Rapunzel and the Griffin Prince

by Savage, Vivienne

  “Do your people disapprove of such things?”

  “Well, no, not really. I mean, you’ve seen the Silken Road, I’m sure. All manner of pleasures can be found there, whatever your desire.” The babbling continued when Muir crossed his arms over a chest she imagined was hard and sculpted with muscle. “Men in my society are expected to marry. Provide heirs. But they tend to continue their dalliances in secret.”

  “And that is accepted?”

  “It is… ignored. I mean, it would be a scandal if it got out, which is a shame.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because people should be able to love who they love, no matter who they are. I’ve never understood why they’re unable to merely wed the man of their choice, but circumstances are no better for women. They’re forced to take husbands, whether they fancy cocks or not.” The word tumbled out of her mouth before she could help herself, accompanied by a flailing hand gesture toward the area below his waist. “Manhoods! Manhoods, I mean. Things.” Flustered, she waved both hands and hid her face behind her palms, suddenly desperate for the cold air outside.

  Muir’s expression didn’t change. Gods. No one but James had ever cared for her potty mouth. Just when she began to curse herself, the stoic expression cracked and a widening grin spread over his face. He laughed at her, a deep and chesty guffaw that she felt in her stomach. “Lass, you can say whatever words you want around me. I’m the last one to take offense by how you want to reference a man’s bits.”

  “Oh.”

  “As for your assumption, while such inclinations are not uncommon among my people, and are celebrated the same as any other bonding, my preferences are for women.”

  “Oh,” she breathed again, no less humiliated. She searched the room for a place to hide, divided between crawling beneath her bed, taking refuge in the closet, or hurling herself out the window. “Still, I came on rather strong, and for that, I apologize. You’re a man, and I merely assumed….”

  “It’s all right.”

  “We could pretend, and that would be good enough to sate tradition.”

  “Does she not need to witness with her eyes?”

  “No. I mean, usually yes, but all things considered, so long as we didn’t tell her we were faking I could convince her to sit on the stairs. I’ll tell her it’s… against your tradition to have witnesses. A compromise.”

  Muir nodded. “All right.”

  * * *

  By the stars, she was a vexing woman. Worse, she was a delightful temptation. It had taken all his control not to rip that sheer excuse for a chemise from her body and bend her over the bed. He imagined she would be soft and supple beneath him, her body like vanilla-scented silk.

  His loins tightened further, a reminder of how much he owed Sòlas a pint of mead for loaning his heavier sporran to him for the event. Muir’s was old and weather-beaten, having seen nicer days, and in no shape for a fancy wedding in front of nobles. He’d almost gone without one at all.

  Now the blasted leather pouch was the only thing concealing the raging, hard tension that would have raised his tartan like a plaid tent. He tried to will it away, cooling himself in front of the open window for a time while thinking about ice giants and wrestling the smelly mountain trolls who trespassed near their aeries.

  Thinking of home reminded him that Cairn Ocland was no place for a woman like Rapunzel, a woman who would expect paved roads and lavish suites. Even if he did seek a wife, he imagined her growing unhappier by the day among the women of his clan when she didn’t enjoy a life bathed in affluence and splendor.

  He hadn’t meant to let her babble, but the loss of her usual bitter and stiff manner had given him a true glimpse of the woman beneath. A charming and real woman with insecurities. And a tongue like an Oclander.

  Rapunzel moved over to his side and clasped her hands behind her back. “All right, Sebille is going to sit at the base of the stairs until the end.”

  “So we need to be seen in the bed.”

  “Yes.”

  “Very well then. Crawl in and we’ll begin this farce.”

  Rapunzel shimmied out of her dressing gown and slipped beneath the sheets. An expectant gaze raised to him, watching closely as he unbuttoned his shirt, then darted away when he loosened the belt securing his tartan.

  If it was going to look real, every last garment needed to be on the floor.

