In the Company of Men Boxed Set

by Lynn Lorenz

  “Swear yourself to me,” I demanded.

  My thrusts rocked his body as he arched into them. He bit his lip and drew blood, but he took me. I rode him, like a wild man, thrusting, pumping, pushing with all the strength of my knees and all the power of my hips.

  “I swear. I belong to you!”

  “Say you are mine. To fuck when I want, where I want, how I want.” I growled at him, and bit his shoulder. I tasted his blood, the taste of iron, thick and cloying in my mouth.

  “I’m yours. To fuck. If you want me on the tables in the hall, I’ll bend over one and let you fuck my ass. If you want me in the bailey, I’ll kneel on the stones and take you in my mouth. Fuck me on the stairs, in the barracks, in the goddamned stables like an animal. Gods, I love you!” He groaned as he spilled, his hot cream hitting his belly.

  I smeared it across his chest with my hand, and then lowered my mouth to taste it. Gods, it was delicious, salty, thick, musky with his scent. I would never get enough of Logan. He held me captive, his willing prisoner.

  If I was damned, I didn’t care. He was all I wanted and all I needed.

  The pressure in my sac built. It was close.

  “Logan, I love you. You are my life, my breath, my love,” I cried out.

  I exploded, filling him with hot cream, pumping until I was dry, my body stiff, my head thrown back, my eyes shut. Such ecstasy rammed through me.

  I collapsed on him, and he held me.

  “Damn,” I whispered.

  “Damn.” He sighed. “Do I really have to wear my hair back?” His eyes crinkled at me.

  “No. But you do have to wear it down every night.” I smiled at him.

  “I have always loved the way your eyes crinkle when you smile at me,” he said.

  We lay for a while longer, then rose and dressed. I’d promised to bring Joss some broth, and Logan went to wake Tomas for the midday meal.

  Joss was awake and sitting up in bed when I entered with his bowl and spoon.

  “Must I stay here, Da?”

  “Eat your broth, then we’ll see.” I sat on the edge of the bed.

  He dipped the spoon and slurped loudly. “Can we have our lesson today?”

  “No. Perhaps tomorrow. There has been too much activity this day.”

  “Can I see Tomas?”

  I gave in after the soup had been eaten, and hand in hand we went down the stairs to the great hall.

  Logan, Tomas, Peter, and Isaac sat at the table taking their meals.

  “Here’s our hero,” Logan announced.

  Joss looked at me. “Not me, son.” I shook my head.

  “Tomas has been telling us about your fight. You were very brave to take on those men and try to save Tomas.” Logan stood and kneeled on one knee in front of Joss. “You have the thanks of the Duke of Marden and of Tomas’ father, Logan.” He gave Joss a hug, then stood and turned to me. “I think you’ve chosen well.”

  I nodded. “I want everyone to know. Joss is my son now. We’ve chosen each other.” I put my hand on his shoulder as he straightened, proud to be mine. I stood taller, also.

  Peter clapped his hands. “Well, it seems we are all fathers, then.” His eyes gleamed.

  Logan laughed. “Not you, too?”

  “Aye, my wife is with child.” He endured our slaps of congratulations on his back with good humor, then sat and finished his meal. “Drake, I will be expecting to hear that tale about the dog and the men he tracked.”

  “I will tell it when I get him back. He loves to hear the story.” I laughed.

  That afternoon, Isaac sent two grooms to return fresh horses to the stable and retrieve Brute and our mounts. Life fell back into place.

  I unpacked my saddlebag and returned my journal to the desk. The door to Logan’s room opened, and he leaned in.

  “May I enter?”

  “Of course.”

  “What are you doing?” He strolled around the room, touching my things, making sure they were back in their proper places. I hid my smile from him.

  “Unpacking.”

  “Drake. I want to give you something.” He approached me, his eyes uncertain.

  I turned to face him. He reached for my hand and spread my fingers apart. Then he slipped a silver ring on my forefinger.

  “What is this?” I held my hand up and stared at it.

