“I will not.”

Murmured aloud as he walked, it was a sure sign that he was mad now. There was no point in doubting it any longer. Not with the bewildered frown darkening Ben’s face as if even the child thought him beyond all hope. But mad or no, his mind still spat out that one thought with wrathful force. He would not be dancing attendance on the corsaire, whatever Sir Marvell might think or Villon himself might think.

A few moments on a balcony might have been enough to learn that Villon wanted him still, whatever the man’s reasons for that, and they had certainly been long enough for James to become reacquainted with his own lust for the touch of those clever hands and that rose petal mouth. But as eager as he had been to simply let the man have his way he had not. He was not Sir Marvell’s whore, and neither was he René Villon’s. He would swear to that a thousand times over, and keep his vow if it meant death. Whatever he was to Villon, whatever fancies of a recurring affair the other man had dreamt of in the moments since they had met again, James would not be his whore again. He was a man, not some doxy in a nunnery, too afraid to speak out against his abbess.

René thought of him as such, someone too meek and cowardly to defy others. Mayhap his views had been changed once James had knocked him back to the floor; he had certainly kept his distance after that. With a frown of his own, James pushed aside the questions as to why Villon had not struck him down for his offense. It was none of his concern if Villon was the sort of man who thought nothing of violence, or the sort of man who enjoyed it.

Indeed, his face had flooded with colour. So much so that at first James had been alarmed, thinking of the differences in their sizes. He had stepped forward and then seen it, the lightening flash of desire brightening the depths of Villon’s eyes before he had swept the lids closed.

Even so wounded and so offended Villon had wanted him. James clenched his teeth and firmed his lips, glancing away from Ben, who fell into step beside him and grew silent, no longer whistling some sea ditty. The child longed for the sea, or for distant places, the song said as much though the boy said nothing, continuing to linger at James’ side though they both knew well enough that James had no claim on him. He was as free to wander and roam as the ragged and desperate cutpurses and street boys that James had given coins to back in London, and yet instead of running off to sign with another captain, he stayed. And James felt sad for it, for the child was the only truly friendly face James had seen in Jamaica.

Sighing, James stopped for a moment, looking down to Ben with a barest of smiles. Ben’s eyes were strangely dark as they stared back up at him, glinting in the early afternoon sunshine. He did not smile back, only leaned his head to one side in a serious manner. His skin was browned from the sun, darker even than it had been back on Carter’s ship, darker than Villon’s had been then, or was now. But then Villon had slept during most of his days; waking every few hours to walk among the crew or play chess with the killer he valued so highly.

And now he played the game with Sir Marvell, both of them kings imagining James was some pawn between them. No, not kings, René had seemed to feel that Sir Marvell was not worth the title, had in fact challenged James for daring to place them together. There was no difference between them that James could see, save for Villon’s openness in naming himself a thief and murderer. James would not put it beyond Sir Marvell to be dealing with the Maroons in order to have his own lands spared and those of his neighbors and enemies pillaged, even as he condemned the escaped slaves for their savagery.

“Villon must sign the contract today,” Sir Marvell had told him without even a trace of a human emotion on his face. Contracts he spoke of, all of them. Pieces of paper with marks upon them that no one seemed to hold sacred. The worth of them was less than the cloth used to wipe his arse for the way they treated them, and yet they must be signed. Did René think him deaf or just foolish, that he could not hear the interest and greed that deepened his employer’s voice whenever this business was spoken of? That he had not seen the knowing gleam in the man’s eyes when he had sent him out to that balcony?

Today, without the influence of spirits, Sir Marvell had sought to disguise his amusement and avarice, but James had felt it regardless.

“I will not,” he had replied before Sir Marvell would say more, shaking with the effort not to turn away, or shout something harsher. He could be thrown out for this, and might end up back in the fields after all. It would have been a hard fate; not only for himself, but also for Ben, and for a moment he had almost called the words back. But it was Sir Marvell’s quiet answer that had made him hold his tongue; stubbornness that for once had kept him silent.

“Your boy will never be a house servant,” he had offered, seemingly from nowhere, and James had let out one long breath. He knew the truth of that statement well enough. Ben had no patience and no small streak of his own stubbornness. More than that, he lacked interest in menial chores and servitude, dashing off to find adventures outside the walls of the house. With little respect for any elders, other than James, James had to wonder how Carter had ever gotten the boy to obey. But James was reluctant to mention the slain captain, still shivering at the way in which Ben had taken his death. He had known Carter to be a cruel man, so cruel none of his men had mourned him, but oftentimes James thought upon the child’s delight and shivered.

But Ben would not be used against him. He was almost a man now, and smart enough to determine that their situation was precarious.

He began to walk again without saying anything, though Ben seemed to find nothing odd in that, and followed.

“I think he will choose a life at sea,” James had answered, simply to fill the silence, trying not to think of Ben at the mercy of those even worse than Villon. The pirates owned the seas, not the Spanish or the Portuguese, however those nations had divided up the world between them.

“Perhaps I will ask if Monsieur Villon would like take the boy off your hands.” How calm Sir Marvell had been, ignoring the way James had nearly jumped from his skin to hear such a threat, a plain one by the standards of the nobleman as James judged it. “It must be difficult, caring for a child when your own journey has already been so plagued with so many troubles.”

And James had had to duck his head, unable to meet the other man’s eyes to recall his only half-truthful story of his ship being attacked and his old employer dying on the journey. He had omitted the rest, to hide his own shame, and to find employment, but no doubt it had taken Sir Marvell only one moment to observe that he and René had met before. Even if he had not, his foolish display of anger at the table would have lead to the same conclusions. This time, no matter how angry he was, he could not blame Villon for his predicament.

“Many men would not hire such a man, seemingly so unloved by Fate.” How sharp the man’s smile had grown then. Sharp enough to slice James’ throat. Lord’s mercy, to think he had thought Villon cold. To be used and left with gold was shameful, but to be used and left with nothing, deliberately, knowingly…it went beyond shrewdness in business, down into the dark parts of the man’s soul that allowed him to purchase the Africans standing chained and filthy and frightened on the blocks in town without even a hint of the Lord’s compassion for mankind in his eyes.

He knew that he owed a debt to Sir Marvell, knew it dearly. The very clothes on his back scratched against his skin with every breath, lest he forget. But he had lifted his chin and tried to ease the tightness in his throat before speaking.

“Many other men might,” he had remarked boldly in return, watching the complete surprise in the older man’s eyes with no little amount of pleasure, wondering what Sir Marvell expected by assigning him this task. Did he think to woo Villon to easier terms by offering James up like a tasty bit of sweetmeat, or did he hope that the man would be—James felt himself fill with an embarrassed heat—distracted by his presence and grow careless in his dealings? He hoped foolishly, for though René might lust after him, James was nothing to him that any other might be.

