by Lynn Lorenz
Here at Holcombe, he’d found people he counted as equally amazing. They loved and accepted Will for whom and what he was, and had even accepted Jackson as Will’s beloved. He threw a rare gift away by leaving.
Jackson stared at the flames.
Will’s words about Hugh distressed him. If Will was right and Hugh was dangerous, what form might that danger take? How threatened would Hugh be by him, especially if he were declared the eldest son? If that happened, it would remove Hugh’s title as marquess and he’d inhabit Baymore by Jackson’s grace. Would there be any way but violence to accomplish that removal? Perhaps he could gain his title, but forgo the lands and keep, and thus eliminate the threat he posed to Hugh.
No matter what, he’d need all his skill and wits to survive what awaited him at Baymore.
What do you do when all possibilities feel wrong? Was this where he was supposed to choose the lesser of the evils? He’d walk through the fires of hell for Will. What would his pride and honor buy him at Baymore?
The rest of this night would be long, of that he was sure. He stretched, sank deeper into the chair, and closed his eyes. Will’s face danced against the back of his eyelids.
No rest, then. He’d keep guard until dawn, then saddle his horse and be on his way.
Damn, his heart hurt. With a rough swipe of his arm across his face, he wiped away the moisture that leaked from his eyes. He’d never intended to fall in love with Will but now he couldn’t imagine living the rest of his life without him.
Baymore might prove to be his prison, not his home, and half-brother or no, Hugh might become his jailer.
It was a chance Jackson would have to take if he wanted Will on his own terms.
»»•««
Will watched the candle gutter and go out, throwing the bedroom into darkness. Only the light from the half-moon shone in through the slats in the window’s shutters. He rolled over and pulled the cover up to his chest. This should have been the first night of many with Jackson here at Holcombe. Instead, it was the last night he’d ever see the man he loved, and he’d sent him away.
Perhaps he’d been too rash. Jackson had wanted to spend this night together, enjoying each other. As wonderful as that would have been, Will couldn’t face the pain and desolation of knowing Jackson would climb out of bed, dress, and leave at dawn. Better Will get used to it now, at the beginning.
God’s tears, he wished he had died in that field, that Jackson had never cut him down, had never given him hope for finding what he’d been searching for his whole life. Will kicked the covers as he tossed over to his other side. His bed, once so comfortable and inviting, was now cold and lonely, not quite fitting his body anymore.
How could he have become so used to the feel of Jackson’s body next to his, of resting his head on the big man’s chest, the smell of his skin, the taste of his mouth? God had surely damned him. Of that, he was certain. This was hell and he would forever burn longing for Jackson.
Dawn lightened the room. Chair and desk became clearer, and the colors in the tapestries and rugs emerged from the darkness. Will threw back the covers and sat up. If he rose and opened the window, he could just see the bailey and perhaps catch a glimpse of Jackson as he left.
He remained in bed, his hands clenching and releasing the edge of the quilts.
Standing, he pulled the covers around him. The cold morning air seeped in through the cracks around the shutters, stinging his bare feet on the stone floor. In a while, the servants would come around to light the morning fires, empty chamber pots, and the rest of the castle would wake. By that time, Jackson would have been long gone.
Will went to the window and rested his hand on the latch. He took a deep breath. He’d look for only a few moments and if he didn’t see Jackson, he’d close the shutters and go back to bed. Not back to sleep. There had been no sleep—only the long hours of the night dragging by in a slow, ponderous parade of regrets, changing shadows, and dying hopes—his love extinguished.
Raising the latch and pushing the shutters open, he looked down at the bailey. Grey in the morning’s half-light, the sunrise still far below the walls of the keep. A groom led Jackson’s warhorse to the courtyard and waited. Jackson, dressed for travel, strode out, his great sword slung over his back, and mounted. Will’s heart rose into his throat. The sight of the man took his breath away, the dark red hair, those broad shoulders, gentle hands.
