In the Company of Men Boxed Set

by Lynn Lorenz

  He rode for hours, until he came to the northern river. He sat on his horse as it stood on the banks, and stared across the water’s great width. Crossing was impossible, not here or for twenty miles above and below. The current moved too swiftly, the span too wide, the river too deep.

  He turned and headed back, retracing his trail, following his own horse’s prints back toward the village and the lodge.

  The sun sank, setting the sky ablaze in oranges and golds, reds and crimsons. He spotted a small break of trees and bushes and pointed the mare toward them. He’d be able to tie her to the trees and use the bushes as a windbreak and cover.

  Peter dismounted, set up his camp, and then gathered enough firewood to keep him warm through the long night.

  Tonight, Arvel wouldn’t be there to warm Peter’s body. Or pull off his boots as he sat in front of the hearth. Or prepare the evening’s meal. Or smile at him in that beckoning way he had, nervous and shy but so arousing, as he allowed Peter to handle him and use his body for their mutual pleasure.

  Peter missed Arvel.

  With a half snort, half laugh at his thoughts, Peter rolled over, facing away from the, fire and watched his horse grazing nearby. Her head came up—she shifted, blew out through wide nostrils, and settled, one rear hoof lifted in repose.

  Peter closed his eyes and prayed not to dream of Mary. He couldn’t face her now, not with thoughts of Arvel floating in his mind. Another in a long line of betrayals he’d built since coming to Marden Lodge.

  »»•««

  Arvel went to the door again, opened it, and looked out.

  No Peter. No Gareth.

  Arvel hated being alone. The bed would be cold, and he couldn’t light the fire.

  It wouldn’t be safe.

  He wrapped the quilt tighter around his shoulders and stared into the darkness that surrounded his home. He sneezed and wiped his nose on the quilt. Sniffed the night air.

  No strange smells. That boded well.

  When Gareth left, he wasn’t safe. He tried not to leave home, tried to stay still and quiet, like a fawn hiding in the bushes.

  Time to be a fawn. Time to stay safe.

  No fires until his Hearts came home.

  »»•««

  Peter woke in the middle of the night, sitting upright, looking around the camp for a sign of her. Or him. Someone. He’d been searching for someone in his dream.

  He’d hunted through the castle, the woods, down roads familiar and unfamiliar, for someone, but he didn’t know whom. Each place he recognized, each hall, each wall, the hearths, the timbers of the buildings all blended as he trooped through them, lost in a thick fog, calling out for…

  “Arvel,” Peter whispered.

  He had a feeling something was wrong. It crawled up his spine like a centipede, hundreds of legs dancing across his skin, raising the hairs on the back of his neck and the bumps on his skin.

  “Bad dream. That’s all.”

  Peter lay back and pulled his blanket tighter, unsettled about the dream and the feeling that Arvel needed him.

  He didn’t know when he finally fell asleep—he just knew that when he woke, the sun had risen and his horse whinnied, looking for her feed.

  “I know, I know,” Peter said with a chuckle. “You’re as anxious to get to your warm stall as I am to my warm bed.” He rolled to his feet, kicked out his campfire, and saddled the horse.

  Then without any thought but to go home, he mounted and returned to the road.

  Chapter Nine

  Caelin stood with his hands behind his back, fingers interlocked, head down, and stared at the floor of the abbot’s office. Fighting the urge to collapse, shame burning his face as if his soul were on fire, he knew there was nothing he could do to have stopped this action.

  His father, Bryon Holdess, sat in the chair opposite the abbot’s desk, his complexion dark as thunderclouds, hands fisted into weapons as the abbot leaned forward to continue speaking.

  “Your son has become”—the abbot paused and frowned—“quite a distraction here at the abbey. I’m afraid for the good of the pious men here and the very abbey itself, we have no choice but to ask that you take him back.”

  “I don’t understand.” His father struggled with the truth. Caelin held back a snort of his own. His father knew the truth of Caelin—he’d just refused to put name to it, to see it plain before his face.

