Part Two: Tortuga

Chapter Five

There were but two channels leading into port on Turtle Island, both running between tall, rocky cliffs that looked as treacherous as the rest of the island's shores had proved to be. But despite appearances they were dangerous only to fools and the inexperienced, like women were said to be, something that made René smile shortly, considering the idea of a woman making a fool of him with the first faint spark of interest he had felt in several days. But his fascination did not last long, fading quickly to the dull, throbbing anger that still remained from the events of two nights before. His smile disappeared, and he narrowed his eyes to the sight of the water crashing onto the stones and nothing else.

A moment later he shrugged such unpleasant thoughts away. Regardless of the tales of women and their wiles it was not likely for a woman to pose as big as threat to him as those cliffs ahead; one test of the waters had satisfied him that there was no danger there. Just thinking that there might be was enough to return the grin to his face.

He moved his gaze from the jagged rocks to his navigator, standing a few feet away at the helm. Thierry's eyes were wide and eager as he stared toward the island and René very much doubted that it had anything to do with concern for the ship. The younger man looked almost like a pup dreaming of crusts from the table, and René's brows drew together in a slight frown despite his amusement, wondering if the cliffs would prove a danger to Thierry in his eagerness to reach what lay beyond them. He ought to steer her himself.

That would be best. Thierry could go join the others in staring at the coast and René could concentrate on what had to be done.

"I will take her." He was at the helm before Thierry had enough turned to look at him, and slid his hands firmly onto the wood once Thierry had finally stepped aside, though keeping nearby in case help steering was necessary. That the man looked openly irritated by his act was surprising, but René did not dwell on it, nodding only to acknowledge what the man had done so far.

Down below were most of his men, and his captives, though no doubt many of those would join him in deed as well as name soon enough. His eyes traveled over their heads absently, their faces easy enough to identify in the light of day. From where he stood, he could see all the way to the bow, to the small sheltered spot where a pile of rope still lay, and his grip tightened on the spokes in his hands. The current was strong here, and it took strength to stay in control.

"Captain?" Thierry leaned into his vision, peering at him, and René tore his eyes from the sight and focused instead on Honoré, who had managed to take his eyes and thoughts away from the whores on the island for one moment.

"You will find Marechal and have him with you when you give the orders for who stays and who goes onshore," he ordered, his jaw tight. None would argue with Marechal there.

But Honoré hesitated, swallowing once before leaning back.

"Marechal?" he began in a careful whisper but stopped when René set his shoulders and turned back to the water.

"Yes, Marechal." As René said it he could see the large man's form, moving among the crew, coming in this direction. "You are not afraid of him, are you, Honoré?" he asked mockingly and arched his eyebrows at the anger thickening the other man's voice.

"I will not have to look to find him." Thierry answered, sounding so much like James Fitzroy with his stiff disapproval that René almost turned to make sure that he had not left and the Englishman had taken his place. Ignoring both the tone and the meaning of the odd words, René jerked his head toward the deck.

"Assure them that I will send women and drink aboard, as always," he added, referring to his order, then dismissing the man altogether as his ship entered the channel between cliffs and the port city lay ahead of them. Thierry slipped away a moment later and René forgot about the man and his sulking other than to track his course over the deck. Another of his men came up behind him, ready to help guide the resisting wheel if needed, and this one did not bother him with conversation.

Honoré and Marechal passed a tall figure turned to face the bow and René raised his gaze and began tapping one finger against the wheel to the time of a tune he had heard when last on Tortue. The Englishman was still looking at him, and René twisted his mouth at the realization, keeping his eyes on the sky and the water and the cliffs around them. The tune was sad though he could not recall the words, but then Spanish songs were always about lost loves or duels and so words about either of those things would have sufficed.

When reading and giving his foolish, wasted lessons to that child, the Englishman had a way of narrowing his gaze; René had seen it often enough from his favourite spot on the stern and had been amused to see the boy squirm underneath it. The boy that had only stared with interest at the blood of the fat lord spilling across the deck and that had not even flinched to see his captain carved up like a roasted chicken. He had not even had the grace to look away when finding he and James together.

At that thought René's gaze dipped back down, not at all surprised to see the child standing at James' side, looking as small and weak as he doubtless would have when standing near the ass, Carter. After René's own service near Ben's age, at what the English liked to call a cabin boy, he would not have minded watching a bloody execution or two either. He smiled coldly.

He would have enjoyed it.

The song vanished from his mind and with it his momentary distraction. James and his little disciple were still down below and René flicked his eyes from them to the water and back again, holding the wheel steady without truly thinking of it, though his muscles still fought the water. It was nowhere near as strenuous as turning, which required more men, but still an effort.

James ought to be staring ahead, looking to the New World and his new life and dreaming of his women like the rest of the men who would be scratching their balls in a week, complaining of the pox. René paused in his thoughts for a moment to mark his need to purchase medicines once onshore then shrugged the thought away.

James had flung his women in his face like some bragging Italian, so much so that René deliberately reminded himself of afterward, of how James had opened his legs and lifted his ass and moaned for it before René had finally allowed him release.

Those serious eyes studying him, what had they looked like in the dark in that night? They had not been so proud or so knowing as they had been when James had condemned him as a sinner and the Devil before his own men, and neither had they been as dreamy and wounded as they had been while he had been crouched over the body of his employer. No, they had been hungry and desperate and wide open to stare at him as he had been preparing to leave, not understanding why he had been left with his own hard cock in his hands when he had only moments before been stroking René's with those same, soft palms.

For the barest moment, René met the Englishman's gaze and held it. They were too far apart for him to read his expression, for James had chosen to watch him from a safe distance, but René easily could imagine the new knowledge behind those damned spectacles, and relished the idea that he had placed it there.

St. Denis, how James had seized control on his own, squeezing and caressing his prick as if he had wanted nothing more than to watch René come all over him. St. Denis, René groaned again under his breath and clutched the spokes of the wheel in white hands, reliving his pleasure as he had done just that.

"Merde," he murmured, no doubt confusing the man near him, and tossed his head to banish the few curls that had fallen forward. He turned from James again at the small sign of displeasure and wondered if his act displeased James as well, frowning when that would have brought a smile to his face.

It was good that René had stepped away then. If he had stayed longer he might have turned to see James staring at him with those eyes, and he might have gone back to him and then he would have had to say his farewells once more. Good that the child had interrupted them, even though a child, even Ben, should not have seen such things. Too many lovers would not leave when René was through with them, would stay when no longer welcome, and such a return might have given the Englishman false hope. Make him ask for more.

The Englishman was going to leave once he was in Tortue, even with no money he would find a way, and return to Jamaica, where according to Carter’s logs the ship had been bound. There were few ways to make money on Turtle Island, and René paused to consider each, and which the Englishman would choose. He was a smart man, with his books, strong willed and beautiful; money would find its way to him soon enough, in some way that would turn his innocent eyes hard and seep the blushes from his face.

Some of the other English might try to escape in Tortue, and René wished luck to them absently, knowing most would return either to him to someone else or stay on the island, living in fear of him and his words that first day on their ship. As if he wanted an unwilling crew, ready to kill him and take control at any time. All he had wanted was a quiet, obedient crew until he would reach the island and sell their ship. But tales of the monster Villon would spread and he would end up on some English list of those to be caught and hanged, if the sea did not claim him first.

Cavendish belonged to the waters now, feeding the fish on the ocean floor and James would be most angered to know that René thought this was best. A laugh burst from René at the thought, loud enough to catch the attention of a few down below, his own men who only shook their heads at his humour. Drifting down into the cool depths until the water was black and there was only sleep. It was a Fate to be prayed for, unworthy of a man like the English lord, who attacked children and thought a wig was dignity.

James was a fool to mourn him, weeping over him with bright eyes as if there had been any part of the man to be missed. René's lingering smile widened as he recalled coming up to the main deck behind Deniau, watching Deniau reach for his dagger. After such insults, it would have been a shock if he had not. As for the blood, there would have been less if Deniau had faced the man first and stabbed; slicing a throat open was a messy business.

