Ideas of Sin

by Cooper, R.

  “My brother is not…” Suzette began to speak and returned to silence, abruptly appearing at James’ side. James could feel his mouth moving, his lips parting to expel breath, perhaps words though he could not hear himself, not until René’s boots halted on the stone floor and René inhaled, a long, sharp desire for air that must have cleared his mind. René Villon was stopped, frozen in place an arm’s length from Etienne Saint-Cyr. Etienne held his knife now, in a grip that he must have thought quite steady.

  René’s eyes seemed their blackest, only a thin line of either anger or pain touched his forehead, and James wondered if he were the only one to hear René release his breath at last. Etienne’s knife clanged as it hit the table, crashing as it bounced and fell to the floor, sliding too far away to be of use to anyone. James only saw René’s blade move as René swung it back to his side, and he thought the ladies must not have either, their gasps came far too late.

  His gaze turned quickly to Etienne, ready for horror, and saw instead Etienne blinking, flexing the fingers of his now empty hand as though in search of the blade he had thought to use. Maybe the single blow had hurt, shock loosening his grip. It was easy to forget the details of life and death when René’s eyes were fixed upon yours, James knew, and found himself shuddering when René sensed his thoughts as he had done long ago and glanced to him.

  René held still, his arm extended and shaking. Etienne held one arm in a near counterpoint, and let the other go back, too far and too weak to truly protect his sisters. But René’s eyes left James to follow it, and he breathed too hard for a healthy man.

  “You are no fight for me.” René sneered to Etienne at last, and James shivered but did not speak. Again, René looked to him as though knowing his thoughts, but when James only stared back, René lowered his head and sheathed his sword, careless with the sharp blade unless one looked close and saw the fever he was trying to hide. His grip was tight on the hilt.

  In his fever dreams René had gripped James’ hand in the same manner, his voice rasping as he addressed demons, the Devil himself seeming to answer judging from how René had trembled.

  “It would not be enough.” René bit his words as though even those should bleed and this time James flinched from the look directed at him. It was nearly hatred, and he felt his own hand at his stomach, another hand pressed to his back.

  “You will not get satisfaction elsewhere,” Etienne insisted, drawing all eyes, drawing René’s eyes, back to him. His voice was high and cracked, more proof of the feeling Etienne sought to deny. James heard it anyway, not alone in his surprise, for his sister, the eldest, called to him in alarm.

  “You will not challenge him, Etienne.” Her words were somewhere between and question and a demand, and James flinched to hear the mention of a challenge repeated. René simply looked up at her, serious and nearly still as he tapped his sword hilt once, then twice.

  The madness or fever that had taken his mind seemed to leave him for a moment as he did; his expression almost calm as he studied Louise. He did not know how the lady could stand those eyes, could bear the knowledge in them that had killed others.

  He heard her swift intake of breath, heard the rustle of cloth as though she had taken a step. Forward or backward, James did not see; his attention on René’s hand as it passed over his chest.

  René touched the cross once, too fast to make a prayer possible.

  “I will taste the blood of who sinned first.” A vow then, and James met René’s eyes in a long stare. The words were not those of Deniau after all. “If your complaint is against our family then it is Father who would answer you.” Suzette’s strange whisper drew René’s gaze away. René seemed to tremble, but James thought it only the shaking of Suzette’s hand at his back upsetting his vision. He stepped free of her and saw René blur for a moment, fading in the dim light of their dark-curtained house.

  “No! He still must answer to me!” Etienne cried out, as young as his little sister, as Ben, and, child-like as well, René sneered once more as he swayed slightly to one side.

  “Etienne, no!” Louise shouted to interrupt her brother and Suzette echoed her. “He is not well.” Her soft voice condemned them for the violence that had yet to occur but René still heard it, slicing her in quarters with a single glance. Her speech ended in a squeal as René’s spit landed on the hem of her skirts. Then she was gasping, surprise or terror leaving her unable to speak.

