Red Riding Hood and the Lone Wolfe: Enchanted, #2

By Cheryl Sterling

In the second book in The Enchanted Series, Cheryl Sterling once again follows a commoner in pursuit of a better future and a royal fighting for his place.

Rosewyn lives a precarious existence as village baker on the edge of the Enchanted Forest. Any setback—an illness, a fire—threatens her ability to care for her Grandmother. After both strike, her desperation climbs. When the handsome, newly crowned King lands at her feet, she sees a clear path ahead. Using charm and a little magic, she inflames his desire.

Oliver Wolfe has lived with the secret of his werewolf blood for years. When he returns home from the exile his father imposed, he seizes the opportunity to restore the neglected realm and make a difference. While sweet Rosie eases his nights, a missing treasury and his subjects’ unrest hamper his plans. Then his right to the throne is challenged. With his future dependent on an unreliable witness, and his trial set the night of a full moon, can he trust Rosewyn with his secret?

With the fate of the man she loves weighing on her, Rosewyn must test the limits of the power buried within her. Is it strong enough to break his ancient curse, or will she lose everything?

Red Riding Hood and the Lone Wolfe is an adult fantasy loosely based on enchanting fairy tales. Strong heroines and sexy heroes battle outside forces that threaten their love story.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Cheryl Sterling
• Release date: Oct 7, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386600367

Cheryl Sterling

Cheryl Sterling is an American author of several paranormal and contemporary romance novels and short stories. Cheryl is a co-founder and past president of Grand Rapids Region Writers Group in Grand Rapids, MI. She has conducted several workshops that focused on the writing craft and co-chaired their first “I’ve Always Wanted to Write a Book” regional conference. Her passion is learning and improving her craft, but mostly, she is a teacher. Cheryl currently lives in Phoenix with her husband.

Book preview

Chapter 1

DON'T BE JEALOUS of my taking the throne when you cannot. Eastlocke is not the crown jewel of the continent.

Crown jewel? More like a worthless pebble. Oliver Wolfe frowned at the decay and neglect he'd witnessed in the kingdom since his recall from exile.

He turned from watching the rain and drizzle outside and waited for his cousin's reaction to his goading. Part of him wanted to fight with Murdoch, to argue who had the greater claim—Oliver, son of the eldest brother, or his cousin, born twenty days earlier.

Part of him wanted to knock the bland expression from his face.

You stayed behind to help my father while I received fifteen years of isolation.

You long for the throne I never wanted.

Murdoch, bald at twenty-nine, did not flicker as much as an eyelash. My duty is to the kingdom. I'd hoped—

I died in Annaria? The High King saw your worth and rewarded your service?

What? he asked, bitterness washing over him.

Murdoch raised an eyebrow. I'd hoped you would have made peace with your father.

I have no love or grief for the old bastard. Roused two hours earlier, he'd hastened to his father's bedside, a miserable spider, playing his games, rotting from the core since the moment of his birth. Oliver had refused to sit while his father had coughed blood, struggled for breath, and finally stilled.

King Bartholomew Martinson Zile Wolfe death woke no grief from his only living son.

You will be a better king than he was and will soon set things right.

With an empty treasury? He'd been shocked to learn of the nonexistent funds.

Oliver glanced again at the rain, which had turned to a freezing drizzle. It matched his mood. Do we collect funds from the south, which suffers drought? Or from the border towns full of the fleeing poor? Or from the north, where few live and resent over taxation? Tell me, trusted advisor. Where do I find the money to rebuild the land my father left to waste?

You are a different man than your father, Murdoch said, deftly not answering.

I'd damned well better be. Oliver roamed the small sitting room, the last time he'd be able to do so. Tradition and protocol demanded his installation in the royal bedchamber as soon as the healers removed his father's body.

Another reason to resent his new responsibilities. He'd always hated the room the few times he'd been allowed within. Its drawn draperies cast gloom into the interior; smoke backed up from two chimneys, clogging his lungs, and the smell of rot rose in waves from his father's presence. Only recently had the decay changed from emotional to physical.

Oliver, you can't expect change overnight. Murdoch ran a well-manicured hand over his bald head. Bury you father then—

Cancel it.

What? The burial?

Yes.

Murdoch sputtered, finally at a lost for words, and said, King Bartholomew's subjects will demand a ceremony.

King Bart never did any good for them. Why should they care? They're probably dancing, or will, once they hear the news.

