Ideas of Sin

by Cooper, R.

  “James, are you mad?” Etienne seemed to be feeling the same shock, based on the screeching quality of the words. But even though Etienne had lost the smooth timbre to his voice he usually cultivated, his authority was still implicit in his tone.

  Instantly, James ducked his head. Squeezing his eyes closed and stepping back would not erase his stupidity, no matter how much he might wish it did. At least he had stopped their quarrelling for the moment. If only he could persuade Etienne to leave, they could go and never lay eyes on René Villon again. That would be best.

  “Do you know this man, James?” Etienne was demanding now, and James lifted his head to study the man in front of him. He could feel the criticism in the dark eyes watching him and sank his teeth into his lip, the anger filling him like tide water rushing to meet the paler sand, until he was drenched in it and felt that surely he could not hold anymore.

  A martyr, Villon had been fond of calling him, mocking him for his faith, daring him to fight back. Villon pretending to value his opinion and then scorning it before his entire crew, no better than Sir Marvell, no better than Etienne Saint-Cyr. James was nothing to him.

  “Yes.” James answered simply, spitting the words into the dust, feeling a sharpness in his hands. “Is it La Aranha?” Some tension still roughened Etienne’s voice, though the question was calm enough. Standing so close, James could not miss the startled twitch of René’s head toward Saint-Cyr at the name.

  “ You seekL’Aranha?” René asked him, raising his sword. James had forgotten it entirely, and shivered when the tip brushed his coat, though he did not give Villon the satisfaction of seeing him move away.

  “Aye.” He nodded, once, and enjoyed the surprise and confusion flickering across the other man’s face. “Another killer you call friend?” he bit out, knowing he should not speak but driven on. He waited for Villon’s revenge, holding his breath, then exhaling in something like terror when the sword unexpectedly wavered and dropped.

  Villon was pulling away, watching James with a frown, obviously displeased with James’ defiance, and James shivered once more, feeling the absence of the sword’s weight keenly. “René.” Villon’s name, from a stranger’s mouth. James twisted around, searching for the speaker and blinking to see a tall form approaching slowly from behind René, one of those he had been speaking with earlier. This man was easily taller than René though still would stand below James, and was dressed in the short coat and breeches of a sailor. He had his hair bound up atop his head.

  Brown, his clothes were, like the warm, slightly weathered skin of his face and his light, spice-coloured hair, from what James could see of it, and then blinked, dazedly recognizing the pirate from several nights ago who had stared at him with such invitation.

  “René,” the man said again, pausing as René’s side and resting one hand on the smaller man’s shoulder. James’s eyes went from that hand back to the intruder’s face and then heard his own gasp when the stranger winked at him boldly, clearly recognizing him as well. “What trouble have you gotten into this time?” the man asked at near the same time. James would have said he sounded amused, but the strange way he spoke the English words left him uncertain. He had almost the sound of a Spaniard.

  “Mirena.” The look given to the new man by Villon was hardly welcoming, though the stranger seemed not to notice. Leaning down, the taller man bent his head to Villon’s hair, and though James strained to listen, he could not hear whatever was whispered into René’s ear that made his lips quirk just for a moment. Then Villon’s gaze was back upon him and James had not time to hide his scowl. “Mirena, this man and this…fool are looking for you.” Everyone present seemed to ignore Etienne’s quiet inhalation following that pronouncement.

  “ La Aranha?” James asked with what he knew was a gaping expression, wondering faintly if all paths would lead him to René. Something slippery slid down his spine at just the idea, something that should have been fear. It was his own madness that it was not.

  “ Sim. E quem pede?” Abruptly straightening,La Aranha, or Mirena as Villon had named him, shifted, peeling back part of his coat to give them a glimpse of his blade. James blinked at the spate of unfamiliar, huskily voiced words, looking to Villon for explanation.

  “Portuguese?” Etienne spoke up again at last.

  “The English always want to talk in English,”La Aranha commented at last, in English, and James turned an irritated gaze on the newcomer.

