by Keegan, Mel
“Now, the Queen of England got a great shipload of gold, so she was happy. Sir Geoffrey was rich beyond anything he’d ever dreamed, so they were both happy. I’ve heard a reliable story that says a disreputable merchant from the wrong side of Florence coerced a money lender in Genoa for the largesse to buy three ships and outfit an expedition, the goal of which he never whispered to any soul aboard. The ships certainly anchored in friendly Spanish ports, where the merchant was made welcome, and then …”
He shrugged expansively. “And then history loses sight of that little bit of map, and the treasure of Diego Monteras remains just where it was buried. Waiting,” Toby added, looking from face to face, “for the right lad to find the clues and follow them to riches that could make any one of you a king.”
The Raven was silent as the rummies savored the potential in the end of the story. Toby took a drink, strummed the mandolin, tuned a string or two, and glanced sidelong at Jim before he demanded of his audience, “So what’ll you hear now? A love song, or something disgusting?”
Last night’s customers shouted for The Hogshead, and Toby chuckled as if he had expected it. His fingers flew over the strings and he began, “Come, cheer up, my lads, there’s a hogshead of rum –”
In a week they would know every word, Jim thought as he returned to the bar, but next they would want to know every word of the song about ‘the farmer from Dorset, caught wearing the corset, the pink one with ribbons and bows; and the wild Irish rover who’d roll in the clover with anyone – yes, even those!’
Or, especially those? Jim wondered. The songs were wicked enough to get the local rummies laughing. If Toby knew enough of them, he could earn a decent living between Plymouth and Margate, wandering the coast, back and forth, always welcome whenever, wherever he arrived.
They crowd was starting to break up at nine, and he returned the mandolin to the corner by the hearth, with the stool and his coat. “Come back tomorrow,” he called to the men who were leaving, “and I’ll tell you the story of Dolly McGuire and the handsome young Vicar of Haughton Vale … a haunted church with a graveyard that drove men mad, and a terrible secret it took a sweet young maiden to uncover – and how she went in a virgin, and came out … well, come back tomorrow!”
They were hooked like so many trout, Jim knew. When the last of the locals had wandered home, leaving only two who were so drunk, they would snore in the back of the taproom they were thrown out at dawn, he raked through the coin box and dropped six bright halfpennies into Toby’s hand.
“You don’t have to pay me,” Toby protested, “not when you’re feeding me better than I’ve been fed in years, and I’m sleeping on a soft bed.”
“You’re due your share.” Jim tipped the rest of the coins into a pouch, leaving sixpence in the box, in farthings and halfpennies, to make change tomorrow. “I’m doing business in the middle of the week that I’d have been delighted to do on Saturday. This crowd seems to love a bawdy song and a good story. You know a lot of them?”
“Scores of stories and hundreds of songs,” Toby assured him. “I’ve been collecting them for years, since…”
He said no more, leaving Jim to guess – since he walked off the ship where he and Charlie Chegwidden had served for a short time? Or since he had lost the position that let him earn a living without battering his hands? Because the hands that had plied the mandolin were still fine, supple, slender, at an age when most men’s had been turned to iron and leather by two decades of hard work. And Jim fiercely wanted those hands on him.
With the doors locked and the fire banked down to preserve the last embers till morning, he turned back toward Toby and waited. They were alone now – the drunks in the back were snoring, unconscious. There was only the wind in the chimney, the sizzle of the occasional drop of rain which made its way into the hearth. Bess lifted her head, looking drowsily at Toby, but she was curled up with Boxer while Toby –
The balladsinger was smiling, as enigmatic as ever, and for a moment Jim smothered a groan, fully expecting him to say something unfathomable and retire, as if he had forgotten the moment of recognition they had shared just before the Flynn boy ran in.
But Toby said nothing. His eyes smoldered on Jim, never leaving his face as he walked past him to the stairs, and up. He stopped on the third step and turned back. His left hand extended in the invitation Jim had been waiting for, longing for.
