They stared at each other.
The awkward silence made Malcolm realize he’d spent way too much time in his own head thinking about religion. He was used to it. Even well before entering the monastery. After the unexpected illness and death of his mother, his father had become abnormally devoted to prayer, claiming her death had been a warning from God. In a desperate effort to reclaim God’s favor, the earl did away with all extravagances, reducing their lifestyle to resemble the middle classes and tried to mold Malcolm and his twin brother at fourteen into the paragons of religious virtue neither of them were prepared to embrace.
Their tutors were dismissed and replaced with priests who taught them Latin and the history and beliefs of the doctrine and Bible. Their lavish clothes were donated and replaced with simple tweeds and wool. The ancestral lands and home were sold, after being stripped of all furnishings, and donated to local charities, so that instead of occupying thirty-two rooms, they only occupied four in a humble cottage on the outskirts of Wiltshire.
Malcolm’s twin brother, James, who had been born three and a half minutes too late, was being prepped to attend a seminary to become a vicar as opposed to going to a university to be a surgeon. James didn’t plan to cooperate. The idea of slicing people open and sewing them back up fascinated him too much.
By good fortune, Malcolm was spared that path. As heir, he was granted permission to go into the military until it was time to inherit whatever remained of the estate. Which was nothing given how often they donated to charities.
Despite their father having obsessive tendencies that included washing his hands as many as forty-five times a day, and refusing to let them near him if they weren’t wearing gloves, the man did his best to love them. He simply didn’t know how.
Setting aside that their father made them wear unfashionable clothing the upper crust snickered at, what was even more annoying was that all of the games the other adolescent boys played, such as cards, dice, pall mall, and cricket were no longer permitted. According to their father, it was a rake’s sport that did not progress the soul. Charades were permissible (huzzah!) but only under the proviso that it involved Bible characters, parables and religious landmarks. Charades became an inside joke between Malcolm and James. It was how they communicated when they didn’t want their father knowing what they were talking about: women.
Christmas did become more interesting. They began hand-delivering bibles to countless places in dire need of the Lord’s word. Places he and his brother had always been curious about. One particular year, their father trooped them into a brothel where they set bibles on all of the beds before getting thrown out by the clients who didn’t want them there. In vast appreciation, one of the prostitutes flashed her charms (both breasts) and yelled, “Happy Christmas to you and Jesus!” He and his brother laughed so hard, his father decided converting prostitutes was no longer a respectable option.
The Persian tapped the table. “So what is your name? You never introduced yourself.”
A breath escaped Malcolm. “Forgive me. I was too busy preaching conspiracy theories. The name is Thayer. I’m set to inherit an earldom one of these days but there really isn’t much to inherit outside the name itself, so I ask you call me Malcolm.”
“A pleasure to meet you, Malcolm. ’Tis unexpected to meet someone so civilized among these walls. I am Nasser.” The Persian set his chin. “I am sixteen and commenced fully shaving four months ago.” He smoothed a hand over his jaw and angled closer. “Can you see the stubble on my face? Is it not magnificent?”
How adorable. This one took pride in being male. “Oh, yes. Very. You must be proud.”
“I am. I have been waiting to shave since I was eight.”
Malcolm eyed him with renewed interest. “You seem…normal to me. And I have been here long enough to notice what normal is. Why are you here? And how long is your penance?”
The olive tone of Nasser’s face heightened. “I have no set penance. I have the freedom to leave anytime. My mother is actually waiting for me in Paris. She is being very supportive of my decision to be here. It could be a month or a year. It depends.”
He made it sound like a holiday. “If you have the support of your mother and can leave anytime, why don’t you?”
“Because I am ravaged by a sin I cannot control.” Nasser lowered his gaze and smoothed his garb. “I did not want you sitting with me earlier, because I am physically drawn to men. I heard about the abbey’s ability to cure depravity and decided to see if converting to Christianity might be an option.”
