The Lass Who Kissed a Frog Page 6

  Truthfully, he hadn’t expected her to offer even that much.

  He hadn’t expected her to still be talking to him to be honest, as foul as he was.

  Deciding to press his luck, he asked, “And after? A place to rest my weary head, milady?”

  He shouldn’t have been surprised when she rolled her eyes. “Ye cannae be asking for more charity? Food is one thing, but ye cannae stay here at the inn.”

  “Och, of course.” He made a show of shuffling backward, tugging at his cap. “Ye couldnae be seen with the likes of me. Scarred and dirty.”

  There was just a hint of a smile in her voice when she said, “Ye could do with a wash or three.” When he glanced up, she raised a brow teasingly and gestured to the well. “There’s plenty of water, though ye will have to share yer bath with the frog.”

  She was…teasing him? Someone who looked like—like a barbarian? Dirty and disfigured, and dressed in what appeared to be a shepherd’s castoffs? That was…unexpected. Why wasn’t she reacting the way she was supposed to?

  “And after I wash?” he bit out gruffly.

  She sighed, then shook her head. “Mother would never allow ye to stay at the inn without pay. After ye eat, ye might as well move along, stranger.”

  Truthfully, he hadn’t even expected an offer of food, but he decided to press her. “It will likely be a beautiful night, and that bench looks comfortable.”

  Her perfect-blue eyes widened. “Ye cannae stay here. This is my family’s private garden. We cannae allow strange men to sleep here. If word got out…” She shook her head, then turned to climb the three stone steps to the door.

  And he knew she was right, curse her. Whether he was a viscount or a beggar, a man found sleeping there would cause a scandal which very well might ruin her future.

  And he couldn’t have that on his conscience, damn her.

  He was about to acquiesce and shuffle his way out of the garden when she surprised him yet again. With her hand already on the door handle, she stopped and turned halfway so he could see the graceful curve of her jaw, and her achingly beautiful nose. When had he ever considered noses beautiful?

  There were noses, and then there was Vanessa’s nose. Everything about her was beautiful, even the places which shouldn’t be. Hell, her little toe was likely beautiful. Her navel would be perfect of course. Her ears were graceful. The webbing between her fingers would be magnificent. Her arse was—

  Nay, dinnae think of her arse.

  His cock still had not recovered from the lip-sucking incident.

  His thoughts had gone so far down that lewd path, he almost forgot to listen for why she’d stopped. And her words, when she spoke, shocked him yet again.

  “Ye cannae stay here, but there is usually space behind the stables. On a warm night like tonight, especially after ye’ve bathed, I see nae reason ye couldnae pass the evening in relative comfort.” She opened the door. “I’ll mention it to the stablemaster.”

  And then she was gone.

  Roland was left staring at the closed door.

  She’d offered him a place to sleep. She’d offered him food. She’d teased him and accepted his teasing with only the barest of irritation. She’d smiled at him briefly.

  And he looked worse than Lyon.

  He knew he looked worse because he’d tried. With a growl, he yanked the eyepatch from his face after turning away from the inn in case someone was watching. He smelled of dirt and mud, and worse, and wore a kilt like the barbarian she’d accused his brother of being.

  Can ye imagine sitting across the table from that at meals, Bonnie?

  She’d said those words to her sister when she hadn’t known he could hear, and they still sent a spike of disgust through him. She’d taken one look at his brother and had judged him, assuming he didn’t feel and yearn for acceptance, the same as everyone else.

  She’d judged Lyon as unworthy because he wasn’t as beautiful as she was.

  Roland stared down at the dirt under his fingernails as he clenched the faux eyepatch in his fist. He’d come to her, disfigured and barbaric as she’d accused Lyon of being, and dirty as well. He’d presented himself as poor, homeless, and desperate, certain she’d turn up her nose and repudiate him. And when she did, his plan was to throw off his disguise, and reveal exactly who he was and why he’d tricked her.

  He’d imagined her falling to her knees and begging his forgiveness, vowing to never again judge a person by the way they looked.

  It was a pretty daydream, and one he’d looked forward to seeing come true.

