September, 1792
“It’s about bloody time you arrived.” Mason pretended to scowl, his arms folded across his chest, as Julien rode up to the springhouse.
“What? Have you been waiting long?” Julien asked with a grin, swinging his leg around the saddle crest and dismounting before his sorrel mare had even come to a halt. He slapped the horse lightly in the rump to send her on into the woods, snuffling along the ground, and walked toward Mason, his gait leisurely, his stride long.
As soon as the younger man came within arm’s length, Mason reached out, clasping him by the back of the head. Julien’s smile widened as Mason drew him forward; it widened all the more as Mason leaned down, pressing his lips to Julien’s. The kiss lingered, then deepened, Mason’s tongue delving between Julien’s lips.
“Did you miss me?” Julien whispered as they drew apart.
“Always.” Mason cradled his face between his hands, brushing the tip of his nose lightly against Julien’s. “I was beginning to think you weren’t coming.”
Julien smiled again. “Speaking of which…” he said, his eyebrow arching slightly. His hands fell between them and Mason felt him tugging at the waist cord of his breeches, untying them.
“Julien,” he whispered, draping his hands atop the younger man’s. “Wait.”
“I think I’ve kept you waiting long enough for one day.” Julien lowered himself to his knees, the pine needles and fallen leaves crumpling beneath him. As he moved, he hooked his fingers beneath the waist of Mason’s breeches, tugging them down, leaving Mason’s cock, already stirring with arousal, exposed.
“Someone might see…” Mason began, but his voice faded, along with his protests, as Julien curled his fingers around his thick shaft. Tipping his head back, he closed his eyes and uttered a low, breathless groan as Julien took him into his mouth.
Mason was large; it wasn’t anything he bragged about, but simply a matter of genetics. His father had been tall; he was tall. Everything about his anatomy was appropriately proportionate. In past trysts, whenever lovers had tried to please him with their mouth, the effort to accommodate him had choked them. But Julien had never had this problem; he didn’t seem to have a gag reflex at all. As Mason’s arousal grew, his cock growing harder, thicker, longer, he felt himself slide down into the snug sheath of Julien’s throat not just once or twice, but again and again, as Julien drew him in and out, guiding him with his tongue.
“God Almighty,” Mason whispered, tangling his fingers in Julien’s hair, rocking his hips forward to match him stroke for stroke. Sometimes he would let Julien finish him that way, but that afternoon, he wanted more than the younger man’s mouth.
Though it was nearly agonizing to do so, he stepped back, drawing away from Julien. Gasping softly for breath, Julien blinked up at him, his blue eyes hooded and hungry. Mason knelt before him, grabbing the nape of his neck once more and jerking him forward, kissing him fiercely. Their tongues tangled, and Julien shrugged his shoulders, helping as Mason shoved his jacket away. He raised his hips as Mason fumbled with the ties to his breeches, pushing them down, wrenching his shirt tails loose.
Julien turned around on his knees, presenting his back to Mason. Leaning into him, Mason eased him down to all fours against the carpeting of leaves on the forest floor. He kissed Julien’s ear, the slope of his neck, his shoulder. He then drew his fingertips to his mouth, dampening them with his saliva, and reached between them, positioning the thick head of his arousal against Julien’s threshold. Using the saliva to ease his entry, he slowly sank into the younger man’s incredible warmth, inch by needful inch.
Julien’s breath shuddered from him, his fingers hooking into the dirt as Mason filled him, sliding all of the way to the base of his cock, the flat plane of his groin coming to rest against Julien’s buttocks. He uttered a low groan as Mason drew back, slowly, gently, then another as he sank into him again, a quicker, harder thrust this time.
God, I could never grow tired of making love to you, Mason thought, drawing Julien onto his knees again, leaning him back against his chest. Julien rolled his hips, moving Mason in and out, as he tilted his head back into Mason’s shoulder. Mason wrapped his hand around Julien’s cock and began to stroke him, matching the rhythm he set with his hips.
He loved the sound of Julien’s sharp, urgent gasps, his low, breathless groans as the younger man neared climax. Within moments, Julien reached up, tangling his fingers in Mason’s hair, clutching at him as he found release. His back arched and he cried out softly, hoarsely against Mason’s ear as his seed—hot, thick, and wet—spattered against Mason’s hand and wrist.
