by Lynn Lorenz
Jackson had kept to himself and rarely took a male lover, despite the forbidden longings that welled in him. Each of those few times, he’d been the one who took what the men had offered. He’d used them when his need had burned as hot as a fever and he could no longer hold it at bay, when the whores he’d used couldn’t quench the unholy fire.
Taking, never giving. Giving meant unleashing his heart, and he’d done that only once before, in his younger days, with a man who did not return his affection. Now, he felt the flicker of temptation, its source wrapped in a blanket inside the hut. No one had ever moved his heart as much as the wounded man who lay on the rough cot.
Will’s vulnerability aroused Jackson’s need to protect and keep him safe. Will’s soft sense of humor made him laugh, and the way Will struggled with his infirmity told Jackson that Will hated being this helpless, that it wasn’t a natural state for him. He could imagine Will at full health—handsome, well-muscled, those blue eyes shining, and his long mane of blond hair loose about his shoulders.
Jackson suppressed a shiver of desire.
Time to wake him. He’d promised to shave him this morning, and perhaps later Will would consent to a bath. The man reeked. Jackson gave a soft moan as he thought of Will’s skin beneath his hands as he bathed him.
Jackson looked down at the straining of his breeches. Damn, now he’d have to wait until his cockstand subsided before going in.
Jackson thought of chores that needed to be done.
»»•««
Will watched Jackson hone the knife’s blade on a strop of leather until it was sharp, then scrub the bristle brush in the soap. Kneeling in front of the bed, Jackson smeared the lather over Will’s chin and began to shave him.
Will closed his eyes. The smell of the soap and the scraping of the blade against his coarse whiskers were familiar comforts, even though he wasn’t doing the shaving. They reminded him of his life, of routine, of a return to what was every day. Would his life ever be normal after what he’d been through?
Once again, Jackson’s touch was gentle, his use of the blade sure, his hand steady.
Their faces were inches apart. Will felt Jackson’s fingers on his face as he tilted Will’s head, Jackson’s breath on his cheek, his throat, and every now and then, across his lips. Eyes closed, Will lingered in thoughts of those full lips and dark eyes.
Finished all too soon, Jackson wiped Will’s face clean and sat back on his heels.
“All done, my lord.”
Will opened his eyes and ran his hand over his now smooth face. “It feels much better. How does it look?” What he wanted to know was if Jackson found him handsome despite his injuries.
“You look much healthier, my lord.”
Not the rousing endorsement Will had hoped for, but well enough.
“I couldn’t have done better, I think.”
“Perhaps I should find work as a barber?” Jackson laughed.
“Perhaps. What is it you do, anyway? I don’t think you’ve told me.” He sat back on the cot and looked across into Jackson’s brown eyes.
“I’m a mercenary. Blade for hire, my lord.” Jackson’s gaze held his.
“A mercenary? If you are, then you are surely the gentlest.” One corner of Will’s mouth turned upward.
“Not many of the men I’ve killed would say that.” Jackson raised an eyebrow.
“No doubt.” Will stared at a spot on the far wall. “Tell me, have you a wife waiting for you?”
Jackson frowned. “A wife? No. A mercenary’s life isn’t to be shared. Not by a woman.” His hand rested on the bed next to Will’s hand.
“Is it to be shared by a man?” Will’s fingers touched Jackson’s. No more, no less. Their eyes met across the space between them. Jackson swallowed. Will’s gaze slipped to Jackson’s mouth as he wondered about its softness and taste.
Jackson’s fingers withdrew as he pushed to his feet. “For some.” He turned away and made himself busy with the fire. Then, he walked to the door. “I have to tend the horses, my lord,” he said and slipped out.
“Damn,” Will exhaled. He’d been a fool to think Jackson might want him. It wouldn’t surprise him if Jackson never returned and just left him here to rot.
»»•««
Jackson strode to the pen and climbed over the fence. He went about his chores—spreading hay for the horses, checking their legs and hooves for wear—as he thought about what had almost happened in the hut.
