by Lynn Lorenz
Had he really been a gift to the men from the duke? He didn’t remember anyone but Master Marcus assigning him to the barracks, and since he’d done it while the duke had been away, Liam couldn’t understand the man’s meaning. But he could understand that for now, whether he wanted it or not, he had the duke’s protection.
And for that he said a silent prayer.
Perhaps his mother and father watched over him, even here in Baymore.
“Now, Liam. It’s time to break bread. Attend me.” Master Marcus let him go and Liam nearly collapsed as the big man’s grip, its safety and security, left him.
Without a glance around the room, Liam followed the master of arms out of the barracks, across the bailey, and into the keep. What new events lay before him, and what other twists his road might take?
Whatever they were, Liam was glad he’d been fortunate enough to arrive at Baymore, and to have found a master as good and kind as Master Marcus. For a moment, as he struggled to keep up with the long-legged stride of the man, he could imagine it wasn’t Marcus, but Hugh, and he walked at his father’s side as they crossed the main courtyard of their castle. He ignored the tightening of his throat and the water that stood in his eyes.
Once inside, Master Marcus ordered Liam to wait by the wall on the bench, then he strode across the hall to the duke’s table. Several men, all of whom Liam had seen before, sat with the duke, including the beautiful man with the long blond hair.
Liam watched as his master took his seat at the table—a servant placed a trencher of food before him, and he began eating. Liam’s stomach rumbled. Master Marcus leaned back as he spoke to a servant girl. Her eyes flicked up, found Liam, and she gave a nod.
She hurried away, then returned carrying a bowl, passed the long table, and came over to him. “Here. Your master said you were to have your supper.” She handed the bowl to Liam.
He looked down into the rich stew and then back up at her. “Thank ye, mistress.”
She pulled a heel of bread from her apron and gave it to him. “Here, this goes with it. Mind you don’t make a mess. When you’re done, bring it to the kitchens and clean the bowl off.” Then she gave him a wink and spun away, quick to her work.
Liam brought the bowl to his face and inhaled—the aroma of the stew brought water to his mouth. Using the bread as a makeshift spoon, he sopped up the warm, spicy liquid, and pushed the meat up the side of the bowl to eat.
A tender morsel of pork sat on his tongue. Not knowing how long it would be before he ate this rich a meal again, Liam held the piece in his mouth, chewing it slowly, savoring its flavor and texture. With a reluctant sigh, he swallowed it and searched the bowl for another piece.
Between the bread and the bowl, Liam filled his stomach fuller than it’d been since…well, since before the fire. He gazed across the hall at the blaze that roared in the hearth, feeling its heat from where he sat.
This might not be his home, and his mother might not be with him, but for an orphan such as himself, it was as good as he could dare wish. For the first time since he’d decided to stay on after learning of the duke’s death, he thought he’d made the right choice, to stay at Baymore.
Bread gone, Liam tossed his manners to the side and licked the bowl clean.
»»•««
“So, Your Grace, now that our meal is eaten, I wish to have a word or two with you.” Marcus leaned forward, catching his duke’s eyes.
“Indeed. Proceed, Marcus.” Jackson sat back, crossed his arms over his massive chest and waited.
“It’s about the boy.”
“Boy?” Jackson looked at Lord William, to his right.
“The lad that collapsed at our very door,” William reminded him.
“And?” Jackson’s gaze flicked back to Marcus. “Have you learned more about him? Where he’s from and why he came to us?”
“He’s from Barley Fields, on the very edge of your holdings, Your Grace. But why he came to us, I haven’t learned.”
“That’s a long way for a lad to travel on his own,” Will murmured.
Jackson nodded. “What else?”
“I’m certain the boy’s from a good family. If not a lesser noble, perhaps a merchant or tradesman. His manner of speaking, his clothes, and his entire carriage, tell me he’s no common boy. No servant.” Marcus didn’t know where he was going until that moment, then it came to him in a flash of inspiration.
“A good family? Then, where are they?” Jackson leaned forward, his elbow on the table.
