Chapter Two - Ideas of Sin - by R. Cooper
(Including what was formerly, Pleasure From A Killer)

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It had rained during the night. The damp, metal-like smell of it still hung over the ship, making the air feel heavy and uncomfortably warm as the sun rose toward its zenith. Morning it would likely still be accounted, but already it was hotter outside than the Devil’s arse, for all that it was the winter months.

Down below the deck, it would be worse. It was a stinking, steaming hole holding the little cargo that they had carried on their ship, as well as those among his fellow captives fool enough to stay down below the surface during the day. James had to return down there soon, though he did not wish to. But his Lordship was languishing in the fiery bowels of the ship and would need water. None but he seemed willing to care for the man, even though he clearly could not care for himself…not anymore.

A tiny sound of frustration escaped him and James clasped his hands together painfully to remind himself that this situation was very real indeed. His new life was not something he could touch or taste, and yet he was living it, trapped here by Chance or Fate-the Lord’s will he tried to tell himself. Trapped, and he could not help but be angry even after the patient advice of Michael Pym. He knew it was no dream, that this was true, but could imagine himself back home with ease, listening to his step-mother baking the bread downstairs, her oven slowly warming the chilly house before the sun had even risen. He had become used to her, this last year.

Winter did not mean what it should have, here in the New World. Instead of gray-coloured skies and iced streets, there was shining sun, and rain, and heat when there was no rain, and all of it left him feeling irritated and hot, his skin sticking to itself whenever his legs or arms would touch. None of which had James minded, when the Queen of Sheba had first entered these foreign waters, but now, while captive on le Diable Noir, it seemed as if his mind could dwell on little else. Indeed, such a trivial matter as the weather should have been his last concern, now that his life and the lives of his friends were no longer their own.

Furious, James dropped his gaze out to sea as he had for over a fortnight now, looking to the west for a sign of land. There was none of course, and most deliberately so, he was sure. Most of the islands of the Caribee were not separated by such a great distance, and he had overheard the men-the corsaires, complaining of the lack of treasure to be had here, and then saying enough for James to determine that they were still close to the strip of tiny isles claimed by the French. Why, he could not say, and had not been able to tell much from the one or two Frenchman he had started to converse with in the past weeks.

What he did see was equally disheartening, the captive Queen of Sheba sailing alongside them still carrying some of his former friends. The corsaire, their new captain, had decided that dividing up the prisoners would discourage any rebellions or mutinies, and in that he was right. The sailors of the Sheba hardly seemed to desire such a thing in any case, most of them considering themselves fortunate. But the sight of the ship had been supposed to carry him to his future made James toss his head and look away.

His glance moved back over the deck to the men who were now his crewmates. Aside from the first day, after Carter’s death when they had all been stripped of their possessions, the corsaires had offered no insult or offense toward himself or the other prisoners, some of them in fact seeming to regard them with mild amusement. Just like that, they suddenly had nothing to fear and were treated as if they only barely existed at all. James had stumbled at that, remembering only too well his embarrassment at having even his plain clothing admired and then taken by some Frenchman, only to be given a patched pair of breeches in return.

That had made Michael Pym laugh out loud once he had realized that all would be well, at least for a time, and then the man had calmly set about learning some of the French tongue as if he were a free man with nothing better to do, not that there was much else to do on this ship, unless they were given some task to do. Most of the men seemed to fill their time gambling at cards or dice though forbidden from exchanging coin, or else drinking or seeking another to…

Until I release you or you die. Villon’s words still rang in James’ ears, causing him to shiver violently as if he really were back in the London cold. Unbidden, his gaze moved up and over, following an invisible, well-traveled line to the stern to a splotch of red in the midmorning sun, in the shape of a man. The shape moved, turning, and James froze as he was caught and held by a pair of dark eyes.

Yards apart and he could still see the coldness in the man’s face, betraying not a hint of feeling. No, his heart seemed to stop at that look, he still had something to fear.

A flash of bright light hit James full in the face and he closed his eyes immediately, grateful for the excuse despite the brief pain and blindness. He squinted and carefully opened one eye, then two, staring in surprise at a wavy reflection of a face, astonished brown eyes staring back at him without blinking.

For a moment he thought it was someone else. His face had always been square but otherwise unremarkable, even forgettable, lacking colour or distinction.

The thin strip of metal held an image of a square face, but one tanned from the sun and framed by hair that had been nut brown but which now after longer than a month at sea was streaked with lighter shades. He had seen this face when he had last shaved, well over a week ago, but had not truly thought himself so different. Mayhap it was the shading of beard on his jaw or his new thinness. Even with his spectacles on, he seemed much changed, and he lowered his brows for a moment as he studied the difference. But beyond the reflection he could not help but be aware of a piercing gaze, studying him similarly and no doubt finding him wanting.

Scratching his neck at the spot of his healing wound, James finally put one hand over Ben’s smaller one and took the opened razor gently from the boy. Without looking up he lowered the blade and then turned stiffly on his seat on the railing to face Ben.

He had known it would be the child; since Captain Carter’s…execution…the lad had seemed to need to keep an eye on him, and had in fact been something of a second shadow in the times when he was not distracted by his new life as a corsaire. He had even taken to sleeping near James down below, curled against his back despite the heat.

A crooked smile was on the boy’s dirty face and James thought with a sigh that their new life as prisoner thieves did not seem to upset the child overmuch. He appeared to be thriving, and had in fact been dashing all around the ship for the past days with no sign of tiring.

“This is a good blade,” James told him appreciatively and saw Ben blink as if startled before curving his mouth back into his former smile. The razor blade had been sharpened recently and was clean with no traces of rust. “Where did you get it?” he asked curiously, wondering if he would be permitted to use it before it was returned to its owner. The blade was of the highest quality steel and someone was going want it back. It was a shame since he had been complaining last night about his growth of hair in the beastly heat down below the top deck.

“The negro man,” Ben answered instantly, his smile widening. James felt his brows rise, and stared at the boy curiously. He had not met the man yet though he had seen him around the ship in much the same way that he had seen the few dark skinned slaves following their masters through London.

Deniau was the negro’s name, though he did not speak with the same accent as the rest of the corsaires. And he was not a slave, but a freed man, even daring to speak boldly to the Captain when few others did. James could recall his own stammering speech with nothing less than humiliation.

“He let you have his razor?” James prodded Ben and blinked at his eager nod.