He’d almost kissed Will. Damn, he’d wanted to do that. And more.
He should leave before this went too far, but by his honor, he couldn’t leave the man in his weakened condition. As soon as Will was ready to ride, he’d escort Will to his home and leave him there.
Untouched.
Jackson leaned against the fence and looked up at the mountaintop shrouded in snow. Soon the snow would drop to the lower levels and the hut would be caught in it. They needed to leave before then—any later and going back down the mountain in the snow would be too treacherous for the horses. If they stayed, they might freeze to death before they starved.
Climbing back over the railing, Jackson returned to the hut. Inside, Will rested on his side facing the wall. He didn’t move when Jackson entered and offered no smile to greet him. Jackson shook off his disappointment.
Warming his hands at the hearth, he determined to keep the distance between them. He’d never know the feel of Will’s mouth on his. Never know the rapid beating of Will’s heart as his tongue tasted Will’s throat. Never feel Will’s body beneath his.
That thought shouldn’t make him feel so unhappy, but during these days spent caring for Will, he’d been happier than he’d been in long years. This quiet life of waking in the early morn, tending Will, hunting and cooking for them, had suited him, reminded him of those early morns during battles—tents raised, the men sitting about the fires, repairing equipment, cooking, and polishing weapons. During those times, there was a sort of peace prior to the storm of the battle. Morning, beyond doubt, was his favorite time of day.
He’d be content to spend the rest of his mornings in quiet work, give up being a mercenary, if only there was someone like Will at his side.
Despite his denials, Will was a nobleman. It was evident in his speech, the clothes he’d worn, and his gentle manner. Jackson, a rough, uneducated man with no last name, was no match for Will. All Jackson knew was how to swing a sword and stay alive in battle. Clearly, he was not Will’s equal, and without his father’s name, he had no hopes of ever elevating himself to Will’s rank.
Besides, Will had been looking for someone to engage with at the tavern. By his own admission, it was to be once. Quick, with no feelings attached to the act. How could Jackson know if Will wasn’t still looking for just a brief taking, something to make the time pass?
Early in his life, Jackson had a few brief takings—all hot breaths, hurried touches, hidden in shadows, never in the light of day. They satisfied the needs of his body, but not his soul. Empty of feelings, those times had left Jackson longing for more, a greater connection with another similar soul. Knowing how rare that was, he’d given up any hope of finding it. Mercenaries didn’t dream of love and peace, did they?
However, when Jackson cut Will down in that field, some small thread had passed between them, and each day Jackson felt it grow stronger. How long before the thread became a rope and bound his heart to this man?
He needed to keep his body and heart away from Will, get out of this hut, and off the mountain. For now, it was best if they went their separate ways. He to Baymore and Will to wherever he had been bound.
Chapter Three
Raf bent over the last row of the fall vegetables and gathered beans. Beside him, his father worked, and his mother toiled on the next row over.
He straightened, stretching his back. It’d been many days since they’d discovered the man they’d left for dead had escaped. His father had been furious, but Raf had been relieved. The man’s death had weig
hed on his soul like a stone. Raf hadn’t wanted to be part of any man’s death, since it could have been him strung up in that field. Had the men and his father come along any later, they’d have caught the both of them in the soul damning act.
He made a promise to be more careful next time. Then he remembered there should never be a next time, no matter what his loins told him. His mother had already spoken to a woman down the road about her daughter, who would make him a good wife.
Glancing up, he stopped in mid-stretch.
“Father, there’s smoke on the mountain.” In the far distance, a thin plume of smoke drifted upward, to be brushed away by the winds at that height.
His father stood and looked, holding a hand over his eyes to fight the sun’s glare.
“Just the goatherd’s hut.” He shrugged and bent again.
“I saw Bennett at the tavern last night,” Raf replied. “He came off the mountain two weeks ago.”
