The Merchant and the Clergyman by Bonnie Dee

thrill through him. He recalled each moment of last
night from Declan’s unexpected knock to when he left. James sifted
through the details like a gold prospector and examined each shiny
nugget: the play of light and shadows on Declan’s face as he’d
looked into the fire, the angle of one leg cocked over the other,
the weight of the man’s tread in those dark brown boots, the curl
of hair over the edge of his collar, but mostly the deep, seductive
tenor of his voice.
    James could imagine that voice saying many
things to him, murmuring dark commands and obligations he must
fulfill. He lost all sense of time and place as he fell deeper into
a fantasy of Declan directing him to prostrate himself over a
bench, then gripping the back of his neck hard as he pushed…and pushed …into James. His arse tightened at the thought.
    An involuntary groan slipped from his lips,
and James jerked back to reality. He was passing Mrs. Moore
bustling up the street with a market basket over one arm. She gave
him a curious look. “Not feeling well, Mr. Fletcher?”
    “Sour stomach,” he answered quickly, and that
wasn’t really a lie either, as his stomach was doing all sorts of
gymnastics due to fantasies of Declan Shaw. “Good day,” he added,
and waved rather than stopping, eager to reach his destination
without being waylaid. He realized he was already in front of the
doctor’s home and started up the pathway toward the door.
    “You must have a sour stomach indeed, if you
need the doctor’s care,” Mrs. Moore called after him.
    James didn’t reply, merely gave her another
cheery wave. Sometimes he grew tired of people’s nosiness. But he
smiled, knowing that by the time he appeared at Jasper White’s
graveside this afternoon, half the village would have heard James
was on death’s door himself. That was the power of gossip in a
small town.
    No more thinking, dreaming, or dramatizing a
man who was a near stranger, James schooled himself as he used the
knocker. He would think of Shaw no more, except as Mrs. Darnley’s
concerned nephew. And that unfortunate meeting. He’d stop his
useless worries about Kip as well.
    “Dr. Tarkington is unavailable,” the
maidservant explained after James requested an audience. From the
nearby parlor, James heard the distant rumbling voice which had
just invaded his dreams. Declan Shaw. Again. He seemed fated to
keep encountering this man.
    “I believe Mr. Shaw is here on the same
errand,” James said. “If you would announce me, I think the
gentlemen will permit me to join them.” As soon as the maid
disappeared, he wondered why he thought he should join them. The
desire to see Declan Shaw again did not constitute a true
reason.
    He waited in the hallway, and soon the woman
returned to usher James into the parlor. He was barely aware of the
fussy décor, designed by Mrs. Tarkington, who worried that she must
put up a front of good breeding but had once confessed to James she
wasn’t sure what that meant. He barely noticed the doctor sitting
in an armchair silhouetted by the window. His attention went
straight to Shaw, whose lids lowered and mouth curved at the sight
of him. James was both pleased and alarmed that Shaw seemed happy
to see him again. His mouth ached to return the smile. Instead, he
gave his attention to the doctor, praying the man hadn’t detected
their too intimate smiles.
    Tarkington directed James to a seat on the
overstuffed sofa. “You’ve met Mr. Shaw? He tells me he has informed
you of his concerns about Mrs. Darnley.”
    “Yes.” James perched on the edge of the sofa
and feared the slippery fabric might dump him on the floor. He was
glad they would get straight to the point. He was as good as anyone
at making meaningless conversation but wasn’t sure he wanted to
attempt that in Mr. Shaw’s presence. “I’ll admit, the lady’s
wandering mind and fretful fears have worried me too, but I didn’t
believe it was my place to inquire about her mental state.