Whiskey Dreams Read online

  The door swung inward with a faint creak, revealing the empty chamber that had belonged to his mother. A slightly stale scent met his nostrils, the subtle odor of a room purposely left closed and never entered. As Brom surveyed the abandoned quarters, his heart slowed just a little. Nothing had been touched; this was the first time anyone had been inside the room since she’d died a month ago. Turning on his heel, he made his way toward the last bedroom. There, he’d come face to face with the intruder.

  He gripped the cold steel knob and turned it, stepping into the room.

  A bed took up most of the chamber, and John Crane sat on the edge of it, both of his feet on the floor. He’d shed his waistcoat and shoes, though he still wore the rest of his clothing. At least half of his hair had come loose from the tail he’d tied it into, and he blinked at Brom with eyes that weren’t completely clear. “You’re still here?” Brom said as he tightened his grip on the doorknob.

  John stared at Brom for a moment before glancing at the window and the darkened sky beyond, looking mildly abashed. “I took what you said about resting to heart and fell asleep. I apologize if I’ve overstayed my welcome…” He glanced again at the recently descended night and frowned.

  “No,” Brom said. “No, you haven’t. It’s only that I didn’t realize you were still here.” It was a good thing John’s eyes were so captivating, because if they hadn’t been, Brom wouldn’t have been able to stop himself from staring at the V of skin revealed by the gaping collar of John’s shirt. Christ, if he’d had any idea that John had lingered, that he’d find him like this …

  “I meant to determine where I’ll be staying during my time in Sleepy Hollow,” John said, standing and looking sheepish. “But after that magnificent lunch, I found that the lack of rest I’d experienced since departing Connecticut had caught up with me.”

  “You mean the pie?” Brom asked, arching a brow.

  John nodded.

  “I’m afraid what’s left of it wouldn’t make much of a meal, but I’ve got some stew hanging over the fire if you’d like supper.” He’d made it the day before, a mixture of venison from one of his hunts and a few vegetables. It was a crude recipe, nothing like his mother’s cooking had been, but it was food.

  John agreed, and as they descended the stairs together, Brom kept his eyes on the walls, not on the messy, glossy locks streaming over John’s shoulders. John probably had no idea how disheveled his hair was, and Brom wasn’t about to tell him.

  Downstairs, Brom ladled stew into two bowls. He didn’t feel very hungry, despite the fact that a single piece of pie was all he’d had to eat all day. As he pulled out a chair and took a seat across from John at the table, he realized that he was nervous. Nervous about sharing dinner with this man, worried he’d inadvertently reveal his attraction. Normally, concealing his preference for men wasn’t an issue. There’d been no one in Sleepy Hollow who’d truly tempted him, until today.

  “I noticed your crop fields are rather small,” John said after several long minutes, during which Brom made a careful study of his stew, chewing the chunks of venison and vegetables without really tasting them. Whether that was a mark of how bland his cooking was, or the state of his nerves, he wasn’t sure. “You don’t make your living by farming, do you?”

  “Horses,” Brom said, meeting John’s eyes. “I buy, sell and train them.” After returning from his period of service in the Continental Army, he’d spent the next couple of years assembling his little equine empire, making his living with reins in his hands instead of a musket. He liked working with horses, and the animals’ never-ending demands kept him busy and his mind on his work.

  “And you live alone?”

  “Both of my parents died within the last year. I am unmarried.”

  “My condolences.” John laid down his spoon.

  Brom nodded, a vague sense of guilt settling over him as he chewed. In truth, he hadn’t mourned his parents as he should have. The sorrow he should have felt over their deaths had never truly struck him; he’d been buffered by a preexisting loss that he still hadn’t managed to shake, even after a couple of years. Maybe if he could let the past remain in the past, he’d mourn his parents in earnest then. But when would that be? Time seemed to have passed both impossibly quickly and torturously slowly since the first loss had eaten a hole inside him, and if it hadn’t healed by now, would it ever? “Thank you.” He scraped the last bite from his bowl.

  John had finished his as well.

  “Would you like some more?” Brom asked.

  “Yes, thank you.” John pushed his bowl across the table, and as Brom reached for it, their fingertips brushed.

