Chapter Twenty-One—

If another man were to look behind him and follow the path James had taken in the past months, would he also find himself as James was now, his back to the mountain of pillows in René Villon’s bed, his limbs stretched out under soft blankets, his body warm and sated even if his mind would not rest?

René Villon was his lover.

It was not the first time the statement had floated bare across his vision in the past days, and James did not think it would be the last. It was a foolish thought, incredibly so when it seemed the whole of the Caribbean had known the physical truth of the affair long before James had ever acknowledged it to himself.

He could not resist having the thought again, pulling at the words as though he were an impatient child tugging on the ribbon of a gift that he was not permitted to open.

René Villon was his lover.

And yet, if James were to say such a thing aloud, he knew he would be greeted with stares. Incomprehension or just annoyance at James’ stupidity would leave René silent for all of a moment, and then there would be denials and muttered curses about the insanity of the English. Denials that seemed foreshadowed in the sudden push of the elbow at his back, the warmth of blankets tossed over onto him as the smaller body at his side moved away.

James blinked to clear his blurred vision, his sight only made worse by the lack of light, the hints of dawn creeping in underneath the heavy curtains closed over the large windows doing little for his eyes. The drawn curtains had been René’s last order to the servants the night before, something disconcerting from a man who seemed to need light around him at all times.

Three days in Paris had left René’s skin stretched thin and his face shadowed. His desire for bed, and sleep had mayhap won over his desire to remain out of the dark for the night. Perhaps nothing but a need to lay abed longer than usual moved him, and James had only imagined the desperation in the hands holding him as the fire’s embers had dimmed at last.

Looking down and to his side showed something both familiar and strange to James’ eyes, a frowning face buried into the pillow next to him, one arm already reaching out as René stirred into wakefulness for perhaps the hundredth time in a handful of hours.

That René could not sleep full the night through was a fact known to few, two or three if James counted himself, one less now that the cause of it was no more. But though the dreams woke him, most meant only restless limbs and whispered curses. Others did not, others meant worse, but there had been none of those this night.

Very still, James watched René’s fingers clutch at the sheets of his bed, likely searching for his weapon, and James turned away, exhaling as he found himself thinking of that pistol once again. ‘Twas odd to be thinking such things at all, assuredly they were not the thought that most had while in bed with their lover.

A strange path had led him here, and yet his feet did not move to carry him away. Their bed was, for the moment, close and warm, almost too full with the shifting movements of René’s body and the decadent array of pillows that had appeared upon this bed the day before.

The sun rose outside, dawn giving way to morning. It was near to the mornings at home, over a year ago, his mind wakeful and aware even as his body had not wished to move, listening to soft movements downstairs. It would have been his step-mother then, though it was a collection of servants now. Ben would be waking soon; René as well as soon as James made to rise from the bed.

René had not requested the candles remain lit, though the fire had slowly died to nothing in the night. Soon enough, even without them it would be light in here, and James would be gone before then, off to his own room as though the pretense fooled anyone.

But he kept his place, for the bed was still theirs for a few moments yet.

Knowing his thoughts even in sleep it seemed, René’s restless figure curled back to him, shivering until James lifted a hand and brought the blankets back to cover him. The act left James’ arm with nowhere to rest but around the slender body, and he left his hand awkwardly at René’s back, not certain of welcome in this though the touch was hardly intimate.

It was too similar to their pose in the mud of the field two days before, and James felt his brows draw together, staring at the windows as though he could see through the curtains and over the fields to the road to Paris.

René had not wanted him to repeat that act since, and in truth James was not sure that would, if asked, if René turning away to hide his face and ordering James to touch him could be thought of as asking.

James’ mouth quirked for a moment, imagining the lady Mirena’s reaction to that. Then his frown returned, his gaze leaving his bed-partner to seek out the drawn curtains once more.

