by Lee Rowan
“No!” Sweat beaded his upper lip. “No, just keep on—”
Marshall was keeping on. His body seemed to have more sense than his brain did. “But it’ll go all over—where—?”
“Here.” Davy freed one hand, fumbled in a pocket, and shoved a handkerchief over Marshall’s fist. “Oh, God—” He stiffened and shivered and stiffened again as his cock leapt and spurted. He pressed his face into Marshall’s shirt so barely a sound escaped, nothing that would be heard above the creaking of the coach’s leather and wood. And then he relaxed profoundly, a dead weight.
The handkerchief had done the trick. William let it drop for the moment and gathered Davy against him, a curious tenderness stirring in his chest. “Are you all right?”
“Yes” came the muffled reply. He held Marshall very tightly for a moment, then sat up, his eyes wet. “Will, you have no idea how good this is with you. How different.”
Considering his other experience with men had been rape, Marshall was touched but hardly surprised. He smiled, uncertain how to reply. “Well,” he finally said, trying for humor, “I would say you were my best ever, but that would not be saying much.”
Davy chuckled. “You could say ‘worst ever,’ I suppose, with equal honesty. I do appreciate the distinction. Thank you—”
“No need.” He felt a little embarrassed at Davy’s openness, his vulnerability. And he realized, suddenly, how different it had been this time, being able to see each other, even in the dimness of the closed coach. In their cell, it had been pitch-black.
Davy touched his face tentatively, even shyly. “You looked so… so beautiful, a little while ago,” he said, as though his thoughts had been traveling the same path. “So intent. I love being able to see you.”
“You will need to see a doctor about getting your eyes examined,” Marshall said, thoroughly self-conscious now. “You are hallucinating.”
“No, I’m not.” Davy leaned in close, his breath warm just below his ear. “The line of your jaw, the way your lips part—” He licked at the edge of the ear, sending shivers down William’s spine, making him gasp. “Yes, like that. I cannot imagine anything more perfect.”
Marshall studied the face turned up to his, the blue eyes dark with emotion, and the tenderness within him bloomed into passion once again. “I can.” Their lips met again and he pulled Davy to him, kissing him desperately, wondering whether he could ever get enough. It frightened him a little, this wanting. To give another so much power… yes, Davy was just as passionate, seemed to want him every bit as much in return, but what if he did not? What if he were to change his mind? Or, God forbid, be transferred away or killed in battle?
The fear that engulfed him was nearly suffocating, and the sweet, warm body in his arms life-giving air. Davy held him just as close, just as tightly. For an immeasurable time, they simply kissed and held one another, and gradually the intensity of emotion lessened, the storm inside them calmed a bit.
Finally Marshall was able to sit back and take a deep breath of ordinary air. “Does this ever….” He didn’t know how to ask.
“What?” Davy studied him anxiously. “What, William?”
“I—Davy, I feel as though I could spend the rest of my life here—with you—and never miss the rest of the world. How does one live with such a feeling?”
Davy regarded him bemusedly. “From my not-so extensive experience thoughtfully, if we give this horse its head, I believe it will eventually gallop itself down to a walk. What are you so worried about, Will? We’ve been back to normal—more or less—since our escape, and not once have we ripped each other’s uniforms off. Not… that I… wouldn’t have… liked to.” He punctuated his words with light kisses to William’s face. “But I have no intention of hanging. I wish to live a long, happy life.”
“An excellent plan.” But that hunger was still there, humming in him at the touch of Davy’s face against his, his body so close. “What shall we do next, then?”
Davy frowned and leaned over to lift one side of the window-curtain. “Pull ourselves together, I think. Unless I’m very much mistaken, we’ll be at our stop in a few minutes.”
He was not mistaken. They had barely made themselves presentable, with Davy’s balled-up handkerchief stowed in a pocket, when the coach wheels bumped onto a cobbled roadway. Another inn, this one three stories high, its wings enclosing another bustling courtyard. The scent of food wafted over the other odors of man and beast. And above even that was the smell of a change in the weather—sure enough, off in the distance, they could see heavy clouds with a towering thunderhead, approaching like a French line of battle. The final part of their trip promised to be messy, as well as slower, due to the rain and a muddy road.
