Songs of Love and Death: All-Original Tales of Star-crossed Love

1

St James’s Park, London, 1758

IT WAS AS if a new song entered his world, or a new taste, or a new sense—and yet one instantly recognized.

Rob Loxsleigh turned to look around the park, striving to make the movement casual to his chattering companions, so noisy in their silks and lace, but already fading under the power of his new awareness.

There.

He smiled, with delight but with surprise.

The woman in gray? The one strolling through the park at the side of another woman just as ordinary, wearing a plain gown with little trimming and a flat straw hat?

She was his destined bride?

He’d been told he’d know, and for years he’d sought the unignorable. Sometimes, with a particularly pretty girl or fascinating woman, he’d tried to believe his desire meant that his quest was over. A kiss had quickly proved him wrong.

Now, however, he knew. She alone seemed real in an unreal world and his body hummed with a symphony of need, not just desire, but a hunger for everything she would bring.

Now, within weeks of disaster, Titania had sent his marrying maid.

A PRICKLE ON the neck.

When Martha Darby turned, she saw a man looking at her. A London beau in silk and lace with powdered hair and a sword at his side. A peacock in company with other birds of fine plumage, their bright laughter and extravagant gestures indicating that they’d escaped the gilded cage of court in the nearby Palace of St. James. But why was one of them staring at her, a very sparrow of a spinster?

He turned back to his companions. She’d imagined his interest, but now she couldn’t help staring at him. He seemed somehow brighter than his glittering companions. Merely the effect of a suit of peacock blue silk, she told herself, but he did seem perfectly made and he moved with such grace, even in ridiculous shoes with high red heels.

“Such extravagance in their clothing, and a shower of rain would ruin all.”

Martha turned to her mother, smiling at the practical comment. “I’m sure chairmen would rush to carry them to shelter. Let us admire nature instead. Trees welcome the rain.”

They strolled on their way.

Martha and her mother were enjoying the park, but also, it must be admitted, some glimpses of the follies of the great. Martha had certainly seen nothing like those courtier peacocks in York. But then, in York, she’d lived quietly for so many years, helping her mother nurse her father through a long, distressing illness. This visit to a relative in London was to help them regain their spirits and be ready to pick up life, but Martha wondered what form her life could take. She was too accustomed to quiet and routine and too old for adventures.

Unless…

She was looking at that man again! She quickly turned away. “Let’s walk toward Rosamund’s Pond, Mother.” Away from temptation.

Temptation?

Ridiculous. Lord Peacock was a wastrel courtier and she was the virtuous daughter of a canon of York Minster and at twenty-four, long past the age of folly.

Yet she looked again.

Just to be sure she was safe, she told herself.

Safe? Did she think he would pursue her? Laughable…

But then she realized that he was looking at her again. He smiled.

She turned her back, heart pounding. Lud! Had he caught one of her glances and taken it as admiration? Even as lewd encouragement? Heaven defend her! The court was notoriously licentious. She urged her mother to walk more quickly, but plump Anne Darby was never energetic. Her strolling involved many pauses to admire a vista, or yet another pelican. For some reason this park was full of them. Pelicans and peacocks…

“Come, Mother. We must hurry.”

“What? Why?”

Martha came up with the only possible excuse. “I need to piss.”

“Oh dear, oh dear. Yes, very well.” Her mother did walk faster and gradually Martha’s panic simmered down. They were safe and she would not come here again.

“Ladies.”

Martha froze, then would have walked on if her mother hadn’t already turned, incapable of being cold or discourteous. Thus she must turn too, already knowing who had spoken. By logic, surely, not by a frisson on the back of her neck and a strange tension deep inside.

He stood mere feet away, his silk suit embroidered with silver thread as well as colors. The lace at throat and wrist would have cost a fortune, and his neckcloth was fixed by a gold pin that sparkled in the sun, as did rings on his fingers and the jeweled hilt of his sword. As did his eyes, as green as a summer leaf. His handsome, lean face was painted to give him fashionable pallor and then to restore color with rouge on cheeks and lips.

He was ridiculous, but Martha was powerfully aware of being dressed in mourning gray with only a silver pin for ornamentation, and of never having let paint touch her face. She should have been disdainful, but instead the peculiar sensation within could almost be awe.

He was smiling directly at her now and holding out a handkerchief. “I believe this is yours, ma’am?”

Martha glared at the linen, ferociously irritated that the handkerchief was indeed her own, marked by the embroidered forget-me-nots in one corner. How had it come to fall out of her pocket?

Before she could lie, her mother said, “Oh, see it is, Martha! How kind of you, sir.”

He bowed to them both in the most extravagant manner imaginable, dancing the handkerchief in little curlicues. “I am in heaven to be of service to so enchanting a lady.”

Martha plucked the fluttering linen from his fingers. “My thanks to you, sir.”

He put hand to chest. “No, no. Thank you, ma’am, for providing me the opportunity to do this small kindness.”

Providing? Was the wretch implying that she’d dropped her handkerchief on purpose? It was a well-known device of foolish women, but she would never stoop so low!

She sent him an icy look, but he’d already turned another bow on her mother. “Robert Loxsleigh, ma’am, at your service.”

Sensible Anne Darby curtsied, blushing, flustered and delighted. “So kind, so kind. Mistress Darby, sir, of York, and this is my daughter, Miss Darby.”

More bowing and greeting, and all of it mockery. If only her mother hadn’t been inveigled into exchanging names.

“May I hope to encounter you again in London, Mistress Darby?”

Martha quickly answered. “Alas no, sir. We leave tomorrow.”

Her mother began to protest, but Martha shot her a ferocious glare.

“Thus Town is left desolate. But York will soon rejoice. A charming city. I know it well, as my home is near Doncaster.”

Martha could have groaned. That he was also from Yorkshire would make her mother regard him as a friend.

“We really must go, Mother,” Martha said with meaning, reminding her of her spurious need.

“Oh, yes, sir, I’m afraid we must. I do hope we will meet again one day, in York, perhaps?”

He bowed to both of them, but was looking at Martha when he said, “I’m sure of it, ma’am.”

“Oh, my,” said her mother, watching him walk back to his friends, so lithe and elegant despite uneven ground and those shoes.

“Oh, what idiocy,” Martha said, steering away at speed.

That was the end of that—except that she was holding her handkerchief as if it were precious. She screwed it up and thrust it into her pocket.

“Why did you say we were leaving Town, Martha? We are to stay three more days.”

“Because I thought him up to no good.”

“Truly? But…” Her mother sighed. “We can’t be liars, can we, so we must leave. All for the best, perhaps. We can stay longer with your Aunt Clarissa in Newark.”

And thus I am punished, Martha thought. Aunt Clarissa was a very silly chatterer. It was all the peacock’s fault. Mr. Robert Loxsleigh had been playing a game for the amusement of his idle friends and fecklessly upset her life.

