Maythorn's Wish (The Fey Quartet Book 1) (7 page)

She heard Ren’s breathing in the darkness—harsh, ragged—and heard her own panted breaths.

“Maythorn . . .” he whispered, and his hand found hers.

This time she didn’t slip free, but let Ren pull her to him. His hand slid up her arm, cupped the nape of her neck, drew her closer for a deep, fierce kiss. His other hand found her waist—those long, strong fingers burned against her skin—caressed her hip, slid up her ribcage to one breast.

Pleasure ignited inside her, like a smoldering ember abruptly bursting into flame. So long since she’d been touched like this. Too long. Maythorn pressed herself eagerly closer. Ren’s erection prodded her belly, so hot it should brand her skin, making arousal jolt through her, making her gasp into his mouth. One large, callused hand slid down her back to cup her buttocks and pull her even closer. Another jolt of arousal scorched through her. Maythorn clutched his arms, her fingers digging in to the slabs of muscle, and kissed him more fiercely, her tongue clashing with his.

Urgency built between them until she was almost mad with it. Maythorn tore her mouth from Ren’s, begged, “Now, please,” and pulled him down with her.

Ren settled himself between her thighs. Maythorn arched her back, pressing as close to him as she could. She was on fire, frantic with need. Ren’s cock burned at the entrance to her body—and then he slid into her in a long, vigorous thrust that made her cry out with pleasure.

Ren froze, buried deeply inside her. “Am I hurting you?” His voice was hoarse, strained, dismayed. She felt him trembling, felt the immense control it took him to hold still.

“No,” Maythorn gasped. “Don’t stop. Merciful gods, don’t stop!”

Ren obeyed, withdrawing, thrusting even deeper. Their coupling became urgent, almost frenzied. Heat grew between them, a conflagration, an inferno. The pleasure, when it came, was so intense that Maythorn nearly fainted from it. It rocked through her like a thunderclap. She heard Ren cry out, felt his huge body spasm, felt his cock surge inside her as he spilled his seed.

Ren’s weight came close to crushing her, before he groaned and rolled to one side. For a long moment, they lay panting, then Ren pulled her close, tucking her into his body, holding her.

Gradually their breathing slowed. The scorching heat between them cooled to a pleasant warmth.

One of Ren’s hands lay on her hip. Maythorn covered it with her own hand, lacing her fingers between his.
He has asked me to marry him.

The thought gave her pause. Ren wasn’t rash; he considered his choices, made sensible decisions. To offer marriage to a woman he’d only just met . . . there was nothing sensible about that. Nothing prudent. It was impulsive, reckless, foolhardy. It invited disaster.

There could only be one reason why a mature, sensible, prudent man would make such an offer: he’d fallen in love with her.

So fast?

It seemed impossible—unless Ren had sensed the bond they’d built over years of friendship? Sensed it, and acted on it without understanding why. Allowed instinct to rule, and not caution.

Ren’s fingers flexed in hers. “Are you sure I didn’t hurt you?” His voice was low, his breath ruffling her hair. “I’m usually . . . more restrained.”

Maythorn tightened her grip on his hand. “You didn’t hurt me at all.”

The first time she’d lain with her husband, it had hurt. For all Gyles’s careful tenderness, that coupling had been awkward and painful. Not so, with Ren. Tonight had been wondrous.

Gyles . . . Memory gave her a glimpse of her dead husband’s face: the black hair, the brown eyes. She waited for a pang of grief—grief for the man she’d married and the man he’d become—but felt nothing. Gyles was so long ago. Twenty-one years since he drowned—and even longer since she’d lain with him, full to bursting as she’d been with Larkspur. Memory of him didn’t hurt now that she had her youth back again—and Ren warm alongside her.

Maythorn released Ren’s hand and shifted, turning to face him in the darkness. “I think we both needed that.”

“It’s a long time since my wife died,” Ren admitted.

Maythorn knew precisely how long: two and a half years. She could remember the exact morning Maud had died, remember Ren’s pale-faced, silent grief and little Gavain’s bewilderment.
My heart broke for you both, that day
.

She reached out in the darkness and found his chest, laid her hand over his heart and felt it beat beneath her palm, slow and steady
. I have loved you such a very long time
.

She lifted her hand and pressed her lips where it had lain, above his heart. Kissed him once, twice, thrice. He smelled of woodsmoke and fresh sweat and something intensely and wonderfully male.
I could get drunk on Ren’s taste, on his scent.

