The smell of whiskey lingered in the air even by the window, far from Sir Marvell, who sat in a chair by a cold hearth, sipping from a nearly emptied cup. It was perhaps his fourth of the evening, but the man’s drunkenness did not concern René, in fact it soothed several of his fears about the state of the old fox’ mind this night. It served him well to have the red-faced ass fall asleep from drink before the great and costly clock in the room struck midnight. A liquor soaked mind would have no interest in asking questions of him.

A glance out the window told him the hour grew late, later than he would have liked, with so much to do before he sailed with the tide, and another glance told him where James was standing, far from him, though René had not forgotten that in the moments he had looked elsewhere.

He wore his ugly suit again, a sour yellow to match his serious face. Not once had he smiled during his master’s supper, no doubt missing Saint-Cyr, who had chosen not to attend. And that suited René very well; it had probably made it easier for Honoré to snatch that fool from a tavern than to wait for him to return to his bed. René nearly smiled with anticipatory pleasure at the idea of Saint-Cyr’s fear, and the ruthless grin that he knew would be the only answer he would receive from Thierry were he to wake and have time to question his abductor. He would be afraid, and helpless, like a child among strange men alone on his ship, and that would be enough until René dealt with him personally.

James’ stern face did not match René’s mood, nor give any hint to James’ thoughts; any tension the Englishmen might feel at the press of time would be in his eyes alone. But nothing would be visible in his own to James Fitzroy if he chose to look in René’s direction.

It would not please James to learn of his thoughts now, even if he were to learn that he had succeeded in influencing him to a small degree. Perhaps killing Saint-Cyr outright was not the best, living could be a pain in itself, something it was time the son of Saint-Cyr learned. He would learn to accept, even bow to the bonds that held him, knowing that to be free of them meant an even worse fate.

Who would the Saint-Cyr name be passed to, once René had ransomed Etienne Saint-Cyr and then killed him? With James still ignoring him, René spent a moment contemplating what desperate measures Saint-Cyr might take, with only two daughters and perhaps scores of bastards to his name. Then he shook the thought aside for now, idly contemplating the great noble’s lecherous, drunken ass of a son tied up and struggling.

His eyes flicked to James once more moments later, surprised to see that James had moved, and was no longer talking to his master. He could see, in that same moment, James tied up and struggling, and licked his dry lips, remembering well the feel of having James in his power, though he thought perhaps that James might enjoy such a game as that as well as he would, but with so little time and his body aching already it was unlikely that he would find out, unless James for once did not act the fool and let things proceed quickly.

He could still recall the haughty note of scorn in James’ voice as he had taken the book from him as though it were his due, clutching its bindings closely, jealously, when it was only nonsense by another mad Englishman, written in Latin as if in recognition of the fact that English was a poor tongue.

James was moving now, as though to mock René anew, replying to his doubting thoughts and striding toward the window and René with bent shoulders and flat eyes, and René watched in amazement to see no stumbling steps, not even when he stepped widely around the shadow of Marechal, within an arm’s reach from him.

Other than to notice how near James had come to him, René did not acknowledge the larger man either. It was likely that Marechal noticed, but that was of no concern. The man had insisted on coming here when he had learned that René went alone, and now he could stand by the wall and be ignored by any of the others in the room until the great horned beast rose up in the East to roast them in fires of Hell. René had no need of protection any longer, and it was time Marechal saw this.

“I have warned him.” Softly whispered, it drew René’s eyes up much as a shout might have, and he regarded James steadily. For a small moment, James’ eyes shone with ferocity, and then René own eyes grew dry, and he blinked. What James spoke of now did not improve René’s humour.

“I have no doubt that you did.” Turning toward the window afforded him a view of stars growing brighter as the night darkened around them. But the evening air did not ease the sting in his cheeks, and he wondered at it, when he had not had more than a sip of Sir Marvell’s offerings. His fingers reached into his coat, delving through the worn threads to seek a heavy, misshapen sack filled with his own offerings for the evening. They would not be given to Sir Marvell, or Marechal, and he had held onto them for long enough.

He could see how his words took James aback, though he struggled to hide it before his curious frowns began to return, and René licked his lips to halt further idiotic statements and pressing questions. There were more things to be spoken of this night than a fool who was as good as dead. Not with the stars growing brighter and the sky being painted black and James still wearing the ugly suit that another man had given him.

Those offerings he took and yet a simple collection of pages he sneered at as though it were shit on the street. René spun on his heel, half turning toward James with one hand extended, smoother than Etienne Saint-Cyr had ever done, but it did not even make James widen his eyes.

“I am sure young Saint-Cyr is off with a woman somewhere…” Sir Marvell’s knowing voice drifted over to them, and René’s mouth tightened, somehow certain that Sir Marvell had intended this to be heard.

“I did not come here to talk of that.” So close, the length of hands only from James, and his fingers twitched before he closed them into his palm and lowered his hand. But he would not say that name, knowing how it inflamed James so and not wishing to hear James say it in return. “I will leave to-morrow.”

“Yes.” The word hissed from James before he snapped his jaw shut, and René let his eyes follow the strong lines of his face when James flicked his gaze to the floor. Of course James had known this, though they had not spoken until this moment, and René found himself wondering at James’ purpose in coming to him like this, hurling himself before the lions.

“Is this why you come to me now?” His own jaw was tight, and for the space of one heartbeat, René looked beyond James to the large shadowed figure moulding itself to Sir Marvell’s wall. He looked back to James in time to see the quick twitch as James’ followed his gaze, and then the startled splash of colour across his cheekbones.

“I have no more wish to speak of Etienne than you seem to.” James snorted as he said the words, jerking a glance back over his body at his employer before twitching his shoulders straight and growing still.

René understood his anxiety well enough, and the reason for his looks to his employer. The room held only a handful of people even if one counted the slaves, but it seemed crowded and the air too thick to breathe. Almost, he expected lightening outside, but the skies had been clear.

He opened his mouth to suggest they retire to another, less busy, chamber, and James stole the very air from his lungs with something that could have been murmured in Latin and would still have had the sound of bells to his ears.

“There is another room, where we might be alone.” Even with a deepened, roughened voice, there was no mistaking the invitation, and René knew his brows rose, and frowned to straighten them even as he thinned his lips. He nodded once, in reply, and turned the smallest fraction of a glance to his waiting man, dismissing him bare moments later.

He would not put an end to James’ new madness, if James chose to face his desires now, though René knew that it was only the fact of his leaving that enabled James to grow so bold as to wish aloud to be alone with him. But that did not matter, if they were alone then René could take what he wanted as well.

But he paused, remembering the strange, daring way James had spoken to him in Sir Marvell’s office, the challenge to his stance and the presumptuous caresses of his hands.

He knew he shivered, and looked upwards in time to see the embarrassed expression that James had no time to hide from him. This James he knew well, and it would not be long before he held him once more, doing away with the proud creature who raised his chin in defiance. Then he would be his, again and again he would plunge into his body until he had had his fill, and James would moan and beg to stay with him.

