Captured At The Castle (Scandal in Sussex Book 2)

by Alexandra Ainsworth

  The dirtiness though never receded, always hovered under the surface, only his long traipses through the outdoors reminding him of his freedom.

  “Think you’re too good for my money?” The man glared, and his ale sloshed wildly as he slammed his tankard on the table.

  Blood drained from Etienne’s face as he rose, pushing the table abruptly. It thudded against the floor. Etienne didn’t wait to see the man’s fury as the mulled wine and ale tipped and soaked the man’s clothes.

  I need to leave.

  Etienne scrambled to the door, his movements quick. The thin-lipped man was probably still wiping up sloshed drinks from his precious attire.

  How could I have thought I might enter the local pub and spend an evening in peace like everyone else?

  Relief hit him as he exited, and he lengthened his strides, eager now only to vanish.

  He rounded the corner of the pub, and strong arms pulled him into an alley. He shouted, but the brawl from the Guy Fawkes festivities drowned his yells, and a firm, sweaty hand smothered his mouth. “Somebody needs to teach you some manners, disrespecting my business partner.”

  Coldness struck Etienne. His limbs shook as Patterson gripped him close. He squirmed, trying to free himself.

  Patterson increased his stranglehold on him.

  “Please.” Patterson’s hand muffled his plea. Etienne ducked his head, for a moment feeling an open space.

  Another body slammed into him.

  Pain ricocheted through him, and calloused hands forced him against the rough stone wall.

  “Got you,” Patterson barked.

  Etienne shivered, his body moving in harsh shudders.

  “You lost your chance at some money.”

  A second pair of arms grasped him, the scent of meat returning. Etienne detected a faint smell of spiced wine. Etienne flailed his arms. His breath quickened, and his heart beat hard against his chest.

  “Think you’re too good for that? Listen, I know you. Know you. Just like in the Bible. I know what you need. It won’t ever change.” Patterson laughed, and his hand fondled Etienne, cupping his cock so it tightened against his will. “You loved it when different men took you. I could hear you panting from the next room.”

  The second man moaned and pressed himself even nearer to Etienne. “I want to be in your mouth.”

  Something wrenched inside of Etienne. “I doubt there’s much to suck.”

  The man’s cheeks darkened. Dim lights flickered from windows above, yet nobody came to aid him.

  Thick hands tore at Etienne’s clothes and ripped the buttons from Etienne’s shirt. Cold air blasted against Etienne. The smoke from the bonfires burned his throat, and he choked as the man thrust him against the uneven wall, scraping his back. He lifted his chin and his nostrils flared. Heat coursed through him at the casual destruction of his clothes.

  His fists tightened, and he swung.

  He collided with flesh, and a screech sounded. Patterson swore and he grabbed Etienne’s arms, twisting them behind his back.

  Pain soared through him, and hot tears threatened to spill.

  The other man shoved a bulky hand into Etienne’s trousers, stroking him, his wedding ring cold against Etienne’s skin.

  Etienne squeezed his eyes closed. The man needed this. Thought he needed it. Etienne knew the difference between men who liked the power and convenience of taking a man and the ones who actually derived great pleasure from it. The ones who craved men and disguised their lust with cruelty.

  Patterson flipped him against the wall and pulled Etienne’s breeches to the ground. He spread Etienne’s cheeks, opening him wide. The wind crashed into him, and Etienne’s muscles quivered. Patterson and the thin-lipped man held him in place. There is no escape.

  His shoulders slumped and his body stilled as Patterson’s familiar pants sounded behind him. His chest hammered, his head ached, his breath sped along, and there was nothing Etienne could do to halt any of this.

  Patterson undid his breeches and Etienne groaned. How could the men not realize they were unnatural as well? Did business colleagues really do this sort of thing together? Expose their cocks to each other in the guise of sodomizing men?

  Both men were panting now. My desires are their desires. I desire men too. Not like this, but I desire men.

  Hands pushed him down, so he knelt on cold cobblestones.

  Clamors still sounded from the bonfire night. Men trampled through the main streets, yet no one wandered through this alley.

  I’m alone.

