A Snowflake at Midnight

by Anne Renwick

  Not for a minute would she let herself believe that her professional goals would alter his personal opinion of her. No reason existed that they might not enjoy an extended affair that spanned both time and distance.

  “Then come, my fairy queen. Fulfill a fantasy?” He caught her hand and lowered himself to the bed of moss, dragging her down with him. Atop him. “I’ve imagined this moment a thousand times.”

  Rough and heated kisses fell on the corner of her lips, the edge of her jaw, the curve of her neck. The hard planes of his chest crushed against her breasts. All wondrous, but none more so than the stiff rod pressed to her pelvis.

  “The fantasy?” she whispered, roused by the notion that she’d featured in his daydreams. She was keen to learn exactly how. “For in this leafy realm you’ve cultivated, I’ve an inclination to grant a wish.”

  Dark eyes stared up at her. “A fair-haired fae with an inclination to ride.” His fingers gripped her thighs, spreading her open above him. “Fast and hard.”

  A thrill rose within her. “Granted.”

  Pushing against solid shoulders, she levered herself upright. Dropping her knees to the moss on either side of his hips, she seated herself on his stiff length. So good, yet not nearly enough. She flexed her pelvis, dragging the wetness of her core over his thick erection. Warm currents sparked, surged outward in a thrilling rush.

  Ash massaged her breasts, flicked and teased her nipples, spiraling every sensation higher.

  “With the flowers in your flowing hair, and the moonlight falling upon your glowing skin,” he half-whispered, half-groaned, “I almost expect you to sprout translucent and glimmering wings. Evie, I’ve wanted you for so very long.”

  “And now you’ll have me.” She repeated the movement, and more nerves joined in to hum their approval. A few strokes more had them both panting, and the hollow ache inside her cried out for more. It was time to ride.

  Evie reached for the paper packet and pressed it into his hand. “Cover yourself.”

  Paper tore and Ash rolled the thin sheath over himself.

  She reached for his erection.

  Straddling him, she nudged the broad head of his cock against her opening, then sank onto him, inch by inch, rocking her hips, replacing the desperate ache with a full, satisfying stretch.

  “So good,” he murmured. “So perfect.” His work-roughened palms fell at her hips, a delight against her skin. As was the awe and agony and pleasure upon his face. “Evie.”

  At last, her hips fell flush with his.

  Full.

  She fought the urge to move. Leaning forward, dropping onto her hands and letting the curtain of her hair frame their faces, she kissed Ash’s lips, long and slow and deep. Then, pulling away, she gave the slightest twitch of her hips.

  He groaned, then nudged upward. “More, my queen.”

  She rose, then sank back down, reveling in the sensations that flooded her.

  “Again.” Ash dug his fingers into her hips and thrust upward. The force of his grip sent a new kind of thrill through her. One that made explicit demands and dark promises.

  This was, after all, the land of fairy. Neither in this world nor fully in another.

  Evie threw her head backward and gave herself wholly to the experience.

  She rose, then dropped her hips onto his, pushing him deep inside. Again and again. Harder. Faster. Chasing the need that shifted and grew ever deeper inside her. With each plunge, she ground her core against his pubic bone.

  Small noises gathered in the back of her throat, then began to escape—one by one—each growing louder.

  “Yes.” His hips lifted to meet hers on the descent, plunging deeper than she’d thought possible, all while a growing pressure circled, tightening, but hovering just out of reach in the mist. Faster and harder now, her hips dropped, aided by gravity and Ash’s tight grip. “Like that. Aether, yes.”

  “Ash… I…” Pleasure remained a mere hair’s breadth away.

  His hand slipped between them, pressing on that knot of nerves he’d tormented earlier. “Now, Evie,” he ordered, surging into her.

  Her world exploded. “Ash!” Waves of pleasure pulsed as her sex clamped down on his shaft and sent a burst of electricity racing through her body all the way to her toes. Orgasm flooded her with heat—and love.

  His hands were on her hips again, desperate in their tight grip. Lifting, pulling, he thrust deep and hard. Once. Twice. A third time he drove into her, shouting his own release.

