Page 10 of A Beastly Court

“No.” He dipped his head, his kisses turning painful as he trailed down my neck to bite my shoulder. “Better to take this pleasure as it is then be deceived into expecting more.”

My pulse jumped, not with desire, but with fear, as the fae king trapped me against the pillar with his body. He was so much stronger than I was, and for a second, I thought he was going to use that strength against me.

As his free hand slid down my body, either for my belt or the hem of my woolen dress, a familiar little bell sounded at the side door. Ossian froze, his grip tightening in a momentary pulse of frustration.

A moment later, the owner of that little bell marched into the great hall as she did every morning, a picnic basket slung over her arm. The housekeeper and cook, Mrs. Bilberry.

Adorned in her white apron with blue ruffles, the badger rang her little bell a second time and announced, “Breakfast is served, Cernunnos, milady.”

“I already have my breakfast,” Ossian growled, kissing the top of my left breast and running his tongue to the cleft between them.

“Ossian,” I hissed, bucking against him. His court might be composed of animals, but they were sentient, and I didn’t want to get mauled by my lover in front of them. If I could call him that. At the end there, he’d seemed no better than a beast. B-but maybe that’s how fae males were? More feral in their lovemaking? I didn’t know many of them—none other than Ossian, in fact—and it wasn’t like I’d been educated about their ways at Hawthorne Manor.

Smirking, Ossian bruised my lips a final time like a ruffian before yanking the ties of my bodice shut and guiding me to a chair like a gentleman. The ravenous fae male was now the reserved King of Beasts in front of his subjects. After taking the seat at the head of the table, he gestured politely for Mrs. Bilberry to continue. I wished I had his composure; I was still a roiling mess inside of unsatisfied and uneasy… everything. Yet with each passing second, the golden haze eased away my misgivings.

With mincing steps of her little badger feet, Mrs. Bilberry led a parade of twelve woodchucks into the great hall. She diverted to where we sat and opened her picnic basket. From the gingham cushions she withdrew what appeared to be a silver masala dabba—an Indian spice box—and a flask of carbonated water. Those she set by Ossian’s right hand, then she began to set our place settings from the remaining contents of her picnic basket. Two crystal goblets, one for juice and the other for water; one plate and one bowl; two forks, one knife, one large spoon for things like soup or pudding and one tiny spoon for the salt cellar; one cloth napkin bound in a gold band that resembled stag antlers.

As she set the table and Ossian added spoonfuls of this and that from the seven jars within the dabba to the flask, the woodchucks served the buffet. They followed their leader Roland up the little ramp on the far end of the table and down along the opposite edge so their paws wouldn’t foul the eating area. No one commented about the gouges nor the piece of the table that was in a heap of kindling on the floor. Upon their backs, each woodchuck bore a silver platter.

The moving buffet brought us scrambled eggs, bacon, toast, fruit salad, Mrs. Bilberry’s legendary waffles, roasted game hens, fried potatoes, blistered tomatoes, sauteed mushrooms, oatmeal spiced with cinnamon, yogurt drizzled with honey and almonds, and each on its separate platter. Dale, the last woodchuck, could always be counted on to bear the platter with the crock of apple butter for my morning toast. Though it was frowned upon, I always snuck him a quick scratch behind the ears for his thoughtfulness.

Mrs. Bilberry stood off to the side with her serving ware, quickly scooping or tonging whatever we wanted onto our plates. When they were full and the woodchucks were all filing out of the great hall, she inevitably asked, “Would you care for something other than juice and water to drink, Cernunnos? Milady?”

“Beer,” Ossian always answered, just as I always replied, “Latte.”

Then, just like always, Mrs. Bilberry sighed as if the weight of the world had just settled upon her shoulders. She set her little gold bell aside to dig out a bigger bell of brass from her picnic basket. One clang was enough to make me wince, and she always rang it twice. “Boys!” she called out.

Two black Labrador retrievers entered the great hall, one bounding over the exiting woodchucks while the other maintained a sedate trot as if he was afraid of spilling the pitcher whose handle he held gently in his white teeth.

“You want it frothy today, Lady Meadow?” Cohen, the more exuberant of the two dogs, asked.

“Yes, please.”

Grinning, the dog proceeded to shake like he was dislodging an entire lake of water from his coat, the thermos in his harness thrashing wildly.

“That’s enough, Cohen,” Mrs. Bilberry shrilled. “You’ll get fur all over the food. My apologies, Cernunnos.”

“So long as the dog didn’t deflate the beer, all is forgiven,” Ossian replied.

Charlie, the elder of the two Labs, gulped and held very still as Mrs. Bilberry took the pitcher and carefully poured its contents into Ossian’s glass. Plenty of tiny bubbles remained in the amber liquid, a respectable-sized head of foam rising to the rim. Charlie breathed a sigh of relief.

“Now you,” Mrs. Bilberry said, snapping her badger fingers at Cohen to make him sit, “hold still.”

“No coconut milk?” I asked the barista.

“Never for you, Lady Meadow,” Cohen said proudly, red tongue lolling out the side of his mouth as he stuck one rear leg out to the side to lounge.

Quick as lightning, Charlie nipped his brother’s ear to remind him to suck his tongue back behind his teeth and straighten up. They were in the presence of the King of Beasts, after all. Cohen whined but obeyed. I smothered a smile.

“There you go, Lady Meadow,” Mrs. Bilberry said, wiping the soiled edge of my latte cup clean with a sweep of her apron. “Enjoy, Cernunnos, milady.”

Snapping her fingers at the dogs to shoo, Mrs. Bilberry claimed her picnic basket, took three steps back, bowed, and then bustled from the room.

Ossian looked down at his plate of roasted hens and vegetables, bringing his goblet of beer to his mouth with a regretful sigh. “This looks wonderful, as always, but I still would’ve preferred you for breakfast.”

I shivered at his words, and for the first time since I’d known Ossian, it wasn’t all with pleasure.

CHAPTER FOUR