The Wronged Princess - Book I Read online

  Another moment passed before Esmeralda spoke again. “I’m in a terrible mess, you know.” It sounded as if she were confessing, Cinderella thought.

  “What do you mean?” Cinderella wiped her face clear of any expression unsure where this confession ventured.

  “The prince; getting married; Mamá. The usual things.” Esmeralda threw out an impatient hand.

  “The usual things? You mean you do not want to marry the prince?” Cinderella squeaked. Disbelief roiled through her. Her voice did not sound like her own. “How…how could you not want to marry Prince? He’s so handsome, dances divinely, smart.” Oh, no. She was gushing.

  “How would you know he danced divinely?” Esmeralda asked, eyes narrowing, glittering with distrust.

  “Of course, I…I don’t know…I…only just…suppose.” Cinderella dropped her feet to the floor and began to pace. “I…I suppose you come into the ballroom and the room itself is floating in the air,” Cinderella sighed, her dreams carrying her away as she spun in a circle reliving Prince’s arms about her. “If you’re suddenly confronted with his highness, you are frozen like a statue on the stair.”

  “Oui,” Esmeralda whispered. “’Tis exactly how it was. Oh, not for me, but I imagine it was so for that mysterious princess.”

  “Was she pretty?” Cinderella asked softly.

  “Beautiful,” Esmeralda breathed. Her brows drew together in sudden irritation and she cackled much like Stepmamá, Cinderella was forced to admit. “But, I would not call him so smart.”

  “In that we agree,” Cinderella snapped under her breath. It stung that he would dare to offer her slipper to every maiden in the land. Save her!

  Esmeralda ignored her. “After all, he went through a kingdom of marriageable young maidens having them try on a glass shoe. How smart could that be?”

  “Oui,” Cinderella agreed frowning.

  “He does not love me, you know. All I do when he is ‘round, is blink. ’Tis a nervous habit,” she said unnecessarily. “Besides, I think I made him swoon!”

  “He did swoon,” Cinderella concurred. After a thoughtful pause, she asked, “What will you do?”

  Defeat showed in the weight of Esmeralda’s shrugging shoulders. “Marry him, I suppose. Mamá will otherwise kill me.”

  Cinderella mulled over that statement before replying, both knowing the futility of denying it. “Oui, I suppose she would.”

  Each sighed loudly, each immersed in her own thoughts.

  Then Cinderella said, “You’d best return before they realize you’ve gone missing.”

  Esmeralda nodded and stood. Cinderella watched Esmeralda drag herself from the chair and tug open the door. She paused for a second before meeting Cinderella’s eyes. Again, the brilliance of green emeralds stunned her.

  “Merci. Thank you.” Esmeralda’s voice was soft—and something else. Forgiving? Regretful?

  Did it matter?

  *****

  The next morning sunshine streaked through a crease in the heavy brocade drapes stabbing Cinderella in the eyes. The nattering of her gray companion reached her ears. With a luxurious stretch she angled out of the direct light, keenly aware of the soft mattress. So much different from her usual bed of straw that hugged a corner of the basement in their small—more than likely—forgotten, cottage. She glanced at him.

  “Sheer heaven, this is. Do you not agree?” Heaven, she realized, that would not take much to become accustomed.

  He danced a jig in agreement.

  The delicious aroma of freshly baked bread teased her nostrils and she peeked about through squinting eyes. Someone had already delivered a tray of cheese, fruit, water for tea on the sideboard. Steam rose from the bread, causing a rumble from Cinderella’s usual empty stomach.

  “Are you hungry, my little friend?”

  She bounded from the bed hardly believing her good fortune, he following close behind. Obviously, someone had mistaken her chamber for Stepmamá’s. At the very least, Esmeralda and Pricilla’s.

  How had she not wakened? The only explanation she could discern was that the servants had servants in the Royal Palace. This could become a habit, she thought cheerfully.

  She broke off a portion of the bread unable to resist its crusty shell and warm middle and handed a tiny piece to her friend. Guilt at such comfort was difficult to avoid after years of the cultivated discipline Stepmamá had seen to. Someone would realize they’d brought the tray to the wrong chamber and she’d be hungry once more.

