by Tamara Gill
She moved his hand from her womb to between her breasts where her heart thundered beneath his palm. Had he wanted, he could have pulled her very life from her, such was the depth of his fury.
Snatching his hand free, through clenched teeth he said, “Ye will not give voice to my mother’s despicable act again.”
“Why? Because she is the one woman in your life who never loved you?”
Wolfe turned from the raving woman, but she flung herself at him, hair wild as she clawed his face and chest. “You will marry me! You will!”
“Calm yourself,” he clasped her wrists. “Or you will harm the babe.”
Her laugh was that of a madwoman. “What do you care of my babe?” she cried, clawing at her womb. “I would just as soon kill it now as wed you, even if you were to insist.”
“Enough!” he roared. “Such talk is lunacy.”
“You should know, seeing how your own mother did not want you! Truth be known, I have no desire to bear your babe! My mother cast a spell upon me to be fertile, just as she cast a spell upon you to find me irresistible enough to one day make me your queen!” Her ranting startled blackbirds into noisy flight and in a far-off field farmers stopped the harvest of their wheat to stare.
Desdemona openly wept, crumpling into the tall grasses, her pale blue gown symbolizing the falling of Wolfe’s sky and spirit.
Despite her harsh words, his very palms itched to go to her but his feet refused to move.
For was this not always the way? Every woman he had ever bedded seemed in constant wanting. Only they wanted not just to sample his prowess but to claim a piece of him. A piece of his father’s kingdom in the form of a babe.
There were ways for a woman to keep barren her womb, yet more times than not, he had been tricked. This time was no different.
Desdemona, as countless others, wanted infinite power and riches, but those were not things one could simply wish for and they would appear. They were hard fought for and won with the blood of countless noble warriors seizing the incalculable riches found only in truth, righteousness and honor. They seized all of those good things not with wiles, but with mighty blows of their axes and swords.
This woman, lying before him like so many before, knew not what it meant to be a ruler. She knew not of the responsibility to unfold. For he had no choice in the matter of whom he would one day wed. It would be divined by Fate. For only Fate knew of the riches to be found far afield. Riches that would one day soon make his father’s kingdom—nay, his own kingdom—the strongest in all the land.
“You are not human,” she said on sobs heaved between torn breaths. On hands and knees, moving toward him in jerking fits like those of a rabid dog, she spat, “You are a demon! Thrust up through the world’s dark underbelly.”
“And you are not the woman I thought you to be! For the woman I once held in such high regard would never condone casting spells for affection, let alone of bringing harm to an innocent babe.”
“Arrgghhh!” Rising up, she slapped him. Cold fury replaced whatever affection for her he might have once held.
Slinging her over his shoulder, Wolfe stormed across hills and fields, far from the idyllic pond and into the village, with her kicking and shouting the whole of the way.
“I hate you!” she railed, pounding his back with her fists, her further condemnations only broken by more tears.
Wolfe marched on, past the chuckles of men and scornful eyes of women. And on, past wee ones hiding behind their mums, some of them his wee ones. Children to whom he had been ever diligent in patting their heads and insuring they had no need for coin. Was that not enough? Would that not be enough for the babe of the wench he now carried?
On he walked and further on, beyond the castle wall to the great cave beside the sea where the sorceress brewed her worthless spells.
“Here,” he said, placing Desdemona on the circular stone table in the center of the soaring, smoke-filled cavern. Exhaustion had finally claimed her and she lay limp before her mother’s condemning eyes.
“What have you done?” the sorceress asked, malevolent green gaze piercing his.
Head bowed, he said, “I tried calming her but failed. Yet the blame for her exhaustion, as well as her grief, can be put upon no one but yourself.”
“Yet, tis your seed that has placed her in this condition.”
“A condition I will support by my coin and presence but not my vow.”
Desdemona’s mother, Castanea, was as bewitching as her daughter, but the undiluted hatred flashing from her eyes failed to stir Wolfe’s loins. Stroking Desdemona’s pale hair, humming a joyless tune, the sorceress said to this younger version of herself, “I will make him pay, dear one. He will not rape us as his father raped our land.”
