by Meara Platt
“Doing what?”
“Responding to my thoughts. You seem to know my own mind as well as I do … possibly better,” she said with a sigh.
He tossed her a wry smile as he leaned back against the pew and stretched his long legs before him. “You’re mistaken, Melody. My task would be easier if I did know your mind. By the way, Lord Babcock’s coach is just coming up the last hill now. Here’s your shawl.”
A gray wool cloth flew out from behind the altar into her hands.
“What the—?”
“It’s starting to rain.” He turned to the door and waved his hand. “Your wash is folded and stacked on your bed. The stew’s about to burn. Shall I take it off the flame?”
“No! Leave it alone,” she demanded, as though he actually had the power to do any such thing.
“After supper, will you return here? We need to speak of finding my queen. The fate of my kingdom rests on the decision I make tonight.”
“Enough, Cadeyrn! I don’t know how you made the shawl fly into my hands just now, but if you think that silly trick will make me believe your tale of faeries and battles, you’re sadly mistaken. As for my wash, it’s still on the clothesline and I had better get it down. And my stew’s not burning. I ought to know because I checked on it before coming over here.”
She rose and stormed out of the church, all the while vowing that the next time she found a stranger in her bluebell garden she’d leave him there to rot! But as she neared the clothesline, she noticed it was empty. The clothes and linens had all been taken down. The basket was gone, too. She turned to Cadeyrn, who had followed her out and now stood beside her looking rather superior with his legs slightly apart and arms crossed over his chest.
“What did you do with the wash? This line was full a moment ago. Oh, never mind. My mother must have taken it in while I was talking to you.”
“She’s still upstairs, dressing. The vicar’s lacing her into the yellow satin.”
“You’re wrong. She’s going to wear the blue.” Not that Melody knew which gown her mother intended to wear, but it irked her that Cadeyrn seemed certain it would be the yellow.
When she entered the kitchen, the stew was indeed madly smoking. “Oh, no! Cadeyrn, get in here! Help me lift the pot!”
“Are you inviting me in?”
“Yes! Hurry!”
He nudged her out of the way, reached into the hearth, and lifted the pot off the fire with his bare hands.
“Are you mad? You must be! Put it down and show me your hands. Quick, let me run them under cold water before they blister. You fool! I asked you to help me, not destroy your—”
She grabbed his wrists and turned them upward to inspect his palms. There wasn’t a mark on him. “Is this another of your tricks? Stop it at once. You scared me. I thought you were badly hurt.”
“It wasn’t my intention to scare you.”
Melody sighed. “The supper’s ruined. I can’t fix this. What am I going to do now?”
“Lord Babcock is here. You ought to greet him. I’ll take care of the rest.”
“He isn’t—”
The forceful knock at the front door silenced her. “Of course,” she muttered with a shake of her head. “I don’t suppose you can scramble up a roast goose for me. A juicy, fat one will do nicely.”
He nodded. “If you wish.”
“I do wish. And how about a fish broth as a first course?” she continued in jest, for it was either that or cry in despair.
He nodded again.
“Ah, if only wishes came true. Well, I had better answer the door. Don’t toss the stew. I’ll try my best to fix it. Perhaps add some wine … and a little sugar … that might hide the taste of charred meat.”
Cadeyrn sighed. “Melody, you needn’t fret. I said I would grant your wishes. You have my oath on it.”
At this moment, she truly wished Cadeyrn were a faerie king, able to use his magical powers to make a success of the evening that was certain to be a disaster. “You needn’t wait around. Things may get unpleasant. I wouldn’t want you blamed for something that is all my fault.”
“I’ll be right here if you need me,” he said, his voice surprisingly gentle. “Enjoy your evening. Melody, you look beautiful.”
In that moment, Melody wished to kiss him. She would never do it, of course. But a wish was harmless enough.
Cadeyrn smiled. “I’ll grant you that wish, too.”
She bolted from the kitchen.
