Lionheart

by Kate Roman

  “It’s not that I’m afraid exactly,” Ash said slowly. He stared at Roy’s blue eyes reflecting the firelight. Making him think of other, wilder things than lions. “It’s just that I’m not very good at being brave.”

  Roy held out a hand. “You must be exhausted. I’ll dress your wounds again, and then I think you should sleep.”

  On the veldt Ash had felt strong, carried by adrenaline, and even now the pain of his injuries seemed somehow dulled, lessened. But that fever-zing, even combined with the feelings he was now sure Roy conjured in him, could not overwhelm the bone-deep heaviness that seeped through his limbs, and when Roy put an arm around him, Ash sagged against him with relief.

  Chapter Six

  Roy perched on the steamer trunk, watching until Ash’s breathing slowed and deepened. When he was sure Ash was asleep, he silently lifted the curtain and made his way out to the fire ring.

  He needed to think and breathe in the open air. Figure out what their next move would be.

  What his next move should be.

  The soup Roy had prepared for their evening meal sat to one side in a covered cooking pot. Roy banked the fire and slung the pot above the flames. He stretched, cracking his back and rolling the tension out of his shoulders before settling down to take stock of the upheaval that had come into his quiet, ordered existence.

  But hell, if he had a choice, he’d choose Ash to do the upheaving, every single time. The Haywood family scion was so far proving that the apple could indeed sometimes fall quite far from the tree.

  So far as you know, Roy cautioned himself. And so far, that’s one fantastically dangerous encounter, a rescue mission and proof that, as far as the veldt is concerned, youth knows no fear. What happens when he’s better? What happens when he’s healed enough that he heads right back to Thornside and his family, the life he left behind?

  But even as the thoughts entered his mind, Roy dismissed them; instead, he dropped to a crouch and savagely poked the glowing wood.

  Ash didn’t whip himself, Roy mused. And judging by the healed scars, it hadn’t been the first time, so what kind of man would return to a life of privilege whose price was abuse?

  “To hunt lions… They’re…they’re beautiful. I’d choose to watch them, not hunt them. They should be the ones hunting.”

  Roy couldn’t have said it better himself. He’d come out to Rhodesia after the war because he knew of its wildness and wanted to experience it firsthand. Wanted to give it free rein and let it break him, taking whatever battle had not, or let him eke out an existence that held nature’s raw and feral beauty above anything man could dish out. He had nothing but loathing for Gerald Haywood and his ilk, men who saw the African wilderness as their birthright, something to shoot and mount on the wall. But despite his upbringing, Ash had somehow escaped those notions.

  Yet even Ash’s naive enthusiasm, however well placed, could not explain one thing: how could he not have seen the great lion that had stalked at his heels?

  A log in the fire fell through, settling with a great crash, sending up sparks.

  There was a soft swirl of the leather curtain, and Ash stood in the doorway, looking around sheepishly. “Something smells good,” he said softly.

  Roy stared, openmouthed. Ash looked so much easier in his skin, even half-naked and unsure of himself, the ointment on his cuts glistening by firelight. The fear and confusion Roy had sensed earlier seemed to have burned away while he slept. “Yeah. Come have some soup. Keep up your strength.”

  Ash limped silently over. He took a seat next to Roy and, smiling shyly, accepted soup in Roy’s battered tin mug, then drank it down in great gulps.

  Roy put a hand on his knee. “Easy. Take it slow.”

  Ash waved him away, the smile returning. “It’s good,” he said at last. “It’s very good.”

  They both noticed Roy’s hand on Ash’s knee simultaneously.

  The two of them locked gazes in the firelight. A flood of feelings overwhelmed Roy, fighting for dominance. Once again, he was frighteningly aware; this Ash was no cub, but a strong young man.

  Ash looked away first, but shifted subtly closer.

  They sat companionably by the dying fire, listening to the crack and hiss of the coals and the animals in their enclosures settling down for the night. Roy watched Ash’s eyelids start to droop and broke the contact, setting his mug in the dust by his feet. “Go to bed,” he said. “You’ve had a hard day.”

  Ash looked up, meeting Roy’s gaze again. He wavered, seemingly on the verge of saying something, then stopped.

