SleepyHollow2BookBundle (11 page)

John’s cries were wordless, but the meaning was clear in their sheer rawness, in the way that his channel tightened around Brom’s cock, threatening to milk him dry. Liquid warmth hit Brom’s belly as John came, and the sensation sent his desire spiraling out of control. With a deep groan, he thrust hard, spilling himself deep inside John.
 

It had been so long since he’d known such absolute release that he’d forgotten what it felt like. He rode the sensation to its peak and beyond, stilling only when the pleasure faded and his motions became faintly painful. As he withdrew, the bliss remained. Hot, wet and feeling strangely light, he lowered himself onto the bed beside John.

A shimmer of heat seared his skin when John buried his hands in Brom’s hair, his fingers tight against his skull, and drew him close for a last, lingering kiss. Brom had thought his body incapable of experiencing more erotic sensation, at least for a while, but was proven wrong. Heat unfurled inside him and made his lips tingle as they melded with John’s, and the other man’s breath filled his mouth. Finally, he let his eyes drift shut, and knew he wasn’t in danger of forgetting it was John beside him.
 

* * * * *

Brom rode the gelding he’d worked with the day before, using the trip as an excuse to exercise the horse and to help it grow accustomed to the surprises it might encounter on the road. It had spooked once, when a fox had darted across their path, but otherwise, they’d passed the morning at a moderate pace, with no significant issues. Now, Brom slid from the saddle and put a rope halter on the animal before tying it to a tree by the edge of a small cemetery by an even smaller church. It had taken him nearly two hours to reach the place, which lay in a village about the size of Sleepy Hollow, but already, he felt that the journey had been well worth it.

Walking among the grave markers, he scanned the names as he pulled a small bouquet from his pocket. It was composed mostly of soft pink primroses, with the occasional wildflower mixed in – those, he’d plucked from an empty field, while he’d taken the primroses from the small flower garden his mother had left behind. The petite blossoms cascaded over his fist in a muted riot of pastel colors, the combination of soft shades reminding him of youth and innocence. A certain set of carved block letters caught his eye, and he halted before a modest stone.

Sarah Evers. He’d never met the girl, but had heard many a story about her from her brother. Though she’d died young, and only a couple years ago, grass had sprung up thick and green over her grave, as if the earth had never been disturbed.
 

Kneeling before the stone that bore her name, Brom set his bouquet at the foot of the marker. The green ribbon he’d tied the stems with gleamed faintly in the sunlight, a little lighter than the grass. He reached out and ran a thumb over one of its fraying ends one last time, feeling the evidence of several years’ hard wear, then rose, exiting the cemetery and leaving the ribbon where it belonged.

His horse stood by the tree he’d tied it to, eyeing the road impatiently. Brom unknotted the rope and climbed into the saddle, equally eager to be on his way. John had promised to accompany Brom on a hunt that afternoon, after he finished his first day of teaching at the schoolhouse. Brom doubted they’d actually accomplish much in the way of hunting, but that was all right. The thought of being alone with John again called to Brom, drawing him back to Sleepy Hollow.

HAUNTED PASSIONS

Sleepy Hollow, #2

CHAPTER 1

John had never thought that his heart could be ripped out by just a few simple words, and yet, that was exactly how he felt.
“We’ll be announcing our engagement tonight…”
Brom’s voice echoed in his memory.
“I wanted to let you know myself.”

“God damn you, Brom,” John said, wiping dampness from his forehead with his sleeve. The curse was a distraction, a failed manifestation of some emotion he didn’t know how to express – he didn’t really mean it. A part of him broiled with anger, but it was a small part; mostly, he felt dreadfully sick. He pressed a hand to his stomach, conscious of the leaden weight that had settled there when Brom had laid his hand on his shoulder, just before he’d delivered the news.

