by C. L. Wilson
She let him follow as far as her bedchamber, but bade him wait outside the door whilst she attended to soap-and-water.
“Was that a bed I saw in there?” he called through the closed door.
“Aye,” she called back as she donned a fresh tunic. “’Tis my bedchamber, or have you already forgotten?”
“I’m just wondering why it’s one of the only furnished rooms in the castle. I’m assuming you were rich Princess Marigold, not poor Princess Marigold. What with being spoiled rotten and all. So . . . where’s all your stuff?”
She twisted her long hair back into place and pulled open the door. “Papa sold it.”
“He sold the furniture?”
“He sold the castle. At least, he intended to. I was to be betrothed the day after my birthday, and he and Mama had secured a newer castle much closer to my forthcoming home. They could not stand to be far from their only daughter.”
“Wait . . . what? You were getting married? What happened to that guy?”
“I never met him. Papa chose. Only a prince would do. I could not have hoped for a better match. But the prince lived a fair distance away. Plans were made to sell our keep to a young queen in another kingdom. The furniture and the tapestries and everything of value was carted to my parents’ new castle. Everything except the items in my bedchamber. And me. I refused to go. I was not to wed for several more months, and I’d no wish to give up the castle. ’Twas all I had ever known, and I could not stomach the thought of it beneath the control of a stranger. So I convinced Papa to change his mind.”
“You forced a king to renege on a deal he’d made with royalty from another kingdom?”
“I mentioned that I was spoiled,” she muttered.
“Oh, and that worked out great. I’m guessing this queen is the one who put the voodoo whammy on you?”
“I cannot say with certainty.” Marigold let out a sigh. “But, aye. ’Twould not be surprising.”
He seemed to think that over. “All this was supposed to take place the morning after your birthday, which coincides with the holidays. And guess what? It’s Christmas Eve today, too.”
She frowned. “So?”
“So, it’s your birthday!”
She rolled her eyes. “’Tis always my birthday.”
He stared at her. “What does that even mean? Never mind, don’t tell me. No humbugs allowed. You’re getting cake, and you’ll like it. Except we don’t have any cake, so we’ll have to make do with bread. How many candles do we need? Were you turning . . . twenty-five, maybe? You can’t be much older than that.”
“’Twas the eve of my twentieth year.”
He recoiled as if she’d sprouted baby teeth and pigtails. “Good Lord. You’re nineteen?”
“I’m six hundred and nineteen,” she reminded him. “Give or take a few decades.”
He wavered, then nodded. “True. That’s a long time to be cursed. I’m sure you’ve tried everything one person could possibly try, but . . . Have you considered fighting magic with magic?”
She frowned. “How?”
“I don’t know. It just sounded good. That kind of thing always works in Disney movies. Magic pumpkins, magic feathers . . . Prince Charming’s magic lips.”
“Magic lips?”
“If you’re animated, most of your problems can be solved by smooching a stranger.” He paused, thoughtfully. “Or a frog. Possibly a strange frog.”
“I don’t have any frogs,” Marigold said inanely. She wasn’t thinking about frogs at all. She was thinking about magic lips. Lance’s potentially magic lips. After all, she’d never been kissed. Or smooched. She was as pure as the cursed snow. Not for lack of opportunity, particularly at royal balls. She’d fought off plenty of advances over the years, but no man had caught her fancy. Until now.
Until Lance.
“We should try it,” she announced before she could change her mind.
He stared at her as if she’d lost hers. “Finding frogs?”
“Kissing.”
This time, he didn’t speak at all . . . but his eyes spoke for him. They turned stormy. Heated. He might not be thinking about magic, but he was definitely thinking about kissing.
She lowered her voice and lifted her chin to bring her mouth a little closer. “’Tis my birthday, remember? The favor I bid of you is a simple kiss.”
Before he had a chance to reject the notion, she rose upon her toes and pressed her lips to his.
