The Princess and the Peas Page 2
“If I had not considered that, Princess, I would have thrown you over my shoulder and carried you upstairs before you could endanger yourself and the Lady Lucinda,” Ian said evenly.
Lucy’s eyes widened, expecting Glory to throw one of her legendary tantrums, but to her surprise the princess only laughed. “Oh, there is no danger to me. This is the night I am to be engaged to wed,” Glory said, almost absently, her gaze sweeping the room.
“What?” Lucy caught Glory’s arm. “What? You did not tell me. Who is it?”
Glory shook her arm free, then smoothed down her skirts. “I don’t know yet, of course. Come help me find out who had the most difficult time sleeping last night on those horribly lumpy mattresses.” Her laughter tinkling like the sound of tiny bells, Glory lifted her chin and floated into the room like the delicate flower she had never, ever been.
“Oh no,” Lucy moaned. “The peas. This is going to be really, really bad.” Casting an apologetic glance Ian’s way, she raised the skirt of her dress and hurried after the princess.
Ian wanted to break something. Or someone. His eyes narrowed as he caught sight of one of the fanciest of the elven lords staring at Lucy. Oh, yeah. He definitely wanted to break someone.
The Fae prince was dressed all in green and gold, signifying that he was the highest of the treaty lords here to negotiate. Elvania’s neutrality had long made it the perfect site for the renewal of treaty agreements between the various Fae factions. They came, they ate everything in sight, they ran through serving maids as if women existed only to give them pleasure, and then they departed for another year; if not pleased than at least content. From the look of things as they stood now, pleased wasn’t on the table, and content wasn’t looking very good, either. But if one of the lordlings thought he’d sample the pleasures Lucy might have to offer, Ian had a sharp objection to make. He grinned and glanced at the honed steel of his blade. A very sharp objection.
If he could keep his mind off how Lucy would look in his bed: that lush dark red hair spread across his pillow, those lovely breasts uncovered for his hands and mouth to touch and taste.
Or how she would look when he wed her, with flowers in her hair and his ring on her finger.
She was his, as he’d reminded her, and that meant his to protect in this madness. Ian tightened his grip on the sword and shouldered his way through the battling lordlings after Lucy. Although she’d easily slipped through the crowd, he took a certain grim pleasure in shoving his way through to the king’s table. One of the Fae lords Ian elbowed out of the way drew his dagger halfway out of its sheath, but a look at Ian’s face seemed to give the elf pause. A true Fae would never back down from a fight, but of course a fight could be avoided. The lordling suddenly seemed to find something on the opposite side of the room to be fascinating.
Just as Ian reached the single step leading to the king’s table, the princess’ sharp, clear tone cut through the room. “I beg your pardon, my lords and ladies,” she said with an arrogance that made it clear that - in spite of her words - she would never and had never begged anyone’s pardon, ever. The room fell silent as everyone turned to face her. “I understand there was some problem with your rooms?”
Not without admiration, Rhys watched the deceitful little princess pose her deceitful little question. Some problem with the rooms indeed. Of course he’d found the iron pellet the moment he’d stepped into the very grand and overdone room assigned to him; of all the myths surrounding the Fae, that one was true. The higher-born the Fae, the more critically sensitive to iron.
Great power always seemed to come with great weaknesses, which seemed to Rhys itself to be a weakness in the basic ordering of things. Not that he’d ever voice such a supposition. To admit to even the slightest touch of philosophical thought would ruin his calculated image of languid boredom.
To that end, he adjusted one of his jade-green lapels, yawned and then raised one eyebrow. “Problem?”
A faint look of disgust moved across the princess’ face so quickly that another, lesser being might have believed he’d imagined it. Rhys knew better. This reaction to his affected pose was exactly as it should be.
