Ideas of Sin

by Cooper, R.

  “Saint-Cyr?” The lips that had kissed him parted, expelling a sweet breath that would not tempt him. René felt himself shaking and released James, pulling away and sitting back onto the table at last, only his legs still clinging to James’ warmth. “Do you threaten him because of…me?” Even that he whispered in his quiet, meekly shamed voice, forgetting how loudly he would shout when René drove him mad with lust, how firmly he had ordered René to lean back for his womanlykisses.

  Peeling his limbs from James at last, René drew his hands down over his body carefully, shivering at the coolness of his fingertips. He touched on the cross and nodded, satisfied. Only then did he slide to the floor, smiling madly to feel how James’ body shuddered at the prolonged contact, a slow tease of their brief screwing of moments before. James clenched fists at his sides and leaned forward into the table as René abandoned his place, letting his head fall down until his hair surrounded him like a curtain.

  René did not speak, for James did not seem to need a reply, finding his own answers in René’s withdrawal, unmoving as René pulled right his clothing at his side, then reached for his bit of gold when James still said nothing.

  “I cannot be your whore,” James shook his head in refusal even as he said it, and René felt his hand spasm with the need to reach down and touch his spent cock and arouse it back into hardness. One thought of James’ hands on him would be enough. Innocent as always, James only quivered in apprehension and stammered in his embarrassment. As if stumbling words held back the truth of those who wanted him, or would keep René from slitting the son of Saint-Cyr’s throat. “Et… Saint-Cyr is not my lover. I have…I have no lover.” And still he did not raise his head, and René wondered distantly if he expected it to be hacked off by a sword. If the sword he dreamed of belonged to René.

  “Does lover mean something in your England that it does not in France?” René demanded in ringing tones, wanting to turn away and held to the spot. Still, his seed dried between his legs, and still, he ached for more to stain him if it meant that James would come nearer. Between James’ tasty thighs now was James’ own spunk, and the prick that had pushed eagerly against René.

  “Am I to stay quiet by your side while you steal and murder and then turn my back for you whenever your need is great?” With shock René drew his eyes up from the study of James’ lap to find that James had turned to him, and his eyes challenged. René had only moments to contemplate the words and then James was standing straight and pulling his hair from his face. The act only drew attention to the colour across his cheekbones and it was only the strong lines of his face and his tall form that kept him from seeming quite as naïve as a young boy or a waif from the country.

  It was too much, to be condemned like this when he ought to leave, sail away in the next hours, out of Port Royal and taking Etienne Saint-Cyr with him. James’ eyes demanded things he did not understand and had no right to judge him, and even the body that had haunted René was not worth this preaching and refusal to keep silent. A poor whore he would have made, and an even poorer pet, not even granting his protector silence. Even René had not been so foolish as to have forgotten that.

  “You do not understand.” Tight-lipped, René turned from James, first to the window, and then to the door when that was too bright. The door mocked him, reminding him of how carefully he had closed it behind them, wanting no interruptions.

  “So you have told me.” There it was once more when he followed the sound of that voice back to James; the slow roll and drop of James’ shoulders as though the act itself had a meaning. “Are you jealous, Villon?”

  His coat lay on the floor at James’ feet, and he felt sweat drying on his skin as he longed to retrieve it. “Saint-Cyr has been dead in my thoughts for more than ten years.” Knowing it was what James wanted to hear, René confessed it, hurting in his chest as though he had taken a hit there, absorbing the force through his ribs and muscles through to his black insides.

  “Oh.” A short exhalation and James was frowning, adjusting his spectacles before dropping one hand to grab at the material of hispantalons, undoubtedly feeling the discomfort now just as René did. His head fell, and he kicked out with one foot, shoving aside the limp and discarded coat as though just noticing it, and not wanting it to touch him. “You mustn’t forget thy coat.” He spoke quietly, and René looked up from the spill of crimson with a burst of temper, jerking one hand in the air.

  “I do not care about the damned coat!” He had not yelled, knew it for a fact that he had better manners than a child, and yet James flinched glanced around guiltily as though he had, and thinking of James’ employer and the others in this house only made René’s guts twist sickly. “I will not return to Port Royal!”

  The matter of Saint-Cyr between them again, and again Saint-Cyr made the savagery in his blood cry out for vengeance. One new crime to add to an old list, and the sins of the father would be visited upon the son until René had the father under his blade as well. Even now, Etienne Saint-Cyr should be bound and gagged and waiting for him aboardle Diable Noir, and he shivered as icy fingers teased the skin of his neck.

  “Will not be allowed to return, you mean.” James still frowned, but his voice was enough to bring René from thoughts of the past and the future, to the moments before him as they slipped quickly away. “You had best leave then.” He bent as he said the cold words, and picked up the coat between his fingers to hold it out in René’s direction. “You were always quick to leave when you are done with me.”

  René ignored the coat, and watched as James’ arm grew tired and he let it fall to his side. His lips felt dry, and he licked them, though knowing that the taste was already gone, and all that remained was the fullness of his lips to show what James had done to him.