“I have no idea, Your Grace. But whatever befell them, I’m sure it wasn’t good fortune. When he first arrived, the lad’s clothing was covered in soot, as if from a fire. I believe, whoever his family was, they are now dead.” Marcus tapped the table with his finger to make his point.
“Dead? Poor child.” Jackson shook his head.
Lord William seemed to have grown bored with the discussion of the lad, and he signaled to the servant to refill his tankard with wine. At the duke’s last comment, William’s lips twisted in a half smile.
“Now you’ve done it, Marcus. You’ve plucked at the strings of Jackson’s heart, as a musician with a harp,” William said.
“So what is it that you wish, Marcus?” Jackson held out his tankard to be filled, then took a sip.
“He’s doing duty in the barracks now, and working hard, no doubt. I thought he’d be better suited to a page’s work, Your Grace.” Marcus held his breath, waiting for the duke to react.
“A page?” Jackson rubbed his chin. “Will, do I need a page?”
“Well, most dukes have a page or two, to run errands, messages, care for their weapons and boots and such. My father had lads at his disposal, and still does, now that he’s completely blind. They move faster than he ever could, taking and bringing summons and such. Even Wallace keeps a page.”
“Why had you never mentioned this to me before, Will?” Jackson’s eyes glittered, his lips compressed. Even Marcus could tell the duke teased his friend and dearest companion.
“You managed quite well without one, Your Grace. But if you feel obligated to the lad, make him a page. If he does well, he could move up to squire in time.”
Jackson grinned and clapped Will on the back. “That’s a fine idea, Will. Squire. I like that.” Turning to Marcus, he added, “Have him moved into the keep, Marcus. He’ll be my page, starting in the morn. Have him outside my door.”
Will leaned toward the duke. “Not too early, Your Grace.”
“Aye. Not before we break fast, Marcus,” Jackson amended his orders.
“Aye, Your Grace.” Marcus gave him a bow and then stood. “I’ll see to it now.”
“And Marcus?” Jackson stopped him. “Find another boy for the barracks.”
“Aye, Your Grace. Shouldn’t be too hard to find.”
“Tell me there hasn’t been another lad passing out at our gates,” William drawled. “Once they find out we’re giving swooning boys work, we’ll have to sweep them away from the front gates just to come and go.”
Jackson laughed.
“No, Lord William. Not that I know of,” Marcus answered, then he crossed the hall to where Liam sat, eyes closed, head back against the wall, looking as content as a cat with its whiskers covered in cream. Next to him on the bench sat his empty bowl.
“Liam. Time to go.”
The lad opened his eyes and leaped to his feet. “Aye, m’lord.” He scooped up the bowl and dashed off to turn it in at the kitchens, then returned to Marcus’s side, as if he were a well-trained hunting dog.
“Follow me.” Marcus motioned with his hand, and the boy fell into step by his side. “Good news. I’ve spoken to His Grace about you.”
“His Grace?” the boy gasped. “About me?”
“Aye, His Grace. Are you deaf?”
“No, master.”
“He will take you as his page. You start in the morn.” Marcus stopped at the door, pulled it open, and stepped outside.
Liam stood as stil
l as the great stones, eyes wide, and mouth open.
Marcus barked out a laugh, grabbed Liam by the shoulder, and pulled him through the doorway. “That’s right. You’re the duke’s new page.”
∙•∙
Liam stumbled and caught the master’s hand to steady himself. His heart beat so hard in his chest he was sure the master could see it.
“Me? The duke’s page?” What twist of fate was this? He must wait on the man who’d killed his father, taken his place, and stolen his title?
“Don’t look so frightened, lad. Jackson’s a good man. He’ll treat you well, and if you’re quick and learn all you’re taught, you may just find yourself a squire.” Marcus clapped him on the back, then took off toward the barracks.
Liam swallowed down the stew he’d eaten as it tried to come back up his throat. He clenched his hands, and got himself moving after his master.
This was horrible. Unbearable. Working in the castle? He could work in the barracks, avoid Jackson, and never look upon him. It was a matter of survival. But this?
