SleepyHollow2BookBundle

by Ranae Rose

  His heel collided with something warm and solid. “What in—”

  “It’s me,” a vaguely familiar voice said. “It’s only me.”

  Brom blinked, finally seeing past the nightmare. John Crane stood at the side of his bed in just his nightshirt. Brom’s horror swirled with confusion. Perhaps he hadn’t truly woken. Either way, his throat felt raw and dry as sand and he could feel a hole gaping inside him, as large and ragged as the one that had been blown through Henry’s skull. He reached for the pitcher on the bedside table and poured himself a cup of water. As he gulped it, it soothed his throat a little and filled his belly, but did nothing for the emptiness the dream had left him with. “What in God’s name are you doing here?”

  A little moonlight shone through the window, and it illuminated the loose locks that framed John’s face, causing them to shine like a halo. His eyes were wide, his lips parted. He looked … disturbed. “You shouted. I thought something must be wrong. I … came to help.”

  Brom slammed down his cup on the bedside table and simply stared at John for a few moments. The man didn’t disappear, as he might have in a dream; in reality, other than the fact that he was in Brom’s bedroom in the dead of night, there was nothing outlandish about the situation. He must be awake, then. “Nothing is wrong.”

  “Are you sure?” John stood his ground, bare feet planted on the floorboards, his legs long and lean with slender muscle, exposed to a few inches above the knees. The moonbeam pouring through the window backlit him, rendering the outline of his body clearly visible through his white linen shirt.

  “I’m sure,” Brom said, rubbing his forehead in an attempt to chase away the headache the dream had left him with. His ears rang faintly, as if he really had been surrounded by a volley of gunfire, and he could have sworn he smelled the acrid tang of gunpowder.

  Christ, he must look a mess. One of his legs was still half-entangled in the twisted bedsheets, and he couldn’t stop rubbing his hands over the linens every few moments, trying to rid himself of the phantom prickling in his palms, the ghosts of bone fragments he’d washed away long ago. And then, there was the fact that he was naked. At least the nightmare had done him one favor; it had banished the hardness he’d fallen asleep with. As he looked at John, he knew it would only be a matter of time before the nightmare faded enough to allow his cock to rise, shameless again. He had to get rid of John before that happened. “It was only a dream. Go back to bed.”

  John glanced at the door, but hesitated, looking apprehensive.

  Brom didn’t like the fact that he must look mad enough to make John wonder whether he should be left alone. He ground his teeth, lowering his hand and meeting John’s eyes. Would the man not go away? The sight of him standing there in his translucent shirt, his hair wild around his face and shoulders, was doing strange things to Brom. Perhaps the whiskey was to blame; his head still swam with its effects. “How long has it been since I went to bed?”

  “About half an hour.”

  Brom cursed. The night had hardly begun, and the dreams had already started, had already grown intense enough to wake him. He never got any sleep on nights like this. Even the fact that he was still half-drunk probably wouldn’t help. “Whiskey dreams,” he said to John, who was still staring, his full lips turned down in a frown. “Whiskey always gives me terrible dreams.”

  “You can tell me if you’d like,” John offered. “Your dream, I mean. Sometimes it helps to tell someone your dream.”

  Tell him about how his lover – his male lover – had had his brains blown out after they’d returned from fucking in the woods at the edge of the Continental Army camp? Tell him about how he’d wiped his hands on the grass, getting rid of most of the blood and bits of bone before he’d retrieved his gun and done his best to avenge him? “No.” Never.

  John – damn him – had taken a step closer to the bed, as if he’d expected Brom to agree. This close, Brom could smell him, a faint mixture of food smells: apple and cinnamon from the pie they’d eaten earlier that day, the gamey scent of venison, and of course, whiskey fumes. Was his head spinning like Brom’s was, buzzing with ideas he never would have allowed himself to contemplate during the daytime? Probably not, but…

  Brom reached out and seized a fistful of linen, gripping the front of John’s shirt. The material was neither fine nor rough, but a middling texture. It was warm with John’s body heat though, and just touching it sent fire creeping through Brom’s veins in a slow burn. Slowly, recklessly, stupidly, he drew John close. Close enough that he could see bright flecks in his grey eyes, truly silver in the moonlight. John’s lips were parted – in surprise, or perhaps desire? Brom hardly dared to hope for the latter, until the tip of John’s tongue peeked pink and wet from between them, tracing the edge of his lower lip. Licking it, like he wanted what Brom was about to do. With a last rush of whiskey-scented breath, Brom pressed his mouth against John’s.