  “As I said before, Caelin has proved a good student in all his learning and an excellent scribe.” At least the abbot made Caelin’s last year studying with the priests worth something. The old man was at least fair.

  “Then what is the problem?”

  “Caelin”—the abbot glanced at Caelin, then back to his father—“is not suited to life among men. Especially those men who seek quiet and calm. Men who have renounced the ways of the flesh.” The abbot’s speech danced around the truth.

  Why didn’t he just come out and say it? Caelin drove the men to distraction. Not all, of course, but enough. The last straw for the abbot had been when two of the priests had fought each other over the right to Caelin’s body, because Caelin had refused to choose between them. The abbot had to restrain both men and from that moment on had sent Caelin into solitary confinement in his small room with only his meals brought to him.

  As if he were some sort of plague.

  A plague of the flesh.

  Bryon swung his head to stare at his son, scanning him as if seeing him for the first time. Perhaps he did. But Caelin knew that look and knew that Bryon understood just what the old abbot meant.

  “Well, what do I do with him now?” Bryon ran his hand over his face.

  The abbot’s shoulders rose and fell in a shrug. “Perhaps a trade? He’s a fair scrivener. A town of good size might need such a man, or perhaps a noble household where he could teach the children.

  Bryon rose. “I thank you, Father.” He gave the abbot a nod, then turned to Caelin.

  Caelin kept himself from jerking back at the look of disgust in his father’s eyes. He’d failed once again to be the man his father had spent most of Caelin’s life trying to turn him into.

  “Thank you for understanding.” The abbot rose. “Caelin, I wish you well and God’s blessing on you.” He signed the cross, then motioned for them to leave.

  Caelin’s knees trembled at the thought of what would come next. His father reached out, grabbed him by the arm, and pulled him to the door. In his heart, Caelin didn’t want to leave the abbey. Despite his troubles with the men, he’d felt safer here than anywhere he’d ever been, including his own home.

  Bryon dragged him down the hall to the abbey’s entrance. Nothing waited for him there—he’d given up his clothing, weapons, boots, everything, when he joined the order.

  His father strode past the monk holding open the door, and before Caelin could take another breath, he’d crossed the threshold and stepped back into a world he’d thought he’d never see again.

  The door to the abbey shut behind him.

  His father swung around to face him, curled his hand into a fist, and knocked Caelin to the ground with a blow to the side of his face.

  “Bastard!”

  Caelin hugged the earth, warm rich dirt cushioning his face, and curled into a ball to protect himself, knowing how his father would spend out his rage. The blows came before he’d taken his next breath, boots and fists, falling, kicking, beating, until all the venom in his father’s heart had been worked from him. Or so Caelin thought.

  Gasping, Bryon straddled Caelin and gave a final blow to his face, breaking Caelin’s nose with a sickening crack. Caelin moaned as the warm rush of blood flowed over his chin and lips.

  “Now see if the men find you so pretty, boy. No one will want to touch you when I’m finished with you.”

  Caelin’s eyes popped open as his father grabbed his face in one hand, steadying it, fingers pressing into his jaw and throat.

  Above him, his father, his da, gripped his dagger in the other hand—the
blade passed down to Bryon by his father, the one Bryon would pass down to Caelin’s older brother, Balwin.

  Their eyes locked, and the terrible truth dawned in Caelin’s heart.

  “Father!”

  His father’s grip tightened. “Hold still. The cuts won’t be as deep.”

  Caelin closed his eyes and held his breath as the blade’s cold touch turned his cheek to fire.

  Once.

  Twice.

  The third time Caelin screamed and fainted.

  »»•««

  At midmorning Peter came to a small village and halted in front of the inn. Small, cramped, but smelling of delicious aromas, the place had lured a few others in. Several horses had been tied to the posts, including a fine black animal dressed in good tack.

  The horse piqued Peter’s interest in its rider. Not from around here, that was certain. He’d passed no homes of quality and knew of no lesser nobles living this far north.