They wasted no time in the courtyard. The ale at the nearest inn had been recommended by Mr. Drinkwater, who’d also warned them to act as penniless as possible to avoid attracting unwanted attention. There was nothing about them that would catch the eye of a casual observer—a couple of very junior officers taking advantage of a break in their journey to sample the local brew was nothing out of the ordinary.
They were halfway through their drinks when their postboy appeared at the door. He squinted into the darkness of the common room until he located them and approached with an oddly reluctant air. “Was you gentlemen in a hurry to get to London tonight?”
“We had expected to arrive this evening,” Marshall said warily. “But no, our business is not urgent. Is there a problem?”
The postboy spread his hands. “It’ll not stop us for long, if the smith can make time for me. One of the fells is cracked clear through, and I don’t like the looks of another.”
Marshall had no idea what the fells might be and would not betray his ignorance by asking. “Is that serious?”
“Na, but we best fix it before we go on, with that storm movin’ in. Dougie Smith’s good at his job, once I find him. Might take an hour or two. I was just wondering if you’d want to press on when the job’s done or stop over ’til mornin’?”
The comfortably padded fellow presiding at the nearby bar called over, “You’ll not find him tonight, Freddie. An’ if you do, you’ll be sorry you did.”
“Oh, aye? Why’s that?”
“’Cause he just got back to town an hour ago, from ’is daughter gettin’ married yesterday, over to Ashford, an’ he’s got a ragin’ head on ’im. Wouldn’t go near the smithy if King George himself asked, told ’is boy what brought ’im home if he heard anybody even breathe on the anvil it’d be the last breath he took.” He shook his own head, obviously unafflicted by hangovers. “He’ll be right as rain tomorrow, you’ll see. Poor Dougie… three daughters, you know, all married since Christmas.”
“And he’ll be three times a grandfather by Christmas, I’ll wager,” said Freddie and grinned at the laughter from the locals within earshot. “Thanks for the warning. Eh, Lieutenant, I’m sorry. If you want to roust Dougie out, it’s on your heads—I’m not so brave as you Navy men.”
“Now, don’t you get the King’s men murdered,” the landlord scolded. “I can find you gents a room with a clean bed, if you don’t mind sharin’ it.”
Marshall exchanged a look with the other “King’s man.” He was both excited and alarmed by the sudden gleam in Davy’s eye. “Sharing’s not a problem. I’m sure it’s more space than we have aboard ship.”
“Cost you less than a room in London,” the landlord added by way of enticement. “And better food too, I’ll reckon. My wife’s the best plain cook on the Portsmouth run.” The locals within earshot agreed enthusiastically.
Davy shrugged, his expression guileless. “Why not, Will? We have to sleep somewhere. Better for us all to be under a roof when that storm blows in.”
Marshall shrugged as well, knowing there was deviltry lurking under that blue-eyed innocence. They wouldn’t just be sleeping, he was certain. Still, the storm was as good an excuse as any. “Why not?”
Chapter 27
THEY SETTLE
D on a price for a room and supper, and the postboy departed with a promise to bring their bags round before taking the coach to the smithy. They finished their drinks as they waited, while the landlord bustled off to see that the room was prepared.
Their bags arrived at the same time he returned. “It’s all ready for you, gents, I’ve got the boy settin’ out a fire in case you wants a bath before supper. Pretty warm up there, I told him not to light it ’til you said.”
“A bath! Yes, thank you, that would be fine,” Marshall said.
“I’ll send up plenty ’o hot water. First thing a sailor asks for.” He grinned broadly. “Well, almost the first thing!”
“We’ve been a few days in Portsmouth already,” Archer put in, covering Marshall’s embarrassment. “We’ve had all the ‘first thing’ we could afford. At this point, it’s a choice between company and supper.”
“Definitely supper.” William thought he should contribute his bit. “But I’d rather have a wash first. Top floor, you said?”