  “You would bring a high price at your age,” René told her in a fierce, low voice. “Smooth skin will make them ignore your uselessness.” René wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and swept his gaze over the girl, his expression so fierce James doubted Suzette saw the unsteadiness of that same hand as it fell back to his sword. “Soft hands…” René’s voice rose, and James tasted bile, black in his throat.

  “René…Spare them this…” James whispered and was ignored; his only answer a harsh cough as René’s breathing grew harder. “Such a pretty little mouth…” A violent shudder took René’s small body before he seemed to shove it away, his breath rattling in his chest. Pain carved lines in his face with every word, and James felt his belly turn, his heart so close to bursting that he thought it was only his need to see René that kept him from swooning. A noise too harsh for a cough left Etienne and this time it was René’s gaze drawn to him, and whatever look passed between them, it was René who glanced away first.

  Etienne’s hands were tight, while René’s seemed limp, tired and pale at his chest, at his sword. The lady’s words had been no lie, he was not well, surely they would see it. A small sound escaped the young lady’s lips, and then her brother was shouting, a sound so furious that it should not have come from any of this noble house. Face paint could not conceal the family’s true nature, and did not hide Etienne’s fury at his sister’s dishonour and what was so nearly revealed.

  “Bastard!” Etienne charged forward and René’s blade was out and cutting through the skin of Etienne’s arm before the man could take more than two steps. The effort brought a frown of pain to René’s face, and James reached out as René nearly dropped the sword, stopping only when René righted himself and slid the dirty blade back into its sheath. The leather of Etienne’s boots was splashed with René’s spittle as well, as the nobleman reached up to cover the rip in his flesh and the small trickle of blood.

  James extended a hand, though he was too far away to touch either of them. The short, dark sound of Etienne’s laughter startled even René, their black eyes meeting as James did not imagine they ever had before. James knew with sudden certainty that René had never been to the hold to see Etienne, and at that long-ago supper, had not let himself truly look into those shared eyes.

  René’s head went back, the barest inch, and then he drew his brows together. Etienne made no move to save himself, his laughter mocking and too familiar, not a lesson learned on any ship. René held his breath, as did James, but then pulled back without finishing Etienne.

  “There is none but me.” René spoke at last, staring forward with eyes that shone. He bared his teeth then turned his glare to James. He left Etienne to bleed, his laughter falling away. “None,” he panted the warning and spun about on his heel, walking unevenly to the door. With a grunt he pushed the wood aside and slipped from the room, from the house to the streets of the city, leaving silence behind him.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “You wanted her.” If the passing world had not made him so sick, René would have turned and let the wind hit his face. Perhaps it would have cooled his skin, dried the streaks that clung to his face even though it seemed hours since he had been dragged from that steaming cave of a tavern.

  He frowned, not at all pleased that Marechal would think so much of himself to have pulled René away from his wine. That would not do, and René opened his eyes, his lips falling apart to realize that his eyes had been closed at all.

  That it was not Marechal sitting across from him increased the dizziness in his head, but if he nar
rowed his gaze it faded, and he thought perhaps his steady glare made James squirm in his place, fearful now that René had seen the truth.

  “You still want her,” René hissed to the coward across from him, to the lustful creature who had kept his eyes on nothing but the low line of that girl’s bodice, far too low even for a woman on the streets, indecent on a child of her age. No doubt her youth had also appealed, her flushing skin and eager eyes what James had been searching for, across the Caribbean and back. She was but a few years older than the boy, even if she had displayed her arms and chest like the women James called doxies. The women he had known in England.

  René felt the warmth against the inside of his thighs before he realized that he had flung himself across the space between them, straddling James’ legs as though he sought to be as much a whore as that girl.

  The world slipped away from him despite his efforts, and René let his head lean back, feeling his body falling but not raising his arms to save himself. Heat instantly pressed at his back, along the shoulder that did not hurt, and he felt himself rising, sighing as he was again face to face with James, and James held him steady.

