The Merchant and the Clergyman (8 page)

Fletcher brought out a crusty loaf from the
bread safe. “Will this do?”

They behaved like two comfortable old friends
as they performing mundane tasks. Food could bring people together
like that, Declan thought. “Have you any fruit on hand to enhance
the cheese? Fresh pears perhaps?

“It’s not yet the season for pears. A jar of
peaches is all I have, I’m afraid.”

“Too bad. This sharp cheddar contrasted with
sweet pears would be sumptuous.” Declan hesitated. After all, the
curate had a reputation for discretion—and a generous spirit that
wouldn’t allow him to laugh at a man’s sillier interests. “I’ll
share with you my secret vice. If I had my way, and a home with a
kitchen at my disposal, I’d spend my leisure hours cooking and
inventing unusual meals. The truth is, I love to mince and sauté
and whip up batter, though I rarely get the opportunity. In another
life, I might have been a chef.”

“An admirable profession. What could be more
satisfying than supplying sustenance to people?” Fletcher’s sunny
smile lit his cool gray eyes and warmed Declan inside. The curate
transformed when he smiled, becoming positively angelic—or perhaps
saintly. Certainly magnetic, for Declan could hardly drag his gaze
away. No wonder none of the local ladies could either.

“I can see why you’re so popular with your
congregation.” His gaze traced the contours of Fletcher’s face and
settled on his lips. “You have a way about you that invites trust
and inspires secret confessions.”

The lips parted as if Fletcher would reply,
but nothing came out. Instead, the curate picked up the platter of
meat and cheese and led the way to the small table in a nook off
the kitchen. They sat in a patch of sunshine. The warmth and
country flavor of the room made Declan quite nostalgic. Though his
parents’ house was nothing like this small cottage, the feeling was
the same. It had been far too long since he’d visited home.
Correspondence and telegrams were the methods by which he stayed
connected to his family. They were a poor substitute for his
mother’s kitchen.

Fletcher held a slice of bread and cheese but
didn’t nibble it. “You mentioned not having a house with a kitchen.
Why is that?”

Declan shrugged. “I travel all the time and
spend most nights in hotels or at the homes of distant relatives or
friends. My family has many far-flung business concerns. It’s my
responsibility to oversee them.”

“Only yours?” Fletcher cocked his head in a
way that reminded Declan of a bird, perhaps a wren. His bright eyes
focused on Declan, making him feel that he had the man’s full
attention, that what he said mattered. The curate was good at his
job.

“My father no longer has the energy for
continental travel. My uncles and cousins are much more proficient
at the hands-on running of our factories and sales of our products.
I have but one brother, and he is… Well, it’s best he stay close to
home. He has a family who needs him nearby, and, honestly, he’s not
the sort to handle sticky situations or to broker deals with
suppliers.”

“But you are. You’re the man who gets things
done,” Fletcher supplied. “Your father’s right hand, so to
speak.”

“I suppose so.”

Fletcher bit into his bread at last, chewed,
swallowed, the movement of his Adam’s apple above his plain white
collar distracting Declan. “It must be very tiring to be always on
the move and have no place to call home.”

“I have my parents’ home, though I haven’t
been there in many months. But yes, I suppose it would be nice to
buy a house of my own.” His mind must be preoccupied with birds,
because now Declan pictured himself in a nest, with a kitchen very
like this one.

“Everyone needs someplace they can call
home.” Fletcher seemed to address the glass of wine Declan had
poured for him. “Even if they feel as if they belong nowhere,” he
added as a quiet afterthought.

It was Declan’s turn to be silent and invite
confession. The only problem was he was no good at it. Instead, he
spoke bluntly. “You don’t feel you belong?”

That clear gray gaze shot to him. “Bishop’s
Hartfeld is a lovely place. I grew up here. My parents live
close—they moved in with my sister and her husband in a nearby
village, so I can visit them fairly often. I’m quite content with
my assignment.”

“Ah, so you know this area and its people
well.”

A small smile curved his mobile lips. “As
well as any person can know another, I suppose.”