  She collapsed, melting onto his heaving chest, pressing a kiss to the hollow of his neck, before dropping her head. “That was amazing,” she whispered, her breath drifting across his shoulder. “It’s no wonder the nymphs cavort with satyrs, or fairy queens with masterful gardeners.”

  A laugh rumbled in his chest. “I should have lured you into the greenhouse months ago.” A few long moments later, he rolled, lowering Evie onto the soft bed of moss before pulling free and discarding the sheath.

  She wrapped her softness around his warm, hard frame and smiled against his skin. “Were the small offerings not the beginnings of a long seduction? A sweet lemon. A sprig of ivy. A tiny fir tree.”

  Overhead, snow now accumulated on the cold glass. On the surface of the bubble that cocooned them in a fairyland. She stroked her fingers over the hairs scattered across Ash’s chest and wondered at how her world had turned upside-down and backward.

  “Exactly so.” His arm tightened about her waist. “How else to lure a woman such as yourself to step outside her domain and into my arms?”

  Ah, yes. The other world in which she lived her life. Memories of it began to intrude. Her application for a scholarship. Work upon her monograph. Long hours in the library with Ash, working side by side as a joint project and growing flirtations led them inexorably to this, a closeness she’d never dared dream possible.

  One threatened by the discovery that the dream she’d thought beyond her reach now dangled before her, a tempting fruit that would take her away from London.

  Away from Ash.

  She twisted in his arms. The sharp edges of tiny stones buried within the moss began to bite into her flesh, and she shifted.

  “Cold?” he asked.

  “Not at all.” She skimmed her palm over of the flat of his stomach, willing her mind to quiet, to enjoy the moment.

  It refused.

  “Stay here a moment,” Ash murmured, rising and taking with him his comforting warmth.

  “Oh?” She threw him a seductive smile as he rose, trying hard to regain the magic that had shimmered in the air mere moments ago. “Again?”

  “Not yet, sprite.” A grin split his face as he pushed his way through the foliage.

  She shivered at the loss of his heat. Half-reclining, Evie brushed her hand over the surface of the moss, miserable. Decisions that threatened to tear her in half needed to be made. Should she stay in London? Leave for Oxford?

  Uncertainty plagued her.

  Risks surrounded both decisions. Stay and chance a broken heart? What if their joint project was rejected by the committee? But after a year at Oxford, what—if anything—would be left for her in London?

  Through the leaves, she could see Ash hunting through his pocket. He straightened and she caught a flash of gold.

  Thunderclouds!

  She bolted upright, leapt to her feet and followed him. He couldn’t possibly mean to—

  Without a doubt, Evie was the woman he wanted by his side. As his wife.

  Smart. Talented. Driven. And, under the right circumstances, a little bit wild. Much like the vines he spent time cultivating. One was never certain exactly how or where they might extend their tendrils.

  A thought which planted a small seed of doubt in his mind. They would make an excellent team. Both here at Lister. At home. In the bedroom where they could embark on other explorations upon a softer surface not studded with bits of gravel, sticks and dried leaves.

  But would she agree?

  Digg
ing into his pocket, he pulled forth a small treasure. Between his fingers, the dull gold band glowed in the faint mycelial bioluminescent light. Across its surface, vines twisted and a flower bloomed. Though not an emerald, it was a piece of history. Locating it had involved scouring much of London, for only an original would do.

  Leaves rustled, and he turned.

  Evie stood upon the path, framed by rampant foliage. Her long hair cascaded in a wild tumble over her shoulders, curving about her generous breasts, its half-curled ends dancing about her navel. A magnificent sight, except her gaze was fixed upon the bauble he held, her hand upon her chest, where it traced an unsteady circle upon her breastbone. Worry churned in his stomach, but hesitation would win him nothing.

  “Will you wear my ring?” He held out the ring, making the offer without dropping onto one knee. A mistake? For a tiny furrow carved itself into her forehead.

  Mouth agape, she struggled to pull air into her lungs. “Ash. I—” Her hand trembled as she took it from his fingers. “You have my hart,” she breathed, reading the inscription, with its medieval spelling, aloud. “A posey ring. Medieval. Fifteenth century.”

