by Tinnean
Aunt Cecily’s lips tightened, and the fine lines that framed her mouth became more pronounced.
“What’s wrong, Aunt Cecy?” Arabella rose from the piano and went to her, sinking gracefully into a puddle of skirts and petticoats beside her.
“Sir Eustace is going to be paying us a visit and wishes for his rooms to be in readiness.”
“What?” I straightened abruptly, completely forgetting my manners. “Why? He never comes to Fayerweather this time of year!”
She turned to face us with a smile, but she was pale, and the expression in her eyes was bleak. “It seems he is finally at point nonplus. He plans to sell the Flame of Diabul.”
“But it’s entailed!”
“His solicitor has managed to find a way around the entail, at least as far as the Flame is concerned.”
“Does he not fear the legend?” Robert made a production of selecting a biscuit.
“Apparently not.”
“There will not be anything left!” I said softly. Hell and the devil confound my uncle!
Even my mother’s jewels, which should have come to me, were gone, and I’d been severely beaten when I’d learned of that and had protested to him.
“Your upkeep has cost a pretty penny, whelp.” Uncle Eustace rarely called me by name. “It was only right I have access to those monies.”
“But Mama’s pearls….” A single, opera-length strand, black and so pretty. She wore them only on special occasions, such as when Papa took her dancing, or to the theatre, or my birthday. “Surely they could not have brought much!”
“What they fetched is none of your affair!” The backhanded blow had taken me unawares, although it should not have. Only Aunt Cecily knew better than I his uncertain temper.
“No,” she agreed now, her voice even softer than mine. “Nothing!” Even more pale, she rose to her feet and started to leave the room, the letter lying forgotten on the floor beside her chair.
I retrieved it and glanced at the lines, crossed and re-crossed until it was almost impossible to decipher his crabbed writing. My lips tightened. “Aunt.” I held it out to her. There was no need for anyone to be privy to what Uncle had written.
“Aunt Cecy,” Robert spoke at the same time, and she paused at the door, turning toward him. “Perhaps you will let us see the Flame of Diabul one last time?”
She looked defeated, and I could understand that. Uncle’s words had not been kind. “Of course, Robin. Colling, will you come to the priest’s hole with me? And bring a candle, if you please?”
“No need to go to that trouble, Aunt Cecy. We can all accompany you to the priest’s hole.”
She looked uncertain for a moment, then smiled and shrugged. “Very well. That will be all, Colling. I will ring if we need anything.”
The stately old man bowed from the waist and left the sitting room. I tucked the letter into a pocket. I would return it to Aunt Cecily before she retired for the evening.
She took a candle from the group positioned near the door in readiness for us to retire, lit it, and led us to the hidden room that had been built in Cromwell’s time. It had since been used to store the family’s treasures, although with the advent of Sir Eustace coming into the title, the treasures had become fewer and fewer.
Now it seemed that even the jewel that was the Laytham talisman would be gone.
“If the Flame was mine,” Arabella mused as we entered the priest’s hole, “I would sell it and buy all the latest fashions. And see Aunt Cecy had them also.”
“Thank you, my dear.” Aunt Cecily set down the candle. Its light cast flickering shadows upon the wall, and I couldn’t prevent a shiver. Ever since Uncle Eustace had locked me in a cupboard for some transgression I’d never ascertained, I had been uncomfortable in small, enclosed spaces.
The space seemed even smaller, crowded as it was with six adults.
Aunt Cecily approached the small, metal-bound chest that rested on a seventeenth-century crescent console table. The chest was secured with a miniature padlock that was tarnished and pitted. She took a tiny key from the chain she wore about her neck.
“If it was mine, Belle and I could wed,” William asserted. Arabella fluttered her lashes at him, and he smiled, slid an arm about her waist, and kissed her cheek. “What would you do with it, Robin?”
Aunt Cecily fitted the key in the lock and turned it.
Robert shrugged and leaned against the doorjamb. “I’ve no idea.” I couldn’t help but note the tension in the way he held himself, in spite of his apparent indolence. “What of you, John?”
“I’d buy us a home that was ours alone. Not that we aren’t grateful for all you’ve done for us, Aunt Cecy! But there, we could be together and do as we chose….” He flushed and glanced at Robert under his lashes.
Aunt Cecily opened the chest and raised the lid.
There was a concerted “Ahhh!”
The Flame of Diabul lay on a bed of satin which had once been a pristine white, but which time had aged to the color of clotted cream. The ruby, reputed to be the size of the first Lady Laytham’s fist, was blood red, and the candlelight made it appear as if a flame did indeed burn within its depths.
Abruptly, the door shut and the candle went out. We were enveloped in darkness, and I stiffened. I had never been fond of the dark, either, and for the same reason that enclosed spaces disturbed me.