Declan liked that. The few church men he’d
met liked to behave as if they were somehow privy to everyone’s
inner thoughts and motivations. Fletcher didn’t pretend to be wiser
than any other man. Genuinely humble and with an incisive mind,
this clever yet unassuming man was very attractive to him, and not
merely for his handsome face. Declan felt Fletcher had hidden wells
of untapped passion—if the scene he’d walked in on between Fletcher
and Kip signified anything. Not that he planned to tap any wells
here. A couple of days, and he’d be gone, he reminded himself yet
again.

“You know and love this place, yet still feel
you don’t belong. Why is that?” Declan pushed, though he knew the
answer. He’d lived with the same feeling his entire life. But he
wanted to prod Fletcher into admitting who he was underneath the
clerical garb. He’d like to plumb below the surface of that tight
starched collar and touch the throbbing throat of the man.

That imagery made his cock press against the
seam of his trousers as he pictured his hand on the other man’s
throat, almost feeling the pulse in his palm. He was desperate to
see those gray eyes gazing up at him, round and beseeching, begging
for more. This slight man down on his knees, mouth open wide,
tongue lolling as he licked the length of… Declan sucked in a
breath. Christ, this wasn’t the time or place for a heated fantasy!
He snapped his attention back to his luncheon companion, who still
hadn’t answered the question.

“You don’t have to hide your true nature from
me. I can guess what I walked in on the other day, and I don’t
judge you for it.” Declan had said as much before, but again he
tried to put Fletcher at ease, to invite confidence and maybe…just
maybe encourage him to reach out. There were few enough chances to
indulge in sex with like-minded men. Why shouldn’t they take the
opportunity in these brief days they had together? Today. Right
now. This instant. After all, life passed at a fast clip.

Fletcher had frozen again, one hand clutching
bread, the other wrapped so tightly around his glass that his
knuckles were white. “I don’t… This topic is something I don’t wish
to discuss. I have put such notions behind me some time ago. I
would be a hypocrite to preach against perverted desires and yet
indulge in them.”

At least he hadn’t tried to deny the truth.
Declan put his elbows on the table and leaned closer to the other
man. “What you call perverted some cultures deem a natural
inclination. Has it ever occurred to you the doctrines of
Christianity are wrong? That the Bible has been misinterpreted,
that a God who created such feelings in you would not judge you for
acting on them?”

James cast his gaze to the table as if unable
to meet Declan’s intrusive stare. His lips were a thin line.

“You’re an intelligent man, broad-minded and
clearly capable of understanding many points of view,” Declan
continued, determined to reach this man and take away his notions
of guilt and shame. “Isn’t it possible what you feel and need deep
in your heart is right? Can you shift your thinking enough to
encompass that idea? Why, in Greece—”

Fletcher held up his hand. “Stop! I told you
I don’t wish to discuss this. It’s best you finish your meal and be
on your way.”

Damn, he’d blundered, made those wide-open
eyes shutter like a house facing a storm. He’d tried too hard
instead of gently encouraging the wren to trust him—which, Declan
supposed, again made him a prowling cat eager to pounce on that
bird. Oh, he was. He really was. His body nearly shook with
restrained desire. He wanted to push the small table aside with a
sweep of his arm and grab hold of James Fletcher’s wiry form. Plant
a kiss on those lips that had been haunting his mind since he first
saw them.

It was insane how suddenly and how badly he
craved this man’s body pressed against his. Would Declan be as big
of a cad as Kip if he indulged his fantasy and embraced Fletcher
right now despite his protests, or did the cleric secretly want him
to? So hard to tell sometimes when a little aggressive treatment
was desired and when it was completely the wrong thing to do.

Declan rose from his seat and took one step
around the table. He paused, waiting, wondering, hoping for a sign
from Fletcher.

The man gazed up at him with such an odd
mixture of hope and terror. He remained silent, but the way he
stared and then licked his lips gave Declan hope. And yes, James’s
chest rose and fell quickly.

“Come here,” Declan urged gently.

Chapter Eight

James couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t move. If
he rose to his feet, Declan Shaw would see the shameful evidence of
his desire. He damned himself for being overly informal and
removing his jacket when they entered the house. Maybe that gave
Shaw a signal. More likely, James’s hunger showed on his face.