  She shoved the larger piece in her mouth and chewed soundly. She darted to the door and nudged it ajar. Cinderella poked her head out casting her gaze left then right.

  Still deserted.

  The quiet unnerved her. Such solitude was a luxury from the constant demands of her stepsisters. But, alas, it was really quiet.

  She pushed the door to and wandered to the windows. Shoving the heavy drapes aside, she peered out. The sun edged over the horizon shooting the sky with brilliant pinks, purples and orange. Suddenly, remembering the statue she’d thought she’d observed in the gardens she threw off her tattered night rail, donning her one serviceable brown frock.

  Surely no one would miss her if she snuck out for a short walk. Still, the fresh fruit beckoned her glance. They’d have to feed her, she deemed. Or not, she thought, snatching a plump berry.

  She tapped Marcel’s tiny pink nose affectionately. “I’ll return shortly.” He nodded. “Stay out of sight.”

  She contemplated her situation. No one seemed to remember her at all. Esmeralda had only stumbled upon her presence in err. It was an oppressive thought. Did Prince even wonder who she was? Or did he just think her a figment of his imagination? Non, she reasoned, he’d set out to find her by trying her shoe on every possible maiden in the kingdom. He must have some regard for her.

  Quickly whipping her aged pelisse from the wardrobe, she was not surprised at how shabby it looked in her new chamber. She sighed, and shook off the silly meanderings. Besides what choice had she?

  It was time to make her escape. Opportunities would soon be limited once Stepmamá started demanding her services. This would likely be her only opening to see if the statue she’d spied was indeed Eros. She seized a juicy red apple before stealing through the door.

  With quickened steps, her slippers sunk into the thick rug, excitement beckoning to capture the moment of seeing a real statue. All she’d managed to date were drawings in books, and that was years ago hence. Stepmamá thought most books pure nonsense. Cinderella took some comfort knowing her stepsisters had stashes in their closets. Something the three of them had in common. She’d never seen fit to mention it, however.

  The door did not make so much as a creak when she eased it back to glance about. The quiet in all its ominous dwelling, soothed her haste. She made her way toward the doors she’d seen the evening before. Yet again, this door opened with nary a whisper. Bless these royal persons and their order of well-oiled hinges.

  Early morning dew dampened the ground, the air crisp and fresh. It was a wayward feeling Cinderella experienced secreting from the castle under no supervision. A rare crime, indeed. Hand shading her brows, she searched out her target.

  The memories assaulted her with her visions of much younger days perched in her father’s lap, head resting on his shoulder. She could still feel the reassuring resonant timbre of his voice vibrating through her tiny body as he’d rattled off tale after tale of the Greek gods antics, his strong hands turning the pages. Impulsive hands that tossed her to the sky to catch her with strength and confidence.

  She shook her head of the melancholy and veered off a well-marked path. A broad grin pinched her cheeks when she spotted the proud statue of Eros. Oh, how his winged sculpted figure with long, perfect hair and slender fingers caressing the infamous bow and arrow made her want to wade through the pond to touch him. Feel how perfect the figure molded in granite appeared.

  It was too exciting for words. The sight before her did not disappoint.
Her father’s gravelly voice reciting Eros as the most eligible bachelor in the universe, ripped through her. Booming on how he’d finally married Pysche after an accident in whence he’d pricked himself with one of his own arrows.

  Both tears and a soft giggle escaped her. Her father had shaken his head after reading the story, and said, “Silly man never had a chance.” A self-deprecating smile had touched his lips, when he’d added, “I’m sure your blessed mamá did quite the same to me.”

  Cinderella dashed away the tears with the back of her hand. Rarely had she allowed the memories to saturate her as they did now. But for once she allowed herself to indulge in their warmth and comfort.

  A deep voice from behind her sounded. She spun in surprise but turned quickly away. She felt an odd tingle in the atmosphere surrounding them. She, hardly dared to breathe.

  “His arrows came in two types, you know: One, golden with dove feathers which aroused love. The other had leaden arrows and owl feathers. Instilled indifference.”

