Home is the Heart

by JM Gryffyn

  “Well now, if this isn’t a grand altogether. Hallo, Willie,” a woman’s voice greeted. Will jolted in surprise and turned to find Ceara Kelly eyeing him coolly from only a few paces away. How had she gotten so close without making a sound? Will looked quickly to Brock, but the Traveller lad had ducked around the horse and was now moving to get a saddle off the rack.

  “I was going to say how I missed ye, Willie, and ask if you missed me, but I think I have my answer.” Ceara’s shrewd gaze cut into him as she pursed her lips in thought.

  There had been a time when Will had sought those lips, a time when his father’s wish for him to marry pretty-as-a-picture Ceara had been his dearest wish as well. But that was four years and a war ago. He was no longer young Willie O’Sullivan, though some would always call him that.

  “Ceara, I—” His voice sounded so rusty, he had to clear his throat and try again. “Ceara….”

  “Nay, don’t say anything you might regret.” Ceara waved her small, delicate hand in front of his face. Then she moved closer and touched Will’s lower lip lightly, her eyes drifting past him to where Brock stood cinching up the saddle. “No,” she said, her voice low and intimate. “Just be careful that no one else sees, Willie. There’s bad trouble all about. Folk are being rousted from their homes with nary rhyme nor reason. Don’t give them an excuse to come at ye, man.” She leaned in and kissed his cheek, then smiled and said loudly, “I look forward to seeing you again.”

  Will could do naught but stare at her dumbly as she turned from him and sauntered away.

  “Mister O’Sullivan,” Brock said softly, “your horse.” The big bay colt, now saddled and bridled, stepped fractiously. Looking past the animal, Will saw two men wearing dark military-style coats and khaki trousers had come up and were watching with interest.

  “Ah shite, I’d be mad to try and ride him. It’s been too long. You take him for a gallop, will ye?” he said with a nonchalant smile.

  Brock grinned. “Wise Gorgio,” he said in a hushed voice. Will bent and offered his cupped hands and, when Brock stepped there, tossed him up into the saddle. Brock’s be-ringed fingers swiftly took up the slack in the reins as the colt jogged forward. With one quick look, Brock sought permission to move out. Will gave a nod, and Brock rode the horse from the yard and over to the downs where several lads were exercising their mounts.

  “A fine rider,” one of the men in green coat and khaki trousers commented, as they watched Brock go. “Traveller lad, is he not?”

  “Mhm,” Will admitted grudgingly.

  “Ah, a pity then. He’d make a fine steeplechase jockey, elsewise,” said the second man with a superior nod of his chin to where Brock was cantering the colt in large circles.

  One of the other lads beckoned, and Brock followed him to a line of fences. Will held his breath as he watched Brock point the bay at the first jump. In seconds, they were up and over the brush box and on to the next slightly bigger jump, both Brock and the colt taking it all in stride. Ha, Will thought, the colt at least had done it many times before. He had the makings of a grand steeplechaser, that was obvious, and Brock was handling him like a seasoned rider. Still, Will sighed in relief when Brock brought the horse back down to a trot.

  It wasn’t long before man and horse were back in the yard, accepting the praise of the two uniformed men that flanked Will.

  “I think your da will be most happy, Mister O’Sullivan,” Brock commented as he dismounted.

  Will nodded his agreement, gazing on Brock’s flushed, happy face. He had to force himself to look away, Ceara’s words of advice ringing in his ears.

  Horse trading done, and with Brock riding the colt, they were about two miles out of Curragh when Will spoke up. “You did well back there. You’re a bréa rider.” He gave the compliment, then looked up quickly at Brock’s huff of breath.

  “I thought ye were angry with me!”

  Surprised, Will shifted in the saddle. “Angry with you?”

  “For taking liberties with your father’s race horse,” Brock cried out, his expression full of dismay. “Ye would not look at me, after.”

  “Ah, muirnin, did you not hear, then, what Ceara said? I was afraid to look lest someone take notice.”

  “Who, the Black and Tans?” Brock’s voice was still a bit strident, but he shook his head hard. “Aye, they had their eyes on you, but it had naught to do with me. It’s their plan to recruit you, ye know.”

