I smile, but it’s only for appearances. Inside, it feels as if an ulcer burns at my stomach. The baron rides down the lane, walking the horse I just rode on a lead beside him.
Broussard’s offer would make a world of difference for my family. Eugene would never again have to worry about the mill. Thomas could pursue his whittling—do what he loves instead of working for the carpenter in Rynvale. And I would be taken care of—I’d never eat pottage again, never wear patched-together rags.
I’d live the rest of my life here, in Glenridge. Somehow, it just doesn’t seem like enough anymore.
“Good evening, Etta!”
I turn toward the lane, and a genuine smile tugs at my lips when I see Beau riding toward me on his chestnut mare, just back from another audience with King Deloge.
“How was it?” I ask as he dismounts.
He sets his horse free to graze in our overgrown pasture and removes his riding gloves. “Utter pandemonium. I waited over an hour for a two-minute audience.” Beau sees my expression and smiles. “But the king was very pleased with your quails.”
“That’s something, at least.”
Studying me, Beau crosses his arms. “I passed Broussard on the way here.”
“He just left.” I think back to the conversation and frown. “He very subtly asked me to marry him.”
Beau’s eyebrows shoot up. “Already?”
I shrug. “He says that he’ll burn the contract he made with Eugene if I say yes, let my brother keep the gold to invest in the mill.”
“What was your answer?” His expression is suddenly serious.
“I didn’t answer.” I watch the sun sink lower, toward the mountains. “Would it be very selfish of me to say no to him?” I look back at Beau. “When my saying yes would make such a difference in the quality of my brothers’ lives?”
“There are other options, Etta.” Beau crosses his arms. “If things go as Puss has planned—”
“He’s a cat.” I feel helpless. “The whole thing is folly.”
Beau steps in front of me, lifts his hands like he’s going to take my shoulders, and then changes his mind and drops them to his side. “I said I would help you, and I will. No matter if this scheme works with Kerrick or not.”
There’s something about Beau, a genuineness I’ve come to truly appreciate. But there’s something else now. I study him, wondering what it is. His moss-green eyes have light flecks of amber that I’ve never noticed, probably because we’ve never stood this close before. His lips are more angular than Kerrick’s, not as full.
“Don’t marry Broussard,” he says, his voice quieter than before.
His eyes search mine, and I go still.
“Do you know you smell like chocolate?” I whisper after several moments. A smile tugs teasingly at my lips, and I purse them to keep from laughing.
Beau’s gaze drops to the ground, and his cheeks grow a shade darker. He rubs the back of his neck as he bites back an embarrassed grin, and he takes a step away.
Laughing, I nudge his shoulder. “No wonder all these poor village girls are besotted with you when you smell like that.”
Raising an eyebrow, cheeks still red, Beau meets my eyes. His tone suddenly very serious, he says, “Not all of them.”
Another moment passes between us, but this one takes me by surprise. I begin to question something I know as fact—and that is that Beau is not interested in the village girls.
And I am most certainly a village girl.
I’ve looked at him for a moment too long, and he raises an eyebrow, waiting for me to respond. Gulping, I turn from him and laugh the sentiment away as if it were a joke. Pretend something didn’t just resonate in my core.
“I should go…” he says.
I meet his eyes. “Thank you for going to the king.”
He nods and turns to leave; then he stops and looks over his shoulder. “You owe me a ride. Come out with me tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” My mouth goes dry. “You realize I still don’t have a horse.”
“I’ll borrow one from the Roslins,” he says, speaking of the family who lives at the next farm over, the ones who provide milk for his shop.
I begin to shake my head. “I don’t think—”
Beau cocks his head to the side and pins me with his gaze. “Come on. Don’t turn me down twice.”
Setting my hands on my hips, I say, “You’re as stubborn as Puss.”
With a grin and a wave, he calls over his shoulders, “I’ll meet you here in the morning.”
“Where’s the most exotic place you’ve traveled?” Etta asks as we ride through the countryside with no real destination in mind.