Malcolm quirked a brow. “So you think surrounding yourself with sexually deviant Christian boys is a good option? Really? Whatever gave you that brilliant idea?”
Nasser glanced up, fighting tears. “What are you accusing me of?”
“I’m not accusing you of anything,” Malcolm countered. “I have a cousin who is drawn to men. Not that anyone in the family knows about it. His father and my father are so incredibly religious, they would have carved a crucifix into his bollocks. So my brother and I decided it was best to say nothing. Trent owes us for life.”
Nasser hesitated. “Why are you here? What did you do?”
“I’m an idiot who loves my brother too much.” Malcolm puffed out a ragged breath. “If we are to lay out the gossip and the crime, I was accused of impregnating the bishop’s daughter, Miss Silverthorn.”
Nasser’s lips parted. “Did you?”
Malcolm glared. “No. Absolutely not. I only cornered, grabbed and kissed her.”
Those brows came together. “I do not understand. If you only kissed her, how did she end up pregnant?”
Swallowing hard, Malcolm averted his gaze. “She wasn’t pregnant. The poor girl had never been intimate with anyone. Not even my brother, who, as it turns out, was very attached to her. Not that I knew. No one did. Those two kept their strange little bond a secret since they were children. Imagine my surprise when, after I grabbed and kissed her, she went and told my brother she was pregnant with my child. Needless to say, James tried to knock my brain out of my skull for it. And not in an angry, it-will-pass sort of way, but rather in a ‘I will murder you and be branded Cain forever’ sort of way. The lunatic came at me with a blade and tried to stab me through the heart. My father had to tie him to a chair and whip holy water at him to calm him down.”
Nasser’s eyes widened. “Holy water?”
Malcolm sighed. “My father thought a demon had entered into his body. Little did the man know, that’s who James really is. I’m no different. Had I been in his position, and she had been my woman, I most certainly would have done the same. But given I didn’t touch her in that way, I got angry and confronted Miss Silverthorn demanding she tell my brother the truth. Imagine my surprise when she starts wailing about how vile their association was and how she was trying to be sent away to a nunnery to escape him. She kept saying she was afraid one of them would end up dead. She wouldn’t go into detail but when I saw the same marks on her arms my brother branded into his, I knew they were a danger to each other. So I told her not to worry, and made everyone, including the bishop and my brother, think she and I had been intimate. Which, of course, resulted in her being sent to a nunnery in Scotland, and me getting into trouble with my father. So here I am learning how to be ‘celibate’. Even though I’m still a damn virgin.”
Nasser’s eyes widened. “Whilst noble of you, what if she had been lying?”
A raw grief overwhelmed Malcolm. “No. I know my brother. Much like myself, he isn’t…normal. Whatever book I was reading, he had to read it, too. At the same time, mind you. He’d punch my arm to bruises until I held the book open wide enough for him to read because he never wanted me to get a word ahead. When I climbed a tree, he had to be on the same damn branch. Which, of course, caused said branch to snap and break not only my arm but his. He thought it was incredibly funny when we broke our arms. Pain was a game. And it was for me, too, but not to that extent. Things like broken bones take fo
rever to heal.”
Rolling his eyes, Malcolm shook his head. “Whenever I got tired of him and latched the door to keep him out, he’d leave the house, scale the wall and climb through the window after he knocked out the glass and bled everywhere. He was damn crazy like that. He once shaved his entire head and insisted I do it, too. When I refused, what did he do? He bloody sheared my hair while I was sleeping. My mother, bless her poor heart, was horrified. We looked like prisoners heading to the scaffold. I often wonder if we sent her to the grave early.”
Malcolm was quiet for a moment. “All I can say is James and this girl got entangled in something dark. It was like she lit a wick to a morbid side of his mind even I didn’t know existed. It scared me. So I did what I thought was best for him and got him out of it.”
Nasser pinched his lips and carefully shut the Bible, pushing it aside. “So you lied.”
