by Megan Derr
Damn it.
Groaning again, Bart slowly dragged himself to his feet. His wrists ached, and it was only then that everything came back to him: attacked. Tied. Shoved and yanked about. Kissed. Knocked out. Kissed. Why in the name of all the gods had the highwayman kissed him? Twice.
Swearing, Bart turned to his horse…and only then recalled that the thrice-damned highwayman had scared him off. Swearing and cursing as creatively as he possibly could, Bart started walking. The very moment he took up the title, he was forbidding all of this cloak and dagger nonsense. More harm than good was coming from it, and if one more person told him that it would be best if he stayed out of this or that affair, he would do something unspeakably violent.
Or perhaps he would just retire at the ripe old age of three and thirty, leave everything to his damnable father precisely the way he wanted, and go retire on a beach where he would bother no one and there would be no aggravating, confusing, melodramatic highwayman to endure.
Heavens above, his head ached. He held a hand to the wound and gave serious consideration to simply finding a nice bit of grass to rest for the remainder of the night.
The sound of horses caught his attention and Bart waited as they drew closer—then breathed a sigh of relief as he recognized Rogers and another footman, Feldman. "Rogers!"
"My lord," Rogers said, slumping briefly in relief before dismounting and striding briskly toward him. "Your horse turned up and we feared the worst. I am happy to find you alive and well."
Bart grimaced. "Well enough. Get me home, Rogers, please. I want only my bed."
Everything else could wait until the morning.
Seven
Late into the next morning, Bart's mind was still on the kisses. Blasted highwayman. What had he hoped to accomplish with such an outlandish thing?
Shaking his head, Bart tried again to divert his thoughts. It was another beautiful day, making last night's incident seem far away and faded—except for two burning kisses that would not leave his mind no matter what he did.
Muttering soft curses, Bart halted his horse as they reached the stretch of rough coastline closest to his house. Murmuring for the horse to stay put, he stumbled his way down the rocks and finally landed in the sand. Pleased at not having fallen flat on his face as he had many a time growing up—although he seemed to recall Perry pushing him on last half of those occasions—he continued up the beach.
Bart had not walked this beach in well over a decade. Even on his visits home during school, there had been too many other things to do. No, the last time he'd been down this way was the summer before he and Perry had gone their separate ways.
Despite the years, he remembered every step of the way. The beach had changed very little, the thin scrap of rocky sand between the water and the rocks just barely enough to walk along. It had seemed so much bigger as a boy.
When the tide rose, the strip would vanish entirely. Too many times to recount, he and Perry had pushed their luck in getting out of the cave in time.
Was the cave as unchanged as the stretch of beach which led to it. That cave had been their pride and joy, a place no one else knew about, where no one could find them.
Bart smiled as he came around the curve and saw the opening to the cave. It seemed much smaller now than it had then. So much did. Memories rolled lazily through his mind, as easy as the evening tide, bringing images of all the games they had played. Pirates had been one of their favorites, hours upon hours spent following clumsily drawn maps to buried treasure, battles between the Bloody Corsair Peregrine and the noble queen's soldier Sir Bartholomew.
There had been other games, but pirates had remained their favorite until they grew older and fell into other pursuits. Exploring had been a passion and they'd thoroughly covered every last bit of Greendale in their efforts to discover every secret it might possibly hold. The beaches, the ruins, the village, the manor, the forests …
Nostalgia left a sudden ache in his chest, as childhood memories clashed with the present, memories of the sweet boy who'd loved to play pirate refusing to reconcile with the sad, hardened man Perry had become.
Shaking his head, Bart moved toward the cave. Was their old chest still there, hidden high enough that even the tide could not reach it? So many times had pirate and royal soldier fought for that chest, the contraband within that changed from week to week.
Bart stepped into the cave, which was refreshingly cool after the heat of the day—then stopped. Movement? "Hello?" he called it, voice reverberating against the rocks. "Is someone there?"
"Bart?"
The shadowy presence he'd seen at the back of the cave approached slowly, solidifying into the form of his oldest—and, he suddenly realized, like a blow to the chest, dearest—friend. "Perry." Bart smiled. "I did not expect to see you here, my friend."
Soft laughter echoed through the cave, although there was a…shakiness to it that Bart did not like. "I thought I was the only one who remembered our old pirate cave."
"Hardly," Bart said, backing out of the cave and waiting for Perry to join him. He barely kept back a gasp of dismay as Perry joined him in the daylight. He had the appearance of a man who had not slept and who looked as though he had been crying. Without thought Bart moved toward Perry, tugging him close. "Perry, what the devil?"
Much as he had at Bart's home the other day, Perry seemed to melt in his embrace, arms like iron bands around Bart's waist. Bart had never thought of his friend as fragile before, but right then Perry seemed as though the slightest provocation might shatter him.
Water lapped lazily at their boots, the rush of the sea up the small beach the only sound. Bart held Perry tight, hating the feeling of helplessness that plagued him. "Perry…"
"I can hear it in your voice," Perry said, the barest thread of amusement in his voice, "that you want to help. Of course you would. That's why you always played the soldier while I played the pirate." He looked up, a sad smile on his face. "There are some things even you cannot fix, my dear friend. Best to stop trying."