Why did Villon not slake his lust elsewhere, and leave James in peace? James asked himself silently, stumbling on the uneven ground of the street. Others were waiting to fill his bed, cozened by his pretty face and brazen manner. L’Aranha had seemed familiar with his body, placing her hands on him openly, and so too had Deniau, the two of them often so close they might as well have been touching. Marechal as well, regarding his master with eyes that did not blink, pressing so closely on the occasion when he had carried René to his cabin that James had been surprised to see him exit the cabin so soon after entering it.

The large man had seemed more than happy to have Villon’s wriggling form in his arms, clutching René tightly when René had begun to struggle. Or had seemed to struggle. Maybe it had been no struggle at all; James could not imagine anyone forcing René, though he was a small man. Strange and defiant, even when there was no need to be, that was René Villon, declaring himself to be a free prince when none had said otherwise.

But there was no need to think on this any longer, not with Sir Marvell’s offices looming before them and the sun slowly falling from its lofty heights. They would be late if he tarried any longer. It had already taken him some time to find Ben amid the rows of shops, but James had not wanted to attend the meeting without him. Sir Marvell ought to be there by now, pleased with himself and impatient for James to arrive. L’Aranha might have been and gone by now, but James had the feeling in his chest that Villon would wait for him to arrive. Probably he had arranged to have him here, with Sir Marvell gladly agreeing. Mayhap his arse was written into the contract.

René would take great pleasure in shoving him facedown over Sir Marvell’s desk and sticking his prick into his arse, pressing so deeply inside of him while his hand worked between his legs until James would agree to anything in order for Villon to let him have his little death.

His fingers wrapped around the single golden coin still in his pocket, heating the soft metal with the force of his passion as he used his other hand to open the door. Rows of clerks looked up with interest as he entered, obviously aware of the meeting. The Spider must have offered them some excitement, though they would be disappointed with René, who would not want to spare a even glance for lowly clerks and their books. Ben stepped ahead to relate some tale to Goodwin, a clerk that tolerated his attentions, but James silently urged him to share the story later, pressing a light hand to his shoulder.

James nodded to the other men in greeting but soon forgot them, narrowing his eyes to just the door of the small, comfortably appointed room where Sir Marvell did his business when he came to town.

He was already overdue. It would not do for him to stand outside the door like a brainless, white streaked coward. Aware of many eyes on him for his hesitation, he filled his chest with air and swung the door open.

The imported English wood creaked, already rotting from the wet heat, and the sound brought the figure before him around sharply, one hand on the long, dirty blade at his waist.

He wore no scabbard on his cutlass. The naked blade and what it might mean had James taking a step back even before he moved his eyes upward to identify the intruder, taking yet another step when he saw Marechal’s humourless face. This step had him touching Ben, and James gripped the boy’s shoulder tightly to prevent him from coming further into the room without taking his attention from Villon’s shadow. He had not thought to ever see Marechal again, and had been most grateful for that. His leering, watchful gaze had to power to wake James from pleasant dreams.

“Petit Anglais,” Marechal greeted him with a small grin, but did not move his hand from his waist.

“Marechal.” James named him in return, taking his eyes away to search the little room. But it was empty; René was nowhere in sight. There was only his dog.

“Nous attendons le René ensemble,” Marechal told him with an inflection that seemed to make the words more than simply words, as he shifted his gaze to behind James, where Ben was no doubt peeking around him to see what was happening.

James could not hide the way his head reared back to hear this. To know that René was not yet there was disheartening, but to be grouped together with such a bloody pig as Marechal for anything was an honour James would refuse without even questioning why. Though it was not as if the man had killed in the same manner that Deniau had slaughtered Cavendish, or even René’s cool execution of Carter.

When James did not answer, Marechal moved, turning his bulky body to the side and revealing a delicate, padded chair, with a red coat draped over the back with golden lining that exactly matched the shade of its gilt paint.

Marechal plucked it up as if the heavy gold weighed nothing and settled it easily over one arm, where it splashed to the floor like blood. Then he turned back, a light hitting his rough features at last at something beyond James’ vision.

“James!” A voice called to him huskily and James twisted his body in instant response. He had a brief view of Ben, who was not trying to get a look at Marechal as James had been expecting, instead he had tucked himself almost between James and the door. But he emerged to follow the same voice that had made James turn.

Impatiently ignoring all the clerks as James had known he would, René was striding across the short distance, scowling and obviously in some ill humour. He paused for only a brief moment as he took in the three of them frozen in the doorway and then his pace quickened.

He stepped widely around Ben without ever seeming to look in the child’s direction and then flicked his eyes from Marechal to James before he finally spoke. His skin lacked colour despite his frantic pace of a moment ago.

“You are late,” he said pressingly, nay, accusingly, and slipped past James into Sir Marvell’s office without giving James a chance to find his tongue. Marechal did not move from his place, but René spared him no more glances either, stalking from one side of the limited space to another and shoving the chair directly in front of Marechal when it seemed to get in his way. Marechal could not seem to bother to remove one hand from the coat to lift it and put it aside, and since he still had not moved to leave, James could only assume that he meant to stay.

“Where is Sir Marvell?”

Ignoring René’s question for the moment, James decided to try one of his own, looking pointedly about the room, and even turning to look askance at Ben, who stared at him with eyes like moons before dropping his head to study his thin hands, inhaling so deeply his little body shook. Some strange notion in James’ mind had expected Ben to understand his ploy, but that had been foolish. He was just a child after all in spite of his odd moments of cunning.

Villon had stopped when James turned back to face him, breathing so heavily that his chest was fairly heaving and James had to wonder how he had ever imagined René did not pull in breath like any other man. His uneven breathing now made him seem feverish, and James had a sudden, frightening recollection of seeing the plague-stricken as they struggled to walk, to do anything to get to a place of safety. But there had been no such place, not for any of them. The hospitals had offered a false comfort, and it had been a blessing to hear of them destroyed in the fire, so that new ones could be built.

But the memories of the sickness had him worried and leaning intently forward, coming into the room and uncomfortably close to Marechal, who was never too far from his master.

“Qu'est-ce que c'est?” he asked what was wrong in an urgent whisper and immediately felt a fool when Villon did even look at him, keeping his gaze trained on the spot beyond James in the doorway. But then as if sensing his anger, the other man was blinking and drawing his eyes away to the large shadow almost at his back.

