Chapter Four

It was going to drive him mad as his Lordship or the inmates of Bedlam…if he was not already mad. There had been times of late when James had not been sure that his mind was entirely his own. His body was not, he reflected with a grimace, and then shook his head determinedly and tried, again, to fall to sleep.

There was a nagging itch at the small of his back, on his chest, even down his thighs, settling between his legs and preventing him from staying still for very long. Thick sweat covered each spot on his burning skin for a moment, mingling with the heavy, wet heat in the air before sliding down and being soaked into his filthy trousers. A new bead of sweat formed before the last had a chance even to dry, and James moved as much as he could, twisting his body in a vain attempt to ease his irritation. He supposed it was his own fault, for drinking water because of the heat instead of ale or wine or the odd brown liquor the corsaires sometimes drank.

James turned his head further into the crook of his arm and tried to ignore the stench that rose from his body. In truth, the smell came from everywhere; the unwashed mass of bodies around him were enough to make James wonder if the habits of a few daft nobles were not so strange after all, and even think that bathing more often would most verily improve the foulness emanating from the sleeping men around him. It even conjured up the image of slim, dark hands, scrubbing uselessly with dirty saltwater, but he pushed that aside the moment it appeared before his eyes.

Here, at night, below the deck, the smell, the heat, the bloody confinement, all seemed worse. No, it was worse. James shifted irritably as much as he could without disturbing Ben on the small square box of wood that served as their bunk, moving his legs to the side and letting them fall over to the ground. He did not fit in the bunk, he did not fit in any damned place on this ship, and the moment they reached Tortuga he was leaving to find his way to Jamaica, taking Ben and his Lordship with him. It would not be long now; he had lost count of the days or weeks, but the water and food supply was running out, and it had to be soon.

It had to be. James repeated the thought to himself firmly, almost desperately, curling back into the tiny, hard space of his bunk. The wood was splintered, and had left bruises on his skin back in his first month of boucanier life. He would have been more comfortable up on the deck, but he had chosen to sleep down here. It had seemed…safer.

Acts of lust did not occur on the deck alone, he knew that now. Men, mostly his fellow Englishmen, met below deck as well, usually during the day, and he had stumbled across several in his time down there, enough for him to realize that perhaps there was no way for him hide from it, that it had even existed back on the Sheba, albeit hidden.

Verily, he knew there was no way for him to hide, yet he still stayed, caring for a man who hurled insults at him and all those about him. It was cowardly and false of him, for both himself and for poor Lord Cavendish, to pretend like this, though he did worry about the man. It was foolish as well, for it had not done him any good; if he wanted him, Villon would not stop at the stairs. Indeed nothing would stop him.

Despite the heat, James felt his face grow warm, and buried his head in his arm, shivering at the same time. Villon had found him again only a few nights before. That it was dark and no one could see meant little, the disgrace of it was still strong in his mind, seemingly fresher now after today’s…debate.

He had gone up for air, and to piss over the side, away from the other men and hidden behind a bunched sail and some netting. The few moments to himself had been beyond wonderful; he had often had moments alone back home in London, and had missed it. Then he had felt those eyes boring into him and turned to see Villon standing not a yard away.

The Frenchman had been stripped to his shirtsleeves, the white cloth torn around the neck as if he had impatiently tugged his laces free in a moment of anger or passion, if he ever really felt either emotion.

No, he felt both, honesty compelled James to admit to that. He had seen that as truth this afternoon, during their argument. James shuddered to think of those lightning fast moments today when those eyes had burned into his soul. The first time at being challenged at all, no doubt, and James almost smiled to think of the man’s surprise. Almost, for he found he could not when he also remembered half-closed eyes regarding him with want, with lust. Open enough for him to see, to involuntarily recall a thousand sensations, including their time on the deck a few nights ago.

James had stilled and waited, his body tensing instantly at the sight of the other man. It had been some time since the corsaire had ordered him to his cabin and told him what he had wanted of him. James had waited after that, his body sick and anxious at the thought of being called back in there, but Villon had seemed to forget him after that one time. Whatever his final, cryptic words the Captain had left him alone, and aside from the watchful looks given him by Marechal, it had all seemed some sort of dream.

That idea had disappeared the moment the other man had spoken, his voice cooler than any man’s should have been in the ghastly heat of the Indies.

“And so you have saved me the trouble of finding you, James.” It had been barely a whisper, but James shifted in place again, groaning in remembrance of the silence after that. Villon had not spoken, had not had to. He had simply come to him and turned him to face the rail before bending him over it. And James had let him, as weak as a kitten. A man would have fought.

But a new heat filled him at the memory of that, and at the rush of night air over his bared arse before… It had been like that one time in his cabin, his body responding whether he willed it or not, and then a warm hand on his prick, urging him to let go and spill out toward the sea. And he had, his body jerking eagerly though he had had to remain silent, biting down into the flesh of his own hand at the pain, not wanting anybody else to hear and know.

René…the Captain had still heard the low moans that had escaped he was sure, and James squeezed his eyes closed in remembered humiliation. Some of those moans had not been about pain at all. His heart was pounding at the idea even now and the muscles in his legs and upper thighs were shaking with a sudden restlessness.

Shifting on the bunk did nothing, just like it did nothing to help him sleep, and he gave up with a noisy sigh, twisting so that he could sit up with his feet on the floor and his body bent forward, underneath the boards of another bed above him. Ben murmured something and then fell back to sleep with a tiny snort, still cramped up in his small space. He did not spread out to take up the space James had made for him, and for a moment, that made James frown.

But Ben was sleeping as soundly as the rest of the souls down here, other than himself, and James was tired of watching with envy. The sweat dripped from his shoulders to his stomach and then on to his trousers, following a different trail to the same destination. He shivered before rising carefully and stepping over the bucket full of shit a few feet away. It would wait to get dumped into the sea, until some poor man could take the smell no longer.

Even the streets of St. Giles were cleaner than the hold, and he moved to the stairs and out into the darkness with new eagerness. He wanted the moments alone again, and…gagging slightly at the stench again…he needed the air.

Once on the unlit deck he stopped, leaning his head back and closing his eyes for a long moment. Then he let out a deep breath and opened his eyes.

The sky was clear above him. But even if there had been clouds, they would not have cooled the air, they never did; they only warned of storms that promised a relief that never came, like the storm last night. The lightening filled the sky with excitement, and the rain that poured down was wet but it left his body tense and heated, waiting for something else. The cold, gray rain of home seemed like a fantasy.

A noise from a few feet away distracting him, and he looked down to see a man, Marcel he thought his name was, curled around a barrel, murmuring in his sleep. From the smile on his face, James assumed he dreamt of a woman. James had had dreams much the same, when he had slept. It had been some time since then.

Ahead of him lay a goodly portion of the crew, scattered around the deck in pairs or alone. Someone stood against one railing on the starboard side, looking out into the black waters. He was much too large to be Villon, but James shook slightly anyway before turning away. Perhaps, he thought hopefully, Villon still slept; he often slept in the afternoon. But strangely the man did not seem to like sleeping after dark, resting instead during the light of morning or late afternoon, like he had today. At night he often stood at the helm until dawn as if sleep were beneath him.

James was distantly aware that his brow had lowered, and raised a hand to his forehead, trying to ease the small pain there. For a moment he had the vision of Villon struggling in Marechal’s arms as he had been carried away, looking as small as Ben had whenever near their former captain. He had been as weak as a child, there was no denying that, though James could not imagine him as one. There was little the man could have done to get free, not as drunk as he had been, but Marechal had only been putting him to bed, slipping out of the cabin moments after entering it, leaving René behind.