  “Recruit me?” Will frowned. “The Royal Irish Constabulary? What would they want me for?”

  Brock snorted. “To do their bidding, eejit. They need ex-soldiers like you to help in the fight against the Sinn Fein.”

  Will could not hold back a shudder. “No more fighting for me. I’ve had my fill of blood.”

  “Not even to make Ireland ours alone?” Brock asked meaningfully.

  Will blinked at the English translation of the name of the militant group that was becoming so strong in Ireland these days. “Not even,” he said with a sharp shake of his head. “Besides, the election last November settled that.”

  Brock wagged his head back and forth slowly. “Nay, not hardly. You have been away long and long, Will,” he said softly.

  Will looked hard at him. “I know.”

  NIGHTFALL found Brock lying in his waggon, gazing out the window at the tiny sliver of new moon. He closed his eyes, willing sleep to come, knowing it would not. Not for a long time anyway. If only Will would come, but Brock knew he couldn’t. When they had reached the manor just before dusk, the entire place had been in an uproar. The auld Master O’Sullivan was stomping around the stable yard, flapping a thin white paper, practically incoherent with rage.

  Hearing the words “damn Gypsies” shouted at high volume, Brock slipped from the colt’s back and handed Will the lead, then vanished as quickly as possible. Now he almost wished he had stayed to hear what the father and son had said to one another. Even more, he wished he was now snug in Will’s arms, not all alone in his waggon.

  At the tiniest scratch at his door, he bolted upright and called out, “Who’s there?” hoping against hope the answer would be voiced in Will’s somber tones. When no response came, Brock got up and went to the door. He pushed it open, and indeed, there was Will.

  The bigger man said nothing, just stood there. Finally, he shrugged his shoulders. “Brock, I—”

  To Brock’s horror, Will’s voice broke and his eyes brimmed with unshed tears. Brock grabbed him then and pulled him into the waggon. But by the time he was seated on the bed, Will had wiped his eyes, and his face was implacable.

  Brock pulled a stool from its place tucked under the tiny table and placed it by the bed. Settling on it, he opened his mouth, but finding he wasn’t sure just what to say, he closed it again. The silence in the waggon grew long and awkward.

  Will cleared his throat. “That paper my da was waving about was a letter from Timothy, announcing his intentions to wed Lena as soon as banns could be posted.”

  Brock snorted. “Ah, loí le grá,” he said with a snicker.

  For a moment Will looked taken aback, but then he laughed. “Yes, lovesick. My brother is indeed that.”

  “And Lena too,” Brock admitted.

  “Yes,” Will said with a wry smile, and then, quick as a wink, he grabbed Brock by the arms and hauled him onto the bed.

  Laughing, Brock let himself be manhandled, keeping his eyes on Will’s face.

  As Brock stared, Will’s expression changed and the man ducked his head.

  “Shite, I’m an idiot,” he said wearily.

  “Why? For coming here to me tonight?” Brock asked. To his relief, Will’s eyes came back up to gaze at him.

  “Oh, a leannán. Ach, nay,” the big man murmured. “I was just thinking what a fool I was to come home. I thought….” He trailed off, then cleared his throat before he spoke again. “Well, damn me, I knew I’d changed while I was away, but I never thought they would, too.”

  “They?”

&n
bsp; “My father, my brother. Ah Christ, everyone else.”

  “Changed how?” Brock queried.

  “Timothy has grown up, and our father won’t see it. I don’t know, Brock, if Tim truly loves Lena.” Will smiled apologetically at the same time he shifted Brock over, aligning them side by side on the narrow cot. “I’m afraid he just loves the idea of crossing Peter O’Sullivan.”

  “There were other ways he could have done it,” Brock countered, coming up on one elbow.

  Will wrinkled his brow. “Ah, but none so powerful as this. There’s a fine family tradition of it. My father’s own father vowed to disown him if he married my mother—and just because she was a colleen from a poor family. My grandfather had already spoken to a solicitor to draw up the papers. But he died before he could sign them, and so my father inherited the manor after all.”