It had not been the rain, wet on René’s face, not at first. And yet if he had felt pain during the act or after, he had not shown it, nowhere as stiff as James had been after the first time. René’s only seeming concern had been the stripes he had carved into James’ back, and the mud covering them both. He had even bathed without comment, appearing at James’ chamber door with a clean shirt sticking to his damp body and water droplets sparkling in his short hair.

If there had been hurt for René, it had been in his mind alone, and James knew himself for an idiot as he realized that he would never have had the thought if he had not witnessed René’s terror of his memories with his own eyes.

He had thought it sacrifice and had found it pleasure. In that at least, James was not as slow and lack-witted. René had dropped down into the dirt of that field as he had not inside the simple church, and he had spread his legs as though it were his bridal duty, and he had held on to slippery clumps of grass to prepare himself for the pain.

The pain that James had chosen not to give him, James thought again, just as he had many times in his hours here, watching René’s restless dreaming. The word held a strange power now, it was true, the same prayer behind it that he thought he had once heard in René’s voice.

René Villon, the corsaire, a thief and killer knew what it was to offer a choice. René Villon would turn his black eyes away before a glimpse of the truth could be seen in their depths, yet revealed in his acts that he knew too well the difference in having a choice, and not.

If he asked, James wondered if Etienne would also explain the distinction, or if he would shrug and pronounce James a fool, before he too turned away. Carter had only screamed for the wounds near the surface; the deeper cuts had bled him without a whimper.

James closed his eyes, breathing carefully through his nose.

Outside, the storm had calmed to nothing but a light rain, gentle sprays against the window-panes with the odd gust of wind reminding him of their passion the day before. Heavy though the rain had been, it had not been a true storm. Not of the kind that he had seen raging at the Jamaican coasts. Neither was a storm brewing somewhere distant and on its way toward them, not as James could determine, though a true mariner or farmer might disagree.

Yet damp, chilled hands seemed to touch along his back whenever he imagined what waited beyond the closed curtains, cold raising bumps on his skin despite the warmth of this bed, and he knew it was not a warmth that would last. And still James stayed, and let René steal the blankets and their heat from him, knowing any other night the cold would never have touched him.

He had known there would be consequences for letting Etienne go, had imagined demons and angels alike, had known it was right to do it, and that often the way of right was also the way of suffering. An accord had been made, a Saint-Cyr’s word given with a raised chin and pointed refusal to look away from James’ eyes. Etienne Saint-Cyr would hold the bond as a pirate might not, Etienne had said, his skin white and his mouth bruised, touching a lip with his tongue as though to remember the taste of his pain. But the choice was not his to make, the Frenchman had reminded him at last.

Etienne had laughed, and what might have seemed a careless, easy gesture in the gaiety of a noble’s court had seemed frighteningly mad in the black hold of a ship, only-recently cut ropes still underneath Etienne’s stained silk shoes. It was a madness that James now recognized, the barest of covers for fear curling in the belly.

The Devil will come for him. A man did not need his senses to hear the truth of that. Indeed, it had seemed the one solid thought still possessed by the lady of René’s church. The Devil will come and prayers will not save anyone.

Along his spine, James could feel the sick, sticking feel of old sweat, his flesh prickling with heat despite his quick shiver, and James opened his eyes, wondering if the servants would find him mad as well if he were to run from the house out into that rain.

So sweet and soft in René’s mouth, on his lips as he had allowed James to kiss him, his heart pounding urgently between them as he had waited for more. His limbs had trembled even as he had arched his spine under James’ touch, seeming as surprised as James at the strength of his reaction, patience gone and temper in its place.

Even with the lady Mirena, James had felt the force of that impatience. The bluntness in the woman’s manner as deceptive as René’s silence for all that it revealed her thoughts. She had never once offered him a warning, but now James would venture the lady’s mind was clear enough in her choice of gifts. Gifts to René, given through James.

