Ideas of Sin

by Cooper, R.

  Mirena grew steadier with each step, finally shoving him away with a vexed noise when they reached the foot of the great stone stairs and passed under the large, arching doorway that some Spanish nobleman had once been proud of. Without a trace of weakness in her legs or step, she swept up her skirts into fisted hands and stalked out the door, where a carriage waited for them.

  “Leaves me to find his lover!” she snarled in a French that was not much different than what was spoken in the gutters of Paris, and struck out viciously at the servant trying to help her inside the vehicle. Since René did know not if she spoke of Sir Marvell, or himself, he shrugged and followed her in, taking great pleasure in the fact that he did not need assistance.

  “The dress becomes you, belle-mere,” he remarked as she attempted to settle the mass of fabric. That the lady she had taken it from had valued it greatly as a wedding dress obviously meant nothing to Mirena. She had stroked the silks on the ride here, enjoying the feel of them. But now René had a feeling the dress would be floating in the sea to-morrow. The threads were of a rich gold, and René studied them with interest, wondering how he would fare if he offered James gold. That colour might also suit him.

  “I am not your…” she fumbled for the word and René supplied it, not bothering to hide his annoyance when she kicked him. She had been deliberately upsetting him all evening, and James had dared to callhim the spoiled child.

  “Step-mother.” It was the nice term for the role, though she was not worthy of either title, even if she had been his step-mother. But regardless of that, it was impossible to have a second mother when your father had never married your first.

  “If I were I would tell you to marry and stop dreaming of an Englishman who hates you.” With a start, René sat up to fix her with a look. Then he grabbed a handful of her skirt and yanked her closer. Her face formed into a stubborn look he knew only too well, but he pressed anyway.

  “Do not presume…” he began, but knew that at least was a waste of time when Mirena had presumed everything from the moment he had first fished her out of a rain barrel she had fallen into one evening after smoking the herb the Africans grew in the fields. René shuddered briefly to recall her determination to helphim. He wished she would find some of that herb now, and grow sleepy. “You knownothing!” he said finally and pushed her away. Then he crossed his arms and leaned back against the wall, suddenly very tired himself.

  “He is handsome enough to make it interesting.” Mirena commented, not looking at him as she hiked up her skirts and propped one leg up on the small bench. Bending her knee, and using it to support her elbow, she rested her head and eyed him thoughtfully. “I thought so when I saw him several days ago.”

  “What?” That escaped before René lined up his thoughts, but he closed his mouth sharply on the end and said no more. Not even when she grinned lustily at him and thrust out her breasts.

  “I didn’t know he was yours,” she explained after letting him imagine one of her romps, and then destroyed the gown forever by ripping out several of the strings holding the busk hard against her breasts. She sighed as the gown loosened. René’s lips tightened.

  “James Fitzroy is not mine.” “He will be.” Mirena found this amusing and laughed softly to herself, growing louder each time she met René’s eyes and saw his fury. “It is easy enough to catch a man, René. Do you need me to teach you?”

  “I do not like to hear you speak of him,” René whispered, aware that he had said nearly the same words earlier but beyond caring.

  The carriage rolled and rocked into motion, almost like a ship beneath them, and they stayed in silence for a long while. When Mirena finally turned away from him with an annoyed toss of hair, René laid his head back on the wall and closed his eyes. James would be his again, and no one else’s, and even crafty lords and wide-eyed children would not stand in his way from having him.

  “He is mine,” René told her, tasting the words as he longed to taste James. Mirena hummed some peasant song to herself, then stopped.

  “Stubborn ass,” she murmured, and René curved his lips into a smile.

  “Drunken slut,” he whispered back, but did not open his eyes. James was behind them, smiling for him on a bed of gold-shot silk, wearing nothing but diamonds. Several moments later he frowned, and pushed the vision away with a sigh. Somehow he did not think scholarly James would care for diamonds. He would have to find something else to please him.