“I do not have all night, James,” he bit out the words with too much eagerness, but did not care to waste more time with talking, not with others watching and James holding himself distant.

And James nodded, murmuring something softly to himself in his own tongue before turning, and walking stiffly from the room by way of a small servant’s entrance, leaving René to stay or follow behind him as though it meant little to him whichever René chose.

Scowling tightly, René followed, longing to pull his blade and remind James of just who was master here.

Nearly silent footsteps sounded behind him, but René continued walking, ducking without need through the door and keeping step with James down a hallway. He could feel the pressure at his neck easing and knew without turning that Marechal no longer followed. Pleased that he did not have to reprimand the man, René did not turn to see where he had gone, though he could easily imagine Marechal being too big to fit through the small passageway.

It was not long before James pushed open a set of doors and slipped inside a room, and René followed after, stopping in the doorway to study the room carefully. It was some of small office or antechamber, filled only by a small table at the opposite end of the room, by a window. The window had been opened to let in the cooling breezes, but the room still carried the smoke of many candles, which someone had lit before they had entered.

That James had to have done it himself, or ordered it done, was René’s only thought of the moment, and he stepped into the room, closing the door slowly behind him.

“So…” James had stopped only feet from the entrance, keeping his back to René, and René forgot about his annoyance for a moment to contemplate the lines of his back, and when he had last seen them, touched them.

“So we are alone.” James had spoken again, but René did not hear him at first, advancing until he was perhaps a foot only from touching James, and then the words had meaning.

“Oui.” He breathed in, but James had jumped at his word, seeming to be startled at his closeness, for he moved quickly away, spinning around to him with an expectant face. He did not return, and René felt himself frowning, standing in his own place for a long moment before gesturing at the air between them.

That he frowned did not seem to worry James; the other man glared darkly back at him briefly and then shoving his hands into his coat pockets. Then he sighed heavily, like a mother wearied by her children. It was a sound René did not find pleasing, and he turned from James to walk to the table, pulling out the bag from his coat as he did.

He emptied it into his hand and discarded the sack on the table before turning back to face James, holding out his hand and uncurling his fingers so that the lights might better reflect the glowing surfaces of the treasure he now offered to James.

The silence seemed to grow loud, and scratched along René skin, making him shift his stance and raise his eyes from the stones at last to peer across into James Fitzroy’s face, knowing that if a book had not made him happy, then surely these would.

“Diamonds now?” There was no hiding the way his shoulders jerked at the sudden demand from James. It was displeasing to consider, when, despite James’ larger size, René had never once been afraid of him.

The younger man had raised his voice, and perhaps that was the source of his reaction. James shouted as though they were both common whores in the street, with no shame or respect to keep their business private. Nonetheless, while René still stood like a mute beggar with his hand outstretched, James only grew red with increasing fury. The collection of hard gems still rested in René’s palm, reflecting the thin sliver of the rising moon as it found them through the opened window, and the multitude of candles hidden in the walls about them. Orange and red and purple flames, winking in his hands, but nothing to the clear stone that glittered invitingly in the midst of them all.

“Stones?” James swung around and stopped his short-stepped pacing to ask of him, lowering his voice only to have to rise again at his next words. “Do you think to buy me?” There was no hint of his stammer, and for that René watched him carefully, wary that the man might make some other lunatic pronouncement as he had done before, not certain of this new man that kept appearing before him. How tall he had stood, taller even than Marechal it had seemed, and then out of his mouth the most ridiculous sentiments. They were mad, the English, and none more so than James Fitzroy.

I will not allow it, he had said, quivering only a little at René’s caresses, not trembling like a scared boy. No his arms had been steel and his chest like marble, but never as cold as metal or stone. So warm, he thought once more, shivering as fevered men did, as though it were cold when they burned to the touch. James was hotter than other men, fiery like the sun under his skin and even the child clung to him to feel it. There was no shame in that, in wanting the warmth that only a touch could provide. If James were not so proud and foolish, he would see this, and allow René to have him. He sailed to-morrow, and Port Royal would not welcome him back as a revered son.

“This is the price you set for me?” James sneered, twisting his face into something ugly, and for a moment René could only blink, but by then the expression was gone and James was walking to and fro once more. “Before it was only a handful of coin. Your memory of that night must be different than mine, Sir, for I only recall thy displeasure with me, your eagerness to leave.”

“Non!” It was not his own voice, strained and weak as he struggled away from the wide table behind him, his coat caught on the scrolled carvings of the corner. But James did not even turn, and René was left in his damned coat with a hand full of stones that had no worth. Impatient, cursing, René threw the jewels to the floor and watched with surprise as they clattered and spun around like the toys of the children in the ghettos, disappearing from his sight.

It was James’ time to jump, and René had his attention at last, as he had not since they had entered this room, and shut the doors behind them. Panting, feeling the weight of the moon on his neck as the short hours passed, René clutched at the coat with one hand, pointing with the other.

“Have I not already said to you that I want you?” His voice he did not raise, but surely even the stars heard him. If James had heard he gave no sign, and René growled low in his throat, as if James had turned him into some sort of beast at last. Forgetting his coat for the moment, he reached down and grabbed his cock, nearly moaning at the hard feel of his hand on its aching length, though he should have been weary of his own attentions. “Have I not said I thirst for the taste of your prick?”

“No.” There was a startled sigh of air. “No, you have not,” James answered, slowly, as though he felt the effects of Mirena’s herb, though the sweet smoke from those weeds was not a scent that would ever follow James Fitzroy. But René did not want to waste moments thinking of that when there were more important things to be done tonight. He jerked his hand at James instead, unable to speak at the idiocy of the Englishman when he had made his feelings more than plain enough. Even a blind man would have seen how René hardened with every step James took nearer to him.

“Saint-Denis!” It rang out finally, when James still would not move, and at last James raised his head from the cloud of unseen smoke around him and shook his head clear of what spirits had possessed him. From where James stood now, halfway across the room, ten long-legged steps across a rug to the table by the window, and René, René could see the trembling of James’ lower lip, and the resolute strength of his shoulders, the uncertainty of James the priest, fighting what he wanted with all the strength of his martyr’s soul.

He had simply to press, and James would be his.

Inhaling, René left his prick to the air and divested himself of the coat, hearing it fall to table behind him and then slide to the floor with the jewels. And with the rush of that was the rush of James’ breathing, startled and quickening at the idea of René’s naked flesh being so much closer to the touch of his gentle hands. He had only to cross the room to take it.

“You please me,” René murmured it, hiding his annoyance at saying such a thing out loud, twitching his eyebrows into something that was not a frown.

The rush of breath into James’ lungs stopped, and yet even with that, James found a way to speak.

“And when you sail to-morrow?” James asked him, tossing his head suddenly, with such strength that the bones in his neck cracked. Lights fired off the glass of his spectacles as he turned, reflections from the candles, leaving René blind as to the feeling in his brown eyes.