  Erect cocks pressed against his cheeks. With a growl, Etienne bared his teeth and gnashed them together, not caring what happened next.

  “Damn.” The thin-lipped man held Etienne down. “You said he was good at this. I’m not having him anywhere my cock.”

  Somebody punched Etienne, and the world spun. He collapsed to the ground. Thick boots smashed against him, and his clothes tore further.

  “Merde.”

  The beating ceased, and Etienne blinked.

  “French curses?” The man shoved Etienne away.

  “He’s a frog,” Patterson explained.

  “I was going to have a frog’s mouth on my cock?” The man’s voice sounded shrill.

  Etienne clenched his fists, and his fingernails pressed into his roughened skin. He gritted his teeth as the others discussed him.

  The pummels continued, harsher and more violent than before. Metal flashed, and something cold sliced into his chest.

  Is this the end?

  Chapter Eight

  Banging on the door interrupted Geoffrey from sleep and sent a chill rushing down his neck. He shoved his bedding away. His quilt tumbled to the ground, and he struggled for his robe. His head ached, disoriented from the whiskey nightcap he had taken to force himself to sleep, all the better to prevent dreams of a certain handsome Frenchman to invade his mind.

  Coldness stung his feet as he hastened over the icy floorboards. Darkness draped the room, the nighttime fire already extinguished, and the sun not yet forcing its way to battle its rays through the velvet curtains.

  His heart pounded in his chest. Likely, he was simply being called out for professional purposes, but the rhythmic knocking gnawed on him, and he swallowed hard. Maybe my uncle has been found. He straightened his shoulders. He always imagined the moment would contain more joy.

  He clasped the door handle and pushed the door open.

  Barnesley paced the hallway, his strides long and uneven. His hair pointed in a variety of directions, and the clenched muscles of his back were visible even under the man’s disheveled clothes.

  Something that looked like relief flickered over Barnesley’s face as he noticed Geoffrey. “It be the duke, sir.”

  The duke. Geoffrey shifted, the Persian carpet his uncle had placed in the hallway suddenly too soft, as if he risked plummeting into the woolen knots.

  Barnesley nodded, and a slight tremor quaked through his hands. On any other occasion Geoffrey may have smiled. I didn’t know Barnesley held such respect for authority.

  He gave a curt nod, and re-entered his room, dressing with haste. His fingers trembled as coldness swept over Geoffrey and settled in his stomach. The wind moaned, tree branches battering the castle windows. This was no hour for casual calls.

  He inhaled and proceeded to the front hall, his strides forceful. Some of the servants, young ones whose duties did not include mimicking a butler, scrambled in front of him and swung the door open.

  The crisp, cool air collided against him as he exited the castle. Rustling filled the air. The wind ensnared dried leaves, dragging them up and dropping them to the ground, moving leaves from their neighbors with casual insouciance.

  Geoffrey crossed the small moat. In the summer, swans and geese swam on the water; now no squawk or ripple disturbed the still surface. He hastened over the flagstones, feeling suspended, uncertain what the duke desired of him, only that it could not be pleasant.

  The black ducal ca
rriage lay before him, its golden crest shimmering in the torchlight. Various servants flanked the somber-faced duke. The man’s form was rigid—no joviality here.

  Hollowness spread inside Geoffrey’s chest as the duke gave a nod of recognition. Since school, Geoffrey had only encountered the man at formal events. No silk waistcoat and intricate neckcloth tie this time. The man clasped his hands behind his back, his expression grave, and Geoffrey swallowed hard.

  “Your Grace.” Geoffrey bowed, and tension built through his body. He craned his neck at the carriage, half expecting the duchess to step out. The horses snorted and stomped their feet, as if displaying their fury at the unconventional hour.

  “Hammerstead.” The duke gave a tight smile as his eyes bored into Geoffrey.

  “A pleasure,” Geoffrey said, though the duke must know nothing was pleasurable about the fact that the duke stood at Geoffrey’s doorstep. “Do come in.”

  The duke shook his head, and irritation seemed to flicker on his face. “It’s late.”

