“My beautiful Jack,” Thorne murmured, stroking his chestnut hair. “Thank you…”
Jack gazed at his captain, his eyelashes touching Thorne’s firm jaw as he blinked in the soft glow of the lantern.
“Me?” Jack laughed softly. “I’m not beautiful, Thorne. But you… You are the most handsome man I’ve ever seen. I’m so… I’m so puny.”
“That’s nonsense,” he murmured. “You weren’t so puny piggybacking that lad around earlier.”
Jack blushed at the mention of his transgression, and Thorne must’ve seen as his gentle smile intensified.
“I do that at home all the time, with the children from the village, in case you were wondering. I pretend to be a horse, and sometimes it helps them learn to ride, but honestly, it’s just fun.” Jack bit his lip, a giggle in his throat. “You’ll think me a softy for that, I’m sure!”
“We all need help on occasion, even battle-hardened old captains.” The captain glanced toward Apollo. “A couple of years after I left Sandhurst, I took a fall and smashed my leg. I hardly dared look at a horse while I was convalescing, the thought of riding one left me terrified.”
He gave a shy smile and reached up to ruffle one hand back through his pomaded hair. “And then I met this weak, angry little gray foal who was bound for the knackers and what else could I do but take him in? Apollo and I got our confidence together.”
Jack lifted his head, staring at Thorne in amazement.
“I would never have guessed! If only I’d known you then, I should have given you a piggyback too. Which leg was it?”
“The left. It healed, but—” He laughed a little shyly. “My father’s a born horseman and was convinced I just needed a push to get back to it. And though I would never have expected it, he was right. I just had to find the courage to try.”
Jack reached under the blanket for Thorne’s left leg. He stroked over the tight breeches and felt the taut muscle under his fingers. It was a wonder that a limb so perfect could once have been broken.
“My mother put me on a pony when I was three. Maybe I was too little, but it was her way, you see. Horses were second nature to her.” Jack was aware of the sad note in his voice. “She had gypsy blood.”
“When did you lose your mother?”
“I shouldn’t have mentioned…” Jack paused for a moment. He hadn’t wanted to speak of anything sad. But he was safe in Thorne’s arms. “I was four. She died in childbirth with my sister. Father doesn’t speak of her, so I never do either.”
“Was your sister—” He felt a tension in Thorne’s chest, the captain clearly not sure whether it was safe to pursue this, but he was on the road now, he could hardly turn back. “Did your sister survive?”
“She only lived a couple of hours. I saw her. Such a little thing. So small. I used to talk to her afterward, though she wasn’t really there. Father didn’t give her a name, but I called her Rose, because it was summer and the blooms were out in the garden.”
“You shouldn’t be here, Jack, not in a place like this.” Thorne held him closer than ever, placing a gentle kiss to his hair. “You should be at home in your village—”
“No, I shouldn’t—I should be here. My life is no more important than anyone else’s. I have to do my bit. And if I don’t…maybe there won’t be a village for me to come home to anyway.” As Jack stroked his fingers through Thorne’s hair, a fond smile came to his lips. “And I would never have met you, either.”
He gazed into Thorne’s glittering dark eyes. As he went to kiss him, he whispered, “We mustn’t be sad. We have each other now. If you’ll have me.”
“I don’t make a habit of rolling about in the hay, Trooper, so I’d say you can take this as a yes.” Thorne smiled. “But I won’t be able to give you an easy ride, you know that?”
Jack ran his kisses about Thorne’s face, hands in Thorne’s hair, disordering it even more. “Wouldn’t it be boring if everything was easy?” He winked. “Sorry for ruining your perfect hair without permission, sir.”
“Oh, that’s all—” And Thorne blinked, and the bright smile on his face became a fierce look. “What the devil have you been up to, soldier?”
“Running my hands through your lovely hair, Captain.”
“I’m known as a vain man among the officers, how dare you presume to even touch my hair?” He pushed himself to sit against the hay. “Am I to teach you a lesson?”
Jack sat up and saluted
“Yes, sir, Captain Thorne. I’m a very bad soldier, sir.”
“Will I put you over my knee, Woodvine?”
