The Dark Forest: A Collection Of Erotic Fairytales(37)

“Gaston, a word if you please,” began Beatrice. “I noticed that the distilled oil from a recent batch of Damask rose petals was mishandled. It is your responsibility to see that these matters are handled more efficiently,” she chastised.

Gaston gave Beatrice a look of condescension. “The vials were fine. You have nothing to complain about,” he disrespectfully countered.

Beatrice tossed a quick look over her shoulder to see that Rhys was not paying attention. He seemed to be engrossed in looking over the copper stills.

“Well obviously I disagree,” snapped Beatrice. “You will follow my instructions or you can find yourself other employment.”

“You can’t dismiss me. Only your father can do that,” he shouted back.

“Don’t try me, Gaston. I assure you I can.”

“Oh yeah, well…” he didn’t finish his sentence. Suddenly turning on his heel but not before giving her one final look of revulsion.

Beatrice was amazed he had given in so easily. Usually it was much more of a fight. Perhaps Gaston was finally learning to respect her authority?

That was when she sensed his presence. Turning around, she saw Rhys standing just behind her. With mortification, Beatrice realized that not only had he heard the entire encounter with Gaston, the only reason why her worker did not give her more of a fight was Rhys. Gaston had not shown her respect. He had shied away from opposing Rhys. She was certain of it. She saw the way the workers seemed to automatically show Rhys respect and deference. Even her own clerk had bowed to him as if he were a superior. The man exuded authority. From the way he walked with confidence to his straight forward stare and mannerisms. A natural leader. A man.

Without warning, her temper flared.

“I believe you have seen enough for one day,” she said through clenched teeth. “I am sure you can find your way out.”

Rhys grabbed her upper arm as she turned to go. “What just happened?”

“I am sure I don’t know what you mean.”

“The hell you don’t,” he ground out.

One moment she was warm and inviting as she showed him around. The next she was as prickly as a cat with thorns and he wanted to know why. Especially since it had taken every ounce of strength in his body not to haul off and punch that bastard Gaston as much for the disrespect he had just shown as for his lewd words last night. But he knew that would not help Beatrice. He knew she needed to be the perceived authority and him stepping in would undermine her. So after going above and beyond by his measure to please and show her respect he certainly did not expect or deserve her coldness.

“Unhand me,” she said, her voice dark and low with anger.

That was his breaking point.

Looking around to make sure they were unobserved amongst the bustle and hubbub of the perfumery, Rhys dragged her over to stand sheltered between some high stacks of dried lavender. Casting a glance over his shoulder to make sure their hiding place was secure, Rhys turned his intent, angry gaze on her.

Beatrice refused to be cowed. She raised her chin in defiance as she crossed her arms across her chest.

“It won’t work,” he said.

“What?” she responded scathingly.

“This,” he said, giving her a thorough once over. “It won’t work.”

Beatrice let a frustrated sigh escape her lips. “Move aside before someone sees us.”

She did not like the fluttering, tingling feeling spreading over her body. The scent of lavender bringing back memories of their first encounter. His dominating stance as he towered over her bringing memories of the last.

“It won’t work, love. These little temper tantrums of yours. They won’t push me away. If anything, they just make me want to flip up your skirts and bare your bottom for a spanking.”

“How dare you?” flushed Beatrice.

“As I have told you before, you will find I intend to dare far more.”

Beatrice tried to force her way past him. Rhys handily maneuvered her further into the stacks of lavender till her back was pressed against the stone wall of the perfumery.

Placing his forefinger under her chin, he forced her to look at him. “I want you to listen very carefully, my little fierce feline. I am not your father. You do not have to grab my attention or affection by these displays of temper and disobedience. Let me assure you. You have had my full attention from the moment I saw you ride out of that stable, gloriously and scandalously astride that horse. You have had my affection from the moment you opened that pretty little mouth of yours to threaten to have me driven from the village with pitchforks and torches. I know your secret. You are not truly Beatrice the Beastly. Your father’s neglect has made you so. A lack of love. That is over. I am here now.”

How could this man whom she had only just met, read her so well? How could he have known about her constant attempts to win her father’s attention and affection?

Beatrice bit her lip in agitation. “How did you know?”

“When will you believe me when I say I know and see far more than you realize?” he asked, bemused as he brushed an errant curl behind her ear.

Beatrice knew from the moment she met this man that he was dangerous she just never realized just how dangerous. It was not her body that was in danger. It was her heart.

“The curse,” she muttered without thinking.