Magnolia Heat, Gay Fiction

Magnolia Heat

A Gay Romance Novella

By

Keta Diablo

Copyright

Keta Diablo © 2014

Cover art Copyright © Fiona Jayde Designs

This book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any existing means without written permission from Keta Diablo. This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. The characters are products of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

Chapter One

Chapel Hill, North Carolina

1876

Lying on their bellies on a small knoll, a fair distance from Beresford Hall, the young men watched the black-lacquered coaches and elegant landaus arrive on the wide circular driveway. Men stepped out from their transports, their white-gloved hands and ebony cloaks glistening beneath the setting sun. Not just any men, but the upper echelon of Chapel Hill, commonly known as the elite of society.

“What did I tell you?” Anthony gave a hard jab to Craven’s ribs. “They’re too large-boned for women unless they hail from the Amazon.” He snorted. “Besides, what women do you know that wear long, ebony cloaks?”

Craven snickered. “Your assertion proves nothing. They could be members of a secret society, an espionage league or,” he snapped his thumb, “a sinister occult in disguise.”

Low-voiced, Anthony turned to him. “Oh, they belong to an occult all right, but not of the supernatural type. I have it on the best authority they’re libertines, every solitary, depraved one.”

“You’re not making an assertion then; you have firsthand knowledge?”

“Authoritative to be precise. What’s more, they limit their sexual lasciviousness to men.”

“If Martin Hubbard is your source, I’d question the credibility of his far-flung tales.”

Aware of the ache in his loins, Craven shifted on the ground, narrowed his eyes, and watched yet another transport halt near the front door. It wasn’t the first time he and Anthony had engaged in spying on Beresford Hall, and with any luck, it wouldn’t be the last. Craven couldn’t seem to squelch his innate curiosity when it came to Dominic Beresford and the decadent rumors surrounding both the old manor and the man.

Craven knew a thing or two about architecture; had spent hours poring through books on ancient edifices. Perhaps one day, the knowledge would serve him well, lead him to an occupation of carpentry or woodwork.

His gaze roamed over Beresford Hall top to bottom. The gray limestone exterior boasted three stories. The mass of the building was characterized by alternating bands of rough and smooth finished stone, enhanced by porticos, piazzas and numerous bay windows. Multiple leaded window panels framed the massive façade, making a bold statement of luxurious wealth. Even from here, the lemony fragrance of the magnolias clinging to the trellis and arbors drifted upward on the wind and spiraled up his nostrils.

Craven left his thoughts and turned to Anthony when he plucked a blade of grass from the ground and inserted it into his mouth. “I saw Dominic Beresford last year when the University reopened,” his friend said.

“Lucky devil. Paint me a vivid picture.”

“A mesmerizing, stunning man by all accounts.” Anthony’s eyes shimmered with adulation. “He’s a rather large fellow, his every muscle finely honed. What I recall with acute clarity is the tousled mass of black hair tumbling to his shoulders. Good Lord, when I saw him, the man looked is if he’d rolled from bed but a minute ago.” A lengthy pause ensued while they watched a trio of men exit their coach. Whispered conversation passed between the merry arrivals as they walked up the steps and disappeared like smoke behind the ornate, massive door. “His eyes are unforgettable,” Anthony added. “Bluer than the turquoise lagoons of Bermuda.”

Craven laughed. “You’ve never been to Bermuda, have you?”

“Of course not, but I’ve seen it in the picture books.”

“From where did Dominic Beresford obtain such wealth?”

The old geezers of Chapel Hill claim his great-grandfather sailed the seas under crossbones and skull. Some say his cellar houses over a thousand casks of Spanish bullion, booty his predecessor pilfered along the Carolina coast.”

“Do you think it true?”

“If he looks anything like his ancestors, I do.”

“The man is fierce looking, like a pirate?”

“Dark would be more like it. He possesses a mysterious, primitive appeal—reminds me of a Cooper’s hawk on the prowl for his evening meal.” Anthony laughed. “Without the sword and eyepatch.”

“The magnolias suit the manor well in that case.”

“How so?”

Craven returned the nudge to his ribs. “Did you sleep through botany class last year?”

“Most likely. I detest the study of plants.”

“Magnolias are a primitive plant. If not the first on earth, one of the first.” A humorless chuckle left Craven’s lips. “So perhaps the Beresford Hall should have been christened Magnolia Manor for alliteration. . . and for the plants.”

Craven offered a belly laugh. “More like Magnolia Heat, you mean?”

