by Lynn Lorenz
“I fight with both arms, my lord duke.” I tossed the stick to my other hand and took up the fight.
Logan’s eyes widened, then narrowed, and he smirked in appreciation. “I have underestimated you, Lord Drake. It seems there is more to you than meets the eye.”
“More than you know, aye.”
We clashed again, our sticks rapping against each other. With each volley of swings, the crowd cried out, a few for me, but most for Logan.
“My da can beat your old Drake!” Tomas’ high-pitched voice rose above the crowd. Logan’s eyes darted to him in concern as we fought.
“My lord is a skilled fighter and unbeatable,” Joss shouted back, scowling at Tomas.
Tomas’s hands curled into fists and he swung, his blow landing on Joss’s arm.
“Ow!” Joss rubbed his arm then frowned.
“See, even I can beat you, page!” Tomas goaded the older lad.
Logan froze and I with him. For a moment, I feared that Joss would strike the duke’s son and then I’d have to…well, I had no idea what I would or wouldn’t have to do, but I didn’t wait to see.
“Now, now, boys.” I rushed to them. “This is not a real fight. Your da and I were play fighting, as boys do.” My hand reached out to stay Joss’s arm.
Logan strode to his son’s side. I held my breath. His son had struck first, but no matter what, a servant never strikes a noble, never. Joss had kept his temper and his head, but now, I feared what Logan would do. Even more, I feared what he might order me to do.
“Tomas, did you just strike Joss?” Logan’s eyes grew dark, his lips thin.
Tomas had the good sense to look guilty as his chin fell to rest on his chest, and his hands disappeared behind his back. “I did.” He nodded.
“Son, that was not fair. You struck a man who could not strike back. That is not a fair fight, nor is there any honor in defeating such an opponent. Do you understand?” Logan’s green eyes bored into his son.
Tomas looked at Joss. I could almost see the understanding when it broke in his mind. “Oh.” His eyes widened, his mouth an open circle. Then he hung his head.
“I’m sorry, da.”
“It’s not me you need to apologize to, Tomas,” Logan said quietly.
“I’m sorry, Joss.”
Joss looked at me for a sign. I gave him a small tilt of my head toward Tomas. I’d hoped the boys would become friends, and this may have damaged that possibility.
“It’s all right, Tomas. It was a good hit, anyway,” Joss said.
“It was?” Tomas’s eyebrows shot upward.
“Aye. It stung.” Joss even rubbed his arm to prove it.
The tension all around us seemed to fade, and I realized that a courtyard of people had been watching. Many must have thought the duke’s boy had taken his rank and privilege to their limits in hitting Joss, clearly an unfair thing, and waited to see what the duke would do about it.
Logan tucked the stick under his arm and picked up Tomas. “Let’s go get cleaned up for the evening’s meal.” He gave me a curt nod, our eyes meeting, and then carried his son inside.
I turned back to Joss. His brown eyes watched me as if he expected me to rail at him. Instead, I held out my hand for him to take. “Come along, boy, getting cleaned up is a good idea. How about a visit to the tubs?”
Joss looked at my hand, blinked, then looked up at my face. His hand crept out; his fingers slipped into my hand and curled around my fingers in a tentative grip. I smiled at him as he jumped down from the bench, and we headed to the bathhouse.
We’d reached the tubs before he let go. When he did, I found to my amazement, I missed the touch of his small hand in mine.
An old woman came forward. “My lord, have you a need for a tub?”
“No, not me. My boy here smells of sweat and boy stink.” I laughed.
Joss held up his arm, sniffed under it, and shrugged. Perhaps he’d grown accustomed to his smell, but it had begun to bother me.
“Joss, is it? It’s been a long while since you’ve been here,” the woman said, as she leaned over to speak to him. “Right, then. Off with those clothes and into a hot bath.”
Joss began to remove his clothes.
I took the lady aside. “Good woman,” I asked. “Do you know this boy?”
“Joss? Aye, he’s lived here at the castle ever since his ma died some five years ago.”