Lord Babcock, it turned out, was a gentleman of substantial means who owned properties in the Lake District and throughout England, though his seat was near York. He was of average height, but broad-shouldered and trim. All in all, his features were pleasant enough. About thirty years old, he had thick blond hair and blue eyes, though they were nowhere near as remarkable as Cadeyrn’s.
The evening progressed smoothly, because Lord Babcock’s favorite dish happened to be fish broth. His next favorite was roast goose. He complimented Vicar Axwell on his choice of wine, though the vicar hadn’t selected it. He complimented Melody’s mother on her choice of cook, never considering that they had none, for the vicar was too miserly to pay for help.
“Mrs. Axwell, you must tell me where you found her. She’s a culinary artist. And what is this secret ingredient in the goose sauce? Honey, I’ll wager.”
“Ah, that shall remain my little secret.” She shot Melody a questioning glance. Her mother, Melody noted with dismay, was wearing the yellow satin, just as Cadeyrn had predicted.
“Does your cook have a sister? Please say she does and that she’s as talented. This is the best meal I’ve ever tasted. No wonder you sent her away before I arrived. Didn’t want me poaching her from you!”
“Really, Lord Babcock!” Melody’s mother let out an overly emphatic giggle. “I never took you for a poacher!”
“I jest, of course,” he said, leaning back in his chair and looking remarkably content. “You run an excellent household. I’m quite impressed. You put my own poor, bachelor household to shame.”
“Oh, I can’t take the credit. My daughter’s taken full charge since arriving last week.”
Lord Babcock cast her a contemplative smile. “Is that so, Miss Hargreaves?”
Melody closed her eyes and sighed. “My mother exaggerates.”
How had Cadeyrn managed all this?
The end of the meal couldn’t come soon enough for Melody. She was quite spent by the time the men retired to the parlor to share a bottle of port and a serious business discussion. Melody couldn’t hear what they were saying, not that she was trying to listen in. But she was curious to learn why Lord Babcock, a gentleman of means, was at St. Lodore’s vicarage. Vicar Axwell had little to offer other than uninspired sermons.
She eased toward the parlor.
“Melody! It isn’t polite to snoop,” her mother said, catching her with her ear to the door and giving her backside a little swat. “Come along, help me gather the plates off the table. Our party was a success, don’t you think? Lord Babcock made no secret of enjoying your meal. I thought you were making stew. What happened?”
“I burned it,” she admitted with a sigh.
Her mother let out a soft laugh. “Well done, my dear. Well done, indeed! Wherever did you find the goose?”
“In truth, I had a little help … a local man. He stopped by the church to reflect upon a private matter and we talked for a while. He helped with the cooking and just about every other detail.”
“Bless him, that’s what I say,” her mother replied, still chuckling as she started for the kitchen. “We must repay his kindness. Who is he? One of our parishioners, I suppose. I’ve met most of them.”
“You wouldn’t know him. He returned to Borrowdale only a few days ago.” Melody hurried to enter the kitchen before her mother did, almost knocking over the poor woman in her haste.
“Honestly, child! What’s your rush? You’d think the house was on fire. Well, go on and get in there first, though I don�
��t know what you’re about. You seemed on edge all evening, staring at nothing over your shoulder and jumping whenever our guest addressed you. Have you been dipping into Vicar Axwell’s wine?”
“Certainly not.” If only her mother knew the real reason for her distress! Melody had no choice but to elbow her out of the way for fear of what they would encounter on the other side of the door. She would not have been surprised to find pots spinning in air, brooms sweeping the kitchen floor on their own, and spoons stirring themselves in their saucepans.
Melody held her breath and marched in.
Fortunately, all was in order.
“Well,” her mother said, following closely on her heels and setting the dirty plates on the kitchen table while continuing their conversation, “this mysterious gentleman sounds like someone I’d like to meet. Will you introduce me to him when we’re next in town? I owe him a debt of gratitude.”
“If I see him again. I don’t know how long he’ll stay.”
