by Allie Therin
His heart swelled with affection, mixed with regret, because Arthur cared so much about Rory he’d offer what he knew shouldn’t, and Rory couldn’t let him.
The room was so small that Rory only had to shift to fit himself between Arthur’s knees. “That’s the best idea I ever heard,” he said, soft and honest. “But how long could your nephew really live with you? How long’s the doorman gonna keep buying that story? You got your family’s reputation to keep.”
“You are not allowed to talk about the nephew charade while you’re kneeling between my legs,” Arthur said. “Maybe I’ll buy a new house. Upstate, on a big bit of land, no gossips.”
There was a heaven if Rory ever heard one. But he shook his head. “Isn’t that still too risky? Your family is gonna know I’m not your nephew.”
“I know you’re not my nephew, and I very much do not want you to be my nephew, and you’re still right here between my legs and not supposed to talk about it.”
“Tough, I’m not moving,” Rory said, because this position was giving him all sorts of ideas. “I’m not trying to be difficult; I’m trying to stop you being disinherited.”
“My ex-lover offered you a large sum to leave me and you turned it down. If you assume that I, on the other hand, would choose money over you, I’m going to be insulted.”
“Me telling off some stuck-up lord and you getting disowned aren’t the same,” Rory said, although he wanted to kiss Arthur for that. “And what about the pomander? It’s not gonna destroy itself if we run off upstate, Ace.”
Arthur sighed. “You could let a man dream.”
Rory smiled softly. “You dream of me living with you?”
“Stop it,” Arthur warned, his legs tightening to trap Rory in the best way. “We’ve had this conversation. You being sweet leads nowhere good; it just wraps me further around your pinky.”
Rory put his hands on Arthur’s thighs. “What else do you dream about?”
“Don’t you dare,” Arthur said. “Because you can Fifth Avenue prince me all you like, but I am not too good for this bed and I’ll gladly throw you down on it. I’ll have you right there on the floor.”
“We’re not messing around in my boarding house when you got the nicest bed in Manhattan,” Rory told him, but his heartbeat had kicked up.
“Try me,” Arthur said, in a tone of voice that sent Rory’s heart up another notch.
Rory deliberately slid his hands up an inch.
“Now you’re just asking for it,” Arthur said, and he did push Rory down to the floor.
* * *
They took the New York Central Line to Albany in the morning, and then west to Syracuse. Rory hadn’t slept much, but he didn’t sleep on the train either, anxiety making his chest hurt. The only thing that made it better was Arthur, across from him in the train car, looking like a movie star in a three-piece navy suit and Homburg hat.
Rory would’ve been having the time of his life, riding in a nice train through the forested mountains of New York with a man like Arthur, if he could’ve forgotten why they were making the trip.
It was evening by the time they disembarked in Syracuse. Arthur had already arranged for rooms and a car for the morning, and they took a cab to the hotel.
Their cab passed a block of stores and restaurants with no English to be seen. “I didn’t realize there were so many Italians here,” said Rory.
Arthur shot him a puzzled look across the back seat. “You lived at the church for three years. You never came to town?”
“We never got to leave the grounds,” Rory admitted. “There wasn’t enough money to take the orphans on trips. Most of us were just glad to have food.”
Arthur’s hands balled into fists in his lap.
He had gotten separate rooms for appearances’ sake, but he slipped into Rory’s room to sleep, curled behind him on the too-small bed. Rory slept even less than the night before, running his hands over the arm around his waist and hoping Arthur understood how grateful Rory was to have him there.
They got breakfast at a restaurant downstairs the next morning. Someone had left a copy of La Gazzetta di Syracuse on their table. Rory stared at the newspaper instead of eating, like it could somehow explain how he was supposed to talk to the man who’d abandoned his mom and sent him to an asylum. “When’s the car getting here?”
“Fifteen minutes.” Arthur hesitated. “There are things to do in Syracuse. Bookstores, museums, that sort of thing. The weather is even nice today.”
Rory furrowed his brow. “Okay,” he said slowly. “But what’s that got to do with the car?”
Arthur met his eyes across the table. “Do you want to see your father?”
Rory froze.
“Please tell me your truth, whatever that is,” Arthur added, quickly and too quietly for anyone else in the restaurant to overhear. “I won’t judge you either way. He’s your father, it would be understandable if you’d like to see him. But considering what he did to you, your entire life—well. I don’t think you’re required to want to see him. You don’t owe him anything. I wouldn’t blame you if you never wanted to see him again.”
Rory’s throat felt thick. He looked away, out the window, where a pretty Italian mother was walking down the street hand in hand with her young daughter. His mom had taken him out when she could, on the rare days when they weren’t working.
There might have been more days they weren’t working if his dad had stuck around to share the load.
“He thinks I’m dead.”
“Do you want him to know you’re not?”
Rory ran a hand over his curls, his cap balanced on his knee under the table. “Not really,” he admitted. “He’s probably happier thinking I’m dead. I’m pretty sure he used to wish I’d died as a baby.”
The muscle in Arthur’s jaw twitched. “That’s revolting.”
Rory shrugged helplessly. “He never wanted me to exist. It would have made his life easier if I’d died.”