  Instant heat warmed Brom from the inside, and he forced himself to rise and walk calmly to the fire, where he refilled both bowls. “Can I offer you a drink?” He was no proper host, but he could at least offer the courtesy of a nightcap – after all, it looked as if John would be staying until morning. He tried not to think about how the man had looked, rising hazy-eyed from sleep in the spare bedroom.

  “That would be most welcome.”

  Brom strode wordlessly to the cabinet where he kept the liquor and removed a decanter of whiskey, wiping a glass on his sleeve to remove any dust and then pouring a generous portion into it. After a moment’s thought, he removed a second glass. God knew he needed a drink. Nothing like the excess he’d so foolishly indulged in the night before – just enough to calm his nerves a bit. It wasn’t going to be easy to finish dinner with John, let alone spend the night alone in the same house with him.

  The whiskey glowed amber in the firelight as Brom crossed the room and set the two glasses on the table. John took his and they drank together, the liquor burning a pleasantly fiery trail down Brom’s throat. He sipped it, refusing to allow himself to stare at John, whose lips gleamed in the warm light, wet with drink. He almost wished he hadn’t stopped at the blacksmith’s that afternoon, hadn’t stumbled upon the new schoolmaster at exactly the right – or perhaps wrong – moment. Almost. When he sat his glass down, he was surprised to find it empty.

  He set to work on his second bowl of stew, but what was done was done. His head buzzed lightly, and his lips burnt. The empty stomach he’d maintained throughout the day had caught up with him, allowing the whiskey to affect him almost immediately. The situation suddenly seemed more comfortable, and deep down, he knew that should worry him. Deep down, he also didn’t want to be worried. “Another?” John’s glass was empty too.

  “Please.”

  Brom poured himself a second drink as well, but sipped it more slowly this time, pacing himself as he finished his dinner. By the time it was gone, his entire body felt as if it were emanating a warm glow from the inside. It was as if the heat John’s brief touch had sparked had grown into a smoldering fire, trapped inside him, fueling increasingly inappropriate imaginings as his gaze settled on the other man’s perfect lips for what seemed the thousandth time. He could imagine their softness against his, their heat pressed against the head of his cock, parting and slipping down over the shaft…

  But he wasn’t completely drunk, and despite the wanton thoughts whirling through his mind, he still had a modicum of good sense. “I’ll be retiring now, Mr. Crane.” He frowned, even as he spoke. Since when did he call the man by his last name?

  Since the intimacy of calling him by his first had begun to seem like a self-granted invitation to do so much more. Maybe it was pathetic that he was hiding behind the flimsy veneer of formality that a surname provided when his thoughts were growing wild and tangled, far too personal and anything but polite. But that was exactly what he was doing, and he clung to the façade as his cock stirred in his breeches, siding with his fantasies and betraying his attempt at civility. Luckily, between the dimness and the table, his traitorous member was well-hidden.

  John didn’t say anything, only frowned as he glanced toward the kitchen window. Everything beyond it was the inky black of true night.

  “I trust you found the bed in th
e spare room comfortable?” Brom asked, his gaze lingering around John’s shoulders. He still hadn’t informed John of the state of his hair, and still longed to reach out and touch it. He kept his hands still at his sides, fighting the impulse.

  “I did, yes.” Uncertainty was written across his face as he glanced sidelong at the window again.

  “What, did you think I’d turn you out come nightfall?” Brom asked incredulously. “You’re welcome here for the night, of course.” No sooner had he spoken than an unsettling possibility occurred to him. Had John noticed his stares – was the hunger he felt burning on the inside so obvious? If so, it would be no wonder if John didn’t want to stay the night.

  Brom tensed, trying to keep his face neutral as he silently cursed himself for indulging in the whiskey. It would’ve been wiser to have been rude and let John drink alone than to have embarrassed himself in such a way.

  Brom’s alarm melted when John smiled, looking relieved. “You’re most kind,” John assured him. “Though I do feel bad for imposing upon you so. If I hadn’t slept for so long, I could have secured more permanent lodging at the home of one of my new pupils.”

