“Is this sandy road level?” my man asked. “It seems level to me—now that we have crested yesterday’s passes.”
I considered the question as we continued through the market stalls with their hungry proprietors preying on aging buccaneers. At this base financial fundament, it reminded me much of Port Royal—though the men and women were not dressed in wool.
“I suppose it is level,” I sighed as we stopped before a goldsmith. “If we need not lie about who and what we are, then I do not feel we pull uphill. Yet, it is not downhill, either; as there is much before us and I do not see that leading down to pleasant valleys until other passes are traversed. And, even if level, I feel the way is crowded by thick trees and bluffs concealing ambuscades at every turn.”
“I do not fear that either of us will stumble,” Gaston said thoughtfully as he eyed the display of gold hoops in the window.
Neither did I. We were done with crippling madness that left one or the other of us holding the cart. Even if one of us stumbled, the other could hold him up: and even if we fell, we need never fear for the cart again.
I thought on the road we must walk these next months and I laughed quietly. We were asking ourselves to pull a great deal up what once would have been a quite steep hill, yet we perceived it as level. “We are so strong now we do not see the grade,” I told my surprised matelot.
He smiled, but his nod was resolute. “We will feel it, though, will we not?”
“One becomes stronger by pushing a little harder every day,” I said with bemusement. “We have surely crossed the world twice over—all uphill—and look at us now.”
“We must rest as needed,” he said seriously. “Whenever we are tired, we must signal one another. And we must tell one another if we see that the other is tired.”
I felt buoyant compared to his sudden sobriety. “Bite me,” I teased. “Just a little nip when I appear strained and blind or stubborn to it; or you feel I am prancing about and you cannot go on.”
Gaston’s somberness fled and he pushed me into the doorway to briefly clamp his teeth on my neck for a painful nip that managed to engender promise in my tangled soul. My cock stirred with glee until I saw the servant boy staring at us with confusion tinged with horror. Though his expression pulled on other strings and damped my member, it did not weigh upon my mood. I did not see the spies as an obstacle now, but as things that might easily be trampled if we wished.
I endeavored to ignore the boy: he was not underfoot or in our path in a figurative sense at the moment. I looked to my matelot again. “Do you feel you will stumble?”
“Nay, your prancing about is enticing,” he said with a grin.
I laughed and led my man inside the shop. When the boy did not follow, I opened the door and snatched him—dumbfounded expression and all—into the building.
The shopkeeper was pleased to see us. Gaston surprised me by wishing to buy an ostentatious pair of hoops to replace my stolen earrings. I refused, choosing instead a pair that matched in size those that were lost.
“But I wish the world to know you are owned,” Gaston teased quietly in English.
My gaze was caught by the small selection of rings. I wondered if it now mattered if Agnes wore a proper betrothal gimmel or not.
“Then give me a proper ring if you want me to appear married,” I said. “So that I appear a good wife. But I will not wear one unless you do,” I teased. “Should we get Agnes a ring?”
“Buccaneers do not wear rings while roving,” Gaston said seriously. “Unless they are engraved so that none can mistake them for captured treasure.” He moved to the ring display to study it earnestly.
“You are a physician, not a buccaneer,” I said with glee.
He awarded the rings a wry smile. “Then I will wear a ring if you will. And Agnes and Yvette can get their own.”
“Truly?” I had been jesting, but I found the idea sat well with me. It was not a thing men did, though; and I looked over the limited selection of gimmels, mourning rings, and ungraved signets with dismay. “What kind?”
“A plain band, or perhaps we can wear the parts of a gimmel,” he said.
“But they are to be joined on the bride’s finger once the couple is married. We are beyond that. And on what finger?”
He tapped the third finger of his left hand. “Above the vena amoris. And they shall be engraved with endure and conquer.”
I laughed. “Both words on each, or only one on one?”
“Would you prefer to wear one word over the other?” he asked with humorless curiosity.
I did not feel I would. “They belong together.”
He nodded and smiled.
It was obvious none of the bands we saw were suitable, and as another set of customers had entered the shop, we bought my new earrings and slipped away, vowing to address the whimsy of rings some other day.
As we prepared to leave, Gaston wrapped the earrings we purchased in a cloth and tucked them carefully in his belt pouch. I had thought to wear them now, but I supposed he wished to make some ceremony of attaching them. That set my cock to stirring again despite the spy boy still ogling us with confusion.
“I was thinking of our list of tasks from yesterday,” Gaston said in English as we wandered through the market. He glanced at the boy. “We must ask Father Pierre who they report to. If it is him, then they will not be a concern.”
“If not, we will trample them.” I shook my head and smiled when he regarded me sharply. “We will endeavor to… convert them perhaps. And no matter what occurs with them, Doucette is still a concern.”
He nodded. “Aye, and I know not what to do on that matter. As for the rest, today I must write my father, and go to confession as I promised.”
Still curious and concerned about his seeming return to his birth religion, I asked, “Do you? Do you feel the Gods require it, or is it a thing you do to further befriend the priest?”
Gaston frowned as he eyed a pile of canvas breeches. “It is an offering of good faith to Father Pierre, and… I feel perhaps I should make an accounting of things I would atone for to the Gods.”