That’s it, Mason whispered to him telepathically. He pushed Julien onto the ground again, then rolled him onto his back. One at a time, he removed Julien’s riding boots, then pulled his breeches fully down and away from him. As he lowered himself, leaning over, Julien wrapped his legs around his waist, lifting his hips. Mason folded himself over Julien, kissing him fiercely, feeling Julien’s fingers tangle in his hair as he again slid past the younger man’s threshold, settling into his warm, tight sheath.
Julien moaned against his mouth as he began to move. “Look at me,” Mason pleaded breathlessly. “Open your eyes…look at me…”
He cupped his hands together behind Julien’s head, resting his weight against them as he fell into a vigorous rhythm. Julien looked up at him, his blue eyes piercing, his lips parted slightly, his breath shuddering from him with each pounding thrust. His cheeks were flushed, his hair sweat-dampened, his skin dewy with a light sheen of perspiration.
“You’re so beautiful,” Mason gasped, kissing him again. God Almighty, Julien, don’t you realize…? You’re so beautiful to me…
He cried out sharply as he came, the shock of pleasure stripping the breath from him. Trembling and spent in the wake of his release, he crumpled against Julien’s chest. For the longest time, they remained that way, unmoving in each other’s arms, and then Julien canted his head, turning his face down so he could brush his lips lightly against Mason’s.
“I love you, Mason,” he whispered.
It was the first time Julien had ever said this to him. It was something Mason had felt for months now—nearly from the first—and although he felt sure that Julien felt the same, neither one had yet to acknowledge it aloud.
Mason caressed his face, stroking his thumb against the line of Julien’s mouth in what had by now become a fond and familiar gesture between them, one that never failed to make Julien smile. “I love you, too.”
* * *
“…and this is your anterior iliac spine,” Mason said several hours later in the springhouse. Darkness had fallen, and they’d lit an oil lamp to lend some illumination to the shadow-draped interior. As he spoke, he drew the tip of his index finger lightly across Julien’s hip, pointing out each anatomical structure as he recited them by rote.
“Your Poupart’s ligament runs here,” he murmured, tracing a diagonal line from Julien’s hip toward his groin.
“My what?” Julien laughed, catching him by the hand. “You’re making that up.”
“I am not.” Mason cut him a glance and a grin. “Stop now. Let me practice. I don’t often get to outside of Father’s anatomy books.”
“That’s all I am to you.” Julien pretended to scowl. “A bloody anatomy specimen.”
“A beautiful anatomy specimen,” Mason corrected. “Just look at your rectus abdominus.” He caressed the six folds of muscle stacked in Julien’s abdomen. Dropping down from there, he let his hand graze Julien’s inner thigh. “Or your magnificently formed Sartorius muscle.” His fingers trailed higher. “Or your Gracilis…”
Julien laughed again, rolling onto his side. “Gracilis, my ass!”
“No, your ass is on the other side.” Mason reached over, grabbing for Julien’s buttock, making him laugh harder. “And it’s made up of your gluteus maximus, medius and minimus. All of which are rather sublime, as well, I do dare say.”
Julien rolled onto his back again, grabbing Mason by the arm and pulling him on top of him. He locked his legs around Mason’s waist, pinning him against him. “How can you know so much? It’s all those books you read. I wish I was even half as smart as you.”
“Who says you’re not?” Mason asked, but he knew the answer and it broke his heart. Lamar Davenant. “You’re brilliant, Julien. Look at me—you are. Look at all the things you can do that I can’t. You’re an incredible marksman—you can split a playing card held edge-on from thirty paces. I can’t shoot for shit. You’ve an eye for mechanics—remember when my pocket watch wouldn’t wind? You took it apart and in five minutes flat, had the cogs turning right again. I had no bloody idea what to do. You can tell the difference between a white-tail and a mule deer from a hundred yards away. I can’t do that.”
Julien regarded him with a dubious smirk. “You’re completely full of horse shit, do you know?”
He pulled Mason down, laughing as he kissed him again, opening his mouth and tangling his tongue with Mason’s. He shifted his weight and rolled so that he ended up astride Mason, straddling him. Sliding his hips back, he let his lips trail along Mason’s throat to his chest, working his way south from there.
“Julien,” Mason said, as Julien dragged the tip of his tongue lightly along the contours of his abdominal muscles. “I need to talk to you.”
Julien glanced up at him from the general vicinity of his navel. “So talk.”