It had stained James' hands when René had pressed the dagger into them. Hands that already been stained with his seed. René had known James would not kill, not when he had not before, in the doorway, but Deniau had not known, and René's anger had been such that it had pleased him to upset Deniau. He had not expected the Englishman to grow weak and dizzy, to murmur about strange things.

Swooning. René wrinkled his nose. As if he would know what the damned word meant. The unknown English had been whispered almost drunkenly, followed by his name. The Englishman had called him by his name several times, and not just in pleasure, René realized abruptly, and tapped a finger thoughtfully on the wheel.

His eyes slipped across the ship and got mired in muddy English brown, enlarged by curved glass. Why was the Englishman staring at him so? René nearly snarled as he snapped his head away, observing the gentling blue waters without any appreciation for their beauty. He had said his farewell already, did not the fool understand? Or was he simply too afraid, swooning in fear that René would not allow him to leave?

He would be happy to see the Englishman go, would say it to the man's face if James ever grew balls enough to come to him to speak of it. He had had enough of James and his questions, of his never-ending stream of  'whys', and his discerning but naive gaze. He was sick of the sight of him, especially now, for in his disgust of Deniau since Cavendish's death, James had refused the use of his razor and his face was hidden by another ugly, spotty growth of beard.

It had not seemed to be fear in his eyes now. Intent and focused and yet otherworldly, as if he dreamed. As if he found René fascinating, and imagined them together like lovers when even the child Ben knew better than that. James was not one of those men who stayed on board to be with his matelotot.

Murmurings caught his ear and René jerked his head up and blinked, startled to see the many masts and sails of other ships around him. But his men were moving, lowering sails and preparing to drop anchor, the city ahead of them.

City. He scoffed at their use of the word. Despite the many palmitto-thatched buildings and the stone-walled fort, it was little more than a village. A place for pirates and slave traders and men like him to come and visit with whores and drink and lose their money. It was only along the rest of the island that things were more calm, cutthroat crews holing up to repair their ships until the next round of captures and debauchery began anew. Thinking of it brought a slight ache to his head, and he sighed tiredly.

"Ready the boats!" René shouted out unnecessarily a moment later, to remind his men that the faster they moved, the faster they would be onshore. They would not have much to spend—aside from le Sheba they had not sighted any ships, at least not any from Spain or not carrying slaves, which did them little good. Money for their next voyage would come from the sale of the English ship, now that it had been stripped of its name and colours. What that voyage would be...that depended on who was around. Whenever he did go finally onshore today, he was hoping to meet with Mirena, who might have a plan to take a city, or be willing to join in an attack on a convoy of gold. That ought to please the men, even with the monies they still had with their families back in St. Malo, they would want more. What they took was theirs to keep, for as long as they could hold it.

The thought of lost treasure made mind skip back to Deniau, turning his attention from the feel of the ship slowing and the waters easing, to the small lady's mirror he had taken from the man in punishment for his transgression.

This ship had rules; René expected them to be obeyed, and so did the men. Deniau had had no right to glare at him as if the dead lord had been his fault. He had allowed Deniau to make his choice on those stairs, and he had. It was not as if the mirror meant anything to the man, both he and René had known that without a word being spoken. It had been a token only, taken to please the crew. René would probably sell it, cracking the rubies free from their settings would get him more money. Mirrored glass alone was enough to buy him whatever he wanted.

They were lovely, gleaming rubies, high quality, and he considered keeping one, just to look at. Such a prize as that might convince any man to stay onboard and live a corsaire's life.

A light touch grazed his shoulder and René twisted his head and then raised his gaze, unhappy to see Marechal’s visage looming so close to him. Marechal’s face was smooth; odd for such a large, dirty man to keep such a clean, childlike appearance, not that it made him more comely, in fact having the opposite effect of showing René every crooked scar and bulbous feature. If he chose, he could make the large man smile, and then he would not even be spared the yellowed, broken grin, more familiar to him than his own though it had been years since he had truly seen it.

But making Marechal a happy man no longer interested him and he did not want to remember when it had, so he turned away without speaking, though the ship did not need anyone to steer now. It was just one of many ships waiting in port, lifeless and dead, almost out of place with the dark wood and the pale fresh blue of water and sky.

Already a few strong men were climbing down the rope ladders flung over the side to waiting boats, reliable oarsmen to get the men to shore and bring the supplies back. He watched from the high deck and did not move, other than to slide his hands from the wheel at last. His arms fell heavily to his sides as if weighted and then, when Thierry looked up to him from the main deck, he nodded.

Thierry immediately signaled to the men that they could begin descending the ladder, the more experienced of them in no hurry. Even Honoré had managed to contain his impatience.

“Le negre does not go.” The four words startled him, more for the fact that Marechal had spoken than for their meaning.

“No, Deniau does not.” Curling his fingers into his palms did not quite keep the shrill edge from his voice, and René scowled to realize that he had the sound of his mother. Deniau would stay on the ship as punishment, though no doubt finding some putain to ease his stay. It was hardly a flogging, but it was enough to satisfy René’s anger for now at being forced into this position by Deniau’s carelessness. And regardless of anything else, Deniau would only get drunk and cause more deaths on the island if René let him go ashore.

A rough, angry sigh did nothing to calm him. How he longed to beat the man senseless for standing there and taunting James to kill him. And what if by some work, James had done it? What then? This time René pulled in a breath and moved slowly down to the quarterdeck, one foot carefully before the next.

James had found shoes, he noticed with surprise and quiet sound of displeasure. Or perhaps he had been given them. He was fortunate that his feet had fit in such delicate slippers, designed for some nobleman somewhere a long time ago. One of his men had likely realized that a man in their trade could not wear such things and be taken as a man. Soft leather and satin lining, small bows to decorate the top, probably of the same fabric. They looked ridiculous on such strong, square feet, especially without stockings. Such apparel to make his first steps in the soil of the New World… René’s lips quirked upward despite his bad humour.

He moved his eyes up over hairy legs and torn breeches to his bare chest and horrible growth of beard. At the face René paused, but James Fitzroy was no longer turned to him with eyes full of questions. Instead he was staring at the stone walls and cannon of the fortress, already growing over with green. His first sight of his New World, Jerusalem to the pilgrim. James’ body was still, his attitude one of surprise and expectation, and again the scene in his cabin drew itself into René’s mind. Not as he had had James over his desk, but after. The pose was the same.

James had expected the New World to be different from the Old, René suddenly realized, and nodded to himself, continuing down toward the main deck, Marechal behind him. His James was more of an innocent than that child he was helping climb over the side at that moment, a virtuous lamb in a world of butchers.

Ben was slipping down easily now, proving that he had needed no help at all, but James did not see that. René stopped in place to stare back at the Englishman, feeling the heat of Marechal against his back where the other man had stopped as well. He pressed his lips together tightly at that but waited where he was, shaping his mouth into a smile when James put his hands on the rail and prepared to disembark. There were others behind him; he ought not stand there like a gaping lackwit. James seemed aware of it, turning his head and moving at last, his long body quickly disappearing from view.

A touch on his upper arm made him twist his head back and Marechal flinched at his look.

"There are no children on my ship anymore," he told the other man purposefully, his voice steady, and spun away just as the larger man’s eyes began to narrow. But the weight was lifted from his arm, and René moved swiftly across to Honoré to tell him of his change in plans.

“Marechal will have charge of the ship for the next few watches.” He announced it loudly enough for Marechal to hear and then looked out over the edge of the ship toward the island. “I will take the next boat ashore. You may also if you wish it.” Honoré was probably burning for a woman by now and René had much to do. A rise in energy had him crossing to his cabin to straighten his hair and get his coat. As he came out he could sense Marechal’s eyes and dropped his shoulders carelessly, acknowledging the man without seeking him out. He owed Marechal no explanation, nor Thierry, though at least the man had the sense not to ask about the change.

Miracle! Thierry retained his good sense all the long way from the boat to the land and kept his silence, talking only to Jean as they both rowed dutifully. Nonetheless, his eagerness reminded René again of a pup, and he was amused enough to laugh at the way the man leapt from the boat in order to wade through water to the shore, to the women coming down toward the beach to meet the men from his ship. It was the way the women met all new arrivals though that hardly seemed to bother anyone.

