He laughed. “Trifle with her? I assure you, I do not trifle, madame.”
“No. You play a very dangerous game. I have had experience with men such as you. Generally, they may be bought, and I am willing to pay well for your cooperation. However, the alternative would not be pleasant.” Her eyes glittered with contempt. “You will never again find work on any estate in England.”
“Very generous, your ladyship,” he said. His fingers itched to summon every tiny creeping, biting, stinging thing and set it upon her.
“Then you will do as I ask.” She offered the pouch again. “Be gone by morning.”
He took the pouch and dropped it to the damp ground at his feet. “I will stay.”
She didn’t even look down. With a twitch of her skirts, she turned to go. “Very well. You have been warned.”
And so have you. “You’ve forgotten something, your ladyship.” He picked up the pouch, overturned it, and sent a cascade of coins spilling like stars onto the dark span of earth.
She didn’t answer. She left the coins where they lay, as if they meant nothing.
The ache in Hartley’s brow was unbearable. He let the antlers burst forth, a welcome burden that reminded him who he was and of his power. He pawed deep grooves in the ground. His lungs worked like bellows.
But there was no one here to challenge.
You mistake me, madame. You think me a mortal and your inferior, but I was once a god. You cannot withstand a god.
And neither could Eden.
He was weary of mortals and their baseless arrogance. It would please him to show Lady Claudia how easily he disposed of her threats.
The moon rose and began to sink again. Night creatures moved cautiously about him, unwilling to disturb his deep and brooding thoughts. Candles guttered in Hartsmere’s windows. A predawn breeze brought with it the promise of new growth from garden and woods.
“Look!”
Hartley came to himself at the sound of a feminine voice. Eden stood at the servant’s door—Eden and Mrs. Byrne, together as if they were bosom friends.
“We have talked all night.” Eden said. “It is nearly morning!” She laughed. The sound floated across the park to wreath Hartley’s antlers in ribbons of music.
“Miss Waterson is furious with me. You should have seen her face when I delivered Donal to the nursery.” Eden shook her head, tossing golden hair that had come undone sometime during the evening, though she still wore her dinner gown. “But we were having such fun that I forgot the time. If you hadn’t found us, I fear we’d still be playing at jackstraws.”
“Children must be indulged,” Mrs. Byrne said. “They grow up soon enough.”
“Yes. I had almost forgotten—” Eden hugged herself, turning her face to the sky. “I think it will rain again. A pity that Candlemas will be more like winter than spring!”
“Not at all, my lady. ‘If Candlemas Day be sunny and bright, winter again will show its might. If Candlemas Day be cloudy and gray, winter soon will pass away.'”
“Then I shall not repine.” Eden flung her arms wide. “Winter, begone!”
Invisible to her mortal sight, Hartley closed his eyes. The girl he had known was here again, fresh and bright as springtime.
That was illusion. The seasons could not be turned back, not even by his kind. Eden’s spring would never come again.
But there might be a way to stave off winter. Perhaps he could leave her with a new life to nurture when Donal was gone, a second blooming to take the sorrow from her loss. His desire might serve some purpose after all.
And perhaps her curses upon him would be that much lighter.
Chapter 8
Mrs. Byrne’s folk rhyme about Candlemas Day proved most pleasantly accurate.
Spring had come upon the dale in all its glory, hard on the heels of winter. The good weather that heralded March had continued without ceasing ever since. All the birds and beasts absent upon Eden’s arrival at Hartsmere had returned to delight Donal and fill the air with song. Snow had melted, rains fell in modest amounts, seeds and leaves and flowers grew with remarkable swiftness.