Ascending Hearts

by Leta Blake

  Ascending Hearts

  Leta Blake & Keira Andrews

  Part of the Tempting Tales series.

  Rumors of treasure have long sent fortune hunters clambering up a magic beanstalk to a mysterious castle in the clouds. Survivors told of an evil giant who guards the gold with savage strength. No sane man would dare risk the climb—but Jack has nothing left to lose. Shunned for his evil red hair and abandoned by his cruel lover, he’s desperate to escape his life.

  Rion isn’t a giant, only a man bearing the burden of protecting his family’s legacy. It’s a lonely existence, but he’s duty bound. Then Jack appears, and Rion’s world changes. After a blazing confrontation, undeniable lust sparks. Isolated in the clouds, Jack and Rion give in to their desire and growing connection. Soon they must protect the treasure—and each other—from a new threat. And they have everything to lose.

  A Romantica® erotic romance from Ellora’s Cave

  Ascending Hearts

  Keira Andrews & Leta Blake

  Author Note

  Inspired by the tale “Jack and the Beanstalk” as written by the Brothers Grimm.

  Prologue

  Over the crest of a small hill, the base of the stalk came into sight. Even at a distance, Jack could see it was withering. The first frost had covered the land only a few days earlier, and now winter’s icy fingers had taken hold. Jack wound his scarf tighter around his neck and glanced back toward the village. Steadily falling snow had nearly erased his footprints. As flakes melted in his hair, a memory chilled him—he’d been but a small, shivering boy when he’d rubbed his head in the snow and prayed that the ginger color would bleed away into the white.

  Jack approached the beanstalk and pulled his hands from his pockets to grasp the thick stalk. Like many of the trees in the nearby forest, it was just a smidge too wide for him to wrap his arms around. The stalk was rough beneath his palms, yet felt surprisingly solid considering how the wind battered it. Perhaps it’s still safe to climb.

  Reaching up, Jack took hold of a thick stem. The stalk was a mystery that sprouted every springtide anew, reaching full height at solstice and fading during harvest. He knew that in the warm months, it was strong enough to hold the weight of many men. Each spring since his twentieth year, Jack had vowed to climb the tall, taunting thing along with the other brash young fortune hunters, but there was always a reason to remain firmly on the ground.

  Go now. Do it. What is there to lose?

  He thought of the others who had climbed before him. Some tumbled to their end, while others clambered back down without even making it halfway. They told of the giant’s thunderous rage bellowing from above, and how the beanstalk quaked with it.

  A very, very few in the twenty-seven years of Jack’s life had made it all the way to the top, far into the ever-present clouds. Yet these few had returned without a single sparkling jewel or gold coin to their names. They bore bloody wounds and wild expressions, so grateful to have escaped with their lives that they warned all who would listen—and those who wouldn’t—to stay far away from the giant and his treasure.

  Jack knew thieving was a sin, but even the priest had made it plain—the ogre was in Satan’s employ, keeping the treasure to himself for centuries, heedless of the suffering of men. Besides, Jack had no desire to take all of the giant’s bounty—just enough to leave the kingdom and discover new lands.

  At the thought, hollow longing echoed in Jack’s heart, and he gripped the stalk harder. Perhaps in those new lands, he might find a man who shared his desires. Who wouldn’t cringe away from his cursed hair. Perhaps he might find happiness.

  All you have to do is climb. One hand and foot at a time.

  Heart thumping, Jack gripped the stalk. It was closing on the longest night of the year, and soon the stalk would wither into the earth. He needed only lift his foot to the lowest stem and push.

  Do it!

  His mother’s shrill and piercing voice—Jack was quite certain it could be heard across the kingdom and all the way to the netherworld—reached him on the wind. “Jack! This wretched beast won’t milk itself!”

  With a sigh, Jack lowered his arms and turned his face from the sky, his feet still firmly on the ground. Here he was at the start of another winter, a failure once more. If he had a coin for every time he’d stood at the base of the beanstalk uselessly gathering his courage, he’d be a man of great riches. Perhaps he was a coward after all.