He dipped his head down again, this time letting his tongue slide gently along the outward swell of Mason’s balls. The delicious friction sent a shudder of pleasure through him, and his eyelids fluttered closed.
Julien took hold of his cock and began stroking him up and down, opening his mouth fully to take in the hardening shaft.
“Julien….” Mason groaned breathlessly. “I…I have to tell you something.”
He’d been putting it off all evening, but knew he couldn’t any longer. Word would reach Julien sooner or later. He was surprised it hadn’t already. Usually after the Elders met—as they had the night before—news of the impending nuptials they’d arranged spread like wildfire through the clans.
“Julien.” Mason sat up, pulling away from Julien’s mouth, even though he was already worked up to full arousal, and it was damn near painful to cut Julien’s efforts so short. “It’s important.”
Julien drew in a breath as if he meant to quip something back in reply, but realized Mason’s expression had grown somber. His own smile faltered. “Of course,” he said. “You can tell me anything.”
“I…I’m to be married tomorrow,” Mason whispered. There was no point in beating around the proverbial bush; no sense in mincing words or trying to soften the blow. “My father told me today. The Elders…they decided last night.”
There was a flash of something in Julien’s eyes—momentary uncertainty and pain. It lasted only a split-second, resonating inside of his mind just long enough for Mason to sense it, and then it was gone, buried deep, denied.
“Julien…” he breathed, reaching for him.
“Congratulations.” Julien turned his head slightly, ducking away from his touch. “I guess that’s in order.” He cracked a smile, thin and insincere. “Right? Who…who’s the lucky girl?”
“Edith Averay.”
“Oh.” Julien raised both brows in tandem and nodded once. “That’s…not so bad, then…I suppose. She seems nice enough…and pretty.”
“Julien.” Mason leaned forward, drawing the pad of his thumb against Julien’s bottom lip. “We knew it was bound to happen eventually.”
Julien nodded, closing his eyes.
“It could’ve just as easily been you. Hell, it will be you one of these times. It’s all just the luck of the draw,” Mason said, and Julien nodded again. “It doesn’t change anything. I promise you it doesn’t. Look at me.” And when Julien wouldn’t, Mason kissed him, nipping his bottom lip lightly with his teeth and giving a playful tug, trying vainly to coax his gaze. “Look at me, Julien. I swear to you—by my life, this doesn’t change anything between us. I love you.” Cocking his head, he managed to draw Julien’s gaze. “I love you,” he said again. “Nothing—and nobody—will ever change that.”
* * *
Edith Averay arrived at the Morin home dressed in a floral print caraco jacket and matching skirt. Her hair, the color of spun honey, had been carefully bundled and tucked beneath the lacy edge of her mob cap ruffle. She was accompanied by her father, Basile, and a young house slave, who would be joining the Morins’ staff. While Basile and Mason’s father, Michel, had laughed together, clasping hands and clapping each other on the shoulders like old, familiar friends, Mason and Edith had simply stood in the foyer blinking owlishly, wordlessly at one another.
There were no wedding ceremonies among the Brethren, no courtship between the betrothed. There was simply the delivery of the bride to her new home, the introduction to her husband, and the remittance of any dowry that may have been agreed upon beforehand. Thus, while Basile and Michel went to the library for drinks, and the slaves scuttled back and forth, bringing Edith’s bags in from the carriage and up the stairs to the room she’d be sharing with Mason, the newlyweds continued to stare at one another from an awkward distance, neither one of them saying a word to the other. All he could think of was how alone he felt all at once, how lonely for Julien.
Because that’s who I want to be with—who I want to wake up beside, spend every day with, share every breath with for the rest of my life. Not this woman—this stranger I don’t know, and have jack shit in common with.
I want Julien.
“Oh, Eugenie, thank you, but I’ll take that.” Edith reached out with both hands as her slave girl hurried by, taking an odd, triangular-shaped wooden box from atop an armful of items she carried. Edith cradled it against her chest almost like it was a child, and when she noticed Mason’s attention, she blushed. “It was a gift from my father,” she told him. “He ordered it all of the way from London for me.”
“What is it?” Mason asked, his inherent curiosity suddenly, genuinely piqued. The case was too small to hold anything like a hat or a dress, and too oddly shaped to contain anything practical he could think of.