A simple coat that served its purpose well, and a ring hanging from one earlobe that seemed to fascinate all who beheld it. Lady Suzette, Pym, those in the street, staring at him with knowledge of what he now was. And for a moment James shivered, a different heat flushing his skin to recall René’s attention to it, pulling on the hot flesh with his teeth. James had kept it in his ear to be kind, and yet had found himself insisting on the bit of vanity when the sight of it had disturbed others. He had beheld the meaning too late, and now there was a promise in the ring that had not been in him before.

A servant did not wear such a thing. Neither did a man obedient to the laws of his sovereign. He was a fool.

The noise from downstairs was growing louder. James put a hand to the mattress to push himself to his feet at last, knowing there would not be much more time to linger, and felt the sudden, grasping pressure of René’s fingers at his wrist.

René’s awakenings were always abrupt and startled, James knew them well from his fever, could recall when he had thought them a symptom of that sickness only. But the endless, fearful glances had not ended when the fire had left his mind, and James turned quickly to see black eyes opened and steady on him.

“Do not leave.”

‘Twas only experience that gave James the ability to keep himself still at René’s command, studying the pretty, pale face resting on his pillow carefully to determine the many possible shades of René’s meaning.

“It is morning,” James answered at last, aware that he whispered even though they were alone, habit perhaps, from the crowded ship. The hand at his wrist did not ease its hold, though the flat line of René’s mouth softened a bit, one hand slipping from under the blankets in order to pull them possessively nearly to René’s chin. He had made another vow yesterday, and James felt it heavy on his chest as he watched René hide himself.

It was his place to leave their bed. Never would he send René from him.

He looked away, toward the windows to hide his frown that René should need to ask him for that, reminding himself as he had not when René had first asked it, that it heralded René’s regard for him. René would not give reasons for his command; it was enough to him to have made it.

You will be there, René had ordered, bare moments away from pinning James down to Sir Marvell’s desk, forced to leave then by Ben’s presence but promising an end to James’ want with his shining, wicked eyes. In the weeks afterward, in moments alone, James had taken himself in hand and remembered that command, a thrill stirring his blood to realize that the masterful words expressed nothing more than René’s longing to be with him again.

It was enough for now to smooth the frown from James’ brow, bring something near a smile to his face as he turned back to René and the sharp gaze always so steady on him.

His large, black eyes were still as cutting as the truest of swords, the savagery of the boucan behind them even if the sleek line of each arching eyebrow seemed as light as a foil Etienne might use. It was only the pose that mimicked the posture of a child—a frightened child—sheets twisted to the neck, body still and careful. Fearful perhaps, of shadows in corners and underneath beds, waiting outside doors if James thought of his own boyhood dreams.

Yet James had known the embrace of family beyond the darkness, waiting only for him to cross it. His choice it had been to leave England, and it would be his choice to return, if he wished. He was no exile.

“But I might stay for a while longer,” James added, to end the silence between them, showing his teeth in a wider smile before leaning back into the pillows. He heard his heart stutter inside his bones, felt the uneven count of three beats, and then he was blinking at the sudden weight of René’s body on him and lifting up his hands to stroke them down the length of René’s back.

His fingertips seemed lit, bright with each humming breath filling René’s chest, his palms tingling to feel the pulse of blood rushing beneath René’s skin, hot for him. René looked to be no longer concerned with his nakedness, covered only at his thighs by the blankets he had not shoved aside in order to lay atop James’ body.

James spared a moment to gaze upon that nakedness, seeing the pink, flushed scar that still worried him and the soft bruises from the day before that did not, at least did not any longer. His study drew no protests from René, holding himself up with shaking arms, and for that James lifted his eyes to René’s face, hissing slightly at René’s amused expression.

“You think to leave me with nothing?” René dropped his head as he whispered the low words, his breath hot on James’ flesh as James gasped. If he noticed James’ stillness he did not comment, his mouth pressed into a brief kiss just over James’ sickly pounding heart before moving on, pausing at one tightly budded nipple.

“Leave you?” That René had not actually touched the waiting peak was the only reason James knew he could still speak, biting his lip to feel the answering beat of René’s heart as René seemed to think on his answer.