  But instead, she’d offered him solace. Food, shelter, and…and humanity. She’d spoken with him, like an equal, not like a haughty lady who thought she was a better person because she was so beautiful. And had only shown irritation when any normal woman would have.

  With another growl, Roland forced his fingers to unclench and forced his shoulders to relax.

  She hadn’t done what he’d expected of her, but that didn’t mean he was wrong. Aye, she’d managed to surprise him, but he’d be prepared next time.

  Tomorrow.

  Aye, he wasn’t going to sleep here or even behind the inn’s stables tonight, not when there was a hot bath waiting for him back home. His private estate was several hours’ travel to the west, but he managed the affairs of Newfincy Castle, which he still considered his actual home. One day, perhaps when he eventually married, he’d take up year-round residence at Blabloblal. But for now, he’d go back to his room at Newfincy, have his valet call for a hot bath, dump in some scented oils, and consider his next move.

  One thing he knew for certes: he’d be back tomorrow, dressed as the beggar, and he would find a way to make her realize the error of her ways.

  He vowed it.

  Chapter 5

  “Tea leaves, Broca? You want to read tea leaves?”

  “Well? Why no’? Nae one else had any suggestions, and I ken Grisel can brew a mean cup of tea—”

  “Thank ye.”

  “It wasnae a compliment.”

  “Broca, be kind. Grisel, do go find some tea leaves—without incantations. Wait, actually, are incantations necessary for a reading, Broca?”

  “I dunno, but they’re unnecessary for my ears, so keep yer lips shut, Grisel.”

  “Well, I never!”

  “Grisel, dear, please go collect the leaves. You’ll need to make several pots, I assume. Seonag— Oh, thank you. Packing up the crystal ball to work on it back at your cottage? Excellent. I do hope you can get it working again. Poor Willa is beside herself, not being able to follow what’s going on in her story—”

  “And we’re at the halfway point! Oh dear, oh dear! With me not able to monitor it, what will happen? The whole thing will go off-script, and I cannae control it. Number forty-seven is such a wonderful opportunity, but the story has to be carefully teased along or it’ll go off in a completely wrong direction—”

  “Willa! Calm down. Stop tearing up your notes and do be careful with The Book. We will find a way to monitor the story, and if it does go off in the wrong direction, we’ll just nudge it back on the correct track. How much trouble can the two of them get up to on their own for a day or two?”

  * * *

  The solution to Bonnie’s dilemma came to Vanessa in a dream, which was really quite strange. The fact she figured it out thanks to a dream, not the dream itself.

  Although the dream itself was fairly strange now she thought about it.

  In it, Vanessa was looking down at her hands, which were covered in dirt. When she looked up, the stranger from the garden was there, grinning mockingly. His face was caked with dirt as well, making her recoil. Before she could decide if she was recoiling from him or his filth—and which one made her a worse person—she’d glanced back down again, and this time, her dirty hands were cradling a frog, who looked at her with the most knowing expression, before hopping up and trying to kiss her.

  Thankfully, Vanessa’s brain decided that was a good time to wake h
er, and she opened her eyes in the pre-dawn glow, with only the mildest of shudders, and managed to clamp her lips down on the startled scream the whole frog-attack thing provoked.

  She pulled a pillow over her face and tried to slow her heartbeat. Under the blankets, her fingers curled into fists, and she resisted the urge to brush her hands off, reminding herself they weren’t really dirty.

  The dream had been just that: a nonsensical dream. Why, the last time her hands had been that dirty had been…

  Had been…

  Under the pillow, her eyes flashed open, and in a sudden frantic burst of energy, she pushed the thing off her and sat up.

  The last time her hands had been that dirty had been when Father, the Baron, was alive, and had taken her and Bonnie to visit his aunt Gertrude near York. Although Bonnie had always been the academic, it was Vanessa who had been so fascinated by the archeological dig Gertie’s husband had sponsored on the estate. The stuffy old archaeologist tried to shoo her away, but there’d been one handsome young adventurer who’d been willing to answer a curious little girl’s questions.

  Wide-eyed now, she switched her gaze to the way the curtains were valiantly fighting against the dawn light.

