Page 55 of Love Beneath the Guillotine
“I trust you,” Henry said. “I’m trying to take care of you.”
And Léon wilted. His insides melted like butter in a hot pan.Shut up, Henri. He turned his head away.
Henry said, “How about this? We wash, we eat, then we plan our next move.”
“It’s not ‘our’ next move,” Léon replied, incredulous. “This is it. This is where we part ways. Our deal is done. It’s over, and you’re leaving now.”
The words sat like a lead weight between them. Henry hadn’t let go, and Léon hadn’t pulled away, but whatever had shifted between them the night before and that day and during every minute they’d spent together, Léon drew it out into the harsh light of day and eviscerated it.
They were nothing to each other. They were strangers who’d crossed paths in the most tumultuous of ways, and just as soon as Léon got his horses, it would be through. They would never once, not ever, meet again.
“Then wash,” said Henry. “Wash, and I’ll give you a shirt to wear back to town. It’s too cold to go like that, and you’ll have to drive.”
The proposal made some kind of sense. It was the least Henry could do.
And, all things considered, what difference could a few minutes alone in the stables with Henri De Villiers really make?
27
COLD COMFORT
Henry and Léon were, for all intents and purposes, back out in the freezing night. The structure of the stable provided some protection from wind, and thankfully they hadn’t seen a drop of the red rain since Henry had pulled Catherine out of the pit. Even so, stepping onto the wooden planks, straw strewn about the place, the smell of horses and hay all about them, it seemed like one of the worst possible places to strip off and try to get clean.
A large metal tub was placed down in the middle of the floor, filled by the same young man who had taken their horses earlier. Into this was dropped a burning brick from the fire, scolding hot, setting the water to a brief bubble, then a gentle ripple, from which an enticing steam rose.
Henry stood on one side, Léon on the other, and both looked down at the water, their carefully arranged expressions hiding whatever each was thinking, while the light of one lantern provided all the illumination available to them.
Destroyer stuck his head over a gate and gave a whinny, to which Henry replied, “Shut up,” and the horse disappeared back into darkness with a snuffle.
Henry moved fingers to the collar of his shirt and Léon, with a blush, tried not to look. Instead, he reached for a washcloth, which he fumbled in his haste. He bent down to pick it up, flicking off the hay that clung to it, and Henry, having already loosened the string at the top of his shirt, wrenched the bottom free, flashing his navel and the line of hair that ran down his midline, that disappeared invitingly into his breeches.
Léon’s eyes followed uncontrollably when Henry stretched his arms over his head, his view of Léon’s hungry gaze safely hidden just for a moment. And that moment was permanently branded on Léon’s brain. Henry’s chest was broad and strong, his nipples hard, erect against the cold. He drew his stomach in with the frigid air, muscles taut and undulating over every delicious inch. Léon wanted his skin beneath his tongue. He wanted him down on the stable floor.
Christ, what was wrong with him?
His opinion of Henry, his relation to him, had changed so dramatically during that very long day. He hadn’t feared him since the hot moment they’d been stuck hiding in the bushes, and since then… The way he held his sister, his reasons for all the things he’d done, his manner in kidnapping and stealing from people, his relation to that weird horse, that fleeting moment of… Would he have called it ‘tenderness’, during the carriage ride? Something inside Léon had softened at each and every step, but when Henry had taken a bullet for him…
His eyes went to the red wound on his biceps. It had scraped the skin, which looked sore and swollen. But how close it had been to his heart. A fraction of a second earlier or later, and one of them would have been dead.
Henry was reaching for a cloth, the line of his body curving as he leaned over, and Léon thought of those soft hands pulling the cloak up to his shoulders. He thought of Henry’s smile. And it was like a rock inside him cracked open. He found he craved thataffection. Some soft part of him, long since covered over, had been exposed that day, and Léon ached for that tender touch. Not the touch of Souveraine, which was always there, always kind and loving, but something stronger. Harder. More definite. That…intimacy. That, longing…
He pulled his eyes away, dipping the cloth into the water, running his other hand around his midline, trying to ease the physical tension.
“I wish you’d rethink the carriage. And leaving.”
Léon chanced the meeting of their eyes when Henry spoke, but Henry was turning the bar of soap over in his hands, scrubbing the blood away. Léon brought the hot cloth across his neck, goosebumps breaking on his skin, and made no reply, staring down into the tub.
Henry flicked a glance up at the steaming rivulets running down Léon’s chest, over his firm pink nipples, and he couldn’t remember a time he’d been so desperately attracted to another man. His arms were enormous. He must have been incredibly strong. But it was framed inside such delicate beauty. The softest, most sensitive mouth, the shyness of the eyes, until they flared in vicious defiance. That cocky smile. “If you really have to go, just take a horse. You could say you came across it by chance. Claim ignorance about the carriage. Or say I took off with it.”
“Or that my masked man did?” Léon joked.
Henry gave the briefest of smiles, nervousness ratcheting up the tightly pulled atmosphere until he couldn't find words. There was only the sound of splashing water to fill the barn.
Léon noticed the way Henry’s wound remained untouched, and said, “You’re going to have to wash it.”
Henry’s head turned down, the lines that moved in his neck drawing Léon’s gaze. What a beautiful neck it was. What he’d give to lick it, just once.
“It’s fine,” said Henry.
