Chapter Twenty-Two
When Briar touched the space between her breasts and gave a choked gasp, Ethan knew exactly why.
He wanted to run his tongue where her fingers touched, but he also knew that was not why she had gasped.
Not yet, anyway.
“Ethan,” she said, and there was smug satisfaction that she had used his name, uncorrected.
He needed to hear her moan it. Scream it.
Soon.
Although he had a feeling she was about to scream it in a much-less-enjoyable manner. His little poison berry. God, what she did to him. The things he wanted to do to her.
“The amulet is gone.”
He could have feigned innocence. She would have believed him.
But it did not suit his purpose. It had nothing to do with not wanting to lie to her.
Not wanting her to be upset in any way, for any length of time.
Ever. It was the long con, as he had told Godric.
He needed to get his crew home. He had promises to keep, the kind that would come for more than just himself if they were broken.
Even if he had considered staying put a little longer for the first time in his life.
He had never cared for gardens or garden walls, tea in pink cups, rose petals in his honey. Not until now. Not until Briar.
But it made no difference. Not in the end.
“I have it,” he said calmly, pulling the loops of silver and pearls from his pocket.
Briar stilled, her eyes going wide. She looked betrayed. “You stole it?”
He twirled the pieces once just to watch the temper flare in her gray eyes. Magnificent. How anyone confused her for a mild-mannered spinster was beyond him. “I did,” he confirmed lazily.
“When did you even—” She stopped. “In the kitchen!” Accusation made her voice husky, her cheeks pink.
Delicious.
Distracting.
She poked him in the chest, hard enough to bruise. It made him want to grin, but he thought it might make her combust.
“I never agreed to exchange orgasms for amulets!” she exclaimed hotly.
He shook his head in mock outrage. “The things you say, Miss Foxglove.”
“Mr. Swansea.”
His eyes narrowed. He was a great deal less amused now. “Briar.”
“Give them back.”
“They are safer with me.”
Her own eyes narrowed so quickly she probably gave herself a headache. “Give them back, now.”
“Convince me,” he said, echoing his words in the kitchen when she’d come apart on his fingers. The way she had whimpered, the soft gasp of lust when his hand closed around her throat.
“How about I witch a rash on your—”
She was clearly not reliving the moment alongside with him.
“Tsk, that’s not very ladylike.”
She looked like she might start shrieking like a kelpie. It should not have been adorable. None of this should be. He crowded her, leaning down to meet her gaze, which was incensed and then instantly wary. It did things to him; he wasn’t too proud to admit it. He liked knowing he could affect her.
But there were other factors involved. And they threatened to break him out in hives every time he considered them. Which was often. Always. Every damn minute. “You broke your promise to me to not to put yourself in danger,” he reminded her, low and absolute.
He had made a man wet himself with a less-threatening tone of voice.
Briar might have balked at it a week ago. Tonight, she scoffed.
She actually scoffed.
God, it made him want to laugh. And to turn her over his knee and spank her until her delectable bottom was as pink as the wildflowers in her hair.
But he didn’t. Couldn’t. It was too easy to remember the way that Keeper sneered at her, the way the villagers had surrounded her sprawled on the ground.
The way Twyla could have killed her, the way the grimsong could have sung her into the sea.
The way her only defense against this blasted island was a driftwood cane he could break with one hand and her stubborn, indomitable spirit.
He wanted it to be enough. Knew too much about the witching world to believe it was.
Her scoff faltered when he did not drop her gaze, did not soften his jaw. “Is that what this is about?” she demanded.
“You are too reckless.”
She laughed. It burst out of her, clearly unbidden. “This, coming from you?”
“Exactly. Imagine how bad the situation is,” he said drily, “when an Iron Crow finds you too reckless.”
She glared at him. He could all but see the wheels turning in her head. The vengeance brewing. He welcomed it. It was simple. Clear.
When nothing else was.
With a sound better suited to an enraged cat, she lunged for the amulet dangling from his fingers. He held it up out of her reach easily. “Don’t trust me yet, little thorn?” he asked, humor fading. His voice changed again; he could feel the ice of it in his throat. “Good.”
“Is this what this is about? To prove something to me?” she growled.
Adorable.
“Or to yourself?” she continued.
Less adorable, because it might well be the truth.
She was too sharp and too astute for her own good.