  She remembered wandering around the archaeological site and listening to the men explain—in big, difficult words—what each piece of Roman architecture meant. Apparently, the site was revolutionary, for some reason or other, but Vanessa had been too anxious to try her hand at it to listen to the details. But when she’d asked for a small shovel, the man had laughed and told her a lass as pretty as herself wouldn’t want to get her hands dirty.

  Dirty hands.

  When he’d sent her home, Vanessa had been piqued enough to pick up her skirts—and a digging stick—and sneak behind a big pile of dirt. She remembered how certain she’d been that she would make a discovery which would force the archaeologists let her stay and help.

  Which meant, when she’d seen the flash of gold, she hadn’t been surprised. She’d carefully dug around the golden sphere, holding her breath as she pulled it from its dirty home. But once she’d removed it, she’d been uncertain what to do with her magnificent find, and had decided to bury it again until she could show it to one of the archeologists. She’d been so excited, but when her mother had appeared out of nowhere and grabbed her shoulders, shrieking about how filthy she was, Vanessa had lost the chance to share what she’d found.

  It was also the last time she’d gotten dirty, now she thought about it.

  Which was a shame, because yesterday’s conversation with Bonnie had reminded her how much fun she used to have playing in the garden, catching—and kissing—frogs, and generally enjoying nature.

  Which usually involved dirt.

  A face flashed before her: a beard under a thick layer of dirt, and one green eye laughing at her. Frowning, she pushed away the thought of the stranger, along with the uncomfortable feelings he’d provoked.

  Likely only because he’d intruded on her private garden, was all.

  Best to think about the things she could control…like Bonnie’s need for money.

  “Bonnie?” she whispered, and a sort of snorting snuffle from the room’s other bed answered her.

  She and her sister had always shared a room, but Vanessa had been quite young when she’d insisted on Mother finding another bed for Bonnie, after one of her sister’s flailing arms had given Vanessa a black eye.

  Bonnie was the deepest sleeper she knew, but also the most athletic.

  “Bonnie?” she called again, louder. Still no answer, not that it was a surprise.

  With a sigh, Vanessa swung her legs over the edge of the bed and didn’t even bother looking for her slippers in her hurry to reach her sister. But the floor was cold, and Bonnie didn’t wake up with a gentle nudge, so Vanessa pulled back the covers and slid in beside her.

  “Bonnie!” She nudged her.

  With a mutter, her sister rolled over and flopped one arm around Vanessa, pinning her down. Vanessa rolled her eyes. “Bonnie, wake up! I must speak to ye!”

  “Ooh, ye great beast!” murmured Bonnie, snuggling closer. “Aye!”

  Vanessa narrowed her eyes. “Sister?” She poked Bonnie in the side. “Wake up!”

  That was when her sister tried to kiss her.

  So, Vanessa, out of sheer desperation, did what any good sister would do, and shoved her cold feet against Bonnie’s calves.

  With a startled gasp, Bonnie jerked upright, and managed to snag her elbow in Vanessa’s night-rail on the way.

  “Whazzit? Wha—” She shook her head once, then blinked hard at the bed’s new occupant. “Vanessa? Bloody hell, yer feet are cold!”

  “Out of self-defense, I assure ye, sister dear.”

  “What?” Bonnie yawned. “What time is it?”

  “Stop asking irrelevant questions.” Vanessa grabbed her hand. “Bonnie, I figured out a solution to yer money woes!”

  “My what?”

  Goodness, she really didn’t wake up quickly—or very alertly—did she?

  “I”—Vanessa pointed to herself with her free hand—“have figured out a way to get ye”—she squeezed Bonnie’s hand—“the money ye need to buy Mr. Grimm’s publishing house!

  Bonnie blinked at her. “Ye did?”

  “I did. Do ye want to hear it?”

  “Can I lie back down and close my eyes?”

  “Only if ye promise no’ to fall asleep.”

  Her sister snuggled down. “I would never. Alright, I’m ready.”

  Excitedly, Vanessa began. “Do ye recall how, yesterday, ye reminded me of the archaeological digs at Fangfoss Manor? There were those Roman ruins, and Great-Aunt Gertie told us her ancestor had built that folly around them when it was all the rage, but the archeologists had to tear them down.”