  Brom shook his head. “It’s no trouble – in case you haven’t noticed, there’s plenty of room for you here.”

  John nodded, and a brief moment of silence ensued.

  “I’ll show you to your room.” Brom knew it was stupid before he even finished speaking. Of course John had already seen and slept in the spare bedroom.

  “Very well,” John said politely. “I appreciate your hospitality.”

  Brom made a noncommittal sound as he turned for the stairs, his throat still burning from the liquor. The short climb seemed to take forever, and he began to long for the sanctuary of his bedroom. “Goodnight,” he said, pausing in the hall, his hand on the doorknob.

  “Goodnight,” John said, and headed toward the room he’d napped in, slipping inside with one last lingering glance over his shoulder at Brom. What it meant was unclear, but Brom knew he wouldn’t be able to get those eyes out of his mind that night. Breathing a sigh of relief, he entered his bedroom and pulled the door firmly shut.

  He stripped off all of his clothing, not bothering to light a candle, and climbed into bed. Lying beneath the linens was anything but comfortable – his cock was hard as steel, and it throbbed as he closed his eyes. For a moment, he considered wrapping his fist around it and bringing himself to release, exorcising a little of the tension that had been plaguing him all day. But he knew it wouldn’t be enough – not with the very man he longed for just across the hall – and he was exhausted; he’d worked hard, and had slept fitfully the night before, thanks to the nightmares. As he drifted into slumber, he hoped desperately not to experience them again that night, but had no such luck.

  ****

  The coffee was of relatively poor quality, but it was one of the few joys Brom had anymore. The other was sitting across from him, brewing the crude beverage over a small fire. His blond hair was disheveled, a testament to what they’d just done. “Henry,” Brom said. “You’ve got a maple leaf in your hair, for Christ’s sake.”

  Henry deftly swept a hand through his wavy locks without pausing in his task. The man hated to start the day without a cup of coffee. “So have you,” he said. The leaf was still stuck in his hair, clinging just above his ear, unbeknownst to him.

  “You’re not even looking at me,” Brom protested, though he couldn’t help raising a hand to see if Henry was right.

  “Don’t need to. You always get leaves in your hair. That’s what happens when you spend so much time rolling about naked in the—”

  “Damn it all, would you shut up? Someone will hear you.”

  Henry paused to inhale dramatically, a smile creeping slowly across his face as the aroma of coffee rose to intermingle with the fresh scent of cool pre-dawn air. “No one will hear. They’re all dead to the world right now.”

  Except for the men who were keeping guard. Brom didn’t say that, only shot Henry a sharp look. Sneaking out of camp was always a risk, but there were times, like this morning, when they simply couldn’t resist the temptation. Sometimes they went during the night. Today, they’d gone early in the morning, taking advantage of the foggy weather. The other men were still in their bedrolls, though it wouldn’t be long before reveille sounded.

  For just a few moments, he and Henry were alone with each other, sharing a quiet moment, hidden among the trappings of an army’s camp. Aromatic steam rose from the coffee pot to mingle with the foggy air that had crept among the sea of crude tents, shrouding the camp in a light mist that gave the morning an almost otherworldly feel. It had also made it easier for Brom and Henry to slip in and out of the camp without being seen – a small stroke of good fortune that Brom counted as a blessing.

  Brom pulled a leaf from his hair and frowned down at it. “Oak.”

  “What?” Henry asked, looking up as he poured the first cup of coffee.

  “It’s an oak leaf, not a maple leaf.” Regardless of its type, the little green leaf must have stood out vibrantly against Brom’s dark hair. Luckily, no one had seen him and Henry return – at least, not that they knew of. He tossed the incriminating piece of vegetation to the ground.

  Henry smirked and lowered his voice. “I suppose we’ve gathered quite the collection.” He handed the tin cup to Brom, who accepted it, wrapping his hands around it for warmth. Henry’s fingers brushed his, inspiring a different sort of heat.

  Henry had filled the second cup halfway by the time the sun peeked over the horizon, shedding the first few rays of dawn. It was accompanied by gunfire, a single shot that rang loud and clear through the early morning.