“Marechal.” As if James had not spoken, Villon was addressing the larger man. One hand tapped against the lump on his chest in an odd rhythm. A necklace or a charm, James had decided it was, for men of the sea were as superstitious as farm folk. Denying faith and Fate but clutching some little talisman when something threatened, even if Villon seemed unaware of the actions of his hand. “We will not need you.” René interrupted his thought, still giving Marechal a languid order. “Go find Thierry for me. Remind him that he has two more days to spend all his coin on the wenches at that tavern, and he will be prepared to guide us on our…adventure when we sail.”

On the instant, James had his head up, searching that slender face for the meaning of that pause. It had been meant for him to hear, Villon dangling the truth of this venture in front of him like a keeper taunting a caged bear with a bit of stringy meat. But it was not that he meant to cheat Sir Marvell or the Saint-Cyrs or any of the others involved in this that worried. With a business like this, dealing with such men, James knew there was no use in fighting that fact. But it was René’s comments to Etienne that had truly alarmed him.

Marechal was still unmoving, though he had taken his eyes from his master at long last and instead was staring at James.

“We go to England, English,” he said in James’ tongue, and James took a small step back, betraying his surprise and displeasure at being directly addressed. “You and the boy.” Marechal stopped to breathe heavily through his nose, then let one corner of his mouth turn upward in what another man might have called a grin. James swallowed, and he heard a sharp, whistling breath from René’s direction. “You come?”

“It will take a while to find Thierry.” René’s timely words, flung at Marechal’s back, saved James from having to speak for a moment. His neck protested at the stiff angle of his head, trying to keep a steady gaze on the large man’s face. A second later he was looking away, made uncomfortable by the familiar, warm leer lurking in the beast’s eyes.

“Marechal.” No longer so silken, Villon’s voice was rising. Unable to call his dog to heel, James thought with a bitter amusement and jerked his head upright once more, though he sought out Villon’s face now.

“A most pleasing offer,” James remarked in a dry tone, but René’s eyes went wide as though in astonishment, and James had the feeling that he had been mistook. He raised one hand to halt any queer thoughts the other two men might be having, then stilled at the touch of hands on his hips.

“Might we?” Ben used his body as a screen, revealing only his head and shoulders as he asked the eager of question of Villon, who transferred that astonished gaze to the boy before abruptly moving it away as if Ben had not spoken.

“Ben…” James warned, wishing the child had not emerged from his hiding place. To silence him, he stepped to the side, to clear a wide path for Marechal and to crush Ben firmly between himself and the door. Ben swore under his breath but only wriggled to what was likely a more comfortable position without actually breaking free. One small, warm hand rested on his lower back, and immediately began to stroke his skin in a manner that was likely meant to soothe, though James had to struggle not to squirm away.

“Yes, Master James.” Ben responded obediently enough however, so James did his best to ignore it, and the softly-hummed sea ditty that accompanied each slow touch.

“Marechal, before you go, you may help me put on my coat,” Villon murmured throatily, and James turned his distracted attention to the sight of René turning his back to the hulking figure of Marechal and allowing himself to be dressed like a doll. Marechal hopped over to do it quickly enough, though taking the time to smooth down the lines in the fabric over Villon’s arms and hips.

“Thierry.” James called out the navigator’s name through thinned lips, since they seemed to need the reminder. He wished to end this meeting as soon as possible.

Villon gave a glance over his shoulder at Marechal, and then gave a deliberate sigh. A moment later he nodded dismissively. Without any more hesitation, Marechal turned and slipped past James, not making a single sound.

James shivered at the slight, cool wind creating by the man’s passing, and then immediately leapt from his place at the wall to face René. Villon was frowning at the still-opened door, and James stepped back briefly to close it, ushering Ben inside. It was silent now, with just the three of them, alone. Quieter than even a ship at night, where voices echoed like from dreams.

Villon finally blinked to see James pushing Ben forward, and transferred his frown to James.

“Missing your man already?” James demanded as Villon was leaning his head back to peer into his eyes. He was close to the desk, not quite leaning against it, just the right height for him to rest his hands on the top behind him if he had wished. James could imagine him doing so, the hard wood digging into his back as he leaned away even further in order to meet James’ gaze. Perhaps it would pain him, and he would shift, rubbing against the hardness as he sought to ease the ache.

Sweet Jesu. James felt his skin prickling with the beginnings of arousal, itching underneath his clothing, demanding that he free himself from the burdensome cloth. He lifted one hand to his closed coat, flicking free one button.

Black eyes followed the action and James went still, forgetting everything else for the moment but the unfulfilled, burning throb that had been his body since their encounter in Sir Marvell’s home. He could feel how his heart pounded, pushing the lust through his veins with the same speed that it had raised anger, and he hesitated where he stood, allowing his lips to fall open.

“Are you angry, James?” Villon wondered in a husky, throaty voice, and James was suddenly sickened to realize that it was the same tone that the man had used with Marechal. He had not recognized it as such on the balcony, but he had nearly fallen victim to it then, too.

“Where is Sir Marvell?” James threw out another question, though already aware that his employer would not be coming. Villon blinked as though startled.

“Did you truly believe he would be here?” There was a long silence before René answered, relaxing his arched pose enough to make James sigh, and leaning his head to one side curiously. He was speaking in French, James realized, they both were, and had been for some time.

He had not truly thought Sir Marvell would be here. James admitted that to himself. And yet he had come anyway. His foolishness had no bounds it seemed. Someone watching a man go against his own words in this manner might think that he wanted Villon to attempt another seduction, or to sweet-talk him into something illicit or shameful.

“James?” Ben’s soft tones, calling up to him, and James jumped at the reminder of the boy. Looking down, he could see confusion plainly writ on the boy’s face as Ben stopped at his side, nearly between them.

“Why did you bring the child?” As if Ben were not there, Villon continued to speak in French. His hands found the desk at last, and he seemed to push against it even as he leaned back, clutching the edge with enough force to make the wood seem to shake momentarily. Surely he was taunting James deliberately now, for drawing his arms back had drawn his shirt tight across his chest. James knew that René had untied those lacings before to tantalize him with what remained unseen, and being carelessly knotted now, they were already beginning to slide free. He could see a glimpse of gold chain and small thatch of hair, dark against pale skin. If the coat were gone, perhaps the shirt would fall more.

“We are not here to talk about Ben.” James raised his eyes and answered abruptly, in the English that Villon so despised, and saw how Ben blinked, obviously realizing that he was being discussed. Villon’s eyes narrowed, hiding the thoughts of fleshly delights that had made the skin of his face darken, and then he flung one hand out empathetically.

