Jackdaw (18 page)

“You fell?”

“I landed.” Jonah’s smile was springtime, and Ben reached for his hand and held it. “Come walking tomorrow?”

“There’s a game in the morning.”

“I forgot. I’ll come and watch—”

“And we’ll go to the cliffs in the afternoon?”

“And come back here at night.” Jonah rolled onto Ben’s chest, head heavy, breath warm. “Back here every night there is. God, I’m lucky.” He yawned hugely. “God, I’m tired.”

“So am I.” The candle was burning. Ben contemplated raising himself enough to blow it out, and realised that he didn’t have to. “Can you snuff the candle?”

The flame winked out. Jonah gave a little sigh in the darkness, and Ben knew he would be asleep in seconds. He put an arm round Jonah, holding him safe, in no hurry to sleep himself, just relishing the pleasure of his Jay free and safe and warm in his arms. He could lie awake all night, feeling that.

It was Ben’s last coherent thought as he fell asleep, and dreamed they were above the cliffs, walking the wind together.

About the Author

KJ Charles is a writer and editor living in London with her husband, two children and a deceptively innocent-looking cat. Tweet
@kj_charles
, find her on
Facebook
, or visit
www.kjcharleswriter.com
for free reads, info, and her blog about life on both sides of the publishing fence.

Look for these titles by KJ Charles

Now Available:

A Charm of Magpies

The Magpie Lord

A Case of Possession

A Case of Spirits

Flight of Magpies

Non-Stop Till Tokyo

Think of England

A lord in danger. A magician in turmoil. A snowball in hell.

The Magpie Lord

© 2013 KJ Charles

A Charm of Magpies, Book 1

Exiled to China for twenty years, Lucien Vaudrey never planned to return to England. But with the mysterious deaths of his father and brother, it seems the new Lord Crane has inherited an earldom. He’s also inherited his family’s enemies. He needs magical assistance, fast. He doesn’t expect it to turn up angry.

Magician Stephen Day has good reason to hate Crane’s family. Unfortunately, it’s his job to deal with supernatural threats. Besides, the earl is unlike any aristocrat he’s ever met, with the tattoos, the attitude…and the way Crane seems determined to get him into bed. That’s
definitely
unusual.

Soon Stephen is falling hard for the worst possible man, at the worst possible time. But Crane’s dangerous appeal isn’t the only thing rendering Stephen powerless. Evil pervades the house, a web of plots is closing round Crane, and if Stephen can’t find a way through it—they’re both going to die.

Warning: Contains hot m/m sex between a deeply inappropriate earl and a very confused magician, dark plots in a magical version of Victorian England, family values (not the good kind), and a lot of swearing.

Enjoy the following excerpt for
The Magpie Lord:

The grey awful misery tangled round his heart and throat, choking him, sickening him with the vileness of his own nature. The shame and self-loathing too deep for repentance, too deep for words. Too deep for anything but the knife and the red flow and the longed-for emptiness of the end…

The voice seemed to come from a long distance away. “My lord? My lord! Oh, Jesus. My lord! You stupid sod!”

A slap, hard, round his face. He registered it through the haze of grey misery, then felt strong hands dragging him onto his feet and out of the room. His wrist hurt. He needed to finish the job.

He lunged clumsily back towards the knife, only to find his arm twisted up behind his back and a hard tug pulling him off balance.

“Out. This way.” He was marched forward, pushed, dragged, the litany of doom pounding in his mind. All he could think of was ending it, making the unbearable guilt and shame stop, removing the foul stain of his soul from the world…

He vaguely noticed the hard grip on the back of his head, just before his face was plunged into icy, greasy water and held there, ruthlessly hard, as he inhaled a lungful of dirty dishwater, and something around his mind snapped.

Lord Crane jerked his head out of the suddenly relaxed grip, came up spluttering but entirely alert, gasped for air, and kicked backwards viciously, aiming to cripple his attacker with a rake of his foot across the kneecap. The grizzled man in black had already jumped out of the way, though, and was standing back, holding up his hands in a gesture of nonaggression that Crane had no intention of testing.

Crane held himself ready to fight for a second, registered that he had just been half-drowned in the butler’s sink by his manservant, let out a long breath and dropped his shoulders.

