THE GRUDGING CONSORT

four

The morning after the Drakes’ visit, Owen’s smallest actions took on a tinge of the sublime. The sun rose in a glory of pink and coral, shining beneficently just for him. He didn’t simply get out of bed and dress; he floated, his clothing seeming to settle around him like gossamer. Breakfast, with its homely porridge and bacon, was a little too prosaic to satisfy him, but it must be eaten all the same or his mother would kick up a fuss. He escaped out to the orchard as soon as she appeared satisfied with his appetite, and he breathed a great sigh of relief as soon as he was quite alone. He sank down into the sweet green grass beneath a spreading old apple tree in order to relive the romance of the day before, a project made easy by the soft, balmy air and the scent of apple blossoms and daffodils. Tom! The name had never seemed a romantic one, being too short and too common, but now the thought of it brought a blush to Owen’s face and a smile, probably a rather stupid one, to his lips. He couldn’t bring himself to care. No one could see him anyway, and besides! Tom was perfect. Anyone could be expected to smile like a fool after the way Tom had behaved the day before. His long, intense gazes, the way he’d kept Owen’s arm in his even when it might have been more practical for them to separate to walk past some obstacle or other, and the meaningful tones with which he’d imbued every word he said, all had combined to leave Owen in a state of overwhelmed, delighted confusion. No one could speak so if he didn’t feel something. Owen was sure of it. There had been no direct statements, and Owen would hardly have expected them so soon after meeting. But there had been more than enough to build a towering castle in the air, one in which Tom and Owen, madly in love, lived happily ever after. As if his dreams had conjured their own reality, a tall figure in a stylish narrow-brimmed hat appeared just then at the end of the orchard, where a gap in the fence allowed sheep, and in this case handsome gentlemen, to sneak in without passing the house. Owen’s cheeks heated to the point of pain, and his heartbeat tripled, vibrating all the way down to his fingertips. It wasn’t so much that Tom had come to see him again, as that Owen felt sure he couldn’t hide what he’d been thinking of. Sitting here, in the orchard, just where Tom had pressed his hand and told him how very, very glad he was that Arthur had chosen Trewebury for their country home? It was more than transparent. It was, in fact, a trifle desperate. For a moment he hesitated, wondering if he could simply hide in the shade of the tree and let Tom pass by to the house. He gave up that craven impulse when Tom lifted his hat and turned to stride in his direction. Owen rose, awkwardly dusting off the seat of his trousers as he did. He waited there, not wanting to step out into the sunlight and make it obvious how deeply he blushed. “Owen!” Tom said as he approached. “What luck meeting you out here. I confess I wasn’t in a humor to be indoors.” His tone wasn’t quite what Owen would have hoped, its abruptness so very much at odds with Owen’s mood of sweet lassitude. But Tom had come, and that was all that mattered. “I wished to be out of doors as well,” he said. “As you can see for yourself.” He laughed a little, and then felt a fool when Tom didn’t. Tom swished his cane through the grass, lopping the head off a dandelion. His face was set, but he smiled slightly and seemed to take pleasure, for a moment, in that small act of destruction. Owen started a little, shocked by the change from the day before. Tom looked up at Owen’s face. Instantly, the lines in his own smoothed out, and he wore the same pleasant expression he had the day before. Only his eyes, glittering with some stronger emotion, hinted at anything below the surface. “Forgive me!” he said, making a bow. “I forgot my manners for a moment — take my arm and walk with me? I was particularly hoping to catch you alone.” His voice lowered to a pitch so intimate that all Owen’s doubts fell away. Slipping his hand through Tom’s elbow, he nodded, not trusting himself to speak. Tom led him away, down toward the end of the orchard where trees completely screened any view from either the house or the footpath on the other side of the fence. “I wish you would tell me what you were thinking of when I approached you,” Tom murmured very close to Owen’s ear. “You had such a look upon your lovely face. Tell me what it was, so that I may be properly jealous?” “Oh,” Owen began. And then, “Oh,” again. Tom would think him an i***t. Coyness had never been his strongest suit, but he attempted it. “I’m sure you could not possibly be jealous of anything I could do.” A warm chuckle from his companion made all the hair stand up on the back of his neck, and his whole body flushed with heat. They were alone, and about to be unobserved. What could happen? Anything could happen. Owen knew well enough what that anything might entail, and he had certainly thought often enough of it happening to him, but right then? And in his orchard? “I think I would be jealous indeed if any thought but one of me could bring that blush to your cheeks,” Tom said. By then they had reached the little grove at the bottom of the slope, and Owen turned to face Tom just in time for the latter to push him back against the nearest trunk. Dappled shade fell over them, green-tinted and intimate. The tree behind him dug into his spine, and Tom’s warmth pressed in from the front. Tom had hold of Owen’s wrist, and as Owen watched, he slowly lifted it to his mouth and pressed his lips against the pulse in the underside. The sensation was a shock, both arousing and a little unsettling; Owen instinctively tried to pull his arm away, only to have Tom lean in, pin him against the tree trunk, and take his mouth in a kiss instead. He thrust his tongue into Owen’s mouth at once, a hot, eager possession that made his head spin and a throb of something halfway between pleasure and discomfort twist in his belly and groin. Owen twisted his face away from the kiss. “Tom,” he said, “Tom, wait—” “Gods, you taste sweet,” Tom said roughly against the corner of Owen’s mouth. He wrapped one arm around Owen’s waist, and he moved back just enough to insinuate his other hand between them and press it against Owen’s half-hard c**k. With a yelp of surprise, Owen shoved at Tom’s chest — not very effectively, but