  Roy licked his lips, glancing at Ash’s profile. He wished he understood this Ash Haywood: on the surface, a privileged young man conditioned to harsh abuse, broken by the expectations of the world of Thornside and a forgotten England. At the same time, Ash reminded Roy of the tornadoes that used to sweep through his native Missouri. It almost felt like right now, this evening, Roy was sitting in the eye of the storm, seeing a false calmness, a sunny serenity that could pass at any moment, loosing raw power.

  Ash pushed himself to his feet, his hand going to his ribs. “Come on. Let’s go to bed. Just let me have the bedroll this time.”

  “No. I’m fine. Used to living rough. Besides, you need the cot.” Roy stared into the fire ring. When he looked up again, Ash was still standing there.

  After a moment, Roy climbed to his feet and followed Ash into the hut. Inside, it was nearly too dark to see, but light from the fire seeped round the edges of the curtain.

  Ash crawled onto the cot at once and moved over to the far side. “Leave the bedroll,” he said throatily. Roy froze in the act of pulling his shirt over his head.

  “This cot has room enough for two. I won’t sleep knowing you are on the ground while I have your bed. We can share.”

  Roy lowered his arms, his hands still tangled in his shirt. To lie so close to Ash, to come so close to temptation, was madness, he knew. Yet he did not have the power to resist.

  Gingerly, he lay down beside Ash, folding himself into the narrow space, carefully giving Ash room. But Ash curled against him like a cub seeking warmth, wriggling until he was comfortable.

  Roy stared up at the ceiling of the hut. What had passed between them at Thornside had been madness enough—anonymous, as Roy had thought then, nothing more than the scratching of a soul-deep, undeniable itch. But now, Ash was in his bed, in his life.

  Roy fought back growing desire and thought of all the reasons this was a bad idea. He’d gotten up to six when Ash moved his hand to the base of Roy’s stomach. Every breath Ash took Roy felt against him, and as Ash began undoing Roy’s trousers, both their breathing quickened.

  Roy caught Ash’s hand up in his own. “Don’t. You’re not well. You need time to rest. You need…”

  Ash froze for a moment, then moved in the narrow cot until his lips were right next to Roy’s ear. “I’ll tell you what I need.” His voice sounded different somehow, so deep it was nearly a growl. “Better yet, let me show you.” He withdrew his hand from Roy’s and undid Roy’s trousers with a near-feral passion. He slid a thigh between Roy’s legs and climbed on top, effectively pinning Roy to the bunk.

  Roy looked up at the outline of Ash, the shape of him barely visible in the firelight that trickled under the curtain. Ash’s hair stuck out in every direction from his head, and even in the low light, Roy was certain Ash was smiling.

  Oh hell, Roy thought. Then he gave in.

  He reached out a hand, cupped the back of Ash’s head, and pulled him down into a long, searing kiss. Ash returned it with equal fervor. Plundering Ash’s mouth, Roy let go; if Ash was offering, there was no way he could say no.

  Ash moaned into Roy’s mouth, hands clawing at Roy’s trousers, freeing Roy’s cock, which slipped and slid across Ash’s firm stomach, already slick with precum. Roy rolled up on one hip and tore at Ash’s clothing, touching everything, indulging in the sensation. The two of them were quickly naked, cocks rubbing against one another, sendin
g jolts of pleasure along Roy’s spine. They struggled with the narrowness of the cot, but the confines of the space only served to inflame Roy’s passion, and he found his ardor equaled by Ash. He thrust against Ash’s stomach, all thought of control entirely fled, and Ash bucked in return, the movement sharp and quick and feral. Ash slipped a hand down between them, capturing their cocks in his grip and, gasping, set up a steady rhythm. Roy let him take the lead, savoring the small, needy noises Ash made, the feel of Ash’s sweaty fingers gripping him, keeping him close, demanding submission and release.

  Roy lowered his head to the crook of Ash’s neck and breathed in deeply. He licked and bit at the soft skin, and Ash responded with a ragged moan, his grip faltering for a moment. Thrusting firmly into Ash’s palm, Roy bit a little harder and was rewarded with a savage cry, Ash’s hips lifting off the cot entirely.

