by Lynn Lorenz
“My Will. Mine and no other’s. You are my life.” Jackson laved Will’s chest with his tongue, then circled his nipple until Will thought he’d scream out his pleasure for the entire castle to hear, to know Jackson was his lover, his man, his duke.
“You bring me to the edge, my duke.”
Jackson clamped his mouth over Will’s nipple, suckled, and Will lost his control. His release tore through him, swelling his cock until he exploded, spilling his seed over both their bellies.
And still Jackson rubbed against Will, as he rutted in his own need. Loving the way Will’s cream between their bodies coated his belly. Will’s own sweet scent filled the air around them as Jackson dipped his fingers into the liquid and brought them to his lips.
“I love how you taste, sweet Will.” He sucked his finger clean, then held another finger out for Will. “Taste.”
Will took Jackson’s finger in his mouth, and sucked it, swirling his tongue over and under, giving Jackson’s finger what he’d given Jackson’s cock so many times.
Jackson growled and sat back, pulling his finger from Will’s grasp.
Then he pushed Will’s legs apart, pumped his cock twice, spit and slicked his shaft with his own juices, as Will watched.
“Take me.” Will pulled his legs up at the knees and opened himself for his lover.
“Christ, Will.” Jackson’s eyes grew dark, his lids lowered, and Will watched the lust and need burn in his lover’s gaze. Jackson guided his cockhead to Will’s portal, pressed as Will pushed and with a cry, Will’s muscles willingly gave way.
Jackson took him.
As if Jackson were some animal, some great glorious male beast, taking what was his, what he had rights to, what he’d claimed for his own.
There was nothing in Heaven, Hell, or on Earth as fine as this. Nothing. And Will would do this, let Jackson take him like this, anywhere and anytime he wanted.
The world be damned.
Jackson froze, his cock emptied in Will’s channel, and the big man’s body shuddered as he filled Will, panting his hot breath against Will’s skin, the sweat of his body dripping onto Will’s. Jackson collapsed, burying his face in Will’s neck.
“Oh Christ, Will.” Jackson’s muffled voice a hot puff of air against Will’s throat.
Will lay beneath the big man until the cock in his throbbing tunnel shrank, then slipped out. With a moan, Jackson rolled off and pulled Will to him, their bodies pressed tight together.
Pulling a quilt over them, Will found comfort in his lover’s arms.
Chapter Eight
Liam dropped the last of the men’s boots to the floor next to their owner’s cot. He straightened and looked around the barracks. Half of the men were stretched out on their cots, some still speaking amongst themselves, others fast asleep.
He wandered down the aisle, listening, but trying not to look as if he were. Boys who were caught listening to conversations might be beaten for their impertinence. He’d learned some about Baymore the last few days, but not what he’d been searching for. Now, with the unexpected return of the duke, Liam’s heart seemed to beat a quick march in his chest and his throat had grown dry.
The sight of the great Duke of Baymore riding through the open gates, the small column of men following and the younger man at the duke’s side, had made a great impression on Liam.
So that was the Duke of Baymore.
His father.
Like a wraith, Liam had faded back into the shadows of the doorway, but stared at the man, taking in every bit of him. The color of his dark red hair, his size—good Lord the man was huge—and the way he’d handled his horse. Every inch of the man was impressive.
The way his men looked at Baymore, with such admiration in their eyes. Master Marcus had been so happy to see him returned. He was a duke much loved by his people. A good man, just as his mother had told him.
She’d filled his head with stories of his father for as long as he could remember. Tales of the duke’s great deeds and adventures. Promises that one day, he would come for Liam and take him to the castle. He’d have a title and all the things they didn’t have—fine clothes, warm beds, and servants. His mother’s voice, soft, like music, had sent him off to sleep at night, to dream of the day his destiny arrived.
Until he grew old enough to ask questions and her answers weren’t answers at all, but evasions. She’d never told him why they weren’t a family. Why they didn’t live in the castle with his father or why no one in the village must know their secret.
