Fantasyland 04 Broken Dove (8 page)

Then, feeling awkward, I stammered, “I’ll, uh…I don’t know how long what needs to happen will take or what I need to…well,
acquire,
but I’m assuming someone will be able to communicate to you when I’m ready for us to leave.”

“Yes, they’ll tell us and I’ll share it with you so you have plenty of time to prepare.”

I nodded.

He took a step back, indicating the door behind him with his hand. “The men are outside. Would you give them the honor of meeting them?”

I shook my head. “Not now. Please?”

“Of course,” he replied, his voice gentle.

“Thank you.” I swallowed. “I’ll just…” Another sweep of my arm, indicating the stairs.

But I trailed off because I had no clue what I’d just do.

I hadn’t looked at all of the books in the library, but the ones I looked at were in a language I couldn’t read. There was no TV. There was nothing around us but what appeared to be a barn, a small square building with smoke coming out the top and nothing else. Not even a formal garden to wander through.

I was alone with nothing to do. Those who I could speak to knew and loved the other me so I couldn’t be around them without causing them pain. The ones who didn’t know her didn’t understand me.

I didn’t have anything to do or anyone to share my time with.

This was sad and it sucked.

It had always sucked.

But there was one thing about it.

I was used to it.

“I’ll just…be going,” I finished.

Derrik nodded.

I gave him a small smile.

Then I went.

* * * * *

I was lying on the lounge in my preposterously fabulous bedroom lamenting my plight as I’d been doing all day, when I heard it.

It was dark, late, I was fatigued but I couldn’t sleep because I was sad, pissed and worried.

But the noise sounded like what I guessed a horse and carriage would sound like on a stone road and I was curious to see if I was right. Not to mention, curious at what a horse and carriage looked like.

So I pushed myself up and made my way to the French doors.

I was wearing a nightgown, of which I now had three, all my own (I knew this because I’d tried them all on and they all fit). It was a satin the deep purple hue of blackberries and it fell to my ankles. It also had a panel of same-color lace that started narrow under my arm and got wider as it followed the length of the gown to the hem.

In other words, it was the shit.

That said, it was bedroom-only wear, the curtains were sheer and several of the lamps in the room had been lit, giving the entire room a soft glow that would mean, if you were outside, you could see in.

Therefore, I approached the French doors carefully, coming at them from the side, pulling the sheers open a few inches and peering out.

The outside was ablaze too (or, as ablaze as you could get without electricity). I could see a woman alighting from a black, covered carriage; the man in rough clothing the wardrobe people for a movie would dress a peasant in at the seat in front, not bothering to help her down.

But I didn’t have time for the man.

I was staring at the woman.

She had dark hair swept up in an elaborate updo of big curls. I could only see her profile but I could tell her makeup was far from light. In fact, it was borderline gaudy. Her gown was ostentatious, if seemingly well-made. It wasn’t borderline over the top, it just
was.
And her cleavage was—no other word for it—indecent. Last, she was wearing a lot of jewelry which pushed gaudy to tawdry.

Regardless of all this, she was beautiful. Beyond beautiful.
Breathtaking
. Her looks so lush, her curves so abundant, she was a knockout.

What the hell? Who was she?

She moved to the curving steps that led up to the house just as a tall, broad-shouldered man I’d never seen before with burnished, dark red hair came out of the house and walked down the steps. Not surprisingly, he was in romance hero clothes. I couldn’t see his face, just the top of his head, and he approached her directly.

I watched them have a conversation, her gesturing, him shaking his head.

Her head tipped to the side, she smiled a coquettish smile and said something that made him dig in his pocket. He pulled out a small pouch, opened it, and got something out, placing it in her upturned palm which she instantly closed.

My breath stuttered.

Holy cow.

Her eyes lifted to my window, her face wistful and I stopped breathing altogether when her eyes met mine. The wistfulness left her expression and a knowing catty smile curved her mouth.

She lifted her hand and gave me a finger wave.

I quickly stepped away from the window and deep-breathed.

“Holy cow,” I whispered.

Here and in my world, hell, anywhere, I knew what she was.

I knew.

She was a prostitute and she was here for Apollo.

She’d also been here before and the activities they’d engaged in, she’d liked (a woman didn’t get wistful for nothing).

And they’d done them in this room.

I shook my head and moved further into the room, aiming my feet toward the dresser which had the decanter now filled with fresh wine. I pulled out the heavy crystal stopper and poured myself a heavier dose.

I stoppered the decanter, lifted the wine to my lips and took a sip (Valentine was right, Fleuridian wine really was superb), staring unseeing at the hydrangea blooms.

It shouldn’t surprise me. Apollo was a man. He’d have to get himself some.

But a prostitute?

And he’d put me in the bed he’d had her in?

“Good God,” I breathed, shaking my head and moving to the dressing table across the room.

I sat on the stool and stared at my reflection.

God had given me much even if he’d taken more away. But one of the few bounties that was mine to keep was my hair. It was auburn, had soft curls, some of them ringlets. It wasn’t kinky or coarse, it was thick but silky.

I’d always loved my hair.

God had also given me lovely skin, only a sprinkling of freckles across my nose that Pol wasn’t very fond of and asked (okay, demanded) I cover them up with foundation before we went out.

