Hidden Beauty

eBooks are not transferable. They cannot be sold, shared or given away as it is an infringement on the copyright of this work. This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental. Samhain Publishing, Ltd. 577 Mulberry Street, Suite 1520 Macon GA 31201 A Hidden Beauty Copyright © 2008 by Jamie Craig ISBN: 1-60504-009-6 Edited by Sasha Knight Cover by Anne Cain All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. First Samhain Publishing, Ltd. electronic publication: April 2008 www.samhainpublishing.com

A Hidden Beauty Jamie Craig

Dedication We would like to dedicate this book to Matthew Heimburger, Dawn Lonsing, and Lindy Stokes with our deepest gratitude. Jefferson and Micah would not have been possible without their contributions.

Acknowledgements The poetry in this novel comes from the following sources: Matt Heimburger, Dawn Lonsing, and Haley Stokes. Lines from the following works were also used: Percey Shelley’s “Prometheus Unbound”, Samuel T. Coleridge’s “The Presence of Love”, and Shakespeare’s “Hamlet”.

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Chapter One Prior to his journey, Micah Yardley would never have considered anticipation as the ultimate aphrodisiac. The coach was uncomfortable for extended periods of time, regardless of the crisp autumn air filtering through the open window, and it jostled far too much to allow any sort of activity for hours on end. Conversation was normally the only respite, except Micah traveled alone. There was nothing left to do but sit and think about the destination to come. More correctly, to think about the man he was journeying to see. The trip from Boston to Wroxham lasted only a few hours by coach, even less by horse, but Micah felt every moment like a whisper uttered in the dark of night. He had left before dawn, too anxious to wait for the sun to break over the horizon. It meant he would arrive midmorning, and have all day to seek out the object of his attentions. He knew little of the man except for the fact that he resided in the tiny village, far from the beaten path. The university at which he’d given the lecture and presentation where Micah had witnessed his brilliance refused to divulge information of a more personal nature. But Wroxham was a small community. Only a hundred or so residents. If Micah had been a betting man, he would have considered it a sure thing that the innkeeper where he’d made note to stay would know exactly where to find one Jefferson Barclay Dering. In fact, he was counting on it. The coach rolled to a stop. Micah’s hand was on the door before the carriage had finished swaying, and he stepped out into the soft morning sunshine with his heart pounding in his throat. He was barely aware of the gentle breeze rustling his dark curls, or the rash of color already staining the trees. Only one thing interested him right now, and it had absolutely nothing to do with the local weather. The village was even smaller than he expected. Ewan had come to a stop before the small inn, but from what Micah could see, there was little else to Wroxham. A 6

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mercantile, a livery, a private residence or two. At the end of the street was the largest building of all, and it was from there Micah heard the faint sound of voices. He checked his pocket watch. In his rush to travel so early, he’d completely forgotten about Sunday services. The entire village was congregated in the large white church dominating the street. His head snapped up to stare at its double doors. Jefferson Dering would be in there too. As he headed off for the church at a fast clip, Ewan called after him in questioning. “Just wait with the coach,” Micah replied without looking back. “Mrs. Ruark will be with her fellow folk, attempting to save her soul. No point in us intruding when there won’t be anyone in residence.” In private company, Ewan might have a smart reply for him. Their friendship went back to the cradle, in spite of the difference in their stations. But here, where a wayward ear might catch any inappropriate utterances, Ewan held his tongue. Micah merely caught a glimpse of him shaking his head before he pulled open the church door and slipped inside. The voices had gone silent in the time it took him to reach them, with only one remaining, lifting its words to the rafters. Micah stepped silently across the wooden floor and slid into the rearmost pew, his gaze sweeping over the paltry congregation. Though he was certain everyone in Wroxham was in attendance, there couldn’t have been more than a few dozen people scattered amongst the polished wooden pews. Families sat together, the occasional elderly man or woman on their own. His vantage made it impossible to detect more than hair or coat colors, perhaps the occasional profile, but he found who he was looking for within seconds of sitting down. Across the aisle, Jefferson Dering sat midway back, his gaze focused on the minister in the pulpit. His posture was straight, his chin high. It was much the same pose Micah had watched him maintain when he’d been awaiting his turn to speak at Harvard a month previous. Distance kept him from seeing details of the man’s face, but he’d seen enough in the lecture hall. A second row seat guaranteed that.

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The long, narrow face. The high brow, half-hidden by his closely cropped ginger hair. Slate-blue eyes, clear and piercing. Micah had been transfixed by those the entire time Jefferson had recited, unaware of the passing time until the small chime had designated the end of the session. The man was tall too, taller than Micah and most definitely slimmer. He had sought to find the perfect metaphor for the man in the time since seeing him, but had yet to discover it. Micah didn’t pay attention to a single word the minister uttered. The steady cadence of his voice rose and fell over Micah in an unending stream, but Jefferson captivated him. He wanted to take advantage of the chance to watch Jefferson without being watched in turn. Occasionally, Jefferson twitched, and Micah stiffened, wondering if he would look over his shoulder and notice Micah staring. The minister’s closing prayer crawled over his skin. Each word marked another second, dragging him forward towards the meeting he had been fantasizing about for months. Then the prayer ended, and Jefferson rose to his feet in a single, smooth motion. His legs were numb. Micah knew he should stand, follow the others out as they filed down the center aisle, but with the moment so close at hand, his body refused to obey even the simplest command. Several members of the congregation cast him a curious glance as they passed, but no one paused or said a word. Jefferson was too busy helping an elderly woman to even notice him when he went by. Mobility returned when Jefferson disappeared through the church doors. Micah scrambled to his feet then, but had to wait until the others had cleared the way before hurrying off after him. Ignoring the attempts of the reverend to flag his attention, he skirted the milling crowd for the familiar ginger head near the street. “Mr. Dering!” he called out. Jefferson turned at the sound of his name, small lines forming between his brows as he watched Micah approach. “Mr. Dering,” he repeated, once he stood before him. “You have no idea what an honor this is for me, sir.” The lines deepened. “I’m sure I don’t, because I have no idea who you are.”

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Micah flushed. It was his own impatience getting the worst of him. How many times had he been chastised for just that fault? Too many to count. By professors, for his incessant need to get to the point of it. By his parents, for his keen inability to remain settled for long. He had been so excited about this meeting, he hadn’t followed protocols at all. “My apologies.” He took a step back, bowing his head in deference. “Micah Yardley. I’m a student of letters at Harvard. I had the privilege of hearing you speak last month.” The heat burned in both his cheeks and eyes as he glanced shyly up at him. He hadn’t realized the man was so much taller than him, a good six inches at least. “I thought your work was absolutely breathtaking.” Jefferson held out his hand, patiently waiting for Micah to pull himself together. Micah took it, politely, weakly, and the lines between Jefferson’s eyes disappeared, but he wasn’t quite smiling. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Yardley.” The wind picked up, blowing leaves around their legs. Micah shivered. “Perhaps we should continue this conversation off the street?” Nodding towards where the coach still stood outside the inn, Micah said, “My man and I have secured lodging at Mrs. Ruark’s for the next few nights. I’ve been assured her Sunday roasts are well worth the money. Would you like to join me for dinner?” The corner of Jefferson’s narrow mouth lifted, and his blue eyes seemed to soften. “Thank you. Whoever told you about Mrs. Ruark’s Sunday roasts wasn’t lying.” As he spoke, he turned towards the inn, and his hand brushed against Micah’s arm. “I can never resist her specialty.” He managed not to make more of a fool of himself as they strode down the street. Head high, hands in pockets to hide his nervous gestures. His mother would have a fit if she saw, but he’d use forgetting his gloves as an excuse. Which, on second thought, she’d also have a fit about, so it was a very good thing she wasn’t currently there. “Is everything arranged, Ewan?” he asked as they approached.

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Ewan nodded. “Yes, sir. I’ve just to stable the horses and get your bags to your room. Mrs. Ruark says to go ahead and have a seat in the dining room. Dinner will be on momentarily.” Micah smiled, but as he stepped towards the doorway, he paused and glanced back. “See what drink she has. The sun is deceptive today, I fear. We’ll be wanting something to warm us once it’s set.” Jefferson walked into the dining room with comfort, as though he was walking into the dining room of his own home. He settled near the top of the long table, a seat that was clearly his regular choice. Micah hesitated for only a moment before selecting the chair next to him. The tantalizing smell of meat and roasted potatoes drifted into the warm room, followed by the heady smell of coffee. “Did you travel here from Boston today?” Jefferson asked. Micah toyed with the edge of his napkin. “Yes. I’ve made arrangements to take some time off from my studies.” His mouth slanted. “When I told my professors who I was planning on seeing, they were more than amenable to my intentions. Provided, of course, I have fruits of my labor when I return.” “Oh?” Jefferson regarded him like he was the only person in the room. “What sorts of fruits are your professors expecting? Or, perhaps I should ask, what sorts of fruits are you seeking?” His throat was dry. Pinned under that slate gaze, Micah wondered how it was a man of such obvious charisma had chosen a career with a quill instead of one where his other talents might be better displayed, then reminded himself of the beauty that man created. Micah had been in love with verse almost since learning how to read, and no other had touched him the way Jefferson Dering’s poetry had the day he’d first devoured it. Or any day since. “I write,” he replied. “Though my compositions aren’t nearly as polished as yours. My professors seem to be of the opinion that I’m not entirely wasting my time, but I still think their hope to see me properly published by the end of term is optimistic at best.”

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Jefferson smiled wryly. “I would be more than happy to read your poetry, but I can think of at least another dozen authors in Massachusetts who can help you more than I could. How old are you?” “Twenty-two.” But his mind was still stumbling over Jefferson’s earlier words. “You’d read my work? I wasn’t going to ask. I merely wanted to get the opportunity to discuss yours with you.” “We can do that too, but I think reading your work is the least I can do. Nobody else has ever traveled all the way from Boston just to speak with me. How long do you plan to stay?” Micah couldn’t restrain his brilliant smile. “Until the day before I’ve outstayed my welcome.” Jefferson laughed softly. It changed the landscape of his face for a moment, and Micah was struck with the desire to make him laugh again and again. “I’m sure you’ll get bored here long before you outstay your welcome.” With the doubt concerning any poor reception he might receive now quelled, Micah lifted a shoulder in a casual shrug as he relaxed into his seat. “Give me a quill and a pot of ink, and you’d be surprised just how long I can entertain myself. I sometimes think if my work is of any merit at all, it’s out of sheer luck on my part. Eventually, with as much material as I produce, something is bound not to be terrible.” “Well, if your professors are encouraging you to try to be published before the end of the term, your work must have some merit.” Jefferson chewed his bottom lip for a moment. “Yardley? From the Boston Yardleys?” He was too used to his name being recognized to be embarrassed by it anymore. He could merely hope that his family’s influence meant nothing to a poet of Jefferson’s stature. Leaning towards him, Micah lowered his voice to a conspiratorial tone. “Yes. But I won’t tell if you won’t tell.” He expected Jefferson to lean back, but he moved closer, his voice dropping even lower than Micah’s. “Don’t worry. Your secret is safe with me.”

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A quiet thrill rippled through him, starting at the surface of his skin and seeping in sharp oscillations to the muscles below. He found it impossible to tear his eyes away from Jefferson’s, just as he had when he’d watched rapt from his lecture hall seat. The man had an uncanny sense of seeing through a person; it had to be the crux upon which he based his glorious verse. To be able to glean even a fraction of his insights… Micah felt half-drunk on the possibilities. “I can’t believe nobody has ever sought you out. Yours was the highlight of the entire day.” Jefferson finally sat back in his chair, putting the appropriate amount of space between them. “Most people do not even know who I am, including the other students in attendance at my lecture. I don’t command the audience of a Poe, or even a Hawthorne.” “Then they’re fools. I purchased both volumes of your work prior to the lecture, and there wasn’t another speaker that day who even came close to the sort of imagery you offered.” “I suppose if you continue like this, you won’t be wearing out your welcome any time soon. I’m currently working on a third volume. Perhaps you would like to see it before you leave?” He had to drag the words out through the shock of being granted such an opportunity. “It would be an honor, Mr. Dering. I don’t suppose you would…” Micah stopped, embarrassed at wanting to ask. But Jefferson regarded him with expectant eyes, and he plunged forward. “If it wouldn’t be too much of an imposition, perhaps you could read some of it aloud? Poetry is only half a song when it’s caged within the page.” Jefferson didn’t answer immediately. Mrs. Ruark leaned between them, filling their mugs with coffee. She only interrupted them for a few seconds, but it might as well have been a few hours. Micah was more than half convinced that Jefferson would decline. A hint of disappointment crept into his chest, and he looked down to his coffee, hoping Jefferson wouldn’t notice it in his eyes. “I think a reading could be arranged. But only if you return the favor.”

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Micah tamped down the relief that threatened to loosen his tongue yet again. “I could probably be persuaded with enough drink,” he joked. Lifting his cup, he held it out in toast. “To a most entertaining evening. May my verse prove worthy of your ears.” Jefferson touched his cup to Micah’s. “And may my verse prove worthy of your long journey.” Micah smiled and sipped at his coffee. The journey had already proven more than worth it.

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Chapter Two Jefferson barely tasted his meal, even though he dutifully cleared his plate under Mrs. Ruark’s watchful eye. Micah, prodded by questions and gentle sounds of encouragement, enthusiastically kept up the conversation throughout dinner. He told Jefferson about his studies at Harvard, about his life in Boston, about his admiration for Jefferson’s poetry. He went off on tangents about science, about mathematics, about the latest book he read, about the journals and newspapers he admired. Jefferson paid attention to every word. It was often easy for him to block the sound of a monotonous voice, to get lost in the torturous maze of his own mind. Especially when a particular image or rhyme vexed him, and he had been stumped for well over a day on a single line. But he found himself fascinated by the cadence and rhythm of Micah’s voice, by the way his tone rose and fell with his excitement. Micah’s eyes fascinated him, as well. A soft, light brown. Almost amber. Almost liquid. They changed in the light, and sparked when Micah found a topic he was particularly enthusiastic about. When Jefferson could look away from his eyes, he found other characteristics to admire. His full bottom lip. His strong, straight nose. The way his black hair curled around his ears and the back of his neck. Occasionally, Jefferson’s fingers itched to reach up and brush a soft strand away from his brow. When the dishes were cleared from the table, Jefferson realized two things. Micah did not want to part company for the evening, and Jefferson didn’t want to go home by himself. “Would you care to join me for an after-drink at my home? Mrs. Ruark doesn’t necessarily keep the finest spirits.” “I wouldn’t want to intrude.” Jefferson didn’t think that was the case. It must have occurred to him that showing up in Wroxham without warning or introduction would be an intrusion. 14

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“You won’t be intruding,” Jefferson promised him. Any of his companion’s recalcitrance promptly fled, and the smile that had beamed at him earlier returned. “Then I’d be more than happy to join you. Shall I ask Ewan to bring around the coach?” Jefferson chuckled. “No, no. You don’t need to waste Ewan’s, or the horses’, time like that. My house is only a few minutes away.” Rising from his seat, Micah reached for the jacket he’d shed halfway through the meal. “Too warm,” he’d explained, though Jefferson hadn’t quite understood how he could find Mrs. Ruark’s drafty dining room anything but chilly. Still, it had afforded a better examination of the man who’d sought him out, one he was slightly dismayed to lose when Micah slipped the garment back on. “The walk will do me good.” He shrugged his broad shoulders, adjusting the fit of his coat. Though he was a shorter man, he sported heavier muscles, defined arms that seemed contrary to a poet’s lifestyle. Not too heavy to seem apelike, but enough to make Jefferson wonder just how they appeared without the hindrance of other clothing. “I loathe traveling, and it feels like all I’ve done all day is sit. I’m not quite accustomed to that.” Jefferson nodded to Mrs. Ruark, who smiled in return, then guided Micah to the door. The air had turned from brisk to sharp as they dined, and the sun had already disappeared below the horizon. Jefferson was shocked to realize they had passed the entire afternoon in conversation. “You’re not quite accustomed to sitting all day?” Jefferson asked, distracting himself from the cold. “You are a student and a poet. Do you do your work standing?” “Well, no.” His breath made soft plumes in the air in front of his face. It made him seem even more innocent. “But I don’t travel by coach in the city. I walk if I can get away with it.” He shot Jefferson a grin that could only be described as impish. “It drives my mother absolutely mad. She’s convinced I’ll be tumbled by ruffians one of these days.” “So you’re a rebel,” Jefferson teased.

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“Or curious. That’s my usual argument when the subject comes up.” “Boston is a big city. I imagine there are probably plenty of things to be curious about. When I get curious about Wroxham, I just glance out the window.” Micah looked around, as if emulating exactly what Jefferson said he did. “I don’t know if it’s a matter of how many choices you have that truly matters,” he mused. “But rather, the depth at which you pursue new truths on those you already possess.” Micah’s tone was as earnest as his eyes. Jefferson inclined his head, acknowledging the wisdom of his words, before asking, “What depths do you pursue in Boston?” Ducking his head, he shoved his bare hands into his pockets. “You’ll likely find it odd, but I’ve found myself fascinated by the growth of the dock area, the people who flood into the city. There’s a serious dearth of laborers in Boston at the moment, you know. Building the Back Bay is expanding our borders faster than we can fill them. And yet, they continue to do so.” Jefferson had the feeling that he could point Micah at any topic under the sun, and simply stand back. He also suspected that Micah had a sharp memory. No doubt, he was a favorite at Harvard. “We’re here.” Jefferson stopped outside his modest cottage. It was a small, singlestory home. It was cozy, built for a bachelor, not for a family. The large trees that provided shade in the spring and fruit in the late summer were now barren, long, skeletal fingers tapping against his roof. He pushed the door open, sighing with relief at the sudden rush of warm air. Micah stepped into the foyer, his inquisitive gaze taking it all in as he distractedly unbuttoned his coat. In spite of the fact that he knew Micah’s family meant he was most likely accustomed to far more luxurious accommodations, he saw nothing but appreciation in his eyes. He didn’t comment on the rug that was just starting to show its age, or the small but serviceable sideboard Jefferson used as a catch-all near the front door. He merely followed Jefferson into the sitting room and settled comfortably in the chaise lounge, as if he’d done so every night of his life. “Is it just you here?”

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“Yes. Brandy?” “Please.” Somehow, Jefferson refrained from regarding his guest even more intently than he already was as he went to the cabinet and took out the brandy decanter and two snifters. He poured out two healthy drinks, but Micah was still looking intently around the room when he walked back and held out the glass. Micah brought it to his nose and inhaled, his eyes fluttering shut for a moment as he breathed in the scent. He took a small, almost dainty, sip. “Oh, I dare say you were spot on. I almost feel guilty leaving Ewan to whatever wine Mrs. Ruark had on hand.” A few drops of the brandy clung to Micah’s lips. Jefferson blinked and turned away, focusing on the task of lighting a nearby lamp. “You can bring him a bottle with my regards.” “Thank you. That’s very generous.” Micah’s eyes were contemplative when Jefferson finally sat down, following his every movement without seeming obtrusive about it. “I have to admit, I’m surprised to hear you live alone. Your work has never struck me as very…solitary.” “I did live in Boston for a time,” Jefferson revealed. Micah didn’t seem surprised by the revelation. Perhaps he already knew Jefferson’s entire biography. “I grew up there, even. Perhaps the memory of being surrounded by thousands of people at any given time is still present in my work. But I prefer the solitary life.” “Why?” Jefferson took a sip from his glass, letting the strong spirit linger on his tongue before burning the back of his throat. He could have changed the subject. He could have subtly, but pointedly, reminded Micah that it was rude to pry. But he didn’t want to shut the younger man out of his mind. Not yet. “It’s quiet. There are no distractions. I’ve been accused of being a misanthrope.” Micah shook his head. “I can’t believe that. You wouldn’t be able to write what you do if that were the case.” “Perhaps I am just pretending not to be a misanthrope when I write what I do.”

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Silence fell between them as Micah weighed his words. The flame flickered in the lamp as the wick caught a fresh bit of oil. “No,” Micah finally said. “Knowing what I do of your work…I think perhaps it’s the other way around.” In the soft light, his eyes appeared an even brighter shade. “So then the true question is, why pretend to be a misanthrope?” Jefferson should have expected that question. He had been baiting Micah, testing him, waiting to see if he would take the comment personally. “When I came of age, I inherited my grandfather’s home and all of his holdings here in Wroxham. I spent a month here one summer and became quite entranced by the quiet way of life. I decided to move here permanently. There were too many people in Boston I didn’t want to see again. So perhaps I am not a misanthrope in the strictest sense.” The young man’s mouth slanted. “Much to my good fortune.” “Have you ever done this sort of thing before? Journeyed away from civilization to discuss obscure poetry?” “No, never.” He swirled the brandy in his glass, averting his gaze. “I suppose this entire experience must paint me in a rather unflattering light. The awed dilettante, bored with his mundane existence, seeking out the new, the exciting, in hopes of…” Shaking his head, Micah sighed and sipped at his drink. “You’re being very kind, tolerating my imposition like this.” “I’m not tolerating you at all. I quite enjoy your company. I doubt I’ve ever met anybody quite like you. At least, I haven’t met anybody like you in recent memory.” The smile he wore was a shy version of the brilliant one, the one that reached his eyes and outshone the brightest of noons. “I think the drink is getting to me. I’m feeling the urge to wax eloquent on just how much I’m enjoying your company, or at the very least…” Micah cast him a glance through his lashes. “How I’ve never met anyone like you.” “At the risk of sounding immodest, I’m curious about what sets me apart from the other people you know. Because I’m not sure what you could be referring to.”

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It might have sounded immodest to his ears, but Micah seemed more than comfortable considering the request. “It started with your verse, of course,” he said slowly. “I’d never read anyone who regarded frailty of spirit in such compassionate images before. Like the young man who forsook his destiny in favor of a passionless union. Others would have mocked his choice. Called him infirm.” When Micah lifted his head this time, his gaze burned where it locked with Jefferson’s. “You called him dauntless. Applauded his strength of spirit to give to another what he wished for himself. And I knew from just that one selection what kind of man you would be.” Jefferson swallowed, then swallowed again. He knew exactly which poem Micah spoke of. He knew Micah expected him to engage him on an intellectual level. He should discuss why he chose to write the poem in trochees instead of iambs. He should ask Micah if he noticed the way the rhythm broke down in the final verse. He should discuss the classical allusions. Instead he murmured, “I almost didn’t include that poem in the volume at all.” Micah matched his tone, unblinking. “The world is a far better place for your gift to it. Whatever your reason to sway your choice, I’m grateful for it.” “I wish I could tell you I had some sort of divine inspiration, but when the manuscript went to the printer, it was short a few pages. But now that I know how you feel about it, I shall consider it Providence.” “Which makes my arrival on the Sabbath seem not quite so arbitrary now.” Micah laughed. “Why did you choose to travel today and not yesterday?” Jefferson asked, relieved to guide the conversation in a new direction. “Family obligations.” Relaxing back into the chaise, Micah drained the rest of his brandy in a single gulp. “I might not like it, but as long as I remain in Boston, there are still certain social niceties even I can’t avoid.”

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Jefferson detected a certain note of wariness in Micah’s tone. It was the same sort of wariness he heard every time Micah mentioned his home. “Maybe you should try pretending to be a misanthrope. For a few weeks, at the least.” “Very tempting.” Jefferson licked his bottom lip and considered dropping the topic. But he still did not have a concrete idea of how long Micah planned to stay in the village. “Is that an agreement?” The way Micah stared into his empty snifter elicited images of an aging woman reading tea leaves. Was he assessing his future in the brandy sediment? Did it tell him not to leave Wroxham? “I think I would very much like to be your type of misanthrope,” Micah said quietly. “And I’m sure Mrs. Ruark would be glad of the income.” “I’m sure she will be very pleased to have it.” Jefferson stood and held out his hand. Micah stared at him a few befuddled seconds, then smiled and pressed the empty glass against his palm. Jefferson hesitated for a moment before filling it again. The young man probably wasn’t accustomed to drinking like this. He already looked a bit hazy. He poured another drink anyway. “I expect you brought your own paper and ink?” Micah took the brandy back with a nod. “And Ewan is under strict instruction to monitor my use. As soon as there’s even a hint of depletion, he’s to return to Boston immediately and bring me back more.” The twinkle in his eye had returned as he looked at Jefferson over the rim. “I sound rather like an addict, don’t I?” Jefferson poured himself a drink then settled in his chair. “You sound like a poet to me. Of course, the two things are not mutually exclusive.” “Oh? And do you have addictions I should be wary of, Mr. Dering?” “None you should be wary of, no. But I won’t confess to being free of vice.” “Of course not.” The draught Micah swallowed was larger than any previous, half emptying his snifter already. “Because that would be dreadfully boring.”

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“It would, indeed.” Jefferson took a measured sip of his brandy and licked the corner of his mouth. “What about you? Do you have any addictions I should be wary of, Mr. Yardley?” Micah startled him by draining the rest of his drink and setting the tumbler aside. “Just my verse,” he said, rising abruptly to his feet. He took a step as if to explore the room, then unbuttoned his coat to remove it, revealing the trim fit of his trousers beneath. “Oh, and I suppose my quest for knowledge might qualify as such. I find myself hungry to know as much as I possibly can about the world.” “That sounds like it could be a dangerous addiction,” Jefferson murmured. “It’s a quest that could consume your whole life. Are you going to have time for other pursuits?” Moving around the edge of the room, Micah seemed inexplicably absorbed in the various accoutrements adorning Jefferson’s sitting room, running fingers along the spines of a stack of books on an end table, crouching down to more closely examine a figurine left to him by his grandmother. “The trick is to decide what is truly important. If I discover a pursuit worthy of my time, I’ll do what I must in order to accommodate it.” “I know you will.” Jefferson never took his gaze from Micah as he moved. “You probably aren’t accustomed to abandoning a worthy pursuit.” His inspection brought him closer and closer to where Jefferson sat. “That’s probably safe to surmise.” Micah flashed a crooked smile in his direction. “I came to see you, didn’t I?” “Now I cannot help but wonder where your passion for knowledge will take you next.” “If I am so fortunate…perhaps in paths that cross with yours.” He stopped at the lamp, fascinated by the flame. Golden shadows danced across his strong features, leaving half of them in shadow, but when he spoke, his voice was soft and contemplative. “‘Give me that man that is not passion’s slave, and I will wear him in my heart’s core, ay, in my heart of heart, as I do thee.’”

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Jefferson stood, as if an outside force pulled him to his feet. He closed the distance between them, until he felt the warmth of the lamp mingling with the heat from Micah’s body. Micah either didn’t notice the close proximity, or he didn’t mind. “Fortune isn’t what you need. If you want your path to cross with mine again, you’ll know where to find me.” Slowly, Micah tilted his gaze upward. “Which raises the question. Which do you seek? Knowledge? Or something more visceral?” Jefferson blinked. Micah’s mouth was so close, he could smell the sharp alcohol fumes. He needed to take a step back. But he didn’t want to. “Why limit myself to one or the other? I believe in pursuing interests for the mind and the body.” “But you admit, you spend all your time alone. It rather defeats you before you’ve begun, does it not?” Jefferson studied Micah’s face for a long moment before turning back to his chair. “My solitude is self-defeating. But necessary.” If he thought to escape the temptation of proximity, he would have been sorely mistaken. Micah followed, freshly charged, as if Jefferson’s words had fuelled him anew. “I fail to see how isolating yourself like this could be necessary.” When Jefferson moved to sit, Micah curled a hand around his elbow to pull him back. “A mind such as yours is wasted without an audience.” Jefferson paused a beat, waiting for Micah to release him. He didn’t. His fingers burned Jefferson’s arm through his shirt. “Isolation is necessary because of some of my interests.” “You can’t convince me you’re capable of anything that would demand such an exile.” Jefferson gently pulled his arm away, and he didn’t miss the way Micah swayed at the unexpected motion. How intoxicated was he? How much of the night would he remember? Jefferson sighed. It didn’t matter. He wouldn’t risk revealing anything, either by word or by deed.

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“And I don’t think you can convince me you’re not inebriated.” Micah frowned. “What does that have to do with anything?” “I might need to walk you back to the inn before long.” That only served to deepen the younger man’s perplexity. “Are you not enjoying our discussion?” “I am enjoying our discussion,” Jefferson rushed to assure him. He didn’t want to hurt Micah’s feelings with his clumsy attempt at changing the subject. “I’m enjoying it a great deal. But I’m concerned I’ve plied you with too much alcohol.” Micah wrinkled his nose and scoffed. But when he waved his hand to accompany the derisive sound, he stumbled sideways, only catching himself by bumping into a chair. The flush of embarrassment crept up his neck as he steadied himself, and he rubbed wearily at his forehead. “I’ll admit, I’m not quite accustomed to such strong spirits. Or imbibing so freely of them.” “Perhaps I’ll keep the brandy locked away tomorrow night.” Micah glanced shyly at him out of the corner of his eye. “Is that an invitation? Because I’d truly hate to think that I’ve spoiled my chance with you by behaving so abominably.” “It is an invitation.” Jefferson wanted to touch him again. He wanted to put a steadying hand on his shoulder. “You have not behaved abominably. You’re one of the best behaved inebriates I’ve ever met.” That elicited the smile and chuckle he’d hoped for. “No brandy tomorrow night,” he affirmed. “I’ll focus all of my attentions on you and your glorious work, as I should’ve done this evening.” Jefferson didn’t know if he should be thrilled or frightened by the prospect of Micah being even more focused on him and his work. He did know that he wasn’t interested in talking about his own work. He wanted to hear more about Micah’s life, his goals, his passions. “That is a big promise to make. What if you find I’m terribly boring when you’re not drinking?”

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“Then you’ll just have to distract me from that by reading some selections. You did promise.” “Yes, I did. I’ll read whatever selection you like.” Micah swayed on his feet again. Jefferson debated his options before saying, “Perhaps we should call it a night before it gets too late.” “I think that might be wise. Does your offer of an escort still stand?” He waved vaguely towards the doorway. “Navigating the docks of Boston is one thing. Wandering an unknown pitched town while intoxicated is foolish, even by my standards.” “Of course it still stands.” Jefferson picked up Micah’s discarded jacket and held it out to him. Micah made an attempt to take it from him, but his fingers closed without grasping the material. “Here, let me help you.” Micah turned his back to him, twisting his arm back in order to find the sleeve. It made the material strain over his broad shoulders, delineating the muscles underneath. Jefferson couldn’t tear his attention away, standing there for seconds on end while Micah took several attempts to find the opening. “There’s also the possibility you’ll find me boring when I’m not drinking,” Micah said lightly. “In which case, I don’t know how I’ll distract you.” Micah finally found the hole for his arm, then twisted to reach the other one. He stepped back to shrug on the jacket, and his back almost, but not quite, brushed against Jefferson’s chest. Jefferson’s mouth ran dry at the imagined contact. “I didn’t find you boring over dinner. Can you walk?” “Oh, yes, I should be fine.” To prove his point, Micah pulled away and promptly stumbled. Jefferson reached for the other man without thought, gripping his arm before he fell. Micah didn’t protest being handled. In fact, he didn’t resist at all when Jefferson pulled him against his body. Now the contact wasn’t imagined. Now it was all too real. Jefferson caught his breath, freezing for just a moment. Just long enough for Micah’s warmth to spread through his body like the whiskey’s fire.

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The moment passed quickly. So quickly, Jefferson could assure himself it never happened at all. He bent his knees slightly then helped Micah put his arm around Jefferson’s shoulders. Jefferson embraced his waist and took a single shuffling step to the door. Micah didn’t want to move. Perhaps he didn’t want to leave the welcoming light of the fire for the unknown darkness beyond the door. “Come on,” Jefferson encouraged. “Walk with me. One step at a time.” Micah nodded and slurred an agreement. Jefferson felt a stab of guilt as they took their first shaky step. He had knowingly poured too much for the younger man to drink— for what? Sport? He hoped Micah forgot this part of the evening. Jefferson had no doubt he would be mortified beyond words at the memory. The wind sliced through him as they stepped outside of the cottage. Micah gasped, a shudder moving through his frame, and huddled closer to Jefferson’s body. Everything in Wroxham was only a few minutes from his door—including the inn—and Jefferson had never been so grateful for that fact. Even if he didn’t want to break the half-embrace. Jefferson couldn’t focus on Micah’s firm body, or his warmth, or the way he wanted to back Micah up against a wall so he could feel every inch of him. He couldn’t focus on any of that, because the cold air did nothing to sober up Micah. They risked stumbling with each step as Micah’s feet tangled around his. He hadn’t thought to grab a lantern. The moon guided them through the village, but shadows obscured the ground. “We’re almost there,” Jefferson said, for his benefit as well as Micah’s. “Mr. Yardley? Mr. Dering?” Jefferson frowned as the unfamiliar voice drifted on the wind. “Ewan?” “Mr. Dering?” A heavy foot on the carpet of leaves alerted Jefferson to the other man’s location. “Yes, it’s me.” “Where’s Mr. Yardley?” “I’ve got him. He is a bit in his cups.” “What do you mean? Has he been drinking?”

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“We shared a bit of brandy,” Jefferson explained as Ewan stepped into view. “It was not much, but he isn’t accustomed to the spirit.” “Do you want me to take him up to his room?” Jefferson knew it was a perfectly reasonable offer, and he would be perfectly reasonable to accept it. Even so, a protest hovered behind his lips. “I have it quite under control.” “I’m sure Mr. Yardley would not want to impose on you any more than he already has. Please, let me take him up to his room.” Jefferson hesitated. He did not want to relinquish his hold, but it would be foolish to insist on dragging Micah up to bed. “If you’re sure you’ve got him.” Ewan stepped forward and took Micah’s free arm, placing it over his shoulders. “Let’s go, Mr. Yardley. We’ll get you upstairs where it’s nice and warm.” For a brief moment, Jefferson feared Micah wouldn’t let his man take him anywhere. What would he say if Micah refused to let him go? But the moment passed, and suddenly, Jefferson was standing alone in the dark, shivering as he lost Micah’s warmth. Micah began to babble something in Ewan’s ear, but his words were jumbled and sibilant. Jefferson could make out nothing except the sound of his voice, cloaked by the wind. He waited until yellow light spilled from the inn, and then the door closed with a resounding click. The sound was enough to spur him into action, and he rushed back to his home before the wind could do any further damage. The fire was still cackling, and the lamp’s flame was still fluttering beneath the glass dome. The cottage was completely the same, entirely unchanged. Except it felt oddly empty, like Micah had exhausted the space. Like the room had been briefly infused with the vibrancy of his spirit, and he left behind nothing but an empty shell. Jefferson knew he couldn’t sleep. He knew it would be pointless to try. He settled at his writing desk and gazed out the window, staring into the inky blackness. He hadn’t touched his quill in weeks as he mused over the lines that refused to unknot themselves. He hadn’t written anything worthwhile in months. Lately, the steady scratching of quill

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across rough paper wore on his nerves. But now, he picked it up without hesitation. And he wrote. He scribbled. He slashed. He cursed. He thrummed. He sought the corners of his mind for the perfect word, and sought the edges of his memory for the perfect image. Jefferson was still writing when the peeking sun cast long, bony shadows over his face and hands.

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Chapter Three His eyes throbbed. Though he was still half-asleep, Micah felt every beat of his heart reverberating through his eyelids, etching into his corneas, echoing throughout his skull until rest became impossible, dreams painful. The act of opening his eyes, however, was more difficult than the desire, and he groaned as the merest sliver caused fresh pain to resound into his ears. “It’s your own fault,” he heard Ewan say. Water splashed. Floorboards creaked. “You know better than to drink so much.” “I didn’t think it was that much,” Micah muttered. His limbs were heavy, but he lifted a hand to his brow anyway, shielding his vision from the light that flooded it when he finally pried his eyelids apart. “Brandy has never had that effect on me before.” “Maybe because you never drank your weight in it before.” Ewan appeared at the side of his bed, a glass of water in his hand. Scooping a strong hand beneath Micah’s neck, he supported it in order to help Micah sit up. “Here. Drink this. It won’t take the pain away, but it’ll wash away the feeling that you’ve licked the bottom of the brandy barrel.” Swallowing the lukewarm fluid was like swallowing sand, but Micah struggled through the discomfort until the glass was nearly empty. He fell back onto the pillow and closed his eyes again. “The worst part of it is, I don’t even remember the entire evening. I remember dinner, and I remember going to Mr. Dering’s house, and discussing Boston over the first glass of brandy…” Frowning, he tried to grasp the dark wisps of his failing memory. “I think we talked about addictions at one point, though I can’t for the life of me understand how we could have fallen into such a subject.” Ewan snorted.

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“What?” Micah turned bleary eyes towards the other man. “Why does that amuse you?” “It doesn’t. You do.” “Why?” “Because if there is one thing you are, Micah…” Only in privacy did Ewan dare to use his first name, and then, it was usually reserved for when they discussed the most personal of issues. “…it’s unreserved. I don’t believe there’s a subject under the sun you’d find boring. And in the company of Jefferson Dering…” The thought trailed away, but the intent was more than clear. Micah scowled. “You’re not making me feel better about my comport last night, you know.” “Oh, is that my job now? Boost your ego when we both know you’ve been trailing after the man ever since you saw his lecture?” Though Ewan’s tone was light, Micah knew there was truth to his words. With a shake of his head that made all the rocks in his skull tumble together, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat up. “I probably behaved like a fool last night.” “Doubtful.” “He’s never going to agree to meet up with me again.” “Even more doubtful.” “He probably thinks— Wait. Why do you say that?” Ewan poured fresh water into the basin. “Because the man was bound and determined to get you home in one piece last night. The hour was growing late, so I asked Mrs. Ruark where I might find Mr. Dering’s residence. I’d just gone out to fetch you back when I ran into the pair of you.” “Just because he maintains a sense of responsibility in seeing to a guest, does not necessarily mean he’d request that guest’s return to his home.”

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“Perhaps not. Except he took full responsibility for your inebriated state. Not to mention, he seemed quite reluctant to pass you over so I could see you back to our rooms.” Micah weighed Ewan’s words carefully. He didn’t remember making it back to the inn. There were vague impressions of a tall, slim body pressed to his, a strong arm thrown around his back, but he’d credited those to his disjointed dreams, images that dissipated with the dawn but always left him somehow unfulfilled. The thought that he might have spoiled the opportunity of getting to speak with Jefferson Dering again made him cringe. He sincerely hoped Ewan was correct in his assessment. “I’d like you to deliver a note to Mr. Dering for me this afternoon,” Micah said. “With one of the gifts I brought for him. Hopefully, that will smooth over any discord that he might have about last night.” “I really don’t think it’s necessary.” He caught Micah’s frown and shrugged. “Of course. As you wish.” As Ewan finished the preparations for shaving, Micah rubbed at the stubble darkening his jaw. All he could do was hope that he hadn’t made a complete ass out of himself, and that Jefferson Dering was flattered enough to grant him another meeting. He did not wish to return to Boston with his tail tucked between his legs. It was difficult enough explaining away his studies and his poetry to his family; they would consider his premature homecoming as further evidence that he was wasting his time. He didn’t want to think he was. If he didn’t have his poetry, Micah was entirely certain he wouldn’t have anything.

*** With a proper shave and bath, and a breakfast of hot coffee and sausages Mrs. Ruark insisted he finish, Micah felt closer to his normal self than he had when he’d awakened. The sunshine did the rest of it. Wroxham was a beautiful village, nestled off the main thoroughfares amidst towering foliage, the leaves already shifted into the most glorious shades of yellow, orange and red that Micah had ever seen. A slow walk was exactly 30

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what he needed to clear his head. Perhaps when it was, he’d be able to sift through the shadows of his memories and determine just how badly he’d damaged his chances with Jefferson Dering. He wandered from the main road, keeping his head high in spite of the tremendous weight left on his shoulders. Wroxham carried a certain measure of tranquility within its narrow borders. The few people he encountered all nodded at him in greeting, cordial and polite though none could have known him. That wouldn’t have occurred in Boston. There, proper society would have frowned upon such familiarity. It was easy to understand why Jefferson had chosen to settle here rather than in the larger city. There were too many people in Boston I didn’t want to see again. The words floated through his head. Jefferson had uttered them, Micah realized without having to try too hard. When they had been discussing his supposed misanthropy. Enemies? Certainly not. How could a poet and a scholar such as Jefferson have enemies? But who else would he not wish to see again? It was none of Micah’s concern. The polite response would be to forget what he’d heard. He was not here to dissect the man’s personal affairs; he was here to learn how to make his own verse better. Conversation should be limited to their work and any other subjects Mr. Dering might introduce. Though Micah knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he had talked about much, much more over their meal the previous day. And that had been without the benefit of spirit. Inwardly, he groaned. Ewan was right. He had no reserve. It was a fault that proved intractable on more than one occasion, and if he wasn’t careful, it would prove his downfall. The next opportunity he got with the man, he would be composed and gracious. That was what he should have done in the first place. When his head began to ache again, Micah wandered into the mercantile to escape the stabbing sun. Light still filtered through the front windows, but the effect was far more muted, the warmth coming from the stove at the center of the room soporific. A young woman sat behind the counter, and when the bell over the door jingled, she looked up from the needlework in her lap.

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Her dark eyes widened at the sight of him, and she promptly leapt to her feet. “May I help you, sir?” she asked, stuffing her hoop out of view beneath the counter. Micah smiled, hoping to put her at ease. She was younger than he’d first thought, no more than fifteen, he’d wager, and her voluminous sleeves nearly swallowed her waifish frame. Black hair, braided carefully before coiled into a knot, made her already sallow complexion even more so. “I’m after some ink and paper,” he said, creating a purpose on the spot. She garnered his sympathy. He didn’t feel quite right explaining that he was merely walking off the effects of his wrong night. “Or a writing journal, if you’ve one.” She nodded and dropped a quick curtsey before turning her back to go scurrying to the opposite end of the counter. For several minutes, all he saw was the vast expanse of her skirt’s backside, and his attention wandered to the other rather mundane items the store had for sale. “This one has a lovely leather binding.” She startled his focus back to the counter, where she had placed a tooled journal for him to inspect. “But it’s the only one we have, I’m afraid.” He picked it up and turned it over in his hands. Though it lacked anything ornamental to distinguish it, the craftsmanship was solid, the pages clean and smooth. He liked the weight of it in his hand too. Words should be tangible, he liked to believe. Having this tucked away in his grip as he strode through campus would be as fulfilling as writing the verses down. “It’s perfect. How much?” They haggled over payment for a moment, though Micah did it only because he’d been conditioned to. His family might have money, but his parents had taught him never to take it too much for granted. There were people in the world willing to bilk one out of a fortune; it was best to be sharp and always try for the best price. As she wrapped it up, the girl kept glancing up at him through her lashes. “Are you the Mr. Yardley staying at the inn?” she finally braved to ask.

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He smiled. “Now I haven’t been in Wroxham long enough to sully my reputation already, have I?” She flushed. “Oh, no, sir. It’s just that Mrs. Ruark has been talking all week about her new guest from Boston arriving. A gentleman, she said.” Her color deepened. “My apologies. I shouldn’t have—” “Oh, don’t. You’ve done nothing wrong. But yes, I’m that Mr. Yardley.” He took his parcel, tucking it into his coat. “Now who do I have the pleasure of speaking with?” Her brief titter was the most amusing thing he’d seen all day. “Emilia Robeson.” “Well, it was my pleasure to meet you, Miss Robeson. I’m sure we’ll see each other again.” “Are you staying long?” “A few days at the least.” He smiled. “Unless Mr. Dering tires of my presence before then. I just hope he’s not the sort of notable to not forgive a novice for his missteps.” Emilia gazed at him blankly. “A notable? Mr. Dering?” “Yes, of course.” When her confusion didn’t clear, he added, his smile fading, “For his poetry? Surely you’ve read it.” Micah couldn’t fathom her continued denial, and, after a few more unsuccessful attempts to impress Jefferson’s importance upon her, left the mercantile lost in thought. It seemed impossible that someone of his stature could pass unnoticed, even in his own community. If he accomplished nothing else in his tenure in Wroxham, Micah hoped to convince them just how fortunate they really were to have Jefferson in their midst. His feet led him automatically back to the inn, but on the threshold, he hesitated. Surely young Emilia Robeson couldn’t be typical of the town’s residents. Mrs. Ruark at the very least was aware of Jefferson’s prestige, but were the others? Micah looked down the street at the church. Next to the town’s innkeeper, nobody knew more about people than the local minister. The church was the largest building in the village, and the steeple was a sharp white against the dark blue sky. He glanced up as he approached the church, admiring the craftsmanship of the spire reaching above him, and something fluttered in the window.

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Micah paused, squinting against the sun’s glare. Was it just a curtain? Seconds passed, a shadow drifting over the white boards as a cloud moved overhead, but Micah didn’t see anything else. He ran his hand over his face and ducked into the church’s welcoming darkness. He imagined it would be warmer, but the temperature seemed to plunge several degrees. A chill rolled down his spine, and he pulled his jacket tighter around him. “Are you Mr. Yardley?” The reverend appeared out of the shadows, a slight man in his forties with a shiny pate and small, pale eyes. His smile did more to warm the interior than any wood stove the building might have had, and Micah took his proffered hand with unforced enthusiasm. “I keep forgetting this is such a small town. People know of me, but I don’t have the same luxury in being able to greet them by name as well.” “Well it’s not often we have a gentleman of your status in our small village. Deem. Peter Deem.” Micah dismissed Reverend Deem’s estimation with a vague wave of his hand. “I’m just a student from Boston. I’m of no consequence. Having a personage such as Jefferson Dering in your congregation, though, now that’s something to be considered.” “Mr. Dering? Well, he is a good fellow, and he comes from a good family. His grandfather built this church almost entirely by himself.” “Really?” He had vague recollections of Jefferson mentioning inheriting local lands from his grandfather, but anything more specific escaped him. “I wonder why it is he stayed in Boston after his university years. Since his roots are in this particular community and not there.” “Oh, Wroxham was much, much too quiet for him. His mother told me once that she didn’t have the heart to ask him to settle down here in the village. He seemed so attached to Boston.” “It’s a marvelous place. I can’t say that I blame him.”

