Jo Beverly

by Winter Fire

  She ignored his comment.

  “Carpenter is a noble calling, though,” he said. “Even saintly.”

  He unfastened the placket of his shirt, then undid his cuffs and rolled up his sleeves, exposing long, strong muscles. It was as if he had her snared. She couldn’t look away from arms, throat, and the chest she could envision all too well.

  “I daren’t attempt saintly,” he said, “but I’m adept at noble.”

  Genova broke the entrancement and saw Miss Myddleton across the clearing, burdened with Lieutenant Ormsby’s scarlet and watching Ash with a hungry frown. Beware! Genova wanted to call out to her. Beware the wolf who will eat you whole.

  When she looked back, Ash was strolling over to the log. One of the men there said something, grinning. Ash laughed and replied in kind.

  Genova hugged his jacket to her, fearful that they were laughing at her, though she knew they would not be so coarse. Not where she could hear it, at least.

  She struggled to show nothing, wishing she was half the actor he was. Wishing she wasn’t tumbling in love with an impossible man.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  G enova saw Miss Myddleton approaching and groaned. Not now.

  “I see you love him,” Miss Myddleton said.

  Genova defended by instinct. “That would be normal when two people plan to marry.”

  “Would it?” Miss Myddleton turned to watch the sawing. “People marry for practical purposes all the time.”

  “Which you plan to?”

  “I plan to marry Ashart.”

  Genova wanted to shake her. “You can’t marry a man without his cooperation.”

  The heiress’s eyes were fixed on her quarry. “No?”

  Genova wasn’t sure if she was impelled by concern for Ashart or the young woman, but she had to warn. “Miss Myddleton, it wouldn’t be wise to marry a man who is not willing. It could naturally incline him to be unpleasant.”

  Damaris Myddleton frowned. Was she hearing and understanding? “Men can be very stupid.”

  “Certainly, but so can women. Consider Lady Booth Carew.”

  The cat’s eyes flickered to her. “A vain lackwit.”

  “Precisely, because forcing a marriage with Ashart, if it could be achieved, would be like locking oneself in a cage with a hungry wolf.”

  Those eyes widened, but not, perhaps, entirely with alarm. Unfortunately, Genova understood. Sanity said to keep as far from Ash as possible, but very little of her seemed ruled by sanity these days.

  The first pair of men stepped back sweating and offered the saw to others. Ash immediately took one end. Genova saw Lieutenant Ormsby move to take the other, and Lord Rothgar stop him and take the place.

  “What about the untapped vigor?” Ash asked.

  “Mere rank must lend us strength.”

  The two men set to work, pushing and pulling so the saw ate into the wood. Given the family strife, it should have been a competition, but that was impossible. To achieve anything, they had to work in harmony.

  Genova prayed that Ash take the lesson, but doubted it. Neglected by feckless parents, raised by a bitter grandmother, spoiled by rank and wealth, he might be exactly the sort to revel in chaos.

  Lieutenant Ormsby demanded his turn, his look at Damaris Myddleton showing that he wanted to impress her. He was a fine figure of a man, but his cause was hopeless. He was as good as invisible in Ash’s bright light.

  Breathing deeply, looking glorious, Ash was returning. Genova unpinned his cravat and wiped his sweaty brow with it, aware of the ancient instinct to both cherish and claim. She could tell herself she was trying to deter Miss Myddleton from folly, but she was simply succumbing to a force as natural and irresistible as a hurricane or tidal wave.

  He responded with a wicked smile that weakened her knees, even though she knew it was artifice. He draped the cravat around his neck, drew her to him with one arm, and paid her with a kiss.

  It took all Genova’s will not to cinch him close and demand the sort of kiss she hungered for.

  “I believe that’s eight guineas you owe.”

  “Still far short of your needs, though, isn’t it?”

  He strolled away to help use ropes and pulleys to load the log into a waiting cart. She watched, not caring what others saw. The beauty of their false betrothal was that she was allowed to drink in the sight of his muscular body stretching and applying force like a magnificent animal.

