Song of Oestend (36 page)

SONG OF OESTEND

Marie Sexton

240

But relief for Deacon was heartache for Aren. He wished he knew Deacon would be

safe. That was the crux of the matter. It wasn’t that he particularly wanted to go into the wild with him. It was only that going with him seemed easier than staying behind. It seemed preferable to lying in bed, night after night, hoping and praying that wherever Deacon was, he was alive and well. He needed to know he’d be coming home.

But what Deacon needed was for him to be strong.

He gripped a handful of Deacon’s hair and pulled his head back, forcing him to look up into his eyes. He saw the surprise on Deacon’s face, but he also saw the spark of arousal in his eyes.

“Don’t you die out there! Don’t you dare leave me here alone!” He tried to act strong and sure, but he only partially succeeded. Although his voice was firm, his eyes betrayed him. He felt tears running down his cheeks. “I’m ordering you to come home to me. I don’t care what it takes.”

“I will,” Deacon said. “Don’t you doubt it for a second.”

Relief and regret fought for dominance in his heart. Aren had never known that so

much joy and so much grief could exist in the same moment. He used his grip on Deacon’s hair to pull him onto the bed, suddenly desperate to feel his hard, strong body underneath him. He kissed him hard. He tore at Deacon’s clothes. His tongue invaded Deacon’s warm mouth, and even as he stripped them both naked, as he pushed Deacon back onto the bed, he could not stop his tears. He stopped trying to fight them. He let them run down his cheeks as he spread Deacon’s legs and pushed his oiled fingers inside. He cried at the sounds Deacon made, at the way his body writhed underneath him, at the way he called out Aren’s name.

He cried at the taste of Deacon’s sweat and the feel of his flesh and the musky smell of their shared arousal. He cried at the way Deacon touched him, the gentleness of his rough hands and the tender things Deacon whispered in his ear. He nearly sobbed as Deacon begged him to finally claim him.

All the times Deacon had begged him before, Aren hadn’t quite known why he’d

resisted, but he knew now. This was what was meant to be. This was the moment he’d

unknowingly been waiting for. He thrust his way inside his lover. He watched as Deacon’s face was transformed by the pleasure of it, and at last Aren’s tears were forgotten. He felt the tight, smooth heat of Deacon's body around him, and it was perfection. He revelled in the SONG OF OESTEND

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way they fitted together, at the way every inch of them seemed to be made to serve the other.

He felt his heart unclench. His mind became clear.

He loved Deacon with all his heart, and he knew Deacon loved him, too. Not only that, but Deacon truly
needed
him in a way nobody ever had before. If Deacon needed him to be strong, he would be. Aren wanted only to take as much of the burden from him as he could.

He wanted to make Deacon’s pleasure as great as it could be. He dedicated himself to the thrill of making Deacon squirm, the joy of feeling their bodies move together, the exhilaration of hearing Deacon beg for more. He pushed Deacon’s legs into the air and fucked him harder, losing himself in the eroticism of skin against skin.

He did not worry that it might be the last night they ever had. He did not worry that Deacon would not make it home. They were one now. He had to trust that fate would not lead them wrong. He gripped Deacon’s swollen cock. He pumped it with his fist as he ravaged Deacon’s body. He ordered him to fight his orgasm until he could no longer fight his own and they spent themselves together, crying out in one voice, declaring to the world and the wraiths and everything in existence that they could not be torn apart.

And when it was done, as Aren collapsed onto Deacon’s broad chest, trying to catch his breath, all he could do was hope it was true.

They could not be torn apart.

That was easy enough to believe in the black of night, but the next day, his courage began to fail.

It was a wet, cold morning. The family and the hands who were to remain behind stood

in the courtyard, watching the men pack the last of their things onto their horses. The air was heavy with mist that couldn’t quite coalesce into rain, and their breath puffed out in warm, white clouds. The horses seemed to blow steam as they pawed impatiently at the ground.