Loose hanging blouses showed more than hints of well-tanned bosom, dropping to reveal more as the women lowered their arms to hitch up their skirts to cross the sand. Their faded skirts already revealed their legs, hiking them up was only to distract from their aging faces, but René admired the effort distantly as he disembarked with more grace than Honoré.

With barely a nod to his navigator, René headed up the shore to the city, leaving the man to his pleasure. His own pleasure was to be had in a tavern, getting a good enough price for the English ship that he did not have to use his own funds to continue, or do anything that he did not wish to do to please annoyed backers. He also needed more wine, even some of the strong piss that the Portuguese liked to call wine would do.

Hours later, smacking his lips at the pleasant flavor of the fine Southern wine he had just purchased a few casks of, René was quite happy with the events of the day. The English ship, stripped of even its cannon, had fetched a good price in talks, and his dealings with another captain would likely lead the profitable sale of the guns. Balls and powder of course, would cost the man more. Tomorrow he would begin to see to supplies and the final arrangements for the ship, taking his time so that his men could enjoy themselves for a few days.

Smiling slightly, his humour improved since that morning, René walked slowly through the streets as night took the last bit of light from the day. There had been no sign of Mirena at the past two taverns he had visited, but that meant nothing. There were rumours and stories of other men, Morgan sailing with big dreams, the activities of the Spanish, tales of politics in France. René listened to them all with interest though it was certain most were false. But even rumours could affect his future, so he sat in each roughly built house and had a drink, avoiding the rum but feasting on fresh pork mutton and slices of the island’s fruit.

He was sticky with juice and wine now, the roasted meat turning in his stomach since he had not eaten so much in so long, and his feet unable to stop moving. Men were stumbling and shouting all around him, most strangers to him, though a few had the confused, amazed expressions of those who had never seen such revelry and who now found themselves enraptured with it. Or perhaps they were simply land sick, their minds unused to the feel of solid ground beneath them. It happened to those who were not used to life on ships, they would lose all grace and fall over their own feet, collapsing weakly into their beds for days at a time. Rene could not remember when this had all been new to him, though it had not been so many years since then, and tried to imagine himself so innocent.

Prostitutes moved freely among the falling, careless figures, breasts swinging as they danced around half-clothed, enjoying the liquor the men were happy enough to drown them in. All seemed to have a bottle or reek of ale and rum and their screaming scraped along his spine whenever one of them would get too close. He ought to return to the ship, he was not comfortable amid the chaos of reveling strangers and usually avoided it. The people who lived here needed these fools for their living, though to the men they were just people to serve rum and fuck in any space available, uncaring of the dirt staining their clothing. But he did not need to breathe in the stench of their common debauchery.

Some of those around him were men, embracing other men as if King Louis himself had not sent these women to the island to prevent just that thing. René studied a few of them with vague interest before turning his gaze away to be polite, as that child Ben had not done. Seeing the wide eyes of the few of those watching, René could only imagine what his English passengers would think of Turtle Island if newcomers found this so shocking. It was nothing to the sins of Jamaica and Port Royal.

“Vous êtes seul, monsieur?” The question was whispered heatedly into his ear and René snapped around to stare at the little whore addressing him. Her face was dirty, and plain, like most of those taken from the streets and prisons of Paris and Marseille and brought here. “You are lonely?” she asked again in slow English and opened her mouth again when he did not answer, probably to ask in Castilian. It was not the first time he had been asked that day, and would not be the last, so he merely shook his head impatiently and tried to move on.

A hand slid up his thigh to his cock, cupping its soft length firmly. She had decided that words had failed, it seemed. René locked his hand around her wrist and jerked her arm away faster than he would have even for a cutpurse, even while he was shifting his body out of reach. The little whore’s eyes did not even change from their expression of clouded interest at his action though he might have hurt her, and his smile slid away to nothing, his grip tightening. Focusing as much as he could in the fading light he could see that beneath the filth she was not even twenty, probably only a few years above four and ten.

Letting out a furious breath, he twisted her arm and then thrust her to the side, hurrying away before she noticed the coin in her palm and followed after him to demand more.

Not too far ahead was another tavern, so full that people stood in the street shouting for more liquor and tossing empty blackjacks over their shoulders. One of the discarded tankards hit another man in the arm and René stepped around him and into the building just as the man shoved the other drunk who had thrown it and began shouting at him in something that had the sound of the Dutch.

“Boerelul!” he roared as if trying to be heard back in his homeland, and the other man answered with something René could not make out. Both men were much larger than him and he cocked his head back at the first heavy, sick sound of a punch; that needed no translation. Grunts and cries of encouragement followed, not nearly as interesting, but they attracted the attention of those in his way and René smiled as his path was suddenly cleared.

It was almost unbearable inside the wide room, the wet heat of the island combining with the torch smoke and the warmth of the twenty or so bodies inside. The wine had flushed his face and added to his discomfort. René shifted, as if that would ease the pressure between his shoulders blades and dry the sweat running beneath his shirt and coat. If he were not looking for someone, he would not have come, instead going back to the ship where it was quiet and cool on the water. He should go there now. The island would be here tomorrow, and all those on it.

The scuffle continued outside however, and he knew that drunken, angry fools would not stop to look before stabbing with their cutlasses or striking out at the nearest man they saw, and he had no wish to bleed for a spilled glass of rum.

Muttering to himself, he snatched a full tankard from the hands of a plump, dark skinned woman and swept his eyes over the room. The liquor was halfway to his mouth when he espied a familiar pox-marked English face at the back of the room. René could not recall his name, but it was the friend of James Fitzroy, the man he had seen him in conversation with many times. He had seemed most interested in those conversations, and René frowned to think of the few words James had managed to say to him, each one full of condemnation. Whatever the two of English had talked about was of no interest to him.

But the Englishman looked up and saw him watching, his sudden stillness making that apparent, so René bowed his head as if acknowledging some great noble and took a step toward him. His mocking gesture was met with narrowed eyes, and then the other man looked away, reaching out and snagging a short figure with one hand.

René glanced in the same direction then froze, taking a long drink of the rum without tasting much but its sugar sweetness. The Englishman yanked hard once and the small form of Ben was pulled back against him, then shoved back down onto the bench at his side. The wood looked to be hard, for the boy winced and glared at his captor. Then he snatched at the glass of liquor in front of the man and drank a few sips before putting it back and wiping his mouth on his sleeve. The marked man seemed not to care; his eyes were darting from René to the many women rushing about though he did not say a word.

James was not with him. René knew it without looking for the tall man, unable to imagine him letting the boy drink anything but milk as if he were still a babe in his mother’s arms. As if milk offered protection. Then he swore at himself for ignoring the obvious, that the wide, ugly Englishman must be the boy’s protection, or protector, with James Fitzroy gone and Carter dead.

“Master Villon!” The boy’s hushed shout of surprise should not have reached his ears in the crowded room, but René turned to his name without thinking and stared into the boy’s face. Man and boy were sitting at a table near an opened window, and a nearby torch provided enough light for René to see them, and for them to see him. It looked cooler near the window, and for that René headed toward it, shifting his gaze around the room and observing the other people inside as he moved.

It was surprising that they had not seen him the moment he had entered; all the doors were visible from this table. Approving, René leaned against the wall next to the splintered wooden shutters and watched the doors. He ignored those at the table; merely scowling slightly when the ugly Englishmen ordered more of the ale he was drinking and dragged a laughing woman onto his lap for several moments. A few pinches later and she was gone, mercifully, taking her squeals with her. Then there was just silence and the brawl outside, growing louder with each moment. It ought to end soon.

“Have you come to take us back, then?” The abruptly asked, low growl of a question raised René’s head and he glanced at the Englishman with an arched brow.

“Why would I want you?” he responded instantly, shrugging and making a show a drinking the accursed rum. Why the English liked it he would never understand.