I think of her question, and hundreds of locations pass through my memory—deserted beaches, black forests, scorching deserts. “Vionella is rather exotic,” I finally answer. “It’s where my mother currently lives. I have a small cocoa plantation there, and I’m hoping to expand soon.”
Her smile is tempered with an emotion I can’t read, but she smiles. “Tell me about it.”
“The weather’s temperate—there are no true seasons. We have a small estate on a cliff that borders the sea, and it always smells of summer.”
And I’ll never go back without remembering Etta and the way, she too, smells of sunshine.
“It sounds lovely,” she says.
“Perhaps I’ll show it to you someday.” I say the words without thinking, and then I wince. In what world will I have the chance to take Etta across the sea? Certainly not the one where she’s in love with Kerrick.
Again, she smiles that odd sort of smile and then changes the subject to Thomas, who visited them a few days ago for the first time since he took on his apprenticeship.
Puss darts ahead of us, into a bush. We’re traveling at a sedate, leisurely pace, and he tired of sitting on Etta’s lap early in the afternoon.
The day is clear, perfect for a ride. The autumn countryside has faded to shades of gold and olive, but all except a few leaves on the trees are green. Late flowers bloom in the fields, brightly colored daisies that like the warmth of the day but thrive in cool evenings.
“Do you miss him?” Etta asks when I think the conversation is over.
I turn to her, raising my brows in question.
“Your father.” She shrugs in apology and looks forward. “I’m sorry. You don’t have to answer that.”
“I do miss him.” As seems to be a habit, I rub my signet ring through the leather of my riding glove. “Sometimes it’s surreal that he’s gone and not just at sea.”
“Did you sail together?”
I nod. “Many times, but in the last few years, I’d taken command of my own ship, gone my own way. Cocoa was not his shipment of choice.”
“Do you love it? The sea?”
Turning to her, I smile. “I do.”
“And you miss it too?” Her eyes search mine, and I’m not sure what she’s hoping to find there. Softly, she continues, “I suppose I’m asking if you’re unhappy here.”
I hold her gaze a moment longer, long enough that she begins to fidget with the reins of her horse. “No, I’m not unhappy. Do I miss the sea? Yes, almost more than anything. But right now, this is the only place I want to be.”
Her smile is quick, and it does funny things to my pulse. “I’m going to talk with Broussard this evening.”
The abrupt change in conversation is enough to give a man whiplash. “Oh?”
“I’m going to decline his offer.”
“I promise things will work out.” I say it as the vow it is.
Etta smiles, biting her lip, and nudges her borrowed mare forward. “I believe you.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The hot days of summer are gone, though the afternoons are still pleasantly warm. It rained last night, but today is clear. Geese are just beginning their winter migrations, and flocks can be seen high overhead. As soon as they appeared, Puss was eager to bag one. But they are more suspicious than the animals native
to our province and are too large to trap.
Though I was squeamish at first, I’ve shot several with my crossbow. The geese fetch a fine price at the butcher’s shop, and Beau assured me the king was impressed as well.
The chocolatier has taken several trips into Rynvale, carrying gifts from the marquise to the king. Each time he returns, I hope for a message from Kerrick, but Beau hasn’t spoken to the prince since that first day.
According to Puss, the geese are not grand enough. We need something larger.
And that larger something ends up being the young stag we’re watching now. As the deer grazes, his ears twitch this way and that, but, so far, he doesn’t seem to sense our presence.
“Let’s hunt more geese,” I whisper to Puss.
Shooting birds is one thing. This is completely different. I feel ill just thinking of it. The weight of my crossbow grows heavier each minute we linger in the brush.
The cat twitches his whiskers. “No.”
“How do you expect me to drag it back to Glenridge?” I demand.
The cat shifts, irritated I won’t be quiet. “Beau said he’d meet us this morning. He’ll take care of it.”
I purse my lips, wondering if I’ll get lucky and the stag will dart away. Out of excuses, I raise my bow.
