“I remember this hermitage, Christian. It was a hellhole in our day. Now it appears a Fifth Avenue designer has had his way with the place. Matching furniture? Leather seating? My goodness, you’re living rather luxuriously for a priest,” he taunted.
Christian grinned broadly. “I’m not complaining. I gave up women for this job. At least they could give me a decent place to live.”
“How long ago was the remodel?”
“Shortly after your friend Stearns donated his largesse to us. It had been abandoned again. Canadian runaways had been living in it awhile.”
“Canadian runaways?”
“Or American runaways heading to Canada. We get a few of each stripe through here every year. This valley connects the two highways.”
“It’s deadly out here. No one knows that better than we do.”
Christian nodded. “A few have died crossing this terrain. We try to police it a bit better. They slip through. A whole family was sleeping in this cabin when we came out to start the remodel.”
“I’m sure the Fathers took care of them.”
“We try. Tea?”
“Oui, merci.” Kingsley took the cup from Christian, who sat across from him by the fireplace.
“Ah, there’s the French. You still have the accent, but I’ve missed the language.”
“I’ll never lose the accent. It pays the bills.”
Christian grinned again. “You were right. I really don’t want to know what sort of business you’re in. I’m sure you keep that far away from your relationship with Father Stearns.”
Kingsley raised an eyebrow. His lip twitched from trying not to smile.
“Bien sûr.”
They sipped at their tea by the fireplace like two English gentlemen instead of what they were—one Jesuit priest and one French sinner.
“Can I ask what brought you back here?” Christian asked, studying him over the rim of his cup.
“Old ghosts.” Kingsley turned his gaze to the cold fireplace and weighed his words. Christian had taken the photograph that had been sent to him and Søren. Possible he knew something. “As you’re a priest now, I can trust that anything I tell will be kept between us alone.” Perhaps if he gave up a little of the truth, Christian would give up even more.
“You can tell me anything. It would be an honor to hear your confession.”
“Only don’t absolve me, s’il vous plaît. I would miss my sins and they would miss me.”
“You have my word. Now tell me…who is the ghost that brings you back here after all these years?”
“I wish I knew, mon frère. Mon père.” Kingsley winked at Christian. “You remember the photographs you took of all of us?”
Christian’s brow furrowed before his eyes widened with remembrance. “Yes, of course. I got that camera for Christmas. Thought I’d spend my life doing National Geographic covers.”
“For the animals, of course. Not the native women?” Kingsley raised his eyebrow and Christian blushed slightly.
“I would go where they sent me. Yes, I remember the pictures. I tried to get a shot of everyone in the school.”
“You took one of Father Stearns and me. After class. I’d been helping him grade papers for his French students.”
“I don’t remember the details. Were we in the library?”
“The chapel.” Kingsley recalled every detail of that day. He and Søren had fought in the hermitage. Fought bitterly as they were wont to do. Young Kingsley had been tempestuous, hot-blooded, desperate for more time with Søren, more affection from the often remote young man. Søren, then as now, had been cold, calm, rational…his placidity in the face of Kingsley’s fury infuriating him even more. Kingsley had goaded Søren, desperate for any sort of reaction from him. Finally, he’d gotten it. Søren had thrown him onto the cot and tied his wrists to the metal frame. For half an hour, he had f**ked him in complete silence and without mercy, one hand clamped over Kingsley’s mouth to silence his moans and another hand on his neck to hold him still. After the sex, Kingsley’s legs had shook from the sheer overwhelming force of the orgasm Søren had wrung from his body.
They’d returned to the school and gone about business as usual, Kingsley at peace again. In passive bliss he’d sat at Søren’s feet as they quietly flipped through the stack of French homework, circling errors and making corrections. On the floor next to Søren’s chair, helping him with his work, Kingsley had felt even closer to Søren then when they’d been f**king—a novel sensation he never experienced again in his life. Not until Juliette.
“The chapel. Yes. I remember now. I’d been terrified to interrupt you two. You were speaking French to each other. Not much. You seemed quiet, intent on your work. I hoped to get a picture without either of you noticing.”
“We noticed. But we didn’t mind.”
Christian finished his cup of tea and poured another. “So my picture of you two…what about it?”
“Someone mailed it to me. The original.”
“Who?”
Kingsley shook his head. “That is indeed the question.”
“No idea?”
“None at all. It was sent anonymously. As a threat or a warning…or perhaps merely a taunt.”
“A threat? Is it a secret you and Father Stearns were at school here together?”