Read Online Maythorn's Wish (The Fey Quartet Book 1) by Emily Larkin - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Emily Larkin
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and the scuffing of her feet.
Finally, Maythorn could run no more. She lurched to hands and knees, crying so fiercely she almost couldn’t breathe, retching, painful tears that went on and on and on. There had been times in her life when she’d cried, but never like this, never with such deep and anguished despair—despair worse than any she’d felt during her marriage, worse than the despair of being crippled—because this, she had brought upon herself.
Eventually the tears came to an end. Maythorn lay on the leaf litter, raw-throated, swollen-eyed, curled up tightly, hugging herself. Her breath hitched with each inhalation, each exhalation. What have I done?
She loved Ren—had loved him for years, a bone-deep, aching love—and yet she’d chosen to deceive him. Ren had tried to talk to her at the bridge and she’d turned his questions aside with kisses—and he had known. He’d known .
Maythorn squeezed her eyes shut. The joyous exhilaration of being youthful again was gone. In its place was shame.
The undergrowth rustled and something large bounded at her. A wet nose touched her cheek and a familiar dog voice whined in her ear.
Maythorn pushed up to sit, groggy with misery. “Bess? Bartlemay?”
The wriggling body was Bartlemay’s, the wagging tail, the enthusiastic tongue. He tried to climb into her lap. Maythorn put her arms around him and wept into his shoulder. I have ruined it all, Bartlemay.
“Maythorn?”
Her head jerked up. She looked around blind-eyed.
A twig snapped, the bushes rustled again, and someone loomed over her in the darkness. The voice told her who: Ren Blacksmith. And here was Bess, pushing close, gently licking her neck.
The sense of being loomed over vanished. Boot leather creaked softly as Ren crouched. “Maythorn? Why did you run? What’s wrong?”
I ran because I’m not worthy to be your wife.
Maythorn swallowed a sob. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.
“What for?”
“For deceiving you.” She closed her eyes tightly and pressed her face into Bartlemay’s warm, bony shoulder.
“You didn’t deceive me. I knew who you were the instant I saw you.”
“I tried to deceive you. I meant to deceive you.” Her voice cracked, and the tears were back, pushing their way up her throat, spilling from her eyes.
“Maythorn . . .” Ren’s arm came around her shoulders. “Don’t cry.”
But now that she’d started again, she couldn’t stop. She cried in great, gulping, painful, despairing sobs. Please tell me the truth, Ren had said, and she hadn’t been planning to. She’d been planning to lie to him.
“Hush,” Ren said, and he gathered her closer, both his arms around her now, rocking her gently.
Even endless tears eventually come to their end, and so they did. Maythorn inhaled a shuddering breath and tried to draw away from Ren. I’m not worthy of you. I am selfish and greedy .
Ren’s grip on her tightened. “Tell me what happened. Please, Maythorn.”
“You were right,” she whispered. “It’s Faerie magic.”
She tried to pull away again, but Ren didn’t release her. “Tell me it all,” he said.
Maythorn wiped her face with a trembling hand. Tears still leaked from her eyes, warm and salty. “I found a babe in the woods. A Faerie babe. I saved it from drowning and brought it home.”
“Drowning? Was that why you were soaking wet that day?”
Maythorn nodded against his chest. “You carried the baby. It was in the basket.”
She felt his body stiffen. “What? Why didn’t you tell me!”
“Because I was afraid you’d want to help.”
“Of course I would have helped!”
“You have a son, Ren. A son with no mother. And the Fey are dangerous.”
Ren was silent for a long moment, then he released his breath in a sound like a sigh. “Tell me what happened after I met you.”
“The girls looked after the baby all night. And the next day, I went to the border and gave it back to its mother—and asked for wishes for the girls and
Finally, Maythorn could run no more. She lurched to hands and knees, crying so fiercely she almost couldn’t breathe, retching, painful tears that went on and on and on. There had been times in her life when she’d cried, but never like this, never with such deep and anguished despair—despair worse than any she’d felt during her marriage, worse than the despair of being crippled—because this, she had brought upon herself.
Eventually the tears came to an end. Maythorn lay on the leaf litter, raw-throated, swollen-eyed, curled up tightly, hugging herself. Her breath hitched with each inhalation, each exhalation. What have I done?
She loved Ren—had loved him for years, a bone-deep, aching love—and yet she’d chosen to deceive him. Ren had tried to talk to her at the bridge and she’d turned his questions aside with kisses—and he had known. He’d known .
Maythorn squeezed her eyes shut. The joyous exhilaration of being youthful again was gone. In its place was shame.
The undergrowth rustled and something large bounded at her. A wet nose touched her cheek and a familiar dog voice whined in her ear.
Maythorn pushed up to sit, groggy with misery. “Bess? Bartlemay?”
The wriggling body was Bartlemay’s, the wagging tail, the enthusiastic tongue. He tried to climb into her lap. Maythorn put her arms around him and wept into his shoulder. I have ruined it all, Bartlemay.
“Maythorn?”
Her head jerked up. She looked around blind-eyed.
A twig snapped, the bushes rustled again, and someone loomed over her in the darkness. The voice told her who: Ren Blacksmith. And here was Bess, pushing close, gently licking her neck.
The sense of being loomed over vanished. Boot leather creaked softly as Ren crouched. “Maythorn? Why did you run? What’s wrong?”
I ran because I’m not worthy to be your wife.
Maythorn swallowed a sob. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.
“What for?”
“For deceiving you.” She closed her eyes tightly and pressed her face into Bartlemay’s warm, bony shoulder.
“You didn’t deceive me. I knew who you were the instant I saw you.”
“I tried to deceive you. I meant to deceive you.” Her voice cracked, and the tears were back, pushing their way up her throat, spilling from her eyes.
“Maythorn . . .” Ren’s arm came around her shoulders. “Don’t cry.”
But now that she’d started again, she couldn’t stop. She cried in great, gulping, painful, despairing sobs. Please tell me the truth, Ren had said, and she hadn’t been planning to. She’d been planning to lie to him.
“Hush,” Ren said, and he gathered her closer, both his arms around her now, rocking her gently.
Even endless tears eventually come to their end, and so they did. Maythorn inhaled a shuddering breath and tried to draw away from Ren. I’m not worthy of you. I am selfish and greedy .
Ren’s grip on her tightened. “Tell me what happened. Please, Maythorn.”
“You were right,” she whispered. “It’s Faerie magic.”
She tried to pull away again, but Ren didn’t release her. “Tell me it all,” he said.
Maythorn wiped her face with a trembling hand. Tears still leaked from her eyes, warm and salty. “I found a babe in the woods. A Faerie babe. I saved it from drowning and brought it home.”
“Drowning? Was that why you were soaking wet that day?”
Maythorn nodded against his chest. “You carried the baby. It was in the basket.”
She felt his body stiffen. “What? Why didn’t you tell me!”
“Because I was afraid you’d want to help.”
“Of course I would have helped!”
“You have a son, Ren. A son with no mother. And the Fey are dangerous.”
Ren was silent for a long moment, then he released his breath in a sound like a sigh. “Tell me what happened after I met you.”
“The girls looked after the baby all night. And the next day, I went to the border and gave it back to its mother—and asked for wishes for the girls and
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