The Tollkeeper (Fairy Tales Behaving Badly) (2 page)

Her blush deepened. “I’m afraid I do not have any coins with me,” she whispered, looking down at the ground, “I had heard of the bridge, but did not know there would be a toll to pay.”

He took in her appearance. Unlike the other villagers her dress was worn and ragged, and she was thinner than she should have been. She had red hair that fell in long tresses down her face, and her brown eyes were tired. He wondered how she had known of the new bridge, but not of the fees required to cross. “You can pay me when you return,” he suggested.

Her lower lip trembled. “We may not have enough to pay you once we return, either. I… we do not have much to sell. The money we hope to earn tonight would only be enough to keep us fed for most of the month, if barely.”

It puzzled him again, for he had thought all the villages were flourishing. Still, the look on her face was real enough, the desperation there sincere. He was willing to overlook a few coins on her behalf. “Go,” he said simply, and threw the gate open. She looked amazed that he would be so willing to do that much for her, and then she smiled.

The Mountain inhaled sharply. Already stunning without, her smile made her even more enchanting. The horse trundled forward, and he watched their caravan rattle into the distance, and remained there long after it had disappeared from view.

They were the first caravan to return that evening as well, and the Mountain unlatched the gate without waiting for her to ring the bell. “I have a few coins,” the girl began hesitantly. Her grandfather was in the same condition he had been in when they left, snoring noisily, and the Mountain suspected he had never woken. “We had not been able to sell as much - there were too many others with better, and I had to sell them at a lesser price. I could….”

But the Mountain waved away her offer. “You do not need to pay me, to cross,” he told her gravely.

She bit her lip. “But I want to pay. I refuse to be beholden to… to anyone.”

She looked so distressed over such a small thing, that he amended his words. “Then pay me twice when you come this way again,” he said, “and your debt will be settled.”

“I promise,” she said, relief plain on her face as she nudged her horse forward.

“Wait,” he said, and she turned back to him, afraid he might change his mind.

“My name is Roland,” he said. “What’s yours?”

She rewarded him with another small, dazzling smile. “Billie,” she said softly, and flicked at the horse’s reins.

The Mountain waited for her for days after that, hoping she would return, but she never did. He regretted that he had not thought to ask her name, had tried to find out more about her from all other villagers that paid their tolls to cross the bridge. But most of them had never seen or heard her before.

It was a grizzled old winemaker that first gave him any indication as to her identity. “You must be talking about old Benit’s granddaughter,” he said thoughtfully. “Gruff, we called him. Fitful old miser, I’m surprised he’s still alive, when most who’d known him’s been dead and gone - and with better health than he! I’ve heard that he’d left his village after his daughter and son-in-law died, but I’ve heard his daughter had a little girl. No one knows where he lives, but I’ve heard he’s taken to the woods ever since. They couldn’t have been living on much, if it were just the two of them. Must have taken advantage of the old bridge being repaired, to try their luck at the fair, though I don’t think they would have grown much on their own.” The old man could provide no other information beyond that.

The Mountain was a patient man, and he waited. The Olyta Fair would take place in less than a month, and with it the slim chance that he would see the beautiful girl again.

When that night came, the Mountain did not return to his stone house when the last of the caravans had departed for the fair, but instead remained by the gate, watching the road for signs of that small wagon. His heart lifted when he heard that familiar rattle of wheels, and saw the lean horse approach.

The girl had tried to make herself more presentable this time, though her clothes were still old and worn. A frayed shawl hung over her shoulders, and she wore a heavy woolen gown. She no longer looked frightened or nervous when she saw him. This time, he noticed, she was alone.

“I have a few coins,” she began, though the look on her face told him she could not afford to part with them.

“No charge, milady,” the Mountain said, and swung open the gate.

“But you promised I could pay,” she protested.

“Only if you earn enough at the fair,” he said sternly, “and after you return.” She had no choice but to accept, guiding the wagon across the bridge and out into the night. But the relieved look on her face was priceless, and her shy, glowing smile warmed his insides. He wanted to ask her more questions, but decided there would be more time to do so later, once she had sold what little produce she had.

As before, she was the first to return that night, and he took his time unlatching the gate for her. “Your grandfather did not go with you tonight,” he said.

She shook her head, her brown eyes sorrowful. The words spilled out of her, like an avalanche. “He has been sick these last few days. Everything I earned tonight is to buy his medicine. There is a man at Barton’s Common who sells them, but if this continues, I will not be able to…”

She stopped, looking back at him, alarm in her voice. “How did you know he was my grandfather?”

Silently, he cursed his tongue. “I had asked about you, but few people knew who you were.”

“But why?” Astonishment was clear on her face.

“Because I was worried. About you.”

“I…” she looked down at the ground, then back at him. “Thank you,” she said softly, “We have only just met, but no one has ever been kinder to me than you have. But,” And now she drew herself up, her spine rigid, “I will pay you back. As soon as my grandfather is well again, I promise I will pay you back, and with it all the interest I owe. Next month, when I come for the fair again, I swear to honor that bargain. I have always paid my way before, however little we have had, and I will not stop now.” She stopped, embarrassed that she had said too much. Hurriedly, she whipped at the horse’s reins, and the mare leaped forward before he could stop her, small clouds of dust marking their departure.

He could not run fast enough to reach the horse, and the Mountain had to stifle a surge of impatience, of anger at himself for frightening her. He would approach her more gently next time, he thought, calm her down before he would ask her questions.

She was sweet and shy and fey, and the Mountain wanted her. But he had never taken a girl against her will before, and so he pushed down that sudden burst of desire.

