Ideas of Sin

by Cooper, R.

  “Where is Sir Marvell?” Ignoring René’s question for the moment, James decided to try one of his own, looking pointedly about the room, and even turning to look askance at Ben, who stared at him with eyes like moons before dropping his head to study his thin hands, inhaling so his little body shook. Some strange notion in James’ mind had expected Ben to understand his ploy, but that had been foolish.

  Villon had stopped when James turned back to face him, breathing so heavily that his chest was fairly heaving and James had to wonder how he had ever imagined René did not pull in breath like any other man. His uneven breathing now made him seem feverish, and James had a sudden, frightening recollection of seeing the plague-stricken as they struggled to walk, to do anything to get to a place of safety. But there had been no such place, not for any of them. The hospitals had offered a false comfort, and it had been a blessing to hear of them destroyed in the fire, so that new ones could be built.

  The memories of the sickness had him worried and leaning intently forward, coming into the room and too close to Marechal, who was never far from his master. “ Qu’est-ce que c’est?” he asked what was wrong in an urgent whisper and immediately felt a fool when Villon did even look at him, keeping his gaze trained on the spot beyond James in the doorway. Then as if sensing his anger, the other man was blinking and drawing his eyes away to the large shadow at his back.

  “Marechal.” As if James had not spoken, Villon was addressing the larger man. One hand tapped against the lump on his chest in an odd rhythm. A necklace or a charm, James had decided, for men of the sea were as superstitious as farm folk. Denying faith and Fate but clutching some little talisman when something threatened, even if Villon seemed unaware of the actions of his hand. “We will not need you.” René interrupted his thought, still giving Marechal a languid order. “Go find Thierry for me. Remind him that he has two more days to spend all his coin on the wenches at that tavern, and he will be prepared to guide us on our…adventure when we sail.”

  On the instant, James had his head up, searching that slender face for the meaning of that pause. It had been meant for him to hear, Villon dangling the truth of this venture in front of him like a keeper taunting a caged bear with a bit of stringy meat. It was not that he meant to cheat Sir Marvell or the Saint-Cyrs or any of the others involved in this. With a business like this, dealing with such men, James knew there was no use in fighting that fact. This was something else, like René’s comments to Etienne Saint-Cyr.

  Marechal was still unmoving, though he had taken his eyes from his master at long last and instead was staring at James.

  “We go to England, English,” he said in James’ tongue, and James took a small step back, betraying his surprise and displeasure at being directly addressed. “You and the boy.” Marechal stopped to breathe heavily through his nose, then let one corner of his mouth turn upward in what another man might have called a grin. James swallowed, and he heard a sharp, whistling breath from René’s direction. “You come?”

  “It will take a while to find Thierry.” René’s timely words, flung at Marechal’s back, saved James from having to speak for a moment. His neck protested at the stiff angle of his head, trying to keep a steady gaze on the large man’s face. A second later he was looking away, made uncomfortable by the familiar leer lurking in the beast’s eyes.

  “Marechal.” No longer so silken, Villon’s voice was rising. Unable to call his dog to heel, James thought with a bitter amusement and jerked his head upright once more, though he sought out Villon’s face now.

  “A most pleasing offer,” James remarked in a dry tone, but René’s eyes went wide as though in astonishment, and James had the feeling that he had been mistook. He raised one hand to halt any queer thoughts the other two men might be having, then stilled at the touch of hands on his hips.

  “Might we?” Ben used his body as a screen, revealing only his head and shoulders as he asked the eager of question of Villon, who transferred that astonished gaze to the boy before abruptly moving it away as if Ben had not spoken.

  “Ben…” James warned, wishing the child had not emerged from his hiding place. To silence him, he stepped to the side, to clear a wide path for Marechal and to crush Ben firmly between himself and the door. Ben swore under his breath but only wriggled to what was likely a more comfortable position without actually breaking free. One small, warm hand rested on his lower back, and immediately began to stroke his skin in a manner that was likely meant to soothe, though James had to struggle not to move away.