“It happened again,” he said.

“Yes.”

“
Tsaena
.” He shook his head, sending grey water flying from his hair, and blinked the liquid out of his eyes.

Merrick threw him a dishtowel. He caught it in his left hand, sucked in a hiss at the pain as his wrist moved, and mopped his face. He spat in the sink to get the taste of foul water and bitter leaves out of his mouth. “Son of a bitch. It happened again.”

“Yes,” said Merrick, with some restraint. “I
know
. I found you sawing at your wrist with a fucking table knife, my lord, which was what gave me the clue.”

“Yes, alright.” Crane pulled over a chair with a screech of wood on tile. “Can you…?” He gestured at his left wrist. The shirt cuff was unfastened and rolled back. He didn’t remember doing that. He didn’t remember the other times.

Merrick was already setting out lint and a roll of bandages, as well as a bottle of volatile-smelling spirit.

“I’ll have some if you’re pouring.
Ow
.”

“I reckon that’s enough killing yourself for one evening.” Merrick dabbed the raw wound with the raw alcohol. “Jesus, this is deep, you’d have done yourself for sure with anything sharper. My lord—”

“
I don’t know
. I was reading a book, thinking about getting dressed. I didn’t…” He waved his right hand vaguely, and slapped it down on the worn tabletop. “God damn it.”

There was silence in the kitchen. Merrick wound bandage carefully round the bloody wrist. Crane leaned his right elbow on the table and propped his head on his hand.

“I don’t know what to do.”

Merrick gave him a steady look from under his thin brows, and returned to his work.

“I don’t know,” Crane repeated. “I can’t—I don’t think I can do this any more. I can’t…”
I can’t bear it.
He’d never said the words in thirty-seven years, not even in the times of hunger and degradation. He wanted to say them now.

Merrick frowned. “Got to fight it, my lord.”

“Fight
what
? Give me something to fight, and I’ll fight it—but how the hell do I fight my own mind?”

“It ain’t your mind,” said Merrick levelly. “You ain’t mad.”

“Right. I can see how you reached that conclusion.” Crane made a sound that was a little, though not very much, like a laugh. “After all these years, after he’s bloody dead, it looks like the old bastard is finally getting rid of me.”

Merrick began rolling up the lint and bandages with care. “You’re thinking about that word again.”

“
Hereditary
,” enunciated Crane, staring at his narrow-fingered hands. “Hereditary insanity. We might as well put the name to it, no?”

“No,” said Merrick. “Cos, I’ll tell you what word I’m thinking of.”

Crane’s brows drew together. “What?”

Merrick’s hazel eyes met Crane’s and held them. He put the bottle of spirits back down on the table with a deliberate clink. “Shaman.”

There was a silence.

“We’re not in Shanghai now,” said Crane eventually.

“No, we ain’t. But if we was there, and you started going mad all on a sudden and off again, you wouldn’t be sat there whining, would you? You’d be right out—”

“To see Yu Len.”

Merrick cocked his head in agreement.

“But we’re not in Shanghai,” Crane repeated. “This is London. Yu Len is half the world away, and at this rate I’m not going to make it to next quarter day.”

“So we find a shaman here,” said Merrick simply.

“But—”

“No buts!” The words rang off the stone floor and tiled walls. “You can go to some mad-doctor and get thrown in the bedlam, or you can sit there and go mad for thinking you’re going mad, or we find a fucking shaman and get this looked at like we would back home, because hereditary my
arse
.” Merrick leaned forward, hands on the table, glaring in his master’s face. “I know you, Lucien Vaudrey. I seen you look death in the face plenty of times, and every time you either ran like hell or you kicked him in the balls, so don’t you tell me you want to die. I never met anyone who didn’t want to die as much as you don’t. So we are going to find a shaman and get this sorted, unless you got any better ideas, which you don’t!
Right?
”

Merrick held his gaze for a few seconds, then straightened and began to tidy up. Crane cleared his throat. “Are there English shamans?”

“Got to be, right? Witches. Whatever.”

“I suppose so,” said Crane, trying hard, knowing it was pointless, knowing he owed it to Merrick. “I suppose so. Who’d know…” His fingers twitched, calling up memories. “Rackham. He’s back, isn’t he? I could ask him.”