Her blush deepened, and she glanced toward the library doorway through which Basile and Michel had disappeared, as if hoping for rescue. “It’s a microscope.”
He cocked his head, certain he’d misheard her. Microscopes were delicate, expensive, exquisite devices—and he longed to own one. “I beg your pardon?”
“A…a microscope,” Edith said again. “You use it to observe—”
“I know what it is,” he cut in mildly, brows raised. “I just…” His voice faded and he shook his head. “You really have one?” She nodded once, and he blinked at the wooden box in undisguised fascination. “May I see it?”
“I…I suppose,” she said hesitantly. “If you’d like.”
Brushing past him, she carried the box over to a nearby table, setting it down with the same deliberate care she’d used when holding it. Turning the latch of a small fixture on the front of the box, she opened a front panel, revealing a hollowed recess inside. Here, the ornate brass microscope stood on a square mahogany stand. It looked for all the world like a sailor’s telescope turned on its distal-most end, with a small brass plate and a miniature, pivoting mirror mounted beneath it.
Edith drew it out slowly. When she stepped aside so Mason could take a closer look, she didn’t move far, keeping within arm’s reach in case he accidentally bumped, jarred, or knocked it, he supposed.
“These are the objective lenses?” he asked with a nod at the case, a set of three removable brass fixtures that were stored in a compartment beneath where the microscope had been enclosed. He’d read countless journal articles about the devices, had memorized every feature and component from catalog descriptions. To see them now, to match real, physical objects with the diagrams and names in his mind, left him admittedly breathless with awe.
“Yes.” Edith looked somewhat surprised by his familiarity. “The eyepiece detaches for storage, as well.”
“A two-lens Huygenian-style,” he breathed, reaching for the box. With a glance at Edith, he said, “May I…?”
“Of course.” She nodded, her lips unfurling in a shy smile.
As he lifted the microscope, his eyes widened all the more with child-like wonder. “This is amazing,” he remarked. “I can’t believe you have one. I saw one last year when I went to Boston with my father, but not this closely…not hands on.” He blinked at her in amazement. “What do you look at with it?”
“I’ve caught bees and studied their stingers,” she said slowly. Seeming encouraged by his undisguised fascination, she ventured, “Did you know they’re serrated, like the edge of a feather? I’ve observed water droplets—different kinds. Rain water, pond water, water from the spring. There are amazing creatures there—tiny things, like green globules or tiny bells, all with long tails. Some are snake-like or worms, no wider than a hair on your head. Astonishing! The other day, I took a scraping from my teeth first thing in the morning. There were things moving in there—like tiny animals, spinning and darting when I mixed them with water. I’ve never…”
Her voice, which to that point had grown excited and swift, suddenly faltered. Color bloomed in her cheeks again, and she looked down at the toes of her shoes. “I look at just about anything,” she murmured. “And everything in between. My mother says it’s folly.”
“It’s not folly,” Mason said, drawing her gaze. “It’s incredible. Would you show me?”
Edith blinked. “Really? You…wouldn’t mind for it?”
“Mind for it?” Mason asked with a laugh. “I’d be delighted!”
Her mouth unfurled in a smile again, less hesitant this time, and she nodded. “Alright then,” she said. “We’ll need someplace with plenty of light.”
* * *
“What is she like?” Julien asked softly. Two weeks had passed since their last encounter and since Edith had come to live at the Morin home. The distance between them, the time it had taken for them to meet again had been nearly agonizing to Mason. They lay together on a blanket spread across the floor of the springhouse, both of them naked in the aftermath of lovemaking. Julien lay on his side with Mason spooned against his back, his arm draped across the younger man’s waist, their fingers loosely intertwined.
“I don’t know,” Mason said. “She’s…nice. She’s smart. You’d like her.”
He said this last as a clumsy attempt to redirect the course of their conversation because he didn’t want to talk about Edith. He wanted to focus on the moment and enjoy it: the warmth of Julien’s body tucked against his own, the scent of his skin, the soft measure of his breath. He drew his lips lightly along the slope of Julien’s shoulder, propping himself up on his elbow so he could lean in more closely, trailing kisses up toward the younger man’s ear.
“Have you been with her?” Julien tried to keep his voice casual, but Mason knew him too well to miss the fleeting note of pain. He sensed it, too, in Julien’s mind, the periphery of his thoughts, the raw well of his emotions that he tried to mask, but couldn’t fully hide. Not from Mason.