For the first time in months, he missed having a woman in his bed. In the dead of night he would fist himself furiously, jerking his hand up and down his shaft until he spilled his seed, with thoughts of the beautiful red-haired girl haunting his vision. It did not stop his desire for her, but it satiated his physical needs for the moment.

He had traveled to Barton’s Common and made his own inquiries, but could find no clear answer. The doctor who had sold her the medicine had merely assumed she belonged to another nearby village. She had paid in full, and he had asked no questions.

On the third month it rained without remorse. It was not bad enough to flood the large river, but fewer people traveled out of the villages most nights, keeping to their houses whenever possible. It rained during the night of the Olyta Fair, and there were fewer caravans passing through. The Mountain himself remained inside his stone house, certain that his beautiful redhead would not risk the storm to come. As before, whenever thoughts of her entered his head, he reached down to grasp his thick cock, began to jerk himself furiously, seeking to appease his lust.

He was mistaken. He heard the jangle of bells and groaned. He was not on the verge of spending yet, but he was hard and throbbing, impatient for satisfaction. Still, a job was a job. He braced himself against the cold wind outside, walked up the stone steps to unlatch the gate. If he was fast enough, he could return quickly, and finish what he started.

The scrawny horse greeted him with a small neigh, and his breathing quickened at the sight of the young girl, sitting upright in her little wagon. He was alarmed by the pallor in her face, and she had lost some noticeable weight. Her red hair was pulled back from her face, tied in a short bun, which only drew attention to her thinness.

To his surprise, she climbed down to greet him, though he had already unlocked the gate to let her pass. “I have come to repay what I owe you,” she whispered, and the tremors in her voice was not caused by the winds around them, or by the steady rain. “You see, my grandfather died last week, and I….”

She swayed, and the Mountain caught her in his arms. It was his first time touching her. She felt soft and frail, and he wanted to protect her, to carry her down to his little house, to keep her warm and loved. But his cock was still hard, straining against his breeches, and he knew that if he let her into his stone house he would soon give in to his dark desires. She would be on her back, and he would be pushing his thickness into her sweet little body.

She melted into his chest, relaxing into the bulkiness of him, rather than pushing him away. “Tonight will be the last time I go to the fair,” she whispered against his chest. “Without Grandfather, I cannot harvest the crops we have alone. So I will leave for Olyta and sell what I can. But when I return, I would like to settle all my accounts with you.”

The Mountain swallowed. He had decided months ago that he would never ask her for payment, but he knew in what few meetings they shared that her stubbornness, her desire for independence, was just as strong as his was. The idea that this may be the last time he would see her was nearly unbearable. “A kiss,” he dared to say against her hair, before he could stop himself.

“What?” She took a step back, searched his face.

“A kiss,” he said again, dreading her answer. “One kiss, after which you will owe me nothing.”

She did not draw closer, but neither did she move away. The Mountain waited, sure that she would reject him, would run from this fearful-looking stranger who had dared to ask so much of her.

But then she moved, and laid a hand across his massive chest. That movement sent white-hot fire lancing through his groin, even as he watched her tilt her face up toward his in acceptance.

He had intended for the kiss to be gentle. His mouth touched hers, softer than he thought he ever could; aware that one wrong move could have her hating him forever. But she melted easily enough into his embrace, and her lips met his shyly, a heady mix of cautious and welcoming.

Despite his misgivings he deepened the kiss, coaxing her lips apart with his, so he could sample the taste of her, to slowly explore her sweet depths. A small shudder ran through her body, and her moan was louder, needy. But it was when she touched her tongue to his own - bold enough to explore him just as much as he was exploring her, for all her shyness - and that proved to be his undoing.

He crushed her to him, and his tongue plundered, ignoring her swift gasp. He lifted her so that her feet dangled in the air, that she had to cling to him for balance, even as he ran quick kisses up her jawline, her cheek, her temple, before returning to the sweetness of her lips. His fingers threaded through her loose locks until they came to rest at the nape of her neck, holding her in place. If he had expected her to pull away then, he was wrong as well. Her tongue slid eagerly against his, sucked his as he thrusted into her mouth unabashedly.

His hips ground against her, his massive length hard against her waist. She had no other family now, he thought, no one else to protect her or hear her cries if he were to take her. She was so small and fragile, and it would take no effort at all to lift her higher, to lift her skirts and….

With one final effort, he tore his mouth away from hers. It was he who pushed her away, the girl swaying on her feet again but staying upright. With a harsh sound, he turned away, disgusted at himself and what he had considered doing. He was not a good man, but he was not this, either.

“Leave,” he said hoarsely. She was breathing hard, staring at him with wide eyes. Strangely enough, she did not look terrified of him at all. “Go!” He said, with more vehemence than he wanted to, and she took a step back, her expression hurt as she climbed back onto the wagon. The Mountain watched her leave without another word.

It was with a heavy heart that he returned to the river banks, still hard. Outside the house, in the rain, he stood, jerking furiously and coming with gritted teeth, more out of the need to ease the physical needs of his cock than from any burning desire or lust. He lost her, he thought. She would never see him again. If he searched for her, gave her money to help her, would she refuse him?

Yes, he thought. She would never accept charity, and she might despise him more for it.

He held his breath each time the caravans arrived to cross back into th villages, but his red-haired girl was not among those who returned. He wanted to apologize, was prepared to let her pass without paying the toll for as long as she lived, if she would only forgive him.

As time went by and she did not appear, the guilt turned into worry. Had something happened to her? Was she lying hurt by the roadside? The rains had made the roads slippery, he knew, and neither her horse nor her wagon were in any condition to brave the weather, for the rains had began to increase.