I did so he wouldn’t get angry, but I’d always thought they were cute.

So had my dad. He’d thought they were adorable. It was one of the few things he liked about me, or about anyone or, truth be told,
anything
.

What he hadn’t thought was adorable was me hooking up with a drug dealer.

He didn’t think that was adorable at all.

Mom either. Then again, Mom thought whatever Dad thought seeing as doing that was a lot less hassle.

I closed my eyes, shook my head, took a deep breath and opened them, taking another sip of wine.

I had nice enough features, I thought. I straight, slim nose. A decent jawline. Defined cheekbones. Dark brown eyes that had a lovely shape.

I was tall-ish, standing at five eight. I had ass. I had breasts. They weren’t well-above average but you couldn’t miss that they existed. I also had a slim waist, so my booty and breasts both were more pronounced.

My second favorite feature was my legs. I had good legs.

Not that you could see them in the clothes of this world, but still.

I didn’t look anything like the lush beauty who came to call for Apollo.

In other words, he didn’t fuck anyone who might remind him of his Ilsa.

I got that. I
so
did.

But…
a prostitute?

Evidence was suggesting the Apollo of this world wasn’t all that hot either.

In fact, evidence was suggesting Apollo of this world was a self-indulgent jerk.

And I knew all about that.

Boy did I.

So I stared at myself, coming out of my pity party and beginning to think this was good.

This place was amazing, the clothes were great, the food was fabulous, the people seemed friendly. Sure, there wasn’t electricity or cars or movie theaters, but if I got my head out of my ass, I might find it was fun to explore a world like this.

Further, I was safe from Pol. He’d
never
get to me here.

And Apollo wanted nothing to do with me.

Eleven years ago, at twenty-two years old, working in an exclusive department store, I’d met Pol and made mistake after mistake after mistake that destroyed my life. I’d been seduced by his good looks, the wads of cash always in his pockets, his easy smile and his taking me on the town in his Corvette (which he traded up to a Porsche, then up to a Maserati and finally an Aston Martin—things were always good in the drug trade).

I’d wanted that life and I’d got it (minus the drug trade part, of course). I thought, it coming with all the outward lusciousness that was Pol, I’d have everything I ever wanted. A handsome, wealthy, powerful man and the life he could give me.

And I got nothing.

But now I had a second chance. A second chance to make a life all my own. It came in a bizarre way that I would never in my wildest dreams imagine would be real.

But I had it.

“So I’m going to take it,” I vowed to my reflection in the mirror.

My eyes stared back and me and they were determined.

And hopeful.

I liked that look on me. I hadn’t seen it in so long, I wasn’t certain I’d ever seen it.

But now I was seeing it.

So I was going to go for it.

Chapter Five

Making Me Feel Free

I’d lost control of the horse under me. He was pounding through the wildflowers behind the house, his movements jarring my ribs and that hurt.

But I wasn’t focusing on that. I figured he knew what he was doing. He was just taking me along for the ride.

No, I was focusing on the wind in my hair, the sun shining on my skin and the beauty all around me.

Pierre, who was teaching me how to ride, was running after us, shouting in French. But his voice was fading away as the horse and I galloped through the flowers.

It was two days after the prostitute had come to call.

Two glorious days.

And I was on a horse because it occurred to me that, seeing as they didn’t have cars here and I didn’t know how to ride, I should learn. So I’d spoken (okay, gestured) to the maids.

With a lot of smiles and laughter at my machinations, I finally got the message across and had been introduced to Pierre. I didn’t know what he did at the house but it didn’t matter. While I smiled and laughed at his gesticulations, he agreed to teach me how to ride. But I only understood this when he led me to the stables, showed me how to saddle a horse and then he showed me how to get on. It continued from there.

I also knew all the maids’ names. I further knew how to say horse in French (
cheval
). I’d remembered
bonjour
and
merci,
which I started using (making the staff smile happily and nod enthusiastically) and I learned
bonne nuit.
Sure, it wasn’t much, but it was something.

Further, I’d taken a walk down the wildflower flanked lane, almost to the church, which was a lot further than it looked so I’d stopped and turned back. Nevertheless, if the view was something from my balcony, it was much better up close.

This meant I had slippers that fit me (six pairs and they were all
awesome
and fit like they were made for me—because they were!). I also had dresses that fit me (and they were even more amazing than the ones I’d been wearing).

And I’d taken the time to thoroughly peruse the shelves in the library. When I did, I found several books in English. Two were all poetry (which I’d tried but it wasn’t my gig). One was a gothic drama (which I was reading and it was pretty good).

But the most important book I found was a history of the Houses of Lunwyn.

This I read with great interest.

It didn’t have Apollo’s name in it so I was guessing it was dated. But it did have a rather long forward that gave a lot of history of Lunwyn (including dragons and elves!) as well as an explanation that a “House” in Lunwyn was a line of aristocracy. Some were richer than others, some held more land, some more power (power went hand in hand with money and land, by the way), but all of them had been around for centuries.

Reading it I learned the Ulfr House was very powerful, and according to the book, very respected. This wasn’t exactly a surprise (perhaps the respected part was, considering the head of it was a jerk). I could tell Apollo of this world had some serious cabbage and my guess was money in any world meant power.