As the room erupted in complaint, all to do with the iron placed under the mattresses and accusations of conspiracy, he wondered why such a reaction bothered him for the first time in centuries. But he was far too brutally honest with himself to pretend he didn’t know the answer. It was her. The wench from the night before, standing a step behind Princess Glory. Wearing his house colours, as though she belonged to him. He drew in a sharp breath as he realized the feeling he had at the thought was one of smug satisfaction. For a woman with such fire to belong to him ... to be his friend.
Friend?
The wench - what was her name? Magda? - focused intently on an approaching guardsman, a man of prowess and sure strength, from the look of him.
Friend? What was happening to him?
He shook his head free of the unusual thoughts. It was irrelevant in any case. She was taken. Her heart was involved. Once that might have made it a challenge. Now he was merely resigned. What purpose to weave forgetfulness over true love for a brief time of ... friendship?
He gave in to the impulse. Some mental imperative all but demanded he claim her friendship. Thus, he must destroy any possibility of it.
“Let us dispense with the charade, shall we, your Highness?” Rhys called to the king, his voice cutting easily through the bickering. “Your daughter has broken the treaty by her use of trickery as, no doubt, part of her childish quest to find a powerful Fae husband. The penalty is death or enslavement. I see no reason to execute such a lovely, if empty-headed, wench, so the princess will come to my bed until such time as I grow tired of her.”
Glory shrieked and all of the colour drained out of her face as her drunken sop of a father tried to pull himself to his feet, spluttering and blustering. A shocked silence fell over the rest of the room. Idly, Rhys noticed that the warrior - the guardsman -held his blade at the ready as he stood at battle stance, protecting the princess.
But Rhys was uninterested in any of their reactions. He focused his attention on the only woman in the room who held the slightest interest for him.
Her face too was as pale as death, but her eyes flashed deadly defiance. “You will not have her, my lord,” she said clearly. “At least not while I live.”
As she lifted her hands into the air, preparing to work some form of magic to protect the princess, a flash of silver at her throat caught his attention. It couldn’t be.
It couldn’t be.
Quicker than thought, he was across the room and bending towards her, catching the silver ring she wore on a chain in his hand. “What is this? Where did you get it?” he demanded.
“Release her or die,” the guardsman all but snarled at him, his sword raised in a lightning-quick motion to Rhys’ neck. “In fact, I may kill you anyway, for daring to touch her.”
Rhys knew a moment’s amusement and looked into the man’s furious grey eyes. “Negotiating, then, is not your skill, one can assume?”
“Release her or die,” the man repeated, pressing harder.
The excruciating pain of steel cutting into his throat barely distracted Rhys as he lost interest in the mortal’s nonsense and stared down at the girl again. “Where did you get it?” he asked, daring her to lie. Staring down into her dark green eyes.
Her oh-so-familiar dark green and slightly tilted eyes.
His own eyes. His sister’s eyes.
“You’re her child,” he breathed. “My sister’s child.”
Her eyes widened, and she began to shake her head no, but he’d had enough of guesswork and supposition. He dropped the ring and caught her face in his hands, then touched his forehead to her own. The immediate family bond flared to life with almost painful intensity.
She was his own, and suddenly his aversion to anything but her friendship became poignantly clear.
“You’re my niece,” he said, almost laughing with the first unfettered joy he’d felt in the 300 years since his sister had disappeared. “You’re my family.”
She looked up at him, blinking. Dazed. “I ... I know,” she said. “Somehow, I know.” She turned to glance at the guardsman who still held a sword to Rhys’ throat. “Don’t hurt him, Ian. He’s my . . . uncle.”
Ian slowly lowered his sword, clearly not understanding and just as clearly unwilling to trust the woman he loved to Rhys and his claims of family.
“Ah, and that is another matter,” Rhys said, drawing himself up to his full and quite considerable height. “You are not nearly good enough for my niece.”
In the space of a unicorn’s heartbeat, the sword was at his throat again. “I’d suggest you rethink that statement, Uncle,’“ Ian said grimly. “I’d hate our first outing as husband and wife to be attending your funeral.”
Rhys’ niece gasped. “Ian! He’s my uncle - Wait. What? Husband and wife?”