And yet—and yet—as she resisted an almost overpowering need to look back, Martha knew she would never entirely forget an encounter with a peacock in St James’s Park.

ROB RETURNED TO his companions, protecting Miss Darby from their curiosity by letting them assume he intended a seduction. It was no lie. If Miss Martha Darby seemed likely to succumb, he’d bed her tonight.

She was the one, the one, the one, his marrying maid, which meant that at first kiss his talent would awake, and when they lay together, it would roar into full power. He would be at last a true trouvedor of Five Oaks, and his family would be saved.

Rapid seduction was unlikely, but a kiss? Perhaps if he pursued her now. Not to do so was like refusing water when parched, but she seemed to be prim to a fault. Perhaps even a Puritan. His very appearance would have counted against him and any boldness could ruin everything. No, he must resume simple dress and manners and then court her carefully.

There was so little time, though. Just two weeks to his birthday.

To doomsday.

But he’d found her at last, and she would be willing to be wooed. Faery would make it so.

Zounds! They left Town tomorrow. He separated from his companions, suppressing panic. He needed to untangle himself from court, say farewells, settle bills—

The Darby ladies would travel the York road, however, and surely on the public coach. He could follow post chaise and catch them in days.

As he walked toward his rooms, he wondered how Oberon had hidden Martha Darby for so many years? He visited York quite often.

That didn’t matter. Titania had prevailed. The heir to Five Oaks had found his marrying maid with time enough to woo and win her. It was always so. The dark Lord of Faery had never won this fight, not in five hundred years.

2

MARTHA SLEPT BADLY and spent the first hours on the crowded York coach braced for pursuit. What—did she think Mr. Peacock Loxsleigh was racing after on horseback, intent on dragging her from the coach for ravishment?

Such scenes, alas, had featured in her dreams. How could a lady’s mind produce such things? She had never even flirted, for a canon’s daughter should not. She’d had a few suitors over the years, all clergymen, but her mother and sick father had needed her, and truth to tell, none had truly appealed.

Now she was free, and returning to York to live a full life. She was emerging from a chrysalis, but too old, dull, and dry to become the simplest sort of butterfly.

Except that…

No! She would not allow that man in her mind.

She did have a suitor. A perfectly eligible suitor.

Dean Stallingford had been a good friend to her family in recent years and had expressed his interest just before this journey, saying that he wished to make his intentions known before she was exposed to London’s temptations. Martha knew she should have committed herself then, but for some reason the words had stuck in her throat. He was fifteen years her senior, and a widower with three young children, but that was not to his discredit.

Very well. She would accept him when they returned and become a married woman with house and family to manage and a place in York society, but she was aware that he sparked no excitement within her. Robert Loxsleigh had created sparkles in a moment.

Such madness must be why women succumbed to seduction, racing fecklessly to their ruin. She was in no danger of that, but she wished the coach had wings. She wished they weren’t to stay for days at Aunt Clarissa’s. Once in York, she would become Mistress Stallingford as quickly as was decent, and be safe.

She repeated that like a litany over two long days of travel, and as they climbed out of the coach in Newark. They were soon in Aunt Clarissa’s modern brick house, awash with her chatter. Clarissa Heygood was a childless widow, having lost her soldier husband early to war, and enjoyed visitors very much. That evening they took a stroll around the town, eventually taking a path by the river. Martha enjoyed the exercise after so much sitting, but she dropped behind for relief from her aunt’s endless flow of gossip.

Her own company, however, gave space for dismal thoughts. Marrying Dean Stallingford would mean remaining part of the chapter of York Minster, and that felt… cloistered. Even York itself held no savor. She had few friends there because her time had been so taken up with her father’s care.

She was frowning at some innocent ducks when a man said, “Heaven is before me. ’Tis the lady of the forget-me-nots.”

Martha turned, heart pounding, and indeed it was the peacock. Except now he was a much more ordinary bird—if such a man could ever be ordinary. He wore riding breeches and boots with a brown jacket and his hair was unpowdered. Hair of burnished gold.

Stop that. It was a russet shade catching the setting sun.

“Alas,” he said, those green eyes laughing at her, “she has betrayed her handkerchief and forgotten me.”

“I certainly have not!” Regretting that, Martha walked on to catch up with her mother and aunt, alarmed by how far they were ahead.

He kept up without effort. “You remember my gallantry, Miss Darby?”

“I remember your impudence.” Heavens, when had she ever been so rude? Cheeks burning, she walked ever faster.

He stayed by her side. “For returning your handkerchief? A harsh judgment, ma’am.”

Good manners compelled. She stopped and dipped a curtsy. “I apologize, sir. That was kind of you.”

He smiled. “Then may I call on you at your inn?”

Martha thanked heaven she could say, “We stay in a private home, sir.”

“How pleasant for you. The home of the lady ahead?”

She could do nothing about it. He outpaced her with ease and made his courtesies to her mother, who of course introduced him to Aunt Clarissa, who was in ecstasies to give him carte blanche to call at her house whenever he wished. Martha was in danger of grinding down her teeth, and when he left with an invitation to sup at Aunt Clarissa’s within the hour, she could have screamed.

But what protest could she make? Both the older ladies thought him charming and were not immune to his good looks, either. Then, as they hurried home to make preparations for a guest, Aunt Clarissa stopped to exclaim, “From Five Oaks! Why, he must be a son of Viscount Loxsleigh. And by the stars, I do believe he has only one. Lud, we will have a future viscount to sup!”

She almost raced on her way. Martha trailed after. He was a lord? A future one, but it came to the same thing. He was as far above her as the stars, and for some strange reason that caused a deep pang of loss.

When Martha entered the house, her aunt was already calling frantic instructions to her cook. Martha’s mother said, “The heir to a viscountcy. And I believe I saw him look at you in a most particular way, dear.”

“Mother, for heaven’s sake. What interest could such a man have in a woman like me?”

Her mother sighed. “I suppose that’s true. But his company will make an agreeable evening.”

Martha considered claiming a headache as escape, but for some reason she couldn’t say the words. She went to her room to tidy herself, and slowly her good sense returned. It was ridiculous to imagine Mr. Loxsleigh was pursuing her, but she would be chaperoned by her mother and aunt.

She would enjoy the novelty, she decided, tying a fresh cap beneath her chin. She’d met no man like him before, and likely wouldn’t in the future. If he did attempt a seduction, that would be the most novel experience of all. She was not the tiniest bit vulnerable to his sort of tinsel charm, but watching his attempt could be diverting.

LOXSLEIGH DID NOT attempt to seduce her, and indeed how could he when both her mother and aunt fluttered around him like adoring moths to the flame?

He entertained them with the wonders and follies of the court. He pretended interest in Anne Darby’s impressions of London, and even in Aunt Clarissa’s chatter about Newark. His sympathetic manner soon drew out the story of Canon Darby’s long illness, and of Aunt Clarissa’s old tragedy. He mentioned his own mother’s death three years ago with tender feeling.

