Wildest Dreams f-1

by Kristen Ashley

  Using the stack of wood in the kitchen, I built another fire in the stove then out the backdoor I went. There was an enclosed porch type area that ran the length of the house, one whole side lined with stacks of logs so high, they went up to my neck. There were a couple of cupboards too, one I opened was filled with tall candles of all widths. Another one was filled with plugged jugs of what a sniff test told me was some kind of fuel. Probably for the lamps.

  Okay, good. I had heat and light and, by the looks of it, a lot of it.

  I stamped out the backdoor to the two, remaining out buildings.

  One, to my gloom, was an outhouse.

  The other, far larger, was a shed that was also filled with split, prepared logs, a shitload of kindling and another cupboard filled with fuel. There was also a hatchet, an axe, several buckets and other bits and bobs.

  Back to the house I went, I opened a door off the living room and entered a room that had a table with a ceramic basin on it, a pitcher under it, an oval mirror on the wall over it and a drum like thing in the middle of the space, this one made of some kind of metal. It was oval and I suspected it was a tub. There was also a small fireplace in there.

  Well, bath time wasn’t going to be relaxing. But at least there was a bath.

  Back out to the living room where I wandered the place, noting there were lots of rugs on the floor, not thick, but they covered the wood planks so the cold wouldn’t seep up. As I wandered, I carefully pulled off the sheets covering the furniture, bunching them quickly while doing it so I captured as much of the dust as possible.

  Now we were talking. Finally, something decent.

  A big, fluffy couch and two deep-seated fluffy chairs with ottomans, all turned to the biggest fireplace. A sturdy desk with chair behind it in a corner. Handsome tables here and there as well as some tall candleholders. It was all rustic, hunting-cabin chic but it looked well-made and definitely comfortable… if cleaned.

  I then climbed the ladder and, moving around the loft stooped, which was the only way I could for the ceiling was so low, I saw it had three windows (two either side of the small, stone fireplace that had an iron grate at the front to catch sparks) and one at the side facing the back, all grimy, all with heavy, short curtains. It also had a fluffy, down mattress on the floor covered with a sheet I yanked off and I saw it also had four fluffy down pillows. Last, it had a heavy curtain that ran on a rail the length of the space in front of a short railing, likely to ward off the chill from the bigger space and keep in the heat from the fire.

  Bent double, I stared at the bed. Then I thought of crawling into it. Then I wondered about the light, how long the days were here and how I would most assuredly not want to pass out, sleep the day away and be in this loft in this stinking house in the dark without having at least set up the candles and probably be, by that time, ravenous instead of what I was right then, starving.

  Not to mention, I had two open fires burning downstairs.

  I sucked in breath.

  Then I muttered, “I’m never telling Claudia any of this.”

  Then I went to the ladder and down to see if I could unearth any cleaning supplies.

  * * * * *

  There were, indeed, cleaning supplies in the back of a cupboard in the kitchen (if one could call them that, but there was soap, what I took as parallel universe dish towels and rags which weren’t much different from each other but the towels were slightly finer material and definitely cleaner and I found a broom and mop on the back porch).

  Therefore, hours and hours and hours later, the sun had long since set (way early if I estimated it right) and I was done.

  The floors were swept (and, proudly, mopped). The cupboards wiped down. The rugs and furniture cushions taken outside and beaten with this kind of enormous bent twig fly-swatter thing I found in the shed. All the dishes, pots and pans were cleaned, the cupboards (and the dead insects hiding there) wiped out and dishes, pots and pans put back. The cobwebs were swiped down, the surfaces of the furniture polished. The windows were washed to a shine so I could actually see out. The curtains carefully taken down, pulled outside and shook to within an inch of their lives. The same with the pillows on the bed upstairs.

  I put out candleholders and filled them with candles. I filled lamps with fuel and put those out too. I dragged in a bunch of wood and replenished all the stocks and even found this cool pulley thing which helped me load up a stack in the loft (which I did and then I built a fire up there too).