“This place always was a draughty old pile,” came Robert’s casual remark.
My mouth dry, I snapped in irritation to conceal how ill at ease I was. “There was no draught! As you are very well aware, this room has no windows!” I hated the quiver in my voice. I felt my way to the table upon which I had last seen the candle and fumbled to strike a match, finally lighting it.
I turned to face them to find they were all staring in dismay at the chest.
At the empty chest—the Flame of Diabul was gone!
And then four pairs of accusatory eyes were staring at me. “I did not take it!”
“Why should we believe you, Awful?”
Why, indeed? If Sir Eustace did intend to sell the ruby, there would be nothing with which to salvage the estate.
“It could just as easily have been you, Robert!”
“No!” John leaped to his brother’s defense.
“No!” William was staunchly behind him.
And Robert just grinned his lazy grin and gave a slight bow. I pinched the bridge of my nose, feeling a headache coming on.
Aunt Cecily’s lips were folded in a thin line, white with anger. “This is outrageous! Whoever has taken the Flame, it must be replaced immediately! Ashton, please step away from the table and extinguish the candle once more.”
“Yes, Aunt.” Long seconds ticked passed. I strained my ears to hear the least noise, in an effort to distract myself from the way the darkness seemed to press in on me, but there was nothing.
“Light the candle again, if you please.”
There were no sighs of relief; the chest was still empty.
“I am… I cannot express strongly enough my disappointment in whoever has chosen to play this ill-timed prank.” Silence met her remark. “Very well. The chest will remain open upon this table, and I will inform Colling that the priest’s hole is to be left accessible throughout the night. If the Flame of Diabul is in its rightful place in the morning, nothing more will be said about this unhappy incident. However, if it is not—as much as it would pain me to do so—I shall have no recourse but to call in the constabulary. Come, Arabella!” The two women left the priest’s hole.
“I… I could do with a spot of sherry.” I left the three brothers and returned to the rose sitting room to pour myself a healthy portion.
“Awful.” John slouched in, his hands tucked in his trouser pockets. I tipped the glass back, but the wine did nothing to ease the chill I felt surrounding my heart. He had again reverted to that hated nickname. “I hate to do this… but it is necessary!” He removed his hands from his pockets and launched himse
lf at me.
I made no effort to protect myself, and the glass flew from my hand to smash against the fireplace as he tumbled me to the carpeted floor and straddled my hips, his hands going all over my body. For once, his proximity to my body did not cause my prick to swell.
“Don’t forget his arse, John!” Robert offered. “I would not put it past him to try to conceal it there.”
“Surely not, Robin! That would be too painful! Not to mention unnatural!” William sounded truly shocked. Perhaps no one had got at his arse while he’d been at Harrow.
“We’re talking about Awful, William.”
The youngest Hood subsided.
A flush stained John’s cheeks, and his eyes grew hot. He reached around to finger my fundament through my inexpressibles. He would not touch me at my request, but at his brother’s….
He became aware of my lack of arousal.
“Tonight!” he whispered in my ear and nipped sharply at the lobe. He got off me and smoothed his hair back off his forehead. “He doesn’t have the Flame.”
I rolled to my hands and knees and paused there a moment, so weary I could have wept. Four years. We had been doing this for four years, and he was still no closer to loving me than he had been at the beginning.
Although I supposed I should have been thankful he hadn’t stripped my lower body naked, completing my humiliation, as I was sure had been Robert’s intention.
I climbed to my feet and tugged my coat to straighten its lines. “I would wager if I searched the three of you, I would find the Flame of Diabul on one of you. And if one of you is to blame, then all of you are, because you always stick together!”
They leaned one against the other, Robert and John and William, and grinned smugly at me. And then John slid a glance at his older brother, and I felt my heart crack. The unquestioning love in his eyes! Never had he looked at me in that manner.
Then again, never had anyone.
Utterly blue-deviled, I turned and walked out of the room.
John had promised to come to me, and I gazed at my pocket watch, waiting for the tap at my door. It was late, and not just in the matter of the time of day. I was determined to tell him I could not—would not—do this any longer. I placed the watch on the chest of drawers and began to dress for bed. No, that was not a good idea. It would be too simple for me to lift up my nightshirt and drive my prick into John’s fundament. I did up my inexpressibles and slid my braces back over my shoulders but left off my shoes, and sat in the chair by my window, reading an old copy of The Corsair.
My eyes burned—they were simply tired, or perhaps it was the chaff from the hay planted in the fields through which I’d ridden earlier in the day, or…. I removed my spectacles and set them aside, and dug my fingers into my eyes. I would wait just a few moments more. Just a few….