James had not known that the man was drunk, not when he had first started arguing with him. Somehow, with all the wine the Frenchmen had drunk, he had never seen him as careless as a young lord draining the taverns dry. But he and Deniau both…sitting together and waving their hands around like play actors. They had made sure those around them had heard their words, or at least Villon had. James abruptly realized that the negro had actually said little; it had only been Villon’s voice rising with heated anger.

He had spoken as if men had no souls. James still could not believe that, and prayed that it had only been the wine making him speak so. For a man that did not care for himself would not care about others. But the saying went that in wine there was truth, and he very much feared Villon had spoken his own thoughts.

In Latin. James’ brows dipped together again and he took another cautious step out onto the deck, uncertain of where he had meant to go. Villon had spoken Latin, and using most crude words that James almost blushed to think of. Those words had not been learned at a Romish Mass, they were not the words of God. However the man had learned them, Villon had paired the sacred with the profane as it were nothing, placing them together as if they were the same. Speaking of the Lord and then making him remember…

He coughed and dropped his hands, pulling up the waist of his breeches.

It was true that there was much beauty in things many saw as sinful, James has discovered that for himself during the many changes in London as he had come of age, and that there also were many condoned acts that James considered to be more horrific than anything some of those sinners had done. Yet those were the doings of Man. He could not, would not believe that God had anything to do with that. Nor would he deny God’s hand in his Fate, even in this. All his teachings, the works of both great philosophers and aged scholars, even the writings of the Dutchmen and Northerners had led him to believe that hope was there, if only one looked for it. It had helped him, when the sky had been red where it was not black with smoke, and when the Death Lists had been filled with those dead from plague, and whenever he thought of his mother and the little sister that had died with her.

Villon had mocked such an idea, something about his attitude suggesting that James was a child for his fancy, and James squirmed slightly, as he had wanted to do when Villon had seen him fall with his usual lack of grace. It was foolish of him, when Villon was not more than a handful of years his senior, and when Villon was a man without any faith or even principles to guide his life. Oh, he was a man with feeling, James had seen that enough, felt that enough, but it was directed toward wickedness.

Villon had looked like a man with no hope, despite his burning eyes, and James wondered again what could make a man like that. Even the other corsaires had been angered by his words.

Damn the man! James abruptly turned his thoughts from Villon and clenched his jaw in remembered anger at being humiliated. Would he not be happy until the world knew that they were…that he had been taken? He had possessed his body, must he now claim his soul as well? He would not value it.

James stepped around the dreaming man and then moved slowly to the port side, far away from anyone who was awake though without any real destination in mind. He had not come up here to talk…or to do what others came up to do, and hurried along the rail as if he could run away from it all until the stairs leading to the quarterdeck were in front of him. He glanced up once toward where someone was standing to steer the ship, then he turned and walked the other way without looking back.

He moved smoothly enough with his sea legs now, though not as smoothly as others, and silently with his bare feet, something in him as pleased with his new skill as he had been when mastering a new concept in mathematics. But he tensed as he became aware of where he was, straining not to glance behind him and sideways at the closed door to Ren…to Villon’s cabin, so close to him though it was most likely empty.

 It was almost as if, if he looked, he might summon the man himself, like the tales of the Devil appearing when called. His eyes flicked to the door in the next moment, and then he leapt forward until he was near the bow, hardly noticing that the large man had moved. Only once at the opposite end of the ship did he look back, but without any torches and with the clouds shifting across the moon, the stern was nothing but shadows. Surely then, the bow would be shadowed as well.

It was that thought that made his feet carry him up the stairs, leaving Villon to the no doubt familiar darkness.

Probably I am the Devil. Villon’s words, not his, spoken without even a smile or a mocking light in his eye. He had been in earnest, his voice so quiet that it had seemed odd to hear him at all. A man should not be called that either, no matter what he had done, and James suddenly felt ashamed of himself for his thoughts, aware that Villon had known them, had expected them.

But when he had spoken, he had been so unfeeling, just as he had been back in his cabin after he had buggered him.

James unwrapped his fingers from the railing on the stairs after looking down to see how his grip had tightened. Then he moved up the stairs without turning to see if Villon had yet woken.

It was empty up here, no one, not even that bloody pig Marechal had dared to come up here, and James let his mouth turn up into a slight smile. Then he moved forward, to the pile of rope curled up in a large, loose circle against the far railing.

Seeing it for the rope he had mended made his belly tighten, something like fear tingling along his skin and making him swallow dryly. It all circled back around and around, like the rope, and if there had been a weight upon his chest he could not have felt more crushed by this new life, by Villon’s attentions, for whatever reason the man had chosen to focus them on someone so meaningless.

He was nothing but one of those pawns he had tossed aside today, one of his dead men, and whatever his reasons for wanting him, he had as little concern for him. There is no God, he had said, and then had blamed God for the bleeding of Mankind, some of which he had caused, as if he had been the one sinned against.

James blinked rapidly several times to catch the man’s conflicting beliefs and then puzzled over their debate yet again, feeling almost like he had dropped a number from his sum that he needed to get the right resolution.

The man made no sense, and James finally tugged his hair free of its binding scarf in frustration, irritated to realize that his thoughts had turned to Villon yet again. Then he bound it back once more.

The somewhat cooler air of night dried his skin in patches, and he shut his tired eyes briefly before glancing around for a place to sit and try to sleep. The circle of rope was there before him, hard, but not harder than a plain wooden bed.

He crossed to it and settled into it easily, stretching out his long legs and arms with a sound of complete enjoyment at the rare pleasure. The ship was before him, the bow visible as he sank down and then disappearing to just a view of the sails.

Garbled French from below caught his ear and he relaxed a bit now that he knew that some were still going about their work. Though of course at least one man would be awake, standing at the helm to look over the ship and steer by the feeble moonlight until morning.

Dropping his head back and closing his eyes, James tried to imagine he was back in his father’s house, in a soft bed, but the hard braid at his shoulders and low back would not allow that, and so he imagined instead a hard bed with a nice, soft girl at a bawdy house near his home.

The air would be icy back in London, but he would warm himself up, mounting the girl in a way that proved he was no damned catamite. Mayhap her friend would join them, squealing as her hands moved on his prick and he placed his mouth on her breasts or mayhap lower; women had always seemed to like that and he had liked to make them happy, especially the doxies, for they smiled little.

James sighed hungrily and licked his dry lips, wishing the scene were true. His body responded as if it was, beginning to throb heavily. If he had been alone, he might have pleasured himself. It was unfortunate that he might be joined up here at any moment. For then her hands would become her lips, and her head would be bent over him, dark hair falling onto his skin where it had slipped through the red scarf holding it back.

“René…”

He opened his eyes wide in shock at his word and stared blankly at the sight of Villon in front of him. The Frenchman was not smiling, or even arching an eyebrow. His face held no expression at all. Only his eyes glittered, visible even in moonlight alone.

He had spoken the name, James thought deliriously, and now the Devil had come. A pale Devil, he added to himself, as if he felt the effects of his drinking still.

“Villon,” James amended himself hurriedly, struggling to sit up on the rope, his skin burning. He shook his head to clear it of fancies. Villon was still silent, though frowning now, his fine brows drawn together. I should not have come up here, James thought in alarm, his eyes widening when the other man finally moved, raising one hand to undo the laces of his shirt until it fell around one shoulder which gleamed whitely in the dark as if it rarely saw the sun.

