Brant's Return

by Mia Sheridan

  Isabelle smiled, staring into the flames again. “Yes. My grief counselor suggested it when I had trouble even speaking about what happened. It’d been six months since . . . it’d been six months, and those horses, they were the first things that really made me feel alive, you know? Maybe they reminded me a bit of home . . . maybe they just spoke to my heart in a way nothing else had for a long time . . . I don’t know exactly.”

  Clothes hung, I sat on a crate next to her. “What about your family, Belle? Surely they took you back after that.”

  She paused for a moment. “I didn’t ask them to. They warned me about marrying Ethan. They said I’d come to regret it, that a marriage built on sin was bound to be punished by the devil.” Pain flitted across her face, and I wanted to throttle someone, but I wasn’t sure who. She swallowed before meeting my eyes. “Some days I think maybe they were right.”

  “They weren’t right. No one deserves what happened to you, certainly not an innocent child.”

  She took a deep, shuddery breath, but nodded. “In any case, I couldn’t go home. I couldn’t bear . . . I couldn’t bear to hear that what happened to Elise was my doing.” She took in a sharp breath. “Couldn’t bear to feel their judgment.”

  “So you dealt with it all alone? Something so horrific?”

  “Didn’t you as well?”

  I stared into her eyes and then away, running my fingers through my now-dry hair. “It isn’t the same. I . . . grieved my mother, was angry at . . .” I shook my head. “I don’t know. Everyone, I guess. But still, what happened to you . . .”

  Belle gave a small smile. “We’re not comparing traumas, Brant. All I’m saying is that we both found our own coping mechanisms because we had to.”

  “I guess.” I felt uncomfortable talking about what happened to me in any sort of reference to what happened to her. I had come to Graystone Hill with a suitcase full of pain and anger—not that it didn’t still exist, not that I’d unpacked it—but now . . . now what? What did I feel? I was suddenly confused. I rubbed at my temples. In any case, none of this was about me.

  “So how did you remember so much about this place?” Belle asked. “The matches, the tarps.”

  I smiled, pushing away the doubts pinging through my mind. Those were for another day, perhaps.

  “This here used to be my love shack.”

  She laughed and the sound caused a rolling sensation in my chest as if my heart had lifted and then settled back into place. “Oh God,” she groaned. “Do I even want to know?”

  I laughed, picking up the poker and stoking the fire a bit. “Well, more accurately, it was my would-be love shack. I had big plans for me, those tarps, and Hadley DeGraw.”

  She laughed again. “Didn’t end well?”

  I sighed. “Sadly, no. I only got to second base underneath the football stands before she cheated on me with Kent Baker.”

  She gave a mock wince. “Ouch. That hurts.”

  “It did. But that summer I saved up and my dad helped me buy my first car.” I was quiet for a moment remembering the day we’d gone to pick it up. I’d been so damn excited . . . “Anyway, after acquiring a love machine, I no longer had the need for this old place. The rest is history.”

  Her lips twitched as she nodded. “Too bad. The romantic potential is seriously off the charts.”

  I laughed, raising my eyebrows. “It wasn’t exactly romance I was looking for.”

  She rolled her eyes, but it was accompanied by a soft laugh. And sitting there, watching her smile after sharing her desolation, her slim form clearly defined beneath the linen she had tightened around her, the fire warming the room and creating moving shadows all around us, I thought maybe this place did have romantic potential. Or maybe it was just Isabelle who carried light within her. Magic. I cleared my throat, slightly uncomfortable with my own wandering thoughts. “Yeah.” I sighed. “Hadley really missed out.”

  “Poor girl. No way Kent Baker offered her anything better.” I knew she was kidding back with me, though her expression remained serious as her gaze focused on the shifting flames once again. “I know this is the old bourbon distillery run by your grandfather, but was it operational at some point when you were a kid?”

  “Yes. But my grandfather had a stroke and retired. My dad took over the farm.” I shrugged. “I suppose my father was more interested in the horses. He put his heart into that side of things and this place has been empty all these years.”

  She hummed, looking around, though it was difficult to see beyond our small circle of firelight.