  Jack pulled his woolen cap from his pocket and tugged it on. His mother had covered his head since he was a babe, although there was not a soul in the village who didn’t know of the wicked color sprouting from Jack’s head. Even in the heat of midsummer he covered his hair as best he could. There were fewer stares that way, although the whispers still carried on the wind.

  He made his way back to their tiny cottage on the outskirts of the village. His cow, Inga, lowed softly as he circled around to the small yard. Jack took a handful of feed and held out his palm. Inga ate lazily as Jack scratched behind her ears with his other hand. He picked up his pail and sat on a low stool. Leaning against her warm flank, he spoke softly as he squeezed what drops of milk he could from her teats.

  Very soon she would be dry, and Jack’s stomach churned at the thought. He wasn’t sure how he would afford to feed her and his mother without income from the milk. For years he’d spent long hours telling Inga stories of princes and knights and adventure. As he had many times, on this evening he told her a story that was dear to his heart. It wasn’t long, but it ended with the happiest ending that Jack could imagine.

  “And after he captured the treasure, he traveled to distant lands—of course accompanied by his faithful cow—and met a handsome, valiant knight with arms of steel, yet love in his heart. He thought Jack most becoming. Even his hair. They lived in happiness together until the end of time.”

  He patted Inga’s side to tell her he was finished milking, and she shuffled around to nuzzle him with her wet snout. Inside, Jack’s mother was ranting and raving—about what, he didn’t know—but her tone was increasingly strident. With a final pat, Jack said goodnight to Inga and covered her with a thick blanket.

  He paused at the cottage door and looked back toward the stalk, which was barely visible amid the snowfall, rising up into the heavens. There was always next year.

  Chapter One

  “What is that stench?”

  Jack skidded to a halt at the door to the cottage. He’d recognize Adair’s deep, smooth voice anywhere. Desire and pain warred within him. His cheeks burned, and he wondered if he could retreat without being seen. It wasn’t often his sister and her husband visited, and he wondered what could have prompted their appearance.

  Damara’s singsong laugh floated out. “It could only be Jack!”

  Adair and Jack’s mother Maura laughed as well, and Jack glanced down at himself. His worn cotton trousers and shirt were stained, and surely he did reek of the manure he’d spent the first warm day of spring spreading on the baron’s growing fields. Given the curse of his hair, it was the only job Jack could get, and he counted himself lucky the baron kept him on with each passing spring. It didn’t pay well, but Jack was careful to make his coins last through the long winter.

  With a deep breath, he lifted the latch on the door. Best to just get it over with. His head was hot and sweaty beneath his cap, but Jack kept it on as he walked inside. His false smile froze on his lips as he took in the bare room. His belongings—some books, his clothing and a glass ball holding a map of the kingdoms of the realm—were still stacked in the corner, visible through a part in the faded curtain that cordoned his pallet from the rest of the cottage.

  Yet his mother’s things, chiefly her figurines and tokens,
which had been spread out willy-nilly over the rest of the space, were nowhere to be seen. Her bed had been stripped of linen and her closet stood empty. A blackened pot remained on the stove on the far wall, along with a cracked plate and bowl.

  Jack had never seen the cottage so neat, or so very bare. “What’s happened?”

  Damara and their mother shared a glance. It was Adair who stepped forward, teeth gleaming as he smiled. Not one of his fair hairs dared to be out of place. His high cheekbones and creamy skin were as flawless as the day Jack met him as a boy. He was still the most beautiful man Jack had ever seen.

  Adair smiled warmly, hands clasped. “Jack. So wonderful to see you, old friend.” He turned to Damara. “Isn’t your brother looking well?”

  Damara managed not to scowl. “Yes. Quite well.”

  Her belly swelled with another child and she rubbed it idly. Her dark beauty, with her wide eyes, full mouth and lustrous mane of gentle curls, was the perfect counterpoint to Adair’s visage. Despite her low birth, her staggering beauty had eased her way since childhood, and when she’d blossomed into a woman, it had sealed her future as Adair’s wife.