John had known that something was wrong as soon as Brom had touched him. Brom’s touch had been tense, his hand stiff and awkward as it closed ineffectually on John’s shoulder. Brom Bones had never touched anyone like that before, and likely never would again. He was a man who always knew what he wanted, a man who laid hands on a body with confidence, already sure of what he intended to do. John knew that, perhaps better than anyone. But Brom’s hand had nearly slipped off of John’s shoulder as he’d told him of his engagement to Katrina. “God damn you…” John rasped, his stomach contracting around its burden as he touched his shoulder, seeking some trace of heat, some proof that Brom’s fingers had really rested there so recently.

There was none. Only the rough fabric of his coat and the autumn chill that hung in the air and had worked its way into every stitch of his clothing, every fiber of his being. He felt as if he were already dead. Soon, he would be.
 

He drew a pistol from beneath his coat, caressing the barrel. There was promise in every inch of the cold steel – the promise of oblivion. It called to him, the temptation carried on the biting night breeze. He glanced over his shoulder, promising himself that it would be for the last time. His heart jolted and sped at the sight of the large farmhouse looming in the distance, its windows glowing with candlelight. The spry, shadowy forms of dancers darted back and forth behind the glass. Everyone was making merry, celebrating a good harvest, and perhaps Brom and Katrina’s engagement – had they announced it yet?

No. He wouldn’t dwell on it any longer – not the engagement, anyway. Brom and Katrina themselves, however, were different matters altogether. He turned resolutely, forcing himself to face the dark forest that stretched at the edge of the Van Tassel farmlands. Under any other circumstances, the sight of it at this time of night would have sent a chill down his spine. But what did it matter now? If there were wild beasts afoot, they could do no greater harm to him than his own hand, and if there were spirits lurking… Well, he was about to join them.

Squeezing his eyes shut, he committed his thoughts to Brom. The man’s face formed perfectly in front of his mind’s eye, complete with the oh-so-familiar strong jaw, dark eyes and even darker hair. It curled a bit at his temples and at the nape of his neck. And it felt like silk, slid easily between one’s fingers, like sweet spring grass after the rain… John inhaled, smelling not the autumn night, but the spring afternoon during which he’d first met Brom seven months ago. The memory was a double-edged sword, sweet and bitter at once. His entire body tingled, hot despite his thin clothing and the bitter wind. “Brom…” The man’s name was a whisper on his lips and was quickly swallowed up by a rushing breeze that tore several locks of his hair loose from their ribbon and whipped them across his face. They tickled his mouth, teasing, like the memory of Brom’s lips.

Katrina had lovely lips, as well. A mouth like a rosebud, in fact, and cheeks that were just as pink. He’d tasted those perfect lips just once, and had perhaps taken the experience too seriously. A wry bark of a laugh escaped him, and his thoughts spiraled rapidly toward the dark place inside him that Brom had opened up with his words. Struggling for control over his unruly emotions, he thought of Katrina’s eyes. Blue and sparkling, they were more brilliant than the brightest summer sky. Framed with golden ringlets, her face was just as perfect as Brom’s. Picturing them together was both the most beautiful and most excruciating thing he could imagine. Shoving the image from his mind, he thought finally of himself.

Though his eyes were still closed, he had no trouble seeing himself as he was: a slender figure against the dark wilderness, clad in threadbare clothes that whipped around him as a particularly violent gust of wind howled by, causing the hair on the back of his neck to stand up. He was young, and more than a little afraid of death, when he really thought about it. If anyone had been there with him, they probably would have been able to see that, would have been able to read his face like a book. But he was alone, and morbidly aware of that fact. Another vicious breeze tore his ribbon loose and carried it away. His hair flew with it, each strand stinging his face. He relished the petty pain for what little distraction it provided from his greater suffering.

The wind stilled, leaving him alone with the knowledge of all his inadequacies. He hadn’t decided to take his own life because he was angry with Brom or Katrina. In all honesty, he wished them well. He was going to end his existence because he wasn’t worthy of a man like Brom, or a woman like Katrina. When he’d found out that his chances – however flimsy they’d been in the first place – of ever having lasting happiness with either of them were nonexistent, he’d realized that they were all he really cared about. At some point since he’d arrived in Sleepy Hollow, his world had shifted on its axis and begun to revolve around Brom and Katrina, his two secret loves. And now his world was over. Swallowing the last of his inhibitions, he pressed the barrel of the gun firmly to the side of his head. “Christ – Brom, Katrina… I love you both, but neither of you will ever belong to me, and it’s more than I can bear.”