  “One would think he’d be sympathetic to Timothy then.”

  “One who knew Peter well would think nothing of the sort. He’s a mean auld cuss, has been ever since me mother died. He didn’t want to allow you Travellers to set foot on his land after she passed on. If your cousin Galen’s wife hadn’t taken care of Timothy, nursed him back to health after his fall from that pony, that would have been the end of it. Your people would never have been allowed to return each year.” Will reached out to smooth back a lock of Brock’s hair.

  Brock caught Will’s hand and brought it to his lips for a kiss. “But Timothy is not yer father’s heir, you are. Why then does it matter who Timothy chooses to marry?”

  “It will matter when I leave,” Will whispered.

  Brock gave a harsh gasp and sat up abruptly. “Leave? Where are you going?”

  “Away from here. To America maybe.” It was something he and Robbie had talked about—starting a new life together in a land foreign to them both.

  “To America?” Brock hissed. “So far….”

  “Do you think Lena would give up the Traveller life to stay on the estate with Timothy?”

  Brock let Will pull him back down before he answered. “I dinnae know.”

  Reaching out, Will cupped Brock’s face in his hands. He kissed him softly once, twice. But that wasn’t what Brock wanted now. He pulled Will’s strong chin closer and took his mouth hard. As Will’s eager groan filled the small room, Brock shifted and pushed him onto his back. He straddled the bigger man quickly. With shaking hands, he unbuttoned Will’s shirt, then ducked his head and latched onto one of Will’s small, brown nipples with his teeth.

  “Brock!” Will turned his name into a delicious groan.

  He continued his journey southward along Will’s long body, nipping and soothing as he went. Beneath him, Will writhed with each tiny attack. He grew very still, though, when Brock reached his manhood. Bowing his head, Brock began to lap delicately at the outline of Will’s rampant cock as it jutted against the cloth of his pants.

  A rap at the door of the waggon shocked them both into stillness.

  “Brock?”

  “Aw feck, it’s me ma!” Brock gasped out as the door was pushed open. Swiftly, he swung off Will’s body and sat up on the side of the bed.

  Doreen stood quietly just inside the door of the waggon, looking down at the two men.

  Sitting up, Will began frantically buttoning his shirt.

  Brock’s mother opened her mouth, shut it, then opened it again. “Son,” she said softly, sadly, “once this is known you will find no place among our people.”

  “It’s not as if I fit very well even now, Ma,” Brock huffed. He could feel Will watching him avidly.

  Doreen shook her head, obviously weighing his words. “I saw this, I’ll have ye know, in the cards, ages ago. I should have sent ye away then.”

  “It would not have changed who and what I am,” Brock chided.

  Doreen turned her head away, and he saw the sheen of tears in her eyes. “We can talk again at morning light. Rest well, my son, but rest alone.” She turned and left the waggon, pulling the door shut firmly behind her as she went.

  “My God, Brock,” Will said, the words coming out as a croak. “My God,” he repeated. “Your mother—”

  “My mother should know better than to walk into a man’s waggon after moonrise.” Brock said sharply. Then, seeing Will’s stricken face, he softened his tone. “I am a man, William, no matter how young I might look. I have lived as a man among my people for nigh on a year now. I built this waggon with my own hands, worked as a horse trader to earn my way, and helped out my long-widowed mother, as a grown son should. But now she is set to marry the widower Emile, and soon she will need me no more.”

  Will sighed long and deep. “Brock,” he said, his voice unsteady. “A chuisle mo chroí.”

  Brock’s breath caught in his throat as he watched William lean his head toward him. Moonlight lent a gilded edge to his love’s light brown hair and softened his chiseled jaw.

  Brock turned and buried his face against Will’s ill-buttoned shirt. Bringing his arms around him, he eased Will back, then straddled him once more. Slowly and methodically, he unbuttoned Will’s shirt and pants, tugging them off the long limbs. Then moving from the bed, Brock stripped off his own clothing.

