by Lynn Lorenz
Will returned to Jackson and sat on the bed. Pushing a lock of hair from Jackson’s brow, he took a long look at his lover. Jackson’s back was a hideous sight —broken skin, red welts, and drying scabs covered it. Dirt crusted almost every inch of his body. Will burned with fury at what Hugh had done to this once strong and magnificent man.
He was glad his dagger had found its home in Hugh’s black heart.
A servant arrived with hot water, soap, and rags, and Will began the task of washing Jackson’s body and cleaning his wounds.
»»•««
Over the next days, Will worked at the task of transferring Baymore to Jackson. He had spoken to all of Morris’s men of the keep and had secured their agreements to give Jackson their oaths when he presented himself to them.
He had the old duke’s room cleaned and Jackson moved in, a visible claim to the title. It was a strategic move to insure the staff of the keep saw Jackson as duke, and it had worked. He even brought in the man Baymore had used to fashion his clothing and ordered a new set made for Jackson that befitted his new rank.
Jackson slept fitfully and when awake he did little more than eat, drink, and see to his personal needs. Jackson didn’t speak much. Will’s concern grew with each day. Even though the big man had never been prone to long-winded speech, he was strangely silent.
The rope between them grew thin and slack.
Despite those worries, Will began the task of going over Baymore’s ledgers, and reconciling the exact wealth and extent of Jackson’s new holdings. By the time he’d finished, Will had discovered that Hugh had spent a serious amount of coin, but that it did little to affect the total worth of Baymore. He only wished Holcombe had been so blessed.
But, with a little more investigation, Will discovered the excess was due to the outrageously high taxes Morris had settled on his people. He would advise Jackson to reduce the rates to a more reasonable amount that should still bring in money to the coffers, yet give the populace some relief, buying Jackson much needed goodwill. After Morris’s taxes and Hugh’s destruction of Baymore’s good name, Jackson would have to do all he could to earn his people’s loyalty.
Among all this, Will managed to dispatch a messenger with a letter to his brother Wallace, telling him of the events at Baymore and that he’d see him soon. He missed Holcombe, but more than that, he missed Jackson. The big man was there in body, but his spirit seemed to have fled. Will understood. He’d survived a night in the field, looking death in the face at the end of a rope. Jackson had survived a torment that had lasted days with death nowhere in sight.
Will was determined to give him all the time he needed, but the men of the keep were growing anxious to present themselves to their new duke, and Will knew he’d have to bring Jackson before them sooner, rather than later.
At night, Will slept in Jackson’s room. When the servant entered in the evening to tend the fire, Will sat in the chair at the desk, working on the ledgers until she left and the candles had burned low. Then he crawled into the bed and lay in the dark next to Jackson. With only fingers touching, they slept side by side until the dawn broke and Will removed himself from Jackson’s bed, going back to his chair behind the desk.
For Will, it was hell. To be so close to his lover and yet be kept at a distance by him was more than Will could bear.
Unable to take it anymore, on the fourth morning Will made a decision. He waited until Jackson had sat up in bed and had the morning meal before him. Easing onto the bed next to him, Will said, “Jackson, all is ready for you. Tonight, you will take your men’s oaths as Duke of Baymore.”
Jackson nodded and said nothing.
“Once that is done, I’m leaving.” Will watched Jackson’s face. A slight pause in his breathing and a flick of his eyes were Jackson’s only reaction.
“Aye. You’ve done much, my lord, to help me. It’s best you return to your home,” Jackson muttered, not looking at Will.
Will sat back. Swallowing down the lump in his throat, he stared at Jackson. He’d never thought he would be dismissed out of hand. No questions, no asking him to stay. Nothing. It was as if he’d been struck in the belly and wanted only to curl around the wound.
Standing, Will stalked toward the door but halted. Without turning he said, “I have no idea what I have done to lose your love, but if you want me to leave, I will.”
Jackson made some noise deep in his throat. Whether it was consent or not, Will couldn’t tell, but it angered him, made him madder than he’d been since he’d killed Hugh in that dank cellar. He spun, hands fisted, and strode back to the bed.
