The Lass Who Kissed a Frog by Lee, Caroline (bookreader txt) 📕

Ye ken it is. The only Prince ye’ve ever wanted wants nothing to do with ye now that he kens yer wicked tongue.

The glint in Bonnie’s eyes turned pitying. “Oh, Vanessa. Ye are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. The most beautiful woman the Highlands have ever seen, it is true. But that is no’ what makes ye worthy of a prince.”

Nay, it didn’t. Because her beauty couldn’t mask the hurt she’d caused. Even Bonnie’s praise couldn’t fix the hollow feeling in her stomach. “I ken.”

“Nay, ye dinnae.” Vanessa’s gaze snapped back to her sister, but Bonnie shook her head sadly. “Ye are worth more than yer beauty, Vanessa.” Her sister patted her knee, softly. “And one day I hope ye realize it.”

Frowning, Vanessa studied her sister, trying to figure out what Bonnie meant. But the other woman looked away, shifting slightly, then sighed mightily.

“I’m sitting on my book, are I no’? Curse these ridiculous petticoats! Why can women no’ wear trousers?”

“Because the sight of our thighs encased in those ridiculous tweed hunting breeches would cause all sorts of improper thoughts in men.”

“So?” Scowling, Bonnie extracted the book of fairy tales from under her rear end. “That is their problem.”

“It’ll become our problem if the men cannae control their amorous impulses.”

“Ah, a fine argument. I must wear something stupid and uncomfortable because men cannae control their impulses otherwise.” Rolling her eyes and clutching the book to her chest, Bonnie stood. “By this same reasoning, I must cover my head when I go out in public, lest my bare earlobes incite men to uncontrollable lust.”

Put like that… “Ye do have verra pretty ears, sister,” Vanessa giggled.

“The onus should be on the men no’ to make improper advances, no’ on me to dress in an uncomfortable manner. Maybe, once I earn enough to buy my own publishing house, I’ll write a series of novels about a civilization where women have the vote, and since they find men’s chins so alluring, pass laws requiring every male to grow a beard, so as to protect them from roving bands of amorous women.”

Vanessa couldn’t help it; her sister was so grumpy, she had to laugh. But when Bonnie scowled at her, Vanessa held up her hands. “Peace, sister, peace. I understand yer argument, but now I’ll no’ be able to look at a beard the same way again.”

Bonnie harrumphed, but then blew out a breath and turned to glance around the garden. “I love this place, I do. But I cannae stop thinking about all the good I could do if I had my own publishing house. Not just printing my books, but others too.”

“Ye’ve been thinking about this for a while, have ye?” Possibly since even before receiving that letter from Mr. Grimm.

“I have. But there’s nae way I can afford it.”

The hopelessness in her sister’s voice squeezed at Vanessa’s chest. She stood and took the three steps to Bonnie’s side. “If I could help ye, I would. I’ll help ye think of a way, I swear it.”

Bonnie’s smile was a bit watery, but it was nice to see, nonetheless. “Thank ye. And now, I suppose I must go write Mr. Grimm a response.”

“Good. And tell him ye hope to one day be able to afford a publishing house. Maybe he’ll save his for ye!”

When Bonnie chuckled, it didn’t sound quite so helpless. “I should be so lucky.” She shook her head and headed for the kitchen door. “If I run into Mother, I shall swear I have nae idea where ye are.”

Which would allow Vanessa more moments of precious, unjudged freedom. “I kenned ye were the best sister in the world!”

Bonnie’s laughter drifted back.

With a sigh, Vanessa glanced around the garden. Without her sister to talk to, the place—beautiful and cozy as it was—seemed emptier. She strolled back to the well, dragging her fingers along the moss-covered stones as she circled it.

Knowing she was alone, and feeling suddenly nostalgic, she leaned over the edge. There, far at the bottom, the inky darkness of the water seemed to suck up all sounds.

“Hullo!” she called in a low voice, just to be certain. Sure enough, nothing echoed back.

Chuckling, she braced her palms on the stones, remembering the fun she used to have out here. When she’d been much younger, she’d even climbed to the top of the posts and teased Bonnie, who insisted her skirts made it impossible to climb.

When she’d been younger and had no worries.

Ye’re beautiful, my angel, and that means people should worry for ye. People will do things—so many things—for ye, as long as ye are beautiful!

Her mother’s words echoed in a way Vanessa’s call into the well hadn’t. It had been a refrain of her life.

And now, that knowledge, that certainty, had resulted in this feeling of shame whenever she thought of how Roland Prince had looked at her.

Ribbit.

Vanessa’s head jerked up.

Ribbit-ribbit.

There, across the well from her, sat the biggest, plumpest frog she could ever recall seeing. Had frogs grown so big when she’d been but a wee lass? If so, it would’ve taken two hands just to hold it, much less catch it.

Catch it.

The wicked, ridiculous thought repeated itself.

Well, why not?

She was alone out here, so there was no one to see her ruin her reputation as the most perfectly beautiful woman in all the Highlands, was there?

Slowly, she straightened. “Stay right there, my fat friend,” she murmured.

Holding the frog’s gaze—was it her imagination, or did it seem as transfixed on her as she was on it?—she softly, deliberately moved around the well, each step measured. The trick, as she remembered, was to move slowly enough the animal didn’t expect her attack.

Sure enough, she soon stood in front of the frog, and he was still sitting there, looking at her. She bent, her arms rising from her sides to drift, gradual as glaciers, to bracket him.

“That’s right. That’s right,” she murmured, and then she pounced.

Before the frog ever knew what was happening, she had it cupped