“Do you dream?” The question was quiet, but clearly curious, and James blinked, a bit taken aback. But Villon looked serious so he nodded. “Of what do you dream?” A slight breeze found a stray lock of black hair, blowing it over Villon’s eyes, and James found himself leaning his head back, trying to see into those eyes before he answered. The heat, and the blood still pounding in his body seemed to possess him, making him feel almost drunk, or mad. Lord, was he truly as insane as poor Lord Cavendish? This man had done this to him.

“Of women!” James spit the words out angrily, uncaring if Villon heard his challenge or not. He knew his fury now would hardly matter. In fact, it made the Frenchman smile finally, knowingly. He was as cool as he had been before, and James doubted that he would ever see the man so carelessly drunk and out of control again.

“Women?” Villon repeated, stressing that last syllable even more than he usually would have with his accented English as if amused at the thought of James with more than one. James felt himself struggling to rise again and failing, face heating with anger this time at the memory of the occasion when he had spent the extra coin for just that, mostly at a drunken Jack’s suggestion.

Villon reached down to slide a hand under his chin. His fingers just barely rested against the skin but it held James still anyway, better than a knife at his throat would have. The thought made him tremble, and James glanced up into fiercely shining eyes.

“And does one of the women have her head between your pretty thighs?” the other man wondered faintly, and James expelled one breath. He sucked in another so sharply that it hurt his lungs when the corsaire continued smoothly. “Because that is where I would be this night, James. Would you have me there?” Villon went on a moment later, tilting his head to one side, his voice growing even lower.

“You are asking?” His voice broke with the force of his surprise, and James twitched a little, distantly worried that someone might hear them. His eyes were wide and dry as he stared blankly upward, trying to see anything that would give him a hint as to what the other man was thinking. Others…some of the other men on the ship in their fevered moments at night, they asked and chose, he at least knew that much. That was what had shocked him so much about their advances. But Villon…Villon took, the way the stories had said the pirates would take any woman on a captured ship.

“No,” the corsaire spoke simply, proving James right. But he still did not move from his spot, standing just between James’ knees, only a few finger lengths from what he was after. Villon did lift his hand, smoothing his thumb over his chin and then his mouth before releasing him. James shivered, but continued to look up, his stomach churning. “But if I did…?” This question was even softer than the one before. He had spoken so whisper quiet at the end of their debate as well, words for him alone to hear. The intimate nature of it, even separated, had made James want to lean in closer; the reaction of any man.

James felt himself trying to breathe, even opening his mouth for his response. He had his words ready. No, not words, word. One word. No. Never. He was not… he did not… and never would. He had never wanted such things before.

His chest tightened, and he arched up, trying to rise from the rope just as Villon suddenly moved forward, pushing James’ thighs apart with his body before he stopped. James went still at the invasion and Villon smiled. It was a smile bare of anything.

“You would, of course, say no, calling it sin.” It was barely a whisper but James managed an eager nod. His ripped trousers ended at his calves when standing, but sitting they rose, and James could feel the other man’s heat on his exposed skin, though they were not touching. There was perhaps room for a bead of sweat between them. The fire was burning through the calico as well, heating his thighs, and combined with the wetness of the West Indies air, it was almost too much.

James tossed his head back and tried to shift, but the only thing left for him to do was to open his legs wider. A fraction was all it took, and then Villon was on his knees without a sound, kneeling between his thighs, just as he had wanted.

Blinking, James peered through his spectacles over the rapid rise and fall of his own sweaty chest to the dirty white of his pants, and then into Villon’s black eyes. They were hot too, when they had been cool, and James swore softly, almost pleadingly.

“Sweet Jesu,” he muttered, his mouth going dry at what those eyes were telling him. “Why?” he wondered faintly, not sure what he was asking about.

“They all say no until my mouth is on their cock,” Villon answered him, quite seriously indeed, making James blink again in confusion. But he forgot the comment entirely when a slim hand smoothly popped the round bits of bone from his breeches and pulled the material down. It stopped there, and then Villon glanced up at him with something very like amusement on his face.

James understood immediately, closing his eyes so tightly that not a crack of moonlight was visible. Only then did he shift, the memory of how it had felt before making him lift his arse from the rope just enough for Villon to slide his pants to his ankles. He knew what would happen now, and felt the muscles in his thighs and backside lock and then shake with the strain as he tried not to move.

Any man would enjoy it, he told himself as the steamy air rolled over his bared privates. A lingering throbbing from his fantasy seemed to support that fact, and James kept his eyes closed. With his eyes shut, it would not be hard to pretend that it was a woman.

A touch feathered across his skin, over the trembling muscles of his left thigh, from his knee to his hip and then, for one short moment, lower, to where the skin was softer. James’ words were still felt caught in his throat and he choked, the sound making the touch vanish.

It returned a moment later on his other leg, following the same pattern. Villon’s hand smeared drops of sweat, wetting James’ whole thigh. Then that touch, too, disappeared, and James lifted his chin, fighting the urge to look and see what would come next. He buried his hands somewhere between the strands of rope, holding expectantly onto the braid.

Warm breath rushed over his dripping skin and he shivered violently, twitching in surprise at the same time. His blood was pounding in his veins, his breath still mangled in his throat, and there, between his legs, was nothing but heat.

“Open your eyes, James,” René ordered him, still sounding amused, and oddly gentle. He trailed a finger inside of one leg and then up a bit over the curve of his arse. James held himself still until that finger probed between the flesh there and then he arched up uncontrollably. Only his hands gripping the rope kept him down.

His face flushed at the muffled sound from Villon but he lowered himself back down when that finger moved on, his tired muscles giving way at last. He sagged onto the rope and pulled in a deep breath. A woman, he reminded himself, then shuddered when one hand became two, and exploring fingers trailed over his throbbing manhood. It rushed with blood immediately, growing in front of René’s eyes, to James’ shame. He bit his lip, but could not stop his moan this time either. Not when knowing fingertips ran up and down the length of him so lightly that it might have been a dream.

“Open them and look at me,” Villon ordered again, the amusement growing stronger in his voice. James swallowed dryly and then shook his head once from side to side. It was mad to be resisting, but if he was mad, this man had made him so. Let him kill him, but no amount of pleasure was going to make him open his eyes.

The sudden burst of pain in his thigh made him grunt, jerking his hips up forcefully, pushing against Villon’s body. Villon’s arms landed on his legs, holding him down in the next second, just as James opened his eyes, trying to see.

Villon’s head was there, between his thighs as he had promised, his mouth pressed to his leg just below his balls. James stared for a moment in shock and then felt a new wave of searing heat there and tried to twist away. Sharp teeth dug into his skin fiercely at the motion, hard enough to make him gasp.

Biting him! James realized in shock and jerked again without thinking, grunting as the teeth sank into his flesh. A wet tongue stroked the pinched skin, sending a bolt of pleasure to his groin, and James could hear himself growling lowly, grinding himself against Villon’s tongue and teeth.

The sound of his obvious enjoyment echoed around the sleeping ship. James heard it distantly, all his attention focused on that mouth. Red lips were still pressed against his thigh, and James felt his muscles ripple as the bite gentled and a soft sucking began in its place. His body already throbbed, now the blood seemed to flood to under René’s mouth and James twisted his hands around the rope, letting it bind him down.

The hemp rubbed harshly against his wrists and James groaned at this new pain.

“You bit me,” he panted, wholly confused and wondering at himself for speaking at the same time. For an answer, Villon just licked the spot slowly, running his tongue around the dark ring his teeth had made. The throbbing there increased, bringing James’ hips off the rope. René’s tongue moved with him and James thrust up again, wanting his tongue somewhere else.

