Bonds of Earth (16 page)

He could feel Seward’s eyes on him and waved a hand. “Not for your aunt’s benefit, but for your own. Stay in a hotel. See a show. Eat in a fancy restaurant.” He looked out across the garden. “Paint.”

He heard Seward puff on the cigarette a couple more times before stubbing it out on the railing. “I’m hardly fit to be wandering around Manhattan yet.”

“Well, then, in a few weeks,” Michael said, not sure why he was pressing the point but unable to stop the words. “See how you feel, at least. I was planning to go back for a weekend. I could drive you.”

“Aha, now we get to it. You only want my car.” There was no heat in Seward’s words, only faint amusement, and Michael found himself smiling.

“You know us Irish, always looking for a free ride.”

Seward surprised him when he softly murmured, “No, I don’t know. All the Irishmen I knew were fine men. Many of them died beside me.” He took a deep breath, let it out. “A few of them died because of me.”

Michael said nothing, his hands gripping the railing. Seward’s confession of guilt reminded him of his own failure to save men whose lives he’d considered his responsibility, but his tally sheet ran into the hundreds.

“What’s in New York?” Seward asked.

“My sister,” Michael said. “Friends.”
Maybe a fuck,
he thought. He needed one if he was starting to respond to Seward, of all people.

“I didn’t know you had a sister.”

“You know very little about me,” Michael replied, his tone unexpectedly harsh.

“True,” Seward murmured after a moment, reaching for another cigarette. “But the little I do know is astonishingly familiar.”

Michael turned toward Seward, startled. In the silver moonlight, his green eyes were ghostly and pale, and Michael suppressed a shiver.

“I should…,” he said, pointing in the direction of the stairs. “I have an early morning in the garden tomorrow. I have to… mow the lawn.”

“Good night,” Seward said, sticking the cigarette in his mouth and flicking the Ronson lighter into life on the first try.

Michael launched himself down the stone steps. A couple of minutes later, lying flushed and inexplicably breathless in his bed, he could still see the image of those haunting eyes staring back at him, slicing into his soul with the precision of a gifted surgeon’s scalpel.

10

A
FTER
that, Michael and Seward’s working relationship entered a new stage, though Michael was at a loss as to how to characterize it. To say it was combative was wrong, because they worked more harmoniously than they ever had. To say it was friendly, however, was equally incorrect, because there was a new element to their relationship that made friendship impossible, one that Michael did his best to deny—to no avail. That element was an infuriating, electric awareness that hummed constantly under the surface of his skin, making it next to impossible for him to perform his job as a therapist. One moment he would be the efficient, competent rubber, his hands confident on Seward’s body, and in the next he would be the awkward boy he had once been, confused and astonished by his own desire.

Unfortunately, his desire was apparently becoming a mischievous bitch in her maturity, because in spite of all reason, Michael found himself increasingly attracted to Seward. The man was maddening and mercurial and haughty and patrician, he told himself, the antithesis of every man he’d ever wanted, but that did not prevent him from staring confounded at the curve of Seward’s neck as he bent to inspect Sarah’s painting, or listening to the soothing depths of his voice as he spoke with Abbott on the terrace. And then one night, he awoke from an extraordinarily vivid dream involving Seward’s hands on various parts of him, hands that were not like an artist’s at all but broad and square and strong—

Christ,
Michael thought, lying in the dark spent and gasping after waking certain those big hands were wrapped around his cock,
I need to stop this.

He had no idea whether Seward reciprocated his desire, and he could not decide whether knowing the answer would be a blessing or a curse. Adding to his confusion was the fact that for every time he was sure Seward felt the same tug of connection, there was another incident that proved Seward was not the least bit inclined toward him. Michael knew the rules of attraction in New York, Paris, and London, but a Hudson River country estate was alien territory, a landscape without maps or signposts.

He knew this much: anything more complex than their relationship as it existed now would be disastrous for both of them. No matter what Seward might think of his position in society, the truth remained that he had one, and it was so far from Michael’s own position that one of them might as well have been living on the moon. While he was not afraid of imprisonment, he was concerned that Margaret remain ignorant of the truth about him, and Paddy had guaranteed to keep his mouth shut only as long as he kept this job. To plunge into an affair with the nephew of the woman who had hired him was not conducive to continued employment.

The medical argument, while the weakest of the bunch, was nevertheless a sound one as well. Michael was in a position of confidence, of trust, and to compromise that position was unethical. On the other hand, Seward was hardly an invalid but rather an exceedingly irritating man who had never truly behaved as his patient. Similarly, Michael had little inclination to view himself as a therapist any longer.

All of this led to a state of near-constant frustration that his late-night sessions with his right hand seemed only to fuel. The sole mercy was that he was due for his next weekend off soon, and he was determined to take it this time and head back to New York. His uncle be damned, he was going to fuck himself bowlegged for two days. Perhaps then he could return and finish his task with some sense of decorum and self-control.

For it was also evident that Seward was nearing the end of his rehabilitation. While he would continue to require an exercise regimen, the most intensive work was nearly over. Too, Seward’s independence had been growing by leaps and bounds over the past week, to the point where he sometimes exercised without any help, a fact which both concerned and impressed Michael. It was as though the same fierce determination that Seward had invested in resisting all attempts to change him was now being employed in his own self-improvement. Unfortunately, as Michael had learned a few hours earlier, this newfound spirit could have disastrous consequences.

“Take off your shirt.”

Seward looked up at him as he entered from the garden, startled. “What, no courtship first?”

Michael ground his teeth together. “Don’t be funny. You were wandering the grounds for three hours, and your entire body’s going to be a knot within thirty minutes if we don’t get you loosened up quickly. Strip and lie facedown on the mat.”

