Home is the Heart (2 page)

Coming home had not made him want to live, either. But today, in the upland meadow, everything had changed when a Traveller laddie looked at him with a gaze so intent it hurt.

Will groaned and turned over in his bed. He shut his eyes, but he couldn’t shut out the sweet voice that whispered, “I know you.”

He stretched out on his back, into a more comfortable position, and caught the beat of a far-off drum. The steady cadence of a tipper against the stretched skin of a bodhran filled Will’s ears, and he stopped thinking and let himself float on the sound. Dum-de-dum, dum-de-dum.
Mo Chuisle.
In the language of his dreams: my pulse. Before long he drifted off to sleep, and in his dream what he was hearing was not a drum but a heartbeat.

W
HEN
Will rose the next morning, his father was long gone, as was Timothy. He was relieved, finding he ate better without them filling the kitchen with their arguing. He grinned at the housemaid when she came to gather up the dishes, and it didn’t take much for him to wheedle a sack with lunch stuffed inside.

He had no real destination, but with Tip at his heels, Will once again headed for the uplands. The Traveller camp was quiet, sprawled out below him. He focused on a group of little boys. They were huddled together around a storyteller, obviously enthralled with the tale being told. A quicksilver laugh floated up to Will as he stood listening. It struck him that the storyteller was Brock, and he wished he could hear him, hear that honeyed voice again.

At that moment, Tip began to yip and then to bark loudly. Will hand-signaled to the sheepdog to stop its racket. Tip quit her barking but began to whine, thrusting her long muzzle against Will’s leg. Coming toward him over the hillock was Timothy and his lover.

“
A dheartháir
,” Timothy said, his face full of joy.

Will blinked, shying from it. “You’re mad, Tim,” he said more harshly than he intended. But his younger brother was too caught up in what he was feeling to listen to reason.

“Lena’s a free woman, Will. Her husband died in the flu epidemic this past fall. Not that she loved him—the marriage being arranged by her parents,” Timothy explained excitedly.

“Father will be back. He’ll put an end to this.”

“He won’t be able to.” Timothy shook his blond head. “I’m leaving with Lena on the morrow. We’re going to Dublin to be wed.”

“
Begorrah
,” Will swore. “You’re more of a fool than I thought. If you do that, Da is sure to disown you. How will you live then? In a little more than a year, you’ll have our ma’s money coming to you and, eventually, a deed to a piece of land. If you marry this girl, you’ll lose all that.”

“To gain something even more precious,” Timothy replied somberly, but his eyes danced as he looked over at Lena. “You’ve never been
loí le grá
, have ye, Will? You can’t possibly know how I feel.”

“Timmy,” Will said sharply and saw his brother’s eyes widen at the use of his childhood nickname. “Listen to me. Don’t do this. He’s meaner than a snake, is our auld da. He’ll make your life holy hell.”

“Ah, but I’ll have heaven with Lena to balance it, won’t I?” Timothy shot back.

“Don’t be thick, she’s a Gypsy girl,” Will hissed. “She’ll never be content to stay in one place. What do you mean to do, build a caravan and travel with her?”

But Timothy just gave him a long look and a smile. “Don’t worry about me, my
bréa
, big brother. I can only pray that one day you’ll understand.”

“Come to the
céilí
, tonight, Will O’Sullivan,” Lena said softly, even as Timothy turned to go. “There’s many who would bid ya welcome and dance with you under the stars.” She reached out with one sun-browned hand and touched his arm.

“I’ll think about it,” Will said as he moved away.

The woman’s gentle laughter seemed to ring in the still air long after she and Timothy had gone back over the hill.

T
HE
céilí
was in full swing, the sound of cousin Galen’s violin filling the air with a bright strain of sound. Brock listened as Emile picked up the beat of the jig, beating the bodhran with the tipper caught in his huge but agile hands, pounding it into submission. Brock could feel his blood pulsing in time with the music—but he only watched as others danced between the fires. Any other eve, he would have been one of the frolicking dancers. But tonight he could find no enthusiasm for the jig or the company so he stood in the shadows, watching.

His mother breezed past him, and the sound of the tiny bells linked round her ankles made Brock smile. Everyone knew Emile loved those bells, couldn’t resist the slim ankles, either. Doreen had not yet accepted the big drummer’s proposal of marriage, but it would not be long now that Brock had a waggon of his own.

