The Prince (20 page)

Kingsley gripped Søren’s shirt in both hands and tried to pull him closer. Two and a half months apart had left him in an agony of need. He couldn’t let Søren go. Not yet.

“I begged you to stop that night. I said ‘stop’ and ‘please’ and ‘no’ and you kept on. I didn’t want you to stop, but I don’t know what to do to make you stop if saying stop doesn’t work.”

“It didn’t work because I knew you didn’t want me to stop.”

“Someday I might.”

“Then say…” Søren paused and glanced around the hallway. The cold stone walls stood unadorned but for a few pictures of various saints and popes. “…mercy.”

Kingsley laughed. “Mercy? Really?”

Søren nodded. But he didn’t laugh, didn’t even smile.

“Mercy…” Kingsley repeated in English. “It sounds like
merci,
you know.”

Mercy. In English it meant an act of pardon, compassion.
Merci
was French for “thank you.”

“I know.” Søren gave him a smile that nearly felled him.

“Who are you?” The question came out before Kingsley could stop it.

Søren only looked at him.

“I mean…your name, Søren. Where does it come from? They say your name is Marcus Stearns. But I know it’s not.”

Søren said nothing for a moment and Kingsley prayed he would tell him, that he would answer. The need for answers from Søren outweighed even his desire for sex.

“Marcus is my father’s name,” Søren said simply, without emotion. “He raped my mother, and I was born. He named me after himself. But she gave me another name, her father’s name. No one calls me Marcus but my father.”

“Who calls you Søren? At the school, I mean.”

Søren lightly touched Kingsley’s lips.

“Only you.”

“And why me?” That was the question that had plagued him for ten weeks, since the night of the rape on the forest floor. Of all the boys at the school…why him? Why Kingsley? Why did Søren choose him to tell his secrets to, to share his body with?

“Because…” Søren dropped his hands, to hold Kingsley by the hips. He laid his forehead on Kingsley’s and took two slow breaths. “Because you aren’t afraid of me.”

With that, he pulled away and disappeared down the hallway. Kingsley stood outside the dorm room, swallowing huge gulps of air as he leaned back against the cold stone of the wall. With one hand over his eyes, he slipped his other hand into his boxers and stroked himself a few times, until he came with a shudder and a nearly audible gasp.

Wet with his own semen, Kingsley returned to his bed, not caring enough to even bother cleaning himself off first. Søren had given him that erection and nearly given him the orgasm. He didn’t want to wash it off any more than he’d wanted to take a bath after that night in the forest. Knowing Søren had come inside him had made the entire ordeal worth all the fear and all the pain.

And soon, he’d have it again.

But how soon?

Kingsley stumbled through the next day, barely registering anything around him. He made the effort to seem aware and awake and cognizant of his surroundings. He spoke in his classes. He chatted with his classmates at lunch. During chapel he even volunteered to read one of the daily readings. But his mind existed solely for Søren. And late that afternoon, he finally caught a glimpse of him. Strolling down the second floor of the library, Kingsley heard Søren’s voice. But was that Søren? It sounded like him. But not. The voice sounded happy, encouraging and drily witty. He could still safely say that, if added up, the sum total of his conversations with Søren would equal just under one hour. And each of those conversations had been fraught with tension. He stopped in the hallway and looked into a classroom. Søren stood by the chalkboard at the front, wearing brown pants, a brown patterned vest and a white shirt with elegantly turned cuffs. Before him a dozen eleven- and twelve-year-olds mumbled the Spanish conjugation of “to talk.”

Yo hablo…tú hablas…él habla…nostros hablamos…

“Good. Very good,” Søren said as the students finished. “Now let’s try it again…but audibly this time. Talk, please. Talk? No
hablas inglés?
”

Nervous but genuine laughter rippled through the classroom. Søren smiled and nodded. This time with some measure of enunciation the students recited the conjugation again.

“Better.
Gracias.
”

In unison the class replied,
“De nada.”

Kingsley covered his mouth to stifle the laugh that wanted to explode out of him. Søren, who had scared every boy in the school when he was a student, now seemed to have the complete devotion of his students.