Bart reached up to cup Perry's face in his hands, stroking his thumbs over the surprisingly soft cheeks. The gesture rubbed away the faint tear tracks, but the too bright look in Perry's eyes said fresh tears were close to the surface. "Perry, how could I not help you? I wish I had come back sooner. Why did you never contact me, if you were in trouble?"
"Because you would have started hating me too," Perry said, eyes dropping, although he made no effort to free himself from Bart's hold.
Tugging gently, forcing Perry to look back up, Bart shook his head. "I could never hate you, Perry." He hesitated, disconcerted by a sudden, nearly overwhelming urge to kiss him, to see if that would soothe away some of the pain etched too deeply into the handsome face.
He realized he was going to do it, even as he bent his head.
"Lord Bartholomew!
The sound of Constable Crane's voice was a dousing of cold seawater. Bart jerked away, startled and disconcerted. He blinked, shook his head to clear it, and returned his attention to Perry.
Perry, however, had clearly withdrawn—the green eyes were once again hardened, the lines of his body tight with tension. No sign of the soft, sad man in his arms remained.
Bart could not believe that he'd nearly kissed Perry.
No, that wasn't true—Perry, even this strange new version of his friend, was in all ways desirable. He always had been, if Bart thought back. However, he was also a friend and that was not a line Bart had ever considered crossing.
Constable Crane's voice rang out once more, and was then joined by Rogers', forcing Bart to set aside the matter of wanting to kiss Perry. Stifling a sigh, he raked a hand through his hair and went to find Crane before Crane found them. For whatever reason, he did not want their little cave to be discovered. It had been their secret all these years, this little place where the queen's soldier time and again defeated the Bloody Corsair—but always at the end, the Corsair got away or the queen 's soldier was forced to le
t him go, and the next day the game would begin anew.
No one else was permitted.
Bart quickly made his way back to his horse, ignoring the disapproving frowns of Rogers and Crane. "Good day to you, constable. Rogers, stop frowning so. Why the devil are you out here? I would have returned to the house in due course."
"The matter could not wait, my lord," Crane replied. "I am only just recently returned from our failed attempt to deliver the jewels."
Bart froze in the process of brushing sand from his clothes. "Failed? What the devil?"
"The highwayman overtook us close to the inn."
"There were five of you!" Bart said. "How did one highwayman best five men?"
Constable Crane looked as though he had swallowed something sour. "When I figure that out, I shall tell you. The bastard is brazen, but I suppose that should not surprise me. Although he killed no one this time, he might resort to it again in the future. He took us by surprise and startled the horses, and before I could determine which way was up, half of us were unconscious and that damned highwayman had vanished with the jewel case."
"That is terrible to hear," Perry said quietly as he joined them, head appearing over the jagged rocks.
Bart moved to assist, bending down to offer a hand and tug Perry up to level ground. Perry's hand was rough with calluses, but warm and fit well with his own. Bart reluctantly let go, shoving the errant thought away until he had time to deal with it.
"How are Greer and his son?" Bart asked.
"About as well as you'd expect," Crane said tiredly. "We have well and truly failed, and I am no closer to catching that bastard than when he first appeared. Confound it!"
Bart did not relate his own interaction with the highwayman, some instinct telling him to keep it private for now. Beside the constable, Rogers kept his own silence.
Perry stirred at Bart's side. "At least he did not kill anyone. Under the circumstances, surely it would have been easier for him to kill you and be off with the jewels, rather than risk capture by leaving the lot of you alive."
"Perhaps he is simply trying to keep the crown away from his head by not committing further murders," Crane replied. "I do not like your persistence in defending this highwayman. What would your father think?"
"He can hardly hate me more than he already does," Perry said sharply, then turned and stalked away.
Bart shot Crane an angry look, then ran after Perry.
Catching up to him, Bart snatched his wrist and drew him to a stop. "Perry, come on, I'll give you a ride home. You should not walk that far, as tired as you look."
"Home?" Perry echoed, laughing sadly. "I am not going home—I prefer to avoid returning there as much as I possibly can."
"Come home with me, then," Bart said before he thought. He liked the words, however, and did not miss the way Perry relaxed for a moment before controlling himself and tensing right back up. "Please. If you will not let me help in any other way, I can help in this—there is room aplenty at my house, you know that."
Perry smiled faintly. "Even during your house parties, we could find an empty room somewhere."
Bart grinned, unable to help the feelings of relief and triumph that rushed through him as he realized that Perry would agree. "Precisely. So come home with me, stay there as long as you like. The servants keep it maintained on the chance someone will stop by to visit, anyway, so having someone about the place to appreciate the effort will please them. Please?"
"I…it won't be an imposition?" Perry looked at him, pale eyes hard but holding a spark of hope.
"You could never be an imposition, Perry," Bart replied quietly.
Perry nodded and went easily when Bart dragged him into another embrace.