“I asked for him for it for ye.” The boy stopped to duck his head. “An’ he asked me who y’are, and when I told him he said you could use it if ye showed him what the words in tha’ book of yours meant.”

“Book?” James repeated with no notion what the boy meant, since his bags had held more than one book before it had been taken, some printed at his father’s own stationer’s shop. The loss of those still stung him painfully.

“It did start with a curving line.” Ben scowled and waved one finger in the rough shape of a ‘U’. “He said it was nae in English, Master James.” He dropped his hand to his side and peered up at him, stepping in closer. “Can ye read other letters too, then?”

 Sudden understanding wiped the frown from James’ face, and he did his best to smile before nodding. Ben’s eyes opened to their limits before he jerked his shoulders and dropped his gaze to the deck. He had watched him reading on the other ship, but had always been called away by Carter before James could suggest teaching him.

 If nothing else good came of their capture, the boy would be taught to read, James decided firmly, his smile widening.

 “Aye,” James answered him shortly and then flicked a glance to the steps leading down to the cabins, where Deniau was undoubtedly resting, recovering from whatever illness had created Villon’s need for physick. Odd, that a killer would seek to aid a sick man, odder still that the man he had risked much for was a black man. But many things about this ship were odd…there James stopped, feeling his face heat until it burned. “Utopia,” he added softly to himself, suddenly eager to hold his book again, and see the familiar words. There was no such place on Earth, and nor should there be, but imagining such a haven had seen him through terror and fire and destruction and would cure his unsettled mind most assuredly.

 “’Tis in Latin,” he spoke loudly, for oftentimes the boy’s language had the sound of that great classical tongue, and turned back to Ben, grinning slightly when Ben only looked more confused, and curious, no matter how the boy tried to hide it. “Tell your friend I will show him,” he agreed to the deal, then shifted, glancing around but carefully not looking back to the stern. “Is there water I may use?”

 Ben nodded once, then shouted something at him in a strange mixture of English and his own Scots tongue as he ran off, returning moments later with a barrel lid filled with rainwater. James still had not found his sea legs, and doubted he ever would, but Ben managed not to spill a single drop, and James had to laugh at his effortless grace, as born to it as he had spent his whole life at sea instead of just a few years.

 But his laugh seemed unnaturally loud, mayhap because he had not laughed in so long, or because he still imagined himself in Villon’s gaze, and he silenced himself quickly, fixing his eyes somewhere ahead and raising his free hand to feel his face as he commenced shaving, flinching at the first cold kiss of the knife.

 His face was still stinging in the brilliant glow of late afternoon, though he did not regret his action, enjoying the smooth feel of his jaw and feeling like himself for the first time in many days.

 Though he should have been working, he raised one hand to stroke his chin and neck with a contented sigh. Such a little thing to please him, but he was not the only one. He recalled the surprise on Pym’s face when he had had Ben sneak him the razor for his quick use as well, and he grinned openly. There had not been much of the water left, and the blade had been dulled, but Pym had not minded, and James marked to himself that he should be twice as diligent in his Latin lessons to Deniau for the second use of his razor.

 The thought of diligence brought his mind back to the task he had been given, and James bent his head to look over the unraveling strands of rope falling all around him. He stretched out his arm to reach the other rope, not yet unraveled, and set about dragging the spike through the braid to loosen it. His hands were untaught and slow, but he concentrated intently on the job until both ropes were undone enough that they could be braided together again to make a new length of rope.

 “Two different strands become one,” the corsaire who had given James the task instead of doing it himself had said, sliding the frayed end of one of the ropes back and forth through a circle of his fingers. James had stared at the man’s hands in confusion, and then frowned back into his face wondering if the man’s poor English were at fault.

 He did not think he had ever spoken to the man before, though he had seen around the ship of course. He was not one of the officers, if the men who spoke directly to Villon could be said to be his officers.

 But he had seen men restringing frayed ropes before, and when he saw the tool in the man’s hand, had nodded.

One of the ropes had probably come from the Queen of Sheba, James reasoned now, trying not to think about how the man had stepping closer then, smelling of ale and breathing into his face as he had gone on. “You will tie them together.” His words had slurred, due to his accent and the ale, and James had nodded again hurriedly. The man’s breath had been warm, uncomfortably so, and his closeness, stretching up to speak into his face like that had nearly made them touch. It had been hard not to flinch away.

The way he had whispered, so low and secretive, had reminded James of what he was most trying to forget, the sounds he had heard on the few nights he had come up onto the deck to sleep.

“A knot? Matelotage?” the corsaire had pressed eagerly, the bare end of the rope in his hand brushing against James’ chest, and only the sharp command of the pirate captain had spared James the man’s presence any longer. Even the unfamiliar word matelotage failed to distract him as he remembered, and his face heated as he tried to keep all of his strands in order and tie them neatly.

He supposed he was grateful to Villon for his rescue, even if that had not been the man’s purpose. James very much doubted that even Deniau’s rescue had been for pure motives. It certainly had not been kindness and compassion that had led the corsaire crew to loot and plunder their small ship until it was bare, and he had seen Villon get his share of that with his own eyes, smaller than he had expected, but more than James had ever owned. That was something to puzzle over, along with the easy manner in which most of the men treated their captain, but there was much about René Villon that occupied his mind.

Villon was not like the boucaniers or pirates James had pictured when he had first heard the stories of the West Indies when clerking in his father’s stationer’s shop. Perhaps a corsaire was simply different, serving his king in his thieving fashion. And yet somehow he was more terrifying than anything James had read in those reports, and the few accounts of life on the Spanish Main that had reached them in London.

A sudden chill crept up James’ back like a rat along a piece of rigging, making him shiver. He hoped it was only fear that caused the shaking, only fear and not a fever, for what else could make a man shiver with cold when the heat was slowly killing those staying below deck, and driving those above deck mad. It was passing strange when he had declared to a local girl only days before setting out on his voyage, full of drink and ideas from his books, that he knew no fear, and would laugh at any man who did. It had been a lie of course, to impress such a lovely. But fear was better now. Fear, according to Pym, was like pain, it meant that he was still alive; a fever meant death unless he was as lucky as Deniau.

A tight prickle at the base of his scalp, just under the ragged scarf holding back some of the long hair sticking to his neck made him shudder again, and turn at last from the mess of rope he was splicing and mending to look at the stern of the ship, where the Captain was standing with one hand resting on the carved railing, watching him as he worked in the afternoon sun.