  Chapter Eight

  “I

  will not.” Murmured aloud as he walked, it was a sure sign that he was mad now. There was no point in doubting it any longer. Not with the bewildered frown darkening Ben’s face as if even the child thought him beyond all hope. But mad or no, his mind still spat out that one thought with wrathful force. He would not be dancing attendance on thecorsaire, whatever Sir

  Marvell or Villon himself might think. A few moments on a balcony might have been enough to learn that Villon wanted him still, whatever the man’s reasons for that, and they had certainly been long enough for James to become reacquainted with his own lust for those clever hands and that rose petal mouth. But as eager as he had been to simply let the man have his way he had not. He was not Sir Marvell’s whore, and neither was he René Villon’s. He would swear to that a thousand times over, and keep his vow if it meant death. Whatever he was to Villon, whatever fancies of a recurring affair the other man had dreamt of in the moments since they had met again, James would not be his whore again. He was a man, not some doxy in a nunnery, too afraid to speak out.

  René thought of him as such, someone too meek and cowardly to defy others. Mayhap his views had been changed once James had knocked him back to the floor; he had certainly kept his distance after that. With a frown of his own, James pushed aside the questions as to why Villon had not struck him down for his offense. It was none of his concern if Villon was the sort of man who thought nothing of violence, or the sort of man who enjoyed it.

  Indeed, his face had flooded with colour. So much so that at first James had been alarmed, thinking of the differences in their sizes. He had stepped forward and then seen it, the lightening flash of desire brightening the depths of Villon’s eyes before he had swept the lids closed.

  Even so wounded and offended Villon had wanted him. James clenched his teeth and firmed his lips, glancing away from Ben, who fell into step beside him and grew silent, no longer whistling some sea ditty. The child longed for the sea, the song said as much though the boy himself said nothing, lingering at James’ side though they both knew well enough that James had no claim on him. He was as free to wander and roam as the ragged cutpurses and street boys back in London, and yet instead of running off to sign with another captain, he stayed.

  Sighing, James stopped for a moment, looking down to Ben with a barest of smiles. Ben’s eyes were strangely dark as they stared back up at him, glinting in the early afternoon sunshine. He did not smile back, only leaned his head to one side in a serious manner. His skin was browned from the sun, darker even than it had been back on Carter’s ship, darker than Villon’s had been then, or was now. But then Villon had slept during most of his days; waking every few hours to walk among the crew or play chess with the killer he valued so highly.

  Now he played the game with Sir Marvell, both of them kings imagining James was some pawn between them. No, not kings. René had seemed to feel that Sir Marvell was not worth the title, had in fact challenged James for daring to place them together. There was no difference between them that James could see, save for Villon’s openness in naming himself a thief and murderer. James would not put it beyond Sir Marvell to be dealing with the Maroons in order to have his own lands spared and those of his neighbors and enemies pillaged, even as he condemned the escaped slaves for their savagery.

  “Villon must sign the contract today,” Sir Marvell had told him without even a trace of a human emotion on his face. Contracts. Pieces of paper with marks upon them that no one seemed to hold sacred. The worth of
them was less than the cloth used to wipe his arse for the way they treated them, and yet they must be signed. Did René think him deaf or just foolish, that he could not hear the interest and greed that deepened his employer’s voice whenever this business was spoken of? That he had not seen the knowing gleam in the man’s eyes when he had sent him out to that balcony?

  Today, without the influence of spirits, Sir Marvell had sought to disguise his amusement and avarice, but James had felt it regardless. “I will not,” he had replied before Sir Marvell would say more, shaking with the effort not to turn away, or shout something harsher. He could be thrown out for this, and might end up back in the fields after all. It would have been a hard fate; not only for himself, but also for Ben, and for a moment he had almost called the words back. But it was Sir Marvell’s quiet answer that had made him hold his tongue; stubbornness that for once had kept him silent.

