by Reinke, Sara
* * *
Mason found the horse a hundred yards or so upstream. By that point, it had recovered from its fright and nosed along in the fallen leaves carpeting the ground, searching for anything edible. Its ears perked at his horse’s approach, and as he dismounted, he saw the muscles in its neck tighten anxiously.
“Hey, now,” he said as he walked slowly toward it, hands outstretched, palms turned up. The horse’s nostrils twitched and its lips wriggled as it chewed on its bit. He opened his mind, trying to project a calming sort of telepathic energy to the nervous animal. The effort seemed to work, and by the time he reached out, slipping the fallen loop of the reins in hand, the horse no longer appeared on high alert. It snuffled his hand curiously, its velveteen lips and teeth brushing lightly against his palm. He patted its shoulder in reassurance, then led it, unresisting, back to his own mare.
There was no sign of Arnaud. Julien had asked if he’d gone after the runaway steed. That Arnaud had probably been the one who’d fired the gun, terrifying the animal in the first place, didn’t surprise Mason at all. It was exactly the sort of reckless, thoughtless behavior for which Arnaud was renowned. That he’d taken off after his friend had fallen was no less out of character, but made Mason furious nonetheless. More than just a tumble off his horse, Julien had spilled over at least a four-foot embankment. That he hadn’t sustained any kind of serious injury was astonishing.
It hadn’t taken long to find Julien’s horse, maybe twenty minutes at best. When Mason returned to the site of the fall, he found Julien where he’d left him. However, Julien had pushed the dry great coat away and had laid down on the cold, muddy ground, sopping wet and shivering. His skin looked pale, nearly ashen, and when Mason slid down the embankment, having lashed the horses to a tree, he felt his heart hammer in mounting alarm.
“Julien?” he exclaimed, kneeling beside the younger man. He was still breathing, but in short, shallow gasps, and his lips had taken on a pale, bluish cast. He didn’t open his eyes even as Mason repeated his name, more urgently this time, and gave his shoulders a sharp shake. “Julien! Wake up.”
When he’d been a child, Mason had lost a cousin named Henri to the cold. He and Henri had been the same age, born only several months apart, and had been nearly inseparable as a result. The year had been 1775, and the Brethren clans had only just moved to the American colonies. For Mason and Henri, the rough-hewn, simplistic lifestyle they adopted in their new home couldn’t have been any different or more alien from the posh, aristocratic one they’d left behind in France. They had little, if any, sense of danger or dread for their new surroundings. Everything had been bright, fresh, fascinating, wild, and new to the two boys.
They had wandered into the woods one cold winter afternoon and come upon a frozen pond. Only, it hadn’t been as frozen as it seemed at first glance; Henri had tiptoed out a yard or so from the shore before it gave way beneath him, the thin crust cracking open wide, sending him splashing down into the icy, black water below. He’d floundered out, and Mason had tried to drag him home, but it hadn’t been long before the cold had overtaken him. Even his cousin’s Brethren healing hadn’t been fast enough to prevent it. By the time Mason’s frightened, frantic cries had drawn any adults to them, it was too late. Henri had died from hypothermia less than two hundred feet from his own front door.
He tore off his gloves and pressed his hands to either side of Julien’s face. His cheeks felt like ice, but the warmth of Mason’s bare skin startled him to semi-lucidity. He opened his eyes and blinked dazedly up at Mason.
“Th-the horse…” he whispered. “My father’s horse…”
“I found it,” Mason said. “I brought it back with me.” He slipped one arm beneath Julien. “We have to get you out of the cold. Can you stand?”
Julien nodded. “I…think so, yes.”
With a grunt, Mason stood, drawing Julien up from the ground. Even this slight jarring of his injured shoulder was enough to leave him jerking against Mason in pain, his voice escaping him in a soft, strained cry. “Lean on me,” Mason said, pointing with his free hand along the edge of the stream. “This way. The bank’s not as steep over there.”
They made their way along the muddy embankment. Julien stumbled alongside Mason, his wounded arm dangling at his side, his footsteps shuffling and clumsy. “I’m cold,” he groaned. “I’m s-so cold.”