“Unsatisfied…” What René would never call petulance lowered the other man’s already husky voice as he bit out the word, sliding his body down between James’ legs and moving his hands to James’ hips. “I want…” He confessed to the tense muscles beneath James’ stomach, his mouth pressing a fevered line further down when James could not quite manage to utter René’s name.

So bold, as a brazen as any street doxy, James reminded himself, closing his eyes for a moment at the lashing pain of it in his belly, behind his eyes.

“No.” It was barely a mumble, hardly an order at all, not enough for what he needed and James curled his heavy hands into fists, making them leave their mapping of René’s back. Only when René’s hair brushed his knuckles did he relax his hands, letting his fingers creep up and splay out over the surface of René’s scalp, as surprised as before to feel it like this, too short to form silken curls. One hand dipped low, finding the bauble of gold that now adorned René’s ear. A match to the gold in his own, if James wished it so, if only in the choice of metal.

But the act seemed to draw René’s notice from the cock twitching against his chest, and he glanced up, his brow crossed with a frown of displeasure, his lips already wet. “Jesu,” James heard himself praying, the blasphemy nothing when he had already prayed for this on the floor of a Roman church. “I would have you here.”

He did not add another word though he might have, could not do more than choke on a gasp at the sting at his sides as René crawled and scratched up to him. He knew the actions hurt, felt the force of elbows and knees somewhere distant, focused solely for the moment on the panting man straddling him. He managed to grasp René’s shoulders, hold him back for a moment as he took a breath, and then he was yanking René down to him, kissing hard as he had not yesterday, his mouth open already and hungry to find René’s the same. He would have this now, and René had always known his thoughts.

There was warmth under his hands, heat over his body as René continued to shift, to press closer when already they were hammered tight together. But slender hands twisted in James’ hair, pulling his head back and up, holding it beneath René’s mouth as René shuddered against him.

René. He knew the cry would have left his lips if possible, wondered if he dreamed the break in René’s breathing as though René held his name in his throat.

He had thought himself tired from their exertions of last night, and yet he felt himself starting to tense, tight with the need to push back against René’s shivering body. He could push if he wished, thrust between sweaty, slick thighs that he had again tasted only hours ago. He could roll onto his belly, or slide down to again wrap his lips around René’s cock. But he made no move other than thrusting gently back against René, gasping sharply at the pleasurable feel of René’s prick on his own.

Black eyes opened the moment René pulled away from their kiss to breathe; perhaps a finger’s length away as his slender body thrust into James’ lap, never once stopping or slowing his wanton writhing. René was shameless, and James looked away from the shadows marring the smooth, pale face and met René’s gaze, feeling his face heat.

He licked his lips, once, and René’s mouth was back to his, soft, quick breaths as rapid as the questing, clenching fingers claiming every inch of James’ chest. This was enough it seemed, this, he, was what René wanted now, and James would grant it, grant anything, he vowed easily, lying back his head in order to give René’s lips passage down his neck.

“James…” An impatient hiss followed by the brief nip of teeth along his collarbone. Pain later, if he wished, but not now, and with a groan James spread his legs obediently, letting René reach a knowing hand between them to ease their rubbing.

The knowledge in the act was great. Firm and sweet and wet now, with their need, and if René did not mind now where the knowing came from, then it was only James left to cry for it.

Black eyes were on him, always on him as René removed his hand for one moment, dragging his tongue in slow licks across his palm to torment James, intent and careful in his ministrations as though well aware it would leave James arching up from the pillows, his mouth thirsty and his cock pounding.

“Let me…” He offered in a rasping voice that had not the sound of his own, reaching out a hand only to have it knocked away. Before he could speak again, René’s hand was back down between them, stroking both their cocks hard and fast. Then his head was down, his face buried between James’ neck and shoulder as he cried out.

His grip tightened, squeezing as hot seed spilled between them, and James jerked at the sensation, only aware that his hands were holding fiercely to René’s hips when his own seed joined René’s and his breath passed with more ease.