  “Yes, Master James.” Ben responded obediently enough however, so James did his best to ignore it, and the softly-hummed sea ditty that accompanied each slow touch. “Marechal, before you go, you may help me put on my coat,” Villon murmured throatily, and James turned his distracted attention to the sight of René turning his back to the hulking figure of Marechal and allowing himself to be dressed like a doll. Marechal hopped over to do it quickly enough, though taking the time to smooth down the lines in the fabric over Villon’s arms and hips.

  “Thierry.” James called out the navigator’s name through thinned lips, since they seemed to need the reminder. Villon gave a glance over his shoulder at Marechal, and then gave a deliberate sigh. A moment later he nodded dismissively. Without any more hesitation, Marechal turned and slipped past James, not making a single sound.

  James shivered at the slight, cool wind creating by the man’s passing, and then immediately leapt from his place at the wall to face René. Villon was frowning at the still-opened door, and James stepped back briefly to close it, ushering Ben inside. It was silent now, with just the three of them, alone. Quieter than even a ship at night, where voices echoed like from dreams.

  Villon finally blinked to see James pushing Ben forward, and transferred his frown to James. “Missing your man already?” James demanded as Villon was leaning his head back to peer into his eyes. He was close to the desk, not quite leaning against it, just the right height for him to rest his hands on the top behind him if he had wished. James could imagine him doing so, the hard wood digging into his back as he leaned away even further in order to meet James’ gaze. Perhaps it would pain him, and he would shift, rubbing against the hardness as he sought to ease the ache.

  Sweet Jesu . James felt his skin prickling with the beginnings of arousal, itching underneath his clothing, demanding that he free himself from the burdensome cloth. He lifted one hand to his closed coat, flicking free one button.

  Black eyes followed the action and James went still, forgetting everything else for the moment but the unfulfilled, burning throb that had been his body since their encounter in Sir Marvell’s home. He could feel how his heart pounded, pushing the lust through his veins with the same speed that it had raised anger, and he hesitated where he stood, allowing his lips to fall open.

  “Are you angry, James?” Villon wondered in a husky, throaty voice, and James was suddenly sickened to realize that it was the same tone that the man had used with Marechal. He had not recognized it as such on the balcony, but he had nearly fallen victim to it then too.

  “Where is Sir Marvell?” James threw out another question, though already aware that his employer would not be coming. Villon blinked as though startled. “Did you truly believe he would be here?” There was a long silence before René answered, relaxing his arched pose enough to make James sigh, and leaning his head to one side curiously. He was speaking in French, James realized, they both were.

  He had not thought to see Sir Marvell, James admitted that to himself, yet he had come anyway. His foolishness had no bounds. Someone watching a man go against his own words in this manner might think that he wanted Villon to attempt another seduction, or to sweettalk him into something illicit or shameful.

  “James?” Ben’s soft tones, calling up to him, and James jumped at the reminder of the boy. Looking down, he could see confusion plainly writ on the boy’s face as Ben stopped at his side, nearly between them.

  “Why did y
ou bring the child?” As if Ben were not there, Villon continued to speak in French. His hands found the desk at last, and he seemed to push against it even as he leaned back, clutching the edge with enough force to make the wood seem to shake momentarily. Surely he was taunting James deliberately now, for moving his arms back had drawn his shirt tight across his chest. James knew that René had untied those lacings before to tantalize him with what remained unseen, and being carelessly knotted now, they were already beginning to slide free. He could see a glimpse of gold chain and small thatch of hair, dark against pale skin. If the coat were gone, perhaps the shirt would fall more.

  “We are not here to talk about Ben.” James raised his eyes and answered abruptly, in the English that Villon so despised, and saw how Ben blinked, obviously realizing that he was being discussed. Villon’s eyes narrowed, hiding the thoughts of fleshly delights that had made the skin of his face darken, and then he flung one hand out empathetically.