The steady stare was unnerving, unmanning, making James drop the small marlinspike still in his hand. He barely noticed when the tool bounced off his bare foot, only dimly grateful that it did not break the skin and increase his chances of sickness, though his injuries from the attack had healed readily enough. Then he supposed there was really little chance of any slight cuts; his work on this ship had toughened his skin remarkably.

The wind and the sun, as well as the tasks themselves, had turned him into something very different from the man he had been in London. He recalled his reflection in the razor blade with lingering shock. He doubted that his friends would even have recognized his face, and once quick glance down at his body showed clearly that he could say the same for his body. He was leaner, due to the lack of good food and the heat taking away his appetite. The muscles in his chest and arms were stronger than they had ever been hefting books, and since he had only ragged breeches, most of his body was darker. He was as tanned now as the sailors he had seen from the New World. Only the narrow spectacles pinched onto his nose remained the same, cracked now, but still allowing him to see the slim figure observing silently from afar.

Once, many years ago, James had seen a hawk, something rare for a boy who had spent all of his life but a few months within London’s gates. But there had been a toff who was so fond of them that he would take one with him wherever he would go, even into a printer’s, and he had removed the leather hood upon seeing his curious stare, allowing James to study it freely, saying he liked a boy that was eager to see the world.

All he could remember now was how frightening and yet beautiful the bird had been, even chained to its master’s arm, sharp talons and a beak like a sharpened blade, and its eyes…

Villon had eyes like that hawk, dark and piercing; he could see them even from where he stood. He had compared them to Devil’s when they had first met, standing in the doorway in that one tense moment, and some part of him could not deny the truth of that description either. Yards away, but he knew they were trained on him, as they had been ever since his arrival on this accursed ship. He had held his life in his hands, however unintentionally, and he could still feel the fury in the other man’s eyes at being powerless. He would want revenge, James was certain of it.

When would he take it? James asked himself for the hundredth time, then tried to push the thought away, knowing he would soon go as mad as the ranting, babbling man downstairs, the man who had been a lord a lifetime ago. But for a moment his reason seemed to leave him.

He would never see land again. The thought was thick with despair, a brief memory of his father and step-mother and his few friends back home nearly bringing a tear to his eyes. He knew for himself that the tales of the cruelty of the boucaniers, of this boucanier, were true, he had seen it with his own eyes. And he was a poor sailor. Villon had no reason to tolerate him much longer especially after what had happened between them. That was what the stares meant.

Suddenly startled at the realization that he had just been standing and staring when he should have been working, James hurriedly went about restringing the rope so that it would not fray again anytime soon, still trying to knot it tight enough that the corsaires would be pleased, and perhaps have mercy on him.

His hands were shaking, remembering how Villon himself had punished Captain Carter, and how he had answered his cries for mercy. The slender hand holding the blade had not trembled even slightly, and not a drop of blood had spilled onto his cuffs of fine bone lace. Had there been mercy then?

Life is pain. Be grateful for mercy, James could hear every intonation as if the man had not spoken the words a fortnight ago. What would make a man speak so? He wondered faintly, his stomach uneasy.

His hands were shaking so severely he could barely hold onto the rope, and took a deep breath, calming himself somewhat.

A shadow fell over the rope under his hands just as he tied two old pieces together to make a new rope, stopping his work and bringing him sharply out of his remembrances. Raising his head quickly, James looked up into the narrow, wooden eyes of Marechal. They were studying him openly, with more interest than he had shown before in those moments in Lord Cavendish’s cabin. Then he had not seemed to truly even see him, now his recognition was plain, and somehow James could also sense a strong dislike that had not been there before.

Marechal was large, huge, and blocking most of his view of the ship, even the raised quarterdeck at the stern where Villon had been standing, though he very much doubted that another rescue would happen this time.

James swallowed dryly, doing his best to stare back bravely though he did not rise from his place on the deck. The man was taller than he in any case, standing or sitting meant little.

“Little Englishman,” he bit out in his rough English, without even the mocking smile he had had before and James felt the unease slide along his spine again. It got worse when Marechal went on, his words rumbling over him, bent over on the ground at his feet.

“René wishes to see you,” was all he said, but James closed his eyes anyway at the words, at that name, unwilling to open them, not even when Marechal’s large hand grabbed his shoulder and yanked him forward. Meaty fingers dug into his skin punishingly, seeming to want to rip through his flesh, and James tensed at the pain, pulling away from it as much as he could. His resistance finally made the big man laugh, a loud sound that tried to fill James’ hollow chest.

Behind him, he could hear one of Villon’s men laughing, and he could feel the stares of a few of the men who had been on board the Queen of Sheba with him, some worried though he knew they could do nothing. He stumbled blindly over sleeping men, Marechal viciously pulling him forward to the horrible fate he knew awaited him. Only once did he open his eyes, looking to the stern, but the Captain was gone.

And then Marechal finally stopped, and James cracked open his eyes once more, staring in shock at the door to Villon’s cabin. Was it to be some private torture, he wondered with horror, knowing that this ship was named after the Devil for its master, with his dark eyes and black heart.

But Marechal allowed him no time to ponder the evil that undoubtedly waited for him beyond the scarred wood, he opened the door widely and then stared inside without speaking. Whatever the man saw made his fingers clench so tightly around the back of his neck that James gasped. Then was he shoved inside forcefully, and the door slammed closed behind him.

James froze on the threshold, ducking at the low ceiling without thinking, his gaze locked on the slender man in front of him; the fact that the other man’s back was turned was the only thing that allowed him to move even that small amount, free from those icy eyes for the moment.

He could still remember holding his sword there in the cabin’s doorway, trying to keep the man at bay out of fear, and quaking inside to see no such fear in the eyes staring back at him. What in God’s name could make a man so cold, he asked Heaven silently and not for the first time.

“Marechal brought you?” The question was asked with a deliberate sort of mockery that James associated with nobles and their cruel wit, and James felt his brows draw together in confusion but did not answer. Surely the man knew that, had asked Marechal to fetch him, had seen the big man at the door just now. No answer seemed to be expected, because though he waited tensely where he stood, Villon did not turn around nor ask his question again.

There was little James could do but watch as Villon pulled his cutlass from his leather belt, his breath catching in his throat when the man brought the deadly sword down swiftly with a violence that should have been surprising from such a little man. The Captain cleanly sliced off the top of a clay flask of wine, the edge of blade inches from his hand though he did not seem to notice. He merely let the top fall to the floor and took a long drink, sheathing his sword as he did.