Melody’s mother put her arm around Melody and kissed her softly on the cheek. “I owe you one as well. I put quite a burden on your slight shoulders today. It wasn’t fair of me. So let me finish up here. You’ve done more than your share.”
“No, Mother. You look tired. I’ll finish up. I don’t mind.”
“Are you certain?”
Melody nodded.
“Child, you’re a saint. In truth, I’m spent and would like to retire early.” She regarded Melody quite earnestly. “You won’t forget to introduce me to our helpful neighbor when you see him, will you? I wish he had joined us for supper. I’m sorry he couldn’t stay.”
Melody said nothing.
Cadeyrn was standing beside her … just as he had been throughout supper.
She watched her mother leave and then slowly turned to Cadeyrn.
A slow grin crossed his lips. “Do you believe me now?”
Chapter Three
The moon provided barely a sliver of light upon the path between the vicarage and St. Lodore’s Church, but Melody had walked back and forth several times a day since arriving here and felt confident she could find her way in the darkness.
She slipped out of the vicarage after finishing her chores, leaving her lantern behind in the hope of avoiding attention. Cadeyrn had offered to help her clean up but she’d declined. That he had the power to put all in perfect order with the simple wave of a hand unsettled her.
The vicarage was now quiet. Lord Babcock had left a short while ago for Borrowdale, where he was staying at the ancient Ashness Inn. She expected to see him again soon, for she’d overheard him and the vicar making arrangements. “He’ll be back within a fortnight,” Vicar Axwell had confirmed, seeming well pleased. “Your mother never mentioned you were an excellent cook.”
Melody had shrugged. “It was a new recipe, learned from a … friend.”
“An inspired choice. Well, you certainly caught Lord Babcock’s notice. Keep up the good work and you’ll find you’re a lady someday.” He’d then bid Melody good night, eyeing her in that disconcertingly attentive manner, the one that always made her feel like washing herself afterward.
A lady?
St. Lodore’s was a curious place indeed, for where else would both a king and a prominent lord show interest in her? In truth, a mere lord seemed rather dull now compared with a handsome faerie king who wished to fight dragons.
Eager to make amends, she went in search of her faerie king and found him inside the church.
“Your Majesty,” she said, bending a knee and bowing her head before him. What had happened tonight could not be explained by logic. Not even the cleverest magician could have conjured the magnificent meal set out on the vicar’s table. Nor could the most accomplished magician have remained standing by her side all night, visible only to her. “May I approach?”
“Of course you may.” He stood before her looking as handsome and proud as a monarch ought to look, a gold crown sparsely dotted with sapphires atop his head. It was simple in design and might have appeared trifling on another monarch, but on Cadeyrn it looked quite elegant.
His attire, a sapphire satin jacket and shimmering, yellow-gold pants tucked into knee-high black boots, was splendid as well. Topping his regal uniform was a satin cape, also the color of sapphires and trimmed in dark fur, casually tossed over one broad shoulder. A sword with a jewel-encrusted hilt rested in a sheath at his hip, hanging casually as though he were used to carrying it about.
She wondered if he’d ever used it for other than ceremonial purposes.
“Mostly for ceremonial purposes,” he confirmed in that disconcerting manner of his. “And I don’t dress in this fashion when fighting.”
“Which you do often.” She recalled how he’d puffed up his chest with obvious pride when explaining the meaning of his name. Battle King.
“The struggle for survival is a nasty business.” Cadeyrn waited for her to draw close, and then reached out and motioned to a nearby pew. “Would you care to sit with me?”
“No … I … my mother wished to thank you for the goose and the fish broth. Also the wine. I didn’t tell her about the gowns, but had she known, she would have wanted me to thank you for—”
“Melody, I did it for you,” he said, his voice warm enough to melt her insides.
“Why? What’s so special about me?” Having never met a king before, much less a faerie king, she felt quite out of her depth. She had never had a sweetheart, either. She closed her eyes a moment, hoping that if she ever had one, he would speak to her as gently as Cadeyrn had spoken to her just now.
