by Tamara Gill
“I don’t have one.”
“If you’re talking about a formal presentation, Luce, a picture is a pretty basic requirement. Not to mention a physical sample of the specimen itself—either alive or dead.”
Crossing her fingers, Lucy said, “I know, I know. Look, I’ll take pictures tonight.” Meaning, she’d doctor a photo so it resembled the frog prince in all of his spotted glory. “With all the excitement over my find, I haven’t yet had a chance. But if you give me your latest address, I’ll get e-mail and hard copy pics right out to you.”
“All right.” Another heavy sigh told her just what a farce he believed her story to be.
“Great, Dad. Oh, and please schedule me by tomorrow. That’s the deadline for speaker registration. I’ve already filed the paperwork. All you need do is give it your okay.”
“But, Luce, without seeing the pictures, how can I—”
“Gotta go, Dad. Our connection’s breaking up.” Reaching for the foil Wolfe had wrapped her ham sandwich in for lunch, she crinkled it in front of her phone. “Bye. See you soon.”
“But, Luce, I—”
“Sorry, Dad,” she said to herself, pressing the end button on her phone.
Leaning back in the musty old arm chair, putting her feet up on an equally weary footstool, Lucy gave herself a mental pat on the back and smiled.
Mission accomplished.
***
Usually on a Friday afternoon, Lucy was thrilled to park her Mini in the cottage’s carriage house garage but, on this occasion, she warily eyed her once cozy home, wondering what to expect. With William in Edinburgh on business, she felt very much alone. She needed his pleasant company reminding her of the light at the end of what now felt like an endless tunnel—a tunnel that, however long, would result in amazing gains for not only herself but the worldwide scientific community. True, watching Wolfe being transformed wouldn’t be pleasant but, beyond her own impending fame for discovering him, the implications for study were endless.
The U.S. military might even be interested in giving him a closer look. If they unlocked the sorceress’s secrets, they’d hold the world’s most awesome weapon. Imagine having the power to turn an entire enemy army into frogs!
While that thought should have been a comfort, as she climbed out of the Mini and reaching for just one of the six sacks of groceries her houseguest had ordered, plus the mostly picture cookbook she hadn’t been able to resist buying him, she felt more saddened by such potential studies than gladdened.
Still, she counseled herself on her way up the curving stone path to the mudroom door, she had to keep in mind that Wolfe had brought all of this onto himself. He’d been the one spreading his seed far and wide. Who was she to say his punishment should be ended?
Like a thousand years’ suffering isn’t enough?
Ignoring this latest slap from her conscience, she opened the door to bedlam.
“Come here, you little bugger. I command you to come to me, or I’ll roast you with a special sauce!”
“Wolfe?” She tossed the groceries to the mudroom floor, then ran to the sound of his voice. “What are you doing?”
She found him in the living room, corralling a trembling Buzzy who’d sought shelter behind the spindly legs of her buffet. Wolfe had blocked off one side of the tall, narrow piece of furniture with an oversized coffee table book and the other with the ironing board. He knelt at the head of the impromptu cage, barefoot, dressed in jeans and a mossy green sweater—oven mitts covered his hands. He’d tied his hair back with the strap of leather she’d confirmed as having been pilfered from the left shoe of her favorite pair of loafers. Something about this new, frazzled side of him squeezed her heart. “What does it look like I am doing?” he asked after one of his trademark growls.
“Terrorizing my sweet, defenseless pet.” Poor Buzzy sat on his haunches, whiskers twitching, nibbling a morsel he’d clenched between his tiny paws.
“I’m rescuing the damned filthy rodent.”
“From what?” she asked, scrambling to her knees on the opposite end of the pen from the prince. “It’s not as if a marauding tribe was attacking his cage.”
Wolfe’s expression turned dark. “You don’t consider certain death to be an attack?”
“Again,” she said, fishing out her pet, “what around this boring old cottage could have been so dangerous?”