The sheathed cutlass did not make James any calmer; this man did not need a sword to kill him and they both knew it. It was obvious in how thoroughly the Frenchman was ignoring him. His slight shoulders were relaxed, at ease; James could see them now that he had taken off the long, red coat he had taken from Lord Cavendish. It was draped over a chair next to a large desk, he noticed, and then blinked, looking around the room for the first time.

It was small, though larger than the cramped hold where he slept when not on deck. A small, netted piece of bedding that sailors called a hamaca hung from the ceiling, and several chests, likely holding his spoils, were underneath it. Some casks, probably full of powder and shot, were near those. Other than the desk and chair, both covered with curled charts and maps, it was the only furnishing.

The silence between them stretched out painfully as he watched Villon drink from the cask, watched all in bespelled fascination, even the man’s throat moving as he swallowed. He wondered if the taste of the wine would somehow affect his fate.

And then the silence was broken by the shatter of the empty bottle on the wooden floor, dropped negligently now that it was of no use. Villon stepped away from the mess and turned around at last, the small woman’s earbob hooked through one of his ears swinging slightly.

For a moment, the creation of purple jewels and gold wire held James’ attention, and then his gaze was captured by Villon’s again, as it always was. The other man’s eyes flicked over him smoothly before he moved, untying two laces at the top of his white shirt as if warm. It fell loosely about his slender body, for he was not wearing a vest, and billowed out around his waist where the sash still held his sword. James raised his eyes back to the man’s face when his gaze reached his low-hanging breeches and focused his attention on his neat features, straight nose and red mouth, anything but those eyes. Villon curled his lips in a faint smile as if noticing his study and then moved over toward a small basin on his desk, filled with dirtied water.

“The…boy…with you…he is well?” That was the last thing James had expected to hear and he nodded in agreement then frowned in confusion. Villon was not facing him as he asked, his still, slender form was James’ only way of judging his meaning and he could judge nothing. He curled his fingers into his palms before answering.

“Yes.” He kept his voice even, startling even himself. Then his heart seemed to pound madly once in his chest as he suddenly realized that the question might be a threat or warning, that the man would harm a child to punish him.

“You are…” the man seemed to search for the correct word, finally pausing and looking at him steadily, half turned so that his hands rested over the bowl of water. “…Close?”

Blinking at the strange emphasis put on that last word, James nodded, and then felt his frown deepen. The eyes had narrowed slightly until they were like chips of coal with some fire kindled behind them and when he nodded the sparks seemed to blaze up, and James had jumped back into the door with the force of it before he could recover himself. His face reddened fiercely at his foolishness, but he stared back into infernal eyes. He had to keep Ben out of this.

“Ben is a g…good lad,” James snapped the words out with only a small stutter. “Bright,” he added a moment later. He hesitated for another length of time, hearing his heart beat drum in his ears, then he lifted his chin the slightest, as much as he dared. “Please don’t hurt him,” he begged quietly. He could remember wondering before if it would do any good to beg, but for a child’s sake he had to try.

Coal black eyes widened in something like amazement. James stilled at the empty stare of the killer in front of him, caught in his blank gaze until the man’s eyelids dropped closed. When they opened again, all the feeling had been leeched from his expression.

“How do you like life on my ship…James, is it?” Villon changed topic calmly, lifting one thin brow as the French were wont to do before dipping his hands into the filthy water and scrubbing them, as if it would do any good, as if he were some sort of gentleman, and not a thief and a murderer. Pilate’s guilt, James thought sickly, washing his hands after condemning Christ, but when that other thin eyebrow went up in question, he swallowed his angry words and did his best to answer, momentarily distracted to realize that the man knew his name.

“I…I…” he stammered and shook his head, hoping he could make sense, and save himself. “It is as bad as the people say,” he said finally and then gulped. “But it’s better than being dead.” His own answer brought back his feelings of dread, hearing the temper in his tone that he could not hide, but Villon only smiled, turning back to him as he carefully dried his hands.

“You are a smart man, James,” Villon replied finally. “For an Englishman.” Shockingly, James could feel himself scowling, but Villon did not seem to care. James’ anger meant nothing to him, it was clear enough in his amused expression as he drew near.

Closer, James suddenly became startlingly aware of just how much slighter the other man was. But his surprise turned to discomfort, and then fear, when the Captain only came to a stop right next to him, not even a foot separating them. James backed into the door, a mere inch or so behind him, and then tensed, not even wanting to breathe.

“Are you smart enough to know why I called you here…James?” Villon asked in his same, soft voice, dropping one shoulder in a shrug. This close, James could smell the wine on his breath, warm, sour fruit, and the sweat soaking his clothes, something sharper. Even the water from his washing reached his nose, salted as if it were seawater, and James parted his lips slightly, breathing through his mouth. It made Villon’s smile grow wider.

Was he going to live after all? Relief poured through James at the idea, but only for a moment. Then the trepidation crawled back inside him when the man did not move away, did not even blink.

“Why…” James had to stop, had to swallow to wet his throat, suddenly wanting some of that wine. “Prithee…why did you bring me here?” he got out hoarsely and watched that other shoulder drop carelessly even as the Captain’s eyes remained steady and intense.

“It will be many weeks until we return to Tortue,” he explained simply and dropped his eyes again, glancing at his chest, nearly touching it like the frayed end of a rope. For the first time, a bit of warmth crept into his black eyes, and James tensed, trying to control how his body trembled at the faint suggestion in the other man’s tone.

He could not push away the memory of the nights on the deck this time, and flushed with heat and color to remember the sounds and brief sights of the darkened ship. Suggestions more bold than this one, whispered at night from one man to another, from one man to another, speaking simply and clearly. He had heard, had been warned about the Park in London, and the men of the theatres, but surely even in the park men were not so…open.

He had closed his eyes of course, looking the other way for their sake and for his, and covering his ears to block out the sounds…the sounds they made in their search for pleasure…furtive and quick and wet. Like any other fuck except… It was sinful, and against the law, he reminded himself, but his face flushed anew at the memory before he dared to look into Villon’s amused eyes. Seeing his calm suddenly made his whole body seize with terror.

“Why have you brought me here?” he asked again, expelling one long, shuddering breath that seemed to have been trapped inside of him.

“You English and your lack of grace…” Villon trailed off, sounding faintly annoyed. Then his hand darted out, grabbing the flesh between James’ legs and cupping it firmly in the palm of his hand through his filthy calico trousers. James flung himself back into the door in surprise, slamming against it forcefully but unable to escape, that hand would not allow him to move.