Most of all, why the duke had never come for him, never claimed him as his son.
Now, Liam was at Baymore. All he had to do was step forward, claim his birthright, and fall into his father’s open arms, just as he’d dreamed.
Liam’s heart had swelled with pride, but at his next breath, his blood had gone cold as fear washed through him. If he showed himself to the Duke, made known he was his son, although a bastard, would the duke acknowledge him? Or would he deny him and put him out?
What if his mother had lied? What if the Duke never intended on coming for him, of claiming Liam as his son? What if all his hopes were lies and he was no more than an orphaned bastard child with no family or home. No future.
Liam shuddered and rubbed his hand on his thigh to calm his nerves. No sense in thinking the worst. Best to wait until he knew more. Lack of patience was something his mother often scolded him for, but not now. Now, if she were alive and hadn’t died in the fire that consumed their cottage, she’d be proud of him.
Proud he’d learned from her—learned to bide his time and wait. Proud he’d come here all on his own, made the journey and stayed safe, and taken a place in the castle, heeding her final words to him before she died.
“Find your father. Go to Baymore.”
His eyes filled with hot tears, but he dashed them away and picked up the broom. Sweeping his way back down the aisle, he continued to listen to the men.
“…glad he’s dead and gone. Everyone hated him.”
“Aye. He was pure evil, I tell you. Pure evil.”
Liam slowed, all his attention on the conversation. They spoke of someone’s death, and from the tone they’d taken and the looks on their faces, all of them agreed about the worth of the man.
“It was a great day for Baymore when Hugh was killed and Jackson took his place as duke,” another man declared.
Liam froze, and his grip on the broom handle went white. Hugh dead? But he’d just seen the duke ride through the gates. Seen it with his own eyes. He swallowed a lump that formed in his throat and coughed. The men’s gazes flicked to him. Liam ducked his head and forced himself to move the broom back and forth.
They turned away from him, lowering their voices.
It couldn’t be. They must be speaking of someone else, certainly. His body trembled as he forced himself to keep sweeping, mindless of the motions, as his gaze darted to the men. No, they had spoken clearly and left nothing to doubt in Liam’s mind.
Still, he wanted to shout at them, ask them a dozen questions, but he knew his place. Knew he had no right to speak unless spoken to by one of the men if he didn’t want to have his ears boxed, or feel a lash across his back. No, there was no one he could go to for information?
Master Marcus. He could go to the master of arms, ask him.
Liam reached the end of the room. He leaned his broom against the stone wall, then with a glance over his shoulder at the men, he slipped out of the door. The fear and tears he’d held at bay rose to the surface, and Liam ran.
Ran to the back of the keep, his legs and arms pumping as he sucked down air. All the way to the far wall, until he slammed into it, his chest heaving, his sobs no longer held back. Choking sounds were all that escaped his tight throat. His body shook as he slid to his knees, his arms cradling his belly, and he wept.
All hope for a future was gone.
His mother was dead.
His father was dead.
He was alone in the world.
In this castle. In the place that should have been his home, he would not be welcome. Not once they discovered who he claimed to be. Liam’s sobbing ebbed until there was nothing but a few choking gasps.
He knew what he must do.
If he wanted to stay here, he had to keep quiet. No one could know his secret. Not even Master Marcus. To tell it was to court death itself. Surely the new duke would have him killed too, wouldn’t he? Just like he’d killed his father.
But Liam wasn’t sure if he wanted to stay. Where would he go and what would he do if he left? Much might befall him outside the walls of the keep. He was but a boy, too young to make his own way in the world. He didn’t know much of the world, but he did know there were worse things for a boy to be than a servant in a fine castle.
For now, he had to stay here.
In the castle that should have been his home.
With the man who’d killed his father.
»»•««
“Yo, boy!” a woman’s voice called out. Liam uncurled, wiped his face with his sleeve, and got to his feet.
“Aye, mistress?”
“What are you doing there?” She came closer, one of the older washer women by the looks of her reddened face and hands.
