SleepyHollow2BookBundle

by Ranae Rose

  She beamed and urged him to have another, though he was hardly done with his first. He’d eaten his way through three of the buns by the time he managed to come up with something to say that didn’t involve confessing his intense desire to smear a little of her homemade glaze across the swell of her breast and lick it away. “You’re an excellent cook, Katrina – I’m sure your father will be sad to lose you.”

  “Oh, I shouldn’t think he’ll be terribly upset,” she said, taking the seat across from him at the table and flashing him a conspiratorial smile. “He and the Van Antwerp widow have struck up quite the friendship.”

  “Ah,” John said, accepting the mug of mellow ale she’d set on the table for him. “So he intends to finally remarry?” The original Mrs. Van Tassel had died years ago, leaving Mr. Van Tassel wifeless, but with a daughter who was very skilled in the kitchen, as her mother was reputed to have been.

  “I think so. I wouldn’t be surprised if they were to marry shortly after Brom and me.”

  “What a happy autumn this will be for Sleepy Hollow, then.”

  “I hope so.”

  Minutes passed slowly by, and John finished his cup of ale, the taste of which lingered in his mouth, along with the sweetness of hot rolls and glaze. “I had better be going,” John said, glancing at the kitchen window, which afforded a view of an increasingly dusky sky. “I promised to meet Brom at dark.”

  “Of course,” Katrina said, standing and smoothing her apron.

  John rose and pushed his chair back under the table, stealing one last glance at Katrina, though the sight of her made his heart – and his balls – ache. He was uncomfortably aware of the absence of a book in his hands – usually, he brought one when he visited with her, and left it behind for her to pursue. He was reasonably sure that she’d lied about finishing the last one he’d lent her though, and had taken the hint. When she rounded the table and strode toward him, the last thing he expected was for her to press a hand against his chest, her palm resting over his heart. He opened his mouth to ask what she was doing, but then her lips were against his, warm and unfathomably soft.

  Her kiss was tentative, but with an edge of hunger to it that made him reach out automatically, pressing a hand against the small of her back and pulling her close against him. Their mouths seemed to melt together, and he scarcely knew what he was doing – the only thing he was sure of was that she’d personally taste-tested the glaze. The sweetness of it lingered in her mouth and on the tip of her tongue, which she touched to his lips, seeking. He stroked it with his own, reveling in the taste of her and the feel of her breasts against his chest. He was vaguely aware that his cock was hard against her, but was powerless to resist the pull of her – her softness, her warmth and the delicacy of her every feature, from the fine hand pressed against his chest, to her lips, which were softer than any he’d ever known. He slid his tongue deep into her mouth, claiming the dark, sweet hollow of it, and his guilt finally caught up with him. Breathless, he pulled away.

  Katrina’s eyes gleamed, whether with excitement or shock, he wasn’t sure. Her lips were parted and shining, the tip of her tongue touching the inner rim of the lower one. Her hand still lingered on his chest, and he reached down to gently remove it. “Forgive me,” he said.

  “No.” She took a half step forward, placing her hand on his chest again. It was all too easy to imagine her fingers slipping beneath his shirt and touching his bare skin. His cock throbbed, and without looking down, he knew it was tenting the front of his breeches obscenely.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, unsure of how to beg her forgiveness further when he was still savoring the taste of her, still fantasizing about the feel of her hands on his bare body and her skin against his. It was wrong, but damn it, it was impossible to stop.

  “Don’t be,” she said.

  “I must. You are betrothed to my closest friend – if he will still allow me to call him that, after what I’ve just done.” His stomach churned with guilt, even as his cock ached for more of her touch.

  Katrina finally dropped her gaze, her plump lips curving down in a hint of a frown. “I love Brom. I didn’t mean to disrespect our engagement, it’s only… I love you too John, and I know I shan’t have you, except for this one last kiss, and I wanted you to have that, to remember.”

  He sighed, resisting the urge to slump against the nearest wall – his heart had stopped upon hearing her admission, and now it sped, like a galloping horse. The worst of it was that she could feel it, every wild beat. She kept her hand firmly on his chest, meeting his eyes again.