“You brought him here.” Sniffing in much the same manner that Etienne did, as if something in the air smelled rotten, Villon jerked his head up and away from the child. He continued to speak in French, and James caught the puzzled, angry look on Ben’s face, drawing out his lower lip into a stubborn pout. “You make a poor father, Monsieur Fitzroy.” René condemned as he shrugged, and the laces fell free. James took a breath. “You do not know a child’s place.”

“His place is with me!” James was leaning forward to answer forcefully before he realized that he was, and that he had returned to the corsaire’s tongue. The words were startling enough on their own; his heart thudded against his ribs at such boldness, claiming Ben in such a manner. It was enough to distract him from his body’s demands.

“Always?” Villon wondered quietly, and full, red lips formed what was almost a smile. A smile it might have been, if Villon had not cleared his throat and turned his head to the side once more, unable or unwilling to look directly at Ben. James felt his face heat at the memory of that night on the ship. His aching prick that even now cried for relief, and Ben’s unfortunate arrival. “A child stays at home, away from danger.”

“Danger?” The breath left James so fully that his chest felt empty. He gaped for a long moment in time, not at all soothed by the sight of René Villon glaring fiercely at him, and then finally recovered his breath and his wits. He could not quite bring himself to ask what Villon had meant, what danger the man expected here. James would almost have decided that Villon spoke of himself; he was Devil enough. The proof was in the wicked flames licking along James’ soul, whispering in his ear to draw nearer.

But the lingering thought that kept him from speaking of it was that man seemed to find the very mention of Ben offensive. He certainly would not touch him to harm him. “’Tis no concern of yours,” James declared at last, still befuddled by Villon’s strange insistence.

“You would…?” Villon began, rising up from the desk, and James coughed.

“I am here to watch you sign a piece of paper, and then I am to deliver it,” James said stiffly, letting his eyes fall from René’s face to the large, hanging, dirty folds of the coat. “The only danger he is like to see is you displaying yourself for that…beast.”

For the smallest moment in time, James thought he had struck Villon in return, but though the man’s nostrils flared in a sign of some strong emotion he recovered himself quickly. He curved his lips, and then opened wide eyes, allowing James to see the passion that brightened their depths once more.

“Would you like me to display myself for you, James?” he asked, too bloody calm by far, when James felt himself growing warmer at a look alone. It would only take a roll of his shoulders for the coat to be gone and James shuddered weakly to think of what might follow that. “Would that please you?” René went on, dropping his voice so low that even had Ben understood the language he would not have heard the words themselves. His hand again found the charm at his neck, and James was distracted into staring at it, at each pale, slender finger. “Shall I play the martyr for you?”

The brittle edge to the words did not keep James from noticing the meaning of them, and he tossed aside memories of that first time in Villon’s cabin, pushing himself forward accusingly.

“Martyr!” James repeated in disbelief, his anger such that he stumbled back into English. “The whore, you mean.” If he had not been struck down for a blow, than he ought to be struck down now, for this mad insult. Yet again René did nothing, mayhap that was why James had not felt his fear of speaking until afterwards.

Villon’s hand stilled and then dropped from his chest. Not to his sword, that he left untouched beneath the coat’s warmth.

“Whore?” Ben echoed, and James felt for the first time the pressure of the smaller hand at his side. He lowered his head, and a moment later, let his eyes find the child, who was looking to Villon. James could not see his face, but his question had been plain enough, spoken in a whisper that lacked Ben’s usual frank amusement and curiosity. Ben’s fingers tightened on a piece of James’ yellow coat, reminding James uncomfortably of how young children often clung to their minders when walking about the streets.

“And now he clutches at you in fear,” René accused after what James supposed had only been a brief silence and not a great one despite the tension that had tightened the muscles of his neck and shoulders. Nonetheless, he could feel the acid burning of shame in his belly, and tried to speak, to make amends for such an offense as that one, though he would not drop to his knees like a penitent.

“I should not have…” James faltered, growing furious enough to make him call back the words. Had not Villon made him his whore in Tortuga? When his knees had felt the unrelenting ground beneath them. Let Villon know the pain of lost honour; he would only dull it with drink. James had been half-expecting him to pull a bottle from somewhere and swallow every sip while they watched. But Villon’s lips remained dry and closed. His face seemed to have been stripped of the ripe colours of arousal and feeling that had painted it only moments before.

“Let us sign the papers and be done.” Turning sharply, René dared to step past Ben in order to circle around the great, native wood desk that Sir Marvell rarely sat behind, preferring to do most business from his table at his home. “I have a short time only until I sail and there is much to do.”

Reminded abruptly of the short length of René’s stay in Jamaica, less than two days now, weather permitting, James made himself stride forward to the desk and look over the papers scattered over the top, though they were upside down. He had a brief memory of a map, decorated with a fierce, horrible monster, and snuck a look through his eyelashes at René, though seeing only the red coat and a bit of shirt. That day was perhaps the only time they had been truly alone. Strange to think of that now.

He hesitated, then came closer, stopping when his middle would have hit the desk. There was a desk between them, and a child in the room besides. Thinking of that made him pause, then step back slightly.

“What…” and now James could not find his words, idly sliding slips of parchment from one spot to another. “Have you ever before been to England?” England, with cool breezes and gray skies and his beloved father and stepmother. He could not imagine René Villon there, could not see René having much interest in a small printer’s shop bordering the River any more than he could imagine Ben being content with such things. Truthfully, his own remembrances of that life seemed like false memories, or dreams, though he had only been gone less than six month.

“I long to be in the midst of England at this moment,” René murmured, and James was tricked into glancing up at the heated tone. His hands stopped their movements to settle flat on the desk’s surface, leaving him close enough to observe the many stains on René’s loose shirt and the few beads of sweat on René’s neck. A pulse raced there, and to James it seemed the center of the Earth for the way his gaze would not leave it. He sighed and René seemed to find his voice anew. “But their shores are cold.”

The shortly spoken words brought James’ head up.

“Will not any port do?” It was more of a growl than a simply asked question, and René’s hawk’s eyes dropped to his. Too late, James realized his position. He would have straightened, but did not wish to look more of a fool than he already was. His skin itched with his blushes, and he scowled tightly as a quiver skipped along his back, as though a finger had traced the length of him. A finger, and then a tongue. More. Sweet. James. And he had grunted out that name in reply, tasting his own blood rather than demand more as René had done.

Unyielding wood pressed hard into his lower body, and then his lower body pressing hard into the unyielding wood, pushing back into each of René’s thrusts. He had bruised, light marks hidden under his breeches, but the pain had been nothing to the desire to push his body against something, even hard wood when heated softness had not been available.