Still, the stag stands, oblivious.
I draw a deep breath, and as I let it out, I shoot the arrow. It meets its target, but instead of falling as the geese do, the deer darts.
“No!” I cry as it takes off.
“After it!” Puss has already leaped to his feet. “I’ll go back for Beau, and we’ll find you. Do not lose it!”
I race through the forest, stumbling through bushes and tripping over logs, attempting to track the animal. The forest trails have turned to mud with the rain, and I trip, falling face-first into the muck. Ignoring the sticky glop, I push myself to my feet and keep after the stag. Finally, he stops, near death. Hidden behind a large bush, I rest my hands on my thighs and draw in silent gasps of air, grimacing when I examine the damage. The mud is already drying in my braid and along my face and arms, but it’s still wet and thick on my clothes.
I scratched my arm when I fell, and blood drips from the wound. A spot near my hairline stings, and I find blood there as well. Sighing, I brush dead leaves and bits of twig off my soiled shirt and wait for the deer to either succumb to death or take off again.
Just when I think it’s about to fall, a noise behind us spooks him. I leap, just as startled as the stag. The creature doesn’t make it far this time. He staggers two steps, and then he finally collapses.
Beau stands behind me on horseback, and his eyes go wide when he takes in my less-than-tidy appearance. “What happened to you?”
A sharp remark is on the tip of my tongue, but I hold it back. I must look like I’m about to snarl, however, because Beau raises his eyebrows and bites back an amused grin.
“Good, Etta,” Puss says as he looks at the fallen stag.
I frown at the cat and wave my hand toward my kill. “What now?”
“It must be dressed.” Beau swings down from his horse and offers me the sharp, long dagger from his sheath.
Shaking my head emphatically, I step back. “Absolutely not. I’m not doing that.”
When I expect Puss to argue, he only cocks his head, listening to some unheard noise in the forest. His mind works behind his sharp eyes, but he doesn’t share his thoughts with us. Finally, he says, “Beau will dress the deer.”
Beau looks like he wants to argue the command, but he only nods.
“Etta,” Puss continues. “There is a shallow spot in the creek not far from here. I’ll take you there, and you can wash yourself off.”
My face is tight with splotches of dried mud, and I rub some of the dirt off my cheek. “I’m fine.”
The cat stares at me, his green eyes intent. “You are to pose as a marquise, Etta. You can’t wander about looking like a troll.” When I begin to argue, he lets out a feline version of a sigh. “If you do this one small thing, your fortune will be made.”
I very much doubt that, but I finally agree.
The spot Puss speaks of is a little too near the road for my comfort, but the cat assures me I’ll be well hidden by the thick brush growing at the edge of the bank.
“Keep watch,” I command as I pull my mud-crusted clothes off. For modesty’s sake, I plunge into the cold, clear water as quickly as possible.
I scrub my shirt and breeches first, wring them out, and lay them on a rock on the bank to dry. Then I sink back in the creek and begin to wash the dirt from my hair. After several moments, the chill of the water isn’t as sharp. I close my eyes and lean my head back. Above me, birds sing, and the warm autumn sun shines through the dappled canopy.
My peace is quickly shattered by Beau shouting my name, sounding almost panicked. I sit up immediately and reach for my clothes.
They’re gone.
Thrashing in the water, I whirl about, looking for my shirt and breeches.
“They were right here!” I exclaim, flustered as I hear his voice draw nearer.
“Etta!” Beau yells. “Where are you?”
“Beau, I’m here!”
I’m just about to tell him to stay put—that I’m fine—when Puss shouts from nearby, “A carriage approaches. Run to them, Beau! Tell them the marquise has been robbed, and they will be bound to help.”
“Where is she?” Beau demands.
“GO!” the cat roars.
My heart nearly stops, and I sink further into the creek, hoping to hide myself. What is the wretched beast up to now?