“Mr. Rackham,” agreed Merrick. “We’ll go see him. Ask for a shaman. You got any idea where he is?”

“No.” Crane flexed his bandaged wrist and rose. “But if I can’t find him through any of the clubs, we can just hang around all the filthiest opium dens in Limehouse till we meet him.”

“See?” said Merrick. “Things are looking up already.”

The cruelest duel may not spill a drop of blood…but it could break their hearts.

Enlightened

© 2014 Joanna Chambers

Enlightenment, Book 3

Five months ago, David Lauriston was badly hurt helping his friend Elizabeth escape her violent husband. Since then, David has been living with his lover, Lord Murdo Balfour, while he recuperates.

Despite the pain of his injuries, David’s time with Murdo has been the happiest of his life. The only things that trouble him are Murdo’s occasional bouts of preoccupation, and the fact that one day soon, David will have to return to his legal practice in Edinburgh.

That day comes too soon when David’s friend and mentor takes to his deathbed, and David finds himself agreeing to take on a private mission in London. Murdo is at his side in the journey, but a shocking revelation by Murdo’s ruthless father leaves David questioning everything they’ve shared.

As tensions mount and the stakes grow higher, David and Murdo are forced to ask themselves how far they’re prepared to go—and how much they’re prepared to give up—to stay together. And whether there’s any chance of lasting happiness for men like them.

Warning: Men in love, men with secrets, and men armed with dueling pistols.

Enjoy the following excerpt for
Enlightened:

Murdo wouldn’t be happy about today’s events. He’d brought David to Laverock House to recuperate and was continually lecturing him about taking things easier. It was Murdo who’d arranged for the physician to come every few weeks to check how David’s leg was healing, and who’d instructed the kitchen to make up regular batches of David’s mother’s liniment recipe. Murdo who’d presented David with a new ebony cane with a silver derby handle to take on his walks.

It wasn’t only David’s physical well-being that Murdo looked after. He’d had boxes of books brought to Laverock House from his Edinburgh townhouse to keep David amused; he’d even read to David himself in those early days when, listless and melancholy with his lot, David hadn’t been inclined to do so. And it was Murdo who’d brought him Sir Hamish’s papers to look through when, as his leg began to improve, he’d complained about needing something to test his wits on.

Now, that project had seized David’s attention to such an extent that he was becoming known locally as Lord Murdo Balfour’s very efficient new man of business, the learned lawyer who was helping Lord Murdo make peace with all his new neighbours and bury all the old disputes Sir Hamish had started.

And why not let them think that? It was true, after all—and it was no one else’s concern that, besides that, he and Murdo were lovers. That was their affair and theirs alone. The servants at Laverock House certainly appeared to be oblivious. The manor was a good size, but it was compact enough that the proximity of their bedchambers, with only Murdo’s untidy study between them, merited no comment.

By day, they were circumspect. By night—well, the nights were their own. It hadn’t been easy to make love with David’s injured leg—for months he’d been all but immobilised by the leg harness—but with a bit of inventiveness, they’d managed, and now that David was up and about again, it was getting easier every day.

Right now, though, as David took the last turn-off that led to Laverock House and the manor house finally hoved into view, he couldn’t think of doing anything but lying down. He was limping badly now, all attempts to conceal his disability long given up. The idea of sinking into his soft featherbed and warming his chilled feet under the blankets had become his Holy Grail. There was simply nothing else.

He’d barely taken a dozen steps down the long front drive when the door opened and a tall, broad-shouldered man emerged.

Murdo.

Even now, after living here for months, the unexpected sight of his lover lit something inside David. He felt a stab of pure happiness, an accompanying flare of anticipation, even as he winced with each step he took.

“Where have you been?” Murdo said, walking toward him, his dark eyes concerned as he took in David’s pronounced limp. “Mrs. Inglis said you went out hours ago.”

David attempted a smile, but it felt more like a grimace. “I decided to walk over to McNally’s,” he admitted, sending Murdo a rueful look. “It wasn’t one of my best ideas.”

“That’s over two miles!” Murdo exclaimed. He turned so that they were walking in the same direction, toward the open front door, matching his pace to David’s. “What were you thinking? And where’s your cane?”