  He took a slow, deep breath before he went back to the man on the bed. Spreading his hands out along Will’s collarbone, he stroked downward with the pads of his fingers over the smooth chest of the man. His fingertips felt but did not tarry over erect nipples. When he reached Will’s navel, he slowed but continued his way down, stroking William’s abdomen with his fingernails, eliciting a hiss from the man beneath him. At Will’s groin, Brock veered outward along slim hips. He cupped his hands, skimming down lightly furred thighs and then calves. He took in every nuance of the beautifully muscled body beneath his hands, memorizing the feel of it, afraid this was the last time he would be allowed to touch his own true love.

  As if he knew what Brock was thinking, Will reached up then and ran one finger to the center of his chest and stroked across Brock’s heart. Then he moved his hands over Brock’s shoulders, then down his left arm to his hand.

  “A ghrá-sa,” William whispered; his voice was ragged with emotion.

  The sound of William’s words swirled down and curled round Brock’s heart. How could he ever let this man go?

  They kissed, and the deep, moist, hot, sweetness of Will’s mouth caught him, threatened to engulf him. Brock had to tear himself away finally. From there he went straight to Will’s groin, taking his pulsing, overheated manhood into his mouth. Will arched up then and came with a high, boyish wail. Brock gulped his essence down.

  He moved to kiss Will again, but the man stopped him, pushed him into a sitting position and then back farther until he was pressed against the rough-hewn wall of the waggon. Will’s hot mouth trapped him there, sucking his cock greedily. Before long, Brock came with a low keening sound that he barely recognized as coming from his own throat.

  Eventually, he felt Will tugging at him, and he moved sluggishly until they were once again stretched out side by side. It was time for Will to leave, but Brock could find nowhere within himself to make him go. Instead, he closed his eyes, just for a bit.

  He heard Will’s soft words, “Codladh sámh, muirnin,” whispered into his ear a moment before he fell fast asleep.

  WILL woke with the rising sun peeking in through the small waggon window. Brock still slept, curled up against him, his face guileless in repose. Carefully, barely touching, Will skimmed his fingertips over Brock’s lips. Then he brushed along his brow ridge, touched each closed eye, stroked whisper-light down the slightly upturned nose, fanned his fingers over high arched cheekbones, and then dipped a fingertip into the valley beneath Brock’s nose. A curl of Brock’s hair wound around Will’s finger as if of its own accord. How was he going to be able to leave this? How could he live without it? Was he just a waster, enamored of a beautiful boy?

  But Brock was not a child. Last night he had stood up for himself, called himself a man among his people. His
People. How could he ask Brock to flee with him to some unknown corner of the world? What could Will offer him in return for the loss of his waggon, his family and friends, his very way of life? No land or money, that was certain. If they went to America, it would not be as landed gentry but as poor immigrants. They would be all alone in a strange land. He could make this decision for himself, but Will could not make it for Brock.

  The only way to know was to ask him. What had his Robbie always said to him? “The best way out is always through.”

  Will realized with a start that Brock was awake and staring at him with an odd expression on his face. He opened his mouth to speak, but a harsh, loud knocking on the door jarred them both, effectively ending communication before it even started.

  Giving a huge sigh, Brock sat up and crawled over Will and out of the bed. He groped for his pants and shirt and pulled them on, tried to run a wooden comb through his hair, but it snarled and caught.

  “Come,” he said to Will in a dull voice as the knock sounded again. “That will be the kris. The elders. Nothing is secret in a gypsy camp.”

  To Will’s surprise, Brock hung his head in shame. “I should have woken you before dawn and made you leave, but I wanted to wake to morning light with you in my bed. I’m sorry,” he intoned.

  “No, no, don’t be sorry.” Will slid out of the bed and stood close behind Brock. “I could have left last night. I wanted this too,” he said softly into the shorter man’s ear.

  But Brock did not turn or lean toward him. “You do not understand what this is,” he said as he bent to scoop up Will’s clothes from the floor. “Get dressed, a leannán. I got what I wished for, and now I pay the price.”

  BROCK threw open the waggon door and looked out at the sprawling camp and then at the men standing before him. He tried not to heave a sigh of relief when he saw only Galen and Emile standing in the dewy grass. With William following at his heels, he walked slowly and purposefully down the steps.