  The cup slipped in Brom’s hands, spilling scalding liquid over his fingers. He cursed and met Henry’s gaze, his eyes wide. “What—”

  A second shot sounded, drowning out Brom’s voice. The light of the newly risen sun caught Henry’s eyes, causing his jade-colored irises to shine a brilliant moss green. “An ambush,” Henry said as more shots followed, deafening in comparison to the early-morning sounds of shuffling and mumbled curses that usually filled the camp at this hour.

  Brom let his gaze sweep over the dimly-lit camp – only a few of the nearby soldiers had begun to scramble out of their tents. The rest of them probably dreamed of battle and gunfire and hadn’t realized the difference yet. Instinct kicked in and he cried a warning, so loud that his throat felt immediately raw. He reached for a weapon that wasn’t there, cursing and shouting again. “Our muskets,” he said, turning back to Henry.

  He lay on the ground.

  “Christ. Fuck. No. No…” Brom scrambled, knocking over the coffee pot. The fire sizzled and popped as the bitter smell of burnt coffee filled the air, nearly as overwhelming as the coppery scent of blood was alarming.

  The bullet had entered through one side of Henry’s head and exited out the other, spraying bits of bone, blood and other substances Brom didn’t even want to think about. They all coated his fingers, terribly warm, as he laid his hands on Henry, turning him over, just touching him, searching for something – what, he didn’t know. Clearly, the bullet had killed him instantly. Brom pulled a messy hand away from the gaping exit wound. The maple leaf Henry hadn’t succeeded in removing from his hair was plastered to Brom’s palm, wet with blood.

  ****

  Brom’s palms were slick with moisture. Sweat. He wiped them hastily on the bedsheets. It was only sweat. His heart hammered against his ribs as he rolled onto his side, hastily unentangling himself from the sheets and swinging his feet over the edge of the bed, reminding himself that he was in his own bedroom in New York, not kneeling on blood-soaked soil somewhere in Virginia.

  His heel collided with something warm and solid. “What in—”

  “It’s me,” a vaguely familiar voice said. “It’s only me.”

  Brom blinked, finally seeing past the nightmare. John Crane stood at the side of his bed in just his nightshirt. Brom’s horror swirled w
ith confusion. Perhaps he hadn’t truly woken. Either way, his throat felt raw and dry as sand and he could feel a hole gaping inside him, as large and ragged as the one that had been blown through Henry’s skull. He reached for the pitcher on the bedside table and poured himself a cup of water. As he gulped it, it soothed his throat a little and filled his belly, but did nothing for the emptiness the dream had left him with. “What in God’s name are you doing here?”

  A little moonlight shone through the window, and it illuminated the loose locks that framed John’s face, causing them to shine like a halo. His eyes were wide, his lips parted. He looked … disturbed. “You shouted. I thought something must be wrong. I … came to help.”

  Brom slammed down his cup on the bedside table and simply stared at John for a few moments. The man didn’t disappear, as he might have in a dream; in reality, other than the fact that he was in Brom’s bedroom in the dead of night, there was nothing outlandish about the situation. He must be awake, then. “Nothing is wrong.”

  “Are you sure?” John stood his ground, bare feet planted on the floorboards, his legs long and lean with slender muscle, exposed to a few inches above the knees. The moonbeam pouring through the window backlit him, rendering the outline of his body clearly visible through his white linen shirt.

  “I’m sure,” Brom said, rubbing his forehead in an attempt to chase away the headache the dream had left him with. His ears rang faintly, as if he really had been surrounded by a volley of gunfire, and he could have sworn he smelled the acrid tang of gunpowder.

  Christ, he must look a mess. One of his legs was still half-entangled in the twisted bedsheets, and he couldn’t stop rubbing his hands over the linens every few moments, trying to rid himself of the phantom prickling in his palms, the ghosts of bone fragments he’d washed away long ago. And then, there was the fact that he was naked. At least the nightmare had done him one favor; it had banished the hardness he’d fallen asleep with. As he looked at John, he knew it would only be a matter of time before the nightmare faded enough to allow his cock to rise, shameless again. He had to get rid of John before that happened. “It was only a dream. Go back to bed.”