  “My wedding ring.” Logan looked into my eyes. “You wanted a symbol of my love, so I thought this would do. I know it’s been given before, but this time it’s given with love. Will you wear it?”

  I pulled him to me. “I don’t have a ring for you.”

  He laughed. “Only this ring on my neck.”

  I brushed his hair back and looked at it. “Aye. It will fade. My love never will.” I pulled him into my arms, and we kissed to seal the gift. “You’ve given me so much, Logan. Your love, a home, a son, a family. All the things I never knew I needed.”

  He kissed me and his eyes crinkled. “Stay with me forever.”

  “Until the gods take me from you.” We kissed.

  There was a rap on the door. We stepped apart. “Enter,” I called.

  Tomas and Joss burst in.

  “Da! Joss is teasing me! He says I’m like his little brother.”

  Logan kneeled and took his hand. “Is having an older brother so bad?”

  Tomas looked at Joss and shrugged.

  “Just think of us as a family, Tomas. You and me, Drake and Joss.” Logan smiled at his boy. “Can you do that?”

  “Oh, aye, Da. But does that mean Joss can tell me what to do?”

  “No,” I laughed. “Only your father can do that.”

  “And Drake,” Logan added as he stood. “Now, let’s go get cleaned up. It’s almost time for the evening meal.”

  The boys groaned, rolled their eyes, and then raced from the room.

  Logan turned to me and shrugged. “I love our boys.” Then he followed them.

  I walked over to my desk and opened my journal, flipping through its papers.

  There were so many pages left unwritten. Tonight, I would start a new story.

  I picked up my quill and dipped it into the inkpot, found the first empty page, and wrote “The Duke and the Master of Arms.”

  I made a note to purchase a new journal. I had a notion I’d need it before the entire tale had been told.

  Jackson’s Pride by Lynn Lorenz

  Jackson has been called to attend his father, Lord Baymore. The man has never claimed Jackson as his son and Jackson believes this might be his father’s intent. He’s left the Duke of Marden’s employ to discover his destiny—to remain a nameless bastard or to claim his father’s name. When Jackson stumbles across a man, stripped, beaten, and left in a field to die a slow death, Jackson rescues the man. After all, he’s guilty of the same thing—wanting a man.

  Will Holcombe gambled and lost. His meeting with a young, willing man went horribly wrong, and now he must pay for it with his life.

  Until a man walks up to him and cuts him down.

  Jackson is like no one Will has ever met before—a man strong enough to stand with him, perhaps forever.

  But Jackson’s on a mission. Will his pride blind him to what his life could be if he chose Will and not his father?

  Or will his pride lead him to a fate worse than death?

  Chapter One

  It was well past midnight and the tavern had been quiet for the last two hours. Jackson sat with his back against the wall. The remains of a roasted grouse sat on the charger in front of him, his half-finished ale next to it. He picked up the tankard and downed the last dregs, then licked his lips.

  After five long days on the road, he was ready for a warm bed and a good night’s sleep. In a few days, he would reach the castle at Baymore and he wanted to be well rested when he arrived. He planned to sleep late in the morn and then be on his way. God knew his poor horse needed the rest as badly as he did.

  The door opened and five men entered, stomping their feet to knock
the frost off their boots and beating their arms about their bodies to warm themselves. Their loud laughter disturbed the quiet moment Jackson enjoyed.

  About to stand, Jackson overheard words that chilled his blood and froze him where he sat.

  “That’ll teach him, the goddamned sodomite.” One of the men clapped another on the back and grinned. “It’s a good thing we came along when we did, lad, to rescue you. He’ll not be bothering anyone else now.”

  Jackson picked up his empty tankard and pretended to drink as he watched the men.

  “How long do you think he’ll last?” The man was no more than twenty, slight of build and fair-haired, but his darting eyes and twisting hands belied his earlier bravura.

  “In this weather, not long.”

  The young man’s face greened as if he were about to spew. The others formed ranks around him as their good humors slipped from their faces to reveal their true natures.

  “Not having second thoughts, eh?” Another man put a heavy hand on the lad’s shoulder. To Jackson it seemed as good as a warning.