His hand was warm, was his first dim thought before the fear seized him again. Warm and it had been an age since anyone but James had touched there. But he was still shaking, trembling like he had as a virgin with his first bawdy girl. He tried to shake his head, but could not make himself even twitch.

“I brought you here because I want to taste your cock,” Villon went on quietly, calmly, as if it were nothing to him and James stared at him helplessly, hearing those nighttime whispered words being said to him. “And then I want to stick mine into your ass…James.” He was as silky as his stolen coat.

 It was a thousand times more bold than those words on the deck and more vivid than any passage in a history text, but for a moment that was all he could see, a bejeweled Roman emperor with robes of flowing white and a slave at his feet, raggedly dressed as the stories suggested. He tossed his head from one side to the other and shook it away.

“I’m no sodomite,” James answered unsteadily, after what seemed like forever, and then squeezed his eyes shut when Villon only pressed his hand harder against his soft prick and rubbed up and down once. James’ head swam dizzily at the action, a powerful throbbing centering there, below his waist, belying his words. And then, shamefully, he could feel himself reacting.

Was this his revenge? He nearly moaned it.

“I am not interested in your ideas of sin…” Villon remarked and then paused. Anxiously, James opened his eyes. Then he jerked his head up so fast it slammed into the low beams above when he felt a warm mouth on his chest, closing over one nipple. A heat covered the sensitive flesh, like the sun outside, almost soothing until his slippery tongue slid over the surface, teasing it into a tight, erect point.

James barely felt the ache in his skull, only shaking his head slowly at the stream of heat working from his chest to his groin. Then he gasped, the heat changing to spikes of pain as sharp teeth bit into the skin and pulled gently. It was only for a moment, and then Villon pulled away, observing him coolly.

“You will beg to become one before I am through,” he finished, his mouth curved into a grin. His lips were slightly swollen, James saw, and then shook his head for seeing it at all. But the pain in his chest was gone now, melted into something hotter than it had been before, shooting straight to his prick, still held against that welcoming hand. Now his nipple ached, he realized, and then shook his head once more. It ached for more. Even the air seemed to tease it beautifully.

He wondered if Villon knew that, if he cared, and then swallowed anxiously, knowing that he wanted him to care so that he would do it again, when he knew that the desire was wrong.

But it did not feel wrong when Villon again bent his head and took his other nipple, running his tongue over the aroused point almost playfully before pulling it between his lips. Again the pleasure seemed to radiate from that spot, creating shivers on his skin, both cool and hot, and James closed his eyes again, wanting to imagine that this was a woman, some bawd he had paid for. But he could not, not with his dark hawk’s eyes in his mind.

The hand on his prick moved again, moved at last, undoing carved bone buttons as Villon teased his nipple. The combined pleasure of even that was intense, and James held himself still, not wanting to admit to wanting this. But then he felt the air on his bare skin and his trousers sliding down to the floor and could not pretend anymore, not with his stiff cock there between them, jutting out greedily. All he could do was pull back into the door and moan aloud at the thought of the pain that was undoubtedly to come.

But it was a gentle tickle that surprised him into opening his eyes, a soft scratching on his stomach through the fine hairs leading down below his belly to his prick. Villon’s eyes filled his vision, lit with some unholy emotion as one hand teased its way across his stomach muscles, making them tense and quiver with what he knew was anticipation now and not fear.

James let out a long breath and then stopped, realizing only as he did it that the action brought his body closer to Villon’s fingers. The feather light caresses were softer than any woman’s, unbelievable from such a cruel man, and James’ eyes widened in surprise when the touch of fingertips became a whole hand, splayed out warmly over his stomach. It voyaged lower easily; James caught his lip in his teeth and turned his head to the side, letting it ride down until he felt the gentle touch on his balls then letting out a strangled cough when it slid even further and they were cupped in a calloused palm.

And then Villon bent his head once more, clamping one nipple between his teeth so tightly that a sharp stab of pain made James wince. He was throbbing in two places now, his body jerking uncertainly against the caressing hand rolling his balls like pipped dice and the stinging ache in his chest. He tossed his head with that same confusion until his pain melted into pure heat, a pounding, heavy rush of blood to his belly and prick, making him twitch excitedly. Pain and pleasure at the same time, he had never…this was no occasioned fuck in a local brothel house. Surely this was sick.

When the teeth bit down again, and the rush of blood came to him another time he gasped in welcome, and smoothed his hands against the wood door behind him, pushing himself away from it. Against Villon’s hand his manhood swelled larger than before, admitting to his shame more than he ever could, his throat locked tightly.

Villon laughed at that, a sound that should have brought color to James’ cheeks. Instead James turned to look at him, wondering what the other man saw that made him seem so triumphant. Whatever it was he kept to himself, remaining silent as his fingers slipped away from his balls at last and slid to his prick, circling over the large vein at the base of the shaft.

They moved away at James’ shocked exclamation, moving slowly up the seam underneath, stopping only at the head. James twisted his hips, vainly seeking for some way to ease the building ache in his belly, the pull at his balls at Villon’s burning touch. Then he looked down, no longer able to bear not knowing.

Villon’s eyes were on his body now, on the hard flesh he was laying claim to. He smoothed his thumb over the clear drops leaking out of the head of James’ cock and then twisted his hand, pressing the pad against the soft flesh on the bottom, just where the two bits of skin met. He rubbed that spot rhythmically, drawing sharp sounds from James with each move of his hand. It was pain again, or a pleasure so sharp it was pain, James could not tell, could not breathe, could not think. There was only Villon and the ache he had created.

“You wait like a martyr on a cross.” The remark seemed to come from nowhere, and James snapped his head up and tried to focus on the words. Distantly, he saw the other man’s hot-eyed amusement but could not speak to question it. “It is…sad…that you are not,” Villon went on, still rubbing his prick with deliberate softness, “I have always wanted to fuck your Christ, and I am not likely to ever meet him.”

James could hear the gasp that followed the man’s blasphemy, but was not aware of opening his mouth or even drawing breath. He could not think, focus on what had been said; he very much feared that if he did he would have to answer, and he had none. It was sinful, yet the words stroked over him like velvet, creating a burning like Hellfire in his loins, and Hellfire it must be indeed.

Villon made a sound in his throat as he looked him over, as if he wanted to either laugh or be sick, and then curved his lips into a sneer. “And shall I continue…James?” Breath tickled his face again and James felt his lips part.

