Once Upon a Romance 02 - As The Last Petal Falls

by Jessica Woodard

  “Everywhere I’ve checked.” She grinned at him. “But if you think to attack my feet, be warned, I tend to kick.”

  “I wouldn’t dare. I’ve seen your accuracy with a pillow; I think your foot would do a lot more damage. There, now stand up.” He held the breeches steady while she slid off the edge of the bed, working them up until they were almost to the top of her thighs.

  “They’re stuck.” She sounded amused.

  “They’re not stuck, they’ve just… encountered an obstacle.” A round, well-shaped, lovely, firm obstacle. “Turn around, I need to pull from the back.”

  Belle turned around, and Fain gritted his teeth and slid the breeches up. He tried not to think about the soft skin that his thumbs were gliding over; tried not to look at the little strip of flesh that showed between the waistband of the breeches and the tail of the shirt; tried not to hear her giggles as his light touches tickled her. He tried to keep his fingers from shaking as he reached around her to fasten the laces, but he couldn’t help but notice when she abruptly stopped giggling and leaned just slightly back, so that he was holding her in his arms while he tied the breeches closed. He managed to fasten them securely, and he intended to take his arms from around her and back away, he truly did; but she let her head fall back to rest against his chest, and turned her face so that her cheek was resting against his rough shirt.

  His hands slid over her stomach as his arms tightened around her, pulling her more firmly against him. She gave a little gasp as her lovely, firm obstacle met the front of him, and doubtless felt the effect she was having on him. Had been having on him. For days. She didn’t pull away, though. Instead, she reached up with her left hand and ran it lightly along his chin. When he looked down and met her eyes, she whispered up to him.

  “I’ve been wondering what that felt like.”

  Fain was trapped, mesmerized by this violet-eyed witch. When he didn’t respond she grew bolder, running her hand up to clasp his neck.

  “There’s something else I’ve been wondering, as well.”

  Gently she drew him down, and arched her neck back so that she could meet his lips with her own. At the first touch, Fain felt his hard-won control dissolve, and one hand rose to cup her face, while the other crushed her body back against his own, deftly slipping beneath the loose-hanging shirt. As his palm came to rest firmly against her smooth stomach, she gave a small gasp.

  “Fain!”

  The sound of his name recalled him to himself. What was he doing? He abruptly released her, and without his arms supporting her, she staggered forward a step. Without her body pressed full length against him, it was easier to think. He back away and put both his hands behind him, not trusting himself to leave them free.

  “None of that now, lass.”

  “Oh gods.” Her face was bright with embarrassment. “I’m sorry, I thought you… I thought I… I mean, I guess I…” She ran over to the bed and buried her face in the pillows. “Please go away so I can die of mortification in private.”

  Fain started to laugh, but it had a bitter sound to it. He sank down on the chair that had been his post for the past three days. The lass tried to wiggle deeper into the pillows, as though she might find an escape route buried beneath them.

  “Come out, Miss Wellesley, there’s no call for your blushes.”

  Suddenly she sat up. “And why shouldn’t I blush? It seems a natural response to rejection.”

  He looked at her, a slow anger burning in his stomach. “You mean I should just fall at your feet? Sorry, lass, but if you intended to seduce me into unwariness I fear that plan will fail.”

  “I don’t have the slightest idea what you’re talking about, but I’m almost positive that if I did it would make me terribly angry. Why should I want to make you unwary?”

  “I don’t know, Miss Wellesley.” He ground out the name. “Why would you lie about who you are? Why did you come to my keep in the first place? I have no sure response for either question, and I have no intention of letting my guard down until I have the answers to both.”

  “Perhaps you’d prefer if I just left.” Her eyes flashed fire at him, full of anger. Fain felt the heat from his own rage mix with the burn of thwarted desire, until he could hardly tell them apart. He stalked close to loom over her, and the mixed emotions racing through him made his voice harsh.

  “I think not, lass. Until you can prove you’re not out to harm me and mine, you’ll stay right here.”

  She looked outraged. “That’s ridiculous! What if I can’t prove it?”