hard enough that he fell back half a step. “Wait a moment — I am — anyone could see,” he stammered. His head spun, and all his limbs felt loose and strange. Of course he wanted that, to feel Tom’s hand on him, to seek the pleasure he knew would come. He closed his eyes for a moment against a wave of dizziness, and as he did, he felt Tom’s lips on his again. This kiss was gentler, and Owen relaxed into enjoyment of it. Tom wanted him, and that ought to thrill him. In a way it did, although discomfort almost outweighed desire. But then Tom’s hand moved between his legs again, more slowly this time, a request rather than a demand, and Owen’s body responded to the touch. “Forgive me,” Tom whispered, breaking the kiss. His lips were still so close that Owen felt the words as much as heard them. “You don’t know what you do to me. Since I held you in my arms the first time, I’ve thought of nothing but when I would have that privilege again.” When Owen opened his eyes, they met Tom’s, only inches away and filled with desire and remorse. All his reluctance melted away in the heat of that look. It took him a moment to gather his thoughts sufficiently to understand what Tom had said. “When you held me in your arms?” “When I carried you home.” Tom smiled. “Such a sweet burden. I never wanted to be free of it.” “Oh,” was all Owen could manage. He tried to imagine that, to feel it as he had during those half-dreaming memories of being brought home. For some reason, the image of Arthur Drake kept intruding. But if Tom had truly carried him all that way — and of course he must have, since he said it, and after all, he would be more in a position to know than Owen would — then Owen owed him his life. Just as in one of those tales of epic chivalry he’d read as a lad, and would die before admitting he sometimes read still when no one was looking. Tom looked the part of the gallant knight, certainly, tall and beautiful, although Arthur Drake might fill out a suit of armor rather better…Owen shook his head to clear that bizarre thought. Why on earth would he keep thinking of Arthur Drake? He came back to himself with a start, still in Tom’s arms, and still with a neglected erection and the painful pressure of the tree against his back. “Nothing else?” Tom asked, sounding slightly annoyed. “Only ‘Oh’?” “I’m sorry,” Owen said, feeling as if he had missed some important cue. “It was — it was very fine of you. And I am so very much obliged—” Tom cut him off with a kiss, just as passionate as his first. “I don’t want you under any obligation,” he said against Owen’s mouth, and kissed him again. Owen began to lose his train of thought under the onslaught. “But I did hope for a hero’s reward. No hero could possibly ask for more than you, Owen,” he murmured, his tone coaxing, his hands roving over Owen’s body. “I have never felt like this. Tell me you feel something of it too.” Owen did. Of course he did, singing in his veins and stimulating him almost more than he could stand. But he could not give in to that feeling. Not like this, not so suddenly; he was too afraid of what it would mean to give himself like this. He was afraid of being caught, afraid of the way his mind whirled with confusion and doubt. Mirreith had blessed him for some ineffable reason of her own. Wouldn’t she guide him in this, when part of his purpose, as her chosen, was to be the mate to a worthy man? Wouldn’t he know if he ought to yield now? “Stop,” he said, rather more forcefully than before. At last he found the strength to put both his hands flat against Tom’s chest and hold him away. “I cannot. Truly. I — I hardly know you. Nor you me. I cannot,” he repeated, his voice steadying as he drew a full breath for the first time in several minutes. A soft breeze, redolent of the sea, wafted through the trees and soothed Owen’s heated cheeks and swollen lips. When it died away and the rustle of the leaves ceased, perfect silence settled over them. Tom’s lips curled up at the corner, and he stared at Owen like a man considering a stubborn puzzle he’d thought to have solved already. Owen wanted to wilt in the face of that clear disappointment, but he drew himself up as best he could. “I’m sorry. I should like to know you better,” he said, almost pleadingly. “Well,” Tom said at last. “Not so artless as you appear, then, it seems?” “What does that mean?” Owen felt cold all over, and as much as he’d wanted Tom to give him a little bit of breathing room, he wished he would come over demanding again. It would be better than this distance, and the implication that Owen was being dishonest, somehow. Tom gave a short laugh. “I believe it means — it doesn’t matter what I meant. It is sudden, indeed. But I find that I desire you more than anything. Owen, my lovely, will you do me the honor of marrying me?” Owen’s lungs seemed to have lost their function; his whole chest felt seized by some strange paralysis, and his mind lurched to a halt. This was everything he could possibly want. It was fast, too fast his parents would likely think, but it was perfect in its swiftness. Love at first sight, almost! Although Tom had not quite said he loved him, and that marred the perfection of the proposal almost enough to refuse it. “I don’t know,” he said, unable to look up and meet Tom’s eyes. A finger beneath his chin inexorably tipped his face up, until he could not help but be caught by Tom’s gaze, which seemed to see all the way through him. “But I know,” Tom said, and this time his voice throbbed with sincerity and suppressed desire. “I love you beyond anything. Tell me now, at once, that you’ll belong to me alone.” For a long moment, Owen allowed himself to look deeply into Tom’s sky-blue eyes and savor the thrill of hearing those words, so similar to the ones his faceless lovers had uttered at the climax of whatever story he had spun in his mind. “Yes,” Owen breathed. “Yes, I will marry you!” Tom kissed him, then. Owen might have allowed greater liberties, swept away by love, but at that moment his mother’s voice calling his name drifted down the hill. Tom muttered something under his breath that Owen chose not to hear, and they turned to face his mother and the explanations they would need to make. Owen tried to ignore both the knot in his stomach and his feeling of relief that they had been interrupted. He was nervous. Anyone would be nervous. But he was happier than he had ever been, he was quite sure of that.