The marked face grew wrinkled as the man frowned and René thought vaguely that no amount of beauty patches would ever make it lovely. Mirena would laugh at him for it, for showing his blood in such a way, but it was the truth. If this man was forcing the child to caress such a face then he deserved a death as drawn out as Carter’s.

René looked to Ben and found the child studying the foolishness outside with wide eyes, curious, but not shocked. They stared with the same calm interest at the tavern maid as she returned, peering down into her bodice, and then moved on to observe the ale itself.

“What about James?” the man demanded softly. The boy turned to face the man first, whipping around at the words, and then a moment later René did the same, breathing softly through his nose. The liquor heated his face, and he shifted slightly so that the breezes might come through the window to chill him. When he did not speak, the Englishman, Pym, René suddenly remembered his name, went on tightly. “Do you seek to keep us with you?”

“I cannot watch the whole island.” René dropped one shoulder carelessly and switched his cup from one hand to the other. Looking at Pym he caught the expression of disbelief and almost grinned to see it. “I have released you. I have no care if you go or stay.” Perhaps the man was slow and did not comprehend that when René had sent him from the ship he had meant it.

“James thought…” the Englishman Pym began and then stopped, rubbing his strong neck with one hand. The child reached up as if to do it for him but froze with one arm out, and peeked up at René through long eyelashes, waiting like a good little pet. Without James he was not sure where to look. No longer amused, René set the blackjack of rum down on the table so hard some liquor splashed onto his lace cuffs. He stared at it blankly and then blinked and lifted his chin.

“James thought what?” he snapped, his voice so thick he was not sure the English understood. Pym’s face flushed with feeling, most likely anger, though he hid it a moment later by ducking his head down.

“James thought you might try to…keep us.” The fury was still with him, evident in his restlessly drumming fingers, but his face looked calm enough when he finally raised it once more for René to see. It made René wonder for a small moment what he knew, what James had told him.

“Keep you?” René repeated slowly and then jerked his head up. His sharp laughter only angered them more, he knew, but he could not stop, not when it was so funny. He hurt inside when he finally quieted, and had to hold his sides to keep more from spilling out. Two sets of eyes regarded him narrowly once he looked back at them, accusingly, and he pushed himself against the wall to stand up. “You will find new masters, if you want them,” he finished, his voice hardening at the end.

The child blinked once and René found himself distracted enough into staring only at him. His eyes were more green than brown, watchful and distrusting, nearly hidden behind a mess of unruly hair. He was too young still to have the look of a man, though old enough now to no longer be mistaken for a girl by any one not blind drunk. Little eyebrows were drawn together in confusion, likely at his words, though judging from the curve of his mouth, the boy had understood more than Pym.

“What if I choose to stay with you?” The Englishman was asking, his voice overly loud.

“Then a place might be found for you.” René answered without thinking. A strange request, from an Englishman. There were plenty of other ships that had no allegiances to anyone but themselves and the Brotherhood. But what of Ben? Or was he asking for the child as well?  His mind raced around in circles and he looked away from the child and focused on the Englishman. “Where is James?”

He bit his tongue in his haste to close his mouth, the salt of his blood mingling with the distilled sugar of the rum. The furious question hung in the air between them, swinging in the breeze from the window, and he let one hand fall to the hilt of his sword.

“He’s nae here.” Ben stuck out his chin and went silent after that, having the appearance of having said all he was going to say in defense of the man who had abandoned him. René did not even bother to look at him directly, watching for Pym to speak. The man sighed heavily, then rubbed his neck again.

“Out searching for ways to get…away from here,” he replied at last, carefully, and René snorted. There were many ways out, but none that le prêtre James would find to his liking. He had only one thing to sell, and passage, even as cargo, cost dearly. He would learn that soon enough, perhaps he already had, and imagining his wide-eyed shock and struggle to contain his anger was enough to return René’s earlier smile to his face. It did not endear him to those watching, but he hardly cared if they loved him; he knew they did not.

“Bonne nuit.” He took his hand from his sword at last to push the tankard of rum in their direction. He did not wait to see if they took it before turning and walking slowly from the tavern, tossing a coin at the nearest maid, the one that had not minded the attentions of Pym.

Outside the air was cool though still heavy, fragrant with wine and sweets and frantic screwing. There was some blood upon the ground as well, but not much, just a little dark stain leading to the curled up body of a large man. The man was groaning and holding his stomach, but mumbling enough for René to know that the world would have to live with him for some time more. Ignoring the ass on the ground before him, René looked up and down the streets, noting absently that now that it was truly dark no one seemed to have any lingering cares about enjoying themselves. It was like a festival for a saint’s day, only it occurred every day, every night, until it wore on the soul and one had to leave the island or go mad.

Turning, he headed away from the water, slipping around groups of revelers and keeping a hand on his purse, Farther away from the beach it quieted, and he could not help but smile to be away from most of the crowds. Now there were only couples and groups of three or four, too poor or too miserly to pay for a room, slipping off into alleys, or trying to. Some did not make it to the darkness before giving in to their urges, and René’s smile widened in vague amusement. Again he thought of the medicine he would have to buy before tossing his head and moving on.

He had nowhere to go but back to the ship, unless he felt like paying for similar entertainment, and he considered it as the sounds of passion, both real and purchased, filled his ears. It stroked along his skin as softly as fine golden hairs had teased his fingertips and he curled his hands and held his breath to remember the feel of it. It had been weeks ago, one brief touch, and still his palms itched for what they could not feel again.

A slight groan of arousal mimicked the sounds from the shadows and he did look around then, wondering if even a woman would do. His pace quickened, his heartbeat growing so loud that it took a long moment for the strange sound of a woman’s anger to reach him.

“Cabron!” The shrill voice definitely belonged to a woman, but though he recognized the word as Castilian, he could not think of its meaning other than to know that it was familiar, directed at him more than once. More words followed, and this time a strange howling sort of laugh joined them, echoing through the streets. Or maybe the howl was only the echo, and the laugh itself was ordinary. René stopped to listen to it and noticed a few others did as well before they shook their heads and continued on.

He moved again after a moment as well, opening his eyes wide with curiosity and disbelief. He had only heard a laugh like that once before, but he did not doubt that it had the same source now. Ben had caused it, making James and a few others roar with mirth at some jest in English, some humour about being hanged that had not seemed funny at all to René. That had been weeks ago as well, over a month, but René remembered how even when laughing James’ face had been stained with an embarrassed red.

What the English called wit would always escape his understanding, but the words being shouted were clearly insults, or at least something mocking, intended to offend. Did not James see that?

Annoyed enough to swear to St. Francis, René slid one hand to his cutlass and followed the sound of the woman’s complaints to a small space between two low buildings. Very little light reached the alley, but he stopped at the entrance once he reached it and stood there motionless, not even blinking, unable to comprehend or believe what he was seeing.

Lying against one wooden wall, sitting in the filth of the dirt and shit that undoubtedly had been thrown there, was James Fitzroy. His legs were wide, flat upon the ground, though he had kept his ridiculous shoes on his feet. Standing over him, feet between his legs, was a woman. Her skirts brushed against his bare chest as she tried to move, bending over to yell and wave her hands into his face, and René coughed harshly, though neither of them seemed to hear him or notice he was there.

So the Englishman had left the child to find a whore. René set his jaw and squinted in the darkness, looking for the shame on James’ face now. James had his arms up so René could not see his face, but he could see the tankard of liquor he had in one hand, and see that the other was close on the putain’s bodice. Holding her close in an awkward caress or holding her away René could not see and did not care. He stepped forward with his hand still wrapped around his sword hilt just as she finally stepped back, stumbling a little with the force of her release.

She was not a pretty woman; René did not think she ever had been, even before her life here. Her fury now did little to help her looks. Long, tangled black hair flying in all directions, small, dark eyes narrowed in a pale face marked by a hard life. She still did not seem to see him, bending again unsteadily to snatch the liquor from James’ hand and drain the tankard noisily. She tossed it at him contemptuously once she had finished and it hit James in the leg though he did not even twitch, only continuing to laugh softly to himself.

She was stamping her foot at that even as René was moving forward furiously.

