I nodded genially to Emeline and she smiled back. “A pleasure to see you again Ms. McGovern. How is your father? I expected to see him here today. It would have been nice to converse again.”
“Aye. Unfortunately, my father’s unwell and so I’ve been sent in his stead to secure anything I believe is suitable for McGovern’s.” She informed. It was indeed unusual for a woman to be trusted with such a task alone, especially a spinster. A man stepped to Miss McGovern’s side. “I’d like to introduce my escort, Mr. Mitchell.”
Ah, that explained it. I nodded genially to Mr. Mitchell. The look that passed between Ms. McGovern and Mr. Mitchell on introduction told me that he was more than her escort, or wanted to be! I smiled and asked myself why should they not enjoy one another’s company? If I had sought a wife in my younger days Emeline would have been an agreeable companion.
“I do hope your father makes a speedy recovery, please give him my regards”, I said. Then, the genial host Lord Euan Ardmillan laughed loudly and like a pup called by its master, I turned to look at him.
Euan was dressed in a claret suit that made him look frustratingly distinguished and dashing. He met my eyes and then smiled with satisfaction. Euan then came to my side and introduced me to the international art collectors, Mr. McTaggart from Glasgow, Mr. Wren from Nottingham, Mr. Vassiliev from St Petersburg, Mr. Romano and his business partner, Mr. Rossi from Italy, and a Mr. François from Belgium. I did not offer my hand to be shaken as is correct etiquette but bowed in greeting as I was introduced to a Mr. and Mrs. Montgomery, Mr. Cecil, Mr. Philippe, and lastly, the curious Mr. Engles. At my counting that made a total of fourteen guests including me, and among them, twelve collectors of fine art and antiquities.
It was the first time I had seen Mr. Engles' face, for he no longer wore his large fur hat with spaniel ears. The man was surprisingly comely. He had a square face with an almost feline high brow. In the firelight, his hair appeared reddish-blond and was close-cropped. He wore a waxed mustache and a beard around his chin. His circular brass rimmed spectacles hid his specific eye color from me. He was a curious creature indeed and there was something familiar about him I could not put my finger on. Mr. Engles nodded to me in recognition and then took a step closer.
“I trust you have varmed up after zhe ghastly journey today”, He said his Germanic accent sounding stern to my ear. “I vas chilled to my very bones!”
“Yes, indeed. I warmed up and gained some much-needed rest this afternoon.” I lied. I had in-fact spent most of the afternoon in emotional turmoil, pacing my room, over-thinking and praying for forgiveness for my impure thoughts of Euan. I did not want to feel and yet Euan’s teasing smiles ate at me like a worm devouring an apple core.
“I understand you have an auction house in London, ja? I am also in zuh business of antiquities.”
“Where do you do your business?”
“I am, how you say, international. I have private clients all over Europe and purchase to suit zehr vishes.”
“That’s very interesting. Is there anything particular from Lord Ardmillan’s collection you favor?”
“Ah, Mr. Hannan, we both know how zis gambit works. I couldn’t possibly say.” There was a wicked glint in the man’s eyes that made me shiver. Our conversation was cut short by Rennie announcing that we were to be seated.
The extensive mahogany table in the center of the room had been decorated with bowls of seasonal fruits and set with candelabras to give intimate lighting. The ladies were seated first and then the gentlemen. I was seated beside Mr. Mitchell and opposite Mr. Engels. It seemed I would be forced to admire his attractive visage for the whole evening! Euan stood at the head of the table and tapped his glass, the ringing sound garnering our attention.
“I am delighted you could all join me at Dunecht Hall for the sale of my late father’s personal collection. He was a man of discerning taste and he personally selected you all to attend this auction exactly one year from his passing. After dinner, we shall all view the collection together and you may ask questions of myself and our family solicitor Mr. Buchanan, who is executor and will be running the auction tomorrow.” He announced. Distinct looks of intrigue passed between guests at hearing this.
“But for now, please raise your glass in memory of my father, Lord Percival Ardmillan, may he rest in peace.”
