Gerall's Festivus Bride

by Rebekah R. Ganiere

  “Yellow. But I cannot wear it, unfortunately. It doesn’t favor me well.”

  “Interesting. So, what about flowers? Do you like sungolds?”

  “Very much. Though I don’t see them here in town often.”

  “And what about your life? Did you always want to be a baker?”

  “I… I enjoy baking. I enjoy making something that people appreciate. And I’m good at it.”

  “That you are and better than almost anyone, but is it what you want to do? When you were little, what did you dream of becoming when you grew up?”

  “A performer, maybe.”

  He let out a crack of laughter, but it didn’t come out as scoffing or jeering. She doubted a kind man like Gerall could ever make fun of someone.

  “What kind of performer? An actress?”

  She shrugged. “I could never decide. I know how to juggle, so I thought of doing that for a while. I taught myself how to do flips and tricks too. I can walk on my hands and bend my body backward. For a while, I thought about joining a touring troop.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  She brushed her hair back and patted it down over her ears. “I don’t know. It was a silly girl’s fantasy. I just always thought I would be a baker. My parents were bakers. My mother’s parents were bakers. I’ve never really known anything else, to be honest. What about you? What do you want to be now that you’re grown? Or does being a Lord fulfill you?”

  “Being a Lord is just a title. It’s not who I am. I’ve always enjoyed medicine and science.”

  “Truly?”

  He nodded. “I’ve studied as much as I’m able. Snow and my mother used to teach me about herbs. I’ve gotten my hands on just about every book on the subject I could find. And I have… several friends who are healers that have taught me things here and there as well.”

  “Do you practice medicine?”

  “I’ve been helping some of our tenant farms with their animals for now.”

  “That’s amazing,” she said. “Do you know much about burns?”

  He ate another piece of his bread. “Burns? Some. Why? Have you burned yourself?”

  “No. I just… well yes. I mean, yes. I have burned myself in the past. Not now. I anticipate that in the future, I most likely will again, and it would be nice to know how to treat them.” She kicked herself mentally. Could she be any more awkward? She needed to tread more carefully as not to arouse his suspicion.

  “Depending on how extensive they are, you can use several things to help heal a burn. Fernblend works well, but you must keep it moist. Calendula and comfrey can help both heal and soothe.”

  “What about a bad burn. Say, if the oven exploded or the bakery caught on fire?”

  Their eyes connected, and an expression of sadness overtook him. “Like your father?”

  She dropped her gaze to her hands. She didn’t want to alert him to her father’s situation but anything Gerall might be able to do to help him heal, she had to do.

  “Yes. Like what happened to my father.”

  He reached out and squeezed her hand. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  She let the feel of his warm hand wrap around hers settle inside her. Her heart galloped so hard she feared it might give out.

  “You didn’t,” she croaked. She cleared her throat. “I asked the question and should have known you’re smart enough to know exactly what I meant by it.”

  Silence hung between them for a moment.

  He pulled his hand away and sat back on the stool. “To answer your question. For extreme burn cases, I would recommend a true healer. A magickal healer.”

  “But there aren’t any of those around here.”

  His lips clamped down in a tight line. “No. No, there aren’t.”

  Thwarted again. Maybe if she traveled to Ville DeFee, she could find someone and convince them to help her.

  “Do you need to get started baking?” he asked.

  She looked up at the clock. “Oh, bother. It’s three. I’ll not get done before midnight.”

  “I can help,” he offered.

  “No. Please, you don’t need to.”

  “I want to.” He licked his lips as if deciding something. “I like spending time with you, Eloa. So, don’t think of it as me helping you as much as it is me being selfish and trying to find anything that will allow me to talk to you a while longer.”

  She couldn’t help but smile as her cheeks heated. “Well, when you put it that way, how can I say no?”

  “You can’t.” He stood from his chair. “I will warn you though, I know nothing of baking, but I follow directions well.”

  “Well, the first thing we need to do is go pick up my supplies. I ran out last night.”

  Gerall nodded. “Let’s do that.”

  They walked to the local shop, and Gerall helped her with her fifty-pound bag of flour, a thirty-pound bag of sugar and various other items. On their way back she once again noticed how nicely filled out he’d become in the last few years.

  Back in the shop, they spent the next hour measuring and stirring and preparing dough for five different types of baked goods. It took longer not using magick, but she enjoyed the time they spent together talking. He told her what it had been like, growing up with so many siblings; at the manor house with room to run, and play, and explore. And she told him what it had been like growing up an only child in a one-room house with only books and dolls to entertain herself with. By the end of it, he’d convinced her that a large family was what she wanted.

  “So, what do we do now?” he asked.

  She brushed the flour from her hands and pushed a stray hair from her eyes. “Now, we wait. It won’t take them too long to rise because the ovens keep it so warm in here. Maybe an hour or so.”

  “And what do you propose we do for an hour?”

  “I don’t know.” In honesty, she didn’t care as long as she did it with Gerall.

  “Here.” He leaned in close. “You have something on your cheek.” He punctuated the word cheek by wiping a dollop of leftover dough on her face.

  She dropped her jaw in mock surprise. “Why Gerall Gwyn. Did you just put dough on my face?”