  “Do you wish me to stay?” Abruptly the sound of his heart in his ears was even too quiet to be heard, and James was blinking dizzily back at him, torn and rosy from René’s lust, mangled by his unworthy fingers and more beautiful now that his frown had eased away. René looked to the floor again, seeking some jewel to persuade James and yet that had not worked before. Even the diamond winking from the corner of one rug had inspired only disgust. He raised his eyes once more to James and found James watching him intently, almost curiously.

  “Aye.” James nodded once to follow his word, sounding surprised to hear himself say it, but did not move from his place. It had been the months of separation that had caused René to forget the Englishman’s damned stubbornness, and though he did not wish to think on it now, he swore aloud.

  “We have only hours.” He whispered urgently and wracked his mind as he stepped forward, trying to think of what would make James leave this place and come with him. His lips parted and his cheeks flushed at the horrible truth; that he would pay any price if it would convince James to leave his life here and be with René on his ship. It would take much, everything, to make James tolerate his wickedness long enough for René to get his fill of him.

  His legs weakened, and he would have fallen to his knees before James onto the coat that James had dropped if there had not been a scratch at the door, and James had not reached out to catch him, holding him close to his long body.

  “Marechal.” René knew it without seeing the man poke his head through the partially opened door, without looking he could feel him. James did not release him, his hands hot and fierce around his arms until René looked up to him and for one moment forgot the pressure at his neck. His stomach was sick with tension as he swallowed. “I do not need you to hold me,” he told James, glaring; he had meant to drop to his knees, and surely James knew this.

  “Mayhap I need to hold you,” James murmured, and then turned to look at the intruder without explaining the nonsensical English words, or letting René go. “Marechal,” he greeted the other man without turning from René and René watched him mutely, feeling Marechal doing the same to him and unable to return his gaze. James was red in the face, and sternly disapproving, and René reflect
ed that if James was irritated he had only himself to blame. It was his pride that had kept René from sucking his cock.

  No one had spoken, René realized in the next moment, blinking and turning at last to Marechal. Marechal’s flat eyes told him nothing, only regarded him steadily, not looking at James at all though there was little air between their bodies.

  “What is wrong?” René asked in their native tongue and finally the familiar grin slashed across Marechal’s features, pulling at the lines of scars across his cheeks and jaw. It was the smile that spoke of what he would not say aloud, and René stiffened as he thought of Etienne, sweeping his eyes quickly to James’ innocent face and then back to Marechal hulking form. “Something on the ship?” he questioned carefully, knowing that James was probably straining to understand this time. Perhaps it was Mirena with some complaint that she felt could not wait, or the beginnings of a storm that would delay their departure, and inconvenience his plans for Saint-Cyr.

  There was a moment’s pause, as Marechal seemed to notice James for the first time, or perhaps, notice the state of his clothing. If it made James blush to be studied so, René did not know, eyeing his man impatiently as he waited for his answer. He had long ago ceased to need to be interested in whatever thoughts lurked in Marechal’s brain, as long as they did not keep the man from doing what he was told. He said his name again, sharply, and received a single, slow nod in reply. Still he stared at James, and René could feel the tightening of James’ grip on him, the tension in his hands as he looked back at the beast that was Marechal. It must be rare indeed for him to be confronted with so large a creature, casting James in shadow without even standing straight.

  “Have you lost your tongue, Marechal?” René pulled himself free of James to demand, straightening his sleeves where James had gripped him and toying with the laces of his shirt. Dark eyes fastened on him, glistening, and he smiled in satisfaction before glancing to James once again, who blinked and looked befuddled for one short moment before he frowned. “You are leaving,” he said with no prompting and René jerked toward him, tearing his hands from his shirt to hold out splayed fingers.

  “I…” He was panting; empty of air as he thought of what that idiot Honoré could have done wrong with his simple instructions and of what this took from his time tonight, from what he had just fought for. He could have howled, and gestured furiously instead, dismissing Marechal with a single wave before extending an arm to James. “I will return for you.” He would die if he did not taste James again; he scowled as he was forced to admit this yet again, as though the other man would never be satisfied with his blood.

  He felt his eyelids grow heavy as he thought this, and stared at James, and knew from the soft gasp that James had understood his desires, just as James always had, and returned them. In what could not have been an instant, James’ face darkened and his mouth fell open, allowing René a glimpse of his teeth and tongue before he swallowed loudly and his lips closed. His eyes were not so chaste, they burned for him though he knew James would never speak of this, his sinful lust for another man, not until René had him beneath him and demanded it of his flesh.

  I want to kiss thee as well, James had confessed in his strange English, and though the English did not offer their sins to the priest, René wondered what James would say, were a man of God to speak to him now, when his blood was hot.

  “You had better go.” James uttered the words thickly and bent down to once again retrieve the coat. He clutched it awkwardly in one fist without seeming to notice René’s annoyance at his attention to the useless bit of cloth. He nearly struck it to the ground, and made a face at the Englishman’s foolishness. A moment later he snatched the thing away, determined to show James just how silly he was, like a little child with his superstitions.