We all stood and toasted the old Lord. I was relieved that we would, at last, get a chance to view the full collection. I had heard rumors of the treasures that Lord Ardmillan obtained for his trove, and not all of them by legal means, however, I did not know what was a fable and what was true.
The dinner began with mulligatawny soup and light conversation. After Scotch salmon with pikelets, we were delighted by the spectacle of Mr. Rennie entering the room carrying a large slab of steaming roasted beef on a silver platter. Two serving boys followed carrying trays with selections of root vegetables in silver serving bowls. Rennie laid the platter in front of his Lordship and seemingly delight to take on the task; Euan stood, made theater of sharpening his carving knife, then skewered the meat with a large fork, and carved slabs of steaming beef enough for the whole party. Watching as he sawed at the roasted flesh with such gusto, he reminded me of his father. Lord Percy had taken great pleasure in carving up his hunting trophies, mounting the heads and telling a tale of each kill.
The late Lord Ardmillan’s private collection was displayed in the attic rooms. We were led up stone steps by Mr. Rennie, Euan, and the solicitor each holding an oil lantern to light the way. The thick timber door was unlocked and Euan shouldered it open. The attic was frigidly cold and drafty, even though a roaring fire was lit at the iron hearth. Ms. McGovern harrumphed and complained sourly,
“We’ll all catch the death of cold if we spend too long in here!” The vast attic room had been prepared for us. Candelabra were lit in readiness for our arrival and a line of velvet cushioned chairs that had seen better days were laid out opposite an extended trestle table. We sat, all a little tipsy from our dinner drinks, and shivered.
“I believe Ms. McGovern vas correct. I wish also I had brought my greatcoat and fur hat. How long vill zis take, it is frightfully cold, Lord Euan.” Mr. Engles complained, his teeth chattering.
The trestle table at the head of the room was covered by a length of moth-eaten black velvet but lumps and bumps were visible beneath. The wall behind the table was also shrouded.
“On the table, I have laid out thirty items from my father’s personal collection. His ten most prized canvases are behind on the wall. You may come and peruse the items but please do not touch without asking.” Euan warned.
“If you have any questions Mr. Buchanan has the particulars for each item. Think about how much you are prepared to pay, for the fine art and the antiquities are unique and each comes with the provenance of how it was obtained written in my father’s hand.”
One-by-one we stood and by lantern light solicitor Mr. Buchanan and butler, Mr. Rennie oversaw viewing to ensure nothing was manhandled or went missing. The table was laden with gems, statuary, art, books, and gold enough to make the heart of any serious collector flutter with anticipation. I saw at once that the story was true! I saw the legendary gold and gem-encrusted Tiger’s head finial with ruby eyes that once ornamented the throne of the Tipu Sultan in Mysore, India. So, Lord Ardmillan had taken it as spoils of war during the plunder of the palace at the fall of Seringapatam. The diamonds, rubies, and emeralds that decorated the face of the Tiger were worth a king's ransom and I would be intrigued as to whom here had the funds to afford such a prize. I saw Mr. Cecil’s eyes light up at seeing the jewel-encrusted Tigers head, and Mr. Engles ducked closer to the object, a magnifier held to his right eye. He perused the item intensely.
“You have provenance, ja?”
“Yes, Mr. Buchanan will provide the buyer of each item with the full story of how it was obtained in my father’s hand.” Euan restated.
There was only one item I was interested in, and t
o my horror, it was not on the table. I looked up at Euan, and my brows furrowed in confusion. If I had made the journey all the way here to the West Highlands in the dead of winter and what I wanted was not for sale I would be outraged.
“Where is it? Where is the Staff?” I demanded.
Euan grinned widely. He knew exactly what I wanted and had played a jest on me. He turned, strode away and unlocked a side door and then entered another smaller room. Moments later he returned. Euan held a casket box that had been inlaid with a beautiful flowing design in rosewood and ebony. At a guess, the box had once held a very expensive bottle of wine. He came to stand beside me, unlatched the silver clasp and opened the lid, and there, displayed on a bed of red velvet laid The Staff of Asklepios, named after the Greek God of Medicine and Healing. I could not hold in an audible gasp as it was revealed, and, my goodness; it was as exquisite as I remembered.
