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Chapter Eleven

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The Bewitching Hour

It seemed likely, Asher mused as he settled next to the fire, that it was the Fae-touched salve that had caused his current predicament; but whatever the cause, the fact remained that he could not get the feel of Charlie’s hands upon his skin out of his head. The salve had made the pain of his wound recede—had it also magnified the gentle caress of her fingertips, the slim breadth of her palm?

It would be a convenient lie to hide behind, he knew, but a lie nonetheless, because the salve had been nowhere in evidence when he’d experienced sharp arousal the day before. Yes, she was a lovely creature, and he had enjoyed dancing with her a few days ago, but he’d danced with lovely women before, both in the ballroom and in the bedroom on occasion, and never experienced quite that level of visceral response. He’d thought Charlie beautiful when he met her, but now... now that he knew her mind, her heart, a little; now that he’d begun to understand the quality of the woman inside the inarguably alluring package... there was no denying his attraction to her. And when during his self-defense lessons they’d assumed a position that in other circumstances would have been carnal, his body had reacted, to his surprise and chagrin.

He rubbed a hand over his face. He knew perfectly well that this evening’s circumstances were far from romantic, as he bled everywhere and she was forced to stitch up his flesh. Disgusting, he was sure, and had he been required to feel the operation he’d no doubt have been far from enamored of the process. As it was, though, for him there had been no pain, just a slight tugging, and the feel of her hands on his bare skin, and his imagination had gone rampant.

She hadn’t seemed to notice, however, and that was all to the good, for he was in no position to take advantage of the situation. He had sworn his duty to Queen and country, and that put paid to any private life. He’d understood that going in, and had taken those vows nonetheless, and so courting any woman had long been out of the question. As to simple seduction... no. That was not, never had been, who Asher was. He’d never been a man to take his pleasure and walk away, unless there was experience and understanding on both sides.

The thick blanket, the whiskey, and the fire were doing their job, cocooning him in drowsy warmth; he glanced over to see Charlie slumbering peacefully, one bare shoulder peeking from her makeshift bedroll, and the sight of the expanse of creamy skin made his body harden, reminding him that he’d helped remove her corset earlier, that he’d seen through the thin and translucent fabric of her wet chemise, that she was absolutely...

Oh, Lord. He shifted to face away from her, turning his attention toward the perimeter of the campsite. Nothing but peace permeated the air, and he thought it was likely that their adversary had retired from the fray for now, or that the salt he’d laid down earlier was doing exactly what they’d hoped. Either way the silence laid heavy in the air, and he yawned widely, scrubbing at his eyes in an attempt to stay awake.

“Asher.”

Her voice was so low, so sultry he’d nearly missed it, and Asher turned back toward the fire. Charlie was awake, and she... she... He swallowed, tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. She’d dispensed with the blanket, and she was... glorious, approaching him with a hand outstretched. His body reacted immediately, filling him with hunger, and he rolled to his feet, dropping his own covering as he met her in two long strides. 

“Charlie,” he breathed, and then his mouth was on hers and she tasted like heaven itself, pressing her lush flesh closer to his straining body. “I want...”

“Love me,” she whispered, and God, yes, it was all he wanted, everything he needed. His hands traveled over the planes and curves of her form, caressing, weighing, molding, and he lifted her, helped her slide those shapely legs around his waist. He was near to bursting for want of her. “Love me, Asher.”

He wrapped his arms around her and she greedily mapped his back, his arse, his ribs with warm palms. “God, Charlie, I...” he murmured against her mouth. “I d...”

Asher sat up suddenly, the pain of his wound sharp now, and glanced back toward the fire, where Charlie slept on, oblivious to his lascivious inner life. He rubbed a hand over his face again and moved farther from the fire in an attempt to actually stay awake this time. He briefly debated walking into the freezing lake up to his waist, then shook his head. It would solve the immediate problem, but would also leave them peculiarly vulnerable should something go wrong. No—he needed to wrangle his wayward desires into submission on his own, and more importantly, stay awake to keep watch over Charlie, as he’d sworn to do.

As the sun finally peeked over the horizon Asher allowed himself to doze, knowing he’d be good for nothing if he got no rest at all. He was able to squeeze in an hour or two before waking again. Miss Whitfield slept on, and so he carefully went to check their clothing—fortunately reasonably dry, with the exception of her corset and the heavier layers of her skirts. Though still damp, they were dry enough to get them back to the farm safely, and Charlie could wrap a blanket over her clothes if the damp proved too uncomfortable with the morning chill.

Asher went to the lakeside to splash water on his face and found the boat—still half-swamped, but pushed well up on the rocky shore. Impossible, unless... unless the beast that had saved them also understood what the boat was, or meant, at least, and had saved it for them. How did one thank a benign lake creature for its good offices? he wondered, and huffed in amusement.