Where was the artificial peacock? This might be a different man.

All the same, beneath easy manners, he was intense. A strange word, but the only one Martha could find. And his intensity was centered on her. When their eyes met, she felt its power. That must be a skill of practiced seducers, and on a weaker woman it might work, for it created the illusion that she was special, that she was important to him.

When he invited them all to dine at his inn the next afternoon, Martha agreed with as much pleasure as the rest. It appeared he might plan an attempt on her virtue. Perhaps dry spinsters from the provinces were a new dish for such as he, and she looked forward to seeing what other skills he would bring into play. Would he attempt to get her alone? He’d fail, but it would be like watching a play, and the performance of this leading actor should be a wonder to behold.

However, the price for her amusement was more embarrassing dreams, and others even odder. Where did the woodland scenes come from? She’d spent her life in a city, but in the night she visited dense woodlands and glades woven through with a hauntingly beautiful song, where strange creatures danced, loved, and quarreled.

Quarreled over her.

An exquisite lady in iridescent draperies and a lord in dark velvet prowled and snarled. Over her…

When she awoke to her sunlit bedchamber, Martha felt as if the misty greenwood still surrounded her, but by the time they left to walk to the Crown Inn, she was sensible again.

She could wish Aunt Clarissa so. That lady was in alt at Loxsleigh’s high station and had spent the morning making inquiries of her friends, which also allowed her to spread the word about her interesting new acquaintance. “He is the heir,” she’d told Martha and her mother. “And the family is famously rich!”

As soon as they were seated at the inn, she said, “I understand your home at Five Oaks is most unusual, sir. Famous for its antiquity.”

“It is, ma’am.”

“A part of it dates back to the thirteenth century!”

“A small part,” he said as soup was served. “Only the old great hall and some rooms above it.”

“Five hundred years old!” Aunt Clarissa declared.

“Is it not rather uncomfortable?” asked Martha’s practical mother.

He turned his smile on her. “Which is why it’s hardly used, ma’am.”

“Are there five oaks?” Martha challenged.

“Of course, Miss Darby.”

“Trees die, even oaks. There cannot always be five.”

Her sharpness did not cut him. “There can if one counts saplings. But yes, there have always been five mature oaks.” Before she could debate that point, he added, “Or so legend says. There are certainly five now. Perhaps you would care to visit and see for yourself?”

He addressed it nicely to both Martha and her mother, but she knew it was intended for herself. So that was it. He wanted her in his home, under his power…

Before she could forestall it, her mother had agreed, and then she made it worse.

“I hope we’ll be able to return your hospitality soon, sir, and serve you a dinner when next you visit York. Perhaps we can show you some entertainments. We will soon be out of mourning. Dear Martha missed so much of her youth while helping me nurse Mr. Darby that I look forward to her enjoying parties and assemblies.”

“I’m past the age for such frivolities, Mother.”

“Why say that, dear? I declare I am not. I intend to dance when asked, and enjoy many entertainments.”

“And so you should, ma’am,” Loxsleigh said. “I will certainly ask you to dance.”

He addressed her mother, but Martha felt the message was to her. She found her hand tight on her knife and fork as if she’d need to fight him off.

Talk turned safely to musical evenings and assemblies, but then both Martha’s mother and aunt shared stories from their youth that implied more liveliness than Martha had imagined. Her mother had flirted with a number of suitors, and even slipped aside from a dance for a kiss? And not with the future Canon Darby, either. In their recollections, the older ladies became more youthful, brighter-eyed, rosier-cheeked, while Martha remained herself, dull and lacking memories to share.

Did everyone dance and flirt their way into their twenties except her?

She became aware of hunger, and not for soup.

She hungered for touches and dances and teasing and flirtation. All the things the older ladies remembered with such pleasure. All the things she’d missed and feared never to experience, especially in Dean Stallingford’s embraces.

Good heavens. She’d never let her imagination go so far, and now the idea revolted her.

She caught Loxsleigh looking at her and immediately envisioned embraces that would not revolt her. How was he doing this to her?

She seized her wineglass and drank. He also raised his glass, but sipped, his eyes remaining on her, bright as fire. Heat rose through her body. She began to sweat.

This wasn’t a play, and it wasn’t harmless. She would not go to Five Oaks. She would return directly to York and marry Dean Stallingford and be safe.

The meal seemed to take an age, and when they rose to take their leave Martha gave thanks that the torment was over. However, Loxsleigh insisted on escorting them back home and walked beside her as they left the inn. She could feel his presence, perhaps even a vibration. She welcomed fresh air and the hubbub of ordinary life—people in the street, vendors calling their wares, a line of chairmen offering transport.

“I feel quite fatigued,” said Aunt Clarissa. “I do believe I’ll take a chair.”

Loxsleigh summoned a sedan and paid the men. “Mistress Darby? Would you, too, care to be carried home?”

“I confess the idea appeals, sir. Don’t feel obliged to join us in laziness, dear,” she said to Martha. “I know you enjoy a walk and Mr. Loxsleigh will ensure your safety.”

If Martha’s senses were any guide, Mr. Loxsleigh planned the exact opposite, but she took a sudden resolve. Even if she refused to visit his home, he could follow her to York. The only way to put a stop to this was to directly dismiss him.

“Yes,” she said. “I should like to walk. It’s a lovely afternoon.”

3

AS SOON AS the older ladies were carried away she turned to him. “And now, Mr. Loxsleigh, we will talk plainly, if you please.”

He extended his arm. “I will be delighted, Miss Darby.”

Martha didn’t want to touch him, but propriety compelled. She curled her hand around his arm and they set off down the street. Even through gloves and sleeve, she felt that vibration again and it rippled into her. She twitched and glanced around. Had she heard that song again? The one from her dream…

“Plain talk, Miss Darby?” he prompted.

“I wish to know, plainly, sir, why you are pursuing my mother and myself. We can hardly be amusing to you after court.”

“Court is a constantly repeating play. Its charms soon wear thin.”

She gave him a look. “So we are a new play, a novelty?”

“As I am for you, I’m sure.”

“I’m certainly not accustomed to such elevated company.” She was launched on an argument about their different stations, but he said, “I assume you meet the archbishop now and then.”

“That is hardly the same.”

“But extremely elevated. Where does the Archbishop of York come in the order of precedence? Closely after royalty, I believe, and far, far above the heir to a viscountcy.”

Jaw tense, Martha said, “I have very little to do with the archbishop.”

“But would not reject his company as unsuitable. Come, Miss Darby, why are you so prickly? What have I done to offend?”

She glared at him. “Do you pretend that you encountered us in Newark by accident?”

“It is on the North Road, which we both must take. But I confess that I wanted to meet you again.”

“Why?”

Martha suddenly realized that they’d taken a shortcut through the churchyard. It was the route her party had walked to the inn, enjoying the tranquillity. Now the leafy quiet seemed dangerous.

