by Lee Rowan
Was it possible to want something so badly and not know what it was until one had it? The strength of the hands now gripping his waist, the tenderness of the mouth exploring his own, the hard, hot length of Philip’s cock rubbing against his through their clothing—the sense of being completely overpowered even though he knew that he was, paradoxically, perfectly safe—he could not have articulated all this even if he’d known he wanted it.
But he knew now. As Philip’s hands slid down to cup his arse and pull him closer, Brendan did the same, grinding against his lover even as a whimper was forced from him.
“Too much?” Philip mumbled, pausing.
“No, never. Don’t stop!”
“What shall I do?”
“Anything!” Brendan thrust forward, suddenly so desperate for continued contact that he was half-mad with desire. He captured Philip’s mouth again, scrabbling with the laces at the back of Philip’s breeches. His lover, seeming to understand, pushed Brendan’s shoulders back against the beam and held him there, frantic with frustration, for the few seconds it took to undo the buttons, first of Brendan’s fly and then his own.
Their breeches fell around their knees as he was able to pull Philip close once more, all his awareness focused in his cock. He had not even the ability to continue the kiss; he found his face pressed against the side of Philip’s collar and he did not care. He felt the breath pushed out of him with every thrust, felt Philip’s sobbing breaths—and suddenly he was up and over, spilling his seed against his lover’s belly. A moment later, Philip did the same, then leaned against him once more, not with passion but with passion utterly spent.
Brendan turned his head slightly, and brushed a kiss against the side of his face. “Amazing,” he breathed.
Philip nodded, and they slid to their knees, still holding one another. Brendan let go long enough to locate the shooting jacket with one hand and spread it out upon the floor. They slipped further down and lay together for a little while, as their breathing went back to normal.
“That was…” Philip shook his head as though dumbfounded. “I needn’t hold back with you.”
“No,” Brendan said. “Why would you? That was …” He shook his head, rendered nearly speechless with bliss. “Glorious!”
“With Lillian…” Philip said, and fell silent. “A woman is so much smaller,” he said after a time. “Weaker… only a brute would use his full strength. But you’re as strong as I am, maybe stronger.”
“Probably not,” Brendan admitted, “but I love your strength. Last time… I loved being in control, and this time … not being in control.”
Philip nodded, and held him close. “What you said earlier today…with regard to trust… I understand that, now.”
Brendan smiled foolishly, and kissed him again.
CHAPTER 18
The days were getting longer, but it was still dark enough by ten that night that Carlisle’s operatives could get into position without much fear of being seen. Carlisle, Brendan, and Matthews were joined by half a dozen Customs riders, “Preventives” ready to take the weight of Carlisle’s unofficial assignment from his shoulders when there was an actual arrest to be made. Another force of some twenty troopers was stationed a few miles off, awaiting the signal to move in and surround the smugglers if they happened to outnumber the Customs officers.
At the moment, due to the good offices of Sir Thomas Livingstone and the weight of his own military experience, Carlisle was in command of the smaller group until Bowker was actually in custody. Carlisle himself would have been content to allow Lieutenant Berry, the Preventive officer, full rein, but he could well understand the military’s point of view: if a civilian botched the job, it would be no reflection on their performance.
Sitting in the dark storage shed beside the oast house, the matter now out of his hands, Carlisle wondered whether the arrival of his team had been noted by the lookout the smugglers must inevitably have posted at the oast-house. He had made as much fuss as he possibly could while riding up, and his horse was tethered outside. He intended the smugglers to know he was waiting for them.
The others, poor souls, were distributed at various key points. Two of them, Lieutenant Berry and his aide-de-camp, were up on the lowest drying floor, perching along the joists at the edge of the floor’s framework. Carlisle hoped they managed to stay awake, because if either dropped off to sleep the experience was likely to become literal, and they would not land on anything soft. Two of the other four government Riders were deployed about the shrubbery outside the oast-house, and the last two were hiding behind the stacks of jute sacks used to ship the dried, compressed hops to market.
Matthews and Brendan were the rear-guard, concealed in the upper drying floor. Both had objected strenuously to being stationed in a position of greater safety, but Carlisle had been adamant: the Customs men must be nearest, where they could hear what was being said, and the men he could trust had to be in a position to move in if the government men failed.
Once they were all in position, the time crawled. For a little while they had conversed, but as the night grew deeper and the hour later, as the moon rose, they had fallen silent. After all, no one suggested that the smugglers were stupid—they had proved themselves quite clever thus far, and they had more to lose from being caught red-handed than if they were to be deprived of the profit to be made from the hundred or so barrels in the oast-house. The slightest hint of anything wrong would likely frighten them off.
It might have been two in the morning when the faint creak of hinges reached Carlisle’s ears, and he checked to be sure his pistol was within easy reach in his pocket. He heard voices, pitched low, and guessed that at least three men, maybe as many as six, were crossing the storage shed to the oast-house itself. Carlisle made no move toward it; he wanted a confession, not a shooting match. He simply waited until his visitors discovered his presence, which occurred when the flap of a dark-lantern was opened and shone directly on him where he sat, upon one of the barrels of contraband spirits.
