In the Company of Men Boxed Set

by Lynn Lorenz

  Feeling a rush of triumph, Hugh removed the pillow. Baymore lay with his mouth wide in a silent scream, eyes open as if to see through the pillow. Hugh gently lowered the old man’s lids, then pushed his jaw shut. Raising the lifeless hand, he tugged the duke’s ring off his finger and slipped it onto his.

  “How unfortunate that you died in your sleep.”

  Hugh rose, tossed the pillow back onto the bed, and left.

  Jon slid the spy hole’s door shut, raced back to the bed, and threw himself on it, his heart beating as if it would burst. If Hugh knew what he’d seen, his life would be forfeit, no matter how much Hugh might enjoy him.

  Twisting the edge of the quilt in his fingers, he waited for Hugh to return and his sweet torment to begin. Depending on his mood, Hugh could be a generous or a punishing lover.

  He’d already killed two men, and Jon feared to be the next.

  The door opened and Hugh swaggered in. Jon trembled as if he was a cornered rabbit, but tried a timid smile. The corner of Hugh’s sensuous mouth lifted. With a sigh, Jon relaxed. His lover would be tender and warm this time. Whenever Hugh indulged in the darkness that held him in its grip, it seemed some of it eased off, as if the bad humors were bled from him with the spilled blood of his victims.

  Dear God, Hugh was beautiful. And terrible.

  As Jon watched him walk to the bed, he remembered all the reasons why he’d come to this place —Hugh’s dark eyes, his full, sensuous mouth, his skilled hands, and that glorious mass of long ebony hair.

  Perverted by his lover, Jon wasn’t sure if he shuddered with desire or fear.

  “On your belly, my pet.” Hugh climbed onto the bed as he released his strings.

  Jon rolled over, pulling the pillow under his head, and gripped the edge of the quilt in preparation. Hugh kneeled between his legs and pushed his breeches low. With a tug, he stripped Jon’s loose pants from him, exposing his soft pale skin and lean flanks covered in blond hair.

  Hugh’s hands stroked Jon’s ass, felt the valley between each mound, his fingers discovering the skin that stretched between Jon’s sac and his hole. A wave of pleasure poured through Jon, setting his slender cock to stiffen as Hugh rubbed that special spot. Jon moaned.

  “You like that, do you?” Hugh’s voice was deep, saturated with want. When he wanted, he could give such pleasure it made Jon weep. When he wanted, he could give such pain it made Jon wish for death.

  “Aye, I do.” He writhed on the bed under Hugh’s touch.

  Hugh leaned down and bit the cheek of Jon’s ass, nipping it, taking hard bites that left red imprints of his teeth. Jon shuddered with the pleasure and pain of it. Soon, the spanking would begin and Jon wiggled in anticipation.

  Hugh straightened, raised his arm, and his large hand came down on Jon’s tender flesh with a loud slap that echoed in the room. Jon cried out, shuddered, and wiggled again, inviting more of Hugh’s sweet torment.

  He spanked Jon until the shape of Hugh’s hand cast rose-red shadows on his flesh.

  Sweat beaded Hugh’s brow.

  Tears welled in Jon’s blue eyes, and sobs slipped from his lips.

  Jon’s cock throbbed with a burning need to be touched, but he wasn’t allowed to do that until Hugh decided to allow it.

  The spanking stopped.

  Hugh’s harsh panting and Jon’s quiet weeping filled the chamber.

  Jon’s ass had gone beyond feeling. Hugh’s now gentle touches, meant to sooth inflamed skin, felt as if a ghost stroked his flesh, cold and without weight.

  Looking over his shoulder, he could see the glittering of Hugh’s eyes, the tip of his tongue as he ran it over his lips. Dropping his gaze, he watched Hugh’s hand pumping his thick cock.

  Jon’s ass clenched and his mouth watered.

  Hugh spit into his hand and rubbed it over his cock in preparation to enter him. Jon closed his eyes, waiting for the moment Hugh would take him, thrust his rod inside, and force Jon’s body to open to him.

  Soft, strong hands gripped Jon’s hips and pulled him backward as the velvet tip of Hugh’s rod found its home. Jon leaned into the thrust, his fingers clenched in the sheets, and he gritted his teeth as the initial pain tore through him.

  God, he loved being taken.

  “Fuck me,” Jon cried out with each of Hugh’s hard surges.