  As the baron’s son, Adair was certainly everything Damara could have dreamed of in a husband. He’d once been everything Jack had dreamed of too, but not for his wealth or power. Jack cleared his throat, which had gone dry. “Congratulations on your impending child, Damara. You look as beautiful as ever. But I must ask what brings you here and why our home is so changed.”

  Adair reached for Jack’s shoulder and then seemed to think better of it. His hand waved in the air as he spoke. “Dear Jack. My father grows old, and although Damara and I have enjoyed these past years in our own little cottage, it’s time to return to my family home.”

  Their “little cottage” would be mistaken for a manor house by many, although it was dwarfed by the baron’s home across the meadows, perched high on a hill and soaring into the sky.

  “I hope the baron does not ail.” Although the man had never liked Jack, he did provide him a job.

  “’Tis nothing serious, we hope. But it has led us to reflect on these many years your mother has stayed with you. So dedicated to her son, despite the hardship of life here.” Adair put his hand to his heart. “Her devotion touches us, as I’m sure it does you.”

  Jack resisted the urge to snort. His mother had begged Damara to take her along when she’d married, but Damara had refused. If Jack had a coin for each time Maura had cursed him, blaming him for his father’s abandonment, he wouldn’t need to climb the stalk to find the giant’s treasure. “Very touching indeed.”

  One of his earliest memories was his mother pleading with his father, assuring him that Jack was his son and she hadn’t lain with the devil. It was his only real memory of his father, who’d left them soon after. When Jack was old enough, oh how he’d longed to follow and find a new life. Yet the guilt of leaving his mother to fend for herself had been too powerful.

  Adair went on. “Although she is greatly reluctant, we believe she must join us at my father’s house.”

  Jack wasn’t sure how to feel. Betrayal, anger, hurt—and relief—flickered through him. “What of me, Mother?”

  Maura, who wore her best dress of long-faded blue lace and silk, contorted her sagging, wrinkled features into a mask of grief. “Of course we all want you to come live with us at the baron’s home, but it’s simply not possible.”

  Adair’s mouth turned down at the edges. “It wouldn’t be…appropriate. You understand.”

  Oh yes, he understood. All too well. “Of course. Wouldn’t do to have me bring bad fortune to the house of the baron by passing its gates and sleeping under its roof. Not again.”

  Adair’s eye twitched, and Damara frowned at Jack. “When on earth would you have slept under the baron’s roof? Honestly, Jack, you’re so ridiculous sometimes!”

  Adair’s smile was brittle. “Such a sense of humor.” He wrapped his arm around Damara’s shoulder. “Well, we should be going.”

  Although he’d often wished to be free from his mother’s tirades and bitterness, Jack couldn’t help but feel bereft as she swept past him to the door. “I’ll visit upon occasion, my dear. But the drafts here are such a drain on my weary bones, I dare not say just how often I’ll be by.” She ran a hand over the knot of her wiry, graying dark hair. “I’ve been so unwell. The meadow air shall be such a tonic.”

  Damara’s eyes flashed for a moment before she lifted her lips in a smile. “It will surely be, Mother.”

  The women beamed at each other, and Jack wondered what secret his mother had unearthed to force Damara to agree to this new arrangement. He was sure his sister had committed many venal deeds from which to choose. For a moment, he was struck with wistfulness for the young sister he’d once known, who’d shadowed his steps, woven flowers into his hair and told him not to pay the other children any mind.

  “And look at the wonderful gift Mother has presented us to warm our new home.” Damara held up a small brass sculpture of a hawk in flight.

  Adair sighed reverently. “Such a piece of beauty. How you honor us, dear Mother.”

  The sculpture wasn’t worth much, and Adair had owned vastly more impressive items even as a young man. The first time Jack had seen Adair’s chambers, he’d gasped in awe at the collection of treasures. Yet the brass was pricey beyond anything Maura could afford. Unless….

  With a few strides Jack was in the kitchen, and he flung back the tattered curtain from the small window. The small square of yard stood empty, Inga’s empty tether flapping in the breeze. Jack’s chest was tight, and he curled his fists. “Mother, where is Inga?”

  “Oh Jack, you know very well that old cow has dried up and won’t calve again. This is the only way she was worth anything. I left your share there on the counter.”