His eyes were open now, and he could see the glint of pleasure in Villon’s expression at that. It should have made him angry. Instead he only stared back and then spread his legs when Villon moved to face him at last.

The other man’s mouth was open, lips as dark as the dye of his scarf. James studied them in dizzy fascination and then gulped a breath when Villon ran the tip of his tongue across the slightly fuller lower lip, wetting it.

How could he enjoy doing this? James wondered, spending a bare moment wondering at what the cost of his pleasure this night would be, if he would be required to do the same to Villon. There would be a price, he knew that already. Had known it from the moment Villon had come to stand between his legs, but it had not stopped him.

His hips lifted from the rope another fraction in tight anticipation even as he acknowledged the painful thought. What was he waiting for? James asked himself desperately, embarrassed to see his aroused cock sticking out into the air like it was, even more on fire to see how he moved his body, nearly waving it front of the other man’s face in an effort to receive his pleasure.

“James…” Villon pronounced his name slowly, slurring the J and then dropping the last letter entirely. James looked helplessly back into the other man’s eyes and away from his arousal, feeling the strange word itself roll over his prick until he could not get any harder. He wanted…he wanted Villon to say his name that way when his mouth was on his prick. He wanted to feel it. Oh Lord, he moaned silently, but could not look away.

James shifted restlessly, trying to ease the ache René was creating with only the barest caresses. He threw his head back impatiently, straining to keep his eyes on the man in front of him even as his body jerked and twisted.

Up, his mouth was moving up now, and James flung himself away from the rope when Villon sucked softly on the skin at the base of his cock, pulling with each pound of blood through the vein. He grunted, burying his teeth in his lip, uncaring if he tore the skin. The pain was nothing, not compared to René’s mouth.

Soft lips worked their way leisurely up and around the length of him, wetting him at the same time, tongue darting out with obvious enjoyment whenever James would push himself upward, wanting to be inside.

And then, finally, Villon raised one slim hand and curled his fingers around his shaft, gently rubbing up and down just as his lips slid over the head and enveloped him. It was sweet and hot and when his tongue lapped up the liquid running from the tip James could not hold himself down this time, almost jumping up and off the rope until he was nearly sitting straight and leaning over the other man. Curled awkwardly, his hands holding onto the rope to keep him from falling into the center, he could barely breathe. His whole body was straining, shaking with the effort to stay upright, and he leaned forward, changing his hands to pull against the ropes until he could hold on no longer and had to let go.

Something raw tore out of his chest, echoing loudly into the night, but James hardly heard it. His fingers turned into claws, clutching Villon’s neck and shoulders and holding him tightly so that he could not move. Damn him for making him want this, he swore viciously, digging with his jagged fingernails. He wanted to hurt him until his pain showed on his face.

For several heartbeats, there was only the sound of their breathing, short and panting and heavy, Villon drawing air through his nose raggedly. James’ thoughts were spinning, but he pushed them away, aware only that his punishment was coming. And Villon gave it to him, suddenly drawing on the tip so fiercely that James could feel the urge to shoot his spunk grow sharply, lancing through his belly. He jerked, thrusting up into René’s mouth and clenched his hands into near fists to control himself.

René muttered something against him, the words reverberating up his spine, calling to him before he began to suck harder. His hand dropped away, feather light touches gone completely. His lips clamped tightly around the head and then his tongue found the small hole, desperately leaking now. He teased it for a bare second and then pulled heavily, until James was caught between a squeal and another grunt. Villon did not stop then, but kept on sucking, seemingly intent on drawing the soul from his body.

Furiously, violently, James dug his fingers into his pale shoulders until they surely bruised, and urged Villon’s head lower. His body moved up at the same time, pressing his cock against the back of René’s mouth. He could feel himself nudging, more than nudging, demanding, and when René opened his mouth to allow it, he did not wait.  He plunged upward into his throat and growled lowly in his chest when Villon’s hands grabbed his hips and urged him forward at his own rhythm.

“Yes.” James arched into his mouth at the hot whisper and then murmured it again once all of him was inside. Villon slid over him, allowing him in and then out again, and James groaned to see it, letting Villon take over. His anger was gone, turned into something so hot it burned. It drove him on, jerking his hips as much as he could until there was only René’s mouth, and his scalding wet throat, pleasuring him like he wanted. It was agony.

“Yes,” he said again, struggling not to scream. “René.” His balls tightened, the ache growing and twisting inside. His body pushed itself forward into that fire, body thrusting mindlessly as the pleasure flooded through him. His eyes were open, but there were clouds in the sky now, around his vision, haloing René in bursts. He choked at the sight of them, and René looked up at the sound.

His black eyes were hot in the middle of all those cool colours. Knowing…proud…James frowned vaguely, somewhere else, still pushing into René’s mouth, screwing it forcefully.

“Yes,” he did growl the word this time, a hushed roar just as his cock slammed between those red lips, and then the colours exploded around him. His spunk shot out of him so hard that he yanked René forward without knowing. Oceans of it, weakening him with the force. He could feel René swallowing; the moving muscles of his throat so arousing against his hard cock that James spasmed again before falling forward.

His body was still moving, pushing faintly into René’s mouth as he drained himself. His fingers clutched and then relaxed, clawing again when René began to suck the last of it from him even when he had thought it had all been over. His back arched and everything went very still for a few heartbeats until that mouth stopped at last. Then it was just their breathing mingling with the strangled echoes of James’ passion and the heavy scent of a fuck floating in the air.

It made the air seem full, expectant. James blinked at his strange notion several moments later, still struggling to catch his breath. His body was limp, impossibly relaxed, and at the same time he could feel a tension rising in his belly where lust had been not long before.

He could feel René’s breath over his stomach, stirring the damp hairs and making him shiver, and then he started up in shock at the realization of exactly how they were positioned, and what he had done to the other man. Even in the dark he could see the marks of his hands and jerked away as much as he could, trying to distance himself from the violence.

“I…” he stumbled on saying more, recalling his anger. It was still there, raging under the surface. But James ignored it, more shocked to realize that he could not make himself act, even with René weakened, down on his knees in front of him with his mouth still on the tip of his prick.

Jesu, how his prick still tingled where it was buried in the heat of René’s mouth. It was hotter than a cunt that mouth, and James let his eyes flutter closed when the sight of swollen lips clenched around his manhood aroused him again.

The night air was suddenly much colder than before. James shuddered as that warmth was taken away and then reopened his eyes Inside he felt sick at what he had done, the hurt he had inflicted, even if it had only hurt Villon’s body and not his heart. He did not want to face him, but had to, and did his best not to react when Villon smiled.

He knew what the curve of his red lips meant, even though Villon did not say anything and only continued to kneel there in front of him. The corsaire had predicted his reaction, had said they all said no until his mouth was on their cocks. For then it was yes. James had almost screamed it. There was no use in denying it, or lie any longer.

At that James finally shifted back, scooting away from the other man until they were not touching anymore and his back was against the solid wood and he was resting precariously on the other side of the rope circle. He narrowed his eyes as a flush crept along his face. His skin felt moist now, and sticky, and his itch returned to bother him.

How many…? He wondered with a sick humiliation. How many had there been before him? He had seemed friendly enough with Deniau. How many would there be after he got away in Tortuga? How many would he take into his cabin and make…he could not finish the thought, and turned back to René, suddenly fiercely glad of the marks he had left on the other man’s skin. How could his soul bear to give such pleasure and then such hurt? But had James not hurt him in return? Marking him with fury too?