  “Indeed.” Geoffrey resisted the urge to cross his arms. Anxiety coursed through him, and he pressed his lips together. “Care to explain why you’re here, Your Grace?”

  The duke’s face tensed, and he averted his eyes. “This is a mistake.”

  “It’s because of me.” A soft voice caused Geoffrey’s body to tremor through the silence. The voice was hoarser than customary. Geoffrey shut his eyes. Etienne. Not that he should remember the man so well. Not that he should know what customary should sound like for him. Over five months had passed since they last saw each other. Five very long months in which he had taken over all the duties of his uncle, spending far too long thinking of Etienne.

  Geoffrey darted his eyes to the direction of the sound. Etienne stepped from behind the carriage, his legs unsteady and his gaze unfocused. His feet stumbled over the cobblestones, and he heaved a sigh with each step.

  Geoffrey swallowed hard. The man he thought about for so long stood before him. In agony. Perhaps if Geoffrey had only—

  “You should have stayed inside.” The duke rushed over to Etienne, and Geoffrey shifted his legs, feeling like an intruder.

  Etienne’s fingers twitched, and he turned his head away. “You should have let me stay in Lyngate.”

  “Nonsense,” the duke’s voice roughened. “After all you’ve done for me . . .”

  The duke threw a glance at Geoffrey. “I need a favor.”

  Geoffrey nodded curtly and braced himself. The wind continued to sweep through the trees and drag more leaves to the frozen ground. An animal shrieked in the distance, and Geoffrey’s fingers numbed. The duke may as well have made an order; it would be followed.

  “Take Etienne. He needs protection—and I can’t give it myself.” The duke raked his hand through his auburn hair.

  Geoffrey nodded, and his chest clenched. The stiff figures of the servants remained in the distance, and the duke leaned closer to Geoffrey.

  “It’s an imposition,” the duke continued, and Geoffrey realized how difficult it must have been for the man to approach him given their tense relations.

  “I will do it.” Even if spending any time with Etienne will be painful.

  “Good.” The duke’s shoulders sagged, and he nodded. “Thank you.”

  Barnesley stiffened behind him, but in the next moment, he turned and murmured to the servants. Footsteps shuffled against the cobblestones, and the crowd thinned. The duke’s men stayed on, black-clad figures blending with the dark night.

  “Etienne found himself in some trouble,” the duke said, his voice low and contained.

  Geoffrey’s jaw clenched. He had an idea of what sort of trouble Etienne could have gotten into. “You want me to arrest him?”

  “No!”

  The duke returned Geoffrey’s stare, then he inhaled. “Not that kind of trouble. Or precisely that kind of trouble.” The duke laughed, his tone bitter and unnatural sounding in the still night. “The thing is, he’s hurt.”

  “I’m fine.” Etienne’s voice was definitely hoarse. Geoffrey swiveled his head toward him. Good lord, is the man clutching the carriage? He started to move, barreling over the cobblestones. The duke’s footsteps sounded behind him as he hurried along, past Barnesley’s studied inattention.

  Etienne’s eyes were the same dark color Geoffrey remembered, and he lifted up the same uncompromising jaw that flickered with constancy through Geoffrey’s head and caused him to bury himself even further in his work. Geoffrey thrust his torch at Etienne, and the flame danced on the man’s face. Inevitably, Geoffrey moved his eyes to the sweep of Etienne’s cheekbones and his dark eyes, as if eager to lose himself in them. Geoffrey’s eyes widened as dark bruises on the man’s face became visible under the light.

  “Inside,” Geoffrey gasped.

  Etienne’s eyes flashed, and his head swung to the duke. “Please . . .”

  Geoffrey’s chest twisted as Etienne pleaded with the duke not to force him to remain in Geoffrey’s company. He closed his eyes, memories of a spring afternoon filling him. How had they moved from that to this? How could they have shifted from embraces to Etienne injured, longing to flee Geoffrey’s company?

  “Etienne . . .” Geoffrey softened his voice and reached out to touch the former thief, but the man flinched.

  Geoffrey’s hand hung in the air. His heartbeat quickened, as if threatening to veer away, unsure what to do. He averted his eyes, the glow from the torch casting everything in an unnerving light.