In truth there was not much of a mess at all. Not when the evening before had been so long and busy. James nearly smiled as he let his head back fall to the pillows, studying the painted ceiling far above him, aware that his hands would not be still despite his body’s tiredness. To stop them was beyond his strength now, or even, his desire, and he let out a long, pleased breath as his heart began to slow.

The body over him had some weight to it though James believed that René could not weigh much more than Ben at the moment. Would soon measure less than the boy in fact if Ben continued to consume the stores of René’s larder as he had been. James shifted a bit to accommodate the pressing body but made no move to push René from him, letting his hands soothe over the soft, untouched skin of René’s back in order to quiet the last of René’s tremors.

“You are warm.” René spoke thickly into his shoulder, tired once more from his dreams or his body’s lingering weakness. If his words were meant to wound they did not, cursed to failure by the burn of René’s lips against his skin.

Almost, James moved his head to look, certain he had not felt the caress of René Villon. It was only a fleeting touch; René’s breaths already were coming slower and he would soon be asleep once more. That was a blessing James had not expected, though he should have with the state of René’s health.

This was how he had imagined a man and wife might lie together, what he had teased René with only days before. He had thought that René would not understand his words, and he had been right, then. Now, at this moment, he knew he was wrong, and yet no shame curled low in his chest. His words had not been forgotten, and he shivered, wanting to let his smile show. But he would not risk René’s notice now, did not want to face the annoyance that would certainly show were James to explain his thoughts.

René would find his realization obvious and chide him for being stupid. He had claimed James as his lover long before James had noticed, the hand curled over James’ hip seemed to acknowledge the truth of that, and now James did smile. René did not stir, and for that James was grateful, letting himself grin at nothing like a madman.

Who would have thought they would come to this. Whatever René said, James saw God’s work in it.

He did not look up to the fat angels on René’s ceiling, or to the window, just considered the looking glass at the opposite end of the room. They would be visible from the other side of the bed, where René had been laying. There was no way for James to see it without disturbing René, and with that his smile left him.

He would have liked to have seen such a vision, but he was ready to make demands of Heaven this day that would doubtless earn him Hell-fire and he could not dare to demand that as well. It would be enough to stay still for a few moments more, listening to the growing noise downstairs and the silence outside.

Light was coming fast upon them and the need to rise was pressing. James caught his lip between his teeth and bit, hard, letting the pain spur him when nothing else would. His head came up from the pillows and his shoulders twitched, his body’s soreness reminding him of the last day’s exertions.

René seemed of comparable size with most other Frenchman, save Marechal, but the lack of meat on his frame caused him to appear smaller. His skin as well, had always held the pallor of ill-health. It was no wonder, in the care of that beast. Only sleeping, René’s weight seemed to increase and James slid his hands carefully underneath René’s ribs and turned in order to settle René back into the softness of the mattress.

He had to reach to find all the bedclothes René had tossed aside, and by the time he had returned to cover René to his chin, there was a frown on René’s face. Cold, no doubt, and for that James pushed the blankets in closely, taking even the ones from his own body.

René had made certain of his nakedness in the dark hours last night, and now James shivered at the cold of it as he slid away from René, gasping at the feel of the floor as he stepped down from the bed.

His stomach seemed to shift uneasily at the move, reminding him perhaps that it was not only René who needed to eat. But he felt no hunger for anything other than René’s seed in his belly, and he had no intention of stopping for even a crust of bread or cheese this morning. Some would be sent up for René instead, as well as to Ben’s room, if Ben had not already risen to steal it from the kitchen himself.

He had made René promise, in the heat of their passion, with only the fire and God to witness he had made René promise no harm would come to the child. It would never come from René himself, James had known that when he asked. But there had been more in his words than that, and when René woke and thought on them, his fury would rend his house from its foundations.

He had not much time.

Clothing was scattered about the floor, some of it his, and he searched until he found a shirt and pantaloons, slipping each on quietly before the tall mirror, watching René for signs of waking as he did.