But the Royal Council—

Cancel them as well. Oliver leveled his gaze at his cousin. Power surged through him, one of the few times in his life he'd been allowed to make a decision. Is this what authority did to one?

The Council is a joke, full of old men who grumble about better days. Draw up a list of replacements; I'll look at them after lunch. In the meantime, I'm going to take stock of what I've inherited. He gestured toward the window, which darkened as a blast of rain obscured its surface.

Oliver couldn't wait to leave, to plunge into the weather and have it scour away twenty-nine years of subjugation, of being pushed away from family and duty and . . . belonging.

Murdoch stared at him, shock playing across his face. Emotion rarely caught him off guard; he kept his thoughts well hidden. Oliver, it's raining out.

All the better to mask my movements. The urge to flee grew. Did he run away from or toward his future?

Take a guard, his cousin advised as Oliver gathered a woolen cloak from his wardrobe.

And let everyone know I'm valuable enough to be guarded? They'll know soon enough. Let Prince Oliver roam the forest, he's no threat. Oliver fastened the cloak.

I won't be long, but, by the Goddess, I have to escape these walls.

Murdoch's pale green eyes studied his face then he nodded. As you wish. I'll have the replacement Council member names on your desk by noon.

Good man. Oliver turned away but stopped at his next words.

Sire, when do you plan to tell the Queen?

Ice to match the outside temperature slid down Oliver's spine. He straightened, his hand fisting at his side.

It doesn't matter. She lost touch with reality long ago.

Bile rose in the back of his mouth. Oliver pushed it down. He'd not forgotten the Queen. How could he? The woman meant everything but nothing to him, and he'd long ago reconciled to the fact. What did one more person not loving him mean in his life?

I'll be back by noon, he called over his shoulder as he crossed the threshold. I expect a hearty meal and a list of able men.

He left before any more despair pierced his heart. He'd had enough for a lifetime.

• • •

Sala, his father's stallion, chafed at Oliver's presence on his back. The creature, a big, black brute, resented any touch but his late master's. All the more reason to ride him, Oliver decided. He'd tame the royal mount then old and new Council member, then any other troublemakers and doubters.

His own doubts filled him a thousand times over, magnified since the moment he'd been recalled to the family home and learned of his father's illness. Until then, he'd played the exiled son and unwanted heir. King Bart, the Invincible, would never die, or at least delay his death until after his son's, leaving the more qualified Murdoch as his successor.

He should be king instead of me. Unbidden memories of his older brother, Miles Bartholomew, pounded Oliver so hard he grasped the saddle's pommel to keep from slipping off.

He is the rightful heir. Why did he die?

Miles had drowned on a hot summer day, the sun blazing as Oliver rested nearby. He'd never known what felled the strong swimmer and future heir.

It should have been me. I should have saved him. He would know how to be a better king than I.

Oliver's blind eyes sought distraction. He'd never forgiven himself, but looking back changed nothing.

He kicked Sala's side and spurred the stallion into a gallop. The rain had lessened to a fine mist, but the ground remained a muddy mess. Water beaded on his cloak and soaked into the horse's mane.

At the top of a hill, within sight of the castle but a league away, Oliver halted. Dawn's faint light struggled behind storm clouds. Sheets of rain drifted behind the gray castle walls, obscuring the Blue Mountains in the background.

Eastlocke. An unexpected pride filled him. His family had reigned for five generations since Magnus the Wise separated the land from Enchanted to settle a dispute between his sons. Tens of thousands looked to him for leadership, depended on him to fill their stomachs, and keep them from war and poverty.

The time had finally arrived for him to take charge of his life instead of being a victim to it. To act instead of react. To make a difference.

They need me. No one had ever needed him before. The unaccustomed feeling stripped him bare.

Elated, Oliver urged his mount toward a creek at the bottom of the hill. He'd jumped its narrow confines hundreds of times with whatever horse he could steal from his father's stables. Jumping it now symbolized a metaphorical release from the past and his father's hold.

I'll show him what I can do.

His goal rushed at him as Sala galloped downward.

At the bottom, the horse balked.

Oliver sailed over his head.

Chapter 2

ROSEWYN BAKER stopped on the creek side path when she heard hoofbeats pounding down the hill. She twisted in its direction. What fool hurried this early in the morning? And in the rain?

A huge beast galloped through the shrubs, a rider hunched over it, his hat bouncing free. Man and creature hurled toward the creek swollen from the rains. Then the horse crashed to a halt short of the bank.

