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

“Nay, Broca, he was just a bit misguided!”

“Stitch f’r naw kin bay leenerstick!”

“Thank ye, Seonag, for that. Sister, do try to remain calm, for Willa’s sake, if nothing else. Deep breaths. Good. Alright now, pass the tea, Grisel. Thank you. Now, Willa, I appreciate this is your first assignment, and you are naturally nervous about it, but what is it I—and The Book—always tell you?”

“Trust narrative causality, Evangeline.”

“That’s right. Narrative causality; say it with me. Narrative causality. Excellent, thank you—although I noticed you being less than enthusiastic, Broca.”

“Last time one of us was enthusiastic, Grisel broke the crystal ball.”

“Och, I said I was sorry!”

“And now the ball has been fixed, and Willa will be able to ensure Roland and Vanessa’s eventual Happily Ever After, right?”

“Aye, Evangeline. Even if it didnae go exactly as planned.”

“That is acceptable. Now, let us see how we can help straighten out this mess…”

* * *

Roland knew he deserved to feel like shite, so he supposed it was rather convenient he did.

When she walked away from him, he just felt…numb. If he were honest with himself, he’d have known yesterday—perhaps even earlier—that this had been a bad plan. She wasn’t the woman he’d thought she was, and she didn’t deserve to be hurt in the way he’d wanted to. He should’ve protected her.

But he hadn’t protected her from himself.

She was trying to climb into the curricle on her own, and he knew he couldn’t allow her to come to more harm. With a sigh, he brushed his palms against his kilt and followed her.

She didn’t say a damn word to him on the drive back to York but sat so her shoulder was turned away from him, clearly keeping her face tilted away. He tried several times to apologize, but each time he tried to start a conversation, she’d rebuff him. And he wasn’t sure how to say what he needed to say, so each time, he stopped trying.

They returned the curricle to the hotel, but rather than retiring to her room, Vanessa picked up her bag and the packed food neither of them had touched and began to walk. He paid the rest of their bill and hurried after her, not quite surprised to find her heading for the train station. Once there, she said nothing to him as she bought her ticket north.

One ticket.

It was clear she wanted nothing more to do with him, and he couldn’t blame her.

Still, that didn’t stop him from buying a ticket himself and sliding into a seat across the aisle from her, though a few rows back. He could tell from the stiffness of her shoulders she knew he was there, but not once did she acknowledge him.

As the afternoon crept on, she ate, she drank, and she cried. Oh, she was subtle about it, her face turned toward the whizzing landscape, but he could tell what she was doing. A few people stopped to ask if they could help, and each time, Roland stiffened, bitter at the thought of her allowing someone else to comfort her. But each time, she thanked them politely and sent them on their way, and he glared as the interloper passed.

The train—and the landscape outside—was dark when she finally fell asleep, but Roland couldn’t do the same. Not when every bone in his body was urging him to go to her, to gather her in his arms, to take her sleeping weight on his shoulder and be content. He couldn’t, because he knew how much he’d hurt her, and he deserved this frustration, because of the pain he’d caused her.

They changed trains again at Edinburgh, and although he’d hovered nearby to ensure she’d had no trouble making the new train, he shouldn’t have bothered. Just as he’d told her, she was strong and capable, and judging from the tightness around her lips as she so thoroughly ignored him, she knew it.

After Inverness, neither of them slept. He watched her, watching the sky lighten in the east, and wondered what she was thinking. She was home a full day early, but she hadn’t found the sphaera she’d gone to York searching for.

And she’d been badly hurt.

By him.

They both stood as the train rolled to a stop at their station, and he was the one out the door first. It wasn’t quite dawn as he reached up to offer her a hand out of the train.

She stared at him for a long moment, then placed one slender, graceful hand in his and stepped down. She’d put no weight or pressure on him but had allowed him her hand as if she were the most elegant lady in the land, and not a woman with cracked fingernails and dirt worn into the creases of her palms.

Standing there on the station platform, in the cool morning darkness, Roland realized the truth: the dirt, the cosmetics, and the rough clothing did nothing to disguise the fact she was the most elegant lady in the land.

“Vanessa,” he began, but didn’t know how to continue.

She slid her hand from his. “Goodbye, Viscount Blabloblal.”

He hated how formal she sounded. He’d only been her Froggie for a short time, but the thought of going back to being Blabloblal now…?

He shook his head.

But before he could say anything—before he could think of anything to say—she’d hefted her bag and began walking away. Muttering a curse under his breath, more at himself than her, he followed.

“Vanessa, I’ll no’ allow ye to walk home alone in the dark.”

Without glancing his way, she said stiffly, “It is no’ yer place to concern yerself over me, milord.”

“Aye, it is,” he darkly vowed. He was beginning to suspect it would always be thus.

She was holding her skirts in one hand, walking fast enough it could almost be called a jog. They were nearing the inn. “Ye made it clear ye wanted nothing to do with me, remember? Because I certainly do.”

That was before!

Oh, aye, he clearly remembered how