Fantastical (Fantasyland #3)(45)

I’d made it through the village (which was relatively abuzz) while sitting atop Salem and held by Tor. Nearly everyone we saw turned and looked, smiled delightedly at Tor and dropped into bows or curtsies.

If their eyes fell on me, though, their faces became curious, which was okay, or they closed or went blank, which was not so good.

I did my best to rectify Cora’s reputation and smiled as bright a smile as I could pin on my nervous face. But the entire ride up the winding cobblestone street I clutched Tor’s hand.

Upon our arrival at the castle everything went completely out-of-control. Tor’s servants, not knowing he was coming home, descended instantly in a tizzy of excitement.

Watching them, it was clear he was well-liked and completely respected.

It was also clear, when their eyes hit me, Cora was not either of those things.

That didn’t matter. Aggie and I were swept away to Tor’s rooms (when I would have liked to have had a tour of the castle, though I didn’t share this desire). I didn’t get a chance to do anything but catch his eyes, see him lift a chin in an “it’s going to be just fine” gesture before I was away. And I didn’t get the chance to say word one before I was divested of Aggie and led into Tor’s suite.

I quickly learned that Tor’s servants had gone all out when Cora last visited and even though she was there for a short time and had not come back, they kept things prepared lest she returned.

Therefore, she had clothes and toiletries at her, and now my, disposal.

I wasn’t fond of the scent of gardenia (it was pretty enough, but too strong) but I didn’t share this either as a meal was silently served (the first I did not have with Tor in ages, nevertheless, it was scrumptious, with rich sauces and lean cuts of meat, and I was amazed they threw it together on such short notice), a scented bath was drawn and delicate underwear and nightclothes were laid out for me.

They had towels, not made of terry, but of thick, soft, absorbent material that they heated on racks by a fire. They didn’t only have bath oil but also soap, shampoo, and, get this, conditioner. (Hurrah! No more frizz!) They even had straight blades so I could shave my legs and armpits (this I did, but very carefully, straight blade razors were more than a little scary but I succeeded in nicking myself only once).

The whole place was awesome – if I didn’t allow myself to think of the fact that the four woman who danced attendance on me didn’t meet my eyes, said barely anything and treated me with unfailing courtesy if not an ounce of friendliness no matter how I tried to catch their eyes and give them a smile or engage them in conversation.

They left me to my bath; I allowed myself to luxuriate in it, letting the hot water soothe the kinks of the long ride out of my muscles. I got out, toweled off and turned to my newest outfit.

The city, castle and rooms were awesome. But the underwear, nightgown and robe were more awesome… by far.

Not shorts or drawers, laid out for me were actual panties made of pale yellow silk edged at the bottoms with lace. They fit a bit snug (Cora of this world definitely weighed more than a few pounds less than me) but they still looked fantastic.

And the nightgown and robe were to-die-for. A soft peach silk, thin straps, fitted simple bodice and a flowing skirt that went to my ankles. Luckily the skirt was flowing but, as with the panties, the bodice and h*ps of the gown fit snug (clearly, the other Cora was also a cup size smaller than me too). The robe was a matching sheer chiffon with a wide satin sash.

They felt great and even snug looked great and were relatively comfortable.

So there I stood, brushing my hair with the silver-handled brush Cora had left behind, the scent of gardenia in my nose, the lamps and candles flickering behind me in Tor’s bedroom (which was awesome too, decorated in royal blue, silver, black and charcoal gray, it had a mammoth, curtained four-poster sitting smack in the middle of the colossal room, handsome dark-wood furniture, comfortable looking, plush sofas and chairs scattered around, gleaming ivory marbled floors that were made less cold by thick, intricately woven rugs littering them and warm blue-painted walls) and I stared at the view. There was incense one of the maids set to burning that smelled of sandalwood which mingled nicely with the gardenia.

I was brushing my hair, taking all of this in and I was thinking Princess Cora Goode Hawthorne was a total, freaking idiot.

Sure, her house and the area surrounding it were gorgeous but this, all of it, including the man that came with it…

Total. Freaking. Idiot.

I heard a noise, turned to face the room and stopped dead.

Tor was walking through the room completely na**d except for a black bathsheet fastened loose around his hips.

Holy freaking crap!

With an unsteady hand, I set the brush on the balustrade and stared.

I’d seen his chest but that was it. I knew he had great thighs and he was hard everywhere but now I saw he had great calves and the indentations around his hips, the definition of his abs, the veins drifting up his belly and down his forearms and biceps, his jaw cleanly shaven, his long-ish, black hair wet and slicked back.

Yowza!

I tore my eyes from him to see he’d come through one of the many doors that led off his bedroom (I hadn’t explored because I thought it was rude and I should ask but by the time I could, I was alone).

What I knew was, it was not the bathroom door.

Where had he bathed?

In his bathsheet he walked right out onto the patio and, honest to God, he looked straight out of the movie with the candlelit room behind him, the wispy, royal blue curtains blowing in the light breeze and him being so damned hawt.