His students?

A realization hit Kingsley at that moment, and he dropped his hand from his mouth. He felt himself tremble as he forced himself away from the classroom scene and outside again.

The risk they were taking by being together had seemed enormous enough when Søren was a student. But now…Kingsley was still a student and Søren was a teacher.

A teacher…my God, he was sleeping with one of the teachers. And to think his grandparents had sent him here to keep him away from more sexual misadventures.

Outside in the fresh air, Kingsley inhaled deeply, trying to calm himself. His heart rate slowed and his panic passed. He trusted Søren utterly and completely. If Søren felt they were safe, being together, then they were.

Yes, Søren being a teacher now was bad, awkward. They’d have to be even more careful. But it could have been so much worse.

At least he wasn’t a priest.

NORTH

The Present

Kingsley spun around and found himself face-to-face with a smiling ghost from the past.

“Mon Dieu,”
he breathed, recognizing the face in an instant.

“‘And this is the promise He has promised us, even eternal life.’ 1 John 2:25.”

Kingsley stared in silent amazement.

The black cassock, the white collar and thirty years had done nothing to disguise the face that smiled at him.

“Christian?”

“Father Christian Elliot now. Remember? Or do you not read your alumni newsletter?”

Christian and Kingsley embraced like brothers. Christian had been the first boy at Saint Ignatius to befriend him and the only one of them all to try to find him after Kingsley left the school.

“I am afraid I’ve neglected to pass my new address on to the alumni committee.” Kingsley patted Christian on the face. “It’s good to see you again. You look terrible.”

His old friend laughed heartily and turned around once. “What? You don’t like?”

Kingsley shook his head in disgust. “You enlisted in God’s army, as well. How could you? I take it very personally.”

“The Fathers at Saint Ignatius make it their goal to turn one student from each class into a Jesuit. Just be glad it was me and not you.”

“They would never take me alive,
mon frère.
”

They looked at each other another moment and laughed again. The years between them, the very separate paths they’d taken, disappeared in an instant.

“I can’t believe I’m looking at Kingsley Boissonneault. Truly, I thought I’d never see you again—not until heaven, anyway.”

“Surely not even there.” Kingsley flashed him the devil’s own smile.

“I shouldn’t be comforted that you haven’t changed a bit. But I am. It’s not fair. I’ve aged thirty years in thirty years. Why haven’t you?”

“I’m French.”

“Of course. I’d forgotten. I saw Stearns…Father Stearns a few years back. He’s aging even better than you are.” Christian smiled placidly and Kingsley knew he was baiting him with mention of Søren. Priests…they never stopped with their mind games, did they? Not that he minded. Really one of their best qualities.

“I do think he sold his soul to the devil for that face of his. You can see it today if you like. He’s here with me.”

Christian’s eyes widened. “Really? You two are still—”

“Family. My sister died, yes. But he and I are still close. Times were…difficult for a few years.”

They started walking toward the hermitage.

“You left right after…everything happened. Where did you go?”

“France,” Kingsley said simply, and waited. Christian said nothing else. With a sigh, Kingsley continued. “I joined the French Foreign Legion. Distinctly not God’s army.”

“I’ve heard about
la Légion.
Doesn’t surprise me in the least that’s where you ended up. Interesting uniform you legionnaires wear.” He gave Kingsley a once-over.

“You should see me when I’m not trying to look inconspicuous.” For the trip to Saint Ignatius, Kingsley had abandoned his usual uniform of riding boots and a Victorian or Regency era suit of black or gray. He’d left the embroidered silk vests, the military jackets and his cravats in the closet. Today he wore a simple Armani suit—black and single-breasted. One of his employees had told him he looked dull and safe in the suit—exactly the look he intended. “I left
la Légion
years ago for Manhattan.”

“I heard rumors you were a businessman now. Do I want to know what sort of business?”

Kingsley slapped Christian on the shoulder.
“Non.”

Laughing, Christian opened the door to the hermitage. Kingsley paused on the threshold, suddenly reluctant to enter. So many memories…all of them powerful, not all of them good.