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Deem smiled. “If you say so. I prefer the comforts of home, myself. How are you enjoying Wroxham?” “Very well, thank you. I’m pleasantly surprised at how neighborly everyone seems to be. And yet, when I mentioned Mr. Dering’s poetry to Emilia Robeson at the mercantile, she had no idea what I was referring to.” The smile on Deem’s face melted away. “Oh, yes. His poetry. He showed me one of the volumes he had published. It is clear that God has given him great talent, but I fear he is wasting it.” Micah frowned, every one of his defensive hackles rising. “Beauty is not a waste in any form.” “I disagree. He should be using his God-given talents to praise Him. But…” Deem held his hands out and shrugged. “Jefferson Dering has always been most stubborn.” He had no idea how the man he had met could ever be called stubborn. He had graciously yielded to almost all of Micah’s requests, making him feel welcome when he could have easily—and rightfully—turned him away. Then again, the reverend didn’t understand just how provocative his poetry was either. Using him as a measuring stick against which to gauge Jefferson Dering was likely not Micah’s wisest decision. “Well, I’m grateful he’s not more so. Otherwise, he might not have granted me an audience.” “He’s stubborn, but he does have a good heart. Now, is there anything I can do for you while you’re visiting our village? You’re comfortable at the inn?” “It’s quite satisfactory. Mrs. Ruark is a wonderful hostess.” Micah supposed he had his answer now. The others might be aware of Jefferson’s poetry, but few regarded it with the same esteem he did. It was no wonder Jefferson had been so surprised by Micah’s attention. “I’ll keep your offer in mind, should I find myself in need of anything,” he added, retreating for the door again. After the chill inside the church, the cool autumn air was going to make a nice reprieve. “It was nice meeting you, Reverend.” “It was my pleasure. May God be with you.”

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He could see Jefferson’s cottage from the church’s front door. The curtains were closed, and everything was still. As if the house were empty. He took a step forward and hesitated, then looked over his shoulder to Mrs. Ruark’s inn. He could almost taste his desire to see Jefferson again, but he had already intruded on the other man far more than was reasonable. “Mr. Yardley?” Ewan smiled as he approached from the inn. “You’re looking better after your walk.” “I’m feeling better.” Micah held his ground to keep from glancing at the Dering house again. “Have you had the opportunity to run the errand I asked you to?” “Yes. I just returned and stopped at Mrs. Ruark’s first to see if you returned to your room. He was pleased by the gift, but surprised by your request.” Micah’s stomach sank. He’d truly hoped it hadn’t gone that badly. “I suppose that means it’s just you and I for dinner then.” He shrugged and started walking to the inn. “That’s probably just as well. My headache is improved, but it’s not yet gone.” “Oh, I suppose I could go tell him that you’ve changed your mind. But he seemed to be laboring under the assumption that he already had an appointment with you.” Stopping dead in his tracks, Micah glanced back at Ewan. “Really? Are you certain?” “I’m quite certain. The first thing he did when he answered the door was ask after your health. The second was confirm that you would be joining him tonight, at his home, for supper.” The chill he’d felt inside the church vanished, replaced with a creeping burn that started in the pit of his stomach. He hadn’t fouled his chances. They had another meeting. He was smiling as he resumed his path to the inn. This time, he would be on his utmost best behavior.

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Chapter Four Sparks crackled from the burning log as Jefferson prodded it deeper into the embers. The heat rolled through the room, a welcome balm from the rising wind outside, and the peaty scent of smoke completed the task. The only thing that would relax Micah more would be a brandy, and he had already vowed he wouldn’t even touch a spirit that night. Supper had gone phenomenally well. Jefferson had been ready and waiting when he’d arrived, and the first thing he’d done was insist Micah remove his coat. “We don’t need to stand on ceremony. You’ll be much more comfortable without it.” And he was. No mention was made of Micah’s inebriation the night before, and by the time they sat down at the table, more details of the time he’d spent in the Dering house had filtered back into Micah’s memory. When Jefferson picked up cups for their tea, Micah remembered how the long fingers had looked curled around the brandy snifter. When Jefferson chuckled at one of his anecdotes, he remembered the slow smile that had burned deeper than the drink. The more they spoke, the more Micah realized that Jefferson actually encouraged his meandering conversations. He prompted Micah to share opinions, without condemning those he disagreed with. He posed questions that elicited long discourses, contributing his own thoughts whenever he found the urge. Not once did he make Micah feel less than wanted. And more than once, Micah thought Jefferson might truly enjoy his company. They walked into the sitting room for tea and cakes, arguing like old friends. “I almost feel guilty leaving Ewan back at the inn,” Micah mused. He toyed with his teacup, watching the long stretch of Jefferson’s back as he bent over the hearth. “But I must admit I’m rather enjoying having you all to myself.” “You’re welcome to invite Ewan the next time you join me for supper.” Jefferson straightened, and he didn’t turn around or step away from the hearth. The light from the

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fire seemed to tangle with his hair, turning it a more golden red. “But I, too, have enjoyed having you to myself.” “If he didn’t despise poetry as much as he does, I’d extend the offer to him.” His mouth slanted as he sipped at his tea. “But I’ve a feeling he’d consider it punishment of a sort.” “You keep him employed even though he despises poetry?” Jefferson finally turned from the fire and flashed a quick smile. “I thought you would find that sort of attitude an unpardonable sin.” “I fear it’s my fault he despises it as he does.” At the curious lift of Jefferson’s brow, Micah inclined his head. “Ewan was born into the household. His mother was the governess for me and my siblings, so we were raised together. I used to subject him to readings whenever the whim took me.” He laughed. “And if I fear for the quality of my work now, there is no pardon for my earliest composition. I was absolutely dreadful.” “Do you still subject him to readings, or have you found a more suitable audience?” “And risk Ewan abandoning me to an old codger who’ll tether me to Boston? Never.” Jefferson settled in the chair directly across from Micah. “I’m sure somebody like Ewan is worth a king’s ransom. He seems quite able.” “He’s a friend. A dear friend. Even if he doesn’t appreciate our genius.” “It’s good to have somebody like that in your life. I once…” Jefferson’s voice faded and his eyes grew unfocused for a moment before he smiled. “Speaking of genius, when will I get the chance to hear your work?” Though it was a valiant effort, Micah noticed Jefferson’s change of topic. He had been about to discuss something obviously personal, and then thought better of it. It was likely irrational, but disappointment like sour bile settled in his stomach. Clearly, Jefferson’s diversion was proof this was a purely professional relationship they were cultivating, even if there were moments where it felt like something more. He maintained his pleasant façade, in spite of the discouragement. This was already more than he had hoped for; he needed to be satisfied with what he got.

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“I’m afraid I didn’t bring anything with me. But I’d much rather hear yours instead. Might I convince you to share something?” Jefferson studied him for a long moment. His silence stretched for so long that Micah braced himself for further disappointment. He seemed to be weighing something, his blue eyes shadowed and thoughtful, his forehead pulled into a slight crease. “Would you be interested in hearing something new?” A thrill coursed through him. Micah sat up straighter. “I would be most honored. Is this something for your third volume?” Jefferson’s lips twitched into a strange little smile for a beat. “No. I’m actually not positive where it will end up. I don’t have enough of anything right now to even consider publishing a third volume, as much as I would like to.” “That’s just a matter of time, I’m certain.” Setting aside his teacup, Micah tried to quell the tremor in his hands by folding them together in his lap. It was a trifle embarrassing how excited this entire prospect made him. His body was reacting in inappropriate ways, including the hardening of his shaft inside his trousers. “Is this a recent composition, or something you’ve been working on for some time?” “Recent. I actually wrote it last night and this morning. I suppose it might suffer from my lack of sleep, but I find it best to indulge the muse whenever she deems me worthy.” “So your muse prefers to inspire in nightfall.” He chuckled. “Perhaps she should speak with mine. For the life of me, I can’t discern her timetable at all.” “I am afraid my muse is just as unpredictable as yours.” Jefferson stood and crossed the room to his desk. Micah could easily imagine Jefferson hunched over the old desk, scribbling long into the night, his face marked by a thoughtful frown, his hair tousled. “I have several fragments, but two completed. Still untitled.” Jefferson paused for a moment, his gaze darting from the paper in his hand, to Micah, then back again. “‘The woods of Greylock, so wild before,/ now hold the promise of eternal spring;/ our fears brought forth by ancient lore,/ flee with the gift each new season brings.’”

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Over the past two months, reading the poetry of Jefferson Dering had always been one of his favorite pleasures. Micah carried the small volumes everywhere, pulled one or the other out to read when he felt the need, lost more minutes than he could fathom by getting lost in the imagery. He had always thought nothing could exceed such delight. But he had held such beliefs prior to hearing the man speak. Listening to Jefferson was utterly different than reading him. This was verse given life. Each word carried a weight Micah had only imagined before. Now, he felt it. They issued in a smooth baritone to cross the distance, hover for seconds before him, then drift down to caress his skin as it seeped into his flesh. There was so much he adored about Jefferson’s poetry, but the way each image demanded to be experienced—the way Jefferson’s heartfelt recitation demanded—was what he truly loved. The last line of the poem was still reverberating through his body when Jefferson looked up from the paper. “I think it’s still a little rough.” Micah started. “You must be joking. It’s brilliant.” “No. I will need to revise it. The penultimate stanza doesn’t…” Jefferson paused and tilted his head. “Do you really think it’s brilliant?” “Even the stanza you don’t care for.” When it was clear Jefferson didn’t believe him, Micah barreled forward. “The rhythm is irregular in that stanza, it’s true. But it has to be. By disrupting the flow that tiny bit, you force your reader to slow down. He has no choice but to savor the imagery of the changing seasons, which ultimately, is the theme of the piece. The only way to banish our fears is to embrace the gifts each new season brings to us. To not is to live a life half-shadowed and half-explored.” “Then who am I to argue?” Jefferson bent over his desk again, plucking his quill out of the ink. Micah held his breath and heard the steady scratch of the tip over the thick paper. He turned, approaching Micah with the poem held out in front of him. “Here. It’s yours.” He took the paper without tearing his gaze away from Jefferson. “But your new volume. Surely you wish to keep it for that.”

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Jefferson shook his head. “I think it will have more value as a gift. You’ll appreciate it.” There was no arguing with the truth of his assertion. Micah doubted anybody could appreciate Jefferson’s work as much as he did. “Thank you,” he murmured. He held the poem with reverence, but when he saw what he’d written across the top as the poem’s title, he nearly stopped breathing. For Mr. Yardley. Micah forced his throat to work, swallowing against the tightness. “This is…” Words failed. It took several seconds for him to lift his too-light head and meet Jefferson’s expectant eyes. “I’ll treasure it, Mr. Dering. You have no idea how much.” “Will you do something for me?” He waited for Micah’s eager nod. “Will you please call me Jefferson?” New warmth suffused his muscles. He couldn’t restrain his brilliant smile. “Only if you will do me the honor of calling me Micah.” “Of course. Micah.” Nobody had ever said Micah’s name that way before. Jefferson seemed to caress the word with his tongue, tasting it as it shaped his mouth. His palms were perspiring, and the distinct trickle of something damp made the back of his neck tickle. Tearing his gaze away before he said something even more inappropriate, Micah set the paper on the small side table so he would not damage it. He intended to roll it carefully and tuck it into his coat pocket when he left, but for now, it was far safer resting within touching distance. “Do you always have such results on your first drafts?” Jefferson shook his head. “No, I don’t think so. I worked on my first volume for nearly three years before I felt comfortable having it published. Then I counted at least two dozen lines to fix. I’m rarely satisfied with a first effort.” Micah chuckled. “You should deduce what captivated your muse this time and lash it to your desk. You’ll have that third volume completed by Christmas, then.”

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“It could just be the recent disruption in my life. The changing of the seasons always has this effect on me. It brings a fresh perspective to the world. Of course, you’ve brought a rather fresh perspective to Wroxham.” “I’ve brought an opinionated perspective to Wroxham.” “It’s certainly something new. I might be becoming too complacent in my quiet life.” A mad notion drew Micah straighter. “You should come back to Boston for the winter. You could give more lectures. Or just spread your wings and explore like I do. That would kindle something new, don’t you think?” “No.” His sharp tone made Micah jump, and Jefferson winced. “I’m sorry. That was inappropriate and uncalled for. But I…I don’t miss Boston.” In spite of the apology, Micah smarted from the obvious misstep he’d taken. He knew Jefferson had issues with Boston; he’d been debating that very topic most of the day. He was a fool to have let his mouth run away from his brain, and he deliberately tamped down the exhilaration he’d felt with the gift to focus on not making such an error again. “I shouldn’t have suggested it. You have a life here. You don’t need a near stranger telling you to give it up.” “No, Micah, it’s not that. You might have been right to suggest it. But I have…I have a history in Boston. That’s all.” Jefferson stepped closer and touched Micah’s shoulder gently. “I don’t expect you to know that.” Sincerity shone in Jefferson’s piercing eyes, rooting him far more effectively than the hand resting on his shoulder. The hand was having the opposite effect, actually, churning Micah’s stomach until it tightened into a tiny ball, making him struggle with the urge to reach up and do the same. He didn’t understand its origin. Jefferson welcomed his friendship. He shouldn’t feel so nervous around the man by this point. “You’re very generous,” Micah said softly. “Though this now leaves us the conundrum of how to discourage your complacency here in Wroxham.” It might have been Micah’s imagination, but Jefferson’s grip seemed to tighten on his shoulder. “Perhaps after you return to Boston, we can take up a correspondence. You

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can tell me about your explorations, and I’ll have a chance to read about the good parts of the city.” “Oh! That’s a splendid idea! And it’ll provide testimony that I actually did come to see you, rather than expending course time for a personal holiday.” He grinned. “Though this is already infinitely more satisfying than any holiday I could have concocted.” Jefferson frowned. Micah already recognized it as a sign of deep thought, not unhappiness. “Micah…do you actually need to provide testimony? Or are you exaggerating a little?” He wished Jefferson didn’t still have a grip on his shoulder. It would have been easier to lie then. “I can’t afford to let anyone think that I’m not utterly serious about my verse,” he said, all pretense of his excitement gone. “My professors are aware of my intentions to visit you, but…” It was difficult to admit. He talked of his familial issues with no one. But that piercing gaze compelled him to try. “They would be hard-pressed to believe me without proof, should someone speak against me.” Micah swallowed. “Like my father, for instance.” Jefferson’s lips thinned. “Your father would lie to your professors? He would accuse you of lying to your professors?” Micah nodded. “If he decided it was important enough. I’m a Yardley. Yardleys aren’t poets.” “Is this why you have never published your work?” “Publication without success would be the ultimate failure. If I wish to have any support at all from my family, I can’t just be adequate. I thought—I hoped, if I could polish my work to a standard that satisfied even you, that might be enough.” Jefferson’s fingers flexed. “Micah, I will do what I can to help you. But I’m not the person to come to in the hopes of success.” He held up his free hand. “Please, don’t try to tell me otherwise. By your father’s definition, I am the personification of ultimate failure.”

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“My father’s wrong.” He spat the words, surprised at the vitriol in them. But it felt too good to release some of his frustration now that he had the opportunity. “There is so much he doesn’t understand. He’s a narrow man, with a narrow view, and those of us who refuse to bend and break in order to fit into his narrow little world are damned if we do, damned if we don’t.” Jefferson surprised him by smiling. It wasn’t a broad smile. The corner of his mouth barely lifted, but it was a smile all the same. “I think you might have it in you to stand up to him.” Micah laughed, a sharp bark of a sound that hurt to do as much as it hurt to hear. “You can only say that because you haven’t seen us in the same room. But thank you for thinking so. And thank you for agreeing to help me.” Reaching up, he rested his hand over the one Jefferson still had on his shoulder, clasping it lightly. “I only hope I don’t disappoint you. You truly are the best man I’ve had the pleasure of meeting in a very long time.” “How do you imagine you could disappoint me?” Jefferson asked, his voice low, almost a whisper. “You haven’t heard my work yet.” He smiled, trying to dispel the somber mood his confession about his family had wrought. “Or I could find your brandy again, and get intoxicated enough to make a complete fool of myself.” Jefferson chuckled softly. “As the one person in the room who actually remembers last night, let me assure you, you didn’t make a fool of yourself.” Grateful for the returned camaraderie, Micah released his hold on Jefferson’s hand, rising to his feet and pulling away as he went to the fire. “Whatever we choose, I’m going to insist on a verse for a verse. I share one of mine, you share one of yours. That’s more than fair.” “I think that is fair, but what if I am not inspired to write another poem? Does that mean you won’t share your poetry with me?” He felt rather than saw Jefferson join him at his side. “I’m sure we can work out some sort of trade,” he joked.

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Jefferson glanced at him from the corner of his eye. “I’m sure we can. We’re both reasonable men.” The subject matter launched Micah’s thoughts into a new direction, but as he spouted his theories on the reasonableness or not of the actions of men in power, he stayed aware of the warm pressure of Jefferson’s arm against his. Neither man moved to break the contact, nor was any mention of it made. But Micah felt it, just the same. And it felt wondrously good to share the company of a man who understood him at last.

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Chapter Five Micah was torn between the jubilation of finding a spirit kindred to his own, and dismay that he’d succumbed to the seductive temptation of betraying the true status of his familial regards. Jefferson had censured such conditions without pause, and while it had been a relief to believe during those moments that his family was wrong, the guilt that arose afterward almost dwarfed it. This was the only family he had. Their perspectives were just as valid as his own, and to dismiss them would fall into the same failings his father did. No, Micah firmly believed that the best course of action was to continue as he was—polish his work to faultless perfection, then publish it to accolades his family could not ignore. Everyone would be satisfied then. Rather, everyone would be as satisfied as they could be. He stared up at the ceiling, listening to Ewan’s light snoring come from the other bed. Had it been his imagination, or had Jefferson taken greater umbrage at his situation than a new acquaintance should? Micah wasn’t certain. Not that he objected, far from it. Hearing Jefferson’s support had been vindication of the highest order. It merely seemed peculiar to have somebody who scarcely knew him leap so quickly to his defense. Nobody back in Boston did so. And Ewan only did in private. Was this what true friendship grew in to? Micah had never had many friends. His interests varied from those of his peers, and his elder brothers were intolerant of his academic pursuits. They fed off Father’s disapproval, pack animals jumping at the command of their leader, which only bled into those within their social circles. Micah had hoped his educational forays would yield introductions to people who wouldn’t hold the same mentality of his family, but so far, those hopes were unfulfilled. Only his professors seemed indifferent to his social status, and while their enthusiasm for his work was more than gratifying, outside Harvard that was a tenuous pleasure at best. 46

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His lack of interest in pursuing marriage only exacerbated an already untenable existence. Time and time again, his parents urged him to start considering the young women in their circles, forcing him to attend balls he had no desire for. He obeyed, but with only the barest compliance, dancing as few times as he could, fleeing the parties as soon as it was socially acceptable. He put his foot down to calling on any during the day. Why trifle with a woman’s hopes when he had no intention of granting them? James, his eldest brother, reproached him for his cavalier attitude. “You have the luxury of marrying someone you genuinely wish to,” he chastised. “You don’t have to worry about being the one responsible for continuing the Yardley heritage. You get to fall in love, or at the very least, fall in lust with your future wife. Why would you not take full advantage of such a gift?” Micah simply shrugged and fled as soon as he could. He had no desire to admit to James that he had yet to meet a woman who inspired him to such heights. His verse inspired him, as did all writing. The more beautiful it was, the more he longed. He would shiver at some of the imagery a brilliant poem evoked, flush with warmth when a metaphor struck a particularly strong chord. Even listening to Jefferson recite earlier that evening had elicited a forceful reaction. His body had tightened, quivered with each word. He had ached as he sat beneath Jefferson’s keen gaze, drinking in the poem until he was quite certain he was as inebriated as he’d been the previous night with the brandy. How to explain such a response to his brother, though? The answer was simple. He didn’t. He could barely explain it to himself. Jefferson understood. He offered no recriminations, no disfavor. He didn’t withdraw from Micah’s presence, and when he spoke, when he recited the poem he had bestowed upon Micah, he radiated a passion that Micah could only aspire to. It was impossible to look away from his lean features when he was in the throes of reading. Such intensity could only be possible from a sympathetic spirit. Micah rolled onto his side, trying to relieve the pressure in his tight muscles. Sleep was elusive. His body was still taut from the fervor of supper and poetry with Jefferson, as if Jefferson knelt at the side of his bed and whispered the words of his new

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composition in a voice meant only for Micah’s ears. He saw him now, slate eyes steady and sure as his mouth made love to the words. He would not be wearing his jacket, attired as he had been in the sitting room, but his shirtsleeves would be rolled up and stained with ink, just like his fingertips, a sign that he had only just finished writing down the verse. “You won’t disappoint me,” he would hear Jefferson murmur when he finished reciting. “Of that, you have my word.” The instinct to answer back opened his mouth, formed the words on his tongue. Ewan’s snore snapped him back to the present. Jefferson promptly vanished. Pushing back the blankets, Micah sat up. He was never going to get to sleep like this. What he needed was a brisk walk, exhaust his body until it had no option but to slumber. He dressed as quietly and quickly as he could, casting glances at Ewan’s back to ensure he wasn’t stirring, and escaped the room to hurry downstairs. His breath plumed in front of his face as he strode along the main street. Micah felt every crisp inhalation all the way to his toes; if it succeeded at anything, it was to enliven the senses he’d hoped to dull. Each sound and each sight etched through the darkness, and for the first time, he understood the appeal Wroxham must hold for Jefferson. It really was a beautiful village, lent majesty by the tall spire at the end of the street. Rapture he didn’t comprehend drew his footsteps closer. Reverend Deem had said Jefferson’s grandfather had constructed the church. It was a part of him, a part of his heritage. It was where he had first spied Jefferson, and now he had the overwhelming desire to experience the church again. Within moments, he reached the front door. It opened silently at his touch, and he slipped inside, swallowed by the darkness.

*** When it became too difficult to keep a friendly distance between himself and Micah, he knew it was time to escort Micah back to his room. And when he tried to scrawl a 48

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word across the page, only to see the fine ink make an erratic pattern instead of the shape he envisioned, he understood he wouldn’t be able to complete even a single line of verse. His mouth was dry, but no amount of water, or tea, or even brandy, could help. His face and the back of his hands itched, as though something was stretching his skin tighter and tighter. The last time he felt this way, he had been young enough, and foolish enough, to act on the raging emotions. He remembered hoping, believing, that if he just indulged his cravings once, his system would be purged of them. That belief had been wrong-headed, to say the least, and he couldn’t go down that road again. Even if a part of him suspected young Micah Yardley would allow him his indulgences. Jefferson stood. He sat. He paced. He poked at the fire. He blew out the lamps. He relit the lamps. He paced again. He walked along the perimeter of his small home, moving from room to room, trying to put Micah out of his thoughts. His hand still burned where he had touched the younger man’s shoulder. His body still burned everywhere they hadn’t touched. He relived the night, examining each word and gesture and smile and frown. Jefferson might have been able to withstand his nameless attraction if he hadn’t noticed the small tremor in Micah’s fingers. If his gaze hadn’t been drawn to Micah’s lap, his tight pants, his unmistakable arousal. He might have been able to ignore even that if Micah’s eyes hadn’t widened, if his breathing had only remained regular, while Jefferson read his poem aloud. Jefferson might have been able to ignore all of that if Micah hadn’t looked at him with such bleakness and hope. Like he was drowning in gray, choppy waves and he believed Jefferson had the courage to save him, if not the strength. That look would be his undoing. Jefferson’s hand drifted below his waist. He had been partly hard all night, but now the memory of that look brought him to full erection. He knew it would be easy to

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undress, to lie down on his narrow bed, and free his thoughts and fantasies, if only for a little while. So easy. And so tempting. He didn’t want to give in. If he acknowledged his desire to such an extent, how long would it be until his own hand wouldn’t be enough? How long would it be until he was forced to turn to Micah? Or worse, forced to turn to another who would keep Jefferson’s secret in return for a few pieces of silver? Jefferson could not take the risk. Instead of unbuttoning his pants, he slipped on his jacket. It would be best to escape the confines of his cottage, where he imagined he still smelled Micah’s skin, still felt the heat from his body. He fled into the darkness of the night, the door barely clicking shut behind him. He walked in an unerring line, going directly to the one place in the village where he might find a modicum of peace. The church was a phantom against the pitch sky. It seemed taller and wider, more imposing, a structure not of Jefferson’s world. A silent monument to something Jefferson barely grasped, but something he could name, if forced to. He didn’t go there to pray. He never went there to pray. He felt he was beyond asking for forgiveness and comfort from the Father. Now when he attended church, he sat in the dark pews waiting for a different sort of relief. The door swung open before Jefferson had the chance to touch it. As though he was not only expected, but also an honored and cherished guest. He stepped into the cold building without hesitation, even though the chapel was blacker and denser than the night. The door whispered a greeting as it swung shut behind him. Jefferson stood alone in the darkness for mere seconds before an unexpected blaze blinded him. His arm went up automatically, shielding his eyes from the orange light, and fear pierced his stomach. Was the church on fire? Did a spark jump from the fireplace and onto the dry, wood pews? It wouldn’t be the first time a church burned to the ground in Wroxham. Those thoughts were gone in just seconds, as Jefferson realized there was light, but no heat. His nose and eyes didn’t sting with thick smoke, and there were still goose bumps on his neck and arms. His eyes adjusted to reveal that every candle in the building

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had flared to life. With a frown of confusion, he circled the church, extinguishing the candles until only one flame remained. Occasionally, a wick would flicker and dance after he walked by, but it didn’t take long to leave only a single, weak candle in the back of the building, near the door. He used it to find his regular seat. The pew in the center of the chapel. He folded his arms over his chest, trying to ward off the ever-present chill. Visiting the church this time of year was uncomfortable. During the deepest, darkest days of January, visiting the church was almost impossible, though he was still drawn to it. Building a fire in the stove wouldn’t make a difference, so he didn’t bother with the attempt. Jefferson had hoped the church would soothe his raw nerves, but it didn’t seem to help. His flesh was still uncomfortably hard. “I’m not certain what I should do,” Jefferson murmured. He didn’t expect a suggestion, and none was forthcoming. Micah was nothing like the hazel-eyed, blond boy who had first captivated Jefferson’s attention, when he was younger than Micah was now. Vincent. He never wasted time on thoughts of Vincent, but now he weighed heavily on Jefferson’s mind. Almost as heavily as Micah. Micah was Vincent’s antithesis. And Jefferson’s feelings for Micah were different, as well. He never wanted to simply wrap his arms around Vincent and shield him from the gray world. For every thing he wanted to do to Micah, there was something he wanted to do for Micah. He didn’t have any proof, but he suspected Micah had never experienced anything like physical affection. Not even the filial sort. How demonstrative would Micah allow him to be? How much contact would Micah tolerate? Perhaps Jefferson wouldn’t worry to show him any sort of affection at all, but he had never met anybody who needed it as much as Micah did. A certain genius lurked behind Micah’s light brown eyes, and Jefferson didn’t want Micah to conceal it. He didn’t want life to smother Micah’s enthusiasm.

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He didn’t want Micah to be hurt. Jefferson thought he was too fragile. He was vulnerable to the sort of wounds a thoughtless word, an unkind gesture, could inflict. As much as he might want to, Jefferson knew he couldn’t protect Micah from that. It wasn’t his job to protect Micah from anything. He wasn’t Micah’s keeper; however, he could be Micah’s friend. If he could keep his impulses under control. It would be difficult for him, but it would probably be the kindest thing he could do for Micah. A good night’s sleep could only help. He stood and turned towards the door, only to stop as it swung open, spilling moonlight all over the floor and revealing Micah’s familiar form. Jefferson barely had the chance to register what he was seeing before Micah moved over the threshold and shut the door behind him.

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Chapter Six Micah didn’t notice him at first. The candle snuffed out, disguising Jefferson in shadows. His eyes adjusted quickly to the darkness, and he watched Micah slowly make his way down the center aisle. He wanted Micah to see him before he spoke. He didn’t want to scare him. But he simply wasn’t looking in Jefferson’s direction. Jefferson spoke Micah’s name softly, but in the perfectly still church, he might have shouted. Micah’s head whipped around. The pale moonlight filtering through the windows made his eyes shine like a cornered animal, but he didn’t otherwise move. “Jefferson?” The breath of his name floated between them, and Micah took a tentative step forward. “What are you doing here?” “Just thinking. Sometimes I come here when I can’t sleep. What are you doing here?” Another step closer. The movement cast his eyes back in shadow. “I couldn’t sleep either. But I walk when I can’t sleep.” He paused. “Why couldn’t you rest?” Jefferson could only stare at him for a moment, wondering if he had somehow called Micah to him with his thoughts. Or maybe he had forced him into existence somehow? “I’ve been thinking about things.” Jefferson paused. Micah was still standing in the aisle, looking at him. “Come here.” He obeyed without hesitation, sliding into the pew to stand before him. “Are you considering a new verse? You know I’ll do anything to help.” “No. No verse tonight.” His hand moved without thought and he reached out, almost touching Micah. He stopped himself and gestured to the pew instead. “Sit down.”

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Micah barely suppressed a shiver as he took a seat. “It’s always so much colder in here,” he whispered. He rubbed his hands together to warm them. “And I forget it’s time for me to carry my gloves.” Jefferson couldn’t take his gaze away from Micah’s long fingers, and he realized that he had never seen Micah wear gloves. “It is colder in here,” Jefferson agreed, his voice matching Micah’s. “But you’ll get used to it.” “Does the cold help you think?” Jefferson chuckled. “No. Sometimes the cold will distract me from my thoughts, which is usually what I need. Why are you still awake? It’s late.” Though the dim light made noting specifics impossible, there was enough illumination to see the way his lashes ducked as he contemplated his response. “Your gift. I’m afraid I’m still quite elated with your generosity. I couldn’t… My mood isn’t particularly conducive to restive thoughts.” “I feel as though the poem isn’t a gift at all. A part of me believes the verse belonged to you as soon as I began to write.” He felt Micah’s soft gasp as surely as he heard it. “I’m merely the impetus for the changes you’re experiencing right now. But it’s a tremendous honor to be considered such.” Micah paused. “Jefferson.” Hearing his name fall from Micah’s lips was like a punch to the gut, and his body began to stir again. His flesh tightened. He looked away from Micah’s face in time to notice something dark and slippery pass in front of the window. It could have been a cloud moving in front of the moon, but the silver light wasn’t disrupted at all. Jefferson licked his lips and forced his attention back to Micah. “I feel as though I could write another this moment. So I can make another gift to you.” “Aren’t we on a verse for verse exchange? I should be writing one for you.” “I am looking forward to hearing it. You do plan to recite it to me, don’t you?”

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“I’m quite excited about the opportunity, actually. The hard part will be trying to decide which to read first. Do you have a preference for the type of verse you prefer to hear?” Jefferson shook his head. He had a feeling that he would like, and appreciate, anything Micah chose to read to him, regardless of the quality. Though he suspected the quality of Micah’s verse would be quite high. Nobody as thoughtful and careful as Micah would write poor poetry. “No preference. As long as it is a poem you’re passionate about.” Micah was still rubbing his hands together, the gesture thoughtless and automatic at this point. Jefferson caught his wrist. “Are you still cold?” Micah’s pulse fluttered against his fingertips, much faster than what he would have expected. It felt like a bird trying to escape its cage, deceptively strong in spite of a fragile appearance. “Yes,” came the soft response. He wasn’t pulling away. It almost felt like he was even nearer. “You would think for as much as I use my hands, I would be more careful about keeping them warm.” His skin felt like ice against Jefferson’s fingers. He covered the back of Micah’s hand with his palm, then took Micah’s other hand. He cupped both hands between his, holding Micah lightly as the warmth seeped from him. “You should be more careful. I shall be very upset if you get ill.” It was difficult to tell in dim lighting, but he thought Micah smiled. “So shall I. Ewan will make me return to Boston then, so Mother can nursemaid me.” Jefferson sat motionless while Micah spoke, waiting for him to resist the familiarity of Jefferson’s touch. But he didn’t attempt to pull away. He didn’t even move. Jefferson increased the pressure against Micah’s hands. “But I am happy you ventured out of the warmth of your room tonight. Even if you did put yourself at a bit of a risk.” “I must confess…I’m beginning to suspect you would not allow such risk to befall me. I’ve not had a friend like you before. I… It’s a boon I didn’t anticipate in coming here.”

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Jefferson’s heart twisted. Micah’s voice was so small, he could barely hear him. He sounded lost in the darkness, overwhelmed by the night. “You never had a friend who would take care of you? Nobody who would help you?” “No, why would they? I’m the youngest Yardley, with three brothers ahead of me to inherit long before I do. They gain nothing by being my friend.” “Micah…that’s not true. There is plenty to gain by being your friend. Your life…your existence is not just as important as how much money you possess. You cannot be measured by your land, or your birth order, which was nothing more than a random accident. You’re more than that.” Micah’s long pause made him fear that he’d been a trifle too vehement in his declaration. That fear was heightened when Micah pulled his hands back and folded them in his lap, turning his head to gaze up at the pulpit. “I envy you. Your life is so simple.” “It’s not.” Jefferson forced his disappointment down and crossed his arms. “But I’ve worked hard to make it appear that way. I haven’t…had any friends, any real friends, since I left Boston. And…I did not exactly leave Boston by choice.” Micah sighed. “I know I shouldn’t pry. It’s none of my concern.” He shifted his weight to settle more comfortably in the pew, and left their arms pressing against each other. “But I find myself dreadfully curious as to why you had to leave.” Jefferson studied Micah’s profile. Friends were honest, if nothing else. He could not offer Micah the complete truth, but he knew Micah would be hurt if Jefferson attempted to shut him out again. “Because I fell in love with the wrong person. Somebody who was not suitable.” His confession drew Micah’s gaze back to him, and he felt a warm hand rest on his knee. “I’m sorry,” he said, squeezing lightly. “I did not mean to dredge up such painful memories.” “You didn’t dredge anything up,” Jefferson assured him. “The memories are not painful anymore. It happened a long time ago. Almost twelve years now. I was young and

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exceptionally foolish—we both were. Still, society is not forgiving, even when you are young and foolish. Society also has a very long memory.” “I suppose it’s inappropriate for me to say so, but I envy you this, as well.” “Why do you envy that?” “Because you have at least experienced love.” The weight on his knee disappeared, much to Jefferson’s dismay. “I haven’t.” “I would like to assure you that you’re not missing out on anything. But even now, knowing what I know, I wouldn’t have made any other choices.” “You don’t think that makes me aberrant? My brothers tease me mercilessly about it.” “Aberrant? No, not at all. But how do you know you’ve never experienced love?” Micah’s arm rubbed against his as he lifted his shoulder in a shrug. “It seems like love is something too powerful not to be able to recognize its presence.” He glanced at Jefferson, his mouth soft, his eyes softer. “How did you know? Am I wrong in surmising that’s how it is?” “No, that’s exactly how it is. As for how you know…” Jefferson looked up to the ceiling and tried to gather his thoughts. “When you can’t sleep because you are consumed with thoughts of the person. When you can’t eat because you have lost your appetite. When simply catching a glimpse of…her is enough to make you smile all day. When your body tightens and feels electric, like a summer thunderstorm, at the briefest contact. That’s when you start to know.” He caught a flash of white when Micah smiled. “That describes how I feel about poetry. What happens to me when I’m particularly moved. Even tonight, when you read. That was why I couldn’t sleep, you know. I couldn’t stop thinking about it.” Jefferson’s internal debate was short-lived but lively. Ultimately, he merely nodded and said mildly, “It’s not uncommon to find the same sort of…excitement in pastimes you are interested in or passionate about. And you are clearly very passionate about poetry.”

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Chuckling, Micah nodded. “Too passionate, some would say. Though, thankfully, not you.” Jefferson wanted to know if Micah was only passionate about poetry. He imagined there was a whole universe of emotions, of needs, of hungers waiting inside of Micah’s body. He just needed somebody to show them they existed, show him what to do with them. “No. But I don’t think there is anything wrong with being too passionate.” “So…” Micah prodded him good-naturedly with his elbow, his spirits clearly lifted though how, Jefferson had little idea. “I’ve shared the reasons for my insomnia. I’ve still to hear what it is vexing you.” Regardless of his earlier promises to himself to not make the same mistakes, Jefferson ached to tell him the truth. You are in my mind and under my skin. You’re there when I close my eyes. I want to show you things poetry can only hint at. “I have always been afflicted with insomnia. I am not sure why.” The words were barely out of Jefferson’s mouth when the reverend’s large Bible fell from its place on the pulpit. They both jumped as the solid book hit the wooden floor. At Micah’s startled glance, Jefferson said quickly, “It was just the Bible slipping from the stand. That’s all.” Micah nodded and something kind gleamed in his eyes. “Do you always come here, then?” “I come here often. I find the church very peaceful.” Jefferson rubbed his hands together and smiled. “Despite the chill.” Micah held out his hand. “May I?” Jefferson hesitated for a moment. Keeping himself under control was an almost Herculean effort without Micah touching him. But the desire for contact overwhelmed his better judgment. He nodded and silently offered his hands. Micah’s grip was light and nimble. Rather than using his smaller hands to warm Jefferson’s, however, he cupped and lifted them to his mouth. His soft lips brushed over the side of Jefferson’s palms as he pursed them, and a rush of heated breath flowed through their fingers.

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Everything inside of Jefferson’s chest seemed to melt, even as his shaft began to harden once again. He froze, his gaze locked on Micah’s face as he took another deep breath and released the warm air over Jefferson’s skin. He knew he should not just let Micah continue to warm his fingers like this, but he could not pull his hand away. He couldn’t do anything except hoard each second. The bank of candles in front of them simultaneously ignited, each small flame fighting against the dense night surrounding them. But the candles were nothing. He was enchanted by the golden light shining on Micah’s skin, reflecting off his dark hair, and disclosing his sweet, brown eyes. The moment was brief. It could have been nothing more than a flight of fancy, or a glimpse of a waking dream. Micah looked down and blinked, as though his eyes were sore, and then everything was plunged back into darkness. But Jefferson knew he wouldn’t forget the image of Micah illuminated, like some sort of celestial body. When Micah finally lowered their hands, there was a smile on his face. “Might I beg another request?” he asked without letting Jefferson go. “Yes.” His voice sounded too rough and too low. “Of course.” “When you find you can’t sleep, might I join you? Here? I can’t think of a more pleasant way to spend the hours.” His grin widened. “And I’ll remember to bring my gloves.” “Yes.” He smiled, and hoped the smile didn’t look strained. He wanted to show Micah that he could be wanted, cherished even, despite his own personal discomfort. “If you don’t mind spending time in a drafty church, I will be more than happy to have your company.” “I find myself not noticing the cold quite so much when we’re talking.” Releasing Jefferson’s hands, Micah rose to his feet. “Though I should likely get back to my rooms. I left without telling Ewan where I was going. If he wakes himself up with his snoring, he’s going to be very upset with me for running off.” Jefferson nodded and pushed himself to his feet. “Will you join me for supper again tomorrow night?”

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“Of course.” He led the way back to the center aisle. “I’ll bring some of my verse. You should finally know what you’re getting yourself into, don’t you think?” Jefferson gently clasped his shoulder. “I’m looking forward to it. Try to get some sleep. You look tired.” Turning away, Micah stuffed his hands in his pockets and strode towards the front doors. At their threshold, he paused and glanced back. “The bounty in coming to Wroxham has not been contained to merely your verse, Jefferson. I feel nothing shall compare to your friendship.” And with that, he was gone. Your friendship. Now that he couldn’t see Micah anymore, or touch him, Jefferson’s good intentions returned. He still didn’t know how long Micah planned to stay in Wroxham, but while he was in Jefferson’s village, he would learn just how valuable friendship could be.

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Chapter Seven Life in Wroxham over the next week took on a familiar rhythm for Micah, one he embraced with enthusiasm that made Ewan’s mouth twitch. Afternoons were spent writing, either at the desk in his rooms or in Mrs. Ruark’s dining room, papers strewn around him like a costume in tatters. Every time Mrs. Ruark brought a fresh pot of tea, she smiled and remarked about how much work he had to be accomplishing, but his productivity was only a mild surprise. When it came to his verse, Micah had always been prolific, if not profound. The words that poured now from his quill astonished him more for how easily they evoked exactly what he desired. Evenings, he rushed off to Jefferson’s for supper and discourse, his fresh poems rolled carefully and tucked into his pockets, his journal joining them when he remembered to bring it along. The first night after meeting Jefferson in the church, Micah read his favorite of the work he’d brought along, a longer composition entitled “The Smoke Seeker”, about a young clerk struggling to lift his social station only to inevitably disappear entirely. It was one his professors had especially praised, but as he finished reciting and lowered the page, he realized upon meeting Jefferson’s intense gaze that it was his approval he wished for more than anything else. Jefferson regarded him with thoughtful eyes for a long beat, and Micah watched him formulate his response, his breath caught in his chest. The small smile he bestowed on Micah was almost better than any comments he could make. And when he spoke, he didn’t rely on cheap praise or vague flattery to express his appreciation. He pulled out themes, held up images, discussed the movement of the poem, and pointed out moments where Micah had excelled by reversing expectations and catching him by surprise. Micah never feared sharing his work again. Jefferson always walked him back to his rooms long after it was dark. Neither spoke of the church, but Micah got in the habit of staying awake until after midnight, chatting www.samhainpublishing.com

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with Ewan before excusing himself to take a walk. Ewan attempted to go with him the first night, but Micah assured him it wasn’t necessary. Guilt at leaving him behind only lingered for as long as it took to reach the church. As soon as he saw Jefferson again, nothing else mattered. Though the church made him uneasy, it had the opposite effect on Jefferson. He was always more comfortable in the church. Casual, even. He smiled easier. He didn’t hesitate to touch Micah’s hand, his arm, his shoulder. He gently chastised Micah when he forgot his gloves. He made jokes. He revealed his interest in science, in natural history, in religion and metaphysics. In some ways, he appeared more knowledgeable and educated than Micah’s professors. He even ignored the increasing chill, and the odd drafts, and the occasional groans from the church walls that unfailingly managed to jerk Micah out of the camaraderie. Thankfully, those always subsided, and Micah could once again immerse himself in the tales Jefferson told about his life, both in Boston and there in Wroxham. The hours in the church passed more swiftly than time spent in Jefferson’s home. Micah credited Jefferson’s obvious ease, but he often wondered if it was something else. In the dark solitude, boundaries dissolved as assuredly as time. Jefferson was more interested in Micah’s life than his own, prompting him to speak of his childhood, his lifelong friendship with Ewan, his brothers’ taunting. Jefferson drew stories from him he’d never given voice to before, but rather than feel overtly scrutinized, it was almost a relief. The weight wasn’t quite as difficult to bear when Jefferson knew of it. Micah thought this was what friendship was. He cherished those moments all the more. On Saturday night, as they were rising to depart for bed, Micah touched Jefferson’s elbow to stop him from continuing. “Are you going to be attending services in the morning?” “Of course.” Jefferson gestured at the pew they just rose from. “I’m here by eight sharp. Would you like to sit with me?”

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He had been ready to ask for the favor, but Jefferson’s offer made that unnecessary. “Yes, very much.” They began walking for the front entrance, their steps long and leisurely. “I must admit, I’m not keen on the ceremony, but something tells me that perhaps it was just the company I kept that made it so.” “Perhaps. I enjoy the morning services. Reverend Deem always has thoughtful sermons. Are you not a…religious man?” Micah contemplated the question, but it took only a few seconds to decide he could trust Jefferson to be honest with him. “Let us say I have difficulty with several of the religious dictates I’ve been taught. I do not understand how a deity who professes to love humanity can allow certain atrocities to occur, or deny others who lead moral lives but otherwise do not believe in His unfailing teachings.” “I’ve struggled with the same questions in the past. I haven’t always been on the best terms with the church, but I have eventually found answers to my questions. Or at least, answers I could live with.” Jefferson’s voice dropped, a sure indication that he was about to impart a confidence. “I still feel the Spirit, and I have faith, but the God I answer to is not Deem’s God.” “I pray I find the same contentment you do.” Micah smiled, unable to resist. “Does Jefferson Dering’s God have room in His heart for an overeager poet with a hunger for knowledge and a predilection for forgetting his gloves?” Despite Micah’s smile and light tone, Jefferson’s response was solemn. “He does. I’m sure it would be remarkably easy for Him to find a place for you.” “I think I shall like your God.” Micah tugged the door open, welcoming the fresh blast of cold air upon his flushed cheeks. The church was always as chilly as it had been the first night, but he’d long since discovered that discourse with Jefferson heated him more than thoroughly. “If He’s as benevolent as you attest He is, I’d even kneel before Him in worship and take pleasure in it, even though that is by far my least favorite part of the service.”

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Jefferson shut the door behind them and buttoned his coat. “He is most benevolent. I don’t believe He needs that sort of worship, but He would take as much pleasure in your love for Him.” “A God who would allow me to worship as I saw fit?” Micah beamed. “I think I love Him already.” They parted company for the night before Micah could ask why Jefferson still attended church at all, if he had his own ideas of what God was, or should be. The next morning, he and Ewan arrived at ten to the hour, hoping to catch a few minutes alone with Jefferson. But he hadn’t lied about his arrival time. He entered the building at precisely eight o’clock and went directly to where Micah was waiting for him. Jefferson greeted Ewan with a warm smile and a firm handshake. His greeting for Micah was equally polite, but he thought Jefferson held on to his hand for just a moment too long. Like Jefferson didn’t quite want to let him go. As Reverend Deem stepped out to the pulpit, they took their seats in the pew. Micah leaned towards Jefferson, ducking his head and lowering his voice in order not to be overheard by the others. “It’s lovely enough by daylight, but I think I prefer our church quite a bit more,” he whispered. “I do, as well.” Jefferson’s mouth was near his ear, and he felt the warm words against his skin. “It won’t be the same for me when you return to Boston.” Mention of his return sent a sharp pang through Micah’s chest. He had given little thought to his life in Boston over the past week; it was as if that person no longer existed. But Jefferson was correct in assuming he had to go back. At least he knew that he would be missed. He could not say the same about those he’d left behind in coming to Wroxham. “You shall have to imagine I remain. And tell me in our correspondences everything I miss.”

