Haunted Passions

Haunted Passions

Ranae Rose

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This book is a work of fiction. All characters, names, places and events are products of the author’s imagination and are in no way real. Any resemblance to real events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Haunted Passions

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2012 Ranae Rose

Cover Design by Ranae Rose

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Chapter 1

John had never thought that his heart could be ripped out by just a few simple words, and yet, that was exactly how he felt. We’ll be announcing our engagement tonight… Brom’s voice echoed in his memory. I wanted to let you know myself.

God damn you, Brom, John said, wiping dampness from his forehead with his sleeve. The curse was a distraction, a failed manifestation of some emotion he didn’t know how to express – he didn’t really mean it. A part of him broiled with anger, but it was a small part; mostly, he felt dreadfully sick. He pressed a hand to his stomach, conscious of the leaden weight that had settled there when Brom had laid his hand on his shoulder, just before he’d delivered the news.

John had known that something was wrong as soon as Brom had touched him. Brom’s touch had been tense, his hand stiff and awkward as it closed ineffectually on John’s shoulder. Brom Bones had never touched anyone like that before, and likely never would again. He was a man who always knew what he wanted, a man who laid hands on a body with confidence, already sure of what he intended to do. John knew that, perhaps better than anyone. But Brom’s hand had nearly slipped off of John’s shoulder as he’d told him of his engagement to Katrina. God damn you… John rasped, his stomach contracting around its burden as he touched his shoulder, seeking some trace of heat, some proof that Brom’s fingers had really rested there so recently.

There was none. Only the rough fabric of his coat and the autumn chill that hung in the air and had worked its way into every stitch of his clothing, every fiber of his being. He felt as if he were already dead. Soon, he would be.

He drew a pistol from beneath his coat, caressing the barrel. There was promise in every inch of the cold steel – the promise of oblivion. It called to him, the temptation carried on the biting night breeze. He glanced over his shoulder, promising himself that it would be for the last time. His heart jolted and sped at the sight of the large farmhouse looming in the distance, its windows glowing with candlelight. The spry, shadowy forms of dancers darted back and forth behind the glass. Everyone was making merry, celebrating a good harvest, and perhaps Brom and Katrina’s engagement – had they announced it yet?

No. He wouldn’t dwell on it any longer – not the engagement, anyway. Brom and Katrina themselves, however, were different matters altogether. He turned resolutely, forcing himself to face the dark forest that stretched at the edge of the Van Tassel farmlands. Under any other circumstances, the sight of it at this time of night would have sent a chill down his spine. But what did it matter now? If there were wild beasts afoot, they could do no greater harm to him than his own hand, and if there were spirits lurking… Well, he was about to join them.

Squeezing his eyes shut, he committed his thoughts to Brom. The man’s face formed perfectly in front of his mind’s eye, complete with the oh-so-familiar strong jaw, dark eyes and even darker hair. It curled a bit at his temples and at the nape of his neck. And it felt like silk, slid easily between one’s fingers, like sweet spring grass after the rain… John inhaled, smelling not the autumn night, but the spring afternoon during which he’d first met Brom seven months ago. The memory was a double-edged sword, sweet and bitter at once. His entire body tingled, hot despite his thin clothing and the bitter wind. Brom… The man’s name was a whisper on his lips and was quickly swallowed up by a rushing breeze that tore several locks of his hair loose from their ribbon and whipped them across his face. They tickled his mouth, teasing, like the memory of Brom’s lips.

Katrina had lovely lips, as well. A mouth like a rosebud, in fact, and cheeks that were just as pink. He’d tasted those perfect lips just once, and had perhaps taken the experience too seriously. A wry bark of a laugh escaped him, and his thoughts spiraled rapidly toward the dark place inside him that Brom had opened up with his words. Struggling for control over his unruly emotions, he thought of Katrina’s eyes. Blue and sparkling, they were more brilliant than the brightest summer sky. Framed with golden ringlets, her face was just as perfect as Brom’s. Picturing them together was both the most beautiful and most excruciating thing he could imagine. Shoving the image from his mind, he thought finally of himself.

