Page 2 of His Savage Sweet

“Hmm. Blue cheese?” he mused, staring up at the ceiling. “And something sweet? This is really quite good.”

I bit into another one, and around the explosion on my tongue, mumbled. “What’s the jam? It’s savory but it has a sweetness to it.” What possible ingredient could it be?

Rickard shook his head. “Would ye care to weigh in, Findlay?”

“No’ if ye’re going to throw it at me,” murmured our younger brother as he fastidiously turned a page. “Ye’ll damage the binding.”

Mother clucked her tongue. “Oh, for heaven’s sakes, if you are going to throw food and talk with your mouth full, at least let me taste them.”

Heh.

I could always count on my mother to relish food as much as I did. I passed her one, but she couldn’t identify the jam either. We ended up finishing the platter, just trying to identify the combination, which was perfect as it completely distracted her from any matrimonial nonsense.

And Father had the ballocks to wink at me, as if I’d done it to help him out.

Another snort. Like the two of them needed any help making up to each other. You know how embarrassing it is to have a set of parents who everyone—everyone—knew fooked like rabbits?

That was how you end up with three little baby princes in four years.

After dinner, I disappeared before Mother could corner me. I didn’t need to hear more about Father’s plans for the kingdom, or whose wedding would be next.

I didn’t want to get married. Fook, I didn’t have any idea who I’d marry if I had to.

I stalked through the castle—a castle! As if we were living in the Dark Ages!—halls and tried to calm down.

Since Father’s pronouncement, I’d been perpetually angry and ready to punch something. Not that anyone would opine that it was that different from my normal way of life.

I’d spent so many hours in the gymnasium working on both my fencing and hand to hand boxing that my father put me in charge of the Royal Bodyguard as soon as possible. I was probably the only one in the world who enjoyed waking up at five in the morning to run laps out in the snow, breathing in the fresh island air, but even Father admitted our guard had never been so well-trained.

Maybe I should go find someone to spar with, but my feet took me in an entirely different direction. Down.

Down to the cellars, where the kitchens resided. Besides the gymnasium, this was my second favorite place in my home, because…well, goddamn I loved food.

All the energy I could expend required fuel, and I was a man who appreciated delicious fare.

And tonight’s had been particularly delicious.

Alisa, the Head Cook, met me at the door to the kitchen, and the old woman’s smile was bright as she bobbed a curtsey. “Yer Highness,” she said. “How can I help ye?”

I glanced around the kitchen at all the bobbing heads. This whole place was filled with women, it seemed like, and they’d all fed me at one time or another.

Hell, some of them had done more than that. The delicate blonde in the corner had let me pleasure her up against the wall out in the courtyard, and those two brunettes—what were their names?—liked to share me.

They were ones I’d even considered inviting back to my chambers in the West Wing, but ultimately had decided the broom cupboard was cozy enough.

Aye, I knew most of them, but tonight their deference and respect wasn’t what I was looking for. I wasn’t in the mood to be reminded that I was a prince. Tonight, I was just a man who liked food.

“The savory pastries at dinner tonight,” I barked. “Who made them?”

Alisa sucked in a startled breath. I knew she was worried something had been wrong with them, but she just nodded towards the back room. “Anna,” she said softly. “Anna made them. She’s working on her dough.”

I stalked across the room, each bobbed curtsey pissing me off more.

My brothers might like their women submissive, but I wasn’t in the mood for that right now. I felt my anger building in my chest and my stomach, felt it in my thighs and my fists. I needed a release, and talking to the damn pastry chef wasn’t going to help.

Who gave a shit what kind of jam she’d used?

Did it really matter?