The man flew over its head, flipped and landed on his back. Water erupted into the already wet air. A startled bird cried and flew away.

Oh. Rosewyn's hand pressed against her cheek.

'Tis not something ye see every day.

She lifted her skirts and hopped across stepping-stones and tufts of dead grass to reach his side. She gasped as icy water entered her boots, finding every hole and thin spot to soak her woolen stockings.

The man did not move.

What if he be dead? Good and proper that would do me if he died.

She cast an accusing glance at the horse that browsed the creek side for a bit of green.

Mister. Mister, be ye all right? Rosewyn shook the man's shoulder. She'd not seen him afore.

He was a great stick of a man, all sprawled in the rushing water. None of his limbs seemed broken, so she grabbed hold of his coat and dragged him to higher ground. He weighed no more than her gran, her being eighty-four and all and a bit wobbly on her legs.

Hands on hips, Rosewyn stood over the man. What to do? Catch the black beastie and ride him to the village? Walk there in wet boots? Who was the idiot, anyway? Galloping a horse downhill and expecting it to jump a creek too wide?

The man groaned and twitched, and his left hand thumped the ground like a dog's.

Goddess above, but you're lucky, she cried down to him. What be ye thinking?

He'd lost his hat, and dark curls hid his eyes as he groaned again and tried to sit.

Rosewyn made a tsk sound like she might have to one of her older brothers and knelt to help the wet fool.

Ye be all right. Nothing a fire and a drink won't mend. She whipped off her red cloak to cover him. Here. I'll be wanting that back. Don't think you can steal from Rosewyn Baker.

Is that your name? He sat with her help and drew the wool closer. I'm in your debt. He scraped his hand across his mouth, leaving a smudge of black mud.

She rocked back on her heels. He's spoken in a cultured accent, nothing like her rough one. Was he gentlefolk then, one up by the castle? Must be, from the look of his elegant clothes and his use of such a fine animal.

Are ye hurt? Mockery dropped from her voice. If he was from Eastlocke, a bad word from him could ruin her.

I've been better. The man shook his head then stared at her with deep brown eyes. Why is your hair so short?

Rosewyn clapped a hand to her shorn locks, usually hidden by the cloak's hood. Fever two months past. Healer Perth cut it off to release the sickness. Fool. She spat on the ground then remembered his social standing. A man of her class wouldn't think anything of swearing or spitting, but one of his? She'd best be on good behavior.

Sorry, sir. Sorry.

Don't be. No doubt the man was a fool to cut such beautiful hair. A moment later his fingers sifted through it.

Rosewyn stiffened. She knew men, she did, and he had no right touching her, gentleman or not.

You'd best keep your hands to yerself. She touched the knife handle sheathed at her waist.

His brown gaze followed the movement, and he dropped his hand. No offense, Mistress Baker.

She didn't correct the title. Let him think she had a great, jealous, brutish husband at home, one who'd knock about anyone who hurt his wife.

None taken. Let me help you up and best you be on the way. The path led from Chissen village to Wintock, with no one about at dawn.

The man grabbed her hand, and she pulled him up. He stood a head above her, so thin she cried out, Look at you. Ye need to eat more.

He glanced down. Mud covered him, ruining his fine clothes.

I am a mess, aren't I? He returned the cloak and sketched a bow. Many thanks, mistress. He reached into a pocket, but came away with an empty palm. I have no coin for you.

Rosewyn's eyes rounded. I'd not take it. Can I not help those who do need it?

Again, my apologies. He leaned down and picked up the basket she'd dropped when he fell. His eyebrows rose as he saw the bread and rolls inside, wrapped in flannel. You're a baker?

Did he insult her craft? Rosewyn straightened, and ice entered her voice. I'm the baker of Chissen Village. As had been her mam, rest her soul, and her gran afore her.

I've not had decent bread in weeks. His eyes looked like a puppy's, big and begging.

Take what you wish. Her heart pounded. Could he hint any heavier? Did she have a choice? Refuse a gentleman? She'd have to scurry home and bake anew for her customers. Pray Goddess they'd understand.

I've upset you again. He returned her basket. Can I not say anything without offending you?

You can say goodbye. The words ran from her mouth before she could catch them.

Fair enough. I've intruded on your day too long. He walked to the bush where his hat had landed and slapped the ridiculous looking thing on his head. A moment later he'd captured the horse and swung onto its back.

