Free The Poison Diaries: Nightshade by Maryrose Wood

room downstairs, where the carousing continues. “The widow Agnes has taken to crossing herself when you pass by.”
    â€œIf you wish to speak to me, come inside,” I say quickly, opening the door to my room. Rye slips in behind me. I close the door and bolt it.
    I light the candle in the wall sconce nearest the door. The room is small and spare: a cot, a dresser, and a washbasin.
    I turn to him. “I am sorry I cannot offer you a chair.”
    He laughs. “You’re not afraid of me at all, then?”
    â€œNo.” I speak softly, for the walls between the tiny rooms are thin. “In fact, I feel safer with you here.”
    â€œâ€™Tis a sweet thing to say.” His voice softens, too. “And you are a sweet woman, I think, sweet and warmhearted, underneath that pretty face that never smiles.”
    â€œIs that why you’ve come – to make me smile?” Somehow the words come out sounding like an invitation, but he does not move.
    â€œI came to give you a warning. Be careful of that lot downstairs. I don’t like the way they talk. Especially that woman Agnes. She’s got her eye on you. She’s got mischief planned.”
    â€œThank you,” I say, meaning it. “You are a gentleman to tell me so.”
    He laughs. “Easy, now! I’ll not be accused of gallantry. I won’t lie; there’s another reason I came, too. The truth is, I have a fever, Rowan,” he says, and I startle, for I have done nothing to reveal my healing skills to these people.
    â€œWhat sort of fever?”
    â€œLove, I think.” His eyes search mine. “Or its close cousin, anyway.”
    The room sways again. Is it the drink? The late hour? The dance of candlelight in this tiny, cloistered room? Or is it Rye himself: the way he has sought me out, speaking gently, protectively, making me realise how desperately alone I am?
    All I know is that his murmured words and warm-blooded presence have kindled an answering warmth within me. I lift my gaze to his. He sees at once what my eyes reveal; I hear it in the change of his breath.
    He makes no step toward me but reaches out with one hand. He smoothes my dark hair away from my face, caresses the rim of my ear, traces the line of my jaw to my chin. Cradling my face in his hand, he brushes the curve of my lower lip gently with the tip of his thumb. As if obeying some unspoken command, my lips part, my pulse quickens. Still he does not move.
    All at once, it is I who long to kiss him.
    â€œWho are you, Rowan?” he says. “You’re younger than you look, I think.”
    â€œI am old enough.” I let my hands float up either side of him, skimming his strong arms. Gnarled with muscle, hard as packed earth, skin warm as a woodstove beneath the rough fabric of his shirtsleeves.
    â€œOld enough for me? I wonder if you are. I wonder why you’re running, and what you’re running from.” He gathers up my hands in his and lifts them up, as if to kiss them. Instead he holds them to the light of the candle. “Old enough to be a liar, anyway. These are no seamstress’s hands.” He turns my palms upward. “More like a farm girl’s. These hands know the feel of dirt, I’d wager. Of good rich earth.”
    He comes closer still and leans his face down to mine. The slow tenderness of his kiss shocks me, and he pulls away long before I am satisfied.
    â€œYou are running, aren’t you?”
    I stay silent, but my breath comes quick. He smiles.
    â€œTell me the truth and I’ll kiss you again. Are you running from something?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œFrom what?” He draws me close. His cheek is rough and hot against my skin. “Did you flee a wicked husband? A crushing debt? A mistress who treated you like a slave?”
    â€œI have done murder,” I whisper. I know he will think I lie, but a mask made of truth is often the best disguise. I offer him my