  “Sweet Katrina… I promise you I’ll never forget it, but you mustn’t do it again. Your lips are more of a temptation than your cooking, and the touch of them begs me to do unforgiveable things.”

  She smiled ruefully at that, and finally dropped her hand, clasping it in her other one and holding them demurely in front of her apron.

  “Now, I must be going.” John’s voice was firmer than before, and he turned on his heel, heading for the door.

  Katrina walked with him, pausing at the threshold. “Have you and Brom found anything?” John opened the door, and she drew back from the cold. “Any sign of the horseman, I mean.”

  John paused. Should he tell her about the mysterious hoofprints? It was the most evidence he and Brom had encountered so far, if it could be called that. But he didn’t wish to frighten her, not when she was home alone in the farmhouse. “Nothing definitive.”

  “Will you continue to search much longer, then?” She was gripping the doorframe, and her knuckles were as white and small as pearls against the wood.

  “For a while, at least. I assume you’ve heard that Mr. Damkot claims to have seen the horseman now too?”

  Katrina nodded, a stray lock of her golden hair falling out from beneath her cap to hang by her cheek. John’s fingers tingled with the urge to brush it aside and tuck it behind her ear, but he didn’t dare touch her. His body was still humming with the pleasure of her kiss, and even dark thoughts of headless specters couldn’t completely quash his carnal thoughts.

  “I did hear,” she said, “but only that he saw it. I wasn’t told what the phantom rider is supposed to look like.”

  “A headless man in dark clothing, on a black horse. It’s a wonder anyone sees him at all – a horse and rider of that description ought to blend easily into the night.” He’d done his best to imbue his voice with confidence, but a small frown was playing around the corners of Katrina’s mouth, and a sense of wrongness hung in the air, causing the skin on his arms to pebble beneath his sleeves. “Why? Have you heard of any other sightings?”

  “No, but…” Her knuckles went even whiter against the doorframe. “It may be nothing, but last night as I was lying in bed waiting to fall asleep, I thought I saw a man on a dark horse ride past my window.”

  It took a moment for the impact of what she’d said to sink in. When it did, John’s stomach seemed to drop straight to his feet. “But your bedroom is on the second floor.”

  She nodded. “Perhaps I dreamt it.”

  John forced his neck, which was suddenly stiff and cold, to bend, and nodded. “Yes, it was probably a dream.” Saying so didn’t dispel the gooseflesh that had risen on his arms – thank God Katrina couldn’t see it beneath his sleeves.

  “I have had strange dreams lately,” she added, “though they haven’t all been bad.”

  Could any of her dreams have involved walking in the moonlight with the arms of both Brom and John around her? John didn’t dare to ask, or to mention the event at all, not knowing whether her father had told her what had happened. “Would you like me to stay until your father arrives?” It would be uncomfortable, thanks to the fact that he still suffered from an enduring erection, but he couldn’t bear to leave her alone at night, fearing the return of a phantom, whether dreamed-of or real.

  “I thank you for your offer, but that’s all right. Brom is expecting you.” She took a step backward, flashing him a small smile. “Good
night, John.”

  “Goodnight, Katrina.” He left, still tasting her on his lips, and tried not to think about the feel of her soft body against his hard cock.

  * * * * *

  John rode up to the farmhouse wearing a bleak expression that spoke of more than just an unpleasant ride on an ill-mannered horse. Brom rose from his seat at the table, putting down the fork he’d just used to devour half an apple pie. Since the relatively recent death of his mother, the local farmwives seemed to view it as their duty to ply him with more food than one man could possibly eat on his own. Now that he was engaged, they seemed to have taken things up a notch, erupting into a sort of grand finale of roasts and pies to see him off into married life.

  A second pie rested in the center of the table – he’d intended to share it with John before they left on their nightly patrol, but John looked as if he’d eaten something that had disagreed with him. What kind of trouble could he possibly have gotten into since leaving the schoolhouse to come here? Brom hurried out the door and met John outside.

  “I’ll take him,” Brom said, seizing the reins when John slid from the saddle, looking nearly as grey as his horse.