  “Did he ever tell you the story behind the name of the bourbon once made here?”

  She shook her head, looking at me with interest. “I don’t even think I ever knew the name of it.”

  “Caspian Skye.”

  “Caspian Skye,” she repeated. “I like that. And what’s the story?”

  “It started with a feud that turned to love.”

  “A Romeo and Juliet scenario?”

  “Sort of. Only this one took place in the highlands of Scotland where whiskey was first invented. The clans of Caspian Skye had been feuding for centuries with the clans of Glasblair. It most likely started over a disagreement about territory lines, but no one remembers specifically. Glasblair was a prosperous land, rich in natural resources including a certain type of timber used in the barrels of the fine Scotch they made and sold. Meanwhile the people of Caspian Skye lived simple lives, their livelihood relying on the herbs and medicinal flowers they grew.”

  “Ah, medicinal flowers.”

  “Aye.”

  Isabelle laughed, a girlish sound that made her seem youthful, untouched by despair. It caused my heart to clench and spurred on my storytelling enthusiasm.

  “In any case, not only did the people of Caspian Skye love their home for its herbs and flowers, it was said that their souls were tied to the land and if any of them left, they would wither and die. So you can understand why they would fight tooth and nail to protect the territory they considered their own.”

  “Of course,” Isabelle said, drawing up her shoulders.

  “One day when the Glasblair clan leader’s son was hunting in the forest, he accidentally went too far and stumbled across the Caspian Skye clan leader’s daughter, bathing in a stream. She was irate—and naked. He was defensive—and enchanted. They fought, then they made up, fought some more, and when the day was done, they had both fallen in love.”

  “That quickly?”

  “Aye. Some things are written in the stars. Already in existence long before a pair of eyes meet.” I grinned. Winked. Wanting to make her smile.

  Belle’s eyes seemed to soften before she looked away. “Why do I sense tragedy on the horizon?”

  I settled back in my seat, enjoying this brief foray into fantasy. It felt like we both needed the escape, and given our shared penchant for adventures, this seemed apt. Our portal to the past. “Sadly, yes. The two young lovers risked the ire of their respective clans to be together anyway, sneaking away and marrying by the light of the moon. The groom took his new bride to his castle in Glasblair, intent on giving her everything and anything her heart desired, diamonds that sparkled like her eyes, rubies the color of her lips, and obsidian the hue of her hair.”

  “She was a colorful lady.”

  I chuckled then grew serious. “To him, yes. Anyway not long afterward, his beautiful wife began to wither just as the legend foretold. They tried everything—potions and tinctures, medicinal herbs, and extracts, but nothing worked to make her better. At great peril to his own life, he visited Caspian Skye where his wife’s mother took pity on him. She told him that the only cure for her daughter—now that her soul had withered so—was to be found in a purple orchid that only grew on the cliffs of Caspian Skye. And if she was given the nectar of this flower in time, she could be saved. But, she must never leave Caspian Skye again or she would immediately die.”

  “A purple orchid, on the cold cliffs of Scotland?”

 
I raised a brow, resisting the urge to smile. “You, a skeptic, Belle? I’m surprised.”

  Belle’s lip quirked, and then she went serious. “I shall suspend disbelief. Go on.”

  “Finally, even though she was so weak she could barely hold her own head up, her husband put her on his horse and rode her to Caspian Skye. It mattered not that doing so meant surrendering his kingdom, his home, for if she could never leave Caspian Skye, neither would he, whether dead or alive.”

  “Did the purple orchid save her life?” Belle asked, and though I’d teased her about being a skeptic, I could tell she was holding her breath, hoping for a happily ever after. I wished I could give her one, I really did. But I couldn’t edit the ending. I hadn’t written the story.

  “Sadly, no. They did find the flower, but it was too late for the young bride. The clans people took pity on her distraught husband, allowing him to stay on Caspian Skye, for that’s where his beloved’s soul remained.”

  “How sad,” Belle whispered.