His lips were warm, firm. Surprised. A blush raced up her neck and over her cheeks like wildfire, and she lowered herself back to her heels. It had been quick, but worth it. She held no regrets.
“I thank you for the birthday kiss,” she mumbled without meeting his eyes.
He growled, “If you’re going to thank me, you’re damn well going to get a real kiss.”
With that, his mouth covered hers. His fingers slid into her hair, cradling her close. His lips were warm and inviting. She leaned into him. She was once again on her toes, this time with her arms twined about his neck, their bodies flush tight. The material of his tunic was as thin as it looked, the muscles beneath as hard and as strong as she’d imagined.
His mouth covered hers again and again, teasing and tasting. When his tongue licked the edge of her lips, she gasped—and his tongue swept inside. A strange, exhilarating pressure began to build deep inside her. Heat spread out from her core, warming her belly, and dampening between her legs. She clung to him now not out of curiosity, but out of necessity. Her eyes had fluttered closed and all she knew, all she could feel was him. His mouth over hers, his hands in her hair, his wicked, wicked tongue muddling her thoughts and making her press against him even closer. Her nipples scraped her thin tunic as if hardened to diamond points. Despite the frigid air, nothing about her was cold, nothing was frozen. Everything was molten hot.
She slid her fingers into his hair, loving the juxtaposition of soft hair and hard body. She pressed her hips into his and gasped in pleasure as the proof of his desire rubbed against her belly. He wasn’t just humoring her, kissing for the sake of a curse and nothing more. He wanted her as a man wanted a woman. Carnally. As she was beginning to suspect she wanted him. What would it feel like to wrap her legs around him? To feel that long, hard ridge press not against her belly, but against—
He thrust her an arm’s length away, panting. “A kiss. Just a kiss. Lord help me.”
A wave of naked yearning swept through her body at the loss of contact.
His fingers still clutched her shoulders, neither pulling her close nor pushing her away. His eyes looked as tempestuous as the storm raging within her, swirling and rising as her body demanded his touch. This time, she did not blush. She was not ashamed of her desire. She felt empowered. Beautiful. Wanted.
“Now I may give you thanks,” she whispered softly.
“No,” he groaned. “Thank you.”
He drew her to him and kissed her again.
’Twas she who at last pulled her lips from his, her heart racing and her body aching for more. “Should we not . . . The door . . . ?”
“Oh, shit.” He stumbled backward, startled. “I actually forgot the stupid curse for a second there. Come on, let’s go see if it worked!”
This time when he offered her his hand, she placed her fingers in his.
Hand in hand, they ran out of the kitchen and down the corridor toward the great hall. Although she knew—she knew—there was no such thing as magic lips and she was doomed to pass this night just as lonely as any other, still her foolish heart thundered against her ribs with the force of a thousand drummers.
What if he were right? Magic had gotten her into this grief, and so perchance magic could get her out. And what could be more magical than the moment the two of them had just shared? For a few minutes, she hadn’t been a girl in a scullery or even a princess in a castle. Her whole world had been his arms, his scent, his taste. And if they did get out of here—if she could have her freedom and Lance, too—
&n
bsp; The door came into view the second they reached the end of the corridor. All hope abruptly died. Solid ice. They were confined within the same amount of ice as before. Mayhap even more.
Lance dropped her hand. She let him walk ahead, to approach the relentless proof of their imprisonment alone. She had no wish to draw closer. Every glimpse of the outside world through the transparent ice was another dagger to her soul. Her heart had bled so much over the years, she was surprised it even had the strength to give another painful twist in her chest.
When she saw that Lance wasn’t headed to the impassable door, but rather kneeling to retrieve the broken bits of the cylindrical devices he’d used earlier, she forced herself to cross the wide empty chamber to halt him.
She placed her hand on his shoulder. “Leave it be.”
“Why? Are the servants going to get it?” He raised an eyebrow to show he was teasing. She only wished he were.
“Aye. Something like that.” As she pulled him to his feet, she tried not to think about how soon the bells would toll midnight. The littered shards of his strange devices would disappear as if they’d never existed, and Lance . . .