  Nude, he joined her beneath the glossy comforters. The sweet oils bathing her skin perfumed the pillows and bed covers as well, reminding him of how much he wanted to kiss every inch of her. He refrained from that through an exercise in willpower he didn’t know he possessed.

  And then she made this awful whimpering kind of sound that he likened to when the wild mountain cats were in their fertile season. A few breathy, exaggerated moans followed, chased by another series of pants belonging to a tired dog.

  Stars above.

  “Is that really how you sound when being pleased?”

  “I don’t know,” she hissed back. “I’ve never given it much thought before.”

  “So you’ve been with a man?”

  “Of course I have.”

  “But you are not wed. James spoke nothing of taking you to bed.”

  Her face mottled, and she huffed out an irritated grunt. “A true gentleman wouldn’t. Besides, James and I, not that it’s any of your concern, were never intimate to this degree. He was quite superstitious about it affecting his performance at sea.” Another subtle flush pinkened her cheeks, the kind of warm color he wanted to kiss away until he reminded himself, quite firmly, that their only connection was a false marriage.

  “You were betrothed. If not him, who did you have in your bed?”

  “If you must know, it is customary among our nobility to have a… a tutor of sorts, if you will, to teach us about the ways of intimacy when we come of age. I was an adult for many years before I met James.”

  “Ah, yes. Your customs,” he said, managing not to sound as disgusted as he felt. “And these are the sounds he taught you to make?”

  Rapunzel blinked a few times. Then the pink vanished. All the pretty color he’d admired was gone, shame in its place as she avoided his gaze altogether, making him feel like the worst kind of arse, because he’d once again judged her people, and he’d ridiculed her.

  “Forgive me, Princess,” he whispered against her cheek.

  “It’s fine,” she said stiffly, refusing to look at him.

  “This is never going to work. Your maid will never believe it, nor will the guards.”

  “There’s nothing more I can do,” she snapped.

  “Aye, but there’s more that I can do.” He grasped the lace undergarments clinging to her hips. One sharp yank tore the seam and bared her to his hand.

  “What are you—oh!”

  She hadn’t lied when she spoke of the waxing, because he found only smooth, bare flesh beneath his wandering fingers, invoking complicated and conflicting emotions of disdain and arousal in him.

  Rapunzel’s eyes flew wide, and her questions ceased. Good. She talked too much anyway, and in this moment, he needed her to feel. To give a performance that would save them both. His fingers played between her legs, coaxing her thighs to part.

  “Muir….”

  “No talk, lass. Close your eyes.”

  The moment her hands fell away from his wrist, his touch resumed, gliding and exploring, finding the tight heat of her body and exploring with two fingers until her hips rose from the bed and she was moving against him. Her face turned against his throat, a quiet moan the only sound filling the room.

  He wanted to savor the moment, but a merciless pang of guilt struck like a smith’s hammer against his conscience, reminding him Rapunzel wasn’t and could never truly be his.

  He found the tender center of her and flicked it with his thumb, delighting in the way her lips pursed and her head tilted back against the sheets.

  As much as he tried to remain detached, it was impossible to rem
ain unaffected when she squirmed and writhed beneath his touch. Rapunzel kept her eyes closed, leaving him to study her face without reprisal. Every soft whimper and pleasured moan chipped away at his resolve.

  He was so hard it hurt, so hard he could have pounded down the barricaded tower door without using his fists.

  Would it be so bad to slip inside her, to take a new wife, to have her as his forever until the fates decided to take one of them from the world?

  Yes. He couldn’t bear to lose another mate, and coming from two worlds of such polar opposites, he couldn’t imagine any way for them to remain together. Not when lust served as their only bond, and there wasn’t true love blossoming between them.

  But I could love her, he thought. Perhaps some small part of him already did, because he never wanted to see that broken, wounded expression on her face again, and he’d break anyone who hurt her.

  “Muir,” she gasped out loud, clutching at him with both hands, her fingers grasping wildly. “Muir, please, please.”