  “Your boy will never be a house servant,” he had offered, seemingly from nowhere, and James had let out one long breath. He knew the truth of that statement well enough. Ben no small streak of his own stubbornness. More than that, he lacked interest in menial chores and servitude. With little respect for any elders other than James, James had to wonder how Carter had ever gotten the boy to obey. He had known Carter to be a cruel man, so cruel none of his men had mourned him, but oftentimes James thought upon the child’s delight in his death and shivered.

  Ben was child, even if one smart enough to determine that their situation was precarious. He would not let Ben be used against him.

  James began to walk again without saying anything, though Ben seemed to find nothing odd in that, and again followed. “I think he will choose a life at sea,” James had answered, simply to fill the silence, trying not to think of Ben at the mercy of those even worse than Villon. The pirates owned the seas, not the Spanish or the Portuguese, however those nations had divided up the world between them.

  “Perhaps I will ask if Monsieur Villon would like take the boy off your hands.” How calm Sir Marvell had been, ignoring the way James had nearly jumped from his skin to hear such a threat, a plain one by the standards of the nobleman as James judged it. “It must be difficult, caring for a child when your own journey has already been so plagued with so many troubles.”

  James had had to duck his head, unable to meet the other man’s eyes to recall his only halftruthful story of his ship being attacked and his old employer dying on the journey. He had omitted the rest, to hide his own shame, and to find employment, but no doubt it had taken Sir Marvell only one moment to observe that he and René had met before. Even if he had not, his foolish display of anger at the table would have lead to the same conclusions. This time, no matter how angry he was, he could not blame Villon for his predicament.

  “Many men would not hire such a man, seemingly so unloved by Fate.” How sharp the man’s smile had grown then. Sharp enough to slice James’ throat. Lord’s mercy, to think he had thought Villon cold. To be used and left with gold was shameful, but to be used and left with nothing, deliberately, knowingly…it went beyond shrewdness in business, down into the dark parts of the man’s soul that allowed him to purchase the Africans standing chained and filthy and frightened on the blocks in town without even a hint of the Lord’s compassion for mankind in his eyes.

  He knew that he owed a debt to Sir Marvell, knew it dearly. The very clothes on his back scratched against his skin with every breath, lest he forget. But he had lifted his chin and tried to ease the tightness in his throat before speaking.

  “Many other men might,” he had remarked boldly in return, watching the complete surprise in the older man’s eyes with no little amount of pleasure, wondering what Sir Marvell expected by assigning him this task. Did he think to woo Villon to easier terms by offering James up like a tasty bit of sweetmeat, or did he hope that the man would be—James felt himself fill with embarrassed heat—distracted by his presence and grow careless in his dealings? He hoped foolishly, for though René might lust after him, James was nothing to him that any other might be.

  Why did Villon not slake his lust elsewhere, and leave James in peace? James asked himself silently, stumbling on the uneven ground of the street. Others were waiting to fill his bed, cozened by his pretty face and brazen manner.L’Aranha had seemed familiar with his body, placing her hands on him openly, and so too had Deniau, the two of them often so close they might as well have been touching. Marechal as well, regarding his master with eyes that did not blink, pressing so closely on the occasion when he had carried René to his cabin that James had been surprised to see him exit the cabin so soon after entering it.

  The large man had seemed more than happy to have Villon’s wriggling form in his arms, clutching René tightly when René had begun to struggle. Or had seemed to struggle. Maybe it had been no struggle at all; James could not imagine anyone forcing René, though he was a small man. Strange and defiant, even when there was no need to be, that was René Villon, declaring himself to be a free prince when none had said otherwise.

  But there was no need to think on this any longer, not with Sir Marvell’s offices looming before them and the sun slowly falling. They would be late if he tarried any longer. It had already taken him some time to find Ben amid the rows of shops, but James had not wanted to attend the meeting without him. Sir Marvell ought to be there by now, pleased with himself and impatient for James to arrive. L’Aranha might have been and gone by now, but James had the feeling that Villon would wait for him to arrive. Probably he had arranged to have him here, with Sir Marvell gladly agreeing. Mayhap his arse was written into the contract.