  The sonance in his voice struck her. Soothing, as strong and deep as a bass instrument, just as she’d remembered.

  Her heart pounded in fear. Did he recognize her in this ugly gown? La! And, with the ashes of cinder on her cheeks? Avoiding his eyes, she maintained a steadfast gaze on the statue before her. Throwing all caution to the winds, she professed in a conspiratorial reply, “Described as "bittersweet" and "cruel" to his victims; he was also known as unscrupulous, mischievous and, best of all, charismatic.” She recited the text she saw in her mind’s eye and let out a dramatic sigh for effect. Mayhap, her stepsisters were not the only consummate actresses.

  Her pulse pounded as his hands landed on her shoulder and he turned her to fully face him.

  *****

  With a quick glance about Prince sauntered forward from his hidden shelter in the trees, fascinated by the odd duckling whose gaze appeared thunderstruck by a statue. He’d always thought it somewhat silly how a god could erringly stab himself with an arrow.

  But Prince could not deny his curiosity with the chit who was oblivious to everything around, but for the frivolous stonework before her. Keeping his voice light so as not to frighten her he sidled along side. Matching her drama, the merriment of the moment chased away thoughts of his unfortunate predicament, if only for a short time. “The personification of love in all its manifestations. It included physical passion at its strongest.” He grinned at her sudden pink cheeks, then dropped his voice. “Tender, romantic love. And playful, sportive love.” Her quick gasp delighted him.

  Despite the pink cheeks, her soft laugh burst through. ’Tis, then he’d seen the tears. But to his delight she continued in the spirit of the moment though her voice raised not much above a whisper. “Believed to be one the oldest of the gods. Born from Chaos, he represented creative power and harmony.”

  Laughter rumbled from Prince. Before he could stop himself he’d put his hands on slender shoulders and spun this dust covered gem to face him. “What’s this? Tears, my fair lady?” He reached up and brushed one away. When she froze in shock, he took her hand gently in his, and gave a short gallant bow. “I do not believe I have had the pleasure?” He knew he should let go, but found himself quite unable lest she panic and bolt in fear.

  “Cinderella, my lord.” A voice full of velvet softness sounded husky and low. And mayhap, familiar? Non, impossible. She gave a quick nervous curtsey. Her step back did not go unnoticed, yet he still held her hand captive.

  That name…it struck a chord of familiarity. He lowered his lips to brush her hand. “Cinderella? I’ve heard your name spoken before, have I not?” A shift in the air tingled about. He would not faint again, he vowed. The very idea, preposterous, set him on edge.

  The warmth of her hand surprised him and he forced a calming breath. He could not seem to let go. This strange power she wielded, held him enthralled, was both disturbing and compelling. Prince leaned forward and touched his lips to hers. Just a whisper of a kiss, really. A sense of unfulfilled promise swept through him. Slender fingers trembled beneath his, and he stood back to look at her. Relief touched her eyes.

  “My lord,” she whispered. “I—”

  A shout sounded from the path, interrupting her. Panic replaced the relief as she tried to snatch her hand from his. Cinderella stiffened and whipped her head around. His gaze followed hers to see the batty-eyed Edwina racing toward them in a breathless unladylike pace. He was charmed in spite of himself.

  Disappointment coursed through him, retreat his only option. With a short squeeze and sigh of reluctance he let her hand slide from his. “Until later,” he promised, and melted into the trees to witness the drama enfold.

  From his vantage point at the edge of the forest, Prince observed the interchange between the two young women with interest. Cinderella’s gray cloak and drab brown skirt were covered in patches that spelled a history of mending. Waist-length hair fell down her back, in a rich mass of dark brown, unfashionably straight. The top of her head was covered by a frayed scarf fastened at the nape of her neck. She had a lovely profile, he allowed. What had she been about to say?

  An odd infusion of light lit the morn dispelling the notion.

  He studied the large, dark eyes that could only be described as doe-like. How haunted they looked. The light laugh she’d been unable to hide held him transfixed. It spoke in signs of intelligence, warmth, loyalty that literally radiated from her.