  I found a hunk of meat, a loaf of bread and an enormous wedge of cheese. I sliced into all of it, made a huge, honking sandwich and ate it, washing it down with a cup of the fresh, clean, absolutely delicious and very cold water from the pump.

  I inventoried the kitchen and found milk in a jug in a cupboard that jutted out of the house (natural fridge) with lots of cheese, meat (some cooked, some raw), some sliceable sausage (that smelled awesome), a slab of bacon, a bowl filled with eggs and a big urn of butter. In the cupboards there were pots of jam. There was also a jar of ground coffee (hurray!) and what looked like an old-fashioned percolator to make it in. There was loose tea. There was sugar. There was flour. There was a salt pig (filled) and a pepper grinder (also filled). There were jars of spices which I made stabs at guessing what they were with sniff tests (oregano, basil, bay leaves, thyme, parsley, cayenne, cinnamon and nutmeg). And there were big sacks of potatoes and onions, smaller ones of oats and rice and a string of garlic.

  I could totally work with this.

  I was set.

  At least for awhile.

  I set about perusing my trunks and found clothes, underwear, boots, delicate wool and cashmere stockings, shoes and cloaks all a variety of fabrics and colors, all gorgeous, all obviously expensive and exquisitely made and not meant to be worn in a cabin in the middle of nowhere but… whatever. I also found some seriously sexy nightgowns (again, my new husband was a moron, the nightwear, as well as every single piece of underwear, was freaking amazing).

  I found sheets (lots of them), quilts, throws and blankets (lots of those too) so I made up the bed. I also found some china and silver, including an elegant, stunning coffee service, these I put in the kitchen. There were also what I guessed were towels and washcloths which I stacked on some shelves I wiped down in the bathroom type place.

  There was hair stuff, jewelry and makeup, bath soap, scented powders, perfume and lotions. This entire small (ish) trunk I also carted into the bathroom type place.

  There was another trunk filled with leather-bound books, some printed, some blank (journals?), elegant, ice blue writing paper and envelopes, a wax candle and an elaborate, silver seal to use to close the wax on the envelopes (awesome!), a slim, silver quill pen and a couple bottles of ink. I stocked the desk with these.

  And there was even a trunk filled with crystal: wineglasses of three shapes (white, red and flat bowled champagne, two of each), stemmed aperitif glasses (also two) and, overkill but definitely awesome, a beautiful crystal vase and I knew the perfect use for that. I went out to the sleigh, fetched my bouquet of twigs from the floor where it had fallen (as well as my forgotten crown, though how I could forget my crown, who knew, but I did), took them back to the house, shoved the twigs in the vase and put it on the low table in front of the couch.

  It looked good there. A touch of glitter, a touch of beauty. Perfect.

  The crown I set smack in the middle of the mantel of the biggest fireplace, the one the furniture faced.

  It looked good where it was too. But it would look good anywhere.

  All that I couldn’t use or needed to be stored, I carefully packed back up and then lined the trunks where they would look nice against the walls. Any empty trunks, I carted to the front door so I could drag them to the stables tomorrow.

  I had just loaded all the fires with more logs, lit the candles and lamps and found some folded screens on the back porch that were meant to sit in front of the fires to catch sparks so I set them up and I was currently flat
out on the couch, exhausted, hungry again and trying to count how many times I boiled water in that big, iron kettle on the stove when I realized there I was.

  Alone, in the middle of nowhere and far away from my parents who I had spent a million dollars to see and who, after seeing, didn’t like me.

  “Fuck,” I muttered, staring into the fire.

  Well, at least that dickhead didn’t beat me, which, dumping a princess in this hellhole without even seeing to her animals, I knew he meant to do.

  My horses were sheltered and fed. The house was cleaned. I was hungry again but I was not eating not because I couldn’t feed myself but because I was too freaking exhausted to get up and go to the kitchen. I’d taken stock and I was sitting pretty (ish). The house was warm, the fires, lanterns and candles glowed and the couch was seriously freaking comfy.