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Deem began reading from the scriptures, his voice growing louder and louder with each verse. But Jefferson didn’t sit back and pay the reverend the appropriate attention. Instead he murmured, “I will sit in this spot every night and compose letters to you.” Micah knew it was unseemly, but he couldn’t restrain his small pleased smile. “Will you share your verses too? Or must I return to Wroxham at Christmastime in order to hear them personally?” He imagined Deem must be looking at them, must be noticing their private conversation. The entire congregation must have noticed. Jefferson’s voice was so low Micah could barely pick out the words, but their bodies were much too close. Heat crawled up the back of his neck. He realized it was not Jefferson’s words that warmed him. He assumed Deem must have stoked the fire prior to the service. “You’ll have to return. I won’t share any verse in correspondence. Otherwise, how could I compel you to visit again?” “All you would have to do is ask. Who am I to deny you if that’s what you desire?” “Would you deny me anything I desire?” “Of course not.” Micah felt Ewan’s foot nudge against his, trying to prod him to pay attention to the sermon, but the need to impress upon Jefferson how sincere he was kept his focus on him. “I only wish I could give you more.” Jefferson sighed, his warm breath fluttering over Micah’s skin and sending a chill down his spine. He glanced down to Jefferson’s hand, which was less than an inch from his. Jefferson’s fingers twitched, and Micah suddenly became certain Jefferson was going to touch him. Jefferson’s finger seemed to move in slow motion as he touched Micah’s forefinger. He barely had the chance to process the contact before the church doors slammed open with enough force to make the entire building shake. Micah jumped and turned to look. Deem’s voice stopped. Nobody in the church made a sound or even took a breath. One by one, the window shutters flew open with the same force. Each strike against the wall boomed through the small building, and a sharp autumn wind swept through the building.

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In all the time he’d spent in the church, Micah had never seen an occurrence as violent as this. Had somebody failed to secure the latches? The wind was brisk, but he didn’t think it was that brisk. A small child’s whimper cut through the silence. The sound shattered the spell that seemed to surround the congregation, and two men in the rear rushed to close the doors again. Reverend Deem chuckled, though its nervous timbre did nothing to settle the race through Micah’s veins. “It would seem God felt it necessary to wake us up this morning—” The candles on the altar suddenly extinguished. All at the same time. Childish whimpers turned to cries. One toddler in the pew in front of them covered her ears, her face twisting with discomfort over her mother’s shoulder. A mere second later, wind roared down the stovepipe, sending smoke and ash into the room. Micah knew better, but for a moment he thought some animal had been trapped in the pipe. An injured animal. Jefferson stood without warning. Micah opened his mouth to stop him, but Jefferson wasn’t looking at him. He forced his way to the aisle, muttering halfhearted apologies as he narrowly avoided trampling on toes. Jefferson’s exodus spurred others to rise as well. People swelled from the pews to blockade the path behind him, and too quickly, Micah lost sight of the familiar ginger hair. “Come, sir.” Ewan tugged at his arm, dragging Micah to his feet. “We should away while we have the opportunity.” Micah had no choice but to follow. By the time he exited the church, Jefferson was nowhere to be seen.

***

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For the rest of the day, the inn was abuzz with the doings at the church. Everyone had a theory. Mrs. Ruark especially seemed eager to share her opinions of what exactly had caused the sudden unnatural events. Micah heard none of it. He was too concerned about Jefferson. He’d gone to Jefferson’s house in an attempt to find out what was wrong, but no amount of banging on the front door drew a response. Ewan dragged him away, as assuredly as he had done at the church. Micah’s feet felt like lead every step he took away from Jefferson and his friend’s obvious distress. Night fell. Micah stood at the window, staring out into the darkness, while Ewan stoked the fire behind him. “Perhaps it’s time for us to return to Boston,” Ewan said. “Your studies can’t wait indefinitely, sir.” “No, they can’t.” But his heart wasn’t in it. His heart was elsewhere, wondering what exactly he could do for his new friend. “Should I pack?” Ewan had to repeat the query before Micah answered. “Not tonight.” “Tomorrow then?” “We’ll see.” The floorboards creaked. “If Mr. Dering is half the poet you are, Micah, you shouldn’t worry. If I’ve learned nothing else knowing you as I do, it’s that a poet’s temperament is capricious at best. He’ll be himself by morning. You usually are.” He knew Ewan only meant the best, but deep in his heart, Micah didn’t believe him. Jefferson wasn’t all right. The church held special meaning for Jefferson; he wouldn’t leave so abruptly without valid cause. Turning on his heel, he grabbed his coat, ignoring Ewan’s frown. “I’m going for a walk. Don’t wait up for me.”

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After Ewan’s earlier assessments, Micah half expected to be stopped. But Ewan let the door click shut behind him without argument, and Micah fled the inn for the welcoming night. Micah went directly to Jefferson’s home, though he suspected it would be a fruitless journey. The windows were dark, and nothing, not even a hint of smoke, rose from the chimney. The house didn’t look empty. It looked abandoned. Micah shook his head and tried to tell himself he was being ridiculous. Jefferson hadn’t fled Wroxham. Micah narrowed his eyes and surveyed the area. Every window in the village blazed with light, as though nobody wanted to be alone in the dark. Every building seemed brimming with life, with smoke from the fire, with the smells of supper. Every building except Jefferson’s cottage and the church. Micah didn’t hesitate. He crossed the small town square with long strides. A full moon sat, fat and white, just over the horizon, allowing enough light to move with ease. Even from a distance he could see the church door was not shut all the way. Had the hinges been damaged earlier? Micah certainly wouldn’t be surprised if that was the case. Jefferson’s voice drifted from the dark shadows. “Not tonight, Micah.” Though he paused on the threshold, Micah squinted in order to find his friend. “Why not? Would you really send me away?” “I would. You should go back to your room.” The rising moon cast more light through the church windows, and he saw Jefferson’s familiar form in the middle of the aisle. “Perhaps we can meet tomorrow.” “I don’t want to meet tomorrow. I wish to see you tonight.” Even to his ears, he sounded like a petulant child. Micah cursed his impatience and took a step into the church. “You’re my friend, Jefferson. As such, I refuse to look away simply because you wish to shield me from whatever is troubling you.” Jefferson took a step back, maintaining the same distance between them. “Micah, if you are my friend, you’ll accept my wishes.” After a week of listening to Jefferson speak, he was intimately aware of each nuance in speech and tone. Each word seemed to come with great effort. “My wish is for privacy.”

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“Then you would have stayed locked up in your home.” He pushed the door shut behind them, blocking out the moon. “I know you. I know you come here when you seek solace. Why is it so difficult for you to accept my solace instead of a cold, empty church?” Jefferson made a short, strangled sound that might have been an aborted laugh. “You really have no idea what’s going on, do you?” At least he wasn’t insisting Micah leave anymore. That was a good start. “No.” Micah ventured further into the church, until he stood at the end of the aisle. It was then that he realized he’d been mistaken. The church wasn’t cold. It was as hot as an August day at noon, and he had to unbutton his coat in order to relieve the sudden discomfort. “Why don’t you tell me, Jefferson? Why did you flee this morning?” “Because if I stayed, it would only get worse.” He walked to the front of the church, putting the length of the building between them. “There’s a spirit here, Micah, and I don’t understand how, but he…he responds to me.” “A spirit?” More than one theory that day had posited such an option, but Micah had dismissed it as foolhardy. It was inexplicable that Jefferson would subscribe to the same theory. “Surely, you jest.” “Do I look like I’m laughing?” Since Jefferson still faced the altar, Micah couldn’t discern what exactly he was doing, though the harsh tone of his voice made it clear that laughing was not it. But he still didn’t understand how a rational man such as Jefferson could believe in spirits. “Does he haunt you then?” Micah edged to the far right aisle. Jefferson might insist on keeping the distance between them, but he couldn’t hide from him completely. “How can you even be sure your spirit is male?” “He doesn’t haunt me.” Jefferson seemed too distracted to notice him, and Micah inched closer to him. “He haunts the church, but he only manifests himself to me. Usually. I know who it is. His name is…was…Joseph Mather. He was a traveling minister. He helped build this church.” “You said your grandfather built this church.”

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“He did. They built it together. Joseph had been an apprentice to a carpenter before he decided to preach the Word. He died here. Before it was finished. He took his last breath over there.” Jefferson gestured at the pew—their pew as Micah was beginning to think of it. “I found letters of his once, tucked into the Bible my grandfather kept. They…Joseph and my grandfather…were very close.” The ache in Jefferson’s voice drew Micah irresistibly closer. “Like us.” “Yes,” Jefferson said hoarsely. “Exactly like us. Perhaps that’s why…” Micah waited for Jefferson to finish the sentence, but it never came. Pain tore through him. He hated seeing his friend like this, in such obvious torment. “Is the spirit hurting you somehow?” he asked, hoping to prompt more details. “No, but I am likely causing him a good deal of pain.” Jefferson looked up and blinked. He moved to take another step back, but he didn’t have anywhere else to go. “And you…Micah, please, just stop. Don’t come any closer. Please.” Micah obeyed. But to show Jefferson he had no intention of going anywhere, he slipped off his coat and tossed it onto a nearby pew. The heat wasn’t nearly as stifling, but his shirt clung to his shoulders, damp with perspiration. “How could you be the cause of pain to anyone, let alone a spirit? You are the most generous man I’ve ever known.” “I saw him die once,” Jefferson muttered, as though he hadn’t heard Micah’s question. “Joseph sent me a vision. It was like a waking dream. I thought I was having some sort of fit or nervous breakdown. They had just finished the framing, and they were talking about Grandfather’s upcoming wedding. Joseph had promised to conduct the ceremony once the church was completed. Grandfather was covered in Joseph’s blood and crying and begging him not to go.” When Jefferson looked down at his hands, Micah knew he was seeing blood, blood that wasn’t his. “I’m sure that was dreadful,” he tried to soothe. “But why you, Jeff? It isn’t as if you killed him.” “Because I’m Simon Dering’s grandson. He’s not trying to hurt me. I come here because he’s bound to the church, to my family, to me. What you witnessed today is a

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result of that connection. And he can feel all this…” Jefferson put a hand against his chest. “Everything inside of me.” “What? What do you feel?” For the first time, Jefferson moved towards him. Micah expected him to stop, but he didn’t. He continued to advance until they were standing toe to toe. “I feel you, Micah.” He gripped Micah’s shoulder, and then he was walking again, pushing Micah backwards to the wall behind him. Any concept of personal space, of boundaries, was completely eradicated. “I feel you. And I would be angry about what you’ve done to me, but I don’t think you ever realized it.” “What I’ve…” Micah struggled to comprehend what it was Jefferson was saying, but all he could perceive was the sudden feel of the hard body pressing to his, the way Jefferson’s fingers flexed on his shoulder, the fervent gleam in those slate eyes. He swallowed, but that did nothing to loosen his too-tight throat. It only served to remind him of how hard he was struggling to catch his breath. “I don’t want you to be angry with me,” he finally managed. “But I don’t understand what it is I’ve done.” “You come here without warning and you flatter me. You look at me like I am literally the answer to all your questions. You touch me…” He reached up with his free hand and brushed his knuckles across Micah’s face. “You might not understand what drives you to me again and again, but I do. You show me everything I could possibly desire and remind me I could never have it in this lifetime.” He couldn’t look away. When it came to the force of Jefferson’s gaze, he could never look away. “I can’t believe there is nothing you can’t have if you truly desire it.” “Do you want me to show you what I truly desire, Micah?” “I want you to be honest with me. I loathe seeing you in this distress.” Jefferson closed his eyes and moved his head to the side, as though he planned to whisper the answer in Micah’s ear. But he didn’t speak. His cheek brushed against

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Micah’s with enough deliberation to make Micah realize it was not an accident. He felt Jefferson’s chest expand as he inhaled, and he shifted his weight, pressing more firmly against Micah’s body. “I know you do,” he murmured, his lips on Micah’s jaw. “Have you ever been this close to anybody?” His instinct was to shake his head, but as soon as he did, it brought him into more direct contact with Jefferson. Micah felt the fresh growth of beard like a kitten’s tongue, and shivered, prompting Jefferson to force the brush again. Jefferson’s grip on his shoulder was still tight, but he was terrified that the trembling that had taken root in his knees would make him crumple at his friend’s feet. Unbidden, his hands clutched at Jefferson’s waist, drawing sharp breaths from both of them. “Is this…is the spirit forcing me to feel what you are?” he whispered, desperate for some logical explanation. “Because this is not…I’m not in pain.” “It’s not the spirit, Micah. It’s you. This is what it feels like when…this is what passion feels like. This is why I can’t sleep. Because being near you is enough to make me feel this way. Just being near you…” Jefferson’s words stopped as his lips connected with Micah’s jaw. The caress was brief, but pointed. Then Jefferson found another bit of skin and did it again. And again. Squeezing his eyes shut, Micah fought to control the breath that wouldn’t stay even. His head spun. Each touch of Jefferson’s mouth sent a fresh shudder through his muscles, like he was taken with fever, and his fingers tightened where they gripped Jefferson’s shirt. “I’ve never… I don’t…” He cried out when he felt the sting of teeth, then sighed when Jefferson soothed the spot with his tongue. “Every time you do that, it drives me mad, Jefferson. Please.” “I don’t want to drive you mad.” Jefferson lifted his head and Micah almost whimpered in protest. Micah studied his face for a moment, looking for something, a sign perhaps. Then Jefferson tilted his head again, bringing his face within centimeters of Micah’s. “You’re the best person I’ve ever met.”

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Micah opened his mouth to respond, but Jefferson stopped the words with his lips. Micah froze, but Jefferson didn’t seem deterred. He moaned softly, cupping the back of Micah’s head, gently holding him in place as his tongue traced the curve of Micah’s bottom lip. He had never kissed anyone before. Or had anyone kiss him. He’d almost thought he was just one of those people who didn’t respond to physical attraction, who didn’t find the need for it. But Jefferson’s narrow mouth was unlike anything he had ever felt before. He caressed Micah’s like it was something to be treasured, something to savor, like he’d seen Jefferson savor the brandy that first night they’d met. It tickled where his tongue touched the corner of Micah’s lips, and they parted automatically, taking in the hot breath laboring from Jefferson’s lungs. Jefferson deepened the kiss, gradually seeking out more and more of Micah’s mouth with the tip of his tongue. He didn’t increase the pressure against Micah’s lips. Everything about the kiss was tender, deliberate. Jefferson had complete control of himself, and complete control of the caress. Micah’s blood rushed from his head. His fingers tingled. The bottoms of his feet tingled. Jefferson’s gentle mouth seemed relentless, the passion he spoke of limitless. The air around him warmed like he was standing over a flame, a whole pit of flames. The hard line of muscles beneath his palms enticed Micah to explore further. Though his hands were damp with perspiration, he smoothed them upward, learning the shape of his friend through touch as well as sight. He felt Jefferson’s gasp as he skimmed over his chest, and he heard his moan when he massaged the hard knots at the base of Jefferson’s neck. He had never felt so empowered and so cosseted at the same time before. And it was all because of Jefferson. Micah responded to Jefferson’s kiss, dipping his tongue into Jefferson’s mouth, mimicking Jefferson’s slow, thorough investigation. Jefferson’s hands drifted down Micah’s body until they reached his hips, and he gripped Micah firmly, holding him in place. He felt something hard against his thigh, and realized it was Jefferson’s erection,

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the undeniable proof of his arousal. Jefferson shifted his weight, grinding the bulge in his pants against Micah’s body. Micah froze. Jefferson’s arousal. Rubbing against… The heat of his blood doused as quickly as snuffing out a candle. His shaft was as hard as Jefferson’s, throbbing with its own life. Because he was kissing Jefferson. Kissing. Jefferson. Panic raced through his veins. Letting go of Jefferson’s neck, Micah braced his palms against Jefferson’s chest and pushed, grateful when it broke the connection between them and left him panting against the wall. “What are you doing?” Was that raspy voice his? “Why?” Jefferson looked as confused and afraid as Micah felt. “Micah…I’m… Oh. Oh, God.” He kept moving back, as though he could still feel Micah’s hands pushing against his chest. “I’m sorry.” The front door swung open. The wintry chill drifted in, curling around his ankles before licking a path up Micah’s legs. In spite of his desire to run, his desire for explanation was greater. Micah matched every step that Jefferson retreated, his eyes fixed on his friend’s. “Don’t apologize. Tell me why. Explain it to me. I don’t… Just why?” “I told you to leave me alone. I told you not to come in here tonight. Why didn’t you listen to me? Why did you insist on coming here?” “Because you’re my friend.” For the first time, the words felt awkward on his lips, though Micah suspected it was a symptom of his mouth being so swollen from the kissing. “You’re the best friend I’ve ever had.” “I’m the only friend you’ve ever had, Micah. And I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t ask for your friendship or for your concern. The only thing I ever asked of you is to leave me alone.” Micah halted in mid-step. Jefferson had never said such a cutting thing to him before, never given any indication that he felt affronted by Micah’s advances. The events of the night cast an entirely new light on why he’d accepted the attention. He’d desired

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Micah. He was… Micah stopped the label that wanted to spring to his tongue. If he placed it upon Jefferson, he had to place it upon himself as well, for he had responded to each and every thing Jefferson had done to his flesh. He had been a willing recipient, and worse, he had enjoyed it. More than enjoyed it. Nothing he had ever experienced before held a candle to how Jefferson had made him feel. He licked his lips. Slowly, he reached for his coat draped over the pew, his hands shaking. “Consider it done,” he murmured, and fled the church.

Jefferson’s stomach churned and his hands shook. The heat in the church suffocated him, and the effort of each breath made him weak. He sunk, his knees utterly useless, and missed the pew to land on the floor. He didn’t know which upset him more. Kissing Micah had been wrong. Horribly, devastatingly wrong. And it only took one look at Micah’s shocked face to realize he knew it too. Unfortunately, his sin was greater than the kiss. Far, far greater. The inappropriate contact could be explained away. He could claim he was drunk. He could claim he had lost his senses. He could claim the ghost possessed him. He could beg for Micah’s pardon. He could spend the rest of his life demonstrating that it had been a mistake he’d never make again. But what he couldn’t do was explain the need to hurt Micah. And he had. There was no question of that. He had unerringly found the younger man’s most vulnerable spot and stabbed at it with his words. He had made Micah feel unwanted. Alone. No apology could rectify that. What could he possibly do to repent? Jefferson ran his hand over his face. He had no idea how to extract Micah’s forgiveness, but he knew he had to try. Maybe Micah could never forgive him. He’d accept that. But he would do everything in his power to prove he was sorry. It would be easier to talk to him the next morning, in the daylight, away from the church. If Micah never wanted to speak to him again, Jefferson would accept that as a proper punishment. Perhaps the only punishment he deserved.

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Chapter Eight Micah drummed his fingers on the overstuffed arm of the chair, his head propped up in his other hand as he slouched and waited for the audience that was to come. As soon as the coach had rolled to a halt in front of the house, Howard had been there with firm instruction to wait for his father in his den. His watery eyes were hard and unyielding, disapproval in every line of his straight, slender body as he issued the order. No protest of, “But I’ve only just arrived,” would serve to sway him. Micah merely rolled his eyes at Ewan and followed Howard inside. He was still disheveled from the journey. When he had returned to the inn, he had woken Ewan from a sound sleep and demanded he start packing immediately. An hour later, Mrs. Ruark was paid, looking very sleepy and disappointed in her kerchief, and they were on the road for Boston. Micah had attempted to sleep on the way, but images of Jefferson had plagued him the entire course. How he’d smiled when he heard Micah’s first recitation. How he’d frowned when he heard about Micah’s family. How he’d gazed at him with those burning slate eyes as he pinned him to the church wall. How he’d spat out that final comment, stabbing Micah in the gut. Much of Jefferson’s actions made more sense now. All the touching that had happened under the cover of dark in the church, and the story he told about why he had to leave Boston. It would likely take little effort to dig up the scandal that must have plagued Jefferson, but Micah knew he wouldn’t. He didn’t want to hear how Jefferson had had a male lover, how he’d been declared a deviant and driven out of town. He couldn’t bear it.

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Just like he couldn’t bear to face Jefferson one more time. He had fled in the dark of night like a coward. If Jefferson had kissed him once, he might try again, and for as much as Micah didn’t wish to succumb to it, he could not guarantee that it would not happen. He jerked when the knob turned, immediately standing up as the door opened and Richard Yardley strode into the room. In many ways, Micah took after his father. They were the same build, the relative same height, with the same straight nose and dark hair. Where Richard had dark blue eyes, however, Micah had inherited his mother’s light brown ones, as well as her full mouth. He had her general disposition as well, which only served to frustrate his father even more. “You disturbed the whole house,” Richard said, by way of greeting. “You couldn’t return at a more reasonable hour?” Behind his back, Micah clenched his hands together. “My apologies, sir. I was anxious to come home.” “How anxious could you have been? We didn’t hear from you once this week.” He crossed the room to the large fireplace and reached for the pipe resting on the mantel. “A letter would have sufficed for your mother, at least.” He winced. It had never even occurred to him to assure his mother he was well. “I’ll beg her pardon for my rude behavior when she rises,” Micah promised. “I did not mean to worry anyone.” Richard did not look convinced. He regarded Micah skeptically as he lit his pipe, and the rich smell of tobacco began to fill the room. “You never mean to do anything. That’s your problem. Did you at least have a successful trip?” “Quite. Meeting with Mr. Dering was most instructional. My professors will be pleased.” Richard harrumphed. “I’m glad somebody will be pleased with your excursion. Well, it’s just as well you came home now. James will be arriving from New York tomorrow with Gretchen. He claims he has important news for the family.” Important news for the family meant one of two things. James had done something fiscally rewarding, or, and this was more likely since he was bringing his wife along, he

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was going to announce the first grandchild to Richard and Margaret Yardley, the next generation to carry on the family name. Micah sighed. With his luck, it would be a boy. One who loved sport. And tobacco. And wouldn’t cast shame on the Yardley heritage by being a potential sodomite. “It will be nice to see them,” he said as politely as he could muster. “Does that mean special preparations?” “James did not give us a great deal of notice, so your mother is planning a small dinner party for their arrival. There will be a much larger gathering later in the month. I told her all of that wasn’t necessary, but you know how much your mother loves to invite half the city to the house.” Yes, he did. All too well. Micah pretended to stifle a yawn, and affected his best guilty look when his father frowned at him. “I’m sorry, sir, but I’m quite tired still from the journey. Might I excuse myself to get some rest?” “Yes, if you must. But I want to see you tomorrow over breakfast. An associate of mine, Mr. Buckley, recently informed me he has a position for you in his office as a scrivener. I think we should discuss the opportunity in more depth.” His heart sank, but he murmured his agreement anyway before fleeing the room as quickly as he could. A scrivener. He hadn’t endured all these years of education to spend the rest of his life copying documents. Writing other people’s words. Other people’s boring and mundane words. He’d sooner cut all his fingers off than sell his soul like that. Not for the first time since leaving, Micah felt a palpable ache for Wroxham. Life had been so much happier there. Jefferson had never attempted to force him to be anything other than what he was. Until the kiss. He banished the rest of his thoughts. He was exhausted. His head would be much clearer after he got some solid sleep.

***

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Gritting his teeth, Micah smiled as the last of the guests pulled out of the courtyard. Dinner had been as excruciating as he’d anticipated, worsened by the fact that his mother had invited not one, not two, but three families with available daughters all near his age. He had been forced to sit opposite Abigail Stewart and listen to her prattle on about her recent trip to Philadelphia. Then afterward, Father had insisted he accompany Sarah Lafayette on the piano as she entertained the guests with a song. It might not have been so bad if she could actually sing. He had been attempting all night to find favor with any one of the girls Mother thought might interest him, but each time he focused on their features, searching for a grain of desire, he saw Jefferson’s lean face. All in all, it had not been a good night. The only thing that had come of it was now he had a plan. Micah waited until everyone had retired before ringing the bell for Ewan. His steward arrived swiftly, though he was still tucking his shirt in as he entered Micah’s bedchambers. “I need you to do something for me,” Micah said without preamble. “All right. What do you need?” “A woman.” Ewan blinked. “What?” “You heard me.” Micah took a deep breath. “I think a professional would be best, of course. I was hoping you’d know how I could get about hiring one.” “Micah, of course I’m always happy to do anything you ask me to do. But I don’t understand. You’ve never… With all due respect, do you even know what to do with a woman?” Irritation bubbled inside him, though he knew Ewan had more than a good point. “Well, I won’t learn if I don’t try, now will I? Can you think of a better way?” “No, in fact, I cannot. Do you want…would you like to have the meeting tonight?” It was Micah’s turn to blink. “You can arrange it that quickly?”

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“Of course. Professionals don’t make appointments with their clients days in advance. It might take a little time to find a suitable one for you, but it is hardly an endeavor that will take all night.” “Oh. Then…yes. Tonight.” He glanced furtively around his room. “We don’t do it here, do we? If Mother found out…” Ewan smiled for the first time. “I’ll arrange for a room as well. You’ll have all the privacy you need. As for the girl, do you have any preferences?” It was on the tip of his tongue to say, “Not a redhead.” But Micah quelled the impulse. “Demure,” he said instead. “Or at least the façade of such.” It was asking a bit much, but he was already so nervous about proving his sexuality, the last thing he wanted was for a brazen woman to terrify him from performing. “With curves.” He made a helpless gesture in front of him that was supposed to resemble a woman’s figure but he was afraid looked nothing like the kind. Ewan inclined his head. “I’ll see to it. I will need some money, though.” Practical matters stirred Micah into action. Going to his desk, he unlocked the bottom drawer and pulled out a small sack, the coins it held jingling loudly in the room. “Will that be enough?” he asked as he handed it over. “If it costs more to get a pretty one, I’d rather spend the money.” “It’ll be enough,” Ewan assured him as he accepted the money. “I’ll see to it that you’re not disappointed. Watch for me. I’ll try to be back within the hour.” Micah nodded and watched him leave. An hour. An hour was a lifetime. How on earth was he going to be able to wait? His gaze lit on the book sitting on his nightstand. For two months, Jefferson’s first volume had occupied that spot, but he had locked it away in the same desk drawer he’d retrieved the money from the moment he’d reached his room. He didn’t want to read it; he didn’t want any reminders at all of Wroxham. In its stead was now a collection of Keats, a reliable favorite before he’d even known Jefferson Dering existed. He sat down with it now, in hopes of getting lost in its familiar cadences.

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Forty-five minutes later, when Ewan rapped at his door, Micah hadn’t read a single word. He was too tense, too nervous about what he had planned. He sincerely hoped Ewan had found a soft-spoken girl. His nerves couldn’t take much more. Ewan merely gestured with his head that Micah should follow him. They moved quietly down the stairs, Micah keeping a watchful eye for any sign of life in the dark house. But everybody had long since retired. There weren’t even any sounds coming from the servants’ quarters. Ewan held the coach door open for Micah, then stepped up into the driver’s seat. The coach lurched into motion, and Micah’s stomach leapt to his throat. He pulled the blinds closed, but he wasn’t sure if he wanted to avoid showing his face, or if he simply wished to be ignorant of the actual location of the meeting. When the coach came to a stop, Micah waited for Ewan to open the door. “You’ll want to go in that door there, then up the stairs. She’ll be waiting in the first room on the right.” Micah stared at the building. It could have been anything—a pub, a brothel, a home. Well. Perhaps not a home. At least not the home he was accustomed to. With a sigh, he climbed out, then turned back without letting go of the door. “What’s her name?” Somehow, that seemed vitally important. “She goes by Becky. And she’s expecting you. I didn’t give her your name, though. You don’t have to tell her if you don’t want to.” “Why wouldn’t I—oh. Right.” His cheeks flaming with embarrassment, Micah closed the door and turned to the building. Up the stairs. First room on the right. It was his mantra all the way until he knocked on the door. It opened immediately, revealing a plump girl with light skin and even lighter hair. Her eyes appeared colorless at first, but as Micah adjusted to the dim light, he realized they were gray. She nodded a greeting and gestured for him to come in. The room was small. Smaller than the room he had rented from Mrs. Ruark. A narrow bed was pushed

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up against the wall, the blanket pulled down. There were no other comforts in the room. Becky closed the door and looked at him expectantly. “You must be Becky,” he blurted. Her thin lips pulled into a small smile and she approached him. “I am.” She glanced down to his crotch. “Would you like me to help you?” At his baffled look, she added, “Get your prick hard.” Micah hadn’t thought it was possible to get any more red than he already was, but he’d been mistaken. “Might I…” He swallowed. He could do this. She was lovely enough, womanly enough. He tried again. “Might I kiss you first, if you please?” Becky shrugged. “You can do whatever you want. Your man paid for the rest of the night.” He could have used without the reminder that this was bought and paid for, but Micah stepped forward anyway until her soft breasts brushed against his chest. When she tipped her head back expectantly, however, he paused. He’d only ever done this once before. And he hadn’t been the one to instigate it. “Maybe you should kiss me first,” he suggested softly. Becky dutifully put her hand on the back of his head and dragged his mouth down to meet hers. He braced himself for the contact, unconsciously expecting the same sort of careful savoring Jefferson had demonstrated. But Becky lacked anything resembling finesse. She pushed her tongue between his lips, her breath hot and sour as she exhaled. He tried. He honestly did. He touched her tongue with his own, though there was none of the heat, none of the shuddering ache that had occurred when he’d done the same with Jefferson. He grabbed her waist, pulling her more roughly against his body, but the flesh wasn’t right, too soft, too malleable beneath his fingers. He even stepped back until his shoulders were to the wall, dragging her with him, so he could grind his hips into hers. But the hope the friction would generate the same sort of arousal dissipated further with each second his shaft remained flaccid. Micah finally let her go with a sigh and thumped his head back against the wall. “This is useless,” he muttered.

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Becky pushed her hand between their bodies, her fingers resting on the buttons fastening his pants. “It’s not always easy the first time.” He glanced down at her. “Perhaps I’m just too nervous.” “Perhaps.” Her short fingers expertly freed his top button. “Tell me what will help you relax.” “You could touch me.” It certainly couldn’t hurt. He was about to ask her if she knew any poetry, but didn’t. He must prove he didn’t need poetry—or worse, Jefferson— to get aroused. “Unless you have a different idea?” “I can’t think of a better one than that.” Becky made short work of his buttons and pushed her hand into his pants. He gasped as her cold fingers brushed against his skin, but she either didn’t notice his discomfort, or didn’t care. She wrapped her fingers around his limp shaft and squeezed gently. Micah wanted to close his eyes in order to focus on the feel of her hand, but he was too frightened of what image might arise in his mind’s eye if he did so. He didn’t want to imagine it was Jefferson’s rough nails scraping across his sac every time she rotated her wrist, or his long fingers wrapped around his length, trying to coax an erection. So he kept his gaze riveted on her simple face. But no matter how hard she pulled, his prick remained soft. At his sigh of exasperation, Becky lowered herself to her knees. He stared at her, perplexed, as she settled in front of him, her hand never leaving his flesh. She used it to pull the skin back from his tip, then guide him to her lips. She blew a warm stream of air over his skin, frowning as he failed to respond. “This never fails,” Becky murmured before wrapping her lips around his crown. Micah gasped. Her mouth was warm, the suction tight. He had never known anything to feel such as this, a dizzying array of fire and chills that he had to squeeze his eyes shut in order to stave off the worst of them. As soon as he did, Jefferson stood in front of him. He was dressed in his shirtsleeves, cuffs rolled up to reveal his strong wrists, and his slate eyes flashed with something dark and dangerous.

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“Would you deny me anything I desire?” The echo of the words combined with the image of Jefferson sinking to his knees, his tongue moistening his lips as he held Micah’s shaft away from his body. He cried out when he saw him lick along its length, and already it was starting to harden, anxious to feel more— “Don’t. Stop!” Frantically, he pushed at Becky’s shoulders, shoving her off so that he could stuff his stiffening length back inside his pants. “I can’t do this.” She gazed up at him with confusion. “It looks like you can.” “Looks can be deceiving.” Though his fingers were clumsy, he managed the last of his buttons. “Trust me.” Becky pushed herself to her feet. “Are you sure? I don’t give back money.” “Keep it. It’s yours.” Micah retreated for the door, anxious to be quit of the place, though he paused long enough to shoot her an apologetic smile. “Consider it payment for a good night’s rest. My gift to you.” Becky’s hint of a smile returned. “I suggest if you want to have a good night’s rest, you have yourself a good jack off. Get whoever you’re thinking about off your mind.” His head ducked. “If only it were that simple. Good night, Miss Becky.” He was still flushed, and his prick was still hard by the time he reached the waiting coach. Ewan frowned as he held the door open for Micah, but Micah waved him off before he offered any rebuke. “Don’t. I learned what I needed to learn.” “What’s that?” When no answer was forthcoming, Ewan leaned further into the coach. “Micah? What’s going on?” Micah turned his head to stare out the window. If there was anyone in this world he could trust, it was Ewan, and still, all he could utter was a single word. “Jefferson.” “He’s the reason you fled Wroxham in the middle of the night.” It wasn’t a question, more like a simple confirmation of facts Ewan already knew. “What did he do? Something like what you tried to do with that girl?”

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“Not quite,” he confessed in a breath. “But close enough.” “And given the choice, you’d rather be with him than Becky?” Micah hung his head in shame. “God help me.” “Hey.” He touched Micah’s knee just long enough to get his attention. “It isn’t right in God’s eyes, but this sort of thing does happen. In fact, I would wager that it’s happening right now, behind one of these shuttered windows. You’re my dearest friend, Micah. Sometimes I think of you more like a brother than an employer. I’m not going to betray your confidence.” He glanced out the window, as if to see the very thing Ewan attested. “He kissed me. And…I enjoyed it. More than I’ve enjoyed my verse.” His eyes burned when he turned back to Ewan. “You don’t find that repulsive? That I might…desire to be with him, rather than the most beautiful woman in the world?” “Micah…I don’t find you repulsive. Or your reactions to Jefferson’s physical advances. I’ve spent time with girls like Becky. I also enjoy a male’s company on occasion.” He smiled. “I’ve got to do something with myself while you’re in those boring old lectures after all.” His answering chuckle was amusement as much as it was surprise. “Am I really that naïve? How do I not know these things, while the rest of the world seems perfectly content to love and kiss and love again?” “You are naïve,” Ewan said, not unkindly. “But there isn’t anything wrong with that. There are certainly worse things to be. Let me get you home, and you can get some sleep. If you want, we can discuss this more in the morning. Things often don’t look so bleak by sunlight.” Mutely, Micah nodded. He didn’t necessarily agree that things wouldn’t be as bleak, but as exhausted as he suddenly found himself, rest could only help.

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Chapter Nine Jefferson spent his days, and his nights, composing letters he would never send. He wrote until his hand cramped. He wrote until he ran out of paper and his inkwell ran dry. When he tried to switch from prose to verse, his hand stilled and his words would disappear. Some letters, he burned. Some letters, he saved. Some letters, he reread and revised and rewrote. And then he burned them too. In two weeks, he left his home twice. Once for the mercantile, when he needed basic foodstuffs and more paper, and once for the post. Other than that, Jefferson couldn’t be bothered. Even returning to the church was beyond his capabilities. The second week of his absence prompted a visit from Reverend Deem. Jefferson only considered not opening the door for a few seconds before he obligingly invited the reverend into his home. “Are you ill? If so, people will be more than happy to help nurse you to health.” Jefferson shook his head. “No, my health is fine.” “Then why haven’t you attended services? Sunday is not the same without your presence.” “I’ll try to be there next week, Reverend.” Deem studied him before speaking. “Does this have something to do with your new friend, young Mr. Yardley? Is he ill? He left Wroxham so suddenly that I was concerned.” Jefferson briefly debated the wisdom of lying to a man of God before nodding. “Yes. He was not feeling well before he left and thought it best to return to his home and family.” Deem frowned. “Is he better now?” The weight of his question merely added to the burden already resting on Jefferson’s shoulders. 86

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“Yes. Returning to Boston was the best for him.” And Jefferson believed it too. When Deem finally took his leave, Jefferson settled in his chair, naturally reaching for the quill and paper. Most of his missives to Micah were apologies. I behaved atrociously. My actions were inappropriate. I am so sorry. I understand why you left. Some of them were more friendly, less desperate. Everybody in Wroxham is asking after you. It’s not quite the same here without you. The leaves are completely gone from the trees and we expect snow very soon. There must be snow in Boston. What does the city look like shrouded in white? Jefferson never knew how lonely he was until the moment he realized Micah was gone. When he knocked on Mrs. Ruark’s door, and she explained that Mr. Yardley had left for Boston the night before. “I thought somebody had died, he was in such a hurry to leave.” Jefferson wasn’t surprised, but the news still struck him like a hard blow to the solar plexus. Maybe he couldn’t stop Micah from hating him, but he didn’t want Micah to think that Jefferson hated him. Because he didn’t. Even now, he couldn’t. The second time he ran out of paper, he considered simply never writing again. It would be easier to never pick up the quill again than it would be to go buy more paper. But through his depression, he understood he couldn’t go that far. Not yet. So he dressed in clean clothes, put on his coat and hat and gloves and shuffled through the village, head down. The sky above him was low and gray and pregnant with snow. The sharp wind chilled his nose and lungs. By the time he reached the mercantile, he was numb. “I have a letter for you today, Mr. Dering,” Emilia greeted. “Well, it came in two days ago. I was going to bring it to you tomorrow.” “Oh? I just need my regular order.” Emilia’s smile faded at his lack of interest in his post. “It’s from Boston.” “Boston?” Emilia nodded. “Do you think it could be from Mr. Yardley?” “Could be.”

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“If it is, will you mention me to him? And send him my regards?” “I will,” Jefferson promised, trying to keep his voice even. Micah was not the only person in Boston he knew. And every single acquaintance he had in Boston was more likely to send him an unexpected letter than Micah Yardley. But his hands shook as he accepted the post, and he almost walked out of the door without his parcel of paper. Jefferson opened the letter as soon as he was in the safety of his cottage. He could barely force air out of his tight chest, and his fingers shook. He knew if the correspondence wasn’t from Micah, the disappointment would crush him. He also knew he had no reason to be excited. Most likely, the letter would contain one simple message—our friendship is over. It would be said very prettily, but those four words would be at the core. Jefferson decided it did not matter. Regardless of what Micah wrote, he would respond. And he would beg pardon. And he would wish Micah all the happiness and success and fortune he deserved. He blinked his eyes into focus, his heart hammering in his ears at the simple greeting. Dear Jefferson. His tired brain told him that had to be a good sign.

Dear Jefferson, My days since leaving Wroxham have weighed heavily upon my spirit, because I find myself abominably ashamed of my departing behavior. I would say that fleeing a scene of discord is not in my nature, but I have been too honest with you regarding my familial situation to hide behind that artifice. I can only attest that my actions disgrace me, and that with knowledge of such actions, I shall strive not to repeat them in the future. I am but human, however, so I must beg your generous spirit to forgive me for my past failings. I have had much opportunity to contemplate the events that drove me away from Wroxham. I said as much to you that night, but I had never been kissed prior to knowing the taste of your lips. I had never imagined that it was possible for one man to feel such a way about another, nor that it was possible for the other to desire it as much as I did.

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Everything I have been taught from the cradle has dictated my passions should be directed elsewhere, and though I could never reconcile how my poetry fit into such a niche, I found myself floundering when I was forced to place you into that niche as well. Thus, I fled. Because I was terrified, and hurt, and completely incapable of thinking rationally. Rational thought did not take long to return, but the courage to compose this missive did. I have been mulling over what to say to you for six days, debating words or turns of phrase as adequate or lacking. No verse of mine ever exercised as much difficulty, and by all rights, I should be there in Wroxham, on bended knee, begging your forgiveness. Since my circumstances make that impossible, however, I must do so in this fashion. I am most profoundly sorry. I allowed my fears and ignorance to rule, and if there is one thing I learned from our association, it was to trust my heart. You taught me that it was not wrong to pursue my poetry, if that was truly important to me, nor to deny my own needs in order to satisfy those of others. And what my heart tells me is that no person—man or woman—has ever meant to me what you do. Our friendship was precious to me, and it is my wish that perhaps we might pursue the correspondences we discussed. Not for selfish reasons such as my notions regarding evidence, but for the purely selfish reason that I miss you and your company, how I felt when we were together. I miss our suppers, our discourse. I especially miss our nights in the church, your spirit’s deportment notwithstanding. As I said, I miss you, Jefferson. Please forgive a foolish soul. Your friend, Micah

*** “Mr. Yardley. A word, please.” Several of his classmates cast Micah a glance as they gathered their books, but nobody said a word as they filed out of the lecture hall. At the dais, Professor Cornelius Simonsen nodded to each young man passing by, his kind dark eyes solemn as he www.samhainpublishing.com

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regarded Micah’s approach. He was the favorite of all his teachers. Professor Simonsen had no patience for society’s so-called demands, and had been the first to encourage Micah to seek out Jefferson when he expressed interest. For Simonsen, all that mattered were a man’s honor and his passion. Micah respected that. When it was just the two of them remaining, Simonsen nodded towards the door, indicating Micah should close it. “You didn’t seem to enjoy today’s topic,” he said, crossing his arms and leaning against the blackboard. “In fact, you’ve been rather morose ever since your return. Is something amiss?” If any other professor had asked, Micah would have lied. “My apologies, sir. I’ve been distracted.” “Your verse?” If only that were true. “I’ve had little opportunity to write since returning, unfortunately. My hope is that will change soon.” “Family obligations.” “Partially.” Simonsen’s eyes narrowed behind his spectacles. “You’re not doubting the quality of your work, are you? If Jefferson Dering told you your verse isn’t good enough, he’s wrong, you have to know that.” Mention of Jefferson made his heart leap as it always did, but the last thing he wanted was to mislead Professor Simonsen in any way. “No, no, he was quite supportive. Wonderful, actually. My time in Wroxham was highly enlightening.” “You weren’t there for nearly as long as I’d thought you’d be.” “Oh?” “You were quite taken by Mr. Dering’s work. I didn’t imagine you’d lose interest that quickly.” “But I haven’t lost interest.” He blurted the words and then flushed. “I mean, I had family obligations, sir, that required my return. But Mr. Dering agreed that we could keep a correspondence after I came back. I just sent a letter to him, in fact.” He left out the fact

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that the letter was actually an apology for acting like a fool. He just hoped that it was enough. Simonsen regarded him carefully for several seconds before nodding. “I sincerely hope you do not lose sight of your gift, Mr. Yardley. Few have such a talent as yours. Do not allow those who fail to understand to prevent you from reaching the success I know you deserve.” Nodding, he returned to the dais, clearly done with the conversation. “Good day now.” Micah rushed off, pulling his coat more tightly around him as he stepped out into the brisk winter wind. He wished more than anything to sit and start a new composition, but every time he picked up a quill, he thought back to his letter to Jefferson. Had he received it yet? What had he thought? Had he burned it without opening? That last possibility made Micah ache. He loathed the thought that he’d ruined any hope of a friendship with Jefferson because of his immature behavior. He’d spent hours agonizing over his words, in hopes that Jefferson would believe his sincerity. His words were all he had. He had to hope they were enough. By the time he reached home, his heart was heavy. Not even the sight of Ewan holding the door open for him was enough to lift his spirits. “You’ll want to go straight to your room,” Ewan murmured in his ear as he helped with Micah’s jacket. His spirits sank even further. “Is Father in a state?” “No.” Something smooth pressed into his palm. “I thought you’d wish to read this in private.” Micah glanced down. In his hand was a creamy envelope. He turned it over, his fingers frozen from the cold, and his heart stopped at the sight of the familiar handwriting. He knew that script. He had proof of it in his nightstand, a gift he read and reread every night before retiring. He believed he’d be able to recognize Jefferson’s writing until the moment he took his last breath.

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“I’ll make excuses for you,” Ewan said quietly. “I imagine this cold will have you in your room the rest of the night, will it not?” “What?” Ewan’s meaning sank in, and Micah started, eyes wide with gratitude. “Oh, yes, you’re right, of course. All night.” He was at the bottom of the staircase when he paused and looked back, giving Ewan a small smile. “Thank you.” Taking the rises two at a time, Micah raced for his room. All he could think was, He wrote back. He actually wrote back. It was enough to sustain him until his bedroom door was shut firmly behind him and his trembling fingers worked open the seal on the envelope.

Micah, my dearest friend, You have not caused me offense or hurt, and so I cannot forgive you. Your actions were an utterly appropriate response to my behavior. I made two mistakes that night, and I beg your forgiveness, even if I do not yet deserve it. The physical contact I initiated was wrong. I should not have taken such liberties with your body or your trust. I took advantage of your soft feelings for me, and I took advantage of your innocence. I knew that you had never before been in that situation, and it was not fair or right to put you into the situation without your explicit permission or desire. Because of my feelings for you, I must be completely honest. I considered blaming the spirit in the church, or the spirit of alcohol, for my deplorable actions, but Joseph was not influencing me, and I was sober. I did it because my desires temporarily overwhelmed my good sense. As for my second mistake, I have no explanation, no excuse. I have nothing except my profoundest regrets. I was mortified by my behavior and confused. I am sorry every single day that I hurt you. It weighs heavily on me. I once promised myself that I would never do anything to hurt you. I vowed to myself that I would show you what friendship is. I wanted you to have the gift of an unconditional friend, because it’s the least that you deserve. And I destroyed that with thoughtless words, spoken in fear and anger.