“I fear your employers would be…vexed…to discover that I had taken their trade elsewhere.” Quite serious René was, with his blackly shining eyes, that it took James a short while to reflect on the words. Then he shook his head, firming his lips and clearing his throat.

“You do not fear it,” he answered absolutely, still staring up at René. “You dance at the thought.”

“Dance?” René looked momentarily confused, and then gave a crooked smile, as he seemed to realize what James had meant. “Do you worry for Saint-Cyr?” he questioned smoothly with a single, arched eyebrow that did not quite mask his agitation, for he tossed his head a small amount, restlessly, and flicked his gaze up and down and up again, seeming to find all of James captivating. But his rich voice flattened on the name of Saint-Cyr, pressing down on itself ruthlessly as though to crush the life from it.

James felt himself grow tense, even his face stiffening at the slyly voiced threat. He had suspected the truth on that evening at the banquet table, listening to René’s fearless declarations, taken as a jest by those too stupid to know better. Such threats might have earned René his death on this island, and he had spoken them anyway. And he had not liked Etienne even before he had learned his name, glaring at him at the harbor for some imagined offense no doubt.

“Why do you mean Etienne harm? He has done nothing to you. It is not simply the money?” He asked it in a high, impassioned voice, though somehow could not believe that it was truly about gold, not when Villon risked losing that in his quest for... What he desired with Etienne Saint-Cyr, James could not say. The sons of noblemen sometimes dueled over matters that those with more important troubles dismissed as nothing, yet for all his airs, René was no nobleman.

René’s tongue clucked loudly against the roof of his mouth, and he made a displeased face. His look chastised James for speaking so directly, and James could not help but gape, thinking of René’s own bluntness when it came to matters of carnality.

“We value gold,” René slowly pronounced at last, dropping his lashes and then lifting them slowly to reveal eyes that glittered like the jewels in his earbob. James blinked at the lights, angling his head back without standing up or leaning away. He recognized his own words from the disastrous supper, and then René was shaking his head violently, biting out his words. “I never said I would harm your…Etienne.” He struck one hand hard against the top of the desk, and the force reverberating up James’ arms.

“You want to,” James countered firmly, refusing to pull away even when René slammed his other hand down and leaned in furiously, though his stomach twisted, nervous pains spiking through him. “I kn…know you do. It is wrong, René.”

“What do you know, James?” Villon spat out his name, and hot breath spilled over his face. “You know nothing.” René spat that too, drawing so near that the breath caressing James’ face was wet like the very Indies air. He inhaled, and tasted spices on his tongue. Anise and vanilla, like in candies. He wondered dizzily if René would taste of marchipan sweets, but collected himself at Villon’s next words. “You are an innocent who should have been a priest. You will not preach to me!”

“Why?” James spoke roughly, somehow hurt by the remark, and saw the angry crease in René’s forehead, and the trembling in his arms, though his sword still remained untouched. He had to swallow down the lump in his throat despite the dryness, and then swipe his tongue across his lips. “Because I place worth on a man’s life? Because I try to help my friends?”

If René had been frowning before, he looked ready to soak the sands of Jamaica with blood now; the cold determination that had preceded Carter’s death was nothing to fire bursting from his eyes that seemed to scorch the skin of James’ face. Involuntarily, James tried to step back, but his hands slipped on the papers until one brushed René’s fingers. It burned like with fever, and René tried to pull his hand away.

Startled, James clamped down on the smaller hand without thinking, much as he might have done with the quickly disappearing hand of a pickpocket.

“Should I spare him as you spared Deniau?” René sneered, the muscles in his hand twitching under James’ touch. James knew he flinched at the name, just to recall the rage that had momentarily sung through his veins. But he would not allow his eyes to leave René’s, letting the silence drain them both. The whole room around them seemed to shake, and James felt his body wanting to collapse with the strain. “That cost me, James.”

“It cost me too,” James confessed urgently; it had cost him as it was costing him now. But then Villon had known that when James had swooned afterwards. His mind had been sick with too many passions that night, but he remembered that, being ordered to bed like a weak child. It was as clear in his brain as holding out the blade and thinking about killing Deniau. It should never have happened. Cavendish’s murder and James’ attempt at justice, and yet René had allowed both to happen. Justice…murder…both words teased, both mocking him with the need for blood to wash away blood. But could it ever be washed away from a man’s soul? Was anything worth the taint of that?

Letting out one deep breath did not help him, and he reached out, surprised to realize that he still held Villon’s hand. And holding it he was, holding it against the palm of his hand, stroking softly, slowly. Dark eyes were locked on his face, waiting, and James searched through his rambling thoughts for anything to say.  He found himself whispering when he did speak, watching how his breath disturbed the hair framing the handsome face before him.

“A sin, René.” He dared to say the name once more but other than the scented, warm breath tingling through his nostrils, there was no reaction from Villon. His heart was so loud in his ears, mayhap René had spoken and James had not heard. But his eyes were raw from how he had not blinked, and René’s white face was only a finger’s length from his own.

“I will tell him,” James promised rashly, anything to prevent this, to take away the dread that had him suddenly so agitated. For a moment he thought René was still unmoved, and the other man ground out a rough curse to one of his Roman saints.

“Why have you not already?” Villon asked him seriously, panting as though he had run here from the harbor.

It was an impossible question to answer, a hundred different lies filling James’ mouth though he held them in. Most had the familiarity of his thoughts these past few nights, doubts and suspicions that had remained unvoiced despite his fears.

“I do not wish to see you die, Villon.” James let this explanation fall onto the pile of papers between them, one of the few truths he admitted to. Cowardly it was, but the weakness of his mind seemed to want to possess his body as well, and he had the terrifying thought that if he did he would be left with naught but his soul, and his hold on that was slippery, as though coated with the same sweat that dotted his palms.

“To you, I will be like Deniau, if I do this, what you imagine?” There was a challenge in the tilt to Villon’s chin, up and to the side as though both angered and thoughtful. “Only that?” With his soft little sigh he seemed to be the same languid man who had lounged on the deck and sucked thirstily on the neck of a wine bottle. Mayhap he was; for it was that same man who had reared up at the first hint of defiance, striking down James’ arguments with a recklessness for his own body and soul that had had James staggering. “I will do as I please!” René reminded him in the next moment, yanking his hand free at last, only to place it on top of James’. He leaned in, and his waist pushed against the desk.

“And what of what pleases me?” James could not help but ask it, though it was the height of folly even if he spoke so gently that René’s hair did not stir. Heat fanned across René’s high cheekbones, accuenuating the bejeweled features of his face, making him seem a collection of gleaming dark stones. He parted his rosy lips, revealing his pink tongue, and then James was groaning and shoving against the desk in complete surprise at the feel of that tongue sliding along his jaw.

