His Lost Princess: A Fairy Tale (Tales of Euphoria Book 2) Page 6

  Who would be the fortunate maiden? Indeed, I came to the king’s view that this night was a gift I could bestow upon the villagers. By choosing a maiden, I would give her family distinction. I might give her a royal bastard. And it was clear that the king was right about their desire for the ritual, for they arrived in droves. The road to the village was thick with carriages and carts, so congested that I wondered if there were more maidens in Euphoria than I’d realized.

  I stood at the entry to the palace with my father beside me. Lascivia slipped her hand into my elbow, her perfume floating around me in a seductive cloud. “I hope there is one pretty one,” she said softly, her finger stroking my wrist. “It would be a shame to be confronted with less than your due.” Her touch made my mouth go dry and I wanted to pull away, to savor this moment myself.

  My father cast me a warning glance as if he sensed my reaction. I thought of diplomacy and smiled at Lascivia. “There are many beauties in Euphoria’s village,” I lied.

  “And more from the forests beyond,” my father added heartily.

  She smiled, as if amused by our undeserved gallantry.

  Truth be told, I was more interested in the new arrivals. Each carriage pulled to a halt outside the doors to the palace, which stood open. I watched each maiden alight and enter the palace. I watched her look around and unfasten her cloak. I saw her nudity revealed as the cloak was lifted away. The jewels glimmered, although some had to be merely glass. Each maiden’s eyes sparkled as she discovered that I looked upon her. They all came to me, some of them blushed, some of them stumbled, all of them curtseyed, and I kissed the hand of each and every one.

  Some were perfumed. Some were painted. Some had gems in their hair as well as at their throat and ears. Some were barefoot and some wore shoes with heels so high it seemed they should not be able to walk. Some were smooth and pink, some were lumpy, some were buxom and some were not. Some were devoid of hair; most were not. One wore gems upon her nipples. Some were blond and most were brunette. A few were redheads.

  The masks were as varied as the maidens. Most were plain and dark, as if constructed for the event. Some were elaborate and clearly from afar, studded with gems and adorned with feathers. Some were old, perhaps family heirlooms, preserved for each such ceremony. These were the most interesting in my view, for they tended to be velvet or satin, rich with embroidery, cut in cunning shapes to make the maiden in question more mysterious and alluring.

  In the end, though, I found the display less titillating than I’d hoped. The king stood beside me and commented under his breath. He noted who was whose daughter, observed who had grown since last he saw her, who should be added to the list of candidates for the Marking at Midsummer.

  There was another ritual that would eventually be mine, I supposed, and another chance to choose from amongst the maidens in the village. I scarce dared think about it yet.

  Lascivia’s ruddy lips turned from a smile to an expression more like a smirk. “We define beauty rather differently, Royce,” she murmured to me. “How rough they are. How simple!”

  I bristled but had no reply.

  Tilda was one of the earliest to arrive, her red-gold hair and large breasts making it impossible to mistake her identity. I doubted that Henry, her betrothed, was pleased that her family once again pushed her toward the palace and possible distinction. Even if I hadn’t liked Henry so well, I could never have chosen Tilda. Those breasts made me think of pigs in the spring nursing their young, for they were slack even though she had yet to bear a child.

  Henry would have his maiden bride, if Tilda’s family ever allowed her to wed.

  Maybe I would command it to be so.

  Blondina was as terrifying in her nudity as I had feared. She stumbled on the threshold, losing her balance in her new shoes, and tipped up her mask to look down at the ground. It mattered little—no one doubted her identity. She was easily the tallest and the most heavy-set of all the maidens in the village. She might have made some man a sturdy and useful wife, if she hadn’t been so lazy.

  Her sister, Maligna, simpered before me, as if I couldn’t guess her identity or see the darkness of her heart shining in her eyes. There was no way I would ever be alone with such a venomous creature, let alone be intimate with her.