  Roy pulled him close, demanding the intoxicating sensation of skin on skin. He moved a hand down to Ash’s hips and gave himself over to the urgent, wild thrusts he longed for, pinning Ash to the cot, savagely thrilled by the soft, pleased whimpers Ash made as he continued to bite Ash’s neck. Their cocks slipped over each other easily, and then Ash suddenly stiffened, pushing his whole body hard against Roy’s, gasping high and sweet. Hot seed rushed at Roy’s belly, spurt after spurt, and the feel of it sent him dizzyingly over the edge. He came hard and fast in Ash’s hand, slicking their cocks further and releasing in him something he hadn’t known could be wound so tightly.

  The whole time, he hung on to Ash, holding him close as if relaxing his grip even a hint would allow the young man to vanish. And whatever it was, this thing they’d found between them, Roy suspected he would never be able to let it go. He would never be free of Ash Haywood. That much was a certainty.

  Ash bucked again, his cock kicking weakly against Roy’s hip.

  Roy chuckled and kissed the bitten skin of Ash’s neck. A feeling of peace stole over him as the waves of pleasure ebbed away and Ash remained in his arms. Roy nuzzled needily at Ash, a small sigh escaping him. The adrenaline he’d been running on since midday burned away like mist before the sun. His limbs grew heavy and his mind numb, thoughts slipping away like shadows. He pulled Ash close, safe from any dangers of the night, and allowed himself to surrender to sleep.

  * * * *

  Roy awoke slowly, awareness returning by degrees. That in itself was unusual. He usually slept fitfully and woke early and suddenly, adrenaline pounding, listening for the guns and the screams that haunted his sleep.

  Today was different. He lay still, wondering at the feeling of contentment that engulfed him, almost afraid to open his eyes in case the feeling went away.

  He moved cautiously and felt the warmth of the body beside him in the bed.

  Ash.

  It hadn’t been a dream. Roy opened his eyes at last. The light in the hut was the liquid cream of early dawn.

  “Good morning,” Ash whispered, making it sound like a question.

  “G’morning.” Before Roy could stop himself, he lifted a hand to gently trace the young man’s jaw. “Did you get some sleep?”

  “Mm. I slept very well, thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me. You’ve had a tough couple of days.”

  Ash harrumphed softly and rubbed his head against Roy’s shoulder. “It’s early, isn’t it?”

  “Sure is.”

  Ash’s thumb came up and gently explored Roy’s lips.

  Roy let his breath out in a long, slow hiss as Ash teased his lips apart. Ash’s thumb was thick and firm against his tongue. Almost automatically, he pressed a gentle kiss against the ball of Ash’s thumb.

  Ash stiffened and then snuggled a little closer. “Roy,” he whispered insistently, and Roy looked into the young man’s blue eyes.

  Roy caught his breath at the longing and eagerness he saw there. He was still trying to think of a response when Ash leaned forward and kissed him, hard and brief, full on the mouth.

  Ash’s lips were soft and electric, and Roy let himself fall into the feeling. Ash moved in Roy’s arms, pressing himself more closely against Roy, and his lips parted, slick tongue teasing at Roy’s, inviting him in. Roy gave in, allowing himself to be drawn into the magic of Ash’s kiss.

  Ash pressed close again, and Roy felt him, hot and hard against his belly, and broke the kiss with a gasp. He held Ash close, fighting his own arousal.

  Ash bucked in his arms, whimpering until Roy kissed him again, deeper and deeper. Roy was drowning in Ash’s mouth, in the movement of the two of them together, in the heat of Ash’s groin firing his own need.

  Roy bucked against Ash’s weight, his own cock sliding between them, Ash slick and hot against his skin. The friction was perfect; it was overwhelming. Roy fought with all his strength to hold back.

  With a harsh cry, Ash broke the kiss, fingers digging into Roy’s shoulders. His seed spilled hot across Roy’s skin, and Roy gasped at the perfection of it, holding Ash as tightly as he dared. Roy’s own tide rose, unstoppable, and with a cry of his own, Roy let go.

  Finally, Ash lay still, and Roy kissed his cheekbones gently with a soft, pleased growl. Ash responded softly with a noise that sounded suspiciously like a purr.

  When Ash went to move, Roy held him still, not wanting anything to break this moment between them.

