Some Enchanted Evening Read Free

watched Clarice with the kind of confidence that said he understood what pleasured a woman and would use his knowledge ruthlessly, again and again, until he was exhausted, or she was, or they both combusted with mutual joy.
    She didn't want his kind of attention. She didn't need to fight that kind of temptation. She never indulged the flirtations and the frivolities of other young women; she dared not. So she would make sure she stayed far away from him.
    Dragging her gaze away from his, she said, "Yes. I'm one of the Lost Princesses. My country's gone, my family scattered, but I can't avoid my destiny — and, good people of Freya Crags, do you know what that destiny is?"
    She'd been doing this for almost five years, and now she saw that she had caught a few of the vulnerable in her net, for scattered throughout the crowd she saw heads shake in response. She told them, "A princess is bred for one purpose and one purpose only — to catch a prince."
    Amusement rippled through the crowd. She saw smiles. Ugly, cynical smiles on the older, experienced faces. Bewilderment and a shy interest on the younger faces, and from a few, forlorn curiosity.
    "Can I help you catch a prince?" She stepped to the edge of the platform and made a play of lowering her voice. "Well, to tell you the truth, princes are a little thin on the ground these days."
    The amusement grew louder and more open.
    "But from the time I was a wee child, I had a directive drummed into my head — find a prince and marry him. No other man will do. Since I can't do that, I must turn to my other talent — helping you catch your prince. Ladies, these bags" — she pointed at the saddlebags her horse carried — "contain royal secrets from around the world! Of course" — she allowed her mouth to droop — "I have to charge you for them. Exiled princesses have to eat too." Her voice strengthened. "But you can see by looking at me, I'm not making a fortune, and I guarantee my work." She'd sold them all.
    Well, almost all. A few stood with their arms crossed over their chests. A handsome woman back by the alehouse. A short, middle-aged, mean-eyed man with a chip on his shoulder the size of an iceberg. A tall, sad-faced, round-shouldered lady. Those were the ones Clarice depended on to make trouble — and to help her clinch the sales.
    The fascinating gentleman watched her, apparently entertained. He was an unknown entity. Yet he felt far too familiar, as if she knew him from somewhere — a dream she'd had, or a wish unfulfilled.
    She did not like him.
    But she did her best to forget him as she smiled, inviting the comments she knew would come.
    The alewife shouted, "Ye've got a glib tongue, I'll say that for ye. Let's see ye do something."
    From the center of the crowd the short man yelled, "She can't do anything she claims."
    The sad-faced lady said nothing, but she moved back as if distancing herself from the mob.
    "Can I not?" Clarice's gaze landed on the homely seamstress, engrossed and standing close. "What's your name, miss?"
    The seamstress glanced around as if hoping Clarice was speaking to someone else. "My . . . my name?"
    "Yes, don't be timid," Clarice urged. "Tell us your name."
    "I'm . . . um . . . I'm Miss Amy Rosabel."
    "Come up here, Miss Rosabel."
    Miss Rosabel ducked her head and shook it as if she were shy.
    Clarice would have none of that. Appealing to the crowd, she said, "Come, good people! Let's make the young lady welcome."
    A few of the younger folk clapped for Miss Rosabel.
    Reluctantly she climbed up to stand beside Clarice. She was at least two inches taller than Clarice, but she hunched her shoulders so much, she looked shorter. Her dark hair was pulled tightly back from her face, accentuating the thrust of her narrow nose and her pointed chin. She had dark rings under her eyes, and her complexion was pasty white. Her brown wool gown was appalling.
    Clearly to every eye, she needed help. "Miss Rosabel, I'm going to make you beautiful,"