A King Awakened

by Cooper Davis

  “Surely that must be a Tollemach ancestor,” Lord Vincent observed, coming up behind Julian. “The present Tollemach brood certainly resembles this fellow.”

  Julian prickled at the disrespectful tone, at the insulting words. His heartbeat sped, a frisson of fear chasing down Julian’s spine. But he kept silent, his back to Blaine, willing the man to move along down the corridor.

  But Blaine did not move, drawling, “Who is that portly fellow in the painting, anyway,” he asked. “King Norman?”

  Julian kept his gaze on the painting., as if that long-dead Tollemach might cosset him. “It’s King Arend the First,” he said, measuring each word.

  “Bloody hell, what number are we even up to these days?” Blaine laughed insolently. “King Arend the Sixth?”

  “King Arend the Eighth. But I’m certain you know that.” Julian’s words were tight as a drum.

  Lord Vincent laughed, a derisive sound. “So many King Arends throughout the centuries,” he scoffed. “Does the realm honestly need yet one more?”

  “The Lords’ Council seems to think so,” Julian replied archly. He took another step near the portrait, away from Blaine.

  “Oh, touché, Lord Julian.” Blaine stepped behind him, too close for comfort, but Julian felt frozen. “Well-played, for a foreigner who must know so little of royal machinations and Council matters. But you’re wrong in one thing: Prince Darius is heir apparent, and he shan’t ever beget a King Arend the Ninth, as he’s mated himself to another fellow.”

  “M-mated?” Julian stammered disbelievingly. “You’re speaking of princes of the realm—of Prince Darius and Prince Garrick.”

  “You sound defensive.” Jules could feel Blaine’s heated body pressing near, just behind him. A fingertip was suddenly at Julian’s nape, tracing languidly, but Jules ducked out of reach. He stepped nearer the portrait, needing to distance himself.

  But Blaine came close behind him, again. When he spoke, his tone was chilling. “You should consider your loyalties,” the man said. “The Tollemachs’ reign is nearing an end. When that day comes, you’ll want to be on the right side of things.”

  The threat made Julian bristle, and then Blaine moved that fingertip behind Julian’s ear. One hot, unwanted stroke. “I can spoil you, too, my lord.” The man laughed at the last, as his hand found its way into Julian’s tied hair, loosening it. “Like silk.”

  “Don’t . . . do that,” Julian admonished, but the words were too soft.

  Lord Vincent responded by stroking the small of Julian’s back. “How about this, then?” he asked in a velvet-cunning tone. The hand dipped scandalously lower, grazing Julian’s upper buttocks.

  His breath caught. “My lord, I am telling you to stop,” Jules demanded, deepening his voice. But he could not make himself move, too frozen and shocked by the unsolicited attention.

  “I’m only showing you what you’re missing,” Blaine murmured, letting his hand fall away. “Spinster Finley can’t possibly satisfy a man like you.”

  Julian turned to face him. “He’s not a—”

  “No, he’s not a spinster, not yet.” Blaine laughed disgustedly. “Although in a few more years, he surely shall be. Too portly, too . . . agonizingly prim and starchy and missish. And those wire-rimmed spectacles? My God.” The laugh became a cruel titter. “They’re practically chastity insurance, aren’t they? I sincerely doubt the fellow’s ever been touched.”

  Julian would not stand for his friend to be maligned so unfairly, even if Alistair wasn’t actually his suitor. “Mr. Finley is beautiful.”

  “Dear me.” Blaine fanned himself. “You’re insatiable, aren’t you? I can’t imagine that Finley will ever satisfy the likes of you. But”—the fanning stopped, and Blaine moved nearer—“is it even Finley’s bed that you warm? Or perhaps one more, uh, seasoned, shall we call it?”

  Julian spun, aghast, and found the other man smirking at him. “You’re flushing,” Blaine observed. He clucked his tongue. “All aflame, from cheek to cheek.” The smirk became knowing.

  “No, w-what I am is . . . .is appalled,” Julian sputtered. “You’ve impugned my honor and your king’s—and Mr. Finley’s. I’ve never been so insulted in my life.”

  Blaine pressed a fluttering hand to his chest. “Apologies, my lord! My sincerest regret, as I meant only to seduce—not insult.”