Birds circled overhead and the dogs ran in happy, oblivious circles around them.

Aren was sure his heart was going to break.

He stood apart from the others, gripping his coat closed at the collar with one cold

hand. He watched Simon and Frances mount up. Deacon stood on the other side of the

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courtyard, his back to Aren, talking quietly with Jeremiah. Finally, the men shook hands, and Deacon turned and headed for his horse.

Aren braced himself to watch them leave. He told himself he would be strong. He

wouldn’t cry. At least, not until he was back in the privacy of his own house.

But Deacon didn’t mount his horse. He walked right past it. Aren wondered if he was

imagining the way the other men all glanced at each other in confusion.

And there in the courtyard, in front of every single person who called the BarChi home, Deacon walked up to him. He hooked his big, strong hand behind Aren’s neck and looked him in the eye.

“I’m coming home to you. Don’t you doubt it for a second,” he said quietly, repeating his vow from the night before, then he pulled Aren close and kissed him.

It was like their first kiss, soft and gentle, and Aren realised that here, in front of everybody, he really could let go. In the bedroom he had to be strong—he wanted to be strong, for Deacon, because that’s what Deacon needed—but here, nobody would expect it of him. He surrendered everything that he was to Deacon’s will. He wrapped his arms around Deacon and let his lover hold him tight against his big, muscular body. His lips were cold, but his mouth was warm, and Aren imagined he could open himself wide and feel Deacon’s strength pouring into him.

“I love you,” he whispered as Deacon released him, before he lost his courage.

Deacon smiled at him. He tilted his head down, resting his forehead against Aren’s.

“Reason enough to stay alive, just to hear you say those words again.” He brushed his lips over Aren’s one more time, a quick, soft touch.

Aren feared he’d fall when Deacon let him go. He felt sure he wouldn’t be strong enough to stay standing on his own. But when Deacon released him, turning towards his waiting horse, Aren found himself standing straight and still.

Deacon swung himself up into his saddle, ignoring the stunned looks of every person

present. He rode out of the courtyard without a backwards glance.

Nobody else moved. They all seemed to be in shock. All, that was, except Frances.

Frances smiled at Aren. He reached up and touched the brim of his hat, almost a salute, before turning to Simon. He smacked his friend with the end of his rein, causing Simon to jump.

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“What the hell you waiting for?” Frances asked. He kicked his horse into a trot and

followed behind Deacon. Simon seemed to suddenly realise he was being left behind. He nudged his horse into motion and followed Deacon and Frances up the hill and out of sight.

Aren released the breath he seemed to have been holding. There was nothing left to do now but wait, and pray, and trust that Deacon would come home.

Aren shook himself out of his reverie and looked around, and as he did, he felt a blush creep up his cheeks.

Every person in the courtyard was watching him.

Some, like the wives, looked shocked. Jeremiah looked surprised, but pleased, too.

Some, like Red and Ronin, simply looked amused. When Aren’s eyes landed on them, the

twins both laughed good-naturedly. Ronin turned and smacked his brother’s chest and held his hand out, and Red started digging in his pockets. They’d actually had a wager going, and Aren found himself laughing too.

But then Aren’s eyes landed on the last person in the courtyard, and his laughter died.

His mouth suddenly went dry.

Dante was staring at him with such naked hatred in his eyes, it made Aren’s blood run cold. Some people didn’t like seeing two men together. It seemed Dante was one of them.

The crowd in the courtyard was breaking up. Everybody had chores to do and standing

around gawking wasn’t getting them any nearer to being done.

The wind suddenly seemed colder, the sky less bright. He was alone. His lover and the two men on the BarChi he was closest to were gone. The rest of the hands were civil to him, but none of them were his friends.

Aren pulled his coat more tightly around himself and went back to his empty house.

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Aren spent the morning painting. He painted the sun setting over the Oestend prairie, a tall windmill silhouetted in front of it, but the result was mediocre at best. His heart wasn’t in it. After a few hours, he set down his brush. He turned to look at the painting of Deacon in the BarChi brand.