  The thought of Weathers crossed his mind. Perhaps the man he’d been searching for sat in this very inn drinking and eating. Peter tamped down his excitement, dismounted, tied off his mare, and went inside.

  The room was indeed small and dark. He waited until his eyes adjusted, then took it all in. Only four tables with chairs and several benches lined the walls, leaving barely enough room to maneuver in.

  Two men sat at the nearest table. From their clothing, he knew neither of them was the man he sought. One man sat at a table, back to the wall at the far end of the room.

  Even if Peter hadn’t seen the quality of the man’s clothing or arms, he’d have known this was a man to be reckoned with. His very attitude poured off him in waves, and Peter felt his heat from across the room.

  The stranger’s chin lifted, and he pinned Peter in place as if he were nothing more than a gnat, with eyes so clear and icy blue they could have been made from the glaciers of the farthest north. As Peter basked in the man’s cool, appraising stare, a ripple of awareness and desire passed over him like a softly drawn silk veil. His cock stiffened, and Peter barely held the shock of his body’s reaction in check.

  He moved to the counter. The innkeeper gave him welcome, and Peter ordered ham and ale, his back to the stranger, as he willed his body to cool and his hands to steady. The keep returned and placed the ale and slab of ham on a platter in front of him.

  Peter paid him, took them, and turned to find a table. The man’s gaze followed him as he chose a table and sat facing the man. Whatever it was, Peter decided better to face it than act a coward. After all, if this were Weathers’ man, he’d have to either capture him and force out the truth or kill him.

  Something about the man made Peter question who would be victorious in that struggle. He reminded Peter of one of the Norsemen, if his thick blond mane gave proof. Peter placed his tankard and platter down, pulled out a chair, and sat, putting all his bravado into the movements, just as he’d seen Lord Drake do a hundred times. He looked up into the man’s gaze and sent his own fiery stare back.

  One blond eyebrow rose. Then the man’s mouth rose in the smallest curl.

  Peter wanted to lick that corner.

  Gods, had he just given into the new unfamiliar desires of his body with thoughts of this man? Arvel was one thing. Peter’s feelings for the younger, smaller, more vulnerable man could be reasoned away, but this strong, rich desire for a man just as large as he, if not larger, older, and surely more experienced than he, could not.

  Peter took out his dagger and sliced off a piece of ham, brought it to his mouth, and ate. He took his time chewing, gaze sweeping over the stranger, taking even more of the man’s appearance in.

  Tall, he could tell in the stretch of the man’s legs. Wide shoulders, strong, muscular arms. A fighter’s arms, as the broadsword worn across his back proved. Dressed in warm brown leathers from his boots to his chest, the man looked every inch a dangerous adversary.

  Peter recognized the attitude—he’d seen it in Drake many times. That sureness, that certain knowledge that he was the match for any man foolish enough to try him.

  And like Drake, could he have the same heart? The same longings for the forbidden? The same desire in his kiss? And what did Peter care if he did or did not?

  Peter snatched up his tankard and drank deep from it, the ale soothing his throat of road dust and calming his nerves. The man was far more dangerous to Peter than just as a mercenary or soldier.

  The danger lay in the thoughts the man instigated in his mind.

  Thoughts that, if acted upon openly, would get Peter killed.

  And that thought, that danger, sent Peter’s body humming.

  He’d found comfort in Arvel. In his silence, in his soft touch and his sweet willingness to give his body.

  But this man stirred heat, danger, and desire the like of which Peter had never experienced, except perhaps with Drake.

  Instead of being the taker, with this man, Peter wanted to be taken. Wanted to feel his rough hands against his skin, holding him down, pressing the weight of his body against Peter’s.

  Peter brought the drink to his lips again and looked over the rim of the tankard at the man as he gulped down the soothing ale, wishing it would erase the wicked thoughts from his mind. He had one man waiting for him at the lodge. What did he need with another?

  The stranger licked his lips, his gaze locked with Peter’s, then pushed back his chair and stood, moving as if he had all the time in the world. Letting Peter drink his fill of his body, of the way he moved, of the promise in those startling blue eyes.

