For a moment, he hesitated, wondering if he could simply hide in the shade of the tree and let Tom pass by to the house. He gave up that craven impulse when Tom lifted his hat and turned to stride in his direction.
Owen rose, awkwardly dusting off the seat of his trousers as he did. He waited there, not wanting to step out into the sunlight and make it obvious how deeply he blushed.
“Owen!” Tom said as he approached. “What luck meeting you out here. I confess I wasn’t in a humor to be indoors.”
His tone wasn’t quite what Owen would have hoped, its abruptness so very much at odds with Owen’s mood of sweet lassitude. But Tom had come, and that was all that mattered.
“I wished to be out of doors as well,” he said. “As you can see for yourself.” He laughed a little, and then felt a fool when Tom didn’t.
Tom swished his cane through the grass, lopping the head off a dandelion. His face was set, but he smiled slightly and seemed to take pleasure, for a moment, in that small act of destruction. Owen started a little, shocked by the change from the day before.
Tom looked up at Owen’s face, and instantly, the lines in his own smoothed out, and he wore the same pleasant expression he had the day before. Only his eyes, glittering with some stronger emotion, hinted at anything below the surface.
“Forgive me!” he said, making a bow. “I forgot my manners for a moment — take my arm and walk with me? I was particularly hoping to catch you alone.” His voice lowered to a pitch so intimate that all Owen’s doubts fell away.
Slipping his hand through Tom’s elbow, he nodded, not trusting himself to speak. Tom led him away, down towards the end of the orchard where trees completely screened any view from either the house or the footpath on the other side of the fence.
“I wish you would tell me what you were thinking of when I approached you,” Tom murmured very close to Owen’s ear. “You had such a look upon your lovely face. Tell me what it was, so that I may be properly jealous?”
“Oh,” Owen began. And then, “Oh,” again. Tom would think him an idiot. Coyness had never been his strongest suit, but he attempted it. “I’m sure you could not possibly be jealous of anything I could do.”
A warm chuckle from his companion made all the hair stand up on the back of his neck, and his whole body flushed with heat. They were alone, and about to be unobserved. What could happen? Anything could happen. Owen knew well enough what that anything might entail, and he had certainly thought often enough of it happening to him, but right then? And in his orchard?
“I think I would be jealous indeed if any thought but one of me could bring that blush to your cheeks,” Tom said.
By then they had reached the little grove at the bottom of the slope, and Owen turned to face Tom, just in time for the latter to push him back against the nearest trunk. Dappled shade fell over them, green-tinted and intimate. The tree behind him dug into his spine, and Tom’s warmth pressed in from the front. Tom had hold of Owen’s wrist, and as Owen watched, he slowly lifted it to his mouth and pressed his lips against the pulse in the underside.
The sensation was a shock, both arousing and a little unsettling; Owen instinctively tried to pull his arm away, only to have Tom lean in, pin him against the tree trunk, and take his mouth in a kiss instead. He thrust his tongue into Owen’s mouth at once, a hot, eager possession that made his head spin and a throb of something halfway between pleasure and discomfort twist in his belly and groin.
Owen twisted his face away from the kiss. “Tom,” he said, “Tom, wait—”
“Gods, you taste sweet,” Tom said roughly against the corner of Owen’s mouth. He wrapped one arm around Owen’s waist, and he moved back just enough to insinuate his other hand between them and press it against Owen’s half-hard cock.
With a yelp of surprise, Owen shoved at Tom’s chest — not very effectively, but hard enough that he fell back half a step.
“Wait a moment — I am — anyone could see,” he stammered. His head spun, and all his limbs felt loose and strange. Of course he wanted that, to feel Tom’s hand on him, to seek the pleasure he knew would come. He closed his eyes for a moment against a wave of dizziness, and as he did, he felt Tom’s lips on his again.
This kiss was gentler, and Owen relaxed into enjoyment of it. Tom wanted him, and that ought to thrill him. In a way, it did, although discomfort almost outweighed desire. But then, Tom’s hand moved between his legs again, more slowly this time, a request rather than a demand, and Owen’s body responded to the touch.