She’d remember him for millennia.
“Well,” he said with forced cheerfulness. “Plan A didn’t work out, so it’s back to Plan B.”
“What is a Plan B?”
“Celebrating your birthday. It’s all about you, birthday girl. What would you like to do today?”
She stared at him blankly for a moment before her gaze slid around him to the impassable door. It was hard to feel festive when she hadn’t had a reason to celebrate in over six hundred years.
He nudged her chin so she was facing him again. “None of that, now. Don’t think about possible and impossible. It’s your birthday—and Christmas Eve. We’re going to celebrate. Close your eyes. Don’t think about the ice or even the castle. Tell me some of your favorite things, and I’ll make all your birthday wishes come true.”
She let her eyes flutter closed. Not because she had any expectation of a joyous Yuletide, but because she couldn’t stand looking at reality anymore. She could scarce believe that a younger her had ever stomped her feet before all and sundry and declared she was never leaving her home, and that was final.
It had been final, all right.
What had she liked to do, back when entertainment seemed her right, rather than her privilege?
“I spend most of my days reading. Not much else to do,” she said, her eyes still closed tight. His fingers laced with hers. “Once upon a time, I loved spending time with my friends. I loved music, art, dancing, playing games . . . And feast days. Sweets were my greatest weakness,” she confessed. She opened her eyes and forced a melancholy smile. “I suppose I can show you the library. I’ve every one of the books memorized, but ’twould be a different experience to have someone reading beside me.”
“Nope,” he said with an arrogant smile. “We’re not doing anything that’s part of your routine. New adventures only.”
“Adventure?” she repeated dryly. “In here?”
But he was already pulling her across the great hall as if they were late for an important engagement.
Chuckling despite herself, she hurried to keep up. “Where are we going?”
He came to a dead stop. Wide-eyed, he put a finger to his lips. “Shhh. We’re in a museum.”
“Are we?” Amused, she decided to play along. “What sort of museum?”
His spine straightened and his deep voice rang out like a town crier. “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the Cavanaugh Museum of Modern Art. Today, I will guide your journey through contemporary legends. No tips until after the tour, and remember—no flash photography.” He swept an arm in the direction of the interior walls. “We begin right here, with the first commissioned work of a modern master. This piece is titled Interlocking Stones, by Andy Warhol. The soup cans were a later phase.”
Marigold pretended to inspect the wall. “Looks like limestone to me.”
“You, dear lady, have clearly never been to a museum of modern art before. Come this way, and prepare to be amazed at”—he leapt back from an open interior chamber door with a flourish—”Shadows in a Darkened Room by Francis Bacon. Marvel at the use of gray upon gray, to imply, rather than delineate, the existence of a three-dimensional room beyond the murky black shadows of the soul.”
She peered into the darkness. Without a torch, it was impossible to see much of anything. “I don’t get it.”
“Nobody gets it,” he whispered. “It’s modern art.”
Before she could open her mouth to ask what he meant by that, he whisked her farther down the corridor, coming to a patch of empty stone wall, lit by the sun streaming down through the ice.
“Ahh,” he said with satisfaction. “This traveling exhibit is on loan to us from Medieval Europe. Note the ground gold leaf, accenting the tempera on wood. This is called The Adoration of the Magi, done by an Italian named Giotto di Bondone around the year—”
“I’ve seen that!” she exclaimed in delight. “There are four angels flying overhead whilst the three magi come to kneel before the tiny Christ child, with his perfect golden halo.”
Happiness flooded her with the remembrance. She hadn’t thought about her childhood visit to Florence in . . . well, at least six hundred years. That summer, her father had indulged her wish to see every work of art the city had to offer. She and her parents spent a whirlwind holiday visiting churches and private collections between routs and courts and markets. No man said nay to a king. A Magis Adoratur had been one of several pieces she’d visited again and again before ’twas time to turn the wagons back toward home.