“I didn’t think I needed it,” David mumbled, answering the second question and evading the first.

“You’re limping,” Murdo observed unnecessarily.

“I overdid it, but I’ll be all right,” David replied. “I just need to rest my leg for a bit.”

Murdo let out a noisy sigh. “You’re as stubborn as a mule. I only hope you haven’t set yourself back with this.”

There were three steps up to the front door of the house, and David took them slowly, gritting his teeth against the pain that knifed through his knee with each step. He didn’t look at Murdo, but he felt the other man’s eyes on him, watching his slow progress and scrutinising his profile for evidence of how bad the pain was.

They stepped into the hallway together, Murdo closing the front door behind them. Since the hall was empty of servants, David allowed Murdo to help him off with his greatcoat. Then he glanced up the long flight of steps that led to his bedchamber on the first floor and suppressed a moan. Girding himself, he placed his foot on the first step.

“Don’t even think about it,” Murdo said behind him.

Before David could protest, Murdo was sliding one arm round David’s back and the other under his knees, sweeping his feet out from under him. David hissed a curse as Murdo lifted him, but Murdo just shifted David’s weight to balance himself and began to quickly mount the stairs.

“Christ, Murdo,” David said testily. “Let me down, will you?” It had been a few weeks since he’d had to submit to this particular indignity. He hated being carried like this—it unmanned him.

Murdo ignored him, and after the first few stairs, despite his mortification, David didn’t bother protesting any further. The truth was, he couldn’t get up these stairs without Murdo’s help.

By the time they reached the top, Murdo’s breath was coming hard, but he still didn’t let David down. He carried him another dozen steps to David’s bedchamber door before setting his feet back on the ground. Even then he wasn’t done. Steering David into his room, he guided him firmly to the featherbed David had been dreaming of for the last half hour, then went back to close the bedchamber door, turning the key in the lock. Returning to the bed, mouth set in a firm, determined line, he bent to remove David’s boots. This time David didn’t even bother protesting. It would do no good, and anyway, he was bloody exhausted. So he let Murdo ease the tight leather from his calves, then slowly strip away the rest of his clothing, piece by piece.

“Do you want me to ring for a bath?” Murdo asked as he peeled away David’s trousers, easing the fabric carefully down his legs so as not to jar him.

“I doubt I could climb in right now,” David admitted.

“A rubdown with some liniment, then?”

David couldn’t suppress the groan that emerged from his chest at that suggestion. “Please.”

“Lie back, then. I’ll strip down too.”

David did as instructed, passively watching as Murdo removed his elegant clothing, then crossed the room, naked, to fetch the jar of liniment from the armoire, his tall, powerful body beautiful in the late afternoon light that seeped into the room round the edges of the drapes.

Murdo knelt beside David on the bed and regarded his leg. “Let’s see what you’ve done to yourself.”

Weary to the bone, David let his eyes close. Moments later, the drifting scents of rosemary and camphor heralded the opening of the liniment. It was a scent with which David was very familiar—his mother had been making the stuff for years, ever since his father had taken a tumble off the roof of the barn at home and injured his shoulder. The smell of it now brought with it the promise of imminent relief.

The brisk noise of Murdo rubbing the stuff between his palms brought the scent forth again, more intensely, as it warmed on Murdo’s skin. And when Murdo laid his hands on David, every remaining thought in David’s head vanished. Murdo’s hands were strong and warm, their firm course eased by waxy lanolin and camphor oil as they broke into the knotted agony in David’s leg and straightened him out again.

David could barely keep his eyes open by the time Murdo was finished. He felt languorous and done in, like he could sleep the rest of the day and night away. Somehow, though, he managed to crack open his eyelids and smile at Murdo, who was kneeling at his side, watching him.

“Thank you,” David said softly.

“Better?” Murdo’s smile was tender.

“Much.”

“You look tired.”

“Not
too
tired,” David replied.

Murdo grinned and crawled over to lie beside David. He bent his head, capturing David’s lips in a soft kiss that slowly deepened, while his hand drifted in light, teasing caresses, pausing for an instant to pinch at the tight bud of David’s left nipple, making him moan his pleasure into the kiss.