Mason hung his head with a sigh. “Julien…”
“Tell me.” Julien rolled onto his back, nestled against the socket of Mason’s shoulder, their faces only inches apart. They’d dimmed the lamp wick earlier, but even this soft, haunting glow danced in his large eyes like moonlight on dark water. “Please.”
“Only once,” Mason admitted in a hush.
“Was it…nice?” Julien asked hesitantly.
“It was different. Weird. Like…being with my sister or something.”
Julien managed a laugh. “God!”
“She just feels different…her body softer.” Mason brushed the cuff of his knuckles against Julien’s cheek. “She isn’t you.”
And that had damn near broken Mason. His attempt at bedding his new bride had been an exercise in humiliation and heartache, because the entire time, he’d felt torn—not just that he was being unfaithful to Julien, but that what he was doing was inherently wrong, that even though he and Edith had grown more familiar over the fortnight, it had been more as friends than in any romantic sense of the word. He had no such feelings for her, and he doubted she had any for him.
He’d fumbled to get an erection, only to have what little he’d been able to coax wither within minutes. Edith had tried her best to reassure him, but she’d clearly been as nervous and uncomfortable as he’d felt, her body stiff as a board, unmoving and rigid beneath him in the bed, her heart jackhammering like a frightened rabbit’s the whole time.
She didn’t feel like Julien. She didn’t taste, smell, or sound like him. Her body had curves where Julien’s had lean, muscular lines. She was soft where he was etched and strong. She’d been hesitant beneath him, whereas Julien was always eager and willing, even from their first clumsy attempts.
“She isn’t you,” he whispered again.
He’d vomited when they were through trying, managing to steal out of their bedroom and downstairs, out the front door, before doubling over to retch. He hoped she hadn’t overheard him, hadn’t been hurt that he’d left her alone. But his heart had been shattered, his loneliness overwhelming. If only days later, he hadn’t found Julien’s note beneath their message tree, arranging for that very meeting, he might have given serious contemplation to the matter of suicide.
“I just…I want to be with you,” Mason whispered, closing his eyes against the sting of unbidden tears. He lowered his face until his forehead touched Julien’s, and when Julien tilted his head back, lifting his chin, their noses lightly brushed.
“I want that, too,” Julien said and when he smiled, it was like a sudden sunbeam—bright, warm, and golden—spilling into a shadow-draped room. Mason kissed him, long, slow, and gentle, pressing his mouth against Julien’s and savoring the simple comfort this lingering moment of contact brought.
“We can go to Boston together,” Julien said as they drew apart.
“What?” Mason shook his head. “No, we can’t.”
“Sure, we can,” Julien said. “You said they had teaching hospitals there. You’ve wanted to get an apprenticeship with one of the surgeons there, you told me, and I could find work easily enough, I think, maybe with a cutler or a blacksmith. You’re always saying I’m good with my hands.”
“Yes, but…” Mason began.
“We could get a flat together,” Julien continued. “Nothing big, no more spacious than we need. We could—”
His voice had grown excited as he spoke, his eyes widening, and Mason laughed gently, cutting him short. “And how would we pay for all of this?” he asked. “Last I heard, mon coeur, it costs money to rent a flat. Not to mention for travel expenses. And that doesn’t include food or clothing, or stabling any horses that we’d undoubtedly have to steal since we don’t—”
“I’d get the money from my father,” Julien said, and Mason laughed again, louder this time.
“Your father would as soon piss on his own mother as give over even a ha’penny.”
“I didn’t say he’d give it to me.” Julien’s eyes had taken on a peculiar, hardened cast; the light glinted, nearly silver, across his irises. “I said I’d get it from him.”
Mason had seen that look before; whenever Julien would relay stories of Lamar’s abuse toward his sister, Lissette, or—especially—his younger brother, Aaron, that same strange coldness would come over him like a dark, heavy veil. His entire body would tighten, as if seized with a sudden rage so fierce, the least word or gesture might set it off with explosive, murderous results. This was so against what Mason had come to know and adore of Julien’s nature—the sides of his personality he clearly shared with only a precious few in his life—that it was troubling to Mason. It was as if in those moments, Julien became a stranger to him—one who frightened Mason.
“Julien,” he said softly, and the moment Julien cut his gaze to Mason, that granite-like façade withered. His eyes softened, his whole demeanor and posture relaxing, and his mouth unfurled in a smile.