  For sanity’s sake she glanced away and saw the grinning woodsmen. They were enjoying the occasion, but there was nothing malicious there. The Bible said that you could judge a tree by the fruit it bears, something she’d always thought sound. In the navy, you could always judge a captain by his ship. Judged by his land, his servants, and his tenants, the Marquess of Rothgar was a good lord.

  What of the Marquess of Ashart?

  Once the log was on the cart, a long-necked jug of something went the rounds of the sweating gentlemen. Ash drank deep, his head thrown back, his strong neck rippling.

  The jug ended with the woodsmen, who took hearty swigs and called, “God bless ye, merry gentlemen at Christmastide!” They took it with them as they climbed up on the cart and traveled off with the log toward the house.

  The men began to reclaim clothing. When Ash strolled back to her side, Genova gave up his coat and gloves, and posed the question that concerned her. “Shouldn’t you be at your own estate for Christmas?”

  “My grandmother takes care of everything there.”

  “That isn’t an answer to my question.”

  His look was all marquess. “Your question was impertinent.”

  “Tell me anyway.”

  He shook his head, looking astonished. Genova wasn’t daunted. In their new world, he wasn’t a marquess. He was a man, no different from the young naval officers who’d been her friends.

  “My grandmother thrives on the work. She’d sink into a decline if I interfered.”

  “But how did that come about?”

  With an air of one humoring a lunatic, he said, “She married my grandfather sixty years ago, Miss Smith. Cheynings has been her life ever since. Grandfather apparently had little interest in estate management. He was a soldier and courtier. My uncle and father cared nothing for their properties beyond the income they provided.”

  “Your grandmother had the raising of her sons. She could have trained them to their tasks.”

  “Do you never respect boundaries?”

  She didn’t flinch. “Not with friends.”

  Something—a frown?—flickered across his face and he looked away. “We’re being armed with weapons and baskets.”

  Conscious of having said more than she’d intended, Genova went to pick up one of the baskets. When she turned, Ash was close beside her, a sheathed pruning knife in his hand.

  “I don’t know how my uncle was raised,” he said, “but my father was never expected to inherit the title. His career was the army.” After a moment, he added, “I was only eight when my father died. It was as well that my grandmother was skilled at managing my properties.”

  But the Dowager Lady Ashart hadn’t raised Ash to supplant her any more than she’d raised her sons to do so.

  Genova phrased a careful question. “Does she not tire of the work? She must be Thalia’s age.”

  “She thrives on it. What impossible thing are you thinking now, Genova Smith?”

  She had to give him the truth. “That it’s time for you to relieve her of her labors.”

  She was braced for dismissal, even for anger, but instead he looked away and she heard him say softly, “What if it’s like stealing her breath?”

  Her understanding of him shifted deeper, as it had been shifting all afternoon. She wanted to take him in her arms. She wanted to sit and talk about these things until everything was resolved. She wanted…

  Lady Arradale cut into her thoughts like a blade through silk. “And now for greenery!”

  Genova looked around slightly daz
ed, even sick, as if she’d been out in the hot sun too long. All the ladies had baskets, all the men had knives. She thought vaguely that armed men could be dangerous.

  She couldn’t bear any suggestion of danger to Ash. If she could, she’d wrap him in flannel and never let him take a risk again. She was mad.

  People spread through the trees, stripping long lengths of ivy, and snipping holly. Genova did her part but felt distanced, as if she had a fever. Ash joked, teased, and flirted as if among friends.

  Everyone wanted to get to the mistletoe, but Lady Arradale stood firm until the cart was full. “Now,” she said, “we can go on to the orchard.”

  There was a great cheer and someone started the mistletoe song again.

  Hey, ho, the mistletoe,

  It’s off to the greenwood we do

  go.…

  “But beware,” said Ash when the song died, “for the mistletoe can slay even invincible heroes.”

  They were emerging from the wood by then, in small, laughing groups. The house stood massive some distance away, and they would have to go partly around it to reach the orchards and kitchen gardens.