“Top floor, toward the back. Pull the curtain if the sun’s too bright for you.”
“We’ll do that, thanks.” They hefted their bags and made their way through the crowd to the stairs at the back of the public room. As Davy bounded up ahead of him, Marshall found himself hanging back. It was absurd to feel shy now. After all they’d been through together—Christ, after that coach ride!—but for some reason he was just a little frightened of the night ahead. This was no chance occurrence, no last grab at happiness because they were both likely to die. This was an assignation, plain and simple. A very risky assignation, in this inn full of strangers.
But then they were up in their room, and the door closed, locked, and bolted. Davy was hanging his jacket from the doorknob to block the keyhole, and then Marshall had him in his arms, his body responding as though his mind had no say at all in the matter. Their lips met, and Davy pulled Marshall against him, easing back to lean on the wall. It hadn’t been an hour since they’d let go of one another in the coach, but here he was again, hard as iron, hot all over, the one thought in his mind that he must get closer. Impossible to do that; they were mashed together. But he could get the clothing out of the way….
He forced himself to draw back and locate the bed. Not difficult, since there wasn’t room to swing a cat. A sleeping room, with a tiny fireplace, a small table under the window, a bed big enough for two, with a smaller window above. What more did they need? He giggled at how serious Davy looked, reaching up to untie his neckcloth, as though he couldn’t manage that himself. Perhaps it was the ale making him giddy. Perhaps not.
He did the same service, fussing with the fastenings of Davy’s waistcoat, popping one button off in his hurry so they both had to chase it under the bed. Davy found it and backed out, mischievously pulling loose the lacing from the back of Marshall’s breeches as he got to his feet.
“Hey!” Belatedly, Marshall realized that the knees of his breeches were now smudged, and he swatted at Davy’s behind. But Davy danced out of reach and Marshall’s breeches dropped, and that was the end of it.
They both wound up on the bed, struggling out of the rest of their clothing as the tantalizing touch of bare flesh overwhelmed them. Before he had time to consider whether this was wisdom or folly, he was flat atop his lover, driving against him, while Davy gasped in his ear and dug his fingers into the back of Marshall’s thighs, pulling them tight together as he bucked upward.
“William—oh, God—!”
Whether it was the hot spurt of Davy’s seed against his belly or his soft, restrained cry, Marshall didn’t know. He buried his own face in the hollow of Davy’s shoulder to muffle his voice, but just as he was about to come—
Someone pounded on the door. “Hot water, gents!”
Marshall froze, shriveling. “That’s a woman!” he whispered in horror.
“I believe you’re right,” Davy said, grinning. Easy enough for him to find this funny! “Just leave it by the door, dear,” he called out. “Wouldn’t want to provoke any maidenly blushes!”
“Like you’ve got somethin’ I ain’t seen before!” the unseen woman scoffed. She sounded old enough to be their mother, but probably not old enough to have forgotten how to become one. “Suit yourselves, boys! I’ll be back with your supper in an hour.” Something clanked in the hallway, and her laugh grew fainter as she walked away.
Marshall envied Davy’s ease in talking to women, even though he was appalled at what his friend had said. “Davy… she’ll think—”
Davy shrugged. “She’ll think we took our clothes off so we can have a wash. Which we did. We can give her tuppence when she brings the food.” He wriggled a bit. “Do you want to fetch the water, or let me up so I can do it?”
Marshall resisted the temptation to respond to that wriggle, pushing himself away from Davy and off the bed. He opened the door warily but found himself faced only with a brace of water cans and a small washtub. It wasn’t big, perhaps two feet in diameter. They’d have to stand, but he could not remember when he’d last had a real bath. The idea of sitting in water seemed almost unnatural. When he pulled it in, he found it contained a lump of soap and a couple of towels. He hauled the cans into the room and set them alongside the tub in the only clear floor space. “They’re generous with the washwater,” he said, “and it is hot.” Hot water, and fresh, not briny. They could be really clean for the first time in months. “Would you like to go first or shall I?”