Shaw took another step closer.

“Come, James,” he demanded.

His first name, the command in that
voice—James jammed his fingernails into his palm to bring himself
back, but the mild pain only made the rush of heat more vivid. A
whimper escaped him, and he’d been so lost in the moment, he barely
noticed the sound rising from his own throat until he saw Shaw’s
answering knowing smile.

Shaw closed the distance then and loomed over
him, tall and imposing. The big man stole all the air around them
and filled James with something more potent and real than simple
breath.

He touched James’s hair and ran large fingers
through it.
Grab my head, force me forward, bruise my mouth.
Insistent, urgent, intoxicating desire pulsed through James with
each heartbeat. Once again he felt unwilling and at the power of a
merciless hunger. Fragments of his old shame came back to him and
made the horrible, twisting mixture of utter humiliation and
devastating need more compelling.

He wanted to cry. He wanted to grab the
powerful body in front of him and bury his face in the woolen
trousers and root for the promise of a hard-driving prick, give
over every bit of his control, and let go of shame for at least a
few minutes.

He licked his lips again, swallowed, waited
for Shaw’s command or rough shove. Dread and longing in equal
parts. But the large hands on his head were gentle.

Since James remained seated, Declan Shaw
suddenly dropped to a squat so their faces were at the same level.
Those eyes stared into his, unblinking and filled with
strength.

James held his breath, but the pause lasted
so long, he found he must gasp and draw in more air.

Slowly, Shaw leaned close. Only inches away
now, and the cool wash of his exhalation touched James’s face. And
then, as the distance vanished, his breath, fast and uneven grew
warm on James’s skin. The face so close and then… He pressed his
mouth to James’s.

For the very first time in his life, a person
he desired kissed him. A gentle brush of lips back and forth,
nudging him to life.

The pressure and hunger of Shaw’s mouth on
his grew far more insistent, but James dropped into the moment as
if he’d been pushed off a cliff. No, that was unfair. As if he’d
thrown himself off. And then Shaw’s tongue slid against his. The
shock and delicious pleasure threw all other thoughts out of his
mind for almost a minute of exploration.

Declan Shaw’s rough but soft lips, his
demanding tongue, captured James with unfamiliar sweetness. No hint
of force, but James responded. The taste of wine and man filled his
mouth as Declan’s hands guided him, canted his head. A gentle
command and then more tongue, eagerly exploring his mouth. The heat
flooded him, and the fearful craving returned. He trembled.

When those fingers gripped his head, James
nearly came undone under the pulse of his own growing arousal.

He shifted in his chair, felt the cloth
scrape against his erection. Too soon he’d be lost in the
humiliation again. That whisper of thought almost made him stop,
but then Shaw pulled him forward, and James slid to the edge of the
chair, opening his legs and allowing that strong, lovely body to
push against him.

He had only just a few days ago claimed his
freedom from mortifying need, and now look at him, so weak and
broken open too easily. Even as he stopped his arms from wrapping
around Shaw, his racing mind scurried around the problem. The
bitter flavor of those years of Kip flooded the desire and nearly
drowned his yearning for this touch. Nearly. Not enough. His empty
arms ached, but he didn’t raise them, not yet. Would it take pain
to break away again—his or Declan Shaw’s?

“Please, God, no. Stop.” The sound of his
whisper in a pathetic sob created an answering wash of
embarrassment and anger.
It couldn’t be bad. Don’t stop.

Except a second later, Shaw pulled away,
obeying him. Shaw. Obeyed.

He stood and took a step back. Such
perversity, because of course James wanted nothing more than
Declan’s body again, Declan’s strength mocking him and demanding
and not allowing him a choice. He craved Shaw stopping his mouth,
filling it so that he and his doubts would be silenced.

Shaw did grab him, only to haul himself to
his feet and drag James against that broad chest. But instead of
pushing James on top of his head and demanding a good sucking, he
murmured in James’s ear, “Hush, hush, it’s fine. I’m not my cousin.
I’ll not force myself on anyone.”