  His eyebrows rose in feigned innocence. “Nope. Not me.”

  She leaned back against the counter and grabbed a handful of flour. “And I thought you were a gentleman.” She threw the flour at him and then covered her mouth and giggled. The meal caked his glasses, nose, mouth, and even made it into his hair.

  He blew out, and a puff of flour floated in the air as he removed his glasses and opened his eyes. They appeared even deeper brown surrounded by all the white.

  “Yes. I believe I did say I was a gentleman.” He blew on his glasses and then wiped them on the sleeve of his cream tunic. “I suppose that was a lie though because a gentleman would never do this.”

  Faster than she could imagine he slipped his glasses back on, grabbed a handful of flour and threw it back at her. Before she could react, they broke into an all-out flour fight.

  They chased each other through the backroom lobbing flour and bits of dough onto every surface. It flew through the air and coated everything from the ovens to the tables to the wall sconces. He chased her around the central workbench until finally he caught up with her and grabbed her around the waist. In his other hand, he held a giant pile of flour.

  “You wouldn’t,” she said.

  He weighed the flour in his hand and looked at it.

  Flour dusted his hair, and she wanted nothing more than to run her fingers through his waves and clear it away.

  “I might,” he said. “Or–”

  “Or?”

  “I could spare you. If you will be so kind as to accompany me to see the Magistrate’s flower garden.”

  His eyes held a playful glint.

  She wanted to. Gods above she wanted to go anywhere he asked, but she had to finish baking. “But the dough…”

  “Forty-five minutes. That’s all. We’ll
go. We’ll see the flowers and come back in time to put everything in the ovens.”

  “But how? We’re covered in flour.”

  He dropped the handful of flour and pulled her close. His arm felt heavy and right wrapped around her waist.

  “We can wash up in your hut and be out of here in five minutes.”

  Her hut? “No. I… I mean… It’s quite messy right now. I’ve been so busy I haven’t cleaned it in nearly a week.”

  His gaze slid to the door that separated her hut from the bakery. When he looked back at her, a sly smile crept across his face.

  “Fair enough. Then no flower garden I suppose. But I’m not quite sure how I’ll explain all this to my brothers. They’re to be arriving soon. If they haven’t already.”

  “Well… we could brush each other off,” she offered.

  His left eyebrow arched. “All right. You can go first.” He released her from his grip and stood perfectly still.

  Her heart pounded. He’d given her permission to touch him. She licked her lips and reached up slowly and removed his glasses. She set them on the table, and he closed his eyes as she brushed her fingers across his cheeks. Her fingers trembled as she ran them down his throat and across his chest to his broad shoulders.

  She flicked the flour from his clothes and then back up, pinching a spot on his earlobe. His hands fell heavily on her hips, and he pulled her closer to him. Her heartbeat thrummed against her ribcage. She stared into his passive face as she raked her fingers through his thick brown waves. His soft hair rolled through her fingers and sent goosebumps swimming up her arms.

  He bowed his head and opened his eyes. Her arms fell around his neck, and neither of them spoke. Her stomach clenched with anxiety.

  “My turn.” His voice came out in a low, husky whisper.

  He brushed the flour from her arms and bodice in slow, circular motions. His palms caressed across her breasts, and she held back a moan of pleasure. Nervousness mixed with desire. She’d never had a man touch her that way before. She’d never had a man touch her in any way.

  Up over her throat, his fingers traced, to her jawline. His eyes never left hers, and the heat between them rivaled that of the surrounding ovens.

  He ran his thumb across her jaw and up her cheeks. His head dipped lower until his lips were less than ten inches from hers. He cupped her face and then worked his fingers through her hair and up toward her ears.

  She wanted nothing more than to feel his lips on hers. He rolled her earlobes through his fingers and then slid them up toward—

  Eloa jerked back. The heat between then washed away like a bucket of ice water had been thrown on them. Her ears. If he touched them at the top, he’d know the truth. That she wasn’t human.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “My ears are… very sensitive is all.” It wasn’t a total lie.

  He inclined his head. “No. It’s I that am sorry.”

  “It’s perfectly fine. No harm done.”

  “Yes,” he mused.

  She was losing him; she could see it in his expression.

  “Do you still want to go to the garden?” she asked.

  “Do you?” He picked up his glasses and put them back on.

  “Absolutely.”

  He gave her a soft smile. “Wonderful. Then let us go before our time runs out.”

  He held out his arm to her, and she linked hers with it. She needed to be careful. Very, very careful.

  “That could be a problem,” Magistrate Jopin whispered to the man standing next to him. His gaze followed Gerall and Eloa as they moved about his garden enjoying various flowers and smelling them.

  “Not so. In the end, that could play well into our hands if she is indeed what you think she is.”

  “Oh, she’s half-fae all right. See how she hides her ears?”

  The man shrugged. “Maybe that’s just the way she likes to wear her hair.”

  “It isn’t. I know it.” The Magistrate continued to watch as his wife walked up and shook hands with them both. Eloa pointed to a deep crimson cluster of flowers. His wife nodded and smiled.

  “How are our guests doing?”

