Maythorn's Wish (The Fey Quartet Book 1) (6 page)

Her question answered itself: because there were possibilities between her and Ren now that had never existed before. Wondrous, terrifying, life-changing possibilities. The sort of possibilities that choked one’s breath and paralyzed one’s tongue and rendered one mute.

The sort of possibilities that one had to seize with both hands and hold on to with all one’s might.

Next time the dance partners me with Ren, I’ll say something,
Maythorn vowed. Something about the bonfire. Something about the dance. About the village. About Gavain. About the coming summer and the spring that had passed. Something. Anything.

All too soon she found herself opposite Ren again. At the touch of his hands, the words she’d chosen dried on her tongue. Such large, competent hands. The hands of a blacksmith, strong and callused, marked with tiny burn scars. Hands that could gentle horses, and beat iron into ploughshares, and craft delicate cloak pins. Hands that could break jaws, if Ren chose to, or knock people senseless. But Ren never chose that.

No. That was wrong.

Ren
had
struck another person once. All Dapple Bend could remember that day: the day Swithin Broadback’s horse had gone lame. Swithin had whipped the poor beast, trying to get it to move, and Ren had emerged from his smithy and torn the whip from Swithin’s grip and given him such a hiding that he’d stayed abed for a week. Not long after that, Swithin Broadback had slunk away from Dapple Bend. Word was, he’d left the vale. Certainly, no one had seen him again. And, equally certain, no one missed him; Swithin’s temper had been as foul as his back had been broad.

The dance moved her on again. Maythorn found herself opposite Alard Mason once more. Her tongue unfroze. She was able to speak again.
Fool!
she told herself.
Lackwit!

But Ren hadn’t spoken either. There’d been a frown of concentration on his brow, as if he’d been trying to remember the steps.

It’s not only me who’s struck dumb by this.

This realization gave Maythorn more confidence. When the dance brought them together again, she smiled and said, “Such a fearsome bonfire! It roars like a lion.”

Ren’s lips twitched upwards. “Have you heard a lion roar?”

“No,” Maythorn admitted. “But I’m sure it must sound like this. Loud and fierce and bellowing.”

“Mayhap you’re right.” Ren’s eyes crinkled at the corners in a smile.

Maythorn’s breath caught in her throat. That smile. Those eyes.

She swallowed, and foundered for another comment: “I look forward to summer,” and then mentally castigated herself.
What a stupid thing to say!

But Ren didn’t seem to think it stupid. “So do I,” he said, and the smile faded from his face, leaving it utterly serious. “I think this summer will surpass all that have come before it.”

Something in his tone, something in his gaze, caught her like a fish on a hook. Her awareness of the bonfire and the other dancers faded. The crackle of flames, the boisterous music, the laughter and voices, dwindled and vanished. The world narrowed to Ren. Ren and his serious, intent, gray-green eyes. Maythorn almost stumbled as her feet lost their place in the dance—and then Ren passed her to Alard Mason again, and the moment was gone.

THEY DANCED AND
feasted, danced and feasted. Most of the flowers she’d threaded into her hair were gone, though some still clung on precariously. Towards midnight, Maythorn requested the hand of six-year-old Gavain: “May I have this dance, kind sir?”

It was a rollicking dance around the bonfire, skipping and whooping. Gavain was shrieking with laughter by the end, his eyes bright with tiredness. Maythorn swung him up in her arms. “Let’s dance this next one, too,” she said, and pressed a kiss to his dark, silky hair.

This was a slower dance, the music—lute and pipes—was sweet and haunting and almost sad. Spring farewelled. The next dance would be bright and vigorous, welcoming summer.

Maythorn rested her cheek on Gavain’s hair. She’d danced with Ivy like this, and Hazel. Young and warm in her arms. But she’d never been able to dance with Larkspur.

Grief touched her heart—grief for all the things she’d not been able to do with her children—and then the grief dissolved and her heart held only joy in this moment. Gavain’s warmth and vitality. His trust. His arms around her neck, his legs around her waist, his sleepy laughter in her ear. Maythorn kissed his soft, warm cheek and breathed deeply of his child scent.
I love you, Gavain.

By the time the dance ended, Gavain was asleep. Maythorn carried him from the bonfire, to his father. Firelight cast a warm glow over Ren’s face, but his gaze was dark and unfathomable. What was he thinking as he watched them approach?