  * * * *

  As Roy ate the coarse maize porridge that constituted breakfast on the veldt, he considered Gerald Haywood. With luck, the man had taken Ash’s torn and bloody shirt at face value, but that was no assurance they were safe. Carelessness could lead to Ash being taken, at the mercy of Haywood’s sadistic punishments, and Roy would be charged with kidnapping or worse, probably executed on the spot.

  “I’ve been thinking,” Roy said, placing his bowl on the ground and stretching his legs out in front of the log he perched on. “Your family might come hunting you. I hope we put them off the scent last night, but just in case—”

  “I won’t be taken.” On the other side of the fire, Ash put his bowl down. “That gun you have—I’ll turn it on myself first.”

  “It won’t come to that. I promise, all right? They won’t find you. I’m going to make damn sure of that. But I don’t think we should stay here. It’s too obvious, and if they came hunting, they could burn us out.”

  “I bring you nothing but trouble,” Ash said grimly.

  “Your uncle brings nothing but trouble for everyone on the veldt.”

  “So where will we go? I hate that you must leave your home for me.”

  “I leave my home all the time, for many reasons. That’s how things are on the veldt. I go out hunting or gathering herbs and food. There are a number of places in the foothills where we can make safe camp. I take it you won’t object to a little sightseeing?”

  “Masaramusi-man!” The shrill cry came from just outside the compound, and Ash jumped to his feet, looking around wildly.

  Roy stood and laid a hand on Ash’s arm. “That’s for me; someone likely is sick or injured. Go inside; it’s better that no one sees you, yes?”

  Ash hurried back toward the mud-walled hut. Roy watched him for a moment, then walked to the gate of his compound, rubbing his neck. He knew that voice well but was surprised to hear it so far from the Karanga village. The elderly wisewoman rarely came to his compound, more usually sending one of the village warriors to fetch him to her hut. “Mambokadzi?”

  For a moment, Roy saw no one, and he wondered if he’d imagined her imperious voice ringing out over the grasslands. Then a harsh scream rent the air, and a huge black shadow swept over the dusty ground. Roy stepped back as the enormous raptor swept overhead, tilting its wings as it rode unseen currents in a lazy circle before alighting on a fencepost some distance away.

  The bird tilted its head to one side, glittering green eyes regarding Roy with something he refused to call amusement. “Good morning, Onai. I trust you had a pleasant journey?”

  Onai squawked as though in answer, ruffling her feathers and settli
ng her wings neatly at her sides. She and Roy regarded each other evenly for a long minute; then an old black woman swathed in the colorful, practical garment favored by Karanga women strode up to the gate. She held herself firmly erect, making little use of the thick burlwood staff she carried. Roy often suspected Mambokadzi carried it for show or simply because she liked swatting people with it when they didn’t agree with her fast enough. “Good morning, Mambokadzi. Onai’s just been telling me about the weather.”

  “That bird talks too much,” the old woman answered. “But she’s right about a storm coming. A powerful one too. Good to ride it out someplace stronger than this collection of twigs you built.”

  “Someplace like Thornside?” Roy hazarded. He ushered the aged wisewoman through the gate into the compound and seated her by the fire.

  Mambokadzi squawked angrily and spit just outside the fire ring. “Would you wait out a brush fire with a host of devils?”

  Roy held his tongue, set the pot to boil, and started preparing red bush tea for the old woman.

  Mambokadzi nodded approvingly at the tin mug. “You are learning some manners, mm-hm. How to treat an old woman well. My bones ache, boy; all this trouble come to the land.” She settled her garment around her as a dry wind picked at the edges. “You do not feel the storm your young man’s bringing?”

  Roy started, spilling tea leaves on the ground. “What young man?” he tried.

  The old woman laughed long and loud. “I forget. You got so many coming in and out it is hard to keep track.” Her eyes twinkled merrily as she settled her colorful garment around her. “But this boy is different, hm? This boy was born in a storm.”

  Roy busied himself with the tea. “I don’t ask my guest’s origins.”

  “This one you should. Pale like milk maybe, but much more than he seems. He talks with lions, hm?”

  “Tea?” Roy asked.

  Mambokadzi simply grinned and indicated the hut with a jerk of her head.