Page 19

19

THE CALM BEFORE THE STORM

H enry did not sleep well all that long night.

Any dreams that came for him were of Catherine’s burning flesh, gunshots, riding hard while being chased, and Léon.

Léon in the alleyway with his beautiful drunk smile.

Henry knocking him to the ground.

The look in his eyes when he first saw him in that bar, and then, unprecedented, Léon’s head rocking back with pleasure, the long line of his neck, the sensation of his naked skin beneath Henry’s lips, the gasp that racked out of him when Henry took him in his mouth…

This last catapulted Henry from tenuous slumber to bolt upright in a still-dark room.

The space was dully illuminated by the ever-burning fire, which Léon tended, shoulders hunched, vest back on over his sweater.

“Sorry,” he whispered, imagining he’d awakened him.

And so he had. In a way.

Henry scrambled to cover himself with the blanket in case Léon saw the truth of the matter through his breeches.

But Léon, who, in Henry’s eyes, had taken on a fresh and forbidding beauty after that dream, was paying him scant attention.

He dropped another log onto the fire and pushed it back in a flurry of sparks, lighting his sensual lips in profile.

Henry wiped a tingle of sweat from his forehead.

“Couldn’t sleep?”

“No. But I have to go, anyway.” He raised his chin towards a window.

“It will be dawn soon.”

Henry watched Léon cross the room, tall and lithe, settling down by his brother, stroking his face to wake him.

A sleepy head turned his way, and Léon whispered, “I have to go to work now. But Henri will bring you to me in a few hours.”

“No,” émile protested weakly, stretching warm arms around Léon’s neck.

“Ssssh. Back to sleep. I’ll see you soon.” It didn’t take a great deal of coercion from Léon for a sleepy émile to settle back into his comfortable slumber.

But Henry knew what it must have taken for Léon.

His smile dropped just as émile’s eyelids did, and he kissed his brother’s cheek, grief and devotion writ in every feature.

Henry wondered if he looked like that every time he went to work.

He wondered how long he’d been doing it.

And he wondered what toll it had taken.

But Léon’s boots walked quietly and deliberately across the floorboards towards the door, straight past Henry, who had now been left to care for émile with Léon’s full knowledge, and not a word about it.

Henry jumped up, bringing the blanket with him.

Léon turned, and Henry found himself lost for words as their two faces came close.

Too close. Breath catching in his throat, he whispered, “Western woods, two o’clock?”

“That’s right,” said Léon.

“We’ll make the trade. Your sister for my brother.” He glanced back at émile.

“Take care of him.”

“I will,” said Henry.

Léon reached for the door.

“Léon?”

“Mmm?”

Henry had already realised Léon was beautiful.

But not that beautiful.

Not like in the quiet and the peace of that cabin.

Not in the way that felt like his lungs had been punctured.

Arrestingly beautiful.

And Henry didn’t want him to go.

“What is it?” Léon asked, big and luminous eyes searching Henry’s.

Honestly, he replied, “I don’t know.”

Léon remained a moment longer, hesitating.

Then Henry stretched his hand out.

“Shake on it.”

Léon took a few seconds, staring down at the long and elegant fingers.

He reached for them slowly, as though he expected Henry to pull away, but Henry’s hand remained firm, and Léon’s slid into his as though it were a glove made for him—the perfect fit.

Neither of them said a word, but both felt the fire of that touch run through their arms and straight into their hearts.

Their eyes locked, attraction, curiosity, fear.

Henry felt the urge to pull him, wrench him in, and kiss him.

What would he have done?

How would he have tasted?

But it was Léon who took his hand away, head sinking low, and who put the door between them just as quickly as he could.

Henry’s fingers ran down the wood of the closed door, his heart pounding in his chest. He moved to his mattress to try to calm down—to sleep away what was left of the night—but he was far too unsettled.

What the hell was he doing?

Was he falling for this pretty executioner?

He was not.

He couldn’t let himself trust Léon.

He couldn’t, after everything he’d worked for, everything he’d been through, the trial and the kidnapping, Catherine in that cell all by herself for so long, falling apart, becoming dangerously scared…

There was too much at stake.

He wouldn’t throw it all away now because of a handsome face.

He needed to take action.

He needed insurance.

“émile,” he called out softly.

A grunt came back. “émile? Wake up, we need to go.”

The boy rolled over towards him, yawned and blinked.

“Good boy,” said Henry, reaching a cake off a nearby table to pass to him.

“Now… What can you tell me about this barmaid?”