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I will be happy to continue our correspondence as planned. I will be happy to fulfill any function you like of me. Tell me what I can do for you, and I will do so without question or hesitation. I miss you too. Ever your faithful servant, Jefferson

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Chapter Ten Dear Jefferson, What can you do for me? You already have. Receipt of your letter has been the highlight of the last three weeks. I feared you wouldn’t accept my apology, that I’d destroyed any chance to save our friendship. Your words, so heartfelt that I ached to read them, reminded me why it is I value you such as I do. I have a confession to make. My writing has suffered terribly. Sometimes it feels as if my inspiration did not choose to return to Boston with me, and I am left bereft and hollow, waiting for it to join me again. Please do not think the blame rests entirely on the unfortunate circumstances of my flight. My thoughts have been distracted by other issues as well, concerns much closer to home. My father is pressing for me to conclude my university work and take a position in an office as a scrivener. I have, as of this point, been able to postpone any sort of definitive decisions, but his patience grows thin with me. He has been witness to my melancholy of late, and attributes that to my schooling. Father firmly believes a proper life will right what is wrong with me. I do not yet have the heart to tell him that I do not believe anything is wrong with me, that actually, for the first time in many months and years, I’ve begun to feel that perhaps there is quite a bit that’s right. There is other family news. My eldest brother James and his wife are expecting their first child. The promise of a new generation has the entire Yardley family a bustle, which drives me out of the house as often as I possibly can escape. Mother is becoming less and less subtle about the young women she invites to the house. In short, Boston is a dreadful mess. I spend my evenings dreaming of Wroxham and wishing there was a church nearby to which I could escape. But then I remember that it would not have you as my haven, and I realize I am doomed regardless. I hope my letter finds you in good health and better spirits. 94

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Your friend, Micah

*** Dear Micah, First, please pass my congratulations and warmest wishes to your brother and his wife for their blessing. I am happy for them, as I am happy at any great news, but I am sorry for you. I suppose it is to be expected that your parents would only want what is best for you. Unfortunately, despite their best intentions, what they feel is best for you and what you feel is best will often be two different things. But you are fortunate. The very thing that allows you to choose your own spouse is the thing that allows you to make no choice at all. Despite their insistence to the contrary, you are not obligated to fulfill any function you do not wish to. And that includes the function of scrivener. I cannot imagine a more soul-crushing and repellent job to somebody of your intellect and mien. You are not suitably matched to such a task. It is not your lot in life to copy other words. You should create. I must confess, my own verse has suffered as well. I attribute it to the changing of the season, from autumn to winter. The sky threatens snow every day, but never delivers. It is night all day, a dreary, gray, skeletal world. It makes me tense and lazy. I shall endeavor to be more disciplined with my work. I hope to have something to share with you soon. Yours, Jefferson

*** Dear Jefferson, Does this mean you’ve changed your position on sending your verse through the post? I pray it does. I’ve had to purchase two new copies of your volumes as my others

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were growing soft with use. They now hold a special place of honor in my nightstand, along with the gift you bestowed upon me. When my heart is particularly heavy, I ensconce myself in my favorite chair to read your eloquent words again and again. I have read them so much, they are now a part of my very being, and I would not have it any other way. Boston weather is not improved upon Wroxham’s, I’m afraid. We have had early snow, courtesy of the docks, and my walks are being curtailed by more mundane concerns such as wet feet. I spend far too much time with them propped up in front of my fire, a most cozy proposition. A cup of tea, my favorite verse—yours, of course…the only way to better such luxury would be to have you at my side. Perhaps the next time you sit at the hearth, imagine I am there, lounging in the chaise, a full brandy snifter in my hand. I say full, because we are both too aware of how poorly I behave under the influence. I am also reluctant to lose memory of any time we might spend together again. I shall need that brandy, however, should my mother continue her matchmaking. Tonight, she invited a Sarah Lafayette. Actually, she invited the entire Lafayette family, but as per the usual, Sarah and I were left to spend much of the evening bound to each other. They insist I accompany her singing on the piano after our meal. Because this is the third time they have insisted such a thing, I remembered to bring cotton wool to stuff my ears, in order not to suffer her poor voice. How is it I can remember that and not my gloves, I wonder? My sincerest wishes that the arrival of my missive prompts a smile. Your friend, Micah

*** Dear Micah, For you, I will send my verse through the post. I will send it by carrier pigeon, if that is how you would have it. Unfortunately, before I can choose the best delivery method, I must first find the inspiration to write. I believe I can feel the words in the back of my 96

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mind, gestating and growing into something worth writing. Knowing that you are in good spirits, despite the pressure of your family, has helped. I believe I have read your letters as often as you claim to read my humble collections. The pages are already beginning to wear, and I must handle them more gently. Though if I do read them into tatters, I will only lose the smooth flow of your hand, and not your words, as I have them completely memorized. I must admit my own selfish desire to see you resist young Miss Lafayette’s charms, her voice notwithstanding. A married man has certain obligations to hearth and home that may preclude your poetic and scholarly interests. The loss of your voice would be a great loss to the world, though the world does not yet know it. When will you begin to pursue publication? Yours, Jefferson

*** Dear Jefferson, You honor me with your words. I will wait for your valued gifts patiently, knowing as I do that when they arrive, they shall be spectacular. In the interim, your letters are a welcome substitute. Sometimes, I imagine I can hear your voice as I read them. I find myself remembering your voice quite often, actually. Might I ask a personal question? You do not have to reply; I know by posing it that I tread a fine line. I do not wish to damage our relationship by eliciting better-forgotten feelings. However, my curiosity is a dangerous beast and compels me to query at the very least. You admit to a selfish desire regarding my mother’s intentions for Miss Lafayette. I believe you when you state my poetry would likely suffer from such a union—I dread to consider how my words would be stifled by her squawking—but I cannot help but wonder if there is more to it than that. You see, I have been pursuing my own answers regarding the events of my departure from Wroxham, and I have learned many things www.samhainpublishing.com

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about the nature of passion, not the least of which is that a person cannot choose who it is that arouses their innermost desires. I am grateful for our friendship, reinstated as it is, but I am not so naïve to believe that the other feelings our companionship generated have simply vanished. Mine have not, for instance. Have yours? And on that impertinent inquiry, I bid you my best. I fear prattling on further shall only betray other answers I seek. One is best for today. Yours truly, Micah

*** Dear Micah, My selfish desire regarding your mother’s intention is solely due to my concern for your future as a poet. It would be foolish and absurd to believe your potential nuptials are all that stands between me and what I may desire. I have already resolved this issue to my satisfaction. I would rather have your friendship than nothing at all, and I do not intend to jeopardize our relationship again. And yet, I cannot stop reading your words. I cannot dampen the small flame of hope they have kindled. I have set this response aside twice, fearing any answer of mine would expose too much of myself. As I’ve alluded to you before, this is not the first time I find myself in this situation. My previous experience should give me cause enough to ignore your impertinent inquiry (though I do not believe it to be impertinent), but I cannot. I find myself curious about the answers you have pursued. Even more, I wish to know what other feelings you have. To encourage an open exchange about your feelings, I shall be honest about mine. The feelings I have for you beyond friendship are still present. They are not the sort that will fade or simply cease. I apologize now if this fact causes you any sort of distress. Yours, Jefferson 98

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*** Dear Jefferson, Before I say anything, I would like to make a request that seems rather ironic considering how these correspondences began. I would appreciate it if both you and I could move beyond apologizing each time we fear we’ve stepped too far. This is a new development in our relationship that I do not care for; I feel we each are too fearful of consequences to our words paralleling those that drove us apart. If we continue to request pardon each time we are honest with each other, our letters will be built more from apologies than actual content. I will forego doing so, even if you choose not to. I have always been more interested in the truth of our discourse than anything else. You ask of my feelings. They are a morass, chaos locked in a mire I struggle with every day. Upon my return to Boston, I strove to prove to myself that I was not as you, and hired a comely young woman in order to satisfy myself. Her skills were exemplary, but my response was not. I did not find her arousing in the least, and my unsatisfactory performance compelled me to consider why. It has helped that Ewan has some knowledge in this; he has been a tremendous asset, and I have found an ally who does not consider me abhorrent for preferring the taste of your lips to a woman’s. But he cannot resolve my unsettled thoughts for me. I must do that on my own. And do it I shall, though I’m certain that it will require more time until I feel less foreign in my own skin. What I do know…I think of you, when the sun rises and shines across my face, when the sun sets and I feel the first chill of night. I hear you, standing amidst a group of cackling strangers or alone in my room, with your poem to me propped on my knee. I know that I have never placed a person in this regard before. None has ever captivated me as you do, and I am coming to accept that you enthrall me in ways other than cerebral. Reading over my note, I fear I’ve likely said too much, but this is my fate, and I shall accept it. Be well, Jefferson. I worry for your health when the winds whistle outside my windows. I would be very distressed should you fall ill, so please grant me this favor and heed your wellbeing. www.samhainpublishing.com

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Yours truly, Micah

*** Dearest Micah, Indulge me in one more apology. I have put off writing this letter as long as I could. I cannot keep my fingers from shaking, and consequently, I cannot keep the lines straight. So I apologize if my hand is not legible. I believe I know what you are going through. My feelings for you are not a surprise to me. But I have already been struggling with this issue for over a decade. I have had time to work through my so-called deviant impulses, and if not totally understand them, at least come to terms with them. I have never revealed these details to anybody else, and as Vincent has passed on now, it is solely my story to tell. I met Vincent at Harvard when I was nineteen. He was a student of science. Astronomy, actually. We rarely had reason to meet by accident, and it was much later that I realized we met by Vincent’s careful design. One night, some six months after we first met, I found myself stranded in his room during a particularly nasty blizzard. We used the bitter cold as an excuse, but after a point, we did not require an excuse. It was the first time I had ever been that close to another person—man or woman—and I hungered for more. I was greedy for it. Perhaps too greedy. My schoolwork began to suffer. My relationship with my family and friends began to suffer. But I did not notice. There were many things I failed to notice. Finally, we were caught in a compromising position. If we agreed to leave Harvard quietly, leave the city quietly, and continue our educations elsewhere, we could avoid embarrassing the school, our families, and our friends. I never saw Vincent again after that. I think about you now the way I thought about him. I miss you daily. I make discoveries that I know would please you and wish to see your smile. I have not yet returned to the church (not even for Sunday services) because it is simply not the same without you. 100

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This letter is getting very long. I shall end it here without further apology. Please do not forget your gloves. As much as you worry about me, I worry about you. Not just because of your health. I worry about how your family is treating you. I worry you are without help, support, or guidance. Yours, Jefferson

*** Dear Jefferson, Your most recent letter humbles me. I had feared with the lapse that perhaps I’d revealed too much, so to hear that you are well is a wonderful relief. To know that you trust me to share your story, however, is far more than I ever believed I would earn. You had stated unequivocally that you did not wish to discuss the matter; thus, I was taken quite aback to read the details of your love affair. It is not just the trust that humbles me. It is your admission that you consider Vincent and myself as equals in your regard. I have done nothing to merit such, except to assault your personage with my presence and to hurt you tremendously with my fear. You are a glorious talent, a patient soul. With a mere glance at you, my world takes on a brighter gleam, though even that pales beneath the vibrant intensity of your aspect, and when you speak, either to recite a verse or reveal an insight, my blood leaps. I am unworthy of your friendship, let alone anything more, and yet, the fact that you grant this just evinces my insignificance. This is not to say I am going to falter from our correspondences. On the contrary. I now wish to strive to prove myself deserving of such a gift from a man like you. The moment I send Ewan off with this, I shall pick up my quill. You asked some time ago when I planned on pursuing publication. I do not have an answer yet, but I do know that if it ever happens, my work shall be dedicated to you. You are the awakening of everything that is good inside me. Yours as always, www.samhainpublishing.com

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Micah

*** Dearest Micah, How can you say you’ve done nothing to merit my regard? You have already done more than you could possibly know, or more than I could describe. That does not mean I will not attempt to describe why you deserve my esteem. I can only assure you that you are not insignificant. In many ways, you are the most significant person I have ever met. I admire so much about you. You are extremely brave. First you had the courage to travel to Wroxham and introduce yourself to me, a perfect stranger. It would have been far easier to simply stay in Boston, but you did not choose the easier option. You also had the courage to begin our correspondence again. It is difficult to apologize when you feel you have acted foolishly. God knows I owed you an apology and I did not have the strength to write a simple letter. Your intelligence astounds me. You have a natural, quiet perception. You claim to be a favorite of your professors, and I believe that must be the case. I know there are many men of letters who wait their whole lives to have a student like you. I could be quite content to simply listen to you, your thoughts, your experiences, for the rest of my life. And you are kind and worthy of my trust. I know you will never betray my confidence, or reveal my secret desires. You are incapable of such cruelty. Perhaps that is what I find most attractive about you. Trust does not come easy, and yet you have always inspired it in me. I will agree to cease my apologies if you agree to stop informing me that you are not worthy of my regard. Please let me know if there is anything I can do to help your verse. I am quite excited at the prospect of seeing your work published. When you are prepared, I will be happy to provide names of editors I know well. Yours, 102

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Jefferson

*** Dear Jeff, Time escapes when I wish it not to, and when I have to struggle to find time to compose my thoughts for you, I know a fatal flaw has taken root, threatening to despoil what I wish to remain pure. ’Tis that time of year my schoolwork begins accelerating in anticipation of the end of term, and my professors seem especially determined to make me suffer. I believe Professor Simonsen has circulated the word that my family is against my publication; you would be quite surprised to see them rallying to my defense. Family eats away at time I hoard for myself, as well. Using your letters as ballast, I requested a private meeting with my mother. I told her that I appreciated her concern for my wellbeing and future happiness, but that pursuing romantic attachments with the available young women of Boston was detrimental not only to me, but to the family. I cited the birth next spring of James and Gretchen’s child as reason. Should I get romantically involved at this time, it would detract from the attention such an event demands. Surprisingly, she agreed with me, and has since desisted. I did not tell her that I would never be interested in the pretty young women here in Boston, but now I have gained time in which to forge my own path. In spite of my new respite, I am not absolved of family responsibilities. With the holidays approaching, the season is busier than ever, though without having to worry about being charming, I find the parties infinitely more enjoyable. None of this is an excuse, of course. Merely a verbose explanation why this letter isn’t quite as swift as my previous. I do not think it is possible to contain all the emotions your last missive evoked. I am in turn overwhelmed, in awe, afire. I cannot sleep for thinking of you, and when I do, my dreams leave me aching when I arise. There has been the occasion where I have watched the couples dancing at one of the many balls I’ve been forced to attend, and I remember what it felt like to feel your hand on my shoulder, or the way you would warm my cold www.samhainpublishing.com

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fingers when we sat in the church. Then I have the traitorous dream where the dancers are you and I, and we glide around the floor, my hand in yours, our arousals a tantalizing reminder of what we cannot have, and I wake wishing you were here in Boston, if only for one night. I vow that my next letter to you will not tarry. Each tenuous strand our words weave is precious to me, and I will never forsake them, not for prize, not for family, not for obligation. Yours in devotion, Micah

*** My Dearest Micah, I am greatly pleased to read that you have found a respite with your family, however brief. If you do not have that distraction hanging over your head, you can concentrate more fully on your writing and your studies. I am also pleased to see that you have the support of the faculty. Their support is a great boon and you will be thankful for it long after you graduate. You haunt my dreams as well. But that is hardly a surprise, as you haunt my waking thoughts. I have not danced in many years, but I would certainly try for you. I will do whatever I have to do to simply touch you again. You are one of the most beautiful people I have ever seen. Has anybody ever told you how captivating you are? I fear the answer to my question is “no”. Which is truly unfortunate, as you deserve to be told often. Your eyes are the purest brown I have ever seen. I have studied them extensively, looking for a single flaw to disrupt the color. I have long wanted to test your hair again to see if it is as soft as I remember it. And your lips are ideal for kissing. They fit against mine perfectly. Your skin is so wondrously smooth and warm. I have only inches of experience with your form, but those short moments have been enough to fuel hours of

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fantasy. I long to know the rest of you. You must understand, Micah, I want to know everything about you. I want to know you completely. Wroxham is quiet now. It is this time of year when I think a family would be more of a blessing than a burden. I have visited the church once, for Joseph’s companionship. Sometimes I feel my loneliness is a tangible thing. When I read your letters beside the fire, I consider how easy it would be for me to join you in Boston. If only for a night. Yours always, Jefferson

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Chapter Eleven Micah had been to dozens of these Harvard functions, parties thrown to generate goodwill with those who contributed to its upkeep, designed to brag about how the various departments excelled above others in the country. This was, however, the first thrown by the Liberal Arts department where it had been requested he recite one of his poems. In such a fit about presenting his work in public, to people who were wellacquainted with his family, he was very nearly late, sliding into the room and taking his seat at the end of the row of presenters just as Professor Simonsen began the introductions. His high, stiff collar itched, and his frock coat sleeves constricted, but at least he’d remember to run a comb through his curls before racing into the giant lecture hall being utilized for the first portion of the evening. They settled along his forehead and over his ears, which helped in part to hide his nervous perspiration. He hoped. Thankfully, he was not first on the program. When Simonsen had directed Micah regarding the party, he’d smiled and said, “We’ve placed you second to last, Mr. Yardley. To ensure that your material is given the proper audience it deserves.” His eyes had widened. The penultimate position was the most coveted. It was reserved for those of true importance normally, and it rested an even heavier burden on his already weary shoulders. It did mean, however, that he had time to sit and practice in his head while he waited for his turn. The last time he had recited one of his works had been in Wroxham, under Jefferson’s watchful eye. He simply had to keep reminding himself that this would be much easier than facing the potential criticism of the man he respected most in this world.

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Deliberately, Micah banished the thoughts of his time in Wroxham that threatened to distract him. Not tonight. He had to stay focused. His entire professional career was riding on how his work was received. A smattering of applause followed Kenneth Robinson off the stage, and Micah followed in suit as Professor Simonsen moved behind the lectern. “Next, we have one of our most promising poets here at Harvard, a young man who needs only his euphonious words to introduce him, but is unfortunately stuck with me as well. Ladies and gentlemen, presenting his poem, ‘Captive to the Hours of Darkness’, Mr. Micah Yardley.” He rose, deafened by the polite clapping that filled the hall. His bearing was automatic, his posture perfect, his strides confident. If nothing else, all his mother’s futile attempts to involve him with the fairer sex the past six weeks had trained Micah to exude the ideal persona. At the end of the night, they might be able to fault him for his verse, but they would never be able to castigate his appearance. Behind the lectern, the first thing Micah did was smile and gaze out over the faceless crowd. “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. And thank you for joining us here tonight.” The tips of Micah’s fingers were numb and his palms were clammy. His hands almost refused to cooperate as he took his poetry out of his jacket pocket. He looked out across the crowd, his gaze landing on each face for a split second before moving on. He was barely registering details. He could have been staring at dozens of complete strangers, or dozens of good friends. Micah glanced down, prepared to begin reading, but he caught movement in the corner of his eye. Distracted, he lifted his head, his attention drawn to the back corner… …and the ginger-haired man who sat there. Jefferson was watching him with steady eyes. When he realized Micah had noticed him, he offered a small, encouraging smile. The sentiment behind the smile came through plainly. You can do this. Time became meaningless. There was a moment where Micah wondered if he conjured Jefferson, if the wish in his heart had made manifest in a man who bore the shallowest of resemblances to him.

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Then there was a moment of utter elation, when the truth pierced his confusion and he simply wanted to throw down his poem and rush back to clasp Jefferson into a close embrace. Then came the moment he was certain Jefferson orchestrated, for there was no one else in Micah’s existence with the power to make him feel so utterly accomplished. “‘Old sea and the quiet buried shore,’” he began, his voice clear, distinct. “‘And the stars locked in distant coal;/ The knotted light they spill and sweep/ Out in fiery beams from each deep…’” Jefferson was right. He could do this. Micah had an audience of one. Nobody else was in the room. It was just Jefferson, holding his brandy, sitting before his crackling fire, his eyes half-closed and thoughtful. And when the last word fell out of his mouth, Jefferson would be waiting to take his hand, touch his shoulder. “‘But now from silvery space a voice drops,/ Asks: Who can master this glassy breach?’” The final line of the poem seemed to hang on to his breath, echoing through the great hall. He sought Jefferson’s face for a sign. What he found was a smile. Micah would swear to his dying day that Jefferson was the first one to start the thunderous applause. Bowing his head, Micah made his way back to his seat with his ears ringing and his heart beating frantically. He had to muster restraint in order not to twist and look back at where Jefferson sat. The focus helped the minutes fly, however, and before he knew it, the audience was clapping and Simonsen was giving instruction on how to proceed to the banquet hall. Micah stood, but remained at his seat, nodding and smiling at the people who streamed past. More than one stopped to tell him what an excellent job he’d done, but his answers were perfunctory, his attention wandering to where Jefferson made his way at the end of the crowd. Each step Jefferson took was a fresh tattoo on his skin, and he had to wipe his palms more than once on his pants before they were finally face to face. “You came.” The surprised words tumbled from Micah’s mouth as he gripped Jefferson’s hand, clapping him on the shoulder with the other. His entire body surged,

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and his shaft began to harden where it was trapped against his thigh. “Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?” “Of course. I couldn’t miss your literary debut. And a warning would have ruined the surprise.” Without releasing Micah’s hand, he pulled him closer and tilted his head to whisper, “You were worth the trip.” A shiver tumbled down his spine. Micah knew he had to release his hold on Jefferson, that he’d already held his hand for longer than he’d held anyone’s prior, but the fresh heat that came with the sound of Jefferson’s voice made him long for more intimate quarters, a room cast golden by firelight, or a church darkened by the shade of night. He settled for squeezing Jefferson’s hand and shoulder as discreetly as he could, and then letting him go, slipping his fingers into his pockets in order to help stave temptation. “This is a most wondrous surprise, indeed. Are you staying in Boston long?” “For the weekend, at least. I thought I could impose upon you to keep me company tomorrow.” Micah smiled, jubilant at the prospect. “It’s hardly an imposition when one’s mentor asks for companionship. Perhaps we should seek somewhere local that might prove the same inspiration as we had in Wroxham.” “I would like that very much.” Jefferson looked around the emptying room. “Would you like to go into the banquet hall? Or might we excuse ourselves for a walk?” “A walk,” Micah said without pause. “I need a breath of fresh air to clear my mind. With as many people as are here tonight, we will likely not be missed for some time.” Those were not the words he wanted to say. He wanted to thank Jefferson for coming, tell him he didn’t care about any of it now that he was here, adore and distinguish him for everything he was to Micah. But for those who surrounded him, the words he uttered would have to suffice. Because Micah knew that as soon as they were alone, he would not fear sharing with Jefferson exactly what he desired.

When Micah had casually mentioned the invitation to read one of his poems in his last letter, Jefferson knew he could not miss it. He wanted Micah to understand he was

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serious about supporting his work, and if that meant traveling six hours so he could listen to Micah read for five minutes, then he would do it. Without regret or hesitation. He knew it would be difficult to see Micah again, especially given the tone of their last letters. His dreams were becoming more vivid, his fantasies more specific. Seeing Micah in person was exactly like seeing Micah behind his closed eyes every night, and yet, completely different. He hadn’t expected the urge to touch Micah to be quite so overwhelming. He hadn’t expected to taste his desire on the back of his tongue. He hadn’t expected Micah’s resonating voice to make him hard. Jefferson could breathe a bit easier once they were out of the hall and strolling through the dark garden. He also hadn’t counted on his nerves. Despite the increasingly intimate letters, he still was not sure what to expect from Micah. Did his passion truly match Jefferson’s? Did he truly desire more than a friendship? And even if he did, could either one of them risk advancing their relationship? “I brought something for you,” Jefferson said, breaking the silence. “A Christmas gift. In case I do not get the chance to see you again before the holiday.” The delighted smile Micah turned towards him was worth every second it took to reach Boston. “That was hardly necessary. The holidays are still a month away. If you had asked, I would have come to Wroxham for a visit.” “I wasn’t sure if you could get away from your family and social obligations this time of year. I didn’t think it would be wise to count on a visit before the New Year, at least.” Jefferson’s fingers brushed against Micah’s. “Your hands are cold.” The dark night denied him the vision of Micah’s arresting eyes. They regarded him, fixed and shadowed, as Micah slowly stretched his hand in order for their fingers to gently entwine. “My hands are always cold.” Jefferson’s groin tightened. He couldn’t possibly pull away. He was certain it would cause him physical pain to try. “Then I suppose I brought a suitable gift.” He reached his hand into his free pocket and pulled out a small package wrapped in plain paper.

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Micah took it, but after a moment of careful contemplation it became clear he had to release their fingers in order to open it. He did so with obvious reluctance, fingertips searing across the back of Jefferson’s as he pulled away. Jefferson watched him intently, memorizing every nuance of muscle, every flicker of emotion. Micah’s dark hair tumbled across his forehead, and, bolstered by the heat still stolen from Micah’s fingers, Jefferson reached to touch an errant curl, letting it coil around a single finger as its silken texture went straight to his arousal. Pausing, Micah glanced up at him through his lashes, a shy smile curving his mouth. “I am in dire need of a cut. It grows more unruly with each passing day.” “I like it. Perhaps you could put off your visit to the barber for a little longer?” The muscles worked in Micah’s throat when he swallowed. “Perhaps.” His attention returned to his package, and he stripped away the last of the paper to reveal the buttery soft leather gloves Jefferson had purchased for him. A nearly silent, “Oh!” issued from his lips as he stroked the fine workmanship, but it was the unadulterated awe in his gaze when he met his eyes that nearly undid Jefferson. “These are exquisite,” Micah breathed. “Thank you.” Jefferson reached for the gloves, but paused. “May I?” He didn’t move until Micah nodded. He held the gloves in one hand and took Micah’s hand with the free one, wrapping his fingers around his thin wrist. After sliding the glove into place, he brought Micah’s hand up to his mouth and pressed a tender kiss on the tip of each finger. Micah neither drew away nor pressed nearer, his breathing quickening with each caress. “I am of the opinion that I will never forget my gloves again.” His lips barely moved to form the words. “Though how I will ever find a gift for you that surpasses this, I do not know.” Jefferson put his lips against Micah’s palm then moved further to his bare wrist. Micah’s pulse pounded against his lips, and his own heart seemed to echo the erratic rhythm. “I can think of a gift that surpasses it.” He finally lifted his head, forcing his fingers to respond as he helped Micah’s other hand into the glove. “I would like a kiss from you.”

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Micah remained motionless, only darting his tongue across his lower lip as if to catch the memory of the last time they had kissed. “Anything you desire,” he murmured. “I already gave you my troth.” Jefferson’s mouth ran dry. It was one thing to read the words in letters, but it was quite another to hear Micah speak them. “Micah…are you sure? I need to know you are confident about what you want.” Nodding, Micah edged closer. Though their coats prevented the contact Jefferson craved, Micah still stood near enough for the gentle pressure of his body to suffuse Jefferson’s with heat contrary to the winter winds. He was even close enough for Jefferson to finally see the color in his eyes, though the pupils dwarfed the clear irises. “There is much that still confuses me,” Micah confessed. “But there is one answer I have found the utmost satisfaction with—” “Mr. Yardley!” The stern voice of Simonsen cut through the dark path upon which they stood. Micah jumped away from Jefferson as if burned, promptly shoving his gloved hands into his pockets to hide them, as both men turned to face the professor standing near the entrance. “I’m sorry, sir,” Micah said, his volume a trifle too loud. “I only needed to get some fresh air.” Simonsen’s gaze immediately swept to Jefferson. “And here I thought you were honestly interested in the boy’s talent, Mr. Dering. I’m disappointed.” Jefferson took a deep breath, willing back the ball of anger and shame and revulsion trying to work its way up his throat. His first thought wasn’t for himself, but Micah. What if they sent him away as well? “Let the boy go home. He doesn’t know what I am honestly interested in.” Micah’s head whipped around to stare at him. “Jefferson—” “Your presence is required inside, Mr. Yardley.” Though he directed the order at Micah, Simonsen didn’t look away from Jefferson. “I suggest you do as I say.”

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Micah didn’t move. Not until Jefferson murmured a quiet, “Go, Micah.” Then, he hurried off, his hands still buried in his pockets, leaving Jefferson alone with the professor. “I am interested in his ability as a poet,” Jefferson said softly. “He has an amazing talent that should be encouraged.” “He does. But perhaps…not by you.” Jefferson nodded. “I will discourage him from contacting me again, and I’ll return to Wroxham. But it wasn’t my intention to harm his future here at Harvard.” “I do not wish to see his future harmed, either. But he’s just a boy. Impressionable. Innocent. They gift his verse, and to strip them away would do him a great disservice. Don’t discourage him, Mr. Dering. Cut off all communications; otherwise, he will continue to seek you out. Do this, and I’ll protect him from any scandal, should it arise. I give you my word.” Everything in Jefferson’s body twisted, from his stomach to his throat. He did not want to offer any such promise, but he never wanted Micah to experience the cold exile he had gone through. He did not want Micah to know what it was like to lose friends and colleagues. “You are right. I will cease all correspondence with him from this moment forward. He will be safe from me.” Several seconds passed as Simonsen assessed Jefferson’s stiff demeanor. He finally nodded and said, “It would be wise to stay for the duration of the evening. There are those inside aware of your attendance, so should you leave abruptly, it might raise questions.” He turned his back on him, striding back to the party. “But I will be watching, Mr. Dering.” Jefferson watched the older man until he disappeared. He had learned his lesson well, and he should have never, ever put Micah in a similar position. He cared for Micah more than any other person in his life, and yet, he only seemed to hurt him, or put him at risk. He was the older one. He was the more experienced one. He should have been the responsible one.

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Jefferson knew he would not cease all communication with Micah. Not yet. He would have to ignore the younger man for the rest of the night—which would only add to Micah’s hurt—and he would have to leave for Wroxham as soon as possible, but he would write Micah at least one more letter. He deserved that much, and he knew he could trust Micah to be discreet about their correspondence. Jefferson didn’t try to make himself smile as he returned to the party. And when Micah caught his eye with a questioning glance, Jefferson turned away.

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Chapter Twelve Micah, I will have a courier deliver this letter to Ewan, who, I hope, will deliver it to you in good time. After you left us in the garden, Simonsen warned me to cease all contact with you immediately. I gave him my word that I would, as he has nothing except your best interests at heart, and a scandal could destroy your career and your reputation. I can say without exaggeration that I would rather die than be the one to put you in such an abhorrent position. And yet, I am not confident I can keep my word to Simonsen. I could tolerate never seeing you again, as I will not return to Boston, and I do not expect you to risk a visit to Wroxham. If Simonsen learns you have sought me out a second time, I fear the consequences. But I could never tolerate losing you completely. The world would be a weary, desolate place without your words. I write these words with a heavy heart, but perhaps Simonsen is correct. Perhaps your innocence is a gift to your verse, and I would be wrong to “corrupt” you. Yours, Jefferson

*** Dear Jefferson, Did Simonsen also tell you that he originally thought you had discouraged me from a writing future? I respect the man greatly, but he is not infallible. He makes incorrect assumptions. Just as he has done in believing that you could ever corrupt me. If anything, my verse is stronger than ever. Discussing it with you has provided me fresh focus and new inspiration, and the Harvard faculty is unanimous in their praise of my new work

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since leaving Wroxham. Much of it has been written since our correspondences took flame, which should only go to prove even more vehemently that their beliefs are wrong. I beseech you, do not let yourself think such thoughts. Your presence in my life has been the greatest gift I have ever received, and I refuse to allow you to take it back. I shall cling to our friendship with everything that I am, and I will continue to imagine you sitting next to the fire as I compose. Our walk after the recitation proved to me, indubitably, that it is not merely your poetry that causes my blood to rage. It is you, Jefferson. It is the sight of your smile, the tenor of your voice when you whisper in my ear. It is the touch of your hand when you do something as simple as slipping mine into a glove. It is my yearning to give you everything you desire, because anything less would leave me hollow. Simonsen calls me innocent. Ewan concurs. But innocence is not the same as ignorance, and of you and my feelings for you, I have spent too many long hours in careful study. I refuse to bend to the will of a man who does not understand of which he speaks. I can only hope that you will choose the same path as I. Yours always, Micah

*** Dear Micah, The moments we spent together in the garden were few but precious to me. For the first time in my life, I am utterly without words, without the capacity to describe exactly what I am feeling. It is because of these overwhelming and profound emotions that I cannot simply abandon you or our friendship. I agree that innocence is not the same as ignorance, and I do not believe you have an ignorant bone in your body. How could somebody who strives for knowledge the way you do be called ignorant? But I don’t want to take anything from you that you do not want to give. While we were in the garden, I felt the impulse to make a confession to you. Had Simonsen not interrupted, I have no doubt my confession would have been forthcoming. I 116

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struggle with this decision every day. You speak of giving me everything I desire, and I believe you mean it. I believe it because I saw sincerity shining in your eyes—your beautiful, clear eyes. It is impossible to think straight when I consider the possibilities, when I think about your willing smile. You are everything I desire, Micah. You. Just you. If you would give me yourself…but I dare not presume that you would be willing to do that. The confession I longed to make is a simple one. It would be better said in person, but I refuse to hope we will be together again soon. I love you. I am now and forever yours, Jefferson

*** My dearest Jefferson, This is my fourth attempt to begin this missive. My previous efforts lie abandoned in the rubbish, inadequate to send. I can only pray this letter captures what I require of it. Your declaration is the first of its kind I have ever received, though I suspect you will not find that unusual. Such emotional outpourings are foreign to my family, which is likely why they have such difficulty comprehending my poetry. I am humbled that a man like yourself would hold me in such high regard, because you are everything I admire. I must admit, I read, reread, and reread again your last letter, each time wondering if the words would change. The fact that they didn’t left me soaring, but then I remembered our current circumstances, and as Icarus flew too high only to come crashing down, so did I. If this is how you feel, how can you deny our company? You walked away without even saying farewell, leaving your letter to explain it when we both desire far more than the written page. Even now, you say you refuse to hope we will be together. Of what use is love if neither party is granted the gifts that come with it? I am not angry, though I know it must sound as such. I’m merely confused, because this is all so very new to me. I was hurt when you ignored me at the party after the www.samhainpublishing.com

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recitation, yes, but knowing why ameliorated that. Tell me how it is I am supposed to live with the knowledge that miles separate us when neither of us wishes it, how I’m supposed to ignore the dreams where you whisper those words in my ear only to wake in the morning with my pillow damp because they are merely a fragment of my imagination. Reading over this, I fear I have failed yet again to capture the chaos of my thoughts. However, time marches on, and I do not want you to think that my delay means I do not value your declaration. Nothing could be further from the truth. I can only hope that this is sufficient enough for you to understand. Always yours, Micah

*** Dear Micah, Do you believe I am a coward because I will not return to Boston? Do you consider me yellow because I allowed Simonsen to bully me into ignoring you at the party? Do you doubt my feelings because I will not try to compel you to visit me in Wroxham? You do not need to put yourself into exile on my account, and I refuse to encourage you to do just that. Likewise, if I return to Boston, it will be just a matter of time before we are caught again. My reputation is already destroyed, and if Simonsen want to consider me some sort of predator, lying in wait for an innocent soul like yours, then I will accept that. If it will save you, and your family, embarrassment. I am constantly afraid of misjudging the situation, or making a misstep. I delivered my last letter to the courier before I could change my mind. I do not take it back and I will never regret my feelings, but I question the wisdom of declaring them in a letter. Yours, Jefferson

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My dearest Jefferson, It was never my intention to question your courage, nor to cast doubt upon your decision to share your feelings. Please accept my humblest apologies for any wrongdoing I might have impressed upon you. I would ask that you also cease fearing how to proceed. I appreciate your wishes to save my family any undue humiliations, but I must somehow deter you from equating our situation with that of yours and Vincent’s. I am not he. Our circumstances are completely unique, and I would like to think that perhaps I will act more responsibly than he. As such, I refuse to continue to base my choices on a history that is not mine. If this makes me selfish, so be it. I find when it comes to you and everything about you, I discover a possessive spirit I never owned prior. With the passing days, I find my thoughts clearing, my path making itself known. My earlier queries were indication of my muddle, not anything else, though I suspect that was not how it came across at all. It is a fresh puzzle for me to fathom, and one I do so willingly. The prize at the end of the maze, after all, is your heart, and I shall do what I must in order to cherish it as it deserves. I would add that I would do what I must in order to merit it as well, but as you have already chastised me for disregarding my own worth in your eyes, I shall desist on that particular point. Smile, my most beloved friend. For I do as well, every time I think of you. Always yours, Micah

*** Dearest Micah, I know that you are not Vincent. And I am not the man, or boy rather, I was a decade ago. In many ways, I feel like I have finished paying for that episode in my life. I am happy with the home and my life now, and if I think about what might have been if I had stayed at Harvard, I must weigh it against everything I would have lost. I do not wish to www.samhainpublishing.com

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impose this history on to you, and I will strive in the future to remember that we do have a truly unique relationship between the two of us. Unique because I have never met another soul like yours, and I doubt I ever will again. But I feel I have been hinting at a great sacrifice. We have been dancing around the inevitable. I will sacrifice my name, my reputation, and everything I possess for your benefit. But when I lie awake thinking of you, imagining you in the privacy of your chambers, struggling with new desires and confusing questions, I fear there is nothing I can give. I fear that, ultimately, all of the sacrifices will be yours. You must work through all of this on your own, in your own time. Do you find this fresh puzzle exhilarating? I feel you must, if only because it is something new, something you’ve never met before. Given the tone of my last letter, I must take this time to emphasize the basic fact that now consumes my life. I do love you, Micah. I probably have for quite some time. When I think of you, when I see you, I just want to hold you and keep you close to me. Yours, Jefferson

*** My dearest Jefferson, I do find it exhilarating. It frightened me at the start, though when I think back to the look on Ewan’s face when I asked him to procure a professional woman with whom I could prove my so-called manhood, I cannot help but chuckle. What a fiasco that turned out to be! I believe he has probably suspected all along, but was too good a friend to say anything. Though if he had, perhaps I would not have run from Wroxham in the first place. Ah, well, we cannot change what has worked to bring us together. We must simply forge onward, and blaze a new path that will hopefully conjoin at some point. Enclosed with this letter is the Christmas gift I promised. Alas, it is not the kiss I wish I could have bestowed, but absent of that, I do hope it satisfies. It is a marvelous new technology created by a Frenchman called a daguerreotype. Mother heard about it 120

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and promptly announced we would all have one taken. I went back afterward and commissioned a second, and I enclose it now for you. It is a trifle early, but I wished you to have it in plenty of time for the holidays. This way, we can actually be together. Always yours, Micah

*** Dearest Micah, My heart stopped when I saw your dear face. I am not entirely sure it began beating normally. It feels like a bird stuck in my chest, fighting and fluttering for freedom. I cannot imagine a more suitable gift, or anything I would cherish more (except for your actual presence). I have it propped up on my desk right now so I can view it with ease, and I have yet to let it out of my sight. In fact, I have studied it extensively to make sure each detail in my memory matches reality. I am pleased to report that my memory is entirely accurate. I have not forgotten a single detail, a single strand of hair. Speaking of your hair, I see you haven’t yet cut it. I cannot express my satisfaction at confirmation of this fact. It becomes you. I can almost feel how soft it is. I want nothing more than to be with you. Every day my feelings grow. As a result of these burgeoning emotions, I have avoided the church, and Joseph. Even so, there is gossip around the town that strange things have been happening at night, after everybody retires. As you can imagine, I do not retire when everybody else does. I am overtaken with thoughts and fantasies of you. Perhaps it will not simply be enough to avoid the church if this continues? I imagine now that I have your daguerreotype, Joseph’s activity will just increase. But I cannot help myself, even for the sake of peace in the village. The very image of you intoxicates me. Sincerely yours, Jefferson

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Chapter Thirteen Jefferson had never been so alone on the eve of Christmas. He had certainly spent the holiday by himself, more than once since his mother passed on. But he had never been so acutely aware of his isolation. He felt his separation from the rest of the village, from God, from Micah. It was an actual ache behind his eyes and between his shoulders. He had been invited to spend Christmas Eve and Christmas Day with Reverend Deem, but Jefferson had refused the invitation without thought. He felt it was best to remain isolated. He was not fit for company. The pot of porridge he planned for his supper bubbled pleasantly over the fire. As he watched the surface swell and burst, he couldn’t help but think of Micah. He had never mentioned it to Micah, but Jefferson had been invited to a function at his father’s home once, long before, and he could imagine the large house, full of people, clearly. Micah should be sitting down to a veritable feast, his eyes reflecting the candles, his cheeks flushed red from the meats and pies and delicacies. He cradled Micah’s gift between his palms, squinting to see the image in the dark. His eyes were getting bad. He shuddered to think that soon his composition would be limited to daylight hours. But for this evening, he would not worry about writing. Not until later, at least. After supper he would read all of Micah’s letters again, and then pour his thoughts onto paper, to pick out the passages that would please Micah the most. The same time the previous year, Jefferson had prayed and meditated on the nature of God and his relationship to the Father. Now his thoughts were solely focused on the younger man who was securely placed in his heart. How he had made himself so lovesick, so quickly, was a mystery to Jefferson. However, his current state of lovesickness was undeniable. Everything in his life that had once brought him pleasure, or defined his purpose, now seemed colorless and pointless. Even his poetry. None of it

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seemed to matter in comparison to Micah. How could he continue this way? How could he ask Micah to come to him when Micah didn’t yet love him? Occasionally, he felt foolish in his devotion. He did not doubt Micah cared for him deeply, but Micah was young and Jefferson couldn’t help but be achingly aware of that fact. When doubts plagued him, he thought of Micah’s face at the moment he saw and recognized Jefferson in his audience. That smile alone said more than a thousand of Micah’s letters ever could. The longer he stared at the image, the more aroused he became. Jefferson tortured himself with thoughts of Micah’s hands, his mouth, his firm body, his prick, and even his buttocks. Some nights, he sought relief by his own hand. Other nights, he kept his hands off his erection, and he allowed the exquisite torment to increase gradually, until he thought his body would split at the joints. Did Micah experience a similar torment? Did he have his own desperate, hungry fantasies? Certain passages in Micah’s letters implied as much. Jefferson would have given anything in his possession to know what Micah fantasized about. What did he want Jefferson to do to him? Where did he want Jefferson to start? Would he ever know? Could Micah ever tell him? Jefferson didn’t think he would torture himself that night. He did not enjoy pain, and it would be far too painful to ignore his erection for the rest of the evening. The fresh throbbing in his groin prompted him to rethink his plan. He’d write his nightly letter to Micah now, and then he would retire and ease a little bit of his suffering. Jefferson settled in his desk and pulled a fresh piece of paper from the drawer. The correspondence was getting expensive, between the paper and the private courier he hired. He realized he needed to raise more money soon. In the past, he could arrange a lecture in Boston, or sell a new poem. He could even write the occasional essay. None of those options seemed remotely possible in his current state. He shook his head. He didn’t need to think about it now. For now, he had more than enough resources to send his letter, and several more like it.

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His quill was poised over the paper when a sharp rap on the door brought him up short. It was Deem, no doubt, coming to issue him another invitation. He sensed Deem’s growing concern for the state of his soul, but Jefferson dare not return to the church. Each time he stepped beyond the threshold, candles burned, doors slammed and the air grew hot. He wished he could explain to Deem that he kept his privacy for the village’s safety. As agitated as his thoughts had been, Joseph would be more so. It was neighborly of the man, Godly even, but Jefferson didn’t want visitors. Until he opened the door and his heart lodged in his throat. His cheeks were reddened, just as Jefferson had imagined, but the color in Micah’s face came from the cold, not from heat. Sometime during the evening, it had started snowing, and fat, white flakes salted his tousled curls. A satchel was thrown over his shoulder, and his clothes looked rumpled, but most of what Jefferson saw was the smile curving Micah’s mouth. “So is your spirit responsible for this dreadful snow?” Micah teased. “Because the last hour of my journey was truly abysmal.” Only a small part of his brain registered the snow. The rest of his being was paralyzed in a sort of exuberant shock. Still not quite able to speak, he gently pulled Micah through the door and shut out the blizzard behind him. He touched Micah’s cold cheek, brushed a damp curl from his forehead, caressed his ear, his shoulder. “I’m just making sure you are really here,” Jefferson murmured as Micah patiently withstood the minor assault. “That I have not fallen asleep.” The sound Micah made—half-sigh, half-gasp—went straight to Jefferson’s arousal. “Sleep. You have no idea how badly I long for a decent night.” Pulling away, he dropped his satchel to the floor and shook the snow from his hair. “But that will have to wait a little bit longer. I’ve much yet to do this Eve, and I refuse to skip a step of it.” It was all Jefferson could do to respect the distance Micah put between them, and not immediately invade his personal space again. “What do you have to do?” His eyes twinkling, Micah simply smiled as he quickly shed his coat. When he peeled off his gloves, Jefferson realized they were the pair he’d given Micah in Boston.

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“I have a plan, you see.” Micah came back to face Jefferson, resting his hand on his shoulder. The touch was light, but it was still firm enough to guide Jefferson backward until his heels hit the wall. “I’ve been perfecting it for several weeks now, ever since I realized you were going to be far too honorable about this entire situation.” He pressed closer, and Jefferson’s muscles locked at the direct contact. “But first, I must do this.” And tilting upward, Micah brushed his lips across Jefferson’s. Jefferson wrapped his arms around Micah immediately—he was not going to get away from Jefferson again. But he did not try to take over the kiss. He let Micah’s lips guide his. It was not hard to simply follow Micah’s slow, careful lead. Jefferson wanted so much more, and yet, this was all he really needed. Just to let Micah’s lips caress his. Let Micah’s tongue tease his. Let Micah’s warm breath mingle with his until he was inhaling the smell and taste and essence of him. It didn’t last nearly as long as he wanted it to. But Micah didn’t break away from the circle of Jefferson’s arms, his hand sliding to Jefferson’s chest as he smiled up at him. “Merry Christmas,” he murmured. “Are you surprised?” “I can honestly say I have never been more surprised in my entire life. I was certain you would be tied to your family until January.” Micah shook his head. “My ties are to you. Haven’t I made that clear in my letters?” Jefferson swallowed hard. He almost didn’t have the ability to process Micah’s words. “What’s the rest of your plan?” “Now that would spoil the surprise. However, it does hinge on one crucial detail. One I need you to provide, actually.” “Let’s discuss another crucial detail. Do I need to let you go in order for you to carry out the plan?” “Yes. Eventually.” He must have noted Jefferson’s disappointment because he rushed to add, “But the detail I need from you will ease that, I’m sure. You see, I’m currently homeless, and I was rather hoping you’d allow me to stay here. Mrs. Ruark is a lovely woman, but I’m afraid she just does nothing for me.”

