“You used to live in hunting tribes?” I asked, recalling my history.
He nodded. “And sometimes winters were hard, but they say we never starved.”
“Some people choose to be beggars,” I said, recalling talk I’d heard around the castle. “Because they don’t want to work.”
“Funny you should mention that,” he said. He shoved open the door of the inn. Common people ate at long communal tables.
“Eat your fill, milady,” he said, and once again, “Things will be different, when we get home.”
Everyone was staring at me, a human girl, wearing my beautiful gown. The wood elves were tall and slender, mostly red-headed. They dressed simply in clothes that moved well and wore well, in forest dyes of brown, reddish brown, greenish brown, and yellowish brown. Some of the ladies dressed just like the men. It was no surprise, considering that even their king looked like a vagrant, that the common folk looked even worse. Every tunic and cap and boot, on every last elf in the place, probably didn’t add up to the cost of my single dress.
There were a few humans at one table in the corner, and a goblin at the bar, but certainly they didn’t draw half as much attention as I did.
I gathered up spoonful after spoonful of stew, trying my best to ignore them, but I had never felt so alone in all my life.
I feared what the night would bring. I had heard that peasants sometimes slept in rooms with dozens of other people. And then, I didn’t know what Jack would do. Would he expect a wedding night? We had a small room to ourselves, as it turned out, with two straw-stuffed mattresses on rope frames. I was relieved when he took one bed and waved at the other. I slept in my gown, when I slept at all, and I was very uncomfortable.
And then, in the morning, we ventured into the forests.
Chapter Seven
Princess Bethany
“Here we are. Your new home, milady.” Jack had led the horses and the cart down a very narrow path cut through the woods. I had never been in such a place. It felt like we were the only people in all the world.
This must be how Lady Celeste felt when Lord Stormwild kidnapped her, I thought.
Except Lord Stormwild brought her to a grand, moody castle, and this was a wooden shack. It could not have been more than one room. I supposed I should be glad it had glass windows. Outside was a little garden, stacked firewood, and an orchard of apple trees with gnarled branches and ample fruit. There was also some kind of barn or stable large enough to store the horses and cart.
“That’s a lucky thing, having a stable,” I said, “considering you didn’t have a cart or horses until my father gave them to you.”
He gave me a quick glance as if we had shared a secret. “It is indeed.”
“Are you really who you say you are?” I asked him. “Or did my father put you up to this?”
“He did not,” Jack said.
He put his hands around my waist and lifted me from cart to ground. We stood in a patch of sunlight. About an acre of forest had been cleared away to accommodate his homestead, but the woods pressed around us. The forests were turning red and gold, soon to be bare and dead for the long winter. It was dark beneath the trees. Almost no sunlight could penetrate the tree cover. The brush was full of little rustles and buzzing things.
“He did not,” Jack repeated, “but the thing is done now, and you will belong to me before long, lass.”
“Before long?”
“We’re married, aye, but I haven’t won you, body and soul. I will, though.”
Something in me wanted to like those words. Wanted to hear them spoken again, softer, closer to my ear. It was a strange and unwelcome feeling. Why would I want to be won over by a man like this?
“No,” I said. I crossed my arms. “That certainly won’t happen. I just met all the wealthiest, most handsome, elegant, educated men in all the realm and I didn’t want any of them. You think I’ll ever be won over by you?”
He walked over to the front door of the cabin and swung it open, holding out his arm. I approached the threshold, dreading what kind of hovel I would find inside. But before I passed through the doorway, he stopped me, holding his hand across the frame. “There is one rule in your new home,” he said.
“Oh?” I said, a little sullenly.
“You shall have nothing unless you beg for it. And I’ll expect you to work for your bread.”
“You’re my husband. I am a princess. I don’t know how to work.”
“You are a princess who is very far from home,” he said. “I promised your father that you would learn humility. Everyone on this earth, except spoiled little princesses, either has to work or beg for everything they have. Every dress you have ever worn is the product of countless hours of labor. Every feast you have ever eaten means the toil of farmers and chefs and scullery maids and spice merchants from across the seas. You’ve had hundreds of people living to serve your single person. Now, you are living a fair life. You’ll have what you earn, and nothing more.”
“And what if I don’t? You’ll let me starve to death?”
“No, lass. I won’t let you starve. But you won’t exactly be free either.” He gave me that look again, the one that said, I know every wicked thought you have ever had. “And just remember, any time you like, you can stop me. All you have to do is work or beg.”
I must have flushed very pink.
“Take off your gown,” he said.
I straightened. “My gown?”
“Aye, it’s worth a pretty sum, and there’s no one here to see you. I’ll have to take it to town and sell it to buy enough winter stores for the both of us.”
“Why don’t you sell the horses?”
“You’ll be glad to have those horses. You don’t need that gown.”
“Do you have something else for me to wear?”
“Aye, what’s the rule?”
I glowered at him. “May I have something else to wear?”
He leaned closer to me. “You think that’s begging? Asking sarcastically? Goods must be earned by sweat and toil, one way or another. You’ll have to make it damn convincing.”
“I don’t need a lecture from you.”