  René would take great pleasure in shoving him facedown over Sir Marvell’s desk and sticking his prick into his arse, pressing so deeply inside of him while his hand worked between his legs until James would agree to anything in order for Villon to let him have his little death.

  His fingers wrapped around the single golden coin still in his pocket, heating the soft metal with the force of his passion as he used his other hand to open the door. Rows of clerks looked up with interest as he entered, obviously aware of the meeting. The Spider must have offered them some excitement, though they would be disappointed with René, who would not want to spare even a glance for lowly clerks and their books. Ben stepped ahead to relate some tale to Goodwin, a clerk that tolerated his attentions, but James silently urged him to share the story later, pressing a light hand to his shoulder.

  James nodded to the other men in greeting but soon forgot them, narrowing his eyes to just the door of the small, comfortably appointed room where Sir Marvell did his business when he came to town.

  He was already overdue. It would not do for him to stand outside the door like a brainless, white-streaked coward. Aware of many eyes on him for his hesitation, he swung the door open.

  The imported English wood creaked, already rotting from the wet heat, and the sound brought the figure before him around sharply, one hand on the long, dirty blade at his waist. He wore no scabbard on his cutlass. The naked blade and what it might mean had James taking a step back even before he moved his eyes upward to identify the intruder, taking yet another step when he saw Marechal’s humourless face. This step had him touching Ben, and James gripped the boy’s shoulder tightly to prevent him from coming further into the room without taking his attention from Villon’s shadow. He had not thought to ever see Marechal again, and had been most grateful for that.

  “Petit Anglais,” Marechal greeted him with a small grin, but did not move his hand from his waist.

  “Marechal.” James named him in return, taking his eyes away to search the little room. But it was empty; René was nowhere in sight. There was only his dog. “ Nous attendons le René ensemble,” Marechal told him with an inflection that seemed to make the words more than simply words, as he shifted his gaze to behind James, where Ben was no doubt peeking around him.

  James could not hide the way his head reared back. To know that René was not yet there was disheart
ening, but to be grouped together with such a bloody pig as Marechal for anything was an honour James would refuse without even questioning why. Though it was not as if the man had killed in the same manner that Deniau had slaughtered Cavendish, or even René’s cool execution of Carter.

  When James did not answer, Marechal moved, turning his bulky body to the side and revealing a delicate, padded chair, with a red coat draped over the back with golden lining that exactly matched the shade of its gilt paint.

  Marechal plucked it up as if the heavy gold weighed nothing and settled it easily over one arm, where the red splashed to the floor. Then he turned back, a light hitting his rough features at last at something beyond James’ vision.

  “James!” A voice called to him huskily and James twisted his body in instant response. He had a brief view of Ben, who was not trying to get a look at Marechal as James had been expecting, instead he had tucked himself almost between James and the door. But he emerged to follow the same voice that had made James turn.

  Ignoring all the clerks as James had known he would, René was striding across the short distance, scowling and obviously in some ill humour. He paused for only a brief moment as he took in the three of them frozen in the doorway and then his pace quickened.

  He stepped widely around Ben without ever seeming to look in the child’s direction and then flicked his eyes from Marechal to James before he finally spoke. His skin lacked colour despite his frantic pace of a moment ago.

  “You are late,” he said pressingly, nay, accusingly, and slipped past James into Sir Marvell’s office without giving James a chance to find his tongue. Marechal did not move from his place, but René spared him no more glances either, stalking from one side of the limited space to another and shoving the chair directly in front of Marechal when it seemed to get in his way. Marechal could not seem to bother to remove one hand from the coat to lift it and put it aside, and since he still had not moved to leave, James could only assume that he meant to stay.