  “Please what?”

  “I need… I need….”

  “Need what?”

  “To touch you,” she moaned against the pillow, breath feathering against his hair.

  “You are touching me, pet.”

  Her small hand slid down his sides, seeking until she found the stiff root of him and squeezed it in her grip. She stroked him with a feverish, wild rhythm, until a growl raised in his throat, and he swore.

  Her thumb rolled over the soft tip and flicked the sensitive crown. He imagined her mouth there instead, picturing himself thrusting between her perfectly bowed lips while lapping between her thighs with his tongue.

  A dozen wild and sensual thoughts assaulted him at once, each one more erotic than the last. He thrust in her hand and spilled over her fingers while wishing it was inside her, groaning a low sound of guttural male pleasure. Her name escaped him in a growl at the same moment she cried his name toward the canopy above them.

  They spoke nothing to each other afterward, even when she reached over him and grasped one of the damp cloths resting over a heating stone beside the bed.

  Afterward, he held her in his arms with her back to his chest and buried his face in her fragrant silver hair, loathing himself and the situation.

  If there are truly gods out there among the stars, why do this to me? Why give me a woman I could never keep?

  The question troubled him until he drifted to sleep.

  Chapter

  Joren did his best not to look at the towering man beside him and jump to conclusions, but he’d been in the study when Sebille reported with her testimony regarding his sister’s wedding night. Apparently, it had been… vigorous—that was the word she had used. Loud. In the eyes of the gods and all who mattered in Eisland, they were truly married. He hadn’t expected them to make it official, and some part of him had expected the marriage to be annulled in the coming days once Rapunzel was free from their father’s tyranny.

  Blast it all, Rapunzel had even beaten him to the altar. She’d always been the first to conquer every milestone. The first to talk, the first to walk, the first to show a promise for magic. And now, despite making no attempt to find a new suitor, she’d even beat him to the temple.

  And he could think of no one who deserved a shred of happiness more than the sister who had been denied it for twelve years.

  Muir will be a good husband for her, he thought. Someone different, nothing like the suave naval officer she’d loved with all her heart. He glanced up at the giant man and thought of how he’d caught Rapunzel shooting him sidelong glances. Peeking at him when she thought neither Muir or Joren were watching.

  And Muir had spoken so highly of her. If there wasn’t something genuine between the two of them, he’d surrender his bride search and marry a fish.

  Instead of voicing those thoughts, he cleared his throat and angled another glance at Muir. “All went well for your marriage retreat?”

  The shifter flicked a neutral gaze at him. “Don’t worry, Prince, I did nothing to dishonor your sister,” he said in a low voice.

  “I never said you had.”

  “You didn’t need to. Your body language speaks volumes.”

  “I—”

  “Sebille overheard what had been intended to preserve the charade.”

  “She didn’t merely overhear, Muir. She saw.”

  “I’ll take this as a sign our ruse went well. She saw and heard what she needed to make her report. The rest of our days, Prince, were… silent.”

  “Oh, well, ah….” He cleared his throat and drew himself up. “Good then. And please, I am Prince Joren to members of castle staff, the nobility, and the commoners beneath me. To you, I am now a brother. A good thing to remember if you’d like to keep up the supposed charade.”

  Muir colored this time, much to Joren’s pleasure. At last, he’d unsettled the enormous fellow. “Of course.”

  Despite the small victory, Joren regretted broaching the subject at all, awkward as it was. No man wanted to imagine his sister doing… things. He shook it off, renewing his focus. “How long until your comrades arrive? When I spoke with Captain Vandry, she mentioned several would remain behind while she cruised to the south in search of my father’s next cargo shipment.”

  Muir grinned. “They were doing a bit of footwork in Jonquilles. With her gone, and my recent elevation in station, no one will suspect my decision to keep an entourage of my own loyal countrymen.”