He stared down at her, amusement curling the corner of his mouth. If you've a loaf or two to spare one day, bring them to the castle kitchens. If they're any good, I'll guarantee you a job.

If they're any good? Rosewyn ruffled at the insult. She pulled two oat loaves from the basket and gave them to him.  Why wait? Take one now and see for yourself. They'll be the best ye've ever eaten. Who be you to guarantee me a job? Could the word of a guest hold such weight?

A splinter of hope broke through the clouds. Did he have the power to make such decisions? Oh, by the Goddess, she'd treated him wrong if he did.

The man secured the loaves in the crook of his arm, gathered the reins, and turned the beast. He glanced over his shoulder. King Oliver Cox the First.

He spurred the horse and rode up the hill.

King Oliver?

• • •

Heart in her throat, Rosewyn hurried with her deliveries and bustled home to the cottage she shared with her gran. She'd been a fool to talk so fresh to the new King, and a thousand outcomes rushed through her brain.

Maybe if I don't think of it, 'twil all come to naught. She dropped her empty basket on the table and mud-stained cloak over a chair before hurrying to the fireplace to add more wood.

Have you heard? King Bart's dead, Gran asked from her fireside chair. Her arm waved in the air to get her granddaughter's attention.

Charlie in Wintock told me, Rosewyn said, omitting the conversation with her King. She burned in embarrassment at their encounter. He'd have her head, sure and enough, for being so rude.

Should she run? Where to and with what money? Baking paid for her and Gran to live, with naught to spare.

What will happen to Gran with me gone? Billy's got the new babe on the way, and Davie has three already. Of course, there's always Colin, but he's worthless. Oh, she'll starve.

Rosewyn glanced around the bare, one room cottage as if a sack of gold would magically appear. Panic edged closer.

Sit, sit, Gran urged. You look a fright. What have you heard? King Bart dead! I never thought I'd see the day.

Rosewyn dropped into a chair, jumping at the sound it made on the pine floor. Charlie heard from Mick, whose girl works in the kitchen. The King died two in the night. His son, she stopped, remembering his dark wavy hair and intense eyes. Rosewyn gulped and continued. They called him back when the King took a turn. He got here in time.

Maybe he'd be too busy to remember her. Maybe two loaves of bread was bribe enough for her life.

King Oliver! I remember the day he was born. Bells rang. Oh, not so many as for his brother two years 'afore. Sad day when he died. And now Oliver is King. Gran reached for her cup and spat into it. Goddess give him strength.

Everyone knew the problems in the south and at the borders. Goddess keep his thoughts there and away from me.

Gran leaned forward, looked over her shoulder as if someone else was in the room, and whispered, They say he's not to be buried.

Who? King Bart? Who'd ever heard such a thing?

Gran nodded, the few wisps of white hair moving to their own rhythm. Prince—King Oliver refuses to bury his father. Makes me think the old king's not dead. Has anyone seen the body? 'Twould be a trick.

Rosewyn remembered her encounter with the heir. Was he the type to trick his people to take power? What did she know of him other than rumor, he wasn't a good horseman, and he liked bread?

Nonsense.

'Tis a cursed family, Gran said, shaking her head.

Cursed? Rosewyn straightened. She'd never heard this story 'afore.

Oh, aye. Bad magic. 'Tis said Magnus the Wise had it and it skips here and about through the family. King Bart had it. Best stay out of their sight.

Rosewyn's hand flew to her breast. Dare she tell Gran of the new king's request to work in the royal kitchens? If he liked her baking, which he would, and if he remembered his words—

No, she'd best be quiet.

I'll not meet them, she said, her heart hammering against her bones. She prayed again to the Goddess.

They say the magic takes them in the night. Gran wrapped a blanket tighter around her legs. She shuddered. Them that know saw King Bart as a wolf once, running in the forest with his pack.

Rosewyn stood. Nonsense. It's a tale told. Their name is Wolfe, 'tis normal to make up stories.

Gran shook her finger at her. Truth lies in all tales, girl. Mark my words.

The only truth in your words is that wolves do run in the forest. I doubt any of them be the king. Now, how about a bite to eat? Thoughts of food always distracted the old woman.

Mark my words. Gran repeated.

Chapter 3

OLIVER'S MOOD had improved since he'd left the castle. His encounter with the village girl—Rosewyn—had affected him in surprising ways.

