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

“Where am I?” His voice was hoarse. “
Who
am I?”

“You don’t know who you are?”

“No.” He pulled away from her. His cheeks were damp, his eyelashes spiky with tears. “Do you?”

“You’re Hugh Dappleward.”

His brow creased. “Who?”

“Hugh Dappleward. Eldest son of Guy Dappleward, Lord Warder of Dapple Vale.” At his blank look, she went on: “Do you remember Tam? Your brother?”

He shook his head—and froze. She saw it on his face: memory rushing through him like an avalanche.

Hugh clutched his head and doubled over. Ivy gathered him in her arms again. His body shook helplessly. His breathing was short, gasped. She tried to imagine what it must be like for him—the flood of memories forcing their way into his head, layer upon layer of people and places and names and events. It would be dizzying, painful, overwhelming. “Lie down,” she told him. “Lie down, Hugh.”

He obeyed, still clutching his head.

Ivy stretched out on the rushes alongside him and held him close. She didn’t speak, didn’t whisper soothing words. Silence was what he needed, while this deluge of memory engulfed him. She held him and waited.

The embers in the fire stirred and subsided with sighing sounds. Gradually Hugh’s body stopped shaking. His breathing became easier. Was he sorting through his memories? Putting them in order in his head?

“I know you,” he said, after several minutes. “Don’t I?”

“We’ve met once. Almost two weeks ago. Your brother is marrying my sister at midsummer.”

Hugh was silent for another minute, and then said, “Ivy. Widow Miller’s daughter.”

“That’s right.”

“Ivy . . .” His voice was hoarse, bewildered. “Ivy, what’s happened to me?”

“You don’t remember?”

“No.”

Ivy stroked the nape of his neck comfortingly. “Some kind of Faerie magic. We found you in the woods today. You were a roebuck.”

“A roebuck?” Hugh sounded even more bewildered.

“You changed back into a man, just now.”

“That’s why it hurt so much.” He shivered in memory. “Gods, it
hurt
.”

“It’s over now.” She pressed a kiss to Hugh’s cheek, tasting the salt of his tears, and then caught herself.
He’s no child, to be comforted with kisses
. She drew back, but Hugh’s arms came around her. His mouth sought hers.

Ivy’s heartbeat tripped over itself, then sped up.

Hugh kissed her roughly, fiercely, desperately. He tasted of tears, of salt and anguish—a taste that made her heart clench in her chest. Ivy tilted her face to him and returned his kiss shyly.

Whenever she’d let herself imagine what her first kiss might be like, she’d imagined sunshine. Sunshine, and a kiss that was soft and gentle and sweet. Hugh’s kiss was no soft, sweet, sunshiny kiss; it was fumbling and passionate and exciting, a clash of mouths in the almost-dark. A minute sped past. A second minute. Ivy learned to delve into Hugh’s mouth with her tongue, learned to match each deep, breathless kiss with one of her own.

Urgency grew between them. Hugh’s kiss became fiercer, more desperate. He rocked his hips against her. Pleasure jolted through Ivy. She uttered an incoherent sound and pressed herself closer to him.

The kiss became even fiercer. Hugh rocked against her again—once, twice, thrice. More pleasure jolted through her. Ivy gasped for breath, and rocked urgently back.
Bed me, Hugh Dappleward.

As if he’d heard her, Hugh tore his mouth free and rolled her under him, pushing up her linen smock.

Oh, yes. Oh, yes, please
. Ivy arched herself against him.

Hugh settled himself between her thighs, one arm around her waist, tilting her hips to him. Ivy felt his organ, hot and hard, nudging for admittance. Anticipation shuddered through her.

Oh, yes
. She may have uttered those words aloud, breathless and eager—or she may not have. She felt feverish, almost witless, consumed with a frantic, burning passion.

Hugh drove into her.

There was an instant of pain, but Ivy had lived with pain most of her life, and this pain was sharp and swiftly over, and after the pain came pleasure, a primitive, animal pleasure that made her groan. Hugh’s weight on her, the thrust of his organ inside her, the rhythm he set . . .

The wild, primitive pleasure built until Ivy felt that she might burst with it—and Hugh drove deeply into her again—and again—and she splintered with a pleasure so intense it could almost be called pain, bucking under him, her fingers digging deeply into his biceps.

Ivy lost herself for a few moments. Dimly, she heard Hugh groan, dimly, she felt him shudder. Clarity slowly returned. Hugh lay relaxed on her, warm and heavy. His breath was ragged in her ear.