  “Then I guess you’ll be staying right here with me for quite a while.”

  Chapter Nine

  Vivienne stood with her feet spread wide and one fist planted firmly on her hip. She stared belligerently at that ridiculous mountain oaf, MacTíre.

  He was driving her mad.

  First he’d declared his intention to keep her here, permanently. Like she was a pet, or a child, instead of a grown woman with her own will. No one but her father had ever dared to curtail her freedom, and she’d spent most of her life defying his attempts to keep her safe behind walls. If she didn’t obey the king of Albion—her sovereign lord, a man to whom she had pledged both life and fealty—there was no way she was going to obey some backwoods, ill-bred, hulking lout with delusions of authority.

  It was outrageous, but he refused to listen to any protestation. He’d practically dragged her out of the room and down to the great hall. Few of the men were there at this hour of the day, but she had been introduced to the Shapherd brothers and Billy Notter as “the supposed Miss Wellesley,” which had done nothing to quell her temper. Still, she had tried to be gracious, even as Fain stood there and glowered. The Shapherd brothers had been pleased when she thanked them for their fine cooking, and little Billy Notter beamed at her when she complimented the cleanliness of his tables.

  Then Connelly arrived and announced that he was going to need help making soap today, and Fain had volunteered Vivienne for the job.

  “I was going to ask Connelly to help you find a room of your own, but it can wait until this afternoon. You can give him your time this morning to help with the soap.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said tightly. “I don’t know the first thing about making soap.”

  For some reason this seemed to amuse him, and his obvious temper eased. “Neither did most of my men when they arrived. You’ll learn.” He gave her an infuriatingly charming smile. Vivi felt her knees go a bit weak, but she stiffened them, and while she was at it she stiffened her spine, as well. What right did the man have to be charming? She was furious with him, and didn’t want to be charmed. She made no attempt to hide how angry she was.

  “You must be joking. I have only just recently risen from my sick bed, you cannot expect me to—”

  “No one goes idle here, Miss Wellesley,” he cut in impatiently.

  “Then give me some task to which I am suited.” Vivienne spoke through gritted teeth. “I can read and write three different languages, develop trade relations among the barbarian steppe tribes, predict the future value of rare commodities within an acceptable margin of error, and represent my family’s business interests with all due consideration for the law in any of the four court levels of Albion! I can not. Make. Soap.”

  “It’s not hard. It only takes one good hand to stir Connelly’s kettle, and that leaves him free to mix up medicines without worrying that the soap will burn. The medicines are important, but trust me,” he put on a grim face and a serious tone, “you do not want to bathe with burned soap. It smells terrible, and tingles unpleasantly. That is,” he paused and gave her a pointed look, “assuming you wish to bathe at all? Perhaps you’re getting used to the general level of grime?”

  Vivienne grimaced. He’d gotten her, and they both knew it. For the past two days, ever since her grand apology, the only thing she’d really complained of was how dirty she was. Even with water to rinse with, her skin still felt gritty, and her hair… It really
didn’t deserve to be spoken of. MacTíre had been all sympathy when she was bed bound, but now he was going to use her complaints against her. Fine. If he wanted to play dirty, so could she.

  “Very well, then.” Vivienne spoke sweetly, and the men around her started at the change. “If I must learn to make soap then I must learn to make soap. Connelly, would you be so kind as to show me to the stillroom?” As she glided away, following the stunted little man, she heard one of the Shapherds mutter to MacTíre.

  “That was odd.”

  “Mmmm… I’d guess she’s planning some sort of retaliation.”

  “Sir?”

  “Nothing serious, man. Just watch out for incoming pillows.”

  Vivienne was entranced by the still room.

  “You gathered all this yourself?”

  “Upon occasion I have had the assistance o’ wee Billy.”

  Vivienne smiled. “And I’m sure he was a vast help. But for the most part?”

  “Aye, ’tis the work o’ these two hands.”

  “That’s astonishing.”