“She’s dead? Where is his father?” I glanced at the boy standing naked next to the tub.
“Who knows? Some boy from the village? A passing merchant? His mother was a just a girl when she had him and worked here in the kitchens. She was redheaded, beautiful, and free with herself.” The old woman shook her head at the shame of it.
I had never realized the boy was an orphan. He’d been lucky, as orphans go, since he lived at the castle and not on the streets of the village. There, he might have turned to stealing, picking pockets, or worse.
I watched as Joss climbed over the edge of the tub; his body was thin, but he had ropy muscles. Touching a toe to the hot water, he grimaced, shook his head, and balked at going in, like a horse refusing to take a jump.
I dipped my hand into the water. It was hot, but not too hot, but to his skin that had rarely had a bath, it must have been a shock. “Just as I like it, nice and hot.”
With that, he had no choice but to enter the water; it was a matter of pride. After clamping his mouth shut to keep from crying out over its heat, he eased into the tub and sat back.
“Here, Joss. It’s no good unless you use the soap.” I handed him a rough bar of lye soap. “Scrub hard.”
He grinned up at me and began to rub the soap over his body.
“Don’t forget your hair,” I added.
“No, m’lord.” He attacked his head with vigorous scratching, working the soap through his thick mop of dark brown hair.
I sat on a bench and closed my eyes as I waited for my lad to finish. The late afternoon sun warmed my face, and I thought that winter would be not far away. There was much to do to prepare the outposts, pick the men, build the courier’s stables, and handle everything else that might arise.
I dozed until he finished and dressed. I stood and began to walk back to the front of the castle.
Joss fell into step beside me and slipped his hand into mine. I held it just a little tighter, to make sure he wouldn’t feel as if I was merely tolerating his touch.
I looked down at the top of his head as we walked. My breath caught in my chest. Now that it was clean, I could see his hair was the color of dark wood, and where the fading sun struck looked like burnished copper.
•●•
That evening at dinner, the boys sat together to eat. Joss pulled out his wooden horse to show Tomas, whose eyes lit up. He jumped up, climbed the stairs, disappeared, and then returned in a lope to his seat. Reaching into his shirt, he pulled out a carved figure of an elk, his family’s symbol. For the rest of the meal, they sat with their heads together and played some imagined game.
I sat with Logan, and we talked of the outposts. I’d marked the map, and he told me he’d ordered his carpenter to start cutting the wood. He’d cut as much of it as possible here, and then we’d cart it to the first location to build it on site. If he needed more wood, he’d take it from the nearby forest.
I told Logan of the men I’d selected to staff the first of the posts, with one seasoned man to act as leader with two youths, and that we’d find recruits locally once we arrived. My plan was to accompany the men there once the post was built and to select more men and do some training.
Our plans discussed, dinner finished, Logan called Tomas to him. He went upstairs to put Tomas to bed. I sat for a while, then climbed the stairs with Joss and Brute following.
After getting Joss settled in his pallet, I pulled the blanket over him and turned down the lantern. At my desk, I opened the book. Just a little more and my story would be told. I picked it up, tucked my quill behind my ear, and scooped up th
e inkpot.
Joss was asleep as I left the room and headed down to my table at the hearth to write.
Chapter Thirteen
I closed the leather-bound book, set my quill in the inkpot, and sat back. The story, told at last, was two years old, yet it seemed I’d been living it forever.
I reached down and stroked Brute’s head as he rested it on my leg. He’d been my constant companion until I’d arrived at Marden, three months ago. Now, I had a page and one hundred and twenty men, and was in charge of their care and training.
Leaning back, I closed my eyes. Ansel was still there, but his ghost had grown fainter these last months.
“There you are, Drake.”
I opened my eyes as Logan approached my table, and stood, quietly waiting to be asked to sit, even though it was his table and his keep.
“Logan, sit with me.” I couldn’t resist smiling at the man.
He pulled out a chair and sat.
“Is your son abed?” I took a sip of my wine, looking over the cup at him.
