The Lass Who Kissed a Frog, Lee, Caroline [i have read the book a hundred times .txt] 📗

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 her, 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