“Will you please, sir?”
“You’ll find my clothes over there.” Thorne nodded to the dark corner opposite. “Bring them to me, Trooper Woodvine. An officer should be properly attired to hand out discipline.”
Jack stood and pulled up his pajamas. He saluted again, heading into the dingy corner to gather up the neatly folded uniform, which carried with it the inevitable masculine scent of its owner. Bearing it in his arms, he trod his way through the straw, skirting around the sleeping Apollo, and stood, awaiting his next order.
“Your uniform, sir.”
The captain, however, rose to his feet and fastened his breeches. Then he turned and bent over to further bank up the straw, leaving Jack with the distinct impression that this was a show for his benefit, that his sigh when Thorne had stooped to retrieve the glove earlier hadn’t gone unnoticed.
“Sir?” Jack’s heart was thudding so heavily that he was convinced Thorne could hear it.
“Set it down, then I want to see you standing to attention as if the king is in residence. Go to it, Trooper!”
As soon as Jack laid the clothes on the straw, Thorne began to dress, rightly assuming that his order would be followed. Even though Jack was clad in nothing more than the lower half of his pajamas and a pair of boots, his stance was unimpeachable. And he held it, his body straining to keep taut and still.
As he dressed, Thorne stroked each item, touching away any straw and any sign of a crease. The fabric swished against his skin and he held Jack’s gaze as he buttoned his shirt and tucked it into his waistband. The muscled torso might have been lost to sight, but in its place was the immaculate captain, tie perfect without the aid of a mirror, tunic displaying his neat waist and strong shoulders, cap on as if he had used a spirit-level. And finally he picked up the gloves.
It was all for Jack to gaze on, in a way that he couldn’t in the stable yard. He didn’t have to wrestle with his reaction now, or feel ashamed about what betraying looks might dance across his features at the sight of such a man as Captain R. B. Thorne. Even standing to attention so rigidly that it was as if he had a broom handle to his spine, he could allow his eyes to wander, his cheeks to pinken and his mouth to open just enough to emit a pleased sigh. His body stirred into arousal again.
“At ease.” Thorne linked his gloved fingers behind his back as Jack finally relaxed the salute. “Strip.”
Despite standing still, Jack nearly stumbled over at the command. He somehow managed to stop himself from shaking.
“Yes, sir.”
Jack turned away from the captain and removed his boots. He brought down his pajamas, his bottom on show as he bent to remove them. Then he turned back to face the captain and for the first time in his life someone other than himself saw his erection. For a moment, for a pointless moment, he was about to cup it in his hands, but he didn’t. He dropped his arms to his sides and looked into Captain Thorne’s eyes. And waited.
“Come here?” Thorne’s voice was soft, one hand held out to Jack.
Barefoot, Jack approached carefully through the straw. He took Thorne’s hand.
“Captain Thorne, sir?”
“I don’t want—” He lifted Jack’s hand to his lips and kissed it in a gentlemanly gesture. “I wouldn’t want you unhappy or feeling as though you can’t say no because of rank or any of that nonsense.”
“Thank you, Thorne.” He nodded, Jack again fo
r a moment, not Trooper Woodvine.
Jack touched his fingers to Thorne’s cheek. For a second the captain’s eyes closed and his lips brushed Jack’s fingertips, sending a shiver through him. Then he took a slight step back and drew in a tight breath.
“Creeping about the yard after dark, spying on an officer as he dresses, naked in the presence of your senior. This is no trifling matter, soldier.”
“Sorry, sir.”
“‘Sorry, sir’, he says. It’s a bloody poor show!” Thorne settled on the banked straw and told Jack, “Over my knee, Trooper Woodvine, let’s see if we can spank some discipline into you.”
Jack approached, standing in front of Thorne. Realizing that his erection was pointing at the captain in a rather impertinent manner, he shifted to the side to kneel over his officer’s lap. The captain caught hold of his hair and guided him down. Jack’s erection rested up against Thorne’s thigh as he lay there across his knee, his buttocks exposed to the captain’s will. He kept as still as he could, trying to temper his excited breaths.