“Is the coming of demons danger enough for you? I was preparing the evening meal when smoke rolled from the baking machine. Shortly thereafter came the keening cry of an underworld shrew. So I turned off the baking machine, then ran for your rodent pet.”
“But you can’t stand Buzzy.”
“Correct.”
“But you saved him anyway?”
“Attempted to.” The prince held out his hand, displaying three nasty red welts on his index finger. “The beast bit me before jumping from my hold. He then scrambled behind this cupboard, from whence I have been trying to take him ever since.”
Holding Buzzy’s chubby fuzz to her cheek, Lucy glanced at Wolfe. The softening of his gaze.
“Whilst I cannot claim to understand the affection you hold for the rodent beast, I am pleased he is safe.”
“Me, too.” she said. “Thank you.” From the sounds of it, the life of her smoke-damaged oven had been in more danger than her hamster but, seeing how Wolfe couldn’t have known that, and that for whatever reason he seemed downright terrified of Buzzy, the fact that he’d swallowed his fears to save the life of a pet she loved put a major chink in the wall she’d built around her heart.
Still on her knees, Lucy scooted to the prince, planning to give him a hug, but he held out his arms, motioning for her to stay away.
On his feet, the prince grabbed the ironing board, presumably carrying it to the mudroom closet that housed the washer and dryer.
After returning Buzzy to his cage, Lucy searched for Wolfe, finding him with his hands braced against the washer, eyes closed.
“Wolfe?”
He jumped.
“Sorry.” She tentatively reached for him, curving her hand to the warm contours of his sweater-covered back. “I really do appreciate what you did.”
“Twas nothing.”
“You conquered your fears to save my pet. That’s not nothing but everything.” The act wasn’t the sort of thing contrived to get into her good graces.
“I said it twas nothing. And I am not afraid—of anything—especially that rodent beast.”
Was he trembling?
“Wolfe?” she asked, one hand on his back, and the other covering his right hand. “What’s wrong?”
A sharp laugh escaped his lips. “Look at me. I am a warrior. I have killed countless of my father’s enemies. Faced foes so fierce lesser men ran screaming at the mere sight of such invincible forces. Not me. I fought. I won. Always. Never falling victim to exhaustion or pain—especially not to fear. Never have I given in to fear.”
“And you didn’t today.”
He shook his head and swallowed hard. “You were not here, Lucy Gordon. The keening. I thought it was the sorceress come to claim me.”
“Oh, Wolfe...”
“The sound. I-it, it pierced my mind, leaving me unable to form the simplest thought.”
“Yet you managed to turn off the oven and save a rodent-pet you despise. I may not be an expert in such things but it sounds to me as if you acted very brave. And for the record, I’m guessing that keening was the smoke alarm. It warns you of danger—doesn’t bring it.”
“Aye,” he said with another sullen nod. “But the keening was not the worst of it. Do you know why I cannot abide your pet?”
She shook her head.
“When I was a man of ten and two, I was taken. Ransomed for my father’s head. They held me in a black pit along with countless others. But the blackness, that did not so much bother me. Nor the agonized moans or stenches so foul one would believe them summoned from the very bowels of hell. The worst of it was the rats. Hundr
eds of ’em came each night. Crawling over each exposed strip of flesh. Sharp nails scratching, even sharper teeth gnawing, beady black eyes reflecting the glow of oily-smelling torches far above.”
“My God...” She automatically slipped her arms around him for a hug.
He brushed her aside, steeling his shoulders and jaw. “I am ashamed to have feared them. I was a man trained to conquer any foe—no matter how large or, in this case, how small.”
“Wolfe?” Going to him again, voice soft, she said, “Give yourself a break. You were twelve. Nowadays, twelve is nowhere close to being a man. What you went through...” she shuddered. “No one, not even your great father, could have blamed you for being afraid.”
“Aye,” he said, far-off expression eerily cold, “especially not after I scaled the walls of that pit to slash the throats of each and every one of those cowards while they slept.”
