Free Before She Wakes: Forbidden Fairy Tales by Sharon Lynn Fisher Page A

princess of Monaco?
    Roark comes to my aid. “Isabeau of Provence, my lady.”
    She reaches out again, and this time I grasp her fingers, remembering belatedly to perform an awkward curtsy.
    “A rumor circulates, Isabeau of Provence, that you are able to take the form of a magnificent golden dragon. Is this true?”
    Likely the whole court knows this by now, but I glance at Roark, and he nods.
    “Yes, my lady,” I reply in careful French.
    One corner of her vividly red lips twists upward. “How exciting,” she breathes. “Come with me, mademoiselle.”
    I look again to Roark, but he is already turning to go.
    Lady Catherine takes me to an empty bedchamber and opens a large wardrobe. She begins dragging out gowns, holding each against me, murmuring about size and color and fabric. Soon there comes a soft knock at the door, and another lady enters.
    “Ah, Henri,” calls Lady Catherine with obvious relief, “just who I was wanting. We must outfit this beautiful creature to dine with His Majesty.” The new arrival looks me over, and Catherine says, “Isabeau of Provence, this is Henrietta of England, sister-in-law to the king.”
    The two women exchange glances and erupt in a fit of ladylike giggles.
    I’m certain they’re laughing at my expense until Henrietta says, “Sister indeed.” More giggling ensues.
    At last Lady Catherine sighs and wipes her eyes. “Forgive us, mademoiselle. Henri and I have known each other many years.”
    “We have,” agrees the other lady, smiling fondly. I catch a glint of mischief in her eye as she turns to me. “We do love welcoming new ladies to court. Especially interesting ones. We grow so dull out in the country.”
    Glancing about at the opulence surrounding me, I have my doubts about this. But I hold my tongue.
    Mercifully, Henrietta turns to Catherine, reaching for one of the gowns. “This will suit her best, I think. It’s rather a manly shade of red, but her complexion will carry it. As for fit, we’ll have to see her
sans ses vêtements
to be sure.”
    Catherine glances at me, lifting her eyebrows. “If you please, Isabeau?”
    I swallow loudly and remove my doublet, folding it over the back of a longue. I pull loose the tie of my chemise and begin to work at the laces of my bodice. But my fingers shake and I make slow progress.
    “The poor thing is so tense, Cat. Is she not?” says Henrietta. “Nervous about meeting His Majesty, no doubt. Who can blame her? Perhaps we can help.”
    Catherine nods and rises to stand before me. She reaches for my fingers and moves them gently aside. Then she begins on my laces with her small, deft fingers.
    Once the bodice is unlaced it falls open. Then she reaches for the hem of my chemise. “Cat,” whines the other lady.
    Catherine chuckles softly and moves away. Henrietta—a slender woman with milky flesh and hair the same shade as my own, but worn in ringlets—takes her place before me. She smiles, dark eyes sparkling, and lifts my chemise.
    Her gaze moves over my half-bared form, and I feel a blush spread over my cheeks. She reaches for my hands and raises them, extending my arms out from my body. She gives a satisfied nod and circles around me. I feel her move in close behind me, and her arms slip around my waist, reaching for the tie of my breeches. She slides them over my hips and down my legs, and I step out of them.
    I glance at Catherine, noticing the lazy way her gaze moves over my body. I feel a tickle of unease at the close attention, and suddenly it occurs to me why. These women are studying me the same way a man might. The same way Roark does every time he looks at me.
    I resist an urge to fold my arms over my chest.
    “She’s blushing, Henri,” cries Catherine. “How charming!”
    Chuckling quietly, Henri circles back around. “Of course she is. So exposed. How inconsiderate of us.”
    Henrietta backs toward Catherine, and Catherine begins working at the fastenings of her dress. I watch them,