“I know,” Mason said. “We’re almost to the horses. Steady now.”
He helped Julien climb onto the saddle, whereupon he promptly crumpled over the withers. Mason swung himself onto the saddle behind him, and put his arm around the younger man’s waist as he rode, drawing Julien’s horse in tow, for the nearest shelter he could think of—the springhouse. He would have preferred the Averays’ great house, because not only would there be a well-tended blaze in the fireplace, but plenty of hot cider, dry clothes, and blankets they could use, but it was too far away to be practical.
We need a fire, he thought grimly. Julien needs dry clothes and he needs warmth—now.
When they reached the springhouse, Mason helped Julien down from the horse. Together, they staggered inside.
“I’m so cold,” Julien whispered, clasping his good arm around his middle as he dropped to his knees.
“Wait here—I’ll be right back,” Mason said as he ducked back outside again, gathering dried sticks and fallen limbs, anything he could find for a fire. He moved frantically, as fast as he could, but when he rushed back through the door of the springhouse, he nearly dropped the armload of timber at his feet.
“My clothes…” Julien said dazedly, standing in the middle of the room. “They’re all wet.”
He was barefooted, wearing only his shirt, which fell to his knees. How he’d managed to strip down so fast—and with his shoulder out of socket—was beyond Mason. His breeches, waistcoat, boots, and coats all lay strewn about, as if he’d stumbled around, casting them every which way. His shirt was soaked, and clung to the contours of his torso and hips. And dear Christ, Mason could see that beneath it, his body was magnificent—all lean lines and hard-etched muscles, with a dark thatch of hair at his groin against which the thick length of his cock rested, visible through the wet, translucent fabric.
“You…you fell into the stream. Remember?” Mason forced himself to tear his gaze away as he carried the firewood inside, because God, he’d only ever dreamed of using his mouth and hands to explore and enjoy such an incredibly built man. “Where’s my great coat? It’s still dry. You…you should put that on.”
“There’s something…wrong with my arm,” Julien said, blinking in helpless confusion at his injured left side, where his arm hung limply, lifelessly.
“I know. Here…” Mason dropped the firewood in a heap, then lifted his heavy wool coat off the floor. Crossing the room toward Julien—and God help him, struggling not to let his gaze drift down—he put the coat around him, covering him.
Reaching into the outer hip pocket, he pulled out his flask. Tipping his head back, he took a long swallow, because God knew he needed it. Then he offered the brandy to Julien. “Drink this. It will help warm you.”
Once he had a fire going, Mason helped Julien sit close to the crackling flames, then spread his clothes out on the floor to dry.
“Is Lissie okay?” Julien asked, blinking sleepily.
Puzzled, Mason shook his head. “Who?”
“My sister,” Julien murmured. “I thought I heard her crying…” He closed his eyes, pressing his fingertips to the bridge of his nose, as if he felt pain there. “Never mind. I can’t…seem to keep my thoughts straight.”
“It’s the cold,” Mason told him, kneeling beside him. “And the pain from your shoulder.” Julien blinked at him and Mason met his gaze gravely. “I need to put it back in the socket.”
Julien nodded. “I know.”
“It’s going to hurt…” Mason began.
Julien nodded again. “I…I’ve had it done before,” he murmured. “Lots of times. It…i
t’s not so bad…”
Despite this reassurance, when Mason cupped one hand beneath Julien’s, turning his palm up, and cradled his elbow with the other, easing it in toward his side, Julien uttered a low, breathless groan.
“I’m sorry,” Mason said.
Julien shook his head. “Nothing…for it.”
“Tell me about Lissie,” Mason said quietly. He’d wanted Julien to relax, because the younger man had been so tense with anticipation of pain, he’d started to tremble. “Is she younger than you?”
“No.” Julien shook his head again. “Older.”
“I bet she’s always reminding you of that, too,” Mason remarked, and Julien laughed softly.
“Yeah. How’d you know?”
“I have three older sisters,” Mason said, moving Julien’s arm, easing his hand out away from his body while keeping his elbow positioned at his side. “And three younger ones, too.”