  Hugh fucked him until Jon thought he’d come apart under the man’s body. Every muscle in Jon’s body tightened as he hung on the edge of his release. With a surge, he broke past the barrier that held him back and exploded, spilling onto the covers of the bed.

  Now, Hugh leaned over Jon, wrapped his arm around Jon’s chest, and lay against his back. Hugh took Jon’s hand, linked their fingers, and pulled it over his head. “My sweet pet,” Hugh whispered. “Goddamn, you’re so fucking sweet, so tight, and so soft. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear I was fucking a woman.”

  Jon’s body took everything Hugh gave him, and as he felt Hugh’s lips on his back, sucking and biting him, leaving his mark, he hardened again. His lengthening cock brushed Hugh’s hand, and he took hold of it.

  Jon wept as Hugh stroked him, his hand a tight cylinder that raced over the head of his cock, stimulating Jon until he could no longer control it.

  Jon screamed his release. Hugh’s hand slowed, milking Jon’s cream from him, his seed covered fingers soothing Jon’s member and sac.

  Hugh gave him everything, his mouth, his hands, and his rod.

  In a final frenzy, Hugh’s hips plunging ever deeper, ever faster, Jon could tell his lover had reached the end. He’d shoot soon, but God forgive him, Jon didn’t want it to end. These few moments Hugh gave him were reason enough to stay and brave Hugh’s wrath and whim.

  “I’m coming,” Hugh growled. Pulling his cock out of Jon’s ass, Hugh’s powerful hands flipped Jon over and he straddled the young man’s waist. Hugh pumped hard on the shaft until his hot cream erupted in long thick spurts, emptying himself on Jon’s chest. Jon’s hand rubbed the still warm seed across his skin, fingertips circling his tight nipples as Hugh watched.

  Satisfied, Hugh fell back onto the bed, and pulled Jon into his arms. As Jon rested his head on Hugh’s chest, he knew what he had to do. After Hugh left him, he’d find the paper Withers had spoken of.

  Hugh slept. Jon rolled over and buried his face in a pillow. Quietly he wept for Withers, for the duke, for the poor stranger taken to that hellhole in the dungeon. He even wept for Hugh. But most of all, Jon wept for all that he’d lost and what he’d become.

  It was late when Hugh rolled over and stroked Jon’s hip. Eyes closed, he felt Hugh’s breath on his cheek a moment before his lips touched him. Soft, warm, almost, dare he hope, loving? No, the only man Hugh loved was himself. Pretending to sleep, Jon waited, heard Hugh sigh, then the bed shift.

  He listened as Hugh walked across the floor and opened the door. The door shut and Jon waited a few minutes. Rolling over, he checked the room then climbed quickly out of bed. Racing to the spy hole, he slid back the door. His Grace still lay on the bed, silent. Dead. No sign of Hugh.

  Jon closed the little door, put on his clothes, and slipped into the hall. No guards were posted at the door now. He raced to it and entered. Leaning against the door, his eyes couldn’t seem to shift from the body of the duke. Taking tentative steps into the room, he came to the bedside and stared down at the old man.

  A month after he’d arrived, when His Grace had realized what he and Hugh were doing, he’d sworn at Jon. Called him a perverted whore. Told them they were damned by God, that they would burn in the everlasting fires of hell, and had almost struck Hugh, but the old man had quailed under Hugh’s intense stare. Hugh had laughed and kissed Jon right in front of His Grace, flaunting their unnatural love.

  Baymore had been right. Jon was a whore and would burn. Hugh? Well, there might be a special place in hell for him. Two murders. Jon gave a dry laugh at his own foolish innocence. That hadn’t been the only time Hugh had killed—it had been done too
easily and with no remorse.

  He broke away and scanned the room. There, on the bedside table, was a folded piece of parchment. It had been left lying about, overlooked as if it was worthless, yet whatever it was had been worth killing over.

  He picked it up. How much danger would he be in if he read it? No more than if Hugh knew there had been a witness to his patricide. Trice damned. He opened it and began to struggle his way through it, stumbling over the larger words. Most of it he didn’t understand, but he got the meaning.

  Hugh was no longer the duke’s rightful heir.

  For this, Hugh would certainly kill whoever stood in his way.

