by Lee Rowan
St. John grinned disarmingly. “My name is Kit. Do we really need to keep bowing and saluting one another?”
“No, no, of course not.” He could not imagine why His Lordship insisted on treating him as a social equal, but neither could he do anything about it. “My—my apologies, sir. And as the formalities have not been completed, I’m afraid it’s still ‘Lieutenant,’ not ‘Commander’.”
St. John smiled, ignoring the apologies but divining the source of Marshall’s distress. “He’s all right, Will. Quite recovered.”
He had not realized how tense he had been until his body relaxed; somewhat belatedly, he remembered his manners. “Thank you, sir. And how have you been?”
“Well, thank you. I thought it best to stay here, to be certain my Canadian cousin’s visit went smoothly. We have also received word that Sir Percy’s trip to London was timely and successful, and my cousin’s family did not endure needless sorrow.”
“Thank you. I am relieved to see you here. I’d wondered if he would be safe, with you gone back to England.”
“How was your cruise?”
“We did well, thank you. Among other actions, we took a prize away from a privateer, and took the privateer as well. And no men lost.” No more men lost. Only the one who would be lost from his life forevermore.
“Excellent! Shall we have a drink to your success, then? I had an errand in town and heard that you were in port.”
Marshall wanted only to find Davy as quickly as humanly possible, but he could not refuse the hospitality and did his best to hide his impatience. “Yes, thank you.”
As they strolled along, St. John went on. “I thought it was best for both me and my cousin that I stay on here for a time. I am still occasionally prone to seasickness, although it now abates after a few days. But it is such a wretched state, I have been postponing my voyage home. If my cousin decides he would like to manage this enterprise for me, I shall be happy to leave it in his care. But the climate may be a bit warm for him.”
Warm? Yes, and not only the temperature. With all the Navy officers and men Davy knew, who might recognize him, Davy—no, Mr. St. John, he had to begin thinking of him as St. John—would have to be well-disguised, indeed. One wrong word in front of the wrong person, and the intricate webs of Intelligence could be disrupted. “Do you believe he could adjust?”
“I think he can adjust to nearly anything.” They turned in at a doorway that opened on a long open walkway screened by a woven shade. “But there have been changes. He was very ill for a time, and there are—well, he asked me to let him surprise you. And—I realize this is an awkward matter—” He glanced around and apparently saw no one within earshot. “I am aware of the… particular affection… between you and my cousin.”
Marshall froze; he felt as though he’d been hit with a boarding axe. Had Davy been raving, delirious? What else might he have revealed? His mind was suddenly blank with terror. “I—how—”
St. John seized his arm. “Oh, good Lord, I’m sorry. That’s quite a serious matter, isn’t it? Please don’t distress yourself, Will. I had guessed as much when you were last here, the affection between you was so very strong—it reminded me very much of the feelings between Zoe and myself. Having found the love of my own life, how could I begrudge you both such joy?”
The blue eyes, so like Davy’s, were candid; his concern was obvious. “I—yes, it is serious, and I beg you, do not mention it in public. How did he happen to—?”
“Of course I will guard your privacy. When we heard of your imminent arrival, David confirmed my surmise when he asked me if I could recommend an inn where you might safely be alone together.” Marshall hesitated, trying to frame a question, but Kit made it easy. “I believe his brush with eternity has made him very clear, very honest, even more so than before. He was concerned that I would object to such activities under my roof and did not wish to abuse my hospitality.” His smile held only affection.
“And… you do not object?” Marshall asked cautiously.
“I have friends who would laugh themselves senseless at that question, Will. No, I do not object. I think love is too rare to discard it out of hand. My own affections are firmly engaged in another direction, but my servant, Jacobs, who has been helping us in this affair, was under threat of death for something similar when he… ‘retired’ from His Majesty’s Navy. Idiocy. There is no tonic like a loved one’s fond regard—I speak from experience—and I believe the hope of your return has sped his recovery. At any rate, since your situation does involve risk, I would much prefer that you both be under my roof and my protection. Have you not both had enough peril of late?”