“Take off your dress or I’ll take it off for you.”
I took a step back from him, stumbling on the uneven ground. I reached behind me and struggled with the buttons. Usually my ladies did this for me. But what did it matter if I tore them now? If he was going to sell it anyway? I yanked at the fabric until some of the buttons popped, and then I struggled out of the gown, wrinkling the silk, leaving it to fall onto the leaves that blanketed the path up to the cabin door.
He picked it up and shook it out, regarding my underthings. I was still wearing two layers of lacy petticoats, and a corset made of pink fabric with lace trimmings at the edges. Had I only known I was going to be packed off to live in some hovel, I wouldn’t have worn something so fancy. “I think we could go a little further,” he said, pointing at my skirts. “Fine petticoats you have there.”
“But then you will see my legs!”
“Only human girls make such a fuss about legs,” he said. “I’ve seen a lot of legs. Thousands of them, probably. Elven women show them all the time. You saw them at the inn.”
I had crossed my arms. He reached behind my waist and untied the petticoats in one brisk, businesslike motion. They fell to the ground. The shift I wore under my corset was a thin, sleeveless garment that showed the faint outline of my body and only reached my knees. Beneath were my stockings: deep green, with the family crest embroidered at the ankles in gold and red, and pink shoes with gold buckles and small heels.
He kept his hand at the small of my back for a moment, although he didn’t really touch me. He leaned one elbow against the doorframe of the cabin, and I was aware of the contrast between his simple well-worn clothes and my delicate, fancy underthings.
Feelings clashed in my head like storm clouds. I was furious at him. I still hated him as much as ever. But all that fury and hate ha
d taken on a strange edge. The roiling dark clouds within me were threatening thunder and lightning. When a storm comes, one is helpless, and maybe frightened—but also mesmerized. I loved that feeling of electric air and foreign breezes wiping the land clean. I wanted to capture this feeling and write it down.
I couldn’t stop looking at him.
“You are so very far from home,” he said. “No one will ever know what happens here.”
That could have been a threat, but the way he said it, it sounded more like a promise.
I was struck again with the sense that he knew what I wanted, maybe even beyond what I knew myself.
“Now you may come in,” he said.
I stepped into the room, floorboards creaking under my feet.
It was actually much nicer than I expected. There was a generous hearth with cooking implements hanging on the wall around it, and a shelf of food stores, including sugar and peppercorns and other small luxuries that I had every day in the castle, but that I knew poor people would be lucky to have. The furniture was also in reasonable supply: a large table with several chairs, a wooden chest, and most surprisingly, a proper bed with curtains.
I narrowed my eyes at him. “A basket maker, hmm?”
“I had a bit of an inheritance from a wealthy aunt,” he said, with a wink.
“You’re not really a basket maker.”
“I’ll tell you who I really am when you tell me who you really are.”
“You know who I am.”
“Do I?” He looked at me carefully.
My mind raced over possibilities. What if this strange Mardoonish man was King Brennus himself? But that would only work if he planned all this far in advance, and that made no sense, when my father had intended for me to choose among all the men. He would not have invited them all if he meant me for Brennus all along.
What if Jack was the man who wrote me the letters?
The prospect was intriguing.
He picked up a sack and a jar and dumped them on the table, followed by a mortar and pestle and then a head of garlic.
“Will you be working for your supper, my little beggar princess?”
“Don’t call me that.” I scowled. “What would I have to do?”
“Go to the garden and pull up some carrots and onions. Get some water from the well. Use a little of it to get the dirt off and the rest will go in the pot. You’ll want to cut the carrots and onions and some potatoes, too, and I like to mash up the peppercorn and garlic for flavor, and add a good pinch of salt, and when that’s done I’ll give you a recipe for some dumplings and you’ll go to the hen house—”
“What will you be doing all this time?”
“I’m going to see if I can’t find some meat for the pot.”
I was overwhelmed and annoyed. “I’m not going to deal with dirty vegetables and chickens while I’m dressed like this.”
“So it’s a peasant dress you’re wanting?”
I didn’t reply.
“You’re not going to deal with chickens, no matter if I dress you in rags or trousers, are ye?”
“No,” I said. “I will never deal with chickens.”
He regarded me lazily, with infinite patience. Silence stretched between us.
Finally he said, “I knew you’d choose the other option, lass.” He walked up to me and put his hands on my shoulders, gently pushing me backwards toward a chair. His hands urged me to sit, and his feet pushed my feet out to the outer edges of the chair, spreading my nether lips beneath the thin shift. I didn’t breathe and I didn’t protest. It was like I was under a spell, looking at him. Wood elves were more rugged than high elves, but there was still a touch of something unearthly in him, in his cheekbones and his pale green eyes, in the sly soft curve of his lips and the absolute clarity of his skin. He was quite handsome, despite his shoddy clothing; I could not deny that.
He stomped his foot once and ribbons snaked around my ankles from behind the legs of the chair and another caught me around the waist, tying me to the chair in that position. And finally, two more ribbons caught my wrists and tied them to the framework of the chair back.
“I’m no sorcerer,” he said. “But I do know a few tricks.” He went to the door and bowed, mocking me. “Wait there, and I shall make you a fine supper, Princess.”