  Genova and Ash were with Lord Rothgar, Damaris Myddleton, and the ever-hopeful Lieutenant Ormsby. Genova was again between two marquesses. Was she unbalanced to be braced for danger? It was probably the effect of evening creeping early upon them.

  The sky had darkened, and somewhere behind the clouds the sun was beginning to set. She didn’t think she was imagining that the air had turned colder, that a damp chill was creeping through shoes and under cloaks.

  Or perhaps the shiver on her skin was because of Ashart’s comment about dead heroes and the tone in which he’d spoken.

  “Because it’s poisonous?” she asked.

  Lord Rothgar answered. “Because the mistletoe killed Balder, and he was not a mere hero but a god. That’s what you meant, isn’t it, Ashart?”

  “Precisely. But one could say that Balder was killed because of the actions of his mother.”

  Mother. Genova knew then that a new duel had begun.

  “What actions?” demanded Miss Myddleton, who had placed herself on Ash’s other side.

  “First Balder’s mother begged the gods to let her swear every living thing not to hurt him.”

  “How could that be bad?” Genova asked. “Any mother would do that if she could.”

  “But she ignored the mistletoe because she thought it too feeble to be dangerous. Typical female idiocy.”

  “And on idle evenings,” Rothgar said, “the gods amused themselves by trying to kill him. Typical male idiocy.”

  “What happened?” Genova asked, wondering what hidden dangers this conversation held.

  “Imagine if you will,” Rothgar said, a raconteur amusing an audience, “a night in Asgard, Hall of the Gods. Mead flows and spirits soar. Lacking better amusement, the gods fire arrows at the fortunate one, and even hack at him with sharp blades.”

  Ash laughed. “How reminiscent of the Court of St. James.”

  “Hush.” But surely Lord Rothgar’s lips twitched. “Balder does not suffer—”

  “May I express doubt?”

  “—until Loki, envious of Balder’s good fortune…”

  Loki. Genova almost gasped.

  “The good fortune, note,” said Ash, “of being subject to constant attack. How very like the life of a favorite at court.”

  “The fortunate must always be on guard,” Rothgar agreed. “Balder lacked this insight, and see what became of it. Loki—I believe you remember Loki, whose sole purpose was to ferment strife…?”

  “We all recognize the type.”

  “Name no names, cousin.”

  Genova’s head was whirling.

  “Loki cut a mistletoe branch and shaped a spear of it. Did he intend to kill, or was he ruled only by mischief?”

  “But,” Genova interrupted, “no one could make a spear out of mistletoe. It’s a vine.”

  “Relentlessly practical,” said Ash. “This was before the modern age, before Christ. One story says that the Cross was made from the mistletoe tree, which was then cursed into its present feeble state, required to suck life from other trees.”

  “In that case, Balder’s mother wouldn’t have ignored it.”

  “Relentlessly practical. The point of the story won’t be affected by logic, Genova.”

  She had been arguing because she sensed something unpleasant coming. She made herself stay silent.

  “Loki made his weapon,” said Rothgar, “but he did not launch it himself. Instead he persuaded Balder’s blind brother to do it by telling Hodur that Balder wanted him to be part of the game. Then he guided his arm. Balder died, and all the gods wept into their mead.”

  “None considering, we assume, that the disaster rose entirely from their own foolish actions.”

  “Who ever does?” Lord Rothgar asked. “Instead they turned on Loki.”

  “It was his fault,” Genova pointed out.

  “But sometimes an action has deep roots, Miss Smith, and the final hand is not the only guilty one. As for Loki, the gods hunted him down, then chained him beneath a serpent whose scalding venom drips on his face for eternity. There are none so harsh as those weighed down by guilt.”

  Guilt? Whose guilt? Rothgar’s mother’s? His father’s? This wasn’t all about ancient myth.

  A silence ran and in the end Genova couldn’t stand it. “Why are mythological mothers so careless? Achilles’ mother left his heel unprotected. Balder’s mother neglected the mistletoe. A little thoroughness would have solved all.”