  Their mother had adorned them richly, but not as richly as the next guest to arrive. Confident Sylvie could be mistaken for no other. Her father had seen fit to outfit her in a dazzling array of gems, and there even strands of them wound into her dark hair. She smiled coyly, convinced of her success, and I didn’t like her any better than I ever had.

  I was aware of the amusement of my father’s guests and I bristled a little on behalf of the villagers I knew so well. Without similar advantages or wealth, they did look savage and rough in comparison, but I knew them all as people, as these aristocrats did not. They were simply fodder for amusement and a source of tithes. In that moment, I felt myself allied with the villagers, strangely, and not with the palace. In such a short time, I had forgotten that sense of unity and companionship I had known all my life.

  That was when gentle Flora approached me. She blushed crimson when her cloak was removed, her gaze flicking to mine in such agitation that I had to console her. It would be another man who introduced this timid one to the pleasures to be found abed—although it was possible that Flora might never find them pleasurable.

  The notion of taking her did not arouse me in the least.

  “Fear not, Flora,” I whispered to her and heard her catch her breath in relief.

  She smiled quickly and whispered so as to not be overheard. “Thank you, Royce. I mean, your highness.” She stammered over the address, then curtseyed low, her cheeks burning redder at her error.

  My father sniffed in disapproval, and Flora looked as if she wished she could disappear.

  “Compassion is not a foul trait in a monarch,” Lascivia mused, though her tone belied the words.

  “Remember your place, Royce,” my father said sternly. “They are your subjects and can expect no mercy from you, unless you choose to bestow it.”

  I knew better than to make such an error again.

  I accepted a chalice of wine and sipped of it, feeling that sense of power roil in my veins. I turned to watch the revels. Behind me, my father’s guests invited the maidens to dance. I had no doubt that they did so mockingly, in order to have tales of Euphoria and its rustic maidens to share upon their return home.

  I lingered at the portal, uncertain who else might arrive. There were already three maidens I could not identify. They must have come from the forest or the homes scattered beyond the village. I sipped and thought. Myra had been wedded after the Marking the previous summer and I couldn’t think of any other maidens of age in the village.

  But then she came.

  The road had been empty, stretching like a dark ribbon toward the village, when suddenly there appeared upon it a coach that might have been made of moonlight. I could hear the horses’ hoofbeats as they raced toward the palace and turned to stare.

  Was the coach real, or a vision? Was it ghostly?

  Indeed, its appearance might have cast a spell, for it seemed to me that the entire palace fell into silence. I know that could not have been so. The minstrels still played. The guests still chattered. I’m sure that I caught my breath with anticipation. My father frowned and stood beside me, watching the carriage pull into the bailey and crisply halt. The carriage gleamed, so oddly radiant that it might have been the moon come to earth. A footman in charcoal livery leaped down to open the door and I saw her.

  A beauty.

  A stranger.

  A gem.

  I know I took a step forward. Someone lifted the chalice from my hand, which was good for I would have dropped it. The moment this maiden alighted from her carriage, there was no one else in all the world. There was nothing but the glorious creature approaching me with shining eyes.

  And the thunder of my heart.

  She was a b
eauty, small and delicately wrought. I noticed that immediately, and actually took another step, greedy for a better view. Her hair was as dark as ebony and coiled up to reveal the graceful line of her throat. Her mask was one of the old ones, heavy with embroidery and adorned with feathers, and I had the whimsical thought that she had stepped out of a fable to dance with me. I could see as she approached that her eyes were blue and thickly lashed; her lips were ruddy and her face heart-shaped. Her cloak was sapphire blue and lined with ermine. She walked so lightly that it seemed her feet didn’t touch the ground.

  When her cloak was lifted away at the bottom of the steps, I was certain I had never seen such perfection. Her skin was as white as milk. She was delicate, her waist narrow, her hips slim, her breasts of a perfect size to fill my palm. Her nipples were tight and I hoped it was from excitement and not the chill in the air. Her shoes appeared to be made of glass and her gems were dark pearls. The string of them wound around her neck and crossed between her breasts, coiled around her waist and tumbled toward the nest of dark curls at the top of her thighs.

