Page 20 of Harvest of Sighs (Thornchapel 3)
“Auden,” I half warn, half beg.
He turns the full force of his gaze on me once again. “You’re still mine, St. Sebastian Martinez. And you’re still going to my fucking gala.”
And then he leaves.
Chapter Five
Proserpina
I sleep all day, and most of the night, only waking up when Auden slides into bed and silently tugs me into his chest. The sheer pleasure of being held by him, of rubbing my cheek against his bare chest, is enough to have me back asleep within mere moments, and I don’t wake up enough to ask why St. Sebastian isn’t in bed with us.
I wake up again as I feel Auden’s lips against my temple and then him gently disentangling himself from me. I blink against the faint morning light, fussing a little as Auden leaves the bed and takes all his nice-smelling warmth with him.
“Sleep, little bride,” he says, tucking the blankets in around me. I’m conscious enough to recognize that his voice is sad, but before I can ask him why, he kisses me. “Rebecca’s team will be here to start tearing apart the maze in earnest, so you may as well sleep while it’s still quiet.”
I want to sleep—I still feel wrung out from Beltane and vaguely queasy from the Levonelle—so I don’t protest. “Did Saint have to leave for work?” I ask on a yawn, my eyes already closing.
Auden’s voice is careful when he says, “He does have work today.”
“Okay,” I mumble, and then I’m unaware once more.
I dream of Estamond.
She and Randolph sit on a red blanket between the standing stones at the edge of Thornchapel’s property. A summer breeze toys with their clothes as they pick at the remains of a picnic.
A lone bee has found its way to the half-eaten strawberries; it buzzes indecisively around the plate, hovering at the edges like a nervous guest who won’t sit down.
They have their shoes and jackets off, and Randolph is stroking Estamond’s bare foot. His hand is trembling and his lips are parted. His stare is pinned to where his large male fingers touch the dainty curve of her ankle. He looks like a man who is being very, very brave; he looks like he can hardly believe his own daring.
There are no rings on either of their fingers. They’re not married yet.
“Tell me more about it,” he says to her, and I know they’ve been talking, continuing some conversation started several days ago.
“It’s better to act than to speak,” Estamond murmurs, putting her hand over his. She pushes his hand up to her knee. Without stockings, her skin is warm and supple, and his fingers twitch underneath hers. “Wouldn’t you agree?”
Randolph can barely speak. He knows he should pull away, he knows he should angle his body so she can’t see the shameful response he’s having to touching her under her skirts.
“I like to learn. ” His voice is quiet, but gruffly so. A man’s shyness, not a boy’s.
Estamond parts her legs, savoring the small grunt that leaves his lips as he watches. “One question, then.”
“Only one?”
“How else will I lure you out for more picnics?” she teases, and he meets her eyes with a look so tender and helpless that Estamond’s chest hurts. He doesn’t need to say it; they both know.
He doesn’t need to be lured or fed. He’s hers and has been since he first saw her on the village green as Thorncombe’s May Queen.
“Proceed with your question,” Estamond says, reaching out to finger the small curl behind his ear. His hair is a light, pleasant brown—Wessex mixed with Dumnonia—but near his temples and behind his ears, there’re a few strands of silver. She knows he is embarrassed by it, embarrassed by his age—he thinks it unseemly for a man of nearly four decades to desire a girl of not even two—but she likes it. She likes how big he is, how powerful his hands are, how thick hair dusts his forearms and the tops of his feet. She likes how it feels to be soft and new against his hard muscles, she likes all that power and experience giving way under the gentlest of her touches and the smallest of her smiles.
Randolph’s hand stays near her knee, but she can feel the quivering in his touch—he wants to pull away, he wants to push higher. A thick column of arousal is pressing against the front of his trousers. His voice is distracted when he asks, “Who is John Barleycorn?”
I know—with sudden dream-certainty—that they’ve been talking about the old ways. About the thorn chapel.
I also know, with the same certainty, that Estamond hasn’t said that name to him. Intentionally so. I know that when he says it—the innocent John, the haunting Barleycorn—fear tickles through her belly like the dry awns of a barley spike.
“Why do you ask?” she says.
Randolph stretches a little, ursine and contented, although Estamond notes with some fondness that the hand on her knee stretches too. Her bear’s not fully contented just yet. “The villagers were talking about when to go up and start scything the bracken in the hills—which means the barley in the lowlands won’t be far behind. Then one of them mentioned the name—they’d pour out their ale for John Barleycorn before they started.”