  Ash gave her a “relentlessly practical” look, and she wished she’d held her tongue.

  “Thoroughness would give us invincible heroes,” Lord Rothgar said, “and it’s our vincibilities that make us human.”

  “Or perhaps,” said Ash, “it is merely that since Cain and Abel, children have borne the burden of the sins of their parents.”

  “It would explain a great deal,” Rothgar said, apparently unaffected by the reference, “but the cruel gods are dead, and we live in the reign of the Prince of Peace. He who commands us to forgive our enemies.”

  That was direct.

  Ash made no response. Did he really see himself as Loki? Was he threatening to destroy Rothgar with some mysterious weapon?

  They had crossed the meadow with her scarcely aware of it, and come to the orchard, protected from the deer by a fence.

  “Onward to mistletoe,” Rothgar said, opening the gate. “In these enlightened times it can only slay us through kisses.”

  Ash guided Genova through and closed the gate behind them. “But remember,” he said, “that the Prince of Peace was betrayed unto death by a kiss.”

  Chapter twenty-eight

  G enova expected something more, some climax, even a violent one. Part of her wanted it as one longs for the storm that will break oppressive weather. Lord Rothgar left them, however, to chat to other guests, taking Miss Myddleton and Ormsby with him.

  She frowned at Ash, wishing she could drag his thoughts out of him like rope out of a hold. All sense of knowing him had gone. He was an enigma.

  It was Christmas, time of peace, but she’d lived among war and knew how it could run mad in the blood. She’d seen men attack others simply for their nationality, or uniform, or name, as if hatred for certain groups was burned into their soul.

  “Aha,” Ash said.

  Genova looked up and saw a lushly berried branch of mistletoe almost brushing her head. She couldn’t believe he was trying to play games now and stepped back.

  He sighed. “I warned you not to get involved.”

  “How can I help it?”

  He cut the sprig and gave it to her. “Let me arm you, at least. I’m sure you know my vincibilities by now.”

  She put it carefully in her basket, preserving the berries. “I will never hurt you if I can help it, Ash. Please believe that.”

  “But as we’ve seen, the best intentions can be disastr
ous.”

  He used a ladder propped against the tree to harvest it with brutal efficiency. “This stuff’s a parasite, you know. It lives off the tree. If allowed, it will suck all life out of it, and thus die itself. A very stupid plant.”

  “Tell me a clever one.”

  He looked down at her, startled, then laughed. “You will never let me get away with an idiocy, will you, Genova?”

  She should make a light rejoinder, but she said, “I’ll try not to.”

  He cut the last branch of mistletoe and climbed down. “A penny for your thoughts.”

  “A guinea. No, ten.”

  “Agreed.”

  She glanced at him, then across the misty, darkening orchard, where laughter and chatter were clear, but where everyone but Ash beside her looked like a wraith.

  “I was thinking that I feel on an edge. Scarce able to hold my balance. I don’t even know what the edge is, what lies to either side.” She pulled a wry face at him. “These wanderings are not worth even a penny.”

  But he was looking at her seriously. “I know what you mean about an edge. Sometimes it feels that I live on the edge of a sharp sword.”

  She shivered, but said, “Not for me. For me the danger comes from what’s on either side. Often everything is shrouded in mist, so it’s unclear which side is safe, which is dangerous.”

  “But do we always want the safe side?”

  “Ah.” She inhaled it, understanding at last why she’d felt such turmoil. “No, not always. It feels wrong not to want safety, but the edge is where everything happens. The edge is where things change. It’s decision, and action, and creation. It’s birth and death. It’s life. Doesn’t everyone live on the edge, anyway?”

  “Probably wise people try not to.”

  “Then I don’t think I’m wise,” she whispered.

  “Nor I. But it doesn’t need to be dramatic, I don’t think. A man can live on the edge in one room, studying the stars, like Galileo.”

  She turned to him, surprised by this whole conversation, but especially that he’d understood her unformed problem. “So he can. I was worried for a moment that I’d have to go traveling again or die.”