As soon as I hear Beau rush through the brush far to my right, Puss pokes his head through the grass on the bank. Urgently, he says, “When they arrive, you will say you are the Marquise of Carabas. Do you understand?”
“What have you done with my clothes?” I demand.
“They are the least of your worries.” He glances back, toward the road, where Beau yells for a carriage to stop. “If you mess this up, Etta, we will not have another chance. When they find you, you will pretend to be overcome. You were robbed, do you understand? The villains took off with your lady’s maid, and they stole your fine clothes.”
With those words, he again darts into the grass.
“Cat,” I hiss. “Puss!”
The cat does not come back.
Footsteps crash through the nearby brush. I don’t have long until they find me.
“She’s here somewhere,” Beau says, his voice strained with worry. “She screamed for me, but I ran to you for help as soon as I heard you approaching.”
I swim to the shadows and hide behind a boulder at the edge of the bank. Several men appear over the hill.
“I’m here,” I croak. Despite the freezing water, my face burns.
When I get my hands on that cat, I’m going to roast him and have a muff made from his fur.
Beau spots me first, and his eyes widen with shock. Though I’m mostly hidden, he immediately looks at his feet. “Et—” he begins, and then he chances a glance at the guards he’s brought with him. “…My lady, are you injured?”
Beau’s not going to be pleased when he finds out that Puss tricked him.
“My clothes were stolen.” My voice is weak from humiliation, and I gulp a breath. “And the bandits have taken my lady’s maid.”
At my words, half the group darts back to the road to track down the villains. Just as I finish the rest of what Puss instructed me to say, another man breaks through the brush to join the group.
I nearly die right here in the creek.
Kerrick’s mouth works, but he finds no words. The prince looks even more gallant than usual with the sun streaming down on his light hair. His gaze searches mine, bewildered, confused…and perhaps a little overwhelmed to find me without my clothes. With wide eyes, he immediately turns to Beau for help.
The chocolatier must now realize the cat duped us both, and he wears a look that is less than amused. He
angles toward Kerrick and extends a hand toward me. “Your Highness, please allow me to introduce my lady, the illustrious Marquise of Carabas.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Kerrick looks at me for help. As if I have the answers.
You’re the prince. Figure it out for yourself.
Etta’s mortified, my pulse is racing, and Kerrick looks about as helpful as the boulder Etta’s hiding behind.
Shaking my head, keeping an eye out for that cat, I ask, “Do you have a blanket the marquise could wrap herself in?”
One of the king’s men, the one who can’t seem to tear his eyes away from Etta’s face and dripping wet hair—because that’s all we can see of her—stammers something unintelligible.
“Anything?” I prod, starting to lose my patience with the lot of them.
Not that I had much of it to begin with, not after Puss told me Etta had been attacked and then wouldn’t tell me where she was. He was just “run to the carriage, Beau” and “hurry, Beau, if you tell them she’s the marquise they’ll help her.”
And what did I do? I blindly listened. Idiot.
Etta shivers behind her rock, but if it’s from the stress of the situation or the cold water, I don’t know. Probably both.
Grumbling under my breath, I turn toward the road. “I’ll find something.”
Reluctant to leave Etta on her own, I glance over my shoulder. She meets my eyes and purses her lips. A silent agreement passes between us. It goes something like, “we should drown Puss in the creek.”
My lips turn up in a grim smile, and Etta, despite the predicament and the scratch on her head that is still persistently oozing blood, almost smiles back.
But not with the starry-eyed wonder she reserves for her prince.
I thought I was going to have to wade in the creek after Etta the moment she laid eyes on Kerrick. Her face went white, and she practically hyperventilated on the spot. A sad and embarrassing death it would be to die in three feet of water.
And something tells me I’d likely inherit her cat.
“Is she…?” the king asks, leaning out of the carriage when he sees me coming for it. He looks genuinely concerned, and I feel guilty for having deceived him, even if it wasn’t exactly my fault.
Puss without Boots: A Puss in Boots Retelling (Fairy Tale Kingdoms Book 1) Page 10