“Will you atone as the priest suggests: with prayers or fasting?”
He met my gaze and shook his head in a subtle manner to warn me off going further down that path. Then he quickly purchased two sets of ecru canvas breeches and tunics and ordered three more to be dyed dark as we preferred.
Only when we had left the stall did he ask, “My observing Christian practices troubles you, does it not?”
“Aye,” I sighed.
“But you knew we would need to pretend to…”
“Aye, aye, and I have pretended to be a Catholic for many years. I feel you are not pretending, perhaps…”
He sighed. “Perhaps I am not. I know not, Will. I know I find peace in prayer. Last night in the church, it reminded me much of how I had felt in the monk’s chapel in my youth. I feel God’s presence, and I feel… loved. It has nothing to do with the priests, or monks, or the Church, or anything. It is between God and me.”
I sighed. I had harbored a suspicion he felt so. It was not a thing I wished to deny him, or even doubt. Yet…
“I fear that God,” I said quietly. “I do not doubt the peace you can find with Him, but He seems to be a jealous divinity who asks much of His followers—primarily that they place Him before all else.”
Gaston shook his head. “You talk of the myths and stories of the Greek and Roman Gods as being merely the works of men trying to make the Gods in their image so that They might be understood: why should we view the Bible and all the Church’s dogma as being any different?”
He was correct. “I will hush my concerns, then. I am happy you find peace in it,” I said sincerely, but then I teased, “I only ask that you do not give me up for Lent or some such thing.”
He snorted. “It would never be you; but our lovemaking would be the greatest pleasure I could deny myself,” he jested.
The concept bothered me yet agai
n. “I feel we have already offered up much—or will—in the name of… Duty, Honor, Responsibility, what have you. And though it is as it should be for adult men, I still feel…” I was not sure what word I should use: trapped seemed appropriate, or perhaps fenced in, but I did not wish to name it so to him.
“Chafed?” he supplied.
“Aye,” I sighed and searched his gaze for any hint of condemnation.
He smiled. “Me, too.”
Relief flooded me and washed away the tension in my shoulders.
“Perhaps you should find a way to… reach out to the Gods and feel Their presence,” he said thoughtfully.
“I do not feel close to Them in churches,” I said.
“Where do you feel close to Them?”
“On the Haiti, and at sea, and… Negril,” I said sadly. “I see Them in sunsets, and sunrises, and endless oceans, and I hear Them in the calls of birds, and…” I sighed as I saw melancholy and regret pulling at his face. “Nay, nay, stop,” I said gently. “I am not saying this to…”
“Nay, you are not. And I see Them there, too, Will.” He frowned with thought. “Perhaps we need more than a room here. Perhaps we will need a… retreat?”
“Aye,” I said as the idea caught hold of my soul and tugged it along quite happily. “We will need a retreat. Someplace away from the house, and Cayonne…” I looked at the purposeful squalor of commerce around us.
Gaston was smiling. “Then we should see if there is any land available,” he said happily. “I would like to have horses and be able to ride again.” We had stopped near the blacksmith’s and he was eying an animal waiting to be shod with yearning. “This island is not very large, but there are roads and paths to ride.”
I thought this new plan a glorious one.
Gaston grew still; like a cat tensing as it sees a mouse.
“What?” I breathed.
He shook his head slightly and made his way to the forge. Once there he stood and watched the bellows operate with rapt attention. The coals were hot and glowing hotter still as an apprentice worked the handle that closed them with strong, smooth pulls.
“What?” I asked again.
He pointed at the wooden nozzle of the bellows. “It is like a penis. Except the thrusts,” he motioned at the work of the bellows, “drive air through it and not it into something. It is like a syringe.”
“I do not understand.” I did not know what a siringeh was.
“Agnes,” Gaston said, and confused me further still.
“What?” I asked again.
He grinned and took my hand and began towing me back to the house. “Another thing on our list: making Agnes pregnant.”
I was still confused when we reached the house. He led me into the surgery and closed the door—shutting the spy boy firmly outside. Then he searched through the drawers of instruments until he found a copper tube with a handle on one end and a nozzle on the other. He pulled the handle all the way out and showed me the tightly fitting cork on the end of the handle’s shaft.
“This is a syringe,” he said. “I do not have one. They must be specially made. It is an invention of Pascal’s. It operates on his principles of hydrostatic pressure.”
He brought the bowl and ewer from the side table to the exam table. Then he replaced the cork in the tube and pressed the handle so that the cork was all the way in. Next he inserted the nozzle in the water and pulled up on the handle. “Now watch,” he said. He pointed the syringe at the wall and depressed the handle quickly. Water shot from the nozzle.
I was amazed. “It is somewhat like a musket: except your pressure on the handle pushes the water out instead of a ball being forced out by the explosion of the powder.”
“Exactly, and of equal import, it can suck liquids into itself. I would like one in my medicine chest to use in sucking blood from deep wounds.”
I could see where the device would be quite useful. “Well, now you have that one,” I said with amusement. “Doucette does not need it, and you are physician now.”