Seward regarded him for another moment, his gaze more speculative than irritated, then lifted his shirt over his head. As he raised his arms, his face tensed for a moment.

Michael folded his arms. “Sore?”

“Not… particularly,” Seward said, bending over and stripping off his shorts with a distinct wince.

“Mmm-hmmm.” Seward shot him a glare but walked over to the mat and lay down on the towels provided. Michael dropped to his knees beside Seward’s torso, draped one of the towels over his buttocks, and swiftly began a series of hackings, the edges of his hands relentless on the twitching muscles of Seward’s back.

Seward’s scars were finally beginning to show some real improvement after Michael’s diligent work bringing blood to those areas and breaking down the scar tissue with careful fingers. Of course, his skin would never be unmarred, but the improvement was noticeable. Seward was no longer as uncomfortable in his own body as he had once been, it seemed, putting himself on display without hesitation.

Debating with himself for a moment—he usually massaged Seward in the privacy of his bedroom, but it was late and the Abbotts were doubtless in bed—Michael pulled back the towel and began kneading Seward’s buttocks. Seward’s body jerked under his hands, and he twisted back to look at Michael.

“What are you—”

“It’s fine. They’re asleep,” Michael murmured, graduating to clappings that progressed down his thighs.

Seward grunted and rested his head on his arms once more before subsiding into silence. Michael continued his ministrations, kneading and clapping the muscle groups in his legs, watching for signs of strain. He found them occasionally in the odd twitch or jerk, but he was surprised that Seward was able to control his reaction to that extent.

Perhaps he shouldn’t have been. After all, Seward was the master of control, a man who was adept at denying his own pain. Michael envied him that, and his jealousy eroded his own crumbling control.

“Turn over,” Michael said softly.

Seward hesitated for a moment, then rolled, eyes staring up at the ceiling. Michael’s mouth curved at the corner. Taking the towel, he folded it over Seward’s genitals, then began the vigorous massage again, working his way up from the legs. The muscles he felt there were not atrophied, withered remnants but healthy tissue, growing, stretching, no longer weak or incapable. He could feel their power lurking under the surface of Seward’s pale, smooth skin, and felt a wave of pride he hadn’t experienced in ages.

Another unfamiliar feeling—this one more like possession—assaulted him in the next moment, and he found himself spreading his palms over Seward’s chest, kneading with hungry fingers. Before he could warn himself that he was losing his objectivity, it was gone, vanished in the few short seconds measured by the ragged rise and fall of Seward’s ribcage. His gaze locked with Seward’s, and Michael’s heart stopped at what he saw there—a similar confused mixture of denial and desire, the pupils dilating in spite of Seward’s ambiguous feelings.

He felt Seward’s hands cover his own, though whether his intent was to stop Michael or to encourage him, Michael wasn’t sure. Time seemed to slow to a molasses pace as Michael’s fingers burrowed into the muscle until he could feel the pounding of Seward’s blood against his skin.

Stop,
Michael thought,
stop, you fool,
but it was no use; his hands traveled to Seward’s shoulders as he lowered his head, drawn to Seward by an invisible force. The soft, startled puff of Seward’s breath against his lips brought him back to himself, sending him reeling back as effectively as a roundhouse punch from a Five Points tough.

The moment his hands left Seward’s body, they both made a sound lodged midway between relief and anguish. Seward levered himself up on his elbows, then sat up, tying the towel around his waist as he did so. Michael shut his eyes. If he saw evidence of Seward’s arousal, what remained of his tattered self-control would be lost in an instant. By the time he opened them again, Seward had lurched painfully to his feet and was halfway to the door. The unassailable certainty that Seward desired him as much as he wanted Seward only brought him more confusion, more frustration, and a bone-deep yearning that left him shaken.

Somehow Michael summoned the voice to croak, “Tomorrow is Labor Day.”

Seward stopped but didn’t turn. “Yes, I know.” His voice was flat, giving no indication of his state of mind.

“We’re—that is, Sarah, Mary, Abbott, and I—are going to Hudson for the day. We—ah, Sarah—has been hoping you’d come.”

Seward turned slowly, his gaze shadowed. “I… I don’t think that would be a good idea.” He sounded hesitant and uncharacteristically young, and Michael stared up at him, startled.

“It would mean a great deal to her,” Michael said evenly, and waited.

Seward blew out a breath. “You’re a bastard, McCready.” Then he turned away again and limped out the door.

Michael held out his hands and stared at them. They seemed unfamiliar, as though they belonged to a stranger.

“Point taken,” he said softly, to no one in particular.

“
T
HEY
’
RE
selling ice cream over there!” Sarah exclaimed, pointing eagerly. “May I have one, please?”

“For heaven’s sake, child, it’s eleven o’clock in the morning!” Mary exclaimed, her outraged tone belied by her twinkling eyes.

Sarah looked up at her, gaze pleading. “After lunch? Please?”

“We’ll see,” Mary said firmly. She pointed at a spot beneath a maple tree on the small rise overlooking the waterfront promenade. “Spread the blanket there.”

Sarah’s face fell before Michael caught her eye and winked. Smiling faintly, the girl dropped to her knees and smoothed the edges of the blanket. Mary placed the basket she’d carried from the car on one corner, then moved to take her husband’s arm as Michael helped him. “You’re—oh, my, please be careful—” she fussed.

Abbott grumbled, “I can do this by myself, woman,” but allowed himself to be maneuvered. When he was settled, he took a deep breath and looked out over the promenade. “Well. It’s a fine day for it, anyway.”

It was a fine day for a small-town celebration of Labor Day, or so Michael supposed, not having had much experience with either small towns or celebrations. In the Bowery, the holiday was little more than another excuse to drink to excess, closed taverns being no barrier to a high time. His last Labor Day had been spent on the ward in England. Predictably, none of the men had been in a festive mood.