Chapter Twenty-One #2
Halfway home, Briar’s cane splintered. Ethan tossed the pieces of driftwood into a bush with a sound of pure disgust. It was the same derisive sound that old dowagers reserved for newfangled, fashionable hemlines that were too short and familiars that ran wild at formal dinner parties. “You need a proper walking stick.”
“I know,” she admitted. “My mother thought white driftwood would fit Haven. She thought it was pretty.” Briar had drawn the line at the loops of pearls and opals that they could not afford and only cut into her skin anyway.
“Driftwood is not strong enough. And this design is ridiculous.” He nearly growled. “This whole bloody town is ridiculous.”
“No argument here.” Briar shrugged. “But it’s home.”
Ethan frowned at her as she darted under the metal teacup sign of the Rose and Petal. “You’re very cheerful.”
“And that offends you?” She dropped onto the bench inside the hall, not wanting to wait one more moment.
“Ladies who are pushed to the ground by a mob of idiots are not usually so cheerful about it,” he pointed out. He did not sound cheerful at all. “I half expected them to bring out the pitchforks.”
“Oh, that.”
“Yes. That.” That lethal bite to his voice again. The gleam of magic sparking from a dagger at his belt.
She wouldn’t pretend that it had not frightened her—the thought of the iron collar and a Keeper’s cart.
The thought of associating her tearoom with the locked shields and losing her customers and eventually her home.
Her broken cane from being manhandled. She had another, but it was a bit too short for her.
Her mother really had chosen them for the aesthetic value.
She had no idea what was needed for a useful cane.
But even so, Briar now had something in her possession that made it all worth it.
Ethan tilted his head. “What have you done, little thorn?”
She grinned, reaching into her stays and pulling out the amulet. The silver was warm from her skin.
Ethan took a step closer. “You found it.”
She beamed, smug and uncaring as to what that said about her character. Haven preferred haughty. Confident. But she had smugness. “I did.”
“You’d make a decent Iron Crow.”
“Thank you. I think?”
The twists of decorated silver and the iridescent pearls looked so innocuous, just sitting in her palm.
“Now we just need to find the other half,” he said.
“As to that…”
Ethan lifted her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze. “You’ve been keeping secrets.” Censure and warning and something close to pride were in his eyes. Also something that promised consequences. Punishment.
It wasn’t just Ethan watching her so intently, but also Dragon.
The Iron Crow who had killed three warlocks last year alone, according to rumors he’d neither denied nor confirmed.
But she could easily believe it. He was dark as the waves, the lulling song of the tides, the sudden undercurrent that pulled you under.
The line between water that saved you from dying of thirst and water that drowned you was very thin indeed.
She found she did not mind it at all.
She rather liked it, actually.
And by the way his eyes narrowed consideringly, he knew full well. “Tell me,” he commanded.
If it had been over anything less important, she would have pushed back just to see the line of his jaw clench. To see his eyes flare. To feel that delicious thrill, half warning, half anticipation.
Instead, she rose to her feet and led him to the kitchen.
Matthias was in the tearoom, convincing customers to try his croquembouche.
The windows were open to birdsong and the familiar tinkling of the teacup wind chimes.
The fire had died down but the wall was still warm as Briar wedged her finger under a loose brick near the top of the hearth.
She pulled out the other half of the amulet triumphantly.
Ethan cursed, softly, admiringly. “You really do have everyone fooled, don’t you? Serving tea and pink-frosted cakes with daisies in your hair.”
She couldn’t stop a small smile at that. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”
He was behind her now, crowding into her, breath against her ear. His mouth brushed her hair. “I see you, little thorn.” It was a warning, a promise.
She swayed backward against his heat, couldn’t help herself. A rush of desire tingled through her. She had to clear her throat before speaking. “Only the moonstone is missing.”
“How did you find this?”
“I followed the white roses.”
“Clever little green witch.” He sounded impressed but also implacable. He reached up, closing his fingers around the base of her throat. Her breath stuttered. Heat bloomed up her thighs. “You kept this from me.”
“I…”
His grip tightened, just a little. Just enough. “Do you really want to make it worse by lying to me, sweetheart?” he asked softly.
“But…”
“And then you put yourself in danger again, just now, in the village.” He clicked his tongue in lazy recrimination. “I know I was clear about that.”
“I needed—”
“You needed?” His other hand slipped lower, dragging her skirts up. His knuckles brushed her quim. She whimpered, already so sensitive it made her feel a little drunk. “I know what you need, sweetheart.”
He stroked her, lightly, teasingly. Slowly, as though an entire tearoom was not just on the other side of the wall, chatting politely, asking for more cucumber-watercress on biscuits.
As though someone could not walk by the window.
As though none of that mattered because he had her pinned against his chest, his for the claiming.
“Don’t I?” he asked.
She tried to chase his hand, but he still had her throat in his grip. His erection pressed against her and she pushed back, wanting to touch him. Needing to touch him. To be touched.
