AUTHOR: Lillian Francis
PUBLISHER: Finally Love Press
COVER ARTIST: Meredith Russell
LENGTH: 98,950 words
RELEASE DATE: August 3, 2015
BLURB: Ewan Matthews is one of
Boston’s leading genealogy experts. When a would-be bridegroom comes looking
for confirmation that there are no skeletons in his ancestral closet, Ewan
considers turning the job down. Trey Capell is a jerk of the highest order and
yet Ewan experiences an infuriating attraction that’s easy to justify. Trey’s
exactly his type—a carbon copy of the man Ewan’s been looking for his entire
life.
Harder to explain is the sense
of recognition that leaves Ewan speechless the moment Trey steps into his
office. Or the stomach-churning sensation at the thought of casting the job
aside.
Trey gets more appealing by the day, leaving Ewan
struggling with forbidden desire for his client. Desire not helped by strange
voyeuristic dreams that have started to haunt his sleep. Dreams that appear to
be an echo of the past.
Fingers brushed against the
thin cotton khaki material as they eased the brass button through the
buttonhole. Experienced in their task, these were deft, sure movements, nothing
tentative or uncertain. These hands had undressed a man—this man—before.
Fingers paused on their path to the next button to pick the worst of the
offending debris of a day in the field from the material.
More buttons opened to reveal
a white cotton undershirt, backs of fingers brushing against the thin layer of
material that separated skin from skin. An audible sigh drifted between the two
men, ruffling the dark hair of the man whose head was bowed in supplication.
The last button was slipped
free and the man ordered, “Arms out.”
Obeying without question,
hands, which had previously been stuffed casually in pockets, were pulled free.
They hung by the officer’s sides, fingers curled just sufficiently to graze
against his garish tartan trousers. Palms smoothed over the material of the
undershirt, flat strokes that eased the material of the jacket off over broad
shoulders. Hands were gone long enough for the batman to move around behind his
officer before they returned to peel the jacket down his arms.
The slow, lingering movements
of disrobing became purposeful and more hurried now that there was no contact.
The willowy dark-haired man strode to the wooden valet, moulding the material
over the body-shaped dummy. He reached for the brush, which was laid out with
other cleaning materials on the top of a large trunk and, with definite,
precise movements, started to swipe it over the dusty material.
If he was aware of the way
the officer swivelled on the balls of his feet to follow his path across the
large tent, which acted as barrack room for the officer and his batman, then he
gave no indication. He certainly seemed unperturbed by the intensity of the
pale-blue gaze that watched his every movement from under a mess of auburn
eyebrows. Eyebrows, which coupled with the reddish-brown moustache, gave a true
indication to hair colour which the slicked cropped cut couldn’t.
“When this war is over,” the
officer began, his American accent a shocking contrast to the British style of
the uniform he wore. A shock to the voyeur at least, the batman didn’t so much
as blink, continuing the soothing whisper of bristle over fabric without even
raising his head. In a tone commanding, but fond, the officer continued, “You
will stay with me, won’t you?”
“If you feel you have need of
my services, sir,” his batman answered deferentially, barely pausing in his
work.
The sigh was scarcely
audible, but it drifted off into a name. “Owen.”
It was admonishment and
question all rolled into one and it had the desired effect. The batman, Owen,
glanced up from his task, fingers rubbing reverently over the two stars on the
jacket’s epaulette. A small smile quirked at his lips, making his eyes dance
and lighting up his pale features. Features all the more pronounced by the dark
hair that framed his face.
“With respect, who else would
put up with you, sir?” The honorific was uttered in a tone so soft that it
almost appeared to be an endearment.
“We had cake in the officer’s
mess today. Clifden got a parcel from home. How it made it here in one piece,
I’ll never know.”
“An extremely clever and
sneaky Battalion Quartermaster, I suspect,” Owen said, throwing the comment
over his shoulder as he gave the jacket one last swipe with his brush.
The Lieutenant snorted in
amusement and then nodded toward a battered trunk. “I smuggled out a piece for
you. It’s gingerbread, your favourite. I put it in with your stuff.”
“You shouldn’t have.” Owen’s
softly spoken words were an admonishment, but the smile on the younger man’s
face said he was more than happy with his gift.
“Why not?” the officer
muttered, his voice gruff and belligerent. “I was an ass to you earlier.”
“I know you didn’t mean it
how it came out. You speak before you think.” Owen shrugged. “I know you, sir,
better than anyone.”
“I don’t know why you put up
with me.”
Owen turned and placed the
brush on top of the larger of the two trunks. “Yes, you do.”
“Doesn’t make it right.” The
officer shook his head. “Anyway, you need feeding up. You’re too skinny.”
The Lieutenant dropped into a
rickety canvas chair with more force than the furniture was possibly designed
for, and the sigh that escaped his lips was almost certainly intended to be
heard. It filled the canvas room with anticipation and something heavier than
the sum of its parts, something a watcher could have no hope of understanding.
