A Glassy Lady: Coeur de Lyon: A Renaissance Flair 2 Page 3

  Samantha "Sam" Kelly just laughed, one of those real, snorting laughs that brought a real smile to Harper's face as the shorter woman threw herself into Harper's arms.

  "Hey! I know that's an insult now!" Sam huffed in her rather distinctive husky, throaty voice as she squeezed Harper with surprising strength, although her voice was kind of muffled as she was face-first in Harper's chest. "Now give us a hug, you heifer!"

  With an outward show of reluctance, but inwardly tickled pink, Harper returned Sam's hug and bussed Sam's cheeks.

  "You're just jealous," Harper said as she leaned back to take a good look at her best friend—okay, so her only real friend, but that automatically made Sam her bestie, didn't it?

  Arching a brow, Sam glared over the rim of her glasses at Harper with a doubtful look, "Jealous?"

  "That I don't need a stepladder to reach the cookie jar," Harper grinned fully at Sam's bark of laughter. "Now let's get a look at you, girl!"

  Samantha was looking pretty good, considering just a few short weeks ago, she had been back in Seattle, taking refuge at her parents' place while she dealt with the fallout from being set-up to take the fall for an environmental disaster of rather significant damage.

  Dressed casually, and appropriately, for the brisk April morning, Sam wore one of her trademark flannel shirts, the buttons undone enough to show a healthy hint of cleavage—something she rarely did. A pair of jeans and the usual hiking boots completed Sam's usual daily "uniform," complete with a pair of red-framed cats' eye glasses. Her nose ring glinted in the dawn's early light, a subtle ruby stud, and those beautiful blue-gray eyes were perfectly emphasized and highlighted with a glittery silver-teal eyeshadow. She even had that mythical "glow" about her, the one those romance novels always spoke about. Harper's eyes narrowed in suspicion.

  "Wait a cotton-picking minute, are you wearing make-up?" Harper was shocked! Sam barely ever wore make-up, even when they'd brave the clubs in college. Grabbing Sam's hands, she held them up and inspected them. "You even have your nails done!"

  Squinting suspiciously, Harper voiced her suspicion, "What's his name? Is he good enough for you?"

  Cackling, Sam shook her hands free of Harper's grasp. "His name's Rik, and of course not!"

  With a quick glance back over her shoulder, Sam lowered her voice as she confided, "But he's a god-damned god in the sack, so guess I'll keep him around."

  "Blasphemer," Harper muttered with a smirk, "Your mama would wash your mouth out if she heard you now!" Arching a perfectly elegant eyebrow, Harper nodded her head towards Sam's left hand, "And I see no rings, either...so you're living in sin as well!"

  "Well, I could change my name to Jezebel," Sam offered, tapping her chin thoughtfully. Then ruined the effect by laughing, "Yeah, my mother would go nuclear at that, so probably a bad idea."

  Grabbing Harper's arm, Sam started dragging the taller woman towards the castle's main door. "Come on, let's go get you checked in and everything, then I'll show you to your place so you can get some rest..."

  Sam paused, forcing Harper to stumble to a stop before she trampled the shorter woman. Looking down, Harper caught Sam's determined expression, "But we're meeting for dinner tonight, so don't make any plans! Now, let's go!" And off she went, tugging on Harper's arm once more.

  Groaning, but giving in as gracefully as possibly when you were being physically manhandled...er, Samhandled...by a way-too-frigging-energetic-for-six-AM Sam, Harper clicked the button to electronically lock Little Lady and tucked her keys into her hoodie pocket. Why did she suddenly feel like she walking the lion's den?

  No sooner had the thought cross her mind, Harper saw the massive lion-headed knockers set into the towering double-doors that led into the castle's lobby. Okay, now that's not an ominous omen or anything. Not at all!

  As she stepped, or was dragged, whatever, over the threshold, Harper once more had that feeling she had stepped back in time. The entire entryway was something straight out of a movie, with slate floors covered with a wide, burgundy and gold carpet bisecting the huge foyer. An absolutely enormous chandelier of cut crystal and flickering candles soared in the cathedral ceiling overhead, casting prismatic flickers throughout the room. She was unsurprised to see life-sized suits of armor situated along the walls, and huge shields with swords, spears, and other weaponry arranged on the walls. Despite the otherwise medieval décor, here and there were touches of rustic modern that managed to feel like a natural evolution instead of clashing eras.