  There was but one flaw on her flesh and even it might have been an ornament: there was a red mark upon her left breast that was shaped like a heart. I stared at it, almost remembering some elusive detail, and frowned when I couldn’t. I shook my head and offered my hand to this unknown beauty.

  My choice was made and there was yet another day and evening to endure before I could claim my prize.

  “Your highness,” she said, her voice sweet and clear, then curtseyed before me.

  “What is your name?” I demanded and she laughed lightly.

  “I couldn’t confess it, sir, for fear of satisfying your curiosity.”

  “And why should my curiosity not be satisfied?”

  Her smile turned coy. “Because then you might avert your gaze, and I like the weight of it upon me too well to risk that.”

  “Well, well,” my father murmured, but I ignored him in this.

  I smiled at my maiden and took her hand, touching my lips to her knuckles. “Should you continue to smile as you do, you will feel more than the weight of my gaze upon you,” I said, my voice soft with threat.

  Spots of hot color touched her cheeks but she didn’t look away. “I am your servant, sir,” she said, and I saw her throat work in a delightful sign of concern.

  Indeed, she was.

  “I am glad you know it as well as I do,” I replied and felt her shiver. “I seek a captive, a treasure who will welcome my every command.”

  She caught her breath and her gaze flicked between my father and me. “Yes, your highness,” she said in a little rush that sent fire through me. Her gaze rose to mine again, her resolve making my blood simmer. “I am utterly yours.”

  Her words sent a thrill through me and fed a new impatience. I couldn’t wait to teach her precisely what that meant.

  Chapter 4

  Eleanor

  It was magical to enter the palace as a stranger whom no one recognized or knew. I was a mystery and the cause for speculation—I was used to that, but the speculation hadn’t ever been favorable before.

  I loved the anonymity and the attention. If I only was to have a single night of freedom in my life, this one would more than make up for the rest. The great hall was a splendid room beyond my experience, and it was filled to bursting. There were aristocrats dressed in rich finery and all the maidens of the village, their charms bared to view. Every person in attendance—save the king and Royce—was masked. The minstrels were numerous and skilled, their music filling the air. That combined with the enormous number of burning candles made the room into a scene from a dream.

  And then there was Royce, his gaze devouring me, his fascination more than I had ever hoped it might be. The sight of him thrilled me. He was dressed in the king’s colors, the black making his hair look as golden as summer sunlight.

  He had changed since leaving the village, to be sure. I noticed the difference immediately. There was something dark and dangerous in his gaze when he took my hand at the door to the palace, something new that both excited me and concerned me. I didn’t believe people truly changed very much, certainly not in as little time as he had been gone. The air of command must have always been within him, slumbering, waiting for the opportunity to awaken.

  He looked leaner and more resolute, taut as he hadn’t been before. His gaze shone with resolve and purpose, and he moved with the conviction of one whose will would always be served. He was no longer a boy, a neighbor, a passing acquaintance. He had become a man, I saw it now, a man who had become accustomed to naming his desire and claiming it.

  And he had chosen me first.

  I heard the whispers as he led me to the dance floor and kept my chin high. I smiled as if accustomed to such attention and such finery. It was easily done with my hand held fast by Royce.

  I was fiercely glad my mother had taught me the courtly dances. Royce spun me out onto the floor and I gasped that he was such an accomplished dancer before I realized he must have learned during his time in the palace. His gaze was locked upon mine, his eyes shining so brightly that I could barely take a breath. His hand was on the back of my waist, my one hand on his shoulder, the other held captive in his hand. He smiled down at me and drew me closer, so that my breasts brushed against the velvet of his tabard.

  I caught my breath at the sensation, well aware that my nipples tightened. I looked at his firm lips, recalling that long-ago kiss, and my heart thundered in anticipation of another.

