“Then you wish me to remain in your employ?” Relief swept through Barnaby’s core.
“Until the library is sorted, certainly. Your dealings with the manuscript have been odd, to say the least, Mr. Ash, but the quality of your work is not in question.”
“Th-thank you. I am most grateful. It would have been terribly awkward to ask for my lady’s hand if I could not provide for our future family. For that to happen, my reputation must be intact.”
“Well, it is. Although I recommend you refrain from more talk of fairies and the like. Not everyone can overlook such…strangeness.” Lord Brathwaite touched a finger to his mouth. He did so seemingly without thinking because a moment later he threw his hand down as if it were a snake, shaking himself free from whatever dream had briefly captured his imagination.
“Going to be a wedding, is there?” Brewster slapped Barnabby on the back. “Well now, the Queen’s Barque would be happy to host you.”
“Oh, no, no, no!” Barnaby waved both hands furiously at the thought. “Something small and, er, quiet would be sufficient. A breakfast with family and close friends at the Tullys would do nicely.”
The innkeeper laughed. “Mr. Ash, all of Fenwick is close. We are one big family here.”
Barnaby cast a hopeful eye to Joy. She would surely agree to something intimate for his sake.
“Sorry, my love,” came the answer. “Mr. Brewster is right. It would be impossible to celebrate something this important without sharing it with the entire village. You will have to be brave.”
She leaned up into his neck to reach his ear. The fine hairs on Barnaby’s skin rose at the intimacy of it. “You will have me all to yourself afterward,” she whispered.
The mere thought of “afterward” did things to Barnaby’s equilibrium. He gripped Joy’s arm to steady himself. Instead, her warm skin beneath his palm only made matters worse.
“Excellent!” cried Mr. Brewster. “We shall have a celebration like no other. Yours will be the first wedding blessed by the waters from my well. I shall begin planning immediately.” And he hastened back to the inn to do just that.
His comments, meanwhile, had thrown cold water on Barnaby’s simmering desire. The prospect of a rowdy wedding feast could cure him of all but the most extreme distraction.
“Come on,” said Joy, as if she could read his mind, “Let’s go tell Father our news.”
The walk to the Tully cottage took but a very few minutes. A handful of bees buzzed among the floral abundance of the well-tended garden. The door swung open from bright day to the murky gloom of the indoors. Joy’s apron hung over the chair where she had left it. The house was quiet. No sign yet of its crusty owner.
Barnaby’s nerves began to get the better of him. Joy might be of age, and able to marry without her father’s consent, but Barnaby wanted her father to be happy for her. He needed to say the right thing to set the man’s mind at ease. Any second now Jeremiah Tully would loom before him. What if he stumbled over his words?
Joy, meanwhile, had settled into the hollow of the only sofa in the rather plain room. She patted the space next to her.
Barnaby hovered where he stood. The sound of footfalls from elsewhere in the house did not commence.
“Come and sit with me,” said Joy, her presence as inviting as her words.
“I would first speak with your father,” insisted Barnaby.
Joy smoothed her skirt. “Oh, did I not mention? Silly me. He has one of his meetings with the vicar. They tend to drag on a bit.” She glanced coyly at the seat. “It seems we have the house all to ourselves…”
The hum started up throughout Barnaby’s limbs again. This time he let it rise, filling him, driving him forward into his beloved’s arms.
“You are maddeningly alluring,” he moaned as he sought out the arch of her neck.
She lifted her chin to grant him access, sighing with pleasure as he ran the tip of his tongue along her smooth skin. Her hands slipped inside his coat, her fingers spreading across the warmth of his chest.
Barnaby wrapped his arms around her, drawing her closer, breathing in her fresh, flowery scent. Her back arched a little, her breasts waiting for his mouth to find them. He nipped at the soft flesh that bloomed from the neckline of her dress.
Then came the footfalls.
Barnaby flew upright, urgency the only wings he needed. He straightened his coat, painfully aware that it could not hide the entirety of his feelings. In desperation, he pictured the awful Queen’s Barque, its noise, its bustle. Just in time, the image took effect.
Jeremiah Tully entered his home, his head jerking up at the sight of their guest.
“What have we here? Has Sunday come early?”
“No, Father,” answered Joy. “But Mr. Ash would like to speak with you. I shall go and put on the kettle.”