“How dare you treat me this way? I love you and I would have sworn on my life that you loved me. Now I tell you I’m going and you wave me goodbye without a thought? Without a word?” Tears formed in Will’s eyes, but he didn’t try to stop them from falling. “Damn you, Jackson Baymore.”
Jackson looked at his hands resting on the covers. Will’s ire surged. He dropped to his knees by the bed, the covers clenched in his hands. “Look at me! Look me in the eyes and tell me you don’t love me. That you don’t want me anymore,” Will challenged.
Jackson’s head rose and his eyes met Will’s. “I will always love you. But I am not the same man, Will.”
“Not the same? What has changed? Your fierce face is still the one that captured my heart. Your lips the ones I long to kiss. Your dark eyes are the ones I fell in love with. Tell me, what has changed?”
“My eyes are not the same.” Jackson looked up and took a deep breath. “When Hugh struck me on the head, he damaged me. Will, I have no sight in my right eye.”
All Will’s fury left him in a great exhalation. He rose, sat on the bed, and took Jackson’s hand. Jackson tried to pull it away, but Will held it firm in his grasp. “And that changes you how, Your Grace?”
Jackson took a shuddering breath. “I am helpless. I can’t fight, not without both eyes. I’d be killed by the first man who approached on my right. I will have to be cared for the rest of my life. That is no life for you. No life for anyone.”
Will sat back. Oh, he recognized this as sure as if he’d looked into the mirror. This was nothing more than self-pity. Will had been a master of that his entire life. That Jackson thought himself worthless or infirm was laughable. He’d have to do better than that to earn Will’s sympathy.
Will crossed his arms. “You’re right. You are weak and pathetic. A cripple. Unable to even feed yourself.”
Jackson’s head snapped up, his eyes wide. His brows rode so high on his forehead they nearly touched his scalp. Will wanted to laugh. It was time to get Jackson on his feet and moving, even if the big man needed a boot in his ass to do it.
Will unfolded his arms and with a quick move, swung at Jackson’s head with his left fist. Before he could blink, Jackson caught Will’s fist in his hand, stopping the blow in the air.
“Helpless. I can see that.” Will chuckled.
Jackson glared at him and released Will. “But your father needs to be walked —”
Will cut him off. “My father is completely blind. He enjoys strolling with others, but he is not helpless. He moves about on his own throughout the castle. Nothing is ever moved, so he has learned where all the tables and chairs are placed. He dresses, feeds, and tends himself. Father would be very upset that you think him so incapable.”
Jackson seemed at a loss. His eyes darted to the door, then back to Will. Great God, was this what Wallace had to deal with when Will’s melancholy set in? Will made a promise to ask his brother’s forgiveness when he next saw him.
“Get out of bed right now, Your Grace. I think your ass has been warming it for far too long. I should have had you up and around before this day.” Will pushed off the bed and tossed back Jackson’s covers. “Get up.”
Jackson shook his head. “But I don’t want to be duke. I never wanted that, never dreamed of it.” His voice was almost petulant, as if he were a child being told to do something he didn’t want to do.
“No, you
didn’t. But here you are, Duke of Baymore.” Will shrugged, unwilling to give him even a small scrap of pity.
“Will. I know nothing of this. I can barely read or write my own name. How will I manage this estate? The ledgers…my God, how will I do them? I know enough sums to figure the amount I am owed for my pay, but little more.” Jackson’s eyes held fear and doubt.
Will shook his head. “Dukes don’t do those things, Jackson. They have others do it for them. Your castle warder will handle the matters of your estate. Your master of arms will captain your men. Same with your master of horse and the others. You merely need to enjoy being duke.” Will grinned at him. “It’s quite easy, as a matter of fact. There is a great deal of food and wine involved, I believe.”
Jackson frowned. “There is another matter, Will.” Jackson’s gaze fell again and a look of such utter torment marred his face.
“What is it? You can tell me anything.” Will sensed this was something more than just some damage to Jackson’s pride. He leaned forward and touched Jackson’s hand.
Jackson’s voice dropped. “When I was being held by Hugh, he beat me.”