His heart sounded in his ears, and he knew he swallowed for his mouth was no longer dry, but it only became dry again, watching the abrupt, relentless motion of James as he covered his mouth with his hands and then dropped them to his coat, burying one in a pocket and grasping something so tightly that his arm shook.

James stepped forward, turning from the candlelight now, giving René a glimpse of eyes almost as dark as his own. “If I please you again, will those be left for me?” He waved at the floor, to where a mine of precious stones were scattered like pebbles. Treacherous obstacles for stumbling feet, but James strode toward him with deliberate steps that did not falter, and that was enough to have René searching the familiar face again, trying to find softly trembling lips.

Unsteadily, René leaned back until his hands found the smooth, cool table, “You want them?” He demanded in disbelief and then shook his head. But James would not pause to deny the words, and so they had to be truth.

“They are worthless to you,” James remarked, and he was standing before René, tall and strong and reaching for the tiny button at the top of his coat. There he trembled, his fingers slipping on the button, but René could not slow his racing heart, blinking at the strangeness of the vision before him. “You throw them away.” James was going on, still speaking though his voice was quiet in René’s ears. The table was hard against his back and his body throbbed with it, an unforgiving pounding that left him dizzy and motionless when he ought to run.

“And what of what pleases me?” James demanded of him for the second time, but the cold words were not spoken to René, and James’ mouth twisted into something pained as he closed his eyes. His raised his hands to his face and only then did he reopen his eyes, looking beyond his hands to René, who could not move without brushing against the rigid body before him. So hot, he could feel the skin of his thighs tighten.

“James,” he meant to say, and perhaps he did, but his own voice was so weak that even his own ears could not hear it. Strange, when there were two heartbeats echoing in his head like the mad drumming from the fields, locking his muscles before he could think to shift and dart away.

“And what shall I give to you, René, if you please me?” With a grace that seemed to come from another man, James reached up and swept the horrible wig from his head and threw it to the side, lifting his chin as if daring René to challenge the action. He did not seem to care about the mess they had made on his employer’s floor, continuing to unbutton his coat with a darkened face but newly steadied hands.

René felt his gaze traveling from those hands to that face, and back again, over and over until James pulled himself free of the ill-fitting jacket and stretched his back as it landed near his feet. His white shirt was loose, but thin, and it was only the veste that kept his form hidden from sight.

Nothing of his eyes was visible now, with his chin so high and his body so straight and tall, and René had to let his head fall back, feeling the weight of his hair as it slid down over his neck. That, too, caused shivers, and he could not still his body as James stood there and studied him with his heavy lids, stern and forbidding.

“I don’t have anything of value to offer you.” James made it a condemnation, pressing himself forward until René could not see anything but the length of his body. There was James, and the table behind him, and something resting on that that fell over with a crash as James dared one last step, and René was pushed hard into the wood. “But if you are so thirsty…” he went on slowly, nearly grinding the words between his teeth, slapping his palms loudly on the table, one arm to either side of René. René knew he gave a start, able to finally control his shivers at last only to twitch at the mass of James’ body as it settled above him. He licked his lips as the English words became Parisian in his mind, and he could feel the word thirsty sink through to him to his spine and leave a drought in its wake.

He was not thirsty; he was dying of this.

The pains in his lower back were fleeting, settling to dullness instantly at the rough whisper, a sharper hunger between his legs sapping his strength. He could feel his flesh tighten there too, and frowned, lowering a hand to his sash.

Warmed linen brushed against the backs of his fingers, the sleeves of James’ shirt, and the muscles beneath the cloth rippled.

“If you are so thirsty Villon…” Even now, René was not deaf to the anger hardening James’ voice; to the way his moved one hand until he found one of René’s on the table and covered it with grasping fingers. “…Then why are you still on your feet?”

He had misheard the strange words, and pulled his head away the slightest degree, frowning over what James had said. James was rigid, trembling in the moonlight, or swaying as though the room were circling around them. But there was no hint of embarrassment in the square face, not even when the lips parted on a single aroused breath. “Perhaps we can find a bed, if the floor is not to your liking. My cock does not care.” And there was a strange, rasping sound, like metal pulled along metal, and though it did not come from René, his skin was raw with it.

None demanded of him, none expected any thing but what he gave them. That James had stumbled over his words meant nothing to this wound.

“I am not your…” René’s mind would not supply the proper English word at first and he struck out, glancing a blow across the iron strength of James’ chest. “…Whore!” he blurted clumsily, at last, and shoved against the desk to free himself. The move brought him tight against James, and the air hissed from his lungs as his body caught fire, hundreds of flames catching along his skin like lights reflected off those stones lying abandoned on the floor.

His cock was pressed into James’ hard thigh, and it was only the shocked gasp from James that enabled René to move at all, falling back against the table, seeking the cooler wood to restore his senses. But with a curse that made René’s face sting with heat, James pressed in after him, pinning him to the table with his legs and sliding his hands from the table to his hips, crushing into the small bones, creating pools of warmth under each fingertip.

He had touched there before, soft and imploring, and it had been nothing like this, though even then René had been too aroused to do much more than punish James for speaking when they should have been fucking. And René opened his eyes wide at how those fingers drew him closer, pushing his arousal into James’ body, pushing his swollen shaft against René’s stomach.

“But I am yours?” James’s harsh little cry, just above his ear, begged for an answer, but René could not find one with shuddery, heated breaths scattering over his ear and the side of his face. “Mayhap…” And James was murmuring into the shell of his ear, pushing hair aside with his face to bring himself closer. “…That will change this night.”

“Qu…quois?” René would have ducked his head away in shame to hear himself stammer like a child, but then he would have had to move from James’ mouth, and his body did not wish that. He fought back the desire to strive closer to it as he willed his mind to understand this strange English.

“Lean back.” James gave him no time for that, continuing his regard of René’s ear as René stiffened, seeming not to see or feel how cold René grew in his arms, how his eyes sought out the sparkle of jewels on the floor, beyond James’ head, focusing on the shining brightness and willing it to consume him.

His hands remembered themselves at last, propping him on the table though truly James held him upright. His scratched his fingers into claws at the wood before finally freeing themselves and swinging around to his front, letting him push against James’ chest. His claws smoothed out again, flattening at the first hint of heat bleeding through the ugly yellow waistcoat, and the rapid beat underneath his palms, echoing through his arms to his chest.

James shook under his hands, muscles contracting beneath his touch, and it was that which made René look up into James’ eyes. He was so close, he had to let his head fall back, and when James cast his eyes upon him, he shivered at the bare expanse of his neck exposed to James’ gaze, at how small and weak and pale he must seem next to someone so strong.

“You are trembling, René,” James stated, quietly, and René knew that it must please James to say it, though it was not true.

