Page 49 of A Lady’s Guide to Fae Kings

Chapter Twelve

For some reason, a Fae king had decided to train her in fire magic.

It seemed absurd. More fantastical than everything else that had happened, which was saying quite a lot. She stayed in her room, her hair braided, wearing her second-best dress, and decided she had clearly imagined it. She had been delirious with fever. It was strange enough that he had bothered to help her fight the aftereffects, never mind this.

No, clearly she had imagined it. She would stay right where she was, ignoring the delicious strawberries rolling off a plate toward her.

The door to her chamber slammed open.

There was an icy wind, a swirl of snow.

An owl tapping at the window.

Perhaps she had not imagined it after all.

Pippa followed the owl back to the pond, where Lachlan waited, up to his thighs in the water. He wore his customary black and gray, shirt sleeves rolled up. Knotwork tattoos moved over his forearm muscles.

She had woken feeling much better, even if her cheeks were still pink. They felt even pinker now, seeing those tattoos and those muscles.

It already sometimes took a few days for her not to look as though she had spent the day baking under the hot sun. A most unusual look for a Librarian—especially one living in England. Lachlan’s mouth tightened, but not in that judgmental, disdainful way that Mrs. Pettigrew had when she noted any evidence of Pippa’s lack of control over her magic.

He raised an eyebrow when she paused on the bank.

“I still do not fancy having my toes eaten by a grindylow,” she said. The water was clear and green but there were still pockets of shadows, tangles of thick grasses. Many, many hiding places.

“Thistle has been relocated for the afternoon.”

“He has?”

“You sound so skeptical, little wisp. I might take offense.”

“Thistle is a ridiculous name for a grindylow.”

“I’ll tell him you think so. Enough stalling, wisp.”

“I’m not stalling,” she said, absolutely stalling.

“Get in the water, Miss Cavendish.”

The grindylow might not be ideal, but she could not ask for better conditions in which to test her magic. The water would help stop the worst of the damage.

“I hope you’re sturdy,” she muttered at Lachlan, slipping out of her shoes. She rolled down her stockings. They were too dear to replace. Lachlan’s gaze tracked her every movement. She considered taking off her dress and staying in her chemise but decided she was not quite that brave. His gaze dropped to her wrist as she waded closer. “Take that damned thing off, too.”

She hesitated. “I’m not sure that is wise.”

“Take it off, Miss Cavendish.”

“I need it.”

“I don’t think you do.”

She rolled her eyes at him, because he might be the intimidating Owl King, but if he killed her then she could not win the Tithe for him. And if he had wanted to kill her, why bother soothing her fever in the first place? Why cradle her against his chest in the cool waters of the pond? “Yes, because, naturally, you would know better than I, professor.”

“Keep calling me professor like that, little wisp.” There was a dare in his voice, more than a hint of challenge. And something else entirely.

All rational and coherent thought momentarily fled her person, replaced by heat and curiosity and…want.

What was wrong with her?