by Lynn Lorenz
Arvel, arms wrapped around his drawn-up knees, watched Peter. He wasn’t very like his Heart, but near enough. Strong in body and with kind eyes. Pleasing to gaze upon.
He wished to join him in the bed. But perhaps Peter didn’t wish it. Not many men did—he wasn’t a fool. He knew the dangers of trying with the wrong man.
He missed his Heart. Missed his warm, hard body and his soft, gentle touch.
Peter’s body looked warm also. Would his touch be as gentle? Would his kiss be as sweet?
Perhaps tomorrow night.
Arvel sighed and closed his eyes to sleep.
∙•∙
Peter removed his tunic, baring his chest, but still refusing to look up. His fingers shook as he stood and untied the laces of his leather riding breeches. Why? He’d undressed before countless soldiers in the barracks and in the field. There, bodies paraded past in various stages of undress, and there had never been even the slightest quiver. After taking a deep breath, he pushed them down and stepped out of them, naked except for his woolen trews.
He slipped under the quilts and lay back, resting his head on a large pillow filled with feathers. It cradled his head, comfortable and lulling. His eyes drooped at his sudden weariness.
He ran his hand over the top quilt. Such a fine bed and linens for a caretaker. He thought back to the last time Logan had been here and couldn’t recall either him or Drake traveling to the lodge.
Arvel had cared for the place well. He’d mention it in his first report to Drake.
Peter sighed, melting into the bed. Warm. Content.
He’d forgotten something. Arvel.
Pushing up on his elbow, he stared at the younger man curled in the chair, eyes closed.
“Arvel?”
No answer. What had he expected? The fellow was deaf and mute. Gods, he shouldn’t force the man out of his own bed, should he? Peter extended his hand out to the other side of the bed. There was room enough, and he was no better-ranked man than the caretaker. Both were in the duke’s employ, both his sworn men.
With a sigh, he tossed back the quilts and got out of bed. He padded over to Arvel and squatted down, touching him on the shoulder.
Arvel woke, blinked, and smiled. His brow furrowed in question.
“Come to bed.” Peter motioned at it and stood.
Arvel unwound, his gaze dancing between Peter and the bed, searching to see something. Peter smiled.
“No reason you can’t sleep in your own bed, is there?” He held out his hand, an invitation to join him. Arvel’s gaze dropped to it, then flicked back up to Peter’s face.
Peter’s mouth went dry as Arvel reached out and slid his hand, soft and small and gentle, into Peter’s. Peter pulled him up, and they walked to the bed, Arvel trailing behind, still clinging to Peter’s hand.
At the bed, Peter released him, and Arvel went around to the other side of the bed.
Peter climbed into the side of the bed nearest the door and pulled the covers over himself.
Arvel sat on the edge of the bed with his back to Peter. He toed off his boots and the thud as they dropped to the floor sounded distant. Peter’s exhaustion overtook him and his eyes slitted, fighting to stay open. He watched Arvel pull his tunic off over his head and shake those long tresses of red hair loose. Golden highlights danced on them from the fire’s glow, deep reds, soft oranges, amber, and fire, like the leaves of a tree in autumn’s full beauty.
The young man slipped out of his breeches and under the covers. He rolled over to face Peter and smiled. Gave him a nod of thanks.
Peter nodded back.
Under half lids, Arvel gazed at him. Licked his lips. Peter followed the pink tongue on its journey around those lush lips. If he kept looking at Arvel and Arvel kept licking his lips…
Peter rolled over, faced the door, and closed his eyes.
∙•∙
Arvel shifted deeper into the bed. For a moment, he’d thought Peter would kiss him. His gaze had grown heated, but he’d turned away, and Arvel had been disappointed. Arvel had seen that look in the eyes of many men. He knew they found him pleasing. Some of them he had let be with him, some he hadn’t.
Until he’d found Gareth, wounded, and took him in, saved him, much as Peter had saved Arvel. He’d only been with Gareth for a long time now and had wanted no other.
Until now.
