up, or met Jen at an agreed upon time and place. It is the middle of the night, there’s no way he’ll be in the woods, but Jen puts on her boots and a turtleneck and her pea coat anyway, clutches close a torch, and plunges into the woods.
“Liam!” she calls. “Liam!” She turns in circles, doing her best to follow the path back to the well. She’d know it in daylight, have no problems at all. She was bloody near born in these woods, played in them all her childhood, but now they are close and cold and creepy. Her torch light cuts harsh streaks across the gloom, startling deer and foxes and ravens from their rest. The birds protest loudly. “Liam!”
“Here, sweeting,” a voice like black honey says, and Jennet turns into an embrace that is suddenly right where she needs it to be. Which is terrifying in its own way. “What’s the fuss?”
“The paintings!” she pants. “Oh, god, the pictures .”
“Ah,” is all Liam says, and the way he says it means that he understands the rest.
Jennet jerks back, trying to peer up at his expression in the dark, but unless she wants to blind him with her flashlight, she can’t make it out.
A scream is building behind her larynx, confusion and terror behind her eyes. But Jennet is Lady of Carterhaugh and master of her own body. She swallows heavily. “Come back to the house,” is all Jennet says. It is rather more order than request. “We need to talk.”
Liam takes her shoulders in his hands and bends down so their faces are a breath apart. “Be very certain, Jennet of Carterhaugh, that inviting me in to your home is what you really mean to do.”
“I’m not scared of you,” Jen says.
He searches her gaze, her face, eyes on her mouth, the lopsided dimple that only appears on her left side, as if testing the mettle of her resolve.
He nods slowly, meaningfully, just once. “Then lead the way.
When they reach Jen’s apartments, she heads straight for the en suite, plugs the tub, and opens the taps. Liam is filthy and shivering. He hasn’t washed since their tumble by the well and he stinks of rot and stale sex. They make love again in the bath. In the bubbles it is slow, and desperate, each clinging to the other, reaffirming that they are real, human, here.
Then she swaddles them both in thick terrycloth robes fetched from the B&B linen cupboard, and presses a snifter of brandy from her Da’s private collection into his hand. She swirls her own, admiring the heady scent as Liam stands silent and solemn before the wall of Carterhaughs. Jen stands behind his shoulder, studying his face. Their hair leaves small wet spots on the carpet.
“Tell me I’m crazy,” she says.
Liam turns to face her. “I can’t.”
“They’re all you.”
“Yes.”
“You’re fucking with me. ”
He sets the snifter down on the mantle-place and cups her face in his hands. “My dearest Jennet, why would I lie to you? About this, the most important secret the Carterhaughs hold? I am the gift that one generation leaves to another.”
“And did you sleep with all of them?” she spat, her confusion twisting into hurt and fury. “I mean, I thought … I thought I was special .”
“You are. You are mine now, and now you are special to me.”
“But these others. Her, and her! And Him, and aunt Jane? Did you love them?”
Liam smiles sadly, then pries the brandy from her hands and sets it beside his own. “Are you jealous, my sweeting? I love you, now.”
“But this is impossible,” Jennet protests. “ What are you?”
“Yours.” He kisses the tip of her nose sweetly and she tries to fight off the way it makes heat pool low in her belly, desire crackle along her flesh. “And all the children of Carterhaugh. However few of you there may be. I begged your father to take a wife.”
“My dad was gay,” Jen says.
“And yet, there is you,” her lover replies, a grin splitting his face.
“He was gay, not a dead fish,” Jen counters. “He wanted to be a
“Liam!” she calls. “Liam!” She turns in circles, doing her best to follow the path back to the well. She’d know it in daylight, have no problems at all. She was bloody near born in these woods, played in them all her childhood, but now they are close and cold and creepy. Her torch light cuts harsh streaks across the gloom, startling deer and foxes and ravens from their rest. The birds protest loudly. “Liam!”
“Here, sweeting,” a voice like black honey says, and Jennet turns into an embrace that is suddenly right where she needs it to be. Which is terrifying in its own way. “What’s the fuss?”
“The paintings!” she pants. “Oh, god, the pictures .”
“Ah,” is all Liam says, and the way he says it means that he understands the rest.
Jennet jerks back, trying to peer up at his expression in the dark, but unless she wants to blind him with her flashlight, she can’t make it out.
A scream is building behind her larynx, confusion and terror behind her eyes. But Jennet is Lady of Carterhaugh and master of her own body. She swallows heavily. “Come back to the house,” is all Jennet says. It is rather more order than request. “We need to talk.”
Liam takes her shoulders in his hands and bends down so their faces are a breath apart. “Be very certain, Jennet of Carterhaugh, that inviting me in to your home is what you really mean to do.”
“I’m not scared of you,” Jen says.
He searches her gaze, her face, eyes on her mouth, the lopsided dimple that only appears on her left side, as if testing the mettle of her resolve.
He nods slowly, meaningfully, just once. “Then lead the way.
When they reach Jen’s apartments, she heads straight for the en suite, plugs the tub, and opens the taps. Liam is filthy and shivering. He hasn’t washed since their tumble by the well and he stinks of rot and stale sex. They make love again in the bath. In the bubbles it is slow, and desperate, each clinging to the other, reaffirming that they are real, human, here.
Then she swaddles them both in thick terrycloth robes fetched from the B&B linen cupboard, and presses a snifter of brandy from her Da’s private collection into his hand. She swirls her own, admiring the heady scent as Liam stands silent and solemn before the wall of Carterhaughs. Jen stands behind his shoulder, studying his face. Their hair leaves small wet spots on the carpet.
“Tell me I’m crazy,” she says.
Liam turns to face her. “I can’t.”
“They’re all you.”
“Yes.”
“You’re fucking with me. ”
He sets the snifter down on the mantle-place and cups her face in his hands. “My dearest Jennet, why would I lie to you? About this, the most important secret the Carterhaughs hold? I am the gift that one generation leaves to another.”
“And did you sleep with all of them?” she spat, her confusion twisting into hurt and fury. “I mean, I thought … I thought I was special .”
“You are. You are mine now, and now you are special to me.”
“But these others. Her, and her! And Him, and aunt Jane? Did you love them?”
Liam smiles sadly, then pries the brandy from her hands and sets it beside his own. “Are you jealous, my sweeting? I love you, now.”
“But this is impossible,” Jennet protests. “ What are you?”
“Yours.” He kisses the tip of her nose sweetly and she tries to fight off the way it makes heat pool low in her belly, desire crackle along her flesh. “And all the children of Carterhaugh. However few of you there may be. I begged your father to take a wife.”
“My dad was gay,” Jen says.
“And yet, there is you,” her lover replies, a grin splitting his face.
“He was gay, not a dead fish,” Jen counters. “He wanted to be a
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