Warm lips caressed my cheek and jaw, waking me. “My own!” John sighed.
“Am I, John?” I sighed in turn and started to turn my head toward his lips. Never before had he called me sweet names or tried to kiss me.
And then his cognac-scented breath filled my nostrils, and I froze. “John, you’re foxed!” I snapped, disappointment flooding through me, along with the remembrance of what had occurred earlier in the evening.
“Devil a bit! ’m not even a little bit on the go!”
“Aren’t you, though? How much have you imbibed?”
“Jus’ one or two. Or three.” The sound he made could only be called a giggle. “Needed ’em to screw my courage to the sticking point. Want you to… want you to make love to me.” He leaned forward and cupped my cheek, and all my intentions went up in smoke. For the first time, not only had he touched me with tenderness, but the word “love” was brought up between us, and it was John who had said it!
“Oh, I am going to love you, John Hood. God help me, but I am!” I shrugged out of my braces, stripped off my shirt, and pulled him into my arms. Somewhere along the way he had lost his formal coat and waistcoat. His dress shirt hung open, and those small, tight nipples of his stabbed into my chest, burning where they touched.
I fitted my hand past his waistband and brushed the backs of my fingers against the turgid length of his prick.
“Yes, my heart’s love! Yes!”
“Get your breeches off now, John!”
He scrambled out of them and flung himself backward on my bed, while I removed my own breeches. “Come to me, love!”
Twelve years of hurts and slights and disappointments were forgotten in a trice. He loved me! He was lying on his back, finally ready to make love with me face to face!
In the nightstand beside my bed was a jar that contained the cream that eased my way into my lover’s body. I scooped some up and massaged it around his anus, dipping a fingertip and then more past the tight ring of muscle.
John’s breath hitched with need. “More, love! Give me more!”
Instead, I removed my finger and began to pet the thick, wiry hair that curled around his prick, smoothed the soft skin where thigh and groin joined. I pushed his legs back, opening him to my tender assault, and I gazed down at him.
His prick was oozing pearly drops of liquid with which I was quite familiar, and his hips thrust blindly into the air, seeking something to rub against to satisfy his maddening desire.
“Gently, my love, gently,” I whispered and leaned down to worship his prick briefly before covering my own prick with the cream and fitting it against his hole, slowly pressing forward until it accepted me. He gasped at the steady intrusion and thrashed his head back and forth upon the pillow, while I shuddered at the hot, silken ripple of muscles that tightly clasped my hardened flesh.
John writhed beneath me and cried out as my inward thrusts hit that spot within him. I drove in harder, deeper, faster and faster, while my lover begged and pleaded for me never to stop.
I did not know why on this night, of all nights, he chose to do this, but I had no intention of questioning him. I would accept it and be grateful.
I took his erection in my hand and squeezed and pulled on him in time to my strokes, and all too soon he was spending all over his chest.
I did not want this to end. I wanted to make love with John until the end of time—but of course that was impossible. My testicles tightened and drew up, and with a deep groan I began to spill myself into his channel.
He lay sprawled beneath me, and we both struggled to bring our breathing under some kind of control. As I began to drowsily contemplate our future together, John ran his fingers through my hair, nuzzled the skin beneath my ear, and whispered a name.
It was not my name.
I disengaged, wanting to weep. I had no choice but to face the truth. John Hood might enjoy my carnal caresses, but it was not me for whom he cared.
“What’s wrong, love?”
“Say my name, John. Open your eyes, look into my face, and say my name.”
“Ashton? What the devil? I thought it was….” The disappointment on his face had to equal mine. He was in the wrong bed. “It was you.”
“Yes, it was I.” I sat on the edge of my bed and buried my head in my hands. “You truly think I took the Flame of Diabul, John?”
“Had to be you, Awful,” he mumbled. “If it wasn’t, then that would mean it had to be one of my brothers. And it couldn’t be them! They would never steal from Aunt Cecy, never do anything that vile, that evil!”
But he had no problem assuming that I would.
He rolled to the other side of the bed and staggered to his feet. Taking a corner of my bed sheet, he wiped himself off on it. Then he dragged on his breeches and gathered the rest of his clothes. “Mus’ get back to my room, Awful. You’ll… you’ll say nothing?”
“I’ll say nothing.”
“Splendid.” He smiled, his eyes vague, and he hiccoughed. “Night.”
There was a finality in the sound of the door closing behind him.
I had been in love with John Hood since we were children, and had loved him since my sev
enteenth birthday. I’d hoped that he might….
Well, no matter. John had just dashed down all my hopes.
I stared at the closed door thoughtfully. Four years, I mused, refusing to consider the six that had gone before. Had I been insane to continue all this time?
Enough was enough. Little though John might know it, it was not goodnight, it was the end.