Chapter 8

Aurora

SUN STREAMS THROUGH MY LITTLE kitchen window, casting shades of yellow and gold across the bread I'm kneading on the table. Ostara will be here before I know it, and I'm still trying to decide what types of bread to bake for the festival. So far, I'm thinking I'll bake a fruit bread—depending on what Lydia has available at the mercantile—an herb bread with rosemary and thyme, and a good old-fashioned sourdough. I fed my sourdough yesterday in preparation for my baking today, and it smells delicious in the warm, cozy kitchen.

I'm really trying not to think about Alden, but it's not going very well. After he walked away from me yesterday, leaving me standing in the early-evening light, I felt a distinct chill of rejection in my chest. I've tried to be friendly, have tried to smile and talk with him, but he's so closed off, so stoic and frigid, that I'm not so sure I've even seen him smile yet.

Thinking about the look on his face right before he turned away from me, his eyes narrowed and his brow furrowed, I knead the bread dough a bit too hard, pressing the heel of my palm through the floury outer surface and into the sticky heart of the bread. With a sigh, I dust the loaf with a bit more wheat flour, then resume kneading, being more mindful this time.

I can't let him get to me like this.

A short while later, my baking pot has heated up in the warm coals and my bread has had a chance to rise. After scoring the top of the dough, I slip the loaf into the pot, cover it with the lid, and place the dish back into the coals, using tongs to place smoldering coals across the top of the lid of the pot so the bread will get a nice even bake.

I've just removed my apron when a knock sounds at the door.

"That man is here," Harrison calls out from the parlor, where he's sitting in the windowsill, like he does every day around this time.

"That man has a name," I whisper. Though I know it's silly, I reach up to run a hand over my hair, trying to tame the flyaways that always puff up when I'm working with fire and coals in the kitchen.

"I know," Harrison says.

Rolling my eyes lightly, I reach for the door handle and pull the front door open.

Alden is standing there on the porch, shoulders so wide he nearly fills the whole frame. He's wearing a long-sleeved cotton tunic, and his dark curls are windblown. I'm quickly reminded of yesterday, when he peeled off his tunic while working on the veranda. I tried so hard not to stare at him, but it was almost impossible, what with the sheen of sweat on his strong back and the ripple of muscle with every swing of his hammer. He caught me looking, and I kept my eyes firmly averted after that... mostly.

"Hi," I say, stepping aside to hold the door open. "Come in."

Alden steps through the doorframe, and Harrison immediately jumps from the windowsill and runs up the steps. Alden's dark gaze follows him as he disappears onto the second floor.

"That's Harrison." I close the door behind him with a soft click. "It takes him a while to warm up to new people."

A grunt is Alden's only response. It nettles me, but I've come to expect it at this point.

"Is there anything I can do to help?" I ask as Alden sets a few tools on the foyer floor.

"No." He looks down, meeting my gaze. "But thank you."

I'm not sure I ever noticed before, but his eyelashes are so thick that they tangle with one another, and some are long enough to almost brush his cheeks when he blinks.

Heat rises into my face. With a nod, I quickly turn away and head for the kitchen. The last thing I need is him seeing how his dark eyes and deep voice make blood rush into my cheeks. "Okay. I'll be in here if you need me."

Before he can offer me another grunt, I slip through the doorway and into the kitchen. Leaning back against the wall in a shaft of sunlight, I catch my breath while Alden moves around in the foyer, probably prepping his tools. I'm not sure what it is about him that makes me so giddy. He'll be gone after today, and I'm partly relieved, but also a bit disappointed, because then I won't have an excuse to see him anymore .

That thought dims my spirits a bit. But I know just the thing to make myself feel better.

While the bread bakes, filling the kitchen with the delicious smell of sourdough, I crush a few seeds and herbs with my mortar and pestle, then slip them into a cotton sachet. I place a kettle over the fire, already filled with water from the well, and wait until steam rises from its slim spout. Removing it from the hook above the coals, I pour the boiling water into my teacup, and the scent of licorice, marshmallow root, and fennel wafts up from the hot water.

The smell sends a wave of calm over me. Teacup held between my hands, I take a seat at my kitchen table, careful not to wobble it. I sit there a while as my tea cools, admiring the little prisms of light that dance across the wall thanks to the crystals hanging from a rod stretched across the window.

It reminds me of when Auntie first started teaching me about crystals and their many properties—from crystal quartz to amethyst and citrine to selenite. I keep finding crystals in the cottage and spread around the garden and property, and every time I do, I take a moment to smile and thank Auntie for leaving me with such lovely treasures to find.

That thought makes me smile as I lift my teacup to my lips and take my first sip. And almost as soon as I do, there's a hiss and a grunt from the parlor, followed by what sounds like a hammer hitting the wooden floor. Without a second thought, I'm out of my chair and sweeping through the foyer and into the parlor, where I find Alden clutching his hand to his chest, a thin line of blood trickling down his tawny skin to stain his cotton sleeve red.

"What happened?" I ask, eyes wide .

"Nicked myself with a nail. I'll be fine." He angles his body away from me, making it harder for me to see his injury.

"You don't look fine." I arch a brow at him, then gesture to the kitchen. "Come on. I'll get it cleaned up for you."

"I'm fine," he says, voice low and gravelly.

"You're not ," I snap, finally losing my patience with him and his bearish ways. "Now stop being difficult and let me help you. You can't work if you're dripping blood all over the floorboards."

