by Cooper, R.
“ Merci,” he said quietly and turned away as the surprise and fear took hold of the slave’s eyes. His belly pained him. Perhaps it was time he ate some more of the pork drenched in mango fruit and pear syrup still remaining on his plate. It had been sweetened with the same sugar they were to help escort to England for their hosts, and René began to hate the taste of it still coating his teeth.
The wine was welcome and he downed it in a single swallow, glaring at the slim face of Etienne Saint-Cyr over the cup’s rim. Saint-Cyr seemed not to notice, alternating between resuming his conversation with Sir Marvell and staring across the table at Mirena’s breasts like he had never seenlolos before. Mirena seemed to enjoy flaunting her chest, laughing when men stared with dull eyes at her lumps of flesh, though they had not felt special to René, not nearly as arousing as a hard cock in his palm.
She had laughed that way at James tonight, and with reason. Eyes goggling behind his spectacles at her bosom, face filling with colour. Red with desire to see her displayed for him. And Mirena had delighted in his attentions, as René would have, if James had spared a glance for him. Her hand had left René’s arm to touch James’ shoulder lightly and only then had James looked his way, with thin slits for eyes, as if angered by the very sight of him. Then even that had vanished and James had disappeared.
René longed for his return. James Fitzroy’s anger was a sweet thing. A minor annoyance it was true, but a feeling easily coaxed into stronger passions. How his body had wanted that in the past months, making him laugh long and hard to himself when Mirena had told him of her arrangement with the English lord on Jamaica. It had almost been enough to make René to drop to his knees and send up a prayer of thankfulness, though nothing, no God, had guided the event.
Yet there James had been, as though sent for him by a vengeful God after all, on the shore like a patient lover, wide, brown eyes so disbelieving and so very round, open like his mouth. Even his ridiculous clothing had not been able to disguise his beauty. It still did not. Sir Marvell saw it, and used it, bringing it to his table; probably Saint-Cyr did the same judging from the way his eyes lingered on James when Mirena turned away, and the soft frown that he did not hide well when he heard James’ anger. He had been close enough to James those days ago, touching his arm in a way that not even Mirena would have dared.
“I think Monsieur Villon does not like me.” A smoothly sly comment, drawing René’s attention back to the present. He blinked, focusing on the face of Etienne Saint-Cyr over the bright flame of a thick candle, noting that the younger man was not smiling, though his words had been almost playful.
“No.” René bit out, imagining what James would do if René were to kill his lover right here at the table. He thought perhaps James would not like it. René would like it very much. The silence following his abrupt declaration seemed to mean that he should explain. So he smiled since the son of Saint-Cyr would not and arched one brow as the younger man seemed to like to do. It was too easy to remember an older version of the same face doing the same arrogant gesture and René nearly shuddered.
If the hair of that brow had been a few degrees darker, they would have been mirrors for one another, so much so that he was a little surprised that no one had noticed. Perhaps it was the other man’s wig. But René could not resist shooting a knowing look at James as he went on, seeing James expression of despair at his aristocratic friend’s recklessness. René did not play, as James and his dead captain had learned.
“I would very much like to see you dead,” he elaborated politely, needing this point clear so he would not be blamed for the death to come, and saw James grow pale and raise one strong hand from the table. He let it hang in the air, his palm toward René.
“René!” Mirena’s cuff to his arm lacked her usual strength, but he swayed in his seat regardless, knowing his skin would bruise. “Are you threatening a guest at my table?” If Sir Marvell was offended, he did not sound it, merely curious. Open-mouthed before he controlled himself, Saint-Cyr glanced at the English lord, and then to Mirena, as if trying to determine if the mad corsaire had been serious. Mirena turned to face him, but said nothing. At last he turned to James, who still had not lowered his hand.