Villon was touching them now, tracing over the red spots slowly before he raised his head and met his eyes. James flinched at the rage flaring up in front of him, his heart stopping when Villon went utterly still.

The savage happiness he had felt melted away, replaced with the same anxiety he had felt upon looking into Villon’s eyes for the first time. Then they had been empty, now they were so much worse. James trembled slightly, glancing down for the first time and noticing in distant surprise that Villon wore no cutlass.

“What is the price for this?” he heard himself asking as he looked back up, his voice quivering. But he managed to get his head up, striving to remain defiant.

“Price?” Villon repeated, his eyes widening, and what had looked like rage fading away. For a moment he seemed totally confused and lost, his thin brows together in a tight frown. James drew in a breath and waited, knowing that Villon was only drawing out his agony to punish him. He could already imagine the pain of the fucking to come, the feel of the hard cock slamming into him until his own body jerked to crisis.

“Price?” Villon said again, making James wonder if the man’s English had failed him. Surely not, when he was as learned as he had shown himself to be. But a moment later the corsaire suddenly shook his head. “The price is you, James.” He smiled as he said it but the gesture lacked even amusement this time. His voice was small, as small as he had seemed when crushed in Marechal’s arms.

James barely had time to swallow in nervous excitement before Villon abruptly stood up part of the way and placed a hand on either side of his sprawled body. Villon’s eyes flicked up to his and then he arched one eyebrow in an attitude much like a dare. James’ back stiffened at the challenge, and he refused to look away or even move as Villon smoothly entered the circle and climbed over his wet legs and soft prick to straddle his waist.

He weighed surprisingly little, less than a fierce killer ought to weigh, James decided cloudily as the hot length of Villon’s arousal pressed against him. Then his mind blanked of all thoughts but one-that Villon was going to ask him to suck him in return.

He could not. James blanched immediately, pulling his head back as his mind created the image of himself on his knees as Villon had been, with Villon’s large, pulsing manhood pushing into his throat. Slender hands would tangle in his hair and then urge him forward in his drive for pleasure, until René would finally…

Blushing, James turned his head to the side and tried to order his thoughts and control himself. But Villon was moving on top of him, letting him feel the rigid prick as it rubbed against him. James pulled back until his back was to the rail though it did not matter. His skin heated under the slight friction and he heard that soft laugh that haunted his sleepless nights. Nights that were now filled with waking dreams of René pleasing him, for there was no use in denying that any longer.

When he did not turn back, a hand slid over to grab one his hands behind him in the rope. Shapely fingers pried his stiff ones free and then pulled the hand forward. James let his eyes follow his captured hand, already trembling inside at what wickedness Villon had planned for him. One small tug only increased the pressure of Villon’s grip, and James felt his palm moisten under the heat of the other man’s hand against his.

Then he gasped and whipped his head around fully when Villon slipped his hand down between his legs and then leaned forward to whisper in his ear.

“Pull out my cock,” the man ordered without any trace of embarrassment or shame and pressed James’ shaking hand against his cock so firmly that James could feel each pounding rush of blood. His whole body lurched upward at the feel of another man’s arousal in the palm of his hand.

It was just what Villon had done to him before, placing his hand on his prick through his clothes, and James could still remember his shock. He could also remember how lust had shot through his body, from his belly to his toes, when the other man had only applied a slight pressure. That little touch had been enough to trap him against the door.

Would Villon react the same way? James wondered with a frown and then jumped at the thought of making Villon beg as he had begged then. His fingers twitched reflexively against the hard length and James felt it stir. Nervously, he twitched again at the surprising reaction, splaying his fingers out widely. Subtly, Villon shifted his body, bringing himself closer.

James had not thought the other man could get any closer and dropped his eyes without thinking, pulling in a sharp breath at the sight of Villon’s bulging manhood straining through his pants, into his hand. Villon’s fingers were still holding his wrist, but James could twist it a little, and did, staring in disbelief when his thumb smoothed carefully over the other man’s prick.

Strength pounded under his fingertips, and James thought of feeling his blood rage like that in the times he had stroked his own prick. And he was stroking this prick, Villon’s prick; Villon’s choked breath in his ear made that clear. Even while James thought it, his hand was moving slowly from the head up to the base and then down again. Urged on by the pressure at his wrist, James assured himself, for no other reason.

But his fingertips soaked up the heat through the calico and when his little finger brushed against the large, glassy button holding the breeches closed, James recalled Villon’s order. He had not repeated it, but James knew he still wanted it. Whatever he wanted or planned, it would still amuse him to make James undress him to ease the taking.

Scowling, James curled his hand around the buttons and gave one hard yank, ripping the placket open. His mouth dropped open a little at his foolish action before he snapped it shut tightly, and he looked from Villon’s open breeches into his amused eyes.

Keeping his gaze the whole time, Villon’s hand firmed its grip on James’ wrist and then plunged it into the torn hole.

His fingers brushing the hot, naked flesh was enough to make James forget his anger, swept away by embarrassment. The fire flared up in the other man’s eyes so brightly that it made James wish for the emptiness again, and wonder if this was what Villon had looked like when buggering him. Lust and conquest burned in the blackness and James shuddered, a sliver of something hot spiking along his spine.

Villon’s hand was relentless, it pulled his closer, stopping only when James’ sweaty palm was on his skin. Shocked, James let him. The fat mound of muscle near his wrist cupped the pulsing shaft almost naturally, and his fingers followed, curving around it easily. Once it was actually in his hand, James stopped again, blinking desperately, not sure he was not dreaming.

But Villon was leaning forward again, soft sounds of pleasure and encouragement passing through his lips to James’ ears. He was too close to see into his eyes, but the rapidly spoken French and the hand wrapped around his wrist seemed to convey the same message. This was what he wanted. This was the price.

Straightening as much as he could, James eased his prick free and was rewarded by the low, whistling indrawn breath from Villon. The feel of air on his own privates had nearly done him in, and James could feel the effect it had on Villon, stiffening his cock just a bit more. Strangely curious, James watched it, studying it with a tightening in his belly before summoning the courage to look into Villon’s eyes and see what came next.

“Touch it.” The other man was still too close for James to see into his face, but the command was still in his voice. James returned his gaze to Villon’s cock and flinched, startled, when the hand at his wrist yanked his hand away. Confused, he went still and wondered what he had done wrong. The corsaire shifted on him at same time, leaning back enough for James to finally see him. The red lips were parted slightly, the eyes bright.

Touch it. James recalled the words in disbelief and then gulped dryly when Villon took his captured hand and moved it to where he wanted. The head of his cock was glistening, dripping really, with clear liquid that proved how aroused he was. James realized that just as Villon took control of his fingers and smoothed them over the leaking head. To feel wetness on his hands was almost as shocking as his first feel of the other man’s cock, and James waited for the urge to cringe, knowing he could not with Villon watching. But though the drops were warm they were not offensive to the touch, and after a moment, Villon let him pull away slightly.

It still dripped from his cock, just as it now glistened on his fingers, and James felt himself shake with sudden understanding. Relief, he told himself, relief that he would not have to please the other man with his mouth, only his hands. But warmth curled in his stomach as he imagined the feel of a hand on his prick, like he had been dreaming of only moments ago.