  The small room was full to overflowing with plants in all states of preservation. From the ceiling hung a wooden lattice, and dangling down from each juncture was a bundle of pungent herbs or fragrant flowers. Along the walls were racks and racks of tiny jars full of stamens and seeds and pollens, and larger jars with dried pods and roots of all kinds. The corners held large buckets with shredded tree barks, and smaller vessels overflowing with tiny red and purple berries. Vivienne stood amazed, until she caught sight of the heavy wooden cabinet standing to one side of the doorway. Then her curiosity flared.

  “What’s in there?”

  “Hemlock, nightshade, eye o’ newt. Dragon’s blood an’ serpent’s tooth.” The little man spoke softly, but his reply made a tingle run down Vivienne’s spine. A suspicion grew in the back of her mind, but she pushed it away.

  “You’re not serious?”

  “Indeed, lassie. Well. All but the dragon’s blood. ’tis powerful hard ta come by.”

  “Of course.” She smiled. “But the rest?”

  “Oh, aye. There’s times that even the worst o’ things can be o’ some help.”

  “I suppose that’s true. Now tell me, Connelly, how does one go about making soap?”

  It was as nasty as Vivienne had known it would be, but more interesting than she had expected. Connelly explained the steps and monitored her as she carefully melted the lard, then brought it and another pot of water from the ash barrel to the same low temperature. The fumes rising off the ash water were horrible, and once she leaned too close and Connelly had to take her outside for a breath of fresh air.

  “Careful now, lassie. Ye dinna want ta be fallin’ in the pot.”

  Then it was back inside to carefully pour the water into the lard, and stir and stir until Connelly said it was done. It was monotonous, and Vivi felt her mind drifting away. She couldn’t stay here and make soap indefinitely. Once her arm was healed she would need to leave; otherwise spring would come and find her no closer to Inisle. She had no illusions about her ability to evade the searchers her father would have looking for her, once they were unhampered by the winter snows.

  Her left arm ached from the repetitive motion, and she stopped stirring and stretched for a moment. It was maddening, frustrating, and altogether infuriating. If she just told him who she was, then he would have no choice but to let her go. Assuming, of course, that he was an honorable man. But if she told him who she was, and he was an honorable man, then he would doubtless have her escorted home with a band of armed men to guard her.

  Not to mention, the assumption that he was an honorable man was a rather large one.

  “Ye need ta stir, lassie, yer perilous close ta scorchin’ the soap.”

  She sighed and swirled the spoon through the thick mass again, letting her thoughts go around and around with the turning of the ladle.

  “Connelly, just who is Fain MacTíre?” She asked the question idly, but Connelly gave her a sharp look.

  “He’s a man, lass. What more’re ye askin’?”

  “Where did he come from? He can read; is he from a good family?”

  “Aye, they’re good people.”

  “That’s not what I—” She broke off, and narrowed her eyes in suspicion. “Why won’t you answer my questions?”

  “Perhaps I want yer attention where it belongs.”

  “And where might that be?” Vivi arched an eyebrow in irritation.

  “On the soap, lass.” He grinned wide, and Vivienne laughed and ceased her interrogation.

  At last the soap was done. As Vivienne held the pot so that Connelly could ladle soap into the greased molds, she eagerly anticipated the moment that she could finally be clean, especially now that she had lard under her fingernails.

  “How long must it sit?”

  Connelly laughed. “Want ta enjoy the fruits o’ yer labors, eh?”

  “I should say so.”

  “Well, this batch’ll likely be ready by Yule. Ye can be clean for the festivities.”

  Vivienne gaped at him.

  “You’re joking.”

  “Nay, lass, if ye tried afore then the soap would turn yer pretty skin into a ruddy red mess.”

  “But I can’t wait a month to be clean!” she almost wailed. It was distinctly lacking in royal aplomb, but she couldn’t help it. If she had to stink for a month…

  “The look on yer face, lassie! Dinna fear. MacTíre likes us all smellin’ sweet. We’ll be makin’ another batch ta quick set.”

  “How quick is ‘quick’?” Vivienne was suspicious.