  “You were invited to do neither,” Julian said in a seething tone. He moved to leave, but Blaine seized his arm and reeled him near—close enough that the man’s hardened cock bumped Julian’s thigh.

  “Let me go, Blaine,” he demanded hotly. But Blaine’s arms slid about Julian, encircling him until they were locked tightly together, from hip to chest.

  Fear began caging Jules; he’d been here before, trapped by a powerful man, powerless against his own would-be patron. Trembling, Julian pushed against Lord Vincent. “Unhand me.”

  “There are things I wish to do with my hands, but they’ve naught to do with letting you go.” Blaine slid a palm to Julian’s hip—and without hesitation, Julian slapped the cad’s cheek.

  Lord Vincent stumbled back, freeing Julian from his aggressive grasp. He rubbed his jaw, laughing. “Feisty, aren’t you, my lord?”

  Clearly, the slap had done nothing to dissuade the man’s unwanted attentions. He stood there, limned in glittering candlelight that, his blond hair gleaming. And his eyes gleamed, too, like those of a voracious wolf.

  Jules tried catching his breath, his lungs tightening. The air became thin, as the room nearly faded to another—to a closet, with Julian being consumed by a larger man. A more powerful one—one who held Julian’s destiny in his very hands. The man who was to have been his opera patron, Francois Daneau.

  You gazed upon me, whilst you sang the aria . . . I saw you. Saw the need in your eyes, Julian. For me.

  Julian had been immobilized then, but not now. He belonged to King Arend Tollemach, ruler of the Western Provinces, and whether Lord Vincent knew that or not, Julian’s wellbeing was safeguarded by the throne. By his concubinary papers, and by Arend himself. His lover had said that very thing only earlier today.

  Blaine must’ve glimpsed that newly found resolve on Julian’s face. “He won’t last, you know. Your king,” the lord sneered. “He’s nearly done for, already.”

  The threat finally undid Julian. With a violent shove, he sent Lord Vincent sprawling backward. The man collided with the opposite wall, right between two portraits. Catching his balance, Blaine stood eyeing Julian with a breathless mix of lust and pique.

  Light flickered and danced in the sconces along the hallway, casting Blaine in a diabolical chiaroscuro. “You, sir,” Julian said, “are obviously unacquainted with denial. But when a gentleman says no, he bloody well means it.”

  Blaine flattened himself against the opposite wall, grinning wolfishly. “But are you, strictly speaking, a gentleman?” Blaine rubbed his jaw with false nonchalance. “Or are you more accurately a gentleman’s gentleman? And not in the sense of enjoying shooting parties and billiards and clubs.” White teeth flashed in the half darkness. “Not, that is, unless draped on the arm of a proper gentleman, accompanying him. Fawning over him, empowering him. Sensualizing him. Although”—the dangerous smile grew broader—“I don’t suppose most noblemen would squander your benefits outside the bedroom. Would they? Unless they had something to hide.”

  Blood rushed in Julian’s ears; his throat went dry. The whole gallery seemed to shrink to nothing but a dark pinprick. “Wh-whatever do you mean, sir?” he stammered.

  “You’re so very pretty.” Blaine pushed off the wall and stalked near, his face falling into sudden shadow. Julian’s pulse quickened even more. “So, so delicate, aren’t you? A true hothouse flower. With that airy voice of yours and that pouty, feminine mouth.” The man made a soft sound. “Yet so very manly, as well, with your broad shoulders and impressive height and strength. It’s a maddening elixir—the sort that other gentleman would surely pay handsomely for.”

>   When Blaine reached to caress Julian’s cheek, he swatted him away. “Touch me again and I’ll strike you in earnest.” Jules glanced anxiously toward the gallery’s end, where his rooms were. He had to get away from this villain, this creature who meant him so ill.

  Lord Vincent’s next words chilled Julian to the marrow. “How much did he pay for you?” he laughed silkily. “A king’s ransom? Those royal coffers run deep, and I can’t imagine a lovely-handsome dove like you came cheap. Not one so perfectly cultivated.”

  “I-I’ve no idea what you mean.” Julian made to leave again, turning on his heels.

  “But don’t you? You are precisely the type of male who other men pay for,” Lord Vincent said, halting Jules in his tracks. “Exorbitantly. And likewise, the sort a particular establishment routinely fashions behind their secretive gates.” Julian halted, and Vincent added, “Although, they did a particularly impressive job with you.”