  Pulse racing, he ignored the dull coins. “Where did you take her?” he asked, although he knew the answer. “How long ago?”

  Adair chuckled. “That’s our Jack. Such a sentimentalist.”

  Their laughter followed Jack on the spring air as he raced from the cottage, tearing down the lane toward the village. The slaughterhouse stood on the other side, at the edge of the forest. Jack ignored the glares as he sprinted past the ale house and the church and skirted the marketplace.

  His lungs burned by the time he reached the foul-smelling building. The ground squelched beneath his boots, stained red by the drainage pipe that emptied from the stone abattoir. He burst inside, cringing at the sound of braying animals being led into the far room. He foolishly called for Inga, as if the poor creature could answer.

  The stooped butcher appeared, shouting. “Get out! You have no business here!” He spat in Jack’s direction.

  “I only want my cow. I’ll return your coins to you.” He had no idea how he would get the rest of the money his mother had spent on the sculpture, but he’d find a way. The beanstalk. The treasure. “Please. I’ll pay more than you bought her for.”

  The man’s scowl remained, but he tilted his head. “That eager to get the animal back?”

  Hope buoyed Jack’s spirits. “Yes! I’ll pay double.”

  “Triple. That’s twenty-one coins.”

  “Whatever you want. I’ll pay it.”

  Eyes gleaming, the old man replied, “Swear your oath.”

  Jack stretched out his hand. “I swear.”

  The butcher eyed Jack’s hand as if it was one of the fanged snakes of the forest. Finally he held out his own gnarled, blood-stained fingers and they clasped on the deal for the briefest of moments.

  Cackling under his breath, the butcher disappeared beyond the throng of animals. Jack tapped his fingers against his thigh as he waited. It was late spring now, and the beanstalk had been growing steadily, disappearing into the clouds. It was possibly at full height already, for it had been a particularly warm and wet springtime.

  He could leave Inga with water and feed, and perhaps convince a neighbor to milk her while he was gon
e, although he hoped to be gone not long at all. He would locate the treasure and evade the giant and—

  His knees almost gave out as he caught sight of the butcher returning. Nausea roiled Jack’s stomach, and the room swayed. The arms of the old man and several workers trailing behind him were piled high with bloody slabs of meat. Jack tried to force his lungs to expand, to no avail.

  The old man dropped the flesh onto the stone floor at Jack’s feet. Still-warm blood sprayed Jack as all the pieces of Inga’s body were dumped before him. The laughter of the butcher and his men rang in Jack’s ears.

  Tears swam in his eyes, and he struggled to speak when the only sound he thought he could make was a hoarse scream. He backed away, shaking his head. He scraped the word out from his sandpaper throat. “No.”

  The old man, still merry, clapped his hands. “Oh yes. Now pay me your debt. Twenty-one coins, or you shall go the way of your precious old cow!”

  Oh lord. He’d sworn his oath. Jack swallowed hard. “I need time. A week. Then you shall have your coin.”

  The butcher narrowed his eyes, all mirth vanished. He extended one finger as if he would poke Jack’s chest, but moved no closer. “One week. No longer.”

  Hands behind Jack shoved him forward and he fell onto the pile of meat and gristle that was once his companion. He could not leave her in such a place. Piece by piece, he carried her into the forest and burned her remains so she wouldn’t be prey to the wild animals. Falling to his knees, he emptied the contents of his stomach while tears streamed down his face.

  Inga had been his one friend. He had failed her. If he’d had the courage to climb the beanstalk before, he could have given his mother all the money she wanted. His weakness had cost Inga her life. Closing his eyes, he curled in on himself, willing the earth to swallow him whole.

  * * * * *

  The candle flickered wildly before the gust of cold air extinguished it, leaving only a thin trail of smoke. Rion closed his book with a sigh. Although it was spring, the castle felt as chilly as ever, with drafts in every dark corner. Midnight had come and gone, but Rion still felt no urge to take to his bed, although he knew he should. He had another full day’s work awaiting him, the crumbling castle’s endless repairs at least kept him busy.