A Snowflake at Midnight

by Anne Renwick

  Laughing, she pushed the last of the mistletoe into the glass jar, slid in the stopper, and swirled the contents. “Twenty-four hours to wait.” Setting it down, she reached for a clean cloth. Wetting it beneath the water, she turned, hand raised. “Lift your shirt. We don’t want that wound on your back to fester.”

  Without hesitation or embarrassment, he obliged. “There’s some rubbing alcohol on the shelf. Next to some sticking plasters.”

  “Impressive, the bite of such a small contraption.” Clucking her tongue, she cleaned away the dried blood, then applied the disinfectant.

  Ash sucked air through his teeth, hissing a curse. “Can’t say I think fondly of him.”

  “Mmm.” Certainly she didn’t enjoy the damage done to Ash, but with such a creature perched upon her shoulder, the streets of London would lose a good bit of their danger. “Done.” She let his shirt fall.

  Ash turned, his gaze dropping to her lips. “With all tasks complete…”

  “We’ve nothing but time.” She shivered in anticipation. “And an empty greenhouse.” Solitude for a young couple was a rarity, making the dark hold of an airship an attractive location. But those memories had all but faded away. It was time to make new ones. “Whatever will we do?”

  His eyes glinted, but his offer was perfectly proper. Save they were all alone in a deserted building. “We could start with a picnic, but I should warn you that I have little more at hand than the fruits that hang overhead.”

  Would he feed her with his bare hands? Her heart danced at the thought. “It sounds perfect to me.”

  Threading his fingers through hers, Ash led her from the stillroom, back into the greenhouse proper, turned toward the path, but stopped. “Wait.” He plucked a cluster of flowers from a nearby plant and tucked it behind her ear. “The blooms suit you.”

  “Do they?” She studied the planes and angles of his face, handsome even in the dim light. While he wore no more than his shirtsleeves and trousers, she was corseted, laced and buttoned from neck to ankles. It was time to balance the scales. “Not as I’m dressed, like a tight-laced librarian. A necessary costume to work within academia, but here in such warmth? It’s torture.” Brazen, she unhooked the remaining clasps holding her jacket in place. “Help me take it off?”

  “Unfair, I suppose, that a lady must always be so restrained.” The look he gave her curled her toes as he tugged the sleeve down over her wrist.

  “Please. You know I’m no lady.” Free of her jacket, she quickly disposed of the cincher about her waist. Then, encouraged by the heat in his gaze, she reached to her hair and plucked free a number of pins to set them upon a nearby potting table. “Merely an aviator’s daughter in disguise.”

  “But your medieval studies, your scholarship—”

  “Is very real.” She thought of the letter in her pocket, and her stomach did a flip. But to mention it now would ruin their moment. Besides, she could see worry and self-doubt creeping onto Ash’s face. “Same as yours. A gardener’s son rising through the ranks, first acquiring a degree in botany, and now well on his way to running an entire wing of the nation’s most prestigious greenhouse.”

  She shook loose her long, honey-blonde hair, then closed the space between them to poke a finger into his chest. “Should education and research be restricted only to those born to the gentry? No. We earned our places here at Lister, same as everyone else who walks its halls. You button on a waistcoat and tie on a cravat to visit the library. Why? Because observing the trappings of society merely smooths the path. It doesn’t change who we are. Speaking of paths…” Backing up, she held out a hand.

  His eyes flashed, dark and full of delightful promises. “You do seem particularly keen on reaching its end.”

  She laughed, and he caught her hand in his.

  Thus linked, they turned onto a flagstone path illuminated by faint moonlight and edged with the soft glow of foxfire. Step by step, reality fell away as the world of fairy encircled them. In the strange twilight, ferns brushed at her skirts and vines twisted over branches that seemed to spread their arms in welcome, some dangling strange and tempting fruits of the sort that stories and poems warned a young woman against.

  The path took a turn, but at its bend was an arbor with arching latticework. A profusion of plant tendrils twined up and over and about its sheltering arch. An iron bench tucked deep in its shadows beckoned. Beneath her feet was a bed of moss, soft and yielding.