  He led Gunpowder to the stable, and John followed silently beside him. He looked well enough, other than his color – his face was clean, and his hair tied back into a tidy tail, fastened with a length of black ribbon. His clothes were modest but neat. He hadn’t been involved in any sort of physical disaster then, but something was definitely eating at him from the inside. “What happened?” Brom asked as they stepped into the cool shadows of the barn.

  John sighed, meeting Brom’s gaze directly for the first time since he’d arrived. His grey eyes gleamed with grim resignation. “I’m afraid I must confess something, and you’re not going to like it.”

  For half a moment, real fear pierced Brom’s heart, and a slew of terrible possibilities raced through his mind. What was John up to? This had the air of an impending lovers’ disaster about it. God, John wasn’t planning to try to leave, was he? Maybe he’d made arrangements to teach somewhere else. Brom gripped Gunpowder’s reins tightly, letting the leather cut into his fingers. “What is it?”

  In the instant it took John to blink, batting his long, dark lashes, Brom managed to get ahold of himself. It didn’t matter if John had indeed dreamed up such a foolish plan – Brom would never let it happen. He’d stop him physically if he had to, would show him with his hands, mouth and body that this was where he belonged.

  “I kissed Katrina.” John said the words as if someone had forced him to read them from a printed page, then tensed a little, as if expecting a physical blow.

  Brom stood mutely for a few moments, gaping at John as his brain tried to make sense of what he’d just heard. His mind was still whirling with thoughts of how to keep John in Sleepy Hollow – what John had just confessed seemed absurd in comparison to what he’d expected to hear. “You what?”

  John didn’t flinch as he replied, though he looked as if he were struggling not to. “Just a few minutes ago, in the kitchen of the Van Tassels’ home. I kissed her, and I enjoyed every second of it. I’m sorry.”

  No real rush of emotion came to Brom, only a vague sense of surprise. John was plainly expecting the worst, however.

  “Go on then,” John said. “Hit me. I deserve it.”

  Gunpowder snorted, apparently tired of the conversation, and tossed his head. It wasn’t until sharp pain flared in his wrist that Brom realized he’d been bitten. “Damn!” he cried, grasping his wrist with his other hand and whirling to face the Jansens’ wicked nag. Gunpowder snorted again and backed up a step, tossing his head in defiance. Brom jerked sharply on the reins, bringing the beast’s head down, not caring if he gave it a good jolt to the mouth. Quickly opening an empty stall, he forced the beast inside and closed the latch, ignoring the evil look it gave him from within.

  “Are you badly hurt?” John had rushed to Brom’s side and was peering down at his arm, attempting to pry away his hand so he could see the damage beneath.

  “Damn it,” Brom breathed, his wrist throbbing. First his badly bruised backside, and now this. If anyone besides John knew, they’d think him an idiot who didn’t deserve his reputation as a master horseman. And of course, he could never explain to them the peculiar ways in which John managed to distract him. “It’s not that bad.” He lifted his hand – it wasn’t quite true. A nasty purple ring had risen on his wrist, in the shape of the horse’s teeth, and a little blood was smeared over the wound.

  “We should clean the wound, first thing,” John said. “I wouldn’t be surprised if the creature had a poisonous bite.”

  Brom snorted in laughter, despite the pain. “I wanted to go inside for a few moments anyway – I recently came into possession of a couple of fresh pies.”

  For once, John showed no enthusiasm at the prospect of pie. He only shot a dark look in Gunpowder’s direction and started towards the house, mumbling vicious threats toward the horse under his breath. “Should we encounter the headless horseman tonight, I think I shall propose a trade,” John said when they reached the house. “My horse for his – there can’t possibly be a more wicked horse alive than old Gunpowder, and you’d think that’s just the sort of mount a devil would want.”

  Brom stated his agreement as John pulled the door shut, sealing the privacy of the otherwise empty farmhouse. “There’s a wash basin in my bedchamber, just down the hall.” It hadn’t really been necessary to mention the last part – he didn’t need to tell John where his bed was located. They’d lain in it together numerous times before, stealing time there when they dared.