  John’s lips were firmer than Brom had imagined, and then – oh, God – they went soft and pliant beneath his. Brom shoved his tongue past them, delving deep inside John’s mouth, tasting whiskey. The strong flavor seared his tongue, and he relished the burn. He might as well, considering how reckless his actions were, and that unless John was enjoying the kiss every bit as much as he was, he might as well have just placed a noose around his own neck. Hell, he knew John was enjoying it – he’d begun to stroke back, his tongue sliding smoothly against Brom’s. But when their lips parted, would that mean anything? He didn’t know, and at the moment, he didn’t care in the slightest.

  John pulled away first, breaking the seal of their kiss with a gasp, as if he hadn’t breathed the entire time. Maybe he hadn’t; Brom had been too lost in the taste and feel of him to notice. He was breathing hard too, and still clutching the front of John’s shirt. Reluctantly, he let go.

  “I…” John spoke the single word through lips that had begun to swell, inflamed with the heat and pressure of their kiss.

  Brom was silent. What was there to say? All he wanted to do was savor the way his lips burned, still tasting of the other man’s.

  “I had better go back to bed.” John left, casting one last look over his shoulder at Brom as he slipped through the doorway, leaving Brom alone with the taste of John still in his mouth.

  Brom lowered the hand he’d held the front of John’s shirt with into his lap. The kiss had chased away the horror that had softened him, and he wrapped his fingers around his erection, unable to resist. His balls were hot and tight against his body, ready for release after a simple kiss, the most erotic contact he’d experienced since that morning in the woods, before the ambush. He shoved his fist to the base of his cock in a hard stroke, wanting to be freed from his lust as soon as possible. It was an easily attainable goal; it was impossible not to think about John’s hand around his shaft, gripping, thrusting… Or his lips, hot and whiskey-soaked, parting to take in not Brom’s tongue, but his cock.

  He stifled a groan as the vivid image assailed him, so real he could feel it – the wet slide of John’s tongue down the underside of his shaft, the caress of his hand on his balls. His seed gushed out of him, spilling into nothingness, then onto the sheets. He emptied himself in a few strokes, eyes pressed firmly shut as he imagined what might have happened if John hadn’t left.

  * * * * *

  Brom woke at dawn, surprisingly clear-headed. His liquor consumption hadn’t been excessive enough to make him ill the morning after, and the nightmares had stopped after he’d woken the first time and kissed John.

  He’d kissed John. His stomach tightened, forming knots as he remembered. His cock hardened in defiance, refusing to regret his actions. Somewhere, there was a stain on the bedsheets, where he’d spilled himself afterward, desperate for the release he would have preferred to have found with John. But whatever happened this morning, whatever consequences he’d suffer for his actions, at least he’d tasted those perfect lips once. It was somehow gratifying, though he longed for more. As he dr
essed for the day and left the room, he couldn’t stop reliving the kiss, those few moments of whiskey-flavored bliss.

  The kitchen was empty, as usual. Had John left already, perhaps before dawn this morning, or even the night before? The thought sent a spike of regret through Brom’s being, but it was foolish – he couldn’t keep the man here forever. No doubt John would settle in with the family of one of his new pupils today, and that would be the end of their short-lived intimacy. From now on, their contact would probably be limited to the odd, awkward greeting quickly exchanged if they passed on the road or met at church. Brom knew that. Still, a part of him longed for even another hour of John’s company, though he had no idea what he’d say or do if his wish was granted. Could John still be upstairs in bed, asleep, or perhaps awake and dreading facing Brom?