She felt almost like crying. With wonder. With joy. Here, on the rushes, with Hugh Dappleward, she didn’t feel lame at all. She felt like a woman, not a cripple. She felt
whole
.

Ivy tilted her head and pressed her face to the curve of Hugh’s neck, inhaling his scent.

Hugh caught his breath and stiffened, and then he pushed abruptly away from her, scrambling back on the rushes. “Gods—I didn’t mean to— Oh, gods!”

Ivy’s joy congealed into a cold, hard lump in her belly. She pulled the linen smock down over her knees and sat up.
Don’t be embarrassed by what just happened,
she told herself firmly.
If you’re not embarrassed, he won’t be
. “It’s all right,” she said.

“All right? Gods, I
forced
myself on you!”

Ivy blinked. “Nonsense.”

“I’ll marry you,” Hugh said, his voice frantic. “Of course I’ll marry you!”

Marry Hugh Dappleward?
Oh, yes,
said a wistful voice in her head. “Don’t be absurd,” Ivy said aloud.

“But I
forced
—”

“Hugh Dappleward, calm down.” She wanted to take him by the scruff of the neck and shake him; instead, she caught his wrist. “I wanted that as much as you did.”

The room wasn’t so dark that she couldn’t see Hugh shake his head, couldn’t see the repudiation on his face. “Not that rough.”

Had it been rough? It had certainly been animal and primitive, but not brutal, not violent. “I didn’t think it was rough.” Ivy released his wrist and found her crutch and climbed to her feet.

Hugh watched her stand. His mouth became tighter. “I hurt you, didn’t I?”

“No.” Ivy flicked her plait over her shoulder. “Are you hungry?”

“Hungry?” Hugh gave a flat, bitter bark of laughter.

Ivy leaned on the crutch and looked down at him. “Well? Are you?”

He was silent a moment, his head bowed. “I’m starving,” he said, in a low voice.

IVY LIT FRESH
rushlights and added more wood to the fire. Hugh sat silently on the floor while she warmed some pottage. His expression was closed, hiding his thoughts as the blanket hid his nudity. When the pottage was hot, Ivy ladled it into a bowl. Peas and oats, bacon and herbs. “Here,” she said, placing it on the table.

Hugh climbed to his feet, staggered, and almost fell.

“Hugh!” Ivy said, reaching for her crutch.

“I’m fine,” he said, in a hoarse voice. “Just need to get my balance.”

He stood for a moment, swaying, and then walked to the table, each step almost a lurch.

“How long were you a roebuck?” Ivy asked, as he sat carefully. He looked like a drunk man, his movements cautious and over-large.

“I don’t know,” Hugh said, not looking at her. “I don’t remember.”

“Your face is clean-shaven.”

“It is?” He raised a hand and touched his cheek. “I don’t . . . remember when I did that.”

“Eat,” Ivy said, handing him a spoon.

Hugh took it silently. After a moment, he dipped it in the pottage.

He’d claimed to be starving, but he made no move to lift the spoon to his mouth. “What’s wrong?” Ivy asked. Had he forgotten how to use a spoon?

“Wrong?” Hugh shoved the bowl away. “Ivy, I practically raped you, and now you’re sitting here feeding me as if nothing happened!”

Ivy felt a sharp, painful sensation in her chest, as if an arrowhead was lodged there.
I had sex with a man who wishes I hadn’t
. She placed the bowl in front of him again, calmly. “You’re being nonsensical.”

“Curse it, Ivy, I know what just happened!”

“No, I don’t think you do. I wanted to have sex with you, and I enjoyed it as much as you did, and there is nothing more to say about it. Now eat, before your food goes cold.”

“I didn’t even
ask
you!”

“Yes, you did.” He’d asked her with his body—with his kisses and the rocking of his hips—and she had answered him the same way.

Hugh blinked. Confusion crossed his face. “I did?”

“Yes,” Ivy said. “Now, eat.”

Hugh blinked a second time. After a moment, he picked up the spoon again. He hesitated, then dipped the spoon in the bowl.

HUGH ATE SILENTLY
. Ivy sat at the table with him and looked down at her folded hands and gave herself a brisk talking to. She was a grown woman; why should she not enjoy physical congress with a man?
I am not embarrassed by it and I do not regret it.

What she did regret was that Hugh regretted it.

She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. Hugh Dappleward. She’d known him by reputation for years. Men spoke of him highly. He was like his father, it was said. A man who took his responsibilities seriously. A man who listened and observed, who thought before acting. A man people respected.