  “No, no.” He shook his head with vigor and his eyes darted to an older man.

  “You’ve seen what befalls men who lay with men, my son. Even suspicion carries a heavy penalty. Remember, you got a fine horse in the bargain, Raf.”

  “He attacked me, Father. The unholy bastard,” the young man declared weakly, licking his lips.

  Jackson had seen and heard enough. He pushed to his feet, gathered his cloak about him, adjusted the broadsword across his back, and made his way to the door. The men turned, now aware of him, and their eyes narrowed. Two of them stepped toward him, hands on the hilts of their short swords.

  He gave them a look that stopped them in their tracks. His head, just short of brushing the timbers of the low ceiling, bent in a nod of recognition, then he turned his broad back on them. To be sure, the five were no threat. A mercenary by trade, Jackson could have killed them all before the first had drawn his sword.

  He opened the door, ducked under the lintel, and stepped outside into the chill of the night air. Pausing, he took his reckoning and made his way across the yard to the stables. Bending low, he stepped through the door and straightened.

  “Lad,” he called as he cast about for the groom.

  The boy lay asleep on a pile of hay in an empty stall, a blanket pulled tight around him.

  “Wake up, boy.” Jackson’s deep voice echoed in the stable. Down the row, his horse nickered at the familiar sound.

  The lad rolled over and opened his eyes. They widened and his head fell back as he took in the huge man standing before him. “Aye, m’lord!” He jumped to his feet.

  “Saddle my horse.” Jackson strode to the stall where his horse was kept, the boy racing to keep up with him. “Which of these animals did those five men bring in?”

  “The black with the blaze, m’lord.” He pointed to a box farther down the row.

  Jackson watched the lad as he scurried around the great warhorse, preparing the saddle and bridle. “Saddle the black, too.”

  “M’lord?” The boy stopped and looked at him, eyebrows raised.

  “I’m taking him to his master.” Jackson was not a man to argue with, and the boy was smart enough to see it.

  “Aye, m’lord.” He nodded, led the horse to Jackson, and handed him the reins, then bolted to the black horse’s stall. He brought the animal out in quick time. It was a fine, long-legged, glossy-coated mare, and its tack was of good quality.

  Jackson held out a gold piece, more than enough to buy the boy’s silence.

  “Not a word. You were asleep and don’t know who took the horse.” Jackson swung up onto his saddle.

  “Aye, m’lord. I was asleep.” He nodded, kneeled, and slipped the coin into his boot.

  Jackson leaned down and took the reins of the mare from the boy, tied them to his pommel, then motioned to him. The lad ran to the door, threw back the bolt, and swung it open.

  Jackson kicked his mount to a trot and rode out, leading the black horse. He joined the high street and followed it to the outskirts of town, where it became the road to the plains leading to the great castle of Baymore and his father.

  The night was bitter cold, but no snow fell yet, and the full moon shone bright, casting sharp blue shadows on the light frost that coated everything. The horses’ hooves crunched the thin layer of ice that covered the dirt road, their hot breath blowing clouds of vapor. He rode on, sure he would find what he sought before long.

  Not far from town, he found the bravos handiwork. Anger churned in the cauldron of his chest, and he swore soft and low. Jackson dismounted, tied off his horse, and climbed over the low rock wall into the field.

  The man, left to die in this cold field, still lived. Naked, his leg muscles quivered with the strain of staying on his toes. His arms, lashed by his wrists beneath crossed poles, were unable to support his weight. A noose circled his throat. Jackson’s gaze followed the rope as it stretched up over a high tree limb, then was tied off on a lower branch.

  Once the man’s legs gave way, he’d slowly strangle, hanged by his body’s weight.

  Part torture. Part lynching. Certain death.

  Small, desperate puffs of vapor came from between swollen and torn lips, hands fisted in futile effort, head raised to keep from choking. He’d been beaten, evident even in the moonlight by the dark marks that covered most of his blue tinged skin. A long gash over his left eye had bled down his face to dry in the light hair that dusted his chest.

  Jackson pulled his knife from its sheath and approached the man. One blackened eye slit open and watched as he approached.

