3. Feather
CHAPTER 3
Feather
“A nother cream pie, little blossom?” the handsome courtier asked, dabbing my lips with a glob of icing… or was it icing? I let my tongue flick out and taste the cream he’d placed there with the tip of his finger. It tasted a little salty. Was I at the beach?
No… that definitely wasn’t a hammock poking my hip. It was a lot smaller, and harder.
“You knave!” I giggled, stretching luxuriously on the down comforter. “You’re feeding me your—”A larger glob of something foul-smelling landed on my lips, and I sat up on my pallet. “Get it off!”
To which the owner of the wet, sticky something replied, “Woof!”
I wiped the smear of dog slobber off my face and shuddered. “Fark it, Bernard, you woke me from a really good dream. Not hammock and hot chocolate good, but it had possibilities.”
Ignoring me when the doorknob turned, the enormous Bernese Mountain Dog leaped over my cot to greet his owner at the door, Charles de Soissy, the “golden prince.”
The golden and gay prince. He loved gold, and fêtes, men with beards and big hands, and his dog, Bernard, above all else. So, a good man, even if he was cheap.
I hadn’t wanted to be a female valet, but he’d decreed I had to work off the fees for the doctor who’d treated my wounds five weeks before. “You don’t get rich from being generous,” he’d said more than once. “Or at least you don’t stay that way.” He usually winked at me after that, or batted his ridiculously long eyelashes, which made any annoyance melt away. He was very good at avoiding fights or arguments, or even having to pay his bar tabs.
There was just something sweet about him that made me want to kiss him, though he’d never once looked at me like he would welcome that. He flirted with everyone, but only kissed men. Ones who were at least three inches taller than him, and burly, at that.
He was a good-natured nobleman, though, and not a complete dingleberry as a boss. I had a pallet on the floor of his room, two meals a day most of the time, and something to think about besides how many lashes I would earn. He never hit me, though he lost his temper from time to time, mostly when I screwed up as his valet.
I was almost as bad at being a valet as I had been as a baker’s assistant. But my boss this time was decent. And as far as I could tell, it was all because of the dog.
I peeked at Charles’s soul, like I did every day, fascinated at how balanced he was. The shadows he’d earned from being a miser and a self-centered noble were almost entirely balanced by the absolute love he had for his dog.
Bernard really was amazing, though. Well fed, well groomed, and deeply loved. He could do all kinds of tricks and reportedly had fought off a pair of robbers armed with swords, though Geoffrey, Charles’s coachman, had privately told me they were two street urchins armed with rusty knives.
The way Bernard loved Charles was every bit as exceptional; anyone could see that. But only I could see what was the most mind-boggling thing: Bernard’s love for his owner was a part of the reason Charles’s soul was as bright as it was.
Every morning and evening, the dog would lean against his owner’s leg while Charles petted him. And the longer Charles stroked the dog, the lighter his soul became. Any spiritual crud the man had accumulated during the day slowly lifted until both of them shone. Their love was exceptional.
Which is why I was deeply alarmed when Charles entered the room and didn’t even lean down to pat Bernard.
Instead, my new boss cursed under his breath as he crossed the floor and lifted me from my cot. Before I knew what was happening, he was pawing at my shift, stripping me down.
I wasn’t alarmed. I was confused. “Sir?” I whispered as he struggled with the laces, his normally smiling face bright red and brooding. “You’ve forgotten something. I don’t have a beard.” I wiggled my fingers at him. “Or big hands.” I didn’t think I needed to point out what else I was missing, but I did a couple of pelvic thrusts to remind him of that.
His eyebrows shot up. “What the hell are you doing? Get your gown off, Fou Fou, and be quick about it. I need you in my bed.”
What the fudge? He didn’t smell like he’d been drinking, at least not enough for this sort of request. “Did someone hit you on the head?”
“What?”
“Ah, I’m pretty sure you’ve forgotten you’re not interested in women. You don’t need to pretend.” My boss had an on-again, off-again boyfriend named Francoise, who was currently very much on. They’d danced at the new year ball, and Francoise had made their relationship very public when he’d dropped to the floor at the dinner on the final night and given the little prince that lived in Charles’s trousers a very long, very French kiss.
Everyone had seemed very accepting, though I’d wondered if there might be some repercussions. The monthly fêtes the Dauphine’s cousin threw were wild, but that event had set a lot of tongues wagging, in more ways than one.
Charles snarled, his perfectly straight nose wrinkling ever so slightly. “I do have to pretend. My father is coming for the fête of Saint Valentine. He’s arriving at the chateau even as we speak, and Geoffrey warned me he’d heard rumors of my… predilections. So I must have a woman?—”
“Ah, got it!” I said with a smile. I ripped my shift the rest of the way off, and climbed up into the tall bed, sinking into the down mattress. “Hop on, my lord!”
He stripped his own clothing away, then climbed in next to me, lying stiffly, and very obviously trying not to look at my naked body.
“So, what’s the plan?” I asked, turning onto my side and striking what I thought might be a sexy pose.
“When my father comes in, I need to be…” He swallowed hard, like the words were choking him.