  “I am not here to do business with you,” he insisted stiffly. “Mirena,” Villon interrupted them in a clear voice. “This is James Fitzroy.” James jumped to hear his own name on Villon’s lips then twitched to find both pirates watching him with gleaming eyes. “I do not know the other man,” thecorsaire added, an afterthought, and then smiled; to let them all know that he had no wish to.

  “Etienne Saint-Cyr,” James supplied uncertainly, glancing back at Etienne, who had molded his face in the mask that was both polite and insulting, lips curved in a sneer or a grin, James could not decipher which. Etienne did not extend a hand, barely even nodding his head to acknowledge them. He did not seem to want to speak either, and James had the brief thought of Ben’s stubbornness, though Etienne was no longer a child. “He has business with Sir Marvell,” he felt the need to add suddenly, when the silence went on.

  Keeping his eyes firmly on the Spider, James could see the surprised upward twitch of the man’s eyebrows at this news, then the thoughtful little pursing of his lips as he considered Etienne. Then he nodded, fixing Etienne with a strong look. James felt the force of it even though it was directed not at him, and swallowed thickly.

  “If you lie to us, menino rico, I will cut you from your neck to yourcacete and watch you die.” The man promised Etienne seriously, then smiled broadly enough to show a gap in his front teeth. “If you do not, then we will be asamigos…friends.”

  James meant to look at Saint-Cyr, to see how he took this vow, but found his eyes sliding the other way, returning to Villon at the small tearing sound made deep in the man’s throat. René spoke not at all, standing as still as a corpse, and just as white-skinned, staring at Etienne with eyes that were bottomless. His throat worked as he evidently tried to speak, muscles playing much as he had when downing his bottles of wine, throwing back his head to lick up every last drop as if they were necessary to his soul. James wondered if he wanted a drink now, then was surprised into a harsh laugh, knowing that of course the man wanted his wine.

  Villon’s eyes left Etienne and tried to focus on him, looking like a man waking from a dream.

  “Craving your liquor?” James asked harshly, waiting for the other man’s eyes to widen before glancing determinedly away. “René?” Mirena turned from Etienne with barely a nod, leaning down over Villon in much the same posture as a mother hen, running delicate fingers across his brow as though he were fevered, and James turned back to stare at them, his mouth falling open as he noticed what he had not before, the jut of hipbones curving below the man’s waist as he bent his head to whisper softly to René.La Aranha was not a man at all, but a woman clothed as a man.

  “You…” For a moment his breath did leave him and he knew that his eyes were round. “You’re…” “A…spider?” There was only the slightest pause as she seemed to find the words in English, and then Mirena was grinning, one side of her mouth white and shaped like a crescent moon. Beside her, Villon coughed and cleared his throat, shaken from his stillness. His mouth thinned, and then he coughed again, and James with him, to see her reach down and calmly grab a handful of cloth between her legs and squeeze it like it was…

  Averting his eyes, James sought out Etienne, and saw that he was not the only one staring in disbelief, mouth working with no sound coming out. He did not seem a worldly member of any court, but James turned back from him in time to see how Villon narrowed his eyes and relaxed the grip on his sword, only to imitate her action. But he was not grabbing cloth alone.

  The smile James barely even realized t
hat he wore faded at the easy manner in which Mirena regarded that, tilting her head to gain herself a better view of René’s loins. Without even a maidenly blush she raised her hand and placed it on her chest, over where one of her breasts was hidden as just one bump in many folds of cloth. Then she topped even René’s crudeness by grabbing her own breast.

  Ben burst out into childish giggles, enough to make James blush to think on the innocent eyes watching this. Looking sternly at the source of their discomfort, James found himself glaring at Villon, who had also swung his gaze away from the woman and who seemed no less irritated by her brazenness, judging from the wrinkles in his forehead as he frowned. Their eyes met and Villon shrugged his shoulders lightly, as if dismissing the actions of his friend. As if he were embarrassed, as if he actually possessed shame.