  “Here to finish it, then?” a hoarse voice whispered.

  “Aye.” Jackson raised the knife to the man’s throat.

  “Make it quick.” To Will, a blade seemed a better death than the noose.

  The dagger cut the rope that held his neck and his head fell forward. “God’s tears,” Will rasped. The stranger cut one wrist binding and his arm fell free. He slumped forward, caught in large, strong arms that held him safe as his cheek rested against a broad shoulder. His other arm was cut loose, and the man lowered him to the icy ground and pulled the noose from his neck.

  “Where are your clothes?”

  He swallowed, his throat raw and hurting, and jerked a hand toward the tree. “Over there, last time I saw them.” God, he was so cold and every inch of him hurt. His teeth chattered as he curled around his belly and a sick wave pushed up what little was left in his stomach. He retched onto the ground.

  Jackson strode to the tree. The man’s clothes lay scattered beneath it. They’d left his boots, despite their being well crafted. Most likely, they fit none of the men, but they’d taken whatever weapons, vest, or cloak he’d worn, and left his bloodied shirt and torn breeches. Both pieces had been finely made, with elaborate embroidery on the sleeves of the shirt. This man was no commoner.

  Controlling the rage that boiled inside him, Jackson thought of going back to the tavern and confronting the men, but that would serve no purpose. Right now, he needed to get this man as far from here as possible.

  Jackson glanced back at him. Half frozen, half beaten to death, he’d be in no shape to travel hard or far. Jackson looked down the road. Ten miles away, the low mountains began—rocky peaks covered in evergreens and scrubs. The road rose through them in a narrow pass, then dropped down to the plains. Thirty miles beyond it stood Baymore.

  No choice. He’d never make it safely to Baymore with the man in this condition. Once the others found him gone, they’d begin to search. Being caught on the open road was not a good plan. Jackson would have to hole up, wait for him to heal, then they could make their way to Baymore. His father would have to wait, he decided, as he returned to his new charge.

  This stranger, this savior, returned and helped Will to ease into his clothing and pull on his boots. His sword and father’s dagger were gone, taken by his tormentors, along with his crest ring, cloak, and pu
rse.

  “Can you stand?” The man’s dark gaze searched his face, brows creased.

  “I’ll try.” With an arm supporting him at the waist, the man led him to the wall. Will had to sit down and catch his breath before swinging his legs over to stand on the other side. His horse waited for him.

  The man’s broad shoulders and powerful arms easily boosted him into his saddle. Where the man had come by the animal, Will was too tired to ask. Gathering the reins in his shaking hands, he dug his feet into the stirrups and hung onto the pommel of the saddle.

  “We need to go quickly. Can you ride hard for a little ways?”

  “I’ll try.” What choice did he have? Ride and live, or stay and die.

  The big man kicked his mount to a gallop. Will started at a trot, which jarred his bones and started his head wound bleeding. Wiping blood from his good eye with his sleeve, he urged his horse into a smooth canter to spare himself further damage and keep up with his rescuer.

  The moon illuminated the road that wound through the rolling farmlands. On they went in a desperate dash, until Will thought he’d drop from the saddle. Clinging to the reins and his horse’s mane, barely able to catch his breath, he pulled his mount to a grateful stop beside the warhorse. His battered body screamed like some wounded animal and tears blurred what vision he had left.

  They had arrived at a little stream that crossed the road. The horses went into the stream and turned downriver, splashing through the icy water until they’d rounded a bend, hidden by trees.

  “Now, we go up.” The man pointed up the side of the mountain. “I know a place where we should be safe.”

  Will bent his head back. The top of the mountain was clearly visible in the moonlight and the side of the mountain looked to be straight up. He prayed that he could just hold on and not fall off. They started up.

  The horses blew and strained at the steep climb, hooves scraped over rocks, haunches bunched and flexed as they ascended. He clung, bent over his horse’s neck, gasping as badly as the animal. Each bone-jarring scramble reverberated in his body, sending waves of pain and nausea through him—flickers of darkness threatened to unseat him and betray him to the rocks below.