Just as he opened his mouth to speak, however, they both froze, eyes flown wide, as a voice from outside, somewhere in the woods, filtered in through the closed window shutters.
“Aaron!” the voice called out, echoing against the ceiling of tree crowns and rolling through the dusky shadows of the forest. “Aaron Davenant! Are you out here?”
“Fuck me,” Julien hissed, scrambling to sit up. “That’s Jean Luc!”
“Are you sure?” Mason was already in motion, leaping to his feet and grabbing his pants.
“Not really,” Julien replied drolly, sparing Mason a glance as he snatched his shirt from the floor. “All of my brothers sound the bloody hell alike. It could just as easily be Allistair, Vidal, or Jerard.”
From outside, the voice called out again, more sharply this time. “Hullo! Aaron—are you in there?”
“Why is he way out here looking for Az?” Julien wondered aloud, but then his brows furrowed, his body tensing in sudden realization. “That son of a bitch…if Father’s been laying into him again…”
It was no secret that Lamar beat his sons. While Julien had always been quick to dismiss his own wounds, when the matter came to his younger siblings—and in particular, his nine-year-old brother Aaron—it was altogether different.
“He told me the next time Father hit him, he was running away,” Julien said, stumbling to his feet as he yanked his shirt over his head. “Goddammit, and I’ve been here instead of home so I could’ve…”
“You could have what?” Mason asked, stepping down into one boot, while reaching for the other. “Gotten in Lamar’s path, pissed him off so that he beat you instead?”
“Frankly, yeah,” Julien snapped back in reply. As soon as the words left his mouth, it was obvious he regretted them. His expression softened, growing helpless and worried. “Aaron’s just a kid, Mason,” he pleaded. “I’m supposed to protect him. If I don’t, who else in my bloody damn family will?” He cut a glance toward the springhouse door and uttered a bark of rueful laughter. “Jean Luc? And now Az is all alone out there somewhere, probably scared half out of his wits. I have to go look for him. God only knows what Father’s done.”
“Who’s in there? Hoah!” Jean Luc called out again—so close to the springhouse now, they heard the snapping of twigs and the crackling of leaves underfoot, and the wet snuffling of a horse, the jangle of its tack. “I heard voices. Come out now! I know you’re there!”
“Wait here,” Mason said to Julien, reaching down and taking the lantern in hand. “I’ll take care of this.”
“What?” Julien’s eyes widened. “Are you bloody mad? You can’t go out there, Mason.”
“If your father finds out you were here with me, he’ll kill you,” Mason said. It was no exaggeration, either, and they both knew it.
“Then you stay in here.” Julien scrabbled to his feet. “I’ll get rid of Jean Luc.”
Mason arched his brow. “And where are you going to tell him you left your pants?”
“The same place you left your shirt,” Julien retorted with a pointed glance at Mason’s bare chest.
But no matter his protests, there was no way in hell Mason meant to let Julien step out of that springhouse and face his brother. Not knowing in his heart what would happen if he did.
“Wait here,” he said again. Before Julien could do more than sputter in objection, he opened the springhouse door and stepped out into the encroaching nightfall beyond.
* * *
“Hullo,” Mason called, pulling the door closed behind him and holding the lamp aloft. “Who’s there?”
He heard a rustle among the thickets, and to his right, saw the shadow-draped silhouette of a horse and rider move into view. The horse plodded forward into the circumference of his light, and the rider uttered a hoarse laugh.
“I’ll be goddamned,” he said, and Mason could see now that Julien had been right—it was his older brother, Jean Luc. “If it isn’t the good doctor, Mason Morin. What brings you out to this part of the woods so late in the evening?”
“I could ask you the same,” Mason said, his brows narrowing as he tried to summon courage in his voice he didn’t necessarily feel. If the truth be told, he was damn near trembling with alarm. Not only could he and Julien be in danger from Lamar if their relationship were discovered, but from their fellow Brethren as well. Their laws were very specific when the matter came to homosexuality; it was considered as abhorrent and outlawed as sexual relations with humans. Even more so. And the punishment was nothing less than death. “What do you want?”
Drawing back on the reins, Jean Luc drew his stallion to a halt. “I’m looking for my brother,” he said. “Not the one you killed, mind you…at least, not that I’m aware of.”