“I—I don’t know how to thank you,” he began.
“No need. You and David kept me from fainting dead away when Captain Smith asked me if I would take Zoe as my wife. His commanding manner is quite fearsome!”
Marshall laughed. “It is that. Thank you, m—Kit.”
“Good. That’s settled, then. You shall have as much privacy and as much time together as I can provide. This way, if you please.”
At the end of the walk lay a pleasant, open garden, which they crossed, and a two-story building with a tavern on the lower floor.
St. John signaled the barman and turned to Marshall as the man made his way across the room. “I see someone here I must speak with privately, Will. Would you allow Mr. Rumley to show you upstairs? Let him know if you wish any refreshment.”
Marshall nodded and asked the barman for a glass of lemonade, which he had come to enjoy. He was shown upstairs to a small sitting room lightly furnished with a rattan settee and a chair with a footstool. A small table stood beside the chair, so he chose that and propped his feet up. It was cooler here, with a breeze blowing in through the floor-length window; he closed his eyes. It still felt strange to be on an unmoving floor instead of the gently rolling deck of Palometa, but weariness bore him off to sleep.
A moment later, there was someone standing beside him, holding a tray with his drink, and two empty glasses, and a bottle of wine. Something Kit had ordered, no doubt. “Thank you,” he said, indicating the little table.
“Very good, sir,” the potman said in an Irish lilt. He set the tray down, turned the glasses right side up, and proceeded to open the bottle. “Was there anythin’ else you’d be wantin,’ sir?”
Marshall glanced up, wondering why he rated such attentive service. Dark hair, blue spectacles, a short dark beard—and then the waiter grinned, and Marshall blinked, bounding to his feet.
“You—you can’t—Davy?”
Still grinning, the waiter took off the blue spectacles and was suddenly and recognizably David Archer, despite the alterations. “In the flesh. Slightly reduced flesh, I’m afraid. I could not eat much for a while.”
That was what was different, more than the coloring. Davy’s build was normally sturdy and compact, but he was thinner now, almost fragile. Even as Will’s hands went out to touch him, he found himself holding back.
Davy’s brows drew together at his hesitation. “What is it, the beard? I know it must be a change, I can—”
“No, it’s—yes, it is a change, I—” He was horrified to find tears starting in his eyes. For nearly two months, he had not allowed himself to feel so much. The mere sight of his love had undone him.
“It’s only hair, Will, I can shave the damned thing off.”
“No, it’s—” He could not speak; he could not think. He kicked the footstool out of the way and caught Davy in his arms—carefully!—as the tears poured out of him. It made no sense, but he could not stop. “Sorry. I am—I am so very happy to see you!”
What was wrong with him? Had it been those weeks at sea, pretending to almost everyone aboard that he was in deepest mourning? He had lived the role. He had lost Davy, lost him from his ship and his life and his arms. It had almost been easier to consider him dead and utterly out of reach. That was a possibility they had always lived with. And as sick as Davy had been, so fearfully wo
unded, the hope for this reunion was always very small.
But here he was, warm and alive. However he looked, he smelled like himself, and as usual he was the eager one, reaching to bring Will’s face down for a kiss.
The beard was startling.
And exciting. The touch of that sweet, moist mouth surrounded by a soft hedge of whiskers was such a strange sensation—strange, but familiar—and the rest of Will’s body began to awaken from its long suspension of feeling. He brought up a hand, cradling Davy’s face while they became reacquainted, and was half-grateful for the beard’s concealment as he realized how sharply Davy’s bones defined his features beneath it.
He drew back a bit. “Are you well?”
“Well enough for this!” And further questions were postponed momentarily. Davy’s hands traveled down his back, kneaded his arse, pulling him close as Will returned the attentions wholeheartedly. “God, Will, for a time I feared we’d never—”
“I know.” As Davy’s head lifted from his shoulder, he studied the clear blue eyes. “Davy, we had better not—not here. Anyone could walk in—”
The answering grin was pure Archer glee. “Not while I’ve got the key.”