“He’s asleep,” Maythorn said, in a low voice.

“About time.” Ren gently took his son from her; their hands touched for a second, and then Gavain’s warmth was gone from her arms.

Maythorn watched them go—father and son—and lifted her eyes to the bright stars in the sky overhead. “If it pleases you, merciful gods, let me have this man as a husband and his child as my son,” she whispered.

REN RETURNED A
few minutes later, a mug of ale in each hand. He gave Maythorn one.

“Have you put Gavain to bed?”

Ren nodded.

All the village children would sleep together this night, tumbled like a litter of puppies in Robin Thatcher’s sweet-smelling strawloft. Her own girls had slept thus, many years ago.

Maythorn glanced across at her daughters. They were all watching her.

She looked hastily away, sipped her ale, and almost choked. She was intensely aware of Ren. Intensely aware of her daughters and their silent, smiling approbation.

The village musicians struck up another tune.

“Would you like to dance?” Ren asked.

I would like to live the rest of my life with you.
“Yes,” Maythorn said.

They left their ale on a trestle table and joined the other villagers in a great ring around the bonfire. The music started at a sedate pace, like a horse ambling, and quickened to a trot, then a canter, then a romping gallop. People kicked up their heels and whooped and danced faster. Maythorn’s awkwardness evaporated. The last of the flowers tumbled from her hair. She held on to Ren’s hand and laughed up into his smiling face, and loved him with all her heart.

The dance ended with a great, joyous shout. The musicians laid aside their instruments—lute, pipe, rebec, tambourine, drums—and called for ale. She and Ren stood catching their breath, surrounded by red-faced, gasping dancers. Behind Ren, the bonfire was no longer roaring. The embers made a purring sound.

Ren offered her his arm. Something built between them as they walked back to the trestle table. Maythorn couldn’t name it—a combination of anticipation and hope and expectancy. She felt it in her blood, in her bones. Ren felt it, too. She saw it on his face, felt it humming in his arm.
We both know we’re on the brink of something.

“Are you thirsty?” Ren asked. “Hungry?”

Maythorn shook her head.

“Shall we walk a little?”

Maythorn risked a glance at her daughters. None of them were watching her. “Yes,” she said.

CHAPTER SEVEN

WALK, THEY DID
. But not far. They halted at the bridge that crossed the River Dapple. Ren rested his forearms on the sturdy stone wall and looked down at the dark water. “Will you go back to York?” he asked quietly.

Maythorn’s sense of ease faltered. “York is . . .”
Not my home any longer
. It hadn’t been her home for many years. “York is crowded and noisy and dirty. I don’t want to go back. I want to stay here.” The people she loved most in the world were here. Ivy and Hazel and Larkspur. Ren and Gavain. She looked away from Ren and traced the groove between one block of stone and the next with a fingertip.
No more questions, please. I don’t want to lie to you.

Fabric rustled against stone as Ren straightened and turned to face her. “Maythorn . . .” His voice told her he was about to ask another question.

A sick feeling gathered in Maythorn’s stomach.
Please don’t make me lie to you
. She stood on tiptoe and pulled Ren’s head down and kissed him, pressing her lips softly to his.

For a brief second Ren held absolutely still—and then he pulled her into his heat and kissed her back.

The world seemed to swing dizzyingly sideways. Ren’s kiss wasn’t gentle; it was fierce, almost desperate. His mouth plundered hers, parting her lips, seeking her tongue.

Maythorn nearly lost her balance. She clutched Ren’s arms. She’d initiated this kiss, but Ren was definitely the master of it. One large, strong hand burned at her waist, the other cradled the back of her head, fingers clenched in her hair, and his mouth . . . Merciful gods, his
mouth
.

Whoever would have thought that Ren Blacksmith could kiss like this?

It was no seduction, but something much more urgent. Ren’s mouth demanded participation.
Kiss me,
his lips commanded.
Kiss me,
his tongue cried silently.
Kiss me.

Maythorn needed no urging. She kissed Ren back quite as fiercely as he was kissing her, driven by a desperate, overwhelming desire to possess as much of him as she could. Lips, tongue, teeth.
Mine. All mine
. She lost track of time. Seconds melted into minutes.

Ren’s mouth gentled. His hands eased their strong grip. He broke their kiss. His breath fluttered against her cheek, warm and ragged. “Maythorn, will you please marry me?”