“I haven’t seen any of your lot,” Mason replied, ignoring Jean Luc’s attempt to bait him. “Now get on your way.”
“Who’s out here with you?” Jean Luc demanded. “I heard voices a moment ago.” Glancing over Mason’s head, he called out, “Get out here now. Who’s there?”
The furrow between Mason’s brows deepened. “There’s no one,” he snapped. “I’m here alone.”
“Really now?” Jean Luc arched his brow. “If that’s so, Morin, then why are you half-dressed?” As his horse shuffled its feet, grinding its teeth nervously against the metal plate of its bit, he swung his leg around and dismounted, fallen leaves crunching beneath the heavy soles of his boots. “You know what I think?” he asked, tromping forward. “I think you’re nowhere near as alone out here as you claim. I think you’ve been out here tonight plowing between some winsome lass’s thighs…am I right?”
He made a point of tipping his head back and sniffing loudly. “I don’t smell the stink of human in the wind—which tells me you’re likely laying in rut with one of our sort. One of those Trevilian sluts, perhaps—no different than their whore-kin, Eleanor? Or maybe it’s Eleanor herself. Maybe she’s tired already of Augustus Noble’s cock pounding into her, and she’s found another distraction.”
Even from a distance, Mason could see his gait was clumsy and stumbling, could hear the distinctive slur in his words. He caught the pungent whiff of brandy in the air as Jean Luc spoke.
“You’re drunk,” he said. “Go home, sleep it off, before you do something you’ll regret in the morrow.”
“Or maybe…” Jean Luc continued on as if Mason hadn’t spoken with a thin smile. “Maybe that was the plan all along—yours and Eleanor’s. Maybe that’s why you left my brother to die on the dueling field—so you could enjoy the fruits of Augustus’s victory right along with him.”
“That’s preposterous,” Mason told him evenly. “And I did not leave Victor to die. Your father refused to allow him any care. His wound was mortal. Even if I’d—”
“You know how long he lay there, drowning on his own blood?” Jean Luc asked. “Twenty-three minutes. I had my pocket watch in hand. You and your rot bastard of a father—you let Victor suffer like that for twenty-three minutes. And for what? A taste of Eleanor’s pussy?” His crooked smile widened and he uttered a low chuckle. “Perhaps, then, I’ll take a taste, too—and a piece of it besides—when I’m through with you…see for myself what the fuss is about.” Again, he cut his gaze beyond Mason toward the springhouse. “You hear that, you bloody bitch?” he shouted. “When I’m finished with your pretty boyfriend here, I’m coming for your ass next!”
“There’s no one here but me,” Mason said. “Now get on your horse, Jean Luc, and get the hell out of here.”
“Or what, Morin?” Jean Luc shot back. “You’ll make me? You’ll take out your pig-sticker and try to stab me with it, like you did with Victor? Do your worst, you coward fuck. My father will sing my praises all the more when I bring your cock home to him—split from your form by your own bloody blade.”
“I didn’t—” Mason began, but no more than this escaped his lips before Jean Luc swung at him, his hand closed into a fist. His knuckles smashed into the side of Mason’s face, leaving him blinking against a sudden scattering of sparkling lights as he floundered backwards, caught off guard and knocked off balance. The lantern fell to the ground, the glass shattering, the flame abruptly dying, and then Mason toppled with it. He landed hard on his side and felt the tickle of blood in his nose split seconds before it came streaming from his left nostril, a sudden, gory flood.
“You’re a murderer!” Jean Luc cried, coming at him again, his fists already in motion. He didn’t give Mason the chance to catch his breath, never mind get on his feet again; he started to pummel Mason. “A bloody goddamn murderer who left Victor to die!”
One of his blows caught Mason in the eye, another in the ear, and a third, the mouth. Mason held up his hands, helpless to reclaim his wits, unable to stop the rain of punches that fell upon him furiously, brutally. As he crumpled into a fetal position, crying out hoarsely, Jean Luc drew his foot back and punted him viciously in the groin, then again in the ass. His voice had dissolved into a garbled stream of obscenities and indistinguishable sounds. Mason managed to glance up and see him towering above him, spittle flying from his lips, his eyes glazed over with the blackness of the bloodlust.