  Sam led her directly towards a large reception desk, set between grand stairways that led up to the second-floor gallery. As the two women approached, a distinguished older gentleman rose from behind the computer. His hair was more silver than black, pulled into a thick braid that fell down his back, while his skin was a rich, burnished bronze, eyes dark and lively with amusement as he watched Sam dragging the much taller Harper towards him. Despite his silvery hair, his features were smooth, with only a hint of laugh lines at the corners of his eyes and narrow lips.

  "Good morning, m'Lady Samantha," he said with a polite half-bow before turning his attention to Harper, bestowing a wide smile as he met Harper's bemused expression. "And welcome to Château de Lyon, m'lady."

  "Daniel, this is Harper Llewellyn," Sam waved up at Harper, "She's the new glass artisan for the Faire, so she'll be staying in the Village, so no need to bother Misty! Clara said she left some stuff for Harper with you?"

  How did I forget what a little dictator Sam could be? Harper chuckled, giving Daniel a sheepish shrug as she offered her hand. "Good morning, Daniel. A real pleasure to make your acquaintance."

  Daniel accepted her hand, leaning over to brush a polite kiss over her knuckles, before he drew himself up regally. With a tilt to his jaw, he gave her a courteous, but warm, smile. "'Tis indeed a pleasure to make your acquaintance, m'lady Harper, and there is no bother. Mistress Clara has made all the arrangements for your stay."

  Okay, the formal cant to his speech, spoken with a hint of Midwestern twang, almost drew a rather un-Harper-like giggle, but she managed to control herself as Daniel reached into the desk and pulled something out.

  He presented her with a large, thick vellum envelope, complete with one of those red wax seals, imprinted with a glittering gold shield displaying a rampant lion beneath three hearts, much like the coat of arms displayed throughout the Estates.

  As Harper took the package, Daniel continued in that deep, resonant voice of his, "Mistress Clara left your keys, security passcodes, contact lists, a map of the Estates and Village, vendor information, as well as the documents you requested for your approval. The utilities for your cottage will be turned on by the time you arrive, and you'll find the vendor-only WiFi passwords as well. If there is anything else you need, you can call the concierge number provided."

  Tucking the package under her arm, Harper offered her own polite, professional, but sincere smile. "Thank you most kindly, Daniel."

  Business out of the way, Sam piped up, "Give Danny a hello for me, Daniel!" Once more grabbing Harper's arm—where the heck had she gotten that particular habit from, Harper wondered—Sam led her back outside the castle...er, Château! Harper really had to remember to call the castle that.

  As they approached Little Lady, Sam released her grip on Harper's arm before disappearing around the passenger side. Unlocking the truck, Harper climbed in, then watched with amusement as Sam glared up at her from outside the passenger side.

  "Big enough truck, heifer?" Sam muttered, pushing up the sleeves of her flannel shirt before hauling herself up.

  Harper started to smirk, but squinted as she caught the faintest glimmer of something sparkling along Sam's left arm. For just a moment, Harper thought she saw what looked to be a tattoo of some sort, but as Sam settled into her seat, she pulled the cuffs back down and quirked a brow at her.

  "Something wrong?" Sam asked in a way-too-innocent voice that only further strengthened Harper's suspicions.

  Harper almost, al
most let her mental barriers down, releasing the tight grip she had been forced to keep on herself for twenty years. In the end, however, it was simply the manners that had been drilled into her since she could remember that forced her to drop it.

  With a shake of her head, Harper started up the truck and said instead, "Not a thing, sweetie. Not a thing."

  Chapter 4

  The fairy bastards had abandoned him. To a one, the members of a vaunted and feared unit of the Wild Hunt, took off and disappeared rather than deal with a hormonal teenage werewolf. Cowards!

  Granted, Bard would have joined them in their strategic retreat if he had had the option, and would have even let them paint his belly yellow. Woden's Wolves, he'd have bought the paint and the brushes, if it would have spared him the indignity of it all. Alas, he had lost a bet, and like the mature, responsible adult wolf that he was, Bard had to show that one kept their promises and oaths, regardless of the outcome.