“You are vexing,” she added through her teeth. Very astute. “And I do trust you, you ass. I trust you with my sister.”
A privilege he would never admit rocked him to his very core.
Trusting an Iron Crow was unwise. Trusting Dragon was downright foolhardy.
But she had. Did. And he’d be damned, but it filled him with something too akin to pride. Satisfaction. Duty.
Fucking hell.
He gave her the amulet. Her exhale was tremulous, relieved. Happy. He felt like a king.
Or an idiot.
Briar tucked it back into her stays, from where it would be his honor to steal it again. “I know a spell to turn your entire ship as pink as my cottage. I am sorely tempted.”
“Godric would love it. Anais would come for you in the dead of night. So let me tempt you into something else,” he said, because he could not bloody well help himself.
Definitely an idiot.
“A stroll, Miss Foxglove,” he said when she shot him a look. “What a wicked turn of thought you have.”
Briar had never punched a man in the nose in her entire life.
Or cursed him with a rash, or turned his mighty, dreaded warship pink.
But she was currently considering all three with a great deal of enthusiasm. She was twisted up with irritation, uncertainty, and an unhealthy lick of desire.
Damn the man.
He had stolen the amulet right out of her stays.
She was mildly impressed. She supposed it was easy work for a Crow.
It was what they did, after all. Stealing things like a murder of crows.
She wondered if she should feel more betrayed.
But mostly she just felt the need for revenge.
Something that would make him want her as much as she wanted him, that would twist him up so she would not be alone with these uncomfortable feelings.
Because although he had stolen from her, he had not bothered lying about it.
He could have taken off with the amulet, continued his own investigation.
Held her sister hostage. A frisson of fear went through her, but she dismissed it.
Her instinct said she could trust him with this.
Her swan agreed. The tea leaves. Even Bramble.
And Bramble did not even entirely trust Briar.
And he’d already had many chances to trip her up but had not done so. Instead he’d carried her up the stairs to bed when she could not manage the stairs. He’d flooded Charles’s shop and then set it on fire. He’d broken a man’s ribs in her orchard.
And he had given the amulet back.
She was under no illusion that she could have physically forced him to do so. With her magic, perhaps, given enough time. And a proper batch of stinging nettle or deadly nightshade vines. And she realized he could just steal it back at any point in time.
But he’d been truly proud of her when she admitted she had found both pieces. She had seen it in his face.
“Where are you going?” he asked when she turned away from the cottage.
“For a walk.”
“Alone?” he demanded.
She pointed above her head, without having to look up. “He’s coming with me.”
Ethan’s dragon circled over her. She would not even need a lantern. His glow, added to the moonlight, silvered the ground under her feet. Ethan nodded once. He faded into the shadows, all except for the glint of his eyes and his weapons. He looked fierce, severe. Ruthless, even just standing there.
Alone.
She sighed. “Well? Are you coming?”
He fell into step beside her without a word. Her body tingled at his nearness when he opened the wooden gate for her. It creaked on its hinges. “On the night before the solstice, we count fireflies,” she said.
“Why’s that?”
“For good luck until the winter solstice,” she explained. “And I clearly need all of the luck I can get,” she muttered. Of course, the last time she had followed a Haven tradition for luck, she had walked into a herd of kelpies.
They crossed the fields, the long grass dotted with stonecrop and yellow gorse.
It smelled like earth and flowers and the salt of the sea.
Like home. The pond she took him to was a shallow mirror, tucked into a small valley.
No one bothered to come out here much, which suited Briar just fine.
A toad plopped into the water, disgruntled at the interruption.
Ethan frowned, keeping his body angled between Briar and the water.
“Any Shellycoats in these hills?” he asked.
Shellycoats were cousins to kelpies who preferred rivers to the sea, but had the same penchant for murdering unwary swimmers who crossed into their territories.
They wore coats covered with shells that clacked when they pounced.
Some were said to be friendly, but you could never be certain until it was too late.
“They mostly stick to the edges of the moors and down by Hallow,” she replied. “The most dangerous thing I’ve ever seen here is a duck.”
And Ethan, of course. He was dangerous in so many ways.
“Any unicorns? They do like to do some damage with those horns.”
“They prefer Holdfast,” Briar said. “This is a sleepy little pond no one bothers with very much. It’s too quiet. Boring.”