  “You needn’t feign interest,” Etienne said.

  Geoffrey gritted his teeth, conscious of the duke’s eyes scrutinizing them both. “Come.”

  Geoffrey stretched out a hand to Etienne. “Let’s find you some warmth.”

  Etienne paused and gazed at the hand. Then he staggered forward on his own, his movements slow and labored.

  Geoffrey slid his shoulder under Etienne’s arm and half carried him, steering him toward the castle. When Etienne’s feet stumbled, he slowed his pace and whispered that the man might lean on him. He ignored Etienne’s sharp intake of breath and the fact that Etienne’s skin lay beneath the man’s thin, tattered frock coat. He ignored the fact that Etienne was there, beside him, even though the man had fled from him, and after all these months, he assumed he would never see him again.

  He hated himself for thinking of Etienne, for his every breath and movement to call out to him.

  The duke followed a few steps behind, and Geoffrey shivered under the man’s gaze. Etienne needed him though, and as long as Etienne allowed him to be a support, he would be one. Nevertheless he attempted to remind himself that Etienne didn’t desire to be there next to him, that he was only there now because somebody had battered him, and that the duke had compelled him to come.

  Geoffrey’s stomach contracted, and an urge to strike out at whoever had injured Etienne charged through him. He inhaled, striving to maintain a sense of calm.

  Barnesley greeted them at the door. Etienne tensed beside Geoffrey and shifted away. A current of coldness swept over Geoffrey, and he could still feel the weight of the other man’s fingers against his arm.

  “Which way, Magistrate?” Etienne asked.

  “Two doors to the right.”

  Etienne strode in front of him, using the wall to steady himself. He stumbled frequently, though Geoffrey had the impression he strove to conceal his pain.

  Several times Etienne slipped and Geoffrey caught him. “It will be easier if I help you.”

  “Just because something is easy doesn’t make it right.”

  Geoffrey frowned. “There’s nothing wrong about making you well again.”

  Servants mulled around, making themselves useful at tasks that almost certainly could wait until later. Their eyes sped to the duke as he entered. Well. The man is handsome. Dorothea had certainly done all right for herself.

  Etienne’s teeth chattered, and Geoffrey groaned. “The library.” He practically thrust Etienne into the room. He stalked
over to a wooden chest, snatched a thick woolen blanket, and shoved it at Etienne. “Use this.”

  He averted his eyes, wondering how Etienne’s movements could be graceful even now, how the slightest breath Etienne made was enough to make his eyes linger on him, why it was so difficult to keep his eyes from lingering on him now.

  Obediently, Etienne wrapped himself in the blanket. Really, Geoffrey wanted to drag Etienne upstairs and push him under the covers, but he suspected both Etienne and the duke might deem the gesture imprudent.

  He nodded at one of the servants. “Please prepare the green room.”

  He returned his eyes to Etienne, and his gaze clouded. “And please light a fire. And ensure there are extra blankets. Make it warm.”

  The servant curtsied and scurried away, taking a last lingering look at the duke, who settled in an armchair.

  “The rest of you may retire.” Geoffrey’s voice was authoritative and final, and the servants scattered.

  The door clicked behind them. Etienne furrowed his brows. “Pay no heed to the duke.”

  “No?” Geoffrey swung his head over to the duke, frowning as he took a seat.

  “Let him help, Etienne.” The duke’s jaw was set, and he tilted his head, eyeing Geoffrey. “He wants to help.”

  Heat rose to Geoffrey’s face, and he crossed his arms. “Now tell me what happened.”

  “A misunderstanding,” Etienne said, his voice roughened.

  “No misunderstanding ends in injuries.” The duke frowned and arched an eyebrow at Etienne. “Or should end in injuries.”

  Etienne pulled the blanket closer to him, his expression unchanging.

  “Etienne says he was battered by anti-French men,” the duke explained, directing his attention back to Geoffrey.

  Etienne glowered next to them.

  Geoffrey sighed. “If people want to attack Frenchmen, there are plenty of spots in the army.”

  “But then those scoundrels might risk actually losing their lives,” the duke said.