“Prepared to beg for him?” René murmured lowly, knowing too well how James Fitzroy liked to grovel for those who scorned him. Even for René he had groveled, and René felt a crawling along his skin to remember it, how he had taken from him more than even the lunatic English lord had. That James had offered it meant nothing. He would offer it now if he thought it would prevent more bloodshed. René had taught him well.
Sickened by the sweet smell rising from the meat, René turned his head, away from James’s eyes and back to the young Saint-Cyr, who had finally closed his mouth, and looked less like a child and more like his father. “Or I can wait until we are at sea and simply take his family’s money instead. I understand we are to escort the cargo all the way to England?” He allowed his lips to form a genuine smile at the idea of taking the Saint-Cyr money, and knew that the others had decided he was jesting when most of those at the table laughed with voices that trembled. James inhaled sharply and René was pleased that James knew the truth of his words, but then, James knew him for the Devil.
“We would hunt you down,” Saint-Cyr threatened and René made a show of leaning back though suddenly the conversation at the table began to interest him. It was not what he had imagined it would be, to meet this boy, this soft, mocking, drunken fool. He hadnever dreamt of meeting this way, not while he lived, and now he looked into his eyes, saw weakness. For his protector this boy had his name, and so had never known pain. He could not have, even if he did study James’ strength with the same wonder and hope of the child. It only meant he wished to take it, as those with that name always took what they wanted.
“You would be traitors, who will hunt you?” René wondered and enjoyed the sickly shade of yellow that Etienne Saint-Cyr turned underneath his paint, the way he flinched away from that one little word, when there were so many words that were worse. He could not know René would see that even that name stripped from him. If he had not hoped for such revenge before, he had felt it on the dock, to see how this dog dared to look upon James.
René could hear James translating all of this for his employer and also the note of frustration roughening James’ voice when René spoke again. “You will have to trust me.” He added, grinning to showing his teeth.
“I told you, boy,” Sir Marvell thrust himself back between them, chuckling cruelly to himself like every old, fat man who survived through the suffering of others. “Thieves they may be, but more honest about it than most merchants.”
“So we ought to be better paid if you wish to see any of the profits of your investment.” Mirena interjected before René could, and followed him in leaning back in her seat, happening to give Sir Marvell a generous view of her breasts.
“Aye, they value their gold.” Not quite whispered words, drawing René’s attention from Mirena’s brazenness. Sir Marvell also turned, so swiftly that he hit the table with his arm and the dishes on the table shook unsteadily.
Not by any sign did James indicate that he had spoken the bitter words, his eyes downcast and steady on the gold-lined plate before him. But slowly a circle of colour appeared across his cheekbones, a familiar sight to René’s daydreams of the past months. Such blushes usually spread from James’ face to the rest of his body, as René stripped the cloth from him and laid him bare to the advances of his hands and tongue, and then René dropped to his knees before him as if James had been the one left standing in Tortuga.
“Well-versed in the ways of pirates, are you, Mister Fitzroy?” It was unclear what Sir Marvell meant by the calmly-voiced question, but René saw the guilt or shame deepen the blush on James’ face, and then what had to be fear causing it to suddenly drain of colour altogether. For a small moment, James’ eyes flicked up in his direction, peering at him over the rims of his spectacles, and then his gaze wa
s down again and he swallowed thickly.
“No, Sir.” He murmured it lowly, but René wondered if he was the only one who heard the knife’s edge in the obedient words. His James was not meek, not even when he wished to be, and he was not dull, not when his eyes blazed with passion as they had just done for him now. James had not forgotten.
James dropped his hand and wrapped it tightly around a bit of the linen tablecloth, his grip growing even tighter as his employer waited for more information. “We are easy men to understand.” René waved his hand distractedly, annoyed enough to have spoken in English. He swung around to look at the English lord and caught the bemused look on Saint-Cyr’s face as the man studied James. Perhaps James had not told him of his capture at the hands of the blackguard Villon, though his employer must know some of the truth. René was a shameful secret to hide away, kept between only James himself and the child who had not had the grace to turn his head.
