by Tamara Gill
“You make a mockery of my work, Lucy Gordon.” Shaking his head, he tossed the garment her way.
She caught it midair.
“Most wenches I know would be thrilled to have a manservant help them dress each morning. And here you not only have that in me, but also a housekeeper and cook.” Parking himself on the edge of the tub, he pouted.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she shoved the bra in her robe’s pocket. “Like you know all that many women around here. Even if you did, they wouldn’t let you put their bras on them, either.” Unless they happened to be single. In which case, all bets were off considering how hot he looked in his khakis and mossy green sweater. Good thing she had her upcoming engagement to the duke to keep her mind otherwise occupied!
Still pouting, he said, “You would let me try the garment on you if you loved me.”
“True, but since I don’t love you, that’s kind of a moot point.”
“In light of the fact that I am running out of time,” he asked, chin raised, “what would it take for you to love me, Lucy Gordon? Gold and silver coins? Jewels? Land? A stable of horses?” Snagging her by the belt of her robe, he reeled her in, resting his hands on her behind and his cheek against her breasts.
Sucking in a breath, leaning back far as she comfortably could, she said, “My love can’t be bought. Love is something you have to earn. Take the duke for instance. On our last date, he wore a sweatshirt just to prove how much he cares for me.”
“What is a sweat-shirt?”
“A not exactly regal form of attire that he ordinarily wouldn’t be caught dead in.”
“Oh.”
“My point being, that it’s not money a woman loves but the small gestures.”
“Example?” He rested his cheek against her breasts where her stupid traitorous nipples ached for his hot breath.
“Y-you’ll have to let me go first. I can’t think.”
“With your buds so close to my mouth?”
Grrr.
He held her tighter. “One example, and I shall release you.”
“I already told you, I can’t think.”
“Then we shall be here a while.”
“I’ll be late for work.”
“Want me to phone your Grumsworth?”
“What I want you to do is—”
He seared her lips with a mind-blowing, heart-galloping, soul-melding kiss that rendered her incapable of all but the faintest mew.
“Was that more what you had in mind?” His breath warmed her swollen lips with the lingering taste of peanut butter and strawberry jelly.
“Um...” Still dazed, she shook her head. “You wanted an example?”
He nodded.
“That,” she said, touching her fingers to her still tingling lips. “Definitely lots more of that—hypothetically speaking, because as you know, I’m practically engaged to the duke.”
“Of course. The duke. Whom, I am sure, kisses you just as satisfactorily each time you meet.”
“Y-yes. He does.”
Liar, liar, pants on fire!
“Then despite my profound wish for you to declare your eternal love, even I must admit the honorable thing to do would be for you to go ahead with your plans to wed him. At least then you will be happy.”
“You’d be satisfied with that? Living all eternity as a frog to ensure my happiness?”
His only reply was a formal bow before releasing her, then asking, “Which would you prefer for your morning meal? French toast or an omelet?”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
“You’re thirty minutes late.” Grumsworth stood arms crossed, bespectacled eyes beady when Lucy stepped into her classroom just as the first period bell rang.
As students rustled about, scrambling for their chairs and gossiping about the upcoming dance and what was that muck supposed to be that they’d been served for breakfast, Grumsworth continued to stare.
“Is there something in particular you’d like to talk about?” Lucy innocently inquired. “Because if not, I should get on with my day.”
Without saying a word, he pointed his arrow-straight index finger toward the few ivies still lining the classroom’s sill. “I thought those were to be gone by the end of last week, along with the posters and animals.”
“I took the hamster home,” she said, “and Bonnie graciously invited Sammy to live with her.”
“Sammy?”
“Our classroom snake.”
Her students had become quiet, save for low-level paper-rustling and the shifting about of preteen limbs that never fell totally still.
“My patience is wearing this thin, Ms. Gordon.” He held his thumb and forefinger a sliver apart. “I want the remainder of this sentimental rubbish out of this classroom by the end of the day or—”
“Or what?” Lucy said, incensed at this oaf’s intrusion upon her happy glow. A cheese omelet breakfast, complete with cottage fries and a bouquet of silky fall leaves and marigolds that she preferred not to think about Wolfe’s having ventured outside for, tended to make a girl happy. Throw in the great hair Wolfe had styled for her, and there was no telling how much she’d accomplish! Speaking of which, if there was one thing Wolfe had taught her during their time together, it was to stand up for herself! Hands fisted on her hips, she asked, “Even though my students regularly have the highest science grades for their level, are you going to release me from my contract?”
From the back row came a cough, then a mumbled, “Way to go, Miss Gee.”
A healthy round of laughs followed Grumsworth right out the door. Following that, however, came a rush of indigestion so strong Lucy reached for the antacids in her purse.
“Okay, gang,” she said to the class. “Get your e-readers fired up and onto your Biology Today text—screen 132.”
While they grumbled, she sat behind her desk, unzipping the quilted pink floral purse that Bonnie teased looked more like a carpetbagger’s suitcase. Only at the top, she didn’t find a shiny roll of antacids, but a miniature bouquet of the marigolds and leaves that just that morning graced the dining room table. A scrolled sheet of paper had been slipped into the red ribbon tying the stems.