“Come, sit beside me,” he coaxed. “We have much to discuss now that you finally believe me.”
“What can you and I have to talk about? I’m merely a vicar’s daughter … not even that. I’m Vicar Axwell’s stepdaughter.”
“My counselors believe you’re the savior described in our Prophecy.”
“Savior?” She laughed lightly and shook her head. “Your Majesty, I don’t know what you’ve been told about me, but rest assured, I’m as ordinary a young woman as you’ll ever meet.”
“The Julia was ordinary, though for the longest time I thought she was The One. Then you arrived and took her place. You look a little like her, but I think you’re prettier. She said I was not her true love. She fell in love with a human, an earl of the realm.”
Melody shook her head again and smiled. “The vicar’s daughter married an earl? That’s quite impressive. I doubt she was ordinary at all.”
“Perhaps not. Neither are you. With your permission, I’d like to put it to the test.” His eyes seemed to sparkle as he gazed at her, or was it simply the stars shining in her own besotted eyes?
However, she eyed him warily, not so taken in by his dazzling features as to forget all reason … or rather, what seemed reasonable amid inexplicable fantasy. “What do you intend to do?”
“I won’t hurt you, Melody.”
The thought had never crossed her mind, for there was something in his manner that made her feel safe and protected. She didn’t understand why she would feel that way about him, but nothing made sense at the moment, least of all her acceptance of a Fae world and this Fae king who had the ability to steal her breath away with a glance of his magnificent blue eyes or a casually tossed smile. “I didn’t think you would.”
“Good. Will you give me your hand?”
She held it out to him.
He took the offered hand lightly in his grasp, cupping it as delicately as one might cup a robin’s egg, as though the slightest pressure might cause damage. “Does my touch feel cold to you now?” he asked.
“No.”
“Are you certain? Do you feel nothing at all?”
She couldn’t very well tell him that her body felt alive and tingling, or that her heart was thumping … not to mention that her breasts were … well, she couldn’t mention that at all!
“You’ll tell me the moment you sense a chill, won’t you?” he said, gazing at her as th
ough her answer was important.
She nodded.
“Promise.”
She nodded again.
Ever so slowly, he raised her hand and gently turned her palm upward, giving her every chance to draw away. She didn’t want to, for his fingers felt warm and exquisite against her skin, his touch as lush and feather-soft as fine, Italian velvet.
He glanced up.
She smiled at him.
“Curious,” he muttered and began to trace a finger up her arm, rousing sensations that tugged at her heart and threatened to overwhelm her, as though he had the power to rekindle the sweetest lost moments of her life and draw them safely into the light.
When he ran his thumb gently along her wrist, she remembered the comforting warmth of sitting on her mother’s lap as a child on a snowy winter’s night, cuddled in a blanket and watching plump chestnuts roast in the hearth, their sweet aroma filling the air.
When he traced his thumb along her palm, she remembered the aching pride in her father’s eyes as he lay ill and dying, recalled how her father had gently caressed her hand and given it a little squeeze before passing away with a whispered “I love you.”
That recollection ought to have been bitterly sad, for losing her father had been the worst moment of her life, but the sensations Cadeyrn evoked with his touch were all happy ones, as though he had the power to chase away all pain. She remembered the confident joy in her father’s loving eyes and the depth with which he’d cherished her.
“Close your eyes,” Cadeyrn said, a note of caution in his voice.
She steadied herself, realizing the rest to come would not be so peaceful. Still, she trusted him. He’d promised not to hurt her.
“Melody,” he said in a husky murmur, ever so gently running his hand upward along the sensitive line of her throat, and upward again in a smooth motion so that his knuckles grazed her cheek.
She stifled a sigh and closed her eyes.
His hand slid beneath the waves of hair spilling over her shoulders. Then, groaning lightly, he brushed them back and touched his lips to the exposed nape of her neck, catching her off guard by the fiery heat of his lips, for he’d seemed so concerned that she would find his touch cold.