  It seemed something he had done before, in a carriage, stare at James this way, but the dream slipped away to nothing but an itch along his skin and he ignored it, making sure his gaze did not leave the ugly brown eyes watching him.

  They were ugly, James was ugly, to have looked uponMademoiselle Suzette with those same eyes, to have taken the other back to that house, tothat house.

  “Who?” James asked him at last, his quiet implying that he dared to be angry with René for speaking of it.

  Her wrists had been slender and thin, unadorned by jewels and rivaled only in colour by the clear white of her skin. Not once had her pose lost its grace, even when René had shouted out his insults to the house. Her eyes had sparkled at his rudeness, her skin just dusted by a blush’s paint.

  In England perhaps it was possible for a noble’s daughter to marry the servant James had been. Maybe it was not, but James would have dreamed of her regardless, working hard to keep his place in her household that he might look upon her everyday.

  “The girl!” He spat the word into James’ face, uncaring that James’ eyes widened or that the hands at his back weakened for one moment. “She touched you!” His breath came hard to him now, and René tried to pull away, to ease his breathing, but James’ hands had regained their strength and would not allow him escape.

  “A fair lady,” James agreed softly at last, nodding his head as though considering. A lie, when they both knew his mind had played upon her image since they had left that house. It must be her, for James would never be so cruel as to want the other. He could not, even when the other possessed the same white skin, the same black eyes and waiting mouth. René pulled away, jerking his head away from James and then growing still and tense at the whispering touch to his cheek.

  “Pale skin,” James sighed and his breath stayed at René’s lips, would be on his tongue if René opened his mouth. He shook his head to deny the urge but gasped as James’ words teased his ear, sending the earbob tickling across his neck. “Big, dark eyes,” James bent his head and René shivered at the heat on his collarbone, the stroking at his back. “Lovely curls, each one black as night and soft to the touch.”

  “Touch?” René could hear himself asking, and his eyes moved upward without his permission, seeking out James’ face and the serious sweep of James’ brow. There was too much liquor in his blood, though not enough to drown his fever, to keep his body from shaking at the memory of that place.

  “No!” René threw himself back across the carriage with enough force to jar his shoulder, and the sound of shock slipped from him before James could move to follow him. “You will not bewitch me again!” he shouted as he grabbed at his shoulder, holding up his sore arm to warn James away and panting when the pain cascaded down his body.

  It was not confusion that marred James’ face, though it was what James would want him to think. James with his tricks and charms of prayer would not reveal to him the truth of his woman lust now.

  “You want her,” René cried it out so that even his mother’s God would hear him and then waited, counting the uneven sound of breathing from his own chest, watching carefully as James seemed not to breath at all.

  “Your sister is quite pretty,” James answered him after an eternity of short breaths, uncaring that each one stabbed the flesh inside René’s arm, that it was James who had caused this pain. But that did not matter, and René did not feel his arm at all as he swung it out, hitting James’ face with the flat of his palm.

  He nearly fell as the carriage rocked under his feet, his body arched and bent, not seated but not on the bench opposite James. Half-standing, his arm screaming pain, and yet he did not move, and his hand would not pull away from the red mark he had made, hovering just above the horrible thing that still held the shape of his hand.

  “I do not have a sister, James.” He could not raise his voice above a whisper, and his gaze remained at the mark of his hand on James’ cheek, unable to move up and stare into James’ eyes.

  “You have two,” James spoke low as his fingers encircled René’s wrist and yanked his hand down. “And a brother. I am no longer as blind as you wish me to be.” René’s other hand came up to replace the one James had taken away, his fingertips brushing across the red stain with movements that were not trembling, though it might please James to think so. The colour was fading already, and yet it still seemed bright in his mind, as rich and red as the silk shawl hanging from the girl’s arm.