“That’s nothing…next to older brothers.” Julien drew in a ragged breath at the movement, but then managed a weak smile.
“Oh, I’ve one of those, too,” Mason said. “His name is Phillip.”
“I’ve four,” Julien whispered as Mason kept moving his arm, slowly, deliberately.
“Tell me their names.”
Julien nodded. “Victor,” he said. “He…he’s the oldest. Then Vidal…then Allistair…and Jean Luc…”
He gave a little jerk as, with a moist crack of bone and sinew, his arm snapped back into place. “That got it,” he gasped and when he opened his eyes, the brilliant blue of his irises gleamed with tears. “Thank you.”
Mason smiled. Without thinking about it, reacting as if it was the most natural thing in the world to do, he reached up and caressed Julien’s face, brushing the pad of his thumb lightly against the line of the younger man’s mouth. “You’re welcome.”
* * *
They stayed there for hours, sharing the flask of brandy and missing most of the party—but neither really caring. Julien told him that they seldom socialized with the other clans because Lamar disliked such “frivolities,” as he called them.
“But he’s out traveling to Williamsburg with Victor, Vidal, and Allistair,” he said. His shirt and breeches were dry again, and he’d redressed. His boots were still soggy inside, and his great coat damp, so he’d moved them closer to the dwindling circumference of the fire’s warmth. “He wasn’t even past the stoop before my mother was hauling out her old cedar chests and digging through them for party clothes. She lives for this sort of thing.”
Mason talked about studying medicine and surgery under his father. “I’d really like to go to Boston or Philadelphia someday, serve a real apprenticeship, train in a hospital. Not that I’m not grateful to Father for everything he’s done. And I’ve certainly learned a lot.”
“You’ve a knack for shoulders, that’s for certain,” Julien remarked, giving his an experimental shrug.
“Are you feeling any better?” Mason asked, and Julien nodded.
“Just…foolish,” he said. With a glance at Mason, he added sheepishly, “Thank you again for getting my father’s horse back. And for helping me.”
He said this last as if an afterthought, as if the horse should somehow be more important than he was. His words from earlier, filled with nearly frantic distress, came to Mason’s mind: You don’t understand. He…he’ll take the value…out of my hide…
Surely he was joking, Mason thought. What kind of man would that make Lamar Davenant, to prize a horse more than his own son?
“You’re welcome,” Mason told him gently. Inclining his head to draw Julien’s gaze, he added, “And you needn’t feel foolish.”
“I’m sure by now Arnaud’s gone off and told everyone what happened,” Julien said. “I’ll be the laughingstock of the party by the time we get back.”
“No one will laugh. He was an ass to leave you there.”
Julien took another drink from the flask. “He was pretty drunk. I don’t think he realized the drop was that steep.”
“You were hurt,” Mason said darkly. “That bastard, he didn’t even bother to look. You could have frozen to death if I hadn’t found you when I did.”
“And for that, mon ami…” Julien remarked, lifting the flask in a toast. “…again, I thank you.”
Later in the evening, with some more brandy in him to loosen his tongue, Julien had also confided in Mason that his father had originally dislocated his shoulder. “He caught me in his library,” Julien said. “I don’t even know what I was doing in there. The door was unlocked. He never kept it unlocked. And I was curious, I suppose. I found a latch in the floor by his desk. It must have been hidden ordinarily by a rug, but the corner had turned up somehow, enough for me to see it. I could see the outline of a door there, a trapdoor in the floor. It was locked, but when I pulled on the latch, it must have made some sort of sound because…”
His gaze grew distant and forlorn, his blue eyes luminous with the golden glow of reflected firelight. “I heard a voice coming from down there, beneath the trap door,” he said softly. “A woman’s voice. Begging me for help. I was only eight years old, but I could smell her fear…hear her heart racing. And then my father caught me. He came up and grabbed my arm from behind, and when he jerked me to my feet, he must have twisted too hard, pulled too roughly, something…” He blinked, as if coming out of a daze. “I’ve thrown it out a time or two, at least, since then.”
Mason had been quiet as Julien had spoken, his eyes widening with horror. Finding his voice, he asked hesitantly, “What of the woman?”