Though his eyes were still closed, he had no trouble seeing himself as he was: a slender figure against the dark wilderness, clad in threadbare clothes that whipped around him as a particularly violent gust of wind howled by, causing the hair on the back of his neck to stand up. He was young, and more than a little afraid of death, when he really thought about it. If anyone had been there with him, they probably would have been able to see that, would have been able to read his face like a book. But he was alone, and morbidly aware of that fact. Another vicious breeze tore his ribbon loose and carried it away. His hair flew with it, each strand stinging his face. He relished the petty pain for what little distraction it provided from his greater suffering.

The wind stilled, leaving him alone with the knowledge of all his inadequacies. He hadn’t decided to take his own life because he was angry with Brom or Katrina. In all honesty, he wished them well. He was going to end his existence because he wasn’t worthy of a man like Brom, or a woman like Katrina. When he’d found out that his chances – however flimsy they’d been in the first place – of ever having lasting happiness with either of them were nonexistent, he’d realized that they were all he really cared about. At some point since he’d arrived in Sleepy Hollow, his world had shifted on its axis and begun to revolve around Brom and Katrina, his two secret loves. And now his world was over. Swallowing the last of his inhibitions, he pressed the barrel of the gun firmly to the side of his head. Christ – Brom, Katrina… I love you both, but neither of you will ever belong to me, and it’s more than I can bear.

His heart beat hard and fast, his pulse thrumming in his ears so that he almost didn’t hear the faint sound of hoofbeats coming from somewhere in the distance. Was someone riding through the wood, about to discover him? He didn’t have time to wonder who it might be – not if he was going to pull this off before being seen and losing his nerve. He squeezed the trigger and something rushed unseen out of the darkness and gripped his arm so hard he thought the bones would snap.

The explosive boom of the discharging pistol threw him off balance, and he fell, ears ringing. All the breath was knocked out of him when he hit the ground, and the earth seemed to sway and pitch beneath him, like a ship on a storm-tossed sea. The pressure was still there on his arm – could it be the angel of death?

God damn it, John! A deep voice growled from above, shockingly familiar. What do you think you’re doing?

It never occurred to John to answer. Instead, he lay flat on his back, staring up at the huge figure looming against the night sky. A clunk rang out loud and clear as Brom threw the pistol, and it bounced off of a tree, falling uselessly to the ground.

As a little breath worked its way back into John’s lungs, it became clear that he hadn’t, in fact, succeeded in shooting himself. The knowledge that he’d failed in even that simple endeavor was infuriating. He ground his teeth as Brom crouched over him, leering.

Brom’s breath buffeted John’s face in hot blasts that cut straight through the cold air.

You look like a madman, John said, meeting Brom’s narrowed eyes.

Brom snorted and seized John by his arms, jerking him into a sitting position. You have a lot of nerve, saying that to me.

John could feel his flesh bruising beneath Brom’s grip, but he said nothing. He couldn’t speak – there seemed to be a blockage of some sort in his throat. He wanted to shout at Brom, to tell him that he had a lot of fucking nerve, interfering like that. But he couldn’t, so he just breathed, letting the cold air chill his insides, which had rapidly begun to heat as soon as he’d heard Brom’s voice.

John! The third voice was something like the sound of a bell, and it cut through John’s heart, stopping it as effectively as a bullet.

He turned in the direction of the farmhouse, feeling the color drain out of his face. Katrina was moving rapidly toward him and Brom, her skirts churning around her feet. Her golden hair gleamed in the gibbous moon’s light, and her face was whiter than snow. Even her rosebud lips were pale, compressed into a tiny ‘o’ of shock. She wasn’t alone; a whole crowd of people followed her. She was at the forefront, her bosom heaving beneath her bodice and shawl as her father trotted at her elbow, breathing heavily with the effort of keeping up. None of them were on horseback – he must have imagined the sound of hooves.

Everything is fine, Brom assured them all, forcing John to his feet, as if to prove his point. John came outside for a bit of fresh air and saw a wild beast right there. He waved one large hand toward the edge of the forest. Scared it off with a shot, though. It won’t be back.

The crowd erupted into a cacophony of exclamations and admonitions, expressing everything from fear to disapproval of John’s foolish decision to walk alone after dark at the edge of the woods. The one thing nobody did was question Brom’s version of events. Nobody in Sleepy Hollow did that – Brom was a local hero of sorts, thanks to his skills at the decidedly masculine arts of horsemanship and hunting. With a few more words, he convinced everyone to return to their merrymaking.