Smoothed now, his fingers slid easily around the flushed, throbbing prick and he held it for a moment that seemed to last forever. Another man’s arousal, he thought hotly, his whole body shivering restlessly. And then René’s grip tightened, and forced his hand into motion, sliding it leisurely up the shaft to his balls and then down again. It stopped there, sliding James’ thumb across the head, around and under. A slow circle there and James felt the pleasure spike through his own body, balls tightening in anticipation. The man above him jerked up the slightest bit and James blinked, staring above the rim of his spectacles at Villon.

His back was straight, his body tense with some strong feeling. Pleasure, James thought, wanting to grin savagely, but the glad feeling faded when the other man stared back at him with that same look of triumph, as if it pleased more to know that James was enjoying this. The hand on his moved again at the same time, carrying his hand back up and down, slowly, one, two, times.

The friction heated his hand again, excitement making more sweat prickle along his skin, and this new wetness in his palm smoothed his path even more. Villon kept his hand tightly in his, pulling on his cock with long, slow, deliberate strokes that would have driven James mad had he been receiving them.

The corsaire’s mouth still hung open slightly; his tongue darting out to wet the bottom lip almost without his being aware and James watched it with wide eyes. His body responded to the sight immediately, remembering when Villon had done that before, and James bit his lip to feel himself swelling under the rounded flesh of Villon’s arse.

Villon felt it too, he could tell. The other man shifted, suddenly pressing his arse back down onto James’ body and thrusting forward at the same time. His prick pushed into James’ stomach at the action, and James struggled to breath at the combined feel of the warm body and the smear of wetness on his skin.

Pleasure rushed through his body, and James tightened his hold on Villon’s cock without any urging. He could see the surprise on the other man’s face at that and squeezed for a moment, making Villon’s parted lips fall open wider. James knew what that felt like, and let the heat sweep through him as he slid his hands under the head and traced a series of circles, groaning when Villon’s hand pressed harder against his, demanding more of the same. His body pushed against his stomach at the same time, arse rubbing along the aroused length of James’ now stiff prick.

Their faces were so close they were exchanging breaths though their lips were not yet touching. Villon’s were quick and hungry, and James swallowed them without even thinking to turn his head away. With every caress Villon’s eyes would fall shut only to snap open again in the next moment as if startled and James was held to the sight as if pinned there. Villon stared back at James with heat until James would slide his hand in another direction and then his lids would close again, so slowly that it was a voluptuous pleasure just to watch them.

The man wanted this. Wanted this so much that he could not hide it though he tried. James was too close to miss the delight glowing from his eyes, and arched his body slightly, pushing them both in the air for a few moments and crushing his hand between them. The act surprised even himself, enough to make him gasp, but it was nothing to the sound that ground its way from Villon’s throat.

It had almost been a word but James did not waste his time trying to decipher it, not when Villon was squeezing his lips together, clearly trying to stop himself from saying more.  He clutched James’ busy hand and held onto it so hard that James had to follow his lead. He seemed furious at something, and eager to be done with it. He sat up as much as he could and began grinding himself into James’ hand at the same time, keeping his eyes and mouth closed.

White heat that had nothing to do with desire flooded James’ mind and he released the prick in his grip and pulled his hand away, only distantly surprised that he was strong enough to break away from Villon; the man was small, despite the muscles in the body pressed into his thighs. He pushed Villon’s hand to the side and watched with intense satisfaction as René opened his eyes. Only then did he return his hand to his lap.

Dark eyes widened and focused on his face, growing as round as the red mouth that was opened in a small circle and James felt the heat in his hand, in his belly, down to his arse and prick, and jerked his body up and again and again, vaguely aware that his pace matched that of Villon’s renewed thrusts, and the burning of his arse as it rubbed against the rope.

Villon’s breathing quickened, his body pumping frantically in and out of James’ hand, and James had to fight not to groan at the sweet feel of the body working above him, at the desperation in Villon’s half mumbled curses.

Then the cock in his hands stiffened even more, and Villon rocked against him and sent a spray of thick spunk shooting into his chest and stomach. It nearly burned it was so hot, and James went still in total shock, some of the haze in his mind clearing. Above him, Villon was still thrusting his hips forward as ropes of his seed spilled onto James’ body, his movements growing slower until he finally stopped entirely.

The scent of their fucking was unmistakable now, with the traces of René’s lust steaming on his skin, under his very nose. Stunned, James glanced down at the white, sticky mess staining his belly and lap, and then looked to his hand, still curved possessively around the other man’s manhood, unguided by any other.

Villon’s body was still heaving, chest straining as he tried to catch his breath, but the muscles against his body were relaxed, exhausted. Slowly, James raised his eyes and found Villon staring at him with unseeing eyes.

He had done that, James realized with quiet wonder. Villon had wanted him and James had left him breathless with pleasure. As shocking as that was, there was no denying this either though he was too stunned to think on why the man wanted him or why he had wanted him back, enough to do what hours before he had blushed to speak of.

Villon’s cheeks were darker than before, his lips still parted as though he had forgotten to close them and James felt his chest swell to see that, feeling a little as he had after his first time touching a girl.

Angling his head, he leaned in further until his mouth was nearly resting against Villon’s. He exhaled and felt René’s lips move slightly under his. His body remembered those lips moving against his prick and he surged forward instantly, pressing their mouths together firmly, if awkwardly.

Villon jerked himself backwards until he nearly fell and then struggled quickly to his feet. His lack of grace was more startling then even his reaction to the brief kiss and so James stayed where he was. The man just looked back at him once on his feet, his white face impossible to read now. The moonlight came and went long enough for James to see that he had lowered his eyes to straighten his clothing, and then to see the slight smile curving his lips when he raised his head again, the same emotion bowing his lips. René opened one eye even as James watched and James shivered at what he saw there. Nothing. Nothing but…satisfaction.

The word brought to mind the ache between his legs, and James shivered violently. Villon’s other eye opened, and then his grin slipped away.

Only his shining eyes gave any indication of what he was feeling as he calmly wiped his face and tucked his placket of his breeches closed.

Shuddering though his body still raged with fever, James waited tensely, knowing there had to be more. The mess on his chest began to cool, and he shifted uncomfortably.

Villon just stood there, staring down at him without a word. Whatever he saw pleased him. James tossed his head to see the intense, knowing pleasure in the other man’s expression, a sick feeling sinking into him. Spread out and aroused, covered in another man’s seed when he had claimed not to be a sodomite on their first meeting.

He had begged for it, pleaded, and then had pleased the man in return. To say otherwise would be to lie. And he could not, not even when faced with his rejection now.

Ashamed of another sure sign of his weakness, he turned his head away and then felt the fires of anger stir at Villon’s soft words.

“No amount of holy water will wash that sin away, will it, James?” he asked in a tone that meant he knew the answer already, and well. James flicked a hopeless look into those merciless eyes and then blinked when he saw something that was not just pride and ownership. The same look that had been on his face earlier that day when they had been arguing. Then, James had thought it had been the liquor.

“I…” James choked on any words, though knowing that he had naught to say, and Villon turned away. Those had been his words, that some sins could not be washed away, but he had spoken of murder, of bloodied hands, not of…not of this. “Was this about today then?” he asked quietly, struggling to contain himself, and saw the other man go still at the edge of the stairs.

It was a forlorn question; James did not expect him to answer, knowing the Villon did not consider him worthy to speak to. Today was the first time the man had spoken more than ten words to him altogether and it had only been due to his anger or the wine. But he needed an answer, not knowing what they were would only make him as mad as a March hare.

“You do not understand anything,” Villon spoke without looking back and James crossed his arms awkwardly to cover his nakedness and frowned at the heat that stole across his face.