He’d wanted to be kissed by Peter.
He felt confused. His heart belonged to Gareth, but now, tonight, his heart and body yearned for Peter.
He longed for his Heart to come home.
His body had ached with need these long days since his Heart left to find work. There would be no warmth and no soft touches this night.
Sleep then. Tomorrow. Perhaps tomorrow.
Chapter Four
Peter held Mary against his chest, his nose buried in her long hair. Her body molded to his, caught in his arms, warm and soft, and smelling so good, yet not quite the way he remembered. He stroked over her hip as he moaned, his lips pressed against the back of her neck.
She shifted, pressing back into him, rubbing her soft bottom against his thickness.
Sweet dream. It’d been a long time since he’d dreamed of pleasure, longer since he’d felt it harden him. Of her. Without hearing the screaming, without seeing the terror in her eyes, without seeing the blood leak from her body, soaking the bed she lay on.
No blood here, only warmth and comfort.
He prayed this would never end. That he’d never awaken. God, take me now. Let this be the last thing I know in this world.
He clutched her tighter to him as a sob broke from chest.
She pulled away from him, slipping through his hands, leaving him again…alone…
Peter gasped and lunged across the bed. He grabbed her arm and yanked her back, pulled her on top of him, ran his hands over her face, pushing her hair from it, moaning and crying and begging her not to go. To stay. To live.
She stilled, her light weight pressing on him. Solid. Warm. Real.
He opened his eyes.
The eyes looking back at him weren’t brown.
Lavender.
He frowned. That wasn’t right.
Red hair, not brown.
Not…
Arvel stared back into his eyes.
“Fuck!” Peter pushed him off so hard the man rolled off the bed.
∙•∙
Arvel slammed to the floor, jarring his teeth together. He rubbed his ass, and tears filled his eyes as he glared at Peter.
What had he done wrong? Peter had grabbed him. He’d pulled him on top, pushed his hard cock into Arvel’s belly.
He wants me but doesn’t want me.
Arvel sighed. He knew that look on Peter’s face. Remembered it the first time with Gareth. The older man had fought his attraction to Arvel but gave in at last.
Gareth had needed him, and now Peter needed him also.
∙•∙
Gasping, choking on his own tears, Peter scrubbed his hands over his face, then sat up, his face in his hands, and shuddered.
The bed shifted. A hand touched his shoulder.
Arvel.
Peter jerked away. Stood. Tried to think what to do.
Clothes. He needed to dress.
Where the hell had the caretaker put his things? Right. The trunk. He strode to the chest, threw it open, and pulled out fresh clothing. He danced into his breeches, tied the strings, and threw on a tunic. Stomped into his boots.
Refused to look at that bed. At Arvel.
Refused to think of what he’d done. Almost done.
Betrayed her.
Held another body to his, touched another. A man’s body.
Pushed his manhood against Arvel’s soft ass. A man’s ass.
No, he didn’t want to think about that. Not at all. That way led to danger, and he understood the hazards of that bonding, had seen Drake and Logan struggle to survive their secret. He had no taste for suffering the same way.
; He had a mission and he’d best get to it.
Peter strode to the door, opened it, and left, closing it behind him.
Still trembling, he went to the stable to see to his mare.
∙•∙
Arvel fell back on the bed and sighed. Men were so foolish. Gareth, Arvel, and Peter. Was it this bothersome between men and women? If so, there wouldn’t ever be babes, but there were, so it must not be so hard.
Hard? He smiled. Peter had been so hard.
It had felt good. He’d wanted Peter’s touch. Wanted his cock rubbing against him.
He wanted Peter inside him.
And he wanted his Heart also.
He wanted both?
He shook his head to clear his mind of foolish, greedy thoughts.
Neither Peter nor Gareth would agree to such a sharing.
»»•««
Peter led the horse through the woods to the road. Today, his first action would be to go to the village and speak to the local priest. He would have to be careful not to reveal himself to the good father. Not even the priest could know his mission.