She released his arm and stepped away. “Why?” she demanded again. “What interest do you have in us?”

“In you. Your mother is delightful, but you are the lodestone.”

“Lodestone?” But that was best ignored. “I insist you leave us be, sir. There is no connection, and can never be.”

“There was a handkerchief,” he said whimsically. “My dear Miss Darby, my intentions are completely honorable.”

“Honorable?” She was becoming an echo, but he’d opened the way to an attack. “That sounds as if you intend to propose marriage.”

She waited with relish for him to show panic, but instead he smiled. “I believe I do. But first I must kiss you.”

“What? You wretch, to make fun of me. And to suggest something so wicked!”

“A kiss is wicked? Then the whole world is destined for hell. Including you. With such tempting lips, you must have been kissed many times.”

“Certainly not!” Martha snapped, but instantly regretted the admission. “My father’s illness… Mourning…”

He sobered. “As your mother said, you have missed much.” He captured her hands. “Allow me to introduce you to the kiss.”

He didn’t wait for permission, however, but pulled her beneath a tree.

And kissed her.

A mere press of lips to lips, yet sparkles started there and spread throughout her body—into her chest, down her spine, right to her fingers and toes. She almost felt that her tight-pinned hair crackled.

She tried to step back, but that brought her hard against the tree’s trunk and he pressed over her, his hot mouth claiming hers hungrily, destroying both conscience and will. She gripped his jacket, lightning-struck and helpless, until a deep, urgent ache awoke her to peril.

She pushed him away with all her strength. He crushed closer, as if he might force her…

But then he put hands to the tree and thrust violently backward, as if breaking bonds, breathing hard, eyes bright and wolfish in their hunger.

A hunger that pounded in herself.

He went to one knee. “Miss Darby, will you marry me?”

She stared, then snapped, “Of course not!” from an instinct as sharp as that which snatches the hand from a burning pot.

His eyes still shone. “You must, you know.”

Martha backed away, but the infernal tree blocked her. “Must? From a kiss. A kiss forced upon me? I fear you’re mad, sir!”

And he looked it, with those wide, burning eyes and flushed cheeks.

“I will be if you reject me. Why do you refuse?”

“Why? My father was a canon. Yours is a viscount. You will be a viscount one day. I have an extremely modest portion to bring to a marriage and no idea of how to behave at court.”

“I don’t live at court,” he said, rising to his feet. “And I don’t need your portion, but in fact you bring a dowry of immense value.” He stepped forward. “Let me kiss you again.”

Martha pushed him away. “Stop that! I know what you’re about. You’re trying to seduce me.”

“I’m trying to marry you.”

“I don’t believe you.”

He sighed and looked up. “I thought an oak would have some power.”

“What?”

He took her hand—“Come”—and dragged her toward the church.

“What are you doing? Stop this!” Martha stumbled along, unable bring herself to scream. They turned a corner, and there at last were people—two gravediggers, chest deep in the ground. “Sirs!” she cried.

“I want to marry this lady,” Loxsleigh interrupted. “Will you stand witness?”

The men grinned, showing crooked teeth. “If you wish, sir.”

“I do.” He tossed them both a coin. “Come.” He dragged Martha onward.

She grabbed a headstone. “You’re drunk, sir. You must be. It would serve you right if I took up your offer.”

He stopped, beaming. “Do, please, my marrying maid.”

“Your what?”

“You, my dear, my darling Miss Darby, are my marrying maid. I have sought you high and low, long and far, despairing of ever finding you in time. But here you are, and here I am, and all is wondrous!”

He grasped her waist and swung her around in the air. Nothing so alarming, so wonderful, had ever happened to Martha Darby before. She swatted at his head, beat at his shoulders, and when her feet touched the ground again she exclaimed, “You’re mad, or drunk, or both!”

“Not a bit of it!”

But then he swooped down to dig his fingers into the long grass by the edge of the path.

Mad, Martha thought, tears gathering in her eyes. Tragically, the man was mad.

“See.” He straightened, showing her a small golden earring as if it were a wonder of the orient. “Is it not wonderful?”

“You must return it to its owner,” Martha said gently.

“Of course, but it’s proof, you see.”

“Proof of what?”

“That you’re my marrying maid. How soon can we be wed?”

“Mr. Loxsleigh, I am not going to marry you.”

He shook his head, as if she were a moonling.

Martha reached for the only weapon she had. “I’m promised to another.”

That did cloud his sun. “Do you love him?”

Martha couldn’t quite lie. “We are very well suited,” she said and set off along the path toward the street, toward people. Sane people.

He passed her and spoke walking backward. “You don’t love him. Of course you don’t. A marrying maid wants no other. I wonder why I didn’t find you years ago.”

“Perhaps,” she said tightly, “because we belong in different spheres and still do.”

“Ah! Your father was a canon. Did you live close to the Minster?”

The safety of the street lay ahead, but he blocked her way. “Yes.”

“And in the long years of caring for your father, did you mostly stay at home?”

“Of course.”

“That explains it, then. Faery powers can’t work in powerful Christian spaces.”

Fairies. He was a worse case than she’d feared.

He turned and opened the gate for her. “If I try to explain, you’ll never believe me.”

“Quite likely I won’t,” she said, safe at last on the street.

“Martha, my dear, just say yes.”

She looked him in the eye. “No.”

“Come to Five Oaks.”

“No.”

“What harm can it do?”

“Said the spider to the fly.” She marched on. Aunt Clarissa’s house was in view. Martha had never been so glad to see it.

“Come to Five Oaks,” he persisted. “It will change your mind. But if it doesn’t, I’ll bother you no more. And that is a painful promise for me to make.”

Martha was struck by his sincerity and slowed her steps. “Why?”

He didn’t immediately answer and seemed to be calculating her reaction. “If you don’t marry me,” he said at last, “I will die.”

“Die of love? We hardly know each other!”

“Simply die. And not just me. Many others.”

Mad, mad, but she was suddenly unable to abandon him. If she went to his home, she would be with her mother. Aunt Clarissa would know where they went. Perhaps his father didn’t realize how sad a case he was. There might be some way to help him.

“Very well,” Martha said at last. “I will visit Five Oaks.”

He beamed, all that bright light shining, but the song came from elsewhere, as did the burst of ethereal laughter. Martha looked around even as she knew neither was anything to do with the here and now.

Was insanity infectious?

4

BY MORNING MARTHA had second, third, twentieth doubts about the wisdom of her decision, especially in light of her dreams. That one kiss had unleashed wickedness beyond comprehension, and even more vivid images of impossible things.

Mr. Loxsleigh arrived, and though he was striving to appear normal, his eyes revealed that madness still rode him. Not dangerous madness, she assured herself. What was more, he’d brought a luxurious traveling carriage drawn by six horses, which meant three postilions who would hardly allow evil.