He hadn’t thought before acting tonight, but then neither had she.

Ivy suppressed a sigh. She studied her hands for another minute—and then glanced at Hugh again.

She’d seen him from a distance when he’d visited Dapple Bend with his father, but only met him twelve days ago, on the occasion of Hazel and Tam’s betrothal. He’d been surrounded by his brother and father and cousin and his father’s liegemen, the Ironfists, but he’d drawn her attention. She’d liked him far too much. Liked his stern, dark face, his watchful gray eyes, his reserve—and especially liked his rare smile. When he’d smiled, it had made her heart turn over in her chest.

The Hugh who sat at her table dressed in a blanket was a different Hugh entirely, weary and haggard, a man pushed almost to his limits by pain and anguish. And shame. Shame because he’d had frantic, desperate, unthinking sex with her on the rush-strewn floor.

Ivy let her gaze rest on his face. He looked heartbreakingly vulnerable, his disheveled dark hair falling forward over his brow.

Hugh Dappleward, I could easily love you.

But she could never marry him. Hugh would be Lord Warder of Dapple Vale one day. A huge responsibility. A burden, even. The last thing he needed was a cripple for a wife. Hugh needed a strong woman, a woman he could lean on, a woman who would be able to help him—not one who needed help herself.

Ivy looked down at the tabletop. If Larkspur’s gift hadn’t proved so disastrou
s—

No, she wouldn’t think of that, wouldn’t allow herself to fall into regret and bitterness, any more than she would allow herself to fall into useless embarrassment.

Hugh laid down the spoon. The bowl was empty.

“Would you like more?” Ivy asked.

He shook his head, not meeting her eyes. “No, thank you.”

Ivy leaned her elbows on the table. “Hugh . . . how did you become a roebuck? What happened?”

Hugh pushed the empty bowl away. “I don’t remember.”

“It’s Faerie magic,” Ivy said. “But
you
of all people wouldn’t have done anything to earn a punishment like that!”

Hugh glanced at her and grimaced slightly, but said nothing.

“Can you think of anyone who wishes you ill? Someone who might know about Faerie magic?”

“No one who wishes me ill . . . that I know of.” He rubbed his face.

“And people who know about Faerie magic?” Ivy persisted.

“Outside of my family, and the Ironfists . . . no one.”

“The Ironfists?” Memory gave her a picture of the Ironfists, father and son: big, bearded, brutal-looking men. “Could it be one of them? Cadoc?”

“Cadoc? No!” Hugh shook his head sharply. “Cadoc isn’t capable of something like this. I trust him as I trust my brother.” He closed his eyes. He looked utterly exhausted.

“You need to sleep.” Ivy reached for her crutch and stood. “We’ve four beds.”

Hugh pushed slowly to his feet—she thought she almost heard his bones creak with weariness—and walked to the bedchamber, each step a half-lurch, and hesitated in the doorway.

She saw the room through his eyes for a moment—a small, cramped, dark space with four narrow straw mattresses side by side on the floor, and a wooden chest crammed into the corner.

“I can’t sleep in here with you,” Hugh said quietly.

“Well,
I
can’t shift those mattresses, and neither can you right now; you can barely stand!”

Hugh turned away from the door. “I’ll sleep by the fire.”

“Hugh . . .” But there was nothing Ivy could do to halt him. All she could do was watch helplessly as he walked back to the fire and slowly lurched to his knees in front of the hearth.

“Go to bed, Ivy. I promise I won’t disturb you.”

IVY JERKED AWAKE
. The bedchamber was dark. The echo of a scream seemed to ring in her ears. Dream? Or reality?

She sat up, disquieted, groping for her crutch.

The scream came again, raw with pain—and very real.

“Hugh? Hugh!” Ivy scrambled from the bed and lunged for the door, moving as fast as the crutch allowed her. “Hugh!”

Hugh lay in front of the fire, his body jerking in helpless agony. His back bowed, he screamed again—and a roebuck lay on the rushes, flailing its legs.

“No!” Ivy cried. She hobbled across the room.

The buck convulsed, writhed, screamed an animal scream.

“No!” Ivy cried again. She threw herself down beside the roebuck and flung her arms around him.

The buck’s thrashing stilled. Deep tremors racked his body. His breathing was labored.

“Hugh . . .” Ivy hugged him. “Hugh . . . please come back!” But words had no power to alter what had happened. Light crept through the cracks in the shutters. Day broke. And Hugh remained a roebuck.