Hither Page

by Cat Sebastian

  “That’s some shoddy reasoning. All you know about me—apart from the tripwire stuff—is that I’m not an insurance clerk.”

  “Be fair.” James stood and eased himself into Leo’s lap. Leo sighed into his shoulder, his hands resting easily on James’s hips. It was oddly thrilling when someone who could likely incapacitate a man without much effort was as meek and docile as a sleepy kitten. “I also know you aren’t writing a pamphlet on church windows.”

  “Ha. James, I want to be honest with you. I want to be...truthful.” He spoke as if he had confessed to craving some unique perversion. James suppressed a smile.

  “Tell me something true, then. It doesn’t have to be a secret.”

  “Something true.” He paused, as if rummaging around in his brain for something true required an effort. “Well, my name isn’t Leo Page.”

  “I didn’t for a minute think it was. It certainly wasn’t when I sewed you up in ’44.”

  Leo shook his head. “That isn’t what I mean. Leonard Page is the name on my passport—my real passport, I mean. For a given value of real. What I’m saying is that I don’t know what name was on my birth certificate or by what name I was christened.”

  James stared at him for a moment. “How can that be?” How could a man not know his own name? It occurred to him that maybe the reason Page couldn’t come up with a truth to share was that he didn’t have many.

  “I think it might have been Leon Paget. I vaguely remember being called Leon at the orphanage.”

  “Orphanage?” James repeated.

  “Somewhere near Tournai. My mother’s sister married an Englishman and took me with her to Bristol when I was six. She said my English name was Leo Page, and she died before I got a chance to ask her if she knew whether I had any other name.”

  “But people call you Leo Page now.”

  Leo cocked his head. “People call me by whatever name I’m using on that particular assignment.”

  “I mean your friends.”

  Leo stared at him for a long moment, his brow furrowing. “Oh, James,” Leo said almost pityingly.

  By that, James assumed he meant he hadn’t anyone at all. And that, James supposed, was another truth about Leo Page. He didn’t stay anywhere long enough to form connections, to learn to care about people or let them care about him in return. It was a miserable way to live, and James thought he could have done better to fall for someone a bit less impossible. But looking at Leo with his rumpled hair and the shadows under his eyes, James knew he never stood a chance. He took the other man’s face in his hands and kissed him. “I’ll call you anything you like,” he said and kissed him again. “Have you had anything but tea today?” he asked a few minutes later, still sitting in Leo’s lap. “I have soup.” He gestured to the dresser, where two bowls and a tin of soup sat waiting.

  “I dimly recall a scone at some point.”

  James stood, but not before kissing Leo again. “Food first. Everything else later.”

  “You had already taken two bowls out,” Leo said while James stirred the pot. “Who were you expecting?”

  “You, you dummy.” James couldn’t keep from smiling, and when he saw the astonished expression on Leo’s face, he had to laugh. “Not expecting, perhaps, but hoping.” Leo still appeared stunned, so James changed the topic. “Where does fair Agnes at the Rising Sun think you are?” he asked as he poured the soup into the waiting bowls.

  “I sent word that I’d likely be working very late, and that she shouldn't trouble herself with my whereabouts, because Dr. Sommers offered me his spare room again in the event that I needed it. I left my valise by your door.”

  Reading between the lines, James guessed that Leo had been hedging his bets; he still had the room at the inn in case James didn’t want him that night. “You’re welcome to stay here, you know. Either in my bed or the spare room,” he added hastily. Leo didn’t answer, so James wordlessly placed a bowl of soup before him. “Of course, there will be no hard feelings if you want to stay at the inn. I’m only trying—”

  “You're a lovely man.”

  James felt his ears heat and knew he was blushing furiously. He sat across the kitchen table from Leo and entwined his fingers with Leo’s. “Your fingers are still cold. You aren’t used to winter in England, are you?”

  “I’ve had winters in worse places than this,” Leo said, but his voice was too quiet.

  James pushed back the damp cuff of Leo’s shirt. “You were someplace sunny before you came here. I can see the line where you tanned.” He traced his finger along that line, where tawny skin met the paler underside of Leo’s wrist, and felt a shudder go through the other man’s body.

  “It’s work that needs to be done. Somebody has to do it,” Leo said, as if guessing the turn of James’s thoughts.

  James wasn’t going to argue with that. Instead, he arranged Leo’s hands so they cupped the bowl to capture its warmth. “Does it have to be you?”

  “It has to be somebody, so it may as well be me.”

  James steeled himself to ask a question that had been peering around the edges of his consciousness all day. “What does Mary have to do with all this?”

  “Mary Griffiths?” Leo seemed genuinely surprised.

  “She’s hiding something. She and Norris are very friendly, and if it’s just a matter of a flirtation or even a full-blown love affair, then, well, I can’t say I like it. Griffiths is a good man. But these things do happen. But if it’s something else. If it has to do with the murders—”

  “Stop,” Leo said. “Mary Griffiths seems totally indifferent to the charms of Edward Norris. I doubt she has the energy or the time for an extramarital liaison. I think Norris is lonely, that’s all. He spent over a year in prison, and they only took him out so he could be cannon fodder at Normandy.”