“Nothing, mistress.” He leaned against the wall. Perhaps he’d get that beating anyway.
“What’s all them tears for? Get a beating, did you?” Her eyes softened with pity for him.
Best if he let her think that. “Aye. Too slow, I’m told.” He ducked his head and stepped toward her. “Best if I get back. They’ll be looking for me in the barracks.”
“Right you are. You’re the new barracks boy, aren’t you? I seen you fetching the wood for the fire.”
“Aye. Just come here.” He started to walk past her.
She reached out and took his arm. “If you need a place to hide, lad, you come see me.” She smiled at him and let him go. “It’s quiet in the washing rooms, just me and Mary at work most days.”
“Thank you, mistress.” Liam gave her a bow and took off at a run, back to the barracks. He’d hoped they hadn’t missed him. As he rounded the corner, he passed the woodpile. Halting, he went back, gathered an armload of wood, and made his way to the barracks.
Better to look busy so no one would ask where he’d been. If anyone cared.
He came in the back door, and pushed it shut with his foot.
“Where’ve you been, boy?” snarled one of the soldiers as he held up a boot.
“Getting the wood for the fire.” Liam marched to the hearth, kneeled, and stacked the logs.
“This boot isn’t quite good enough, now is it?” The man had a hard look in his eyes and Liam gulped hard.
“I’ll fix it right away, m’lord.” He held out his hand for the boot.
The man swung the boot, catching Liam in the head with the hard sole and heel. He staggered back, pain exploding over his ear, and fell to the floor. The man towered over him, the boot still clutched in his hand.
Another man rushed to the first soldier and took his arm. “Now, now, Clem, there’s no need for such treatment.” He cast a pitying glance at Liam.
The soldier shook him off. “I says there is.”
“Well, if you beat him too much, he’ll not be able to do your boots or ours, now will he?”
“Lad’s got to learn.” With a sniff, the man turned away as he tossed the boot at Liam. It hit the floor, just missing his head.
Liam gathered the boot up and got to his feet. Touching his hand to his head, he checked for blood, but there was none. Just a lingering sting, and his ear sore to the touch. He’d gotten off lucky this time.
That never would have happened if he’d been the duke’s son. If he were the duke’s son, he’d have servants—not be a servant. This was all Jackson’s fault.
Liam gritted his teeth and went to the corner where his polishing kit and stool waited, and got to work.
He’d rethink his decision about staying at Baymore.
Hard knocks and lashes waited for him no matter where he ended up. A boy alone, without family or the means to make his way in the world, would be at the mercy of those around him. He had to be smart about this and not let his emotions get the best of him.
It meant choosing the best place to be, that’s all.
For now, it seemed, that place was Baymore.
Chapter Nine
Marcus strode through the barracks, inspecting what he saw. The men’s cots were neat and orderly, the boots not on their feet stood at attention next to their beds. Liam had been doing a fine job of keeping the men’s belongings and the barrack’s fire well-tended.
He nodded, feeling more confident in his decision to take in the lad, but as he scanned the large room, he realized something was missing.
Liam.
Where was the boy? It was nearly time for the evening meal and most of the servants were making the hall ready. Liam had no duties there Marcus knew of.
Striding out the back of the barracks, he stopped in the midst of the courtyard. From where he stood he could see the closed door of the armory opposite the barracks, and the narrow passage to the rear of the keep, where the baths and laundry were housed.
His lips twisted as he wondered where the boy had gone to, then he headed to the baths. It wouldn’t be the first time a lad had snuck off for a soak in the tubs in the quiet time before the last meal of the day.
The bathhouse tubs were empty, the shadows of the late afternoon washed the yard in cool shades, and the cobblestones had dried.
Singing floated on the air, a country ditty Marcus recognized from his own hometown’s alehouse. He followed it, and stepped into the laundry.
Liam sat on a low stool, his chin resting on his chest, asleep.
The washer woman, without breaking her rhythm, looked up from her work and smiled at Marcus.