  Though he told himself not to hope, Brom was alert for any sound that might come from the second floor as he eyed the pie dish that rested on the table. A couple cold slices were left, remnants of the lunch he and John had shared the day before. He picked up a knife and divided the pie into two portions, just in case. If John didn’t emerge by the time he finished the first, he’d assume he was gone.

  The apples and crust were cold, but still flavorful. It certainly wasn’t the worst breakfast Brom had ever eaten. Of course, he could have made himself something hot if he’d wished, but the house felt uninviting now that it had been emptied of everyone but him, and he preferred to be outdoors with the horses, or in the woods, hunting. He rarely spent any time inside, other than to sleep.

  He’d just finished the last bite of his portion of the pie when the sound of a creaking floorboard came from above. Laying down his fork, he chewed the last of his breakfast, hating the way his heart was speeding, sending blood rushing through his veins, readying his body for action it wouldn’t be taking. If John had been interested in his advance, he would have acted upon it the night before, in the darkness, with whiskey easing the way. Now it was morning, and they were both sober. There was no hope, only the question of how John would express his disgust.

  CHAPTER 3

  John emerged at the foot of the staircase with his hair tied back in a neat tail, reasonably smoothed in comparison to the wild mess it had been the night before. Brom had liked it better that way, but what right did he have to an opinion? John was fully dressed, his lean figure clad in linen and wool. His grey eyes lighted on Brom, who simply stared for a moment before shoving the pie dish across the table. “The rest of this is yours, if you’d like it.”

  John crossed the room and took a seat at the table.

  With his heart ticking away the seconds, Brom watched as John raised the first bite to his mouth and the cinnamon-dusted apples grazed his lips. Two more bites, and John stilled his fork, though he still stared down at his food instead of meeting Brom’s eyes. “It’s not bad cold. That Mrs. Linden knows how to bake.”

  Suppressing a sigh, Brom nodded. So this was how it was going to be – John would pretend the kiss had never happened, suffer through a quick breakfast with some semblance of normalcy and then leave. It was probably the best outcome Brom could have hoped for, given the alternatives. Still, it galled him to sit there, not acknowledging the incident. Some part of John had enjoyed it; he wouldn’t have slid his tongue deep into Brom’s mouth, stroking back, if that hadn’t been the case. Even if he’d pretended to have hated it, or to be angry with or disgusted by Brom, at least that would have been some sign of emotion. This – this was nothing, and Brom had had enough of nothing. “You haven’t seen the schoolhouse yet, have you?”

  John shook his head, swallowing a bite of breakfast. “No.”

  “Shall I show it to you after you’ve finished?”

  “That would be appreciated.”

  Brom nodded in satisfaction. The sooner he got John out of his house, the better. Here, he was too tempted to bring up what had happened the night before, to demand to know how John felt about it, or worse – Christ, he was a fool – try it again. He fought a smirk at the thought of how the schoolmaster might react if he simply reached across the table, seized him by the front of his shirt and kissed him again. “I’ll show you the lay of the village along the way, too.” Yes, the sooner they left the better. The large, empty house afforded far too much privacy, each room fraught with possibilities that were probably better left unexplored.

  The morning was bright, and as Brom stepped over the threshold and out of the farmhouse, a sense of finality settled over him – the death of possibilities, however remote. He fought back a wave of frustration as he and John strode through the grass and toward the dirt road that wound through Sleepy Hollow like a dusty ribbon.

  “Beautiful country,” John said, staring around at the fields and at the forest they were walking toward.

  “Indeed,” Brom said, though he hardly noticed its beauty. John must have been of a calmer mind than he to be able to appreciate the riot of color that was full-blown spring; the fresh green of leaves and the pastels of blossoms were everywhere. The sun beat down on his shoulders, but it was nothing compared to the heat inside him – a potent mix of unslaked lust and irritation caused by the realization that John had decided to disregard the brief intimacy they’d shared the night before. A part of him would have rather fought, would have rather been hated, than ignored.