“Can I touch it?” Euan smiled knowingly and nodded. Greedily, I reached for the beautiful rod of stone. The Staff was ten inches in length and four inches in girth, carved in black Obsidian. The phallus had been honed and polished by a master craftsman until it was smooth. The symbol of the snake was associated with the ancient Greek healer Asklepios because a snake had helped him heal the sick son of Minos, ruler of Crete. And so the snake was represented here on the Staff. A snake carving coiled around the shaft and the open maw of the snake design was incorporated into the bulbous head of the phallus. On the tip of the snake tongue, the largest pearl I had ever seen was embedded, and smaller pearls formed a design down the snake’s belly, giving the appearance of the spill of life-giving seed.
Back when we were boys Euan had told me that Lord Ardmillan obtained the staff from the Temple of Athena on the Greek Island of Aegina. The Lord had then regaled us with stories of magical healing powers, telling us that when used in a fertility ritual, the Staff could cure whatever ails the user. From this, I gathered that the staff was used for a sexual rite. I was fascinated from that moment. It was the most potent artifact I had ever seen and holding it, I was sure I could feel some sort of power pulsing in the stone. I needed the Staff to belong to me more than any item I had ever seen. I needed to use it to heal me… of my sinful desire for men.
I dragged my eyes from the glistening Obsidian rod and looked left and right to see that other guests were as enamored by the Staff of Asklepios as I was, particularly Mr. Engles who twirled the tip of his waxed mustache and licked his feminine lips as he looked hungrily at the stone phallus. I reluctantly placed the Staff back on the velvet cushion and Euan closed the box.
Euan returned the Staff to the other room and locked the door when he left. He pocketed the key. After an hour all inquiries had been made and the collectors appeared satisfied with the information received.
“If you have all had your fill we should return to the house and the blessed warmth of the fire,” Euan suggested.
I could not have agreed more.
In The Dark
With copious amounts of Port wine and Whiskey in my belly, I was warm and fuzzy-headed. I retired to my bed and hoped to get a good night’s sleep so I would be ready for the auction the next day. The fire crackled in the hearth and did it’s best to heat the large bedchamber but the snow was falling thick outside and a gale swirled through the house making the old stone and timber building shriek and moan. My bedside candlelight danced and cast eerie shadows on the walls. Extra blankets had been provided on top of the eiderdown and Mrs. McKelvie had seen to it that the serving maid left a warming-pan beneath the covers. I removed it and left the hot copper pan on the hearthstone, and then I slid into the warm bed. I used a small graphite pencil to write some pertinent notes in my diary before I slept. I found it helped prevent me from allowing thoughts to run riot in my head as I chased sleep. I said my prayers, blessed myself, blew out the candle, and snuggled into the bed.
I lay there, inebriated and elated to have at last held the Staff of Asklepios once again. Over the years I’d spent many hours in the British Library pouring over documents and notes from the archeological digs on the Greek Island of Aegina. I had read some dozen translations of myths and legends that told of the Staff and its use in ritual healing through sexual penetration. Legend told that it could cure a long list of maladies of the mind, body, and spirit. I would pay anything to own it. I believed that if I owned it I could use it and live free of my longing for male affection.
I fell into a doze and had not been abed for more than ten minutes before I heard the latch on my door click. Then moments later I felt my eiderdown shift. Someone was getting into bed beside me!
“What the devil—“
“Hush, Ben! You’ll wake the whole damn house.” Euan whispered. I slumped back into my pillows. This is exactly what he used to do when we shared rooms at university. It was as if the rules of propriety and common sense did not apply to him. Euan always did what he wanted, and was confident that the other party shared his desires. This kind of behavior was fine for boys, but we were grown men of good station. Euan was a father and a Lord of the realm and I had chosen a life of denial. I lay there frigid with anger and frustration at his presumptuousness. I had not shared a bed in years and wanted to punch the blaggard and kick him out of the room. But I could not make a scene and wake the whole house for surely it would be my reputation in tatters and not the new Lord Ardmillan, who could excuse being discovered in my bed by saying it was drunken high-jinx. Euan shifted over and pressed his chilly body to my side. At once my anxiety heightened.
