Gallows Pole
Page 12
The undersheriff’s face wrinkled with the bitter taste of acceptance. Reason persuaded, but he refused to enjoy the flavour.
“Come, Reed,” said the chaplain, inclining his head. “Let us not keep the man from his wife. Vane.” The last came with a solemn nod to the man at her side. Do not give me cause for regret, it said.
Her husband levelled a similar sober look at their holy accomplice before the other men moved off towards their own horses, some several dozen yards east.
Her husband.
It was perfect and wonderful and made no sense at all.
He had her in both arms again. A smile fit to scorch away what little clothing she wore curved his mouth
“You can’t go back to it, you know.”
Something inside her softened under eyes mismatched in grey and white. She shook her head.
“I don’t want to go back,” she said. “I began that life because I felt there was no other choice.”
“And now?”
Heat rose in her cheeks and she let out a quiet laugh, her eyes lowering to her fingers curling over his chest.
“And now there’s still no other choice.” He stiffened, but she met his gaze again. “I love you, Bartholomew Vane, and that’s hardly a choice at all. I will be nowhere else.”
The second kiss encompassed less and pierced more. Her heart wanted to burst around it as it drove down deep, claiming and tasting of joy. By the time they parted, she could feel his ardour pressed between them.
Their eyes opened to a shared mirth, and Emmat smirked up at him, content to remain where she was and hide his enthusiasm from public view.
“Do I want to know how you came by the horses?”
“I expect not,” she said, “but I’ll have you know, one Silas Hollow paid for them. Dearly.”
The merriment left his face.
“Emmat …”
She saw the question, the fear. “No, no,” she said, “never that. Though he may have wished it once or twice.” She thought of the miserable excuse for a man doubled up on the floor of the carriage, cursing her and everyone who looked like her. Good.
“I know she can’t replace Mercy,” she said, “but the mare is yours.”
A hint of his smile returned. “You bought me a white horse?”
“Well. ‘Behold a pale horse’ and all that.”
“You bought a pale horse for Death. For the hangman.” He shook his head at her morbid humour. “And the black?” he added, nodding at her choice of clothes. The obvious, that they were breeches instead of skirts, bore no mention.
“I’ll be faster to train than a horse, husband.” Here was one of the greater risks. A proposal he might reject outright, so she made it a statement, rather than a request. “You’ll have an assistant now, whether you want one or not. I’ll not sit in that house for days on end.”
His brow furrowed in concern. “The things I do, Emmat…they’re not—”
The pads of her fingers shushed him before trailing down his chin. “They’re nothing I haven’t seen before. Or have you forgotten who I am?”
He backed them towards the cart so he might lean against its side. Their thighs tangled and had her wishing the other two men would mount their horses and leave them alone.
“You’re the only criminal ever to come away with a smile from her meeting with the hangman,” he said.
“Your wife is not a criminal, Mr Vane.” She affected haughtiness. “The chaplain swore as much only moments ago.”
“Oh no?” He raised a hand to rake into the curls at the side of her face. “Then who else has stolen my heart?”
Her cheeks must have matched her hair.
“You’re horrible,” she said, but her fingers moved to cover his.
“You’ll have no argument there.”
Emmat tucked her head under his chin and heard only his heartbeat for a time, among afternoon birdsong and the occasional creak of leather over shifting horseflesh. Home, it turned out, was not a place. It was a feeling.
Vane cleared his throat. “I treated you awfully, Emmat.”
She lifted her head. Gave it a soft shake. “Stop.”
“No, I was—” He bit at his words, fought with what he wanted to say before labouring on. “I should not have used you in such a way. I don’t know how you’ve forgiven me. Or why. But as before, if you’ll have me …”
She’d come asking for nothing, except perhaps to begin again, without the darkness, the resentment this time. And still, he gave her back more than she expected.
At some point, Emmat was going to have to learn how to weather the storm of new emotions this man brought to life in her breast.
Perhaps you can return the favour.
She gave his hand a squeeze before drawing it down and down between them until it rested over her belly. Her eyes burned wet with something too vast to name.
“A wife’s not all you’ll have, now.”
Dark brow shot up; lips parted to take in air. His focus went to their laced fingers, the new subtle curve of warmth growing beneath.
“Emmat.” Not the dreaded anger, but a whisper of hope. Of wonder.
She nodded, the hard place knotting her throat again.
He tugged loose his hand, only to remove a fine band of gold she hadn’t seen until now.
“I’ve been waiting to give this to you, Mrs Vane.”
He held up the ring with an impossibly shaky hand. It shone like truth through a wobbly lens of tears, and fitted on her finger, a perfect, unbroken dream.
The earth was new at the end of a day instead of at dawn. She didn’t have to steal if she didn’t want. Didn’t have to run, or hide, or do anything else. The world would not make her any longer, because she would make herself. She knew who she was now, and it wasn’t a highwayman, or an unsung daughter.
Perhaps still an outcast and, yes, still wanted. Only this time by someone she wanted in return.
She was Emmat Vane.
She was the hangman’s wife.
The End
Eris Adderly
Eris writes subversive romance for people who hate romance novels. She writes fiction in whatever genre suits the tale that needs telling: historical, fantasy, sci-fi, paranormal, or anything that bends a little askew from expectations. Her stories are the stomping grounds for badass heroines, untamable alphas, a spectrum of sexuality and a serious disregard for convention. Sometimes light and humorous, often dark and intense, if you’re looking for a break from reality, Eris writes for you.
When she’s not staying up until the wee hours writing, Eris also likes to read, annoy her cats and husband, and obsess about writing some more. Someday she will become an adult and realize pizza is not a food group. Today is not that day.
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