Settling in his saddle, Jackson paused and looked around. Waiting, Will knew, for him to appear for a final goodbye, perhaps a kiss. Will’s hand tightened on the latch, keeping him from tearing from his room, racing down the stairs and out the door to Jackson’s side, begging him to forget his pride, to hell with his honor, and for God’s sake to just stay with him.
Jackson raised his head to scan the keep and his gaze halted as it met Will’s. The invisible rope that ran between them tightened. Will felt Jackson’s heart beat out a quick rhythm to match his own, then with a great exhale, the big man’s chest rose and fell.
Will raised his hand from the latch in a small gesture of farewell. Jackson returned a curt nod, tugged at his reins, and kicked his mount into motion toward the open gates of the keep.
A flock of doves, sleeping on the cobblestones of the bailey, rose skyward in a blur of grey and white as Jackson passed through them. With such fanfare, destined for Baymore and his father, Jackson passed under the great lintel of the gates, down the road, and out of Will’s life.
Chapter Nine
With every mile that passed, it seemed as if the knife that had been plunged into Jackson’s heart gave a twist. He’d been a fool to leave Will, but there was nothing to be done now. He had to see his father, know if he had a name or not.
He’d never forget the sight of Will at the window. His blue eyes were so sad, his long hair tousled from the bed and hanging about his bared shoulders. He was breathtakingly beautiful. Jackson had almost gotten off his damned horse, gone back up the stairs, and pulled Will back to bed—but his pride had kept him in his saddle. He couldn’t think it would be that last time he’d ever see Will. That would surely force him back.
At midday, he rested his horse and ate a scant meal. Watching the animal graze, he leaned against a tree trunk and took some needed rest. He’d not slept much last night, spending most of the long hours staring into the flames of the hearth. His eyes felt as if sand filled them. Wiping his palm across them, he blinked to clear his vision.
His horse, reins dragging, cropped the grass nearby, and the insects in the trees sang. His head drooped to his chest and for a time he slept.
Jackson woke as his horse nudged him, its soft muzzle and thick lips searching his hand for a treat. “I have nothing for you, boy. You’ll have to wait until I reach Baymore for your oats.” He rose, gathered the reins, climbed into the saddle, and returned to the road. Another half day of steady riding and he’d reach his destination.
»»•««
“Won’t you eat something, Will?” Ellen pushed a bowl of cooked grain across the table toward Will. He had no stomach for food. The morning meal had been the same and he had no doubt that supper would not find his appetite returned.
“I have no want for food today, Ellen.” He shook his head.
What he wanted was to go back to his bed. Gathering his nightshift about him, he walked over to it and crawled under the covers. Settling down against the pillows, he pulled the quilts up to his neck.
“If you don’t eat, you’ll never get your strength back.” She stood, hands on her hips, shaking her head.
“Strength for what? To go on living, existing with no purpose?” Will felt a too familiar darkness roll over him, like a thick wool blanket being drawn over his body. He sank under its weight.
“Purpose? Why to go on, Will. To help your brother. Wallace needs you. Your father needs you.”
“I can’t give any more, my lady. I feel used up. Empty.” Will rolled over and faced the wall so he didn’t have to look into her eyes.
“He won’t eat. Talk some sense into him, Wallace,” Ellen pleaded.
“It won’t do any good. He’s been this way before.”
“I’ve never seen him like this.” She paused. “How long will it last?”
“Sometimes days. Sometimes weeks. It’s usually followed by great bursts of energy, like a puppy that runs all morn, then collapses and sleeps the rest of the day away.
“I can hear you, brother. I’m not asleep,” Will drawled.
“If you’re awake, then get up and help me with our duties. This place doesn’t run itself. It takes two men. You and I.” Wallace sat on the edge of the bed and pulled Will over to face him.
“You run it fair enough without me.”
“I make do. Your skills are much needed, Will. You know I struggle with sums, and the ledgers are badly out of date.”
Will looked into his brother’s eyes. They had a hard, serious look. “How bad?”