It was the best work he’d ever done. He could see that now. It had taken some time and distance, but the painting evoked a haunted loneliness in him that none of his other paintings did.

Symbols did have power.

He wanted to hang it up. It didn’t belong in his studio. He debated putting it in the living room on the mantelpiece, but he wasn’t sure he wanted the rare visitors to his house to see something that felt so personal. In the end, he took it into the bedroom and propped it up on top of the armoire. He smiled as he did it, thinking he could at least see Deacon as he fell asleep.

He was startled from his thoughts by a knock on his door. He was surprised when he

opened it to find Tama on the other side.

“Am I interrupting something?” she asked.

“Not really.” He opened the door wider and moved aside. “Come on in. Have a seat.”

He followed her into the living room, where she sat in the chair on the far side of the fireplace—the chair he thought of as Deacon’s—and he found himself wondering if it would be bad form to offer a glass of whisky.

“I kept wondering before why you weren’t willing to marry either of my sisters.” Her

cheeks were red and her hands fidgeted in her lap as she spoke, but she was able to meet his eyes. “I guess now I know.”

Aren felt his own cheeks turn red as he remembered Deacon kissing him in the

courtyard, but he made himself smile. “I guess you do.”

“You and Deacon are…?”

She didn’t finish her sentence, but it didn’t matter. “We are.”

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She nodded. “I see.” She looked down at her lap, where her hands were twisting her

apron around and around her fingers. “The thing is, I wondered if you’d consider marrying Alissa anyway?

Just when he thought they’d taken a step forwards, they had to take another step back.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“It wouldn’t be a good idea to marry Beth,” she said. “I can see that. But I think you still might be happy with Alissa. She could cook and clean and sew for you.” She bit her lip, looking down at her lap. “She wouldn’t mind about Deacon.” She looked up at him again, hopeful. “I think, actually, she might be relieved if she weren’t expected to…” She blushed again, apparently unable to finish. “You know.”

“You’re saying I should marry her even though we’d never actually consummate the

marriage?”

Her blush deepened even more, but she nodded. “Yes.”

“Why?” he asked. “What is there to be gained for either of us?” Aren was perfectly

happy with his life with Deacon. He could see no reason to bring a woman into it at all, regardless of whether or not he was expected to have sex with her.

“My father will pay you a dowry—”

“I don’t care about that. I have everything I need already.”

She looked down at her lap. He could see her chin trembling as she chewed nervously

on her lower lip. He had no idea what he’d do if she started to cry. He decided the best thing to do was to cut through the mountain of manure he was being presented with and get to the facts underneath.

“Tama, why don’t you quit trying to convince me that I need a wife, and tell me why

you’re so anxious to see your sister married?”

She looked up at him, her blue eyes full of tears. “She’s my sister.”

“So it’s only because you want her here, with you?”

“That’s part of it, yes.”

“And what’s the other part?”

She looked down at her lap, wiping her eyes with the heels of her hands. “My father

caught her in the barn,” she said, so quietly Aren had to strain to hear her.

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“Caught her? You mean, with a man? With one of the men from the BarChi?”
Please

don’t tell me it was with Deacon.

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “Not with a man.”

Aren sighed in frustration, rubbing his hands over his eyes as he tried to make sense of what she was saying. He failed. “Then what exactly did he catch her doing?”

“What you think,” she said. “Except with a maid.”

Aren barely refrained from slapping himself on the forehead. Of course! How could he

have been so stupid? Hadn’t Olsa hinted at it months ago? And although it had never

actually occurred to him there might be women who preferred their own gender, he realised it made as much sense as his own sexual preferences.

“My father’s threatening horrible things,” she said. “From banishment to things I won’t speak of.” She shuddered. “Things men have told him will
cure
her.”

Aren could only imagine what those things might be. If they were suggested by

uneducated men, they were bound to be less than enlightened.