  His gaze dropped and I followed it. That was when I noticed the red mark upon my breast for the first time. It was like the one upon the two golden birds and I wondered if it was the result of having used that red pebble to attend this event.

  Royce’s gaze fell to it repeatedly, as if he couldn’t recall where he had seen such a mark before. Surely he recalled those birds? He swallowed, shook his head, then met my gaze. “A birthmark?” he asked.

  “Of a kind.”

  “It is almost an ornament in itself.”

  “Indeed. I have been told it looks like a heart, although that is fanciful.”

  “Particularly as it is located over your own heart.”

  “Particularly so,” I agreed and he smiled, the heat in his eyes making my heart pound.

  “I have never seen the like,” he said, confusing me.

  “Truly? I noticed it once upon a bird.”

  He smiled. “A bird?”

  “A Golden Lovebird, it was called. A beautiful creature with a song that lifted the heart.”

  “You have that in common with it, then,” he said, as if he had never seen such a creature. “For you are both beautiful and have the ability to lift my heart with your words.”

  I frowned then, for the Royce I knew wasn’t a fool or inclined to forget. Those birds had been so marvelous. No one of sense could have forgotten them, or regretted their loss. Was their demise somehow bound to Royce forgetting them?

  “Is something amiss?”

  “I am simply surprised that you don’t know of those birds.”

  “Why? Even a prince doesn’t know everything.”

  I parted my lips, but then realized that telling him where he’d seen them would reveal me. “Of course not, sir,” I said and sensed immediately that my polite response displeased him. We danced more stiffly then, and I wished I could find the words to encourage his good mood again.

  Instead, I puzzled over his forgetfulness. How much else had he forgotten of his former life? Did he truly forget the village, or did he merely wish to distance himself from his past? Either option saddened me.

  “You like to dance then,” he said, no question in his tone.

  “I like to dance with you,” I dared to admit, wanting to see him smile again.

  He did smile and my pulse leaped when pulled me closer yet, locking his arm around my waist with a resolve that excited me. “And what of being kissed? Do you like that as well?” His gaze lingered on my lips as if he meant t
o take a taste before the entire company.

  I yearned for him to do as much and strove to show more gratitude for his attention. I smiled. “I do, sir, if the man giving the kiss does it well.”

  He arched a brow. “You have been kissed often, then?”

  “Only once, sir, but I will never forget it.”

  His eyes darkened. “I have competition?”

  The danger within him had come to the surface again and I wished to dispel it, to have my Royce return. “If a memory can be called competition, sir.”

  “Not the man in question?”

  “I fear he is gone forever, sir.” I heard the truth in the words as soon as I uttered them, but Royce’s pleasure was evident.

  He watched me for a moment as we made our way around the floor. “Yet this saddens you.”

  “I miss him, but I understand that no man can evade his fortune when summoned.”

  “That is true enough,” Royce acknowledged and spun me before him to the applause of the king’s guests. I caught a glimpse of devilry in his sparkling eyes that was almost familiar, then he leaned closer to whisper in my ear. I tingled to my very toes. “I am permitted to kiss each maiden once this night.”

  Even though I knew that already, it seemed a delicious secret between we two when he murmured it in my ear thus. “So I have been told, sir,” I said, my voice breathless.

  “I would kiss you twice.”

  “Truly, sir? Will that not cause offense to the others?”

  “I don’t care if it does.” He caught me in his arms and lifted me to my toes. I was captive in his embrace and could not have named a finer situation. He smiled at me then bent to touch his lips gently to the red mark. It seemed to me that I felt his caress upon my very heart and I gasped aloud at the power of the sensation. My mouth was dry and I was oblivious to anyone other than him. My fingers gripped his shoulders and my head fell back. I could not take a breath.

  Royce lifted his head and his eyes were darker than I’d ever seen them. He looked both troubled and haunted, no longer driven. More like a man awakened from a dream and uncertain of his location. “Golden Lovebirds,” he murmured, as if he had only just recalled them. “Their song is wondrous.”