  “I thought you might like to own a piece of the past you’ve spent so many years studying.”

  “It’s beautiful. The sentiment so very touching.” A tremulous smile climbed onto her lips. “Where on earth did you find such a treasure?”

  “In the dark recesses of a jeweler’s collection. When he realized I meant to propose, the man attempted to steer me toward something with more sparkle and shine, convinced I chose poorly.” The words poured from his mouth in a long ramble. Ash studied her eyes, concerned. She’d not slipped it on her finger. “Did I? Will you wear it? Promise me you are mine and I am yours?”

  A tear ran down her cheek. “I can’t.” She pressed the gold band back into his hand. “I don’t know if I’m staying in London.”

  Too shocked to respond, his fingers closed around it. Without a convenient pocket, he slipped it onto the tip of his little finger for safekeeping. “But what of our plans to compile a list of medicinal plants? To see them grown? Studied in Lister Laboratories here in the city?” He swallowed, forcing back the acid that crept into his throat. “Together?”

  “I know.” She turned away, snatching up her chemise and drawers, avoiding his eyes. “And I will help you for as long as I’m able. Perhaps we can continue to work via correspondence.”

  He struggled to process the tangled knot his words had tied in their evening. Not one hour past, she’d uttered the words “next time”. Had she only ever intended to take him as her lover? Did his desire for a permanent commitment scare her? Or was it something else?

  Worry coalesced into dread, rising into the back of his throat, where the bitter lump proved impossible to swallow. “What has changed in the space of a few hours?”

  “Chance? Fate? Luck?” Evie dropped onto the bench, yanking on her stockings and boots. The wild tumble of her hair hid her face from him. “Regardless, they all have a dreadful sense of timing.”

  “Luck?” Where the ground had been firm, Ash found a swampy morass. He was sinking—and fast. Like a man about to go under, he cast about for a vine that could swing him safely back to terra firma.

  “When I returned home this evening,” Evie said. A hint of regret threaded through her voice. “I found a letter waiting. One I never thought to receive. The Department of Medieval Studies at Oxford has offered me the position of visiting scholar, one that begins Hilary Term.”

  He was unaware she’d applied for such an opportunity. They’d shared so much, and yet it appeared they did not know each other as well as he’d thought. His heart shrank. “That’s only a few weeks away.”

  “So it is.” She snatched up her corset and wrapped it about her waist, fastening its hooks. “Unlimited access to the medieval manuscripts of the Bodleian Library.” Her shoulders stiffened. “How can I turn down such a rare opportunity?”

  How indeed? It burned to discover his status. Below books. Below Lister. Below her father. Landing him somewhere above Bracken. Such a rank failed to mitigate a rising aggravation.

  “You knew this was a possibility and said nothing?” A sharp edge honed his voice, as an irritable heat coursed through his veins. He found it impossible to concede he’d lost to a pile of dusty books. “While I planned for a future, for a wife, for a union recognized by all of society, all you wanted was a lover?” Lips flattened, he snatched up his trousers and pulled them on. His fault for not keeping to the carefully proscribed steps dictated by society for a proper courtship.

  “Why is it so very wrong for a woman to take a lover, when men do so with regularity?” Before him, she’d transformed into a vengeful fairy queen with cold and distant eyes. Evie hauled on her petticoats and skirts, fingers flying over the hooks and ties. “You knew I was no innocent.”

  “Of course.” His temper snapped. “An aviator’s daughter. And I’m nothing but an overreaching gardener with dirt under his nails.” Ash yanked on his shirt with such violence, he all but tore the seams. Then, pulling the posey ring from his little finger, he flicked it away.

  Ping!

  Evie’s wide eyes followed its golden arc. Her jaw dropped open, perhaps to protest, but she snapped it shut, lips pressed into a firm line.

  The ring’s landing went unmarked, its resting place softened by leaves or moss, he knew not. A tribute to a moment seared into his mind, one never to be repeated.