Sir Marvell’s eyes shifted to meet his, and René returned his look and told him nothing. He was not some piqued lover to share with others what was private, what James had no wish to speak of, even with his Etienne.
The English lord abruptly curved his lips, and nodding his head before taking a long draught of his whiskey. “I will enjoy doing business with you, Monsieur, and of course you, Mademoiselle.” He bowed his head in Mirena’s direction and then grinned lustily at her. She grinned back, and René waited a moment before letting himself look back to James. “You are both people of action,” René heard the man going on, but paid little attention.
Ignoring all of them, James appeared to be concentrating very hard on his food, silently spooning up pieces of fruit and raising them to his lips. A few drops of sticky syrup slid down onto his chin, and though René waited, James reached for a handkerchief instead of licking up the liquid, wiping at his face as daintily as an Italian nobleman obsessed with eating neatly.
René reached down and plucked several chunks of mango between his fingers and stuck them into his mouth, noisily sucking the juices from his hands. His hair fell forward and he flung it back in annoyance, realizing that there was already some of the syrup in the dark strands. He would have to wash it sometime soon, perhaps whenever he bathed next.
Still sweet when he longed for bitter, but he did not grimace at the taste now, only reached out with his wet hand for his wine. The glass had been refilled once more. Glancing up as he drank, he noticed both James and Etienne Saint-Cyr’s eyes on him, staring at him as if they had forgotten how to blink. When he swallowed and lowered the cup, James tore his eyes away. Saint-Cyr did not look down, but kept his gaze boldly as if he had forgotten his shock and terror of moments ago.
Perhaps his pére had sent him thel’Academie to teach him the way gentlemen fought. But René was not a gentleman, as the little noble son of a bitch would realize if he were smarter.
“What?” René questioned sharply in their own tongue. To his surprise the other man’s back straightened, lifting him from his languid, courtly pose.
“It is no business of yours, thief, what my family does.”
René curved his lips, a tight image of a smile that pulled at his cheeks and made his face hurt. “But it is the King’s business.” Said lightly enough, it was not even a threat, though it struck Etienne Saint-Cyr like a pistol ball to the chest, as though his king mattered to him after all. His pain was a pleasing picture to distract him, but René was not so distracted that he did not see how James’ shook with this pronouncement, and fixed him with a wondrous look from behind the ugly bits of glass that pinched his nose.
“You…” he stopped, stammering, and then inhaled before trying again, growing more formal in his language then he had been before, whispering across the length of the table. “Do you make yourself a pawn then?” He challenged quietly, so fierce that René knew he was expected to know the meaning of the strange words. “Another pawn for the King to use?”
James had bitten his lip, but drew his teeth free of the soft flesh to murmur accusingly at him. His eyes were like the sun, and his face was all blood and fire with the strength of his passion. Shifting in his seat did little to assuage the ache building in René’s lap, but he could feel his smile growing wider, and real, despite the growing discomfort.
“My words, James?” he wondered, just as quiet, in James’ own English so that the son of Saint-Cyr would not easily comprehend, barely recalling his senses enough to be so discreet. His body was flushed with the liquor’s warmth and James had kept his words and flashed fury for him. René leaned forward with an eagerness that even Marechal would have been surprised to see, had René not made sure he stayed on the ship. “Your friend is not a king.” He nodded once, pleased when James seemed to know his exact meaning.
“Neither are you,” James asserted, tossing his head and almost displacing the terrible wig he had no doubt been told to wear, making him look like a lost footman. In a moment he would probably charge with him with clenched fists, telling his master of René’s sins. Though what he would say was almost enough to make René consider letting James explode. He fought the urge, relishing instead the suppressed feeling that was taking James, making the other Frenchman grow wide-eyed and pale to behold. Perhaps he had never allowed James such freedom when they had shared a bed. That made Saint-Cyr twice an ass.