“Forgive me,” Tom whispered, breaking the kiss. His lips were still so close that Owen felt the words as much as heard them. “You don’t know what you do to me. Since I held you in my arms the first time, I’ve thought of nothing but when I would have that privilege again.”
When Owen opened his eyes, they met Tom’s, only inches away and filled with desire and remorse. All his reluctance melted away in the heat of that look.
It took him a moment to gather his thoughts sufficiently to understand what Tom had said. “When you held me in your arms?”
“When I carried you home.” Tom smiled. “Such a sweet burden. I never wanted to be free of it.”
“Oh,” was all Owen could manage. He tried to imagine that, to feel it as he had during those half-dreaming memories of being brought home. For some reason, the image of Arthur Drake kept intruding. But if Tom had truly carried him all that way — and of course he must have, since he said it, and after all, he would be more in a position to know than Owen would — then Owen owed him his life. Just as in one of those tales of epic chivalry he’d read as a lad, and would die before admitting he sometimes read still, when no one was looking.
Tom looked the part of the gallant knight, certainly, tall and beautiful, although Arthur Drake might fill out a suit of armor rather better…Owen shook his head to clear that bizarre thought. Why on earth would he keep thinking of Arthur Drake?
He came back to himself with a start, still in Tom’s arms, and still with a neglected erection and the painful pressure of the tree against his back.
“Nothing else?” Tom asked, sounding slightly annoyed. “Only ‘Oh’?”
“I’m sorry,” Owen said, feeling as if he had missed some important cue. “It was — it was very fine of you. And I am so very much obliged—”
Tom cut him off with a kiss, just as passionate as his first. “I don’t want you under any obligation,” he said against Owen’s mouth, and kissed him again. Owen began to lose his train of thought under the onslaught. “But I did hope for a hero’s reward. No hero could possibly ask for more than you, Owen,” he murmured, his tone coaxing, his hands roving over Owen’s body. “I have never felt like this. Tell me you feel something of it too.”
Owen did; of course he did, singing in his veins and stimulating him almost more than he could stand. But he could not give in to that feeling. Not like this, not so suddenly; he was too afraid of what it would mean to give himself like this. He was afraid of being caught, afraid of the way his mind whirled with confusion and doubt. Mirreith had blessed him for some ineffable reason of her own. Wouldn’t she guide him in this, when part of his purpose, as her chosen, was to be the mate to a worthy man? Wouldn’t he know if he ought to yield now?
“Stop,” he said, rather more forcefully than before. At last he found the strength to put both his hands flat against Tom’s chest and hold him away. “I cannot. Truly. I — I hardly know you. Nor you me. I cannot,” he repeated, his voice steadying as he drew a full breath for the first time in several minutes.
A soft breeze, redolent of the sea, wafted through the trees and soothed Owen’s heated cheeks and swollen lips. When it died away, and the rustle of the leaves ceased, there perfect silence settled over them. Tom’s lip curled up at the corner, and he stared at Owen like a man considering a stubborn puzzle he’d thought to have solved already.
Owen wanted to wilt in the face of that clear disappointment, but he drew
himself up as best he could. “I’m sorry. I should like to know you better,” he said, almost pleadingly.
“Well,” Tom said at last. “Not so artless as you appear, then, it seems?”
“What does that mean?” Owen felt cold all over, and as much as he’d wanted Tom to give him a little bit of breathing room, he wished he would come over demanding again. It would be better than this distance, and the implication that Owen was being dishonest, somehow.
Tom gave a short laugh. “I believe it means — it doesn’t matter what I meant. It is sudden, indeed. But I find that I desire you more than anything. Owen, my lovely, will you do me the honor of marrying me?”
Owen’s lungs seemed to have lost their function; his whole chest felt seized by some strange paralysis, and his mind lurched to a halt. This was everything he could possibly want. It was fast, too fast his parents would likely think, but it was perfect in its swiftness. Love at first sight, almost! Although Tom had not quite said he loved him, and that marred the perfection of the proposal almost enough to refuse it.