  But he was ignored, and he didn’t dare do anything about it. Partially because he knew that forcing the kiss upon John had been enough – he didn’t have the right to force him to address it if he didn’t want to. And then, there was the fact that they encountered several other people along the way – fellow villagers. Brom introduced John to each of them, a process which slowed their progress significantly. One of them was Martha Smit, a farmwife who had a talent for being at the center of all news and gossip.

  Brom made as brief an introduction between her and John as could be considered polite, but even after that, she stepped directly into their path, blocking their way so that they would have had to either bowl her over or walk rudely around her to pass. Her homespun skirts swished and flared around her ankles, doubling her width so that she might impede their progress more effectively. “Have you heard?” she asked, her eyes bright with the peculiar gleam they took on when she thought she had a particularly interesting story or piece of information. “They say Mr. Van Tassel is finally allowing his daughter to see suitors.”

  “Katrina Van Tassel?” Brom asked. “I’ll believe it when I see it.” Katrina was the only child of the area’s wealthiest farmer, and an exceptional beauty. Her father kept a close eye on any man who might try to make advances on her, untoward or otherwise.

  Martha placed her hands on her hips and smiled up at Brom in a self-satisfied fashion. “It’s true. Now that she’s turned nineteen, he’s finally realized he can’t stop the inevitable.”

  Brom made a meaningless sound deep in his throat, eager to escape Martha’s chatter.

  Apparently, she mistook it for a sign of intense interest. “You should call upon Mr. Van Tassel, Brom, and take a bouquet of flowers for his daughter while you’re at it.” She gestured animatedly toward the sprawling fields, which were sprinkled with delicate wildflower blossoms. “I’m sure Mr. Van Tassel wouldn’t turn you away. And everyone can see that you—”

  “I don’t think I’ll be doing any flower-picking today, Mrs. Smit,” Brom interrupted. “I’ve promised to show Mr. Crane around Sleepy Hollow.”

  Martha frowned, arching a brow critically. “Well, if you promised... It’s only morning though, and there’s the entire day ahead.”

  “Indeed. Good day, Mrs. Smit.” With a last tip of his head, he stepped around her, leaving her mumbling something about trillium and asters. It took every last bit of his willpower not to reach back and seize John by the collar, pulling him along before Martha could entangle him in another conversation. Fortunately, John was quick enough to escape the next question she asked – something about his teaching experience in Connecticut – and wisely pretended n
ot to have heard as he and Brom continued in the opposite direction, toward the forest.

  “You’ll not want to engage her in conversation if you can help it,” Brom said once they were safely out of hearing range. “At least, not unless you’ve got an hour to spare and a high tolerance for nonsense.”

  John smiled briefly, his mouth tilting up at the corners. “You’ve no interest in the Van Tassel girl, then?”

  Brom sucked in a breath, careful to keep his expression neutral. Girl? She was more than that. She was a woman, and a fine one. He’d spent some time with her – in the company of her father – at the Van Tassel residence, where he’d sold more than a few horses over the years. If he were to marry, she would be his choice. But he’d never seriously considered marrying – not really.

  Yes, the farmwives gossiped, all agreeing that it was high time for him to take a wife, but he knew that wasn’t so. What kind of husband could he possibly be when he battled memories nightly, then awoke in the mornings to give in and savor them, hanging on to the little bits of happiness he’d had before the awful conclusion of his and Henry’s time together? No, he didn’t like the idea of sharing his bed, with its sweat-soaked sheets, with a wife. It wouldn’t be fair – not to Katrina, not to anyone. Maybe someday, if the dreams stopped coming every night, and he could leave the past behind. But for now, it was out of the question.

  As Brom’s insides knotted with vague guilt and sharp regret, John continued to stare, his eyes questioning as he studied Brom’s face. Brom sensed there was more to John’s question – the smile had faded from his face, and he was watching Brom carefully, his expression half-curious and half-guarded.

  “It’s not that I find her unappealing,” Brom admitted. Yes, he appreciated women as well as men, and saw the realization flicker in John’s eyes. “But I’ll be damned if I’ll take a woman flowers because Martha Smit told me to.”