  “The tragedy brought the two clans together and eventually, they began making a Scotch using the timber of Glasblair infused with the flavor of the purple orchid of Caspian Skye. The Scotch was known for its fine distinct flavor and was sought after far and wide, a vintage that was the result of a love so great it was a thing of legend. A love so strong that it’s said if you stand on the cliff of Caspian Skye, you can still hear the echo of the young bride’s voice in the wind, calling to her love for all time.”

  The fire crackled and the wind raced through the old building, a shutter or piece of exterior wood flapping somewhere outside. We were both silent for a moment before Belle finally spoke. “Caspian Skye,” she murmured. “A would-be king who gave up his kingdom for love.” She smiled softly. “This old place holds romance after all, then.”

  “I guess it does.” We were both quiet again for a few minutes, Belle looking thoughtful. Her stomach growled, breaking the silence. She looked up at me, laughing softly.

  I grimaced. “I’m sorry I can’t offer you anything to eat. Except maybe some old spider bodies in the corner.”

  She laughed again and shivered. “I’ll survive one night.”

  “We’ll plan to head back at dawn’s first light.”

  She nodded, yawning. It was still relatively early, but she had to be tired after all the spent emotions. I was too, now that I thought about it. “We can make a bed of sorts in front of the fire if you’re tired.”

  She nodded. “Here, I’ll help.”

  I gathered a few more heavy linen tarps from the old trunk, shaking them out well before bringing them over and in a few minutes we had a makeshift bed on the floor. I grabbed our coats, which were mostly dry, then folded them to form pillows. It would do for one night.

  I lay on my back, staring at the black, shadowy ceiling above, feeling tired, but also restless. Awkwardness filled the air between us. I wasn’t sure if I should try to make it less so by talking or whether I should just force myself to fall asleep. But then I heard Isabelle’s soft snore next to me. I smiled in the dark, turning toward her and watching her for a few minutes as she slept, her expression peaceful, mouth parted slightly.

  I must have slept for a time too, because when I heard Isabelle crying out softly in her sleep, I opened my eyes groggily, somewhere between a dream I couldn’t piece together and reality. I blinked at the fire, noticing that it was half the size it’d been what I thought was only minutes before. It would burn for another hour, maybe two, but then it would go out. That was okay. We had covers for warmth and it would be dawn soon enough.

  Belle let out a tiny sob as if she were having a bad dream and I rolled toward her, pulling her against me and holding her close. “Shh,” I whispered. “You’re okay. Just a dream.”

  She stilled in my arms and for several minutes I just held her, whispering words of comfort, her muscles relaxing and her body melting into mine. She turned slowly, hesitantly, until we were face to face. For a moment she simply stared into my face in the very low flickering light. She brought her hand to my cheek tentatively, turning her fingers over and moving them down the stubbly skin of my jaw. Isabelle reached for my hand, bringing it to the naked flesh of her breast.

  Every cell in my body went on high alert, and I pulled in a sharp breath, my already half-hard erection surging forward. “Isabelle,” I said, my voice raw, suddenly desperate. My mind felt foggy, my fingers itching to trace the soft, full mound under my palm, but I fought to stay lucid, in control. I did not want her to regret anything about tonight. I didn’t want her to act out of a neediness that stemmed only from what she’d spoken of earlier, need that would be gone with the morning light, leaving only embarrassment and remorse. No, I wouldn’t risk that.

  “I’m sure, Brant. Please, I”—she lowered her eyes, her lashes creating dark crescents on her cheeks—“I want you.”

  Maybe it was the word want instead of need. Maybe it was just that my control was hanging by such a delicate thread, but at her assertion, I brought my lips to hers immediately, a groan of desire vibrating in my throat and passing into her mouth as she opened, allowing me entrance. We kissed for long minutes, tasting, learning, my body growing hotter, harder, my need increasing until it was pulsing, throbbing in both pleasure and pain.

  I moved closer, my erection probing her stomach and she broke from my mouth, a gasp on her lips as she tilted her head back, giving me access to her smooth, sweet neck. I licked and kissed it, moving my mouth to the soft place behind her ear, the spot that made her gasp and press herself against me. Oh Jesus. She was sweet.