  He walked past Peter’s table and out the door.

  Peter exhaled, and his hands steadied.

  What should he do now?

  Stay or follow?

  Peter downed his ale, shoved the last piece of ham into his mouth, and chewed. Then he stood and, nodding to the keep, approached him.

  “Who was that man?” Peter asked, leaning on the counter.

  The man shrugged. “Don’t know.”

  “Have you seen him before?”

  The man frowned and tapped the counter with his fingertip.

  Peter slid a coin onto the counter and raised his eyebrow. The keep put his finger on the coin and slid it off the counter into his other hand.

  “Aye. He’s been in a fair few times before. Every few months. Why?”

  “No reason. He looked familiar to me, that’s all.” Peter smiled at the keep and pushed off the counter. The man might have known more, but if he did he didn’t press for more coins. Peter wasn’t going to offer any to loosen his tongue.

  So the man was no stranger to these parts. That could be good or bad. Good in that he could just be some mercenary passing through on his way to his home.

  Bad that he might be one of Weathers’ men and had been scouting this side of the border for a long time. Perhaps preparations to invade were farther along than anyone had thought.

  Peter gave the innkeeper a wave of his hand and left.

  Chapter Ten

  Peter stood next to his horse and searched the street, but the man had disappeared. Peter strode to where the stranger’s horse had been tied, kneeled, and studied the tracks.

  One of the horse’s hoofs had a shoe different from the rest, two markings on the very ends of the iron, perhaps the maker’s mark. He memorized it, took his horse by the reins, and began to follow the tracks down the road.

  By the time Peter had reached the end of the small village, he could now track the horse and rider without fail. He threw himself into the saddle and set off at a quick trot. His quarry would be just ahead of him. No need to rush. Peter was positive he could catch up to the man if and when he wanted.

  It would only be a matter of time before the man revealed himself and his mission. If he was one of Weathers’ men, he would surely canvass the lands, then return to report to Weathers. Peter would follow until he knew for certain, then capture him and bring him back to Marden to be dealt with by Logan and Drake.

  If the man were ju
st some traveling mercenary, Peter would learn that soon enough.

  The road wound through the forest, then broke onto an open plain. Fields lined either side of the road, and Peter passed small farms. The track of the horse with the one odd shoe proved easy to follow. One thing for certain—the man wasn’t worried about being followed for he’d taken no caution to hide his tracks.

  Peter relaxed into his saddle and made his way south, deeper into Marden lands, and toward the lodge.

  Where Arvel waited for him to return.

  Peter groaned. He’d forgotten about Arvel in his excitement and interest in the stranger. Another sharp pang of guilt stabbed at him. He’d promised Arvel he’d return today, but he knew his first duty was to find evidence of Weathers’ plans to invade across the northern border.

  Perhaps if the mercenary continued on his way, Peter could stop at the lodge, tell Arvel he had to be gone for a few more days, and then resume his hunt. If his quarry veered from the road south, then Peter would have to follow him, and Arvel would have to wait for Peter’s return.

  There was nothing Peter could do about it but see which road the mercenary would ride.

  »»•««

  Caelin stared at his reflection in the stream as he washed the blood from his damaged face. He’d never thought himself handsome, not like other men he’d seen, but men still found him, still pressed at him, still demanded of him.

  His father was right—no man or woman would give him a second look now with such damage. The blade’s tip had scratched down his face in three parallel lines from cheek to jaw. They bled still but had reduced down to just seepage. He pressed the cool wet cloth against his face and stood.

  Amazed at how little he felt after the beating. Not the pain—he felt that in every movement of his body and in each breath in and out. God help him if he tried to open his mouth or move his lips. He should hate his father for doing this, for marking him, for hating his own son. Caelin searched for it but found only emptiness and chilled numbness.

  He felt no shame for what he’d done with the priests, not then and not now. It was who he was, how he felt, and as long as he’d been aware of other men, he’d known they were the ones that excited his body.