She guessed he intended rash speed, however, and said, “We will travel only as fast as is reasonable, sir.”

He handed her into the carriage. “We must reach Five Oaks today.”

Martha paused in the doorway. “Why?”

She caught him staring into nowhere, but then he was with her again, smiling. “My impatience to see you there, Miss Darby. But my word on it, we’ll travel no faster than is safe.”

With yet more misgivings, Martha took her seat at her mother’s side, facing the horses. It was difficult to be a well-bred lady who never behaved improperly, and did not upset arrangements.

“How lovely to travel post,” her mother said. “So kind of you, Mr. Loxsleigh.”

He took the opposite seat. “It is you who are kind, ma’am, agreeing to come to Five Oaks.”

As the carriage moved off, Martha gripped her hands together. She forced them to relax. She was safe. Any other impression was a lingering effect of her dream.

Or proximity to a man. The seating put her far too close to Loxsleigh. Their knees almost touched. Unless she chose to look outside all the way, she must look at him, be aware of how he looked at her with eyes that now seemed to gleam emerald bright.

She turned away as if fascinated by the sight of the castle over nearby houses.

He said, “Our road is good according to those coming south.”

In other words, he claimed speed was safe. To prove it, as soon as they left the town the horses picked up their pace. It did not jolt over ruts, however, so Martha couldn’t reasonably complain.

Extravagantly, they halted for new horses in an hour, and then again. They would have continued that way till dark if Martha hadn’t prompted him to stop to dine at gone two o’clock. He agreed, but though he smiled and conversed, he hurried them through their meal and out again to the carriage. Even Martha’s mother commented on it.

“Is there urgency, Mr. Loxsleigh? Do you have bad news from home?”

“No, ma’am. I’m merely anxious that we arrive before dark.”

“If it becomes dark,” Martha said, “we must stop.”

He looked at her with something like rage and she shrank back, wishing there was some way to escape with propriety. He instantly smiled, so that she might have believed she’d imagined the reaction, but she didn’t.

He turned to her mother. “There’s a family legend that might interest you, ma’am, as it concerns the oldest part of Five Oaks. May I relate it to pass the time?”

“By all means, Mr. Loxsleigh.”

“Long, long ago,” he began, “an ancestor, also called Robert Loxsleigh, traveled the land, seeking to do his knightly duty and defend the weak. One night, he became lost in dense woodland despite the fact that it was a full moon. When he came into a clearing he saw a beautiful woman being assaulted by a man. He leaped from his horse, drew his sword, and rushed between them. The lady fell on his chest in gratitude, but the man was furious. He declared Sir Robert was his prisoner for entering a Faery circle under the full moon. You see the warring couple were Titania and Oberon, Queen and King of Faery.”

“As in Shakespeare!” Anne Darby exclaimed. “‘Ill met by moonlight.’ How interesting.”

“Ill met, indeed,” Loxsleigh agreed, but when he turned to Martha, that fire of intensity burned. Worse, she felt it in herself now, as if she had urgent need to race to his home, but it fought with a desperate need to turn away from the course.

“Sir Robert sought to escape, but his horse had disappeared, as had his squire and all the woodland except for the five gnarled oaks that circled him. He knew of faery ways, and knew that a mortal who invaded a faery circle at full moon was their prisoner. He believed himself lost to our world, but Titania took him under her protection and declared that he should go free, and would even receive a reward. One wish.”

“What did he wish for?” Anne Darby asked.

“Remember, ma’am, he was a truly noble knight. He asked for some talent that would enable him to help the poor and helpless even more than before.”

“Ah, the good man.”

“What talent?” Martha asked, hearing her tension make it harsh.

Loxsleigh looked at her. “The ability to find lost gold.”

“Lost?”

“Coins, salvers, jewelry.”

“Such as an earring?”

Their eyes were locked. “Quite possibly.” But then he turned to her mother. “Anything already mined and formed by man. Gold is a mystical metal, valued everywhere. Some believe it also has mystic and healing powers. It serves us well and shouldn’t be lost. According to this story, faery has the task of ensuring that lost gold is found and returned to use. Have you ever heard the story of the gold at the end of a rainbow?”

Martha clung to silence, unable to understand why she felt such threat. Her mother seemed unaffected and asked to know more.

“That legend appears in many places. It says that if a person can find the place where a rainbow touches the ground, they will find gold. Thus it is a way for faery to put some of their trove back into human hands. Or, sometimes buried gold is brought to the surface to be exposed by the plough, or coins hidden in a wall are revealed when someone is inspired to break it down.”

“I have heard of such cases,” Anne Darby declared, wide-eyed.

“It’s only a legend, Mother.”

That caused Loxsleigh to look at her again. “You doubt, Miss Darby, and therein lies the problem. Once, the fey folk lived close to humans, dwelling in the dense woodlands that surrounded every village and manor, interacting with people according to their whim. But much of that woodland has been cut down and the land put to agriculture, and modern thought has made skeptics of us all. Nowadays faery lives among us only in their mystic havens. To continue the work, Titania made Sir Robert her deputy, enabling him to find lost gold and put it to use to benefit the poor.”

“Then why,” Martha asked, “are his descendants so rich?”

“Martha!” her mother protested.

But Loxsleigh smiled. As if she’d opened a door.

“Queen Titania wished Sir Robert to found a line that would continue this work, so she bound him with rules. He must keep a seventh of the value of any trove and use it for his own health and prosperity. He must marry and sire children, so that an eldest son would carry on the work, and so must his heirs for all time. Those with the talent must do the work. If he or his descendants broke these rules there was a penalty—they would die within the year. Not just the trouvedor, for thus the gold finders are called, but all Robert’s descendants to that day.”

“Over five hundred years?” Anne Darby exclaimed. “That could be a vast number!”

“Faery is not benign, ma’am. We are as moths to them, dead in a moment.”

And that rang deadly true. Martha desperately tried to make sense of this, but she remembered him saying that if she did not marry him, he would die. He could not be claiming that this story was true, that he possessed a fairy gift!

“Those are easy enough conditions, Mr. Loxsleigh,” Martha said with deliberate flippancy. “To live a comfortable life and marry.”

“Martha,” her mother said again, becoming distressed.

Loxsleigh still smiled, but Martha was more and more aware of dark tension all around him. “As you say, Miss Darby. Except that Oberon does his best to thwart his queen.”

The coach lurched into an inn then for a change of horses, breaking the moment. Almost breaking a spell.

Was that it? Was she under a spell? Was that why she’d agreed to this mad journey?

But that would mean it was all true. Fairies. Gold finders.

He climbed down to inspect the new horses and pay the fees. She watched him, remembering the earring. His bright burning exultation. Him sweeping her up in that mad whirl. A predictor of this mad whirl. But she’d been alive then. Alive as never before.

No, she would have none of this. She was a rational Christian woman. The man was mad, and she could only pray he wasn’t dangerously so.