“He is yours too.” It was only a shaky whisper, but his meaning was clear. The edge of a fingernail pushed into the slit at the tip of his cock and James jerked upright and gasped anew at the pain, his whole body throbbing.

“No, you are mine.” Villon’s sneer was gone. His cheeks were flushed with temper or impatience, and seeing it caused James’s heart to miss another beat. His blood was singing gloriously through him, centering at his prick until he had to fight not to push his hips forward. “Yes or no?” Villon demanded, his voice rising. It caught on the last word and turned rough, almost savage.

I want to taste your cock, Villon had told him plainly, and he was on fire at the thought, his mind not letting him dwell on the rest of what the man had promised.

“Please,” he got out at last, disbelieving. “Yes.” Sweet Jesu, he swore silently, cursing himself for a weak stripling, for a coward. But it did not feel cowardly, to beg for pleasure from a killer. His heart was pounding as furiously at the blood between his legs, echoing his desires in his ears. “Please,” he said again, his voice nothing more than a rough whisper.

Villon removed his hand at the word, leaving a sharper ache behind him. James barely had time to recognize that before Villon reached around him and grabbed the flesh of his ass, pulling them closer. His hands squeezed it curiously, parting the skin to make way for his questing fingers, ignoring how James went still and closed his eyes in remembered fear and startled pleasure at the feel of him. And then the other man slid down his body onto the floor, his knees bumping softly on the wood as he landed.

Then there was nothing in the world but the warm breath brushing the tip of his prick.

“Yes,” James admitted, his eyes still shut to the sight of the man before him. “Yes,” and wet lips closed around his cockhead, enveloping him with heat.

There was only a moment to enjoy that, and then Villon began to stroke his aching flesh with his tongue, swirling it around and around as if licking the last bit of wine from the rim of an empty bottle, savoring the taste. Taste, James thought feverishly, straining not to thrust the rest of his prick into that mouth. Sweet Jesu, he repeated silently, not sure what he was praying for when Villon stopped that torture only to begin another, taking one hand from his arse and circling his shaft, stroking slowly up and down and drawing hungrily on the head with his cheeks and tongue.

Fire, there was a fire in his balls, a beautiful agony, coursing from there through the rest of him, causing him to jerk in Villon’s arms and push impatiently against his mouth, wanting to be inside of him.

Why did not he take him, James wondered painfully, his body acting only on need as he bucked his hips forward. Did not he care, he asked himself like he had earlier, looking down finally to the dark head bent down below him and focusing dizzily on the mouth already wrapped around him. He could feel those lips tightening, weakening his knees and sending him crashing back into the door, and then they moved at last, sliding up the length of him as his hand moved, then sliding back down.

It was torture, deliberate torment he knew. The hand on his cock moved steadily, even as James begged and jerked and pleaded for more. He wanted to be taken, wanted it now, desperately. His hands left the door at last, daring to clutch Villon’s hair between his fingers, wanting his mouth around all of him.

The hand on his ass flexed in surprise, fingers brushing the soft, hidden flesh between the cheeks before digging in and pulling James flush against Villon’s face. Then he was held there firmly as his mouth slid over him again and again until he was begging and thrusting his hips in return as much as he could. The pull from his balls intensified and he nearly pulled the red scarf from Villon’s hair as he pumped his cock in and out of his mouth furiously, his pleasure too much to bear.

“René!” he heard himself calling hoarsely, wanting to say it again if it would allow him release, and René grabbed him hard to make him stop moving, sliding a finger over his asshole roughly and sucking so forcefully on his prick at the same time that James cried out in shock as his body jerked forward and the burning fire in his balls seemed to flow out of him uncontrollably. His eyes closed at the flash in his mind and then shot open at the intense pleasure of his spunk shooting out of his cock into René’s waiting mouth. His fingers clenched spasmodically in his dark hair as the bursts of pain lessoned into something tolerable, and then faded at last, and only a stinging tickle in his prick remained. Then he leaned back into the door weakly, his body drained almost of life itself.

There were stars shooting, swirling, behind his eyes in a sea of black and it took him several long moments to realize that he had nearly fallen asleep standing against the door, supported only by the man next to him.

He looked up at the thought, his exhaustion turning to alarm as he stared into the merciless black eyes looking back at him. No, not merciless, James changed his thoughts almost the moment he had them, his whole body flushing with an embarrassed warmth. Villon’s cheeks had spots of colour, and his eyes were bright, and there, on his lower lip was a drop of liquid shining like a pearl in a pirate’s captured treasure.

He left it there, and then leaned in slowly and James froze uncertainly. Surely he was not about to kiss him? But Villon continued in, lifting his head as if for just that, and something made James stand still. His lips were less than an inch away from his mouth, still dripping with his spunk. It touched him first, and James jerked without pulling away, shocked and disgusted. Before he could pull back, Villon did it for him, drawing away without ever touching their lips together.

James was once again imprisoned by that stare, tensing at the taste of his own spirit on his mouth, but unwilling to show his reaction. He feared Villon knew the truth anyway. Perhaps he was mad with fever after all, that such a sinful idea as a kiss between two men should keep him still when he should have run.

But run where, he asked himself, and realized that his feet had not moved from their place at all.

“And now…James,” Villon was speaking almost into his mouth, an edge to his voice belying his amused tone, “Walk to my desk and lay yourself across the top. And…” He paused, likely at how James pulled back sharply, angling his head away as if ducking from the words themselves. But Villon did not seem to notice that, a bit of confusion or puzzlement in his tone, at what James did not want to try to fathom. “I want you to call me René when I take you. I like my name in your mouth.”

René! The needy, shocked cry sounded in James’ ears, seemed to pass through the room. He had called it out, had shouted it eagerly at the promise of more pleasure, and he had pushed aside what that had meant. Even now his body still tingled with remembered lust, wishing it had not ended. Yes, he had begged, and then yes again, and would have continued until his throat had been raw if he had had to. James swallowed his fear and looked back into Villon’s dark eyes, his stomach churning sickly. He had sold himself to the Devil for pleasure, and now…

His eyes traveled to the desk, still cluttered with charts and crumbs of weevil-infested hardtack. His pleas and moans during his crisis still seemed to be in his ears, as shameful as those midnight noises on deck. He recalled them vividly, his body heating again, and then he took one trembling step forward, stumbling out of the breeches crumpled at his feet.