  “That’s where his friend Dempsey was injured.”

  “Was Dempsey originally with the 51st Highland Division in the Tunisia campaign?” Leo asked, eyes narrow.

  “Yes, in fact. What does that have to do with anything?”

  Leo tapped his fingers on the table. “I’m not certain. It may have nothing to do with the murders.”

  “There’s another reason I’m concerned about Mary. Whoever killed him wasn’t a person he was disturbed to see at the french doors. He could have rung for a servant or even called the police, but he didn’t. He didn’t even raise his voice to give them a piece of his mind about disturbing him.”

  “Right. Mrs. Clemens would have heard him yelling.”

  “And there just aren’t many people in the village he wouldn’t have shouted at. Instead, whoever it was, I don’t think he even got up to let them in himself. I think he told them to let themselves in. And then the killer stepped inside, shot him from just inside the doorway, and left.”

  “What makes you say he was shot from the french doors, though?” Leo asked.

  James’s mouth went dry as he thought of the body. “The bullet hole,” he said. “It was very small. Clearly a low calibre weapon. Not, say, a service revolver.” James knew all too well the appearance of bullet wounds from that type of weapon. “It looked like it had been fired from some distance, too. Not close range. No exit wound. Minimal blood spatter.” He swallowed his disgust. “And if the shooter entered through the french doors and only took a step or two into the room, that would explain the wetness on the floor. Also, the killing had to have happened before Armstrong had a chance to ring for drinks. If the visitor sat down, Armstrong would have rung for tea or brandy—even if his visitor told him not to. He was that kind of man, you understand. All conversations took place with some kind of refreshment.”

  “So, someone comes to the french door, shoots Armstrong directly in the middle of his forehead, and leaves. A cool customer. Does Mary Griffiths strike you as having that temperament?”

  James felt a wash of relief. “No. Definitely not.”

  Leo finished off the last of his soup and then regarded James. “Something els
e happened this afternoon. The colonel’s solicitor showed the police a copy of Armstong’s will. He left the bulk of estate to his sister’s children. His sister was Anabelle Owen who had a daughter in 1918 in Australia.”

  The relief vanished. “I’ll tell you right now that I don’t know Mary’s maiden name.”

  “But her son is named Owen.”

  That would explain what Armstrong saw at the funeral that gave him such a turn: perhaps he noticed Owen and Polly’s resemblance to his long lost sister. “I assume you have people combing through the records at Somerset house and whatever the equivalent is in Australia. Thank you for telling me.”

  “I truly don’t think she has anything to do with it, but I’ll talk to her tomorrow. I would have gone tonight but...” He gestured between the two of them. “My priorities are askew.”

  “She’s quite sick, so I’m glad you didn’t. And,” he added, blushing, “I’m glad to number among your priorities.”

  LEO HADN’T COME TO James’s house for a warm meal and words of comfort. It was all very disconcerting. He was playing the role of a man people cared about; that was all, surely. But this was one of those times he envied the person he was pretending to be.

  “Upstairs,” he said when they had finished washing the dishes and setting them to dry on the draining board. This touch of domesticity was too much. He didn’t even dare look James in the eye lest the man see everything that was there. Leo was a good liar—no, Leo was the best liar. But all he could think about was the truth, and the truth was that he was much, much too fond of the doctor.

  James wiped his hands on the tea towel and brought his fingertips to Leo’s chin, tipping it up. Leo had the childish urge to squeeze his eyes shut, as if that would hide him from James’s gaze. He didn’t want to hear whatever it was that James was about to say. But James didn’t say anything. He only leaned in and brushed a too-soft kiss over Leo’s lips. “Upstairs,” he agreed.

  The bedroom was warmer than it had been the previous night. He could hear the radiator going full blast, and wondered if James had done that for him, just as he had put out an extra bowl. Leo wasn’t the type of person who could be counted on to arrive for dinner, couldn’t be counted on for anything. James surely knew that. Maybe he just liked bad bets.

  Taking hold of James’s collar, Leo pulled him close, running his lips over the other man’s scratchy jaw and the soft underside of his chin. He smelled of carbolic soap and tea, which Leo thought was the most honest thing in the world for a man to smell like, and he was never going to have tea or wash his hands without thinking of this man.

  “I want to pretend,” Leo said.

  James flushed pink. “That’s—ah—not usually my cup of tea, but whatever you like—”

  Leo pressed his mouth over the other man’s to silence him. “I want to pretend that you’ll still like me a week from now. After.” He heard James’s sharply indrawn breath, then felt his nod. “You’ll fuck me,” he said, trying his best not to let it be a question.

  “Is that what you want?” James asked.

