by Cooper, R.
This was not where he had intended this to go, was not where he wanted to be, and René latched onto the coarse material of theveste and pulled himself forward, and up, mollified slightly at how James kept his feet despite the surprise and the new burden. There, in front of his mouth was the lovely face, shocked lips frozen in a circle as James forgot his words and gaped.
René wanted to cling, but would not allow himself the indignity, and instead arched his neck, until his lips hesitated above the whiskered jaw, near the curve of one ear. His heart, or James’, roared between them, fast and hard.
“René.” The barest whisper and René turned his head, so close to James that his breath flew against his face and upward, faintly clouding his spectacles. So close now that he could see the black at the center of the muddy eyes grow larger.
“James.” René licked his lips and found them already wet. His words fell from his mind like overripe fruit and he scrambled for meanings as James tilted his head down. “I will give you anything, James, if you stop your talk and let me have you,” he promised rashly, and meant it, preparing himself this time for the feel of arms gripping him tightly.
James’ mouth snapped closed, what had to be shyness at René’s blunt words causing his face to darken. With no warning, René was stumbling back onto his own feet, hands reaching out and finding only air. His chest hurt in two places, where large hands had shoved against him, and he looked up in astonishment in time to see James’s hand curled into a fist, before his face.
The hall was dark, the floor darker; René stared up from the blackness at the towering, shaking figure of James Fitzroy, impossibly tall, and blazing as if it were day out on the balcony. René felt an ache in his jaw, and clicked his teeth, wincing at the pain but aware that nothing had been broken. His back hurt. He was aware of that too, and of the way James seemed to not be breathing, merely watching him silently as if he had been the one knocked onto the floor. Then James gasped.
“Are you…?” he began to ask and then stopped and flung out one hand. “I am not thy doxy!” James shouted at him, loud enough for those back in the dining hall to have heard him, if they were still there. Then at last, too late, he closed his mouth, locking his jaw so tightly that his teeth must have ground together.
“Doxy?” René heard himself repeating stupidly, still sitting on the floor when he should have risen. “What isdoxy?” He shook his head and shifted to free one arm, so he could feel along the tender spot on his chin. James flinched to see him do it, though René took his eyes from the other man at last as he considered the mark this would leave on his face. Deniau would be amused, as would Mirena. It would only be Marechal who would dislike seeing him so ugly. “You hit me,” he went on blankly, pressing his fingertips against the soreness until colour swirled before his eyes. The pain did not settle his mind as it should have, but how could anything have done so, when James Fitzroy who bowed meekly before idiots had struck him in a rage?
René felt his breathing become rapid and his skin tighten with expectation; enough to have him place a hand carefully in his lap. Once there he uncurled his thumb, his breath hitching anew as the finger lightly stroked against his throbbing prick. Not yet hard, but still aroused even with him flattened and on the floor.
“A doxy is a…whore.” James shuddered at the word though he did not stammer. “I am not your whore,” he said again, ducking his head as if ashamed to acknowledge the word. René flung his head back, and dropped his hand to the floor, colder to the touch than it should have been. He felt the chill shiver through his skin to his bones.
So James knew what René had made him, and had restrained himself at only one blow. Did he not set his price higher than that? Tight-jawed despite the pain, René pushed himself up and to his feet, jerking his coat straight before striding back to stand before the larger man, gesturing wildly.
“Not my whore, but your Lord’s? Saint-Cyr’s?” If the thought of the shifty-eyed, drunken lord placing his hands on James was not enough to make René raise his voice, then Etienne Saint-Cyr moaning under the attentions of those gentle hands had him nearly shouting.Un embarras—he had meant to be firm, not loud. Nonetheless he stared up through the glass of the spectacles as he asked it, and turned his face when he sensed James lashing out again.
Hesitation this time, as if James already regretted the first. René stayed on his feet though his head was forced to the side. He had it back in an instant, glaring furiously at James for not hitting harder. He was not a girl to be treated lightly. He could kill James if he wished, before James could think to raise a hand in defense.
James’s fist had not retreated to his side. He still held it aloft, blinking at the sight of his knuckles, though the skin had not split that René could see. The other man unfurled each finger one by one, and then slowly raised his head. “I hit you,” he said as if he had just noticed, and it was almost enough to amuse René. But James was too serious for that, shadowed now with unpleasant thoughts. “Not since…” That he did not finish. Nor his second sentence. “You did not…” Only the third statement was whole, completed through pale, thin lips. “I want to hit you again,” he confessed, then shook his head. As though his hand had been burned he tucked it under one arm, then crossed both arms across his chest. René smeared the back of his hand along his cheek, feeling a growing swelling, and tiny cuts on the inside of his mouth, from his teeth, but no bleeding. Mirena could punch harder—if she meant to hurt.
“I want to kiss thee as well.” James added softly, though there was no blade at his throat to warrant such a remark. Before René could remember his body and his lungs and remind them to move, to breathe, James was laughing to himself, so quietly that René shivered. “A lunatic am I. A Bedlamite for certain, for just when I think you are the very Devil…” There he stopped, then blurted onward. “You have food in your hair,” he revealed, his mirth ceasing so abruptly that the drums outside seemed closer, more insistent. James dropped his hands limply to his sides, clenched them tightly against his thighs, then raised them to wrap them around himself again. “What do you want from me, Sir?” His very voice wept, though that could have been in René’s mind.