Liam looked back over his shoulder at the great keep.
Perhaps he could sneak out in the morning, before the keep came to life, and before he was called to duty serving the new duke? He glanced at the gates. Soldiers guarded it day and night.
“Liam!” Marcus called as he stood in the doorway.
Liam broke into a run—each footfall shuddered through his small body.
“I’m here, master.” He slipped into the barracks. “I’ll get the wood for the fire.” Then he ran through the room, out the back door, to the woodpile.
He kneeled and counted out six pieces of good dry wood to add to the fire banked in the hearth, letting the work soothe him. As he stood and turned back, he thought about his situation.
Tonight, he’d think over his decision to stay.
Perhaps he’d been too rash, too impatient, like his mother had always claimed.
Master Marcus had gone. Liam walked through the barracks to the center hearth, placed the wood on the stones, and added two logs to the fire. Using the iron poker, he pushed and prodded the logs into the best position, then hung it up and stood.
After trudging to his cot, Liam pulled off his boots, took off his breeches, and slipped under the thin blanket. The light from the fire cast shadows over the stone walls of the long room, as if demons danced around him, mocking him.
He shivered, pulled the blanket tighter, and closed his eyes to the specters to block them out. Liam silently said his prayers and asked his mother what he should do but she didn’t answer.
Chapter Ten
The last of the wine was gone, the jug empty, and the candles had burned down. Jackson’s eyelids drooped as he fought off sleep as he sat in front of the great hall’s hearth.
“Best to bed, Your Grace. I’ll need two men to carry you up the stairs if we wait much longer,” Will drawled as he leaned down and shook Jackson’s shoulder.
“Aye, my lord Holcombe.” Jackson pushed his chair back and stood. He followed Will up the stairs and with a nod good night, entered his room.
He sat on the stool to pull off his boots. Tomorrow night, he’d have young Liam to attend him in his preparations for bed. Perhaps that would work well, God knew he hated ordering servants about, but this lad, well, it was different. A page, merely in training for squire, he would have many things to learn about serving a nobleman. How a castle ran, and how things worked both above stairs and below. No harm in that.
Still, there was an element of danger in the boy being so close. If anyone discovered Jackson and Will’s relationship ran deeper than duke and steward, there would be trouble such as they’d never seen before. As it was, too many people knew of their love for Jackson’s comfort.
Will’s family, for one, and although Will’s brother and his wife accepted it, Will’s father had not. It might take only time and a building resentment before Duke Holcombe sought punishment for Will’s transgression.
Jackson stood and moved to his window. Staring out at the deep, star-filled night sky, he knew he’d do what he had to do to protect his holdings, and Will. But Holcombe would never move against Baymore, Wallace would see to that. It could go the other way. Over time, the aged duke might forgive Will, and allow him to return.
Still, that time might never come.
A cloud passed the sliver of moon, racing its way across the sky, reminding Jackson of the fleeting chances in life, the times when the outcome of events could turn one way or the other.
As when he’d hit the branch.
It had been fortunate he’d only done minor damage to himself. He’d never forget the fear in Will’s eyes, or the worried looks on his men’s faces. It was good they cared for his welfare, and Jackson knew their regard spoke highly of him.
They never would have cared had it been that madman, Hugh Baymore, knocked off his horse and on his ass in the road. There might have even been a few snickers, if the men had been foolish enough to let them be heard. If they had dared to do so, with Hugh there would have been harsh payment for that indiscretion. Payment in the form of hide taken off backs.
But what if fate had been against Jackson? If he’d been killed by the blow from the branch? Who would have held Baymore safe? Will, although steward, had no claim on Baymore, and would have to fight anyone to keep it, provided he could rally the men around him.
Many of the armsmen knew of Will’s part in bringing Jackson to the title and rule of Baymore. They might stand with him. Or they might not.
But they were sworn to rally around a Baymore. A legitimate Baymore. An heir to the title.
A son.
There were only two ways for him to obtain a son Jackson knew of. He leaned against the stone of the window and scratched his head. There might have been a child in his past. But how would he know if he hadn’t known by now?