  “At any moment,” Evie breathed, turning about, taking in the fairyland that enveloped them, “tiny winged creatures might appear to dance by the foxfire while goblin merchants hold out their fantastic fruits in temptation.”

  Only one forbidden fruit interested her.

  Ash reached into the foliage and plucked an oval fruit from a potted tree. He tugged her down onto the bench beside him and drew a penknife from his pocket to peel away its skin. “We’ve no pixies here, and you’ve not locks of gold to pay their price, but I can offer you nectar and sweetness from faraway lands.”

  “What is it?” She eyed the unfamiliar, orange fruit.

  “Mango.” Slicing off a section, he held it to her lips. “From India.”

  She opened her mouth, and he slid the juicy, sweet fruit onto her tongue. Closing her eyes, she bit down into its soft flesh. “Mmm,” she hummed, sucking on his fingers. “So sweet and different, yet wonderful. I’ve never tasted its like.”

  She parted her lips, inviting more.

  The wet heat of Evie’s mouth, the pull of her lips upon his fingers was fast burning away rational thought.

  Who led who down the garden path?

  He’d meant to court her first, to speak with her father, to offer a ring, then to bring her here to celebrate. But everything was happening in reverse. The ring burned in his pocket but, like corsets and cravats, it was merely a societal convention. Did it really matter if they anticipated a few steps?

  There would be time for a proposal.

  Later.

  Mesmerized, he offered Evie another slice of the ripe mango, watching as her tongue darted out across her lips, lapping up the escaping juices. Missing an errant trickle. He thought to wipe it away, but stopped himself. Instead, he licked the juice from the edge of her chin.

  When her breath hitched, there was no more denying himself, no more reining in of desire. The outside world ceased to exist. His consciousness narrowed its focus, centering only on the woman before him. He angled his head and captured her soft, lush mouth. Her hands fell upon his shoulders, fingers digging into his muscles, a silent message that this time she had no intention of letting him stop with a kiss.

  Neither did he.

  With the tip of his tongue, he traced the seam of her mouth, teasing, coaxing. No need to press for entry, for her lips parted and matched each stroke of his tongue with one of her own, eager—until she shoved him away.

  “Evie?” Pained, he caught her gaze. Had he misinterpreted her eagerness? “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

  “No. It’s not that.” She pressed a finger to his mouth. “It’s simply not fair,” she complained, breathless. “You, with your scant few layers. Me, with too many to count.” Her fingers landed upon the tiny pearl buttons of her high-necked blouse. Perfect attire for a winter’s night. Not so a visit to tropics. “I want to feel the warm air on my skin.” Her dark eyes captured his, and her mouth curved in the most alluring way. “You on my skin. All of it.”

  Arousal tightened its grip, threatening to snap his overtaxed self-discipline. “You’re certain, Evie? All we have is a bed of moss.”

  He wanted this so much, but neither would he push her for more than she was willing to give.

  Her fingers paused at her waist and the look she gave him made his body throb with need. “If you don’t think you can manage it…”

  “Sprite.” He laughed. “You turn my world upside-down.” He ought to say no, steer her back up the path, and deliver her safely home. But he wouldn’t. Not when he’d spent far to
o many nights imaging her here, naked and free beneath an awning of greenery. His greenery.

  “Is that a yes?”

  As if he would say no.

  Grinning at her boldness, Ash tossed aside the remains of the mango, folded the pen knife, and wiped his fingers on a handkerchief. “Allow me to assist.”

  Buttons freed, Evie tugged the blouse off and laid it atop a shrub—then slipped her corset cover free. “That’s better.” Her arms, now bare, framed lovely breasts that swelled above the edge of a pale green corset. Breasts that were restrained only by a gossamer-thin cotton chemise edged in delicate lace.

  His fingers itched to touch.

  She leaned forward, smiling, guessing—correctly—at the thoughts running through his head.