“Your mother fled starvation only to end up in a country that treats immigrants like trash,” Arthur said sharply. “She was eighteen and preyed on by a liar who claimed to be a good Christian promising marriage. Your father is not the one I feel pity for.”
Rory tried to swallow. “He took me in when she died—”
“Grudgingly. And it sounds like he worked you to the bone, wringing far more out of you than his church could have possibly spent.”
Rory looked out the window again, his stomach roiling.
“We don’t owe our hearts to people who hurt us, even if they’re our blood.” Arthur’s voice was tight. “He was supposed to take care of you when you were at your most vulnerable, and he threw you to the wolves instead. He’s your father, and if you do want to see him, I understand and will support you. But you are not required to want more of his neglect.”
“I don’t.” The truth burst out of Rory before he’d realized he was going to say it. His eyes burned hot, and he shut them tight behind his glasses, sliding his fingers up behind his lenses to cover them. “He told that asylum to drill into my brain, Ace, even when he knew it might destroy me. He left me chained to a bed and force-fed. I don’t want to see him.”
“Then stay here.”
The words surprised Rory enough that he turned to look.
Arthur was watching him, his own eyes deeply sincere. “Stay here,” he said again. “Buy a book, walk in the sun. Be safe but be happy while I go alone to get the snuffer from your father.”
The possibility shone like a beckoning dream. But Rory couldn’t dodge responsibility. He shook his head. “I don’t get to hide behind you, that’s not how life works.”
“Why not?” Arthur said, taking Rory by surprise. “Maybe life can’t always work like this, but in this moment, yes, it can. There is no reason both of us need to go. There is no reason you need to suffer.”
He folded his hands under his chin, his shoulders tense. “If you need another reason, consider that you’re on a telepath’s Most Wanted list. It is considerably safer for your father if he doesn’t know the truth.”
Rory scowled. “You coulda led with that, you know.”
“Forgive me if I think your feelings should matter for a change,” Arthur said, not sounding apologetic in the least. His eyes darted to the next table, and then he lowered his voice. “You tease me for being overprotective, but I want to be your shield. I can do this for you.”
He hesitated, then said, “And to be perfectly honest I still think there’s a strong chance I’m going to hit him and I’d rather you didn’t see that.”
And despite his roiling feelings, Rory snorted. “You can’t hit a pastor.”
“I’m fairly certain I could. And it’s a pretty good threat, if I say so myself, between football and boxing—”
“Ace.”
“What? No one should get unqualified immunity for abuse just because they claim to be a man of faith.”
Rory folded his arms. “I thought Captain Overprotective wasn’t going to let me out of his sight?”
“I was a lieutenant,” said Arthur. “And if you must know, I don’t like it, but it’s far preferable to giving your father another chance to hurt you.”
Rory bit his lip. He looked out at the town street again, and then suddenly said, “Yeah. Yeah, okay. I’ll stay here.”
Arthur’s eyes widened. “You will?”
Rory shrugged. “Yeah, I mean, I don’t got a job, I’m relying on you—might as well milk the helpless schtick, right?”
He hoped he sounded steadier than he felt, but probably not, because Arthur’s eyes softened. “You can control the wind and once sent the man who tortured me into the fifteenth century,” he said wryly. “I don’t think you’re helpless. You’re actually a little bit terrifying.”
Rory couldn’t help grinning. Then, his grin became a shyer smile. “You’d really go see my dad so I don’t have to?”
Arthur nodded.
Rory let out a breath. “Then yeah. Save me, soldier.”
Arthur visibly shivered. “Don’t you dare start with that,” he warned, “or I’ll call the whole thing off so I can take you back up to my hotel room instead.”
That was all Rory wanted too. He pushed his desire down. “My own soldier, fighting my battles,” he muttered to himself. “Is this really my life?”
“It is,” Arthur said firmly. “And I hope you start to believe you deserve it.”
The words stayed with Rory as he watched Arthur get in the car and drive away.
Chapter Eight
It was less than an hour to the church, an imposing stone building with a tall steeple. It was set back from the road on a large plot of land next to a schoolhouse and a small square building that might have been where Rory once slept.
Arthur’s driver pulled the car over onto a gravel drive next to the church, where a handful of other cars were parked. “This shouldn’t take long,” Arthur told him.
The man simply nodded. Arthur had hired him for the day; he’d be waiting.
Inside the church it was dim but not dark, with stained glass windows glowing in the late afternoon light. Rows of pews framed the path to the altar, where a boy of maybe ten was dusting.
Arthur’s throat tightened.
A woman with gray hair approached. “May I help you?”
Rory had lived here only four years ago. Some of the staff might even remember him. Arthur pushed the emotions away and tried to smile. “Yes, actually. I’m Congressman Kenzie’s son, here on behalf of our family’s charity. We heard about your orphanage and might be interested in donating. May I speak with Pastor Westbrook?”
“Oh!” The woman’s hands fluttered. “That would be wonderful. Yes, of course, I’ll get him at once.”