  Julian slowly spun to face the bastard. “Th-they?”

  “Why, your handlers of course!” Then the wretch began a bawdy rhyme, the most oft-repeated one about Sapphor, “If ever your saber needs a fine poke, take that flaming thing and find your good bloke,” the words came out sing-song. “For no other din can sheath a lad’s saber than the finest flitty fellows at old Temple Sapphor. Something like that, hmm? Although you’d know better than I how that tawdry ditty goes.” Blaine scraped Julian with a smug, all-too-knowing glance.

  Julian froze where he stood, fighting a swell of nausea. Every fear he’d harbored all day—these past days—strangled him like a noose. Choking the air from his lungs, leaving him wordless. Breathless. Julian began wheezing, one of his attacks coming upon him. A coughing fit seized him, rendering speech nearly impossible as a vise tightened about his chest.

  “So, tell me, fellow,” Vincent said, circling near, “just how much did our king pay to sheath his royal saber? And how much would I have to pay, for you to spread beneath—”

  “I should bloody well call you out!” Arend was suddenly there, his expression murderous, his naturally dusky face turned puce with rage. “You damned traitor—you’re a stain upon my Lords’ Council.”

  Blaine schooled his expression into one of innocence. “Whatever has our Lord Julian to do with Council matters?”

  Julian missed a moment of the exchange, coughing, straining to breathe. Arend was saying, “ . . . I heard you, Blaine. Your insinuations. You’ve insulted not only this gentleman, but also my—”

  “Your secretary? That prudish Mr. Finley? Please.” Blaine waved a boneless hand dismissively. “Spare me the sham.”

  And then, in the space of a heartbeat, Arend had Lord Vincent up against the wall, pinioning him there. The impact extinguished two more tapers, rendering them all in greater shadow.

  Arend’s forearm came up under Blaine’s chin, knocking his head backward with a harsh thud. The man squirmed and cried out, but Arend was clearly driven by rage. “You leave Julian out of it, do you understand? You leave my foster brother out of it, as well.” Arend’s expression became brutal as he pressed in against Blaine. “Whatever your game is, you leave it between the two of us—all right?”

  His Majesty had turned more brawling street tough than king of the realm. Despite it all, Julian grinned proudly. It was intoxicating, Arend fighting for his honor. To have any man, rushing to defend him thusly. But Julian’s relief swiftly turned to fear when Blaine made a gasping sound, pulling at Arend’s forearm. Arend pushed his face close to the smaller man’s, growling. “Just us,” he repeated. “Tell me you understand, you bastard.”

  Right when Jules wondered if he should intervene, given how enraged Arend had become, the duke arrived. He dragged Arend off Lord Vincent with a muted, “There, there, cousin. We obviously forgot your meal of raw mutton and beef this evening.”

  Once the duke had wrangled Arend back across the hallway, Blaine doubled over, gasping. Arend stood tall, equally breathless, his face mottled from anger and exertion. Julian moved toward his lover, but Arend lifted a hand subtly, warning him off. It wouldn’t do, of course, to reveal any tenderness or care between them—now, more than ever.

  Arend’s cousin strolled languidly back toward Blaine, staring down at his bent form as if examining a rose garden. The lord was still doubled over, hands on his upper thighs, breathless as if he’d just run a race course. Julian had known such men before, quick with a verbal blow or parry, but weak as netted fish once real conflict emerged.

  The duke shook his head scornfully. “Blaine, you’re my guest, but I won’t tolerate such ghastly behavior,” he said. “You shan’t treat our king disrespectfully, and you shan’t bully your way about this estate, no matter how highly I regard your brother.”

  “Which I heard is quite highly indeed.” Blaine straightened up, staring back at Mardford knowingly. “Much more fondly, in fact, than any two married gentlemen ought rightly to feel for each other. And then there’s the matter of the duchess, and how equally fond my brother is of Her Gr—”

  That, apparently, was enough for the duke. In one swift strike, he hauled Blaine by the scruff, launching him toward the other end of the hallway with a staggering shove. “Sleep it off, Blaine. But pester any of us again tomorrow? And I’ll see you gone posthaste. Without an invitation to ever return, which would surely play badly for you about society—for you and your father.”

  Lord Vincent stumbled, then regained his footing. He pivoted and glared at Mardford, then neatening up his frockcoat, said in a chill tone, “I bid you all a good evening.”

