Ivy's Choice (The Fey Quartet Book 3) (9 page)

The skin at the back of Ivy’s neck prickled sharply. She glanced around. Nothing had changed. Bluebells nodded in the breeze. Birds sang. Bees hummed. The prickling became stronger, climbing up her scalp. Someone—something—was watching her.

“I know you’re there,” she said quietly.

A piece of shadow detached itself from a rowan tree and stepped into the dell. For a moment, Ivy saw right through the shadow to the trees behind it, and then the shadow firmed, solidified, sharpened into focus.

The Faerie was as her mother had described: slender and imperious and inhumanly beautiful. She had marble-white skin, ebony hair bound with pearls, a gown as red as blood—and eyes that were as black as night.

Ivy’s heart beat faster.
Calm,
she told herself, but it was hard to remain calm when confronted by such cold, cruel, perfect beauty. She reached for her crutch and slowly stood. “Good day.”

The Faerie made no answer, just stood and stared haughtily at Ivy, contempt glittering in her black eyes.

She despises me,
Ivy realized.
Because I’m human, a crude, lowly creature
. The knowledge didn’t cow her; it stung her pride. She lifted her chin. “I hope your daughter is well?” she said, coolly polite.

Again, no answer.

Very well, let us dispense with courtesies
. “I want you to remove the gift you gave my sister Larkspur,” Ivy said bluntly. “That is my birthday wish.”

The Faerie blinked, and then suddenly smiled, revealing sharp, white teeth. “That’s not what you truly want.”

Ivy gripped her crutch. “Yes, it is.”

The Faerie stepped gracefully across the dell, bluebells bending themselves out of her way. She halted in front of Ivy, close enough to touch. Her smile glittered cruelly. “You want to be rid of that crutch.”

“I want Larkspur as she was,” Ivy said, firmly. “Take back the gift you gave her.”

The Faerie’s eyes narrowed. She seemed to stare into Ivy’s skull for a moment. “Ah . . . You’re in love with the Lord Warder’s son.” She laughed, a tinkling, disdainful, bell-like sound, her sharp teeth glinting. “Shall I give him to you as a husband? I know that’s what your heart craves most . . .”

Ivy tightened her grip on the crutch and matched the Faerie stare for stare. The woman was playing with her as a cat played with a mouse.
Well, I am no mouse
. “Take back Larkspur’s gift,” she demanded. “Now.”

The Faerie lost her smile. Her cheekbones were suddenly knife-sharp beneath her pale skin. Her black eyes glittered with pure malevolence.

Ivy’s throat dried.

They stared at each other for a long, breathless moment. Ivy’s lungs were frozen. Her heart scarcely dared to beat. And then the Faerie shrugged lightly and turned away. “As you wish . . .” She snapped her fingers carelessly.

Between one blink of Ivy’s eyelids and the next, the Faerie vanished, as utterly as if she’d never existed. The dell was empty. The scalp-prickling sense of being watched was gone.

Ivy released a slow, trembling breath. She loosened her grip on the crutch. “Merciful gods . . .” she whispered.

IVY LEFT THE
basket and sewing where they lay. She hastened through Glade Forest, hobbling over tree roots, ducking beneath low branches, her heart beating loud and fast with hope, with fear. She splashed heedlessly through the little creek near the old woodcutter’s cottage, hurried past the oak tree, and burst out into daylight.

The cottage dozed in the sunshine beneath its threadbare roof of thatching. Ivy looked around frantically, panting. Where was Larkspur? Where were the hounds?

“Larkspur?” she cried, breathlessly. “Larkspur!”

The crooked, sagging door swung open. The hounds jostled each other in the doorway, and behind them was Larkspur, pale and wraith-like.

Bess and Bartlemay bounded out, barking welcome, and on their heels was Larkspur, running. “I didn’t hear you,” Larkspur cried. “I didn’t hear you!” And then she flung her arms around Ivy and burst into tears.

Ivy held her sister tightly, while Larkspur sobbed and the hounds milled around them, anxious.

There was no regret in Ivy’s heart. None at all. Maybe the regret would come later, but right now, there was only love for Larkspur and sheer, utter relief that the Faerie had granted her wish. Larkspur was frighteningly thin in her arms.
We almost lost her
.

At last the storm of tears died. Larkspur sniffed and drew back and inhaled several shaky, hiccuping breaths.

“Can you hear my thoughts at all?” Ivy asked.

Larkspur shook her head and wiped her face on her sleeve. Her cheeks were flushed from crying, her eyes bright with misery.