  “ You brought him here.” Sniffing in much the same manner that Etienne did, as if something in the air smelled rotten, Villon jerked his head up and away from the child. He continued to speak in French, and James caught the puzzled, angry look on Ben’s face, drawing out his lower lip into a stubborn pout. “You make a poor father,Monsieur Fitzroy.” René condemned as he shrugged, and the laces fell free. James took a breath. “You do not know a child’s place.”

  “His place is with me!” James was leaning forward to answer forcefully before he realized that he was, and that he had returned to thecorsaire’s tongue. The words were startling enough on their own; his heart thudded against his ribs at such boldness, claiming Ben in such a manner. It was enough to distract him from his body’s demands.

  “Always?” Villon wondered quietly, and full, red lips formed what was almost a smile. A smile it might have been, if Villon had not cleared his throat and turned his head to the side once more, unable or unwilling to look directly at Ben. James felt his face heat at the memory of that night on the ship. His aching prick that even now cried for relief, and Ben’s unfortunate arrival. “A child stays at home, away from danger.”

  “Danger?” The breath left James so fully that his chest felt empty. He gaped for a long moment in time, not at all soothed by the sight of René Villon glaring fiercely at him, and then finally recovered his breath and his wits. He could not quite bring himself to ask what Villon had meant, what danger the man expected here. James would almost have decided that Villon spoke of himself; he was Devil enough. The proof was in the wicked flames licking along James’ soul, whispering in his ear to draw nearer.

  But the lingering thought that kept him from speaking of it was that man seemed to find the very mention of Ben offensive. He certainly would not touch him to harm him. “’Tis no concern of yours,” James declared at last, still befuddled by Villon’s strange insistence.

  “You would…?” Villon began, rising up from the desk, and James coughed. “I am here to watch you sign a piece of paper, and then I am to deliver it,” James said stiffly, letting his eyes fall from René’s face to the large, hanging, dirty folds of the coat. “The only danger he is like to see is you displaying yourself for that…beast.”

  For the smallest moment in time, James thought he had struck Villon in return, but though the man’s nostrils flared in a sign of some strong emotion he recovered himself quickly. He curved his lips, and then opened wide eyes, allowing James to see the passion that brightened their depths once more.

  “Would you like me to display myself for you, James?” he asked, too bloody calm by far, when James felt himself growing warmer at a look alone. It would only take a roll of his shoulders for the coat to be gone and James shuddered weakly to think of what might follow that. “Would that please you?” René went on, dropping his voice so low that even had Ben understood the language he would not have heard the words themselves. His hand again found the charm at his neck, and James was distracted into staring at it, at each pale, slender finger. “Shall I play the martyr for you?”

  The brittle edge to the words did not keep James from noticing the meaning of them, and he tossed aside memories of that first time in Villon’s cabin, pushing himself forward accusingly.

  “Martyr!” James repeated in disbelief, his anger such that he stumbled back into English. “The whore, you mean.” If he had not been struck down for a blow, than he ought to be struck down now, for this mad insult. Yet again René did nothing, mayhap that was why James had not felt his fear of speaking until afterwards.

  Villon’s hand stilled and then dropped from his chest. Not to his sword, that he left untouched beneath the coat’s warmth. “Whore?” Ben echoed, and James felt for the first time the pressure of the smaller hand at his side. He lowered his head, and a moment later, let his eyes find the child, who was looking to Villon. James could not see his face, but his question had been plain enough, spoken in a whisper that lacked Ben’s usual frank amusement and curiosity. Ben’s fingers tightened on a piece of James’ yellow coat, reminding James uncomfortably of how young children often clung to their minders when walking about the streets.

  “And now he clutches at you in fear,” René accused after what James supposed had only been a brief silence and not a great one despite the tension that had tightened the muscles of his neck and shoulders. Nonetheless, he could feel the acid burning of shame in his belly, and tried to speak, to make amends for such an offense as that one, though he would not drop to his knees like a penitent.

