The Dark Forest: A Collection Of Erotic Fairytales(21)



Gonsalvus was a first rate Lothario. Once while in their cups, Gonsalvus confessed a list of his femme galantes. Rhys reluctantly had to face the fact his own valet had surpassed him…far surpassed him if truth be told…in number if not in quality.

“That is so,” agreed Rhys with a knowing smile. “Now, quick, help me off with this waistcoat and boots,” ordered Rhys as he easily alighted from his horse.

Gonsalvus rummaged through the bags secured to the sides of his horse’s saddle. Shaking his head, he voiced his concerns, “Once again, I must protest, your highness. This plan is foolish. Who will see to your needs? Who will run your bath? Who will iron your shirts? Who will make sure the kitchens do not overcook your eggs in the morning. Who will…”

“Enough,” barked Rhys, effectively ending Gonsalvus’ rant. “I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself. I seem to recall several dicey years on a not too distant battlefield where I somehow managed to muddle through without your ministrations and a perfectly temperate bath.”

“As it so happens, it took an entire regiment to replace me,” responded Gonsalvus cheekily with his favorite retort whenever reminded of his employer’s years as an officer in his majesty’s army.

Discarding his brocade waistcoat in favor of a buffed ox blood leather jerkin, Rhys braced against a tree as Gonsalvus pulled off his polished riding field boots, exchanging them for a pair of tall, chestnut brown hunt boots with a canvas cuff appropriately scuffed and worn. Rhys had transformed himself from a high-born prince to country laborer.

“Really, your highness,” moaned Gonsalvus as he raised his hand in a pleading gesture, “if the other valets of the Esteemed Society of Royal Gentleman’s Valets could see this now, I would be tossed out on my ear.”

“For starters, there is no such thing. You created that society as an excuse to go drinking with compatriots once every fortnight. Secondly, I am resolved. I have no intention of meeting my intended as the prince she is expecting.”

Ignoring his employer’s completely accurate jibe about his beloved valet society, more accurately drinking society, Gonsalvus persisted, “But a stable master?”

Rhys thought of the various tack found inside a stable; riding crops, leather straps, bits, halters. As happenstance would have it, he had chosen the perfect disguise for his subterfuge. “Absolutely. It has everything I need to tame my wild bride.”





Chapter Three





After seeing to her morning tasks, Beatrice changed into her favorite riding habit. A rich plum cashmere skirt and tight bodice with long sleeves capped by deep cuffs of azure blue. The hem was edged with black leather to protect it from the muddy country roads. A three-corner hat with peacock and pheasant feathers worn low over her forehead completed the ensemble.

Leaving the bright sunshine of the yard behind, she entered the cool, dark stable, making her way directly to her favorite mare. A Haflinger with a rich chestnut coat and light gold mane. Her father purchased the mare for her when her mother died three years ago. It was easier than giving his grieving daughter any real affection or support during the difficult time.

Tucking her riding crop under her left arm, Beatrice pulled on her sable leather gauntlets. Her call shattered the quiet in the shaded, empty stable. “Is there anyone here? Groom? Stable boy? Hello?” She paused a moment to listen but all she heard was the faint rustle of mice as they wove their way in and out of the fresh hay filled stalls and the occasional snort from one of the horses.

With a resigned sigh, Beatrice stomped to the tack room to retrieve a saddle for Athena. Giving another glance around to ensure none of the grooms or stable master had appeared, Beatrice picked up one of the forward seat saddles. It was for riding astride during fox hunts and perfect for jumping. Years ago when she turned fifteen her father had forbade her from riding astride, saying she was a lady now and needed to conduct herself accordingly. So she only did so when her father was traveling and there were no servants about to tattle on her. Giving a special thanks that her maid what’s-her-name thought to lay out her riding trousers for under her skirts, Beatrice quickly made her way back to Athena. After adjusting the billets and securing the girth buckle guards, Beatrice moved to the left side of her mare and mounted up with the assistance of the mounting block. After reaching down to secure the loops of her skirt to the stirrups to prevent them from flying up as she jumped, Beatrice eased Athena out of the stable and into the yard. With one last glance about her, she took off across the yard for the open countryside.

Never noticing the tall figure in the shadows staring at her with hard determination. The moment she left the paddock, he turned to saddle his own horse.



Her father’s land holdings were vast. There were countless pastures filled with flowers and herbs for the perfumery, each one separated by low brush or rock walls…perfect for jumping. Beatrice gave her mare full rein, recklessly flying over higher and higher jumps. At one point, a low hanging branch ripped her peacock-feathered bonnet right off her head. Her long, tawny curls streamed loose down her back like a wanton. She didn’t care. Her laughter carrying with the wind, Beatrice leaned forward to urge her mount faster. The late summer air was filled with the rich, dark scents of rose and sage. Seeing the sky turn a brilliant orange with streaks of purple, Beatrice knew that dusk was upon her. As imprudent as it was to go jumping, she was not so foolhardy as to linger out in the countryside alone after dark, even if they were her father’s lands.

Zoe Blake & Alta Hen's Books