“No I do not. How can I?” Frustration raised his voice and he curled his hands to fists so he would not yell. But Villon did not seem to hear him though he did not move, and James moved his arms to try to stand up, have it out here and now.

“We set course for Tortuga today,” Villon announced suddenly, and James froze in place as the meaning sank in. It was almost over. They were almost free. They could escape and they would never meet again. Villon would vanish into the darkness as if he belonged in it, leaving James alone, aching and itching, his seed on his belly.

“James!” The sound of his name brought his head up but it was not Villon speaking. The other man was looking out over the ship for the source of the sound. “Master James, sir!” The cry came again, and this time James recognized Ben, yelling loud enough to wake the ship. He sat up from his position against the wall and then began to fumble for his breeches when tumbling footsteps could be heard charging toward them.

“Ben!” James called out with alarm and glanced up and saw René staring at him with a bemused expression. Then he was nearly pushed down the stairs as Ben rushed past him.

“The child?” Villon’s question faded to nothing as Ben shot quick looks around them and then went completely still the moment he saw James; his tiny body almost falling forward once his feet stopped.

James’ dropped his hands in surprise only to raise them again in an effort to cover his arousal as Ben’s eyes traveled over him thoroughly. He wanted to blush, wished he could, but aside from moving his hands he seemed to be unable to do anything.

“James?” Ben wondered in a shaking voice as James tried to speak.

“What do you want, child?” It was René who finally spoke in a voice thick with some emotion, sparing James from having to do so.

“James,” Ben said again and it was René’s exclamation of irritation at that that returned James’ blushes at last, only too similar to the sounds he made in the throes of passion. Ben took a step in his direction and then stopped, glancing to René first. Whatever he saw in René’s face made him pause, and blink several times.

“It’s his Lordship, James,” Ben whispered at last, but still staring up at Villon, who tossed his head to the side and then resettled his stance as if intending to stay now that Ben was here. Freed from his gaze, Ben looked back to James. “He’s in trouble, and I thought ye’d want to know.”

“Damned English!” Villon swore before he was even finished, and James looked away from Ben in time to see the furious look Villon gave him, as if he was not speaking of Cavendish, but of him. His stomach twisted with hurt at that but then Villon turned and ran down the stairs and out of sight.

Men were awake and moving down below now, James could hear the sounds they made as he listened to Villon’s retreating footsteps. A noise near him snapped his head back and he studied Ben, his sense of horror growing.

The child was probably shocked and James wondered what to say to calm his fears when he could not calm his own. But Ben’s tense pose had relaxed, and he was frowning seriously as his gaze swept over James’ nearly naked body, stopping at his hard prick. From what he could see, Ben was not blushing, or even averting his eyes as James would have done.

“B…Ben,” he stammered childishly and, realizing that his hands did not hide the jelly on his chest, got stiffly to his feet, yanking up his breeches as he did and cursing Villon for leaving him to this alone. Then he scowled and raised his head. “His Lordship?” Fear streaked through James at the memory of the looks on many of the men’s faces today when he had called them rats. He forgot all else for the moment save that, and what he was afraid would happen to the man if he continued to offend the corsaires.

“Aye.” Ben agreed and then took another step forward. “You could use your headscarf to wipe your chest, Master James. ‘Tis best to get it from your hair before it dries.”

“What?” There was nothing in his voice but shock at the even measures of the boy’s remark. But Ben was nodding and pointing to his head and so he reached up and dragged the scarf free. He glanced at Ben before lowering his head in humiliation as he cleaned his chest, wincing briefly as he pulled on the hairs slightly. Then he hesitated before tossing the scarf overboard.

“I can take care of your other needs too, sir,” Ben breathed quietly and James jumped at the feel of a hand on his arm.

“What?” James said again, stupidly, certain that he had lost his mind now to have heard such a monstrous thing come from the mouth of a child, and then jumped again at the sudden echoing cheer from below. Spirits sinking, he forgot about Ben other than to gesture for him to stay there, and sped after René, searching for the source of the noise.

He had just reached the deck when a disturbance at the stern drew his attention and he froze alongside several other men as the large form of his Lordship appeared out of the doorway from below. His eyes were pale in the moonlight, widened to their limits. There was only a heartbeat to notice the terror contorting his face before a dark arm reached around his form and a flash of silver made the man next to him whisper an exclamation.

And then the silver was withdrawn, and something blacker than even the night sky poured out over his Lordship’s white chest, obscuring it completely. A wet groan followed that and James wanted to close his eyes at the memory of that sound.

“No.” He was unaware of saying it as he stepped forward, but no one answered. The eyes of those around him were fixed on the bleeding man before them in either amazement or interest, but none but James moved. And then Lord Cavendish was abruptly shoved from the doorway, falling limply onto the deck with a thud.

His footsteps or his heart were crashing in the silence that followed and James stumbled to a stop before the fallen man, turning astounded eyes to the man emerging from the shadows, still holding his bloodied knife. One stare was enough to see the coldness in his eyes at the heinous act, and James blinked before looking to the figure coming up behind him.

René’s face was tight with some strong emotion as he pushed past Deniau to look at the scene but James jerked his head away and dropped to the ground, reaching out for one of his Lordship’s hands. It was bloody now; the growing stain of blood had swallowed it up where it had fallen. James swallowed thickly at that but grasped the wrist firmly, remembering his readings and feeling the fading pulse beat with a sickness in his stomach that was at sharp odds with the hard prick in his breeches.

“Deniau!” René began sharply and James snapped his head up.

“Silence!” he hissed bitterly, fighting the sting in his eyes. Villon turned on him with surprise on his face. “This man is dying.” There would be some respect for life on this damned ship; he did not care if it earned him his death as well. It was likely only the suddenness of the act that had kept the crew from cheering the violence.

Breaking Villon’s gaze, James bent his head and closed his eyes, praying silently for his Lordship’s soul though he was not a man of the cloth, and even if his Lordship would have been angry with him for such familiarity. Startlingly, from behind him came the sound of what sounded like prayers in French, but before they were over his Lordship was dead, his fingers twitching once and then losing strength. James raised his head, half-expecting to see that look of amusement on René’s face that he had seen before, but there was only a frown, first leveled at him, and then directed at Deniau, and then he thought, distantly, that now there would be one less to worry about helping escape Villon.

James looked to Deniau as well without getting up, though he could feel the blood reaching his knees. In his mind he could hear awkwardly spoken Latin words, meaningless ones picked at random from the pages of More’s work and then his own answering encouragement in slow French. They mingled uneasily with the grunts and moans of passion still ringing in his ears and he had another mad urge to laugh when he could not think clearly.

“Why?” he wondered through a dry throat and tried not to stare at the blade still in Deniau’s hands. They were clean, not shining wetly like the blood on the knife did when the moon darted out from behind the clouds. “He was…” mad, as James would soon be.

“He was helpless!” he charged at last and was swept to his feet by sudden rage. All of them helpless, his Lordship as powerless as a child. “Do none of you understand that?” He had been a fool to think mercy existed here.

“Oui.” René’s voice breathed the word, and Deniau turned to him with a small, cool smile.

“You wished him dead too, Villon,” he murmured throatily and James sensed Villon’s nod of agreement though he did not look to see it.

“Why?” he asked again, his voice strained. He could not quite meet Villon’s eyes but his body jumped in response to the answer. For insulting you, he thought he heard but the words did not seem to be real, and he realized that he must have dreamt them, his mind already slipping away.