“Aye. And talked of nothing but Drake. I’m not sure teaching Tomas to fight is a good thing at his young age.” Logan’s eyes crinkled at me, as they’d done for the last three months.
I shrugged. “Six is not too old to learn the basics. And he can’t hurt anyone with a stick.”
“Really? I felt his stick on my legs tonight as he chased me up the stairs. I had to take it from him, but promised to return it first thing in the morn.” He laughed and, caught up in his story, I laughed with him. It felt good to laugh again, good to feel something besides despair again.
“He’s a fine boy, Logan; you should be proud of him.”
“I am. He thinks you are a fine warrior and a good man.”
“That’s only because he can order me around.” I grinned as our eyes met.
“So do I.” Logan placed his chin in his palm.
“Only because you can order me around, also.”
He laughed, then grew quiet as his finger drew circles on the table.
“The men are progressing well.” My attempt to switch the topic was heavy-handed, but he seemed not to notice.
“I think so, also. I must write to Jackson of their progress and thank him for sending you to me.”
“Send him my thanks, while you’re at it. Coming here was just what I needed.” I took another sip of wine.
“I want to speak to you about something, Drake.” He paused and I waved my hand for him to continue. “I want you to stay on as master of arms. Permanently.”
“What about Jackson? He’s coming back, isn’t he?”
“Well.” He rubbed his chin. “He told me if it didn’t work out between you and me, to write him and he’d return.”
I stared at him, and the hope I’d kept small and quiet grew in my heart.
“And has it? Worked out?”
“I think so. I hope so.” His smile was tentative, unsure, and quite the most charming I’d seen from him yet. We smiled at each other for moments, and then he cleared his throat.
“I see you’ve finished writing for tonight. How goes your story?” He looked into my eyes, searching for some sign. I longed to give him the one he wanted, but feared to tread on dangerous ground. To throw away caution for vague words is foolish.
“It’s done. The story is told.” My hand caressed the leather of the book. “My ghost is laid to rest.”
“And has your heart healed?” Green eyes, soft as moss, bore into me.
“It has, though it’s taken these last few months.” Would he need more?
“Has it? That’s good.”
“And you? Has your heart healed, also?” I leaned forward and waited to hear his answer.
“It has.” He gave me a tilt of his head.
“Who is the lucky woman?” I raised an eyebrow and hoped my hopes.
“There is no woman.” His eyes locked with mine. My heart felt as if it were beating at quick march.
I moved my leg under the table and pressed it to his. His gaze met mine, held, and I felt a responding pressure as we let our hunger show in our eyes.
“The hour grows late, Drake.” He pushed back his chair and stood.
“Aye, it does. Let’s not waste the rest of the hours in this night.” I stood also and as he moved to the stairs, I followed him.
We climbed to his room in silence. The halls were empty; most of the keep were abed, and I paused outside his door.
He opened it, stepped inside, and I followed, then he closed the door, dropped his bar, and leaned against it.
“What are we doing, Drake?” He swallowed, and I saw the uncertainty in his eyes.
I stepped to him, and took a tress of his hair in my fingers. He leaned his head back and watched me. I could almost hear the hard beating of his heart.
“What we’ve wanted to do for some time, I suspect.” My gaze settled on his lips, full and tempting.
I leaned forward and took his mouth with mine.
His body stiffened, then as I used my tongue to part his lips, I felt a soft moan rise from his chest, to vibrate in his throat. I moved my arm over his head to wind my fingers in his hair and, with my body, pressed him into the door. My other hand meshed his fingers with mine as I felt him melt into me.
Our hard rods rubbed together as we kissed, our tongues taking turns discovering each other’s taste. His cock was long and thick, and I wanted it in my mouth. I broke the kiss, and edged my lips over his jaw and down his throat. My hands pulled his shirt from his breeches and over his head, and at last, touched skin.
I moaned as I felt the warmth of his body. His chest was smooth, sculpted, and broad. My fingers found his nipples, and I thumbed them to hard points. Logan panted, his eyes closed, as he allowed me to touch him. My hands found his strings, and I began to unlace them.