He contemplated going to sit on his waggon steps, but he was too restless. Not long ago, given his restive mood, he would have simply sought out his childhood friends and slept out under the stars with them. But he was a man now and did a man’s work. It was accepted that he would marry soon and start a family of his own.

Lately he’d discovered he had no patience for what was expected of him.

Scowling, he gazed down the hill toward the sprawling stone manor house. It was dark of the moon, and he had to strain to see the lights in the many windows. The kitchen window had been dark for some time, but there were several on the second floor that continued to shine. Brock wondered what he was doing, his Will. Oh, he knew he was mad to allow himself to even think about the man in that way. But hadn’t he seen the desire in handsome Will O’Sullivan’s eyes? Oh sure he had. He’d felt it too, hard against his thigh.

Something deep down inside told him the pull and tug between them was more than just the animalistic urge of sex. He’d looked into those stormy green eyes and
known
the man, seen through to the man’s very soul. Seen the loneliness there, the dark stain of bitterness and loss. He’d seen something else there, too—his own true self, written on the man’s heart.

With his next breath, Brock snorted in derision. He was a right bugger and knew it well. Will was a veteran of the Great War that had just barely ended and the son of landed gentry, the heir to the estate to boot. He himself was nothing more than a Gypsy boy whose mother read hands like some folk read books. He was an uncouth Traveller
chal
who didn’t even know how to read. What made him think such a man as William O’Sullivan could ever want him?

Brock shook his head back and forth, his curls tapping his cheeks. He’d traveled down this worn mind-path all day and gotten no answer. It was time to stop thinking and find a willing colleen to dance with him under the night sky. Yet he didn’t stir from his dark corner. Instead, he stayed in the shadows and brooded a while longer. It was very late by the time he decided to give up the nonsense and join in the
céilí
. But as he got up from his corner, he bashed right into someone coming his way.

A hand on his elbow steadied him when he would have fallen. He could smell male sweat, clean, yet musky, and it caused a stirring deep in his groin. A sympathetic shudder ran down the spine of the person holding on to him, and suddenly, though he could barely make out the silhouette of the man standing before him, Brock knew who it was. The military-cropped sandy hair and that striking green gaze might be hidden from him on this moonless night, but he knew who stood before him as surely as he knew his own name.

William.

Without a word, he took the tall man by the hand and led him toward his waggon, pulled him up the steep steps, one, two, three. Once inside, he pushed Will down onto the bed. Then, for a moment, Brock stilled and tilted his head, listening to the noise outside the waggon. All was well, for as long as the drum beat and the music played, they were not likely to be disturbed.

Though it was inky black in the waggon, he did not stop to light a candle. Peering through the darkness, Brock caught the glint of moisture in the eyes of the man pinned beneath him. He thought it curious that Will did not speak, but neither did he have any urge to break the quiet between them.

Strong hands caught in his hair, pulling him close, and Brock let his own hands wander down to the man’s waistline. Pulling shirttail from pants, he pushed up the crisp cotton, then pressed his lips against succulent skin and bone.

He sucked at flat nipples, first one and next the other, until they were peaked and wet. Soon enough, he was rewarded by Will’s soft, sweet sound of need. Big hands roamed up under his shirt, warm fingers splayed wide against his back. Brock groaned when the hands were withdrawn but then sucked in his breath when he felt them between their two bodies. As Will began to work at the buttons of his own shirt and pants, Brock sat up, shucking off his own garments as quickly as possible. He threw his clothing to the floor and then slid forward again, pressing his lips against the bigger man’s collar bone. He kissed and suckled there, as Will writhed under him.

Brock slid his mouth back down to the taut nipples, wetting and blowing on each one in turn. He nipped and licked his way along a glorious expanse of nearly hairless chest, tongued Will’s belly button deeply. It was only then that he reached for the man’s throbbing sex, taking it gently into his mouth.

Will arched up violently, and his fingers dug deep into Brock’s biceps. A few moments later, Will gave a guttural gasp, and Brock opened his throat to receive the hot seed. He swallowed quickly, milking the organ greedily.