“The crazy man was yelling at everyone, cursing them so loudly they could not sleep.” Deniau flipped the dagger as he spoke, holding it so that the blade ran along his arm and he could sweep it out at anyone around him if he wished.

“And for that you killed him?” James bit out hoarsely and Deniau shook his head, just once.

“There are to be no fights on the ship, Deniau, you knew this. We cannot afford it.” René interrupted and there was a rumble from the crew, both angry and agreeing, either with Deniau for breaking the rule or with Villon for mentioning it, and René seemed to listen to their complaint, growing silent momentarily. At any other time James would have gaped to see it.

“I will not take such words, even from a lunatic. I am no slave.” Deniau looked back into James’ eyes and James flinched. “I am no dog, nor a son of the Devil, born to serve an English master. I am a man. I accept my fate.”

“Deniau.” It was a bare whisper from Villon, as if he could not believe what he was hearing. Something in his voice…it was the same as it had been when James had asked him if the scene in his cabin had been revenge. But he did not spend time contemplating that, could not, not with Lord Cavendish between them and Deniau’s fury barely suppressed.

“Villon,” Deniau growled out the single word in response and looked to him with raised brows, his daring for that something that made the breath hiss from between James’ teeth. The two men stared at one another and the world seemed to grow as cold as poor Lord Cavendish’s lifeless form. Then René lifted his head and James saw that he swallowed once.

“Give me your blade, Deniau,” he ordered quietly and James felt some of his anger change to shock when Deniau handed it to him without any struggle, extending it smoothly with the hilt out.

“More will die?” James gasped in disbelief and glared at Villon, hating the sight of him with that bloody knife with such force that he shook with it and had to look away. But René did not look away from him; he could feel those eyes on him and struggled not to speak any more.

“If you wish it, James,” Villon said at last and James snapped his head up without thinking. He tried to speak but could not when Villon reached out and held the knife in the air between them, hilt first, his fingers smearing the blood. “He was your master. Will you avenge him?”

His throat was closed, too tight for him to breathe and he glanced up into dark eyes that told him nothing. For a moment frustration at being so denied made him clench his teeth and snatch the bloody thing from René’s hand and cradle it in his palms without looking at it. It felt heavy though, and warm, and his fingers itched to recall what this hand had held only moments before.

What his acts had cost his Lordship. James closed his eyes at the mutterings of the crew at this turn of events and thought over his neglect with a shame that drained the heat from his body. Of all his acts on this ship, this was surely the worst, abandoning a sick man to the care of murderers for his own pleasure. This ship and the people on it had turned him into someone who could only think to be grateful that a man was dead because it had spared him work. They were worse than the cannibal savages printed of in the accounts of the New World, and he tightened his grip on the knife.

What use was there in fighting then? Why not be one of them? James smiled grimly and turned to Deniau, who seemed surprised before he composed his face to show nothing. It showed nothing because they felt nothing, not one of them, Deniau, Marechal, Villon; all of them heartless and soulless and they wanted him to be like them, to fight like a man. Cavendish’s words.

He barely heard the snarl that tore from his mouth as he moved the knife to his other hand and took a step toward Deniau. His foot slipped in the blood and he paused for a fraction of a moment to steady himself, staring ahead at the rapid rise and fall of Deniau’s chest.

Oh God. The prayer flew up to Heaven and James wondered if he had spoken it aloud. His hand came up to cover his mouth and the hilt of the blade still in his grip brushed his chin. Repulsed, he nearly dropped it, hurriedly lowering his hand to hide the cursed thing from his sight.

“Oh God.” This was spoken, an urgent whisper, and his eyes went wide, searching out for something in the shadows. Deniau was in front of him, and just seeing him was a spear through his middle. And on the ground was his Lordship, tearing him to pieces. “I cannot,” he whispered, knowing he was a coward in the eyes of the world. He let the knife fall to the deck, where it landed next to the body.

“You will not?” The question came as quiet as a child’s voice and James turned tired eyes to Villon, blinking to see that the other man was holding out one hand, holding back Ben with a single hand to his shoulder. James was not certain as to why, since the child was not fighting to get free. He seemed to have forgotten René’s hand was there.

“I cannot,” James repeated. “It…it is not my place.” He could not think straight, barely getting out the French words, not even sure they were correct.

“I do not want your mercy, Anglais.” Deniau spat onto the ground at his feet and James sucked in a breath.

“It is not mercy.” His throat was dry, scratched and parched and he would have begged for some water, if anyone there would give it to him. “I am leaving you to face God,” he pronounced slowly and watched how Villon’s eyes widened.

If the crew spoke in answer to this James did not hear it. He only blinked back the stinging in his eyes and stared back at the man he wished he could call Devil. But the word stuck in his mind and pointed back at himself.

“Ah,” Villon nodded with sudden understanding that caused James’ heart to jump. “This would have been a sin you could not have washed away?” James hunched his shoulders about himself to be flogged with those words again but shook his head.

“Yes,” he agreed on a sigh. “But that it not why.” His guilt over what he had almost done rose in his throat like bile and he wished it would consume him, burn him from the inside out until he was naught but ash. The others did not understand, and he barked something that was not a laugh to remember how he had criticized Villon for not explaining himself. “This was not vengeance,” he mumbled and frowned into Villon’s still, watchful face.

“I thought he was your friend?” James asked abruptly in English and swayed slightly as the blood that had been pounding through him seemed to rush to his feet. The world trembled and then René was close before him, studying him with glittering eyes.

“He is, and for that I am glad that I put the knife in your hands.” His red mouth twisted at the way James jerked in surprise to hear that soft confession but James could not concentrate enough to pull out his meaning. One thin eyebrow quirked upward in near amusement at his stunned silence. “But now I think you need to sleep, James.”

James opened his mouth to try to speak though no words were on his tongue and Villon shook his head, scowling at some private puzzle that James knew he would never fathom, even if it had been shared with him. And then it was over, and he swayed once more as Villon stepped back.

“Sleep, James. Surely even you must do that,” he remarked in cool tones and flicked a look to Deniau. James followed his look and then shook his head.

“N…not until he is b…buried.” He stumbled over the word itself but made himself stand firm, too weary to be scared. One dark eyebrow arched at his command though Villon did not turn or even acknowledge he had spoken. But a moment later two large corsaires crossed before him, each bending down to pick up his Lordship. James studied them warily but neither spoke, or even looked at anyone but Villon.

Neither man was Marechal and James felt his brows draw together to realize that the behemoth of man was not even there. Somehow he always seemed to be at Villon’s shoulder. Someone had to steer the ship while Villon had… he stopped and shuddered with unease to think of Marechal’s dark looks. But he was only seeking to distract himself from what had to be done, and turned, crossing himself slowly when the sound of a splash could be heard. Then he shivered.

“Sleep, yes?” Villon again, frowning at him from a few feet away. Ben was still at his side, frowning as well. The whole thing was ridiculous, and James let out a choking gasp that was much like a sob, to his shame. His eyes closed and then hands were at his shoulders, warm but still wetly stained with blood. His breath caught again. “I will deal with Deniau for his crime against me and leave the rest to your God. Go now, James.”

A rough shove had him almost falling back, only the presence of someone behind him steadied him. Blinking, James saw Ben staring up at him sadly, shaking his head like an old man.

“I’m swooning like a maid, René,” he whispered as René turned from him and wondered if René had heard his joke when he seemed to go still. But then René was moving away, Deniau close behind him, both of them silent. And James suddenly knew that he was mad, for only a madman would have watched his retreating figure when it was his own soul that needed protection.

Copyright R. Cooper with all rights reserved

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