He sat at one end of a twenty-foot table, his the only place setting. The baker's bread waited in a basket to his left. He intended to devour both loaves.

Dieter, the footman, who'd served for as long as Oliver could remember, looked aghast at the coarse bread, but said nothing. Oliver considered raising his wages.

As soon as I investigate the near-zero balance in the treasury. Where had all the taxes gone? Not to upkeep the castle. It smelled of damp and wet ashes. More than one tapestry hung crooked, and mice danced across the great hall as if attending a party.

Dieter? Oliver asked as he carved the heel off one loaf.

Yes, your Majesty?

Do we employ a rat-catcher? In his youth, before his father had exiled him, there'd been two rat-catchers, twin boys, sons of the stable master.

No, Sire, we do not. Dieter's sour face displayed his disapproval of the occupation and the need for it.

What about cats? Are there any around? Rosewyn reminded him of one. Her short brown hair had been as soft as a cat's, and she'd spat at him like an angry feline.

He grinned at the memory. Did anyone else in the realm dare accuse him of stealing a common riding hood? Or spit at the ground in disgust? Or tell her king to be on his way? She'd impressed him.

Dieter cleared his throat. A cat, your Majesty?

Oliver spread an enormous quality of butter on his bread. Or cats. We seem to have a mouse problem.

Dieter's face looked like a fish's. He floundered as if he'd never heard of mice or cats. It was one of the few times Oliver had seen him at a loss for words.

Never mind. Here comes Murdoch. Why have a Royal Advisor if not to advise of mice and cats?

Oliver waved the other man to a seat near him then turned his attention to the baker's bread.

He bit into the heel. The outside crunched; the butter slid over teeth and tongue; and the inside—soft and nutty, and the most delicious thing he'd eaten in his life.

Oliver closed his eyes in joy. Praise the Goddess, he muttered.

She shall work for me to the end of her days.

The Goddess must dine on this each meal. He cut off another piece and handed it to his advisor. Murdoch, you cannot die until you have tasted this food of the gods.

Murdoch took the bread from him and held it up for inspection. Bread?

Oh, no. Not just bread. Oh, I'll have her in the kitchen by nightfall. He tore a piece from the other loaf, curious if it differed.

Murdoch bit into his piece then set it aside. It is adequate. Sire, I have the names you requested. He held up a parchment sheet.

Adequate? Oliver spoke around his bite, which was more delicious than the first. I'll eat it if you don't want it. No, I'll eat it whether you want it or not. Good bread should not be wasted on a man with no taste.

He ate his piece and Murdoch's before stopping and eyeing his advisor, who clearly wanted to abandon the subject of baked goods.

Oliver spread his hands wide. I see it is always business with you. Show me your list.

He read the names, but they meant nothing other than the men's surnames, which he recognized from his childhood.

All good men? His raised eyebrow conveyed his ignorance, forced by a fifteen-year exile. Damn his father for not training him for the job he was born to do.

Progressive-thinking men. I assume that is what you want for the new regime? Murdoch moved aside the bread to further smooth the paper on the table.

What I want is for the realm to enjoy the same prosperity as it did during our grandfather's time. I realize the drought has affected the southern region, but the taxes collected everywhere else should offset the deficit. Oliver turned his attention to the plate Dieter had filled earlier.

Beef again? He sighed and cut into it. Is there no fish?

I'll have John Hunter go to the royal lake. Murdoch tapped the parchment. The kingdom has expenses.

It always does. I want a full accounting after we settle the new council in place. I've yet to know where the taxes go. Not to cats.

Cats? Murdoch stared at him much as Dieter had done.

Mousers. Oliver gestured to the dining hall floor. We have an abundance of mice. See to it we have a bevy of mousers installed. Is that the right word? Bevy? Herd?

Murdoch touched his beard, which included a trim mustache, but not sideburns. I believe the word is 'clowder', Sire.

Right. Install a clowder of cats. Today we tackle the mouse problem, tomorrow we battle the old council. Oliver's confidence had grown since his ride and meeting the beautiful village baker. He would take on the old council, the empty treasury, and perhaps a neighboring kingdom to get on her good side.

He'd never met anyone so proud and independent.

It mattered little if she had a husband.

Murdoch's hand covered the parchment.

Have you reconsidered the arrangements for King Bartholomew?

Oliver's thoughts darkened at the mention of his father. "Don't ruin my