“Raped your land?” Wolfe asked with a disgust-filled snort. “My father and his warriors saved your land—not to mention your daughter and you.”
“What do you know of our plight? You were but a boy!”
“A boy of twenty and two, who not only witnessed that bloody battle but did my part to claim victory! A boy who understood the oppression of your people by a Viking tyrant who knew nothing of tolerance but everything of war!”
Turning slowly from her daughter to him, she narrowed her eyes before spitting upon his feet. “You will pay for this, Prince.”
“And what shall you pay, witch woman? Think I know not of the magic you have wielded against my father? Of how you have no doubt seduced him with poison milk flowing from your tits?”
“Go!” Raising her long arms, the wide sleeves of her silver-spun gown glinting by the light of a nearby fire, she commanded, “Go now, or I will cast spells of poverty and famine upon the land.”
Wolfe laughed. “You but wish to be so strong.”
“You think my words mere jest?”
“I know them to be.” He crossed his arms upon his mighty chest. This woman did not scare him. Why would the great Prince of Gwyneddor be frightened by mere claims of magic that he could not see. Men on horseback wielding great battle axes; spies within his midst; the type of treachery of which his very own mother had been capable. Aye, that was the stuff he feared. Not this witch woman with her hair so blond it was almost white and eyes that sparked an unnatural green. “If you insist on wielding this awesome power you claim to hold,” he jeered, “why not go one step further? Why not transform me into the loathsome pond creature you evidently believe me to be...”
***
Lucy dragged in a gulp of air.
“That’s my tale,” the prince said. “I underestimated the strength of Castanea’s spells.”
“You think?” Lucy pushed herself up from the sofa, head reeling from all she’d just heard.
“You hold me in lower regard. I can tell.”
“Well... it’s just—” How did she admit that, far from the egotistical monster she’d expected him to be, in reality, he’d handled the last few moments of his previous human life as well as could be expected. Granted, in a perfect world, he would have married all the women he’d left pregnant, but the sad fact of the matter was that, in those times, he would’ve had a responsibility to his kingdom above himself. If what he’d said was true, the women who’d lain with him had known this up front. Who was to say that, just as in modern times when women tried trapping rock stars and actors into marriage by claiming pregnancy, Desdemona hadn’t done the same with an eligible prince?
Fair enough, but does that make him innocent? Does that make your decision to poof him back into a frog for your own personal gain any less easy to stomach?
Speaking of which, does this mean you unconditionally believe his outrageous story?
Lucy nibbled her lower lip.
Of course, she knew she shouldn’t believe one iota of the prince’s story but, really, what did she stand to lose by at least sort of believing him? After all, if his story did turn out to be true, just as soon as he once again turned green, her finances would finally be out of the red. Even better, he
r tarnished reputation would be shiny and new, as would her lackluster relationship with her dad.
And if it turned out he was lying?
Well... All she was out of was a month’s food.
Along with the pesky little fact that never again would she be so thoroughly, deliciously kissed since she’d be honor-bound to check him into the nearest mental clinic!
Shaking her head, Lucy sighed. “I’ve got to get some sleep.”
At that, his expression lightened. “Then you’re ready for bed?”
“Aye—I mean, yes. I’m very much ready for bed—alone.”
Expression crestfallen, he said, “I only have till the full moon. Twould be much simpler for me if you would just commence with the business of declaring your love.”
“I’m sure it twould,” she blasted him with her most sarcastic smile, “but since this is my house, tonight we’re going to do what’s easiest for me. Which means escorting you to my perfectly adequate guest bedroom, then retiring to our separate beds.”
Settling the prince proved no easy feat, considering his claim to have been stricken ill at the sight of all the flowers and womanly colors marring the room. Luckily, once he got his first feel of a modern-day comforter and blankets, all complaining stopped. If she hadn’t known better, she’d have sworn the big man actually purred with pleasure!