  Note to self, plot an appropriate revenge once my hangover goes away, Bard thought to himself as he glared balefully at the smug, smirking, pretty face of his little sister over the head of her twin.

  Now you know why she-wolves are called bitches, Bard's wolf said with far too much amusement at Bard's expense! You know you're fucked when even your inner wolf is against you.

  "You promised," Tanja said simply, shrugging with the nonchalance only teenage girls could pull off as she slipped out the door of his battered F150 and hopped to the ground.

  Her twin, Sanja, paused in her game play long enough to look up at him and mimic Tanja's shrug, as she echoed, "You did promise." Tucking her phone away, Sonja slid out to join Tanja.

  Standing side-by-side, it was obvious they were identical twins, from their long blonde hair to the tips of their toes, but it was equally obvious they had extremely different personalities, just by the way they were dressed.

  While Tanja dressed like your typical high school girly-girl, Sanja wore an old, worn black ballcap with Star Wars in silver embroidery—that the little wench had stolen from him—an oversized sweatshirt with a silver Storm Trooper on it, and battered blue jeans covered with splashes of different colored paint. Her Converse sneakers were also black and well-worn. She was the older of the two, by five minutes, but like Bard, she was a lot more laidback than most wolves.

  "I knew mom and dad should've left you both at the pound instead of bringing you home," Bard grumbled as he begrudgingly climbed out of his truck and slammed the door shut.

  Okay, so he was a sore loser, but the two she-wolves had ganged up on him in a moment of weakness!

  "Nah," Tanja laughed, her eyes nearly glowing with laughter as she strolled backwards away from the truck. "Then you'd be stuck as the youngest!"

  Sanja flashed him a droll look as she followed after her sister, hands in her pockets as she slouched along, "Face it, youngest brother gets treated a lot differently than youngest sister does. She's the princess."

  There wasn't even the slightest hint of bitterness there. While Tanja reveled in her girliness, Sanja had always been more of a scrapper, the Lord High General to Tanja's Imperial Highness-ness.

  "Besides, you love us!" Tanja announced brightly as waited for them by the door.

  "Yeah, yeah," Bard pocketed his keys and steeled himself for the inevitable. He would face this like a proper Viking, like the big, strong alpha wolf that he was! He would, dammit!

  With identical smirks on their lovely faces, Tanja and Sanja swung open the glass doors with a tinkling of delicate bells that sounded cheerfully loud in the crisp early morning air. Sanja even had her cellphone back out, recording every reluctant step Bard took as he marched in to face the ultimate torture that awaited him within the hallowed, perfumed bower of Mademoiselle Selene's Salon & Spa Boutique.

  All because Sanja had trounced him royally in Killer Instinct.

  But he was drunk!

  And being harassed by his both of his older brothers! Traitors!

  And being distracted by Tanja!

  Pathetic excuses, Bard's wolf snorted. Face your future like a Viking! Like a wolf!

  There were worse things than having two older brothers and two younger sisters all gang up on you. Sharing your body, mind, heart, and soul with the spirit of a Viking wolf for one! Having to treat your sisters to a full package deal at the salon and spa was another. But the absolute worst thing of it all? The shit-covered cherry on top of a shit sundae?

  Coming face-to-face with one of your brothers' many, many, many exes and because he shared a face with them both, having to deal with their messes!

  Okay, that is fair. The wolf allowed before strategically retreating to the furthest recesses of Bard's mind and leaving him to face the she-devil himself.

  "Bon jour!" A cheerful "Mademoiselle" Selene called out in a trilling falsetto that set Bard's teeth to aching as she emerged from further in the boutique. "Comment allez...oh, it's you."

  Yep, the French accent disappeared along with the bright, welcoming smile, Selene came face-to-face with Bard flanked by his two sisters.

  "Well, which one are you?" Selene snarled, squinting suspiciously up at him.

  Selene was an attractive woman, with her rich, dark brown hair in a stylish textured bob and a deep, golden tan—despite it barely being Spring. She wore white slacks and a dark green tunic, with turquoise and gold jewelry that jangled as she walked. Perfectly primped and styled, even deep in the Rockies.

  Sighing heavily, Bard held up his hands in the universal sign of peace as he replied, "Bard. I'm Bard, the one that has absolutely no idea what Donar did, but have no doubts he deserves your eternal scorn.”