Though Wolfe seemed sullen much of the rest of the night, Lucy did her best to distract him, starting the first of their reading lessons at which he did remarkably well. After learning not only the alphabet, but a majority of both vowel and consonant sounds, she said, “All right, brainiac, let’s call it quits for tonight.”
Eyebrows furrowed, he asked, “Is this an insult?”
“A compliment. To be a brainiac is a good thing. That means you have a big brain, and are smart and wise.”
Sitting taller he said, “Yes, I would say that is true.”
Grinning at his utter lack of humility, she wished for a smidgeon of his self-esteem. “Now that we know who’s got the big head in the family, wanna make popcorn and watch TV?”
“What is pop-corn?”
“Come on,” she stood, taking him by his hand. “Let me show you a little kernel of heaven.”
Twenty minutes later, they sat side by side on the sofa, a fire crackling in the hearth, waiting for Survivor Moon to start. Survivor Antarctica had been awesome, but this one was gonna top them all.
“Tasty,” the prince said, his face wreathed in a buttered popcorn-induced smile. “Very tasty. Do other people know of this delicacy? Or is it your own private creation designed to bend a man to your will?”
Lucy laughed. “Everyone knows about this. No man-bending going on round here.”
Mouth too full to speak, popcorn spilling onto his lap, he nodded.
Rolling her eyes, she snatched one of the fallen pieces and pitched it at him.
“What was that for?” he asked when he finished chewing.
“To remind you to keep it in your mouth, and off of my oriental rug.”
Grinning, he lobbed a piece at her.
“What was that for? I got all of mine in my mouth.”
“To remind you, Lucy Gordon, that I give good as I get. Should you wish to launch a full battle, be warned, you are in for a terror-filled fight.”
“Terror, huh? With popcorn?”
“You doubt my battle skills?”
“Oh, it’s not your battle skills I doubt, Your Majesty, just your choice of weapons.”
“Ah,” he popped another buttery piece in his mouth, “what food might you find more menacing? Biscuits crumpled into your hair? Milk spilt upon your clothes? Chocolate melted upon your lips?”
Eyeing him eyeing her lips, she licked them, cursing his innate ability to mentally transfer heat. “Chocolate. Definitely the chocolate.”
“Shall I take that as your official surrender?” He nailed her left breast with one more piece.
Reddening, she pitched two pieces back at him.
He threw two more.
She threw three.
Four.
Five.
Laughing, wrestling on the sofa, hurling outrageous battle cries, Lucy threw and threw until, sensing that by Wolfe’s sheer size he’d soon have her defeated, she finally just dumped the whole stupid bowl on his stupid, handsome head.
Roaring, he landed her in a playful tackle to the rug where they tickled more until they both breathed hard from their fight.
“I win,” she said with a big smile.
“1 win,” he said with an even bigger smile, brushing strands of hair from her eyes, then giving one lonesome curl a tug.
“But I already claimed victory.” She tucked her hair safely behind her ears and out of his grasp.
“How about we both win?” He rolled onto his side, pressing a butterfly soft kiss to her lips.
“Prince Wolfe...” Now needing to catch her breath for a whole other reason besides a measly popcorn battle, one that centered around mesmerizing dark eyes and a face so handsome he should have been a Greek god instead of a mere medieval prince, she said, “You’ve got a deal.”
After cleaning their mess, popping a new batch of buttered corn, then flipping on the TV, they watched in companionable silence for a few minutes before Wolfe pushed himself to his feet, switching off the TV right at the start of the reward challenge where the prize was a night in Hilton’s most posh moon hotel. “What’d you do that for?” she complained.
“Tis nonsense. This tale of men playing a game upon the very surface of the moon I find insulting to my sensibilities.” Back turned on the TV, he crossed his arms.
