by Cooper, R.
“James.” A demand of his own, crisply spoken, and those bleeding eyes were on him. René licked his lips to see them, muscles in his thighs jerking as he considered ignoring the rest at the table and dropping under the cloth to please James right now. That it would prove to Saint-Cyr that what was once was René’s was his again, and never had been anyone else’s, made René all the more excited, and he pushed his palms against the linen-covered edge so that he might shove himself back.
“What happens there, Mister Fitzroy, to make my guests look so unamused?” Frustration sizzled under René’s skin, causing him to jump and shift in his chair, vowing to slay Sir Marvell if he dared to interrupt again. James was both innocent and guilty before the prying eyes of the old fox, and he fumbled for words the way he fumbled over his own feet, trying to save himself, no doubt at last realizing his indiscretion.
“My Lord… I…” Cheeks as crimson as René’s coat, he might as well have announced their past to the world. Only a little manipulation and he would. And yet still James fought his nature, trying to contain his temper.
“Politics, my Lord,” a soft, lazy reply to the question, and René was surprised, though not pleased, to see that it had come from the son of Saint-Cyr, who was smiling coolly as he began to slice up the cold meats on his plate. It was a well-spoken lie, if a foolish one, for cutthroats like Mirena and René and Sir Marvell cared nothing for politics unless they interfered in their business. But Sir Marvell seemed ready enough to believe it, and with the memory of James’ outspokenness, René could suddenly understand why. He wondered with a thread of irritation if Etienne had understood that as well.
“Come, James, I thought our nations were allies now,” Sir Marvell tutted, with an amused look that wrinkled the skin around his eyes, though his eyes themselves remained untouched. “You must make more of an effort to be amicable.”
“ Que?” Mirena was shrill in his ear, and René fixed her with a furious look that she did not seem to see. Like the peasant she was, she could not seem to control her voice when emotion took her. Her drunken screeching was one reason that he did not wish to share drink with her any more, and he had no wish to hear more of it now.
“Amicable?” Saint-Cyr repeated the word carefully, blinking, and René tossed his head.
“Friendly,” James supplied in a whisper. Why that should make his face colour René did not know, but he enjoyed the sight of it, and turned to Sir Marvell with a grin. “I agree, Sir Marvell,” he murmured in English, nodding his head once at James. “I would dislike to leave the island so soon over this matter.” He paused, and watched the interest that brightened the man’s light eyes and lifted his eyebrows curiously. “Perhaps if your man and I were to talk further about…?” He struggled to remember what Etienne had claimed, and then made a small noise of satisfaction as he thought of it. “Our political differences? I would like more explanation,” he went on needlessly, to give the appearance of niceties. That would matter to James.
After this, again he waited, and was not surprised to see the smallest answering nod and slight, amused smile from the English lord, not concerned at all with René’s wants, or in how to fulfill them. The man did not even look to James, and though that was not surprising either, René thought of what he was going to do with the man’s sugar and allowed his lips a cool smile of his own. He doubted the man would get upset if René were to slit James’ throat, much less if René were to shove his prick down it, so of course it would not trouble the man’s mind to be playing the panderer now.
James did not look wounded, with his bewildered eyes. He did not seem to realize that his employer was now also his pimp, and René let out a small breath to see that he did not. Then he rolled his shoulders to ease their stiffness and returned the glance of the English lord. It was a struggle to conceal his impatience to be done with this meal, with all of those at the table save one.
“I will enjoy doing business with you,Monsieur.” The man dared to lift up his glass at him, before closing his sly lips around the edge of the cup and draining it. None seemed to notice that he had repeated his words, not even Mirena, well into her third drink of whiskey.
He was not a handsome man. It would not improve his looks to learn that René Villon had stolen his cargo and abducted and slain the son of one of his partners. It was a pity that René would not be there to see it.