At the road, he swung up into the saddle, gave the location of the path a hard look, and then spun the mare around and kicked her into a trot. He passed the fork in the road and saw the village in the distance. Smoke rose from a dozen or more chimneys, and the gathering of thatched roofs surrounded the stone bell tower of the church.
By the time he rode in, the village had come to life. The villagers went about their morning duties, hawking wares, loading wagons, unloading barrels, shouting welcomes and hails and even giving the stranger who rode through their midst a nod.
He nodded back, followed the hard-packed lane to the church, and dismounted, tying his reins to the gray wooden fence. Next to the stone building a small cottage sat, probably the priest’s home.
Peter went to the door and knocked, then stepped back.
The door opened and a small, round man greeted him. He wore a brown robe and held a crust of bread in his hand. Crumbs sprinkled across his belly and his beard, caught on their way to the ground.
“Pardon my intrusion. I see you’re still breaking your fast, Father.”
“Do I know you, my lord?” The man peered at him, then took another bite, crumbs flying.
“No, Father. I’m a stranger, only passing through. I seek information, and I’m hoping you can provide it.”
“Well, if it’s about the inn and which ale to choose, take the stout.” He laughed, then stared hard at Peter. “Anything else, and I’m hard pressed to tell anything of value.”
“May we speak inside?” Peter motioned to the cottage.
“Aye. Come in, come in.” The priest stepped aside and Peter entered. Not as small as it looked on the outside, the cottage held a main room and another room behind it. Peter could see through a doorway to the small cot in the other room.
He made his way to the fire and stood in front of it, warming his behind.
“Now, what information do you seek and why do you think I might hold it?” The priest sat at the table, where a bowl and spoon rested. He dipped the spoon into the bowl and ladled the porridge into his mouth.
Peter didn’t care for porridge, but he’d run off without breaking fast and his belly rumbled.
“I’m interested in any strangers that might have been seen lately. Any that have come and gone. Any unexplained troubles, thievery, or mayhem.”
“That covers quite a bit, young man.” He smiled. “Only stranger is you, lo these many weeks. However, mayhem and thievery have occurred of late.”
A rush of excitement raced through Peter. “Tell me, if you can, of the mayhem.”
“Well, the butcher’s wife claimed someone broke into her coop and stole four of her prized hens. Ripe and ready for the blade, they were.”
“Stolen, eh?”
“That is her claim.” The priest shrugged.
“And you think not?”
“Who can say what happened, but the chickens are missing.”
“Anything else?” Peter leaned forward. A hungry band of scouts could turn to stealing if hungry enough—however, with the plentiful game in the woods, why risk being caught? Most likely, some hungry villager.
“Well, to tell truth, I don’t meet many strangers. You’d be better served speaking with the innkeeper.”
“I plan on that, Father. I was hoping you’d heard any stories, tales, that sort of thing.”
“Oh.” He nodded. “Gossip, eh?”
Peter blushed. “Aye. In the village where I live, the priest there always knew the troubles and trials of the villagers. I thought, perhaps, it was common among your ilk.”
The priest laughed and slapped his leg. “Indeed it is. I can tell you many things, and all of them interesting, but none of the kind you seek.”
Peter stood. “Thank you, Father, for speaking with me at so early an hour.”
“Not a trouble, my lord.” He walked Peter to the door and opened it.
“And Father? I’d appreciate it if you kept this to yourself, eh?” Peter held out his hand, flashed the silver coin, and then dropped it into the priest’s hastily proffered palm.
“Not a word.” He inclined his head, Peter stepped out, and the door shut behind him.
Peter sighed, then headed to his horse. “Inn next.”
His mare snorted, tossed her head, and Peter mounted. It was a short ride to the inn, a place called the Ram and Boar. He dismounted and tossed the reins around the hitching post.
Peter pushed open the door and entered. In the air hung the familiar scents of an inn house, ale, bread, roasted meats, burned wood, and sweat.
He sat at a table and motioned to the keep. “What have you to break my fast with?”
“Porridge, bread, cheese, and some fine ham.”