Embarrassment at the short, startled laugh from Ben that recalled the boy to James’ mind had him pulling away, his own foolishness, and the sudden awareness of his own desperate state of arousal bringing a conflagration to his cheeks. Throbbing against the hard wood he was, so hard himself that he feared turning around to face Ben. He focused angrily on the cause of his arousal instead, but finding not the slightest traces of amusement in René’s expression.

His lips were still parted, and oddly stung and swollen now, as though he had been kissed, or bitten them as James was wont to do. But they shined from where he had licked them with that same torturous tongue, and seemed to try to form words though René said naught.

The grip on his hand was deathly tight, fingers pressed to his wrist to feel how quickly René had made his blood pound with only a tiny caress, but when James allowed his gaze to fall to it, he saw only the tense, slender body, arched into the desk as if René would have it gone, and James in its place.

The idea was enough to have James twitching, his cock rubbing the inside of his breeches, and through that the unbending wood, making him gasp. His vision became fogged, and he became dizzy, needing the desk now to stand upright.

“Ben.” Even that took effort, and he had to speak in English. But he could not turn his head to look, and René’s eyes said that he would not allow it in any case. Nonetheless he sensed Ben’s excited jump to attention, and had the feeling that Ben had not taken his eyes from the scene they must have made, not once. “Go out there, see if the contract was left with one of them.” The fingers at his wrist clutched him with a new strength, surely stopping the flow of blood, and James closed his eyes when the ache in his lap only intensified, pulsing so heavily that he had to fight the need to push his body against anything. “Cl…” The shame of what he was to say, of what others and no doubt René as well would think had him stammering. “Close the door behind you.”

It was mad. The utmost of foolishness to say this, to try to argue with a man who flies the sign of the Devil himself, to ask to be alone with him. But Ben said nothing, and when the sound came of the door opening and closing again, he reopened his eyes.

Villon’s eyes were wide, but clearer than James feared his own were, dark with a knowing amusement that would have made James blush with anger had not his face already been heated. The other man leaned in to close the distance that James had created, pausing abruptly without yet touching him, though James had not moved.

“Saint-Cyr’s life is mine.” René tossed it like a rich man might discard a glove, and James was amazed at the emotion there, the certainty in the low voice. There was no doubt that René meant it, that it was more important to him than anything, that even the clouds of lust could not push it from his mind. What under Heaven could have been the crime to warrant such a sentence?

“But you do not have to take it.” He knew there was no use in disputing René’s arrogance, though it made his lip tremble to say only that, until he held it firmly between his teeth. When this earned him no more response than a startled blink, he shuddered, wondering if it were useless to be attempting this.

This was René Villon, the corsaire, standing there before him in the very coat he had stolen from James’ murdered master, and though the man was no devil, he seemed to crave the soul of one. James flinched to recall how Villon had stood there, watching him leave and row away into Tortuga, letting the wind tear through his hair until it had left red lash lines across his face, all without ever seeming to feel the pain of it.

He shook his head with sudden force and pushed off from the desk, straightening for the first time in a long while. René stayed where he had left him, body taut and motionless as James rubbed absently at his wrist. James eyed him warily, but he did not seem inclined to move, and they stared at each other, listening for any sounds approaching the door.

There was a high-pitched, eager voice, Ben talking to Goodwin likely, but James felt his shoulders hitch regardless, and saw from René’s slow, almost imperceptible nod that he had seen the gesture.

“There are worse things than death,” he commented in a much less harsh voice, almost thoughtful in fact. His eyes dipped to the desk for the first time in many long moments, and then he glanced back up, looking as though nothing of any strangeness had just come from his red lips. “But what will happen, will happen.”

“Aye,” James agreed, for it was the truth and there was no denying that. That it was the truth did not keep the icy unease from knotting his belly, nor his teeth from sinking into his lip. Villon did not add to his words, and James heard them again in his mind, noting that though the fury in René’s voice had faded, his arrogant manner had not. The man had no more to say, but had given him those words. As a threat or a concession, he could not determine.

“That is Fate, René. Faith,” he blurted in astonishment, his tongue running away with him as René’s final words sounded in his ears. He could not keep the pride from the words, though he tried, watching in dismay and no little fear as René came away from the desk and strode furiously around toward him. Clenching his hands into balls at his sides gave him only a modicum of strength, and he forgot himself for a moment, falling back before the power of the smaller man’s passion. He found his spine a moment later and stood still, though it was too late, for Villon was upon him. “I do not want anybody to be hurt, René,” he fired out hurriedly, though it made no difference. The other man just grabbed his veste before he had even fully stopped walking and raised it up so that he could slide his hands underneath the fabric.

They clenched for one small moment against the old, thin linen of James’ shirt as René’s eyes flew up to meet his, and then they flattened out to spread all over his chest, moving everywhere at once as though René was blind, and needed his fingers to see.

James’ jaw snapped shut so hard it hurt, and he jerked forward, nearly falling against those hands. He should have toppled, with only René’s hands to support his greater weight, but René had stepped closer, and suddenly they were pressed tightly together, with Villon’s arms trapped between them.

He did not have to tilt his head down to see the absolute shock of it on René’s face, the utter stillness in his features that belied the heart, powerful and demanding, against his chest.

The other man’s eyes were very large, very dark, nearly swallowing James up before James could recall himself, recall that even this was just another way for Villon to distract and deny him.

“I will not allow it,” he whispered roughly, startling them both no doubt with the clarity and strength in the words. Villon’s eyelids fluttered, his cheeks filling with colour, and then he dropped his head out of James’ vision. His face lay against James’ chest, up against the outline of his own wandering hands and he sighed heavily, warming James’ skin through the many layers. The muscles under those hands jumped, and René seemed to feel it, raking soft patterns with his fingernails that only got harder when James tried without success to control his slight shifts, only moving himself further into Villon’s wicked punishments.

“René,” he gasped it, and René opened his mouth to bite him, the effect only slightly lessened by the thick, stinging fabric. But the knowledge of what the man had intended was more than enough to have him unbearably aroused, frustrated with his own clothing that kept him from the pleasure of René’s teeth. James threw back his head and let his arms come up, settling his hands on Villon’s hips to hold him.

“I do not want you to talk anymore,” René warned him in French, and bit down again, even going so far as to poke his tongue against the offending cloth, as if he relished each stirring of James’ cock against his middle at the thought of his agile tongue.