He climbed back in and the coach moved on.

Martha’s mother said, “You mentioned Oberon, sir. Do tell us more.”

Martha saw that he wanted to tell her, intended to tell her, and could do nothing to prevent it.

“You will remember that Oberon had reason to hate Robert Loxsleigh, but by faery law he could not deny his lady’s gifts. Titania had already imposed rules and a dreadful consequence, however, so he set out to make obedience difficult. He decreed that Robert Loxsleigh and his heirs would not achieve their talent until they married, and that they must marry a woman that he would choose, and before their twenty-fifth birthday.

“Titania insisted that the woman must be healthy, and of a suitable age and station, but she and her husband enjoy their battles, so she made no more attempt than that. Thus—if we are to believe my family lore—there will always be a destined bride for the Loxsleigh heir, but Oberon will make her hard to find.” He turned to Martha. “When found, however, there will be no doubt. On either side. We call the bride his marrying maid.”

Martha inhaled, clenching her fists.

How old are you?

She would not ask, she would not. She turned away, looking outside, and noticed gathering clouds. Rain often turned the roads to mud and she prayed for it. She didn’t want to reach his house, and with delay perhaps she could escape.

“What a charming story,” Anne Darby said.

Martha turned to her mother. “Charming?”

“Fairies, noble knights, and brides.”

“And threat of death for many, if there was any truth in it.”

“But there isn’t, is there, dear?”

Martha forced a smile. “No, of course not. I was swept away by it for a moment. The weather looks ominous, sir. We should stop at the next stage.”

“We can reach Five Oaks today, I promise,” Loxsleigh said.

Martha didn’t argue. If she was any judge, the clouds would do her work for her.

Her mother asked, “Does the name Five Oaks come from that legend? From the oak trees in the glade?”

“It does, ma’am. In fact, the legend says that the old part of the house was built in that very glade, as you will see for yourself within hours.” He looked out at the gathering clouds, however, and frowned.

“Do you have any other stories, Mr. Loxsleigh?” her mother asked.

Martha closed her eyes briefly, wondering what more there could be.

“I do have one more, ma’am, which is very whimsical. We left Sir Robert with his faery gift, and once he married his marrying maid, he used his talent but kept the seventh, thus obeying the rules. However, he began to find it harder to distribute the gold to the poor. His generous charities were beginning to cause comment. He tried leaving gold for people to find, as faery had done, but it offended him when it was found by rascals or the rich.

“He traveled farther to escape attention, and when returning from a benevolent journey he was set upon by outlaws. The leader took his purse and made a play of him having donated the purse to the poor. That gave Sir Robert an idea. He set up a trap and captured that leader and put a proposition to him. If he would give up his thievery, Sir Robert would protect him and his companions and provide money for them to live on. In return, Robin Ahood and his men would pass on the gold, claiming that they’d stolen it from the rich to give to the poor.”

“Robin Hood!” Martha exclaimed. “Now I see you play with us.”

“I did say it was whimsical, Miss Darby.”

“And many people think Robin Hood was real,” her mother said. “Especially around Yorkshire and Nottinghamshire.”

“They think fairies real, too,” Martha scoffed. “Or magic wells, or that eleven days were stolen from them when the calendar changed.”

“Oh, I remember that,” said her mother. “Such a furor. Even rioting. There are some still convinced that their lives will be shorter.” She turned to Loxsleigh. “One neighbor in York whose birthday was on the tenth of September that year insists to this day that she’s a year younger than she truly is.”

Loxsleigh didn’t respond. In fact, he looked dumbstruck. He looked outside at the gathering gloom, and then at Martha, eyes wide.

“Robin Hood,” Martha said sharply, hoping to bring him back to reason. “That device could only have lasted a while. Men die.”

He blinked as if her words made no sense, but then said, “No, of course. I mean yes.” He shivered. “A legend can live forever. The Robin Hood stories are spread over centuries, you know, and from Nottinghamshire to Yorkshire. To Barnsdale, where Five Oaks lies. One version links to the Loxsleigh name, though spelled differently. It could be true.”

It was a good attempt, but close to babble.

“How interesting,” said Martha’s mother, but he continued to look at Martha.

“You disbelieve all?”

“Robin Hood might have existed,” she said, “but fairies certainly do not.”

“Pray God you’re right,” he said and turned again to study the weather as if willpower could change it.

5

ROB DIDN’T KNOW how he was presenting a normal appearance. If he was.

The change of calendar! How could he have ignored it? How could his father?

Five years ago the calendar had been corrected by going from the second day of September to the fourteenth. As Mistress Darby said, many of the simple folk believed that eleven days had been stolen from them. There had been riots demanding their return. People with birthdays during the eleven days had fretted about how old they were.

He’d regarded all this with amusement. Why hadn’t he realized?

No one could tell how faery viewed such human matters as dates and calendars, but if the rules applied to the old date, it would explain the gathering storm—and not the one visible in roiling clouds. At first it had been a dark chanting in his head, but that had turned into a cacophonous chorus that flogged him toward Five Oaks. Hurry, hurry, hurry.

Over the past hours he’d become aware of them around him. Gleeful Oberon and furious Titania. No wonder. If the rules kept to the old calendar, his birthday wasn’t the twentieth day of June, eleven days away, but the ninth.

Tomorrow.

If he didn’t bed Martha Darby before tomorrow, perhaps before eleven in the morning, his hour of birth, Oberon would be free to finally exact his revenge on the line of Sir Robert Loxsleigh.

That left no time for niceties and wooing. By kind means or cruel, he must have her in the next twenty hours. He tried to compel calm. They would be at Five Oaks in hours, even with the worsening weather. Oberon’s work, he was sure. Once he took Martha to the old hall, where faery energy burned so fiercely, she would have to believe, have to agree to anticipate the wedding. Even she, the prim daughter of a canon of York.

If not?

Damnation. Oberon had chosen well and done his mightiest, but he could not be allowed to succeed.

But then the rain swept toward them, sheeting down, pounding the rough ground of the road.

“We must stop at the next inn, Mr. Loxsleigh,” Martha said. “We risk becoming stuck in the mud.”

“The road’s sound,” he said desperately, “and it’s not far now. Perhaps only an hour.” The coach had slowed, however, and he could feel the labor of the horses. The postilions would be miserable, but they must press on. Then the wheels sank and the coach stopped.

He opened the door to jump out. “We must lighten the load!”

The coach lurched forward then, the wheels finding new purchase. He fell back into his seat.

“This is folly!” his bride declared. “Look, I see lights ahead. We must stop. We can’t climb out to lighten the load in this weather. My mother could catch her death.”

He wanted to rail at her, but every word was true. They could not go on.

“Very well,” he said, desperately seeking solutions. “My apologies.”

The lights turned out to be a small inn, but called the Maid Marian. Was that a hopeful sign or a twisted joke? It had two tiny bedchambers for them, but they would have to take their supper in the common room. That didn’t matter. He made his plans.