  So I grabbed a soft, woolen throw I’d unearthed from one of my trunks and tossed on the couch and I pulled it over my body. Then I held my feet out in front of me and used my toes on the heel of my boot, pushing down, down, down until the thing slid off. Ditto the other boot.

  Then I curled up and stared into the fire.

  Then I pulled in a deep breath.

  Then I grinned.

  “Welp,” I whispered, “one could say this is an adventure. Definitely.”

  Then I fell into a dead sleep smiling.

  * * * * *

  The two dark figures shifted soundlessly through the snow toward the cabin. Once there, they stopped at a window and looked inside.

  At what he saw, Frey Drakkar did a slow blink and just stopped himself from muttering an expletive.

  In eight short hours, the Winter Princess had transformed his cabin. The bloody thing even had a crystal vase filled with her wedding bundle on a table. The fires were burning strong, every inch looked clean, there was a warm rug tossed over one of the chairs and… he shifted to another window for a different view, Thaddeus following him… she was sleeping peacefully with an appealing grin on her unduly beautiful face, her abundance of white-blonde hair scattered over the arm of the couch, her delectable body covered in another warm throw.

  He shifted his gaze from her to the vase on the table and something about that made his neck get tight as it had done several times since her small hand wrapped around his fist in the Dwelling of the Gods.

  Princess Sjofn was not known to enjoy pretty things. Princess Sjofn would throw such a bundle out. Definitely her wedding bundle of adela tree twigs, regardless of how precious they were. Princess Sjofn would not stuff them in a sparkling, crystal vase and put them on display.

  And Princess Sjofn had not once on the three unpleasant occasions he’d spent time with her smiled at him. Or joked with him. Or shown her ample and unfortunately spectacular cleavage. He didn’t know she had that in her or that she could even wear a dress without looking like her garments were boiled tar poured on her skin.

  At the very least not wear them without looking like she was sucking lemons but wear them with grace and float down the aisle toward him with the bearing of her mother, a woman renowned throughout Lunwyn, hell, all of the Northlands, for her refined manner.

  He’s so into it, we could probably go sit down or even go out, get a beer and come back and he’d still be at it.

  He heard her teasing words and saw her smiling face and he suspected the Winter Princess was up to something.

  Something was not right.

  He just had no idea what. What he did know was that whatever that woman was up to, he had no intention of falling prey to it.

  Her father was king, regardless of the fact that his blood didn’t merit the throne. And King Atticus had offered an immensely handsome dowry. The pull of both, Frey refused for three years.

  But King Atticus was anxious for a son so the kingdom would be secure, going to Sjofn’s boy rather than King Atticus’s brother, Baldur, who ruled Middleland, the country to the south. Baldur was a known tyrant and a twat, even Atticus detested him, everyone did.

  This last, more than the trunks of Sjofn ice diamonds, gold and the land Atticus had settled on him for strapping him with his man-woman daughter was the reason why Frey had finally agreed.

  There was not anything Frey would not do for Lunwyn, including marrying a guenipe even though he was urged strongly not to do so by powers he should likely not ignore.

  It was that and the fact that the blood of Drakkar would sit the throne.

  His son would be king. And Frey wouldn’t have to wage war to dethrone Baldur or Baldur’s own woman-man son should one of them succeed Atticus. Not to mention, Frey wouldn’t have to settle his own seat on Lunwyn’s throne after he defeated Baldur.

  That would be a pain in the arse. Absolutely.

  Thaddeus whistled his surprise through his teeth at the sights he beheld taking Frey out of his thoughts.

  Frey ground his.

  Then he moved away from the cabin, soundless through the wood to where they had left their horses and Thaddeus followed.

  Without a word, they swung into their saddles but Frey didn’t ride. He sat on his mount, Tyr, staring at his cabin, smoke serenely drifting from four chimneys, a golden, cheerful glow shining from the windows, his bloody wife asleep and dreaming of gods knew what.

  Frey glared at the house feeling something unsettling then he looked at the windows.

  They were opened, the curtains not closed to shut out the cold.