  I rolled partially on top of her, feeling wild, wanting to taste every part of her, but forcing myself to slow down, to take my time. I would enjoy her because Lord only knew if I’d get a chance to do this again. But I’d also give her the opportunity to halt things if she changed her mind.

  Please don’t change your mind.

  She gripped my head in her hands as I licked at that soft spot that drove her crazy, moving lower, kissing the dip between her breasts and then taking a nipple into my mouth and rolling my tongue around it once, twice.

  She cried out, the sound shooting to my cock and causing it to harden painfully.

  I licked and sucked at her nipples, the soft skin of her breasts, over them, under, and then back to her nipples until she was gripping my hair and rolling her hips. “Brant, oh God,” she moaned. “I . . . please don’t stop. Don’t stop.”

  “I won’t,” I promised, returning my mouth to the place between her breasts. Her husband’s key was a warm piece of metal just above my lips and I leaned up, making eye contact with her as I lifted it. She hesitated very briefly but raised her head, allowing me to remove it and set it on the trunk next to where we lay. I moved my mouth back to her breasts and then lower, trailing my tongue down the middle of her stomach, my hand gliding over her ribs. I felt the smooth but raised skin of a scar under my fingertips and lifted my head, seeing the place where she must have been shot. My chest tightened for what she’d been through and I brought my lips to the place where she’d healed—the proof of her survival—circling it with my tongue, brushing my lips over it and kissing that tender spot reverently. She stilled as I did so, pulling in a quiet intake of breath and letting it out slowly, running her fingers through my hair gently. It felt as though her tender affection communicated thankfulness. That she understood just how in awe of her I was.

  After a moment, I moved past that memory of pain, dipping into her bellybutton and then kissing the petal-soft skin underneath. Isabelle’s grip on my hair loosened and she seemed tense suddenly, unsure.

  “Brant?” she asked, sitting up slightly, her stomach muscles tightening beneath my mouth.

  I kissed downward, pulling at the waistband of her underwear as I did so, using my arm to slide them underneath her bottom and down her thighs.

  I thought I felt a hairline scar right before I made it to the soft hair covering her feminine mound and it caused my heart to skip a be
at. Oh, Belle. That small line, the proof of her motherhood, another scar she carried. How did she feel when she looked at that one now? Was she glad she still wore that mark, or did it bring her sorrow? “Belle,” I murmured, as tenderness so deep I feared I’d fall into it, opened inside me. That, combined with my raging desire for her was an exhilarating cocktail of need I’d never felt before. It was slightly terrifying, but I didn’t want to stop. If anything, I wanted this to go on and on for as long as this night would last.

  I pulled her underwear farther down her legs, gripping her hips as I pulled her legs apart gently. She sat up a little more, leaning on the backs of her forearms, her eyes wide as she stared at me. “You can’t . . . I mean . . . what are you? Ohhh,” she moaned a startled sound of deep pleasure as I licked straight up the seam of her sex, circling the small nub at the top. She fell back on another soft gasp as I sucked gently. Had she never had this done to her? No, that couldn’t be true. She’d been married.

  Even the vague thought of Belle with another man made my stomach muscles tighten uncomfortably, and then she cried out, a mingling sound of pleasure and surprise when I gave her a deeper suck. Possessive. Her thighs clamped around my head, and she lifted herself to me slightly, pressing herself against my face, asking for more. A heady surge of satisfaction filled my chest at the mere idea that I could be the first man who’d ever tasted her this way. Pleasured her this way.

  I kept working my mouth, sliding a finger gently inside her and groaning when I felt how wet she was, how aroused.

  She said my name, her voice high pitched and breathy. It sounded like a question, like encouragement, like wonder all mixed into one exhaled word.

  With my name on her lips said that way, something inside me slipped, tumbled, spiraled downward. Falling.

  She gripped my hair in her fists, as I moved my finger in and out to the rhythm of my tongue on her clit and after only a moment, she cried out, jerking against my mouth. I slowed as her orgasm shuddered through her, her inner muscles gripping my finger tightly, then releasing as if her heart were beating between her legs.