  “Let me do it,” John said when they reached the room and Brom dipped a cloth into the washbasin.

  Brom gave up the cloth and sank onto the edge of his mattress, allowing John to dab at his wound, washing away the blood. There was great tenderness in his motions, but also an underlying tension. “I don’t intend to hit you,” Brom said.

  The cloth slipped from John’s hand and landed on his knee with a wet sound, dampening his breeches. He snatched it up hastily and dipped it in the water again, then let it stream over the bite mark on Brom’s wrist. “It was wrong of me to kiss her,” he said, his back stiff as he continued to clean the wound. “I’ll not deny you your right.”

  Brom snorted. John was naturally prone to melodrama, and at times, it was maddening to witness – he put too great of a strain on himself. Christ, he’d nearly killed himself, and all over an assumption, much like this one. “I’m not angry with you, John. In fact, if I’m going to hit something, I’d prefer it to be that horse.”

  “Not angry with me?” John’s voice roughened, as if he meant to shock Brom into rage with the boldness of his declaration. “I tasted your betrothed’s lips and mouth, felt the softness of her body against mine. How can you possibly not be angry?”

  John’s words brought the situation to life, and all at once, the image flashed in Brom’s imagination, vivid and erotic. He could just see John and Katrina’s mouths melding together, her luscious curves conforming to his lean muscle. And he knew well how John’s body must have responded, his cock rising and hardening, pressing into the soft flesh of Katrina’s belly. He’d held her and kissed her that way himself, and knew the sweet sensuality of her embrace. “I rather like the idea of it, to be honest.”

  John dropped the cloth again and didn’t bother to pick it up. His eyes gleamed with shock, and he seemed to have assumed all of the indignance he thought Brom entitled to. “You what?”

  “I said I like it.” He picked up one of John’s hands and placed it high on his thigh. John’s expression transformed into one of incredulous understanding as his fingertips met the bulge that had risen beneath Brom’s breeches. “I trust you understand my meaning?”

  “I’m not a prudish man, Brom.” John spoke with as much dignity as anyone could muster while kneeling on the floor with a sopping cloth in their lap. “But I must say, I am shocked.”

  Br
om laughed, amusement striking him as suddenly as the lust that had caused his cock to harden. “Do you mean to tell me that you don’t feel the same? When you think of Katrina and I kissing, or—” He stopped when a furious blush crept across John’s cheeks, making him appear quite boyish. “Ah, so you do see.” He let his lips curl into a wicked smile.

  “I—” John’s monosyllabic reply came out half strangled. “I’d never thought of it that way.”

  “And now that you have?”

  “I rather wish I hadn’t. I fear I won’t be able to sleep at night, for thinking about it.”

  Laughter rose up in Brom again, and John joined him this time, though his face remained flushed with embarrassment, and – judging by the way his breeches had tented – arousal.

  “God, what would Katrina say if she knew? She’d think us the most depraved men on earth.” John shook his head.

  Brom dared not contemplate what Katrina’s reaction might be, for that too lent itself too easily to fantasy. If she kissed them both, if she loved them both – and she did – then she might not be quite as disgusted as John imagined. He shoved the thought from his mind, letting his attention turn to the deep ache in his wrist. The bite could have been worse, could have broken bone, but it made for an effective enough distraction as it was. “She didn’t spoil your appetite, did she? Those pies are still waiting for us on the table in the kitchen.”

  “She did, but I suppose I could manage to put away a slice.”

  CHAPTER 6

  Katrina set down her knitting needles and lifted her new masterpiece, admiring it in the soft glow of candlelight. It was a stocking, made from the sturdiest yarn she’d been able to find, and would protect its wearer well against the chill of winter. She’d already knitted its companion, and intended to give the pair to Brom as a gift. She’d finished them earlier than expected – worry usually drove her to work with her hands, baking, knitting or cleaning, and she’d been doing copious amounts of each lately. It was growing late, but she didn’t feel tired. Perhaps she should begin her next project before bed. She picked up a thread of the thick yarn and rolled it between her fingers.