Jim Butcher - Songs of Love & Death

“Certainly not!” Martha snapped, but instantly regretted the admission. “My father’s illness… Mourning…”

He sobered. “As your mother said, you have missed much.” He captured her hands. “Allow me to introduce you to the kiss.”

He didn’t wait for permission, however, but pulled her beneath a tree.

And kissed her.

A mere press of lips to lips, yet sparkles started there and spread throughout her body—into her chest, down her spine, right to her fingers and toes. She almost felt that her tight-pinned hair crackled.

She tried to step back, but that brought her hard against the tree’s trunk and he pressed over her, his hot mouth claiming hers hungrily, destroying both conscience and will. She gripped his jacket, lightning-struck and helpless, until a deep, urgent ache awoke her to peril.

She pushed him away with all her strength. He crushed closer, as if he might force her…

But then he put hands to the tree and thrust violently backward, as if breaking bonds, breathing hard, eyes bright and wolfish in their hunger.

A hunger that pounded in herself.

He went to one knee. “Miss Darby, will you marry me?”

She stared, then snapped, “Of course not!” from an instinct as sharp as that which snatches the hand from a burning pot.

His eyes still shone. “You must, you know.”

Martha backed away, but the infernal tree blocked her. “ Must? From a kiss . A kiss forced upon me? I fear you’re mad, sir!”

And he looked it, with those wide, burning eyes and flushed cheeks.

“I will be if you reject me. Why do you refuse?”

“Why? My father was a canon. Yours is a viscount. You will be a viscount one day. I have an extremely modest portion to bring to a marriage and no idea of how to behave at court.”

“I don’t live at court,” he said, rising to his feet. “And I don’t need your portion, but in fact you bring a dowry of immense value.” He stepped forward. “Let me kiss you again.”

Martha pushed him away. “Stop that! I know what you’re about. You’re trying to seduce me.”

“I’m trying to marry you.”

“I don’t believe you.”

He sighed and looked up. “I thought an oak would have some power.”

“What?”

He took her hand—“Come”—and dragged her toward the church.

“What are you doing? Stop this!” Martha stumbled along, unable bring herself to scream. They turned a corner, and there at last were people—two gravediggers, chest deep in the ground. “Sirs!” she cried.

“I want to marry this lady,” Loxsleigh interrupted. “Will you stand witness?”

The men grinned, showing crooked teeth. “If you wish, sir.”

“I do.” He tossed them both a coin. “Come.” He dragged Martha onward.

She grabbed a headstone. “You’re drunk, sir. You must be. It would serve you right if I took up your offer.”

He stopped, beaming. “Do, please, my marrying maid.”

“Your what?”

“You, my dear, my darling Miss Darby, are my marrying maid. I have sought you high and low, long and far, despairing of ever finding you in time. But here you are, and here I am, and all is wondrous!”

He grasped her waist and swung her around in the air. Nothing so alarming, so wonderful, had ever happened to Martha Darby before. She swatted at his head, beat at his shoulders, and when her feet touched the ground again she exclaimed, “You’re mad, or drunk, or both!”

“Not a bit of it!”

But then he swooped down to dig his fingers into the long grass by the edge of the path.

Mad, Martha thought, tears gathering in her eyes. Tragically, the man was mad.

“See.” He straightened, showing her a small golden earring as if it were a wonder of the orient. “Is it not wonderful?”

“You must return it to its owner,” Martha said gently.

“Of course, but it’s proof, you see.”

“Proof of what?”

“That you’re my marrying maid. How soon can we be wed?”

“Mr. Loxsleigh, I am not going to marry you.”

He shook his head, as if she were a moonling.

Martha reached for the only weapon she had. “I’m promised to another.”

That did cloud his sun. “Do you love him?”

Martha couldn’t quite lie. “We are very well suited,” she said and set off along the path toward the street, toward people. Sane people.

He passed her and spoke walking backward. “You don’t love him. Of course you don’t. A marrying maid wants no other. I wonder why I didn’t find you years ago.”

“Perhaps,” she said tightly, “because we belong in different spheres and still do.”

“Ah! Your father was a canon. Did you live close to the Minster?”

The safety of the street lay ahead, but he blocked her way. “Yes.”

“And in the long years of caring for your father, did you mostly stay at home?”

“Of course.”

“That explains it, then. Faery powers can’t work in powerful Christian spaces.”

Fairies. He was a worse case than she’d feared.

He turned and opened the gate for her. “If I try to explain, you’ll never believe me.”

“Quite likely I won’t,” she said, safe at last on the street.

“Martha, my dear, just say yes.”

She looked him in the eye. “No.”

“Come to Five Oaks.”

“No.”

“What harm can it do?”

“Said the spider to the fly.” She marched on. Aunt Clarissa’s house was in view. Martha had never been so glad to see it.

“Come to Five Oaks,” he persisted. “It will change your mind. But if it doesn’t, I’ll bother you no more. And that is a painful promise for me to make.”

Martha was struck by his sincerity and slowed her steps. “Why?”

He didn’t immediately answer and seemed to be calculating her reaction. “If you don’t marry me,” he said at last, “I will die.”

“Die of love? We hardly know each other!”

“Simply die. And not just me. Many others.”

Mad, mad, but she was suddenly unable to abandon him. If she went to his home, she would be with her mother. Aunt Clarissa would know where they went. Perhaps his father didn’t realize how sad a case he was. There might be some way to help him.

“Very well,” Martha said at last. “I will visit Five Oaks.”

He beamed, all that bright light shining, but the song came from elsewhere, as did the burst of ethereal laughter. Martha looked around even as she knew neither was anything to do with the here and now.

Was insanity infectious?

BY MORNING MARTHA had second, third, twentieth doubts about the wisdom of her decision, especially in light of her dreams. That one kiss had unleashed wickedness beyond comprehension, and even more vivid images of impossible things.

Mr. Loxsleigh arrived, and though he was striving to appear normal, his eyes revealed that madness still rode him. Not dangerous madness, she assured herself. What was more, he’d brought a luxurious traveling carriage drawn by six horses, which meant three postilions who would hardly allow evil.

She guessed he intended rash speed, however, and said, “We will travel only as fast as is reasonable, sir.”

He handed her into the carriage. “We must reach Five Oaks today.”

Martha paused in the doorway. “Why?”

She caught him staring into nowhere, but then he was with her again, smiling. “My impatience to see you there, Miss Darby. But my word on it, we’ll travel no faster than is safe.”

With yet more misgivings, Martha took her seat at her mother’s side, facing the horses. It was difficult to be a well-bred lady who never behaved improperly, and did not upset arrangements.

“How lovely to travel post,” her mother said. “So kind of you, Mr. Loxsleigh.”