Read Online Maythorn's Wish (The Fey Quartet Book 1) by Emily Larkin - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Emily Larkin
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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
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
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