And then, with a blur of sudden motion, he was gone. Mason heard Julien utter a hoarse, furious cry as he tackled his brother, knocking Jean Luc sideways and away from Mason. The two tumbled together on the ground, with Julien winding up straddling Jean Luc’s hips. His pupils, too, had fully engorged with the bloodlust, and his mouth hung open, his lips curled back to reveal the wicked lengths of his gleaming fangs. Julien reared his fist back and drove it forward with brutal force, ramming the bridge of his knuckles into Jean Luc’s mouth. Without hesitating, he drew his hand back and punched him again. Then again. Then again. He began alternating fists, driving them into his brother’s face with ruthless ferocity, while Jean Luc flailed helplessly beneath him, shrieking like a wounded bird.
“Julien…” Mason groaned, pushing himself up from the ground. He couldn’t count the blows, Julien’s fists moved so fast, but he could hear the sounds—moist, horrible, crunching—as they hit home, knocking teeth loose, splintering bones, pounding into flesh. He could smell Jean Luc’s blood as it spattered and sprayed; with every swing of Julien’s arms, it flew in a wide arc.
“Julien!” he cried, because even with his head reeling from Jean Luc’s attack, he couldn’t believe the ferocity he witnessed; the sheer, violent rage Julien wordlessly unleashed. He stumbled to his feet, rushing to get his arms around Julien, to haul him backwards and away from Jean Luc before he killed him—because Mason had no doubt in his mind that he would, that something wounded and murderous he’d only ever seen in those fleeting glimpses of hardness in Julien’s face and eyes had now come fully to the surface, and he wouldn’t stop.
“Julien…!” he gasped, his arms locked around Julien’s waist as he dragged him, nearly hoisting him off his feet, away from Jean Luc. Julien struggled against him, snarling and snapping like an enraged dog, and God, in that moment, Mason didn’t know him at all; he was terrified of him. “Julien, goddammit, stop!”
He shouted this in Julien’s mind, too, and it served as the proverbial slap in his face, snapping him from whatever spell he’d fallen under. Immediately, his body went lax in Mason’s arms, his fists drooping to his sides, the fight draining out of him. He hung his head and gasped for labored breath.
“Stop,” Mason said again, and even though Julien nodded, Mason didn’t loosen his grasp in the slightest, keeping his hands locked together just beneath Julien’s sternum. “Just stop.”
Jean Luc lay on the ground, his face a bloody, battered mess. Already his eyes were beginning to swell shut with bruising, his lips puffing out like overstuffed leeches. His cheeks and chin were smeared with blood, his mouth lacerated, his nose misshapen and bashed. With a groan, he started to move. His hands trembled as he pawed at the ground, trying to roll himself onto his side so he could get his feet beneath him. He kicked weakly, moaning and whimpering as he limped to his feet, then swayed unsteadily, nearly crashing to the ground again. He blinked at Julien and Mason—taking into account their state of dress, or lack thereof—and his eyes widened with stunned realization.
“You…” he croaked, staring back and forth between the two of them. “You were…”
“Go home, Jean Luc,” Mason told him, his voice cold and remarkably steady, considering inside he felt tremulous and afraid. “Go on now. Get your ass on your horse and get out of here.”
“You’ve been out here buggering,” Jean Luc whispered, still swaying unsteadily. He tried to laugh, and blood peppered out of his mouth. “The two of you…you’re a couple of…bloody damn Mollies…!”
“Call me a Molly again.” Julien lunged unexpectedly forward, nearly breaking free from Mason’s grasp. Jean Luc uttered a frightened squeal and floundered backwards, wheeling about and stumbling for his horse. “Come on, you bastard—say it again!”
“They’re going to burn you for this,” Jean Luc gasped, scrambling up into his saddle and with a sharp jerk of the reins, turning the stallion. “You…crazy rot, Father’s going to see to that. They’ll burn you both.”
“You tell anyone and you’ll burn with us!” Julien cried, fists bared as Jean Luc kicked his horse, spurring it to a gallop. “You hear me? I’ll say you were with us—I’ll say it was the three of us together, you son of a bitch!”
Jean Luc didn’t answer. He didn’t as much as look back as his horse ran off into the night, disappearing into the darkness beyond the trees. The thundering rush of its hoof beats faded, and only then did Julien relax, his breath shuddering from him in a heavy sigh.
“He won’t say anything,” he whispered, reaching up to clasp his hands against Mason’s restraining arms. “It’s alright. I know he won’t. Come on, let me go. I have to find Az.”