The cuts in his mouth stung as René prodded them with his tongue, finding a use for it that was not speaking. He could not speak yet, and had not been permitted to use his tongue for anything else. What he wanted…what a strange thing to be asked. He wanted to be with James. He wanted James in his bed, but that James already knew, and had shoved him aside only to make queer statements, foolishness about food in his hair.
He did not want James Fitzroy to be with Etienne Saint-Cyr, or the lord, or even Mirena. He wanted to be away from this house, from Jamaica. He wanted… Disgusted, René hacked out a cough and shook his head. His hair, and a crumb of pastry, fell into his face, but he kept it there. “I want you to leave this house,” he decided, firmly, and reveled in the clear puzzlement in James’ stance.
“You are not on your ship anymore, to give me orders. Regardless of what my Lord thinks me.” It did not take long for James to regain his balance, as René had not pressed the point. James was mulishly sticking out his jaw and had allowed the defiance to return to his voice. Still, René could not hide his surprise to learn that James had known of Sir Marvell’s intent in sending him out here. René wondered if James also knew that Sir Marvell would have wanted him to spy.
“You do not…! Vous n’appartenez pas ici! Il est sous vous!” Frustration with clumsy English had him shouting in his own tongue. From the corner of one eye, René saw movement, as a small child slave tried to slip past the two madmen in the hall without being noticed. Even without James spying, the tale would get back to Sir Marvell. That was displeasing, and it was James’ fault for making him lose his temper.
James was floundering for words, understanding him, and yet furious. Clearly agitated, he pointed one finger. “And do you prize me so highly? You who left me on my knees in the gutter? You are no better than they, and I am no better
than a common bawd, for wanting you still.” He stopped there, shaking visibly and looking ill.
“Je suis retourné pour vous.” René whispered urgently.Now James translated French as if it were his beloved Latin, with a speed that was almost instant, flinching as if the idea were unwelcome.
René stretched his fingers, his itching skin soothed only by the feel of something being clutched hard against it. It was perhaps the only reason he had kept the useless token around his neck all these years, his choice to do so.
“I am a free prince!” he announced abruptly, standing straighter and freeing his hands. “I will not be told what to do!” “Neither will I.” Slow and soft, but meant, for James lowered his head until their eyes were level. He did not seem to find it odd that René yelled at the air. Just as slowly, René swallowed, observing James warily for that. James’ voice was even lower when he spoke again. “You have not yet finished your game with me, have you?”
René did not reply, not entirely certain that James wanted a response. James was queer, even for an Englishman, shouting out that which ought not be spoken, then blushing with maidenly virtue at a small embrace, only to grow forceful on the topic of whores without the slightest shame. René bent his neck to the side instead, stretching the tight muscles, never taking watchful eyes from the figure before him.
James was not trembling, or stammering, or anxiously feasting on his bottom lip. He did not even blink. “Perhaps,” René said thoughtfully, at last, and René heard his own rough exhalation of breath as if it had come from someone else. He twitched reflexively and pricked up his ears, approaching footsteps making him want to stab the next fool who dared come upon them.
High girlish laughter, Mirena’s crazed mirth; four glasses of whiskey’s worth of fool coming closer. “And if I wish to start one with you?” James wondered quietly with what could not have been amusement, and stepped out from the balcony so suddenly that René leaned back, only just keeping himself from backing away.
“René, you little baked chicken, where are you hiding?” Mirena called out gaily in her a mix of her own tongue and French, insulting him just to vex him. Probably she came to save him from himself, or from James. The thought would have been amusing if René had not had been planning her slow torture and slower death. He laid on his back for no man.
René felt something in his belly twist to see the strange expression on James Fitzroy’s face. He wore no high colour, and his lips were curved upward, in what appeared to be a smile. It widened even as René watched, and then James was nodding his head to gesture behind him, though the smile fell at last. His shoulders twitched with some imagined pressure, and James’ eyes found his feet, ungainly inpetit slippers.
They were ugly shoes, uglier even then the hideous, stupid wig he wore, stringy pale curls hanging around his neck like pieces of rope. Even the candlelight made him seem yellowed now, faded, mixing uneasily with the pale green brocade of his suit of clothing.
René turned to glare at Mirena, which kept her from coming any closer than a few yards, even in her current state. “The English…left. Business, for his house.” That seemed to be the main part of whatever Mirena had wished to say, or at least what English she was able to recall to her tongue now that it was looser. “I am tired, René,” she complained a moment later, and René thought he would enjoy telling her how she had stumbled like a child unable to hold her liquor.
“I ought to see if Sir Marvell needs me.” James coughed and spoke up, addressing the floor with only the smallest glance upward. “You will go to him now?” René demanded, spinning back from Mirena, who apparently did not mind. His earlier fury had returned, and he forgot that weakness that had had him backing away from this man. This man with his tiny, silken slippers.