Tugging on the hem of his shirt, she said, “Please, turn the TV back on and sit down.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because I find myself in a rage and know not how to contain myself. I need to ride, gallop across my land with the wind in my hair, powerful horseflesh pounding between my legs. I need to feel like a man, instead of some kept pet. I need to...” He fell backwards onto the sofa, shoulders sagging. “I need to go home. I do not like this time, with its talk of men on the moon and boxes containing people romping on heavenly objects gracing the sky.”
“You like our food,” she smoothed hair back from his strong brow. “And chocolate—don’t forget how much you enjoy that.”
“Aye.”
“The rest I can teach you from books and my e-pad. What history you didn't learn watching the unfolding of years beside the pond, we’ll study together. Until then, relax. It’s understandable all of this might feel strange. But I promise, everything will feel better in time.”
He snorted. “Time, milady, is the one thing that without your help, I will never have.”
As much as Lucy wanted to reassure him his last statement wasn’t any more true than his belief that he’d never understand the current world, on this matter she was stumped.
Even if she wanted to save him, she couldn’t. Because sure, she was forming a certain affection for the guy, but that was a far cry from love. To break his curse, he had to be loved. And just going out on a limb here, but if the sorceress who’d placed the curse had been strong enough to do that, chances were she was also strong enough to make it so that one woman happening along couldn’t be bribed with a quick roll in the hay or even gold coins to declare her love. She’d have to feel it. Love wasn’t something easily faked. Even worse, as Wolfe had just painfully pointed out, love took time—the one luxury the sorceress had insured he’d never have.
That sorceress must’ve been one bad-ass chick. Because from where Lucy was sitting, it looked like Wolfe’s curse might never be broken.
He shook his head at the TV she’d coaxed him into turning back on.
The two-hour premier was winding down. The immunity challenge had just been won by Team Jupiter who’d only barely managed to swallow the foomentary dung considered a delicacy by the Pingjari tribes of Nebulon—recently visited, along with many other planets, due to the advent of fusion-powered spaceships.
“Assuming any of this is real,” he said, “those people are the worst of cowards.”
“Why?”
“Allowing themselves to lose. In my time, defeat was not an option.”
“Somebody has to lose,” she said with a shrug.
“True. But not me. If I do not win, I would rather die.”
Why did she get the feeling he wasn’t just talking about the game playing out
on TV?
All the more reason she could never drop her guard around him. Who knew what he might do or say to win her heart? But then, geesh, like that was even possible seeing how she was nearly married to the duke!
Exhausted from just looking at the filthy Survivor cast trek through dusty wormhole caverns to get water, Lucy rubbed her neck.
“Did I hurt you during our battle?”
“If I said yes, would you give me the win?”
“Never,” he said with a rakish wink.
“In that case, I’ll have to confess the truth.”
“Excellent. Truth is good.”
Unless you happen to be me, fighting an overwhelming attraction to your charm! Licking her lips, she said, “I was, um, carrying a plant from my classroom to a coworker’s car and when I slipped it onto her backseat, I think I twisted something.”
The prince took the popcorn bowl from his lap to set it on the cushions between them. “Come,” he spread his legs before patting his inner thighs.
Lucy reddened. “I, ah...”
“Do you believe me so virile that a mere peek in the direction of my manhood turns your cheeks this most charming pink?” His slow smile raced her pulse.
“That is what you’re suggesting, isn’t it? That sleeping with you might be the magic cure for my aching neck?”
Smile fading, he asked “Do you really think so poorly of me, Lucy Gordon? That I know no ways of making a woman feel good beyond the bed?”
“Well...”
“Come,” he said with another slap to his thighs. “Trust me.”
She cautiously slipped off of the sofa and onto the rug, scooting to a ramrod straight position between his legs, being extra careful not to touch.
But then he was pulling her back, into the vee of his muscular thighs, until her head rested against his—
Dear Lord.
Swallowing hard, she fought to get hold of her racing pulse, just as she fought to ignore the warm, soft wool of his sweater brushing her right cheek and the faint baked-in scent of a delicious smelling cream-based sauce he must’ve worked on that afternoon.