René slept on, his dreams peaceful for the moment, making him sigh into his pillow with every breath. One arm was stretched out across the mound of bedclothes that now stood in for James, and James let out a shuddery gust of air.

Such trust even in a wordless gesture; the sick roiling in James’ belly increased. The pose was far too similar to Ben at his back every night on René’s ship, if only James had understood the motive at the time. The comparison of Ben to René came once again, and it was not pleasing. Indeed, James was so slow it was a wonder Rene would want him as a lover.

His eyes were dry and hot, the need for sleep making his lids heavy. If René fell to sleep only to waken, James had not slept at all since their visit to the church, and René’s mother.

His hand came up to rub at his face, roughly scrubbing at his jaw. His hair was unbound, and for a moment James darted his eyes away from the glass, knowing his cheeks were red to recall René’s fingers stroking through the strands, grasping eagerly and tearing away the black ribbon and tossing it somewhere in the sea of bedclothes.

James ripped one string from the front of the thin linen shirt he had been given, using that to secure his hair at his neck, pulling on the cord harshly and uncaring of the few short hairs caught in the knot.

His mouth tight, James looked back to the glass and went about tucking the shirt into the waist of his pantaloons. He was thinner now. He had noted his smaller wrists a few days before, but given them little thought. His darkened skin still remained, as he did his lightened hair. If it were not for his spectacles, his friends in London might not have known him.

It was unlikely he would lay eyes upon them any time soon, so it was not important. They would not understand, and he would not have been able to explain it. The madness was confined to only a few, and for that James was grateful.

It was Fortune then, that the lady Mirena and the murderer Deniau were loyal. Too loyal, and James wished he could laugh, to think such integrity of pirates and killers. But ships awaited, if need be, and friends with a spirit to shed blood in vengeance. And London was not so far away now as it had seemed in Port Royal. Just as he had told Ben, there were choices open to them, if they could bear them.

About his stomach, the shirt was looser than he would have liked, as were his pantaloons, and James nodded thoughtfully, narrowing his eyes at his reflection. Behind him, at the foot of the bed was the length of cloth René had used as a belt, and James stepped back to grab it. A pair of shoes had been kicked to the side of the steps leading to René’s side of the bed, and James recognized his own.

It was a different man who stared back at him when James knotted the sash at his waist and left the ends to hang down his thigh. That he could discern, only the glasses of James Fitzroy remained, and he wondered if he were to wake René now, who René would see.

But the thought was quick and distant and easily ignored. He listened for the even sound of René’s breathing instead as he moved, crossing to a dresser and the basin of water left from the evening before.

The drying seed on his stomach itched as James bent over the basin, but he ignored that as well, dipping his hands in the chilled water and splashing his face. It would be left René and Ben, to decide which choices to make once their paths were cleared. The Lord could see into men’s hearts and souls, and He would be kind to them. How could He not, when Men had been so cruel already?

Full knowledge of their stories had never been granted him, and James did not think it ever would be. Nor did he need it to be. Their torment now, continued though their tormentors were long since gone or dead, was testament enough. It bespoke nothing so much as need, and James held himself still above the rippling water, droplets trailing from his brow to his nose and chin before falling from him.

He had always thought knowledge and faith enough for any soul, but that was foolish—as René had told him often enough. Rene had named him martyr on their first meeting, mocking him for his belief, and James closed his eyes, seeing René again as he had washed his hands in the bowl at his desk in his cabin, plunging his own hands into the water beneath him.

The blood at his wrist pounded in response to the cold, his fingers stinging as he uncurled them and exposed pale palms and wrists, wavering and fantastic and separate from him. Only when touch faded to nothing did James lift his hands, looking to the floor as he dried himself on the cloth beside the bowl.

“There is no God.” René had told him once, meeting his eyes with challenge and contempt, his words echoed in the bitter jesting of the killer Deniau.

“There is no God but me,” James repeated the strange chant to himself, his words too quiet to even be named whispers.