“Hmmm, nice and warm.” He groaned in an amorous way that made my guts curdle and my plums throb. Euan slid his hand beneath the covers, laid it on my chest. I tried not to breathe and let him know how my heart was thundering. He pressed his bearded face into the crook of my neck. The last time we had lain together was thirty years ago when he was a fresh-faced youth. I had not known the sensation of his whiskers scratching my skin, mingled with his hot breath as he buried his face. It sent a jolt of delicious pleasure down my spine.
“And you smell good too, so masculine.”
“Enough!” I whispered in exasperation. I was discomfited by his closeness, tired and had no time for his impertinence.
“What do you want Euan? You had time at dinner and afterward to say whatever you needed to say to me.”
“Ah, Ben, don’t be such a prude. There are some things one cannot say…or do in polite society!” Euan snickered childishly as his playful fingers made their way beneath my nightshirt. I shuddered at his touch and my skin was aflame. In the darkness, it was like we were boys once again.
“There’s no sin if we do it in the dark.” Euan had fervently told me that first time he got into my bed at university and tugged me to spend in his hand. The next morning he behaved as if it had never happened. I was confused and perplexed by his behavior, but that time led to it becoming a regular routine to slake our mutual desire, and each time I protested he told me “There’s no sin if we do it in the dark”.
But then Euan wanted more, he wanted us to go further and in the light. So did I. Our secret trysts led to my invitation to Dunecht Hall for the shooting season. It was then that he taught me how satisfying giving, and receiving a good, rough buggering feels. Oh, how I’d loved it and craved it like a beast.
I lay there in the warm bed, stiff, in more ways than one. The reflection of transient moonlight bouncing off the snow sent a beam of white light through the gaps in my drapes. I turned and saw the devilish glint in Euan’s eyes for a split second before cloud covered the moon.
“Do you remember—” Euan began as he ran his fingers over my warm belly and up to my hairy chest.
“How wonderful it feels to rub our cocks together and shoot-off in each other’s mouths.”
Oh, I did remember and I did not want to. My resolve was being sorely tested. I tried to banish the thought of it from my mind, to pray those memories of stolen time wrapped in Euan’s arms away, but it had not worked. I still yearned for Euan Ardmil
lan today as much as I had done thirty years ago.
“I… I don’t do things like that anymore,” I insisted, fighting with my desire. His fingers passed over the silver cross, and then he took it and rubbed the smooth metal over my left nipple. I was immediately aroused and outraged that he would use the cross in such a blasphemous way, but then he sucked and bit at the other nipple through my nightshirt while using the silver cross to tease. My whole body erupted with repressed need and my hips pushed involuntarily up off the bed. I let out an animalistic groan of desire. I wish I could have stopped the sounds ejaculating from my mouth but I could not. Euan was incorrigible and he knew how to pull my strings. I hoped that the guests on either side were dead asleep, or if not, believed it was a moan from the gale outside.
It would be proper to request that Euan should cease his ministrations but I could not find the words to command him to stop. So I lay there with my eyes tightly closed telling myself there was no sin in the dark, allowing his clever fingers and devilish lips to play my body as if I were a piano and he a virtuoso.
“Oh Ben! You are still so adorably responsive.” Euan delighted. “See how your cock stands for me with just the lightest brush of my fingers,” He said pushing back the eiderdown. “Come now. Open your eyes and look at it in the moonlight. It’s so beautiful.”
I was equally aroused and revolted with how easily Euan could toy with me. I did not want to open my eyes and see proof of how he affected my body. I told myself I did not want this, but my flesh betrayed, sending a flood of heat and sensation to my prick.
The Shooting Season Page 4