Katrina lingered, and so did her father, Mr. Van Tassel, who was clearly eager to remove his daughter from any lurking dangers. Come, dear, he said, glancing anxiously at the forest.

Brom touched Katrina’s arm lightly, and the gesture sent a sharp pang of longing straight through John. When she turned to Brom with an expression of mingled concern and tenderness, he wanted to look away. But he couldn’t. Will he be all right? she asked, and at that moment, John knew that Brom’s story hadn’t fooled her.

Brom nodded firmly. I’ll see him home.

Katrina went with her father then, but not without casting a long, lingering look over her shoulder at John. What he saw in her eyes made his heart race – it was the same look she’d given Brom. He was powerless to look away until she did, and then Brom tugged him in the direction of the farmhouse.

Brom paused only to retrieve the pistol he’d thrown, dusting dirt from its barrel and frowning down at it. It belonged to Brom – John knew that Brom always carried it in his saddlebag, and had taken it from there before retreating to the edge of the forest to use it. Brom glared at him as realization flickered in his eyes, but said nothing.

Brom set their pace, deliberately trailing behind Katrina and her father, out of hearing range. Despite that fact, he didn’t say a word as they trudged toward the house. He kept a hold on John’s arm though, and Brom’s heat suffused him, pumping fresh life into his body. It felt strange to recognize that fact when he’d been so sure of his impending death only minutes ago. By the time they reached the line of horses picketed in front of the house, John’s heart was beating fit to burst out of his chest.

Brom mounted his huge black stallion, Torben, in silence, tucking his pistol back into a saddlebag while John turned warily to Gunpowder. The pale grey gelding was every bit as tall as Brom’s horse, but lean and lanky, and always with a vicious gleam in his eyes. John had never encountered a more detestable animal, and yet, he was grateful that the Jansens had lent him the beast for the night. Otherwise, he would have had to walk through the forest on foot, and anything was preferable to that – in the dark, anyway.

Gunpowder swung his head around and nipped at John as he tightened the girth. John swore under his breath, barely managing to dodge the wicked creature’s long yellow teeth. It was obvious that the gelding had been named for his frequent and often explosive bursts of bad temper.

Brom reached down from the saddle, smoothly catching Gunpowder by the bridle. This allowed John to mount in peace, for once without having the horse snap at his legs.

Brom let go, and they started wordlessly for the path that led through the forest. Brom and Torben led the way, and John kept Gunpowder at the other horse’s flank. He tried to keep his eyes on the twisting branches that hung over the path instead of admiring the broad expanse of Brom’s shoulders. They were rigid beneath his coat, and that telltale sign belied the calm veneer he’d been maintaining since the crowd had shown up at the scene of John’s attempted suicide. Brom’s breath came in deep, slow rushes and clouded around his face, evanescent in the night air. There was no question about it – he was furious.

John didn’t know what would happen when they reached the Jansens’ home, where he lived, and didn’t have the presence of mind to wonder about it. Any speculation would give way to fantasy all too easily, and he couldn’t bear to succumb to that. He still felt the sharp pangs of loss; Brom was no longer his.

At last, the Jansens’ farm appeared. It was abandoned, as all the other homes in Sleepy Hollow were that night, save for the Van Tassels’. Everyone had gone there to celebrate – he and Brom were very much alone. They rode slowly toward the stable, their horses’ hooves beating a dull tattoo against the earth.

To John’s surprise, when they reached the stable, Brom led his mount into a stall.

As he and Brom exited the stable together, John swallowed the thick knot that had formed in his throat. They walked side by side, and he couldn’t bring himself to speak. The house was close by, and when they reached it he stepped inside, resigned to one more night of his mortal troubles. Brom followed, pulling the door firmly shut.

John had never seen the house so empty before. The Jansens had four lively boys, and the farmhouse was usually filled with the din of chatter and busy feet. It was eerie without them, and as his gaze fell on Brom, his heart raced furiously. At any time before tonight, he would have been delighted to find himself alone in the house with Brom, knowing he had hours before the Jansens arrived. As it was, he wished that he’d succeeded in killing himself.

