I dipped down into a curtsy, wishing deeply I had my hat to wave about. Wherewasmy hat? Damn it. Prescott’s head was naked and purple. When and where had he lost it?
“Until then, Your Advisorship.”
He exited with the air of a man who had conceded a point only to be polite to someone who might be royal. Either that or he was stunned by my beauty and wished to please me in carnal ways this night. A not unpleasant thought, but I suspected the first reason to be the most reliable.
“Poophole.” Prescott giggled.
I sighed, toed off my boots, and fell back onto a bed so soft and so deeply scented with rose water that I nearly sank out of sight of my companion.
“Poophole.” Floor slap. “Poophole.” Floor slap. “Poophole.” Floor slap.
At least Prescott was enjoying himself. I was already starting to feel like a lobster trapped in a gilded pot.
WITH THE BULK OF A CERTAIN TROLLISH FRIEND, we maneuvered my trunk into a corner of the vast room.
“Cubby,” Prescott announced before moving the fireplace screen to claim the hearth as his own space. Much like a hound, he preferred to be in a den. We assumed he had spent some time in a cave before being dumped off near Quinn’s Quay to be eaten by predators. On the ship, he had an area in the hold where he had piled crates to form a large cavern of sorts to rest his weary head while asea.
“Let me find you some bedding,” I said before he curled up on the cold stone. I found a plethora of down pillows and extra blankets in the wardrobe, along with silken robes, soft slippers, large lengths of toweling, and rows of soaps in different scents and colors. “These are for your cubby.”
“Cubby,” he purred, hugging a pillow to his face. I reached up to tug it gently downward.
“Remember our talk about holding a pillow to your face?” The rich smells of the bath soaps flowed out of the wardrobe, whispering to me to use one or several of them.
“Is bad for life,” he replied. I nodded. A grin split his face. He turned to make a bed in the hearth as I padded around, pleased to find a large four-legged tub behind the changing screen. I should send Prescott to the kitchen for hot water, but his appearance might startle the cooks. A soft knock at the doorgrabbed my attention. I waved at Prescott as he gathered his blankets up in a soft bed while humming merrily. If only other people were as easy to please as a troll with a pile of quilts.
Opening the door, I came face to face with a rather cute young man in white and blue livery, his dark hair cut short, his long ears fetching to say the least. His small feet were bare, but his arms were laden with a large silver platter with covered dishes and two bottles of wine. I could smell roasted meat, and my stomach growled.
“Your Grace, I have food for you and your traveling companion.” He bowed as much as he dared with a platter of food and drink.
“Please, come in. And I have no grace whatsoever, so please call me Captain.” I held the door open for the servant. He was a bundle of nerves, his gray-blue eyes darting from me to a very happy Prescott curled into a small ball under several blankets. It took that many to cover him.
“Yes, Captain.” He wasted no time in setting the tray on the desk and removing the coverings from the dishes. I moved over to stand at his side, enjoying the size difference between us. “Widow Poppy has sent up what was left from the midday meal. Roasted hare, seasoned turnips and carrots, dark wheat buns with honeyed butter, and two pots of plum pudding.”
“Pudding!” Prescott shouted from under the quilts. The servant squeaked in fright. So word had spread through the castle that I was bunked with a troll. That might prove to be a detriment to my ability to charm a randy footman into my bed any time soon.
“No need to fret. He’s harmless. This looks lovely, but my companion will need a larger serving of pudding.”
I plucked the small ceramic pudding pot from the tray. It fit in the palm of my hand like a goose egg.
“Oh, yes, of course, Captain. How many more would you wish sent up?” He shot worried looks at the hearth.
“Does your Widow Poppy make the pudding in a large cauldron?”
“Yes, Your…Captain.”
He really was cute. I could easily picture him bent over the tub, lean arse up in the air, as I—
“Pudding!”
Right. Yes, pudding.
“Then bring up the cauldron,” I said and gave him my cheekiest smile. The one that lured countless dozens of lovers to my mattress. It had no effect. Fear overrode his cock. What a pity.
“The…cauldron, Your…Captain?”
“Mm, yes, the cauldron.” I nodded. He bowed and then ran from the room with as much dignity as the poor thing could muster. Sighing, I sat on the edge of the bed to watch Prescott wiggling about under his covers. “You’re going to impede my cock getting into any tight arses, I fear.”
“Cocker tight arse,” he sang out, his words muffled but loud.