It was startling how natural it was beginning to seem, how well Perry fit in his arms. Bart wondered if he had simply been alone too long, or if Perry's misery drew out his need to protect—and it definitely appealed that Perry allowed him to help and hold, when his brothers had always preferred to shove him away and insist he stop interfering.
"Come on," he said at last. He whistled for his horse, ignoring Crane and Rogers until he had mounted, Perry climbing up behind him. Then, and only then, did he turn to Rogers. "Perry will be staying with us indefinitely, Rogers. See that a guestroom is prepared for him and have someone fetch his things from Father Thomas' house." He half-turned to Perry. "Is there anything special from there you require?"
"No," Perry murmured. "I already took what I most wanted and hid it in the cave. I'll fetch it all later."
Something twisted hard and painfully in Bart's chest, to think that his friend had been so upset and afraid of losing a home that he had taken his valuables and hidden them away. What could reduce Father Thomas to treating his own son with such cruelty?
Turning his horse, Bart ordered it back to the manor. They rode in silence, Perry a warm weight at his back, the arms around his waist far from unpleasant. Many a day had they ridden precisely this way, off on one adventure or another, and not going home until some poor, beleaguered footman at last tracked them down and made them.
A footman appeared to take his horse and Bart passed on that Perry would be staying, the message to be conveyed to the stables that he was to be given a horse whenever he desired. That matter addressed, Bart led the way inside and made for his private parlor, where he rang for a maid and gave orders for an early lunch. When they were alone again, he urged Perry to sit.
"Are you certain that you will not tell me the source of your troubles, Perry? You must know that I could never hate you."
"My father once told me the same thing," Perry said, staring at the rug beneath their feet, his hands clasped loosely between his spread legs.
Bart propped his own feet on a footstool before his deep chair and rested his chin in one hand, frowning at Perry. "As you like, but I am not your father. I still speak to my brother despite his taking up with a rake."
Perry smiled, but it was a weak effort. "I always imagined you would wind up with a rakehell, or some other sort who was tamed by how earnestly and openly you love your family, and your stubborn determination to help every single person you come across."
Bart laughed, but it was more from surprise than humor. Perry had thought about with whom he might take up? Why? Bart had never really thought about it; there were more important things to ponder—like his ridiculous family. He'd never had more than a few brief affairs. A permanent lover was something that always seemed impossible—who wanted to take up with a son who was the family nuisance? Apparently, the family disappointment.
Looking at Perry, Bart came to a startling realization that a few days ago would have made him laugh and shake his head from the sheer absurdity of it. "The only one I want to help is you, Perry."
Perry gave him another sad smile and stood up. "There is no helping me. If you truly do not mind my being here, and will forgive my rudeness, I would dearly love to rest."
"Of course," Bart replied, and rang for a maid to show Perry to his room. As the door closed behind them, it was his turn to stare unhappily at the rug, brooding over the fact that he was fairly certain that Perry had just rejected his gentle advances.
If he ever found the rulebook of life, Bart decided, he was going to do some liberal rewriting. He had come home to find a highwayman—when in the hells had that turned into realizing that he might possibly be in love with his oldest friend and that friend seemed dangerously close to doing something stupid about the misery weighing him down?
Well, no matter. In a few more days, Bart would have his reply from the city and that would shed all the light he needed upon every problem plaguing him. The chance that his friend might not be able to provide the clues he needed was a possibility Bart refused to consider. He would focus on the damnable highwayman, and when the letter came, he would finally be able to start helping Perry.
The door opened, a heavily laden tray brought in and set upon the table. Bart ate quickly, mind filled with plans to investigate
all that the highwayman had told him, the matter of the kisses still confounding, but finally quiet enough that he could ignore it. He would start in the village, for there were always people willing to talk, and he knew precisely who the best gossips were and how to get them talking in earnest.
Eight
Bart had expected to be inundated with gossip, so overwhelmed with information that it would take him days to wade through it all to pick out the important bits needed to make sense of the highwayman's riddle.
Instead, he'd spent a great deal of gold on frippery and clothing that he did not need only to learn a few kernels of trivial gossip. The only thing that had struck him the entire day was the news that Greer's business had increased of late, and that had only struck him out of sheer guilt. It would probably be more accurate to say that Greer had been doing better. With the theft of the new necklace, he doubted Greer would be attracting many new clients and he would quite possibly lose a few of his current ones.
Bart had made his apologies and Greer had been gracious in accepting them, but he could see that Greer and his son were nearly sick with unhappiness. It only made Bart more determined than ever to deduce what the devil was going on in Greendale.
The highwayman, if Bart was stupid enough to believe his words, had said that all was not what it seemed. What did that mean? Taken in conjunction with the murder the highwayman claimed he had not committed, it almost seemed like there were two problems in Greendale.
Except that Bart could find no hint of a second problem. Everywhere he went, there was only talk of who was sleeping with whom, whose daughter had been sent off to hide her indelicate state, 'ill health' this and 'seemed awfully smug' that…nothing that Bart had not already heard from the old women upon his arrival. The two greatest bits of gossip were the highwayman and the rift between Father Thomas and Perry.