“Master Marcus,” she sang. Her large hands were red from the hot water, and strands of her straw-colored hair hung in her face. Large breasts bounced up and down as she scrubbed the clothes in her hands back and forth across the washing stone.
“Good day, laundress.” He gave her a nod, his gaze falling on the sleeping lad. “He been here long?”
“Not long. Sat down and fell fast asleep.”
“Your sweet singing had much to do with that, I’ll wager.”
With a gap-toothed smile, she nodded. “Aye. I’ve sung many a babe to sleep.” She stopped her work and sat back. Jerking her head at Liam, she said, “I reckon he’s lonely. Far from home, without a mother to watch over him.”
“Does he come here often?”
“Nay. This is the first time.”
Marcus leaned down to shake Liam awake, then froze. The side of the boy’s face was bruised. “Do you know what happened to him?”
“Those marks?” She shook her head. “Didn’t have them last time I saw him, but any fool could see he’d gotten a beating.”
Straightening, Marcus frowned. Beaten. How had that happened? Liam had been most eager to please, and from what Marcus had seen, the boy had done his work quickly and well.
“Liam,” Marcus called softly.
The lad jumped to his feet, rubbing his eyes with his fists. “Aye, sir!”
“It’s time to eat, lad.”
Liam nodded and scurried out the door, throwing a hasty, “Thank ye, mistress,” over his shoulder. Marcus followed, his long stride catching the boy’s shorter legs before he’d reached the barrack’s rear courtyard.
“Liam. Hold.” Marcus wanted more of an accounting of the dark bruise.
The young boy halted, then turned to face Marcus, keeping his face down.
“Look at me, lad.” Marcus stood with his arms on his hips, waiting.
“Aye, sir.” Liam raised his face.
Marcus took the boy’s chin in his hand and turned it to the side. “Who did this?”
“I hadn’t cleaned the boots as well as they should have been.” Liam’s dark eyes danced away from Marcus, a
sure sign the lad lied.
“Whose boots?”
Liam shrugged.
Marcus squatted down to look Liam in the face. “Liam. I can’t imagine you shirked your duties.” The bruise had a distinct shape and it didn’t take him long to recognize it. “He hit you with the boot, didn’t he?”
Liam nodded. Marcus didn’t miss the dampness gathering in the boy’s eyes and at that moment, he realized the lad had never been treated so sorely. This child hadn’t grown up a servant, but through some set of circumstances, some twist of fate, had fallen into this life.
Marcus had never held with the beating of anyone, servant or free man. Free men had the law to answer to, but a servant? They had nothing, no one to stand up for them, to insure they found a crumb of mercy or justice. A child servant was more at risk.
He wouldn’t stand for it, not in his barracks, not with his men.
“Come with me.” He stood, took Liam by the shoulder, and walked him to the barracks. They entered, Marcus half pulling, half dragging the boy. Marcus scanned the room. Half of the men were coming off their duty and changing out of their tabards.
“Attend me!” Marcus growled, his hand still resting on Liam’s shoulder. The boy shook beneath his grip. Marcus gave him a reassuring squeeze.
Every man snapped to attention where he stood.
“Liam—this boy—is a gift from Duke Baymore to his armsmen. A gift is not to be mistreated. A gift is not to be beaten whenever you’ve a burr caught under your belt. This gift can be taken away with but a word from His Grace.” Marcus leveled his sternest stare at the men. “Be sure to spread the message. Any man who lays a hand on this boy will answer to me.”
“Aye, sir,” the group’s murmur rumbled through the long room.
∙•∙
Liam glanced up at the master of arms, unable to keep the surprise from his face. Gaping, he swallowed hard, then looked back at the men. His gaze fell on the man who’d beaten him with the boot. The soldier stood, almost hidden, behind another man, with his face down.
If Master Marcus hadn’t threatened the men, Liam was sure he’d have felt the soldier’s boot again, and this time it would have the armsman’s foot still in it. The master of arms’ hand rested on his shoulder, a heavy but comforting weight.