By the time Charlie woke he had tipped the water out of the rowboat, put his clothes back on, and stirred up the fire.

She sat up slowly, and then scrambled to catch the blanket before it slipped down to her waist. “Our clothes are dry?” she asked, not looking at Asher, but the blush visible nonetheless.

“Mostly—I’m afraid some of yours are still damp, but they’ll do to get you home.” Asher helped her gather her things and take them to the lean-to, then was careful to keep his back to her while he packed up the site.

After a fair amount of rustling, Charlie announced that she was covered and thanked Asher for his discreet consideration. When he turned she was finger combing her hair, her ribbon having been lost the night before. After managing to apply some measure of order to her hair, Charlie discreetly excused herself and disappeared into the trees.

A few minutes of calm passed and then Asher heard her call his name. “Mr. Burton, I believe there’s something you should see.”

His brows climbed nearly to his hairline. Surely not... no, Burton, of course not. Get your imagination under control. Asher finished folding the blanket in his hands and went to find her.

Charlie was standing next to a large tree, her entire focus fixed on the bark just below eye level. She glanced up when he approached and took a step to the side, nodding toward the object of her fascination. “I believe our attacker was here last night.”

The trunk of the tree had three deep gouges running parallel to each other, identical in size and shape to the gashes on Asher’s side. The exposed wood was still unweathered; the marks were no more than hours old from the looks of them. Charlie pointed the next tree over. It bore similar damage, though in greater numbers, and with an almost frenzied quality to the pattern.

Asher scowled, then looked to the ground: sure enough, the marks ceased at the edge of the salt line he’d put down. He rubbed at his eyes with one hand. “At least we know that this works,” he said, gesturing to the salt. “But I heard nothing, nothing at all. What the he—nhouse is this thing?”

“Angry, would be my guess,” Charlie replied solemnly. She wrapped her arms around herself, casting a last glance at the damaged trees before starting back toward their camp. “It’s going to be a long trek home without the boat. We’ll want to get a start as soon as everything is gathered up—I have no wish to be wandering the woods in the dark.”

“No need,” Asher replied, following her. “Our new friend returned the boat, and one of the oars was still in the lock. It won’t be quite as fast as with two, but it’ll be quicker than trying to walk.”

There was a pause and then Asher heard the unmistakable sound of a relieved sigh. “God bless lake monsters and their forethought.” Charlie came to join him by the fire, long, golden tresses loose and blowing around her face in the morning breeze. “And God bless the warm bath I intend to take when we get back to the farm.”

Asher winced a bit at the tug on his side when he picked up their box of supplies and took it to the boat. “The sooner we go, the quicker you’ll have that bath,” he told her. “It’s likely our enemy is aware that we’re here. I would just as soon we were gone.”

Asher thought he saw Charlie shudder, but she made no other sign of distress. Instead, she focused her efforts on helping him pack up the remainder of their camp. The task wasn’t an overwhelming one, and in a quarter of an hour everything was stowed away in the boat, and they were paddling away from the shore.

Getting themselves home was more of a chore with only the one oar and a side full of stitches. Asher found himself in a brown study, only half-concentrating on the back-breaking work of paddling first one side, then switching the heavy oar to the other.

He’d known the creature was real, but as with the sea hag, the experience far outweighed anything his imagination could have come up with. It had saved them—had pushed them to the surface, taken them to the shore, and then brought back the boat, by all that was holy. But it hadn’t seemed to try to communicate in any way. Which gave him some ease, at least, for the memory of the sea hag, hissing out its deadly judgment, was still haunting.

He looked over at his companion. Charlie was just as quiet, but her expression was more contemplative than troubled. She stared out over the water, eyes searching the ever-shifting waves. Asher almost wished she’d share her thoughts, but no commentary was forthcoming.

And then, “Mr. Burton?” She was pointing to the right, where something was bobbing lazily on the water’s surface. “Is that the other oar?”

He squinted in that general direction, but it was of little use without his spectacles. He was more than pleased to know that he’d brought his spare pair with him, and that his vision would be restored to usual on their return to the cottage. “Let’s go see,” he said, and turned the boat in that direction.

The floating object did prove to be the other oar, and after pulling it from the water Asher was able to make short work of the rest of the trip. He’d opened up the unstitched gashes on his side again with all the bending and stretching, but that counted little against knowing they were safely back at the farm.

They unloaded the boat together, at which point Charlie commented on the blood that had soaked through the bandage and his shirt. When Asher went to help her tend the animals she refused to allow it, and insisted he go see to his injuries, informing him that she’d handled the chores on her own many times in the past, and would likely do so in the future as well. 