“I know that. Your back is evidence of his actions.”
Jackson looked up and stared across the room, still unwilling to meet Will’s eyes. “There is more. Hugh…” Jackson gave a groan of anguish and scrubbed his hands over his face. Then he lay back against the pillows and whispered, “He raped me.”
It was as if Will had fallen from his horse and had all the wind knocked from his chest. How could Hugh have done so vile a thing? Even he must have had some morals, some idea of which perversion was going too far. But to rape your half-brother?
Will felt his face suffuse with blood and anger as he drove to his feet. “That black-hearted bastard! That whoreson! I should have twisted the knife in his heart, or plunged it into his belly and spilled his entrails!” Will raved. “Had I known of this, I swear to you I would have avenged you, Jackson.”
“You have avenged me,” Jackson assured him. “I wanted you to be the first. He stole that from me. From us. I would have taken any beating, endured any torture but that,” Jackson rasped. “I wanted to die. I planned to—had decided the next time the guards came, I would throw myself at them and take the arrow rather than let Hugh use me that way again.”
Will’s breath caught in his chest. “The guards were at the door when I arrived.”
“Aye. I couldn’t believe I was hearing your voice. I thought I’d gone mad.” Jackson grasped Will’s hand. “But you came for me.”
“I knew you were in trouble. Somehow, I could feel it.” Will sat on the bed. “We are connected, Jackson. I don’t know how, but we are.”
“Will.” Jackson sighed. “I don’t know if…” His voice faded. “If you will ever be able to love me that way.” He turned his face from Will. “Or if I can take you that way.”
Will understood. The first time always held some pain, but it was usually accompanied by pleasure, desire, and arousal. Will was sure that Hugh had taken special care to make it ugly, brutal, and painful for Jackson.
Standing, Will said, “I told you before. When you’re ready. I can wait.”
“And if it never happens?”
“Then I will be content with whatever you give me and whatever you allow me to give you.”
Jackson fell back and closed his eyes. “I don’t deserve you, Will Holcombe.”
“Well, let me be the judge of that. I can think of no man more deserving of my heart than you, my beloved duke.”
Will returned to his desk and sat. “Now, tonight you must take oaths. We will practice what you must do so that you don’t stumble on the words.”
Jackson nodded and the lesson began.
Chapter Seventeen
“You look fine, Your Grace. The new clothes suit you,” Will assured Jackson that evening.
Jackson looked down at his new polished boots and the supple brown leather breeches he wore and shook his head. “Will, these must have cost a fortune.”
“You have plenty to spare.” Will waved a hand. “Besides, these are your finest, meant for ceremonies like tonight’s. Your plain clothes were far less dear.”
The long over vest Jackson wore swept to his knees in a rich expanse of burgundy velvet. Beneath that was a full-sleeved white linen shirt with the crest of Baymore, a leaping stag embroidered in brown on both collars. It was lightweight and soft against his still healing back, but the cloak added some weight. Jackson rolled his shoulders to distribute the pressure over a particularly sore spot.
“I feel like a buffoon in these things.” Jackson ran his hand over the velvet, testing its unfamiliar feel. He’d never worn such material in his life. Velvet wasn’t suited to the battlefield.
“No, you look like a duke. Now, here’s your sword.” Will handed him a jewel-encrusted ceremonial sword to strap on. It hung low on Jackson’s narrow hips. “Now your ring.”
Jackson slipped the crest ring of Baymore onto his right forefinger.
“There, just the right amount of richness without being a peacock.” Will nodded as he walked a circle around Jackson.
“If you say so. Will, I have no idea what I’m doing.” Jackson shook his head. Will smiled. Despite all the fine clothing, Jackson’s dark red hair could not be tamed. It stirred Will. He wanted to bury his hands in it as he pulled Jackson to him and took his mouth in a kiss.
Instead, Will stepped back. “That will come in time. Now, let’s go down and meet your men.” Will held the door open and Jackson stepped into the hall. A young page waited there for him. With a quick, stiff bow, the boy led the way to the great hall.