  Jon folded it and turned in a slow circle. Where to hide it? He had enough sense to know not to carry it on himself, or secret it in his room. The duke’s room was full of places, boxes, trunks, shelves of books behind the duke’s fancy desk.

  Wandering over to the books, his eyes flicked over their spines. Most he couldn’t begin to read. Behind the desk on a wide shelf was the perfect book. Jon opened it and slipped the paper between its fine parchment pages. For a moment, he gazed down at the beautiful colors, the gold leaf, and the majestic swirl of lettering, denoting long hours of work, perhaps even one monk’s lifetime.

  Hugh would never look there. Jon closed the book, gave it a gentle caress and a quick kiss. Then he slipped from the room and back down the hall to his room.

  »»•««

  Jackson groaned. It reverberated in his head, sending bolts of agony through his body. Swallowing, he opened his eyes. His vision blurred—to focus, impossible. The room stank of urine, blood, and shit. He wasn’t sure if it was his or not.

  Goddamn, his head hurt. The throbbing seemed centered on the left side of his head, behind his ear. He felt his stomach lurch and he clenched his teeth to keep from spewing. As his mind cleared, he tried to stand. His arms were stretched to the sides and as he tried to pull them in, they refused. Turning his head slowly to one side, he blinked.

  A rusty iron manacle bound his wrist, its chain secured to a short wooden pole sunk into the floor. He didn’t bother to look at the other—it would be the same. He took a deep breath to cleanse his thoughts and steady himself.

  He was chained to posts in the middle of a small, dark room. On his knees. Damn, this wasn’t good and, unless he missed his guess, this room had been used before. He swallowed, his throat raw from thirst.

  How long had he been here and more important, why wasn’t he dead?

  From the dankness on the stone walls of the room and the fetid smells, he was being held somewhere in the lower level of the castle. Trying to focus, only a dark blur with an occasional glimpse of clarity was all he saw. What looked to be old, dried blood was spattered across the wall in front of him.

  He needed Will, needed to feel him in his arms. He longed to be safe at Holcombe, warm in Will’s bed. To kiss his lips one last time and tell him he loved him.

  Jackson knew he wouldn’t get out of this alive.

  A sound tore through his brain, making him cringe and duck his head down into his shoulders. The door opened behind him. Through Jackson’s half shut eyes, Hugh came into view dragging a chair. The harsh scrape of the wooden legs against the stone floor felt as if a knife had been driven into his ears, piercing his brain.

  Hugh stopped in front of him, swung the chair into position, and straddled it, his arms resting on the back. Jackson squinted at him as his sight cleared.

  “So, brother, how do you find Baymore?” Hugh’s voice was silk, sliding over Jackson’s brain, yet he could hear the rawness, running like an underground river beneath it.

  Jackson didn’t bother to answer. Something was odd about his vision. Only one eye seemed to clear. He hung his head and looked at his knees.

  Closed his right eye. Saw knees and stone floor.

  Opened it and closed the left. Saw nothing.

  He took a deep, shuddering breath and tried again.

  His right eye was sightless.

  God’s tears. He was half blind, chained as if he were some animal in a cell, with a madman in control.

  Jackson raised his head and stared at his captor. Hugh cocked his head and regarded him. “Christ, you’re a big man. But I felled you as if you were a mere sapling.” Hugh’s cold gaze bore into him. “Did you think you could come here and take Baymore from me? Without a fight? You’re stupider than you look,” he sneered. “This is my home. Mine!” His shout echoed around the small chamber.

  “I came only to see my father before he died. I had no idea he would grant me Baymore.” Or that his half-brother was insane. If he had known that, he never would have come without an army behind him. Looking back, he’d have done many things differently.

  “Really? I find that hard to believe.”

  “You would believe of others as you think of yourself, Hugh.”

  “A philosopher, eh? Who would have thought it, to look at you?” He shook his head. Reaching to the side, Hugh brought out a riding crop and ran it through his hands.

  “I’m a man of many skills.” Jackson managed a weak smile.

  “Are you? And I fear most of them involve those weapons that my men relieved you of.” He brought the crop down against his palm in a thinly veiled threat. Will’s comments about Hugh’s enjoyment of inflicting pain ran through Jackson’s mind.

  He’d been threatened by better men than Hugh, and they were all dead by the grace of Jackson’s sword. However, Hugh was right on one account —he had no weapons. For now, his brother held the upper hand.