Ah, love, don’t look so tragic
. Ivy smoothed tangled strands of hair back from Larkspur’s damp cheeks. “I love you,” she said softly. “Very, very much.”

“I love you, too,” Larkspur whispered. “And I’m so
sorry
—”

Ivy touched two fingertips to her sister’s lips, silencing her. “Don’t say it. Don’t even think it. None of this was your fault, love. You were tricked into wishing for your gift.” She held Larkspur’s eyes. “You helped care for her daughter, she
owed
you, and she despised you for being human, and so she tried to harm you. She has a baleful heart and a baleful tongue. If blame lies with anyone, it’s with
her,
not you.”

Larkspur’s gaze fell. Her lips compressed faintly.

What did that slight movement of Larkspur’s mouth mean? Repudiation? Or acceptance?

Acceptance, I hope
.

“And if I’m still lame, remember that you saved two lives. Hugh and Tam Dappleward would soon be dead, if not for the gift you chose. Remember
that
.”

Larkspur glanced up.

Ivy smiled at her, and took her hand. “Come on, love. Let’s go home.”

HUGH RODE THROUGH
Dapple Bend and across the village common, with his father and Tam and the Ironfists. The meadow opened out in front of him, golden-green, scattered with wildflowers. Hugh’s eyes fastened on the whitewashed little cottage. Five days since he’d left its safety. Five days since he’d trundled away in a wagon, guarded by Tam and Cadoc. Five days since he’d last seen Ivy.

His throat was strangely tight. It was stupid to be nervous, and yet he was more nervous than he’d ever been in his life, his hands sweating on the reins, his heart beating unnecessarily fast.
Gods, please let me say the right thing
.

He saw a young boy running across the meadow, followed by the two huge red-brown hounds, heard peals of childish laughter and deep joyful barks.

A cluster of people stood in front of the cottage. Hugh squinted, trying to pick them out. The tall, hulking man was Renfred Blacksmith, a man with a reputation for integrity, good sense, and for never losing his temper. A man his father hoped would accept the post of Dapple Bend’s alderman, when the aging incumbent stepped down this autumn.

“There’s Hazel,” Tam said, and his horse pranced two steps sideways and flicked its tail, as if Tam’s eagerness had transmitted itself down the reins.

Hugh narrowed his eyes. Yes, there was Hazel, her hair gleaming rich brown in the sunlight, and there were Maythorn and Larkspur standing alongside her. He spared a moment’s concern for Larkspur—
I hope she’s all right
—before searching for Ivy. Where was she?

Ah . . . There, she was. Standing in the doorway, leaning on her crutch.

Hugh’s heart clenched in his chest, his hands clenched on the reins, and his horse snorted and tossed its head.
Gods, what do I say to her?
The words he’d spent the last thirty miles practicing suddenly seemed terribly inadequate.

Tam nudged his horse into a canter. Hugh followed more slowly, his gaze on Ivy. He scarcely saw Tam leap down, swing Hazel up in his arms, and kiss her soundly; all his attention was focused on Ivy. She was even lovelier than he remembered—the ebony hair, the clear green eyes. She had the same elegant bone structure as her sisters, but her beauty was quite different from theirs. She reminded him of Glade Forest—her hair the deep, mysterious shadows, her eyes the dark green moss. And Ivy’s calm, quiet strength, her cool serenity were Glade Forest, too.
No wonder my heart yearns for her.

Hugh dismounted alongside his father. His gaze skimmed the watching faces and settled on Ivy again. She gave him a small, polite smile, as if they’d never kissed, never made love.

Hugh narrowed his eyes at her.
No,
he told her silently,
we are not going to ignore what happened.

Beside him, his father was thanking Larkspur. Hugh dragged his attention from Ivy and added his voice to his father’s. Larkspur wasn’t as terrifyingly frail as she’d been when he’d last seen her, but she was still far too thin. “I can never thank you enough,” Hugh told her. His gratitude was heartfelt; he hoped she saw it on his face, heard it in his voice. “You risked your sanity for me and my family.”

His father turned to Ivy next. “My son says he wouldn’t have survived, but for your care of him.”

“Your son exaggerates, sir.”

“No, I don’t,” Hugh said. The words he’d practiced began to pile up urgently on his tongue. He closed his mouth and tried to swallow them back, but they pressed against his teeth, demanding to be let out.
Gods, I’m going to spill my soul in front of everyone
. “Ivy, we need to talk,” he said abruptly. “Now. Privately.” He ignored his father’s blink of surprise, ignored the sudden flare of curiosity on Hazel’s face, ignored Tam’s raised eyebrows, and gestured towards the brook.