  “I remember. Ye were so irritated at that, which was amazing, because I dinnae think ye were auld enough to ken what a ‘folly’ was.”

  With a faint snort, Vanessa elbowed her sister. “Be nice. I’m about to save yer arse.”

  “Such language.” Bonnie tsked, her smile flashing in the dim light. “Alright. Go on.”

  “Do ye recall those spheres Phineas Prince was speaking of last week at Newfincy when we went for tea? And how he’d pay so much for one made of gold?”

  “Aye.”

  “Well…” Vanessa took a deep breath. “I remember there were a number of those spheres found in the dig at Fangfoss. I’d forgotten until this morning, but there were a half-dozen, of different materials, on display. That’s why the dig was an important one.”

  “So? Phineas said—” Bonnie was interrupted by a yawn. “He said he had different kinds already.”

  “But no’ a gold one.” This was where Vanessa’s memory was vital. She squeezed her sister’s hand. “I found one,” she whispered.

  Bonnie sat straight up. “Vanessa Oliphant, are ye serious?”

  “As an attack of the vapors, dear sister.” Smiling, Vanessa sat up as well, tucking her feet under her. “At the time, I didnae ken what it was of course, but now that I picture it in my mind’s eye, I’m certain I would’ve unearthed a rare gold ball had I been allowed to continue digging.”

  “Ye werenae?”

  Vanessa frowned. “Mother found me digging in the dirt, and that was the end of any archaeological ambitions I might’ve had. She told me ladies—especially ones as beautiful as I am—dinnae play in the mud.”

  Deflated, Bonnie sagged back against the covers. “Ye ken how I feel about Mother’s opinion of yer beauty—”

  “I am—”

  “Aye, ye’re verra beautiful, but ye’re more than that, Vanessa. Dinnae allow her to shape ye into a vain, self-centered being.”

  Too late.

  Vanessa swallowed. “Aye, well, the point is, I didnae have the chance to excavate it, but I’m certain if I returned to Fangfoss Manor—and I have to be the one to go, because only I can recall where it was—I could find it again.”

 
“It was part of a dig, was it no’? It was likely excavated shortly after Mother stole ye away.”

  Vanessa had been thinking about this, and she countered with a slow shake of her head. “I dinnae think so. I recall the men had already shooed me away, and I was digging off by myself, away from the rest of the excavation. There was a pile of dirt—I think it was the dirt removed from the trenches—and I was digging well beyond that.”

  When she glanced at her sister, she was surprised to see Bonnie studying her.

  “What?”

  Her sister squeezed her hand. “Ye’re considering going all the way to York? To…what? To find that spot and dig down and hope to find a golden sphere?”

  “Aye.” Why was that so hard to believe?

  “And if ye can, ye’ll sell it to Phineas Prince and have more money than Mother could ever hope to provide for yer dowry?”

  Her brows drawn in another frown, Vanessa shook her head. “I dinnae— I’m no’ planning on marrying any time soon.”

  “What about Roland?”

  What about him?

  It was clear, after tea last week, the man wanted nothing to do with her. Vanessa waved away her sister’s words, trying to sound breezy and uncaring, when she said, “I have changed my mind about him. Clearly we will no’ suit. Besides, I am beautiful enough to need no dowry, aye?”

  “That’s Mother’s words, coming from yer mouth,” Bonnie grumbled.

  “Bonnie, pay attention! Once we’ve sold the ball to Phineas, ye’ll have the money Mr. Grimm is asking for his publishing house! Ye can own it! Ye can publish no’ only yer own works, but books and stories written by other women! Ye can publish books for women, as ye’ve always dreamed. What will ye call yer business?”

  To her surprise, Bonnie burst into laughter, tugging her down into a hug. “A name? A name for my non-existent publishing house?” Still chuckling, she shook her head. “Tell ye what, if ye can manage this, sister, I’ll no’ only allow ye to name the publishing house, I’ll make ye a full partner as well.”

  “Och, nay!” Vanessa pushed herself upright, grinning at Bonnie’s enthusiasm. “I have nae interest in books.” Her dream had always been more domestic in nature. “I’ll happily turn it over to ye and ken ye’re living yer dream.”