“You can come in. It isn’t really haunted. Father Henry only said that to scare the younger boys from coming out here. Dangerous terrain…oh, King. Forgive me.”

Kingsley stepped into the hermitage, unwilling to let the past have any more power over him than it already did.

“Christian, it’s been thirty years. I can bear a mention of her and her death. Believe me. I would have hardly stayed friends with that blond monster otherwise, would I?”

“I can’t believe you two were friends in the first place.” Christian waved his hand at a chair, and Kingsley sat down in it gratefully. He missed his riding boots, their supple leather and support. These shoes…he’d have one of his assistants burn them the minute he returned to the town house. “Not to ever speak ill of another Jesuit, but he’s a difficult man to get to know. Hard to imagine being friends with him at all.”

Kingsley heard a note of something in Christian’s voice. He couldn’t place it at first because he never heard it often. The note…knowledge. Kingsley narrowed his eyes at Christian and decided to find out exactly what Christian thought he knew.

“He’s not an easy man to get close to. Once you do, however, you are well rewarded,” Kingsley said, subtly baiting Christian back.

Christian put the kettle on the stove. Kingsley gazed around the hermitage and saw Søren had been right about the remodel. Thirty years ago, when he and Søren had used this cottage for their assignations, there’d been nothing here but a rough wood table, one chair and rotting wood stacked by the spiderweb-infested fireplace.

“I remember this hermitage, Christian. It was a hellhole in our day. Now it appears a Fifth Avenue designer has had his way with the place. Matching furniture? Leather seating? My goodness, you’re living rather luxuriously for a priest,” he taunted.

Christian grinned broadly. “I’m not complaining. I gave up women for this job. At least they could give me a decent place to live.”

“How long ago was the remodel?”

“Shortly after your friend Stearns donated his largesse to us. It had been abandoned again. Canadian runaways had been living in it awhile.”

“Canadian runaways?”

“Or American runaways heading to Canada. We get a few of each stripe through here every year. This valley connects the two highways.”

“It’s deadly out here. No one knows that better than we do.”

Christian nodded. “A few have died crossing this terrain. We try to police it a bit better. They slip through. A whole family was sleeping in this cabin when we came out to start the remodel.”

“I’m sure the Fathers took care of them.”

“We try. Tea?”

“Oui, merci.”
Kingsley took the cup from Christian, who sat across from him by the fireplace.

“Ah, there’s the French. You still have the accent, but I’ve missed the language.”

“I’ll never lose the accent. It pays the bills.”

Christian grinned again. “You were right. I really don’t want to know what sort of business you’re in. I’m sure you keep that far away from your relationship with Father Stearns.”

Kingsley raised an eyebrow. His lip twitched from trying not to smile.

“Bien sûr.”

They sipped at their tea by the fireplace like two English gentlemen instead of what they were—one Jesuit priest and one French sinner.

“Can I ask what brought you back here?” Christian asked, studying him over the rim of his cup.

“Old ghosts.” Kingsley turned his gaze to the cold fireplace and weighed his words. Christian had taken the photograph that had been sent to him and Søren. Possible he knew something. “As you’re a priest now, I can trust that anything I tell will be kept between us alone.” Perhaps if he gave up a little of the truth, Christian would give up even more.

“You can tell me anything. It would be an honor to hear your confession.”

“Only don’t absolve me,
s’il vous plaît.
I would miss my sins and they would miss me.”

“You have my word. Now tell me…who is the ghost that brings you back here after all these years?”

“I wish I knew,
mon frère. Mon père.
” Kingsley winked at Christian. “You remember the photographs you took of all of us?”

Christian’s brow furrowed before his eyes widened with remembrance. “Yes, of course. I got that camera for Christmas. Thought I’d spend my life doing
National Geographic
covers.”

“For the animals, of course. Not the native women?” Kingsley raised his eyebrow and Christian blushed slightly.

“I would go where they sent me. Yes, I remember the pictures. I tried to get a shot of everyone in the school.”

“You took one of Father Stearns and me. After class. I’d been helping him grade papers for his French students.”