His heart beat hard and fast, his pulse thrumming in his ears so that he almost didn’t hear the faint sound of hoofbeats coming from somewhere in the distance. Was someone riding through the wood, about to discover him? He didn’t have time to wonder who it might be – not if he was going to pull this off before being seen and losing his nerve. He squeezed the trigger and something rushed unseen out of the darkness and gripped his arm so hard he thought the bones would snap.

The explosive
boom
of the discharging pistol threw him off balance, and he fell, ears ringing. All the breath was knocked out of him when he hit the ground, and the earth seemed to sway and pitch beneath him, like a ship on a storm-tossed sea. The pressure was still there on his arm – could it be the angel of death?

“God damn it, John!” A deep voice growled from above, shockingly familiar. “What do you think you’re doing?”

It never occurred to John to answer. Instead, he lay flat on his back, staring up at the huge figure looming against the night sky. A
clunk
rang out loud and clear as Brom threw the pistol, and it bounced off of a tree, falling uselessly to the ground.
 

As a little breath worked its way back into John’s lungs, it became clear that he hadn’t, in fact, succeeded in shooting himself. The knowledge that he’d failed in even that simple endeavor was infuriating. He ground his teeth as Brom crouched over him, leering.

Brom’s breath buffeted John’s face in hot blasts that cut straight through the cold air.
 

“You look like a madman,” John said, meeting Brom’s narrowed eyes.

Brom snorted and seized John by his arms, jerking him into a sitting position. “You have a lot of nerve, saying that to me.”

John could feel his flesh bruising beneath Brom’s grip, but he said nothing. He couldn’t speak – there seemed to be a blockage of some sort in his throat. He wanted to shout at Brom, to tell him that
he
had a lot of fucking nerve, interfering like that. But he couldn’t, so he just breathed, letting the cold air chill his insides, which had rapidly begun to heat as soon as he’d heard Brom’s voice.

“John!” The third voice was something like the sound of a bell, and it cut through John’s heart, stopping it as effectively as a bullet.

He turned in the direction of the farmhouse, feeling the color drain out of his face. Katrina was moving rapidly toward him and Brom, her skirts churning around her feet. Her golden hair gleamed in the gibbous moon’s light, and her face was whiter than snow. Even her rosebud lips were pale, compressed into a tiny ‘o’ of shock. She wasn’t alone; a whole crowd of people followed her. She was at the forefront, her bosom heaving beneath her bodice and shawl as her father trotted at her elbow, breathing heavily with the effort of keeping up. None of them were on horseback – he must have imagined the sound of hooves.

“Everything is fine,” Brom assured them all, forcing John to his feet, as if to prove his point. “John came outside for a bit of fresh air and saw a wild beast right there.” He waved one large hand toward the edge of the forest. “Scared it off with a shot, though. It won’t be back.”

The crowd erupted into a cacophony of exclamations and admonitions, expressing everything from fear to disapproval of John’s foolish decision to walk alone after dark at the edge of the woods. The one thing nobody did was question Brom’s version of events. Nobody in Sleepy Hollow did that – Brom was a local hero of sorts, thanks to his skills at the decidedly masculine arts of horsemanship and hunting. With a few more words, he convinced everyone to return to their merrymaking.

Katrina lingered, and so did her father, Mr. Van Tassel, who was clearly eager to remove his daughter from any lurking dangers. “Come, dear,” he said, glancing anxiously at the forest.

Brom touched Katrina’s arm lightly, and the gesture sent a sharp pang of longing straight through John. When she turned to Brom with an expression of mingled concern and tenderness, he wanted to look away. But he couldn’t. “Will he be all right?” she asked, and at that moment, John knew that Brom’s story hadn’t fooled her.