  “I should not have…” James faltered, growing furious enough to make him call back the words. Had not Villon made him his whore in Tortuga? When his knees had felt the unrelenting ground beneath them. Let Villon know the pain of lost honour; he would only dull it with drink. James had been half-expecting him to pull a bottle from somewhere and swallow every sip while they watched. But Villon’s lips remained dry and closed. His face seemed to have been stripped of the ripe colours of arousal and feeling that had painted it only moments before.

  “Let us sign the papers and be done.” Turning sharply, René dared to step past Ben in order to circle around the great, native wood desk that Sir Marvell rarely sat behind, preferring to do most business from his table at his home. “I have a short time only until I sail and there is much to do.”

  Reminded abruptly of the short length of René’s stay in Jamaica, less than two days now, weather permitting, James made himself stride forward to the desk and look over the papers scattered over the top, though they were upside down. He had a brief memory of a map, decorated with a fierce, horrible monster, and snuck a look through his eyelashes at René, though seeing only the red coat and a bit of shirt. That day was perhaps the only time they had been truly alone. Strange to think of that now.

  He hesitated, then came closer, stopping when his middle would have hit the desk. There was a desk between them, and a child in the room besides. He paused, then stepped back. “What…” and now James could not find his words, idly sliding slips of parchment from one spot to another. “Have you ever before been to England?” England, with cool breezes and gray skies and his beloved father and step-mother. He could not imagine René Villon there, could not see René having much interest in a small printer’s shop bordering the River any more than he could imagine Ben being content with such things. Truthfully, his own remembrances of that life seemed like false memories, or dreams, though he had only been gone barely more than six months.

  “I long to be in the midst of England at this moment,” René murmured, and James was tricked into glancing up at the heated tone. His hands stopped their movements to settle flat on the desk’s surface, leaving him close enough to observe the many stains on René’s loose shirt and the few beads of sweat on René’s neck. A pulse raced there, and to James it seemed the center of the Earth for the way his gaze would not leave it. He sighed and René seemed to find his voice anew. “But their shores are cold.”

  The shortly spoken words brought James’ head up. “Will not any po
rt do?” It was more of a growl than a simply asked question, and the hawk’s eyes dropped to his. Too late, James realized his position. He would have straightened, but did not wish to look more of a fool than he already was. His skin itched with his blushes, and he scowled tightly as a quiver skipped along his back, as though a finger had traced the length of him. A finger, and then a tongue.More. Sweet. James. He had grunted out that name in reply, tasting his own blood rather than demand more as René had done.

  Unyielding wood pressed hard into his lower body, and then his lower body pressing hard into the unyielding wood, pushing back into each of René’s thrusts. He had bruised, light marks hidden under his breeches, but the pain had been nothing to the desire to push his body against something, even hard wood when heated softness had not been available.

  “I fear your employers would be…vexed…to discover that I had taken their trade elsewhere.” Quite serious René was, with his blackly shining eyes, that it took James a short while to reflect on the words. Then he shook his head, firming his lips and clearing his throat.

  “You do not fear it,” he answered absolutely, still staring up at René. “You dance at the thought.” “Dance?” René looked momentarily confused, and then gave a crooked smile, as he seemed to realize what James had meant. “Do you worry for Saint-Cyr?” he questioned smoothly with a single, arched eyebrow that did not quite mask his agitation, for he tossed his head a small amount, restlessly, and flicked his gaze up and down and up again, seeming to find all of James captivating. His rich voice flattened on the name of Saint-Cyr, pressing down on itself ruthlessly as though to crush the life from it.

  James felt himself grow tense, even his face stiffening at the slyly-voiced threat. He had suspected the truth on that evening at the banquet table, listening to René’s fearless declarations, taken as a jest by those too stupid to know better. Such threats might have earned René his death on this island, and he had spoken them anyway. He had not liked Etienne even before he had learned his name, glaring at him at the harbor for some imagined offense no doubt.