He held his hands out, saying, “Don’t shoot, gentlemen! I merely wish to talk.”
Much to his relief they held their fire, though they swore a great deal. Apparently they had not been watching the building—at least not closely enough to know that its owner was waiting for them. Finally one of them said, “I know who you are, Major. Would you mind telling me what the devil you think you’re doing here?”
“This building is part of my estate,” Carlisle said reasonably. “Why should I not be here? I am attempting to determine what is going on in the independent brotherhood of Free Traders, insofar as it affects my land and my people. I have had a reasonable working arrangement with you gentlemen for many years, as did my father before me. If you are changing the rules, I have a right to know what the new rules may be. And would you be so good as to take that light out of my eyes?”
The lantern shifted slightly, and the same voice said, “Fair enough. What do you want to know?”
“Who—No, you may not wish to answer that question… how shall I put this? Can you tell me whether the man now running the free trade is the one who has been in command these past ten years or so?”
After a moment’s pause, the voice in the darkness said, “Well, now, that’s being discussed among us, as you might say. What difference does it make to you?”
“It makes a difference in a number of ways. The first is, I have had an understanding with the organization that, though certain livestock of mine might be available for evening duty, I was not willing to have contraband stored on my property. There have been any number of occasions on which I might have summoned the authorities; I chose not to do so, in exchange for an absence of incriminating property on my premises. If you are new to this enterprise, I suppose we must renegotiate the terms.”
“Now, then, I had no idea you had that arrangement,” the man replied. “I suppose we might continue with that, should I take over the organization.”
“Very good,”
Carlisle said. “My other question is far more serious. I can only guess that the death of Tom Jenkins is in some way involved with the changes in the group. As far as I know, young Jenkins was a reasonable young man, a good candidate to step into his father’s shoes. I would like to know if you are willing to turn in the man who killed him.”
“Now, that,” said the speaker, “that would present certain difficulties, as a gentleman like yourself might say, seeing as I have an interest in protecting that man.”
“Or because you are that man,” Carlisle said evenly.
“Since you put it that way—yes. But you should know, Major, that what that crazy old man Jenkins is saying is only his side of the story. What happened was, young Jenkins attacked me, and all I meant to do was defend myself.”
Carlisle said nothing more for a moment. Then he asked, “From behind?”
The crack of a pistol preempted a reply; Carlisle had been waiting for that signal from Lieutenant Berry, and he flipped open the flaps on his own dark-lantern, diving to one side in the seconds while Bowker’s eyes would be dazzled. He rolled into a space he had cleared behind the rows of barrels, but not before he caught a bullet that sent searing pain through his left arm. That was not too bad, but in the scramble to get away, he knocked over one of the stacked barrels and it caught him a glancing blow on the side of the head.
When he came to himself he was cold, and realized that was because his jacket was off while Matthews, muttering imprecations under his breath, was bandaging his left arm, which hurt like the very devil. He held still for the ministrations until Matthews buttoned his arm inside his coat as a makeshift sling. Brendan hovered on his other side, holding a vinaigrette, of all things, under his nose. He pushed it away and growled, “Where did you get that damned stink-bottle?”
“Lieutenant Berry, sir. He says it often comes in useful in his line of work.”
“Well, I’m not a swooning Excise man. Take it away!”
“Yes sir.” Brendan sounded very subdued. “You were shot, Major.”
“Is it serious?” He fumbled in his coat pocket and found the flask he’d brought in case of emergencies.
“Just a graze, Major,” Matthews said. “You’ve had worse falling from your horse.”
“I never fall!” Carlisle protested. He realized belatedly that he could not open the flask one-handed. Brendan took it, and poured a tot into the cap. The heat of brandy did nothing for the pain, but it did make him feel a little less battered.
“You’ll be fine, sir. Mr. Townsend and I will—”
“Major Carlisle?” It was Berry, now apparently aware that Carlisle had rejoined the ranks of the conscious.
“Yes?” Brendan poured a second dose and Carlisle sent it after the first. If this kept on he would soon be feeling no pain at all.
“We’ve got them, sir—eight men, including their two look-outs, plus that admission of murder by the ringleader. We’re only waiting for our military escort to take them off to the Tower; we know there are more than eight involved in the free-trade, and we do not intend to lose these lads to an ambush. Your man here tells me your injury is not serious, but the rest of our work will be strictly routine, and I will be happy to come to your home in the morning to take your statement. I had your gig driven over from where it was hidden in the woods, and I would …”
Carlisle saved him the trouble. “You would like me to remove my slightly damaged person before I acquire any more damage that could be construed as being your fault.”
Berry laughed. “Indeed, sir, you put the words into my mouth. I am very grateful for your part in this, but there is nothing more
you need do here and I would prefer to know that you had been seen safely home.”
“That will be a consummation devoutly to be wished, Lieutenant,” Carlisle agreed. “If Mr. Townsend will drive me— Matthews, I tied Sailor at the west side of the building, would you fetch him back to the stable?”