“Thank you.” She rose to her toes to give Lance a soft kiss on the cheek. “You cannot fathom how grateful I am that you have brought me to this museum.”
“Hold your thank-yous, sister. That’s just the first item from your list. You can thank me when I’ve managed to give you all of them.”
“’Tis two,” she corrected gently. He’d given her art . . . and friendship.
The most dangerous gift of all.
CHAPTER FIVE
Lance’s brain ached from lack of sleep, and his fractured shoulder stung something vicious, but he was determined to make three more things happen in the next twenty-four hours. First, he intended Princess Marigold to have a happy birthday and a merry Christmas. Anyone stuck in solitary confinement for over half a millennium deserved at least that much. Second, he intended to get the hell out, stat. He might spend Christmas Eve in Castle Cavanaugh, but he planned to be back in the real world on Christmas Day. Third, he was bringing the princess back with him. The Pawn & Potion wasn’t much, but it would be paradise compared to six hundred years of . . . this. And then they’d figure out where to go from there.
He wasn’t sure yet how he planned to achieve steps two or three of his three-part mission, so for the moment, he focused on step one: Operation Happy Holidays. Which was why he was seated at a long wooden table with a handful of intricate playing cards and a mug of room-temperature ale, getting his ass thoroughly kicked at some crazy Chinese card game he’d never heard of until ten minutes ago.
It was the best Christmas Eve he’d had in years.
“Are you sure you’re not cheating?” he asked for the twentieth time. “It’s okay if you are. I mean, I’ll still have to kill you in order to avenge my honor, but I’ll do the gentlemanly thing and wait until after your birthday.” He shook his head as she trumped his card yet again. “Unbelievable. You can’t possibly take every trick, every single time. Not unless you’re psychic. You’re not psychic, are you? I’d be more pissed if you’ve been reading my mind this whole time without telling me, so you’re probably better off just fessing up to being a cheater.”
Marigold raked in the cards—and the pile of spiced almonds they’d been using as betting chips—with her hallmark I-don’t-understand-the-words-coming-out-of-your-mouth serenity . . . but something was off. Maybe it was the mic
rosecond quirk to her lower lip, or the wide-eyed innocence in her stare, but he almost felt as though—
Cards and betting chips slipped from her fingers as Marigold burst out laughing.
“You really are cheating?” he said in disbelief. “Seriously? How? You have to teach me. That was flawless. I honestly just thought I sucked. Were you counting cards somehow? But we shuffled after every hand. I already checked for marks, too. The cards are clean, and the pattern is identical from every angle. There’s no possible way.”
Still grinning, she leaned forward and propped her elbows on the table. “Here’s the secret. All you have to do is play the same pack of cards every day of your life for two or three centuries, and you’ll discover each one is as unique as a fingerprint.”
“I can’t recognize individual fingerprints!”
“You could after a few hundred years of staring at the same ones.”
“Humph.” He slumped back in his chair in disappointment, then bolted right back upright. “I know! We’ll take the cards with us.”
“With us where?”
“Everywhere! We’ll start with the local pubs and when they wise up, we’ll just move on to—” He broke off when the laughter faded from her eyes. She brushed the almonds from her lap and turned her gaze away. He leaned forward. “Don’t be such a quitter, princess. We’re getting out of this dump. I promise.”
She shook her head. “You cannot keep such a promise.”
“I can and I will. You’ll see. I know it seems difficult right now, but nothing is impossible.”
Her eyes met his. “Escape is impossible.”
“It can’t be. If trapping you in here in the first place was possible, then so is getting you back out. It’s already been easier than I anticipated. No mazes, no monsters, no Jigsaw death traps. The only challenge is the curse itself.”
She stared at him in disbelief. “You don’t find that hard enough?”
“I’m just saying it could be worse. What if you were locked in a panic room with rabid skunks? Or buried alive in a casket made of stinky cheese? Then we wouldn’t be drinking beer and playing cards, would we?”