  “Do not…” he began lowly but Etienne touched his shoulder, calling him back. James bit his tongue in surprise. His hands pained him again and he uncurled his fingers with effort, not pleased to realize that he had marked his palms with his own fingernails his hands had been so tightly clenched.

  “I am tired and wish to return to my home.” Etienne announced from nowhere, and James could sense the amusement from the woman pirate and tried to narrow his attention to only that. He knew Villon was studying him, no doubt surprised to find James standing on his own and not begging for more from him. Etienne’s gaze was on James, carefully blank of anything. He merely angled his head at the others and James was too distracted to wonder at Etienne’s sudden discretion. “We will meet again with Sir Marvell, yes?”

  “All of us?” James burst out before he could think better of it and heard a strange sound, something he had never truly heard before. Raising his eyes presented him with the strange image of René Villon laughing, truly laughing, mouth open, teeth flashing as the odd sounds of mirth emerged, low and husky, as if they were just as unfamiliar to René’s own body.

  The skin of James’ face and neck heated, even his ears tingling with his feeling, and he resisted the urge to glance at his feet and hunch his shoulders. He would not. Lifting his chin the merest fraction, daring to do even that, he nodded to Etienne and moved his eyes at last.

  “Ben,” he called out and felt a warmth at his side. He patted Ben’s fine hair absently and then took a step backward before turning around to follow Etienne back to the carriage. He heard Etienne bidding them a stilted farewell but barely listened, concentrating on walking.

  He smiled grimly, pleased that he did not fall or trip, even in his ill-fitting shoes, and that Villon could see that, still standing back near the docks, with the ocean behind him.

  Chapter Seven

  The eyes of a man will tell what lips could not, what lips will not, but James Fitzroy’s muddy eyes said nothing. To him…for him they were as silent as his damned mouth—closed for once as if to spite every foolish fantasy that René had woven to amuse himself this past three months. Silent in a way that surely had to be eating at the Englishman’s spirit.

  That last thought should have been followed by a laugh, though René did not so much as twitch his lips into a smile. James, who had desired to talk even with his mouth full of cock, now had nothing to say. A miracle indeed. René could not help but wonder if it was his presence at James’ master’s supper table that kept James quiet. But even duty had not kept James Fitzroy silent before; he had snapped back at his former master when provoked, even if he had blushed like a woman to acknowledge it later.

  Though he had no need to speak now. The conversation hanging above them only involved James when a word was needed and then went straight back to business without a moment’s pause. James was listening however, his scholar’s mind following each dagger-sharp word with rapt attention.

  Rapt and spellbound. As if there were nothing in the world for him but this talk of weather and politics and the price of sugar. Perhaps he had abandoned even his God for this sordid talk of coin.

  A soft stroke to the back of his hand brought René’s eyes up from the strong line of candlelit jaw yards away from him and he turned to see Mirena still in conversation with Sir Marvell, whose fox eyes were watchful and cunning—if slowly dulling from the effects of his Scottish brew. The man had consumed several glasses of it through the meal. It did not have a pleasant taste, though René had enjoyed the first burn as it had slid down his throat. Perhaps he ought to ask for more, as the wine was flavorless.

  But for the moment René said nothing, as silent as James as he flicked his eyes to the English lord who continued to speak. He had not been attending to the discussion and Mirena was not pleased with him. Of course, she had not been pleased to find him drinking in a tavern that afternoon either. He ought to slit her throat for the things she had said. René marked it to himself absently though knowing he would not and then moved his gaze to the other nobleman seated at Sir Marvell’s table. A group of mostly English businessmen gathered to do illegal business, and one French ass.

  His fingers trembled slightly as he pulled his hand away from Mirena’s grasp and reached for his cup. It was to still them only that he squeezed the stem of the glass, burning imprints of his fingers into Sir Marvell’s crystal. The cup shook with the force of it, and René tilted it forward, watching the remnants of the purple wine ripple and toss about like ocean waves. Then he lifted the cup and swallowed it all, returning the glass to the table with a sharp sound that brought even James’ eyes to him.