But Davy was frowning at the tub. The westering sun cast its light at an angle through the small window, glowing in his hair but slanting a shadow that gave an odd, distant look to his face.
“Davy? Something wrong?”
He shook him head. “No, of course not. Do you want to go first or shall I?”
The echo of his own words jangled even Marshall’s unsubtle ear. “Davy, what is it?”
“Just thinking. Sorry.” He slid off the bed and lifted the pitcher from the washbasin sitting on a little table under the window. “You go ahead, I’ll pour.” He tipped a water can enough to fill the pitcher and motioned for Marshall to get into the tub. Eyes down, jaw set, Davy looked as though he’d just been assigned to a punishment detail. What the hell—?
Totally bewildered, Marshall took the pitcher from him and placed it on the floor. He was uncomfortably conscious of his nakedness, standing so close but feeling such a distance. “Davy. What have I done?”
“What?”
“A moment ago you were—you seemed to be—quite merry. Now….” He didn’t know what to say. He had never had a lover before and had no idea what to do when one went all silent like this. “There’s no one else here, is there? I must’ve done something to distress you. Can’t you at least tell me—”
“No!” Davy looked up, finally. “No—for God’s sake, William, it isn’t you. Just that tub.”
Marshall blinked. It seemed a perfectly ordinary utensil.
“And memories.” Davy moved to the window again as a chill wind suddenly blew up and clouds blotted out the sun. With the unpredictability of August weather, rain began to spatter in.
Uncertain, Marshall waited, torn between concern and an intense desire to run his hands down that smooth bare back. The bruises Adrian had left on Davy’s body were gone now. But on his spirit? Davy had never said much about what had been done to him, and Marshall had not asked. What he did know was bad enough.
“He’d make me strip and wash first,” Davy said abruptly. “As though I wasn’t clean enough for his filthy games!” He brought the sash down with a bang that rattled the glass. “Not afterward, when I’d have given anything to wash him off me.” He leaned against the sill a moment longer, his whole body tight and angry. Then, amazingly, he gave a short bark of a laugh. “Well, I’m damned if I’ll let that bastard frighten me out of a hot bath!”
“Come here, Davy,” Marshall said. “Please.”
Davy turned and met his eyes. Through the cloud of his own turmoil, he seemed to recogniz
e Marshall’s distress. “I’m sorry, Will.”
Will held out his arms. Davy crossed the room—two strides, the room was not much bigger than the cell they’d shared—and as soon as they touched, things were somehow all right again.
“I’m sorry,” Davy repeated, mouth soft against his neck as the storm rumbled outside.
“Nothing to be sorry for. Nothing.”
Davy let out a breath, finally. “Unless I let the water get cold, eh?” He stepped in, scooping up the soap. “Wash my back?”
Grinning, Marshall picked up the pitcher, reached for the soap—and a thought stopped him. He nearly asked if Adrian had done this, too, but caught himself just in time. If that had been the case, a reminder was probably the last thing Davy would want. “You will tell me,” he said carefully, “if I should do anything against your wishes?”
“We shall both be very old before that happens, Will.”
Whether Davy’s spirits had really lifted or he was just making an effort to lighten the mood, Marshall was not sure. He felt Davy shiver a bit as he poured the warm water across his shoulders, but when he lathered his hands and began to scrub, Davy relaxed into his touch.
It felt so good to touch him like this. He had bathed Davy before, to be sure—half the ship came down with a fever once, and Davy was so sick and weak he could not even wash himself. Then it had been only a matter of common decency, something to be done as quickly and impersonally as possible to minimize the embarrassment to them both.
Marshall could never have guessed how different it would feel to perform essentially the same act with this new intimacy between them, to let a lover’s hands slide over Davy’s body, the slippery wetness magnifying his perceptions. He had never really considered male beauty before. He knew his own physical shortcomings, knew Davy was much better looking by comparison, but he had never been so aware of it, so attracted. Broad shoulders, trim waist, and such beautiful rounded buttocks. Why did that physical perfection not show more clearly when Davy was in uniform?