“I am cold.” Said flatly, it was enough to goad any man into action, and James was like any other man with a stiff cock. René nearly curved his lips into a snarl. If James were to do this to him, then let it happen, and let them not spend the evening in talk first.

Closing his eyes, René arched his neck, dropping his head back and not surprised at the short, wet kiss pressed to the bobbing apple of his throat, the softening of the grip on his body. There was only black behind his eyes, and against him was a hard, beautiful body that he wanted, that wanted him.

“Do you fear me, to tremble so?”

How James babbled on, suggesting ridiculous things in his strangely steady voice, and René let his eyes open only to see James’ handsome face directly above his own.

“I do not…” One swallow was all that he could manage with his tight throat, and it took moments to speak again normally. He blinked, and James was still there, watching him through his damned spectacles as though he were trying to translate the Latin of his book, the book that he would not thank René for returning. René blinked again, searching for words and darting his eyes away.

“No, a man cannot fear his whore.” James answered for him, digging harder into his hips for the smallest moment, making René toss his head at the sweet pain of it, the bruising force of James’ hands squeezing his flesh. He moved, and the room was filled with a harsh sigh as his prick found James’ thigh once more. Warm flesh responded to the brief rub, and James moaned as he spoke, pushing against René’s stomach with the barest of motions. “Would you have taken me there, in Sir Marvell’s office?” he wondered in between the need for air, and René watched him, how he let his lids fall and rubbed deliberately again, forming a circle with his lips as he discovered the pleasures of rubbing another man in this manner.

He was so beautiful that way, turning to silver in the light from the window, but still firelit from behind, moaning when René would shift, and push himself back the smallest measure, teasing James until the other man would be desperate for René’s attentions.

“Yes.” Desire lowered his voice, drawing it into little more than a woman’s whisper, and yet James’s cock jerked against his middle.

“Over the desk?” James’s voice rose, probably with eagerness, and René put his hands to use, stroking coaxingly over the tight peaks of James’ chest and the firm lines of muscle, pleased at the rumbles of delight beneath his fingers, the awkward twisting as James sought to prolong the caresses.

“There is no place where I would not have you.” How quickly that rushed past his lips, and how quickly James straightened to hear it, flexing his fingers as if pained and curling them into René’s body possessively. He stood tall and still for a long moment, leaving René to ache and throb as he stared, and then he freed one hand from René’s hip and thrust it between René’s legs, smiling faintly to himself when René jerked back into the table in surprise.

“Did you not tutor me well?” James questioned him with a sharp manner, and brought a slow pressure to René’s cock, rubbing it with his palm, pushing the cloth into the stinging flesh until René had to push back, swallowing his moans as James teased him. “I said,” he paused in his touches to lean in and lick a path along René’s jaw, and then squeezed his prick, making René gasp and thrust upward into his hand, remembering the feel of calluses as that hand had stroked softly up and down his shaft, eased only by René’s own juices, and had prodded at the head until René had would have died if he had stopped. “…Did you not tutor me well?” James let go his grip abruptly at the comment, and the blood in René’s cock pounded so heavily that René parted his lips in astonishment, itching for another touch, clutching at James’ shirt without truly being aware.

“James,” he darted out his tongue to wet his lips and shuddered violently when James flicked out his own to taste his, and pleasure bolted down his spine. Weakly, he fell against James’ arm and grabbed at his waistcoat. His legs failed him, and his skin screamed wherever James touched him, demanding that he fall to his knees and give James whatever he wished if only he would touch him again.

“You do not taste of liquor,” James remarked quietly, as though puzzled, before leaning slowly in and pressing his lips to René’s opened mouth. His lips were firm, asking things of him with only their slight pressure, and René had time only to blink, to go still at the other man’s kiss, and then James was sweeping his tongue into his mouth, searching, tasting, even as his hand pushed fiercely against his prick. His body followed his hand, combining their force to drive René mad, and he could not escape the heat and the feel of James against his him, his thigh, his hand, his mouth.

He lurched up against James instead, fluttering his hands uselessly against the broad chest, stinging through his body at only the barest touch of lips. Heat and want had him jerking, pushing hard into James’ hand, breathing heavily through his nose as James took his mouth, stroking the length of his tongue with his own and then pulling away when René could not control how he writhed and wriggled at the taunt of it, the pain twisting in his middle and making him burn wherever James laid a hand.

“You do not taste of liquor.” James tore himself away to repeat his words, a different tone to them this time as his eyes studied René’s face. His lips seemed darker, and René could only stare as he felt along his own mouth with his tongue carefully, tasting the buzzing under his skin where James had touched him and the faint flavour of fruit. He panted for air, filling his chest with the scent of James, and then James was groaning and lowering his head once more. But though René grew still and waited with a single breath in his lungs, James only scraped his teeth along his chin and down to his neck, trailing his tongue wetly over each spot he had marked, and there was only friction and wet and shivers as René’s body fought to find something harder than his hand. He was scalded, and little arcs of agony had him shifting and rubbing and smoothing himself into James with small, gasping cries that James swallowed as though they were his due.

“Back,” James ordered into his skin, and René quivered at the damp breath brushing across his frustrated flesh and tilted back his head, leaning slightly until the table again pressed into his ass. And James rewarded him, shoving them both back into the wood until René cried out like an animal and the wood shrieked in protest, then sliding his hand from its hold on René’s prick to between his thighs, splaying out widely against the flexing muscles and pushing them farther apart so that he could slip his leg into the vacant spot.

James was moaning before René could think to do more than arch into the welcome weight and jerk his hips up and down against him, parting his legs as far as he could to allow James closer, to feel the hard body rubbing against the inside of his thighs, and how their clothing tormented them both by refusing to allow more. It scratched and irritated and trapped them until René would have ripped it from his body to let James touch the bare skin, but he could not without ceasing the touches to James’ chest that made James bite his lip and mutter angrily against his teeth, René’s only victory as James took him roughly on this table and claimed him with his mouth.

How James loved to have his nipples pinched and teased, it was simple enough to touch them to hurt James in return for the ache he had created between his legs, for the pain of the wood at his back, but not so simple to ignore how René wanted to bite them until they blushed as rosily as James’ cheeks. Licking James, something he had only ever done under cover of darkness, and he regretted it now, wetting his lips at the remembered taste, the muffled shock in James’ voice, the twitch of the cock in his hands. James’ cock was pulsing against his belly now and René wished to move his hands, to wrap them around that beautiful prick and squeeze until he could feel the hot seed explode over his chest.

He had not meant this, had not thought to want this, and tried to piece together his dignity, opening his mouth only to emit a rough cough when James’s teeth left his neck and closed around his earbob to tug on it sharply. A snakelike hiss of pleasure slipped from his mouth and that was all it seemed to take, and James was whispering words that had the sound of no language René had ever heard, murmuring them into his cheek and then above his lips, though he did not give him another of his kisses, staying just beyond his reach, even as he stepped in as far to René as he could get without tearing René in two and dragged his hands over the heat of his outer thighs in order to hold René closely to him. Even that René would have allowed, if only James would cover him with his mouth as they thrust and grunted like savages. His mouth was not pure, but sinful to mock René with its closeness and yet deny him.