Hay rustled beneath the blanket as Ren stirred. His hand stroked down her back, idled across her buttocks, caressed her hip.

Maythorn exhaled a low, sighing breath of pleasure. She found Ren’s nipple, kissed it, licked it, nipped it.

“Again?” Ren whispered. His fingertips trailed lightly back across her buttocks, tickling.

“Again,” Maythorn agreed.

This time they took it leisurely, tasting and teasing, learning what gave each other pleasure. Time flowed as slowly as warm honey. Maythorn’s senses were overwhelmed by the delicious friction of Ren’s callused hands on her skin, the sheer size of his body, his heat, the taste of his kisses, the intoxicating scent of his skin.

Their explorations climaxed in a long, slow coupling that crested in a wave of intense, rippling pleasure that seemed to linger endlessly. Finally, the ripples faded. Maythorn lay dazed, filled with a delicious lassitude. Ren rolled his weight off her and tucked her in to his side, one arm warm and strong and possessive around her.

They lay together quietly. Maythorn’s body still tingled with the aftermath of their lovemaking. She slid her fingers around Ren’s wrist and felt the throb of his pulse.
My heart used to ache whenever I saw you.

That ache had been a secret she’d kept hidden for more than a decade. A secret she’d concealed from everyone—her daughters, Ren, the villagers. A secret she’d tried to hide even from herself, hoping that if she could just ignore it long enough, bury it deep enough, it would go away.

It had seemed such a dark, shameful thing—to love a man younger than herself, a man who was married—but now she had another secret. A secret even darker and more shameful.

The deep, warm contentment of being in Ren’s arms evaporated. Guilt squirmed beneath her breastbone.

What she did to Ren was a terrible and profound deception, a betrayal of trust. She’d tricked him into coupling with her. If he knew who she truly was, he’d push her from him with revulsion.

Maythorn squeezed her eyes shut.
I am not Widow Miller,
she told herself firmly.
I am Maythorn. I am young. I am whole. I am worthy to be Ren’s wife
.

But in her heart, she knew she was still Widow Miller—and that what she was doing was wrong.

Maythorn opened her eyes and stared into the darkness. She felt guilt burgeoning inside her, putting out tiny, creeping roots. She imagined pale tendrils worming around her heart, coiling up each rib.

She shoved the image aside and nestled closer to Ren.
I am Maythorn of York. I am worthy to be Ren’s wife
. She slid her fingers up Ren’s arm, trying to ignore the guilt, but the guilt refused to be ignored. It wriggled and grew inside her like the blind, white roots of a weed. Was it going to be with her for the rest of her life? Tainting everything? And if it was, wasn’t that what she deserved for lying to Ren?

Maythorn shifted, rolling to face him, and laid her hand on his chest. Such a solid chest, such thick slabs of muscle. She traced his pectorals, ran her fingertips down to his navel and back up, circled first one nipple, then the other, light and tickling, making his sweat-damp skin quiver. Down to his navel again, and then lower, across his taut, flat abdomen. The muscles trembled faintly beneath her touch.

Maythorn slid her fingers lower, combed them through the nest of hair at Ren’s groin and cupped his hot, heavy balls in her hand. She stroked the thick length of his quiescent cock. No, not entirely quiescent. His cock stirred at her touch. Maythorn gave a low hum of satisfaction in her throat, and stroked him again, felt him stir again.

Her guilt was fading, subsumed by other emotions: love for Ren, pleasure that she was giving
him
pleasure. She bent her head and kissed the crest of Ren’s cock, smelled the musk of their lovemaking, licked lightly.

Ren’s whole body twitched. He groaned, deep in his chest, and said her name, his tone half-protesting, half-pleading, “Maythorn . . .”

Maythorn laughed, a light, delighted sound, and bent herself more fully to her task, teasing Ren’s cock with her fingertips and her tongue, learning the contours and shape of him, learning the taste. She drew him into her mouth and sucked—felt Ren’s body jerk, heard him groan again—and sucked more strongly.

It was decades since she’d last done this, but she hadn’t forgotten the skill, hadn’t forgotten the rhythm. Delicious minutes passed. Her guilt was gone, forgotten about. Ren’s cock was hot and hard, straining in her hands, in her mouth. Maythorn sucked more strongly. She wanted to know what his seed tasted like.

“Enough!” Ren grabbed her shoulders and hauled her up his body. “Ride me.”