  He chortled. “Ye’ll be fresh as a daisy three days from now. An’ in the meanwhile,” he held up a small sliver of dark brown soap, “I’ll be lettin’ ye use this on yer face an’ hands.”

  She threw her arms around the little man. “Connelly, you’re my hero!”

  “Tis my pleasure, lass. Just dinna tell MacTíre that I’ve given it ta ye. He’ll be completely befuddled how ye came from soap makin’ so nice an’ neat.”

  They grinned at one another, then a thought struck Vivienne.

  “Connelly? If I wanted to make a scented soap, like the ladies at home use, when would I add the scent?”

  “At the end, lass. The essence oils are too delicate ta stand up ta cookin’.”

  “And do you have any of these oils?”

  “Oh, aye, a goodly number. Not much call for them here in the keep, but I distill ’em anyway. Betimes I find a way ta trade a few, others I give away. Were ye thinkin’ ta make a bar or two with scent, fer yerself?”

  “In a way.” Vivi let an impish smile cross her face. “Yes, in a way, it is definitely for myself.”

  Chapter Ten

  Vivienne was exhausted. The quick-set soap had been mixed up just like the first batch, but while it cooked Connelly built up a fire on the clean hearth. They poured the soap into a tightly lidded iron pot, then shoveled coals from the fire over the pot, replacing them over and over as they cooled. Vivi spent over an hour using the small hearth shovel in an awkward, one-handed grip, and afterwards Connelly helped her dig out the iron pot and stir in the final ingredients before pouring it into yet another mold. Once that was done, the ashes on the hearth had to be shoveled into the ash barrel and covered with water, so that it would be ready for the next time they made soap.

  Every task she had done seemed ten times harder with only one hand at her disposal, and her illness had taken more out of her than she’d originally suspected. Connelly told her to take a nap, that they’d look for her room later. It was barely past noon, but as she climbed the stairs to Fain’s chamber, all she could think about was crawling into bed and pulling the covers over her head.

  Fain stripped off his heavy gloves as he ascended the stairs. After leaving Miss Wellesley under Connelly’s watchful eye, he had spent the rest of the day in the woods with the wolf pack. He’d told the men he was hunting, and they had brought down a deer, but truthful
ly he was just letting the cold air and the presence of the pack clear his head. His body felt tight, overflowing, filled with her. For the past two days, every breath he took brought more of her scent, every casual touch left a lasting impression on his skin. He’d needed the time outside: to run, to stretch, to wash her pervasive presence from himself.

  It had worked, too. Fain felt comfortable in his skin again, and free of desire for the first time in days. He promised himself that while the weather held he would go out with the wolves as often as he could, and when the snows returned he would avoid that little minx like a blighted pox. When Baines came back with proof that the lass was not who she claimed, he would confront her. Until then, she could be kept busy and out of his way during the days, and at night he would stay safely ensconced in his own chamber.

  Closing his heavy wooden door he sighed, partly with relief and partly with regret. He’d made it to his room without seeing the lass, and while he knew that was undoubtedly the wisest, part of him wished he could have at least caught a glimpse of her. Sternly he shook himself. This was no time to fall prey to moonstruck madness. The less he saw of Isabelle Wellesley the better.

  “Fain?”

  He closed his eyes. He was imagining things. She could not possibly be—

  “I fell asleep, what time is it?”

  He cracked his eyes. There, softly illuminated by the dim fire, was his little spy, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. Her dirty, tangled hair was tied back with a simple leather thong, and she still wore his old linen shirt and the leather breeches he’d helped her with this morning. She could not possibly have looked any less bent on seduction, but still, he wanted her so much he ached. He turned his eyes away from her, and kept removing his gear from the hunt.

  “It is time,” he said tightly, answering her question, “that you had a room of your own.”

  “Oh. Ah. “ He looked back at her. It was hard to tell in the firelight, but he thought she was blushing. “ Yes. Indeed. I forgot. I mean, it was only afternoon when I came up here, and I was just so tired. I didn’t mean to sleep so long. I’ll go.” She struggled out of the bed and made it two steps before her knees buckled. “Oh!”