“Cabron!” she charged again, smirking and straightening her bodice. “Hijo de una puta con su arma roto, Concha no need you. No necesito!” Gesturing with her fingers between her legs, the woman kicked out a small foot and hit the edge of James’ slipper, wincing at the pain of that on her bare foot. It seemed to enrage her more. René reached her and closed his fingers around her wrist, pulling her arm back when she moved to strike James for the insult.

Her rage turned to him and then faded for a moment as she studied him. With an effort so powerful she shook with it, he saw her change her scowl to an inviting smile, then twisted her body to display it as well as she could with him holding her.

“What did he do?” he asked fiercely in quiet English and saw her frown return.

“Nada! Nothing!” She spat on the ground and lowered her free hand to her lap again, dropping her fingers limply. René’s heart pounded, his mouth falling open in surprise though he snapped it shut before turning to James, who still did not seem to be aware of anything but the empty glass. He had stopped laughing, René noticed distantly then turned back to the woman. “And he did not even have money!” she exclaimed with a huff of breath.

“He came to you with no money?” René’s grip on her arm tightened though it was still not strong enough to hurt. She seemed to notice his temper now, jerking around to stare at him, some trace of wariness entering her expression. But she shook her head so he let her go. She glanced down one last time at his full coin purse and his sword and René suddenly understood, realizing that she had intended to make some money from James, one way or the other, earning it or stealing it. It happened often enough to fools too drunk to notice the difference. And James must be very drunk to not have…

Uncertain, René looked to James, lying on the ground like a girl’s abandoned poppet. James had always seemed responsive enough to his attentions, ready like a bride on the second night of marriage. The woman was in error. But he frowned long and hard, exhaling noisily when James finally moved, lifting an arm to reach for the tankard.

“Vaya!” One of a handful of phrases René knew, pronounced forcefully enough that the woman jumped back. James started violently at the sound, and swung his head around and up to find him, blinking with wide, stunned eyes through clouded spectacles. René looked back, ignoring the woman’s only slightly gentled complaints as she stalked from the alley.

The urge to kick away the empty blackjack was strong, but he resisted, slipping his hands away from his sword and resting them at his sides. A moment later he raised them.

“You are in the dirt,” he said at last and then shook his head to dispel the effects of the rum. The Englishman could sit in the filth all night; he had chosen to be there, no one had forced him.

“I’m sorry.” James whispered, his lips drooping at the corners before he firmed them in earnest apology.

“For what?” René demanded, his breaths tight and short through his nose, the muscles in his arms locking.

“For…upsetting the lady.” James let his head fall, his hair swinging forward to hide his darkening cheeks. But his blushes and choked words did nothing to ease René’s irritation, and he heard his own voice breaking as he bit out one word.

“Elle?” He could not move his anger was so strong.

“When she came to me I thought…” James started to speak, half rising from the wall in his eagerness, only to abruptly stop. He coughed, reaching for still empty blackjack and this time René did kick it. James flinched at his move and then stared up at him warily over his glasses, through his tangled hair.

“And so…” René stopped as well, unable to find words, not even sure why he was bothering. He ought to leave him and return to le Diable Noir. Even if James had not approached this woman, he would approach another, as soon as he had some money to spend. “Was that full of rum?” he asked instead of saying anything else, irritably, and then shrugged since it did not really matter to him, whatever the answer to the question. “Men get robbed and killed here for nothing and you are drunk.”

James still did not respond, only continuing to observe him. His glasses had slipped, and were hanging loosely on his nose. Above them were eyes clouded with liquor and dark with something René did not understand. But the shamed red was still staining his cheeks, answering his charges without a word spoken. It was amazing that he could see the blushes; even the shadows could not hide the dirt covering James’ skin. He had been clean when René had first seen him, his spectacles straight, his face shaven and smooth. He had been dressed and clutching at a book, probably his Bible.

“What are you doing?” René thought of the knife tucked into his boot and clutched the air with one hand.

“Lying in filth.” James let out a snort of laughter as if this were the most obvious thing in the world and then tried to choke his giggles back. Seemingly unconcerned with René’s narrow gaze on him, he pressed a hand to his stomach and laughed once more. After a moment it changed into a low groan. “Oh, how Jack would be surprised to see me like this…” he complained, squeezing his eyes shut tightly as if in pain. “…Used to get upset with me for even venturing to other side of the River.”

Swearing, René bent down to get his attention. “Who is Jacque?” he wondered, his breathing louder than his heart’s beating. James opened his eyes and then blinked rapidly several times, his lashes like the wings of a frightened butterfly.

“René.” The soft sigh sent a brush of warm breath over his face. James seemed surprised to see him for a moment and then his amazement dissolved into more quiet, womanly giggles. “I would ask why you are here, René, but you are always here.” He nodded in polite greeting, as respectful René had not been earlier, to Pym, and then pulled his full lower lip between his teeth and moaned.

It was a lost, confused sound. René wished very much to banish it, his frown lifting slightly though he was no less confused. His English was failing him, or James was too drunk to speak with reason.

“God…” James closed his eyes again at his own pleading cry and shook his head once. “Go away, Villon, please.” His hands came up to cover his face before René could do more than straighten up angrily. He moaned into his palms, the sound echoing up to René and reminding him of other things. Things that made him shift his stance. “If you’ve come for…I cannot.” For one small moment, James lifted his face from his hands to glance behind René, to where the woman had gone and then he was back to his whining. But the look was enough; René glanced back to where James’ whore had gone and then shrugged.

James, of course, could not see it, and so he cleared his throat, trying to think of words the Englishman would understand.

“She was not pretty, and common, why would you want her?” He certainly had not. His men would find that amusing, should they know, when it took only a muffled groan to make him tingle with anticipation of taking James Fitzroy one last time.

His words seemed to penetrate James’ befogged mind, for several heartbeats later he looked up, and then put one hand against the wall in order to try to push himself to his feet.

“Why?” James laughed once more, loud and long and bitterly, ending in a near howl when René scowled back at him for asking that damned question. Probably only death would stop his mouth. “Why?” James asked again, still struggling to rise, finally just giving up with his back arched against the wall and his legs bent. He lifted his chin and his hair fell back, exposing his face.

René’s gaze swept over the square jaw and straight lines of James’ face to the round eyes focused intently on him. Then he stilled, shivering despite the heat of the Tortuga air. Want shimmered from James’ eyes, and they saw no one but him. He was making no attempt to hide his longing.

It was the rum brightening his eyes, making him seem feverish. No doubt that was what pained his stomach as well, if James had not eaten, then kill-devil, as the English called it, would make him sick. Kill-devil. Abruptly René shook his head and looked away from James’ drunken stare. The name itself had probably influenced James’ decision to drink it, trying to be rid of whatever part of his humours René had left inside of him. But he had left nothing inside of James but an ache that he had tried to fill with a woman.

Calmly, René reached up and pulled the end of one of his shirt laces, letting the knots unravel. He wore no constraining veste, only the loose fitting coat. James’ eyes dropped from his face at last, only to narrow down to the partially exposed skin of his chest as there were nothing else. René stilled his hand, leaving it uncertainly over the lump the crucifix made in the fabric. When James licked his lips wetly René nearly moaned as James had done. But such eagerness, it could not be real.

“How do you plan on getting coin?” He had to clear his throat to speak. His throat was dry with the need for drink. James jerked in apparent surprise, leaning his head to one side curiously. René twisted his mouth into a cool smile. “It is not your knowledge you will have to sell for you to get free of…”

James’ laugh cut him off. This laugh was harsher than the others, cruder. It belonged in this alley with the dirt. “I cannot get free, René,” he murmured ruefully, and then laughed again, to himself this time.

“Parlez en Français!” René ordered over the sound of the other man’s amusement, grabbing a fistful of his own shirt in frustration. His mind was not clear enough to understand these jests James made in his tongue. James struggled again to get to his feet and again fell back against the wall. He choked gleefully at that and then dusted off his breeches as if that would clean them. He seemed to realize why this would not work just as René did, pausing to study his filthy hands, turning them over from top to bottom, until he was peering down into his palms like some Gypsy.