She wanted to pleasure him, not herself, but if this was what he wanted, she would give it to him.
Anything and everything,
Maythorn told him silently.
Because I love you
. She spread her legs and straddled him. Ren’s cock surged into her, making her gasp.

He gripped her hips urgently. “Ride me!”

Maythorn rode him, in the darkness, in the hayloft, her eyes squeezed shut. This was another rhythm she hadn’t forgotten. Ecstasy built inside her until she almost burst with it.

Ren’s fingers spasmed on her hips, his seed surged inside her, a groan tore from his throat. His climax triggered her own. Pleasure jolted through her, and then subsided in a slow spiral, like a feather floating to the ground. Ren sighed deeply, and slid his hands up her back, drawing her down to lie on his chest.

For long minutes, they lay bonelessly relaxed. Ren’s cock was soft and warm inside her. Maythorn listened to his heart beating beneath her ear.
I hope we’ve made a child tonight
.

Ren stroked her back and settled his hand at her waist. “We should go back to the bonfire.”

“Yes.” But Maythorn couldn’t bring herself to move. She wanted to stay like this forever: Ren inside her, his heartbeat in her ear, his scent in each breath that she took, the solid heat of his body warming her. And then she thought of her daughters—wondering where she was, perhaps worrying. She sighed, and pushed up to sit.

It took time to locate their clothes in the dark hayloft, and even more time to dress. Maythorn had no doubt that telltale strands of hay clung to her kirtle. She climbed slowly down the ladder. The joy faded. Guilt returned. She felt it in her chest, creeping, squirming, putting out roots.

Ren took her hand and guided her down the path past Wensel Redhead’s cottage.

I will do all in my power to make him happy. Anything and everything. I will comfort him, pleasure him, love him.
But still the guilt persisted. If Ren knew she was Widow Miller, he wouldn’t be holding her hand right now. He wouldn’t have bedded her thrice in the hayloft. He wouldn’t have asked her to marry him.

They walked slowly, silently. Cottages loomed on either side, shaggy thatched shapes in the darkness. Maythorn’s guilt grew with each step, filling stomach and lungs, climbing her throat until she almost gagged with it. At the end of the street, the market square came into view. She saw the glow of the smoldering bonfire and the black figures of dancers, heard music and voices.

Ren halted. “Maythorn . . .”

Maythorn turned to him. He was nothing more than a vague shape in the darkness, but memory filled in his features: the flaxen hair, the gray-green eyes, the honest, open face. Ren Blacksmith. The kindest, truest,
best
man in all Dapple Vale. Love welled painfully inside her, bringing tears to her eyes.

“Maythorn . . .” Ren took both of her hands in his. “Please tell me what happened to you.”

Maythorn’s heart seemed to stop beating. It took several seconds to find her voice. “What do you mean?”

“It’s Faerie magic, isn’t it? They gave you your youth back.”

The blood congealed in her veins.
Ren knows I’m Widow Miller?
Maythorn pulled her hands free.

“Maythorn . . .” Ren reached for her and found her wrist. “Please tell me the truth. We have to trust each other. If we don’t . . .” His voice trailed off. She heard his unspoken words.
If we don’t trust each other, our marriage won’t work
.

The full enormity of what she was doing broke over her. She loved Ren, yes, but she’d also done her best to deceive him.
I am selfish, greedy, shameful.

Maythorn twisted her wrist free. “I’m sorry.” Tears spilled from her eyes, choked in her throat.

She turned and ran.

CHAPTER NINE

HER ONE THOUGHT
was to get as far from Ren as possible, as far from the dreadful thing she’d done to him as possible, but she couldn’t outrun her shame. It stayed at her heels, as tenacious as a huntsman’s hound.

“Maythorn!” Ren cried.

Maythorn veered down the path beside old Dowse’s cottage and burst out onto the starlit common.

“Maythorn!”

Maythorn fled across the common. Grass wrapped itself around her ankles. Sheep lurched out of her way. Glade Forest loomed ahead, blacker than the night sky. Behind her, Ren shouted her name again.

She ran harder, panting and sobbing. The forest closed around her, cool and dark and quiet. Without the faint starlight, she was blind. Maythorn blundered into branches, stumbled over roots, running, running, shame biting at her heels. She heard Ren shout once, in the distance, and then there was only the hoarse whistling of her breath and the crackle of underbrush and the scuffing of her feet.