Magnolia Heat. A shivering warmth flooded Craven. He must be afflicted with an unnamed disease to court the licentious cravings his young body hungered for, insane to encourage his mind to invite such erotic thoughts about another man.

He couldn’t remember when he first discovered a woman’s touch failed to arouse him. He longed to have a man’s large, rough hands caress his naked flesh; feel a pulsating cock inside him. Anthony’s tastes ran along the same lines or they wouldn’t have risked such clandestine behavior every Friday eve for the last month.

Anthony’s words broke his reverie. “Martin claims the depraved lot is given to whips, restraints and a rigorous initiation that employs the use of martial discipline, including the horse.”

Dutifully attentive and thoroughly entranced, Craven asked, “Tell me true, has Martin been inside the hall?”

Eyes the color of acorns met his. “If you ever tell him I said so, I’ll swear an oath I didn’t. And then I’ll return to whip you sorely.”

“Tell me, everything.” He crossed his heart. “My holy word I won’t speak of it to anyone.”

“Martin belongs to their society; a select group of men who love men. Literally.”

“Society?”

“Yes, I told you; they have rules, initiations.”

“What’s the name of the society?”

Anthony shrugged. “Curse God if I know. Martin calls it Carnal Cravings.”

Craven looked at the darkening sky overhead and wondered if they should leave. Damn the daily rain and tropical weather of the Carolinas. “What about you, do you harbor a desire to join them?”

Anthony arched his neck back and held his eyes. “Why, do you?”

Before Craven had a chance to answer, a twig snapped behind them, and then the click of a pistol cock resounded in the still air. “Well, well, what do we have here?”

Craven’s heart jumped out of his chest. When he looked at Anthony, his friend’s face had paled to a shade whiter than his aunt’s picket fence. Together they turned toward the voice.

Dressed entirely in black, including the hood covering his features, the tall, powerfully built man stared them down. Despite the waning light, unmistakable azure blue eyes locked with Craven’s.

The man fixed the pistol on Anthony first and then aimed it at Craven’s chest. “On your feet. Let us see what Master Beresford has to say about two pubescent trespassers lurking about his property.”

“We weren’t aware we were-were trespassing, sir.” Anthony stuttered through the words. “We-we had no idea this hill was on Beresford Hall property.”

His deep, lofty voice alone terrified Craven. “A pig’s ass you didn’t. Everything you see for miles in all directions belongs to Dominic Beresford, and that makes you intruders.”

Like flickering candlelight, Craven’s voice quavered. “We’re hardly pubescent schoolboys, sir. We hail from good families, attend the University here, and meant no harm.”

“Master Beresford doesn’t take kindly to people spying on his private affairs. His orders are to shoot lurkers on sight.”

“Shoot us!” Anthony’s hands shot up in the air and he wailed. “Surely if we can speak with him, he’ll discover we meant no harm.”

“Very well, I won’t shoot you this instant, but I can’t promise what he might order me to do once he’s finished with you. Now on your feet, you can offer your miserable excuses to the lord of the manor, himself.”

Dusk had settled over the land by the time they reached the long cobblestone drive. Overhead, the clouds had disappeared and the sky clung to the land like a wretched gray overhang. Craven’s knees shook and he wondered if the dismal atmosphere was an ominous prelude to their fate.

Craven sent a silent prayer toward heaven that the landaus and carriages had departed and Beresford’s guests had already entered the hall. How utterly humiliating to think that any one of his members might look upon him and Anthony as prime pickings for their night of debauchery.

The hooded man led them to a side entrance on the right side of the manor, through a country kitchen, and, at last, up a long, winding stairwell. At the top of the landing, he ushered them down a wide corridor and stopped in front of a door at the end.

Taking a key from his pocket, the man unlocked the door and looked at Anthony. “You, in there. Find a chair and don’t touch a thing with those grimy fingernails, do you understand?”

“Yes-yes, sir.”

“Someone will be in posthaste to deal with you.”

Anthony stole a last glance at Craven, a grimace freezing his petrified face. “I’ll see you in short order, Craven. I’m confident Mr. Beresford will understand and release us posthaste.”

Craven’s stomach churned when the black-clad stranger issued a derisive snort. Strong fingers dug into his elbow. “Follow me, young man.” Moments later, he unlocked another door and with his hand between Craven’s shoulder blades, pushed him into the room. “Same instructions; don’t touch anything or you’ll face severe consequences. Master Beresford will be with you soon.”