  So instead, he bent and grabbed her booted ankles, tossing up the froth of her skirts and petticoats as he swung her feet onto his lap, suddenly keen to throw her off balance. “No forest nymph wears shoes. Or stockings.”

  She caught at the bench, laughing. “Is that so?”

  “It’s a known fact.” He tugged at the laces, loosening the leather that encased her feet. One boot hit the ground. The second soon followed. Beneath his palms lay nothing but thin, fine silk.

  He shaped his hands to the delicate arch of her foot, wrapped thumb and forefinger about her trim ankle, then smoothed his hand over the flare of her calf. Ever upward until the pads of his fingers discovered a garter, the edge of her stocking, and—his groin tightened—the soft skin of her inner thigh.

  He traced a circle, spiraled it yet higher, then lifted his gaze to hers.

  Eyes dark with desire, her breath came in gentle pants and her fingers clutched at scrolls of ironwork. “Don’t stop now.”

  Sliding on a mischievous grin, he hooked his finger over the edge of her stocking, then skimmed the silk down her leg to toss it aside.

  “Ash.” A faint groan of frustration hung on her exhalation.

  An evil corner of his mind grinned, pleased to leave her balanced on the knife’s edge of arousal, far from satisfied.

  Kissing his way upward and over the remaining silk stocking, he nipped at the skin beneath, eliciting soft cries and gasps. Until his lips met soft, pliant flesh. Until he could smell her desire.

  She squirmed on the iron bench.

  With a quick nip, he stripped away the remaining stocking.

  “Tease.” The word escaped Evie’s lips on a huff as she scrambled onto her feet. Deft fingers unhooked skirts, petticoats and the tie that fastened her bustle. She shoved them down over her hips and stepped free, bare feet onto stones padded by the litter of fallen leaves.

  And yet there was still so very little of her he could see. He wanted her stripped bare. “I’ve yet to see a corseted nymph.”

  “And have you seen many?” Her eyebrows lifted.

  “Corsets?” There’d been a few women, but none who’d ever occupied his every waking thought. “None since my gaze first fell upon you.”

  She gave him an impish smile. “And you have the only cravat to catch my eye in years. But I meant fairies.”

  “Ah. London’s rather short on them.” He leaned back as he pretended to pass judgment on her eligibility to dance among the fairies, his posture belying a growing hunger. “But those I have seen in the countryside have favored delicate and translucent fabrics. Or leaves.”

  She laughed. “If that’s a hint, you’ll need to loosen my laces.”

  Pulling aside the soft waves of hair that fell to her waist, Evie dropped onto his lap and nudged her rump against his straining erection. She wriggled, and what little blood remained in his brain drained to his lap.

  “Death by slow torture,” he hissed. “Channeling an imp, are we?” With thick and clumsy fingers, he fumbled with the knot at her waist. Somehow the cumbersome corset fell loose and unhooked. It—and her chemise—joined her other garments in the bushes.

  She sighed. “Much better.”

  “Aether, you’re gorgeous,” he whispered. Evie, bare to the waist. His fantasies could not begin to compare.

  A moment later, she straddled his lap. Then her hands were in his hair, pulling his mouth to hers, fusing their lips. Her kisses were deep and drugging, and he felt the world about him tilt and shift with each flick of her tongue against his own.

  Her fingers clawed at the buttons of his shirt, flicking them free, one after the other, pushing the edges apart so that she might run her palms over the planes of his chest, his shoulders, stoking a growing fire that threatened to consume them both. From the back of her throat came a pleased hum. Never had he been so grateful for all his hard work in the greenhouse.

  One hand explored the sweet curve of her backside, another cupped the weight of her breast. All while enduring the sweet torture of her squirms and wiggles against his straining erection. He rolled a single, tight nipple between thumb and forefinger, and a cry of carnal pleasure tore from her throat.

  Needy, her hips flexed and his cock throbbed in response, desperate to be inside her soft, wet warmth. He grabbed at her hips and thrust upward, cursing at the layers of fabric still separating them. Enough. They had to go. “I need you, Evie. Need to be inside.”