Lucy glanced at the kids to find them still messing with their e-readers.
Fingers trembling, she unrolled the prince’s note.
In painstakingly perfect letters, Wolfe had written, hav a happee daae luucee goordon.
Swallowing past the lump in her throat, she rolled the paper back up, held it to her chest for the few seconds it took to regain her composure, then set the bouquet on her desk. Opening her purse, she eased the note into the zippered side pocket she reserved for treasures like theater ticket stubs, her favorite lipstick and lucky Petoskey stone.
Thanks to the prince and his talent with hair, eggs, and note writing, she would have a happy day—whether Grumsworth liked it or not!
***
In the elegantly appointed boardroom of William’s Edinburgh office, he sat at the head of an endless oak table that his father had sat at before him, and his grandfather before that. This latest batch of negotiations with the Labour Party had been exhausting but, by the end of the week, he hoped to have reached an agreement equitable for all.
“Your Grace?” Ms. Roberts asked, pausing just inside the room.
“Yes?”
“I have a Mrs. Haweberry on line two, who claims to have rather urgent business. She says she’s your neighbor and has tried reaching you on your mobile phone. Shall I tell her you’ll ring later?”
Elbow on the table, William put his hand to his forehead and rubbed. Bloody hell. What did the woman want now? “While your offer of shelter is most welcome, Ms. Roberts, I fear her to be the sort whom, if I fail to answer now, will march north to personally hunt me down.”
“Oh dear...” His secretary cast him a most sympathetic smile.
Feeling strangely fortified, he picked up the phone, punching line two. “Yes, Ruth? William, here.”
After gushing at leng
th about what a time she’d had locating him, she said, “I hate to have to tell you this, but...”
William’s heart sank. What dreadfully scandalous tale would she report about Luce? And when would she get around to declaring her ultimate goal, which was no doubt wedding him to her daughter, Abigail? It was no secret the woman had long since had eyes on him in that regard. But even while his holding affections for the most plain of British girls would make his dear old mum infinitely happier than his relationship with Luce, such a match would not please him. Abigail was not of his ilk and lacked Luce’s joie de vivre.
“Since I was already headed that way,” Ruth said, strangely out of breath, “I’d volunteered to the postie to carry a rather large parcel of yours to the castle. Well, you can’t imagine what I saw upon my arrival.”
Crop circles? Aliens?
“Well?” she said, “Can you? Can you imagine?”
“I’m quite sure I can’t.”
“Well, then I’ll tell you. It was that Lucy Gordon of yours with a man! A big man, standing at her dining room window. Then again I’ve seen him at the kitchen window, and at the back win—”
“Thank you, Mrs. Haweberry. That is some bit of news. Unfortunately, there’s no real story there, as I believe she has family visiting from the States.”
“Oh?” Judging by the keen-edged disappointment in her tone, he’d smashed the poor woman’s heart like a bug. “I hadn’t heard.”
“Yes, well, sometimes news is slow to spread.” Waving frantically for Ms. Roberts, who’d returned to her own stack of paperwork, he pointed to the sign he’d written on the back of a yellow Post-it note: H-E-L-P!
Smiling, she loudly called, “Urgent call for you on line one, Your Grace!”
Giving her a thumbs up, he said, “Ruth, so sorry, but I really do have to go.”
“B-but—”
“Hope to see you soon.” Click.
Ms. Roberts lauded him with a round of applause. “Very well done, sir.”
“Thank you,” he said with a dapper bow.
Clearing her throat, she set her pen on the table. “Not that I mean to intrude, but—”
“It’s hard not to when sitting five feet away?”
Reddening, she nodded.
“Go on,” he urged. “We’ve been together for years—” Now, he reddened. “What I meant to say is that we’ve worked together for years. You should feel free to speak your mind.”
“Thank you, Your Grace.”
“And while we’re at it, don’t you think you should call me William?”
“Thank you.” She blushed again. “You may call me Penelope.”
“Penelope.” Funny, he’d always taken her for more of a formal Elizabeth or Catherine. “Yes, well, with that out of the way, go ahead. Give me your worst.”
“I don’t mean to criticize, but your Ruth is a rather loud speaker. Having plainly heard both sides of the conversation while having the added benefit of seeing the changes in your expression, I have to ask, does your Lucy indeed have guests in from the States?”
Hardening his lips, he admitted, “No.”
After a long silence, she gently probed, “Why cover?”
“I love her,” he for once admitted without hesitation. “I have to believe whatever’s transpiring in that cottage, she loves me, too. And that she’ll tell me the whole story as soon as I get home.”
“Would you like me to ring her? I have her number at the school.”
He thought a moment on that, then said, “No...I think not. I’d rather just see her.” Hold her. “I’m sorry, Ms. Roberts—Penelope. It was never my intention to burden you with such personal concerns.”
Her warm brown gaze holding his, she said, “It’s no burden, Your Grace, but an honor to be held in such high regard that you’d trust me with these matters. Know I will hold them in the strictest confidence and that my only desire is for you to find the happiness you deserve.”