He ordered supper for them and hot punch, making sure it had plenty of honey and spices. When it arrived, he strengthened it with the flask of brandy he had in his valise.

Mistress Darby declared it excellent and drank two glasses. Martha drank well of it, too. He topped up her glass when she wasn’t looking and saw her drain it again.

Mistress Darby began to nod off. She started. “Oh, my, the long journey has tired me out. I’m for bed.”

She left the room somewhat unsteadily. Martha rose and he saw her steady herself on the back of her chair. “I, too, am tired. You set too hasty a pace, Mr. Loxsleigh.”

“Perhaps I did. I am simply impatient to see you in my home.”

He watched her struggle to focus. “I am not going to marry you.”

“You must. You know the story now. Remember Oberon’s revenge.”

“Fablesh…” She frowned. “Fables for the credulous.”

He grabbed her and shook her. “Why am I cursed with such an impossible woman!”

She fought him off. “Cursed. Cursed. Because I will not sin in your bed I’m a curse?”

“I want to marry you!”

“I don’t want to marry you!” she yelled, inhibitions shattered by drink. She was magnificent. But adamant.

“You’re mad, Mr. Loxsleigh,” she said with the careful precision of the drunk. “It’s sad, but I will not bind myself to a madman.”

A man laughed, deep and dark.

Martha looked around, almost losing her balance again. “Who was that?”

“Oberon. Anticipating victory. Martha, listen to me. My birthday isn’t twelve days away, it’s tomorrow. We need to go to bed together. Now.”

She blinked at him. “That is a most improper statement, sir.”

“I know. Very well, we need to go on to Five Oaks. Now.”

“Mad, mad, mad.”

“We could ride.”

“I cannot ride.”

“We could share a horse.” He desperately wanted her willing. “Martha, if we don’t… wed by tomorrow I will die. My father will die. All the descendants of Sir Robert Loxsleigh, wherever they may be, will die within the year.”

She swayed slightly. “It is impossible for us to marry by tomorrow, sir. Banns… and I do believe that you have made me drunk.”

He approached again. “Certainly you are affected by the punch, Miss Darby. Permit me to escort you upstairs.”

She swatted at him. “Keep away from me, you… you… horny goat.”

That came so improbably from her lips that he laughed.

A mistake. She backed away, muttering, “Mad, mad, mad. Keep away from me. And I will not go to your home. Not tomorrow. Not ever!”

He watched her steer carefully toward the door. Some were made docile by drink, and some quarrelsome. Clearly Martha Darby was the latter. Some were made lusty, but he’d never trusted to that.

He followed at a distance, ready to save her if she stumbled on the narrow stairs. Halfway up her legs betrayed her and she sat down, leaning her head against the wall, muttering, “Drunk. I’m drunk. Oh, the shame…”

Then she slipped into a stupor.

Rob went to where she slumped and touched her prim cap. “Martha, my love, I wish it had been otherwise. Pray God you forgive me.”

He gathered her into his arms, aware of Titania’s exultance and Oberon’s fury and hating both equally. Titania’s lilting voice approved. But then Oberon changed his tone to coaxing.

Will you rape her? it murmured. Despoil her limp body? What will be the result when she regains awareness and understands what you have done?

She’ll love you, argued Titania. She’s your marrying maid. It is her destiny to love you just as it is your destiny to love her. Do it now, my knight. Do it now so you and your line can live.

Do it now and eat bitter bread forever. Perhaps it is not necessary. Perhaps I will allow your birthday to be as your worldly custom designates.

Rob carried Martha up to his bedchamber where he laid her on the bed. He untied the stings of her cap and took it off, then unpinned her hair. He spread it, astonished by its silky thickness, aroused by it and hungry. He leaned down and pressed his lips to hers…

Which were slack and unresponsive.

He inhaled, straightening. “I cannot,” he said. Titania screamed at him; Oberon laughed.

Where was virtue and vileness here? Where was right and wrong?

There was one last hope.

6

MARTHA WAS FIRST aware of a throbbing head, and then that she was cold and wet. Then that she was not in her bed, but being carried. Was this another odd dream?

She struggled feebly and realized she was trapped in something. In heavy cloth.

“Hush, love, we’re home. I’ll soon have you warm.”

“Home?” She forced her eyes open and saw a distant starry sky. Closer, she saw Loxsleigh’s shadowed face.

“What have you done?” Her mouth was almost too parched for speech.

“Brought you to Five Oaks. It was the only way.”

“No…” He was going to rape her, and here in his house there would be no noble Sir Robert to stand between. She felt her own hot tears on her cold cheeks.

He kissed them. “Don’t be afraid, love. I won’t harm you. But I had to bring you here. I had to try.”

He put her down on the steps to open the door, but only for a moment and still swaddled, so her feeble struggles achieved nothing. They entered total darkness, but he must know it well. Of course he did.

Then wild candlelight showed a high, painted ceiling. “My boy, my boy! You’re home and with your bride. Praise be to God!”

Martha turned her head and saw a tousled-haired man in a night robe, candle in hand.

“Welcome, my dear, welcome. Oh, happy day. But why such a journey? The poor girl must be chilled through. Bring her up, bring her up. She can lie in my bed for now.”

“No!” Martha cried. Not the father, too.

“No,” Rob Loxsleigh said. “I must take her to the old hall.”

“The old hall? She’ll catch a lung fever.”

“I hope she’ll catch credulity.” Already striding across the entrance hall, he called, “The calendar change. It changed my birthday. We have no time! Bring brandy and water. Rouse the servants to prepare her a bed.”

“Please,” Martha cried. “Please, don’t.”

But he rushed forward into darkness, struggling to open doors, leaving them wide behind him, and all around her a cacophony of voices swelled—high voices, low voices, merry and angry, coaxing and threatening, tangled up in a song. In that song. Her nightmare song.

A man growled, “He plans to rape you. Fight, mortal creature, fight!”

She tried, but was helpless.

Then Loxsleigh stopped. Small-paned windows let in a trace of light and Martha’s eyes were accustomed to the dark. They were in the ancient part of Five Oaks. And the nightmare song and creatures whirled around.

A dream. This had to be a dream!

He put her on her feet, supporting her still.

The lady was there, the one in iridescent robes. She smiled like a Madonna, but with blank eyes. Titania.

The man paced around them like the panther she’d seen in the Tower of London. “He cannot rape you. He’s too puny for that. You have only to resist.”

Titania pressed close in a cloud of woodland perfume. “Dear child, you have only to surrender to Rob, to that which you most desire.” Her hand brushed Martha’s forehead and the dull throb there faded. The room seemed brighter by the moment, and all her senses heightened. The song turned sweet.

“You love Rob Loxsleigh,” whispered the Queen of Faery. “He loves you. You were destined from birth. And the threat is real, dear child. Refuse and my lord will have his way.”