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Jefferson blinked, suddenly certain he was caught up in a dream. He could just lock himself in his cottage with Micah for the night, and the day after, and even the night after that. He would have unfettered, uninterrupted, undeniable access to the only person in the world he wanted to be with. He didn’t fall to his knees in gratitude, but only because Micah was holding him up. “Stay. Please, stay. Anything of mine is yours.” Micah’s pleased smile reflected in his eyes. “Does that include the porridge I smell? Because I haven’t eaten since last night, and my stomach is ready to revolt.” Jefferson looked over Micah’s shoulder to the porridge. If he played a proper host and offered Micah dinner, he’d have to release him. He did not want to do that. But he couldn’t justify starving Micah, either. “You sit down,” Jefferson said, dropping his arms and allowing Micah to step back. “I’ll serve your dinner. But you’re not allowed to leave when you realize I can’t cook like Mrs. Ruark.” Micah stooped and picked up his satchel, carrying it with him as he followed Jefferson into the sitting room. “My trunks are at the inn.” The sight of him taking his usual seat on the chaise warmed Jefferson’s blood even more than it already was. “But I’d rather not bother Mrs. Ruark on Christmas to fetch them, if that’s all right with you.” “We’ll be fine without them, I’m sure.” Jefferson dished up the porridge mechanically, his mind far from the task. “It’s hardly a Christmas feast, is it? I might have had something more appropriate if I knew you were coming.” “I wanted it to be a surprise. That’s why I sent you the early gift. I wanted you to think that I was done.” “You’re very clever. Because I did think just that.” Jefferson handed him his bowl, then settled beside him. “Be careful with that. It’s hot, and the last thing I want is for you to burn your mouth.” Nodding, Micah bent down slightly and blew across the top of the steaming porridge. Jefferson couldn’t tear his eyes away from the full mouth as they pursed, and he tightly gripped the edge of the chaise. It wouldn’t do to maul the man with hot food in his hands.

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As he dipped his spoon into the bowl, Micah glanced around the room. “I’ve missed this place,” he said, a definite ache in his voice. “It always felt more like home to me than my own in Boston.” “It’s been empty without you. I never once thought it was too big for me, until after you left. And then it felt like I had nothing but room.” Jefferson looked at his feet. “How long will you be staying this time?” Seconds passed as he listened to Micah take several bites of the porridge. Then, the bowl appeared in Micah’s lap and his familiar hand settled on Jefferson’s knee. “I left Boston, Jeff. For good. So I am here for as long as you want me.” Jefferson lifted the bowl from Micah’s lap and set it on the arm of the chair. He cupped Micah’s face, his thumbs caressing Micah’s cheeks, and studied his clear eyes. Jefferson wanted to kiss him until his lips were swollen. He wanted to quote sonnets and assure Micah that he would want him there forever. But there was one thing holding him back, and he couldn’t ignore it. “What about Harvard?” Micah didn’t blink. “I left.” “Why? Micah, your education meant so much to you.” “You’re right. It did. When I had nothing else.” He reached up and held Jefferson’s hand, his fingertips warm from his food. “But then I found you. And Harvard was in the way of being with you.” He turned his head just enough to skim his mouth over the heel of Jefferson’s hand. “My father was actually quite pleased to hear I’d left. Until I informed him that I needed to learn how to be my own man, independent of the Yardley name. Which, unfortunately, required leaving Boston, as well.” A part of Jefferson wanted to insist that Micah go straight back to Harvard and straighten everything out. Then the rest of Micah’s explanation filtered through his shock. He had informed his father he was leaving. He had stood up for himself. The young man Jefferson met just a few short months earlier would have never done that. Pride and respect and love swelled within him.

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“Micah…” His name was a mere breath before Jefferson closed the final inches between their mouths and claimed his lips. The grip on his hand tightened as Micah responded to the caress. He made a sound in his throat the moment before his lips parted, and Jefferson denied the small voice in the back of his mind warning him to take it slow to sweep his tongue across Micah’s before tracing back over his full mouth. The lower lip quivered, his breaths coming shallower. Then, Micah shyly touched the tip of his tongue to Jefferson’s, beckoning him back. Jefferson dipped his tongue into Micah’s mouth, sampling the soft curves slowly. He wanted to pour all of his emotions into Micah’s body, like it was nothing more than a waiting vessel. But he didn’t want to startle him. He willed the tension from his muscles and swallowed the bittersweet desire for more. He didn’t have to rush this, because Micah was not going anywhere. Jefferson moaned as their tongues tangled, and Micah echoed the sound. Jefferson’s entire body felt too raw, too sensitive. He could tell the exact moment Micah tensed, a tightening of his fingers, a shift in his upper body. As much as he loathed breaking the contact, Jefferson let Micah pull back and let the hands that still held each other fall to the chaise between them. Micah’s breathing was hot and quick, his pupils dilated with desire. “Can we…?” He swallowed. Tried again. “I’ve been dreaming of this, of you, for so long now. Dreamed of feeling your mouth on mine again, of tasting you. But I am…” His cheeks were flushed, his lashes ducking as he fixed on their clasped hands. “I accept who I am, the fact that I desire you, that you consume my thoughts until I burn. But the answers I have sought have all been internal. I do not… I haven’t…” He stopped, clearly choking on the inability to find the right words. “I know.” Jefferson brushed his lips across Micah’s forehead so lightly, it was almost chaste. “I promise, Micah, I’ll not do anything you’re not comfortable with. But please…I just…I need to touch you.” Micah didn’t lift his eyes, but Jefferson caught the swift sweep of his tongue across his dry lower lip. “How?” Micah whispered.

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“Like this.” He brushed his knuckles through the curls above Micah’s ear. “And this.” He smoothed his other hand down Micah’s arm, from his shoulder to his wrist, feeling the firmness of his toned muscles. “And this.” He trailed his fingers along Micah’s jaw and then down the column of his throat. His lips followed his fingers, and he ghosted his mouth over Micah’s warm skin. A trembling hand came up and caressed Jefferson’s jaw. He paused, waiting for Micah to voice a protest, but when that didn’t come, Jefferson shifted the path of his mouth, stifling his groans when he felt the muscles of Micah’s neck twitching beneath his tongue. Micah tilted his head to the side, silently offering more, but it was the cautious weight of his fingertips on Jefferson’s thigh that made his prick jump. Micah’s skin still tasted vaguely of snow, and Jefferson dragged his tongue across the skin beneath his ear. Micah didn’t move his hand, but Jefferson enjoyed the unfamiliar weight and warmth on his leg. He knew Micah would venture further up his thigh when he was ready. Jefferson folded his fingers in the material of Micah’s shirt. He longed to see if Micah’s body looked as good as it felt. The incidental scratch of his nails through the fabric made Micah start. He jerked his hand away from Jefferson’s leg and abruptly stood up, knocking over the porridge in his haste to flee. Dismay crossed his face, and he immediately dropped to his knees, trying to spoon his dinner back into the bowl. “I’m sorry,” Micah rushed. “I’m just…I’m overwhelmed, I think. I can’t seem to think straight. Or walk straight, apparently.” Jefferson slid off the chaise and knelt on the floor beside him. He reached out and took Micah’s wrist, stopping him from spreading the porridge over the floor. “I’ll take care of this.” He brought Micah’s hand to his lips, kissed the back of his thumb and released him. “You tell me what you want.” Behind the desire that still darkened Micah’s eyes lurked a bleakness that made Jefferson want to pull him into his arms and never let him go. “I don’t know. I thought…it seemed so much simpler in my dreams. I didn’t expect to feel so out of control. Like…there’s something inside me just waiting to be unleashed.”

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“That’s how it’s supposed to feel,” Jefferson said gently. “And it’s nothing to be afraid of.” Micah still looked uncertain. “Have you…ever touched yourself?” Micah shifted awkwardly, his gaze sliding to the fireplace. “There have been…a few times. Once, when I woke from a dream, aching and unable to function. After finishing your letter where you spoke of…wanting to know all of me.” He rubbed a weary hand over his face. “You must think me a child.” “No, I don’t think any such thing. But I do think I want you to be comfortable. Will you trust me?” “Of course.” Then Micah glanced at him through his lashes, a small smile dancing on his lips. “Is this where you ply me with brandy so I forget my fears again?” “No.” Jefferson’s smile matched his. “We’ll save the alcohol for tomorrow night. In the meantime, I want you to take your shirt off, then kneel directly in front of the fire so you don’t get cold.” Without looking away, Micah sat back on his heels and pulled his shirt from his waistband, undoing the necessary buttons before pulling the garment over his head. Jefferson’s mouth went dry as he exposed his chest. Unblemished skin, dark flat nipples, shoulders broader unclothed than they were hidden away. Even the sculpture of his biceps spoke of an artist’s chisel, not a poet’s quill, and he wondered not for the first time just what Micah did on his many walks through Boston. “Is that it?” Micah’s question yanked Jefferson back to the moment, and he tore his focus away to see Micah regarding him, his fingers hovering at his waistband. “Merely shedding my shirt almost seems like…a verse half done.” “Wait a moment,” Jefferson murmured. He took Micah’s shoulder and silently encouraged him to turn away from Jefferson and face the fire. He unbuttoned his own shirt quickly and shrugged it off, but his belt and his pants remained untouched. He settled behind Micah, close enough to feel the heat coming from his back, but not quite close enough to touch him. “Unbutton your trousers and take yourself out.” In spite of the crackling flames, an array of gooseflesh appeared on Micah’s arm, the muscles quivering as he did exactly as he was told. His hand was shaking as it slipped

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inside the coarse fabric, but it stilled when the muscles in his wrist flexed. Jefferson held his breath. Micah used his free hand to push the open flaps out of his way and gradually exposed himself. Dark hair curled around the base, and though Micah’s grip hid much of his length from view, the tight hold had already pulled back the foreskin, revealing the glistening tip. It was thicker than Jefferson had imagined, and the stray thought of whether or not everything about Micah was better without the trappings of clothes did nothing to ease the sudden throbbing in his groin. “Is this what you wanted?” Not quite, but close enough. He desperately wanted to test the texture and firmness of his length with his tongue and fingers. He wanted to lay Micah down in front of the fire and do everything he had ever described to Micah in his letters. He almost swayed forward, but he was careful not to press his groin against Micah’s backside. The last thing he wanted to do was startle Micah with the implication of something that wasn’t going to happen that night—and may not happen ever. “Yes. Now…” He skimmed his palms down Micah’s bare arms and pressed his lips against Micah’s nape. “Slide your hand from the base to the tip. Just stroke yourself.” Micah dropped his head forward, the small bones shifting at the top of his spine. His chest rose, fell, rose again, each breath almost a struggle, but he obeyed Jefferson’s directive, his hand moving slowly down his thick length. It pulled the skin back over the head, though that did nothing to deter Micah from letting his thumb skim across the end, coming away wet so that the skin shone in the firelight. Jefferson’s mouth watered. He wanted to taste the glistening skin. Just let his tongue linger on the salty fluid, and then move lower for another taste, and another. He kept his touch deliberately light, and the hair on his chest scraped across Micah’s back as he moved still closer. His trousers were painfully tight against his erection. “Do it again,” Jefferson said roughly. “Don’t stop.” The cast of the flames turned Micah’s skin golden. Each languid stroke along his prick came with that same swipe across the tip. He may have professed to only touching

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himself a few times, but Micah had clearly learned just what it was that gave him pleasure. Jefferson hid his smile by kissing the soft skin below Micah’s ear. So much for him to learn, to absorb. Every moment would be a gift, small and perfect. “Do you do this?” Micah’s voice was rough, hoarser than Jefferson could ever remember hearing before. “Your letters…hinted at such desires, passion I could only yearn for.” Jefferson didn’t hesitate to answer his question. He would never avoid answering any of Micah’s questions. “Yes. I do.” He took measured breaths to keep his voice even. “The thought of you is enough to arouse me. But the things you said in your letters, the memory of your lips, the image of your smile…sometimes I would simply fantasize about this. About you coming to me, choosing me.” Micah turned his head to look back at him, though his hand kept moving up and down his shaft. “Sometimes I feel as if you found me,” he whispered. “From the moment I first read your verse. Your words…called to me, only to be surpassed when I saw you that first time at your lecture. How could I not choose you? You’ve enthralled me, and I am but your servant. Always.” Jefferson hooked his finger under Micah’s chin, holding him in place as he kissed a trail from his ear to his mouth. When he reached Micah’s lips, he didn’t try to deepen the kiss. He spoke with his mouth against Micah’s, tracing the words against Micah’s skin as he uttered them. “My heart is ever at your service.” “Just your heart?” His breath was sweet, and the tip of his tongue tickled against Jefferson’s lips as he swiftly wet his own. “I think…I’m certain I can bear it if you wish to touch me again. Should that still be your wish.” “It will always be my wish, from now until the grave.” He slid his hand down Micah’s chest, letting his palm brush over one flat nipple before moving to his taut stomach. “Tell me where you wish to be touched.” “Cover my hand.”

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His strokes stopped, his fingers gripping the root of his prick. Jefferson refused to break the contact of their mouths, smoothing his hand over the coarse hair to mold it over Micah’s. Micah sighed, a pleased sound that spoke of more than satisfaction. “Perhaps…” He tilted his head and kissed Jefferson softly. “If you teach me how it is you touch yourself, I might be able to do it for you. I’m a very quick study, after all. It would be a shame not to take advantage of my strengths.” Jefferson almost protested that he didn’t have to do that, but stopped the words. Discouraging Micah now wouldn’t accomplish anything, and if Micah hesitated to touch him later, he wouldn’t hold it against him. “You are also very persuasive.” Jefferson moved Micah’s hand up his shaft to the head. He had Micah circle the tip with the center of his palm, smearing the fluid over the sensitive crown. He continued to move Micah’s hand in a slow circle until Micah gasped, then he guided him back down to the base. “Do you…?” The question choked in his throat when Jefferson braved reaching forward with his other hand, finding the heavy sac tight against his body. “Oh, God,” Micah panted. His stroke faltered. “What…what are you doing?” “I’m showing you how I touch myself.” He flexed his fingers, squeezing gently. Micah tensed against him, and his hand slowed, almost to a stop. Jefferson began pumping his wrist in a steady rhythm, forcing Micah to continue, even as he began to massage Micah’s sac against his palm. “I like a little bit of pressure. Do you?” “I don’t know. I’ve never…” A glance across the velvety skin behind the sac made Micah slam back into Jefferson’s body, driving them together. Chest met shoulders. Hips met buttocks. And Jefferson’s throbbing shaft ground into the taut flesh he ached to sink into. Jefferson’s hips moved automatically, jerking forward. The new pressure against his arousal made him cry out, and he forgot that he didn’t want to make Micah nervous. He forgot everything except seeking out the pressure a third time, and finding new friction. He released Micah’s sac, his hand going to his hip to hold him in place as he shifted his

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body. Each stroke along Micah’s shaft was accompanied with another rotation of Jefferson’s hips, another soft moan. He thought he imagined it at first. The heat was all consuming, his head awhirl with the knowledge that Micah was here, that he held Micah in his arms, that he was tasting and breathing and smelling the man he loved. But as the pulls along Micah’s shaft grew quicker, more erratic, it came again. And again. And Jefferson groaned when Micah matched every thrust of Jefferson’s prick with an instinctive roll of his hips. Jefferson allowed himself to imagine he was sinking into Micah’s tight heat with each thrust. He imagined Micah clenching around him, panting his name. He imagined being completely connected to Micah, with nothing separating them. Micah looking at him with trusting, brown eyes… Micah’s groan pulled Jefferson out of his thoughts, and he realized Micah was tensing, his body jerking sharply. Jefferson tightened his grip on Micah’s hand, increasing the pressure around his shaft. He made sure to look, to watch as long streams of fluid erupted from Micah, covering their hands and dripping to the floor between his knees. “Oh…Micah…” Jefferson slammed forward one final time, the sharp pleasure building below his spine and then exploding beneath his skin. He might have cried out Micah’s name again as he felt his own warm fluid roll down his shaft and stick to the front of his pants. “Love you…” He panted the words until his heart began to slow, and he put an arm around Micah, to steady them both. With the loosening of his fingers, Micah forced their hands from his prick. The muscles in his back shifted, and Jefferson lifted his head from where he nuzzled Micah’s neck to meet eyes that shocked him. They glittered with a ferocious heat, the vestiges of propriety stripped away. Before Jefferson had the opportunity to comment, Micah clutched at the back of his neck and brought their mouths together again. This kiss was not the tentative caress of a man unaware of intimacy. This was hard and desperate, ravenous as the others had never been. It lacked the others’ grace, their teeth occasionally

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clicking where they clashed, but it compensated with passion, full evidence of how profoundly Micah had experienced their touching. The heat from the fire tightened Jefferson’s skin, and the heat generated by Micah’s kiss tightened his groin. When Jefferson tried to break away for air, Micah followed, chasing him with his mouth, drawing him back into another deep kiss. And when Micah tried for a breath, Jefferson refused to let him go, spurred on by the knowledge that he never had to. Nails dug into Jefferson’s hip. He groaned, flashing on the sensation of Micah holding him close, guiding his thrusts as he stroked in and out of his heat. Perhaps it wasn’t so improbable that Micah might allow such intimacy. His body had reacted to the feel of Jefferson’s, moving with his natural grace. Even now, holding Jefferson as he was, it felt like he was silently asking for it. It was a fallacy, most likely induced by Jefferson’s desires, but it felt genuine, nonetheless. He had no idea how much time passed, how long he was able to devour the mouth that had plagued his dreams, how long he was able to hold the quivering body nearly molded to his. A log fell in the fire, and the sudden noise of it made Micah jump, finally jerking away far enough to gaze at Jefferson. His lips were swollen, his nostrils flaring from his quickened breath, but it was the adoration in his gaze that Jefferson responded to the most. “My plans are utterly disrupted,” he said with a hint of a smile. “Could this be how Simonsen thinks you mean to corrupt me?” Jefferson looked down to his own stained pants and the drying, white fluid on his hand. “This is precisely how Simonsen thinks I mean to corrupt you. But perhaps we can still salvage your plan? The night is still young, after all.” Micah shook his head. “I’m of the mind to simply wallow in your arms a trifle longer. Or all night, if you will let me. I’ll reclaim my plans in the morn. They are likely better suited to Christmas Day anyway.” “If we are to wallow in each other’s arms, we should retire to the bedroom. It is far more comfortable than the floor.” He released Micah and stood. Micah took his offered

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hand, and allowed Jefferson to pull him to his feet. “But I must admit an intense curiosity about a plan better suited for Christmas Day.” “If you think to trick me into telling, you’ll be disappointed.” Tucking himself away back into his pants, he glanced at Jefferson’s groin and the fluid still marring the floor, the twinkle in his eye fading. “But I seem to have made quite the mess with my unfettered response to you. Literally.” Jefferson shook his head. “Don’t give it another thought. This sort of thing is a messy business. I’d be disappointed if there wasn’t something to clean up. Which I will do later.” “Later?” Micah looked genuinely concerned. “Will your insomnia continue as badly as before? I’d hoped…” Jefferson reached for Micah’s hand. “No, not because of my insomnia. I mean, I’d rather focus my attentions on you right now. I haven’t seen you in what seems like months and months. I’ve missed you.” Some of the concern faded, though it did not completely disappear. “I’ve missed you too.” Micah tightened his fingers around Jefferson’s, and the twinkle returned. “Does this mean you are not banishing me to a pallet in the corner?” “When you see how narrow my bed is, you might wish for your own pallet in the corner,” Jefferson teased. He led Micah out of the sitting room, leaving behind the porridge on the floor, Micah’s satchel and their discarded shirts. Jefferson’s ideas of order were gone, replaced entirely by Micah. Just the promise of holding Micah as he drifted to sleep made Jefferson forget about everything he ever considered a priority. Micah was his only priority now.

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Chapter Fourteen Micah did not remember falling asleep. He remembered walking into Jefferson’s bedroom and teasing him unmercifully about how they would have to sleep on top of each other for his narrow bed to accommodate both of them. He remembered Jefferson guiding him to the edge of the bed, pushing him to sit, kneeling at his feet in order to remove his boots and socks. He remembered how tight his chest was when he saw the love naked in Jefferson’s eyes, and he remembered wondering how it was he could never have seen it before. Neither had disrobed, though Jefferson shed his soiled trousers to sleep in a clean cotton undergarment. Micah had crawled into bed while he changed, but when Jefferson had slid in behind him, they had moved instinctively, Jefferson’s arm coming around Micah’s waist as their bodies molded together. The sense of comfort, of feeling wanted, enveloped Micah like the warmest of blankets, and he’d settled his head on the pillow, sighing each time he felt Jefferson brush a kiss along his shoulder. There was talking, and soft touching, and more talking. There was Jefferson’s resonant voice in his ear, Jefferson’s fingers stroking his tight stomach, Jefferson’s arousal pressed against his backside. Micah had dwelled in drabs on what had happened in front of the fireplace, how it had seemed like the most natural thing in the world to rock with Jefferson as he stroked Micah’s prick, but their conversation distracted further contemplation more than once. He remembered all of it. But he did not remember falling asleep. Micah woke to the smell of sausage and poked his head out from beneath the pillow to blink blearily around the room. Jefferson wasn’t in sight, but his satchel sat on the floor next to the wardrobe and his shirt was draped over the back of the chair. He sat up, stretching and yawning. It had been a long time since he had slept so deeply; he hadn’t even dreamt, which was highly unusual for him. www.samhainpublishing.com

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His stomach rumbled. Grabbing his shirt, Micah pulled it on over his head and went in search of what smelled so absolutely delicious. He found Jefferson in his small kitchen, standing over a narrow, cast-iron stove. It was nothing like the massive stove in his father’s kitchen that almost seemed large enough to use as a second home. Jefferson’s stove fit in the back corner, heat and the rich aroma of breakfast emanating from it and filling the room. Jefferson stood in his shirtsleeves, a cup of coffee in one hand, a spatula in the other as he kept the breakfast from burning. The window over Jefferson’s head revealed a silent, white world, the icy crust of the snow reflecting a million points of fresh sunshine. “Good morning,” Jefferson greeted, without turning around. “Coffee?” “Yes, please.” He went to the cupboard and helped himself to the cup that had been reserved for his use that week they’d spent wrapped up with their discourse. “Did you sleep? Please tell me you haven’t been up all night again.” “I slept.” Jefferson carefully poured Micah’s coffee and smiled. “It isn’t surprising, considering the fact you were the reason I couldn’t sleep before.” Micah flushed in pleased embarrassment. “You said you’d always had insomnia. Or was that because you were too frightened to tell me how you felt?” “I must confess to the lie. But I don’t think the truth would have been acceptable response at the time.” He agreed, though he refrained from saying so out loud. He had been terrified after knowing Jefferson for a week; if he had discovered the truth earlier, he was not certain that he would have been as quick to trust him again. His stomach growled again as fat spattered in the pan. “I hope you like to cook. Because I have never spent any time in a kitchen except to steal sweets or ask for a refill on my tea. I’m afraid I’ll be quite useless to you.” “That’s fine. I’m no culinary genius, but my mother taught me how to cook when it became evident that if somebody didn’t, I’d starve to death. Just so you know, I have a girl, Emilia’s sister Alma, who picks up my laundry once a week. She also takes care of

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any mending I might have. But other than that I don’t have any domestic help.” Jefferson looked up with a quizzical frown. “Where’s Ewan?” “In Boston.” Sobering, Micah sat at the small table and sipped at his coffee. “I have some funds of my own, so I can live quite comfortably without needing to rely upon my father, but not enough to hire him for myself and keep him in the lifestyle to which he’s accustomed. I did not think it fair to put him in the awkward situation of having to turn down an offer to come with me.” “What about the lifestyle to which you’re accustomed?” Jefferson asked gently. “Are you going to miss it?” It was a question he had considered for long hours before making his decision to leave Boston. “I’ve never had to worry about mundane issues such as where my next meal is going to come from, or what to do if I stain my cuffs with ink. I have been spoiled with choice my entire life, and yet, except for my verse, I can honestly say I have never been as happy as I was last night.” Micah offered what he hoped was a placating smile; he did not want Jefferson to fret over whether he would leave because he feared a bit of laundry. “I will adapt as I must. I do not regret the choice I have made in the slightest.” Jefferson slid the combination of potatoes, sausage and onions onto two plates, and then pulled six fresh eggs out of a small basket. “Well, you’ll never have to worry about your next meal while you’re with me.” He cracked the eggs into the hot fat carefully. Micah almost couldn’t hear his stomach growling over the sound of the eggs sizzling. “I might not be wealthy, but I have enough to keep you fed. I guess that means you’ve probably never raised chickens or milked a cow?” Micah laughed out loud at the absurdity of the image Jefferson presented, then stifled it when he realized he was serious. “No, never. I can’t even say I’ve written about livestock. Are you certain you wish to have such a wastrel under your roof?” “I’m completely positive. You’re a quick study, I’m sure we can think of ways you can contribute to the domestic upkeep.” The eggs came out of the pan. “Just in case you wonder where your food comes from, I have a small flock of hens, a cow, and I raise a pig every year for slaughter.”

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He hadn’t, which embarrassed Micah even further. But with Jefferson sliding the steaming plate of food in front of him, he dismissed his foolish reactions and dug into his breakfast. Heat immediately suffused his flesh, and he moaned in satisfaction as it settled in his stomach. As they ate, the companionable conversation did much to temper Micah’s voracious appetite. They didn’t bring up the events of the previous night, though Micah felt the slight press of Jefferson’s knee against his own beneath the table. It was as it always had been, free of awkwardness that might have otherwise arisen. He took it as further evidence that he had done exactly the right thing in coming to Wroxham. When they were done, Micah insisted upon washing up, even with the several attempts and Jefferson’s light chuckles in the background delaying its completion. “Did you have plans for Christmas dinner?” he asked. “Mrs. Ruark invited me back to the inn, and when I explained I would likely be dining with you, she suggested you were more than welcome to join as well.” “No, I don’t have any plans. It didn’t really seem… I didn’t see the point this year. If you wish to dine at Mrs. Ruark’s, I don’t have any objections.” He didn’t wish. Now that he was here, all Micah wanted to do was hoard Jefferson’s company for himself. Nobody was going to tell him who he could or could not see anymore. Shaking his head, Micah held out his hand to Jefferson. “I have other arrangements for our first Christmas together, and I fear Mrs. Ruark would be utterly aghast if she witnessed what I have in mind.” “Oh?” Jefferson folded his fingers around Micah’s. “Does this mean I finally get to see the specifics of your mysterious plan?” “See?” Holding Jefferson at arm’s length, Micah tilted his head as his assessing gaze swept over the other man’s tall, lean form. “That might be most interesting to witness, actually.” At Jefferson’s puzzled frown, he laughed and tugged him towards the sitting room. “Come. I wish to do this in front of the fire. In all my dreams, that is where we inevitably end up.”

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Jefferson obediently stood in front of the fireplace, his fingers still linked with Micah’s. “What would you have me do now that we are at the hearth?” His heart thudded. How many times had he imagined just this moment? And yet, seeing the evidence of Jefferson’s avowal to do whatever Micah wished left Micah yearning to make it last. On impulse, he closed the distance between them, reaching up to skim a soft kiss across his mouth. “Forgive me,” he murmured, though he did not step back. “I had quite forgotten I now have permission to be so bold with my affections.” Jefferson wrapped an arm around Micah, pressing his hand flat against the small of his back. “You have my permission to be as bold or as modest as you like.” An impish grin twisted Micah’s mouth, and he wriggled away from the embrace, even though it made him ache to do so. “You might regret granting me such,” he said, retreating for the door. “Now. Would you like your Christmas gift? Seeing as it is Christmas and all.” “I would love my Christmas gift, as long as you don’t begrudge the fact that I don’t have anything to offer in exchange.” His smile softened. “How can I begrudge what isn’t true? You’ve already given yours. I can only hope mine satisfies you as much as yours did me.” He fled for the bedroom, leaving Jefferson behind. It took just a moment to snatch up his satchel, another to rummage around inside to ensure everything was there, and a third to return to the sitting room. Dropping the satchel onto the chaise, Micah turned back to Jefferson. His throat went dry at the intensity of his lover’s regard, but he swallowed against it, lifting his hands to Jefferson’s shirt. “My gift requires only one thing from you,” he said softly. His fingers moved slowly over the small buttons, baring Jefferson’s skin to his gaze. “And without your clothing, being in front of the fire will keep you warm.” “I must admit, in front of the fire is quickly becoming my favorite place in the house.” Jefferson let Micah push his shirt off his shoulders and down his arms. Micah

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tossed it to the chaise, then his fingers went to Jefferson’s waistband. He didn’t speak as Micah freed each button, and he didn’t breathe either. He didn’t even move. Micah didn’t need to look down to know that Jefferson was aroused at his touch. But it still startled him slightly to feel the hardness brush against the back of his hand as it sprang free. “I’m going to need you to lie on your stomach.” He pushed at the pants, letting them fall to the floor so that Jefferson could step out of them. He couldn’t quite bring himself to get down on an even level with the hot length now prodding his hip. If he did, his entire plan would be ruined. “Fold your arms and rest your head on them. I’ll do all the rest.” His brow knitted into a confused line, but he did what Micah instructed without hesitation. He stretched out on the floor, his erection pressed against his stomach, his head resting on his arm. His back was pale and covered in light freckles. The freckles surprised Micah, because Jefferson’s face was free of them. He had a strawberry-shaped mark just above his hip. Other than that, he appeared to be flawless. “I can feel you staring at me.” His voice was muffled. “Have I ever told you that I’m shy?” Micah snorted and went to his satchel. “You shall be hard pressed to ever convince me of such. And it isn’t staring. It’s appreciating the beauty of my canvas.” As he pulled out the items he needed, he glanced back, unable to resist the temptation. “You don’t need to bury your face. This might take a while.” Jefferson turned his head, his slate eyes dark with curiosity and desire. “Canvas? What are you going to do to me?” “What does one normally do with a canvas?” Though he kept his voice light, the emotion tight in his throat had his hands shaking, and he moved quickly, kneeling at Jefferson’s side. Taking a deep breath, he unbuttoned his cuffs and rolled up his sleeves. The familiar gesture calmed his nerves. “Paint. Create.” Micah’s emotion seemed to be echoed in Jefferson’s words. “Create a new shape for the world. How are you going to use this canvas?”

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“I have a new poem to share.” He opened his new pot of ink and picked up the narrow brush he’d purchased especially for this task. “I thought the quill might scratch too much. With your permission, I’d like to give you this verse, wear it on your skin like the comfort I mean it to be.” “I’ll wear it,” Jefferson breathed. “I am honored to wear your words. You will read it to me?” Micah nodded. “I wrote it for you, after all,” he said, dipping the brush into the ink. “It would not exist otherwise.” Turning his body sideways, Micah leaned forward, resting his knuckles on the floor next to Jefferson’s shoulder in order to prop himself up. The poem he’d written was actually too long to transcribe fully on Jefferson’s back. Once he began writing, he could not find the power to stop until he was utterly drained. But the selection he’d chosen for this particular capture was the most poignant, he believed. He was eager to hear Jefferson’s thoughts on it. The tip of the brush touched to the left shoulder blade. He drew the downstroke, curved back up, followed the deliberate design of the words he had chosen. It was painstaking work, the fine bristles absorbing only small bits of ink at a time, and he blew across the small skin every time he lifted the brush, unwilling to allow an accident to mar his gift. Jefferson tensed every time he did so, and Micah wondered what he was feeling, if it tickled, but Jefferson never uttered a complaint. He waited until the first three lines were done before reading. “There is more,” he murmured. “But this is how it begins.” Micah met Jefferson’s waiting gaze. He had long ago memorized the poem; reading it from the canvas was unnecessary. “‘In the churning misty blue twilight,/ When the encroaching night beats the broken day back,/ I look for your figure among the ancient trees/ Steepled in white and black.’” Micah expected Jefferson to respond the way he always responded, with the appropriate compliments and criticisms. He always knew just what to say to fill Micah

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with pride, and to give him direction for future work. But he didn’t say anything now. He blinked, and then turned his head, hiding his face once again. Tamping down the mild disappointment, Micah dipped the brush back into the ink and continued to write, his script flowing faster in his desire to share the rest of the poem. Please like it. I don’t know how else to tell you. I don’t know how else to show you what you’ve done for me, how you’ve opened my eyes to the world. Jefferson never moved. There was the occasional tightening of a muscle, a ripple beneath the pale skin that made Micah yearn to bend down and smooth it over with his tongue. The words coiled and slithered across Jefferson’s back, and bit by bit, the black ink overcame the lighter background, a tattoo of everything that Micah was and everything he felt. “It’s done,” he said, finishing the last letter. “Would you like to hear the last of it?” Jefferson’s back rose and fell as he took a deep breath. He finally lifted his head to regard Micah with unusually bright eyes. “Please.” He didn’t look away. “‘I follow you into a different clime/ Hunting the living silver streaks of light/ Finding a resting place where we two can meet/ Until this long night flees before us. Startled like a hart in the forest/ Losing ground, unable to tarry where you are/ The pitiless night cannot stay/ In the place you will see it/ It is your aspect that doth inspire the new day.’” Jefferson was silent for a long beat. The world was silent. The wood in the fire didn’t dare snap, and the ice-encrusted earth held its breath with Micah. He watched as some nameless struggle twisted Jefferson’s face. It almost looked like pain marring his handsome features. His lips parted, but the sound he made was without form. Micah almost apologized for his poor verse. Maybe if he had expressed himself more eloquently, more elegantly, this endless moment wouldn’t be quite so eternal. “Micah…I have never…” Jefferson stopped and cleared his throat, but he couldn’t smooth out the rough edges on his words. “Nobody has ever given me such a precious gift.”

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Relief, scorching and fluid, surged through him. “They are but words. But their meaning is true. I would give them to you a thousandfold if you allowed me.” “They are not just words. They’re words that I…I never thought…” Jefferson sat up now, but he didn’t quite meet Micah’s eyes. “I had hoped that you would return my feelings one day. But like so many things you have now given me, I didn’t dare expect it.” For the first time since formulating his plan to tell Jefferson, Micah regretted his choice. Reaching to touch Jefferson’s cheek, he said, “Perhaps I should have said something sooner. I simply wanted to demonstrate how acutely you’ve touched me. It’s as if I’ve spent my entire life trapped inside a glass box, staring out at a world I couldn’t truly comprehend. And you took that box away. You made my life breathe with color and sound, and I shall eternally be grateful that you consider me worthy of your affection.” “Micah…” Jefferson wrapped his arms around him, pulling him against his chest, then buried his face in Micah’s neck. “You didn’t have to tell me sooner.” He pressed a kiss against Micah’s skin. “This is perfect. You’re perfect. Can I make a request?” “Anything.” “I want to do the same for you, show you the same thing. I want to cover your body with mine. I want to impress everything I feel on your skin.” Jefferson slid his hands down Micah’s back. “I want to be surrounded by you…feel you everywhere.” Micah turned his head and kissed the stubble along Jefferson’s jaw. “You claimed my heart long ago. It makes sense you claim my body now.” Jefferson shuddered against him. “I need to get one thing. You undress, all the way this time, and lay down here.” Releasing him, Jefferson practically bounded from the room, leaving Micah to rise to his feet and fight with the fastenings of his clothing. His heart threatened to pound a path outside its cage, and his fingers shook with anticipation. All his nervousness about how his poem might be received was gone, banished by the fierce look in Jefferson’s eyes, the tremors of his body he could not control. Now, his only concern was to satisfy Jefferson as wondrously as Micah had been satisfied the night before.

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When Jefferson appeared again in the doorway, Micah was stretched out on his back, his clothes folded beneath his head for a pillow. His hands rested on his stomach, in an attempt to quell their quivering, obscuring his thick and heavy arousal leaking onto his skin. It was the first time Jefferson had ever seen him fully undressed; he only hoped he loved his flesh as much as his spirit. Jefferson stopped short, the small tin can in his hand almost forgotten. His eyes were wide, his lips parted. Micah could feel the weight of his gaze as he studied every inch of Micah’s exposed body, from his feet to his mouth. Jefferson apparently forgot about his own shyness, because he stood above Micah without a thought to his own nudity. “You are the most divine thing I have ever seen.” His pleased smile lightened the worry knotting inside him. “You must not possess mirrors then,” he teased, and held a hand out to Jefferson. “I did as I was told. Would you really leave me all alone like this?” Jefferson took his hand and lowered himself to his knees. He set the tin aside, then ran his hand down Micah’s chest. “You surpass every dream I’ve ever had.” He straddled Micah without warning, letting his erection drag against Micah’s firm skin, pressing their chests together. Dropping his head, he teased Micah’s lips with the softest kisses, pulling away each time Micah tried to deepen the caress. “Do you want to know exactly what we’re going to do?” His blood raced. Micah swallowed in order not to let his sudden apprehension show too overtly. “You would tell me after I insisted on surprising you?” he tried to joke. “I don’t think my surprise would be as nice as yours.” Jefferson slid his hand down Micah’s body and between his tense thighs. He cupped Micah’s sac, massaging him as he had done the night before, and then let his fingers slip further between his legs. Micah expected him to tease the too-sensitive skin as he had done before, but this time, Jefferson didn’t stop. Not until he traced Micah’s tight hole. “I’m going to use that salve to make you slick and stretched. Then, when you’re ready, and it won’t hurt, I’m going to slide my prick into you.”

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Everything about him burned—cheeks enflamed from the bluntness of Jefferson’s words, skin enflamed at the thought of what he was going to do, blood enflamed from the sensations Jefferson invoked with his touch. It parched his throat, his mouth, made it impossible to blink or tear his eyes away from his lover’s. Simply thinking of Jefferson in that terminology made him gasp for air. “Is that…?” Memories came flooding back, of Jefferson pressed to his back, his hard erection grinding against Micah’s backside, how Micah had ground back. Not the softer memories of earlier, the sense of naturalness it had evoked. These were the carnal gates that opened, how his buttocks had clenched and unclenched, how the shudders had wracked through him when he’d found his release. Micah wet his lips, aware of Jefferson’s gaze following the movement. “You said that in your letters. How you wanted to know all of me. Is this what you meant?” Jefferson continued to trace Micah’s pucker with the tip of his thumb. “That is what I meant. Sometimes, I thought I should tell you the complete truth. But I didn’t want to startle you. I wanted to be sure you trusted me, first. I wanted to be sure you wanted it too.” He skimmed his mouth over Micah’s. “Do you want it? Do you want me to know all of you?” “Yes.” He couldn’t have stopped the answer even if he wanted to. Heedful of the ink on Jefferson’s back, Micah skimmed his hands down his sides instead, only stopping when he reached his hips. “‘As in the soft and sweet eclipse,/ When soul meets soul on lovers’ lips…’” He kissed Jefferson again, this time lingering longer. “I trust you. With everything that I have. If you tell me it’ll be good, I’ll believe you.” “It will be. I promise.” Jefferson’s hand disappeared and he sat up. Micah watched intently as Jefferson opened the tin and scooped a healthy amount of the yellowish salve on his fingers. It was cool at the first contact against Micah’s heated skin and he gasped, but he didn’t try to jerk away. Jefferson kept his gaze locked on Micah’s face as he pushed the tip of his finger past Micah’s ring of muscle. “Just remember to stay relaxed. It’ll be uncomfortable if you are tense.” He nodded. Speech was beyond him.

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The sensations were completely alien to him. This was different than the pressure against his backside, of that feeling of being utterly surrounded by Jefferson that he’d adored. The shallow insertion brought with it a slight burn, the salve Jefferson used to slick the way notwithstanding, and it was difficult not to squirm against the sense of intrusion. Jefferson smoothed his hand over Micah’s stomach, his hips, his thighs. He skimmed Micah’s shaft with his knuckles. It was almost, but not quite enough, to distract Micah from the continued, gradual penetration. He didn’t stop until his finger was buried to the last knuckle, then he paused. “Are you all right?” Swallowing against the tightness of his throat, Micah offered a wan smile. “I’m not sure how this prepares me, though. They’re not exactly the same size.” Jefferson snorted. “No, they’re not. But we have to start somewhere.” He began moving his finger, pumping his wrist with deliberately long strokes. “First, I have to spread the salve everywhere. Then…” He slipped a second finger inside Micah’s body, rotating his hand as he did so. “We can worry about the size.” Two fingers didn’t feel twice as thick. It felt more, and Micah’s hand shot out to grasp Jefferson’s arm as he fought not to tense up. Jefferson still watched, intent and wary, but his hand did not stop moving, pushing all the way until his knuckles kneaded Micah’s flesh, twisting on their path out as if to acquaint every inch of his channel with sensation. The strokes burned, but the fullness that had been excruciating at the onset eased to an ache that felt oddly familiar. It wasn’t long before Micah’s grip loosened, and he uttered a single word. “More.” Jefferson’s moan came from deep in the back of his throat, and his prick visibly jerked. He accommodated Micah’s request with a third finger. His other hand moved from Micah’s body, dipping into what remained of the salve. Micah’s breath caught in his throat as Jefferson gripped his own shaft and began to smooth the gel up and down his

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skin. Micah watched, entranced, trying to imagine what it would be like to have Jefferson’s thick length spread him, stretch him, split him. “Micah…are you ready?” If he were any more ready, he’d burst out of his skin. “Please, Jefferson.” Unable to resist any longer, he reached down and glided his hand down the length of his lover’s prick. When he reached the base, he coiled his fingers around it and squeezed, tugging at the same time. “I don’t want anything to be between us any longer.” He bent over Micah’s body again, propping himself up on his hand. He pulled the other free of Micah’s body, and for just a moment, Micah felt empty. Jefferson brushed his mouth across Micah’s brow, cheeks and mouth as he guided the tip of his arousal to Micah’s stretched hole. “I’ll not hurt you,” he promised as his crown finally breached Micah’s waiting body. He knew he had to stay relaxed, that it would only hurt if he tensed. But Jefferson was far thicker than his fingers, and he couldn’t help the cry of pain escaping his throat as he clenched against the intrusion. Jefferson immediately froze. It was on the tip of Micah’s tongue to tell him to stop, he couldn’t do this, it was too much, and he knew if he did, Jefferson would agree. It was that realization—that knowledge that Jefferson loved him enough to the point of denying his own satisfaction—that stayed his tongue. “Micah…” The word was ragged as Jefferson held himself motionless. “Relax, please.” Micah nodded, doing his best to will the tension out of his body. “That’s it. Just like that.” Jefferson pushed deeper, by less than an inch, then froze again. “I can’t believe…how good you feel. I’m going to go a little deeper now.” And then he was filling him by another inch. He continued like that, rocking forward slightly, stopping, covering Micah’s face in kisses, for what felt like an eternity. Micah didn’t know where to touch. He couldn’t keep his hands still, but each time he found a hold on Jefferson’s body, the world shifted on its axis, and a fresh flurry would make his muscles tremble, forcing him to find a new grip.