And then he was gone.
Chapter Eight
Princess Bethany
I took a deep breath. My breasts, barely contained by my corset, heaved. Don’t do that again while he’s here, I told myself.
I fidgeted, but my bonds had no give. I could slide my hands and feet up and down a little, but I wouldn’t have any luck pulling my limbs free.
My heart was racing.
I had always wondered what it would be like to be a captive, to lose control over my circumstances, to be tied up in some cruel place with my captor’s attention focused upon me. I knew this was a wicked thing to wish, that if I had really been kidnapped as a princess, I might have been beaten or tortured or starved. And indeed, in my book, Lord Stormwild did threaten to torture Lady Celeste. You couldn’t kidnap someone and tie them up unless you were the villain, and if you were the villain, you had to spend a lot of time promising to do terrible things, up until the very moment that the hero arrived.
But now it was like my curious fantasy had come to life. I was kidnapped and tied up by a man who didn’t really seem like the villain, and that was a deeply uncomfortable feeling. How did Jack know what I wanted? Why had he come to do this to me?
Why was I so aroused, just from having my ankles tied to a chair? I was conscious of how spread I was. My folds were swollen, pressed against the seat of the chair, my desire seeming very much out of proportion to the situation. I was alone, and not even very comfortable, but a sense of deep yearning was building inside me like an itch. I had nothing to do but wait for his return.
It was very quiet in the cabin. I noticed a small tapestry hanging on the wall, depicting a hunting party slaying a wolf: a disconcerting reminder of the things that might lurk in these woods. I had never been left to myself before, much less in some isolated place. Fear started to creep in around the edges of my lust, tamping it down.
Then his footsteps approached and my skin broke into goosebumps. He kicked the door open with his foot, which meant it hadn’t even been properly latched. His hands were full of freshly picked onions, carrots, herbs, and eggs.
“No fresh meat today, I’m afraid,” he said. “We’ll have just a bit of salt pork for your ladyship.”
It certainly wasn’t what I was used to. I was already dreaming of platters of roasted meat and fruits, of custard and cakes, of vegetables flavored with delicate spices and fresh cream. He got a fire going and chopped the vegetables. I stayed quiet. I don’t know what I was waiting for, but I was waiting for something, I knew that down in my bones.
The cabin soon filled with a tasty smell, and my stomach was growling again. He gave the pot a stir and approached me, sitting on the edge of the table in front of me. I looked sullenly at his boots. My arms were aching.
“I forgot these,” he said, reaching for my hair combs. He pulled them out and my hair tumbled around my shoulders. “They’ll fetch a pretty penny, too.” He brushed a few hairs back from my face. “Stubborn as ever, aye?”
My stomach growled again. I licked my lips. “I need some water. I would get that myself, but—”
“No trouble.” He brought over a cup and held it to my lips. Some drops escaped my mouth and trickled down my chin to my breasts. I fidgeted, humiliated at letting drink escape my mouth like a baby. I expected him to take his handkerchief and at least wipe off my face, but he didn’t. Whistling, he got back to his stew, cracking eggs and whisking flour. Now I really wasn’t sure if he was Mr. Elmwood, because a man learned enough to read books and write letters didn’t seem as if he ought to know how to cook. A learned man would at least be able to hire a maid of all work, if not a cook as well.
Before long, the sun had go
ne down. The fire was the only light in the room. He brought a bowl of the stew over and lifted a spoonful to my mouth.
I was so hungry by then that I ate it without protest. Then he took a bite.
“How tedious for you to feed me,” I said. “You must be very hungry yourself.”
“I can wait. It’s worth it to watch you.”
“Watch me?”
“Aye, and you know it. You’re well aware that you’re a beauty. But no one’s ever looked at you so blatantly before, I’ll wager. You’re a princess and you’re used to a respectful gaze. Here, you have no shields of wealth or prestige. If I like, I can look at you the same way the soldiers gawk at the milk maids.”
“You have no shame at all, do you?”
“Wood elves aren’t as concerned with shame. Though moreso than faeries. If it’s shame you wanted, you came to the wrong place. But I don’t think you have. Protest all you like. I can smell the desire on you.”
He held up another spoonful of stew, but I turned my head. “You—that’s impossible. With all the garlic in that stew, you can’t smell anything of the sort.”
“We’re hunters. We have a very keen sense of smell.”
I shook my head, trying to wriggle away from him, although of course I couldn’t go anywhere. Every word he said was only making my body more responsive.
“If I slipped my hand between your legs I wouldn’t find you dripping like a honeycomb?”
I didn’t know how to respond. He was right, of course. My core clenched with desire, wanting him. I wanted to draw him into my bed the way I had once lured in my father’s captain of the guard, a handsome young man who quietly left his post a few months later. That was a very different circumstance. He was a tall, broad, stern man, but when I had him, he became deferential and nervous. He was afraid of getting caught or getting me pregnant, despite the herbal concoction I’d bought on the sly.
He had not given me what I wanted.
My head was spinning.
The Beggar Princess (Fairy Tale Heat Book 4) Page 5