The look he gives me is withering, but he finally relents, still clutching his hand as he walks into the sunlit kitchen. I gesture for him to sit at the kitchen table while I fetch a few clean cloths. When I turn to face him, I have to fight the smile that wants to rise to my lips at the sight of him sitting at the table. He nearly dwarfs it, and it's no small miracle that the little kitchen chair is even holding his weight.

Banishing my humor, I sit across from him at the table and hold out a hand. "Okay, let me see it."

"I told you, it's fine."

My eyes roll so hard I'm sure they almost get stuck in the back of my head—just like Mama warned me about when I was little.

"Alden Stonewood, now ."

His bushy eyebrows rise, and he yields his hand to me without any further trouble.

There's certainly a wound on his thumb, but when I dab the blood away with the cloth and take a closer look, I can tell it only caught the edge of the skin.

"It didn't go all the way through," I tell him, standing to fetch the kettle from above the coals .

"Told you," he grumbles.

I opt to ignore that one. Grabbing the still-clean cloth, I pour a bit of the boiled water over it. Once it's cooled, I use it to clean Alden's thumb.

"Hold that on there while I make a poultice."

"Poultice?" He goes to stand up. "No, I'm—"

" Alden. " My tone is so biting that it sends him right back into the wooden chair. If I knew a binding spell, I'd use it on him to keep him put. "Stay. Hush. I'm making you a poultice, and you're not going to complain. Understand?"

His grumpy nod is all I need to turn back to my counter. I fetch my mortar and pestle, then sprinkle some slippery elm bark powder into the bowl. Using the water from the kettle, I pour a small amount in and start stirring. It doesn't take long for the powder and water to mix into a thick paste, perfect for applying to wounds.

"Are you sure about that?" Alden asks as I approach the table with my mortar.

"Don't tell me you're afraid of a little cottage witchcraft," I say, arching a brow at him.

"No. I just want to make sure you know what you're doing." His wary eyes say otherwise.

"I don't nettle you about your carpentry; you shouldn't nettle me about my concoctions. Hand it over."

Reluctantly, Alden gives me his hand. I gently apply the poultice to his wound, then grab a strip of thin cloth and wrap it around his thumb to keep the wound clean and dry.

As I'm wrapping, I suddenly notice how warm his skin is. He's like a big fire, and the heat he puts out is calming and comforting. It makes me want to know what it would feel like to be wrapped in his embrace.

I finish with his bandage, tucking the end of the cloth into itself, but I don't let go of his hand right away. Gathering my courage, I glance up and into his eyes.

And he's staring right back at me. There's a furrow in his brow, but it doesn't look irritable this time; instead, he's focusing on me intently, eyes narrowed just a bit so tiny crow's-feet appear along the outer edges of his eyelids.

Something about his look makes me feel like it's safe to lift my hand from his and trace my fingertips delicately across those tiny wrinkles. For a moment, I picture him working out in the sun, eyes narrowed against the bright light. The lines on his face and around his eyes tell stories—stories I want to hear, want to memorize, want to know deep inside my bones.

I want to know him .

As soon as my fingers meet his face, he softens, sighing into the touch. His eyelids flutter closed, and he presses his face into my hand, as if he's been yearning for just this—my skin on his skin, our bodies heating this shared space as the bread bakes in the coals.

A whisper of a sigh leaves my lips. Alden's eyes open, meeting mine. For a moment, I worry he's going to pull away, to slam the shutters over the windows into his heart and deny me access yet again.

So imagine my surprise when he leans forward and presses his lips to mine.

The kiss is sudden and somewhat clumsy. It takes me a moment to settle into the sensation of his scruffy beard on my face, his mouth moving with my mouth. But after that brief moment of surprise passes, I can't hold myself back.

I've thought of him every night since the afternoon I first knocked on his door, have imagined what his hands might feel like trailing over my skin as I've dressed each morning. And now that he's given me this tiny chance, an opportunity to discover the truths to these questions I've wondered about, I don't want to let it go to waste.

With a breathy sigh, I pull Alden's bottom lip into my mouth, catch it between my teeth.

His response is immediate, like he doesn't even have a chance to consider how he feels about this, about me . He reaches out, and the next thing I know, he's pulled me onto his lap, and I'm seated on his knees, my arms snaking up to wrap around his strong neck. There's a tingling between my legs, a warm wetness that makes me squirm against him.

If he were to reach for the hem of my skirt, I wouldn't stop him.

One of his arms wraps around my waist, holding me tight, and he reaches up with the other to push a hand through my hair, tangling it in his fingers. My tongue darts out to trace his lower lip, and beneath the back of my thigh, his cock pulses.

And it sends a bolt of excitement through me.

So much excitement that it takes me an additional twenty seconds of heavy kissing to detect the smell of something burning, then another fifteen to realize—

"My bread!"

I leap off Alden's lap, already reaching for the long brush propped up against the hearth to sweep the coals off the top of the baking pot. I'm vaguely aware of Alden standing behind me as I grab my mitts and pull the lid off the baking dish.

A bit of smoke rushes up into my face, making me cough. When the smoke clears and I can see clearly into the dish, I sigh.

"I burned it."

My shoulders sag. What was supposed to be a perfect sourdough loaf is charred black on the top.

"Sorry."

Alden's voice brings me out of my gloom. When I turn, I find him hesitating in the doorway leading to the foyer.

"I should get back to work." He clears his throat, not meeting my eyes. "Thanks for this." He holds his bandaged hand up, then turns and walks down the hall, acting as if nothing just happened between us.

My mouth opens in surprise, but I don't know what to say.

I'm not sure I'll ever understand men, least of all that one.