Julien shook his head. “I don’t know. He’s kept several of them down there over the years. Slave girls, mostly, the ones he takes a fancy to. He likes to lock himself in there late at night and bring them out…play with them a bit.”
He said this last with a slight shudder and Mason realized he might not have been joking earlier when he’d said Lamar would take the value of a lost horse out by whipping him. What the hell kind of monster is Lamar Davenant?
He’d kissed Julien for the first time that night. At twenty-five years old, he had long ago realized that he was different. When the matter came to the heart or the loins, he’d always felt drawn toward other men. He’d tried to force himself to find something enticing in the softness and curves of a woman’s body. But there had been nothing there that had intrigued him, nothing that engaged or excited him—not like with a man. And never with anybody like Julien.
He’d touched Julien’s face, hesitantly at first, and then when this went unprotested, he’d slowly uncurled his fingers to cradle his cheek. He waited for Julien to tell him to stop, to ask what the hell he was doing, because he’d never told anyone—not even his own father—about his desires. Although he’d met a handful of humans who had shared his predilections, he’d never found another Brethren like himself, none among any of the other clans.
But Julien’s heart rate had quickened at Mason’s caress, his body responding with a sudden surge of adrenaline as if he liked the sensation, as if Mason’s touch had pleased him. And as he drew his thumb lightly along Julien’s mouth, Julien’s lips parted and he drew Mason’s fingertip inside.
Holy God, Mason thought, as Julien encircled his thumb with his tongue, lowering his face to take it completely between his lips. He bit back a groan as Julien withdrew, but couldn’t stifle another as Julien next slipped his index finger into his mouth.
“Mon Dieu,” he whispered aloud, and as Julien pulled back, he tangled his fingers in the younger man’s hair and pulled him near. Still, just before their lips met, he froze, so sure this was a dream, a fantasy born of his newly discovered lust for his brother’s friend, that at any moment, he expected to sit upright in bed, wide awake, his cock throbbing with unfulfilled need.
Wide-eyed, nearly ingenuous in his anticipation, Julien trembled, his breath fluttering against Mason’s mouth, his heart racing. Mason leaned in, his lips lighting against Julien’s, briefly at first, and then settli
ng gently. Julien uttered a soft, pleading sound, and as Mason slid his tongue along the seam of his mouth, he opened his lips and let him pass. Mason cradled his face between his hands, pulling him near. He tasted the sweetness of the brandy on Julien’s tongue, felt the warmth of his breath tangling with his own, the eagerness and urgency in his fingers as he clutched at Mason’s arms.
When at last Mason pulled away, Julien smiled, breathless and flushed with excitement—not just the sexual sort, but emotional, as well; the eagerness that came from discovering you were not alone, that another like you—a kindred spirit—had just arrived rather unexpectedly into your world. It was perhaps in that moment that Mason fell in love with him. Any resistance or caution he might have felt had dissolved completely at the sight of Julien’s radiant smile, those incredible eyes; Mason’s heart, it would seem, had been forever lost to him.
CHAPTER FIVE
Once upon a time, when Julien had been no more than seven or eight years old, he’d done something to piss his father off. What that might have been had been long-ago forgotten, because with Lamar it could have been anything—from as well-deserved as having set the house on fire while playing with an oil lamp, or as undue as simply breathing too loudly for the son of a bitch’s liking. Whatever he’d done, it had earned him Lamar’s wrath, and in punishment, Lamar had shoved him facedown into a full chamber pot and forcibly held him there until his lungs had screamed with the desperate need for air. When Lamar had pulled his head back, he’d given Julien only enough time to whoop in one frantic breath before pushing him back into the nasty, fetid basin again.
Julien may not have remembered whatever lesson, if any, Lamar had meant to impart, but he never forgot the terrifying sensation of suffocation. He felt it now, as his mind scraped and clawed its way out of murky shadows and back toward consciousness: a terrible ache; a heaviness in his chest, as if the right side of his rib cage had rotted and caved in, crushing the wind from him. Mouth open, head thrown back, he gulped for breath, struggling to drag in enough air to overcome that awful, primal sort of terror—that feeling of asphyxiation.