The Dark Forest: A Collection Of Erotic Fairytales

by Zoe Blake

  Rushing towards a mutual release.

  The room spun, faster and faster. The colors merging and melting, swirling about her. As her world tilted, she could hear his roar of completion. Beatrice stopped fighting it and gave in, reveling in the pleasurable whirl.

  Rhys moved to her side, keeping a strong arm around her waist. As the euphoria ebbed, Beatrice tried to sidle away. Rhys only pulled her closer.

  “Well…um…I am very tired so…”

  “I’m not leaving,” uttered Rhys as he moved to pull the covers over both of them.

  Beatrice felt her irritation rise. “You got what you wanted. You can leave now.”

  She needed him gone. Needed to be alone to reflect on what had just happened. How she had let it happen. She had just given her maidenhead to a man she barely knew…and a servant no less. Yet, somehow she wasn’t feeling the rush of guilt or panic which was expected. It was wrong but it still felt right. The very least of her concern was how her supposed fiancé would feel on the subject. He probably was old and fat. He probably didn’t even know what to do with a woman in bed let alone be concerned if his purchased bride was not pure.

  “I haven’t even begun to take all that I want,” warned Rhys.

  Beatrice shivered. It was a long time before she ventured to speak again.

  “I don’t know your name,” she whispered with mortification into the darkness, half hoping he had fallen asleep.

  Rhys paused. Now was not the time to reveal his true identity. She was not quite ready to learn he was more tied to her fate than she realized.

  “Rhys,” he responded finally as he nuzzled her neck, hoping she did not draw a connection between that and the Prince Rhysmont of her engagement. “Now sleep, love. I plan to wake you early in the morning with more of the same.”

  Realizing he truly had no intentions of leaving and being both emotionally and physically exhausted, Beatrice yielded. And it had nothing to do with his promise of more pleasure, she resolutely lied to herself. She would see that he left the way he had come in before the servants stirred in the morning.

  For the first time in years she did not dream of the gypsy or the curse that night. Nor did she dream of the beast, he had become a reality.

  Chapter Seven

  “You have to leave!”

  Rhys opened one eye, took in Bea’s beautifully disheveled state and then promptly closed it.

  “I’m not jesting! You have to leave, now!” Beatrice urged as she shook his naked shoulder.

  Rhys rolled onto his back, pulling her down on top of him.

  Beatrice placed her hands on his warm chest. Running her fingers through the thick black hair which did nothing to hide the deep valleys and ridges of each muscle. She blushed as she watched his lips form a knowing smile. Before sunrise that morning, he had awoken her in a very creative, if not mortifying way, insisting she straddle his shoulders. Beatrice swore if she looked closely she would see nail marks in the headboard she had grabbed onto it so tightly.

  “Please, what’s-her-name will be here soon,” she pleaded.

  “What’s-her-name? You mean, Dolores, your lady’s maid?”

  Beatrice was astonished. “How do you know my maid’s name?”

  “I know more about you than you might think,” he responded cryptically.

  Shaking off the warm feeling knowing he had taken the time to learn about her produced, Beatrice gave him another pleading look. “Well then, Dolores, will be here soon. You must leave!”

  Rhys took pity on her. Once his identity was revealed there would not be much fuss about finding him in her bed, even though they were anticipating the wedding a bit. However, he would not have her the brunt of innuendo and crude talk till that day. Reluctantly rising, he reached for his breeches. However, thinking better of it, he laid back down

  Grabbing his breeches, Beatrice held them out to him. “What are you doing? Don’t lay back down! Put these on!” she beseeched.

  “Only if you promise me a forfeit,” he teased.

  “Yes! Yes! Anything you please! Just get dressed.”

  “Anything?” he asked with a seductive tilt to his mouth.

  Beatrice paused. Perhaps in her zealousness to get him out of her bed chamber she had been incredibly hasty. The man had a wicked mind. Who knew what kind of pleasurable torture he had in mind.

