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An Excerpt From: MASQUERADE OF THE CURSED KING
Copyright © VANESSA GILFOY, 2007
All Rights Reserved, Ellora's Cave Publishing,
Inc.
Five years. Five years had passed without so much as a
visit or even a letter. Heat welled in Eleanor’s belly. She’d thought Erick
had forgotten about her. The heartless jerk.
Yet there he stood at the gate, chatting so casually
with a group of soldiers. His wild chestnut hair sparkled in the morning
light, swept back from his tan face. Frustratingly beautiful. Enthusiastic
head bobs and bursts of laughter made him seem like the boy who used to
toss her up in the air but he wasn’t. He was all grown up and thick muscle
bulged in his neck and strained the thin white shirt he tucked into his
trousers. His knuckles rippled under the fabric in an all too tantalizing
way but not where she wanted them. Just a few inches from the very nice
bulge at his center. If she could just slip into his mind, she’d quietly
persuade him to… Earth, what was wrong with her?
Her inner thighs suddenly felt sticky and she wished
she’d worn a more conservative costume or at least underwear. She tugged on
her skirt but it wouldn’t budge below mid-thigh. At least her eyes didn’t
glow with lustful elven light.
He shouldn’t see her like this. Would he recognize her?
Was he here for her? A bubbly wave swelled her chest. Traitorous body. She
shouldn’t hope for anything but freedom from him and this cursed place.
Some other duty probably drew Erick here. Her escape
attempts had never before warranted his personal attention.
He donned a gray military shirt and buttoned the front.
A guard’s uniform. He couldn’t be Erick. Thank Earth.
She exhaled, though she hadn’t realized she’d held her
breath.
“I know. Could they take any longer?” the huge man in
front of her complained.
The line had grown to twenty people long. Similar
grumbles leaked from their minds and melded into an irritating high-pitched
hum at the back of Eleanor’s skull. She wished she could block out their
thoughts.
The sun had risen behind her an hour ago and already
chased away the slight chill left over from night, yet the heavy iron gate
still hadn’t lifted.
She needed to get on the pass and over the Santarra
Mountains before her
mother caught up to her. Earth, she’d made such good time. If she could get
past this checkpoint, she might make it to Gildon
this time.
Eleanor adjusted the straps of her cart on her sore
shoulder. She’d pulled the crate-sized cart all the way from west Biston. The leather straps had rubbed blisters that
oozed and stuck to the thin fabric of her bodice. Gross. With all her
fidgeting, her blonde wig caught on the straps’ buckle. How stupid. But she
couldn’t tie the fake hair back without revealing her pointed ears.
Eleanor ducked down to fix it, unseen. He couldn’t see
her. She should be okay. Lots of people stood between them. But her heart
pounded.
“Here, let me help,” the man behind her blurted. His
gaze flitted down her body, pausing at the low-cut bodice that squeezed her
small breasts together.
Earth, she wished her cleavage was why he stared. “No
thank you,” she muttered and swatted his hand away.
The large man in front of her turned around. Bearded
face lengthened, he examined her the way a child admires sweets displayed
behind a bakery window. Her whole fist could probably fit in his mouth.
Judging by the tools in his cart, he must be a blacksmith. He inhaled her
pheromone and his eyelids drooped.
She’d just taken a bath but the morning sun heated her
skin. Already, her neck dampened. Soon, everyone would stare—or worse.
Earth, what was taking so long? She tugged her wig’s tangled locks loose
and peeked around the human blacksmith.
Although the group of soldiers broke off and headed
south, the Erick-look-alike guard still didn’t open the gate. He tugged on
gloves despite the warm August morning air. The guards who had kept her
prisoner wore gloves like that all year long. Warnings whispered in her
head though the gloves were probably standard issue.
“That scent…” the blacksmith’s deep voice rumbled.
Eleanor quickly blurted, “I sell perfumes.” She motioned
to her wooden cart where tiny bottles glistened, nestled in a cotton grid.
She’d bought the whole setup, costume and all with a portion of her tuition
savings. The rest of her hard-earned coin was hidden in the base of the
cart, just above the axels.
The blacksmith shifted to hide the growing lump in his
pants. “I ain’t smelled a perfume like that before.”
“It’s a family recipe,” she lied. Unfortunately, that
scent plagued her. Her elven pheromones never
turned off, due to her mixed human and elven
blood. A common affliction in hybrids. The rare couplings between humans
and elves sometimes produced worse deformities. Some hybrids died from them
in the womb or before adulthood.
Whatever the blacksmith said was drowned out in the
screech of the gate.
The lone guard cranked the chain that lifted it. His
biceps jerked and trembled. The gate had to weigh as much as five men.
Earth, those thick arms could easily hoist her up and
squeeze her tight. The thought beaded her nipples and heated her eyes. If
she had the time, she’d enjoy his hard body. Eleanor swallowed the saliva
that threatened to dribble down her chin and squeezed her eyes shut to hide
the light that burned in them. She shouldn’t want him. He looked too much
like Erick.
When he locked the crank in place, nearly everyone in
line cheered, excited for a different reason.
Eleanor’s eyes cooled enough to open without light
bursting out. Only elves’ and hybrids’ eyes glowed when they were aroused
or enraged. A sure giveaway as to her identity.
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