***
Bathed in dazzling morning sun on an autumn day so sweet-smelling with the scent of burning leaves and resting earth that if Wolfe had closed his eyes he could almost be home, he pressed open palms to the castle’s stone-capped wall walk, soaking in not just that morning’s, but centuries’ radiant heat.
So much had changed within the castle that was rightfully his. Yet up here, surveying the vast rolling hills of his kingdom, he was relieved to find the view much the same.
Beyond the formal castle gardens growing nothing the least bit useful lay sheep-dotted pastures stretching far as the eye could see, kissed by skies of the palest blue. Beyond that was the diamond-tossed great sea.
Closer at hand was his pond with its windswept reeds and grassy banks. At the castle’s rear stood a forest he recalled rich with game.
Gone was the village that had once surrounded his home, along with all of its mayhem: chickens and geese squawking, old women chasing after their flocks of fowl and children, while the younger women worked in either the fields or the castle.
He had known them well: his fine brood.
Blinking away the moisture blurring the view, he saw them now. Fine, tall Lambert, with his brown eyes and eager mind, always solving problems; he alone had devised a fix for the mill. Sweet Nesta with her purity of spirit and a halo of her mother’s sable curls. Colin, who, even at four years of age, had looked most like him.
How Wolfe’s chest ached at the thought of them. His babes. Loved one and all.
Throat tight, he tried tamping his rage.
Rage at the sorceress who had done this to him. Rage at her daughter, whom he had seen at the pond not a week after his transformation rutting with Greylond, his cousin! Even worse was witnessing the end of Desdemona’s sad life so many long years later when, even then, she had not been with child. And there he had sat in the pond, paying for all eternity for a sin he had not even committed—at least not with her.
But, aye, he admitted guilt in bastarding his other wee ones. Would that he could, he might have changed the course of his days. Seen that perhaps there was more to life than the conquering of foes.
Rubbing his forehead, he squeezed his eyes closed tight.
Everything had been so different then—and he was not just talking of the advances in invention. It was everything. The thoughts. The angle of the sun—the very air. He remembered none of this self-awareness. He had been what he had been. That was all. Nothing more, nothing less, just himself.
Wolfe.
Prince of Gwyneddor.
Son to the king. Father to Lambert, Nesta and Colin.
Hands on his hips, chin raised high, hair streaming behind him in the sweet-scented breeze, he was once again master of his kingdom, lord of all he surveyed. And while he remembered well his father once telling him that to be king was a solitary existence, Wolfe found himself wishing for others with whom he might share this bucolic scene. Not just his children, but a woman with laughing eyes the same fathomless blue as the sky and hair of burnished copper like leaves on the autumnal forest trees.
Alas, if Lucy Gordon were with him, though, he would most likely know not her pleasant companionship but fiery wrath. She would no more understand his need to be up here anymore than his need to earn her love.
Earn?
Ha. In his time, he would have been entitled to that love.
The glint of sun on a far-off car windshield caught his eye, reminding him he might never again know such absolute power. Mere days earlier, he would not have conceived such a thing. But he now knew from his long talks with Lucy Gordon that while this new land indeed had a king, the man held no power.
The absurdity of this never failed to stir him and, alas, in his more truthful moments, scare him.
For with his father long departed, if Wolfe was not king, he was but a man residing in a stolen home and country. Without claiming his rightful title, even if he were to regain his life, what was he to do? Where was he to go?
Even more unsettling, how much longer was he to be in th
e most unfamiliar—indeed most unwanted—position of being at Lucy Gordon’s mercy?
She not only met his most basic needs of food and shelter but, according to the curse’s damnedable rules, she, and only she, held the power to save him.
Always, up to now, he had controlled his destiny.
Aye, which is why you have spent the past thousand years as a frog?
He clenched his hands into fists.
If not for the rule stating he only had one shot at finding a woman to save him, and that only that woman’s vow of eternal love mattered, the conditions binding him to that damnedable green skin would have been so simple to meet.
In his time, women had said they loved him after the briefest tumble upon soft pond grasses. Of course, those women had known him to be a man of power, and now, he was but a man.
Without firsthand knowledge of the respect he once commanded, how was Lucy Gordon to know she was supposed to love him? Everyone had loved him, from the serving wenches, to his hound, to his father the king.
What of your mother? She loved you so little she took her own life.
“Arrrgggh!” he shouted to the heavens, clenching his mighty fists.
Lucy Gordon was not his insane mother. And even his mother had once loved him, though she had held a far greater love for herself and her paramour. Perhaps he had chosen the wrong path in deciding to woo comely Lucy? Perhaps he should offer more. Coin and jewels? In and around this castle was the whole of his father’s fortune. An unimaginable hidden treasure any woman would find suitable in exchange for love.
“Aye,” he said with renewed hope and conviction. “Jewels. All women lust for jewels.” He would give her a fistful of trinkets, then demand she love him, or take the whole lot back from whence it came.
My love can’t be bought. Love is something you have to earn.
With a disgusted grunt, Wolfe turned away from the rolling green hills and sky of remarkable blue. For green reminded him of the last woman from his past, and blue of the woman who might very well be the last woman in his future.