Page 69

She washed his cuts and applied a comfrey salve to them, as well as to his bruises. The knuckles of his hand were both cut and bruised. He sat very still as she ministered to him. When was the last time someone had tended to his wounds? She assumed by his scars that he was often hurt, but by his demeanor that it was not something he let others see. The moment stretched between them, warm as a cup of chocolate on a midwinter night.

Followed by a swig of whiskey.

The man did pack a punch.

Even sitting idly, menace and command fairly emanated from him. It didn’t help that she knew exactly what he could do with his hands now. His mouth.

She cleared her throat. “I never told you that baking is my least favorite thing about the tearoom,” she said.

“You didn’t have to. You get a little line right here between your brows when you bake.” He pressed a finger to the spot. “And when you think someone is being rude.”

“I do?”

“It’s very fearsome, I assure you.”

“You’re making fun of me.”

“I only make fun of things that scare me.”

She scowled. “Now you really are mocking me.”

“I wouldn’t dare.”

She rolled her eyes. “As if I scare you.”

“More than you know, little thorn.” His voice was quiet, as if he were speaking to himself. “More than you know.”

Briar stayed in the garden a little longer.

Which was her first mistake.

Ethan went inside to talk to Matthias, and she took a turn in the orchard, murmuring to the plums and the pears ripening on the branches. Bumblebees hovered, drunk on pollen and sweetness. The heat between her and Ethan had not been banked by their night together. Not at all. If anything, it was growing more complicated.

She felt flushed just knowing he was nearby.

He was probably used to that reaction. She saw the way people looked at him down in the village. She could not blame them. She was absolutely certain she looked at him the very same way. It was difficult not to, and that was even before she knew the sound of his breaths growing ragged in her ear. The lick of heat when he pinned her down to use his tongue and teeth. The—

“Miss Foxglove.”

She could not think of a more unwelcome visitor than Charles bloody Aster.

Any interruption of the pleasant reminiscence she had been having about the feel of Ethan’s mouth on her skin ought to be a criminal offense. Clap a Keeper’s iron collar on him. Posthaste. Let a kelpie eat his liver.

Alas, if the Keepers were still watching her, they were not very interested in Mr. Charles Aster.

She could hardly blame them.

She was not interested in him either.

And her fountain was not large enough for a kelpie.

“Mr. Aster,” she said evenly. She knew Ethan could not see her from the kitchen window. She was not sure where his dragon was. Snapdragon flapped its wings, beak open to show tiny, vicious teeth.

“Control your swan,” Charles said.

Briar smiled. “No.”

He blinked, taken aback. “I saved you, Miss Foxglove. I think I deserve a little courtesy.”