Jim’s right fingers slipped into Toby’s palm, found it warm, dry, firm, and then Toby’s grip tightened on his hand and he went on up the stairs. At the top he hesitated, and Jim gestured toward his own room. He hardly knew his own voice as he said,
“The mattress is better on my bed. That is, it’ll hold two … two tied in a knot, you understand … without flattening out like a girdle-cake.”
“Then, your bed it is,” Toby whispered, and let Jim lead him the other way, to the big room at the end, right over the bar, where the heat of the chimney made it warm as a lady’s boudoir.
Two lamps fluttered to life, flames dancing in the draft from a shutter that could have fit better. The same draft raised a prickle of gooseflesh on Jim’s skin as he turned to study Toby in the soft light. He was like pale gold, his eyes shadowed, and Jim fancied they were filled with mystery. There was much of the exotic about Toby, a quality that inspired Jim to discover his secrets if it took a dozen years. Or a lifetime.
“You’re very beautiful, Master Fairley,” Toby said softly.
“Me?” Jim was inclined to scoff. “I’ve got youth on my side – and all my teeth, which is only damn’ good luck. But, you, now … you’re not like the rest.”
“The rest?” Toby took a step closer, close enough to draw a caress about Jim’s face.
“The men you’ve meet on this coast, in this house.” Jim closed his eyes to savor the feather-light sensation of the caress. “I’ve known a highwayman, and a young earl, and the bastard son of a duke, and a Dutch sailor. And you’re not like any of them.”
“I’m flattered.” Toby’s voice deepened, roughened, as he came closer still.
His arms slid around Jim almost experimentally and Jim lifted his head, hunting for the kiss he had been imagining since noon, when the Flynn boy beat him to it by no more than a minute.
It was light at first, as they both explored new territory, and Jim’s heart jumped in his chest like a deer. Toby gave a groan, and his arms tightened around Jim. He leaned closer and his mouth was suddenly hard, his tongue flicking across Jim’s teeth, and inside.
This was the kiss Jim had been trying to imagine. He clasped Toby in an embrace strong enough to test the man’s ribs – found him slender as a lad, hard with solid, healthy muscles, supple as a dancer. His hands plucked at Toby’s waistcoat, and the shirt beneath, while in the same moment Toby was tugging Jim’s shirt loose as if he were desperate for the feel of skin on skin.
He heard a seam open as the linen pulled off over his head, and gave a breathless chuckle. “Where’s your hurry? Take your time, Toby.”
“Sorry. It’s just … old habits,” Toby said, as if speaking at all was nearly impossible.
“The habit of rushing?” Jim threw his shirt aside and watched as Toby dragged off his own. “You mean, rushing before you get caught?”
“Something like that.” Toby was either intent on Jim’s chest or reluctant to meet his eyes. Perhaps both. He splayed his fingers over Jim’s breast, feeling the soft down in the hollow, thumbing the nipples.
It was Jim’s turn to groan and he reached for Toby, hands clenching into lean young limbs, hunting for another kiss before he dropped the britches that had begun to bind him. And then he felt an odd coarseness he had not expected, and pulled his hand back. “Toby, what –?”
Toby’s head was down, and he would not look up now. He just turned, put his back to Jim and the lamp, and let him see. Jim swore quietly, swallowing hard as anger rose, fast and hot.
The scars were old. The stripes were long healed but there were so many of them
, and in such a pattern, he knew without asking, Toby had been flogged not once but several times. He had not seen his back earlier, when Toby was cutting firewood. Now he remembered the scene deliberately, he realized Toby had been careful to face him, keep his back out of sight, as if he thought he must guard the secret.
With a soft oath, Jim traced the lines of two, three of the longest scars. “Why? Because you – you like men? And you were caught?”
Even now, when the secret was out, he seemed reluctant to speak of it and chose his words with the utmost care. He turned around and put the scars out of sight by lying on them. Still in his britches, he sprawled across Jim’s bed and looked up at him unblinkingly.
“I might have been caught, but the men who’d have been very happy to flog me never actually did catch me. I won myself these souvenirs by speaking out in the defense of others. It was a stupid thing to do, I suppose, but at the time it was a … a matter of honor.”