“James.” René growled it into James’ lips, and the word became something more desperate than even this shameful begging when James let his hands roam from his thighs to his hips once more, and then down to his ass. There was no disguising how he jumped at that, striving into James’ thigh as those hands discovered the feel of his ass and briefly stroked over the rounded flesh before crushing René with his fingers, daring to slip between and below, and drawing near enough to where he would have thought James would never dare to go to make René arch up in a quivering bow, suspended with the need to demand that James press there, and fill him.

He could feel how the rough embrace pressed even James’ hands into the hard wood, but James was not pulling away but groaning with lust, sending tingling vibrations over René’s lips as René looked back up into his lover’s face and jerked his body demandingly, trapping James’ hands there on his ass, wanting to hold his body within his legs if only he could.

James was frowning, at what René did not know, and he rocked back viciously against James’ thrusts, until the table slid from them and James was falling hard into his body, swearing as even Mirena would not, flushed and sweating and rubbing his throbbing cock greedily against René’s stomach even as they struggled not to fall.

His fingers tightened their hold, and then René tossed his head at the sudden surge of dizziness, alarmed to feel himself being lifted from the ground and held closely in James’ arms. He wrapped his legs around the heat of James’ body, tight around his thighs, trusting in James not to drop him as he continued to take his pleasure from that lovely body. James grunted, the sound thick with surprise and arousal, and dropped him hard onto the table’s surface. René let out a breath with a short cough, and James was sliding his hands down René’s legs, ensuring that they remained wrapped tightly around him, and rolling his hips into the space between René’s legs with a ragged edge to his actions, his thrusts coming faster now.

Agreeing, René clung to the taller man’s neck and tore away the band holding back James’ hair, using that to anchor himself as James rested them on the table and slid his hands from his legs to his back, and then up, smoothing his large hands along his spine, stopping at his neck, inflaming René with the strength barely contained in his fingers. They brushed aside his hair impatiently and then forced his head back and toward him, saying his name harshly when René only blinked like a dazed man.

“René.” Against his mouth at last, and James was using his teeth to pull René’s lower lip into his mouth and nibbling on its softness as though he were ravenous. There was a shocked gasp, and René felt the air enter his lungs and bring colours to his eyes, using his hands to find James’ shoulders and keep him from moving away, pawing at their strength and then ripping into the cloth when James pulled his mouth away.

“I please you?” James’s voice was no longer harsh, but heavy, rough and thick with passion that he could not hide. He waited, with his full mouth opened and wet and sweet, and René closed his eyes to the sight, his thighs shaking with the need to draw the other man into him. His body was so wracked with lust that he felt he must expire on the moment and still how James talked, demanding of him what was so shamefully already given.

“Je me trouverais sur mon dos, pour vous, si vous me demandiez, James,” he was moaning though he knew James would not understand the words. It was James’ name alone that returned James to him, and René gripped his broad shoulders punishingly, wanting to claw so deeply that he would leave scars, stirring sounds from James at the hurt, though it did not stop him.

His belly was wet with the liquid weeping from James’ cock, and he knew his own pantalons were soaked with the tears of arousal. Spirals of lust coiled in his balls, and they tightened painfully as James licked carelessly around his lips and plunged his tongue between them, the metal of gold and the sweetness of fruit caressing René’s tongue and the inside of his cheeks. René let his jaw fall, leaning farther into James and shuddering when James found his tongue and pulled it between his lips to suck it heatedly, pushing hard against his body at that same moment.

René’s body tightened, and when James plunged against him, he yelled out in surprise, pushing into James’ firm heat and arching as he spilled his seed into the fabric of his pantalons. Fires raged behind his eyes as his spirit poured from him, on and on as James held onto him, and distantly there was James, exclaiming something in an astonished voice, creating his own hot pool against René’s stomach.

It was absolute silence that finally made him raise his eyes; silence did not seem to belong with James Fitzroy next to him. He became aware of his position, seated on a table with the heavy weight of James pressing down on him, using his magic to keep him from shivering in the aftermath of their passion, and he inhaled, smelling sweat and semen and the wax from the candles, far away. At his breath, the body leaning on him jerked and shuddered, and then, far too soon, James was straightening.

The silver of the moon showed René a handsome face, with the eyes closed behind crooked glasses and parted lips. James was struggling to breathe as though weakened, though his arms still held René to his body with the strength of steel bands. He frowned once, like a dreaming man, and René recalled how James had claimed to have been dreaming that night on his ship. And just as he had then, James opened his eyes to observe him.

So serious, as though James were not pleased, and he wondered tiredly what it would take to please James Fitzroy, who rejected books and jewels and offers of pleasure but who claimed a few kisses with the groans and sighs of a poet.

His lips still hummed with the pleasure of James’ touch, and René could not help himself, but darted out his tongue to explore them, surprised to feel that the taste of James had so quickly faded.

Brown eyes narrowed and René dropped his head, seeking out the stretched, torn shirt, the spot of shoulder and neck visible to his eye, and the marks of his want. James had said nothing of that, of those, had not yet dared to scold him for the cost of the cloth even, and René wondered if he would be allowed to purchase James new clothing. The idea pleased, if only to bring painful tingles to his cock, to imagine himself tearing the clothes from James’ body, pulling himself closer until James could not escape, as he ought.

“Come with me.” It slipped from him weakly, pulled out into the silence, and when James no longer breathed, René thought that if the God James so loved were truth, then he was surely mocking René for his foolishness. He shut tight his jaw, as though this would keep the words from having been said, and looked away, around James once more to the floor, where diamonds still glittered to taunt him.

“You are asking?” James whispered in the quiet voice of the confessional, and René returned his eyes to James’ torn clothing, seeing a different James, as though he had heard the question before, a long time ago. Then he blinked, and there was this James, strong and quiet, regarding him with suspicion and wariness. And it was right that it was so, for was he not the Devil himself?

“The Devil does not ask.” René mocked with sudden force, jerking his chin up and lifting his back, noticing for the first time the ache of his position and the growing throb of his ass and thighs, his legs still wrapped around James’ lovely body. His seed was cooling, and uncomfortable in his pantalons as well, his skin itching. He made a move to lower himself to the floor and felt James’ hands twitch against his back, warm and firm before they released him.

“You are not…” James spoke and bit his tongue, bleeding to hold in his words, reminding René of just what he was dealing with. An idiot, un imbecile he was to have forgotten, to try to buy such a holy man as this Englishman, to make James Fitzroy acknowledge his lust for another man before the many eyes of his crew. James did not want him for anything other than to soothe the need of his body and even that galled him. He cast his eyes upon another, and allowed him what he denied to a vicious corsaire.