Following the page to a raised dais opposite the fireplace, Jackson took note of the hall. Banners hung from the high rafters, and the tables and benches had been arranged in long rows to accommodate the large number of men in attendance. Stepping up, he took his place in front of a large chair that looked very like a throne and sat.
Will stood at his right side, looking incredibly handsome. His golden hair shone in the light of dozens of torches hanging on the walls. What seemed to Jackson to be hundreds of candles were placed on the tables. Will stood tall, shoulders back, proud and glorious.
Jackson felt a surge of desire but suppressed it. This was no place for those thoughts. Still, he couldn’t stop his smile. It had been the first such thought he’d had in some time. Wounded and disheartened in that cell, he’d worried if he would ever feel desire again, and that lack of wanting had lasted until this moment.
Looking out at the hall, Jackson lost count of the numbers of men seated at their benches, talking amongst each other or scanning the room for those they knew. Most stared at him, as if they committed his face and form to memory. He swallowed and felt a bead of sweat trickle down the back of his neck. The hall was warm, but he knew it wasn’t the heat of the room. It was the occasion that made him sweat.
If he’d had his way, he’d be on the battlefield, not here, but that was closed to him now. With only one good eye, he wouldn’t last long in a fight. Besides, no one would hire a half-blind mercenary.
The men of his court sat at the table directly in front of his dais and chair. The rest of the tables held what seemed to be a mixture of officers—high ranking officials from the town, Baymore’s earls, barons, and baronets, and just off to one side, he spotted Lord Wallace Holcombe. Their eyes met across the room and Wallace gave him a small nod of acknowledgement, which Jackson returned.
Will stepped forward and the crowd hushed.
“Men of Baymore and honored guests. Welcome. Tonight Jackson, His Grace the Duke of Baymore, will receive the oath of fealty from those who wish to give it freely and without fear.” Will’s strong, clear voice was pitched to carry throughout the hall. Jackson caught the gaze of each of his masters, held it, and then continued to the next man. He glanced at Will, who gave him a lift of his eyebrow.
Jackson stood. “I welcome you to Baymore. Events have unfolded here that I ho
pe, in time, you will come to look upon as fortuitous. As you will give your oaths to me, I now give my oath to you.” He pulled his sword and just as he’d practiced, twisted it in his hands. Lifting it above his head, he plunged it into the floor in front of his boots. Grasping the hilt with his hand, Jackson dropped to one knee, held his head up, and stared into the crowd.
“As Jackson, the Duke of Baymore, I give my oath that I will honor, respect, and protect the people of Baymore, its lands, and holdings.” It was an unusual gesture, but he and Will had discussed it all day and agreed that some statement had to be made in order to sway the men who were unsure about the kind of man Jackson was and the sort of duke he would be.
Murmurs in the crowd rose. As he pushed to his feet, Jackson would have sworn Lord Wallace Holcombe led the first shout of “hurrah.” Within moments, the room echoed with everyone hoisting their fists into the air, repeating the cry.
Jackson looked out at the crowd and drew his back up straight. A few of his scabs tore, but he bore the sharp pricks of pain. He had been born Jackson, the bastard son of a nobleman, and had been a mercenary by trade. Never once had he dreamed that he would be raised so high. One man had made it so —Lord William Holcombe. His Will, the man he loved more than his own life, more than Baymore.
Jackson knew it wouldn’t take much to fall far. He’d seen the result of that hubris in his father and in Hugh. Jackson swore he would never repeat their mistakes.
He took his seat as Jackson, Duke of Baymore.
With a nod from Will—one by one—from the master of arms to the master of horses, the lieutenants of his captains, their sergeants, and those lesser nobles that lived under Baymore’s protection, they climbed the steps of the dais to kneel in front of Jackson, place their hands on his sword, and give their oaths. He accepted oaths until he couldn’t count the number and everyone’s bellies rumbled for their dinners.
When Jackson thought the last man had given oath, Will stepped forward. Jackson sat back, his hands gripped the arms of the chair, and his brows rose. Will, as second son, was sworn to Holcombe and had never spoken about changing his allegiance.