  And something else he could or would not define unfurled through him, stirring the sudden ache to find his mysterious princess once more. He was desperate, indeed, if his emotions were swayed by the likes of a servant stirring him so. Which, of course, called to mind, the looming disaster ahead.

  Eyes narrowed, he considered Elvina. Dressed this morn in a muslin day gown of muted green, her full skirt, complete with petticoats was fashionable by all accounts as current style dictated. He was too far and away to determine the color of her eyes. That would no doubt forever remain a mystery due to the nervous flapping that seemed to take possession whenever he drew nearby.

  He was male enough to admit surprise at the tresses of soft copper natural curls topping her head. She was actually quite attractive when her eyes were not batting like the wings of a hummingbird—in an understated sort of way, of course. Nothing like his princess.

  His position from the trees disallowed outright eavesdropping. Instinct told him the two knew each other well. The concern on Ester’s face was telling as she conveyed herself with admiral animation. She dropped to her arms to her sides and they stood staring at one another, at a loss as to what to do. ’Twas only a second later the conspirators dashed toward the castle without so much as a fleeting glance his way. He grinned at their retreating figures. It was not often Prince Charming found himself forgotten.

  Prince leaned one shoulder against the tree, ankles crossed. He fingered a blade of grass watching their flight. At first glance, Cinderella resembled the servant he thought her to be. But then why would Endina show Cinderella so much concern if that were the case?

  He frowned. Except when his thoughts centered on his future mother-in-law, it did not require much effort to conclude the certainty that it had to do with her. A shudder touched his spine. What a beastly woman. Enough to scare away any potential suitor. He suddenly felt an overwhelming sympathy to Eimear and her sister, Pricilla.

  The rising sun glinted off the glass door as it closed behind the two mysterious young women. He cast one last quick look toward the statue in the pond and dropped the blade of grass, and smiled. Cinderella displayed an interesting base of knowledge regarding Eros, making him wonder if she knew as much about Eros’ mother Aphrodite, the goddess of love. Now there would be a conversation worth having. He looked forward to the possibility. His lips throbbed with the thought of a deeper, more satisfying kiss.

  Shaking off his silly thoughts, he mounted his horse and made for the open countryside. There was much to do.

  Chapter 11

  In
her customary high-backed, nicely-padded chair, conjured up from an old abandoned chamber pot, Faustine, aka Fairy Godmother, sat in quiet observation while Thomasine’s lips pursed together in contemplation. “You know,” Thomasine drawled. “Hilda is quite ambitious for her two daughters.” She drummed her fingers on a serviceable wood table, in an annoying steady beat. “The child that looks like a servant is actually her stepdaughter?” Astonishment colored her tone. “She is quite attractive, non? My son certainly has excellent taste! And I am wont to admit, I am somewhat relieved.”

  “Oui, he does,” Faustine agreed. “I caught a quick glimpse of two of them in the gardens this morning. He did not recognize her.” She shot her sister a smug grin. “My little atmosphere ehancing spells are working admirably.”

  “My goodness,” Thomasine gasped, startled. “This morning?”

  “Well, with a little help,” she chuckled. “Ironically, they were standing in front of that ridiculous statue of Eros discussing…” She dropped into a dramatic mimicry of Prince, “…the personification of love in all its manifestations’ or some such dribble.”

  Thomasine’s eyebrows lifted at that.

  “It occurs to me,” Thomasine murmured, “our efforts are veering in the right direction. Now. We must maneuver the situation further where ‘our mysterious princess’ is included in these farce of activities. But in a way that does not give way our scheme to the ambitious Hilda.” She frowned adding, “Not to mention the poor child who is expecting to actually marry my son.”

  “That does appear to be a dilemma,” Faustine conceded.

  Chapter 12

  Breathless and acutely aware that young ladies did not go dashing about the countryside in such an unladylike manner, Cinderella halted at Esmeralda’s tug on her arm, slowing the two to a fast walk.

  “I believe the prince may have a tender for you, Cinderella?” Esmeralda blurted.