“Since you’ve been gone, I tried to keep track of the revenue, but the totals don’t add up. If my sums are right, we’re going to be in trouble this winter.” Wallace’s voice dropped. “For once, I pray they’re wrong.”
Ellen’s hand covered her mouth, eyes wide. “Wallace, why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t want you to worry. I kept waiting for Will to return and set the ledgers to right.” Wallace put a hand on her face and gave her a comforting stroke.
“You’re not saying this to get me up, are you?” Will pushed himself to sitting as a growing unease at Wallace’s words spurred him into action.
“No. I can’t tell if I’m right or not, and I can’t talk to Father about it. You know how upset he gets. He can’t stand another bad turn.”
Their father suffered from the same melancholy as Will. Together, the brothers worked hard to keep the old man’s spirits up. If his father needed him, Will could not fail to help.
“I’ll get dressed and come down. It shouldn’t take me long to go over them and set them right. Then, I can get back to my bed.” Will sighed.
“That’s all I ask, Will.” Wallace stood and gave him a nod. Taking Ellen’s hand in his, they left the room.
With a deep breath, Will flung back the quilts and stood. Searching his trunk, he found clothes and dressed.
»»•««
Jackson was five miles from Baymore as the sun started its slow descent—streaks of orange, red, and yellow splayed across the sky. The road had been good, and little marred it other than a few low creeks or muddy flats as it rolled through the hills and woods that bracketed it.
He’d not been back to Baymore since his mother’s death almost fifteen years ago. Without her to visit, drop off his extra coins, and ensure her small cottage was in good repair, he’d had no reason to come here.
As he passed through the village nestled below the walls of the castle, he matched it to his memories. Not much had changed. Old men still sat around the horse trough in front of the village’s inn, and old women still gathered on the steps of the church to gossip. He pulled his horse up to the trough and dismounted.
“Good day,” Jackson said, as he gave the men a nod. They watched him with wary eyes, but a few gave curt nods.
“Where are you bound?” one of the old men asked.
“To the castle. I have business with His Grace the Duke of Baymore.” If he was careful, he might learn something here that could help him.
“Word is the old duke is ill. Dying, they say.” The man turned his head and spit.
Jackson’s head jerked up. “Is he? What of his son?”
The men cast looks between them, as if cautioning each other. “What about him?”
“Surely there is no need to worry if the duke dies. The lord marquess will take his place.”
“Not if there’s a God in heaven,” one of the men muttered. The man next to him reached out and took his arm in warning.
Jackson leaned against his horse as it drank. “I used to live around here as a child. I remember His Grace’s reputation as being a good, fair man.”
“If only that were true of his son, but that acorn has fallen far from its oak.”
“That is unfortunate.” Jackson looked up toward the castle. “What are the marquess’s sins?”
“Pick one. Your choice.” The men cackled and coughed at the joke. “Cruelty, greed, and debauchery, to name a few.”
“I had not known.” Jackson shook his head. “Is there nothing to recommend him?”
“Well, if you like looks, he’s your man. But his heart is as black as that hair he’s so proud of.” The man leaned in, as if to share a confidence. “The story goes, he’s poisoned his own father, you see.”
“To gain the title? Surely, his father is old enough for that to happen in due time?”
“Some are impatient, it’s said.” The man glared at the castle.
“Some may be wrong.” Jackson shrugged. He’d like to think the tales of Hugh were exaggerations, but Will’s words sounded in his mind. What kind of man would he have shaped me into? What kind, indeed? What had Hugh become that the villagers would so easily believe him capable of killing his own father?
His horse’s nose came out of the trough, dripping water from its thick lips. Time to go. He’d faced worse odds than this in battle, but in battle, he’d at least known the lay of the land, the strength, and number of his opponents. At Baymore, how might factions be split? How much loyalty had the Duke of Baymore held among his men? And who did Hugh hold in his grasp?
Jackson swung up into the saddle, bid the men farewell, and continued on his way.
Too soon, the gates loomed before him and he reined in the big gelding.
“Who goes?” a voice called from the parapet.