  But it would not fall to him, and he glared up at James when the man did not release the coat. “I…” James stammered, and the return of his stumbling kept René from speaking for the moment, long enough for James to slide the fabric from his fingers and turn about in his hands. Fluttering like some clumsyvalet de chambre, James righted the garment and held it out, shaking it once as if inviting René to put it on. Once only did James look away from him, darting a glance to the side before thinning his lips and shaking the coat.

  Warily, René turned away from James, shivering at the sudden feel of warmth at his back. He could feel the coat, scratching at his neck, and shivered again as he raised his arms, and let James dress him. Hands smoothed down the fabric over his shoulders and arms hurriedly, then lingered at odd places, stroking over his elbows and ribs as though hesitant. René stood there, unable to move, only allowing his eyes that freedom. His gaze spun about the room from glittering point to glittering point, finding Marechal at last and feeling the wet heat of James’ breath at his neck as his hands gently pulled his hair free of the coat and arranged it down his back.

  “I am not your woman, to be dressed so,” René whispered in English without moving, and the hands left him. James let out a single, shuddery, aroused breath behind him.

  “Am I only to undress you, then?” James asked him, above his ear, also in English. So calmly, when René felt his heart leap from his chest and his belly tighten painfully. He narrowed his gaze on Marechal, needing to see if the man had heard. But Marechal did not remark on James’ words; he only waited patiently, unblinking as he watched them, watched how René struggled to stay on his feet. Then he shifted, hunching his shoulders and dropping into a slight crouch.

  “Time leaves us,” René declared into the thick air, snapping his head away from any lingering touches and stepping out toward Marechal and the door, stepping down hard on his trembling legs. He barely heard the mumbles from James or the rough grunt from Marechal’s lips as he swept past both of them to the door, kicking jewels carelessly with his pace.

  Marechal’s presence followed him with only a moment’s pause, and behind his bulk was James. Suddenly uncertain, René stopped in the doorway and put out one hand to stay on his feet when Marechal collided with his back. He turned immediately and shrugged impatiently when the man did not move.

  James was precisely where René had left him, brows drawn together seriously until René caught his eye. They tightened for a brief expression of some strong feeling, and then James smoothed his forehead and simply waited. René almost expected to see his hands clasped in prayer, and fought his own scowls.

  “Before dawn,” he promised instead and ducked from the room before he would have to see the fear and shame that would doubtless fill the Englishman’s face. Marechal was instantly after him so closely that they seemed to almost step as one.

  Without looking, René followed the path he had taken with James to reach this room, thinking on his return as he did, knowing that to reenter Sir Marvell’s home and to go unnoticed would be impossible, even if he were find James’ room and enter from a window, if James even had one. He snarled softly to imagine how the man probably had an airless room, or shared it with others at the request of his cruel master. Snarling again to think of the foolish, rash vow he had made, knowing nothing of the house or the height to reach the windows.

  Leaving that thought unfinished for now, René tossed a question back at Marechal though not truly expecting an answer. “Was there a message?” It was unlikely that Thierry would have done more than summon him if the problem had to do with Saint-Cyr, but Mirena was a woman determined to destroy herself with imprudence where her drunkenliaisons were concerned. Whoever had brought the message to Marechal had doubtless run back to the ship, not wanting to risk being left behind should they be forced to set out early.

  But in case Marechal thought to speak of it, René flung up a hand to silence him, knowing how carefully the walls listened in the house of Sir Marvell of the Island of Jamaica. His eyes sought out two slaves as they neared the main hall, and he barked out orders for them, commanding one to bring around a carriage and the other to tell Sir Marvell of his leaving, only to pull that man bac
k, and add that he may return later.

  Hot with annoyance, René said nothing more to that as they waited for the carriage, knowing Sir Marvell would draw from that what he would, and that James would blame him for the other man’s conclusions, when it was James’ fault that he still remained in this house when he had rejected the offer of a ship. Probably he would suffer for it as well, in the future, expected to provide the same service for other guests of his master.

  René’s bones cracked with his grip on his knife, and he knew that he would make James leave tonight, force him if he had to, even if it meant James would deny himself to him. “ L’Anglais upsets you.” Rough words in a harsh accent even as Marechal stepped lightly into the carriage after him, hardly disturbing the vehicle even with his weight. He closed the door and banged the roof so René did not have to, letting him stare for a short moment at the man for choosing to speak now, speaking as always just as those around him began to believe him dumb.

  But the man had a tongue and a voice, something René knew too well, and glared at him for it before facing the window and shifting to stare at the scenery. “Nothing upsets me.” René measured his words carefully, and turned back to study Marechal’s clean-shaven, scarred face. There was a slight twitch, just above one eye, visible only because René did not stare at the scars only, as others did. But that was enough, and he turned back to the window.

  His pantalons felt tight and heavy, the crust of drying semen cracking now when he moved his legs, and René swore to himself at the sensation, cursing James’ impatience when they had been so close to finding a bed. Swearing once more to shame his mother when he felt the soreness along his thighs and ass. His mouth still buzzed like bees in a field, and his body hummed with the memory of James’ strength, and he knew he smelled of the pleasures of two men fucking.