Jack heard Thorne flex his fingers, heard the leather glove creak, smelled the soft scent of straw and rain and his captain’s delicate fragrance, saw the faint flash of lightning around the door. Still the storm rumbled on, still the world kept turning, yet here in this small stable, they might have been the last people left on earth. There was a disturbance in the air as Thorne raised his hand and Jack closed his eyes, feeling the rasp of uniform against his skin, anticipating the wonderful moment of contact.
“Rank insubordination!” Thorne’s leather-clad hand landed on his bare skin with a hard slap.
Jack moaned his pleasure through gritted teeth. It stung, but all sensation focused in on that one point—a place on his skin where he’d been slapped by an officer.
“Sorry, Captain Thorne…”
“You don’t sound sorry.” And another spank landed, ringing through the stable. “Get in line, Trooper!”
“Oh…oh…!”
Jack was incapable of speech. He had longed for someone to take him and spank him, but he hadn’t known that it could be like this. The affection through the humiliation, the delicate balance of pleasure and pain. There came just one more smack, the warm leather hitting his buttock hard and fast. Then, just as surely as he had played the furious officer, Thorne was gathering Jack in his arms, urging him into his lap.
His touch was gentle now and he slipped his uniformed arm around Jack’s naked waist, steadying him. Jack rested his head on Thorne’s shoulder, a tremble running through him as he let himself be held.
“Thank you,” Jack whispered. “Thank you so much. You can’t imagine…how long I… No one has ever… Thank you, R. B. Thorne.”
“Was that enough? I didn’t want to hurt you, but I don’t want you thinking it’s not enough either.” One of those gloved hands slid down Jack’s torso to rest on his thigh.
Jack smiled. “It was splendid.”
Thorne returned the smile then pressed his lips to Jack’s throat, softly caressing. His hand, meanwhile, slid from where it was resting on his waist until he could stroke his fingers over Jack’s rejuvenated erection.
Jack’s breath caught in his throat as Thorne touched him. He began to say his captain’s name, but then, his arm slipping around Thorne’s waist, he asked, “What does R B stand for? I tried to guess when I saw it on Apollo’s girth. I know what I would like it to be, but…will you tell me?”
“What would you like it to be?” Thorne’s hand continued to stroke, fingers tightening just a little. “What suits a captain of my estimable character?”
“I do have a name in mind, a good, strong name… Like a hero in a Scottish story. I think…” Jack grinned at him. “I think your name is Robert.”
“I’m going to keep you in suspense”—Thorne’s hand began to move harder against him, each stroke swift and sure—“for a little longer.”
Jack gave himself over to this new experience, allowing someone else to pleasure him. He whimpered, helpless, and the name came out again.
“Robert…Robert… Robert…”
Embarrassed that he might have settled on the wrong name, he pressed his face to Thorne’s shoulder. The name appeared on his lips again, his hips starting to rise from Thorne’s lap as his bliss began to shiver through him again, and Jack bit down on Thorne’s epaulette to silence himself.
“Come on, soldier,” Thorne’s voice was a growl against his ear, breathless and heated with desire. “Don’t hold back.”
“Robert…? Oh… Robert!”
There were tears in Jack’s eyes as his orgasm claimed him and he shuddered through pure paradise, falling but not falling because he was safe in his captain’s arms. And there Captain Thorne held him, cradled him, placing soft kisses on Jack’s jaw, kissing his way to his lips to whisper, “It’s Robert.”
Jack sighed, a laugh in his throat.
“See, I can whisper the horses and I can whisper the officers too…but I haven’t a clue what the B. stands for.”
“That’s my one remaining mystery—” Thorne held up his hand as Apollo’s head bolted upright and the horse drew his hood back in one fretful, frightened movement. “Get round behind the door, someone’s outside.”
Chapter Seven
Trooper Quentin Charles, Queenie, the pride of the regiment, the prettiest boy in Oxford, the exotic bird who kept Edmund Marsh smiling in return for an easy war, was furious. Behind his tapestries he had lain awake, staring from the window toward the turrets of the chateau where Marsh’s light burned, illuminating the man who had squeezed Jacky’s cheek. Little Jacky, the wide-eyed new boy with the chestnut hair, the one who could keep that fucking horse quiet, who had gone running to Captain Thorne telling his nasty little stories.