“I asked you a question, Briar.” His voice hardened and his fingers stilled. Her pulse fluttered against his palm. The combination was too perfect. Too much. She made a sound she was not proud of.
“Yes,” she breathed out.
“Yes what?” He was patient, unforgiving.
“Yes, you know what I need—Ah!” She broke off on a gasp when he plunged two fingers inside of her, stroking deep. His thumb brushed her bud. He pressed against the little hood at the top and it made her buck. She was already lightheaded with pleasure. He really was a menace to good society.
Thank the moon.
He curled his fingers, still deep in her channel, dragging against her intimate flesh. She fluttered around him. “So wet for me,” he whispered roughly. “So perfect.”
Deeper, slower, until she was again whimpering.
“Are you going to come, sweetheart?”
She moaned, “Yes.”
“Right here? In your kitchen, where anyone might see you?”
“Yes. Please.”
“And are you going to be more careful?” he asked.
“Yes!” She was very close to babbling. She would have said anything. He was working her closer and closer to a release she knew would burn right through her. Her thighs trembled in anticipation.
He sighed, disappointed. “I’m not convinced.” He stilled his hand again.
The waves of her release retreated. “What?”
“Convince me.”
She was helpless, throat in his grip, heat racing under her skin. He was in control. And she loved it.
Still. It was the principle of the thing. And the fact that she was still squirming with unmet desire.
“Ethan Swansea, so help me, I’ll do it myself.
” Her fingertips barely brushed over her own slick and swollen folds when he stopped her.
He gripped her wrist hard, his forearm pinning her ruthlessly against his body.
His hardness slipped between her buttocks, another tease.
She was a butterfly tacked to a board. Sensations ran through her and she could not chase any of them. “Ethan!”
He shook his head with false sympathy. “Only good girls get to come.”
The names she called him were not generally used by genteel spinsters who lived in pink cottages.
His answering laugh was dark and merciless.
When she finally came, the pears in the tree just outside the kitchen ripened all at once.
Her customers went missing at the same time as the pieces of the broken moon charm.
It was mere hours later and word had traveled fast that Petal was missing and might be involved with the shields, and that Briar was keeping company with a notorious Iron Crow.
As predicted, it was not good for business.
When she asked the tea leaves about it, she swore she heard them laugh at her.
“Fine, then,” she muttered, pushing the cup away and ducking out into the garden.
Charles might well have been making empty threats when he said he knew where Petal was, but he meant every word when he said his family would have the cottage and her gardens.
It was the only thing they wanted. They didn’t care about the shields.
And no customers meant no money.
No money meant she would never be able to pay off her mother’s debt.
The sun was sinking into the ocean, turning the air every shade of blue.
It was still warm, with butterflies congregating in the yarrow.
The outdoor tables should be filled with chattering customers, the walkways with couples wanting a romantic moment.
She ought to be running out of sunwheel cookies, rose-petal honey, scones in the shape of oak leaves.
Sachets of St. John’s wort and lavender to burn at the bonfires for blessings, water gathered last solstice in tiny glass bottles, painted acorns, rowanberries strong on red thread.
“Where is everyone?” Ethan asked, appearing in the doorway. He was starting to look as though he belonged here, even though he was a yew tree in a sea of roses.
She liked having him in her home. That was going to be a problem.
“Everyone is too scared to risk coming here,” Briar said instead, with an annoyed sigh. “Charles convinced them that they might look guilty by association.”
“I can make it look like an accident.”
She smiled.
“I’m very good at what I do,” he insisted.
“I’m sure you are.”
“I don’t understand you. You are letting them walk all over you. Him especially.”
“It’s complicated.”
“Is it? Because Petal is safe on my ship.”
“I know that.” She did know that, and it was still a wonder to her. Because she believed him. Petal was safe. “But when the shields lift again and Petal wakes up, I still have to live here.”
“But he doesn’t.”
She had to admit, it was a lovely feeling to have someone so dangerous grumbling over her. Something she could never have imagined. Something she would remember and cherish when she was old, gathering her flowers. “The Asters have power in Haven.”
He snorted. “That’s not real power.”
“I know. But it’s more than I have at present.
” She shrugged when he scowled. “It’s true.
Anyway, no one’s going to go against them for the sake of a cup of tea and a frosted biscuit.
” She paused. “Perhaps they’ll come for the notoriety when they get bored.
Although if Matthias’s eclairs aren’t enough to lure them back, nothing will be. ”
But it wouldn’t be enough to pay off her mother’s debt. Not nearly. Not in time.
He shook his head. “Fucking Haven.”
“Haven,” she agreed. “Anyway, Matthias took the rest of his baking to sell at the beach. It would be a shame for it to go to waste. He worked so hard and was so pleased with himself.”
“And you?”
“I’m just waiting for the next Iron Crow or the next Keeper to break in and start smashing more teacups.” She reached for the amulet pieces tucked into her stays to reassure herself.
But she was not reassured.
Because she found only cotton and ribbons and skin.
No moon charm.