“You will not flaunt Saint-Cyr in front of me!”  He fisted large handfuls of James’ shirt, glaring up into the stubborn face that would not deceive him and try to hide the truth of his words. Saint-Cyr would die sooner, and die slower, if guilt painted the golden skin a ripened plum. His blood would colour the sea and his screams would fill his sails for touching James with his stained, worthless fingers.

“Saint-Cyr?” The lips that had kissed him parted, expelling a sweet breath that would not tempt him. René felt himself shaking and released James, pulling away and sitting back onto the table at last, only his legs still clinging to James’ warmth. “Do you threaten him because of…me?” Even that he whispered in his quiet, meekly shamed voice, forgetting how loudly he would shout when René drove him mad with lust, how firmly he had ordered René to lean back for his womanly kisses.

Peeling his limbs from James at last, René drew his hands down over his body carefully, shivering at the coolness of his fingertips. He touched on the cross and nodded, satisfied. Only then did he slide to the floor, smiling madly to feel how James’ body shuddered at the prolonged contact, a slow tease of their brief screwing of moments before. James clenched fists at his sides and leaned forward into the table as René abandoned his place, letting his head fall down until his hair surrounded him like a curtain.

René did not speak, for James did not seem to need a reply, finding his own answers in René’s withdrawal, unmoving as René pulled right his clothing at his side, then reached for his bit of gold when James still said nothing.

“I cannot be your whore,” James shook his head in refusal even as he said it, and René felt his hand spasm with the need to reach down and touch his spent cock and arouse it back into hardness. One thought of James’ hands on him would be enough. Innocent as always, James only quivered in apprehension and stammered in his embarrassment. As if stumbling words held back the truth of those who wanted him, or would keep René from slitting the son of Saint-Cyr’s throat. “Et… Saint-Cyr is not my lover. I have…I have no lover.” And still he did not raise his head, and René wondered distantly if he expected it to be hacked off by a sword. If the sword he dreamed of belonged to him.

“Does lover mean something in your England that it does not in France?” René demanded in ringing tones, wanting to turn away and held to the spot. Still, his seed dried between his legs, and still, he ached for more to stain him if it meant that James would come nearer. Between James’ tasty thighs now was James’ own spunk, and the prick that had pushed eagerly against René.

“Am I to stay quiet by your side while you steal and murder and then turn my back for you whenever your need is great?” With shock René drew his eyes up from the study of James’ lap to find that James had turned to him, and his eyes challenged. René had only moments to contemplate the words and then James was standing straight and pulling his hair from his face. The act only drew attention to the colour across his cheekbones and it was only the strong lines of his face and his tall form that kept him from seeming quite as naïve as a young boy or a waif from the country.

It was too much, to be condemned like this when he ought to leave, sail away in the next hours, out of Port Royal and taking Etienne Saint-Cyr with him. James’ eyes demanded things he did not understand and had no right to judge him, and even the body that had haunted René was not worth this preaching and refusal to keep silent. A poor whore he would have made, and an even poorer pet, not even granting his protector silence. Even René had not been so foolish as to have forgotten that.

“You do not understand.” Tight-lipped, René turned from James, first to the window, and then to the door when that was too bright. The door mocked him, reminding him of how carefully he had closed it behind them, wanting no interruptions.

“So you have told me.” And there it was once more when he followed the sound of that voice back to James; the slow roll and drop of James’ shoulders as though the act itself had a meaning. “Are you jealous, Villon?”

His coat lay on the floor at James’ feet, and he felt sweat drying on his skin as he longed to retrieve it.

“Saint-Cyr has been dead in my thoughts for more than ten years.” Knowing it was what James wanted to hear, René confessed it, hurting in his chest as though he had taken a hit there, absorbing the force through his ribs and muscles through to his black insides.

“Oh.” A short exhalation and James was frowning, adjusting his spectacles before dropping one hand to grab at the material of his pantalons, undoubtedly feeling the discomfort now just as René did. His head fell, and he kicked out with one foot, shoving aside the limp and discarded coat as though just noticing it, and not wanting it to touch him. “You mustn’t forget thy coat.” He spoke quietly, and René looked up from the spill of crimson with a burst of temper, jerking one hand in the air.

“I do not care about the damned coat!” He had not yelled, knew it for a fact that he had better manners than a child, and yet James flinched glanced around guiltily as though he had, and thinking of James’ employer and the others in this house only made René’s guts twist sickly. “I will not return to Port Royal!”

The matter of Saint-Cyr between them again, and again Saint-Cyr made the savagery in his blood cry out for vengeance. One new crime to add to an old list, and the sins of the father would be visited upon the son until René had the father under his blade as well. Even now, Etienne Saint-Cyr should be bound and gagged and waiting for him aboard le Diable Noir, and he shivered as icy fingers teased the skin of his neck.

“Will not be allowed to return, you mean.” James still frowned, but his voice was enough to bring René from thoughts of the past and the future, to the moments before him as they slipped quickly away. “You had best leave then.” He bent as he said the cold words, and picked up the coat between his fingers to hold it out in René’s direction. “You were always quick to leave when you are done with me.”

René ignored the coat, and watched as James’ arm grew tired and he let it fall to his side. His lips felt dry, and he licked them, though knowing that the taste was already gone, and all that remained was the fullness of his lips to show what James had done to him.

“Do you wish me to stay?” Abruptly the sound of his heart in his ears was even too quiet to be heard, and James was blinking dizzily back at him, torn and rosy from René’s lust, mangled by his unworthy fingers and more beautiful now that his frown had eased away. René looked to the floor again, seeking some jewel to persuade James and yet that had not worked before. Even the diamond winking from the corner of one rug had inspired only disgust. He raised his eyes once more to James and found James watching him intently, almost curiously.

“Aye.” James nodded once to follow his word, sounding surprised to hear himself say it, but did not move from his place. It had been the months of separation that had caused René to forget the Englishman’s damned stubbornness, and though he did not wish to think on it now, he swore aloud at James’ stillness.

“We have only hours.” He whispered urgently and wracked his mind as he stepped forward, trying to think of what would make James leave this place and come with him. His lips parted and his cheeks flushed at the horrible truth; that he would pay any price if it would convince James to leave his life here and be with René on his ship. It would take much, everything, to make James tolerate his wickedness long enough for René to get his fill of him.

His legs weakened, and he would have fallen to his knees before James onto the coat that James had dropped if there had not been a scratch at the door, and James had not reached out to catch him, holding him close to his long body.

“Marechal.” René knew it without seeing the man poke his head through the partially opened door, without looking he could feel him. But James did not release him, and his hands were hot and fierce around his arms, until René looked up to him and for one moment forgot the pressure at his neck, his stomach sick with tension as he swallowed. “I do not need you to hold me,” he told James with annoyance, glaring; he had meant to drop to his knees, and surely James knew this.