  Their guests arrived a few minutes later. Fillian announced their arrival and offered his personal services as a tour guide, but Joren waved him off and said he’d prefer to do it. After all, they were practically family, Muir’s friends now his friends.

  “I’ve never known a man to jabber on so much,” one of the three Oclanders muttered once the doors shut behind the steward.

  “You get used to it,” Muir replied. “Joren, allow me to present my countrymen. These two are Coinneach and Lileas of Clan TalWolthe, and the big one is Kaid of Clan Ardal.”

  The big one? Beside the immense shifters, Joren felt like a child, leading him to wonder if all Oclanders were so large or if they had simply sent their most intimidating specimens. Even the woman, Lileas, stood four inches taller than him in her flat-soled boots.

  Kaid put a fist over his heart and bowed his head. “Prince Joren, it is an honor.”

  The wolves were a different story, a standoffish pair who merely stared at him through calculating eyes.

  “What is it we’re planning exactly?” Lileas asked.

  “To make my father step down and pass the crown to me.”

  Her brows rose, and she looked to the others before turning her brown gaze back to him. “And why would we be doing that?”

  “Because in these past few years, my father has taken what was once a great and good country and turned it into a center of vice and sloth. You’ve seen the court nobility, always dressed as if ready for a party. That’s because they are. They are taking everything from the common people, making them work harder for less. It has to stop.”

  “I’ve seen plenty of decadence, it’s true, but your city hardly looks downtrodden,” Kaid said.

  “That’s because this is our main city, in the shadow of the palace. You see what the royalty wishes you to see, a prosperous port, but I see the changes since my last visit home. Half the city is without lights.” Joren pulled a letter from within his coat and set it on the desk. “Things are worse elsewhere. This reached me today.”

  Muir picked up the letter and read it over. “Who is this from?”

  “A trusted friend I once sailed with years ago. I have contacts in the east who speak of a potential uprising in Floren. The people are angry. They’ve no jobs, and the careers they once preferred dwindle more each year since father put the supposed immigrants in the fields. They can no longer afford the wine they once helped to create.”

  “The slaves Hook mentioned,” Lileas said. Beside her, her mate remained silent. At
least, Joren assumed the man was her mate. It was a subtle thing, but anytime Joren moved, Coinneach shifted his body to remain between them.

  Muir rubbed his chin. “You said preferred. Is there no other work? Don’t take us to be callous, Joren, but we come from a kingdom newly recovered from plague and war. There comes a time when every man must toil at tasks he doesn’t like. I’ve yet to see actual proof of slavery, either.”

  “Excuse me. Poor choice of words. We are a kingdom renowned for our wineries and our tailors, Muir. My friend says there are slaves harvesting the frost roses now. Women who once picked flowers and preserved herbs find their services unwanted. Unnecessary. Meanwhile, their infants starve.”

  “That’s awful.”

  “It is.” Joren had loathed the idea of slavery on principle, but he’d never considered the other side of the abhorrent practice. It hurt him, a pain deep in his heart, at the thought of any child starving. “It spreads beyond the vines into every laboring career. Maids have been released from services, cooks fired, and the brothels….”

  “Slave women,” Lileas said, though the word left her in a growl.

  “Yes. More about that concerns me than honest whores being put out of work.”

  Coinneach glanced at Lileas, and a brief, yet silent exchange took place. “You have our aid, Prince. Whatever you required, it will be done.”

  Joren exhaled, though he could have sagged in relief the moment the stern-faced shifters agreed. “Thank you.”

  “How many men in the palace stand with you, Joren?” Muir asked.

  “Not many, I’m afraid. I have a few men I trust implicitly, less than a dozen. My hope is for a bloodless coup, a show of force strong enough that my father steps down without a fight. We’re already in the castle, we don’t need to lay a siege. Word among the guards is that they’re ready for an exchange of power.”

  “What of the princess? Doesn’t she stand next to rule?” Lileas asked.