“Then stop him.”

“I have brought you together. Now it lies in your hands.”

“You demand that I sin!”

Titania laughed. “I demand nothing. It will annoy me if my lord wins this little contest, but there are many others.”

Faery, Rob Loxsleigh had said, are not benign.

Martha realized that whether the light came from a magical glow or from the fey folk themselves, she could see. The room was long and low and paneled in dark oak, but held no furniture. Rob stood nearby, wild haired and grim, watching her, but prepared, she understood, to abide by her decision.

Here, now, she could not deny the reality of the threat. It showed in Titania’s heartless smile and in handsome Oberon’s simmering anticipation. He waited to exact revenge for an offence half a millennium old. Others flowed around the room and in and out of the dark walls, watching and chattering. They were enjoying the show, as people watch animals fight to the death simply for amusement.

The unearthly song swelled—sweet, yes, but chanting both love and death.

Martha turned to Rob. “They are vile. We must deny them both.”

He took her hands. “Martha, Martha, they are as wind, wave, and lightning. Deny them if you will, but you will still die. Or rather I will, and my father. My uncle and aunt, my cousins and my cousin Cecilia’s newborn child. Who knows how many others carry Sir Robert Loxsleigh’s blood? Trust me, love. There is only one way. Come to my bed and lie with me. We will be married as soon as may be, but Oberon will be thwarted only if we love each other tonight.”

“It would be wrong,” the dark lord growled in her ear, “and you know it. What good can come from that?”

“We can pledge ourselves now,” Rob argued. “We can say our vows. I will keep them, as will you. There can never be any other for you or me.”

“By your beliefs, it must be in a church,” Oberon argued. “Think of the scandal. Your reputation…”

It was as if all around held their breath, as if the very room, the old house, the one built by Robert Loxsleigh in a faery glade guarded by five oaks, held its breath. Even the song stopped. But Oberon had misplayed his hand. Martha’s morals still quailed, but to let innocents die for her reputation would be vile.

She looked into the man’s eyes. “I will lie with you tonight, Rob Loxsleigh, my husband in all but the ceremony.”

The chorus burst into song again, a song of wild rejoicing that clashed with thunderous rage. Rob took her hand and raced her out of the ancient part of the house, back to the entrance hall, lit now by a branch of candles. The noises faded and then stopped.

Martha knew that the faery had gone. Gone on to other entertainments.

Rob took her into his arms, holding her tight and close, burying his head in her hair.

Her loose hair, Martha realized, as it had never been except between brushing and pinning.

He separated and kissed her, a gentle, reverent kiss. “You will not regret this.”

“No, I don’t believe I will.” But she swallowed before saying, “Do we do it now?”

He smiled. “We have all night. You’re damp in places and wet in others. Come up to your room and be comfortable.”

She went up with him, hand in hand, but still embarrassed. She could hear servants around, woken from sleep and talking softly. About her. They would all know…

But she would not sacrifice hundreds to her discomfort.

He led her to a room where three maidservants worked, still in their nightwear with tied shawls atop. They cast her looks, but smiling ones. Did they know? Did everyone here know?

The room was lit with candles and warmed by the flickering flames of a new-laid fire. Two of the servants were running warming pans through the bed. The other was spreading a nightgown over a rack before the fire.

“I’ll leave you in their care,” Rob said, smiling down at her.

She could do nothing but smile back. “I’m all awhirl.”

“I know. Be comfortable. I’ll return later.”

The subject still embarrassed her too much for speech, but she nodded.

He left and she surrendered to the maids’ care. They gave her small beer to slake her thirst, and stripped off her damp outer clothing. Martha wouldn’t let them strip her naked. She retired behind the screen to take off her shift and put on the nightgown.

The maids toweled dry her hair and then settled her into the warm bed with a cup of chocolate and a sweet cake. There was a plate of fruit as well, but Martha could eat nothing.

The servants left. She sipped the chocolate, which was richer than any she’d tasted. And she waited.

All awareness of faery had gone, making her realize how it had lived in her for days, ever since that encounter in the park. Instead, there was a growing peace, a growing certainty that all was now right, despite the lack of church and clergy.

She was drinking the last of the chocolate when Rob came to her, shining and handsome again, in a rich, blue robe.

“My peacock, I see.”

“At your command,” he said, crossing the room to her. “Always.”

He extinguished the candles until only fire lit the room and came into the bed beside her. “I’m sorry it must be this way, my love, but it will be holy.”

He was naked and she had to look away, even though she said, “I know it.”

Wildly she thought, It would never have been like this with Dean Stallingford!

He took her hand and she felt his warm lips on her knuckles. “Look at me, Martha.”

She turned her head shyly, but he’d pulled the covers up to his neck. There was nothing to embarrass her except that he was here, a man in her bed.

He took her hand, her left hand, and slid a ring onto her third finger. “My pledge to you, dear heart.”

Martha raised her hand and saw a complex ring of gold, set with small, smooth stones.

“I’ve carried that for years, love, as I sought my marrying maid. Come, let me love you now.”

He gathered her into his arms and kissed her, and there was all the magic she remembered from that other kiss, so long ago, a day ago. Heat and sparkles danced through her and this time she felt no need to resist. Shyly, she kissed him back. Her hands encountered his skin and she laid her hands on him, uncertainly but with growing pleasure.

She moved against him, her whole body twining with his so they seemed one. Especially when he raised her nightgown high, then took it off. She stared up at the bed canopy as he put hands to her naked breasts. And then his mouth. But then she was lost to anxiety and swept up into his passion, her need building so that when he thrust inside her, she cried out as much in satisfaction as in pain.

The pain was short and soon forgotten. The pleasure built until she thought she’d die of wanting more. Until it came, and she didn’t die, but ended up hot and sticky in his arms, laughing softly at the splendor of it. “So that,” she said, “is magic.”

He chuckled into her hair. “If it’s magic, it’s a magic available to everyone, love.” He nuzzled and kissed her there. “Thank you, my dear, my darling, my marrying maid. We will be gloriously happy—”

But Martha suddenly sat up. “Mother!”

Laughing, he pulled her back down. “Someone’s already been dispatched to bring her here safely on the morrow. The explanations may be delicate, but I think she’ll be mollified by our wedding.” He cradled her face. “Any regrets?”

Martha shook her head. “None. This is right and true.”

“We’ll follow faery’s rules and all will be well, and when our son is of marrying age we’ll work with him to circumvent Oberon’s wiles.”

A distant look came into his eyes, and Martha said, “What? More trickery from them?”

He focused on her again. “No, love. But I’m aware of the gold now. After the kiss, it was a whisper, and all I’ve found is nearby pieces. Now, it’s a symphony on the air, a choir in my mind, from near and far. Tomorrow, will you come with me to find lost gold?”

She snuggled into his chest, also hearing this new, sweet song. “I will, husband. And right merrily.”