“I had to. My brother wouldn’t let her go any other way. We Thayers are crazy like that. Once we get attached to a person, it takes a knife.” Malcolm let out an exasperated breath. “You have no idea what it’s like having a twin. My brother touched a finger to my heart long before I even had one. Despite hating this monastery, it’s been a blessing. It’s allowed me to become my own person. Life away from my brother is certainly quieter. And tame. Very, very tame.” Trying to shove aside all thoughts of it, he pointed to the boy’s untouched plate of mutton, potatoes and bread. “Are you going to eat that?”
“No. I tried.” Nasser pushed his plate across the table, causing the white cloth to crinkle.
Malcolm dragged the plate over to himself and smoothed out the cloth. Using his fingers, he grabbed up the dry mutton and frantically ate whatever meat he could off the bone, its rubbery texture squeaking between his teeth.
Nasser was quiet for a moment. “Do they not feed you?”
“They usually do.” Malcolm bit off another mouthful of mutton and chewed. He gathered the burnt potatoes and slapped them into his bowl of stew before pushing the plate back across the table. “Simply not this week.” He swiped his fingers against his wool trousers, scooted his chair closer and picked up his spoon again to finish the remaining stew. “I’m being punished.”
“For what?”
“One of these morons tried strangling a cat.” Malcolm tapped his wooden spoon against his scabbed knuckles. “I used more force than I should have. But I enjoyed every minute of it.”
Nasser hesitated and lifted a section of his silk garment to reveal a leather satchel around his waist. He dug out a small glass jar and uncorked the lid, setting it onto the table. Scooping out the glistening yellow substance with two fingers, he edged it toward Malcolm. “Hold out your hands.”
He eyed the substance. “What for?”
“This will heal them.” Nasser stood, reached over the table and smeared the thick substance onto Malcolm’s outer hand. “It is made of nightly cereus and is mixed with water pulled from the blessed well of Zamzam. Legend has it, if rubbed onto the skin of a man who is deemed worthy by Allah, he becomes invincible. Even a blade will bend to his touch.”
“Sounds like witchcraft to me.”
Nasser glared. “It is not witchcraft. Davana ittar is meant to scent and to heal and is reserved for a select few. How dare you insult my offering? Are you to be a friend or not?”
Puffing out a breath, Malcolm let his spoon drop into the bowl. “I accept your kind offering.
Forgive me for being so ungrateful.” Turning over his hands, he rubbed the thick substance over scab-roughened knuckles and palms. It dissolved into oil against the warmth of his skin, softening the chafing. “Not bad.” A fruit-like fragrance drifted toward his nostrils. “For something that is supposed to give strength, it smells overwhelmingly feminine. Should I be wearing this?”
“Cease. There is more strength in females than you think.” Nasser corked the glass, tucking it into his leather satchel. “Have you ever seen a woman give birth? No man would survive it.”
Malcolm hesitated. “You’ve seen a woman give birth?”
“Of course. My father has a concubine.”
Malcolm gaped. “Your father has his own prostitute?”
“She is not a prostitute. Concubines are well-educated and devoted to serving one man. ’Tis very respectable.”
Like hell it was. These Persians still lived in the Old Testament. “Surely your mother objects.”
“Of course. But my father insists after eight children, she needs the rest. He won’t touch her. She almost died giving birth to my sister three years ago. So he bought a concubine.”
One would think they were discussing cattle.
A figure approached, making them pause.
Rafael’s stubby fingers grazed the edge of the tablecloth. “I have been waiting and waiting for a moment alone with your new friend, Thayer. Do you mind?”
Malcolm slammed his wooden spoon against the table, spraying cold stew, and rose to his full height of six feet and four inches. “I would rather you sodomize someone else.”
Rafael stared. “I pity your lack of trust.” Angling away, his features softened. He grazed a finger along Nasser’s silk garment. “I like this. The color suits you.”
Nasser shoved Rafael’s hand away. “You have no right to be touching me.”
Rafael leaned in. “While the luminaries are still occupied, you and I are going to visit the privy, sweetling.” Digging into his trouser pocket, he flicked out a shaving razor from its ivory handle. “Get up.”