The batman’s smile grew
melancholy and he made his way back toward his officer, dropping to his knees
on the thick colourful rugs, indigenous in nature, which appeared to be layered
to keep out the worst of the dust and the sand. Reaching for the right boot
first, Owen swiftly unfastened it, tugging it free. He paused, his hand
cradling the ankle with the officer’s socked foot resting on his thighs. When
Owen looked up, his gaze was serious, eyes shimmering pools of green and gray,
and he focused all his attention on the man in front of him.
“If we make it home, then I’m
yours for as long as you want me,” he paused for barely a heartbeat, “Tristan.”
“Always.”
“It may be difficult to word
on a contract of employment,” Owen said with a laugh in his voice, the emotion
accentuating a previously barely registered Scots brogue, “but always seems
satisfactory to me.”
The laughter caught in his
throat, turning into a dry cough that left him breathless.
“I wish you would see the
medic about that cough.” Tristan didn’t bother to conceal the concern in his
voice and he leant forward, hand reaching out…
* * * * *
Something caused Ewan to wake
with a start, and he brushed a hand over his cheek at the ghost of a touch.
He’d been dreaming, he was sure of it, but the dream was quickly scurrying away
from him as was their habit to do. His throat was dry and scratchy, almost
rough, and he felt strangely unsettled, as though his subconscious had been
exploring events which he couldn’t quite remember.
Throwing back his quilt, he
rolled from the bed and padded into the bathroom, fingers idly scratching
against the material of his boxers. He’d take a piss in a minute. Right now,
the urge for a drink was overwhelming. Opening the cold tap, he cupped his hand
beneath the running water, allowing it to flow, cool and clear, over the edge
of his palm. Bring his face down to meet the gushing water, Ewan slurped the
liquid noisily and vigorously into his mouth, drinking his fill greedily.
Sated, he splashed the water
onto his face, remnants of the dream returning as his head cleared. Lifting his
gaze to the mirror, he watched as a droplet of water collected on his eyelashes
before dripping down to join the swirling water in the sink. The distraction
focused his gaze on the reflection of his irises, hazel eyes suddenly breaking
down into slivers of green and gray.
The shock of recollection hit
him, and with a gasp, he recoiled from his own reflection. He blinked, once,
twice. Long, drawn-out pulls of eyelid over eyeball, and when he finally dared
to look again, his eyes were the green that predominantly made up his irises,
together with the more familiar flecks of blues and browns. More importantly,
they were most definitely his and not some random soldier’s from a random
dream.
The Lieutenant dropped into a rickety canvas chair
with more force than the furniture was possibly designed for, and the sigh that
escaped his lips was almost certainly intended to be heard. It filled the
canvas room with anticipation and something heavier than the sum of its parts,
something a watcher could have no hope of understanding.
The batman’s smile grew melancholy and he made his
way back toward his officer, dropping to his knees on the thick colourful rugs,
indigenous in nature, which appeared to be layered to keep out the worst of the
dust and the sand. Reaching for the right boot first, Owen swiftly unfastened
it, tugging it free. He paused, his hand cradling the ankle with the officer’s
socked foot resting on his thighs. When Owen looked up, his gaze was serious,
eyes shimmering pools of green and gray, and he focused all his attention on
the man in front of him.
“If we make it home, then I’m yours for as long as
you want me,” he paused for barely a heartbeat, “Tristan.”
“Always.”
“It may be difficult to word on a contract of
employment,” Owen said with a laugh in his voice, the emotion accentuating a
previously barely registered Scots brogue, “but always seems satisfactory to
me.”
The laughter caught in his throat, turning into a
dry cough that left him breathless.
“I wish you would see the medic about that cough.” Tristan
didn’t bother to conceal the concern in his voice and he leant forward, hand
reaching out…
* * * * *
Something caused Ewan to
wake with a start, and he brushed a hand over his cheek at the ghost of a
touch. He’d been dreaming, he was sure of it, but the dream was quickly
scurrying away from him as was their habit to do. His throat was dry and
scratchy, almost rough, and he felt strangely unsettled, as though his
subconscious had been exploring events which he couldn’t quite remember.
Lillian Francis.
Author of gay romance. Happy Endings guaranteed. Eventually.
An
avid reader, Lillian Francis was always determined she wanted to write, but a
“proper” job and raising a family distracted her for over a decade. Over the
years and thanks to the charms of the internet, Lillian realized she’d been
writing at least one of her characters in the wrong gender. Ever since, she’s
been happily letting her “boys” run her writing life.
Lillian
now divides her time between family, a job and the numerous men in her head all
clamouring for their stories to be told.
Lillian
lives in an imposing castle on a wind-swept desolate moor or in an elaborate
‘shack’ on the edge of a beach somewhere depending on her mood, with the heroes
of her stories either chained up in the dungeon or wandering the shack serving
drinks in nothing but skimpy barista aprons.
In
reality, she would love to own a camper van and to live by the sea.
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