“I’ll have the bread and ham. And an ale.”
The man nodded and shuffled over to a sideboard where a large ham sat. The man sliced off two thick slabs and placed them on a trencher. Next, he added a half a loaf of bread—fresh, Peter hoped—poured the ale, and brought it all over.
“Many thanks,” Peter said as he paid the keep his coins.
With the innkeeper, he’d wait awhile, observe the man and the place before asking any questions. Depending on what he saw, he might not even ask them today or the day after.
As he lingered over his meal, he watched the villagers come and go, greet the keep, talk of various matters, but not one word of talk about strangers or scouts or troops.
It looked to Peter as if he’d have to do as Logan said and stay longer. Wait it out and see what came of it. But that meant staying at the lodge, with Arvel, and he wasn’t sure that was wise.
He stared into the fire. Perhaps if Arvel slept on the chair, or the floor. But how to move him out? In truth, Peter should give up the bed, despite the caretaker’s offer. Surely that had only been meant if they shared it.
Peter closed his eyes and drifted. He longed to talk to Mary. Missed his visits to the graveyard, sitting by her stone cross, telling her of what he was doing each day. Just like he’d done the nearly six hundred days of their life together when he returned from duty.
She’d sit and listen to him speak of the men, of Drake and Logan, smiling up at him as if he were telling the most interesting stories she’d ever heard. Never their secret, though, because in truth it had become his secret the night he joined them in Drake’s room. That he could never speak of, for fear of losing her.
He’d succumbed to his need, his curiosity, but once tasted, he hadn’t wanted it again. He’d loved her, loved the way she loved him. The way she’d been so happy to tell him there would be a babe, and they would be a family.
Well, it was over now. No wife, no child, no family.
She’d taken everything when she died—his hopes and dreams, his heart, his soul, his life.
Peter finished the last heel of the bread, downed the ale, and stood.
Midday would be upon him soon. Time to take
a ride around the district, see the lands and the woods, decide where the most likely place for an advance might be, in Weathers’ viewpoint.
He left, got on his mare, and headed north out of the village. At the fork in the road, he took the right path, leading over flat fields into the distance. The very edge of Marden ran farther ahead, ten miles or so, at the low mountains in the distance.
Perhaps there he’d find some sign.
Anything to keep from going back to the lodge too soon.
Chapter Five
Smoke curled from the chimney of the lodge, giving it a warm, secure, and content feeling. Peter led his horse to the stable and removed her saddle, slinging it over the side of the stall. He removed her bridle and put on a rope halter that hung on a hook.
Looking around, he noticed both stalls had been cleaned and dressed with fresh straw and hay as if Arvel expected someone besides Peter. He wondered if the caretaker kept it this way on the chance that the duke would arrive. But to do so for months, years, even?
Not likely.
He should ask Arvel. But how? And even if Arvel understood him, how would he understand Arvel?
He put the brush away, slapped the mare on her rump, and shut the gate to the stall. He’d wasted enough time. Now he needed to face the lodge and its inhabitant.
At the front door, he tried the latch and it opened. Arvel sat at the fire, curled up in a chair, dozing. Peter shut the door without making a sound, then realized Arvel couldn’t hear him even if he slammed it.
Peter sat on the other chair, laid his head back, and watched the man sleep.
Gods, Peter didn’t think he’d seen such a beautiful man, besides Logan, who was perhaps the greatest beauty he’d ever seen. Arvel had an almost feminine beauty, a grace and delicacy that made Peter want to reach out, touch him, to discover he were real or just a figment of his imagination.
How had he come to the lodge? And what had led to his loss of hearing and speech? And why had the stables been kept ready? For whom?
So many questions.
Arvel slept on.
“I went into the village today.” Peter glanced at the sleeping man. No movement. “I saw the priest, asked him if he’d seen anyone or heard of any rumors about strangers. Nothing.” Peter sighed, shifted, and stared into the fire. “The inn was next on my list. I broke my fast there. I’d run from here so fast, I’d forgotten to eat.” Peter chuckled.