  The muffled snickers of his sisters drew Selene's attention, and once more, she was the bright, flirty French "mademoiselle" as she regarded the two teenaged girls with a critical, calculating eye.

  Glad her scary attention was elsewhere, Bard said, “I’m also the one paying for two full packages for his little sisters."

  Tanja giggled, using her shoulder to bump Bard’s back as she chimed in, “Oh no, big brother, Bard…you’re paying for two full packages for us, and one full package for you, too!”

  Jerking back, Bard’s head whipped around to stare at his youngest sister in horror. “I’m what? No, I don’t need no frou-frou shit!”

  Okay, so the derisive snorts of disgust from all three females were not necessary. Nor was the cry of, “Oh honey, yes you do!” that came from one of the rapidly increasing number of ladies joining the conversation, all wearing the same spa uniform. Hemmed in from all sides now, although none of the females came higher than his chest, Bard had never felt so trapped in his life.

  Patting his arm to draw his attention, Sanja said in that droll, serious tone of hers, “Look, Bard, the Faire opens in two weeks, and Tanja and I have some plans on how to draw more customers to your booth.” She smiled, that same wicked, wicked smile that all the siblings utilized when they were up to no good. “You just have to trust us.”

  He may have whimpered, but closing his eyes and muttering a quick prayer to Woden, Bard finally muttered, “Fine. Three full-packages.”

  Opening one eye, he cast a baleful glare at the sea of beaming faces looking up at him. Reflexively, he stroked his beard, “But no one touches the beard. That stays.”

  “Mais oui!” Selene exclaimed in that bright, oh-so-fake, French accent as she gave an imperious clap of her hands. “Ladies, take care of these two lovely mademoiselles!”

  As his sisters abandoned him to the untender mercies of Selene, she eyed Bard up-and-down with a look gave him goosebumps. Smiling widely, maliciously, Selene said in a sing-song voice. “Et pour toi, we have specialists who can help…” Turning her head, she called out loud enough to rival a werewolf’s howl, “Drew! Lizbet! Tout suite!”

  A large, muscular woman and a petite, slender auburn-haired man emerged from the back, their eyes instantly appraising Bard. Instinctively, he took a step back. He knew predators, being one himself, and they both looked
at him as if he was a tasty rabbit.

  Fighting the urge to bare fang, Bard stiffened his spine and squared his shoulders. “Uh…howdy,” he reached up and took off his ballcap, letting his thick mane of tangled hair fall free. With his best puppy dog look, Bard said, “Be gentle, alright?”

  Selene’s laughter as Drew and Lizbet led him towards the salon was less than reassuring.

  Under threat of torture and eternal damnation, Bard would never admit that the next two hours were rather relaxing and pleasant! With Drew’s advice, Bard let the fox shifter cut his hair, shaving close on the sides and back, leaving a narrow strip of full-length hair that he could wear pulled back into a tail for a “modern Viking” look that was popular these days. He did allow them to trim up the beard a little, just neatening it up but keeping it at a reasonable length, but he absolutely refused to let them talk him into cutting it off entirely. Re-fucking-fused! A low, deep growl was all it really took to drive that point home.

  Afterwards, Bard joined his sisters as they got manicures and pedicures. He even gave in to the pleading looks of both his sisters to spring for the OPI treatment, particularly when they found out that they had been given an advance on the Fall/Winter collection inspired by Iceland! Tanja went with Aurora Berry-alis, because it was a glowing pink and she was obsessed with the color. Sanja had gone with the dark purple Suzi & the Arctic Fox, while Bard had given in and let them paint his nails a dark ice blue known as Less is Norse. Yes, he let the ladies paint his nails, although being a blacksmith, he saw little purpose in it, although even he had to admit that his cuticles looked great and his toenails truly looked fabulous!

  Hey, when you’re a 6’6” tall, 275 lbs. Nordic Werewolf with a chest and arms sculpted from swinging a heavy hammer, you can get away with painting your nails! Bard assured his doubtful wolf. Besides, it’s not like he was the Alpha, or even the Beta, of his pack, just one of the Enforcers, and the pampering beauty regimen was something his ancestors would have truly appreciated! Well, when they weren’t raping, and pillaging, and “Vikinging” their way across Europe.