“Yes, sir.” Matthews would probably have been a more reliable escort in the gig, but although Brendan had been quiet, Carlisle could feel the waves of anxiety coming off his young lover. He wanted to be alone with Brendan for a few minutes, even though he could do no more than hold his hand.
Brendan and the Lieutenant helped Carlisle climb into the gig. He was annoyed by the attention, but as soon as he rose to his feet he realized that the blow on the head, not to mention the generous doses of brandy, had left him slightly unsteady. Swallowing his pride, he permitted Brendan to cosset him… discreetly. He needed that arm around his waist, the strong shoulder under his own good arm. And though he could have managed without it, he was warmed by the knowledge that someone cared for him so much.
Certain that the man he loved was settled securely in the seat beside him and wrapped in the carriage-robe, Brendan snapped the whip and the well-trained Reverie stepped out, shifting the cart into smooth motion.
“I heard that gunshot,” Brendan said as soon as they were safely on the road back to the house. He checked himself to keep from pouring out the fear that still tightened his throat, adding only, “I thought you’d been killed.”
Philip chuckled. “My dear—my very dear boy—it would take more than that to do me in.”
Brendan sighed, knowing he must have sounded like a lilylivered civilian. “I suppose the thing that matters is that it did not. What happened? We could barely hear, so far above.”
“I maneuvered Bowker into admitting he had killed Jenkins’ son. Lieutenant Berry chose that moment to announce his presence. If I had been a trifle more agile in avoiding the bullet, I’d have had no problems. This—” he lifted his left arm—but not, Brendan noticed, very much. “This is nothing.”
He guessed there would be no arguing with Philip on this; he could only be glad that the matter was settled, and hope that they would be able to find a way to spend some time together, soon. “Whatever became of Mr. Jenkins?”
“He used his common sense, thank God. I wasn’t sure he would. After he’d let me know the cargo was on my land, I told him I’d be calling in the troops and advised him to stow his personal vengeance and let the law handle it. It would have done him no good to be caught in the net tonight.”
“If he’s as clever as he must be to have escaped all this time,” Brendan said, “he is probably meeting a ship somewhere along the coast.”
“You are beginning to sound like a Kentish man.”
“The place has become surprisingly close to my heart.” With only Reverie in harness, Brendan was able to manage the reins with one hand and slip his other into his lover’s. “But with all the people you have here… I wonder how we shall ever be able to find some privacy.”
“Well, we do have the apple barn. In the spring and summer, you might set up your studio there.”
Their fingers laced together, a perfect fit. “Are you certain you’ll want me underfoot?” Brendan asked, feeling suddenly reluctant. “This must all be very sudden for you.”
“It is, somewhat. But truly… in a way I am but returning to something I left a long time ago. And I do admire your talent, you know. In fact, I hardly expect you will wish to stay rusticated here in Kent when the world begins to recognize your ability.”
“Which I might never have thought of developing, if not for you. And you cannot be certain—I may not have the knack for painting.”
“Then you will draw. You can do that much, I know. In fact, now that I know what you can do, I would like to commission you to do a series of drawings of my horses. It will give me good reason to keep you close, and I would like to have accurate pen-and-ink records in any case.”
“You needn’t commission them,” Brendan said. “I would gladly do them as a gift.” The mental picture was irresistibly alluring. To have nothing to do all day but draw, and exercise Galahad, and study art in a serious way? That would be heaven.
“My boy, you will never have a career if you give away your talent, and a commission is what will give you reason to sta
y with me,” Philip said. “You shall have a room in the house. Perhaps a studio as well; there’s an upper room with a northern exposure that would work quite well for that, and the barn is too cold most of the year. Neither of us is an elder son with heirs to worry about—in fact, I am quite devoid of family—and all you will be required to do is what you want to do anyway.”
Brendan was uneasy about actually moving into the same house, even out in the country. “What if someone were to find out about us?” he asked, as the cart left the dirt track where it joined the gravel drive to the house. The pale gravel reflected enough light from moon and stars to see by, even between the shadows of beech trees that lined the path.
“Rumor is one thing; established fact is another. Society loves gossip, but it shies away from scandal, and open scandal is what we must avoid. If rumors fly, we may be shunned by the more particular members of polite Society, and I confess I see few disadvantages in that. Never to spend another evening at Almack’s, paying off social obligations and disappointing the young ladies desperate to escape their mamas’ clutches … would you find that so painful?”
For all he had wanted this, Brendan was now struck by conscience. “It’s not Society that concerns me, Philip. Are you no longer afraid of the law?”
“I am mindful of the law, yes. But this is my own home. If we exercise strictest discretion, there is no reason anyone need ever learn our secret.”
“Do you think we can?” Brendan had an uneasy feeling as they neared the house, as though they were being watched; he looked around, but saw no sign of movement.
“To involve the law would require a plaintiff to bring charges,” Philip answered, apparently unconcerned. “If we are reasonable and discreet, the chances are slight that anyone would have cause to do so, and I know few men who would call attention to themselves in such a distasteful manner. People would wonder where they got such particular information.”