  “Well…not anything,” she hedged.

  Rhys laughed. “Do not worry, my love. It is an easy forfeit. I would like a tour of the perfumery.”

  Beatrice perked up. Was that all? Ignoring the disturbing flutter of disappointment in her stomach that he did not request something more intimate, she readily agreed. “Of course. Of course. Meet me by the perfumery in two hours.”

  Rhys stepped into his breeches and headed for the open balcony doors just as they both heard a clatter out in the hall.

  “Hurry!”

  Rhys snatched her about the waist and pulled her close for one scorching kiss. Finally releasing her, he stepped onto the balcony, tossing a saucy wink to her over his shoulder, he disappeared over the balustrade.

  Beatrice was nervous. There was no other way to describe it. She was actually nervous about showing him the perfumery. It was silly really. She had chastised herself a thousand times in the hours since he left her bed. But there was no hope for it…she was nervous.

  She was waiting by the large, wooden archway when Rhys appeared further down the path. He was respectably attired in a cream linen shirt, leather jerkin and boots. This time seeing him was different though. This time she knew the beast who lay under the trappings of society.

  Rhys came to a stop directly in front of her. The tips of his boots touched the edge of her red velvet dress.

  “I am ready for my tour, mistress,” Rhys said warmly. His eyes full of suggestive promise.

  Beatrice blushed. Clearing her throat, she responded with deliberate formality. “Yes, of course. Right this way if you please.”

  She turned but before she could place a hand on the large wrought iron handle, Rhys reached over her petite form to push the door open for her. Taking the close moment to whisper in her ear, “I love the color red on you, Bea. It reminds me of the color of your lips after you’ve been kissed.”

  It was scandalous of course. Even more so when she reminded herself that she was the mistress of the estate and he the stable master. Still, she blushed at the compliment.

  Proceeding through the door, Beatrice ushered him into the main open space of the perfumery. The entire place was organized chaos. Dozens of men paced from one side of the room to the next. Tending to the fires of massive, polished copper stills. Monitoring the presses. Tending to the stacks upon stacks of dried flowers, spices, wood and resins.

  The air was perfumed with the very essence of Mother Nature. Floral, earthy, citrus, deep musk.

  Beatrice watched him closely. She was very proud of her perfumery. Her father had never even commented on her hard work here. She long ago stopped seeking validation from him. Well almost. Somehow, things had shifted in the night. Somehow, she now wanted this virtual stranger’s validation. She wanted him to see what she had accomplished and appreciate it.

  “We keep the stills burning virtually around the clock,” she explained. “We use steam to extract the fragrant oils. I find it gives a cleaner, more refined scent as opposed to applying direct heat as some perfumeries do. It would be easier and faster that way but I do not like the toasted almost burnt scent it adds.”

  Beatrice stopped as one of her clerks approached.

  “Miss Beatrice, I have the sample from the Al-Kindi batch,” the clerk offered with a hesitant look in Rhys’ direction.

  Beatrice took the scrap of linen and brought it to her nose, carefully inhaling. “Too much coriander. Not enough myrtle and you forgot to add the bergamot.”

  “Yes, Miss Beatrice,” responded the clerk who bowed to both her and Rhys before running off to follow her instructions.

  “I am experimenting wi
th some recipes from Al-Kindi’s Book of the Chemistry of Perfume and Distillations,” offered Beatrice by way of explanation. “It is from the 9th century and I thought it would make for a unique selection of perfumes.”

  Rhys looked down at her eager, upturned face. It was hard not to love the excitement and true enjoyment that shone through her eyes. She had a real talent for perfume.

  “I must say I am extremely impressed, Miss Beatrice. This is an amazing accomplishment. You should be very proud.”

  As much as she loved his compliment, she was equally pleased at how he showed her the proper respect in front of the workers. It was difficult getting some of them to take orders from a woman and having the stable master treat her with familiarity would have made things harder.

  “Thank you,” she acquiesced shyly.