Seeing that Charlie would not be convinced, Asher conceded and went inside to carry out her instructions. He washed himself and disposed of his shirt, rummaging for the healing potion he’d forgotten earlier. Having found and administered it, he watched with interest as the wounds faded, and then spent some time cutting and picking out Miss Whitfield’s neat stitchwork before putting on a clean shirt. Not wishing to remain idle, and recalling what Charlie had said about a hot bath at the camp, Asher grabbed a bucket and went to the water pump. He filled and refilled the bucket, heating the water over the kitchen fire before dumping it into the copper tub in her washroom. By the time Charlie finished with the chores and joined him in the house, there was nearly enough hot water for her bath.

The look of gratitude and relief that spread across Charlie’s face when she saw his efforts on her behalf made his efforts worth it. “Mr. Burton, you are... you are an absolute treasure!”

“I am entirely recovered, thank you.” Her delight about the bath made him smile, despite his mood, and he bowed. “Miss Whitfield, I am happy to be of service.”

Two more buckets of hot water, and a few more of cold, and the tub was ready for Charlie, and Asher left her to soak away the memories of the last twenty-four hours.

It was some time before Charlie finished with her bath and joined Asher in the kitchen, dressed and clean, with her hair in a single long braid down her back and a contented smile on her face.

They collaborated on dinner, and by the time the meal was done, Asher found his spirits lifted enough to set aside the disturbing details of the past twenty-four hours. 

He sat across the table and contemplated her. “I know you are made of sterner stuff than most of my acquaintance, Miss Whitfield,” he began, “but anyone would blanch at our last twenty-four hours. How are you faring?”

She let out a slow breath, eyes going distant and thoughtful before she responded. “To be perfectly honest, I hardly know how to answer that. Did we even truly experience twenty-four hours?” Charlie shook her head and then took a sip of water. “I can’t decide if it feels like less or more, even with those hours we lost.”

He knew what she meant, but she hadn’t answered his question. “I suppose not, technically speaking, and yet those we did experience were...” He thought about the wounds that had decorated his side, the area tingling a bit still. “Exhausting. Are you all right?”

“I’m sound in body, but I won’t be all right until my uncle is safely home.” Charlie stood up to carry her plate to the sink, and Asher got the impression the action was as much a matter of distancing herself from the emotional impact of their experience as it was to tidy up. She remained there, her back to him for a few seconds, before turning back with an answer. “I’m certain my nightmare was a memory now, and that I was in that... place. I think whatever attacked our boat came from there, or perhaps it even followed us out. Either way, its intent was clear enough, and that puts a new lens on... everything.”

He stretched his legs out under the table. “How do you mean?”

“You got a better look at it than I, but even underwater and in the dark I could see that it was neither human nor animal.” She huffed out a rather mirthless laugh. “I suppose that leaves Fae. The note, your injuries, the trees... I believe it’s likely the culprit behind the attacks on local livestock. I always thought I was safe here, but now that my eyes have been opened I cannot ignore the danger.”

“Do you feel unsafe here?” he asked. “Perhaps you should take Mrs. Alvin up on her very kind offer to stay with her for now.”

“Mr. Burton, after what we encountered do you really believe a few miles will eliminate the threat?” She gave Asher an incredulous look and returned to the table. “Home feels safer, even with an angry Fae stalking the area.”

What he privately thought was that staying with a Fae-touched would eliminate the threat, but of course he couldn’t say so. “If there is anything I can do to help you feel safer still,” he began, “I will gladly do it. I ought to reinforce the salt lines in any case. That does seem to work well.”

“I’ll go with you. Being busy keeps me from overthinking the situation. Besides, I will not be any safer for being idle.” Charlie was up again and halfway to the kitchen door before she finished speaking. Asher had given up on the idea of trying to convince her to allow him to carry out such tasks alone. Charlie Whitfield was not one to sit meekly in the parlor when there was a course of action to follow.

She accompanied him out to the yard, where they reinforced the lines he’d placed around the house, and then returned inside to check the salt at the doors and windows. Once satisfied that everything was as it should be, the pair settled in the sitting room with a cozy fire.

After watching her attempt to do some mending, only to lose her attention to the dancing flames, Asher offered to read to her from Collins’ ‘The Woman in White’, giving it his dramatic all when she acquiesced.

It took very few chapters to wear them out, however, though the well-crafted prose had at least calmed Asher’s jangling nerves, and he hoped had done as much for Miss Whitfield. A stifled yawn and some surreptitious eye rubbing from his companion confirmed that the activity had served its purpose, and after finding a good stopping point they wished one another pleasant dreams and went upstairs to find their rest.