“Storming the pink chateau? Hiding the sausage in my hairy croissant? Having a ménage à moi ?” I fluttered my eyelashes. I’d had a very short, unmemorable experience with the fishmonger’s nephew three months before. I’d learned a lot from him. Mostly euphemisms for sex, but also how to comfort a man who was crying about his defective dick… while it was still inside me.
“You’re ridiculous.”
“Thank you. I try.” I mentally booped his perfect nose, knowing better than to do it in real life. He was my boss, after all.
He turned to look at me, his eyes dropping first to my chest, then up to my hair. I’d had to cut it really short right after he’d found me, for my least favorite reason: lice. Now, if I didn’t have on a dress, I could easily be mistaken for a boy. But not when I was naked.
I grinned down at my chest. My boobs were small, but perfectly formed, the left one the tiniest bit bigger than the right. I grabbed them both, examining them closely while Charles listened for his father. My girls had personality. Perky yet reliable. Small yet mighty. One a little shy, the other a total hussy.
I made a mental note to come up with names for them the next time I was making a guessing list for my Mystery Man. Rumple, I reminded myself. For now, he was Rumple.
“You’re not disgusting, you know. For a girl.”
I stopped admiring my tits and frowned up at Charles. He had maneuvered himself up on one elbow, looking casual, though I could tell he was still panicking.
I made a face, and he shook his head. “No, really. You’re quite fetching.” His eyes closed halfway, as he took in my form. “I’ve fucked far less beautiful women than you.”
My blood froze. “Wait. Uh… women ?” The word came out strangled. My eyes dropped to his groin, and I realized his dick was starting to lengthen along his thigh.
“Of course. A gentleman may prefer sausage, but every once in a while, he can enjoy a bite or two of, how did you put it? Croissant.”
He wanted my hairy croissant? I felt the blood rushing toward my face to live in my hot cheeks. “Ah, so… this isn’t a pretend bedding moment? A show for dear old Dad? We’re actually going to?—”
“Have a ménage à toi ?” he said with a grin, pulling me toward him. “Why not?” His hand threaded through my short hair, tugging at the ends, then dropped down my back to land on my ass. I didn’t have much back there, but he didn’t seem to mind. In fact, I thought he might like my almost-nonexistent curves. His dick got thicker and longer, anyway.
“Do you not find me attractive?” he asked with a smile that made it clear he’d seen how many times I’d ogled him in the past month. “Do you not want to see what I can do to you?” He hesitated. “Although I must warn you, I take a very long time to finish with a woman. We might be fucking for an hour. Possibly more.”
“Ah…” I had nothing to say. I was busy doing mental math. I’d tried to have sex four times in this life. The first guy I’d been with had popped his cork in less time than it took to say merde . The last guy had started making his O face the instant I wrapped my fingers around his weiner.
“That sounds nice,” I managed. I had a feeling, if Charles could last a really long time, and I could get a hand down there for an assist, the un-deux combo might be just what it took for me to find my petit mort .
Charles didn’t seem at all interested in reaching down and exploring my cave of wonders, though. In fact, the instant I spoke, he flipped me over onto my stomach and pressed himself along my back. “You feel good. Such a tight little body.”
“Oof,” I replied, his weight pressing me into the down comforter.
He knocked my knees apart and began thrusting his now-hard cock toward the target.
Well, sort of. “That’s not it,” I said, trying to sound sexy and cute. If that was possible with a mushroom-shaped rod trying to find its way into my back passage. He kept going, so I repeated myself, louder.
“It is,” he grunted, stabbing at me again.
I grimaced, twisting my hips to one side. “I may not have much experience, but I know which hole is for sexy times and which one is for the least sexy of all times.”
He huffed. “It can be sexy, you just have to?—”
“That’s. Not. It.” I shifted, making certain the target was lined up, and when I felt his head at my entrance, yelled into the down mattress, “That’s it! That’s the spot!”
Before Charles could reply, the door flew open, and a demon rushed inside. For a moment, I wondered if it was one of the St. Valentine’s fête partygoers. The Dauphine’s cousin had instructed all her guests to come dressed as angels or devils, for St. Valentine’s Day itself. But that wasn’t until tomorrow.
And when I blinked, I realized I’d been seeing the intruder’s soul, not his exterior. This man was sturdily built, tall, with an Aquiline nose and sharp, dark eyes, but dressed in a fine black suit and cravat. He wore gold chains on his neck and both hands were covered with gold rings, some of them with cut stones. He was an older version of his handsome son, and he’d aged like fine wine.
A very, very hot Daddy on the outside.
But inside, he was so tainted and out of balance, his soul made me think of hot tar, roiling in a bucket.
“Father?” Charles gasped.
The Comte du Périgord glared at us in the bed, and cursed, “Fucking a boy again, just like they said. You useless piece of shit, I told you what would happen. I warned you!”
Wait. He thought I was a boy?
He crossed the room in three steps, grabbing the poker from beside the fireplace. “I’ll beat the sin out of you.”
To his credit, Charles shoved me off the bed, away from his father. “She’s not a boy!” he tried to say, but his father was already at the bed, the poker raised. I scrambled to my feet, while Charles ducked down, cowering on the bed.
At that exact moment, I realized a few things.
First off, his father was batshit crazy.
Second, I couldn’t sit back and watch this happen.
And third? Neither would Bernard.