Oh, they might pretend that he was innocent, that he wasn’t a filthy tale-teller, but Queenie knew better. He had seen plenty of boys come through the doors to the dormitory and plenty leave and he knew people. He knew that Jack Woodvine had found that glove, had run to his Captain Thorne, and he was willing to forgive all that because everyone had to learn the ropes, but to make a play for Marsh?
No.
Queenie didn’t care for Edmund Marsh—who would, with his wandering eye and paunch, his drunken jabberings about the horrors of the trenches?—but a boy had to keep himself in smokes somehow. Then along came Jack Woodvine and all of a sudden the man who supplied those smokes was pinching his cheeks and batting his eyes and talking about the new boy this, the new boy that.
Queenie swung his legs round, feeling the complaint in his muscles from the shoveling, a sting in his heart from the humiliation. Oh, Captain Thorne would be the finest prey if a boy could only find the bait. Wouldn’t it make up for every shovel of shit he threw onto the muck heap to have the captain kneeling there before him, Quentin Charles’ cock firmly between those perfect, full lips? Wouldn’t it be the victory of victories to be able to tell Captain Thorne, ‘You’re not my type of girl’?
Yet Captain Thorne wasn’t one for the chaps. Queenie had realized that when his every effort to seduce the handsome devil had fallen on stony ground. So he’d moved along to Edmund Marsh, sad, lonely, drunk, pathetic…rich.
A dream lover for Queenie Charles.
Captain Thorne throwing him under the pump, covering him in freezing water, forcing him to shovel shit and—
That was all it took to propel Queenie from where he lay, fully clothed, atop his bedcovers. He snatched up the crop that he had sharpened to an arrow point and drew back the lacquered screen to creep into the dormitory.
And there was an empty bed in the ranks.
Creeping about again, little Jacky?
You’ll be creeping about in the morning all right when the damn horse is found with its eye pecked through.
Queenie crept through the sleeping grooms and through the door. Under the cover of the storm he stole across the yard toward Apollo’s stable, blood boiling at the thought of that pinched cheek, that water pump,
that shit pile. He could still hear the laughter of the other troopers, the sneer of Captain Thorne’s voice, and worst of all, he could still see the faraway look in Edmund Marsh’s eye when he talked of his beloved new arrival.
Before Queenie could open the door it swung wide, just missing colliding with him, and there stood Captain Thorne, fully dressed, a pistol in his hand.
“Trooper Charles, good evening.” Thorne’s voice was calm, sure. “Return to your quarters, soldier, we’ll discuss this in the morning.”
“The storm—” He looked up into the sky, heavy raindrops falling on his face as he realized he hadn’t felt them at all until now. “I wanted to check on the horses, Capt—”
“To quarters, Charles, and leave your whip with me. Now!”
Queenie opened his mouth to protest again but could muster only an outraged gasp as Thorne snatched the sharpened crop. He took a step back, glancing to the chateau again, then said, “Of course, sir.” With a snapped salute, Queenie turned and headed back toward the sleeping quarters.
He had no intention of going back to bed, of course, and instead slipped around the block and out onto the driveway. Then he was running, blind with anger, with humiliation, his boots splashing through the puddles as he raced toward the chateau.
Only when Queenie reached the enormous, closed doors did he stop. He drew back his foot and kicked the door hard, shouting, “Open up!”
The door opened a crack, an NCO peering out. He had, he must have, recognized the voice, a voice he had heard innumerable times.
“Trooper Charles? I suppose you’ll be wanting to come in?”
The door opened no wider.
“Is Woodvine in here? Is he upstairs?” Queenie jammed his boot into the door.
“Who the hell is Woodvine?”
“I’m have an appointment with Captain Marsh, open this bloody door!” He gave it a pointless shove. “Now, Officer, now!”
“Another appointment with Captain Marsh, eh, Trooper? Right you are, then…”
The Captain and the Cavalry Trooper Page 9