“Damn.” Jim’s erection had dwindled, and he sat on the bedside, stroking the shape of Toby’s lean torso. “I know you don’t want to talk about it.”
“I don’t want to talk at all.” Toby’s half closed eyes were intent on Jim’s body, and his right hand crept into the warm folds at his groin. “I’m damaged goods, but if you still want me …”
“You’re very beautiful, Master Trelane,” Jim growled, “and we’re all of us damaged goods. What d’you call this?” He slapped his left thigh and then deliberately stood up, unbuttoned the britches and dropped them fast, along with his linen. With other men he had always dreaded this moment, because if one looked closely enough, his legs were obviously mismatched. The left was thinner than the right because the muscles were smaller, under the palm-sized scar he would carry for life. In a quick encounter he could often hide his legs in darkness or sheets, or contact too close for his partner to even see. But for the first time, with Toby, he realized he had no need to hide, and the realization was like the gift of liberty.
Toby saw everything. He saw the scar, the mismatched limbs and the hopeful erection which even now stood at half-mast. He saw it all, and he smiled. His hand extended for the second time, and Jim was glad to take the invitation.
He settled beside him, toying with the wide brass belt buckle, and then for the fun of teasing, ignored it and cupped his hand around the shape and bulk beneath the pale fawn britches. Toby was up and hard already. He gasped as Jim palmed him and pressed, and he did away with his own belt left-handed, flicked open the buttons and gave a curious wriggle.
Seduced, Jim delved inside, into warm linen and warmer flesh. He found a shaft as hard as a bar of iron wrapped delicately in satin, and curved his hand around it to measure its girth. Toby took a ragged breath and his hips lifted in a long, slow arch, sinuous as a snake.
He had a grace, even here, that Jim envied, and his hand began to move on the long, thick root of him while he watched Toby’s face to see what he liked, and how he liked it. For some time Toby seemed content to be handled, and then he caught Jim’s wrist to stop him and gave him a rueful look.
“One more minute, and it’ll be over.”
“I know,” Jim said smugly. “I know what you need.”
“But I don’t want it to be over,” Toby purred. “And I might be able to get by with your hand, but there’s a lot more I’d like, if you were willing.” He was catching his breath as Jim let him rest. “Have you done it often? Have you done it all?”
Oh, Jim knew what he meant, and while one part of him might have teased and pretended innocence, the rest of him was too eager. “Often enough,” he confessed, “and yes, I’ve done it all, as you put it … though not as often as you might think.”
Toby relaxed visibly. “Ah.”
“You didn’t want an ignorant little virgin?” Jim actually chuckled as he caught Toby’s britches in both hands and tugged them down and off.
“Not really.” Toby propped himself on both elbows and watched as Jim clambered over him, swung astride him as if he were mounting a pony, and settled there. “It can be sweet, educating a virgin, but it’s a weight of responsibility I don’t relish. The loss of innocence shouldn’t be taken lightly, and the education can be as bitter as sweet.”
“Ouch,” Jim observed. “Now, that was the voice of experience talking! You were ravished as a youth?”
“Good lord, no. But I’ve had a virgin or two,” Toby said wryly, “and I suppose I’m too tender hearted to be cavalier about the deed. It’s bloody hard work, getting it right, making it all sweet as flowers for them. And if you get it wrong, you’re a monster.” He shook his head with rueful humor. “Not tonight. Not here. I’m grateful for a man with some experience. A man,” he added, hunting for a kiss, “who knows how to handle me, knows how it all works … and what he wants.”
“What you want,” Jim added, breathing the words into Toby’s mouth.
“What I might want,” Toby murmured against his tongue, “if it were offered by a generous heart, with something like affection.”
They were words Jim had never heard from a man, though he had been with many in the years since he awoke to his desires. The London docks were a rare education on long, chill autumn nights. Jim had lost count of the men he had known, some for a night, others for only an hour. Once, he had spent a whole week with a French lad who was waiting for a specific ship, but even then – affection? The word had never been thought, much less mentioned.