Rhys looked from one to the other and began to laugh. Gently moving the sword to one side so the human male would not be threatened, Rhys bowed deeply to the king. “I return to you your daughter’s life, though it were forfeit to me by right and by law. In exchange, I shall take this woman as my own. She is my kin, and it is my right. I hereby claim the Lady Magda.”
Every single Fae in the room, silent and motionless throughout the encounter, dropped to their knees and proclaimed their fealty and accord. “A Garanwyn!”
The king dropped back down into his chair and stared at Rhys, befuddlement clear on his red face. “I don’t understand. What on earth do you want with our pig keeper?”
Two days later.
“I still can’t believe Glory wed that little round man,” Lucy said, shaking her head in disbelief
. “After all of her years of declaring that only a man whose beauty matched her own would do, she is overcome with joy to have secretly married a man who is a head shorter than her, at least five stone heavier and who has very little hair.”
“Ah, but he loves her beyond distraction,” Ian replied, putting his hands on her waist. “There is much to be said for that. Happy birthday, my love.”
“I may become ill,” Rhys pointed out as the annoying human kissed Lucy. Not that either of them could hear anything besides their own maudlin prattle. He held the reins of the silver mare he’d acquired for his niece and watched closely as Ian, after aiming a perfunctory glare Rhys’ way, helped Lucinda into the saddle.
“Have a care as to how you lay your hands on a princess of the High House of the Seelie Court,” Rhys snapped.
Ian smiled and deliberately raised Lucinda’s hand to his lips. “My future wife and I will lay our hands on each other however we want, Uncle.”
“Don’t call me ‘Uncle’,” Rhys said between clenched teeth.
Lucinda arranged her divided skirt on the saddle, sighing in either dismay or resignation. “Is it going to be like this all the way across Elvania? Because if you two cannot manage to come to some form of accord, I may have to strike off on my own and abandon both of you.”
“You can’t—” Rhys began, offended.
“You would never—” Ian began.
“Watch me,” Lucinda interrupted.
Rhys scowled fiercely at her, trying his best not to let his own smile escape. “You’re my sister’s daughter, all right,” he admitted, swinging up onto his own horse. “The stories I could tell you ...”
“Wonderful,” Ian put in as he settled into his saddle and manoeuvred his horse closer to Lucinda. “Lucy and I will have no time to ourselves at all on this trip, will we?”
Rhys smiled as his expected companion stepped out from behind the stable door and stood waiting quietly, her arms held up to him. “Oh, I don’t know about that,” Rhys said, stopping to catch the beautifully voluptuous woman by the waist and lift her onto his horse in front of him. “I may be a little busy at times.”
Ian blinked. “Who—?”
Rhys smiled again but said nothing, enjoying the smell of the lass’ lavender-scented hair. She snuggled back between his thighs with a contented sound.
Lucy looked startled for an instant, but then slowly smiled. “Ian, meet Magda.”
Ian’s eyes widened. “Magda? The pig keeper?”
Magda smiled shyly and nodded. “I had a bath.”
The End (In which they all lived happily ever after. Or at least for a very long while . . .)
Author Biographies
Alyssa Day
RITA award-winning and USA Today bestselling author of the Warrior of Poseidon series.
alyssaday.com
Constable & Robinson Ltd
3 The Lanchesters 162 Fulham Palace Road
London W6 9ER www.constablerobinson.com
First published in the UK by Robinson, an imprint of Constable & Robinson, 2009
“The Princess and the Peas” © by Alesia Holliday. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
The right of Trisha Telep to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
A copy of the British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library
UK ISBN 978-1-84529-941-5
First published in the United States in 2009 by Running Press Book Publishers
All rights reserved under the Pan-American and International Copyright Conventions
This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part, in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or hereafter invented, without written permission from the publisher.
US Library of Congress number: 2008942197 US ISBN 978-7624-3651-4
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Alyssa Day, The Princess and the Peas
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