He held them out for René to inspect, splaying his fingers wide, stretching out the skin over his wrists so much that in the day René would have been able to see his veins pulse with blood.

 “If a man also lie with mankind, as he lieth with a woman, both of them have committed an abomination…” James told him with utter seriousness, his voice growing faint and tired, as if he had thought the words many times and only now had finally spoken them, and the effort had left him weak.

René’s sharply indrawn breath hissed through his teeth and he closed his eyes. The words were spoken strangely in English but he recognized them though he had not thought of them since he had been a child. It was the lack of hope in James’ voice more than the lines themselves. He could still hear the voice of his mother reading to herself from that book, from all of them many times, but always from that one. It had the sound of the lash, that part more than any other, and he shook with the pain of it. Both of them praying for forgiveness that was not needed and would never come.

He opened his eyes and glared down at James, still flogging himself with his sins.

 “They have done a…” he paused to search for the English word, “hateful thing together; they must die, their blood will be on their own heads.” He finished it clearly, wondering if Maman would be pleased with him for remembering. James snapped his head up, eyes like barrels, wide and endlessly dark.

“You…” he started to say breathlessly and René shook himself free of visions of the past to step forward. Grabbing James’ hand, he pulled. Helping James to his feet required almost as much strength as helping to turn the ship, and he let go the moment James was standing, however unsteadily.  They stood there for a long time, panting for air and watching one another. And then James caught his lip between his teeth once again, this time to hide its trembling. René wondered if he were growing sober, or simply confused.

“It is one of the many reasons I do not follow that book,” René confessed and then frowned. People had always forgotten the parts of the book they did not wish to confront; he did not see why James should blink at him so sadly, as if he were the only one, the only great sinner, the fallen.

“Yes,” James sighed and shook his head. He nearly toppled back onto his ass; the action was too much for him. “But you do not understand, René.”

“I do not understand?” Temper brought René a step closer. That James would dare say such a thing to him, James who understood nothing of the world. It was impossible.

James was still shaking his head slowly, and René closed his dry eyes for a small moment, struggling not to strike the drunken fool for saying such a thing. He took a breath and then opened them, tensing to see James closer to him, bent slightly so that their faces almost touched.

His hand slipped easily to the hilt of his cutlass, waiting, and James let loose one breath, scented with rum. René breathed it in under James’ watchful stare and held it inside, still waiting uncertainly. James murmured a word. The sound of it barely passed his lips, not making it to René’s ears, and René turned his head in irritation, determined to leave.

A quick motion brought his head back up and then he was gasping, tearing his hand from his sword to press against a strong shoulder. Warm lips ghosted over the skin of his neck and then parted to suck gently on the flesh. He had no time to push James away, crying out in a voice as weak as a girl’s at the hungry little rasps of teeth on his skin and the cautious exploration of James’ tongue over his throbbing vein. His fingers curled so tight they nearly broke, should have crushed James’ bones with their force, made him cry out as René had, but James did not seem to feel it. Instead James was drawing him closer, sliding an arm under his coat and around his waist and pulling him flush with his body.

René felt frozen, his throat locked against any more sounds. James’ muscles were like iron, holding him in place, but his body was impossibly hot, burning through his shirt enough to melt the gold. René twisted his chest, a useless struggle, and the hand at his back slid down near to his ass, clutching and grabbing at his shirt before moving on, as if unsure of what to do or where to go. The other spread wide over his shoulder, pushing down the shirt and coat to expose his shoulder, unsteady fingers stroking over his skin.

Did James think he was a woman, to be handled in this way? René opened his eyes wide and arched away, trying to push himself free. It only created more points of contact, heat radiating from James like the sun. René shook to feel it, wanting to stretch until all of him was basking in the touches. Just imagining them both naked together was better than any of his fantasies on the ship, and he felt all the blood in his body pool and throb between his legs, stiffening his prick. Still, he twisted, not wanting to be held like this, and James immediately sighed into his throat at his movements, his wandering hands gentling.

James still trembled, his heart pounding more than even René’s was at that moment, thundering against his chest. They were so close together, René could feel it, knew James could feel his. But it still did not seem to be enough for him, the hand at his back pressed persistently until the hardness of James’ arousal was firm on his thigh and James shuddered against him.

His golden hair slipped, falling into René’s face as James moved his head back and forth, sweeping René’s neck and shoulder with soft kisses even as the traces of his beard burned. Too many strands to count, each like silk, and René opened his mouth to breathe at last, feeling tangled blond threads fall between his lips.

“René.” James’ voice with a rough edge as he fought to keep them both from falling, sinking into René’s chest as René tasted his hair, sliding it over his tongue. “Do you understand?” His strong hands tightened their grip, and in answer René tightened his, sliding his hand from James’ shoulder to his back, moving up his other into the small space between them to find one taut nipple. One stroke of a fingertip and James seemed to momentarily forget his words, gasping and then sucking fiercely on the skin beneath his mouth.

“Be quiet, James,” René ordered hoarsely, or tried to, the words indistinct from one another, his mouth suddenly dry. He had only intended to silence James, and knew that James lost control at the slightest bit of pain. Shifting, he tried to steer them toward the wall, pushing his groin at James aggressively, liking it when this made James moan into him. But James’ body would not move, strangely firm on his feet when René felt his own legs weaken. Fighting it, he pinched the nipple between his fingers and was rewarded by James raising his head to stare into his eyes.

“I am telling you that I take pleasure in it,” he panted, sounding a trifle angered. At the same time his lips were wet and dark, his cock pulsing against René’s leg, inches from his own aching need. Furious and wanting at the same time, René arched his back once more, pressing himself close to crush his hand to James’ chest as he twisted his nipple, anything to silence him and let René have his way. James snapped his mouth shut on a cry of pain and flung his head back, giving René access to his throat.

He caressed the collarbone first, with his lips and tongue, and then handled James’ nipple roughly, pinching and stroking until meaningless murmurs were all that escaped James’ mouth. His own body throbbed and filled with heat just watching the muscles of James’ strong throat work to suppress his cries, his struggle to breathe normally. His mind was spinning. James wanted this, it sang through his veins faster than lust, twice as sharp. James was not that drunk; the cock grinding against his was hard and ready as it had not been for that woman. James would be his.

James would beg for it, and René would give it to him, slow and steady until he whimpered, somewhere else, not here in the dirt. First a quick moment of pleasure here and then a room, anywhere would do, as long as there was a bed where he could strip James from his breeches and plunge inside until James’ body was dripping with sweat and his seed. His hips jerked up at the remembered feel of James wrapped around his prick and his body brushed against the hard thighs around him. He exclaimed roughly at the bolt of sensation, but it was nothing to the tortured groan that came from James.

A moment later he was laughing silently into James’ chest despite the discomfort and pain of being so unsatisfied, and working his hand down the narrow space between them. It skimmed along James’ waist and René enjoyed how the muscles there tensed and rippled under his touch, soft fur tickling his palms just as he had remembered. Oh yes, James was to be his one last time. His thoughts swirled dizzily, and he closed his eyes.

Rough hands found his chest, exploring hastily, only a trace of the old gentleness in James now. Even through René’s shirt his nipples ached as James circled his fingertips curiously over the sensitive areas, rubbing the soiled linen over tight points, softly at first and then with more assurance.

It was René’s turn to gasp, jerking away from the sharp jabs tingling through him at each touch, lancing to his balls. “No,” he managed, grabbing at any part of James that would have the other man moaning, but James’ thick fingers only moved on, everywhere at the same time, and then all at once in only one place, slipping beneath his sash, loosening it to get to his breeches.

His bare skin hungered, and when James’ hands first skated across his stomach he shivered violently. If James wished to touch his cock again he would not deny him; James could please him until René had had enough. Lust tore another groan from him at the thought and he had to move.

Reaching, he grabbed the flesh of James’ ass, hauling their lower bodies closer then rearing back with pleasure when James spread his legs, fitting René’s rigid prick between his thighs where it was more than warm, blissfully hot and delicious. He wanted to have his mouth there, to taste the salty, musky skin before he fucked James senseless.