  “I want—I need—” Leo couldn’t find the words to say what he wanted. He could demur by saying something filthy, or by getting to his knees and not giving any answer at all. Instead, he attempted something like the truth. “I want to feel something that isn’t...” That wasn’t what? He didn’t know, and James didn’t say anything to fill the silence. “I want my body to be used for something good.” He had spoken the words before realizing they were the truth. He was used to thinking of his work as preventing harm, preventing people on his own side from being killed. This case had exposed the flaw at the heart of his reasoning: in order for Leo to believe his work was necessary, he had to trust his intelligence. Without that, he was a common criminal. Even without that complication, his job was taking its toll on him. He was starting to see the world as a collection of things he’d never have, of small joys he’d never deserve. Supper with a man who knew him and liked him anyway; hand knit scarves and whispered reassurances.

  “I’ll see what I can do,” James murmured, as if this was a normal conversation. He wrapped his arms around Leo and held him tight, stroking a hand through Leo’s hair.

  “I don’t think I can handle kindness,” Leo whispered, and James’s hand went still.

  “I’m not sure I can be unkind to you,” James said.

  Leo wanted to laugh, to say just wait a couple of days and see exactly how unkindly you’ll want to treat me. “I’ll take whatever you have to give,” he said, and because he couldn’t stomach any more conversation, he took James’s mouth in the fiercest kiss he could manage. No sweetness, no gentleness. It was as close to a lie as a kiss could get.

  James kissed him back, though, and the soft slide of his lips silenced Leo’s mind. That was what he needed, just a reprieve from his thoughts. He unfastened the minimum number of buttons necessary to get the shirt off over his head, then kicked off his trousers without any care for where they landed, before turning his attention to getting James undressed. But James swatted away his hands, and instead fell to his knees.

  Leo was about to protest, to say he didn’t need this, that he was ready to be fucked, to be used, and the sooner the better, but then James’s fist closed around him. “Let me take the edge off,” James murmured. “You’re in a state.” Then his mouth closed around Leo’s length.

  The wet warmth of James’s mouth and the teasing touch of his fingers were almost what he needed: a chance to use his body’s sensations to drown out his thoughts. But it was too sweet, too kind.

  “I told you not to be kind,” Leo muttered.

  When James drew back, Leo nearly whimpered. “I’m not being kind,” James said, the picture of innocence. “This is me being selfish. Taking what I want from you. Using you as I please.”

  That, somehow, was exactly what Leo needed to give his pleasure the sharp edge he craved. He imagined himself helpless, his own wicked body being used for the pleasure of this good man. Somehow James got him onto the bed and produced a jar of petroleum jelly from someplace. Leo thought of the two dishes on the kitchen table, and the clanking radiators, and now a slick finger exploring the crease of his arse, and he laughed.

  “You’re not meant to be laughing,” James said. He slid the tip of one finger inside him, and Leo gasped.

  “You were expecting me,” Leo said, panting.

  “I told you, I was hoping.”

  “Very hospitable.” Another twist of his finger sent Leo’s eyes rolling back in his head. “The charming host,” he managed. He felt awash in warmth and sweetness, even as he grew pleasantly helpless under James’s hands. “But, ah, don’t forget to use me, if that’s not too much to—"

  James laughed and tugged gently on Leo’s balls, causing him to bite back a curse. “How do you want this?”

  “You decide.”

  “Stay on your back, then.” He shucked his clothes and knelt between Leo’s spread legs.

  Leo groaned at the sight of him slicking petroleum jelly over his length. “God, I want you.”

  “You have me.” James pushed the head of his erection inside him, and Leo gasped. Soon, he was babbling, a rush of words that didn’t need to be said, his mind empty of everything but overwhelming need and the illusion of contentment.

  JAMES RESISTED THE urge to draw Leo close to him, to press kisses to his temples and whisper things better left unsaid. He knew what Leo needed because it was what he needed too—a momentary reprieve from his thoughts, a bit of temporary oblivion. This thing they had together was a terrible idea, and there would be plenty of time later to think about the full ramifications of what they were doing and feeling. For now, he concentrated on the feel of Leo beneath him, the clasp of his legs around James’s back, the sounds he made as James thrust in.

  He had done this only a handful of times and hadn’t ever really understood the thrill of it. Certainly, it felt good, but so did hands and mouths. But Leo had tears in his eyes and an expression of e
cstasy on his face. And James was doing that to him. This was what Leo had wanted, and James was giving it to him. He tilted his hips and thrust again, and Leo whimpered.

  “I’m close,” Leo said.

  “Get a hand on yourself,” James said. He was trying to make this last as long as possible, to stretch out this holiday from reality. But the tightness of Leo’s body and the simple fact of having wanted this so much had brought him to the brink faster than he might have liked. Leo seemed much in the same place, his breathing faster and more ragged than it had been moments ago.

  The thought flitted through James’s mind that they might have made it even worse, that instead of oblivion they might have cemented whatever bond there was between them.

  Leo murmured something unintelligible that sounded like a warning, and James let himself go, the rhythm of his movements unraveling and becoming more urgent. Beneath him, Leo went rigid and the sound that came from his mouth was enough to set James off and bring on the first waves of his release.

  He collapsed on top of Leo, their bodies still joined, their hearts pounding madly between them.

  “I rather wish it hadn’t been that good,” Leo mumbled, and James laughed softly.

  “Next time I’ll attempt mediocrity.”