Brom stood in a moonbeam that poured through the parlor window, and it cast a silver halo around his body. His thick arms were crossed over his chest, and his eyes were just visible, gleaming black beneath the shadow that had fallen across his face. The force of his gaze felt like the blow of a hammer, and John forced himself to meet his eyes for several moments before he turned on one heel and marched up the stairs. He had no words to offer Brom – at least, nothing he could bring himself to say.

Brom was close behind him, and the stairs shook beneath his every step. The hair on the back of John’s neck stood up, but he didn’t stop until he reached a modest bedroom on the second floor, where he’d been staying since his arrival in Sleepy Hollow. Brom followed him inside and slammed the door shut. The resulting reverberations made the floorboards tremble beneath John’s feet, and it was all he could do to face Brom without doing the same.

God damn it, John, Brom growled, stepping into John’s personal space and breathing down on him like an angry bull, what were you thinking?

John exhaled slowly. For a moment, rage had burned white hot inside him, and he’d heard his own blood rush in his ears. The sensation had been fleeting though, and as he met Brom’s eyes, he was suddenly exhausted. He turned aside, but Brom seized him by the arm. John almost wanted to laugh – it wasn’t as if there was anywhere for him to go in the small room, where most of the space was taken up by a narrow bed and modest desk. With his free hand, he reached out and touched one of his beloved books, a leather-bound volume that lay on the desk. There is a spell on this place, he said, keeping his voice low even though they were alone. I felt it as soon as I first entered Sleepy Hollow, and it has haunted me since.

Brom made a strangled noise in the back of his throat. He hated what he often referred to as ‘superstitious nonsense’, and had often made it clear that he thought John was full of it.

I could leave, but I’m sure I’d remain under the spell, wherever I went, John continued. And so I… He wiped sweat from his brow with his sleeve. How was it that he was hot? The night was cold, and so was his room.

Brom’s grip had tightened on John’s arm as he’d spoken; now Brom sighed, low and long. That’s your answer? A load of superstitious shit? His grip tightened again, and John sensed that he was fighting the urge to shake him.

Don’t tell me you don’t know what I mean, John said, feeling absurdly calm. You feel it too – I know you do.

Brom ground his teeth, and a tendon stood out fat and taut below his clenched jaw. Tell me plainly what drove you to such insane measures. It was the engagement, was it not?

John tried not to break eye contact with Brom, but couldn’t help himself.

I knew it, Brom sighed.

John pulled his arm from Brom’s grasp, and the other man didn’t try to hold on. Turning to face the window, John peered up at the moon, which hung not quite full but bright in a clear sky.

It had to be done, Brom said. I’m expected to marry, and for good reason. I cannot remain a perpetual bachelor without even a sibling to pass my family’s estate to. It’s well past time for me to take a wife, and Katrina is the finest woman in Tarrytown – in all of New York, so far as I’m concerned. He paused before continuing. I told you first out of consideration. I wouldn’t have if I’d had any idea you’d run off and try to blow your brains out.

It all made sense, too much sense – the cold logic of Brom’s words stung. I know, John said simply, his shoulders slumping. The moonlight played tricks on his eyes, and he imagined that he saw a dark shape flitting to and fro by the edge of the distant forest, but it was gone as soon as he’d seen it. Even as gooseflesh rose all over his arms and the back of his neck, he wished for it to reappear, to provide some sort of distraction. It didn’t, and he was uncomfortably aware of what he had to do next. I’m sorry, he said, for ruining your engagement party.

Brom’s hand descended on his shoulder like a vice, and he felt himself being turned around, forced to show the window his back and face Brom. You think that’s why I’m angry? Brom asked, his voice barely above a whisper. There was a dangerous gleam in his dark eyes.

John said nothing, but held Brom’s gaze, refusing to look aside.

Christ, Brom choked out, I hadn’t given the party a single thought from the time I noticed you were missing until now. He leaned a little closer, and his breath warmed John’s face and neck. I knew something was wrong as soon as I realized you were gone.

He must have been speaking the truth – why else would he have ventured away from the party and to the edge of the wilderness? John hadn’t considered it until now, but something inside him snapped at the thought of Brom thinking of him even during the excitement of his own engagement party, of Brom braving the cold night to seek him out. When Brom’s lips brushed his jaw, he didn’t – couldn’t – pull away.

Brom