He could scour the lands, retrace every path he’d traveled for the last twenty years, and search for a male child born from his loins amongst the many wenches and whores he’d bedded. Even a bastard son would do, as he knew full well. Although there hadn’t been a great number of women, he wasn’t sure if he could remember them all. That would take a great deal of time, and he’d have to be gone from Baymore far too long. Didn’t those kinds of women have ways of insuring they didn’t catch a child?
There was one other way.
He could have his own son in the future. Or as soon as possible. It would be faster and surer than some elaborate hunt for an imagined son.
But that meant marrying.
Marriage meant… Jackson growled and pushed away from the window. He paced the length of his room, spun, and retraced his steps. Of course, he wouldn’t marry for love. His heart belonged to Will. If he were to marry, take a wife and bed her for the sole purpose of providing an heir, he would only be doing just the same as every other nobleman who married for the sake of their lands.
Love would never have to enter the bargain.
A bargain?
Jackson halted, slapped his thigh, and laughed. That’s what he needed. A bargain. An arrangement. A woman who would marry him and have his child. Give him a son, or maybe two, like old Duke Holcombe and Wallace.
With legitimate heirs, there could be no one to contest their claim if anything happened to him. With Will watching over them, protecting them if he were gone, they would grow into the right sort of men to take his place as duke.
Jackson sighed, his mind eased.
A soft rap at his door turned him from the window’s view. The door opened, and Will stepped inside, dressed in cotton trousers and no shirt, his hair loose around his shoulders.
Jackson couldn’t stop the shiver of desire that ran through his body as all thoughts of marriage and sons fled his mind. The thudding of the blood swelling his cock drowned out everything but the overpowering need for his lover.
No words were necessary. Not between them. They were home, at Baymore, and it was in the safety of this room they came toget
her. They could join with all the force of two rutting rams, fighting for dominion with their hands, mouths, and tongues.
Jackson wove his hands in Will’s hair and thrust his tongue deeper, as he held his lover in his powerful grip. Will hung, his body limp with surrender, against Jackson’s assault. The seal of Jackson’s mouth on Will’s allowed only the soft moans from Will’s throat to fill the room with sound.
Jackson’s cock hardened, ached in its need to fill Will, to be inside the one place it called home. He lifted Will, carrying him to the bed, and pushed him, belly first, down over the side. Then in one move, Jackson stripped Will’s trousers from him, letting them fall to the floor around Will’s feet.
After a slap on Will’s flank, Jackson slid his hand between the round globes of Will’s ass. Will, ever ready to be taken, angled and pushed into Jackson’s touch. Oil painted Jackson’s fingers.
“You readied yourself for me?” Jackson growled as he unfastened his trousers, pushed them down, and stepped free of them.
“Aye, Your Grace.”
Jackson shuddered and slipped a finger inside Will’s heat, and met more of the oil. Without the need to prepare himself, Jackson withdrew, aimed his cock at Will’s sweet bud, and sank home.
Both men cried out, soft, hoarse, the sound blending into a need-filled song.
Will braced his body with his hands on the bed, spread his legs wider, and took Jackson’s pounding. Jackson wrapped his hand in Will’s flowing locks and pulled back, earning a sharp hiss from Will.
“Hurt?” Jackson could only grunt his question.
“More.” Will gasped.
Jackson tugged again, his hand holding Will’s hip tightened, his thrusting cock became a blur, like the beating wings of a bird, as he gave Will what he needed.
“Oh God.” Will’s body shook, the tremor vibrating in his voice. “I’m going…”
“Come for me, my love.” Jackson twisted his hand in Will’s hair, and leaned down, taking Will’s shoulder between his teeth.
He bit down and tasted blood. Will cried out his name, his body stiffened, and he spilled. Jackson let go of Will’s hip, pressed his body fully against Will’s and grabbed Will’s cock to capture the last shooting spurts. He wanted to feel the last shudder of Will’s release, and to hear the last sob from Will’s throat.