Mason straightened, gazed up at the side of the mountain, and watched the smoke wisp away. They’d never found the escaped man or the man who’d freed him. Mason had suspected the big man in the tavern right away, but even after searching for miles in both directions they’d given up and returned home.
He looked at his son. He’d do anything to protect him, but the boy was foolish and followed his cock’s desire. After that night in the field, he’d hoped the message to be careful, to marry and put his unnatural desires away, had lodged in the boy’s brain.
No such luck. The lad was headstrong, but marriage would soon put it to right.
“Raf, help your mother. I’ve got business.” He handed his bag of beans to his son and strode toward the road.
His wife looked up and shook her head. “Business? The tavern, more likely.”
She and Raf bent back to their work.
»»•««
Will rolled over and stretched for the first time without pain, exhaled, and sat up. The room was empty and the fire banked. He needed to piss. Standing, he walked to the door—his feet steadier than they had been since that night in the field—and went outside. With one hand on the hut to insure he stayed upright, he made it to the side and pissed, pleased to see there was no blood.
Returning, he stopped to look over the valley spread out below. The sun’s position told him it was midday, but which day he had no idea, and if the smell of the fresh mountain air was correct, it would snow soon.
Jackson was nowhere to be seen. The wind whipped Will’s long hair around his head, and the clouds streamed by above him. Below, nothing moved. The road, visible only in places, was an empty brown ribbon.
He stepped inside the closed room and the smell of his body hit him. Jackson had been right about him needing a bath. The thought of the cold mountain water made him shiver, but it had to be done. He reeked of sweat, blood, and piss.
How many times had he pissed his bed while he lay unconscious and Jackson had cleaned him? If he ever saw home again, he swore Jackson would be repaid for his service.
Will stepped back outside and walked to the other side of the hut. The pen where the horses were kept held only his horse. Jackson’s horse and gear were gone.
Jackson had left.
His throat tightened as if the damned rope still wrapped it. Leaning on the pole fence, he stared at the lone horse and willed his knees to keep him standing. A wild urge to saddle his mount and race after Jackson came over him, but with a breath that drained the urgency from his heart, he stopped himself.
Even though he knew the way to Baymore, he had no way of knowing when Jackson had left.
And what would he say if he did catch Jackson?
Nothing that wouldn’t sound as pathetic as he felt right now.
Jackson must have grown tired of caring for him, tired of Will’s feeble attempts to reach out to him, and decided to be on his way to Baymore.
Running a hand over his face, Will closed his eyes.
Jackson had left and there was nothing to be done about it.
First things first. His body stank and he had no food.
To the side of the enclosure was a small rill, water running downhill in a steady stream. Removing his shirt, he kneeled and rinsed it in the water to clean it. He rubbed it against the rocks, then twisted it to remove the water. Holding it to his nose, he sniffed. It smelled better. He’d lay it by the fire to dry.
Bent over the water, he caught his broken reflection. Damn, he had no idea he looked this bad. One eye had green and yellow bruising around it, the other eye still dark purple and swollen. The cut on his forehead had a line of neat black stitches, no doubt Jackson’s work.
How could Jackson ever find this face attractive?
Before being beaten, Will had taken pride in his appearance and attracting lovers had come easy to him. No wonder Jackson had gone on his way—he must have been revolted each time he looked upon him.
Will sat back on his heels, fought a growing sense of despair, and made up his mind to leave the next day. If he waited much longer, he knew that despair would overtake him and if it followed the course it had in the past, soon he’d be unable to act. Trapped on the mountain, freezing, without food, he’d die alone with no one to mark his passing.
There was no one to help him. No older brother to roust him from his bed. No loving sister-in-law to dote on him. No father to chide him into action.
Time to save himself, to pull his fortitude around him like a cloak and get himself out of this disaster he’d created.
Will stumbled back to the hut, his reserves of strength waning faster than his feet could move him. He leaned against its stone side, bare feet numb from the cold. As he put his foot down on a rock, it shifted, and with a strangled cry, he went down.