“What?”
“And there’s a latch on the door. This room is ours until Kit returns, in an hour or so. He thought we might want to… chat.”
“Chat.” His hands found their way down to Davy’s bottom.
“Or whatever diversion might suggest itself.” Davy reached up and began to undo Will’s neckcloth. “What suggests itself to me would require removing some clothing.”
“Davy—” He caught his friend’s hands. “Are you well enough for it? What did the doctor say?”
Davy smiled and kissed him again, then nuzzled around and bit an earlobe, whispering, “He said that you should grant my every desire.”
“He never did!”
“Well, no. But he did say I am fit enough for amorous activity.”
“All right, then. I shall be happy to grant your every desire, if I am able.”
“And I have to be on top.”
“Of course—” Will frowned. “Davy, if it’s not safe for you—”
Never missing a button on Will’s waistcoat, Davy glanced up. “It is safe. It is just that I am not to put too much pressure on my abdomen for a few months yet. But I’m not going to lose this chance—”
“And I’m not going to lose you!”
“Will, there’s no risk of that… for heaven’s sake, I’ve run out my gun, just to be sure, while the doctor was still in the house. Everything works. It’s only that I can’t be squashed yet. More’s the pity.”
Marshall smiled at that, knowing how it excited Davy to be pinned beneath him. But it was not as though that were the only way to excite him. He tipped Davy’s face to one side, reached down to kiss, and then nip the side of his neck. Davy moaned and melted against him, and they both stumbled backward against the settee, which scraped as it skidded away.
“Damned matchstick furniture,” Davy grumbled, standing again on his own feet but not letting go.
Marshall frowned at the settee, then reached over with one arm to tug the long cushion off, onto the sisal mat that carpeted the floor.
Davy laughed. “Resourceful as always.” His hands moved down to Will’s fly. “I know you will never take off that uniform until we are more secure than this….”
“I would rather not,” Will admitted, though he was prepared to if asked. Davy might have been joking about demanding his every desire, but Will would do just that if it were humanly possible.
Davy seemed to divine his unspoken thought. “And have you listening for every footstep? No, I can wait to look upon you.” He tilted his head, studying Marshall’s features. “Command suits you, Will.”
“I—Davy, I would rather not speak of it.” He stroked the shorter, dark hair, rough and coarse to the touch. “I hardly deserve it, and the price was far too high…. What’s wrong with your hair? It feels different.”
“It’s the dye. Walnut and such. Kit knows far more than he should about this sort of thing. I’m lucky my beard grows in dark, or I’d have had to shave my head.” He laughed at Will’s horrified reaction. “Just close your eyes, Will. It’s still me.”
He did so, mildly excited by the uncertainty, letting his hands hang motionless. He heard Davy moving just inches away, and the soft sound of cloth hitting the floor. Then lips against his own, fingers opening his trousers, those knowing hands reaching in, touching him…. He gasped aloud as his body responded.
“That’s better,” Davy murmured. “You don’t have to just stand there, you know.”
Eyes still closed, he reached up to touch, and discovered that Davy was naked from the waist down. He cradled the twin curves of his lover’s behind in his palms, unable to stop the comparison between how they felt right now and what he remembered. He ran his hands up Davy’s back, under his shirt, concerned by how easy it was to find his ribs but reassured by the strength of Davy’s arms around him. Then his mouth was captured again, and Davy ground against him, driving out awareness of details. He squeezed the flesh in his hands and felt only enthusiastic response as their cocks pressed close.
“Oh, God….”
“You see? It’s all right, Will. I’m all right. But if we don’t get on the floor soon, I’ll have to knock you down and sit on you.”
“I might just enjoy that,” Will admitted, astonishing himself. “But not here.” They sank to their knees, and Davy guided him back onto the cushion, never quite letting go. He shivered a bit as his trousers were peeled down, almost to his knees, but Davy made no attempt to take them off. “What are you doing?”