  He raised his gaze despite himself, and felt his mouth twist to see the disapproval that had at last crept into the other man’s eyes, though at least it was not the startling fury that had met him at the harbor. He had not expected anger. How strange that he had not when he had known about the Englishman from the first.

  There were two French asses at this table; he had forgotten to count himself. It was shameful, especially after all the lessons thatCher Monsieur Galloup andMademoiselle Abril had tried to share with him, and now he could not even count. He was not even drunk yet.

  “ Pardonnez-moi,” he begged his long-gone tutors quietly and frowned as James snapped his head back as if he had been struck and blinked rapidly before glancing away. He was at the other end of the table, so he could not have heard René’s foolishness, but from the corner of his eye, René caught the confused shrug of the other Frenchman supping with Sir Marvell, thin shoulders dropping in a large gesture, undoubtedly for their host’s benefit.

  His coat was costly, but not nearly so nice as what René could have afforded if he had chosen to have a coat made for this. René eyed the cut of the suit critically and fought the urge to finger the fraying threads of his stolen English jacket. It was not so well-made either, but he liked the colour, even if knowledge of where it had come from would cost him more, here, in the house of another English lord on an English held island. It had been another foolish act in a growing list of foolish acts to wear it here, tonight. He had wished to spark a reaction in James, to observe the play of remembrances on his handsome face.

  It had not worked, something more puzzling then any amount of drunken mathematics. James had only nodded stiffly in greeting without looking at him and then hurried about whatever it was his master had ordered him to do, as eager to obey as a beaten wife, with even his shoulders curved in over his body.

  Etienne Saint-Cyr, as James had named him those days ago, did not seem impressed with his stolen coat, making René wonder if James had told him of its original owner. René studied the fall of false, dark hair as Etienne tossed his head and spared a moment to also wonder why the man wore dark hair today when he had worn lighter when they had met. It did not suit him. He looked like his father with dark hair, though his face was pale when it should have been red and his skin still looked soft with youth. As young as James was, probably they were of the same age. Five or six years younger than René then, and heir to his father’s house and name, such as they were. Nearly paupered traitors, if they did business with Sir Marvell of the island of Jamaica.

  Glass cut
into his hand, digging into the hard calluses there, and René was not pleased to realize that he still held the goblet. Etienne—Saint-Cyr, sat near to James, though the man did not seem aware that this was an insult to be so far from his host, seated next to James the servant, or perhaps he did not care.

  René sat at his host’s left, it was true, and with Mirena before him, but he was still closer to the head of the table, and he let his lips curve up before he loosened his grip on the cup and with one finger, knocked it over, mildly surprised that it did not break.

  “It is empty,” he said into eyes that were not as black as his own, and ignored the annoyed swearing from Mirena at his rudeness. He did not need to be excused like…like a bastard child brought in from the streets. Saint-Cyr would keep his excuses and noble manners to himself, or he would find himself bleeding and gasping for mercy at René’s feet. His fingers itched for his blade and he did not suppress his urge to drop one hand and fondle his belt, where a knife was tucked away since his sword had been removed for the sake of peace.

  “Damn your temper,” Mirena addressed him in her own tongue, and René wondered if her eyes were flashing. They did that quite often when she spoke to him lately, and if he had truly been drunk, he would have grinned at her to further offend her. She wore a lady’s dress for the evening, tall body bent into a tight bodice and wide, flowing skirt. But her temper was that of a man’s, for all that she scolded him for his like a little mother.

  The thought saddened him, for she was not his mother, but he lifted his head eagerly as a black house slave leaned over him to straighten and refill his glass. “ Monsieur Villon is not pleased?” Sir Marvell asked, and René took his eyes from the wine streaming into his cup to study the man. Then he glanced upward into the servant’s dark face, ignoring the Englishman’s words. He could feel the force of Mirena’s annoyance, and the weight of all the many eyes at the table on him, and shrugged the smallest bit.