It was the fabric burning him now, rougher and harder than the stubble across James’ jaw, keeping him from what he wanted. His mouth was empty, and he filled it with words until he could wrap his lips around James’ cock and drain his strong body dry. He knew he was talking, his words a constant sound like his own heart beating, but he could not tell what he was saying. Encouragement to James, to the hands on his hips, commands for more, demands for James to beg, and then finally, when James’ fingers pressed against his shaft and made him scream, an order.

“Get against the wall.” It was more of a growl than human speech and René panted with the effort of even that, trying to hide his desperation.

Silence answered him, and René blinked, startled into a soft whine when James drew away from him. It was only a handsbreath, but he still shivered with it, reminded of his disheveled clothing, his undoubtedly foolish appearance, his throbbing cock. His heart thrummed frantically when James turned serious eyes on him and shook his head.

“I…” he started to say, his stammer returning when René shoved furiously against his stomach. He had no sympathy for James and his cowardice. He may have begun this, but René would end it.

René’s fingers merely touched the tip of one peaked nipple and James jumped forward again, lifting his back to press himself into his hands. The soft mouth fell open, lower lip protruding temptingly.

“No, René, I…” He tried to speak once more and slapped away René’s hands, scowling sternly. He did not seem to see René’s growing temper at his refusal to be quiet, or perhaps he dared to ignore it. “I ought to give it too.” He stopped abruptly there, his cheeks darkening. René knew his eyes widened in confusion but had little time to contemplate James’ meaning before James had nodded once and dropped to his knees onto the dirt, the jar of his bones on the ground enough to make him wince. “P…pleasure, I mean,” he finished quietly, his voice full of tremors.

It was impossible not to stare. James Fitzroy was on his knees in the filth much as he had been kneeling beside his dying lord, but gazing up now without hatred in his eyes. His face was turned up in question, his lips still parted, hair falling around him in gentle shining waves. He was what an angel should be. René’s eyes dried painfully before he remembered to blink, and then he was stepping back, nearly slipping when the ground no longer seemed to be beneath his feet. Long arms reached out, grabbing his hips and fistfuls of linen, keeping him from falling.

He instantly frowned down at James, trying to understand why the other man should do this, and then swallowed air in a painful gulp as James slid a hand over the loose material of his breeches to find the placket at the front. His hands were shaking, trembling; René could feel it through the linen, and when they finally traced the outline of his cock he could not stop himself from thrusting forward eagerly.

“James.” A silly thing to say, in an equally ridiculous quavering virgin’s voice, for James looked nowhere but at him even as his hands worked between his legs, finding the head of his cock with a strange familiarity. His fingers stroked it like one stroked coveted velvet until René grunted with the effort to hold his sounds of pleasure back. A tease, an English jest it must be, yet James looked to be in earnest, brows drawn in concentration and anxiety as he explored, rimming the head through the cloth, making René choke at the desire shoving his body forward, bowing his spine painfully.

He had taught him this, René remembered at last, faintly, taught James to be his good pet. Warm, sweating palms had circled his prick and squeezed, nearly as tight as James’ sweet flesh, and then he had stroked, up and then down, harder and faster, unaware of how René had studied his face and burned for his eyes to raise.

He could not breathe, and jumped at the abrupt sound of James talking, hot breath streaming over his trapped prick, sending violent shivers over his skin.

“I have dreamt of this.” James startled him with the words, ceasing to move his hands. Their pressure remained at his cock, and René felt himself twitch at the wet prison that his breeches had become where his fluids had stained the linen. James had to feel it, for his fingers tightened against his shaft, curling around the head possessively.

Shock speeded his heart, mingling with the arousal tingling through his body. He could remember James with his eyes closed, stretched out like a large cat, cheeks flushed with the fever of his thoughts.

“I thought you dreamed of women?” René welcomed the anger that rushed through him, biting out his words. James had not dreamed of this, and his blush proved it a lie. René’s fantasies were the truth, when he had pleased himself in the long hours of night, the days when he could not sleep. He had even imagined this, James on his knees with his handsome face only inches away from his weeping cock, James beneath him. René’s breath caught noisily in his throat and he was tricked into looking down again at the hoarse exclamation from James.

“No, th…there is only you,” James confided lowly, moaning at the end, the same little lost sound as before. It echoed through René’s prick to his belly, coiling sharply, making it difficult for him not to push himself forward. But James’ eyes remained open wide, the feeling in them so clear that René could not breathe to see it. He tried to move back instead, but once more James’ hands would not allow him to leave, burning on his hips.

His eyes were still so wide, steady and unblinking, and René could not escape them. He looked so young, more innocent than he had ever been.

“Why…” René stopped, panting for air, unhappy to realize that now he was the one stumbling for words and asking that damned question. “Why do you look at me like this?” He strengthened his voice to demand it and placed his hands on those that were touching him. A soft sigh was his answer and the golden head moved, as swiftly as it had before.

“James!” The cry left his throat raw, and he grabbed desperately at the hands under his, but there was no displacing them, and he was forced to suffer the exquisite torture of James’ mouth pressed to his prick, his heat all the worse for the layer of cloth separating them.

Despite his strong hands James was cautious, opening his lips to push his tongue against him and then closing them to place shy little kisses over his pulsing length, nuzzling with feathery exclamations of contentment. And then he spoke, the words muffled and meaningless against his breeches, but carrying through René’s body with a low hum, singing up his spine. Even in this James would not be silent. It should have been amusing; instead dots of sweat broke over René’s skin and he found himself crying for James to speak more, thrusting toward his mouth mindlessly.

St. Denis, René could not believe his own senses, and shook his head back and forth, drowning in the pleasure of only a few touches. Up and down slowly, James seemed intent on kissing all of him over and over again, and every press of lips shot straight to René’s balls like lightening. He grunted at only that but it was not enough, and another bestial sound broke from him. Aching, René squeezed James’s hands and tried to pry his fingers from his breeches. But James complained into his thighs and tore his hands free, using his fingers to nimbly undo the few buttons there and open wide the placket in only the space of a heartbeat.

His stubbornness had led him to do this; René cursed it loudly as the night air played upon his heated skin. But he could not move, frozen once more at the sight of the man before him.

James’ moment of courage seemed to have left him; he was tense, biting his lip uncertainly until it looked ready to bleed. It harmed the sweet mouth that was only a finger length from the head of René’s cock, and Rene narrowed his eyes and fought to regain control of himself.

His hands curled in the air, stiffening into claws at the pain knifing through him. Like all pain it would pass in a moment, or he would grow used to it, there was nothing to do but wait. Closing his eyes, he shifted, taking advantage of James’ stillness to start to move back. One step and he was halted by a pressure at his back. He blinked in confusion and then he was pushed forward until an exquisitely soft heat swallowed the head of his prick.

Disbelief was stronger than the pleasure arcing through him, and he opened his eyes to stare blankly at the pure, red mouth closed tight around his prick, and the handsome face above it, stained with colour. So serious and intent James looked, as he slid his tongue around René’s tingling flesh, the velvet tip of his tongue seeking to drive him insane.

He was insane, for he could not move, not even to push forward. His mind was frozen with pleasure while his body burned with it, and he longed to sink into that wet mouth until he could feel James’ breath stir the hair on his balls. Surely he would not allow it.

Already James was frowning. But his lips tightened almost at the same instant that René realized this, and then he used his tongue to suck fiercely on the head of René’s prick, so hard that René’s legs nearly gave way and he reached out drunkenly so as not to fall. One hand slammed back into the wall though he did not care to stop and think how he had ended with the wall at his back. The other tore into blond hair and held it at the root, so close it had to be agony for James. He wanted to let go and found he could not, his fingers sliding through honeyed locks but holding tight to his treasure.

And then he was thrusting, trying to push more of himself into that mouth, and cursing when he could not. Not yet, for James still explored, pausing in his torment to lave the underside with attention and push with his tongue at his foreskin, ignoring how Rene swore aloud and gasped, and then returning to draw eagerly from him after only a few moments. If it was James’ intent to drain his soul from his body, he was succeeding. His strength was fading, and liquid heat seemed to flow through his veins, twisting tightly in his belly, pushing him forward. He could not have enough of James; even balls deep would not be enough.