  The Magistrate’s gaze slid to his friend. “The vampire is a problem.”

  “She’s been a problem since we took her. But since our plan for her didn’t roll out the way we had hoped, perhaps it’s time we let her go from her terrible existence.”

  The Magistrate clenched his fists. “Stupid Jamen Gwyn. If he’d not figured out she didn’t kill the doctor and his wife, this would all be going much smoother.”

  “Kill the vampire. We still have the werewolf.”

  “That is an unstable man if I’ve ever seen one. All he’s done is cry for his wife. The men can’t even get near him to give him food.”

  “Good. The worse off he is, the better this will play out.”

  The Magistrate cleared his throat. “Are people going to get hurt?”

  “Most likely.” The man waved at the Magistrate’s wife. “You’re not thinking of backing out, are you?”

  “Of course not.”

  “This is for the good of Westfall that we do these things. The Gwyns have been in power too long. As soon as people begin to feel the weight of the true threats to Westfall and how the Gwyns aren’t able to protect them, they’ll turn to you for leadership. And that’s when you and your men will step in and seize control.”

  The Magistrate nodded. Westfall would be his. He deserved it. He’d been the one to care for it and take care of it while the Gwyns shut themselves in their house for the past three years. Their time had passed. His turn to rule had finally arrived.

  “When should we release the werewolf?” he asked.

  The man clapped him on the shoulder. “You let me take care of that.” He straightened his tunic and walked down the garden path in the opposite direction.

  The Magistrate kept his eyes fixed on Gerall Gwyn. He was going to enjoy watching the Gwyns crawl back into their manor and rot.

  Chapter Eight

  Eloa dragged herself into bed that night, exhausted. Between spending her entire day with Gerall and then having to use her magick to finish off her wares, she could barely keep her eyes open when her head hit the pillow at ten o’clock. Her father’s soft snores kept her company as her mind replayed her moments with Gerall. The baking and the flour fight. His hand on her hip, his arm about her waist, his lips so close to hers. He would have kissed her. She knew he would have, but she hadn’t wanted him to find out what she was. Not when they were just getting to know each other.

  In her heart, she was sure he wouldn’t care. But what if he did? What if he didn’t know about Zelle? Or what if he cared, though his brothers didn’t seem to? She’d have to take the risk and tell him at some point but… not yet. For now, her secret needed to stay safe— both about her, as well as her father.

  She smiled as she thought of Gerall again as she drifted off to sleep. Not many men of his status would help her with something as menial as baking bread.

  Gerall pulled his horse to a stop outside the family stable and jumped to the ground. The twins followed suit. He opened the door and stepped inside, leading Duggar behind him. He passed the first stall and stopped. Rangor.

  The steed popped his head out to greet them.

  “Looks like Erik’s back,” said Hass.

  “Guess he still hasn’t found the girl,” Ian replied.

  The three continued onward, then cleaned and brushed down their horses before heading into the manor house.

  Erik sat at the solar table with Flint and Jamen. Various items from Eloa’s shop sat on the table.

  “Anything?” Gerall asked.

  Erik shook his head. “Nothing good. The parents of the missing girl are causing trouble. Alluding to the fact that we aren’t capable of finding the girl and that they should form their own search party.”

  “That’s the last thing we need. Vampires down here hunting for her.”

  “Exactly,” said Erik.
“From what I saw, my guess is that we have less than a week to find the girl before all hell breaks loose and Sage has to take firm action against the parents.”

  “He won’t let them come down here,” said Gerall.

  “No, he won’t, but it might mean an all-out rebellion if he doesn’t. It’s a sticky situation, to say the least.” Erik sat silent for a minute staring at the table. “And what about you? Anything new?”

  Hass and Ian shook their heads.

  “It may not be anything, but Father Ohana has apparently been performing miracles. The church had about thirty people in it today for a noon service,” said Gerall.

  “A miracle?” Flint snorted. “That’ll be the day.”

  “I agree,” said Erik. “It’s nothing for us to be concerned with anyway. If the people want to believe such nonsense, let them. It does us no good to try and dispute it. We have other problems. We need to figure out where the vampire girl and the werewolf Fendrick are.”

  Erik stood. “Hass, Ian, you come with me. We’ll go out and see if we can find anything tonight. We’ll head as far south as Ville DeFee.”

  “Don’t you think you might do better if you got some rest?” asked Flint.

  Erik’s expression hardened. “No.”

  “We’ll go,” said Hass.

  “Just let us grab a bite to eat,” Ian added.

  “Grab it and put it in a sack.” Erik threw on his cloak and exited out the back door.

  The brothers stared at the door after he closed it.

  “Does anyone else get the feeling that Erik has become a little obsessed with finding this girl?” Jamen asked.

  “He just wants to do his duty,” Flint replied.

  Jamen nodded, but Gerall agreed. Something was different. Erik had been searching for the girl for over six months, and for some reason, he refused to tell the parents the girl was dead and to let it go at that.

  “Unless you need me, I’m going to head to bathe and sleep,” Gerall said.

  “You don’t want to explain why you have a fine dusting of flour all over your tunic and pants?” asked Jamen.