“Oh. Oh God, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” Will murmured in a ragged tone of voice.

“No, nay,
a leannán
,” Brock crooned, “that’s not it. That’s not what I wish to hear from ye.”

But Will didn’t stop his litany. “Ach, I’m so sorry,” he repeated in a broken whisper. “I wanted…. I didn’t mean to….”

“Shhhhh, hush now, we have plenty of time for more,” Brock said. Content to be in the dark before, now he ached to see the face of the man beneath him. He wondered if Will would bolt if he lit a candle. There was nothing for it but to do so. Sitting astraddle Will’s long, sleek body, Brock reached to the shelf at the head of the bed. He made quick work to light the candle that rested there, then looked into the face of the man sprawled beneath him. The green eyes were full of panic.

“No, nay,” Brock said quickly. “Don’t worry yer head, man.”

But Will pushed at him, shoving Brock away abruptly. As their bodies rubbed together, Brock felt his own cock leap against Will’s lean, hard thighs. He looked up into startled eyes and saw his lover had felt it too—and Will’s body had also responded.

The man groaned, making a sound that could have come from the hero Cú Chulainn himself, a groaning cry, full of fury and passion. Without a word, Brock leaned down and took Will’s rapidly hardening organ into his mouth once more. His quick, avid sucking wrung another cry from the large man beneath him.

“Wait, please wait,” Will gasped out, his hands coming down to Brock’s shoulders.

Brock stopped, reluctantly lifting his mouth off the hot cock.

Distressed that he had taken things where William hadn’t wished to go, he started to roll off the bunk, but Will caught his arms, guiding him up on the narrow bed.

“No, no, don’t go, just give me a bit to breathe,” Will husked.

With a sigh of relief, Brock allowed himself to be tugged into place beside Will. Content to be cradled against the man’s bigger body, he smiled.

“Why are you smiling?” Will’s tone was gruff.

Brock let his smile broaden. “Do I need a reason to smile beyond what we just shared?” he asked, looking up at William’s sharp-planed face.

“And just what was that?” Will grumbled, and Brock detected a hint of blush on the tanned cheeks. “You gave. I took. I’d not call that sharing.”

“Dinnae worry,” Brock soothed. “Next time it will be better. It’s been long since you last took a lover, aye?”

“I tried. I tried, but I couldn’t…. I wasn’t….” Will blushed deeply, and Brock reached up, caressing one high cheekbone with a finger.

“All that is done now and far behind ye. It will not bother you again,
a ghrá
,” he soothed.

Will’s body jerked against him. “Why do you keep calling me that? How can I be your love? We only met yesterday.”

“Is that what you think, man? Is it really? Because I have known you for all my life, though I first laid eyes on you on the uplands yesterday.” Without waiting for a response, Brock leaned over and kissed Will’s parted lips gently. Pushing his tongue into the moist cavern of Will’s mouth, he explored his teeth and tongue. Eventually Will began to kiss him back. Hesitantly at first, and then with increasing urgency, he probed deep into Brock’s mouth until they were both gasping for air.

They broke apart, and Brock saw on William’s face an expression that was both lost and hungry. Will shifted on top of him, and Brock gasped loudly when the man ducked down and tongued his collar bone, then trailed down his chest, lingering only momentarily at the hollow of his sternum. Hands grasped his buttocks and began to knead and stroke. Soon Will’s tongue was there, too, engaging in a delicate dance like nothing Brock had ever experienced.

Finally, when he could bear it no longer, he reached up and grabbed a jar of sweet oil from off the small shelf. With shaking hands, he coated the hard, hot column of flesh that jutted toward him. Watching him, Will tilted his head and gave a soft smile. “You’re certain?”

Wordlessly, Brock curled down, lifted his legs, and offered himself. Slowly, steadily, the bigger man entered him, wringing a gasp from Brock’s lips. He whimpered from the pleasing pain of it, and Will stilled. But Brock only smiled fiercely and canted his hips even more. Pleasure rippled through him as Will pushed even deeper.

Soon they were moving together like giants in the old tales, dancing before the fire. That fire ignited within him, and Brock cried out as he spurted his seed against Will’s sweat slick body. Will held him tightly in hands big as any Irish hero’s and came along with him, shuddering and shaking in silence.