The words flew past Maythorn’s ears like moths in the darkness. It was several seconds before she heard them for what they were.

Marry Ren?

For a long moment she couldn’t breathe. Shock held her utterly still. Marry Ren? Had he said that? Had he
truly
said it?

Ren drew back slightly. “Please marry me,” he said again, and she heard the uncertainty in his voice.
He thinks I hesitate. He thinks I will refuse him.

“Tomorrow,” Maythorn promised vehemently. “I shall marry you as soon as the sun rises in the sky.”

Ren released his breath in a quiet sound like a sigh. He gathered her close. He kissed her brow, her eyelids, her jaw. Feather-light kisses, tender and reverent. Each one was a benediction, a wordless declaration of love. He found her mouth again and delved into it.

Maythorn leaned into the solid warmth of his body. Years, she’d loved Ren. So many years. Year upon year upon year of hopeless, aching, silent love—and now he was holding her, kissing her, wanting to marry her.

She wanted to laugh with joy, cry with joy.
Ren Blacksmith wants to marry me?
With the laughter, with the tears, came a jolt of arousal, intense and unexpected, something she’d not felt for more than twenty years. She suddenly wanted—suddenly
craved
—to have Ren inside her. Her hips rocked against him of their own accord.

Ren’s hips flexed instinctively back, and he tore his mouth from hers and said breathlessly, “Maythorn?”

The craving was deep and powerful, clenching in her belly, in her womb. Maythorn gave in to it, rocking against Ren again, this time deliberately.

Ren uttered a ragged groan. His body was trembling.

“Please . . .” she whispered.

Ren stood motionless and unyielding for a long, agonizing second—and then he groaned again, deep in his throat, and gathered her in a crushing embrace and kissed her, his mouth hot and urgent. “I am your most obedient servant.” He released her abruptly, took her hand in a strong grip, and strode from the bridge.

Maythorn half-ran to keep up. Eagerness mounted in her blood with each step. She imagined peeling off Ren’s clothing, imagined exploring his body, imagined touching him, tasting him, making him cry out with pleasure. They passed the dark shapes of thatched cottages, henhouses, stables. The glow of the bonfire drew nearer.

He was heading for his cottage, on the other side of the village.

Maythorn’s eagerness shrank in on itself. No one would censure them, not tonight of all nights—the night when spring became summer, a burgeoning night, a night for procreation—but she could imagine the villagers shouting ribald comments as they passed, imagine Hazel grinning and Ivy watching gravely.

Maythorn halted.

Ren’s forward momentum almost jerked her off her feet. He swung round. “What?”

I can’t pass the bonfire
. Maythorn swallowed, and looked around. “Here. The hayloft.”

Ren stood for a moment, panting. “Hayloft?” And then her words must have penetrated his brain, for he turned and tugged her down the pathway to the back of Wensel Redhead’s cottage.

CHAPTER EIGHT

WENSEL HAD A
cart, and two stalls for horses, and above that, a dark and fragrant hayloft. Maythorn scrambled up the ladder. Ren followed, muttered something and climbed back down, and returned a moment later. “Here.” He pushed something at her, a blanket, smelling faintly of horse.

Maythorn spread the blanket on the hay and reached for Ren, pulling him closer. She kissed him—missed his mouth and found his smooth-shaven cheek instead—fumbled at his tunic and kissed him again—found his mouth this time and lost herself for a moment in the texture of his lips, the taste of him—roughly unlaced the tunic and yanked it over his head.

His torso was bared to her, but her eyes were blind in this darkness. Touch would have to suffice. Touch. Taste. Smell. She leaned into Ren and pressed her face against his shoulder and inhaled his scent, opened her mouth and nipped him lightly, tasted the salt on his skin with her tongue, felt the flex of muscle as he pulled away from her.

Maythorn made a noise of protest—and swallowed it as Ren began stripping her. She helped him as best she could, twisting this way and that. Scant seconds passed—and then she was naked, the kirtle and smock tossed away in the darkness.

Ren reached for her, one hand sliding down her arm, clasping her wrist, pulling her close.

“No.” Maythorn slipped free, and groped for his ankle. She yanked first one soft leather boot off, then the other, peeled his hose swiftly and roughly down his legs, and then his braies. She flung the garments away and made a wordless sound of satisfaction. Now they were both naked.