  His brows drew together.

  The woman had it in her to clean and build fires; this was a surprise and an annoying one. But Sjofn, Winter Princess, who had every whim catered to but who clearly demonstrated she had the wherewithal to fend for herself, would therefore definitely draw the curtains to ward off the cold. Even if she had been reclining, defeated, in his filthy hunting cabin, being Lunwynian, she would know to close the curtains to shut out the cold.

  Thaddeus spoke, taking Frey from these thoughts.

  “I must say, Frey, I wouldn’t give a gods damn that one preferred tart. That was my new bride, she’d be tasting my cock either straight through her mouth or because I was thrusting it so deep, she’d savor it in her throat,” Thaddeus remarked quietly at his side.

  “Mm,” Frey murmured.

  Frey felt his friend’s eyes. “You don’t agree?”

  “I’ve no idea where that mouth has been. Or that cunt,” Frey replied.

  “Must say, speaking true, I wouldn’t care about that either,” Thaddeus returned.

  Frey thought of her hair all over the armrest, her smile, her cleavage.

  Then he thought of her fervent return of his kiss after they were wed, a return that made his blood heat and his cock begin to get hard as her tongue played hungrily with his and her arms glided around his neck, holding him tight. It wasn’t a passable kiss. It wasn’t even good.

  What it was, was the best embrace by far he’d ever shared.

  Something else that did not sit right for that was something else that was not Princess Sjofn.

  He’d been infuriated at her drunken admission years ago when King Atticus had started his campaign to win Frey Drakkar as his son-in-law. He’d been infuriated because she was, without a doubt, the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen and he wanted her the instant he saw her even, maybe especially because she was wearing breeches.

  His new wife had a spectacular arse and even better legs.

  Then he found out what she was.

  Frey had no issue with guenipes.

  But he wanted no wife who did not want him, no matter her beauty.

  But, after that kiss, after she’d demonstrated how very well she could pretend, Frey had to admit, Thaddeus’s words held merit.

  “The ship awaits, Thad,” Frey muttered, putting an end to their short conversation.

  “Indeed, Frey,” Thad muttered back.

  They turned their horses, touched heels to flanks and they were away.

  Chapter Five

  Welcome Home

  Six weeks later…
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  “Woo hoo!” I cried, feeling the rush of cold air coming in behind me as someone entered the pub.

  I ignored it to crow my victory, my arms straight up over my head and I grinned at the men sharing the table with me before I dropped my arms and leaned in, pulling the pile of coin toward me.

  “Are you sure I taught you this game two short weeks ago, Princess Finnie?” Laurel grumbled at me from my right, watching his money come toward my big pile.

  “Mm hmm, swear,” I nodded, turned my head, lifted my hand to cross my heart and smiled big at him, “cross my heart and hope to die.”

  “Right,” Ulysses muttered from my left and I swung my smile at him to see him smiling back showing me he held no ill-will. Then again, we were playing for what was, essentially, pennies so it wasn’t like they owed me the notes on their cottages.

  I reached for the rough deck of cards, my fingers deftly organizing them in order to shuffle as I declared, “My deal.”

  “Make sure she doesn’t do it from the bottom, Uly, she may be the mother of our future king but I don’t put anything passed her,” Frederick, across from me, said to Ulysses even though I knew he was kidding.

  He liked me

  In fact, most of the village of Houllebec did. And the only people in the village (that I knew of) who didn’t were people I had not met.

  My adventure may have not started all that great but it got a whole lot better.

  First, I found a side saddle in the stable (as well as a big washing tub with one of those grinder things to wring out clothes so I could wash my clothes and I did, using that thing, though, it must be said it wasn’t my favorite thing to do especially since I had to hang everything all around the house and it took forever to dry and messed with the cozy, rustic cabin vibe I had going).

  I knew how to ride, just not side saddle, but I loaded the saddle on one of my grays, figured out how to lug my ass up on it and, the very next day after I arrived, I followed our tracks into the village I quickly learned was called Houllebec.