  Pushing off the chair, Hugh stood. With a quick movement, the crop flicked out and cut across the back of Jackson’s hand, Hugh’s eyes hungry for his reaction. Jackson’s hand spasmed into a tight fist as he bit off a cry. It felt as if a bee had stung him, no more, and left only a red welt.

  Frowning, Hugh circled and stopped behind him. Hands, strong and firm, ran over Jackson’s shoulders, across his arms, then circled to his back. He suppressed a shudder. To be touched in so intimate a fashion by his half-brother revolted him.

  “You are truly a spectacular specimen of a man,” Hugh allowed. Then, taking hold of Jackson’s collar, Hugh ripped his shirt, baring Jackson’s broad back.

  Gritting his teeth, Jackson stared at the wall. It was to be whipping, then. He held his breath waiting for the first blow to fall.

  Those same hands ran over his skin in a parody of a caress. Jackson flinched as if the lash had fallen.

  “Christ, brother,” Hugh said with a sigh. “Your skin is soft, unmarred. I’ll remedy that.”

  The crop fell, tearing into his flesh. Jackson tensed, bit down on his lip, refusing to cry out. Hugh swung again and again, his powerful arm wielded the crop, slicing Jackson’s back until it was a bloody mess. Jackson refused to cry or beg for mercy. He’d looked into Hugh’s beautiful eyes. No mercy had ever shown in their dark depths.

  Powerless, Jackson shook with pain, rage, and frustration. He’d never been beaten by any man, not since he was a lad. Once he’d reached his full size at twenty, he’d been a fighting match for any man—by twenty-two, a match with any weapon. Now, almost forty, he’d survived on more battlefields than he could remember and had slain more men than he could count, but had never fallen into anyone’s hands as a captive.

  He tasted his own blood as he bit down on his bottom lip.

  The beating stopped. Behind him, he could hear Hugh’s ragged breath sucking in and out with the exertion. There was something else, something raw and naked filling the small cell they were in. Something that sent fear shooting like an arrow through Jackson’s wounded body.

  The crop flew across the room and hit the wall in front of Jackson as Hugh cursed. A hand slid into Jackson’s hair, grabbed a handful, and jerked his head back. Hugh leaned close, his lips at Jackson’s ear, his hot breath coming in soft pants.

  “You will die soon, brother. But not before…” Hugh bit off his words and with a growl of utter frustration he shoved Jackson’s head for
ward. Bursts of white lightning danced behind his closed eyelids as the pain in his head surged. Hugh appeared in front of him, breeches straining with his arousal.

  Disgusted, Jackson turned his head away.

  Hugh spun the chair around, unlaced his strings, sat, and brought out his half hard cock.

  “I will have mastery over you, Jackson. I am your better. You are nothing, the mud on my boots, a minor inconvenience.” As Hugh spilled his hatred, his hand stroked faster, as if his words and his passion were tethered to each other. “To think Father chose you over me, his true son! He was a weak, spineless old man, and I despised him.”

  His brother was beautiful even in what was, Jackson was sure, complete and utter insanity. A hideous darkness glittered in Hugh’s liquid eyes as they coursed over Jackson’s body.

  Jackson held silent. What do you say to a madman?

  Hugh bolted up from the chair, brought it to Jackson, and shoved it under his hips. Bent over the seat, Jackson kneeled on the hard stones. His mind gave a silent scream as Hugh’s obscene intentions became clear.

  Hugh’s voice rasped, filled with his lust. “I own you, Jackson. I say when you live or die. I say if you eat or starve. When, where, and how often I fuck you.”

  Jackson’s breeches were wrenched down to his thighs, trapping his legs, then those same strong, smooth hands massaged, caressed, and slapped the globes of Jackson’s ass. Hugh’s ragged breathing filled the room and Jackson’s ears as Hugh prepared himself.

  His half-brother had truly lost his mind.

  Jackson groaned, unable to form any words except one. He opened his mouth, but only a strangled cry emerged, “No…”

  God’s tears, where was Will? He needed Will’s help. Oh God, when this horror was over he would be ready for death, would welcome it with open arms. He regretted not letting Will take him, not allowing him to be the first.

  So many mistakes.

  His stomach wrenched, flipped, and he gritted his teeth. It was going to happen and he could do nothing to stop it. Even knowing it was wasted effort he still struggled, his arm muscles straining against his chains and the manacles biting into his wrists.