“I am warm,” he pronounced in English so most of those listening would understand. “I may view the sea from your…balcony?” He knew the answer, but asked with a respectful nod, somewhat amused to watch the older man incline his head with all the dignity that kings were supposed to have. Probably James found it only fitting.
“Fitzroy,” the man honoured their unspoken agreement before René had even fully risen. “ShowMonsieur Villon the way to the balcony.” It was fortunate that James had not seemed to be enjoying his food. Having no other choice—other than telling his pimping lord no, which James would never do, he had to rise and lead René from the room. He paused as he rose, and Saint-Cyr glanced upward, as though they exchanged words without speaking. René pushed his chair back to stand before the footmen could move it for him.
“Men of action…” Sir Marvell murmured throatily and then coughed a laugh before putting some question to Mirena. René did not even spare a look to Mirena, mindful of the fact that even when stewed drunk Mirena was capable of gutting a man with whatever sharp object within reach. His gaze instead traveled over the tightly stretching coat fitted carefully over James Fitzroy’s back. The tension in the light blue-coloured fabric might have been eased if James had straightened, but James was still bent over like a frail old woman.
He said nothing as they passed under the large beam of the doorway, moving out into a narrow hall, where black men dressed in livery waited. James did not look at them and neither did René, beyond noticing their presence and thinking vaguely that this Sir Marvell had slaves better dressed than James.
“Your master,” René started to say, as they passed an opened door that revealed a room dripping with fabrics shot with gold, and a large, dark-skinned woman sitting at the edge of a well-stuffed bed, rubbing the skin of her arms with sweet smelling oil. She wore a gown as costly as anything in that room, and René marked to himself the need to ask Mirena again how much Marvell had offered them. He could afford to pay more if he dressed his mistress in Oriental silks.
James raised his head at the words, and René wanted to trace the lines of anger from his straight neck down his back to his hands, closed at his sides. The other man moved stiffly and stumbled on a bump in the finely woven rug. The light from a small candle in a sconce in the wall did not hide René’s smile, though James did not turn and so did not see it. “Your master,” René said again deliberately, and felt a measure of both ache and satisfaction to see James’ shoulders jerk back.
The suit of clothes fit better now, though René tried to imagine James garbed in Oriental silks. They would be an easy thing to purchase, or take. Bolts and bolts of blue and ivory satins to drape the bed where he would strip James of his ill-fitting rags and dress him instead in sweat and seed, and fuck him until the longings of the past months were well forgotten.
“Yes?” James bit out, the one word black powder to the flames searing René’s middle. But James had stopped walking, standing aside so that René could step out onto the small space of the balcony. René peered over the edge, not liking to see the ground so far below, but glad to see the ocean, glittering under the moon’s white face. Though the house was not in Port Royal itself, the strip of land leading to the city from the mainland was still narrow enough that those living here could enjoy a view of the sea.
The air was heavy, though a slight chill cooled his skin and made him shiver as he turned around. His hands he clasped behind him on the railing, wrapping his fingers around the rough wood. Dark, but the moon and stars were enough to allow him to gaze upon James, and to see the scowl marring his face. Far away was the sound of drums, from
the slave quarters, a fast, odd rhythm that brought to his mind the memory of killing his first captain and seizing control of the ship for himself. It also reminded him of that first groan from James when the man had been bent over his desk.
It was difficult to recall what it was he had been speaking of. René licked the salt from above his lip, lowering his lids at the same time so that James would not see his confusion. “He does not value you.” He remembered at last, and took one hand from the railing to gesture back in the direction from which they had come. James did not even flick his eyes to the side, holding himself straight and still.
“I have yet to have a master that does.” James spat it out like a curse, in that peculiar way of his, then dropped his shoulders slowly in a manner that suggested something René did not understand. Mockingly, but James was not mocking. “What does it matter?” “There is a world that is not this island.” Whatever James meant, it was not important unless he had guessed his employer’s intentions in sending him out here. René put his hand behind him once more, and shook his head to sweep his hair from his face. Black strands held together with fruit juice stayed before his eyes, but through them he could see James slapping a hand to his face, pushing up narrow spectacles to peer at René as though he were a lunatic.