  Not that he was done speaking his mind. “You presumed this would be a simple tryst? A single night of revelry? A bit of convenient fun before you left London to prowl the finer hunting grounds of Oxford?” He crossed his arms and narrowed his eyes, shocking even himself with the words that burst from his mouth. “If Bracken was a peer, a true gentleman, would you have overlooked his grasping manner and drawn him into your arms instead?”

  “How dare you!” Her nostrils flared. Heat stained her face.

  Good. Now they were of equal temper. Let fury reveal her true intentions. He’d know where he stood before this encounter was over. He narrowed his eyes. “How dare I what?”

  “Cheapen what we’ve shared.” She shoved the tiny buttons of her blouse through uncooperative eyelets. Body tense, she snatched up her bustle, glaring at the contraption in frustration before crumpling its wires and stuffing them beneath her arm. “The position is for one year. I’ve hope Mr. Davies will agree to arrange for a leave of absence so that I might return. Though likely he will offer no guarantees.” Her eyes threw daggers. “To think I almost tossed away the chance to advance my career by remaining at the Lister Institute.” She lifted her chin. “For you.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t want to stand in the way of a career-minded woman.” Served him right for setting his sights upon a college-educated woman. No, that was pain and embarrassment and loss putting angry words in his mouth. Her academic interests were part of what drew him to her.

  Damp gathered in her eyes. A single tear slipped free, glistening as it slid down over her cheek. He almost reached out to brush it away.

  Almost.

  “And so you shall not.” She snatched up a fistful of her skirts. “I will inform Mr. Davies that you will require another librarian’s assistance.”

  He’d overstepped, torched any chance that he’d had to win her hand and keep her at his side. The corners of his mouth turned down. Regret surged through him, but pride made him choke on an apology. “Evie—”

  “Don’t.” Her eyes flashed. “You’ve said more than enough.” She pulled back her shoulders and stomped off.

  Ash stood there. Aether, what had he done? He wanted a career-minded woman. Someone who would challenge his mind and enrich his life as she pursued her own interests. A tendril of unease twisted in his gut. What he didn’t want was a woman who leveraged her body or mind to climb into the ranks of society.

  Like Mary.

  Was it possible he’d allowed the past to decide his future?

  Long
moments passed while he rubbed the back of his neck. He imagined her shrugging on her coat, hefting the large glass bottle of steeping mistletoe into her arms, then—clang—exiting his greenhouse.

  His mind rushed backward, thinking of all the hours she’d stolen from her own scholarship to devote to their joint project, to hunt for a cure for her father’s tumor. That he might advance his career. That her father might be saved. With no assurance of any personal reward for all her work. Why, then, would he seek to prevent her from pursuing her own dream when an opportunity to study at Oxford presented itself?

  The full weight of what he’d done dropped upon him like a felled tree. He’d snapped the fragile new shoot of their relationship. Could it be saved?

  He groaned.

  Steam trains ran both ways between Oxford and London. It was one term. Perhaps two. Not a permanent faculty position. Though he could not discount the possibility that they might make her such an offer.

  The possibility that she might return to London, to the Lister Institute, existed, for her invaluable knowledge and insight would be made only more so after time at such an esteemed university. Especially if the library—or even the committee—was convinced of her value and elected to keep her position available.

  If that was what she wanted, he would move mountains to see it done.

  But, first, he needed to grovel, to beg her forgiveness.

  Ash shoved his way into the greenery, dropping onto his knees to hunt for gold.

  Chapter Eleven

  Finish the task.

  Mortified, Evie forced her feet to move. One step, then the next. Repeat.

  The chill that gripped her chest and throat made deep, steadying breaths impossible. Heartbreak, however, would not stop her from accomplishing tonight’s aim.

  The pain of Ash’s words would fade. Her life would move on. And, bells and blazes, she was determined Papa would still be a part of it, no matter where he floated.

  She would take the details of this particular cure—along with the mistletoe—to a nearby pharmacist. Mrs. Greene would sigh, but she’d compounded a number of Evie’s strange, old-fashioned formulas before. If for an exorbitant fee.