He was grinning and waving the device at me menacingly. I was afraid he would squirt water in my face until I realized he had not reloaded it.
“What does this have to do with Agnes?” I asked, and then I understood. “Oh, you can squirt jism with it.”
My matelot grinned. “Oui! No penis will be required. Now let us try it. We will need a sample of your jism.”
I could understand his excitement and thus urgency, but I was not sure why it had to be my jism. “I am not inclined at the moment.” I chuckled.
He regarded me with annoyance that I should prove to be an impediment to his experimentation. “Get on the table,” he said as he removed the bowl and ewer.
“And what will you do, suck it out of me?” I teased without moving to the table.
He rummaged around in a cabinet and produced a small glass jar. He snorted. “I will coax it from you.”
That offer—delivered with so little sensuality—and our current location and the bad memories it invoked, as well as the presence of syringes and glass jars and the like, did nothing to engender my member’s interest or my desire to rally it.
“Let us wait until tonight,” I suggested.
He frowned at my reluctance—briefly—and then his eyes lit with a cruel glimmer that stirred my organ even as it chilled me.
“Get on the table,” he ordered huskily.
I complied. He quickly strapped my right wrist down with the restraints used to hold surgery patients still. My manhood sprang to life, quickly tenting my breeches as he shoved a leather-wrapped stick in my mouth to stifle my laughing, half-hearted protests. By the time he had me fully restrained, I did not wish to complain, only to groan loud enough for the house to hear me. He knew me well.
To my relief he blocked the door with a stool before coming to stand at my head. His eyes held mirth and sympathy as he regarded me upside down. He removed the gag.
“I am so very predictable,” I sighed.
He smiled. “Non, you are wonderful in that I can always rely on you.” He plundered my mouth and I groaned and struggled feebly because it felt good to do so.
“I am yours,” I assured him.
He grinned as he caressed my neck and ears. Then his smile widened. He fumbled with his belt pouch and dangled the earrings before my eyes.
“Please,” I breathed.
He placed them in my ears with great care, and I enjoyed his ministrations and their weight almost as much as I enjoyed the anticipation in my hard cock. When his hands at last wandered down my body to free my straining member, I was sure everything was very right and wonderful in my world.
I did not produce enough jism to fill the syringe, but it was enough for Gaston to prove the device could suck it up and spit it out.
“She can use it herself,” he said. “We just need hand it to her with your seed inside.”
“Or Yvette can use it on her,” I said with amusement at his happiness. Then another aspect of his words struck me quite soundly. “My seed?” I moved to sit and realized I was still bound.
He regarded me with concern, and his mien suggested he knew this would be a matter I would contest. “I still think the next children should be yours. I have had mine. They have caused enough trouble. I would have a child of yours raised with mine.”
I remembered our earlier discussion on the matter. I sighed and quit struggling. I supposed I could be well with it. Truly, it might even be delightful. I tried to envision a little blond boy running about with his red-headed one. Then I wondered if the child would have my coloring or its mother’s.
“Wait, what if Agnes does not wish to carry my child?” I asked.
“We will discuss it with her,” he said. “I do not see why she should care. And she will be married to you.”
“True,” I sighed. “All right then, release me and we will deliver this joyous news to the ladies.”
He shook his head and the cruel glitter returned to his eyes. “I am not sati
sfied,” he purred.
“Oh, thank the Gods,” I breathed.
A wonderful interlude later, we at last emerged to find the house quiet in the lethargic grip of the afternoon heat. As we did not yet have a good place to hang our new hammock so that we might nap, we dispelled our post-coital inclination to sloth, and went about scrubbing and painting our room. By the time the house was rousing itself for the evening we had a clean white box that showed no trace of its prior use.
Gaston and I stood in the doorway and regarded the drying walls and wet floor. It did not remind me of the dungeon it had been. It did not even remind me of the other rooms in the house. It was now merely a simple space—a blank canvas—upon which we could paint what we would of happiness and hominess.
“What think you?” I asked Gaston.
“It is empty.”
“I do not feel there will be a taint upon anything we fill it with; do you?”
“Non,” he said with a shrug. “This will do.”
Over his shoulder, I spied Yvette emerging from Agnes’ room. She looked around as she began to make her hurried way toward her own rooms. She saw me and froze. I smiled and turned my head away. When I glanced back, the door to Doucette’s room was closing. I moved to look down into the atrium and thankfully saw no one watching the upper balcony.
“Agnes is alone now,” I said quietly.
“Good,” Gaston said without a seeming care as to why that should or should not be.
“Yvette was with her,” I whispered.
He frowned, and then the meaning came to him and he grinned. “Then perhaps she will be in as fine of spirits as I am.”
I laughed and followed him to Agnes’ room. At our knock she told us to enter. We found her nursing Apollo.
“How was your afternoon?” I drawled teasingly.
She blushed to her nipples, but her smile was as radiant as the chariot of her son’s namesake. Still she managed to say demurely, “I did not sleep.”
I fell on the bed laughing and was enveloped in the smell of women. “Did you know what to do?” I teased.
She snorted with embarrassment. “It was not so very hard.”
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