“Mayhap I need to hold you,” James murmured, and then turned to look at the intruder without explaining the nonsensical English words, or letting René go. “Marechal,” he greeted the other man without turning from René and René watched him mutely, feeling Marechal doing the same to him and unable to return his gaze. James was red in the face, and sternly disapproving, and René reflected that if James was irritated he had only himself to blame. It was his pride that had kept René from sucking his cock.

No one had spoken, René realized in the next moment, blinking and turning at last to Marechal. Marechal’s flat eyes told him nothing, only regarded him steadily, not looking at James at all though there was little air between their bodies.

“What is wrong?” René asked in their native tongue and finally the familiar grin slashed across Marechal’s features, pulling at the lines of scars across his cheeks and jaw. It was the smile that spoke of what he would not say aloud, and René stiffened as he thought of Etienne, sweeping his eyes quickly to James’ innocent face and then back to Marechal hulking form. “Something on the ship?” he questioned carefully, knowing that James was probably straining to understand this time. Perhaps it was Mirena with some complaint that she felt could not wait, or the beginnings of a storm that would delay their departure, and inconvenience his plans for Saint-Cyr quite a bit.

There was a moment’s pause, as Marechal seemed to notice James for the first time, or perhaps, notice the state of his clothing. If it made James blush to be studied so, René did not know, eyeing his man impatiently as he waited for his answer. He had long ago ceased to need to be interested in whatever thoughts lurked in Marechal’s brain, as long as they did not keep the man from doing what he was told. He said his name again, sharply, and received a single, slow nod in reply. Still he stared at James, and René could feel the tightening of James’ grip on him, the tension in his hands as he looked back at the beast that was Marechal. It must be rare indeed for him to be confronted with so large a creature, casting James in shadow without even standing straight.

“Have you lost your tongue, Marechal?” René pulled himself free of James to demand, straightening his sleeves where James had gripped him and toying with the laces of his shirt. Dark eyes fastened on him, glistening, and he smiled in satisfaction before glancing to James once again, who blinked and looked befuddled for one short moment before he frowned.

“You are leaving,” he said with no prompting and René jerked toward him, tearing his hands from his shirt to hold out splayed fingers.

“I…” He was panting; empty of air as he thought of what that idiot Honoré could have done wrong with his simple instructions and of what this took from his time tonight, from what he had just fought for. He could have howled, and gestured furiously instead, dismissing Marechal with a single wave before extending an arm to James. “I will return for you.” He would die if he did not taste James again; he scowled as he was forced to admit this yet again, as though the other man would never be satisfied with his blood.

He felt his eyelids grow heavy as he thought this, and stared at James, and knew from the soft gasp that James had understood his desires, just as James always had, and returned them. In what could not have been an instant, James’ face darkened and his mouth fell open, allowing René a glimpse of his teeth and tongue before he swallowed loudly and his lips closed. His eyes were not so chaste, they burned for him though he knew James would never speak of this, his sinful lust for another man, not until René had him beneath him and demanded it of his flesh.

I want to kiss thee as well, James had confessed in his strange English, and though the English did not offer their sins to the priest, René wondered what James would say, were a man of God to speak to him now, when his blood was hot.

“You had better go.” James uttered the words thickly and bent down to once again retrieve the coat. He clutched it awkwardly in one fist without seeming to notice René’s annoyance at his attention to the useless bit of cloth. He nearly struck it to the ground in his anger, and made a face at the Englishman’s foolishness. A moment later he snatched the thing away, determined to show James just how silly he was, like a little child with his superstitions.

But it would not fall to him, and he glared up at James when the man did not release the coat.

“I…” James stammered, and the return of his stumbling kept René from speaking for the moment, long enough for James to slide the fabric from his fingers and turn about in his hands. Fluttering like some clumsy valet, James righted the garment and held it out, shaking it once as if inviting René to put it on. Once only did James look away from him, darting a glance to the side before thinning his lips and shaking the coat.

Warily, René turned away from James, shivering at the sudden feel of warmth at his back. He could feel the coat, scratching at his neck, and shivered again as he raised his arms, and let James dress him. Hands smoothed down the fabric over his shoulders and arms hurriedly, then lingered at odd places, stroking over his elbows and ribs as though hesitant. And René stood there, unable to move, only allowing his eyes that freedom. His gaze spun about the room from glittering point to glittering point, finding Marechal at last and feeling the wet heat of James’ breath at his neck as his hands gently pulled his hair free of the coat and arranged it down his back.

“I am not your woman, to be dressed so,” René whispered in English without moving, and the hands left him. James let out a single, shuddery, aroused breath behind him.

“Am I only to undress you, then?” James asked him calmly, above his ear, also in English. So calmly, when René felt his heart leap from his chest and his belly tighten painfully. He narrowed his gaze on Marechal, needing to see if the man had heard. But Marechal did not remark on James’ words; he only waited patiently, unblinking as he watched them, watched how René struggled to stay on his feet. Then he shifted, hunching his shoulders and dropping into a slight crouch.

“Time leaves us,” René declared into the thick air, snapping his head away from any lingering touches and stepping out toward Marechal and the door, stepping down hard on his trembling legs. He barely heard the mumbles from James or the rough grunt from Marechal’s lips as he swept past both of them to the door, kicking jewels carelessly with his pace.

Marechal’s presence followed him with only a moment’s pause, and behind his bulk was James. Suddenly uncertain, René stopped in the doorway and put out one hand to stay on his feet when Marechal collided with his back. He turned immediately and shrugged impatiently when the man did not move.

James was precisely where René had left him, brows drawn together seriously until René caught his eye. They tightened for a brief expression of some strong feeling, and then James smoothed his forehead and simply waited. René almost expected to see his hands clasped in prayer, and fought his own scowls.

“Before dawn,” he promised instead and ducked from the room before he would have to see the fear and shame that would doubtless fill the Englishman’s face. Marechal was after him so closely that they seemed to almost step as one.

Without looking, René followed the path he had taken with James to reach this room, thinking on his return as he did, knowing that to reenter Sir Marvell’s home and to go unnoticed would be impossible, even if he were find James’ room and enter from a window, if James even had one. He snarled softly to imagine how the man probably had an airless room, or shared it with others at the request of his cruel master. Snarling again to think of the foolish, rash vow he had made, knowing nothing of the house or the height to reach the windows.

Leaving that thought unfinished for now, René tossed a question back at Marechal though not truly expecting an answer.

“Was there a message?” It was unlikely that Thierry would have done more than summon him if the problem had to do with Saint-Cyr, but Mirena was a woman determined to destroy herself with imprudence where her drunken liaisons were concerned. Whoever had brought the message to Marechal had doubtless run back to the ship, not wanting to risk being left behind should they be forced to set out early.

But in case Marechal thought to speak of it, René flung up a hand to silence him, knowing how carefully the walls listened in the house of Sir Marvell of the Island of Jamaica. His eyes sought out two slaves as they neared the main hall, and he barked out orders for them, commanding one to bring around a carriage and the other to tell Sir Marvell of his leaving, only to pull that man back, and add that he may return later.