Finally easing into her own bed, Lucy clicked off the bedside table lamp.
She closed her eyes but nothing happened.
Or maybe something did happen that explained the reason why she couldn’t sleep!
Namely, the slow-burning realization that if that outrageous story the prince told her could somehow be true, then maybe he wasn’t such a bad guy.
On the other hand, duh?
Wouldn’t he stand to gain far more sympathy by making himself look good and poor, knocked-up and husbandless Desdemona look bad?
If that were the case, who was Lucy to say the sorceress who’d zapped him into a frog hadn’t been right? Maybe he deserved to be zapped back into that little green body from whence he’d came?
After all, he hadn’t just gotten Desdemona pregnant, but other women as well. How many, he hadn’t admitted, but if his current horn-dog ways were a gauge, who knew? Maybe they were talking two? Four? A dozen? All who might have borne witness were long since dead and, unfortunately, poor little bastard children of noblemen were rarely recorded in the annals of history.
That being the case...
She twirled a curl round her pinkie. Heart racing, mind swimming, she dared finish her thought. That being the case, why shouldn’t she make it her mission to see him carry out the rest of his sentence?
Maybe the prince had been horrid in other ways, as well. Kind of like that bad guy shipped off to outer space in one of her fave classic movies, Austin Powers? Maybe he should be locked up for all eternity. What about Khan in Star Trek? And shoot, for that matter, what about historical bad guys like Hitler or Napoleon? Not only Hollywood but history had proven bad guys were better off quarantined from civilized society.
Good grief. She plowed her fingers through her hair. Focus, Luce, focus.
Like on the fact that Wolfe could have just as easily been telling the truth. What if in a thousand years of having nothing to do but hop around and dwell on his past transgressions, he’d changed?
Changed? Lucy nearly choked on her own spit. Right, the guy who less than an hour earlier told her women would be much better off strolling the earth barefoot, bare-breasted and pregnant!
Punching her down pillow into a more comfy shape, she vowed to finally get some rest. Not only did she have a busy day at school ahead of her in the morning, but a busy day of planning.
In just four weeks, the next World Biological Conference would be held in London. Mere coincidence the date coincided with that month’s full moon?
CHAPTER NINE
“Miss Gordon?” Freckle-faced and carrot topped, young Lord Randolph stood beside her desk, e-pad in hand. “I don’t get this stuff. It seems to me that the brown rabbit and the white rabbit would make an ecru rabbit.”
Lucy rubbed her forehead, reaching for Lord Randolph’s finger-smudged tablet. “What did you have for breakfast, sweetie?”
“Officially,” he said, “oatmeal.”
“Unofficially?”
Pale cheeks reddening, he glanced over his shoulder. “Promise you won’t tell?”
She crossed her heart.
“Fried chicken. One of the Yank prefects made it last night in his room. He gave some of us drumsticks for standing watch in the hall.”
“And you saved yours for this morning?”
He nodded.
“Why? Don’t you know it could make you sick, leaving it out that long? Not to mention the fact that it’s dangerous frying anything anywhere—let alone in a four-hundred-year-old dormitory?”
“Oh. You going to write me up?”
“Nope.” His crestfallen expression tugged at her heart. “But I should. Here, give me that,” she took his e-pad to give it a good cleaning.
She patiently helped him with his genetics chart, then, while the other students finished theirs, she asked beneath her breath, “Did you ever hear from your dad?”
Beaming, he pulled out the monogrammed postcard she’d carefully written doing her best imitation of his billionaire father’s scrawl. The same father who’d for all practical purposes dumped his son at the school. Sensing how bummed Randy had been, she’d sent the note to a friend of hers in New York City, then had her mail it so the postmark would be right.
“He wrote he misses me.” After a quick glance at the other kids, he whispered, “He’s never told me that before. Said he was sorry for not writing more but that he was busy, and he promised to write again soon. He asked me not to tell my mum about the notes. Just to let them be our man-to-man secrets.”