And all at once he realized Toby was right. It was affection Jim had been longing for. Not just the delicious frisson of skin on skin, the heavy beat of another heart against his own, the eruption of excitement, old fashioned lust and pleasure beyond price. These things were precious, but there was more, and Jim had never yet let himself think that far.
Toby was a few years older. He had four or five more years under his belt, and the wants and needs had begun to mellow. Jim leaned down, held his weight on his palms and looked into the remarkable eyes. “You’re an odd one, Toby. Not like the rest.”
“You’ve said that before. But do you cherish me for it, or scorn me?” Toby wondered.
“Scorn,” Jim told him, “is the last thing I feel for you.” And he put his head down to kiss as, slowly and deliberately, he settled on Toby, matched their bodies hip to hip, shoulder to shoulder, and began to hump in the ancient, exquisite rhythm.
Soon enough – and far sooner than Jim would have preferred – the leg began to spasm and a thin knife of pain lodged in the muscles. He knew when to stop, and looked down into Toby’s face with a murmur of apology. Without a word, Toby’s arms closed about him and Jim found himself rolled over, set down on the mattress with surprising gentleness, before the slow, humping rhythm began again.
Toby might have been lean but he had a strength like whipcord, and Jim envied his muscles as well as the legs that never seemed to tire. A fine sheen of sweat broke across Toby’s skin. Jim’s fingers slipped in it, across the scarred back, and Toby stilled. He lifted his head, eyes closed, and Jim felt a shiver course through him. It might have been the first time anyone had touched those scars with a caress, an expression of tenderness.
With a soft sound that might have been anguish the balladsinger moved down, and down again, and Jim held his breath, expecting the heat of his mouth, wanting it. Needing it. He gasped, swore, as Toby’s lips discovered him, and his hands clenched into the sheet.
Oh, Toby Trelane was good at this. Jim could not remember another as skilled, nor as willing, and he reveled shamelessly in everything Toby gave him. At last the fair head lifted and Toby was on him again, hard, and heavy for one who was so slender. Those limbs possessed an astonishing strength, and Jim reveled in this too.
He was perilously close, and Toby knew it. He had wanted to taste Toby, feel the size and shape and heat on his tongue, but it seemed Toby was far too close to let him do it this time. Instead, he settled down and those strong hips kept the age-old rhythm as long as he could while Jim arched under him, thrust up against h
im, needing little more.
For a man whose songs could be ribald, he was strangely quiet as he came. Jim might have expected him to cry out, even to shout, but Toby made no sound at all. A moment later Jim followed him, holding onto the moment of pleasure, making it last as long as it would before reality encroached.
Rain pattered; one of the lamps stuttered in the draft from the shutter which had needed fixing for too long; far away, a dog was barking. The world righted and Jim opened his eyes to find himself looking into Toby’s face. His cheeks wore a slight flush, the blue eyes were languorous, dark.
“Thank you,” the balladsinger said, barely a murmur.
“You’re thanking me?” Jim chuckled. “It takes two to dance this particular quadrille.”
“And you dance it very well.”
“So do you.” Jim reached over the side of the bed for his shirt, which was bound for the laundry anyway, and used it to swab away the evidence. It was impossible to tell which seed was his own and which was Toby’s, and the thought made him smile. He threw the shirt toward the door and reached for the counterpane. “I’d speculate you’ve had a great deal of practice.”
“Some,” Toby admitted. “And before you ask … don’t. Please.”
“You’re full of secrets.” Jim frowned at him as he settled, head on the same pillow.
“I am indeed.” Toby stretched his spine, flexed his hips and shoulders. “And you’ll fare better for not knowing the reasons for them.”
But Jim was far from certain. He was sure of only one thing, and the thought haunted him as he lay awake, long after Toby was asleep. He wanted Toby Trelane here for a long time. Wanted to wake up with this body beside him, see this face first thing in the morning and last thing at night. And the only doubt that bedeviled him was the question of whether the balladsinger would stay, or if he was the wandering type whose feet itched to move on, no matter how agreeable the place he found himself.