Nasser’s eyes widened.
Malcolm lunged at Rafael from across the table to knock away that hand, but only managed to tumble over his bowl and jar the table.
Rafael swung the edge of the razor toward Malcolm. “I suggest you not get involved, English boy. This is between me and the Muslim.”
Other boys at the surrounding tables scooted their chairs out of the way and kept eating in between glances.
Satan’s blood. He had to do something. “Put the razor down.” Malcolm slowly rounded the table, his heart pounding. “Put it down.”
Rafael matched his motion and moved the razor closer to Malcolm. “Why are you always trying to be a hero?”
To make up for the fact that he would never be one. “Put it down. Now.”
“I am the one holding the blade,” Rafael challenged. “Are you wanting to lick this? Are you?”
There were very few things that intimidated Malcolm. A blade was not one of them. Growing up with a brother who was as equally crazy as he was, he had survived well over thirteen dozen things, including a gunshot wound from a hunting accident when his brother swung the wrong way, a stab wound from trying to see how far a knife could go into him, broken fingers from slamming them in between too many doors and a fire he himself had caused when he was curious about what would happen if he knocked over an oil lamp.
This was nothing.
Edging closer, Malcolm kept his eye on the razor. “Maybe we can negotiate. What do you want?”
“You know what I want, dearest.” Rafael squinted. “Are you willing to go in his place?”
Ha. No. Malcolm evened his tone in an effort to bide time. “If you put it away, I will lay on the floor with my trousers around both ankles and let you do whatever you want. All you have to say is ‘Je vous en prie.’”
Rafael paused.
Finally close enough, Malcolm jumped and snatched that wrist hard, startling Rafael. He snapped the razor up toward Rafael’s own face and held it rigidly in place.
Rafael’s hand trembled as the edge of the razor teetered closer and closer toward his own throat. “What are you— Cease—”
Snapping up his other fist, Malcolm gritted his teeth and punched Rafael twice, cracks resounding within that nose each time. Malcolm released the bastard with a violent shove, trying not to take too much pleasure in what he just did. “Don’t ever call me dearest, you demented son of a tavern hag. I am damn tired of dealing with all you crazy people! Learn how to be normal!”
Nasser scrambled up from the table. “Tawhîd.” Grabbing the white cloth off the table that sent the porcelain plate shattering to the floor, he jogged toward Rafael and pressed the cloth against Rafael’s nose with trembling hands. His dark eyes intently searched Malcolm’s. “Was it necessary to make him bleed?”
Malcolm glared. “He almost had his way with you. In the privy! And you dare defend him?”
“No. But you are twice his size. You are also a Christian, are you not?”
“Oh, come off it. The Lord knows I mean well. I’m doing His work.”
“All of you!” Monsieur Bissette boomed in French. “Stay where you are.”
Everyone, including Malcolm froze.
Wiping his hands against his shirt, Rafael shoved Nasser away and pointed at Malcolm. “He tried to use the blade against me, Monsieur!” Smearing his fingers across his bloody nose, he stared at his hand and yelled, “This-this…leviathan tried to kill me!”
Malcolm narrowed his gaze. “If I had tried, believe me, you would have died.”
“Enough.” Bissette strode over, his stocky frame garbed in all black, except for the high white collar and a tightly knotted linen cravat that was spattered with an unknown substance. If cleanliness were godliness, the man would find himself wanting. It was a known fact that every morning, Bissette soaked a filthy hair-brush in holy water and drew it through his hair. That was how he washed it.
Sharp, hazel eyes darted over to Malcolm before resting on the blade lying on the floor between their booted feet. “Where did the razor come from, Thayer?” Bissette coolly asked.
Widening his stance, Malcolm thumbed at Rafael. “Ask him.”
Bissette swung to Rafael. “Where did you get it?”
Rafael stared but said nothing.
“I asked you a question, Alfaro.”
Master of Pleasure Page 2