René himself was firm, hot muscle, and yet softer than the wooden desk, just as James had imagined and remembered him, and James pushed ravenously against him, tightening his grip on the slender bones beneath his hands. A startled groan sounded against his chest, and James was most pleased to hear it, stroking René’s hips as one might soothe a wild beast even as he thrust against his stomach, seeking his ease. He could feel how René desired his release too, the burning of his prick against his thigh and the wonder of his hands on his chest even though their flesh had not yet met.

Urgently, knowing that little time likely remained, James lowered his hand, searching blindly for the spot of greatest heat, and then finding it with an exclamation of excitement. But that was nothing to astounded, almost fearful shout from René, as James curled his fingers over the familiar length of his cock. But René had no reason to fear him, and so James must have been wrong.

The other man fell back a step, and James followed, had to follow, still held by René’s hands. One more step and the desk would be behind them; it was enough to make him tingle and itch on every inch of his skin, and beneath his flesh as well. Rolling his shoulders restlessly did not dispel the need to scratch, and he shifted without thinking, opening his legs to nearly surround Villon’s body.

Fingers twitched against his shirt, finding and scratching his peaked nipples as René lifted his head, panting so heavily they must surely hear it outside. His lips moved, again forming words that would not come, and James nearly smiled through his own raging ache, cupping René’s manhood and pressing on the shaft, squeezing it curiously.

“James!” A strangled gasp accompanying wide, over-bright eyes, and then there was the creak of the rotting door as it opened

“I have it,” Ben said loudly as René jumped away, and James pulled his hands close to his chest. The tingling in his palm was like the sting of warmth in his cheeks to be so interrupted and discovered once again, though at least he was not naked this time. He heard the door close quickly, and was grateful for that, though he could not quite bring himself to turn, not with his breeches tight and unforgiving against his screaming cock, and a breathless René Villon in front of him.

Only a moment or two longer, he could not help but think with a rush of resentment, a moment or two and then his ache would have been ended.

“He interrupts again!” René was barking at him in French, tight-lipped and white in the face. He had continued his backward path, the desk at his back as though mocking James for his wantonness. “Does not have the manners to look away,” he complained in a snarl, gesturing violently at Ben and seeming to ignore the raised area of his own, looser breeches.

James glanced down to it and then away, embarrassed now though still randy and befogged enough to long to look again. He closed his fingers over his palm, still warm with the imprint of the man’s shaft.

“He…” He caught his breath and swallowed, prepared to try to speak again knowing it would displease René, though also knowing that Villon was right, and he would need to speak to the boy if he could ever find the courage to talk so boldly to a child. “You seem to share his lack of manners,” he criticized, daring Villon to deny it. And from the way in which the man lifted his thin eyebrows haughtily, it was clear that he did. James could imagine René Villon being as outspoken and shameless a boy as Ben was now. “Can you blame him for staring?” James’ lips formed a line, knowing only too well how shameful they both must appear, being so carried away by lust they could not spend mere moments alone with jumping on each other like dogs in heat.

He cringed, and saw how René blinked. “You have no need for shame.” The feather light murmur seemed to come from another man, and James wondered if another spirit had entered René, for the man turned to actually look at Ben, studying him in one single all-seeing glance. “It is the child who ought to feel it.”

“Don’t you talk about me when I stand here before ye!” Ben stalked across to James and slapped the scroll into his quickly outstretched hand, then hurried across to lean against the wall with his arms crossed in front of him, his look promising revenge on Villon. James winced just to see the child’s unseemly behavior. He would have been given the strap, likely, if his true parents had been there to see it.

“Ben!” James called to him in unhappy surprise just as Villon startled them both by speaking in English.

“Child,” he began sternly, not quite raising his voice to a yell. “You will mind James.”

While James could only stare at such a pronouncement, Ben did not seem to have trouble finding his tongue.

“Scolding me won’t get you James!” Ben declared challengingly, so absolute in his stance and his tone that James cringed once more in shock and humiliation, his arousal fading to twinges of pain to think of the knowledge in those simple words. His arms fell to his sides and then he lifted them to cross in front of his chest, before dropping them again, almost wanting to hide the bulge in his breeches but not daring to place his hands there.

Not that it mattered in the slightest, for Villon and Ben had eyes only for the other, locked in some silent battle that lasted until James cleared his throat. Then both looked to him, equally reproachful and accusing, both with faces flushed from emotion. Villon probably upset that James could not control even a child, and Ben upset to have seen that display.

“Hush, Ben,” James said finally, focusing on the child to avoid having to meet René’s gaze. Ben blinked several times as if astonished and then his expression went flat, and he tossed a careful look to René.

Without looking in that same direction, James held out the roll of paper, gesturing with it toward the desk. “The contract, Sir.” He dared not call Villon anything else, not now, when he was still so unsatisfied and the name seemed to inflame the other man’s passion so.

“Ah, yes. That.” René returned to French with barely a pause, but just enough of a silence to let James know that he had noticed. It was a deliberate reminder, almost mockingly placing the blame for forgetting the business on James alone, and again James thought of Etienne and Sir Marvell, but mostly Etienne, and the cruelty of the nobility.

He frowned, shoving aside his wants to think of what René had as much as admitted, that this contract meant nothing to him whatsoever. He was to sign his name to a lie.

Stiffly, James followed René to the desk after the other man took the paper, opening up the inkpot and carefully dipping the quill. The tip of the feather brushed his still-heated skin and he shivered before stepping back, staying out of sight as a good servant was meant to do. A man did not share his thoughts or plans with his servant, any more then he might with his pet.

From a distance he watched as René bent over the desk and unfurled the paper, running the feather across his face as read the document carefully with the sudden seriousness James had seen once or twice before, as if René would be bound by its contents. His body was slight, especially from this position and enveloped in that damned red coat. Not much of him could be seen in it, and he seemed smaller, and lighter, only his arse firm and distinct in the thick material. And James had no blushes to spare for that shameful thought.

There was no mention of Etienne Saint-Cyr in that paper, not by name anyway. Perhaps the sugar he meant to escort as he had promised. James could only wonder at Villon’s motives as he always did, listening to the scratching glide of the quill as Villon signed the contract, writing his own name underneath the large mark L’Aranha had made for hers.

“I do not want anybody to be hurt.” Why he bothered or how he dared James did not know or care to ask himself, but René seemed to stiffen momentarily, before turning to him smoothly, leaving the paper where it lay, with the ink still wet.