“You…?” James breathed in seeming disbelief, bending his head to study his face. Whatever he saw there made him close his mouth and lift his chin, before turning his eyes toward the rest of the house. “No doubt you have seen much of the world in your life, these past month,” James muttered under his breath, and then he was sucking his lower lip into his mouth, worrying it with his teeth. His lips would grow sore with the way James mistreated them when he wished to control his wayward tongue.
“The world?” René frowned at the strange tone to the question, then shook his head. This was not what he wished to talk about now that he finally had James gotten to himself. A few months chasing down ships until they had found a fatly laden Dutch ship, smuggling diamonds andcafé from the New World, with men on board greedy but smart enough to surrender. After all, they had lived to return to the Main and steal from the Spaniards again. The rest of the time spent visiting port cities along the coast, watching his men run off to find women, hopefully willing, though he had not followed them to see, drowning one of his crew for trying to hide some jewels for himself. What James thought would be there he could not imagine. There was the ocean, and there was blood and death and gold and lust, little else. “It is the same in all places,” he answered quietly when he noticed the prolonged silence.
“One port no different than another?” James had turned his head fully to the wall, nearly pressing his face to the hinge of the long shutter. “ Oui.” His reply was short, and René was grateful to now move the conversation away from the past and on to the present. He stepped away from the ledge at last, closed the small distance between them, trying to keep his steps slow.
James jumped at only his first step, darting away to the other side of the balcony and pressing himself against the opposite shutter so hard that it must have pained his back. René moved a hand toward his knife and followed after James, stepping partly out into the hall. Then he stilled abruptly after seeing that there was no threat, though that did not make sense. Not even before their first time had the man jumped around like a headless chicken.
Then James fixed large, dark eyes on him, huge due to his glasses but impossible to read in the black of night and a badly lit hall. His mouth was full, swollen from his mistreatment of it, and after a few moments he opened it to let out one long breath.
René knew he was still standing frozen; half-crouched defensively with one hand near his weapon, but did not raise himself up. His gaze slid down over the high cheekbones hidden by the spectacles, to the stubble lining the firm jaw, then finally touched the trembling lips themselves. Sweet lips, tightening around his cock as if James had truly enjoyed the feel of a prick in his mouth, pressing hotly over his shoulder and neck, parting to suck the skin sore. Strong arms closing around him, soft hair falling across his face as James had moved at last and tried to kiss him as though it had not been just a fucking in a filthy alleyway.
He blinked when the full lips firmed into a straight line, lifting his eyes at last when the skin around James’ lips darkened. With a dry, ugly sound, James coughed deep in his throat and then shifted his body, leaning further out toward the balcony. Apparently he wished to stare out at the sea.
Unbidden, René swore to Saint Francis, shifting at last to peer outside and see what had so captured James’ interest. But the blasphemy returned James’ attention to him, and René smiled to see it. At last now they could talk of something of more importance then visiting empty ports and greedy English masters.
James was less than the length of his arm from him, resting against the doorjamb and shutter as if waiting for him. He was beautiful in the bit of moonlight, even with his foolish wig, for his head was laid back against the wood and he wore no cravat or collar.
“James,” René called to him softly, lowly so he would not jump again. It was a command regardless, and James obeyed it, trembling with some feeling as he dropped his chin and looked directly at him. James swallowed once, then again. When he spoke it was just as low, just as soft.
“René.” James had dared to say his name again, but René allowed it, closing his eyes briefly at the weakness in that word. Then he raised one hand, working underneath the stiff coat to push aside his own neck cloth. Under that was his shirt andveste, but the lacings were easy to find, and he tugged sharply on one string, feeling those eyes on him. He did not need light to tell what James Fitzroy was feeling now.