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The next time he cried out, it wasn’t from pain. After another gentle push, Jefferson reached between their bodies and found his prick, stroking it as he sucked at a spot on Micah’s neck. Micah arched away from the floor, fire dancing behind his closed eyelids, and in the space of the next breath, felt Jefferson sheathe the rest of his length, the heavy weight of his body bearing him back down. “Love you…Micah… Love you…” Jefferson kissed him between the declarations, each caress lasting longer and longer, until their mouths were fused together. He eased back, but didn’t pull away from Micah completely. Micah gasped and moaned into Jefferson’s mouth, and Jefferson echoed him with his own soft groans. When he pushed forward the second time, the pain was greatly diminished. On the third thrust, a sharp sort of pleasure began to radiate through him. His feet had been braced on the floor, his heels digging in with the initial penetration, but now, as fire more delicious than anything he’d ever experienced began to lick its way through his veins, Micah lifted them up, his hips raising as well as he wrapped his legs around Jefferson’s trim hips. It forced him deeper with the following strokes, and Micah had to tear his mouth away, unable to breathe as the ecstasy rolled through him. “‘I follow you into a different clime…’” Jefferson’s voice was like an anchor, grounding him. His voice was deep, each word rich with inflection and meaning. It almost didn’t sound like the poem Micah wrote. “‘Hunting the living silver streaks of light.’” Another slow stroke, the words taking shape between them. “‘Finding a resting place where we two can meet.’” His breath was hot like a brand, the words hotter than the fire dancing and popping mere feet from his bare skin. “‘Until this long night flees before us…’” Jefferson kissed the corner of Micah’s mouth. “I’m never going to forget a single word.” Shudders wracked through him. Fears he might have held deep about the wrongness of loving Jefferson, about giving himself so freely to another man, about wanting to please and be consumed by him both in flesh and spirit, were forever forgotten, lost beneath the power that wrapped around both of them and held them together. Micah cupped the back of Jefferson’s head, sealing their lips together, while the other raked

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down Jefferson’s spine, desperate for him, for more, for everything he had to offer. He took everything he had been taught and gave it back, the thousandfold he’d already sworn. He nibbled. He caressed. He swept their tongues together. It was purely by accident that he stumbled upon the one thing that drove Jefferson utterly mad. He bore down around Jefferson’s prick. Micah had made it a point to pay attention to every sound, every expression, every smile, and every other detail when it came to Jefferson. But the sound Jefferson made at that moment was unlike anything he had ever heard. It wasn’t quite a shout, or a moan, or a howl, or Micah’s name. It was a combination of all those things, and something else entirely. And like the night before, Jefferson’s tightly held control finally slipped from his grasp. Jefferson’s strokes were no longer slow and deliberate, but erratic, and a little harder, a little faster. Muscles ached that he hadn’t realized he had, but that didn’t stop Micah from rocking with Jefferson, his thighs quivering as he dug his heels into Jefferson’s buttocks. It was a silent spur to continue, to drive into his body with whatever abandon he might choose. Micah wanted them as one, just as Jefferson had always professed, but as the angle of their hips shifted, Jefferson thrust inside him, and a cascade of relentless sparks, like those of a fire gone mad, tore through his flesh. Jefferson’s hand was hot and tight around his shaft, and Micah couldn’t help but jerk and writhe, trying to force just a little more contact, a little more friction. Jefferson obliged, stroking him in time with his thrusts. Micah couldn’t speak, couldn’t do anything except brace himself for the pleasure to scorch him completely, but Jefferson found his tongue. “I bless the lot that made me love you.” His warm fluid erupted over Jefferson’s hand and onto Micah’s stomach, and he clenched around Jefferson’s shaft, his entire body tightening. A sound made it past his constricted throat, but it was just a strangled moan. His prick jerked again and again, and Micah thought it wouldn’t end. He thought he would be trapped in this fire, consumed by it completely, until there was literally nothing left of him. Jefferson didn’t seem to have the same fear. He kept moving his hips, thrusting and panting, until Micah thought he

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would have to beg him to stop to get a little bit of relief. He opened his mouth, and Jefferson immediately plunged his tongue between his lips, his shout vibrating down Micah’s throat, and his prick jerked against Micah’s walls. He wrapped his arms and legs more tightly around Jefferson, holding him as close as he could get, and waited for the tangible tremors to subside. It was overwhelming to consider the effect he had on Jefferson; it was even more than it had been trying to reconcile the effect Jefferson had on him. But he allowed the onslaught of the harsh kiss, letting the fervor that locked Jefferson above to ease, the clash of their mouths slowly gentling into caresses more recognizable to his meager experiences. “So we wear each other now,” he murmured against Jefferson’s lips. “My heart as yours. Yours, mine.” Jefferson brushed damp strands of hair away from Micah’s face. “Thank you.” He smiled sleepily. “So did my Christmas gift warm you as completely as your gloves did me?” “Yes.” Jefferson pulled back slightly, easing out of Micah’s body. He settled on his side on the floor, pulling Micah’s back against his chest, so they were both facing the fire. “You sound tired now. Are you going to fall asleep on me?” His lids were heavy, and his body felt molten, too heavy to move properly in the wake of their lovemaking. “It’s very rigorous work trying to keep up with a man of the world such as yourself,” he teased. “It shall take much practice for me to reach your stalwart heights.” “Oh, but you are much younger than me. I’ve already long passed the years of my peak physical perfection. You, on the other hand…” Jefferson glided his palm over Micah’s trim body. “Once you are accustomed to the exertion, I won’t be able to keep up with you.” “Then those will be the times when I wait for you. Because I have no intention of going anywhere without you, ever again.” Micah rested his head on Jefferson’s arm. The flames were blurring now, the world growing soft around the edges. Heat surrounded him, and it wasn’t simply the warmth

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generated by the fire that made him feel protected. It was the love emanating from Jefferson, the devotion he lavished to make him feel at home, that Micah truly cherished. As he began to slip into sleep, it dawned on him that he had yet to say the actual words. He struggled past the veils to open his eyes and twist his neck in order to meet Jefferson’s steady gaze. “I love you,” Micah murmured. He saw the column of Jefferson’s throat work as he swallowed, and his eyes shone as they had done earlier. Micah recognized it as pure emotion, unshielded, without shame or hesitation. Jefferson kissed his brow tenderly. “I swear, I will never tire of hearing those words from your lips.” Another brief kiss. “I love you too. Rest, now. When you wake, we’ll have a proper Christmas dinner.” Micah rested his head on Jefferson’s shoulder and finally let sleep overtake him.

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Chapter Fifteen A day spent sleeping, feasting, then cuddling with Jefferson in front of the fire as they had one of their long conversations that lasted deep into the night felt like the best Christmas Micah could ever remember. In Boston, he would have had to worry about the people who stopped by to pay their regards, a stiff meal with too much food and stern glares from his parents every time he reached for wine to loosen it up, followed by a strict distribution of gifts in the front sitting room. Even now at the adult age of twenty-two, Micah was relegated to sit on the floor near the tree, allowing everyone his elder to have a proper seat, while he pretended to be excited about the clothes or oddities his family deemed appropriate for gifts. Sitting on the floor wrapped up in a blanket with Jefferson, leaning back against his chest as he caressed Micah’s arm and hands, discussing the merits of publication was infinitely more enjoyable. There was no discussion when it came time to bed. Wordlessly, Jefferson took Micah’s hand and led him to his bedroom, helping him undress and then spooning behind him as they had done the night before. Micah was asleep almost as soon as Jefferson slipped an arm around his waist. I’m home. This is home. His dreams were deep and calming, though the nudge of Jefferson’s morning erection against his backside when he woke up was a pleasantly sore reminder of just what had transpired between them. He had enjoyed it far more than he could have imagined, and was eager to do it again as soon as some of the ache faded away. Jefferson was very concerned about not hurting him, though Micah thought that if he allowed his lover the opportunity, they would spend far more time kissing and touching than they already did. But he was patient with Micah’s adapting. The little smiles Micah caught out of the corner of his eye more than convinced him that Jefferson was satisfied anyway. 154

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“I’d like to go to the inn this morning and fetch my trunks,” he announced over breakfast. “Might we be able to accomplish that today?” “We can go to the inn after breakfast.” Jefferson gestured with his fork. “How much did you bring with you?” “Two trunks, one with clothing and one with personal effects. I thought we could likely manage one, and I’d solicit some of Mrs. Ruark’s men to bring the other.” “Her sons will help. We’ll have to rearrange things here to make sure everything fits comfortably.” Micah toyed with his eggs. “I wondered if it might be worth it to commission another desk. We’ll both wish to write, after all. Do you think we might be able to make room for that as well?” “We should be able to find some space. In the meantime, you’re more than welcome to use the desk as you need it.” “And you’ll be fine with that?” He regarded Jefferson with a small frown. “I feel as if I’m usurping your home.” “You are not usurping my home. You’re welcome to the desk and anything else you might need that I possess.” Something about the eagerness of his tone only deepened Micah’s frown. “There’s no need for us to go that far unnecessarily,” he said carefully. “I have funds. I intend to pay my own way for as long as I can.” “I do not doubt that you have your own funds, or that you can pay your own way. But you don’t need to worry about usurping my home. And you don’t need to behave like a guest. You should consider this as your home now too.” Micah let the issue drop. This was new for both of them and would likely create more obstacles for them to overcome as they progressed. He would simply remind himself not to take advantage of Jefferson’s generous nature. Upon finishing their meal, Jefferson insisted on leaving the cleaning up for later, after they had returned from the inn. “It’ll give me something to do while you unpack,” he said with a smile. Micah shook his head and rolled his eyes in amusement, and

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together they headed off through the brisk morning air for the inn, hands deep in pockets, voices low in heated conversation as they continued their debate on the advantages of publication. At the inn, Micah kicked the snow off his boots on the threshold, smiling as Mrs. Ruark came bustling forward. “I hope you had a pleasant holiday,” he greeted. “Oh, no. Not at all. Didn’t you hear what happened?” Jefferson stepped forward. “No. What happened?” “Neither of you were at the services yesterday?” Jefferson shook his head. “No. Unfortunately, I felt ill yesterday. What happened? Was it… Did something strange happen?” Her gaze darted past them into the street. Sidestepping them, she ushered them further inside so that she could shut the door. “Remember those problems we had with the doors and shutters a few months back?” she asked, her voice much lower in spite of them being the only ones in the large room with her. “Yesterday, all the bolts snapped. At the same time. And the windows on either side of the pulpit shattered. Reverend Deem was rather severely cut from the flying glass.” Micah’s eyes widened, but his gaze immediately jerked to Jefferson. He had gone completely still, everything pale but his intense eyes fixated on Mrs. Ruark. “Is Reverend Deem going to be all right? Perhaps we should visit?” Mrs. Ruark shook her head at Jefferson’s question. “I saw Dr. Browning this morning, and he told me that Reverend Deem needs time to recover. He’s very weak right now.” “But he will recover,” Micah pressed. “Oh, yes. Given rest and God’s good will.” “Was anybody else hurt?” She seemed a little surprised at his question, but answered anyway. “No, just the reverend. But after everything else that’s been happening at the church this fall and winter, people are starting to worry.”

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“Yes, I don’t blame you. The experience must have been quite frightening.” Jefferson’s words were sympathetic, but his tone was distracted. “Could we get your sons to help us carry Micah’s trunks to my home?” “Oh, is he going to be staying with you, then?” “Yes. He’s going to be working on his own volume of poetry and needed a quiet place to work.” Mrs. Ruark beamed at Micah. “Well, imagine that. Can you imagine Wroxham having its own famous writer? You know, I read all the pamphlets and newspapers I can get my hands on. There aren’t as many in the winter, though, since we don’t have as many guests.” “Then I’ll be sure to send over anything I get,” he returned with a smile. But it bothered him that she completely ignored Jefferson’s accomplishments. Why did the entire town insist on dismissing them? Before he had the chance to argue with her, however, she bustled off to fetch her sons, leaving the two alone. Micah pressed closer, searching Jefferson’s face. “Are you all right?” “Oh. Yes. I should go to the church tonight. We need to figure out exactly what is happening before anybody else gets hurt. At first I thought…” Jefferson glanced down the hallway, then lowered his voice. “I thought Joseph was acting out because of my frustration. But perhaps that isn’t the case.” He didn’t want to discount Jefferson’s beliefs, but… “Or perhaps it’s merely an unfortunate accident. We have no evidence to suggest there are spirits at work here.” “I have sufficient evidence to believe there is a spirit in that church. And I know he is responsive to me. Calm when I am calm. Agitated when I’m in a difficult state of mind.” Heat rose in his face. “Even if that were true, you were not agitated yesterday.” “I was in a state of extreme excitement yesterday.”

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Jefferson was going to be immovable on this. Taking a deep breath, Micah grasped his arm and turned him away, avoiding the possibility of being overheard. “I do not see how you can be so certain this is the spirit of the man you read about.” “He’s…communicated with me in the past. Do you not believe me?” “I believe you think someone communicated with you, yes. But I don’t understand why you might think it’s this Joseph and not some more malevolent spirit.” He didn’t want to argue about this, because it was clear Jefferson was sincere. “Perhaps if you showed me these letters you said you found,” he tried. “That might help us understand why he might be doing this.” Jefferson inclined his head. “We can look at the letters. There’s only a few, but Joseph did not hold anything back when he wrote. He was very—” “They’ll meet you out front with the trunks,” Mrs. Ruark announced as she returned to the room. “Can I help you with anything else?” “No, you’ve been most kind already,” Micah said, stepping forward. He paid her the silver he’d promised for storing his things and nodded at her warnings as he and Jefferson stepped outside again. There was no time to talk before her sons arrived, two burly young men as non-communicative as Mrs. Ruark was loquacious. Jefferson led the way back to his home, and Micah tipped the young men for their efforts and sent them along their way before he had the opportunity to speak freely again. “Let’s leave the cleaning and unpacking for later,” he said. “I’d like to see the letters.” Jefferson looked at the growing mess in his home. “And I used to be such a neat and orderly person too. Look what you’ve done to me.” He pretended to reach for the gloves he’d just placed on the stand. “Well, if my presence is too disruptive…” Jefferson moved quickly and caught Micah’s wrist. With a sharp tug, he pulled Micah against him. “Your presence is extremely disruptive. In fact, I can’t even remember what I’m supposed to be doing right now.”

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The hard line of Jefferson’s body sparked an immediate response in Micah’s, a tightening that started at his scalp and rippled all the way down to his toes. It was as if his flesh was poised on the brink of recognition, and it took physical contact to send it toppling over the precipice, on a narrow scarlet path that made it impossible to be aware of anything but Jefferson. Micah tilted his head back, his lips soft in unspoken invitation. “I foresee many long hours spent inside these walls,” he murmured. “I fear my need to have you touching me might overpower my better sense beyond them.” “I know the feeling.” He brushed his cheek against Micah’s. “My need to touch you often overwhelms all my senses.” His other hand went to the back of Micah’s neck, and he touched his mouth to Micah’s waiting lips. The kiss was light for just a moment before Jefferson’s tongue pushed against his bottom lip, demanding entry. He was getting better at this kissing, Micah thought, especially when Jefferson groaned at the first tangle of their tongues and pushed him hard against the wall. Nerves had tempered much of his early attempts, but after the first time Jefferson had stroked him to completion, Micah had abandoned those in favor of losing himself to the sensations. Jefferson didn’t seem to mind when he occasionally moved his head in the wrong direction and their noses bumped, or their teeth clicked, or he inadvertently bit at Jefferson’s lip. In fact, that last provoked even stronger responses, and Micah now sought to recreate them whenever he had the opportunity. Jefferson shifted, grinding his erection against Micah’s. The kiss slowed to the point that Micah thought Jefferson was going to break away, but he only stole a quick breath before sliding his tongue along Micah’s again. Micah forgot what they were supposed to be doing. He forgot everything except the pressure and texture and taste of Jefferson’s mouth. He moaned in protest when Jefferson slid his lips from Micah’s mouth to his neck. “I’ll let you read the letters now. But I’m not going to stop touching you.”

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“And you expect me to still be able to read?” Boldly, Micah slid his hand around Jefferson’s to cup a buttock, pulling him harder against his body. “You do this to torment me, I’m certain of it.” “Torment you?” Jefferson’s mouth seemed to be everywhere, and his hand crept up Micah’s chest, fingers toying with the buttons. “What about the ways you torment me?” He groaned when Jefferson sucked at the hollow of his throat, his head slamming back against the wall as he stretched to allow him more room. “I do nothing,” he panted. “I would be more than willing to be your slave, should you ask.” Jefferson worked his top button free, his mouth sliding down to taste the newly exposed skin. “It’s torment when you say things like that. But don’t mistake me. I enjoy this torment.” “Do you not believe I would do it?” Mustering strength he didn’t realize he had, Micah pushed Jefferson away, holding him at arm’s length as he struggled to catch his breath. “Say the word, and I shall sink to my knees.” “Do it.” Micah immediately bent his knees, but Jefferson caught his shoulder, stopping him. A small, inquisitive smile played on his lips. “Where did you learn that?” The flush that crept over his skin had nothing to do with the desire racing through his veins. “From the young woman I hired when I returned to Boston. Not that she taught me how, but rather, that she used such methods to arouse me.” His color deepened. “Though it was only partially successful. I didn’t get aroused until I imagined it was you, and then…that’s when I fled.” Jefferson’s eyes widened as he listened to Micah’s story, but the smile never quite left his face. “I think we should definitely take the time to explore that method further.” He kissed Micah’s fevered skin, his lips cool. “After we look over the letters. If you sit down, I’ll go get them.” Jefferson left him to go to the bedroom, and Micah ran his hands through his hair, mussing his curls up even further as he leaned against the wall. He did not know how he was going to be able to concentrate with images of Jefferson on his knees dancing through his head, or him on his knees, holding Jefferson’s prick as he leaned in to…

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Micah gritted his teeth. He ached all over, but he had the distinct feeling Jefferson would adhere to studying the letters before yielding to the desire for more intimate contact. Steeling himself, he pushed away from the wall, went into the sitting room and settled onto the chaise, waiting for Jefferson’s return. When Jefferson entered the room, he was carrying a large bible. He sat beside Micah and carefully opened it, revealing several folded pieces of paper. He plucked up the top one and delicately unfolded it. The ink had faded a bit, and the script was tight and slanted, without any breaks on the page. “All of these were written after Joseph moved in here. It seems he slept in this room. In a few places, he mentions that Simon is already asleep. I imagine he stayed up writing by the light of the fire, carefully tucking the pages into the bible when he was finished.” “They lived together?” “Yes. The church was struck by lightning and burned shortly after Joseph arrived in town. He agreed to stay here and help rebuild it, but he didn’t have a place to stay. Grandfather agreed to board him.” Micah shook his head as he leaned closer in order to read over Jefferson’s arm. “That church has never had good luck, it would seem.” “No, it doesn’t.” Micah squinted at the cramped words, but couldn’t seem to make sense of them. “Can you…?” Jefferson nodded. “Of course. It actually took me several nights to decipher his script. I often wondered how he managed to read his sermons on Sundays.” Jefferson brought the paper close to his face and began to read. “‘Dear S, I have moved into Simon Dering’s home, and it is extremely comfortable. The cottage is small, but it feels like a palace after my months on the road. I considered moving on to Philadelphia, as was my original plan, but I believe the people in Wroxham are in need of my services. Mr. Dering has vowed to rebuild the church by spring, and I was moved by his dedication and passion. You may be surprised that I would be so easily swayed from my journey, but I believe God has led me here and I must have faith that He has a purpose for me.’”

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Jefferson moved on to the next letter without glancing up. “‘Dear S, Mr. Dering seems like an exceptionally lonely man. I protested that I could not dream of sleeping in his sitting room, of all places, and he insisted he has no use of it. I do not believe he was lying. The only person he ever speaks to is a young Miss Smith. He insists he intends to ask for her hand, but he has yet to find the courage.’” Jefferson paused. “He just goes on to talk about the plans for the church here. I’ll skip to the next letter, if you don’t mind.” Micah nodded. “‘Dear S, I have been trapped in Mr. Dering’s home for the past three days. The snow is a wall surrounding us, and I will be quite surprised if we learn nobody has been lost to this devilish weather. Mr. Dering is quite concerned about Miss Smith, but I have tried to assure him that Miss Smith’s family is quite well. We have passed the time discussing the church, the weather and his affections for Miss Smith. I find I can spend hours in conversation with him. He is a most engaging and interesting fellow.’” Jefferson took a deep breath. “They go on like this for the next month or so. The tone does not really change until March.” “What does it change to?” “‘Dear S. Excuse the handwriting. I have seen three sunrises without sleep. I am in most severe pain, and I have prayed to God to be cured of this affliction. No, I have not just prayed. I have cried. I have begged. I have beseeched Him until my throat hurts and I am empty of tears. But He has not heard me. And I fear I know why. He will allow me to continue with this agony until my death because I have sinned in His eyes. I have lusted after another in my heart. I am a wicked man, unable to overcome my own sinful nature, and now I must perish for it.’” Though he knew parts of this story, Micah still ached for the man writing the letters. Hadn’t he been thinking those very thoughts after that fateful night with Jefferson in the church? And this was a man of God. The battle must be infinitely harder for him, though their lustful thoughts were of a different nature. “I found letters of his once, tucked into the Bible my grandfather kept. They…Joseph and my grandfather…were very close.”

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“Like us.” “Yes. Exactly like us.” Micah looked up to see Jefferson regarding him. “He was in love with your grandfather.” He said it as a statement of fact. Though Jefferson nodded in affirmation, Micah did not require it to know he was correct. “You said he died in Simon Dering’s arms. Does that mean they were intimate?” Jefferson shook his head. “No, I do not believe they were. Grandfather would speak of him occasionally with great respect, but I have never seen anything to indicate he considered Joseph as more than a friend. He died in the church, after they finished framing it. It seems he had some sort of tumor in his stomach, and he collapsed one afternoon while they were working.” “Perhaps he felt he found a kindred spirit in you,” Micah continued. “As well as formed an attachment because you’re kin to the man he loved. But that doesn’t explain why he would act out thusly. Not now, at least.” “I agree. I assumed he was acting out earlier because I was influencing him with my own frustrations. But that is clearly not the case. Either I was mistaken and the spirit has nothing to do with me, or Joseph is tied closer to my emotions than I ever believed.” “You said…” Micah still wasn’t convinced that the spirit of the church was Joseph, not if it had been so benevolent all along. But he had to believe in Jefferson. “Are you certain you must go back to see him tonight? What if his intentions towards you aren’t as benign as you think?” “Yes. I’m the only person he ever communicates with. Which means, I might be the only person who can stop him before he hurts anybody else.” Carefully, Micah took the letters from Jefferson’s grip and set them aside so he could clasp their hands together. “And what if he hurts you? I can’t lose you. I’ve only just found you.” “I know. He’s not going to hurt me.”

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The conviction in his voice was almost enough for Micah. He stroked the sides of Jefferson’s hands, hoping to show him just how badly he feared the worst. “Will you allow me to go with you, at least?” “I won’t stop you if you wish to join me. But do you think it is entirely wise? Especially if what is going on with Joseph is somehow related to us?” “I don’t see how it can be. If he was truly responding to your emotions, he would be calm now. And he never took notice of my presence before when we sat in the church and talked.” He nodded, his mind made up. “I’m going. Perhaps it will take two of us to understand what exactly his intentions are.” “Wait, Micah. It is not true that he never responded to your presence before. He responded to you nearly every night we were together.” Micah frowned. “How? I would have been aware of such an occurrence, wouldn’t I?” “You never noticed the candles? Every time you touched me, they would spontaneously ignite and then extinguish themselves.” He wracked his memory, but nothing came. Any attempt to bring forth the events of those nights invariably presented only one image to his mind’s eye. “I only ever saw you,” Micah confessed. “But perhaps there were other incidentals. The way the door would open, perhaps. I always credited it to a faulty latch, but that’s erroneous, isn’t it?” “He opened the door for you because I wanted to see you. The latch on the door works perfectly.” “And the night of our kiss? It opened then, after I stopped you.” “When I wanted you to leave,” Jefferson admitted softly. Though there was a slight sting to his acknowledgment, Micah could not begrudge him the truth. That had been a very difficult night for both of them. All that truly mattered was how it had eventually brought them back together.

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“I still do not see why he should respond so vehemently when we weren’t even present yesterday,” Micah said. “You’re happy now, so it should not lead to such violence.” “I would be interested to learn precisely when all the windows shattered. The time could have coincided with the moment I thought I would explode.” Micah blushed at the memory, the slight tease in Jefferson’s tone doing much to alleviate his rising concern. “Then it’s most imperative we find out. I would be loath to think we will have to curb our desires for fear of the altar catching aflame.” “It is imperative. We would go there now, but I want to wait until everybody has retired for the evening. In case something happens.” Jefferson smiled. “Can you think of anything you want to do in the meantime?” Pulling Jefferson to his feet, Micah backed towards the door, leading him out of the room. “We have to make space for my belongings,” he said, affecting innocence. “And it would be wise to start in the bedroom, don’t you think?” “I think we should definitely start something in the bedroom. But I suppose we could unpack for now,” Jefferson said easily. He let Jefferson catch the twinkle in his eye before turning his back. “You’ll thank me later when I’m not complaining about having to live out of my trunk.” Or, at the very least, thank him for other, more entertaining tasks he had in mind for their time in the bedroom. It would distract them from thoughts of Joseph until the time came to leave for the church. And if Jefferson opted not to go because he was simply too exhausted from his day’s endeavors, that was good too.

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Chapter Sixteen Nobody had bothered to sweep up the broken glass in the church, but Jefferson didn’t blame them. Everything was utterly still, unearthly quiet, and goose bumps covered his arms and neck. He couldn’t quell the vague sense of foreboding, and he hoped Micah didn’t feel it as well. The last thing Micah needed was more reason to hate the idea of visiting the church. Jefferson never called for Joseph. He never tried to attract the spirit’s attention. Sometimes the church felt completely empty, and on those nights, Jefferson wondered if he had simply imagined Joseph’s presence. He had always had an overactive imagination, and his grandfather hadn’t been shy about telling him ghost stories, and stories about witches and demons. But other nights, he could feel Joseph as though the deceased man was next to him, touching him even. Despite his policy of never seeking out the spirit, he said his name now. “Joseph?” Silence. “What if we sat in our pew?” Micah whispered from behind him, alerting Jefferson to how close he stood. He came around to block the view of the glass and nodded towards the seats they always held when they had come for their midnight meetings. “You said it had meaning, didn’t you?” Jefferson nodded, following Micah to their spot. Sitting beside Micah like that felt not only natural, but perfectly familiar and right. “Yes, it does have meaning. This is where he…” He gasped as his stomach clenched, unexpected pain piercing his gut. “Jeff?” As quickly as the pain arrived, it disappeared. “I’m fine. This is where he was standing when he collapsed. According to my grandfather.” “Was anybody else here when it happened?” 166

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“I don’t think so… Grandfather never mentioned anybody else and…” The pain again. Jefferson reached for Micah without thought, his other hand going to his stomach. He clutched his midsection, and distantly, he heard Micah say his name. Was it Micah? Jefferson couldn’t think of who else it could be, but the voice was so far away. And the pain… “Do you see that?” he murmured, squeezing Micah’s fingers tighter. “What?” Joseph in his shirtsleeves, his chest and mouth stained a bright scarlet, brighter still against his bone-white skin. Simon Dering shaking, his breath coming in sharp, shocked gasps. Simon is holding his friend, trying to elevate his head, trying to support his weight, trying to wash the blood from his lips. Crying. Pain, exquisite and immediate, throbbing under his skin, radiating outwards further and further, until it consumes the world. Sawdust and shavings sticking to his skin, tickling his nose. Sneezes. Blood dots Simon’s face. Tiny little dots. “Sorry.” “Don’t apologize, Joseph. Don’t…just…wait. The doctor is coming.” “Nobody’s coming. Nobody’s coming to help me. Nobody can help me.” “Don’t say that. The doctor will help you.” Simon wipes his face and his hand is red. Dark red. Purple. “Don’t make me leave. Don’t let me go. Please.” “I’m not going to let you go. You never have to go.” Copper drips down the back of his throat. His chest wretches. Simon’s face is swimming out of focus, the red dots blurring, running into lines. “Please help me. I don’t want to…I don’t want to leave you.” It reeks of purple. Flowers. Everywhere. Someone spoke to him. Not Simon. Not Joseph. But Jefferson couldn’t make out what he was saying. It was like being called from above the clouds, the words echoing like hollow trees in a dead wood, and even though his heart sang at the owner’s voice, he

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was torn. He simply wanted to rest. There was no more strength to fight. He was even willing to face the damnation he’d already earned. “Jefferson!” The shout cut through the stupor, but it wasn’t the honed force that cut through him. It was the fear. The desperation. Micah. Micah needed him. Though the struggle ached, Jefferson forced his eyes open to find himself staring into pitch. Micah’s features blurred at the corner of his eye, then filled his vision, his clear irises now dark with terror. A loose curl hung over his brow, and Jefferson had the odd urge to reach up and push it out of the way, but his arm refused to obey the command. “There you are,” Micah breathed. “I thought—” A paroxysm of coughing seized Jefferson’s chest. The sound gurgled, and blood gagged his throat. Micah’s eyes widened. Immediately, he slid an arm under Jefferson and sat him up, forcing his head forward, but while he fully expected to spit blood all over the floor, only a few droplets sprayed. “What happened?” Micah demanded. “You’re like ice.” “I…I don’t know. I wasn’t here anymore.” Jefferson wiped his lips with the back of his hand. Or he tried to. His limbs were still not cooperating fully. With his free hand, Micah reached into his pocket and pulled out his handkerchief, wiping Jefferson’s mouth for him. The elegant white cotton came away speckled in red. “You’re ill.” His grip tightened as he prepared to help Jefferson to his feet. “I’m taking you home and I’m fetching the doctor.” “No, no. I don’t need the doctor.” He tested each knee, bending them to make sure he had control of his legs. “I’ll be fine in a minute. I’m just…are you cold?” “No, no, that’s you.” As if to prove his point, Micah peeled off his glove and laid his hand to Jefferson’s cheek. Jefferson jerked. His skin wasn’t just warm; it scalded.

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“You were unconscious,” Micah continued. “For nearly three minutes. I couldn’t wake you up.” “I heard you…I heard you trying, I think. But I wasn’t myself.” Jefferson grimaced and shook his head. “I’m not explaining it properly. I don’t know if there is a proper explanation. Help me up, please.” Micah stood, but somehow managed not to break contact with Jefferson. The first attempt failed. Jefferson barely managed to sit up on the second attempt. But the third time he tried, he managed to get his feet under him, properly supporting his weight. “Micah…” His voice was obstructed by his chattering teeth as chills raced down his spine. “That’s it.” He’d never heard Micah sound so assertive before. “We’re going home and the first thing I’m doing is drawing you a warm bath. If you won’t let me call the doctor, the least you can do is let me do this.” Jefferson nodded. He wanted to tell Micah that a bath was good, but his lips and tongue refused to form words. He gripped Micah tightly, afraid to let him go. Afraid of the church for the first time in his life. It felt like a betrayal. He had been betrayed by a dead man, somehow. The chills stopped once they stepped out of the church, but the winter night sliced through him. He huddled closer to Micah, convinced he would never be warm again. The cottage was mildly warmer, but Micah took him straight into the sitting room, easing him onto the chaise before stripping out of his coat. “I’ll be as quick as I can,” he said, tucking it around Jefferson. Once he was certain he couldn’t add any more layers, he went to the hearth and stoked the fire, adding fresh logs to get more flames. “Don’t fall asleep on me.” “I won’t,” Jefferson managed. He followed Micah with his eyes until the other man left the room, and then he couldn’t help but watch the door where he disappeared. He heard Micah go out the kitchen door to gather snow in the pails Jefferson kept for that purpose, then the familiar clink of the tin against the cast-iron stove. He knew it would take some time to fill the tub with hot water, and he would have plenty of opportunity to

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go to sleep, but Jefferson didn’t want to close his eyes. If he did, he would see blood on his grandfather’s face. A younger version of the face he had known so well. If he closed his eyes, he was quite certain he would smell the purple flowers. If he closed his eyes, he might be taken from Micah again. His lids were growing heavy by the time Micah returned, but the sight of him brought Jefferson instantly back to life. He had never seen the young man look like this. Sweat beaded his brow, and his cheeks were pinked from the heat of the kitchen. With his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows, he looked broader, the hair somehow darker that dusted his muscled forearms. Perspiration also dampened the fabric to his back, a detail Jefferson caught when Micah went to stoke the fire once again. “Everything’s ready,” he said when he came back to the chaise. “How are your legs?” “Suitable for walking, I think.” Jefferson would have crawled to the kitchen before he let all of Micah’s work be for naught. With Micah’s help, he stood once again. Before he had felt weak. Now it seemed like his only problem was his frozen joints, his numb feet. He shuffled his way into the kitchen before trying to unbutton his shirt, but he couldn’t seem to grip the buttons. “But that might be all I’m suitable for.” “Do not worry.” Micah’s soft voice was a balm, almost as much as the wave of heat coming from the waiting water. “I’m here. I’ll take care of you.” Gently, he pushed Jefferson’s hands out of the way. He worked quickly, quietly, his dark head bowed as he opened the collar and pulled it over Jefferson’s head. Next came boots, socks, his strong grip holding Jefferson steady as he lifted one foot and then the other. Only when he straightened and went to the waistband of his trousers did Micah look up to meet Jefferson’s gaze. “Can you tell me what happened yet?” “I would love to tell you what happened. But I don’t know…I’m not even sure what happened. First, I felt pain in my stomach. And then I couldn’t hear you anymore. I knew you were there but…” Jefferson swallowed hard. “Then I saw how he died. But…that’s

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not right. I didn’t see it. I was there. I was him. He was so…scared. He didn’t want to go.” He barely felt his trousers sliding down his legs. He did, however, feel Micah’s strong arms lift him up and settle him into the steaming bath. “Him. You mean Joseph.” “Yes, it was Joseph.” Jefferson settled in the water, and his feet and hands immediately began to tingle as the blood rushed through him. “It was Joseph. He was with my grandfather…and I… He…” Jefferson reached out and took Micah’s hand. “Why would he make me experience that?” Micah shook his head. “I don’t know. All I know is that I’ve never been so terrified as I was, trying to rouse you.” “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I should have…maybe you were right about the church.” He was startled when Micah leaned over the edge of the tub, heedless of the way his shirt soaked to his skin as he gripped Jefferson’s shoulders. “I don’t care about that damn church.” There was a fire in his eyes that had nothing to do with the lamp burning nearby. He slid his hands up to cup Jefferson’s face, his grip almost painful. “I have known for a long time just what you mean to me. I did not know until tonight how it would truly devastate me should anything happen to you.” Jefferson blinked at the surprising tone and even more shocking strength. For the first time since he came to in the church, he didn’t feel as though half of his brain was somewhere else. He covered Micah’s hand with his own. “But nothing did happen to me,” he said gently. “I am well. I’m going to be well.” Disbelief shone in his face. “You coughed up blood.” “But I am not coughing up blood now. And the pain is completely gone. It wasn’t my pain, after all.” He brought Micah’s palm to his lips. “Please don’t be upset anymore.” He kept his mouth to Micah’s skin until the line between the young man’s brows began to ease. “Tell me you’re at least getting warm. Grant me that much.”

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“I’m getting very warm now. Thank you for the bath. I can feel my fingers and toes now.” He studied Micah’s dear face, and a different sort of warmth flooded him. “But I know how you feel. I’m scared to close my eyes. I don’t want to be unable to see you or hear you.” Micah’s fingertips trailed across his shoulder as he pulled away. Water splashed over the edge of the tub, but if Micah noticed, he paid no mind. “I find it most curious,” he mused, grabbing the hem of his shirt. Peeling it away, he tossed it to the floor to join where he’d already tossed Jefferson’s. “I have gone my entire life without feeling anything more than slight affection for anyone, and yet, here I am, after having known of your existence for a mere four months, and I fear the day I might have to wake up and find you not there.” His hands dropped to his pants. “How can that be?” Jefferson watched, unable to look away, as Micah unfastened his pants. He was quite certain he would never get tired of the view of Micah’s body. His form was perfect. Everything about him was perfect. Jefferson wanted nothing more than to feast his eyes on Micah. “It took you four months to fall in love with me,” Jefferson said, his mouth dry. “But I fell much sooner than that.” Surprise gleamed in Micah’s eyes. “It would probably be uncouth of me to ask when that happened, I suppose.” He bent to step out of his trousers, his cock, thick and hardening before Jefferson’s eyes, heavy against Micah’s thigh. “Though I must admit to being eager to know the answer.” Jefferson licked his lips. “I think it was the moment before I kissed you. Right before my lips touched yours, my heart was gone.” “It’s not gone.” Micah climbed into the tub, awkwardly placing his legs outside Jefferson’s in order to fit. He lay forward, aligning their bodies, and gripped the rim on either side of Jefferson’s shoulders, gently rocking so that their pricks rubbed along each other beneath the water. “I have it. And I shall treasure it with everything that I have.”

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Jefferson wrapped his arms around Micah with a soft sigh. “I know you shall. I trust you with it. As you trust me, I hope.” Thick lashes ducked as he glanced at Jefferson’s mouth. “You have turned my entire world upside down,” he whispered. “North became south. East, west. I find myself believing in spirits when before they existed only in my verse. You are a remarkable man, Mr. Dering.” “No more than you are.” As they spoke, their mouths moved closer and closer. Jefferson was drawn to Micah’s lips, some sort of natural attraction he couldn’t deny. “I just hope I am remarkable enough to remain worthy of you.” Their lips touched, and Jefferson almost whimpered. The contact chased the remaining chill away, and he could feel Micah all the way to his bones. “Will you guide me?” Each word caressed his lips, each a kiss succulent and ready to burst. Something tickled across Jefferson’s hip, and he realized that Micah had loosed his hold on the edge of the tub, slipping a hand beneath the surface to seek out Jefferson’s prick. “Show me what I must do to ensure neither of us ever composes a letter like those of Joseph’s.” Sometimes, Jefferson forgot completely about Micah’s young age, his inexperience, his innocence. Other times, like now, he couldn’t forget those facts at all. But even when he remembered, they were meaningless. Micah was so willing, so enthusiastic, so clever. “I will. Or, at least, you have my word to do the best I can. Always. But you have to guide me too. I’ve been…living alone for a very long time.” “Evidence of a balanced union.” Micah rubbed his palm across Jefferson’s crown, exactly as Jefferson had shown him their first night together. “Each becomes both teacher and student, imparting what the other requires, taking for his own sustenance.” His mouth moved away, though the contact remained a spectral upon Jefferson’s jaw as it had been upon his lips. “I find I could dine on the taste of your skin for hours. Is that as it should be, Master Dering?” Jefferson’s groin tightened and a pleasant ache settled in his lower stomach. How could he ever become accustomed to this unbelievable hunger? And as Micah continued

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to demonstrate his need to taste Jefferson’s body, he couldn’t help but recall their earlier conversation. Desire marched up his spine, and his skin tingled anew. “Yes. Yes, I believe that is as it should be.” Micah’s mouth moved lower to the hollow of his throat, and Jefferson ran his wet fingers through Micah’s hair. “Exactly as it should be.” “Are you warm yet?” “If I say yes, are you going to abandon me?” He felt the smile rather than witnessed it. “If you say yes, I shall not have any qualms about exposing more of you to the cooler air. But if you still need the sanctuary of the water…” “Well, I’ll not lie to you then. I am feeling warmer. Much warmer. But I think that has to do more with you than it does the water.” “If that’s what it takes.” The touch on his now aching erection floated away, and moved to the small stool upon which Jefferson sat in the tub. Supporting his weight, Micah eased Jefferson upward, so that his new seat became Micah’s thighs, and it made his prick break the surface of the water. Micah sat back, smoothing his hands over Jefferson’s chest. “Perhaps next time I will be on my knees. You said in one of your letters to me that my mouth fit against yours perfectly for kissing. Do you think that’s all it might be perfect for?” Jefferson ran his fingers over Micah’s face, touching his brow and cheek, following the line of his jaw. He very much appreciated Micah’s willingness, but he couldn’t help but wonder what that young prostitute had done to him to prompt such enthusiasm. It must have been the first sort of truly sexual contact he had ever experienced, and it had certainly left an impression. “I think your mouth is perfect for anything.” Jefferson’s hand went to the base of his erection and he stroked the shaft once, letting the tip drag against Micah’s chest. Micah’s gaze dropped, following the wet path left behind along his skin. When he lifted a hand to fold over Jefferson’s, Jefferson saw that it was shaking.

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Micah licked his lips. “That is a theory that requires testing.” Taking a deep, shuddering breath, he leaned down, his tongue darting out to flick across the seeping slit of Jefferson’s prick. “Oh my…” Jefferson tried to take a breath, but his lungs refused to work. Just the short, brief contact was enough to make his head spin. He almost thought he could just be happy with that, but then Micah slid his tongue over the slit again and again. His free hand gripped the edge of the tub, and he held himself still, resisting the impulse to push for more, to bury himself completely in Micah’s mouth, the way he had buried himself in Micah’s ass before. Micah slid his hand up, grasping it beneath the crown before stroking back down. It served a dual purpose, both pushing Jefferson’s out of the way and pulling back the foreskin to bare the head. Tilting his head, he gazed at it for long seconds as if he were contemplating a problem. Just as the plea for more formed on Jefferson’s tongue, however, Micah angled the length closer to his mouth, leaning back to suck the tip hard past his lips. “God in Heaven…” And then his capability of speech was completely gone. Jefferson stared, open-mouthed and wide-eyed, as Micah moved his mouth down Jefferson’s shaft an inch and another inch. He could not look away, and he couldn’t help but note every single detail of those long, elastic moments. Micah’s sooty lashes against his flushed skin, the damp curls stuck to his brow, the hollow of his cheeks, the color of his lips as they stretched over Jefferson’s arousal. He stared until Micah began sliding his tongue up and down his shaft, then his eyes rolled back, his eyelids fluttering shut. He used his tongue more than his lips, keeping the suction tight around his shaft so that all the sensations came from the licking up, down, around, across the tip and back again. Every time he sucked another inch into the hot recesses of his mouth, Micah’s breath flared, sending tiny ripples across the surface of the water that tickled on Jefferson’s belly. It was maddening. It was already more than he had thought Micah would be ready for, but even so, it tottered on the edge of true bliss by the young man’s refusal to do more than use his tongue.

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Jefferson finally broke. Reaching down, he curled his hand through the wet hair at Micah’s nape and tugged, forcing him to suck back up to the dripping slit. Micah didn’t resist Jefferson’s attempt to guide him. He was entirely pliable, obviously willing to follow any of Jefferson’s silent requests. But Jefferson did not need to test how far he was willing to go. With a firm yet gentle touch, Jefferson eased him down his prick, then up to the head again, then back down. Jefferson never tried to push the length further down Micah’s throat. He didn’t need to. Just the friction of Micah’s lips and the slow glide of his tongue was enough to drive him out of his mind. Within a few strokes, Micah moved on his own, sinking down to the edge of his hand before sucking back up. His greed was almost as great as Jefferson’s, small sounds coming from his throat every time his tongue caught fluid welling at the slit. He squirmed and fidgeted, and even as lost as he was in the coils winding through his groin, Jefferson wondered just how hard Micah was, if he was imagining allowing Jefferson the same luxury, or if he dreamed of taking him inside his tight passage again. The thought made Jefferson groan, and he inadvertently thrust forward, as if pushing past that hot flesh. Micah lost his grip on his erection, but instead of seeking it out again, he found the tight sac already pulling into Jefferson’s body. When he pushed almost roughly against it, Jefferson became unbound. Water splashed as his hand shot out to grip the back of Micah’s head. He held him still as he pumped once, twice, before his release shattered through him, his seed spilling onto Micah’s tongue. The constriction of Micah’s swallowing only intensified the pleasure, and Jefferson thrashed within the tub as he shot again and again. Jefferson’s prick slipped from Micah’s mouth, smearing a bit of fluid over his lips and down his chin. Jefferson ran his thumb over his skin, collecting the liquid, and brought it to his own mouth, wishing he was tasting Micah instead. He planted his feet firmly against the bottom of the tub and stood. “I’ve got to take you to bed now.” Micah rose as well, his erection nudging Jefferson’s hip. “Only if you’re feeling stronger.”

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Jefferson stepped out of the tub, then took Micah’s hand and helped him over the edge. “I’m feeling much stronger. You must be some kind of miracle worker.” Jefferson smiled, pulling Micah towards the bedroom. “And I am desperate to show you exactly what sort of miracle I’m talking about.”

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Chapter Seventeen Micah had never imagined pleasuring somebody else, coaxing responses from his flesh without taking anything in return, could be so utterly satisfying. He had been eager to attempt Becky’s methods ever since coming to Wroxham, and he most certainly believed he’d try that long before any sort of penetration. But the feel of Jefferson’s smooth prick sliding over his lips, the slight tang of his spendings, the groans and cries of abandon Jefferson could not contain…they elicited a tightening inside Micah’s gut, drew his skin into a hot sheath that felt as if it would split at the first provocation. Even now, following Jefferson into the bedroom, his mouth watered to take Jefferson back inside, but he suspected Jefferson had other intentions in mind. Jefferson released his hand to light the lamp, allowing Micah’s gaze to drift to the bed. “I suppose commissioning a larger bedstead as well as the desk would appear odd to others,” Micah said. “Yes, it would. But we can get a second bed and push them together, I suppose.” The golden light caught on Jefferson’s skin and was reflected by the drops of water still clinging to his legs. Jefferson set the lamp on the table then reached for Micah’s hand again. “How would you be comfortable? I could be on my knees, or laying beside you, or even on my back…” There were too many choices; Micah’s head whirled. “Tell me which will please you as much as it does me.” Jefferson led him to the bed and sat on the edge. “I want to lay down on my back, and you straddle me. That way, you can control the situation.” Though he nodded, Micah still shivered with anticipation. He felt out of control already; he was not certain how he would regain it simply by being astride his lover. Stretching atop the blankets, Jefferson pulled Micah with him until he had no choice but to swing his leg over and rest lightly on Jefferson’s stomach. 178

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His buttocks clenched when Jefferson’s semi-hard length nestled between the cheeks, his eyes widening as the possibility of riding Jefferson in this position made his prick jump. “This is…provocative,” he gasped. Jefferson ran his hands down Micah’s sides to grip his hips. He pulled him forward, until Micah’s cock was closer to his mouth. “I love the way you feel. I love looking at you like this.” His tongue darted out to catch the fluid gathering at the slit. “I love the way you taste.” Micah cried out at the first contact, nearly falling forward in spite of Jefferson’s grasp. He caught himself on the headboard, grabbing its edge in order to right himself, but it only served to bring his prick closer to Jefferson’s mouth. He glanced down. His lover’s eyes glowed in the lamplight, fixed on the glistening tip poised at his lips. As Micah watched, Jefferson licked his lower lip and slid a hand from Micah’s hip to the root of his shaft. He angled it further down and lifted his head, meeting it halfway to slip his tongue beneath the foreskin. The soft strokes around the head sent an array of gooseflesh down Micah’s legs. His knuckles went white from how hard he gripped the bed. “I thought I knew how this would feel,” he panted. “But your mouth scorches far more than I ever thought possible.” Jefferson lifted the corner of his mouth—a small, satisfied smile. It was the only visible response to Micah’s words before he sucked the tip between his lips. The hard suction drew a sharp gasp from Micah. He felt the heat of Jefferson’s mouth everywhere. It radiated through him, filling him, lighting every vein. Micah didn’t know how he could possibly tolerate it, and he knew his flesh would just burn hotter as Jefferson circled the crown with his tongue. Jefferson looked up and met Micah’s gaze. He had never seen eyes so dark, or so hungry. Though he’d claimed to wish this position so Micah could have a measure of control, Micah felt anything but. His thighs quivered, threatening to withdraw their support, and

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breath became more precious than gold. He wracked his brain, attempting to remember what it was Jefferson had done. All he remembered was the sensation of the smooth shaft sliding across his lips. That was it. He had to move. Leaning forward, Micah rested more weight on his knees, tilting his hips in order to slide more of his length into Jefferson’s mouth. Jefferson immediately accommodated him, teeth parting, tongue dancing, and Micah was forced to stop with only a couple thick inches buried in the wet heat. It was too much. Where had Jefferson found the discipline not to burst? Jefferson let him rest, but not for long. His other hand went around to Micah’s buttocks, his fingers digging into the flesh, and Jefferson forced Micah deeper. Even when he thought he needed to stop again, Jefferson wouldn’t let him. Not until Jefferson’s lips were almost touching the base of his shaft. Jefferson eased up on his grip, allowing Micah to rock back. Once his tip brushed against Jefferson’s lips, Micah didn’t need another reminder to move. The sight of Jefferson taking as much of his length in as he was enraptured Micah. He had not managed nearly so much, yet Jefferson almost seemed eager for more. He made hungry noises in the back of his throat every time Micah pulled out, and his fingers massaged Micah’s backside every time he pushed in again. Even as the fire raced through his veins, Micah made a mental note to try sucking in deeper with Jefferson next time. If it made him feel this good, it had to do the same for his lover. They negotiated a steady rhythm, and Micah’s heart thudded in his ears with each thrust. Micah was so caught up in what Jefferson’s mouth was doing, he forgot to keep track of Jefferson’s hands. When the one on his backside moved, he barely noticed. Until a long, slim finger dipped between his flesh to seek out his pucker. Micah barely had a chance to gasp before Jefferson penetrated him, pushing his finger in deeper as he swallowed more of Micah’s shaft. It was too much. The constriction around the head of his prick, the penetration into muscle yearning for more, the love burning in Jefferson’s eyes, everything fused together

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to send Micah hurtling into an explosion of color. He slammed forward, his release so forceful it made him dizzy, only to rock back onto Jefferson’s finger and take him in even more. Micah shuddered as he shot onto Jefferson’s waiting tongue. Perhaps it was the hungry swallowing that got to him the most. He knew what it felt like to taste the evidence of desire. He craved it again, though it had been only moments since he’d consumed Jefferson. He slumped backward, his shaft too sensitive when Jefferson licked along its length. “Don’t,” Micah begged. “I cannot sustain such torment.” Jefferson gripped his hips again and gently turned him towards the bed. Micah allowed himself to be repositioned, curving his body around Jefferson’s to better fit upon on the narrow mattress. As soon as they were settled, Jefferson claimed his mouth, kissing him as hungrily as he had swallowed Micah’s shaft. “I think we should have tried that sooner,” Jefferson murmured against his mouth. Micah melted against him, burrowing into his chest. “And when, pray tell, do you think we might have? When we were so eagerly kissing on Christmas Eve, or when you were sullying my honor on Christmas Day?” “Christmas Day, definitely. We should have experimented with this before your honor was completely sullied. Unfortunately, when it comes to corrupting young innocents, I find I can’t hold myself back.” “I suppose it must be my responsibility to save you from temptation in the future, then.” He kissed lazy patterns across Jefferson’s throat. “I do not wish to share you with anyone, even young innocents who beg to be corrupted.” “Until you, I have never met a young innocent who wanted to be corrupted so fully.” Jefferson traced Micah’s spine with a long caress. “I doubt there’s another like you anywhere.” Unseen, Micah smiled at the compliment. He had no worries that Jefferson would be interested in another; it had taken him ten years to find someone else after Vincent.