There might be paper and a quill to be found downstairs, if James were to ask for them. But no other words came to him now, and he stopped, staring at the door without moving.

There is no God but me.

Deniau admitted belief in God and slandered Him at the same moment, taking the blame solely on himself without any attempt to hide his guilt. The weight of judgment was his to bear.

James put a hand to his stomach, rubbing his palm carefully across the itch at his side. If there were not that sin there were the others, his lies and acceptance of stolen goods, praying in a Roman church, serving thieves and killers. The pride that René had mocked him for, though it seemed nothing next to that of the family René would not claim as his blood. And then he had taken a life. Even in defense of another, it was a sin, and James had bourne it with strong shoulders.

In René’s fever dreams, he had spoken of the taste of ashes, bitter as tears on his tongue, and James swallowed what little spit remained in his mouth, wondering once more what sin had left the flavour of shame and repentance in René’s mouth.

Whatever act had been committed, it could never equal the punishment given him in return. Just as the lady’s only crime had been to love a blackguard and yet had been sent to live alone with her madness. Their belief was evident no matter how René denied it. Innocent, they longed for a forgiveness that would not be given. It would never be granted them. Etienne had argued much the same.

It was not faith alone that would guide his response then. James could wonder at how someone such as Etienne or his sisters might have struggled to find their answers, but he knew himself to be only familiar with long-ago written words. For deeds he had only the memories of pirates and killers. Pirates and killers who still held faith in their hearts.

“God is in me,” James murmured the words as Deniau might have, as he wished Deniau had, his chest shuddering with every breath. He was too full of pride, and his madness still had him here, when he ought to be abed.

James stepped forward at last, closer to the door but still near the great bed. His face was hot, his throat tight. René slept on, peace his for moments that were too brief.

The old words were wrong. There were greater sins than what still scented the air between them, than the ache in the small of James’ back. Those would not steer his course away.

He did not count his steps as he moved over to René. Neither did he pause to regain his breath as he bent down.

René’s face was still buried in the depths of a pillow, the one eyelid James could see fluttering as though René beheld visions even in sleep. Gentle visions it seemed, though James knew the Devil to be impatient and greedy. He would not remain at bay for long.

With two fingers he reached out to smooth René’s brow, sweeping a touch across the soft, pale skin and sighing when René shifted, turning toward him without waking. Lashes brushed his fingertips, a dry tickle that he sought out deliberately, like breath at the back of his neck.

Bending even further, James pressed his mouth carefully to René’s, gasping slightly when René’s lips parted for him, warm and sweet. Always so willing for him, though René might deny that as well, and James felt himself flush, and leaned further into René to deepen the kiss though he should not.

On its own, his hand curled around René’s jaw, holding René still as he pulled away to breathe and press another short kiss to René’s waiting mouth.

Here he would bring peace.

Lifting his eyes brought his attention back the windows, to the light growing ever brighter beyond the curtains. His body did not wish to move, and James thinned his lips and turned his head. The pillows were white and empty. It would likely be months until any dark hair would cover them, though James had no doubt René would insist upon his hair returning to its former length.

His face tightened, perhaps the desire to smile, but James held himself still, inhaling René’s breath as the other man slept on. René was not the only one to have waited for such peace, and James pulled his hand from René’s face.

Blankets of cloth so rich it seemed to melt under his touch as James slid his hand away, seemed to give way for him, and James realized he had closed his eyes. Amazement at the ease he was granted kept them closed until the cold weight was in his palm, his fingers chilled and tight around his prize.

René had thought him as blind to this as to the reasons for it here, in their bed.

James studied the flintlock with a strange calm, unsurprised to see it held a shot. A dull sword brought nothing.

His arm did not tremble to hold this instrument aloft, and James graced a touch along the barrel, his breath steady. He had prayed for mercy once, near to pissing himself in fear of a bloody pirate. Mercy had been granted to him, for René was a good man. And he held no fear now.