Ivy hesitated for a moment, and then gave a slight nod.

They walked at Ivy’s slow, limping pace. Behind them, conversation started again, haltingly. Hugh didn’t need to look back to know that everyone was watching them.

They reached the brook and stopped. Ivy turned to face him. Hugh had the impression that she braced herself slightly. “Yes?” she said.

Now that the moment had come, Hugh’s carefully worded proposal evaporated from his tongue. The silence stretched.

“What is it?”

Hugh swallowed the lump in his throat.
Gods, just spit it out
. “Ivy, will you please marry me?”

Ivy’s head jerked back, as if he’d slapped her. “I told you, you don’t owe me anything!”

“I owe you a lot, but that’s not why I’m offering for you. Ivy . . .” He took one of her hands. “Ivy, I love you.”

Ivy repossessed her hand. “You’re confusing guilt and gratitude with love.”

“No, I’m not,” he said, stung.

“I’m not the wife for you, Hugh Dappleward.”

“
I
think you are.”

“Think, Hugh!” Ivy said sharply. “You’ll be Lord Warder one day. You need a strong wife, someone who can support you, not a cripple!”

“Tam and Cadoc are all the muscle I’ll need. What I need in my wife is a strong
mind
.”

Ivy looked away. “There are many women who have that.”

“But they’re not
you,
” Hugh said, frustrated. “It’s not obligation, Ivy. Curse it, I love you!”

Ivy was silent for a moment, staring at the brook, at the pail of goat’s milk cooling in the water. Hugh wished he could read her mind, wished
she
could read
his
mind and know he spoke the truth.

A fleeting shadow seemed to pass over Ivy’s face. Sadness? She came to a decision; her jaw firmed and her lips compressed slightly. She turned her head. He saw the
No
in her eyes.

Hugh held up his hand, silencing her before she’d even drawn breath. “Stay here. Don’t move.”

Ivy’s brow creased. “What?”

“Please stay,” Hugh said, and then he turned and ran back to the cottage. Everyone stopped speaking. Hugh ignored their bright-eyed curiosity and took Larkspur by the hand. “Larkspur, I need you a moment.”

He towed Larkspur back to where Ivy stood. “Tell her,” he said. “Tell Ivy why I want to marry her. Tell her it’s not guilt or gratitude or obligation!”

Larkspur crossed her arms and stood for a moment, her head tilted to one side, staring at him. Her blue eyes were narrow and unfocused. Hugh knew she wasn’t seeing him; she was remembering his thoughts. He held his breath, and waited.

At last, Larkspur blinked, and shifted her gaze to Ivy. “He was very upset about what happened between you that first night. He felt that he’d behaved like an animal, not a man. He was deeply ashamed.”

Hugh opened his mouth to protest.
No, no, that’s not what you’re meant to be telling her!

“And he most certainly is grateful—profoundly grateful—to all of us. And he does feel a strong sense of obligation.”

“Larkspur!” Hugh said desperately.

Larkspur ignored him. “And he loves you as much as Tam loves Hazel.”

Hugh closed his mouth. He held his breath.
Tell her, Larkspur.

“When we were sitting around the table that night, there was very little difference between his thoughts about you and Tam’s about Hazel—except that Tam knew he had Hazel’s love, and Hugh was afraid he didn’t have yours. His uncertainty and anxiety and hope were . . . painful.” Larkspur touched her chest, above her heart.

Hugh released the breath he was holding.

Larkspur turned her head, meeting his eyes. “She loves you, too, you know. But she thinks you’ll have responsibilities enough as Lord Warder, and you don’t need another burden.”

“You wouldn’t be a burden!” Hugh said, appalled. “Gods, Ivy, how could you think such a thing!”

Ivy flushed faintly. Her gaze dropped.

“He doesn’t care that you’re lame, Ivy. He never thought about it, not once. It doesn’t
matter
to him.”

Ivy bit her lip. She didn’t look cool or calm; she looked as if she was trying not to cry.

There was a moment of silence, and then Larkspur said: “I think it was love at first sight; you both have extremely vivid memories of meeting each other.” And then she said, astutely: “I’ll go now.”

IVY STARED AT
the brook, at the sunlight dancing on the water, the rippling reflections. When she was certain—well,
almost
certain—she wasn’t going to cry, she lifted her gaze to Hugh. He was watching her, an expression of cautious hope on his face.