He hunched his shoulders at his nudity and made the mistake of glancing at Villon. The corsaire was watching his body with glinting eyes as he moved, one hand slipping past the crimson sash at his waist and down to the placket at the front of his trousers, undoing the buttons there slowly.

For a moment, James forgot his own shocking nakedness to watch as the other man opened his trousers and freed his own prick, already hard at what he was planning to do. It was larger than his, thick and filling with colour.

Suddenly, he could not move, could not take the final step to the desk, stepping instead in Villon’s direction, unsure if he wanted to beg for mercy or for the feel of his mouth again.

Villon accepted this calmly, raising one eyebrow but allowing James to come close enough for him to hold him by the arms. The feel of Villon’s hands on his bare shoulders was enough to make James shudder weakly. But before Villon could speak, he was nodding slowly and turning to face the desk. Once there he only hesitated a moment before closing his eyes and bending over, stopping when vellum brushed his cheek.

Waiting in absolute silence as he had when he had first entered the Captain’s room, James shivered in what he hoped was fear, his body tensing as a calloused hand smoothed down the line of his spine. It started at his neck and ended just above his arse, making him flinch.

A warm chuckle was Villon’s answer to that, and then, inconceivably, a hard, swift slap on his arse, the sound of it ringing in James’ ears and making his eyes fly open. A map of the Indies themselves was all he could see, a horrible sea creature leering at him from the corner as the blood rushed to that sore spot, as it had rushed to his nipples, searing him with something hotter than pleasure though his face burned with humiliation.

He was still tense with surprise when Villon leaned over him to whisper in his ear, his hair trailing over James’ back, and his hard, throbbing prick pressed against his arse, making him jump.

“James…” he pronounced slowly, and James turned his head to the side expectantly until Villon’s lips nearly touched his ear. But that was all he said, trailing one hand back down over James’ ribs to his hip, where it finally stopped. He moved the other too; James heard his clothing rustle, and then jerked his body roughly against the corner of the desk when a finger brushed over his hole again, stroking softly.

It returned before he could do more than that, circling the area around it once, pushing apart the flesh, exposing him, before it abruptly slid inside of him.

His muscles tightened around the intrusion immediately, and he bucked his hips at the feel of his body being forced open like it was. All he felt was shame that he should be seen like this, and pain at the exploring finger. He bucked his hips again, uncontrollably, when he felt another finger pressing against his small, resisting hole. The action drove both fingers inside, farther than only the one before, and he gasped loudly at the sudden burst of pleasure, stronger than anything he had ever felt before, even René’s mouth on his cock.

His body began to throb with excitement, seemingly indifferent to the hot pain he still felt where René’s fingers had entered him. But then those fingers pressed back inside of him, and the pleasure washed over him violently, making shake with the force of it, shocked at how his manhood swelled again and pressed painfully into the desk.

“René.” He was groaning it now, grinding his hips against the desk as that finger moved inside of him, and then moaning like the dying when the fingers slid out and only echoes of pleasure remained. He wanted them to return, even with the pain, and welcomed the warm nudge against the sore spot a moment later. It was so sweet that he leaned further into the desk and spread his legs like a woman when René pressed his hardness to him.

It was his only warning, and then René pushed his cock inside of him swiftly, tearing flesh as he pushed his way in, forcing muscles to stretch around him.

Screaming inside at the pain, James lowered his head to the desk’s surface, squeezing his eyes shut and biting down on his lower lip. His hands found the sides of the desk and he clutched them desperately, a low moan escaping despite his efforts when René pulled out just as quickly as he’d entered.

The blood was pounding through his body, flooding to where he had known it would, settling below his belly in a rush of heat and desire. René thrust in once more, and this time James felt the pleasure build again when René’s cock pressed deep inside of him, brushing against some place so perfect that he could have cried.

His prick ached, growing with each of René’s thrusts, with each touch to that hidden place, and he moved his hips, following René’s actions blindly, bringing them closer with each upward movement. The hand on his hip dug into his skin when he moved, something almost frantic in the way it clung to him before relaxing and sliding down, down under his stomach. Then it curled around his burning shaft.

“René!” James called it out as he had been commanded to do, screwing his body into that hand as René plunged into him. The breathing in his ear was growing more ragged, hotter, and René grunted once in reply, slamming his cock into him fully.

James’ head swam at the pain of it, at how the full length of his cock brushed against that spot and made him gasp. Even the balls slapping against his ass were a kind of exquisite torture, and he moaned into the map, panting at the sea creature before turning his head to feel René’s heavy breath on his face.

He could feel it now, feel René’s prick hardening inside of him, feel his thrusts growing stronger, nearly shifting the desk. The tight pull in his own balls was driving him mad, and when René shouted out his climax and the hand on his cock spasmed as René spilled into him, James bucked frantically against the hard desk and drained himself again until he thought surely there was nothing of him left.

It could have been hours, or only a quarter hour since Marechal had first shoved him through the door, James could not be sure. He was not even sure he cared. He just sagged against the desk and felt René’s weight crush on top of him as the other man relaxed, groaning as he expelled the last of his spunk.

The unfamiliar sensation of liquid running down the back of his thighs came to him slowly, after long moments of heavy breathing and silence. It was that that finally made him raise his head, though he could not do much more, not with René still pressed inside of him and resting over him. Another man’s cock in his arse… A blush of shame heated James’ face and his turned his head into the desk, trying to pretend that none of it had happened.

But the wet feeling on his legs, the stuffed fullness of his arse, the lingering pain all reminded him that it had indeed happened. He had been buggered, willingly buggered, by this man. By a man who had mocked everything he was and believed in. Even now his spunk was splattered over the wood of the desk in front of him.

He groaned, recalling the strength of his expulsion, and then shifted at last, tingling at the feel of the prick in his arse softening. But his action made René lift himself up suddenly, and pull out of him. He had stepped away before James could do much more than go still as his body protested even that.

Wondering at himself, still bent over the desk like some kind of whore, James pushed himself up at last, and held himself erect for a moment. He pulled in several deep breaths and managed to keep himself from shaking, though his shamed blush spread down over his whole body. Dear Lord, he lifted his head slightly, seeing the wooden ceiling above him but wishing it were the heavens. What have I done, he asked the same Savior for guidance that the corsaire had just offended with his words but received no answer. He put his hands at his sides and then lowered his head enough to look at the other man, his heart seizing at having to do even this, after what they had just done. Then he turned around.