  But I’m not done here. Jules could practically hear Blaine’s unspoken threat vibrating in the silence that attended his departure. The man flung out his coat tails and stalked away from them and down the long corridor.

  Wordlessly, the three of them watched as Blaine reached his rooms on the far side of the upper gallery, and collectively breathed out once his chamber door slammed shut behind him.

  After staring at that closed door for a long moment, as if in a trance, Arend’s cousin finally turned to them. His face had noticeably paled, perhaps because Blaine’s insinuations held some truth? Rubbing his neck and still seeming a bit dazed, the duke said, “My sincere apologies that Blaine has troubled you both so heartily. Thomas—Lord Colchester— had warned me that his brother was becoming unpredictable. I fear even that even he didn’t realize the full extent of Lord Vincent’s treachery.”

  Julian smoothed a hand down the front of his waistcoat, buffeted between fear of exposure—true terror at what Blaine might do, to Arend, to all of them. And feelings of abject shame. Lord Vincent had treated him like a back-alley strumpet, someone to be bought and sold, manhandled and dominated. And when he’d sung that hateful ditty about Sapphor? Julian shivered at the memory, wrapping arms about himself.

  “I . . . I wish . . . ” Julian couldn’t even find words. Too many memories collided at once in his mind, another time—when another powerful man had taken unwanted liberties with Julian. Damning ones. “I wish,” he tried again, but no words came. Not ones he could utter aloud.

  I wish I’d never sung for Francois Daneau, a decade ago. I wish he’d never forced himself upon me, against my will. I wish my brother hadn’t sold me to Sapphor for a pocketful of coins—turning me into what I am now.

  But he didn’t wish any of that, not really. For if none of those things had happened, he’d not be here—with Arend now slipping a discreet hand to his elbow. Caressing his forearm and soothing him gently. “Here, darling. Let’s go,” his king said, “You’ve had a trying time of it. I’ll see you to your rooms.”

  Arend’s cousin, despite all the upset, had the nerve to wink at Julian. “I’m sure you’re ready to be abed, Lord Julian,” he whispered. Then the duke winked at Arend, too, mouthing, Discreetly.

  Mardford needn’t worry: Julian had every intention of finding his way into Arend’s arms. But only by those hidden corridors, to ensure that Lord Vincent—even now retired for the night—witnessed noth
ing.

  They couldn’t weather any further scandal or discovery than was already upon them all.

  Chapter Twelve

  Arend popped open his pocket watch, distressed that Julian still hadn’t come to his rooms via the secret corridor. He’d shown his concubine the route only this morning. Why was it taking the man so bloody damned long to simply arrive, as expected?

  He paced the outer room of the apartment, wandering from corner to corner. He picked up a figurine, examined the bottom of it. Put it back on the shelf. Marched about again. He stared upward at the bizarrely gaudy fresco on the ceiling. Roamed some more. But nothing blotted out the images that kept flashing through his mind like gunfire.

  Of Lord Vincent pawing at Julian, of the man threatening Arend’s beloved concubine.

  Beloved. The thought gave Arend a start. He stood there, breath caught. Because—God help them all—but Julian was his beloved.

  Arend could barely maintain his paper-thin ramparts any longer, those absurd safeguards he’d erected against Julian—and around his own long-shuttered heart. Everything inside him was giving way, surrendering. He no longer wanted to swim against the drowning tide that was Julian. The swells grew with every passing hour, swamping Arend, washing away fear and brokenness and shame. All the shame he’d known simply because of his inclinations, and because he wanted nothing so much as a husband at his side. It was all he’d wanted since his youth.

  And Arend wasn’t daft. If what he felt for Julian wasn’t yet love? It was certainly becoming so swiftly, like that same flood-tide current, carrying Arend along at whip-fast speed.

  He opened his pocket watch again and paced in front of the bookshelf that served as a doorway to the secret corridor. What if Lord Vincent had approached Jules again, or forced himself into the man’s rooms? Surely not, no. Surely not.

  Arend’s heart hammered all the same, slamming beneath his ribs. He was so agitated, in fact, that when the passageway door slowly creaked open, and the bookshelf gave way to an opening, and then Julian’s dear face appeared, Arend jolted. He yipped a little cry and lunged toward his concubine, startled.