“Thank you.” Arthur’s smile slipped as soon as she turned her back. Rory would probably be happy to know he wasn’t lying in a church; his brother Harry and his wife Celeste took their charity work seriously. If the orphans were being properly treated, Arthur would leave a donation himself today, and see that Rory’s former home was added to Harry and Celeste’s list.
Arthur kept his steps as quiet as he could against the stone floors as he walked to the altar and scanned everything on display. And sure enough, there was a brass snuffer, the only item of its kind on the altar, exactly as Rory had described. It could very well be the item he needed.
“Mr. Kenzie?”
The new voice was thin and generically American, reminding Arthur of the white men in Arthur’s parents’ circles, nothing like Rory’s rough grouching in his city accent. It was a voice that would never have a rare word with the Italian flair that made Arthur wonder what Rory had sounded like growing up, if he’d learned his first English with his mother’s accent.
Arthur turned, and there was no mistaking Rory’s dad. He was perhaps an inch shorter than Rory, with the same nose and slim build, although Pastor Westbrook lacked Rory’s wiry muscles from constant miles walked on Manhattan’s streets. Westbrook was very pale, his hair a light blond almost indistinguishable from the white mixed in, with nearly colorless blue eyes and blue veins visible through pale skin.
He was more handsome than Arthur had expected, with a politely kind expression, like he would listen to all your troubles and give compassionate advice, not throw his own son into an asylum and tell them to drill through his skull.
Westbrook held out his hand. “Lydia said you’re here about the orphanage?”
Arthur gritted his teeth, keeping his emotions off his face as he shook the man’s hand. “Yes,” he said neutrally. “Children are so very precious, you know. So vulnerable. Adults should be caring for them, don’t you think?”
“Oh yes,” Westbrook said, with complete sincerity. “They are the Lord’s own. I never had any children myself, of course, but we care for the orphans here as if they were our flesh and blood.”
You can’t hit a pastor in the middle of his church.
Arthur forced a smile. “What a nice sentiment,” he said, hoping there were no cracks in his veneer of politeness. “Of course, actions matter more than words. We wouldn’t want to support any organization where children are being mistreated.”
“You’re welcome to meet the children,” Westbrook said, still sincere. “You can see their quarters and talk to them yourself. We have no money for luxuries, but they are fed, clothed, and educated. What more could they ask for, really?”
“Fathers?” Arthur said lightly.
“To be frank, many of them are better off with us than they were with their families,” Westbrook said. “We bring them up to be moral, upstanding Americans, even the immigrants. English only, and no tolerance for anything else.”
Arthur’s stomach lurched. “You punish them for speaking their mother tongues?”
“Spare the rod, spoil the child,” Westbrook said—with pride, of all things. “Their parents chose to come to our country; their children must integrate. Most of them only need it once; they rarely speak anything but English again.”
Arthur felt sick. He had been vaguely aware that this happened in schools and orphanages across America. But being aware that a misfortune sometimes befalls others is not the same as having it stare you in the face.
It might have happened to Rory.
“That will never do,” he found himself saying, and this was a condition that he had no right to insist on, but the words were coming out of his mouth anyway. “My father voted against the Immigration Act. He won’t want to donate to an orphanage that treats immigrant children differently from American ones.”
“We’re hardly the only ones,” Westbrook protested.
“It won’t do,” Arthur repeated. “Not for this donation. And our charity wants to
donate quite a large sum of money.”
Westbrook frowned. “Well,” he said slowly. “I suppose most donations do come with strings attached.” He gestured. “Would you like to see the schoolhouse and dormitory now?”
“Yes,” Arthur said, steeling himself. “I think I should see it for myself.” The idea of seeing a place where Rory had lived as an unwanted youth made his stomach hurt again, but he should confirm that the children were otherwise adequately cared for.
His gaze stole to the altar. “Lovely antiques you have here. How long have you had them?”
Westbrook gave him a forced smile, his previous friendliness gone. “As long as I’ve been here.”
Arthur could swipe the snuffer when his back was turned, but what if the blame for the theft fell on the orphans?
This man was a pastor, but he’d also sold all of Rory’s mother’s possessions to bring in money. Arthur was going to hope funds could still motivate him. “My brother collects antiques, and he’s been looking for a snuffer exactly like this one. I don’t suppose you’d sell it to me? I’ll pay twice what it’s worth.”
Westbrook hesitated, then shrugged. “Why not? It’s only a material possession, after all. Far more honorable to take the money and spend it on our poor children. We’re entrusted with their care and their souls when others would see them abandoned.”
Arthur narrowed his eyes. “What good work you’re doing,” he said, with saccharine sincerity, as Westbrook reached for the snuffer. “After all, I’ve heard a bastard has no hope on Judgment Day. Then again, it’s hardly the abandoned child’s fault, is it, so I can’t imagine the judgment awaiting the man who made him that way.”
He was gratified to see Westbrook flinch.
* * *
Arthur made it back to Syracuse by dinnertime. He and Rory had agreed to meet at the Italian restaurant closest to their hotel, and Arthur found it pleasantly noisy inside. Three tables had been pushed together in the middle to accommodate a big family, one toddler making an enormous mess as she gleefully ate spaghetti with her bare hands.