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But thoughts of Jefferson’s past reminded him of Simon Dering, and the events at the church earlier that evening. Some of his satisfaction fled, and he propped his head up on his hand to regard Jefferson, hoping his disquiet remained in the background. “I think we should discuss what happened tonight. With Joseph.” “I thought perhaps we were done discussing that.” Micah frowned. “This can’t continue as it has been. Surely, you know that.” “I know. But I am at a loss. Nothing like that has ever happened. How can I even begin to explain it or make sense of it?” “We decipher this together. Starting with why Joseph would insist on showing you his death.” “He didn’t just show me,” Jefferson corrected. “He insisted on making me experience his death. As to why…you must believe me when I say he has never, ever done anything like that. In fact, when I first moved to Wroxham, he was…he felt like the only friend I had in the world.” Micah had known Jefferson had a lonely existence for a long while after losing Vincent, so it was difficult to begrudge him this one contact, even if it made Micah uncomfortable. “But Joseph isn’t real. At least, he can’t be as real as you need. And you have me now.” “I know he is just a specter. But I don’t understand why he would want to hurt me now. Or why he is hurting anybody. Despite what you’ve experienced, Joseph has never behaved this way before.” “Except he is now. And whether you like it or not, I don’t particularly care for anybody, let alone something incorporeal, to lash out at you like that. It’s almost as if…” Micah frowned, a thought suddenly occurring to him. “Could he be jealous of my presence in your life? After all, you said you haven’t been back to church in weeks.” “I…it didn’t occur to me to ascribe such base emotions to him. But I suppose if a being is capable of friendship, it stands to reason that he is capable of jealousy, as well. If that is the case, I don’t know what to do to fix the problem. But if he were jealous, why would he target me? You were present as well, after all.”

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Micah didn’t know. His fingertips grazed over the fine hairs on Jefferson’s chest as he considered the problem, his gaze unfocused. “Have you ever attempted to address him directly before tonight?” “Not really, no. It usually isn’t necessary. I can generally feel him without addressing him.” “Perhaps we should attempt reaching out to him during the day.” “And what shall we do? Inform him that I have room in my life for both of you?” Jefferson sighed. “Or find a way to help him pass beyond this world?” “If not the former, then most definitely the latter. Though doesn’t that require an exorcism of some sort? We’d have to talk to Reverend Deem.” “That’s probably the best place to start. I suppose it would be best for everybody if Joseph is allowed to find his final resting place.” He could tell from Jefferson’s tone that he wasn’t completely satisfied with this answer, but Micah was. He could not bear seeing him as he’d been in the church, nor feel his flesh so icy. It suggested too clearly what it might be like if something more fatal should happen to his lover, and the thought that he might lose Jefferson filled Micah with terror. His hand went to Jefferson’s waist, and he pressed their bodies together, glad that Jefferson was scalding to the touch. “If you’d like, I can talk to the reverend. So you don’t have to worry about him looking askance upon you afterward for believing in ghosts.” “You would let him look askance upon you for supernatural beliefs?” “I am the outsider here already. If it would save you from difficulty, I’d be more than willing to shoulder any disapproval.” Jefferson covered Micah’s hand where it rested on his waist and squeezed his fingers. “We will both go visit him tomorrow to make sure he is well. If he is, you can speak to him. We shouldn’t postpone the conversation, if we can help it.” “I’m assuming we wish to preserve Joseph’s privacy?”

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“If possible. I doubt Grandfather knew those letters existed when he gave me the bible, and I’ve been very careful to hide them, out of respect for both of them. Joseph is still remembered in Wroxham for his contribution to the church.” Micah nodded. It would be very difficult to not mention what he already knew, but he would do it for Jefferson’s sake. Touching the side of Jefferson’s face, he traced the narrow mouth with his fingertips as he posed his final request. “Would you agree to stay away from the church until this is resolved?” “If you request it.” “You won’t begrudge me this? Because I cannot suffer another incident such as tonight.” He leaned in and kissed the path his fingers had just taken. “I shall not lose you, Jefferson.” “I will avoid visiting the church until you are confident it is safe,” Jefferson promised. Micah smiled. That was all he needed to hear.

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Chapter Eighteen Jefferson hadn’t been lying when he said they could commission a second bed, but he didn’t think he would worry about that for some time yet. Waking up with Micah sprawled across him, his head resting on Jefferson’s shoulder, his heart thudding against Jefferson’s chest, was like waking up in heaven. Jefferson suspected that the extra space provided by the second bed would prove to be too much distance. He wanted to keep Micah as physically close to him as he could. It was still dark outside the window when Jefferson woke, and he knew he needed to see to his chores. He couldn’t begin to ignore his daily duties just because Micah’s firm, warm body pinned him to the bed. But the very thought of leaving Micah for the cold winter morning was enough to make him shudder. He didn’t think he could convince himself to push Micah away and start the day. Not yet. Micah shifted in his sleep, seeking a more comfortable position. His shaft rubbed against Jefferson’s, and his semi-erect prick instantly hardened. He had never been this responsive to another person—even his obsession with Vincent seemed absolutely mild compared to his constant hunger for Micah. He caressed the stubble on Micah’s jaw, then hooked his finger under the sleeping man’s chin and tilted his head for a soft kiss. When his tongue traced Micah’s lips, they parted automatically. Jefferson couldn’t help but smile as Micah sleepily returned the caress. “Is it time to get up?” he murmured against Jefferson’s mouth. The hand resting on Jefferson’s shoulder drew languid patterns along his skin, drifting downward to his chest. “We only just came to bed.” “Soon.” Jefferson skimmed his mouth over Micah’s rough chin. “I dreamt about you again.” “Why? I’m right here.” www.samhainpublishing.com

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“It seems I just can’t get enough of you. That is how obsessions are defined, after all.” He smoothed his palms down Micah’s back, pressing their bodies together. “You don’t dream about me anymore?” Micah rested his cheek against Jefferson’s chest again. “Being with you has banished my sleepless nights. If I dream now, I do not remember them. I am too rested.” “Lucky you. Still, I wouldn’t trade my dreams. Especially when the last was so pleasant.” His hand moved between Micah’s thighs, and his fingertips brushed against Micah’s sac. “Would you like me to show you?” Micah sighed his acceptance, spreading his legs further to allow Jefferson more room. “How am I supposed to deny you when you touch me like this? I’m yours.” He drew a circle around Jefferson’s nipple with his tongue. “Please tell me that I get to taste you again, though. I cannot get enough of you.” Jefferson did not need any more encouragement. He couldn’t get enough of Micah, either. “You can get another taste of me now.” He pushed his finger between Micah’s cheeks. “You can make me slick for you.” Micah lifted his head. His eyes were still heavy with sleep, making it possible to see each long lash as he blinked. He looked younger like this, too, even more innocent than he normally did, and Jefferson reached up with his free hand to toy with a disheveled curl. “If this is indication of the life we will share,” Micah said softly, “I must marvel at what I have done to deserve such bounty.” “Don’t you know what you’ve done to deserve it?” Jefferson waited for a response, but Micah regarded him with perplexed eyes. “You had the courage to make it happen. I think you’re the bravest man I ever met.” Slowly, Micah braced against him, pushing himself upright. With a small smile, he slid to the side, readying to take Jefferson into his mouth. As he negotiated the bed, however, he paused, and Jefferson caught the sly glint in his eye the moment before he swung his leg over Jefferson’s chest.

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“I think this will be best,” Micah said, grasping the base of Jefferson’s prick. He lifted his own hips, which made the wet tip of his erection drag over Jefferson’s chest. “Until we get a larger bed, at least.” Jefferson’s stomach clenched and his mouth watered. He would have never expected this sort of boldness from Micah, but the younger man was a very fast learner. And very clever. Jefferson was more than willing to show him everything he knew, and then experiment in any way Micah wanted to in order to gain more knowledge. Before guiding Micah’s erection to his mouth, Jefferson sucked on two of his fingers, wetting them. The fingers in his mouth muffled his cry as Micah’s lips closed around the tip of his prick. Micah was a very fast learner. He would never be accustomed to the heat of Micah’s mouth. He would never take the soft caress of his tongue for granted. Micah settled for sucking on the crown at first, the edge of his teeth just nipping into the hard shaft while he teased the slit, seeking out every droplet of desire he could swallow. Though he kept his hand at the root, he opened it to stretch his fingers, allowing them to graze across the sac already pulling tight into Jefferson’s body. Jefferson shuddered. If Micah kept on at this rate, there would be little left to teach before they reached mutual experimentation. He would gladly become a student again to experience such rapture. Jefferson slid a finger into Micah’s tight passage, and hot air rushed over Jefferson’s wet skin as Micah exhaled in a long sigh. Jefferson rotated his wrist, stretching Micah’s muscle slowly as he sought out Micah’s prick with his lips. Micah jerked like he had been stung, his body tightening and quivering. Jefferson wished he could keep Micah in bed for days, weeks even, investigating each and every eager response. Micah lifted his mouth, though his quick breath fluttered over Jefferson’s length. “I’m suddenly not convinced this was the wisest decision. I cannot concentrate when you do that.” Jefferson added his second finger, his balls tightening at the thought of Micah sinking down his shaft, enveloping him, clenching around him, squeezing him until he

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thought he would break from the pleasure. He pulled his lips from Micah’s erection and murmured, “Don’t concentrate then. Just enjoy it.” Micah glanced back, a small line between his fine brows. “I thought you wished to be inside me. Did I misunderstand?” Jefferson shook his head. “You didn’t misunderstand.” He wrapped his tongue around Micah’s crown, sampling as much of the heated flesh as he could. He pumped his wrist in and out of Micah’s body, his prick jerking with each stroke. “But I want you to be ready for me.” “And you?” Micah resumed his position, angling Jefferson’s length in such a way that his fingers put even more pressure on Jefferson’s testicles, a delicious burning that made Jefferson moan. “You need to be ready too.” Jefferson blindly reached for the bedside table. He liked to keep the salve nearby, though they hadn’t attempted penetration since the first time. His fingers closed around the tin after much fumbling, and he tapped Micah’s ribs with it. “Get me ready.” Their hands grazed across each other as Micah took the salve, and the mattress shifted as he balanced more of his weight on his knees. Closing his eyes, Jefferson focused on the velvety skin against his tongue, swallowing every time more fluid leaked from the tip. It was simple until he felt the first touch of the ointment. Micah hadn’t chosen to smooth it on. He’d oiled up his entire hand and stroked Jefferson’s prick in long, hard pulls. He couldn’t bite back the shout, and the sound vibrated through Micah’s prick. He jerked his hips, following Micah’s hand with each stroke. How did Micah always know exactly how to touch him? How did Micah always know exactly what would make his head spin and his flesh ache and his blood burn? Accident or instinct, it ultimately did not make a difference. “Micah…” Micah ignored him, perhaps too caught up in the pleasure of driving Jefferson out of his mind.

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“Please…Micah…” “Is that a request for more? Or perhaps there is something else you would like me to do for you?” Micah didn’t wait for an answer before releasing Jefferson’s erection to cup and squeeze his sac, hard enough to border on painful. “God.” Jefferson bit out the word, writhing beneath Micah’s grip. He eased his fingers out of Micah and gripped his hip. “Turn around. Straddle me.” “Really?” The look on Micah’s face as he swiveled to look back at Jefferson was purely devilish. “You seem to enjoy this.” Jefferson didn’t know if he should be shocked or pleased by Micah’s small show of defiance. As soon as Micah flexed his fingers again, pleasure won out. He dropped his head back and squeezed his eyes shut. “Yes. Really.” His short hesitation and the strain in his voice almost undermined his words. “I can think of something else I’d enjoy more.” “Well. If you insist.” But the incorrigible young man used his slicked hand to grasp Jefferson’s erection, using it as an anchor as he stretched to set the tin of salve on the floor. Only then did he turn around, not releasing Jefferson until the last possible moment. His prick rested heavily on Jefferson’s stomach, but the weight lessened when Micah sat up. “If memory serves, you prepared me as well,” he said. With a smirk on his full mouth, he reached around, his lashes fluttering as his fingers sank into his waiting hole. Jefferson caught his breath, the air heavy in his lungs, momentarily forgetting his desire to feel Micah’s tight muscles stretched around his prick. He was too distracted by the captivating look of pleasure on Micah’s face. “You surprise me,” Jefferson said softly. Micah paused. “Why?” he breathed. “Did I do something wrong?” “No. No. Quite the opposite, in fact. You just find new ways to show me how lucky I am.”

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Shaking his head, Micah fell forward until their mouths were only an inch apart. “You are the one who has opened my world. You’ve shown me what is possible and told me I can have it. Insisted I take it. I’m the one who is fortunate.” Jefferson gently wrapped his fingers around Micah’s wrist and eased his fingers away from his passage. With his other hand, he gripped his prick and pushed the blunt tip against Micah’s slick hole. “Show me,” Jefferson said, as Micah’s breath fanned across his face. “Take what you want now.” He felt the muscles quivering against his prick. He felt each exhalation as Micah struggled to compose himself. But most of all, he felt the thudding of Micah’s heart against his own, a pulse of desire and love he couldn’t hide. Slowly, Micah bore his weight down, gasping when the head first breached the ring of muscle. Jefferson saw the exact moment the pain registered, but before he could do anything to soothe it away, Micah pressed their mouths together, lips trembling as he tightened his knees around Jefferson’s hips. It took several seconds for Micah to move again, each one lost in the passion of their kiss. But then it came, and Jefferson thought he’d fly apart from the heat. Jefferson rested his hands on Micah’s hips, but he didn’t try to control the rhythm. Each inch Micah moved was excruciating and perfect, and Jefferson didn’t need it to be any faster, or any slower. Micah’s tongue sank into his mouth, seeking out each curve and corner. When they broke apart for breath, Micah rested his brow on Jefferson’s, and they were connected at every point. It felt like there wasn’t an inch of his body that wasn’t touching Micah somehow, wasn’t surrounded by him. “This is why I don’t need to dream,” Micah murmured. He sighed as their hips made contact, clenching around Jefferson’s fully sheathed prick. His sac ground into the coarse hair, and he squeezed around the length again, this time making Jefferson groan. “Nothing could ever compare to this, beloved. Except perhaps hearing your declaration from your talented tongue.”

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Jefferson had only one declaration to make. But before he could form the words, Micah claimed his mouth again. The kiss was languid and thorough, and Jefferson felt it all the way down to his toes. Micah slid up Jefferson’s shaft, until only Jefferson’s tip remained in Micah’s hot flesh. He waited for what seemed like an eternity before reversing direction, taking Jefferson up to his sac once again. Jefferson moved his hand up to Micah’s face, brushing the curls away from his cheek and ear, then gripping the back of his neck. The kiss broke, and Jefferson opened his mouth against Micah’s lips in a silent moan. “Is this what you imagined?” The tip of his tongue outlined Jefferson’s mouth, a soft tease before licking along his jaw to his ear. Micah caught the lobe between his teeth, tugging at the same time his buttocks tensed to hold him deep inside. “Did my comment last night provoke such a fantasy?” “No, it’s not what I imagined.” Jefferson tilted his head back, giving Micah more access to his sensitive neck. “My imagination is not equal to the task. It can’t even conceive of the reality.” Obediently, Micah nibbled down the side, intermittently lingering to smooth over his bites with his mouth. He eased his hold on Jefferson’s arousal enough to slide back up, but this time, he did not hesitate to take him back in, even quickening his tempo as he did so. “Have I told you yet today how much I adore you?” “Not today,” Jefferson sighed. “But you are doing an excellent job of demonstrating it.” Micah began moving faster, and the headboard hit the wall in a steady, sharp rhythm. Jefferson hoped Micah would feel comfortable enough to continue to increase the tempo, because he was desperate for the friction. Hunger and pleasure and bliss coiled through him in long tendrils, winding and crisscrossing. “Have I told you today how grateful I am that you’re here?” Micah lifted his head, a pleased smile curving his mouth. Instead of answering, he dropped kisses over Jefferson’s brow, dancing down his nose to hover over his lips. He

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stayed there, his breath growing more rapid with each rise and fall on Jefferson’s prick, and shifted one of the hands holding him up to glide down Jefferson’s arm. “Show me instead.” Micah folded his fingers over the back of Jefferson’s. “Touch me.” Jefferson slipped his hand between their bodies, his knuckles dragging against Micah’s perspiring chest. Despite the icy wind just on the other side of their wall, Micah’s body was flushed and damp, his skin scorching. The muscles in his stomach trembled and flinched as Jefferson caressed him. By the time Jefferson reached Micah’s prick, they both sighed. Micah’s skin was stretched tight and smooth, and the slit was already leaking with fluid. It was more than a pleasure to close his fingers around the shaft, and Micah squeezed his fingers, silently prompting him to increase the pressure of his grip. Together, they began stroking Micah, and with each pull, he slid faster up and down Jefferson’s length. The bed betrayed them, yielding beneath Micah’s speed, but the sound of their skin slapping against each other, the sting of his sac against hot flesh, allowed Jefferson to forgive it. Micah more than compensated, finally swallowing the distance between their mouths to clash almost viciously with Jefferson’s. Whimpers rose in his throat, and Jefferson took each and every one, intoxicated from the heat rising between them. Love you. Love you. Always. The words pounded through him in time with Micah’s thrusts. He may have given them voice, but they were lost in the sounds of groans and gasps, tangled around their tongues, caught in their teeth. The pleasure completely overwhelmed Jefferson without warning, and he reached his climax before he could even brace himself. The bliss gathered at the base of his spine, tingling and sparking until it erupted through him. He moaned Micah’s name, his moans growing louder as Micah clenched around his jerking shaft, holding him deep inside his body. Abruptly, Micah pushed himself up, sitting more firmly on Jefferson’s hips with his length still buried. His desire-darkened eyes fixed on Jefferson as he tightened his hand,

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forcing Jefferson’s to tighten as well, and their almost violent strokes up and down his prick had him gasping in moments, his back channel clamping down as he cried out his release. Ropes of creamy fluid shot across Jefferson’s chest, clinging to his fingers. The scent made his mouth water, in spite of already reaching orgasm, and he indulged in the urge to capture some on his fingertips and bring it up to his mouth. Micah watched him without speaking as Jefferson licked his fingers clean, but as soon as he moved his hand from his mouth, Micah was dropping forward again, smearing his come across his skin and finding Jefferson’s mouth. Their tongues dueled for several heart-stopping seconds, as though Micah was trying to catch each drop of fluid Jefferson had taken from him. “I think I’m going to wake you up like this every morning,” Jefferson murmured. Micah smiled against his mouth. “All the more reason for me to sleep atop you.” “Soon, I shall not be able to sleep unless you are resting on top of me.” “What shall you do when we have a bigger bed?” “Maybe I’ll just selfishly insist we keep this humble mattress.” Micah began licking a path back down, his tongue tangling with the hair on Jefferson’s chest. “Be as selfish as you desire,” he breathed. “I find myself dizzy with the possibilities of what it means to learn such pleasures from you.” Jefferson closed his eyes and imagined the path Micah’s tongue could take. The thought of Micah moving all the way down his body again made his prick twitch. “And what should we do when I’ve run out of pleasures to teach you?” “I can’t believe you will.” He circled a nipple, catching the tip between his teeth. “And if you do, I’m sure we’ll have to return to older methodologies and refresh my skills.” Jefferson gasped as Micah increased the pressure of his teeth. “Or I could just lie back and let you continue to experiment.” His chuckle reverberated through both of them. “And here I thought I was a student of poetry, not of science.”

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“They’re closely related. Poetry illustrates and illuminates the scientific world, after all.” Jefferson ran his hand through Micah’s hair. “I am curious about just how dedicated of a student you are.” Sliding back up, Micah kissed Jefferson slowly, the taste of his spendings lingering on his lips. “I am yours to mold, to guide, to teach whatever you wish. Simply say the word.” Micah’s sincerity radiated from him, shining in his eyes, coloring his words. Jefferson knew he would never have a single reason to doubt Micah’s word. He briefly remembered the chores he still had to see to and the breakfast he should cook. He dismissed the chores, tightened his hold on Micah, then rolled him to the mattress. He covered Micah’s body with his own and forgot about everything except his warm skin and even warmer eyes.

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Chapter Nineteen Micah blamed Jefferson and his early wake-up for his indolent behavior that morning. They laid abed long past dawn, and when Jefferson finally rose to tend to the daily chores, Micah rolled over and went back to sleep. He woke aching and smiling, reaching automatically for his lover only to touch disappointment when he wasn’t there. He almost went back to sleep. The faint smell of coffee made his mouth water and drew his feet to the cold floor. “Good morning,” he said as he wandered into the kitchen. Jefferson was fully dressed, the tub from their bathing the night before gone. In fact, the kitchen looked spotless, and for a moment, Micah felt guilty. “You should have woken me. I would have helped clear the mess we left.” Jefferson shrugged and reached for Micah’s usual mug. “How could I wake you when you looked so peaceful? I don’t mind cleaning.” There were sausages still warm on the stove, and Micah picked one up and bit into it as Jefferson poured the coffee. “I’ll have to unpack properly today. Unless you’ve done that, as well.” “No, I haven’t yet done that. Though, I probably would have if you had slept much longer.” Jefferson sipped his coffee and looked at Micah over the rim. “We should go visit Reverend Deem this morning.” “Are we both going? I don’t mind going myself.” “You can speak about Joseph with him yourself. But I am concerned for him and would like to see him.” Micah shrugged, though he felt anything but nonchalant about the matter. “As you wish. Let me—” A quick knocking came from the front door, cutting him off. Though he frowned, Jefferson moved immediately, setting down his cup in order to go answer it. Micah www.samhainpublishing.com

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watched him leave, then went to the cupboard for a plate. His stomach was grumbling. After their activities that morning, he was eager for sustenance. The low murmur of male voices came from the front hall, growing louder as they approached the kitchen. Micah stood at the stove, dishing out his breakfast, when Jefferson appeared, but it was the sight of Ewan at his side that made Micah pause. “What are you doing here?” he blurted. “I’ve come to see you, haven’t I? I could extend the same question to you.” “Can I get you a cup of coffee?” Jefferson asked. “Please. It’s been a long, cold journey.” Micah watched Jefferson wait on Ewan with as much grace as he had ever shown Micah, and felt a mild pang of guilt for resenting the intrusion. He would have to start sharing his time with Jefferson with the world soon anyway. He did not need to begrudge his friend a visit, especially this close to the holiday. “How was your Christmas?” he asked, gesturing for Ewan to sit with them. “Bounteous, I hope.” “When your father realized you had disappeared, he demanded I tell him where you went. I, of course, insisted I was quite ignorant of your whereabouts. He thought having me arrested would be a good way to prompt my memory.” Ewan paused and sipped from his coffee. “I spent Christmas in jail. I came here as soon as I could.” Micah choked, covering his mouth to keep from sputtering. “He did what? Why? I told him I was leaving.” “I suppose he didn’t actually believe you. He thought you were simply being obstinate, but that you would come around. He was…quite angry when he understood that you did not plan to return to the household.” He hadn’t expected this. When he’d made his decision, it had felt final. He’d been confident. Assured. He thought he had portrayed that to his father. Apparently, he’d been mistaken. “He shouldn’t have arrested you. He has to make restitution.”

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Ewan shook his head. “I’m just happy common sense prevailed and he had me released. I suspect your mother had something to do with that. She’s always had a soft spot for me. At any rate, don’t think he’s going to let you go without a fight. You know your father. He doesn’t like to be made a fool of, and you dropping out of Harvard and running away from home does just that.” Micah looked helplessly at Jefferson. “What do I do?” “I…I don’t know.” Jefferson wiped his hand over his face. “Your father might have guessed that you would come here. Or at least believe I might know something Ewan didn’t. Perhaps I should go check the post?” He slumped in his seat to ponder his predicament. “If Father is serious about my return, he’ll pursue every course. It’s likely he’d go to my professors, even though they despise him. Professor Simonsen, in particular, was not pleased with my choice.” He met Jefferson’s gaze. “All Father has to do is let him know I’ve left Boston. It would not surprise me if Simonsen deduced I came here. And he would try and contact you, especially after his threats.” Jefferson put a hand on Micah’s shoulder and squeezed gently. “We’ll think of something, Micah. Just remember that regardless of what they think, or what they believe, they have no power over you. They cannot compel your return. I’ll be back shortly.” Micah covered Jefferson’s hand with his own, meeting his lover’s gaze. He couldn’t say the words with Ewan present, but he hoped that Jefferson would know his heart without them. Without another word, Jefferson left, leaving him alone with his oldest friend and too many tumultuous thoughts. “Thank you so much for coming. Though I regret you had to make such a journey in the first place.” “I regret I made the journey now instead of with you. Why did you not ask me to travel with you?”

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Micah frowned. It hadn’t even occurred to him that Ewan might be bothered by his flight. “Because you have a life in Boston. And I cannot afford to hire you at the same wage my father does.” “I can find a job with a decent wage anywhere, Micah. But I cannot find a friend like you.” His throat tightened. “You would leave it behind?” “You are my friend, Micah. Besides, who will take care of you if you leave me behind?” Micah smiled at that, though Ewan’s sacrifice still overwhelmed him. “I’m doing quite well so far, thank you.” His amusement faded as thoughts of his predicament came back. “Though I doubt Father will think so.” “No, your father will probably not be impressed.” Ewan tapped his fingers against the mug. “Do you really mean to live here?” “Of course. Jefferson’s been more than gracious in allowing me to move in.” He tilted his head, regarding Ewan in curiosity. “You don’t really expect me to go back to Boston, do you?” “I don’t know. I think the possibility of returning is worth considering. Not because of your father, or your former professors, or the consequences you might be facing. I am…worried about your motivations for coming here.” His tone was careful, his word choice deliberate. Micah sat up straighter, suddenly wary. It had never occurred to him that he’d find opposition in Ewan. Ewan was the only one he’d spoken to about his desires. “Jefferson’s a good man,” he replied. “And he returns my feelings. I thought… Why aren’t you pleased for me? I assumed you, of all people, would understand.” “I am pleased that you have found somebody you love and respect. And I do understand your feelings. But I also know that Jefferson represents the chance to leave your family behind. I just want to be sure you’re here for the right reasons. And you realize the risk you are taking.”

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To hear such gravity from Ewan was unsettling. He had been a bedrock of support, but it almost sounded as if he was attempting to dissuade Micah from staying. “I love Jefferson. Any risk is worth it to be with him.” Ewan studied him for a few moments before nodding. “I will do anything I can to help. If you are certain this is where you want to be.” “I am. Nothing has ever made me feel as complete as I do here. Not even my verse, Ewan.” Ewan leaned forward, resting his arms on the table. “Then we must figure out how best to avoid your father. My biggest concern is that he will try to have Jefferson arrested on certain charges. I trust the two of you are being discreet, of course.” “Of course, but…” He blinked. These were circumstances he had never even considered. “Can he really do that? Surely, he wouldn’t go to those lengths.” Even as he spoke, however, he knew his father would. “Not unless he has some sort of evidence. The important thing is that you two are sure not to give him any.” Ewan reached out and touched the back of Micah’s hand. “I didn’t come here to frighten you, Micah. There’s a good chance that Mr. Yardley’s business or James’s new child will distract him from you. It’s not as though he paid a great deal of attention to you while you were there.” It stung, but it was true. Still, Micah knew he had to be careful. “What would you do? If you were me?” Ewan studied Micah for several moments before speaking. “I don’t think you will like my answer. First, I would find somewhere else to live. Mrs. Ruark’s room again. Or perhaps a home who is looking for a boarder, but I would make it a point to live there. I imagine you are, ostensibly, here for your poetry. I’d also make it a point to get something published this winter. Finally…I’d leave after the thaw.” His stomach dropped. “I can’t go back to Boston. Jefferson won’t return there.” “I didn’t mean you should return to Boston. I think you should go somewhere your father can’t touch you. West.” “West?”

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His mind raced. He had never considered options other than Wroxham. Of course, he’d never considered that his father would care enough to seek him out, either. But he would rather live a life far from the one he had known than one without Jefferson. “It will take some persuasion to convince Jefferson to leave,” he mused aloud. “Will you help me? Perhaps together, we can impress upon him how serious Father is about this.” “Of course I will help you. But you can’t run off and leave me again without a word.” Micah smiled. “Never. If I did, who would take care of me in that strange new world?” “You’d be lost without me, clearly.” The tension in Ewan’s face disappeared, and he smiled. “You look like you’re happy here. I’ve never seen you so comfortable in your own skin before.” “I am. Jefferson makes me feel…” He caught the look in Ewan’s eyes and flushed, shaking his head. “Neither here nor there. But you’ll like him. I’m certain of that.” “I’ll like anybody who makes you smile that way, I’m sure. Of course, he might not like me so much when he learns my suggestion that you move out.” “Considering the alternative, I’m sure Jefferson will be fine.” Micah almost believed it too. In light of his current situation, he had no other choice but to.

Jefferson had not been surprised at all to see Ewan. And he hadn’t been surprised by the news he brought, either. He had only been surprised by the fact it took so long for Ewan to arrive. He hadn’t even been surprised by the explanation for Ewan’s delay. His heart had twisted when he saw the horror on Micah’s face—followed swiftly by fear. Perhaps he shouldn’t have fled so quickly, but he didn’t quite know how to comfort Micah. Could he really tell him everything would be fine when he didn’t quite believe it himself?

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Jefferson didn’t know how far Richard Yardley would go to get his son back in Boston. On the one hand, he knew that Richard cared for Micah only as far as Micah could hurt the family name. On the other hand, if news—or even rumors—of their relationship ever hit Boston, it could scandalize the entire family and drive Richard to even greater lengths to protect himself and his name. Jefferson’s earlier doubts returned, along with a large dose of self-recrimination. True, he hadn’t brought Micah to Wroxham. But he hadn’t followed Simonsen’s explicit instructions to cut Micah out of his life. And that’s exactly what it would take—a cut with surgical precision that would leave a big, hollow spot in his existence. But if it would be best for Micah, did he have any right to selfishly resist the inevitable? He was so caught up in his own thoughts that he didn’t notice the utter silence, the blankness, of the village surrounding him. The only hint of life in the village was the thick smell of smoke. Jefferson registered it and dismissed it as merely a bonfire, perhaps started by children playing in the woods. He didn’t notice anything was amiss until he stepped into the mercantile and heard the unmistakable sounds of Emilia’s sobs. She wasn’t in the store, or behind the counter, and so he followed the sound of gasping breaths and flowing tears to the small room in the back. “Emilia? What is it?” Emilia looked up sharply at the intrusion, her eyes miserable, her nose puffy, her cheeks blotchy and wet. “You haven’t heard?” “Heard what?” He took another step closer and took the handkerchief out of his pocket. She stared at him without accepting the soft cloth, so he bent and pressed it into her hand. “What happened?” “It’s…” Another broken sob came from her and she buried her face in the borrowed handkerchief. “It’s…” “Is it your father?” She shook her head. “Is it…?” Jefferson’s heart stopped. “Is it Reverend Deem?” She nodded, and then exclaimed, “It’s the church! It’s possessed. It killed him.”

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“It didn’t…” “It did.” Now she looked at him with blazing eyes. “It did, and everybody knows it. Everybody saw it. You weren’t there, Mr. Dering, you don’t know what we saw.” “Reverend Deem passed on this morning?” “They’re all meeting at Mrs. Ruark’s. You should go. They’re going to figure out what to do with that church. Before it kills us all.” Jefferson took Emilia’s shoulders and forced her to look at him. “How did he die? Did anybody tell you?” “What does it matter?” “It matters. Please, Emilia. Please, tell me what happened to Reverend Deem.” Emilia looked at him doubtfully for a moment, but then she nodded. “Reverend Deem succumbed to a fever this morning.” “A fever? Was his fever a result of his injuries? I thought he was cut by the glass.” “I overheard my father tell my mother that the cuts were shallow and none of the glass was left in his flesh. It seems he suffered from weakness in his lungs.” “Emilia, go home. Don’t go near the church, please. Can you do that for me?” “I can.” “Good. Good girl.” Any other time, Jefferson would have helped her close the store. Any other time, he would have gone straight home and told Micah what happened. But he didn’t have the luxury now. Not while the church was in danger.

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Chapter Twenty Jefferson automatically turned towards the inn, but the wind picked up, and acrid, black smoke filled his nose. Not a bonfire. He saw the smoke rising above the inn’s roof, and in the winter silence, he heard the first snap of wood buckling in the heat. Jefferson’s heart lodged in his throat, and he began to run. He didn’t feel the snow beneath his feet. He barely heard the crunch as he ground the ice beneath his heel. As he raced towards the church, other sounds began to filter past his ear. Singing. Shouting. The bell in the steeple chiming furiously. Ringing, ringing, ringing, in his head, in his ears, vibrating in his blood. No. No. Please. He rounded the corner of the inn, and immediately began to cough. The orange flames licking the base of the church were brighter than the sun overhead, and twice as hot. The snow was melting all around them, running like clear streams of blood, reflecting the dancing light. Most of the villagers surrounded the church, but nobody made a move to stop the fire, or to keep the flames from spreading. Jefferson’s stomach tightened and rolled and something acidic burned the back of his throat. But it wasn’t too late. The structure wouldn’t be damaged beyond repair yet. He pushed through the crowd and got as close to the church as he dared. “What’s going on here?” The demand wasn’t addressed to anybody in particular, but everybody in the crowd watched him. “It’s an abomination,” Leah Hoxit snapped. Murmurs of agreement rippled through those surrounding her, and her small eyes gleamed in her lined face. “We’re destroying it before it destroys any more good people.”

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“No. Please, listen to me. It’s not the church. My grandfather built this church. Leah, your grandfather helped him. Mrs. Ruark, your father was here for the first services. This church isn’t an abomination. It’s…it’s sacred.” Mrs. Ruark shook her head. “Something sacred wouldn’t have killed a God-fearing man like Reverend Deem.” Rallying cries sprang up throughout the crowd, and a young man darted forward to throw another torch through one of the windows. Glass shattered, but it only spurred the rising animosity among the villagers. “What would Reverend Deem say if he knew you were burning down his church?” Jefferson’s voice rose with desperation. He knew he could not put out the fire without their help. “He loved this building as much as I do. This was his home. Is this how you honor his memory?” “We honor his memory by making sure nobody else dies.” Leah’s eyes grew colder than the wind whipping the fire into a frenzy. “We’ll build a new church. One free of the Devil.” “This one is free of the devil! These walls are free of demons. You can rebuild the structure, but you can’t rebuild…” Jefferson’s words faded as they all stared at him— unflinching, unmoving. “What about the Bible? Did you leave all of Reverend Deem’s belongings in there to burn?” More than one guilty look got exchanged. Clearly, they had been far too incensed to think through their actions. “The Reverend doesn’t have any family nearby anyway,” Leah said stubbornly. “And they’re not going to want anything tainted by his death.” Jefferson turned to peer into the smoke-dark building. Could Joseph forgive him for walking away? Could he ever forgive himself for not trying harder? But what could he do? Shovel snow over the flames with his bare hands? Something about the crowd made him think if he tried, they would stop him. Help me. Pain drilled through his ear and into his skull.

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Please help me. Jefferson didn’t stop to think about how he could help a ghost. He didn’t even consider why a ghost would need help. He responded to the desperation radiating through the words. He responded as he would to anybody who cried out for help. He turned and ran into the wall of smoke.

Micah laughed as he rose from his chair to pour a fresh cup of coffee. “I’m going to have to bribe you to keep you from telling these tales to Jefferson, aren’t I? He’ll never respect me again if you do.” “It’s hardly my fault you have such a penchant for getting yourself into trouble.” “And lucky for me, you have a penchant for getting me out of it.” He frowned when he was only able to fill his cup halfway. “Did we really drink the whole pot? That’s not possible. Jefferson’s only been gone…” His frown deepened as he pulled out his pocket watch. “He should have been back by now.” Ewan leaned back in his chair. “Perhaps Mrs. Ruark cornered him? She’s always up for a nice, long chat.” “Perhaps.” But some of Micah’s returned mood dissipated. Jefferson knew how he felt about his family; even with his concerns about the reverend, he had been gone much longer than Micah would have anticipated. “I’m going to finish getting dressed,” he announced. “Would it be too much to ask if you’d run and see what’s keeping him? The sooner we come to agreement on a plan, the happier I’m going to be.” Ewan nodded, and Micah left him rising from the table. With his thoughts in disarray, he tried not to consider the worst consequences should his father pursue him all the way to Wroxham. Jefferson was going to be very displeased to hear Ewan’s suggestions, but the more Micah weighed them, the more he thought they might be best. The last thing he wished was for Jefferson to experience the brunt of his father’s displeasure. Living together would only give Richard Yardley even more ammunition.

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He was debating how best to bring up the subject when the front door slammed. “Micah!” Footsteps echoed down the hall, and he straightened from where he’d been lacing his boot in time for Ewan to shove the bedroom door open. His nose was red from the cold, his thick brows drawn into a line, but it was the dark worry in his eyes that lanced through Micah’s gut. “What’s wrong?” Ewan jerked his head towards the front of the cottage. “The church. They’re burning it down.” There was no reason to say anything further. If the church was in danger, Micah knew exactly where Jefferson was going to be. As soon as he stepped outside, the biting air made his eyes water, but it was the acrid scent of smoke that spurred Micah into a run. His footsteps crunched against the packed snow, his heel only occasionally slipping, and at his side, Ewan matched his pace. He didn’t have to look for the evidence of what was going on. Thick, black clouds already darkened the treetops. Faint singing grew louder with each pounding yard, and the sound of crackling flames snapped along his skin. His steps only slowed when he reached the edge of the throng. It looked like everybody in the village had shown up for the burning, and Micah shouldered his way through the fringes to try and find a familiar face. He spotted Mrs. Ruark near the front steps. She turned at the call of her name. “What happened?” he panted, ignoring niceties such as a proper greeting. “Have you seen Mr. Dering?” “The reverend passed along this morning. Something needed to be done about this church.” Micah paused, waiting for her to answer his second question. When she didn’t, he grabbed her arm and forced her to face him. “Mr. Dering,” he repeated, with as much fervor in his voice as was in his grip. “Does he know?”

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“He’s inside.” His head whipped around to see a short, elderly woman he didn’t recognize glaring at him. “What do you mean, he’s inside?” She sniffed. “Are you addled? I mean what I said. He tried to tell us we were making a mistake, and then ran inside on his own.” She turned away to watch the conflagration, the light flickering over her lined face. “He’s a fool if he thinks it’s not evil. The reverend didn’t deserve to die like he did.” Micah’s gaze jumped to the burning church, while everything inside him tightened. Jefferson was inside. Of course, he’d tried to save the church. Of course, he didn’t consider it evil. Even with Micah, he’d refused to see the malevolence in what Joseph had done to him. The steeple crumpled to the side, the crash of burning wood as its path was arrested echoing through the crowd. Jefferson was inside. Micah leapt forward without any further thought. A strong hand grabbed his arm and yanked him back. He whirled to see Ewan restraining his flight. “You’ll both die,” he said before Micah could protest. “Or we’ll both live.” Micah twisted free. “I have to do this.” He fully expected Ewan to try and stop him again. He had never been so grateful as he was when his feet hit the splintering front steps, and he was allowed to shove the doors open with his shoulder unencumbered. A wall of heat rushed forward, wrapping around him like a cocoon ready to smother. Micah bowed his head, blinking against the smoke, and fumbled in his pocket for his handkerchief to cover his mouth. How long had Jefferson been in here? How could the town have simply let him enter on his own? Did they not care what happened to one of their own? But the elderly woman’s words came back to him, and Micah was suddenly uncertain that he could continue to trust the people of Wroxham. It was the same sort of

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narrow-minded thinking that he’d found so infuriating with his father. If Jefferson died as a result of it, Micah would be sure to have charges brought up against them. Except he refused to let it get that far. Jefferson wasn’t going to die. He wasn’t going to let that happen. “Jefferson!” His shout sounded weak to his ears, so he tried again, venturing forward through the billowing smoke to the center aisle. The walls were ablaze, the fire creeping inward. Pieces of the ceiling had already fallen through onto the altar, feeding the flames, but it was impossible to see the sky beyond the openings for all the smoke filling the air. Already, his lungs felt scorched, and he covered his mouth again to try and filter his air. He wouldn’t be able to hear Jefferson anyway, not over the roar of the fire. It had a music all its own, deadly and sharp. Under other circumstances, he might have stopped to appreciate its natural rhythms. Now, he only wished to find his beloved. Floorboards were starting to burn away, leaving gaping holes through which more flames jumped. The fire had spread to the basement as well; it wouldn’t be long before the entire building collapsed in on itself. Micah had to weave along, to avoid any portion that appeared like it might give way, but he knew the path he needed to take. There was only one place within the church’s walls that drew Jefferson, time and time again. For a moment, Micah thought he miscounted. Eighth row. It was the eighth row. That was where they always sat. That was the pew Jefferson thought of as special. But when Micah looked along its length, he saw nothing. The floor was clear. The fire hadn’t even reached this far in yet. “Jefferson!” He was closer now. He had to be. Perhaps he would hear Jefferson now. Or Jefferson would hear him. He saw the shadow out of the corner of his eye. Hastening to the next row, he craned his neck in order to peer beneath the pew, and there it was again. A foot. Jefferson’s foot. Micah released the handkerchief as he bolted forward. Smoke immediately made him choke, but he kept his head low, dropping to his knees in order to reach Jefferson’s

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side. He was curled into a ball, but when Micah touched his forehead, it was ice-cold, not raging as his own skin was. “Jefferson,” he hissed, shaking his shoulder. There was no response, but the slight movement behind his closed eyelids was enough to prove that at least he was still alive. Micah didn’t think. There was no time for it. He slid his arms beneath Jefferson’s long frame and pulled him free of the pew, cradling him against his chest as he struggled to catch his breath. Behind him, something crashed to the floor, making the boards reverberate beneath his boots. It was the only impetus he needed to straighten, though the dead weight of his lover made the task far from easy. Soot streaked across Jefferson’s brow, and there was a fresh cut on his temple. Scarlet droplets were stark against his pale skin, but Micah didn’t allow himself the luxury of worrying about it as he struggled to get back out to the center aisle. He couldn’t see the floor anymore. He would have to be very careful about where he trod. Flames danced overhead. Biting back the instinct to look up, Micah covered Jefferson as much as he could with his own body as he angled towards the front door. When the snap came, his nerves jumped, only to leap again when a segment of the ceiling crashed to the floor in front of him. Micah stumbled to his knees. In his arms, Jefferson stirred, but didn’t wake. Up. Must get up. Must not fail him. An unexpected blast of cold air cooled the beads of sweat on his brow, and Micah glanced up to see the door open. The crowd still mingled outside; it was Ewan filling the frame, Ewan racing around the perimeter, Ewan crouching at his side and bolstering his strength by lending his strong arms. Micah followed his lead back to the entrance, wincing at the sound of more rafters falling. He sucked in fresh air as soon as it hit his lungs, grateful for the way it sliced through the smoke. He was even more grateful for the way Ewan shoved the villagers out of his path, clearing the way for him to get Jefferson away from the inferno.