“Tell me now to stop, Logan.” At my words, his eyes opened and looked into mine, but he held silent. With a tug, his breeches and trews fell to his knees and caught on his boots.
His cock sprang free, and I took it in my hand.
“Drake!” His hips thrust his rod forward in my grip. My other hand reached down to cup his sac. It was firm and covered in a fine fur of blond hair. My fingers wove their way through the curls at the base of his cock.
I kneeled, and holding his cock steady, saw a bead of his cream sitting just at the eye. I thumbed the drop, bathing the head with it. Then, I licked it off, tasting his salty flavor.
“Goddamn,” he cried out as his body bucked. My tongue swirled around his tip, deep red, swollen with his blood and his need. He was glorious, thick and dark, and I loved the taste of him.
“Gods, your cock is a thing of wonder.” I grinned up at him. He looked down at me and laughed.
I went back to my work, making him sigh, moan, and cry out, as I took him in my mouth and sucked and licked him. I held his hips to keep him from pumping, and as he neared release, I let go of them, and let him fuck me in my mouth. His fingers wove in my hair as he held my head and glided his cock over my lips, thrusting deeper. His body stiffened, and he exploded. It hit the back of my throat, and I swallowed his cream down. With each spurt, he moaned my name.
I released him, and his knees buckled, but I caught him in my arms before he hit the ground. Together, we made our way to his bed.
We sat on the edge, pulled off our boots and undressed. He lay back against the head of the bed. Naked and on all fours, I crouched over him, then lowered myself. Skin to skin, we lay, feeling our bodies touch and our hands stroke and cup each other.
“I want you, Drake.” Logan’s breath tickled my ear just before he took my lobe in his teeth and made me gasp.
I began to roll onto my stomach, but his hand on my shoulder stopped me.
“No faceless fucking, Drake. When I make love to you, I want to look into your eyes, watch your face when you come, see your lips call out my name.” He kissed me and his hands stroked my chest. “There will be no ghosts between us tonight. I want you to kno
w who is fucking you.”
I spread my legs apart as his hand dropped lower, to take my rod, lying flat against my belly. He stroked it a few times, sending pleasure shooting through me, then he got out of bed and went to a table, pulled open a drawer and returned with a vial I recognized as oil. Kneeling on the bed between my legs, he poured the oil into his hands and began to spread it over his cock, then my sac, and the tender valley between my buttocks, his hands massaging the slightly fragrant oil into my skin.
I longed for him to enter me, for his tongue to lick me, and I strained to control myself as this sweet torture continued. Sliding up and down, his fingers explored that territory, ringed my aching hole, and at last, as I writhed upon the bed, his finger entered me. It had been long years since I’d felt a man’s touch there, and in all that time had never longed for it. Now, I craved it, and where that touching would lead.
“Gods, your cock is so beautiful,” Logan told me right before he took it in his mouth, and my back arched off the bed, the sheets fisted in my hands.
His lips were soft, but his tongue was truly talented.
“You’ve done this before,” I gasped as his tongue swirled around the head of my cock.
Logan raised his head, paused, then said, “Aye, once or twice, before I married.” Then, he returned to his work, his finger still plundering my hole.
So, he knew what he was doing, as did I. Neither of us was a stranger to this, and in a way, it made us equals in all of it.
“I can’t wait any longer,” he rasped, and he withdrew his finger, and positioned himself over me, his hand guiding his rod to my entrance.
I felt the initial touch and shivered. Willing my body to relax, I waited for him, my heart beating just past steady. He pressed in the tip and sent that glorious pain mixed with pleasure shooting to my stones. My cock jerked against my belly.
Logan took my knee in the crook of his elbow and leaned forward, spreading me even farther, tilting my hips to just the right position. Then he plunged in.
I cried out as his width stretched me, the ecstasy exploding through me. He lowered his body to mine, supporting himself on his elbow as he pumped, our eyes locked. The connection between us was total, our bodies, and eyes, and at last, our lips, all joined.