CHAPTER THIRTEEN
I lie under Henri’s bed for the second time, waiting for him to return. Ten minutes after midnight, the door opens. I tense, waiting.
“Sophie?” Henri calls, his voice far more confident than yesterday.
I crawl from under the bed. He waits for me this time, his expression light. Halfway out, I freeze when I spot him. His arms are crossed loosely over his chest, and he leans against the door in a relaxed manner. He seems freer than last night, far less panicked.
Without my permission, my eyes wander over him, taking him in. Even here, in this grand palace, he continues to dress like a warrior prince, wearing a dark brown jerkin made of smooth, supple leather. His trousers are a shade darker than the jerkin, but his shirt is cream and fine.
Oddly, his hair remains white-blond, and it’s a striking contrast against his tanned skin. I assumed it was a product of the curse, but it’s either the color he was born with or hints of magic linger. He wears it back, in a short tail at his neck.
He cleans up very nicely, this husband of mine.
“I understand you bought a cartload of scrap gold from Ambrosia.” Henri says the words brusquely, but there’s humor in his eyes.
I shimmy the rest of the way from under the bed and pull myself to my feet. “Ambrosia told you about that, did she?”
“And you didn’t think you should perhaps ask my permission first?” He pushes away from the wall, walking toward me.
Gulping, I take a step back—and not because I’m afraid of him. No, I’m afraid of myself, of the fluttering in my stomach and the way my heart races when he looks at me as he is now. I skirt the bed and finally bump into a wardrobe.
“I rather assumed it was my place as your wife to care for Briadell in your absence,” I explain. “And what better way to care for it than bring you home?”
Henri closes the distance between us. He’s so tall, my gaze is level with his chest.
“I see.” He leans down until we are face to face. His eyes light with humor, but that doesn’t help the situation. My hands itch to move along his arms, his neck, his chest. I clench them into fists at my sides.
His palms find the sides of my hips, and I bite back a soft exclamation. He shifts even closer.
The nearness is enough to make my mouth go dry, and my eyes travel to the topmost buckle of his jerkin. Unable to help myself, I lean toward him and breathe in the woodland scent he carries.
It’s a heady fragrance, and it makes my knees soft. If that’s a product of his curse, then, by all means, he may turn back into the bear occasionally.
“I think it’s acceptable if my queen makes a few business transactions of her own,” he murmurs.
My eyes fly to his. His queen?
Princess, yes—all right. But queen? Heaven help Briadell.
“You’re not upset?” I ask.
“No.” Henri shakes his head. “But Ambrosia must still convince her mother.”
I nod as if I’m paying attention to the conversation, but I’m not. My whole being is focused on the heat of Henri’s hands. On the way he towers over me, making me feel small but so very safe. He’s saying something else—something about the troll queen, but I couldn’t care less at the moment.
“Henri?” I interrupt.
“Hmmm?”
“We’re finally alone, you’re no longer a bear, and you aren’t asleep on your feet, yet we’re talking about your awful stepmother. Why?” I ask, my voice tinged with irritation and need. “Am I allowed to ask you to kiss me now? Is that what you’re waiting for?”
He goes still. Finally, with his voice a shade darker, he says, “You didn’t wait for permission the first time.”
I move closer. “I don’t make a habit of asking for permission ever.”
“Then why bother now?”
Growing exasperated, I shift closer. “Because I—”
Without letting me finish the sentence, Henri tugs me flush against him. He pauses briefly, almost as if he’s prolonging the moment, and then, just when I think I will surely die if he doesn’t follow through, his lips claim mine.
I let out a sound of surprise, and he smiles before he deepens the kiss. I lean into him, wishing I’d broken the awful curse sooner.
He cradles the back of my neck and twines his fingers through my hair. My hands travel his chest and eventually hang with my arms draped over his shoulders. I lean against him, temporarily unable to stand on my wobbly legs.
When Henri pulls back, my brain is delightfully fuzzy.
“Better?” he asks, his voice still husky.
I give him a mischievous smile. “And here I thought you were avoiding it because you were so dreadfully out of practice.”
He growls under his breath, laughing darkly, and moves to kiss me again as if to prove, once and for all, he wasn’t staying away from me due to his lack of prowess.
Just as our lips barely touch the second time, Henri’s door swings open with a bang.
Queen Amara stands in the doorway, looking livid. Ambrosia’s with her, though the princess doesn’t appear to be as concerned as I feel she should be.
The troll queen fixes her eyes on Henri. “You are a fool, even for a human. Why would you want her when you could have my daughter?”
Ambrosia begins to speak only to have her mother jerk a hand up, demanding silence. The princess closes her mouth and rolls her eyes. She seems calm, but I’m a rabbit ready to dart. Fear courses through my veins, making my already lightheaded-self dizzy.
It took me a full twenty-four hours to recover from my first meeting with the troll queen. My muscles ache at the memory of her magic.
Henri nudges me behind him. “Your own daughter agreed to the bargain.”
The troll queen points at me, and I shy back. “There isn’t one thing that pathetic, scrawny human can do that my daughter cannot do better. Ambrosia is beautiful, poised, witty—she’s everything you could possibly want in a bride.”
“Except I’m a troll,” Ambrosia says wryly, earning another nasty look from her mother. “He doesn’t seem to care for that.”
“What if I give Ambrosia a task,” Henri says abruptly, startling the queen and the princess both.
“A task?” Amara asks, narrowing her eyes.