René was standing calmly by the same basin of dirty water, using a slightly damp rag to wash the blood from his prick. Blood, James thought with sudden horror, and reached behind him gingerly, touching two fingers to the wetness he felt. He pulled them back quickly and stared in shock at the sight of a thick, pearly pink mixture, spunk and blood, his blood.

“Life is pain, James,” René said calmly, just as he had said it before, as if he had said it a thousand times. “It is best to take pleasure from that pain,” he went on, glancing at him with a look so cold that James shivered. The fevered flush was gone from his face now; he had even straightened his hair after what James had done it to against the door. It was as if James had not touched him at all.

James blinked, unsure of what he was hearing. He could not even move; his hand was still in the air, two fingers still covered with the marks of his degradation. His whole body was throbbing with a new pain, lancing through his belly sharply like the cutlass that still hung at René’s side.

He frowned, trying to clear his mind and then straighten up and walk away-if he was to be allowed to do that. He focused on his trousers, lying abandoned near where René-Villon-was standing, and took one cautious step towards them.

Villon moved, stepping round to the other side of the desk for a moment. Then something brown was pushed into James’ vision and his eyes widened in surprise at the small clay bottle under his face. The cork had been removed, and he took it and raised it to his nose in disbelief.

Fresh water, if it could be called that, brackish and stale, part of the ship’s limited supply, not even from last night’s rain. A rag hit his chest, and he raised a surprised hand to catch it before looking back up at Villon, who was drinking from another bottle of wine several feet away. The seawater was still drying on the man’s hands and James stared at them as if they held the answers he was seeking. But Villon did not turn to him or even direct his gaze his way, so he lowered his eyes once again.

The water was for him to wash without pain, James realized, then shook his head, still not understanding anything. But he poured some water carefully onto the material and then tentatively wiped away most of the mess on the back of his legs. It was sticky and already drying and he grimaced as he did it, the last traces of his arousal fading away.

He wanted to go. He wanted to be home, back safe in London, or at least on the other ship, away from this man and the knowledge that he had…had enjoyed what had just happened, even if he did not want to understand it, or even why he had been chosen.

When he was done, he set both items carefully on the desk so as to not damage the maps and flicked a look at Villon. The other man was still silent, not even looking at him now as he walked stiffly over to his breeches and carefully bent over to slip them on again. He winced at the brief agony shooting through his lower body but continued dressing quickly, horribly aware of his naked, debauched state, not that Villon seemed to care.

Damn the man! James suddenly wanted to shout, louder than he had screamed the man’s name in a frenzy of pleasure. He clenched his hands into fists and felt the cracked nails dig into his skin. His fury was strong, raging more than it had at watching Carter killed.

The pain was intense now, no longer pleasurable, and James was doubtful that he would be able to walk amongst the crew without anyone knowing. He closed his eyes, praying silently, his body trembling with fear and anger. Then he straightened.

The door was before him, but he could not make himself move, not yet, not even with Villon watching him. His mind was reeling, dizzy, and he still did not understand. If only the man would speak, explain.

“Please.” The word slipped from his closed lips so lowly that James’ ears almost did not catch it. It echoed his fevered begging and he knew it, even more shamed now to find himself staying. He was not sure what he wanted the other man to say or do, only that he could not leave like this, not without knowing…

“I would not have called you here if I thought you would say no…James.” Villon was merciless now and James brought his head up to stare at him, dark streaks swirling before his eyes to match the storming sea in his stomach. The sickening bile rose to his throat at the sharply spoken words and he felt himself sway on his feet. He inhaled, but the air only cleared the way for the anger to burn out of him.

“Was this your revenge?” he spat out bitterly in a hoarse voice and raised one hand, clenching it tightly until the bile in his mouth made him gag. He wanted to be sick, vomit up all the fear and rage and hurt in his belly until it was no longer a part of him. Shame was there too, increasing when he saw the surprise and then fury flash in Villon’s dark eyes for a moment before the man hid it. James’ fingers relaxed instantly and he dropped his hand though it was too late, horrified at his temper and loss of control. What sort of man was he, to blame Villon for what he had done only too willingly.

Willingly…he heated all over to think of that and shook his head, trying to shake off his humiliation. He should go. Villon had no…further use…for him now.

“James.” Those dark eyes were fixed on him intently; so fierce and beautiful that James held his breath, more confused than before. The thought of facing those outside had him terrified, but it was not what had him lingering here in the place of his sin. It was those eyes, watching him as they had before, without a trace of kindness though the man had called him back.

“It will be many weeks until we return to Tortuga,” Villon told him again and then lifted one thin brow. There was a moment of silence, and then, slowly, James nodded, closing his eyes briefly at the thought of being called here another time. Then he opened the door and took a step; the act brought with it another shot of pain, but this time he ignored the pain, not wanting to be reminded of what had caused it or of when it might happen again.

Only once the door was between he and Villon did James raise his head, startled to see that the sun was still in the sky, and that it could not have been longer than half of an hour that he had been in the cabin.

He kept his eyes up at the sun until his eyes grew wet at the pain and he could no longer see much of anything, wanting to fill his gaze with the Heavens. Then he stepped out onto the deck, staring straight ahead.

Murmured conversations carried on as he passed by, still walking stiffly for the ache in his arse, most in French though his ears burned whenever he heard Villon’s name. The men spoke as if nothing unusual had occurred, as if he had not sinned in that cabin, and received pleasure from another man. Though surely they knew that, if Villon had done it all before. He could not have been the only one, he could tell that much from his skill at creating pleasure.

Blindly, he pushed out forcefully at a figure standing in front of him and heard a loud, crude oath from Michael Pym. But beyond a quick glance behind him to see if he had harmed the other man, he did not stop. He had a moment’s time to observe the concern on his friend’s face, but turned around again and walked faster before they could speak. He was almost afraid to show his face to anyone now.

The darkness and heat below the deck seemed oddly comforting. It was almost empty, and he rushed down until he had found the place where he had spent most of his nights. Lord Cavendish was sitting on the ground and toying with the bottom of the long, dirty shirt he had been given. His Lordship glared at him haughtily but did not speak, but James for once did not acknowledge him other than to sit down near him.

His body felt drained, and understandably so. He blushed anew and ducked his head into his knees as he pulled his legs up to his chest. Even that hurt his arse but he stayed still and let the ache fade away while he tried to think clearly.

Now the dim light seemed a curse, for it offered no distractions and he could again see Villon on his knees before him, and then, more shocking, hear himself crying out. The pleading in his voice…it had almost been as if he had been praying.

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Copyright © 2002 R. Cooper