  Looking up, Beatrice internally groaned. Gaston was approaching. The man always gave her trouble. She would have preferred to avoid him but there was a matter of great import she needed to discuss.

  “Perhaps you would like to take a closer look at the stills?” she offered. “I just need a moment.”

  Rhys walked the few steps to the still but he was not fooled. He kept within earshot of Bea.

  “Gaston, a word if you please,” began Beatrice. “I noticed that the distilled oil from a recent batch of Damask rose petals was mishandled. It is your responsibility to see that these matters are handled more efficiently,” she chastised.

  Gaston gave Beatrice a look of condescension. “The vials were fine. You have nothing to complain about,” he disrespectfully countered.

  Beatrice tossed a quick look over her shoulder to see that Rhys was not paying attention. He seemed to be engrossed in looking over the copper stills.

  “Well obviously I disagree,” snapped Beatrice. “You will follow my instructions or you can find yourself other employment.”

  “You can’t dismiss me. Only your father can do that,” he shouted back.

  “Don’t try me, Gaston. I assure you I can.”

  “Oh yeah, well…” he didn’t finish his sentence. Suddenly turning on his heel but not before giving her one final look of revulsion.

  Beatrice was amazed he had given in so easily. Usually it was much more of a fight. Perhaps Gaston was finally learning to respect her authority?

  That was when she sensed his presence. Turning around, she saw Rhys standing just behind her. With mortification, Beatrice realized that not only had he heard the entire encounter with Gaston, the only reason why her worker did not give her more of a fight was Rhys. Gaston had not shown her respect. He had shied away from opposing Rhys. She was certain of it. She saw the way the workers seemed to automatically show Rhys respect and deference. Even her own clerk had bowed to him as if he were a superior. The man exuded authority. From the way he walked with confidence to his straight forward stare and mannerisms. A natural leader. A man.

  Without warning, her temper flared.

  “I believe you have seen enough for one day,” she said through clenched teeth. “I am sure you can find your way out.”

  Rhys grabbed her upper arm as she turned to go. “What just happened?”

  “I am sure I don’t know what you mean.”

  “The hell you don’t,” he ground out.

  One moment she was warm and inviting as she showed him around. The next she was as prickly as a cat with thorns and he wanted to know why. Especially since it had taken every ounce of strength in his body not to haul off and punch that bastard Gaston as much for the disrespect he had just shown as for his lewd words last night. But he knew that would not help Beatrice. He knew she needed to be the perceived authority and him stepping in would undermine her. So after going above and beyond by his measure to please and show her respect he certainly did not expect or deserve her coldness.

  “Unhand me,” she said, her voice dark and low with anger.

  That was his breaking point.

  Looking around to make sure they were unobserved amongst the bustle and hubbub of the perfumery, Rhys dragged her over to stand sheltered between some high stacks of dried lavender. Casting a glance over his shoulder to make sure their hiding place was secure, Rhys turned his intent, angry gaze on her.

  Beatrice refused to be cowed. She raised her chin in defiance as she crossed her arms across her chest.

  “It won’t work,” he said.

  “What?” she responded scathingly.

  “This,” he said, giving her a thorough once over. “It won’t work.”

  Beatrice let a frustrated sigh escape her lips. “Move aside before someone sees us.”

  She did not like the fluttering, tingling feeling spreading over her body. The scent of lavender bringing back memories of their first encounter. His dominating stance as he towered over her bringing memories of the last.

  “It won’t work, love. These little temper tantrums of yours. They won’t push me away. If anything, they just make me want to flip up your skirts and bare your bottom for a spanking.”

  “How dare you?” flushed Beatrice.

  “As I have told you before, you will find I intend to dare far more.”

  Beatrice tried to force her way past him. Rhys handily maneuvered her further into the stacks of lavender till her back was pressed against the stone wall of the perfumery.