“You already have told me what I am not,” René reminded him, something of his smile running away. “Butyou are a pawn, James, though you do not serve kings.” Saint-Cyr alone was proof of that. But James was shaking his head and glaring at him stubbornly. “You do not approve of us,” he jerked his head in Mirena’s direction. “Yet you speak our words for us, follow the wishes of your master,” he said this last word slowly, drawing it slowly like a knife from a wound when he wished the victim to suffer. James flinched.
“I am not…” “You are a slave to this house. Nothing more than a tool, James. If your skin were darker you would be either serving wine or warming your master’s bed!” He was not aware that he had switched to rapid but still subdued French until Etienne Saint-Cyr jumped in his seat and splashed a large portion of his wine onto his plate, letting out a small huff of air through his nostrils. René did not spare him more than a glance, too focused on the stupidly disbelieving expression of the man his body was twitching to fuck.
Somewhere between deathly pale and feverish, James looked like a man in need of a drink. Perhaps a swallow or two of the whiskey. His mouth worked, trying to overcome his shock, and then he glanced furtively this way and that, searching for what René did not know, or especially care. Then abruptly he turned his head, two shades of red warring on his face, both the colour of the roses that sometimes climbed the walls of buildings even in the city.
“I am no longer yours,” James was hushed but excited, pointing one finger at René as if just taken with a blinding realization, continuing to speak in his English. “That is why you are truly angry,” he accused proudly, waving a hand to indicate the room. “You don’t care about this, about…” He ended his words there, but jutted out his chin, almost like the child Ben had done, months ago.
Now René did look away, finding his eyes returning to Saint-Cyr, wanting to be amused at the frown of concentration that was marring the white powder covering the son of a bitch’s skin. Saint-Cyr did not understand all of the English words; that was clear. Not like René did. He reached out and found his unused knife from the table, then stabbed it down into a soggy piece of pear, letting the metal scrape loudly across the bottom of the dish. He was not angry. James was wrong. James sought only to push away the truth of what René had said with his crazy words.
The knife scratched along the finely crafted metal once more, and then René flicked his wrist, and the speared fruit landed at the base of the candlestick resting in the center of the long table, between them.
“You have the manner of a child.” James condemned him hoarsely, though dropping his eyes. He spoke in French now as well, letting Saint-Cyr hear his shame.
René snapped his head up and felt his eyes narrow as James went on. “A child sulking for a lost toy.”
“It is not lost,” René answered on the instant, with heat, shifting in his chair and feeling a great satisfaction when James did the same then raised his gaze to study him. For the smallest moment the temper in his muddy eyes melted and reformed into something a thousand times hotter than rage, one look alone reminding René of the sweet heat of James’ mouth, of his ass, of even his arms. A tiny sound, what could not have been a whimper, slipped past his lips, and René clenched his teeth to prevent another. But James blinked, and then the light in his face faded from view.
“No indeed,” James agreed forcefully, turning his head as if disgusted with the very sight of René’s face. “It was tossed away.” It was an easy thing to again see James on his knees and hands in the dirt, amid his own vomit, wiping René’s seed from his lips with a pale hand. Easier than that to remember throwing the gold, hearing even the small splash that meant that one coin had landed in the pile of slop left behind by their small screw in the alley. Had James reached into that to pick it up? Or had he left them and found some other way to come to this miserable island?
“Of what do you speak?” Etienne Saint-Cyr recovered his wits enough to make demands, and René turned eyes on the man that he knew were frightened. James started, as if he had forgotten Etienne’s presence, but even that did not slow René’s heart.
He did not know how to answer, and the thought of admitting such ignorance before SaintCyr was enough to at last make René blink and search around in his mind until he found something his mouth would say. “It is no concern of yours.” Nor would it be, if René could only get James alone long enough to change the man’s mind. One touch of René’s tongue to his prick would have James begging and weak again, then James would agree to anything, and forget all others. Forget even that René was using him, and would use him, until it was the ruin of him.