“I don’t know,” he said, unable to look up and meet Tom’s eyes.
A finger beneath his chin inexorably tipped his face up, until he could not help but be caught by Tom’s gaze, which seemed to see all the way through him.
“But I know,” Tom said, and this time, his voice throbbed with sincerity and suppressed desire. “I love you beyond anything. Tell me now, at once, that you’ll belong to me alone.”
For a long moment, Owen allowed himself to look deeply into Tom’s sky-blue eyes and savor the thrill of hearing those words, so similar to the ones his faceless lovers had uttered at the climax of whatever story he had spun in his mind.
“Yes,” Owen breathed. “Yes, I will marry you!”
Tom kissed him, then. Owen might have allowed greater liberties, swept away by love, but at that moment, his mother’s voice calling his name drifted down the hill.
Tom muttered something under his breath that Owen chose not to hear, and they turned to face his mother and the explanations they would need to make. Owen tried to ignore both the knot in his stomach and his feeling of relief that they had been interrupted. He was nervous. Anyone would be nervous. But he was happier than he had ever been, he was quite sure of that.
Chapter Five
Letters, and bills, and memoranda, filling his desk in great piles and never seeming to reduce in quantity or increase in quality — and none of it, none of it distracted Arthur for even a moment. He flung himself back in his chair and rubbed at his temples. A few years before, he’d entertained hopes that Tom would apply himself to the management of the family’s business interests. Arthur hadn’t intended such labors to be unrewarded; Tom would have had a substantial salary for it, on top of the income from his private fortune. Not that Arthur would have chucked it all in for a life of leisure, but a partner would have been more than welcome.
Perhaps luckily for Arthur’s pocketbook, Tom had scoffed at the idea. His fortune was quite sufficient to achieve brandy, cards, and pleasant company, and he had little interest in anything else.
Arthur wondered, not for the first time, how much Owen knew about Tom’s habits.
Owen. Arthur shifted uncomfortably and gave up on the idea of soothing the throb of his aching head. He hadn’t seen much of his brother’s fiancé since the engagement, both by his own choice and because Tom had seemed as eager to keep them apart as he was to speak of Owen to Arthur at seemingly every opportunity. The result had been that Arthur saw as little as possible of Tom, too.
One thing Tom had said, though, before Arthur ended the subject by abruptly rising from the dinner table, had remained lodged in his brain like a burr. He meant to remove to the city at once upon marrying, stopping at some seaside resort along the way for a honeymoon. This meant Arthur would be free of them both, certainly for the best. He was not so certain his manners would win the battle when pitted against the bitterness of meeting Owen as Tom’s husband.
But Arthur had trouble imagining Owen enjoying the life Tom led, a life the latter would never willingly give up, no matter his empty protestations about marriage making him a changed man. Perhaps Owen believed it. Arthur knew better.
And that stung the most painfully, knowing that Owen would never be happy. Tom loved himself first and foremost. He might love Owen second, but not as Arthur could have — but no. No, and damn it all, no. He did not regret losing the opportunity to court Owen and discover if there could be more to his feelings than immediate attraction. Arthur told himself that — and told himself again, as often as necessary, usually immediately after remembering the softness of Owen’s hair, or the sparkle of his eyes.
Arthur turned to the one letter he’d been ignoring, knowing it would only bring on a headache. As he already had one, it hardly mattered now. Tom was overdue to return by three days, and this note from him no doubt held some flimsy excuse, and possibly a request for a favor.
He broke the seal and glanced at it, hardly paying attention. And then his attention was fairly riveted. After reading it through twice, Arthur felt heavy in every limb, more reluctant to rise and to perform his duty than he ever had been. He was no coward, but this — Arthur had never broken any hearts that he was aware of. Breaking Owen’s on Tom’s behalf would be by far the worst thing he had ever done. Cold rage swept over him, giving him both courage and resolution. He would mitigate the damage as best he could. And Tom would be wise never to put himself within reach of Arthur’s fists again.
