the wound in his shoulder. The arrow must have pulled free in his plight in the river. His breath rasps from lungs too long filled with water. He sleeps, and so he still lives, but that is all they can say.”

  “I would see him.”

  He bowed his head to her, having to have known that would be her response, whatever he said to her. “Of course.”

  “And Erasto,” she did not let her lip tremble, her voice strong and sure even as her heart ached deep inside. “There is one more thing I would ask of you, if you are able.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Rol groaned, stiffe r than he’d ever been before in his life, uncomfortable on the too soft bedding that his body was sunk into, his head and neck raised at an angle unconducive to rest in his prone position.

  He didn’t remember falling asleep that way.

  He didn’t remember…

  What had happened?

  He blinked into the darkened room, the faint light of a fire burning too far away to offer much illumination.

  No, there were curtains pulled around his bed that dimmed the light.

  But his bed at Unsted’s bakery was not nearly so fine…

  He bolted upright in his sheets, scrabbled to reach the edge of the mattress, free himself from the confines of whatever room he found himself in, find the princess who was in danger, who was being threatened, his master, her fiancé—

  His lungs seized.

  When his hands went to his chest, he gasped in pain at the unbearable ache that spurred through his shoulder and down his right arm with the movement.

  He choked and moaned and fell back in his bedding, the room spinning, or was it just his head?

  The curtains were pulled further open.

  He groaned again, the flare of bright light too much to bear for his pounding head.

  A warm hand cupped his cheek. A deep voice soothed him.

  The room stilled, and he managed to distinguish the outline of the older man sitting at his bedside, the hand that moved towards him with a cup of tea, the warm steam tickling beneath his nose though he opened his lips for a sip.

  “Father.”

  “It’s been too long, Rol. And seems you’ve been getting yourself into trouble out here in troll country.”

  He smiled, fought not to let the grin turn to a grimace when his chest tightened, and he had to hiss in a small stream of air, unable to sit or sleep comfortably, apparently.

  “The physic said it will take time, but your lungs will heal.”

  He squeezed his eyes shut, tried to piece together the story that he couldn’t quite recall.

  “The arrow wound was infected, but he managed to stop the spread of the blood poisoning. You’ll be weak for a time, but everything will get better.”

  “The princess?”

  “I’m fine.”

  His neck turned slowly to look past his father’s shoulder to the shadow hiding at the bedside behind the old man’s bulk.

  Cinta nodded to the woman, not a bow, not a bob, just a nod, before he stood and exchanged places with the royal, hovering just a foot beyond them, watching whatever exchange was about to occur.

  Rol missed the warmth of his father’s hand at his cheek.

  It would have hidden the flush he felt brewing beneath his skin.

  Perhaps he could blame it on fever?

  “You’ve slept for nearly two weeks. The healers were afraid you wouldn’t wake.”

  “Two weeks?”

  “And missing, before that, for three days.”

  He frowned, tried to sit up, “I don’t remember—”

  She pressed her small hand against his chest, held him down though there was no way her strength was mightier than his own, yet he was held as securely as a child in place. “Bajin kicked you into the river. You must have flowed far downstream before you managed to find your way to shore. We all thought you’d drowned.”

  Was it his imagination
, or did her words hitch at the thought of his almost demise?

  “My guardsman, Erasto, found you and brought you here. I sent for your father.”

  “Gratitude, Your Highness.”

  Her lips quirked in a small smile, too hesitant to truly show any mirth, his health in too much question to be out of the woods yet. “Gratitude, to you, Rollu Secul. I would be dead three times over without your aid, and my kingdom in the hands of a madman if not for your bravery in forestalling him. You bring honor to yourself and your people with your courage.”

  It was a rehearsed speech, something a queen would say to her peon.

  Yet she held his gaze, and her hand had moved from his chest to his fingers laying atop the bedding, laced their digits together so that she could stroke her thumb along his skin, squeeze.

  Cinta stepped towards his head, his presence surprisingly possessive as he rested his hand on Rol’s shoulder and Rol watched his father turn a cold stare to the princess. “He needs to rest. The healers said that would be best for his health.”

  “Father!”

  “He’s right, Rol. I should not keep you.”

  She made to rise, and he gripped her hand where she held on to him.

  “It was my honor, my lady, to serve you.”

  The way she inclined her head was regal and polite, an offering of acceptance, nothing more.

  The way she lingered, didn’t pull away from his hold…

  Cinta cleared his throat.

  Rol blinked, not having realized he’d become lost in the argent stare of the princess.

  “If you have need of anything, send for me, and I’ll come.”

  That she directed the statement to him was improper in the extreme. A princess serving at the whims of a commoner, outrageous.

  That her sincerity was undisputed…

  They ignored the old baker’s inhale at her words.

  She’d spoken them to Rol alone, not his father, nor any other in the room guarding their desires.

  “You honor me.”

  She hesitated, sitting before him, an arms distance separating them from where he reclined in the center of the small bed and she at his side.