  Placing his forefinger under her chin, he forced her to look at him. “I want you to listen very carefully, my little fierce feline. I am not your father. You do not have to grab my attention or affection by these displays of temper and disobedience. Let me assure you. You have had my full attention from the moment I saw you ride out of that stable, gloriously and scandalously astride that horse. You have had my affection from the moment you opened that pretty little mouth of yours to threaten to have me driven from the village with pitchforks and torches. I know your secret. You are not truly Beatrice the Beastly. Your father’s neglect has made you so. A lack of love. That is over. I am here now.”

  How could this man whom she had only just met, read her so well? How could he have known about her constant attempts to win her father’s attention and affection?

  Beatrice bit her lip in agitation. “How did you know?”

  “When will you believe me when I say I know and see far more than you realize?” he asked, bemused as he brushed an errant curl behind her ear.

  Beatrice knew from the moment she met this man that he was dangerous she just never realized just how dangerous. It was not her body that was in danger. It was her heart.

  “The curse,” she muttered without thinking.

  “What?” he asked, confused.

  “You’re the curse. Or the answer to the curse. I’m not really sure which.” Love through supplication. He had forced her to submit and against all odds, she had fallen in love with the man. Just like the curse said she would. No one in her entire life had made her so angry and yet had made her feel so protected, understood and supported. This was a man who was strong enough to lean on. One worthy of love.

  But it was all wrong. It couldn’t be.

  “It doesn’t matter. All this doesn’t matter. My father…”

  “You let me worry about your father.”

  “You don’t understand there are marriage contracts signed, a substantial amount of gold coin involved,” she responded forlornly, still smarting from her father’s intention to sell her off like cattle.

  Rhys watched her closely. “Is that what you care about most? Wealth and position? Is this really about me being a stable master?”

  “No,” answered Beatrice without hesitation. Although she wished it were. It would be so much easier if she could just fall back on society’s rules about class. The truth was she was independent enough to believe she could make her own wealth. She didn’t need to marry into money. She didn’t need a prince. She needed a man who would stand up to her…stand by her. She needed him.

  Rhys cupped her face in both hands. Searching her eyes before allowing his gaze to travel to her mouth. He tilt
ed his head down, running the tip of his tongue over her full bottom lip, tasting her before delving deep. Capturing her mouth in a full kiss.

  Beatrice’s world was tilting about her by the time he let her go.

  “As I said, I will take care of your father.”

  He was so confident, Beatrice was just hopeful enough to believe him.

  “How about I take you for a ride?”

  Beatrice raised an eyebrow. Certain he didn’t just mean an innocent jaunt about the countryside.

  “Sounds wonderful,” she said with a smile.

  They emerged from the lavender stack and started to make their way out of the perfumery. Just as one of her workers were crossing their path, the man fell to one knee, “Your highness,” said the man, head bowed.

  Beatrice looked at the worker with confusion. Raising her head to judge Rhys’ reaction to the absurd gesture, she was struck by his look of horror.

  “Prince Rhysmont, as one of your countrymen, please allow me to say it is an honor to see you here,” continued the worker.

  Beatrice took a step back. Prince Rhysmont. Rhys. Rhysmont. How could she have been so blind? So obtuse!

  “Bea, let me explain,” began Rhys as he stalked toward her, arms raised.

  Beatrice could only shake her head no as she backed away. The realization of his deception breaking over her. Before Rhys could stop her, she turned heel and ran. Knowing the layout of the perfumery far better than he, she was able to quickly lose him among the stacks of flowers and spices, slipping out a side door.

  “Dammit,” thundered Rhys as he gave up his pursuit and ran for the front entrance, knowing instinctively where she would flee to.

  Chapter Eight

  “I know that isn’t a hunt saddle I see you putting on that horse,” warned Rhys as he walked into the stable.

  “Go to hell,” spat out Beatrice without even looking at him, as she defiantly continued to saddle one of the estate’s horses after sending all the stable boys running away in fear. She glanced out the high bay window to the pasture beyond where Athena grazed. There had been no time to collect her.