Davy kissed him again. “Not as much as I’d like to.” He undid Will’s waistcoat and pulled away the cloth covering his throat, opening the shirt to let the cool breeze refresh him.
Will felt the brush of Davy’s shirttails upon his bare belly as his lover moved to straddle him, then the soft, hot weight of Davy’s balls resting on his stiffening cock. He breathed in slowly, only just beginning to accept the reality of it all. It was no dream; in his dreams Davy looked as he always had, smooth-faced, sturdy, golden hair brushing his wide shoulders. Reality might be slightly different, but it was reality, for the little time they would have.
He opened his eyes and found that something had shifted in his mind, allowing him to assimilate the changes. Davy’s eyes were as blue as they had ever been, the smile was the same, the touch upon his body sure and loving.
He reached up to brush the beard with his fingertips; Davy closed his eyes and leaned his face into the caress. “Do you know how I’ve dreamed of this?”
“As I have.” He brought the dear face slowly, slowly closer, noting that while Davy bent forward with care, there was no sudden tension that might suggest he was hurting.
As their lips met he started to slide Davy’s shirt up, but his lover shook his head slightly. “Not yet, Will.”
“Mmm?”
“I don’t want you to see it. Not yet.”
“Do you think it would make any difference in how I feel?” He studied Davy’s face, inches from his own. “Am I so shallow?”
Davy kissed him again, the merest brush of lips. “No, never. But I…. Perhaps I’m just a vain little beast. I can’t explain it, Will. I hardly feel myself anymore. All the changes….”
“Nothing important.” He drew Davy down against him, realizing now that what he said was true. “You’re the one with all the poetry in your head, Davy….” He didn’t remember where the words came from, but he found himself reciting, “That which we call a rose, by any other name would smell as sweet.” Then winced as he remembered what play it was from, what had become of those lovers.
The line served its purpose, though. Davy chuckled against his neck. “Will, you have a gift. I have never in my life smelled like a rose.”
“I don’t care if you smell like bilgewater. I love you.”
The admission h
ung like a signal flare between them. Davy had said it before, jokingly, usually followed by a teasing qualification. Marshall had never said it aloud; he hadn’t needed to. Davy simply knew. Had always known.
But suddenly he was shivering against Will as though he’d been frozen by a winter’s blast. Will rolled onto his side, cradling Davy against him. “Shh… it’s all right, it’s— Are you all right? Is there pain?”
“No. No. None at all.” And Davy claimed his mouth again, with a fierce insistence that stopped all conversation. Pain, joy, loss, love, desire—the raw edges of emotion caught fire. No subtlety to it, no art, just the simple reality of Davy’s body thrusting against his, hot and vital and alive, alive, alive—and it spilled over and they were clutching each other, panting, sweating, laughing aloud.
Chapter 14
BY THE time Davy’s cousin appeared at the unlocked door, Marshall was back in the chair, his feet on the footstool, one arm stretched lazily across the arm of the settee, where David St. John lay dozing. Will had shifted when he heard footsteps approach, moving so that his hand no longer rested on Davy’s chest. Davy had fallen asleep after their lovemaking, and Will had had to wrestle his clothing on and hoist him onto the sofa. He’d gone so deeply asleep, and so quickly, that Will had at first put his hand there just to check his heartbeat. And left it there just to reassure himself that this was not all a dream. Such foolishness.
“Are you refreshed?” St. John asked, smiling.
“Quite. But I’m afraid your cousin is still recuperating—or my conversation is more boring than I feared.”
He tried to keep his countenance bland, but St. John laughed aloud as he moved to the settee and touched his cousin’s shoulder lightly. “David? Time to wake up.”
Davy stirred and sat up slowly, blinking. “Fell asleep again, did I?”
“For about twenty minutes,” Marshall said. “Enough time?”
“Plenty,” he said, and yawned hugely. The other two laughed.