Henri nods, growing confident. “That’s right—a test if you will. Whichever girl can complete it will be my wife. If Ambrosia wins, I won’t fight you any longer. If Sophie wins, then you leave us and my kingdom be.”
The queen looks understandably suspicious. “Why would you do that? Why offer a test when that human girl has already made a bargain for your freedom?”
“I know you’ll never let us go, not unless it’s your choice. And I would rather marry Ambrosia than watch you hurt Sophie again.” Henri turns to me slowly, waiting until our gazes meet. “I love her.”
Warmth spreads over me, making me feel as if I’m in a meadow in the dead of summer and not in this cold, lonely palace.
Henri loves me.
“Fine,” Amara says, sounding disgusted as she flips her long black hair over her shoulder. “But there is no test you can give my daughter that she won’t excel at.”
Henri flashes me a grin.
“There might be one.” He begins to unlace his fine jerkin. “You see, some time ago, I got candle wax on my favorite shirt.”
Ambrosia’s eyebrows raise as the prince pulls the jerkin over his head, followed by the shirt. I would glare at her, but my gaze also finds Henri’s toned upper body, and I’m helpless to look away.
He must have been a formidable knight.
Oblivious to the effect his bare, muscular torso is having on the room, Henri offers Ambrosia his shirt. “If you can remove the wax—without using your magic—I will marry you.”
The princess’s eyes wander over Henri before she finally meets his eyes. “That’s impossible. No one can wash away tallow wax.”
“Sophia can,” Henri says, glancing over and catching me staring. He suppresses a smile when my eyes fly to his. “Can’t you, Sophie?”
Slowly, I nod.
“To the washroom.” Amara leads us from Henri’s chamber. We travel to the ground floor of the palace. When the queen opens the door, we’re met with heat and steam.
“Go on,” she snarls at Ambrosia, who looks rather put out to be asked to do something so common.
The laundry maids gape at us, most likely surprised to find the queen in their lair. Like Johan, they haven’t bothered to enchant themselves. They’re tall and perhaps a bit homely, but nothing how I envisioned trolls to look.
Ambrosia flounces in and stops in front of a vat of hot water. Holding the shirt between her thumb and finger as if it's poisoned, she dunks the fabric twice and then lets it drip.
“Hmmm,” she says thoughtfully as she looks over her shoulder and flashes her mother a wicked look. “Looks like I failed.”
Losing patience, the queen rips the shirt from her daughter and scrubs the wax with her own hands. The wax begins to spread in the garment, turning black.
“Soap!” Amara hollers at the troll girl closest to her. The poor laundry maid peeps in fright and hastens to find the queen a bar.
The queen scrubs and scrubs, growing angrier by the minute. The maids tremble by the walls, terrified they are going to take the brunt of the queen’s anger.
“You can do it, can’t you?” Henri whispers after thirty minutes have gone by.
Slowly, I nod and whisper back, “I think so, but it would have been easier before Her Royal Trollness got her hands on it.”
Apparently having overheard me though I tried to be quiet, Ambrosia chokes back a laugh. It’s enough to catch the queen’s attention, and she whirls around to face us. Her hair is soggy, and her face is red from the steam. Her hands look scorched, yet the stain is still there.
One of the laundry maids lets out a small sound of distress, but the queen’s eyes are firmly fixed on me.
“You think you can do better?” She stalks forward, and Henri’s soaked shirt drips on the stone floor as she walks. Once she reaches me, she thrusts the soggy garment into my hands. “Be my guest.”
Hoping it will work even when the fabric is saturated, I glance around the room, looking for an iron. There’s one in the fire, already hot.
Here goes nothing.
“I need two pieces of scrap fabric,” I say to one of the maids. “Anything you have will do.”
Immediately, she fetches me a rabbit skin.
“Anything but that. I need cloth.”
Several minutes later, I have the two pieces of fabric on either side of the wax stain, and I carefully lower the iron onto the cloth. The water hisses as it meets the hot metal. After several moments, I pull the iron back. To my relief, the wax is beginning to transfer to the scraps.
I repeat the process over and over, and once the wax is gone, I take it back to the hot water for a final scrub.
Five minutes later, Henri’s shirt is as good as new.
“There,” I hold the shirt out for Ambrosia to inspect.
The princess’s face lights. “You actually did it! You are a clever human, aren’t you?”
“You’d be amazed at what we’ve learned to do without magic,” I deadpan.
Ambrosia laughs and hands the shirt to her mother. “Well, there you have it.”
“No,” Amara says, her face growing red again. She turns to Henri. “You tricked me!”
Henri shrugs. “You knew the terms. Why would I pick something I wasn’t confident Sophie could do?”
With an inhuman shriek, Amara lunges forward. Before any of us can stop her, she sends her magic right at Henri. From the wild look on her face, I know she means his death.
“No!” I scream, but Ambrosia holds me back.
Just as the green magic hits Henri, a shield of purple flairs around him. We watch in horror and shock as the troll queen’s magic ricochets right back at her. She screams again, this time in pain, and crumples to the ground.
The entire room goes deathly silent as we wait for the queen to move. Amara’s cloaking magic is gone now, and her true form is revealed. She’s gangly, and her joints are gnarled. Her hair is still thick, but it’s coarse and no longer glossy.
It’s a sobering sight.
After a full minute, a brave maid inches forward and places her hand on the queen’s wrist, checking for a pulse. She purses her lips and turns to Ambrosia, her voice shaking with fear. “I’m sorry, Your Highness. The queen is dead.”