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“Send the doctor,” he barked at Mrs. Ruark as he passed her. He didn’t slow, or curb his sharp tone. In his mind, they no longer deserved any politeness. If something happened to Jefferson at this point, it would all be on their heads.

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Chapter Twenty-One Don’t make me leave. Don’t let me go. I don’t want to…I don’t want to leave you. Joseph’s desperate cry echoed in Jefferson’s dreams, chasing him through the night, until he finally opened his eyes to December’s mellow sunshine. The words spun in his mind, like a particularly alluring line of verse. Even when his gaze focused on Micah’s dear face. His dear, worried face. Jefferson reached for his hand, and opened his mouth to speak, but only a whisper of sound escaped from his hoarse throat. Micah’s frown deepened at the attempt, and Jefferson shook his head. Please don’t worry. Jefferson didn’t remember a great deal about the previous night, but he did remember waking in his own bed. He remembered Dr. Browning’s familiar green eyes, remembered his calloused hands checking his body for broken bones, for burns, for any open wounds. He remembered Browning’s deep voice assuring them that Jefferson would be fine with rest. Jefferson glanced at the pitcher on the nightstand, then gestured at his throat. Micah moved quickly, pouring a glass of the cool liquid. He helped Jefferson into a sitting position, before lifting the water to Jefferson’s lips. Once his throat fell better, he tried to smile again. “Did you get any sleep?” Micah hesitated. “A few minutes here and there.” The shadows beneath his eyes suggested the moments were even fewer than that, but Jefferson didn’t press. “The important thing is, how do you feel?” “Fine.” He rubbed his eyes, then studied the back of his hand. His clean hand. He didn’t feel sooty or sweaty, and he didn’t smell any smoke clinging to his skin. “Did I miss the sponge bath?” Some of the lines in Micah’s brow eased as he glanced guiltily down the length of Jefferson’s body. “I thought it would help you sleep. And I couldn’t bear the scent of it. If www.samhainpublishing.com

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you promise to behave and do as Dr. Browning says, I might be persuaded to give you another one.” “Remind me. What were Dr. Browning’s instructions? Am I to remain in bed?” “Rest. And more rest. And if I see fit, more rest on top of that.” Jefferson nodded. “I plan to do just that. Later. After I visit the church.” He caught the slight ducking of Micah’s lashes before he settled on the edge of the bed, his hands smoothing down the blankets. “I did not wish to tell you this way. But I’m afraid the church is gone. All that remains is ashes.” Micah’s statement didn’t surprise him. He knew the church would be destroyed quickly, and the thought of it was enough to make his chest hurt, like his lungs were full of smoke once again. “I would like to see what’s left of it.” “Later.” His fingers moved to Jefferson’s jaw, his gaze somber. “Remember when I said seeing you unconscious was the most terrifying thing I’d ever experienced? I was wrong.” Jefferson looked down. “I’m sorry, Micah. I shouldn’t have run into the church. I didn’t think Joseph…” He stopped. “I didn’t expect to…pass out.” Micah stilled. “You didn’t think Joseph…what?” Jefferson took Micah’s hand and caressed his wrist with the pad of his thumb. “I heard Joseph, screaming in my head. I don’t know what I thought I could do to help him. I just knew I couldn’t ignore his pain. And whatever Joseph was experiencing…I didn’t think he’d make me experience it too.” “But he did. And that’s why you were unconscious when I found you?” “It was just like before.” Jefferson swallowed hard. When he spoke again, his voice sounded smoke damaged. “Joseph dying in my grandfather’s arms again.” Micah closed his eyes for long seconds, but the haunting still lingered long after he opened them again. “I shudder to think what might have happened if I hadn’t arrived when I did.” He took a deep breath. “That’s why I’d like you to consider leaving Wroxham with me.”

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Jefferson sought his face for any sign that he might be less than serious, but Micah had never looked so solemn. “Do you want to leave Wroxham because of what Ewan said about your father?” “That’s part of it,” he conceded. “He has the power to make things very difficult for us. He could even have charges brought against you. If we’re not here, if we…went west, for instance, he wouldn’t be able to separate us.” His gaze ducked. “I realize that I’ll then be affirming his belief I’ve run away, but I don’t know how else to be with you, to be free of fear. And if that makes me a coward, so be it.” Jefferson knew that Micah’s fear of his father was real, and justified. He also did not disagree that it would be a relief to be beyond his grasp, and beyond the grasp of everybody who would pry them apart. But that didn’t mean Jefferson wanted to leave his home. “Your father is only part of it? What is the other part of it?” Seconds ticked by. The conflict warred across Micah’s fine features, and Jefferson tucked his hand more securely into his while he waited for him to respond. “They would have let you die,” Micah finally admitted. “I arrived at the church, and nobody was attempting to go in and help you, and…” When he lifted his head again, the ache in his clear eyes even affected Jefferson. “How can I live somewhere people could allow such things to happen? I understand that they were afraid, but you are a member of this community as much as Reverend Deem was. And you were still alive. How dare they turn their backs on that?” Jefferson wanted to deny it. The people in Wroxham would not let him die. They were not strangers to him. Many of them had known him his entire life. Many of them were his relatives—cousins, aunts, uncles. Some of them had been close friends of his mother’s. What Micah suggested was beyond absurd. And yet… “Nobody helped you when you went into the church?”

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“They’re ruled by their fear,” Micah replied. “And they have never valued you the way you’re meant to be valued. Look at how dismissive they were of your writing! What will they do should they learn of our relationship? How fearful will they be then?” “Well, they can’t learn of our relationship, of course,” Jefferson murmured automatically. His mind was in a tumult. Micah’s argument was sound. Logical. The sort of thing he would expect from Micah. “How far west would you like to go?” “Only as far as we must,” he was quick to say. “Though…wouldn’t it be grand to see the Pacific? Imagine the adventure. Our writing would be absolutely splendid then.” The Pacific? Mexican territory? Jefferson thought if they tried that, writing would be the last thing on their mind. But Micah’s eyes were bright, and his tone eager. “Micah…are you sure you want to move that far away from civilization? Every week, the newspapers report on the latest Indian massacres. Even here in Wroxham we have the convenience of Boston.” “You mean the civilization that turned its back on you? On us? Family that would rather I was miserable? I would brave Hell itself to see a life that is just ours, Jefferson.” “And I would journey to Hell itself to fulfill your wishes. It will take some preparation, but we cannot travel safely until after the thaw.” Micah nodded, as if he hadn’t expected to hear anything less. “Ewan has actually given this quite a bit of thought already. He’s more than ready to help in any way that he can.” He hesitated. “He asked to come with us, and I…I said yes. He’ll be a tremendous asset, I’m sure of it.” A part of Jefferson resented the thought of somebody taking Micah’s attention. He had never lived with his own personal valet, and thought Ewan would definitely risk getting under foot. On the other hand, Jefferson could not begrudge Micah this small thing. Ultimately, Micah would need his friend. Of that, Jefferson had no doubt. “I’m sure he will be,” Jefferson murmured. Micah smiled at him, and the warmth there did something to combat the coldness of Micah’s revelation. “But if you meant to distract me from visiting the church, it has not worked.” “But there is no church. Going there will accomplish nothing but tiring you out.”

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“I want to see it,” Jefferson insisted. “And Joseph.” “Joseph might not be there.” Jefferson looked out the bedroom window. “He’s there. I’m sure he is. Maybe I can still help him.” Following his gaze, Micah remained still for long moments before nodding with a sigh. “All right. But not until after lunch. It’ll be warmest then, and you’ll have a full meal in you.” He flashed a smile, though it was obvious his heart wasn’t fully in it. “Mrs. Ruark sent over soup. I believe her guilty conscience is manifesting in food.” Jefferson tugged on Micah’s hand, forcing him closer, until his mouth was within kissing distance. He inhaled deeply, and realized Micah must have bathed himself as well. There wasn’t a hint of smoke on his skin. He smelled fresh and warm. Jefferson curled his free hand in Micah’s shirt. “Thank you. Those words seem weak when thanking a person for saving your life. But I…thank you.” “I did not save yours.” Their lips grazed with each word, Micah’s breath honeyed and hot. “I saved ours.” “You weren’t harmed yourself, were you? Should you join me in bed?” He felt his lover’s smile. “Clearly, you are recovering quite nicely. By all rights, I should make you eat now.” “By all rights, you should.” Jefferson moved his hand across Micah’s chest and over his shoulder. “But I’m not hungry. And you…” He kissed the corner of Micah’s mouth. What would have happened if he had died? Would he be like Joseph now? Doomed to spend a lifetime watching his lover, but never able to touch him? “You feel so amazing.” Micah pulled back, but only far enough for their eyes to meet. The clear amber irises were as surprising to see now as it had been that first day Micah had approached him. Jefferson doubted he would ever quit marveling at just how beautiful they really were. The hand he brought up to touch Jefferson’s face trembled where it connected to his brow, his cheek, his chin. “So you do not begrudge my fears?” he whispered. “Even now, even with Ewan in the house, all I can think of is holding you as close as I can and never letting go.”

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Jefferson had already forgotten about Ewan, but even mention of the other man wasn’t enough to make Jefferson release Micah. “How can I begrudge you your fears? Don’t make me let you go.” He kissed Micah’s jaw and his neck. “Don’t make me pretend that I can tolerate to be separated from you.” “I shall not.” The mattress groaned as Micah stretched out next to him, and he tilted his head to allow Jefferson more room to taste. “But we should be discreet. Ewan understands our passion, but it would hardly be wise to remind him of what he does not currently have.” “Of course,” Jefferson breathed, relieved by Micah’s concession. He would have liked to strip Micah out of his clothes, would have loved nothing more than to explore and worship each inch of his bare skin. But he knew such a request would be going too far. He was more than happy to continue kissing Micah’s throat and let his hand drift down his body. “He won’t have any idea what we are up to.” Micah’s soft chuckle throbbed between them. “Oh, I’m of the opinion any longer that Ewan knows exactly what we are up to.” His weight shifted as he picked up the edge of the blanket and spread it over him as well, the gesture bringing their lower bodies in full contact. Jefferson sighed as Micah’s arousal nudged against his own, but it was the caress of a cheek against his own that made his soul soar. “I’m also of the opinion that you are my very heart,” Micah murmured. “When I thought I would lose you in the fire, it felt as if I was the one caught within the flames.” Jefferson smoothed his hand down Micah’s back, molding their bodies together. He turned his head, seeking out any warm skin he could find with his mouth. He let himself be content to nuzzle Micah for the moment, in awe that he could do something so simple, so basic as to enjoy the close, physical contact of the one person in the world he adored. But the pressure of Micah’s erection reminded him of a more primal need. It wasn’t enough to hold him, and it likely never would be. He slid his hand over Micah’s hip and between their bodies to palm Micah’s arousal through his pants.

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A soft sigh tickled across Jefferson’s ear. “Your touch undoes me.” Micah grazed fingertips along his chest, seeking out the buttons in order to free Jefferson of his shirt. “Is this unusual? Or is this love, and I am but an innocent in these matters?” Each brush of Micah’s fingers against Jefferson’s skin made him shiver. He waited to respond until Micah finished his task and began to run his knuckles up and down Jefferson’s chest. “A little of both, I suppose. This is what love is like, but I’ve never experienced it to this degree.” When Micah bent his head to kiss along Jefferson’s neck, he drew his hand down and down, stopping only at the buttons of Jefferson’s trousers. “And consider how it will grow,” he breathed. His hot fingers slipped inside the offending pants, stroking the throbbing length of Jefferson’s shaft in delicate flutters that drove him mad for more. “My feeling for you when we first met is but a shadow of its shape now. I’m certain that a year’s time, a decade’s, will see it overwhelming even more.” Jefferson muffled his moan by ducking his head into Micah’s neck. He knew he needed to stay silent, knew he promised Micah they would be discreet, but he wondered how he could keep his promise if Micah kept touching him like that. He fumbled with Micah’s pants, working the buttons free with trembling fingers. He could feel the heat from Micah’s flesh before he touched him, and his stomach clenched at the first brush of his fingertips over velvety skin. “I am a little afraid of it growing more than this,” Jefferson confessed in a low whisper. “It has already begun to consume me.” The loss when Micah pulled back almost made him lend chase after his mouth, but the lift of those thick lashes stayed any such motion. “But you will have me right there with you.” He brushed his lips along Jefferson’s, a butterfly kiss in a raging summer, while his hand curled around Jefferson’s length to begin stroking. “For as long as you wish me there.” Another fluttering kiss and another punctuated Micah’s promise. Jefferson fisted Micah’s prick and pushed against his hand, moving against each stroke.

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“I know.” He swiped his thumb over the wet tip, smearing the fluid there before sliding his palm down Micah’s shaft. “I know. I’ll never doubt that, Micah.” His lips parted when Micah deepened the kiss, pressing their upper bodies together as their hands continued to move. Languid caresses of fingers and tongues, heat rising that had nothing to do with the memory of the fire. It banished the last of any fears or queries. “I love you more than I ever thought possible,” Micah said against his mouth. “Thank you for such bounty.” Micah’s gratitude swelled in Jefferson’s chest and spread through him. It was sincere and simple, and Jefferson could sense that he meant more. Jefferson chased the words in Micah’s mouth with his tongue, tracing his lips and teeth and the soft corners. He communicated his desire for more—more pressure, more friction, more everything—by squeezing Micah’s shaft gently and letting the edges of his teeth scrape across Micah’s lips. “You are more than welcome to it. For as long as I live.” He paused, considering the reality of Joseph and his undeniable emotions. “And beyond that.” Micah trembled. Their teeth clashed as he fought for more in the kiss, and their knuckles knocked against each other as he strengthened his strokes. The tip of his prick left a wet trail where it dragged along Jefferson’s stomach, but while the desire to taste prompted the urge to bend down and replace his hand with his mouth, Jefferson remained where he was, simply matching Micah’s growing ardor. Jefferson knew when Micah began to approach his breaking point. He heard snatches of broken poetry between each kiss, as though Micah had no control over his mouth, or the words that spilled from him. They were dark and light and covered him like Micah’s fingers. Jefferson joined the soft chorus, whispering promises of love and more. Their bodies twisted and writhed, and his trousers felt tangled around his legs. Later, he promised himself, later, they would do this properly.

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The thought of later, in conjunction with Micah’s hot lips and hotter hand, finally brought his pleasure to a crest. Micah caught his long moan as his body stiffened and warm strings of fluid shot from his pulsing body. When the threads of fire slowed their furious wending through his veins, Jefferson pulled back from the kiss to see Micah’s clear eyes, blazing and dark, fixed on him. “Perhaps my kisses are zealous…” Micah choked on the next as Jefferson pushed him back to the bed, half-covering his body as he rained more caresses along his lover’s face. The tight grasp at the back of Jefferson’s head preceded a swift tremor settling beneath Micah’s skin, and the strangled cry came from Micah’s throat at the same time his shaft thickened and jerked within his fingers. Jefferson released Micah and brought his hand up to his mouth. He watched Micah watch him as he licked their spendings from his fingers. When Micah touched his tongue to his lips, Jefferson brushed the fluid on his knuckles across his mouth. The sight of the small pink tongue darting to catch every drop enraptured him. The sound of Micah’s contented sigh did even more. “This was not the meal I intended for you,” Micah teased. “But you indulged me anyway.” Jefferson bent his head and caught Micah’s lower lip and sucked it between his teeth. After a gentle bite, he smiled. “I promise to be a good patient now and eat what you will.” “An entire bowl.” “Yes, sir.” He untangled himself from Micah and allowed the other man to crawl out of the bed. He didn’t have any desire to move, but he didn’t think that would be a problem—Micah probably wouldn’t want him to get out of bed that afternoon. He would eat whatever Micah gave him, maybe take a nap, and then go to the site where the church once stood. No matter what Micah said, he had unfinished business there.

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Chapter Twenty-Two Though it was a relief to see Jefferson awake and alert, Micah was not comfortable with his wishes to visit the church, or rather, the church’s remains. He understood what the church meant to him, even recognized why he would have gone to Joseph’s aid, but it was too soon for what he believed would be a fruitless endeavor. The church was gone. Joseph was gone. The citizens of Wroxham had betrayed the true natures of their character. Exploration at this point would serve no ultimate purpose, except to sap Jefferson’s strength. When he tried once again after lunch to sway Jefferson from his choice, though, Jefferson reasserted his desires, leaving Micah no choice but to acquiesce. “Promise me we’ll return the moment you begin to tire,” he said, blocking the doorway. Jefferson took Micah’s shoulders gently. “I promise we’ll return even before that. But I can’t leave things as they are right now.” He sighed, nodding in resignation. “You would not be the man I know you to be if you denied your instincts.” Closing the distance, he tilted his head back to brush a kiss across Jefferson’s mouth. He hoped it showed his trust in Jefferson, if not the people who surrounded him. Jefferson grinned as Micah stepped back. “I hope you’re not trying to distract me.” “Would it work if I was?” “Not this time.” He pressed a soft kiss to Micah’s forehead, then reached behind him to push the door open. “But don’t let that discourage you from future attempts.” The cold filtered through the opening, and though he longed to take Jefferson’s hand in his, Micah simply bent his head against the afternoon chill and exited the house. Though it had been twenty-four hours since the fire, the scent of charred wood and smoke hung heavy in the air, prompting Micah to bow his head in order to filter his breathing. 220

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He kept a fervent watch on Jefferson out of the corner of his eye, however, attentive to any signal that he might be weakened by their excursion. But Jefferson walked with a brisk step that belied his bedrest. He walked as a man with purpose. Micah finally understood that this was something he truly had to do. Jefferson’s stride didn’t falter until they reached the ashy ruins. Every piece of dry wood had submitted to the flames, and a skeleton of the building did not even exist. Jefferson came to a stop where ash met snow, his toes resting on the gray border. He touched the back of his hand to his mouth, and his grief—grief Micah hadn’t wanted to witness—was undeniable, plain on his face. “It is probably for the best.” He shook his head. “Not this. I mean, it is probably for the best that we leave.” Uncaring of who might see, Micah slipped his hand into Jefferson’s pocket, curling his fingers around the hand he found there. “I don’t wish for you to think I won’t miss this place,” he said softly. “Our meetings in the church shall always hold a treasured place in my heart.” “I know. And maybe it was the meetings in the church that changed everything for me. I felt I saw a side of you, and showed you a side of myself, that was not present when we met over supper.” Jefferson kicked at the snow. “But perhaps this space never truly belonged to us. Maybe we have to find our own.” Silently, Micah agreed. There was little in Wroxham he found welcoming any longer, but what hurt most was knowing that knowledge had been taken away from Jefferson as well. “I think we shall always carry a small part within us.” He squeezed Jefferson’s hand, hoping to comfort. “Regardless of everything else, this will be where we first embraced our feelings, if only for a moment. Nothing, not even a fire, can take that away.” “I am going to call to him now.” Jefferson paused before adding softly, “Don’t let me go, Micah. Please. Reverend Mather? Joseph? Are you still here? Can I see you?”

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The warm hand in Micah’s grasp chilled just before cold air cut through his face. He shivered and turned his head, automatically using Jefferson’s shoulder to block the wind. Jefferson, however, didn’t move. In fact, he was utterly still. “Micah? Do you see that?” More intrigued by the note of fear in Jefferson’s voice than the question, Micah lifted his head. He followed Jefferson’s line of sight, unsure, at first, of what he was looking for. But once he saw it, he knew exactly what he was looking at. The figure of a man lay prone in the middle of the cold ashes. He wore clothes that were long out of fashion, and Micah couldn’t quite make out the details of his face. The man had a face, but Micah found it impossible to describe it. It was obscured, like something was blocking Micah from seeing it plainly. “This cannot be as it seems,” he murmured. “He…” But when he glanced up at Jefferson, the look on his lover’s face made him pause, chilling him more than the sudden added coolness in the air. All the color had leeched from his face. Even his wind-chapped cheeks were pale, while his eyes burned as if from fever. “Jefferson?” Jefferson took a step forward, hesitated, and stepped back. After a moment, he tried again. He successfully moved a foot closer to the stranger, but then stopped again, like coming up against an invisible wall. “It is Joseph. He’s dying. He needs me.” Micah frowned, even though he recognized the veracity of Jefferson’s assertion. There was nobody else this could be. But it was the latter profession that made him pause. “What do you mean, he needs you? He can’t be dying. He’s already passed on.” “He hasn’t passed on. He’s trapped here. Look, there’s blood on his shirt. He’s always stuck in this moment.” “But the church is gone,” Micah argued. “What possible ties could he have here yet?” A disturbing suggestion proposed itself, and his cheeks blanched as he looked to Jefferson. “You. He’s tied to you.” “Me? What do you mean? I know he responds to me, but he’s not bound to me.”

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“He comes when you call. He acts upon your will. The church is gone, yet he remains. What other possibility could it be?” “Then what can I do?” Micah looked from Joseph, to Jefferson, back to the specter again. His first inclination was to profess ignorance. He hadn’t even truly believed in Joseph’s existence until the proof presented itself, right before his eyes. As he regarded the man wracked with pain, however, he remembered his own despair when he’d thought he might lose Jefferson. He considered the power of the emotions involved, how Joseph had manifested Jefferson’s as well when they swelled to insurmountable proportions. The power of the spirit was a potent weapon. Nobody wielded it as his Jefferson. “You give him peace,” Micah said softly. “Did you not say he died without ever telling your grandfather the truth about his feelings? Perhaps he merely needs the opportunity to finally do so.” “The opportunity? I don’t…” Jefferson looked down to Micah’s hand. “Please don’t let me go. I can’t do this if you release me.” Micah nodded and allowed Jefferson to guide him through the smoldering wood. The specter seemed to solidify as they approached, the blood on his mouth growing more vivid as he trembled. His skin was as gray as the ashes beneath his head, and his eyes were closed. “Nobody can help me.” Micah heard the words, but the spirit’s mouth didn’t move. Without releasing Micah’s hand, Jefferson dropped to his knees and wrapped his free arm around Joseph’s shoulders. He lifted him from the ground. For a moment, Micah couldn’t tell if Joseph was solid, or if Jefferson was incorporeal. “Joseph,” Jefferson whispered. “Joseph, can you see me?” Joseph’s lashes fluttered, separating to reveal pale blue eyes, shot through with red. He blinked once, then again, and as Micah watched, the pupils tightened as they focused on Jefferson. Joseph ran his tongue over his lower lip, but though it was clearly an

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attempt to moisten them, he simply succeeded in smearing the scarlet already staining his mouth. “Simon…” “Take my shoulder, Micah,” Jefferson said under his breath. Micah obliged, holding his shoulder and freeing Jefferson’s hand. Jefferson immediately took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the white linen over Joseph’s mouth. “I’m here. I’m here to help you.” “Can’t. Can’t be helped.” He tried to shake his head, but strength failed him. “It hurts so much, Simon. I know this is my punishment, but I cannot brave this.” “It is not your punishment.” Jefferson’s voice was firm, but Micah heard the catch in his throat. “Joseph…Joseph. Why would God punish you?” The pale eyes grew moist, lashes ducking before they revealed too much. “God punishes all of His children who sin against Him,” he whispered. “I was arrogant to believe my collar absolved me.” “No, Joseph. You are a good and honorable man. God forgives His faithful children.” Jefferson wiped Joseph’s mouth again. “God has infinite forgiveness.” “You would not say so if you knew what I have done, Simon. Not even you would forgive the abomination I am.” “Tell me what you have done, Joseph. I refuse to believe a man such as yourself could ever be an abomination.” Micah held his breath as he squeezed Jefferson’s shoulder. The world had grown deathly still around them. He did not know if the ghost was aware of his presence, but he did not wish to risk exposure and stealing this moment from him. “I have loved one I must not,” came the soft confession. Joseph opened his eyes again. They shone now with the very emotion he denied. “I have loved you, my friend.” Jefferson ducked his head, until their foreheads almost touched. “You are my dearest friend. I will always remember you as the companion of my soul. You have not wronged me by loving me, Joseph. You have honored me.”

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Micah actually heard the ghost’s wet intake of breath. Jefferson moved to wipe his mouth again, but Joseph caught his wrist, turning it to lay a silent kiss to his palm. “Always. Remember me always.” Jefferson didn’t have time to answer before ashes swirled around them. When Micah had blinked to clear it from his eyes, Joseph was gone. Jefferson made a choked half-sound, his fingers wrapping around Micah’s wrist. With a sharp tug, he pulled Micah to the ground and immediately buried his face in Micah’s neck. Jefferson held him like he was never going to let go. There were no words that would soothe the ache he knew rampaged through his lover. Micah did the only thing he could, the only thing he wished to, and cradled Jefferson against him, breathing in his scent to replace that of the smoldering ruins. Joseph’s declarations would haunt both of them for years to come; of this, Micah was certain. He could only remain true to the promises he had already made Jefferson, as well as the promises he had yet to make. “You did what you must,” he murmured, when long minutes had passed. “I am certain he’s at peace now.” “I hope so. I hope he has found some peace. Somehow.” Jefferson lifted his head and cupped the side of Micah’s face. “I love you with all I have. Don’t ever forget that.” “I shan’t. You’re my very soul. I would deny you nothing.” Jefferson lifted the hand that still clutched the bloody handkerchief. “He was solid, was he not? You saw him too?” “I did. I’m sorry I ever doubted you.” “No, your apology is unnecessary. I pushed the very boundaries of credibility by asking you to believe in a spirit. And then I went further, and asked you to believe that the specter who hurt me meant no harm.” Jefferson caressed Micah’s face with his thumb. “You helped save him too.” Micah shook his head. “I was merely a spectator. Your heart is the one that released him.”

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“Who do you think released my heart? I could never help him before, Micah. Not before you came into my life.” Tightening his fingers around Jefferson’s, Micah gently pulled him to his feet. He cared not who might witness their contact. It was far more vital at that moment not to let him go. “I fear this is a discussion that will see no end,” he teased with a smile. “Perhaps we can continue it somewhere a little warmer?” He glanced at the ashen ground. “There is no more need for us here, I don’t think.” “No. We’re finished here. You can take me home and put me to bed. I fear I might need a good deal of rest.” Giving one last squeeze, Micah reluctantly relinquished his hold, settling into a slow pace back to the cottage. Their shoulders brushed against each other, solid and sure, and though he yearned for more intimate contact, Micah knew he had only to be patient a few minutes longer. They had their whole lives to spend together now, unfettered once they left behind the fear of his family. Loving Jefferson was as wondrous an act as reveling in his verse. Beauty unbound. Joy. Peace. His world was a far better place for such a gift. He would do everything in his power to honor Joseph’s legacy, to keep his vow. Always.

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About the Author Jamie Craig is the sum of two wholes: erotica writers Pepper Espinoza and Vivien Dean. Pepper has been writing since she was a child, but began her professional writing career in 2005 and now writes full time as well as attending graduate school and working towards a Masters in British and American Literature. A former resident of Los Angeles, she now lives in Utah. Vivien, the daughter of an author and sportswriter, also began writing at an early age, but eventually explored storytelling through acting and film production before coming back to prose. Vivien, her British husband and two children live in Northern California. To learn more about Jamie Craig, please visit www.jamie-craig.com. Send an email to Jamie at [email protected].

Look for these titles by Jamie Craig Now Available: Liaisons in Jubilee Craving Kismet Trinity Broken A Hidden Beauty

Love? Or duty? His choice will damn his country—or his heart.

For Love and Country © 2008 Mary Winter Vampire Basile Gagnon wants nothing more than to put the United States, its war, and the heartbreak he found on its shores far behind him. He has suffered the loss of one too many mortal lovers, and refuses to risk his heart again, not even for Emil, the mortal he turned away five years ago. When Union soldier Emil Franks steps aboard Basile’s ship, his mission is to try to convince Basile to lend his vessel to the Union cause. But with one look at his former lover, he reveals far more—his lingering love for Basile. Neither time nor the fires of war have dimmed their passion for each other, but not even the fact that Emil is now a vampire can sway Basile from his course. In two days’ time, he leaves for his native France. On this war-torn Valentine’s Day, Emil must choose: Love? Or country? Warning, this title contains the following: graphic language, and hot nekkid manlove.

Enjoy the following excerpt for For Love and Country:

Curling his fingers over Emil’s shoulders, he shoved him against the wall. Before Emil could protest, Basile slanted his lips across his, hard and urgent. His tongue thrust into Emil’s mouth and struck the point of one fang. Blood welled from the tiny wound. Emil moaned, his throat working to try and swallow Basile’s crimson essence. He really was a vampire. Control fled along with Basile’s anger. Spearing his fingers into the man’s short hair, he marveled at once again feeling the silky strands against his hand. With lips and tongue he devoured Emil’s mouth. He stroked each of Emil’s fangs with his tongue, up and down as if they were miniature cocks. For so long, Basile had cut himself off from the

man he’d loved because he feared the inevitable pain of his lover’s death. Now, with Emil a vampire, his greatest dreams could come true. Except he still intended to leave for France in a couple of days. Getting out of the states before the war grew any more violent seemed like a prudent move. Emil wanted him to support the Union blockade. He wanted Basile to get his ship, his property, directly involved in the heinous battle. Basile fought for control. Blood pounded in his veins, hardened his cock like one of the masts of his ship, and demanded he take this man over and over again in an attempt to make up for lost time. Emil flattened his palm on Basile’s chest. His fingers fumbled as he opened Basile’s shirt. A button flew off, pinging against the wall. Reaching into the opening, Emil traced the contours of Basile’s pectorals. He flattened his hands over the nipples, clenching and releasing like the paws of a purring cat. With his fingertips, he teased Basile’s nipples, drawing them into tiny, hard points. Basile feared he wouldn’t last. Their tongues tangled. The sweet feel of Emil’s skin brought back so many sweet memories that Basile soon had Emil bared to the waist. His caresses found pathways across flesh both old and new. Several scars on Emil’s chest testified to his near-fatal wound, a battlefield somewhere, Basile guessed, not wanting to think about a mortal Emil putting himself into harm’s way. His hands curved around Emil’s waist. The arrow of hair leading to his cock promised a trail of sensual delights Basile ached to explore. Dropping his fingers to the waistband of Emil’s trousers, he unfastened them and shoved them down his hips. Even standing there with his pants pooled around his ankles, Emil was a handsome man. A smattering of light brown curls covered his chest, growing thicker between his pectorals and in a line bisecting his abdomen. Veins roped around his cock, the head flushed purple. Just looking at it made Basile’s mouth water, and he couldn’t wait to have the American beneath him, begging for release. He tore his lips away. Hell! What was he thinking? Shaking his head, he moved back. “No. I don’t feel a thing,” he lied. If his heart still beat it would have beat a mile a minute. As it was his hands shook, his entire body tingled, and his cock pounded with the need to spill itself into Emil’s waiting, and Basile knew, all-too-willing body. “I think

that proves it. I’m sorry, Emil. Goodbye.” He spoke quickly, wanting to get the words out there and just leave. With his departure set and the wheels in place to get him home as soon as possible, he didn’t want to think about resuming his relationship with Emil. He wanted to, but being tied to the United States right now wasn’t a smart move. Not by a long shot. Emil laughed. His slack-jawed grin revealed his fangs and the mouth that Basile had just thoroughly kissed. “You never did lie worth a shit.” Heedless of his near-total nudity, he bent over, giving Basile a view of the long line of his back and the rounded curve of his buttocks. Unlacing his boots, he kicked them off and stepped the rest of the way out of his clothes. “I’m not lying,” Basile countered through his clenched jaw. He struggled to keep his gaze above Emil’s waist. “Besides, even if things were different, it’s too late. I’m returning to France.” “So you say, but you forget we have mail and vessels that cross the Atlantic now. They’re working on transatlantic telegraphs if we need to speak sooner. The war will be over soon and then I can come to France, or you can resume shipping back here. Things are completely different, and I wish you’d see that,” Emil said in a matter-of-fact tone. He didn’t plead, didn’t beg, though the raw need on his face and rampant erection testified to his sexual desire. Such was the way of mortals. Even in the face of certain doom they held such hope and optimism. Emil hadn’t yet developed the cynicism one gained after living for centuries. “It’s not that easy.” Sometime during the kiss his hair had come undone from its ribbon, and Basile dragged his fingers through the strands, freeing it the rest of the way. The tie fluttered to the floor. “Then make it that easy,” Emil challenged. He reached for Basile, cupping his hands around the man’s shaft, and even through the layers of clothing it throbbed to his touch. Basile bit back a groan.

“Tonight it is that easy. I think we both need this.” Emil knelt at Basile’s feet and unlaced his boots. He looked up, the desire and the need in his gaze humbling the Frenchman. He’d tried to remain dispassionate, damn it. He’d tried to put his own interests first. He couldn’t. Emil’s youthful optimism always wore him down. Basile removed his boots and faced Emil. Slowly, he brushed his thumb across the American’s full lower lip. “We both may need this, but it’s not going to change anything,” he whispered.

It takes a young castle guardsman with the heart of a lion to love a Duke…and survive.

Heart of a Lion © 2007 Kira Stone During a chance encounter, Curran is offered his dream job in Duke Luthias’ personal guard. The job soon sours as the lies and deceptions within the castle walls multiply like rabbits until Curran can no longer stomach them. Tanis, the lover the Duke made Curran surrender as part of his oath of loyalty, is the only man he can trust to help him stop the Duke’s ill-fated campaign to punish the northern raiders. But Tanis has secrets of his own. As much as he loves Curran, they could lose much more than their lives if he got involved now. When the northern savages retaliate for the Duke’s acts of war by laying siege to his castle, all three men are forced to take refuge within the fortified walls. Who lives and who dies depends on one man having the heart of a lion… Warning, this title contains the following: explicit, erotic sex, graphic language, mild blood-letting, and hot nekkid man-love.

Enjoy the following excerpt for Heart of a Lion:

Tanis slid his lips over the head of the warrior’s impressive cock. The young man moaned in ecstasy. Encouraged, Tanis milked Curran’s member with both mouth and hand. His teeth closed over the purpled head, scraping it lightly with his teeth. He was rewarded with another long, blissful moan. “Your mouth on me is a heavenly gift, Tanis,” the guardsman told him between pants. Tanis had never before received such a compliment. His cock throbbed with longing for this brave, foolish, caring young man. Would he lose all ground he’d gained with Curran if he asked to sample the guardsman’s muscled arse? Again, testing the waters seemed more prudent than voicing the question outright. Tanis fondled the guardsman’s balls with a firm touch. His forefinger followed the seam

to where it flattened against the man’s body. Curran tensed, but Tanis guessed by the look on the young man’s face that tension was in preparation for pleasure rather than distaste. So he kept going, applying pressure to the tiny strip of skin between the guardsman’s sack and anus. Tanis popped his mouth off the rigid shaft. “Too far?” “Not far enough. Not nearly far enough.” Tanis softly chuckled and returned his attentions to the sweet-tasting member. Perhaps one day he would take this pup into his bed. Dawn hit his bedding through a window over his straw pallet which would give him plenty of light to explore the man’s young, healthy body. Just the thought of being able to see what the water yet concealed wrung a groan from Tanis’ chest. He prodded the opening to the guard’s anus, testing the fit. “Ah,” the warrior cried out. “Pain?” “Pleasure,” Curran gasped. “I do not wish to die so quickly.” Tanis had needs of his own to consider, like feeling the young man’s body quiver with release. He sucked the stiff cock harder while he plunged his finger into the opening well past the second knuckle. In and out. Up and down. A duet of motion designed to bring the most pleasure to Curran, and thus to himself. Curran writhed under the combined assault. “Step back,” he panted. “Now.” “Not even if you pressed your blade to my throat.” Tanis clung to the warrior’s body as his muscles turned to stone. Curran’s cock pulsed in triple time, pumping seed into Tanis’ hungry mouth. The guardsman grunted repeatedly as he bucked and jerked as his seed spilled from his body. Tanis sucked every salty drop of fluid the man could spare until the warrior’s hand pushed him away. “Enough.” Not as far as Tanis was concerned, but this time he heeded the request and let the man go. He retreated to the other side of the pool where they’d started, planting his feet on the underwater shelf so he could finish himself off before Curran returned to sanity. He didn’t want the warrior to feel obligated to return the favor.

“Have I behaved so poorly that you must run from me?” Tanis raised the lids that had closed as he focused on retaining the taste of the guard’s hot cock in his mouth. He found himself under scrutiny by the young warrior, and he forced himself to move his hand away from his shaft. “You need time to recover.” “Not as long as you still ache.” Curran swam over to where Tanis stood. “Do you still ache for me, hunt master?” Tanis looked down into the young man’s eyes and saw no pity there. What he saw instead scared him so badly he had to avert his gaze. “Aye, though it need not be your concern.” Gently the guardsman reached out to cup Tanis’ balls. That simple touch made Tanis’ gut tighten with rising need. “It is a matter of honor to me that I return some small measure of the pleasure you have given me this night if it is at all within my power to do so. Will you permit me to try?” By the Gods, this young pup was offering him everything he wanted. Why was it so hard for him to accept it? Gavin’s face swam between them. Noble, selfish, charming Gavin. Curran was like him in many ways. Was that part of his problem? Was he linking the actions of his former lover to this young guardsman? Rejecting the act that would put Curran in charge so he didn’t have to submit to another’s will? Had the empty years restored none of his courage in that respect? If he had something to prove to himself, he had no right to use this warrior to do it. “If you insist,” Tanis finally said, unsure of his motives for doing so. “I do.” Curran’s hand glided loosely over Tanis’ eager cock. “What would please you best?” “An end to this torture.” “With my hand?” Curran tightened his grip around the fully erect shaft. “Or with my tongue?” he suggested before licking Tanis’ nipple in one long, broad stroke. “Or shall it be with my arse, which we both know is where your true desire lies?”

“I will accept your choice and be glad for it,” Tanis replied through his clenched teeth. This conversation was burning away his limited patience. If Curran didn’t attend to matters soon, one way or another, he’d find himself flipped over on his back, positioned so that Tanis might sheathe himself deeply between his nether cheeks and teach him not to tease a desperate animal. “You will get nothing from me unless you tell me what it is you need.” “Damn you to hell.” “If I am the very devil as you say, I shall return there soon enough.” Curran leaned in and nibbled along Tanis’ throat. “Say it. Command me.” Tanis growled, a mournful note that was picked up and echoed by his avian friend. His hands gripped the guardsman’s buttocks and hauled the muscular body against his own. From there it was a simple matter to slide his thick finger into the tight aperture at the base of the young man’s spine. “This is what I want, you young fool. This snug bit of flesh to part before my aching cock.” “Have at it, then.” Curran switched positions with a sense of balance Tanis had to admire. The guardsman pressed himself against the rough rock and splayed his long legs, giving Tanis complete access to the very spot he’d requested. The young man looked over his shoulder. “My name is Curran, not Fool, young or otherwise. Get it right when you cry out, will you?” Tanis couldn’t imagine getting it wrong. His entire world had been reduced to the size of one man, Curran Aurick.

Their love knew no shape, no limit, no boundary. Until someone destroyed their trust.

Trinity Broken © 2007 Jamie Craig Scientist Joshua Ames committed the unforgivable sin. He fell in love with his research subjects, shapeshifters Cameron and Sara. Despite the taboo against humans mingling with shifters, Josh left his life behind and moved into theirs without regret. Then Sara disappeared. When Josh and Cam finally find her, she is unconscious, emaciated and shackled. They thought the hard part was living without her. But as soon as Sara wakes, they realize the hard part will be putting their lives back together. Sara barely remembers life with Cam and Josh. All she remembers is a monster, a shifter who wore Cam’s face, who tortured and tested her for two long years. Without a home, conditioned to fear her own abilities, Sara struggles to start over. Solving the mystery behind Sara’s kidnapping is the key to her recovery, because whoever destroyed their relationship is hunting her, intent on getting her back. The truth could bring the three lovers peace—or send them spiraling apart. Warning, this title contains the following: explicit sex including m/m and m/m/f, graphic language, violence.

Enjoy the following excerpt for Trinity Broken:

Sara sat up against the headboard. Without looking away from Cam, she slowly shut her eyes and inhaled. “That’s good,” Josh said. “Now, we want to clear your mind. When you exhale, focus on how you feel when you breathe, what your lungs are doing. With your next breath, just focus on how it feels to inhale.” Cam’s voice sounded softer with her eyes closed, like the caress of a warm summer wind. Following his instruction was frighteningly simple, and when she took in a second

breath, she loosened the fingers she’d had crushed around Josh’s, the sensation of her chest rising and falling hypnotic. He coaxed her through the breathing exercise for what could have been several minutes. His voice was lulling, even soothing, and soon, she could feel Josh’s breath begin to echo hers, like he was following the same directions. “Now I want you to think about the first form you ever shifted into. I want you to think about every single detail. What did it feel like to shift? What did you look like? Recreate it.” It was a memory she had relived more than once. Josh had been fascinated by the stories of her childhood, and even Cam had been amused and more than a little impressed when he heard how early she’d done her first shift. She was two, and the world was a loud place, with laughter and the television blaring in the background and her father playing Santana’s ‘Abraxas’ over and over and over again. And there was Tofu curled up under the coffee table, her long black tail swishing around the wooden legs. It was easy to crawl over, easy not to get stopped, not so easy to actually catch the cat’s tail before Tofu woke up and leapt out of the way, jumping to the window ledge and glaring down at Sara with narrowed eyes. Her mother went out into the kitchen, and her father trailed afterward, and all Sara could see was the cat’s black tail, sweeping along the wall beneath the ledge. The weight of Josh’s arm disappeared, and the mattress moved beneath her bottom. It took Sara a moment to realize that the bed hadn’t shifted. She had. Sara immediately backed into Josh’s body, trying to wedge herself in the space between his back and the bed. “Sara.” Cam’s voice startled her, and she ducked against the pillows. “Hey,” Josh murmured, lifting her and repositioning her on the bed. “Be careful there.” “Sara, don’t tense up and be frightened. You’ll lose your concentration. Look.”

Her nose quivered as Cam’s distinct smell faded, replaced by the scent of another cat. Opening her eyes felt odd this time, especially with her perspective unexpectedly altered. Josh’s legs were mountains in front of her, while on the chair sat a large ginger tom. With blue eyes. Her tail flicked. Cam only blinked. She should have been terrified. Just because she couldn’t see his face didn’t mean she didn’t know it was Cam sitting there. And her captors had made him—the other him—shift in front of her all the time. That was his whole purpose for being there, she’d reasoned. However, they’d never had him shift into an everyday, normal housecat. This wasn’t scary. She’d seen him, fought him, even flown with him, in guises more dangerous than this one. Her tail flicked again. Cam dropped to his haunches, wiggled his back legs, and then sprang across to the foot of the bed. He walked up Josh’s legs, coming to a rest on Josh’s stomach. “Thanks, Cam. You weigh a ton,” Josh said, but didn’t push him away. From his perch, Cam looked down at her and blinked. He chattered softly—a sound not quite a meow—then dropped his head to rub it against Josh’s chest. Sara tilted her head. It looked appealing, especially when Josh lifted his hand to begin scratching Cam behind the ears. But his lap looked small, and there would be no avoiding Cam if she attempted to get any closer. There would be the warmth of their bodies, yes, but even as that called to her, it also raised an iota of fear, and she began to back away, her paws awkward as she navigated the soft terrain. The side of the bed came sooner than she anticipated. Her back paw met open air, and she tumbled over the edge of the mattress. By the time she hit the floor, she was back in her human form.

Josh was beside her in an instant, giving her his hand to help her to her feet. Cam the cat watched her from the bed inquisitively. The serious look on his face was almost enough to make her smile; she had never seen an expression like that on a cat before. “What happened?” Josh asked. “Did you hurt yourself?” “Only my ego.” She rubbed at her bottom. “And maybe my ass. Falling off the bed is not my favorite way to get rug burn.” “It’s not mine either.” He sat on the edge of the bed, and Cam immediately nudged his arm. “Did Cam startle you?” To Sara’s surprise, Josh scooped him up. Cam did not like to be handled when he shifted, especially when he was so small. But Josh cradled him easily, rubbing his ears. “You have to admit, he’s not very scary like this.” He wasn’t—hadn’t been. And he was even less so now that she was five feet taller than him. “I lost my concentration,” she said. “I can probably do it again.” She sat on the floor, unwilling yet to go up onto the bed. There was no room for flight up there, at least, not without falling on her ass again. It also brought her down to the level of Josh’s lap and Cam’s steady eyes, and for a long minute, she gazed at him. “You never used to like to be petted,” she said to Cam. He chattered again, his eyes drooping as Josh continued to stroke him. “He’s not always a big fan of it, but after you…when he shifted, we both ended up being pretty lonely. He didn’t have anybody to shift with, and I didn’t want to just pretend there wasn’t an animal roaming through the house. So, we gradually worked out a compromise.” It wasn’t a concept Sara was familiar with. She had always had shifters around her, always had somebody she trusted to share it with, from her family all the way up to Cam. Until she’d been abducted, the notion of being alone had been a foreign one, especially when she took another form. Slowly, she stretched out an arm, fingers skimming over the ruff of Cam’s neck. “I never thought about how Cam was coping being alone,” she confessed quietly. “Well, I did in the beginning. Before I stopped trying to think of Delta.”

Cam closed his eyes blissfully as they both petted him. “He wasn’t entirely alone. I helped when I could. People were constantly coming over, and they offered to help in any way they could, but he just sort of shut down without you.” The coarse hair at her fingertips brought back other, stronger memories than the ones that had driven Sara away. Nights spent under the desert moon, curled into the body heat of his chosen spiritual form, his tongue rough against her skin when he would absentmindedly lick her. Or soaring high above the dry earth only to come diving down at a breakneck speed to land on his outstretched wrist. Cam had always said she was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. In any form.

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