“This is not your affair. What will happen, will happen,” Villon answered with a slight scowl, leaving James to wonder once more at his meaning. He could easily remember René’s words, that life was pain. He had believed it, even when he had made James feel the most incredible pleasure, had turned his thoughts to him and no one else. This foolish treasonous business of theirs, a collection of thieves out to see who slipped in the blood first, and none looking about them at anything else. Everything was a tool to them in their damned game. Why would Villon not sign his name to lies, or kill a man for nothing other than a moment of rudeness?

It was just as he had thought before, but worse now, for Villon was a smart man and knew the truth in his soul even if he denied it.

“If you are finished, Sir…” He stepped to the door, put one hand to it, and spoke in measured tones, though not quite banishing the rough edge to his voice, or the shaking of his hand upon the wood. He was too overwrought to open the door, afraid of what the other clerks might see in his face when they saw him, and so he could not stop his small feeling of gratitude when René took a step toward him and then halted so abruptly that it was almost as if he had run into the end of an enemy’s blade.

Villon cocked his head to peer in Ben’s direction, and then arched one brow to regard James expectantly. What he desired was so blatant that James jerked his head up, straightening his pose until he felt like a giant from a story, and René seemed almost as little as Ben. He enjoyed how René stretched his pale neck to gaze at him, not minding in the least the thought of the corsaire having sore muscles.

Undaunted, the man just frowned at him, only seeming vexed at having to raise his head. James watched how the heavy earbob fell back into the tangled, curled mass of his hair, and got caught instantly in the strands, though René noticed it not.

“You…” René started, and again shot a glance to Ben, who continued to sulk against the wall. With a dissatisfied mien, he again focused on James. “Your master has invited me to dine again this night.” He stopped the flow of words sharply on the last word, looking as though he had bitten his tongue and was pained. James just nodded, not surprised, but René still waited, and James wondered if the man still hoped for one final fuck before he sailed away. “I will.” His mouth curved into an upside down arch, indicating his annoyance with something. “You will be there.”

Perhaps it was the Frenchman’s slow English that had made what should have been a question a command, but James had little faith in that notion. He chose not to answer, hiding his tongue behind his closed teeth as they all stood in silence. And then when nothing was said, René swallowed thickly and reached into the depths of his coat.

James grew tense, unable to hide it after witnessing René pull a hidden blade from his clothes days before and knowing the man was rarely if ever completely defenseless. But inflicting pain seemed to be the man’s last thought as if brandished a small, leather bound book and pried apart the pages to peer at it suspiciously. At least it seemed like suspicion, curling his lips into a silent snarl, making him almost seem like of one the caged leopards at the Tower. James just noticed the sharp point of one of his teeth, and then René was thrusting the book at him, giving James a vicious glare.

“I have returned your book,” René added, unnecessarily, as James had already opened the book to its first pages, and had read the name inscribed there. There was the mark of a boot there as well, and a tear, from when it had been taken from him by some nameless pirate. The rest was undamaged. Deniau was must have kept it from harm, though he must have had little use for it without James to tutor him. Perhaps it had not made a good tool for swatting the bloodsucking insects that thrived in the Indies.

“The book your men stole from me, aye.” James closed the book without further inspection, holding it between his hands and rubbing them against the soft, well-worn leather. It warmed under his touch, as though it had come alive.

Villon reared back, searching for his face with eyes that sparkled. That he was nearly on his toes did not seem to be worthy of his notice, his attention wholly fixed on James.

“You will not be getting thanks from me.” James made it clearer, wondering at himself for his audacity in smiling coldly. “It is only that which was already mine that you have returned to me.” Though in truth he could not tell if Villon had even expected thanks, or had merely wanted to be rid of the thing. He was no nearer an answer when Villon answered him, shutting lids over bright eyes only to open them again with an unhappy frown.

“You do not like it? It is not…pleasing?” Barely had he said the words when Ben howled with a fit of laughter, startling them both into turning to gaze at the child. Ben lowered the volume of his mirth when he seemed to realize he was being observed, but continued to giggle to himself even after James had looked away. René did not turn as fast, and James had a moment to study his narrow profile, nearly hidden by thick forest of hair. There were still some traces of juice in it, making it cling together in sticky lumps, and James thought distantly that Villon needed to be looked after much as a child might. Marechal was failing in his duties.

“I like it well enough,” James said with impatience, taking a deep breath. He could not quite bring himself to add anything, even to bring some sort of feeling to the frozen mask in front of him. But without his interference, René moved at last, pulling his coat around him and continuing to glare at anything that caught his eye.

“Tonight.” René narrowed his anger to only James long enough to speak the words lowly in French and then put his hand over his to open the door. James’ fingers warmed instantly at the touch, and he nodded and snatched his hand away just as René swung wide the door.

He did not look back as he marched past the rows of curious men and out into the street. James watched until the blazing red coat was out of sight, and then shut the door again.

“Do we sail to England then, Master James?” Ben begged of him immediately, still grinning from his earlier fit of unexplained laughter.

“England?” James’ voice rose and caught, an embarrassing squeak more fitting on a boy like Ben than a man.

“He will take us, if y’ask it of him,” Ben went on slowly, his smile fading as he stared up at James. Then he shook his head, almost despairingly. James barely noticed that strange gesture, slowly letting his head fall until there was only the book in his hands to see. Then he felt his face and body heat, and his hands shook with the urge to knock Villon flat once more.

“You mean…?” he began to ask and then cut himself off with shame, unbelieving that he would ask such a question of a mere child. The muscles in his arm flexed and tightened, rippling with the urge to throw the book to the floor now that it had been offered back to him in such a profane manner. Mocking everything the writing in its pages stood for, mocking James himself as if James were to be silenced with this bribe disguised as some sort of love token.

The book offered warmth to his palms, a reassuring weight, and from somewhere came the memory of his father pressing it into his hands, smiling at him proudly. He had missed it, and though it burned him he could not toss it aside. Had René guessed that too? He wondered in a moment of flaring heat, before his sense returned.

“We do not sail with Villon,” he managed and saw Ben’s eyes widen at his tone, and how the boy leaned back farther into the wall. But he would not hide his anger, and felt his belly tighten at the thought of what might happen that evening.

Still trembling, he tucked the book inside a pocket, next to René’s gold, and waved for Ben to get the contract as he opened the door to outer office. He would go to see Etienne, and warn him as best he could without any proof, and do his best to shove some caution into the Frenchman’s foolishly proud head. Then he would return to Sir Marvell’s house and hand him the paper he cared not a whit for. After that there was only to wait for his opportunity to show René that he would not be taken with such a paltry gift.

Just imagining the shock that would make the rosy mouth fall open was enough to have James chuckling softly to himself, just as René was wont to do.
 

Copyright R. Cooper with all rights reserved

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