He rose, put the letter in his pocket, and called for his hat and coat.
Despite his mother’s continual remonstrances, Owen lounged in the orchard again, dreaming and thinking. He was half waiting for Tom’s return and half, though he didn’t want to admit it, enjoying his last weeks as an unmarried man. As both his parents took great pleasure in reminding him, married life was very unlike his current freedom from care and responsibility.
“It’s a heavy burden to be a husband,” his father had told him that very morning, as they drank a final cup of post-breakfast tea. “You must always consider others before yourself. That’s your duty as a man, my boy. You might fail in taking care of your family, a misfortune that could befall anyone, but you can’t fail to try and still hold your head up.”
“Won’t I be more of a wife, though?” Owen asked, a trifle flippantly. “The goddess-blessed take the place of a woman in the household, or so the priestesses have always told me.”
His father fixed him with a withering stare over the rim of his teacup. He was not a terribly imposing man; he had less than average height, and stood, in fact, perhaps a half inch shorter than his wife; he had never been precisely willowy, and he had become downright stout with middle age. He wore old-fashioned breeches and never went without a watch-chain draped over a waistcoat, always brown. Thirty years of overseeing clerks, though, had given him a gimlet eye that could make a bolder youth than Owen wish to become invisible.
“Have you paid no attention whatsoever to the running of this household?” he asked.
Owen detected a trap, but he couldn’t think of a way to avoid springing it. “Of course?”
His father let out a harrumphing sound. “If you had, then you’d know your mother’s labors are at least as onerous as mine, and never-ending to boot. Be thankful if your only duties are those of a husband. Which reminds me. I should take her tea up to the sewing-room.”
With that, he poured a fresh cup to his wife’s specifications, and bore it away upstairs. Owen watched him go rather wistfully. He could readily imagine — and had, perhaps, spent a little too much time imagining — Tom showing him every pleasure possible to be had in a marriage bed, but Tom bringing him tea with his own hands, rather than simply ringing for a servant? That vision wouldn’t quite form.
And now Tom was gone again, off to the capital to arrange some business matter or other. He had left for the first time only the day after his proposal some two months before
, telling Owen breezily that he must see his solicitor about the marriage settlements, and not to trouble his pretty head about it.
When Owen pointed out that he was the son of a solicitor and had been trained almost from birth in points of law, filling in for his father’s clerks whenever necessary, Tom looked very cross and told him he would have no need for such knowledge once they were married. He had bowed and departed before Owen could formulate a reply.
On his return, they forgot it all in the delight of a reunion. Before Tom’s subsequent journeys to the city, Owen took care not to say anything else that could cause a quarrel.
Tom had never apologized, though, nor said anything to make Owen think his mind had changed. He had also continued to be absent as much as he was present, always with some very important reason for going.
Their wedding date was in less than a fortnight, Tom was away again, and Owen’s sense of misgiving had grown like some overnourished, misshapen plant that had taken root down in his depths, where he could not dig it out no matter how he tried. He had no wish to be a solicitor, much to Mr. Honeyfield’s disappointment. But why should he not have a man’s place in the world, all the same? Mirreith’s priestesses were very clear on Owen’s destined role in life, and so he had not taken up a proper profession. That didn’t mean he couldn’t understand anything beyond getting dressed in the morning and harrying the cook to see that she made the right sort of biscuits.
Not that running a household was an easy matter, as his father had pointed out. Nor that the women he knew weren’t quite capable of managing their own affairs, although Owen’s mother, trusting her husband’s expertise, left all such to him.
Owen went round and round, but he still couldn’t find a way that leaving him entirely ignorant of their financial standing, and Owen’s own rights in their marriage for the goddess’s sake, was quite right on Tom’s part. Oh, if only Tom would come home. When he smiled, and whispered in Owen’s ear how lovely he was and how happy they would be, all his doubts fell away.
The Replacement Husband Page 3