“That’s great.” She wanted to pull him in for a hug but figured it’d embarrass him. Damn deadbeat dads—especially the one residing under her roof! As long as Randy was one of her students, he’d continue getting notes along with all the sappy teacher affection he could stand.
With Randy back in his seat, she returned to recording grades, but instead of seeing the scores to Friday’s midterm exam on her e-pad, all she saw was the prince’s smile. All she seemed capable of thinking about was the fact that, as rotten as she’d made him out to be, he’d covered for her. He knew how much her relationship with the duke meant and, despite his jumbo-sized ego, he’d actually put her wishes above his own.
Did that mean she forgave him for his hundred and one other offensive comments? No. But at least now there was a glimmer of hope she’d be able to stomach him for the rest of the month.
Elbows on her desk, fingertips massaging her temples, Lucy tried rubbing panic from her brain.
Would her plan to keep the prince in hiding work? Where was she going to find him some clothes? How would she ever get her paper for the conference written in time? It was unheard of for a delegate to apply for a presentation slot this late but would her father, who was chairman of the conference board, grant her a special dispensation once he heard that, this time, she truly had found her very own species?
Your very own species of naked prince!
Wishing for a paper bag to put over her mouth, Lucy forced herself back to her work. Thirty-five agonizing minutes later, the bell signaling the end of her day rang.
She’d just finished posting test grades when a knock demanded her attention.
Festus Grumsworth peered his bug-eyed face through the window in her classroom door, then barged right in without being invited. “Ms. Gordon,” he hooked his right arm over her lecture podium.
“Mr. Grumsworth...”
He cleared his throat. “I presume you know why I’m here?”
“No...” She raised her chin.
He tapped his long, spindly index finger on the podium’s edge. “I received a call this morning from a highly influential member of ou
r school’s board.”
“Oh?”
“It seems he’s displeased with certain actions I’ve taken that I deemed appropriate in light of your latest malicious stunt.”
“Stunt?” Lucy gulped. Since when had her harmless goof grown in stature to a premeditated act of malice? Lydia Jenson hadn’t heard from her parents in a while, either. Who had it hurt—aside from adding to Lucy’s already bulging credit card balance—to have all of those pink sweetheart roses and one tiny white puffball of a kitten discreetly delivered to Lydia’s room on her birthday?
“Don’t play the wounded innocent with me, Ms. Gordon. I know all about you Yanks, thinking you can change the world one crazy act at a time.”
“Listen, Mr. Grumsworth. With all due respect, I find it highly improper for you to not only degrade me personally, but my entire country.”
“You listen,” he left the podium to perch on the edge of Lucy’s messy desk. His tweed-covered rear touched the pear she’d planned to eat on the drive home. The pear that would now go directly in the trash! “I’ve had it with you. I’ve had it with your pranks. Your endless attempts to make our students feel good. They are here to learn—not feel. You might have friends in high places, but I have ultimate authority over this institution.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And since I have ultimate authority, I could have you put out of here just like that.” He snapped his fingers. “And lest you go running to the duke, keep in mind that I didn’t tell him half of all you’ve actually done. Next time you think about pulling any shenanigans, Miss Gordon, you think about His Grace’s reputation and how much he’d appreciate knowing just what sort of deviant misfit he’s aligned himself with. Have I made myself clear?”
“Crystal.” She gulped.
“Excellent. I trust I won’t have need to mention this again but, if I do, know it will be the last. I’m tired of playing nice. It’s time for you and your interfering nature to go.” Gaze narrowed, he appraised the paper piles on her desk and colorful bulletin boards crammed with fun, biology-related press clippings and posters, the windowsills brimming with green ivies and mother-in-law’s tongue, peace lilies and a blooming pot of daisies. And then there were the five spider plants dangling from brass hooks she’d screwed into the coffered oak ceiling. The terrariums housing frogs and salamanders, crickets and a tarantula named Boo, along with a python named Sammy.