Hot with annoyance, René said nothing more to that as they waited for the carriage, knowing Sir Marvell would draw from that what he would, and that James would blame him for the other man’s conclusions, when it was James’ fault that he still remained in this house when he had rejected the offer of a ship. Probably he would suffer for it as well, in the future, expected to provide the same service for other guests of his master.

René’s bones cracked with his grip on his knife, and he knew that he would make James leave tonight, force him if he had to, even if it meant James would deny himself to him.

“Le Anglais upsets you.” Rough words in a harsh accent even as Marechal stepped lightly into the carriage after him, hardly disturbing the vehicle even with his weight. He closed the door and banged the roof so René did not have to, letting him stare for a short moment at the man for choosing to speak now, speaking as always just as those around him began to believe him dumb.

But the man had a tongue and a voice, something René knew too well, and glared at him for it before facing the window and shifting to stare at the scenery.

“Nothing upsets me.” René measured his words carefully, and turned back to study Marechal’s clean-shaven, scarred face. There was a slight twitch, just above one eye, visible only because René did not stare at the scars only, as others did. But that was enough, and he turned back to the window.

His pantalons felt tight and heavy, the crust of drying semen cracking now when he moved his legs, and René swore to himself at the sensation, cursing James’ impatience when they had been so close to finding a bed. Swearing once more to shame his mother when he felt the soreness along his thighs and ass. But his mouth still buzzed like bees in a field, and his body hummed with the memory of James’ strength, and he knew he smelled of the pleasures of two men fucking.

“The ship,” he began to distract himself, needing the cooling breezes of night on his face. “What have you heard?”

“You return for le Anglais?” The second comment brought René’s eyes up to the impassive face before him for one small moment, trying to recall when he had last heard Marechal speak so much. Months, years ago, when the man had had much to say and René had had no choice but to listen. Firming his lips, he looked back to the window, noticing the speed with which they raced toward the harbor, and approving.

Marechal needed no answer, but René nodded softly after several long moments, mostly to himself. James would sail with them, and could damn René to Hell once more as he had likely done a hundred times already. A thousand times those words had probably touched James’ full lips, a thousand more in his scholar’s mind, perhaps one more would be enough to send René to burn. James would hold the ear of any god with eyes and senses enough to see him, and feel him.

He would want to take the child with them, and it displeased René to think of the bright eyes watching him, too smart for even James to understand his stares.

Marechal reached up to knock on the roof of the vehicle, though it was already slowing as it approached the docks. He leaned across as the carriage stopped and made a show of opening the door and waving René on, one of rare few moments of attempted wit in which he mocked the ways of the nobility.

Without comment, René descended the small stairs and looked about at night in the streets of Port Royal. It was scene familiar to him, on any side of the ocean there were sailors and women and drink, but it seemed to affect men strangely to be so far from the lands of their fathers. Crimes and sins enough to drive James mad and no one even noticing enough to remark on them. He sighed to consider it and then turned away, with much to do and little time before dawn.

The same moon that had painted James’ face in their passion now showed him the water, partly hidden by casks and boxes of cargo, left carelessly by men who would rather whore themselves than guard it. The world was silver tinted and shadowed, and the stars were clear above him, shining even more than a handful of stolen jewels.

“Come.” Barely even a whisper and a heavy hand lighted on his shoulder, the other gesturing eagerly toward the dock, and probably a waiting boat. René jerked his arm free of the touch without turning from his view of the sky. He had seen many skies, had many sleepless nights to observe them until he understood them even better than his navigator. Shining and bright, the stars, but any meanings in them were to be found only in the thoughts of man.

But tonight was not a night to be spent gazing at pretty lights in the sky, and he turned, blinking rapidly as the stars came down to dance before him, spinning around his head merrily, making him wince with their brightness.

He opened his mouth to speak to them and felt it, the stab and rip and tear of pain as it split his skull in two. The stars faded away as he fell, and he landed with a thud he did not hear, the throbbing of his heart in his ears becoming a shriek that brought green and yellow and reds of hurt and sick that made him choke on his breath and cough weakly as the smell of something fetid assaulted him.

So still the world grew, and the sounds faded to nothing but his own breathing and then not even that. A touch returned him to his senses, a familiar touch that knew how to wake him, and he tried to turn to it, curling around the warmth at his middle.

The holy, sliver shining of a blade. His blade, he thought distantly, and watched as Marechal tucked it into his own belt and then stopped to stare down at him with large, gleaming eyes from so high above him. His breath came to him heavily as well, and René did not understand how he knew this until Marechal opened his mouth and words came down to him as though through clouds.

“René?” A question perhaps, he could not tell for certain with the ringing in his head, the shaking efforts to think. He frowned, thought he did, and tried to reach for his chest, clutching for the feel of metal against his palm.

“I would have protected you, pretty René.” Surely the saints heard the man, he seemed to speak like the saints, into the heads of the priests and into their ears of the rest of mankind. Saints walked among men, Maman had told him, but they were not like him, for they were of God.

But Marechal was not of God either, he remembered that, and thought too, that he did not need to listen anymore.

“I am not yours,” he wanted to say it, filled his lungs with the need to say it, but could not open his lips. They were hard and lifeless to his tongue now, and the words tasted of ash and sickness and the wetness of blood against his cheek. Long ago familiar tastes, and he swallowed them as he eyed the knife in Marechal’s belt.

Weakness had taken his limbs and he cursed them with his broken mouth and looked up to the moonlight as he was picked up and held against a hard body. Each heavy step speared him, sending flashes of light through his brain until his whole body burned with pain, and there would only be more to come. He shook with it, cold and tired, and tried to close his eyes but they remained open.

Boxes and casks left behind formed a wall, a wall to hide their damned souls, and the ground beneath him was harder even than Marechal’s body. Or perhaps it was soft and yielding sand, he frowned into it dizzily, and it was cool on his face, the cool he had longed for ever since leaving James.

“No!” The word came to him at last at the air shivered on his skin, and the coat peeled away to just a dirty shirt. Large hands stroked tenderly over his back, warming him. And he wanted to nod, for the man had never cared to see him tremble, holding him so tightly that the strength had always left him and he had had to force the shivers to stop in order to finally be released.

There was a rough carving in the wood of a box in front of his eyes, a name in a language he did not know. But the swirls where the knife had sank deep were soon known to him as he bit down on his thick tongue and tasted fresh blood to replace the old.

“Still so smooth.” There was amazement in the rough voice as hot breath claimed the back of his neck and fingers caressed the naked skin of his hips, pushing down the stiff fabric. He shifted, tried to, and the caress turned to hurt that sickened his stomach, and he was crushed to the dirt by the moans above him.

Blood trickled down his throat, salted and weak, and the carving in the wood blurred and lost its edges, until there was just the slash of another wound gaping rawly at him and the tickle of liquid trailing down his chin to the ground.

Copyright R. Cooper with all rights reserved

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