“With him or with you, my role is the same,” James whispered, flushing the moment the harsh words left him.
René stared down at the pointed, shining metal blade in his hand, wondering where it had come from.
“Monsieur Fitzroy!” Mirena exclaimed behind him, sounding delighted, and ridiculously young. She was older than René by several years, with lines on her face from the sea.
“Madame.” James addressed her as was proper, not with fawning false flattery like his master, though his eyes were fixed on René’s weapon. “In England you have your big oaks?” Mirena asked, but James was still goggling at the blade. René tapped each finger in turn on the hilt and then slipped it into his belt, not bothering to hide it this time. He would know what James had meant by that. If not now then later.
“Oaks?” James sounded strangled, dryly coughing and looking into René’s eyes with a different question in his mind. “And you, Fitz. Roy.” Each syllable slid from the woman’s mouth like it was coated in syrup, and René wondered how much sugar it had taken to soften the wasp’s sharp tongue. She was behind him now, at his shoulder and coming closer, though he was not her goal. “…Are you an oak?” Her gaze dropped down, and she did not look at James’ feet.
“Shut your mouth!” René barked at her in her own language and received a bleary, irritated stare in return, before her eyes went round and bright. Then she threw back her head and shouted a laugh that was so loud that it should have sobered even her.
“I…” James stumbled again, not used to such women probably, though he still had not more than glanced at Mirena. His cheeks would burn to the touch, from the look of them. “I am too weak to be an…oak,Madame,” he murmured, ducking his head once.
“You scare James away, Mirena.” René was smiling at that even as he reached around to grab Mirena’s arm and steer her about. She just twisted her head around to stare back, leering at him now. She would pounce on the next man she saw in this humour, and blame René for it later.
“But perhaps Madame Aranha wishes to judge for herself?” James called out to their backs and René stiffened, dimly aware that he was standing with one foot still in the air. Mirena was bubbling over with triumphant laughter, clapping her hands to let James know he had amused and pleased her. René tightened his grip on Mirena, surprised at how strong and steady she suddenly was, but happy to feel it.
To be rejected by this Englishman was nothing, even if his body still wanted him. It had been whim only, bringing him here, and if he wanted he could still make James Fitzroy his pet; James had made that clear. But to be given horns to wear in this manner was like a sword slicing through his middle.
Tearing away from Mirena, he wheeled around, not even bothering to pull his dagger loose. “You will not…!” His tongue became too thick for speech, choking him.
James was regarding him levelly, arms crossed. His face seemed rougher, the lines harsh and unforgiving though he had been playful with Mirena moments before. Then his chin lifted.
To start one with you, James had said.Un défi—a challenge in those burning eyes, whether James realized it or not.
“It is silly for me to kill such an insignificant man,” René announced to the room at large, to those who cared to listen.
“Silly,” Mirena agreed, drowsily. James said nothing, but his eyes widened. “I will put you to bed instead, Belle-mere.” René told Mirena teasingly, without glancing back to her. Her hand found his shoulder however, calling him back to the world outside this small space, and the thinning of James’ lips at his words.
“My Lord will be disappointed.” James managed to sound polite, and inclined his head in a manner that was almost gracious. If it had been done by that ass-child of Saint-Cyr, with his eyes that wanted and denied James, it might have even seemed so. But James did not quite seem so willing to see him leave with Mirena on his arm.
“Je retourne encore.” René waved his free hand dismissively, though his arm felt stiff, and jerked Mirena roughly so she would not fall over and topple them both.
“Then Sir Marvell will be pleased.” James was equally stiff, inclining his head once again, so lowly that it was almost a bow. René glimpsed the top of his head, or the top of his wig, and cur
sed the damned thing just as James stumbled again, and the wig slid forward an inch or so.
James was not meant to wear such nonsense. The priestly black he had been garbed in on their first meeting was what had suited him best, and if not that then he should wear nothing. It was enough to make René wonder if even diamonds would suit that stern figure before him, if James would be pleased with diamonds, or condemn them for the blood on them? He might forget that too, if he could sell them for money for the child, the way he had forgotten what went on outside of this house in exchange for a place for the boy.
The child’s curious gaze had not left him in the months since René had laid eyes on the brat. There on the dock it had been plain enough, the child sizing up René’s interest in James, with no shame at all. René had almost expected to be knifed for coming too close.
“I do not come for Sir Marvell.” René thought it best to make that clear and was pleased by the flood of colour into James’ face, making it no longer so sallow. “ Adeus!” Mirena called out, her elbow finding his ribs in an expression of impatience. Holding James’ gaze for a few moments more, René ignored her for as long as she would allow. Then he was turning, leading the heavy, drunken idiot back down the hall. He did not look back, knowing that James was standing there and waiting for him to do just that.
The door to the pretty negress’ room was closed now, silence behind it, though René curved his lips into a sneer just the same. There was no mark of Etienne Saint-Cyr either, fortunately for him, and René followed the path they had taken when entering the large house, until he was downstairs.