“You…” James’ brows drew together in a brief, absent frown, as if James were trying to recall some point of their talk, and René nodded impatiently, though with some amusement. He should have expected no less. “You and the…the lady—theSpider!” James’s voice hitched the smallest degree, rising as René forced himself to stop when the toes of their shoes knocked together. He had to tilt his head up now to look into James’ face, and did not enjoy it, though James seemed not to notice.
“Mirena,” René growled her name, not wanting to think about the other captain at that moment. But James was James, irritating and persistent, like a fly buzzing around his head. Before his eyes was the magnificent breadth of chest, hidden only by some paltry clothing, and René raised one hand and pressed his palm against the flat stomach. Even through the fabric he could feel the muscles tighten in response.
“B…but…she…” Relentlessly, James babbled on, and for the briefest moment, René allowed his fingers to slide toward the buttons of theveste James wore, daring to slip one free. James exhaled with a sudden burst of air. It tickled down over René’s face, hot and sugared. “Mirena!” James finally got out her name, after René tucked his fingers under the two different sides of the bottom of the veste and parted them with a tender slowness before slipping his fingers closer into James’ warmth. It took only that to make the body under his hand tremble.
“I do not like…” René paused, glancing up from the sight of his hand so close to what he wanted. Then he bit down on his tongue hard as he set his jaw and just for a heartbeat, pressed his fingernails into James’ skin. A sharp sound, like surprise or arousal, perhaps anger, answered it, though James did not move away, and only then did René finish. “…To hear you speak of her.”
“Is sh…she your…wife?” James ignored his threat and it should not have startled. Nonetheless, René opened his eyes wide, blinking in astonishment to hear him speak. The softly quavering English words had to be wrong.
“Saint Denis save me from such a fate!” he replied without thought, then felt a chuckle erupt from him. Mirena would have been most unhappy with him for it. That thought made him laugh again. But James was scowling, and so René had no time to wonder why James would think such a thing.
“You seem most friendly.” The tone of James Fitzroy’s voice was famili
ar; an indignant posture of offense very much like it had been onle Diable Noir, at seeing René do anything from piss over the side to express a desire to fuck his beautiful ass. Though never had it been so pronounced. René narrowed his eyes, and smoothed his fingers over the wrinkled shirt underneath the veste, tapping the firm muscle a few times. The last tap was forceful enough to make James’ mouth tighten. “Is she your lover?” James did not stammer at all, and that was enough to draw René’s head up. James had lowered his, but he had not bent his shoulders again.
In truth he was still holding himself stiffly against the wall, though he had not backed away from René’s touches, even the painful ones. His exquisite defiance, for his virtue before, and now, for Mirena’s. How James must pity her, imagining her wed to the monster Villon. Probably he imagined himself as her rescuer, drawing her up into his arms and pressing those soft kisses to her waiting lips, large hands caressing her bosom.
“I…” It was René’s turn to stumble as he tried to talk. Despite René’s mangled attempt at speech, James inclined his head further, and René got the strange sense that the other man’s eyes were wide, as if waiting for him to speak, and explain.
The night around them smelled of mango fruit and high priced sugar, and James’ tensely thrumming body was hot on an already warm evening. René shifted from the heat of it, his blood pumping through his veins creating rivers of fire under his skin. How he burned. And yet the man waited, like some cursed, damned statue carved from stone.
“No.” That was simple to say. The rest made his throat dry, though what he had intended to say he had forgotten. James inhaled, and René dropped his eyes from his face to the threadbare, badly-fitting suit that James suffered in. The child had worn large, but well made clothing; James was more caring than most mothers. “She does not want you to save her,” he murmured, then started at the realization that he had spoken the words at all. James blinked rapidly, lashes dipping and fluttering like a flirtatious Spanish lady’s fan. Finally they rested against his cheeks, and he would have seemed at peace if it had not been for the befuddled frown wrinkling his forehead.
