Page 33 of Pawn of the Cruel Princess
I despise the tears of others, and I never cry where anyone can see or hear me. I can’t allow myself to cry now, in front of Ducayne.
He’s just standing there, like a big useless lump. Vienne’s thralls would have had her washed, undressed, laid on the bed, and halfway to a mind-melting orgasm by now. Not that I want an orgasm from him—gods.
“I’ll sleep on the floor,” he says.
I stare at the scant sliver of carpet where his huge frame might maybe, possibly fit. The rugs are nice, but not nearly as soft and thick as the ones in my chambers back home. He won’t be comfortable. Not that I care about his comfort.
Without answering him, I take a little food from the provided tray, just to have something to do with my trembling fingers. He quietly goes into the privy to wash up. It’s small, and separated from the main space by a curtain, not a door. He leaves the curtain half open so the lamplight will filter into the space. I glance in that direction once and see him sponging his chest and underarms. He has no right to look that magnificent while performing such a prosaic task.
When he comes back, he leans past me, smelling freshly fragrant. “May I?” And he takes some food without waiting for me to answer.
“You’re not behaving properly,” I say. “You should have offered to serve me, to taste the food first, to let me use the privy first—”
“You made no move toward the privy, and you served yourself the food,” he points out.
“You should be able to anticipate my needs and wants.”
“After just a few days?” His eyebrows lift.
I bite into a biscuit, glaring at him, and he smiles. “So, Princess—how do you feel about our haunted chamber?”
“It’s not haunted.”
“Really? Because I thought I felt a strange, icy chill when I was in the privy area. Like dead fingers touching me, just here.” He points to his bare shoulder and gives a dramatic shudder.
I stare, while cold dread creeps into my stomach.
“Do you have to use the privy, Highness?” he says softly. “It’s been a long time since our last stop. I’m sure the royal bladder is full.”
“Shut up.”
“Would you like me to come with you, to shoo away the ghosts while you piss?”
“Fuck you.” I throw down the remains of my biscuit.
He laughs, leans back, and strikes his head on the low sloped ceiling. “Ow. Shit.”
I vent a nasty chuckle of satisfaction and march into the privy, pulling the curtain shut.
There’s a bit of light leaking around the edge of the curtain, and a faint, pale glow from a tiny triangular window high up the wall.
I try to manage my fancy traveling gown, but there’s too much of it for the small space, so I unlace my outer corset and the dress and toss them both out into the bedroom. “Hang these over a chair, thrall. And hand me the nightdress from my bag.”
“Of course, Your Highness.”
I throw my boots and stockings out, too. I’m in my light chemise and my panties now. As long as I stay focused on the task of preparing for bed, I won’t think about ghosts.
It’s hard to piss knowing Ducayne can hear everything, but I manage it at last. I’m washing up when my thrall sticks his hand past the curtain, holding my nightdress.
Without thanking him, I snatch it. But before I can put it on, something tickles my shoulder.
My hair is still pinned up, so it isn’t my hair.
The tickling continues.
I don’t scream. I leap out of the privy and fling myself at Ducayne in abject terror, crashing into his chest. “A ghost, a ghost—it touched me—”
He flicks at my shoulder, then crushes something with his boot. “A spider, Princess.”