“Jackson of Marden. I answer His Grace the Duke of Baymore’s summons,” he shouted back. He wasn’t foolish enough to announce himself as Baymore’s son, so Marden would have to do. No need to invite trouble. It would come in its own time.
The door swung open and he was allowed inside. A groom ran out to hold his horse as he slid off. From the castle, an old man came toward him, the keys he wore on his belt clinking with each step. The warder of the keep, Jackson supposed.
“Well met, Jackson of Marden. His Grace has been most anxious about your arrival.” The man shot him a questioning glance.
“I, too, have been anxious to arrive, but I was kept for some time with other duties.”
“Well, you’re here now. He’ll want to see you right away.”
“Is it true he’s ill?”
“Sadly, it’s true. The physician doesn’t hold much hope.”
The man led him inside to a grand hall—its wood beamed ceiling hung two floors above them. Where they stood were tables and benches for eating and to the right, wide stairs led to the upper floor. A huge hearth sat at the far end, with a grouping of chairs in front of it.
A man stood by the fire, his back to them. Long ebony hair coursed down his back. Clothed entirely in black leather, broad shoulders, narrow hips, and muscular thighs evidenced the man’s power.
“Lord Baymore,” the old man called. “Jackson, the man His Grace sent for, has arrived.”
Hugh turned. Jackson felt the moment Hugh’s piercing gaze fell on him as if he were some quarry. Dark eyes rimmed with thick black lashes, a square jaw, and full sensual lips that hinted of danger combined to make his half-brother the most handsome man he’d ever seen.
“Well met, Jackson. It seems you’ve arrived in time. His Grace still lives.” The disappointment wasn’t hidden in the man’s speech. His gaze ran the length of Jackson’s body, from boot to head, measuring, assessing, then, with a slow rising of one eyebrow, heightened interest.
Jackson controlled the fear that trickled like a rivulet of sweat down his back under that hungry stare. He’d have to be wary of Hugh, no doubt.
With a dismissive wave of his hand Hugh said, “Withers,
take him to His Grace. When you’ve finished with that business, find me here—I wish to speak with you.” With that, Hugh strode off through a door unaware, it seemed, that he had spoken to his half-brother.
Withers looked up into Jackson’s eyes with a sharpness that belied his age. Searching for what, Jackson didn’t know. A similar resemblance, perhaps? Jackson wondered if the castle warder was privy to his relationship to the duke. His stomach tightened. What plotting had he stumbled into?
“I’ll take you to see him now. He is confined to his bed.”
“How much time…” Jackson’s voice trailed off.
“His physician said it could be anytime at this point.” Withers’ eyes looked sad as he shook his head.
They climbed the stairs to the upper floor and trod down the hall. At the end, two men who stood guard at a door snapped to alert. With a quiet rap on the door, Withers turned the handle, opened it, and bowed Jackson inside.
The room was well appointed. Rich tapestries hid the stone walls—thick rugs and animal furs covered the floors to keep out the chill. A large fire burned in the hearth, pushing warmth into the room, making it almost too hot to bear.
An ornate bed stood in the center of the room. On the near side of it lay Morris, the Duke of Baymore, propped up and looking as if death grew impatient waiting for him.
“Come in, Jackson. Withers, stay and shut the door,” the duke’s rasped in a faint voice.
Withers did as he was commanded and stood next to the bed.
Baymore held out his hand to Jackson. His Grace’s damp gaze locked with his, and Jackson had to blink hard to stop the wetness in his own eyes. The man who’d never acknowledged him now held out a pale, almost transparent hand. His duke’s signet ring hung loosely against the knob of his knuckle, and his fingernails were yellowed with age and illness.
All the hard words Jackson thought he’d spill on this old man surged in a torrent in Jackson’s mind. All the recriminations, the questions, the damning fury, welled in his chest. To Jackson’s amazement, the flood subsided as when low tide recedes and exposes what pitiful refuse it had deposited, leaving Jackson with only the fragile hand of his father offered at last to him.