  “James.” René licked his lips, startled to find them dry, and James tossed his head. He had no brother. “I believe we are almost to your home, René,” James told him and leaned forward, pushing René back to his seat with a care that stung. René opened his eyes wide, but James turned from him, his face to the window and the passing world, the wind cold on his cheek.

  If they truly approached the house he owned, René could not say, looking at last from James to the view that James studied. Fields, gray and brown and not green as England had in stories. The moon’s light did not reveal any of the small homes that would be scattered among the fields this far out of the city. The countryside was all the same. Fields, homes, peasants, perhaps if he saw the heavy roof of the church he would know if they neared his house.

  His eyes returned to James before they could seek out the ancient building adjoining his property. “My house is not in the city.” René murmured the words though the truth in them was evident enough in silence. James’ breathing did not change, slow and careful and too far away for René to feel any warmth.

  The liquor pulsed through his brain, shaping his thoughts like heavy drops of water, and René thirsted for more, glaring at James now for dragging him from the tavern. He had no right to follow; he had no right to anger. He was a pet. Another treasure stolen by the family Saint-Cyr. He had stood with them,scolded when he should know of their sins and flay them all alive.

  But James Fitzroy demanded, and followed, and brought that skinny, milk-faced child, eyes as curious as the pretty mademoiselle’s as he had climbed up to the driver’s seat to learn the handling of a carriage from the driver. That the child had brought René to James was nothing now, the boy had had his own reasons for doing so, and had looked on with amusement as James had dared to touch René again, to take his arm and pull him from his drink.

  “You will not touch me!” René barked into the silence, his wound twitching when James still did not turn. “I want a drink!” It was his turn to demand, and he waited with a smile, letting his lips curl to show his knowledge of what James would answer. James had no patience with his wine. He did not allow the boy drink either, and René felt his grin twist at the knowledge of James trapped in his weakness, of the arousal at a pair of lips stained dark with the blood of grapes and swollen with the need for water.

  “Aye. I want the same,” James sighed his words, great shou
lders falling, and René held his breath at the slow motion of James’ hand at his stomach, as though he had a pain. “Is there nothing you will not ask of me?” René flung out a hand and waited for James’ eyes to turn, but they stayed on the damp, dark fields around them. He issued demands and then sat quiet, his mouth not spewing forth his damned questions, his eyes even empty of them.

  “My house is my own,” René told him, though the man had not asked. He had gone to that place because he was foolish and innocent, and the son of Saint-Cyr should have known not to let James cross that threshold. He had seen enough to know that, his eyes cool and dark.

  “Bought with pirated gold?” As though he had listened with interest throughout all of René’s declarations, James answered instantly without bothering to turn in René’s direction. A long breath ended his question, his shoulders sinking even lower.

  René eyed the side of that face for one moment and then moved his gaze slightly to the side, hissing as he remembered what he had not asked before. The light had glinted, in that house, on that bit of gold someone had placed in James’ ear. Dim though it had been in the squalor of old, wasted nobility, somehow light had found James, illuminated the treasure he wore as much as the pale shade of his hair.

  He had not belonged in that place.

  Her hand on been on him to keep him there, seeking her salvation. The other had known better, that not even James could offer that.

  René’s teeth came together so hard it wracked his body, causing his shoulder to spasm, and René put a hand to it as the words slithered from his mouth.

  “Whose gold do you wear now?” James started upright, glancing to René before touching the ring with a fingertip, sending it gently back and forth. Then his lips curved, a smile that would have shamed the Devil turning into a small laugh before James swung his gaze back outside.

  “We are slowing,” he observed with deliberate pleasure. “I would like to see your home.” “This is not my home,” he told James once more as James stood before the entrance, gaping up at the number of steps to the doors as though someone had struck him. The moment the carriage had halted, James’ face had held such a look, and it was only the silence of the boy that followed James that made such displays bearable.