His head hit hard on the rocky ground. The sky and mountain appeared for a moment on its side, then faded to black.
»»•««
Jackson urged his horse over the last steep incline to the level path. The sun would set soon, he reckoned. He guided the tired animal toward the hut. Over the last hour, he’d grown more excited to return and show Will what he’d brought in his saddlebags.
As he approached, he spotted Will, shirtless, lying on the ground in a crumpled pile in the cold shadow of the hut. Propelled from the saddle by more fear than he’d care to admit, Jackson ran the rest of the way to him.
“Will!” Jackson rolled him over. A quick press of his ear to Will’s chest told him that he was alive, but his skin felt like ice. How long had he lain on the cold ground?
Gathering him up in his arms, Jackson carried him into the hut, placed him on the cot, and wrapped him tight in the blanket. He rushed back out and put his horse up. Outside, he found the wet shirt and guessed what had happened. Will had tried to wash his shirt, perhaps even his body in the cold water and passed out. Damn, why hadn’t he waited until Will had risen to tell him that he’d be back later in the day? He could have at least washed the man’s shirt to save him the trouble.
Returning with his saddlebags, he spread the shirt out on the floor in front of the hearth to dry. As he emptied the first bag, he worried that the trip might not have been worth it if Will succumbed to the cold. The food Jackson had bought from the farmer’s wife in the valley would be worth nothing if Will weren’t alive to eat it.
Game had become scarcer now as the cold grew and the animals had taken to their burrows or gone lower down the mountain. Will needed more than some occasional meat to regain his strength, and the bread and cheese Jackson had bought would help with that.
He sat on the edge of the cot, picked up Will’s arm, and began to rub, working the cold out of the limb, from shoulder to fingertips. Will’s hands, long fingered yet strong, were not as calloused as his were—his arms had been muscled, but the loss of weight and use had taken their toll.
Jackson moved to the other arm and rubbed. Will groaned and jerked awake, pulling his arm out of Jackson’s hands.
“God’s tears! You came back,” Will rasped, as water stood
in his eyes. “I thought you’d left me.” The stricken look on his face tore into Jackson’s heart like a blade.
“Never, my lord. I just went to find us some decent food.”
Will stared at him as if he couldn’t believe his eyes. “I thought you’d left me,” he repeated and reached for Jackson’s hand.
Jackson shook his head, unable to speak. He pulled Will into his arms and rested his chin on Will’s head as Will clung to him in tight desperation. Jackson’s large, rough hands rubbed Will’s smooth, bare back trying to both warm and comfort.
When at last Will’s hold on him lessened, Jackson laid him back on the cot.
“I washed my shirt,” Will explained. “But I stumbled over a rock, fell, and hit my head.”
“I found the shirt. It’s by the fire, drying. Slip out of your breeches and I’ll wash them, also.”
Under the covers, Will unlaced his breeches and slipped them off, then handed them to Jackson. Naked, the warm covers replaced the chill of his clothes. He trembled, but it had nothing to do with the cold.
The way he’d felt in Jackson’s arms had overpowered him. Warm, secure, safe—it was like nothing he’d ever felt in any man’s hold. He’d been terrified when he’d thought Jackson had gone, and that realization shook him. In all his thirty years, he’d never felt as helpless, as vulnerable as he did now. Being hung and left to die had done it to him, he knew, and he cursed the unfamiliar feelings, and the loss of confidence in himself and his abilities.
But what if his feelings for Jackson were nothing more than gratitude over being saved by him and the dire circumstances in which they’d found themselves? Had they met some other place and time, would his feelings for Jackson be as strong? Will was well aware of his own faults, of being too quick to give his heart away and to the wrong man.
He should keep a level head, be stronger, and stop relying on the big man. Get out of this damned cot. Get up and move around. Get his strength back. Then be on his way, before this thing went any further and he risked his heart to hurt and the darkness he knew would accompany it.