  Her drawers were slitted. His trousers simply fastened. With the flick of a few buttons, he could free his erection. If the dark of her wide pupils was any indication, she might welcome a fast, rough coupling right here on the bench.

  He released her hips, grasped the fastening of his waistband and—

  “Not yet,” she said. Her breaths came in gasps as she slid from his lap, depriving his length of the pressure it so desperately demanded. “Do you have a…”

  “Sheath?” Blood at the boiling point, he had to choke out the word. “I do.”

  She tugged at the drawstring of her drawers, then pushed the garment over her hips. “Bring it with you, then, when you’re ready to play satyr to my nymph.” Snow and cloud-filtered moonlight glinted on her bare skin as she stepped off the path and disappeared into the foliage.

  Without a moment’s hesitation, he leapt onto his feet and yanked off his clothing, digging deep into a pocket. All while thanking the primitive part of his brain that had insisted Evie, unleashed, possessed a wild side.

  For once, the higher centers of his mind rejoiced at the stern correction.

  Chapter Ten

  For the first time in her memory, no shoes, no stockings stood between her and the ground. Such a strange sensation to feel moss, cool and spongy, beneath her feet. No breeze stirred the moist and heavy air that hung against her skin. And—for all its tropical plants—no sounds save that of her own breaths and a frantic rustle as Ash hurried to join her.

  Overhead, snowflakes alighted on the dark glass, each melting in turn to form tiny rivulets that grew into steady streams. Here, half-hidden by a screen of branches and leaves, was a secluded pocket of the greenhouse where a nymph might take a lover.

  A smile stole across her face and a shiver of anticipation rippled across her skin. This was madness, yet she wanted no cure. In Ash’s presence, beneath his touch, the prim and proper librarian was forgotten. Here, amidst the warmth and greenery he tended, she felt free.

  Leaves rustled and Ash stepped onto the bed of moss, dropping a paper packet onto the ground beside their feet. She dragged her gaze upward, taking in every attractive inch. From the tips of his toes to the golden highlights that streaked through his hair.

  A lifetime spent in the company of plants had shaped his form in the most pleasing manner. Muscular and powerful, yet capable of nurturing the most delicate of flowers.

  There was no mystery as to why all flourished within his sphere.

  He reached for her, drawing her close. “So beautiful,” he whispered. “My heart aches.”

  His heart? It worried her, this growing awareness that they both wanted more beyond a fleeting affair. But Oxford’s siren call could not be ignored. She’d tell him. Soon. After.

  Evie shifted closer. “Oh?” She dragged a fing
ertip along the narrow line of hair that trailed between the ridges and planes of his stomach. Each inch brought her ever closer to his most impressive erection. “It rather appears something else might ache.”

  She wrapped her fingers around him, and the groan that escaped his lips gratified something deep and primitive inside her.

  Yes.

  Inside her.

  That was exactly where he belonged.

  “Imp.” His hands cupped the base of her skull and brought her mouth to his. This time there was no gentleness, no teasing. The roughness of his close-cropped beard scraped across her skin a moment before his tongue thrust into her mouth, stoking the fire inside her—inside them both—back to a fever pitch.

  There was so much of him to explore. Releasing his thick member, she slid her arms around his waist and let her hands roam over his back, over the broad expanse of muscles that rippled and shifted beneath his skin with every movement. Bump by bump, she skimmed her hands downward over his spine. To the small of his back. To the swell of his buttocks.

  She clutched those two mounds and pulled. His erection pressed hot and heavy against her lower abdomen. So much for her plan of patient exploration.

  He broke the kiss, his beard rasping against her jawline as he whispered in her ear. “We’ve all night, Evie.”

  Lie.

  Though her name on his lips was a plea for mercy, his breathlessness requested otherwise.

  “Let’s not pretend, shall we.” She let the tips of her breasts brush across the scattering of hairs on his chest, tempting his control and heightening her own need. “Neither of us wishes to wait a moment longer. And there’s always next time.”