James’ breath came fast and loud through his nose and René shuddered against the wall with the effort to slow himself, to let James breathe. But when he paused in his thrusts the hands at his back dropped to his ass and squeezed demandingly, pushing him back to where he had been. He gasped at the ecstasy of returning, but it was not enough, only an inch of his prick inside those tight lips. He locked his jaw but it could not stop his aching moan for more.

James seemed to hear him, relaxing his lips and then easing more of René into his mouth with another long sigh. The head of his cock hit the back of his mouth and the frantic workings of the muscles there against René’s heated cock had him pushing from the wall and calling out his name. It did not matter who was listening.

“More . . . please . . . James!” he commanded roughly in French, wrapping his other hand in the length of James’ beautiful hair and straining. Obediently, James pulled him closer, and René could feel his quick, excited breaths on his shaft and the way the hands on his ass tightened their grip anxiously. Inhaling sharply, René loosened his hold on James’ hair the slightest degree and then applied pressure to push James back. Before James could misunderstand, René pulled him forward, letting out a sigh of his own at the wet friction of lips and tongue, the shocking light scrape of teeth when there should not have been. The sigh quickly rose in his throat, changing to more of a scream with each pass of his mouth, at the silken wonder of his throat.

James’ whole body twitched with apparent understanding and then he was moving on his own, swollen, red lips closing around his cock to suck forcefully on the head and then loosening to swallow most of him, the soft movements of his tongue nearly René’s undoing. He shuddered uncontrollably, distantly aware that he was whimpering with need.

Over and over they moved until René no longer had to guide him, and the hands trapped in James’ hair were there to keep him standing. They clutched and relaxed with equal force, digging into the other man’s scalp when the pressure below René’s spine heightened, and his entire body seemed to scream for release.

James should spend his life on his knees, René thought feverishly as a clumsy hand wrapped around the root of his prick and squeezed curiously. He twitched, then slid his tongue along his dry lips and panted for air, working for the courage to look upon James once more. He glanced down again, blinking to see that James looked up at him over the rim of his spectacles. James’ eyes were burning, shining up to him with their innocent delight as he took his cock even further into his mouth.

Pain speared through René, so sharp it might as well have been pleasure. He turned his head to the side and shut his eyes; still seeing James in the blackness though with his eyes closed it could have been anyone. So beautiful, even on his knees in the Tortuga filth, sucking his prick like that whore would have done.

René groaned and a groan answered him, filling his body with shivers as they slid along his cock. He thrust up for more greedily, arching hips from the wall to sink further into James’ warmth and died when it was allowed, and the hand holding him cupped his balls in a ready caress and stroked over the furiously pounding skin.

“Dieu!” René shouted hoarsely, on and on forever as the pleasure took him unexpectedly. His head flew back as he came, shock and lust burning out of him and leaving only splinters of black and gold behind his eyes.

He was aware at first only of the sound of breathing, his own weighted battle for air against the weariness that left him drained and aching against the hard wall. It rasped out of his dry, scratched throat unevenly, but it pulled him from the darkness of his little death, made him feel the night breeze play along the sweat on his skin, and how it tingled on the places on his neck and shoulder where the skin felt sore.

Then another sound joined it, laughter and shouts from a great distance, louder than the murmur of the ocean beneath it. The ocean he knew well, and he sighed tiredly, coming back to the world with a dizzy frown. But he did not open his eyes, his frown deepening at yet another sound, a sudden violent spate of coughing.

Shivering, René turned his head and opened his eyes. He was in a shadowed, filthy alley in Tortue. The wind on his burning bare skin, on his stinging prick, was wounding, and he raised one hand to pull at his shirt. Only then did he move his eyes downward, and his brain seemed to throb against his skull at the slow motion.

Still on his knees, James Fitzroy was bent over with one hand to his mouth. The other kept him from falling to the ground as he choked loudly and spit up a large amount of foul smelling, steaming rum. It splashed off his palm and sprayed all over the ground, where more rum and René’s seed mingled with the dirt. His strong shoulders shook with the effort to be rid of it and his startled moan was pitiful.

If James were not careful, his spectacles would fall from his nose into that pile of slop. René thought it without much heat, as only the truth, for like James, the glasses were out of their proper place. James would stay there on his hands and knees and search for them in that disgusting puddle all night if he had to. It turned René’s stomach to think of that and he had to look away, focusing on the noise of the vulgar revelers. Some seemed quite close, perhaps in another alley nearby.

He was almost as far away as to be one of them when he heard James shift. He turned back to look down into his used face.

“René?” James’ voice was the croak of an old woman, and his tone as uncertain. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand could not hide the marks of René’s force along his throat, nor the wetness lingering at the corners of his mouth.

James had opened his mouth wider like some whore, the memory of it still had the blood pulsing between René’s legs and he could not push the knowledge away. James had let him shove his cock inside of…he left that thought unfinished and slapped a hand to his belt, still in place though loosened greatly by James’ hands.

 His neck snapped painfully as he pushed his body from the wall, his bones as stiff as those of a dead man, but he did not stop until James was at his feet, the angle too great for him to see into René’s face. Then he clucked his tongue against the roof of his mouth.

“So you had my cock in your mouth and did not care for it?” he chided softly and was surprised that his voice did not tremble. Fire scourged through his middle, and he knew he would have to drown it soon or he would be left hollow.

The Englishman’s eyes remained open; it would have been impossible for them to grow wider. But he did not turn, and so René could watch the words hit him. He saw the quick startled blink and then the absolute stillness. Only his mouth moved, glistening, red lips parting to let out one small, cold breath.

“Perhaps Tortue is not for you after all.” René’s heart still pounded with lust and he set his jaw and moved his eyes down to himself. His prick was soft and wet and dangling between his legs, outside of his breeches. “Perhaps you ought to go to Jamaica,” he suggested and slowly uncurled his fingers so that he might tuck himself back into his clothing.

His cock still prickled with the remains of pleasure, but he welcomed the pain as he re-buttoned his breeches and slid a hand to his sash. His sword was under his hand, only a few inches from his purse of coin.

The Englishman still had not moved and René shrugged his coat back into place when the chill reached his skin. The heat inside of him did not seem to reach to the outside, but that did not matter. He needed a drink, and soon.

One hand dug into the heavy leather bag and he grabbed a fistful of coins. Then he turned and walked away. The coins pinged noisily all over the ground as he neared the entrance to the alley, and he paused.

There was still no sound from behind him; for once the damned man was silent. There was not even the shuffle of hands in the dirt, searching for the tossed money. The money…René tried to think of how much had been dropped, distracting himself with numbers.

It had been too much. A wink of gold had teased René’s eyes in his last view of the other man, a small circle stamped with the cross. James had to have seen it as well, why did he not move?

Unable to keep still, René looked back and saw James move at last, bending his head forward so that his gaze would be on the ground. He lifted one hand to pinch his glasses into place, but did not raise his head again, though René remained a few beats more.

A strong pressure, a heated presence, on the back of his neck held René still, and then he turned and soon quickened his pace as walked. He recognized his distant observer easily but said nothing, only wanting to make sure he was nowhere near the alley. His need for liquor was still strong as well, so though his limbs were weak and his mind was swirling he walked fast. The sounds of pleasure from others were still loud, and he realized without a word to the man behind him that he had heard he and James together.

Putting a hand to his stomach did not ease the sick, churning ache but René left it there anyway, making himself smile to imagine Marechal’s reaction to the fevered screwing in that alley. If the man’s privates were hot and hard now it was his own fault, and he could find relief on his own, so long as the man did not return there.

The heated gaze never left him and he sighed in near relief, slowing slightly. The silent man would not ask why René had spent so long on the island, would never speak of it, and this time René’s sigh was real, though it eased only a fraction the tightness of his stomach.

Tortue was a small island, but a busy one. René reached back into his bag of coin once more, idly toying with the rough edged bits of metal as he walked on. There were many places here for a man to find drink, even some accursed rum would do.

Copyright R. Cooper with all rights reserved

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