by Lynn Lorenz
“Come along, Caelin. I have to decide what to do with you.” His father climbed back on his horse and waited as Caelin cleaned up.
He turned to his da. “You don’t have to do anything. Just let me go.”
Bryon snorted. “Let you go? Have you lost your mind? Do you know the penalty for being caught with another man?” His eyes narrowed at Caelin, and for a fleeting moment, they’d flashed with fear.
Perhaps his father did care, after all. Perhaps, in his own way, he’d been protecting Caelin by using the knife. Were thanks to be given?
“I know the penalty.” But being free would be worth it. Even if he only lived a few months more, perhaps a year, it would be a year on his own terms.
“And the shame? For your family’s name?” Ah, that was it, wasn’t it? His father didn’t want any speck of shame to taint him or his older brother.
“I know well of that also, Father.”
His father stared at him for a long time, then slapped his thigh. “Come on then. You’ll have to walk. I had no reason to bring a horse when the abbot summoned me.”
“Aye, Father.” Caelin fell into step beside his father’s mount as they headed down the road to what had once been his home.
Caelin pressed the cloth to his face, letting the sting numb his feelings and darken his heart. It wasn’t far to their small manor, and Caelin set his resolve to walk it in silence. He was good at keeping silent—he’d learned it at the abbey. Once or twice feeling the bite of the lash across his shoulders, a lash he himself wielded, had been all it took to teach Caelin not to open his mouth and speak.
As his father rode and Caelin, long monk’s robe flapping around his legs, trudged the long distance toward their manor, Caelin wondered how his father would explain his being sent home to his brother. His mouth twisted and pulled at his wounds, and Caelin stumbled with the pain.
No, he didn’t think his father would have to say much to his brother. They’d just share another look between them that said, “Fool boy,” nod at each other, and then glare at him.
Caelin resigned himself to another beating by his brother once he arrived home.
»»•««
Peter followed the mercenary down the road toward the village. He’d continued on past several lanes that could have circled him back toward the foothills.
He kicked his horse into a trot to catch up and came over the rise in the hill. Fields ran along one side, the forest on the other. Ahead, Peter would take the hidden path to the lodge, tell Arvel he had to leave, gather some supplies, and move on.
Perhaps if he rushed, they would have just enough time left to spend in a quick tumble into the bed. Peter smiled at that thought.
Ahead, the lone rider halted. Peter reined his horse off the road and into the woods to watch. The man dismounted, took his horse by the reins, and stepped into the trees.
“Holy mother of God!” Peter gasped, knowing the very path the mercenary went down. To Arvel and the lodge. Arvel would be unprotected, and being deaf, he wouldn’t even hear the mercenary until it was too late.
There was no time to waste if he was to save Arvel.
He frowned as he jerked the reins of his horse to get it back onto the road, and then he kicked her hard. The horse’s trot wasn’t fast enough, and Peter leaned forward and swatted her on the rump with the leather rein.
She broke into a canter down the hill to the path leading to the hidden lodge. In his mind, Peter promised Arvel he’d get there, stand between him and this man, and do whatever it took to protect his lover.
At the path, Peter pulled back on the reins and leaped from the saddle. As he panted and his heart thudded in his chest, he searched for some control or else the mercenary would hear him coming. Forcing himself to move slower, act calmer, Peter led the horse as slow as he dared down the path to the lodge.
At the entrance to the glade, Peter hung back in the shadows.
The mercenary had crossed it and had almost reached the lodge. Instead of rushing in, or sneaking around it, he brought his horse to the stable and entered.
Peter frowned. The man acted as if he’d been here before, knew the path, knew of the stable. Knew it would be kept ready?
Logan hadn’t mentioned anyone other than the caretaker. Perhaps he’d forgotten this man? He might have, but not Drake. If Drake had known, he never would have forgotten to mention a man such as this.
Peter’s mouth went dry, and his tongue seemed to grow twice its size as he waited for the man. He tied off his horse and crept around the edge of the glen to get closer to the lodge. Almost there, the man reappeared, whistling a familiar ditty and striding along as if he had all the right to be there.
“Arvel?” Peter whispered. Did Arvel know this man?
Did Arvel let this man…? Peter broke off that thought, gritted his teeth, and stepped from the bushes.
“Hold!” he shouted and drew his sword
The man turned, cocked his head to the side, eyes narrowed, as he pulled his sword from its back scabbard and presented it to Peter.
“I know you. From the inn.”
“But I don’t know you. What business do you have at Marden Lodge?” Peter advanced but kept a wary eye on the man.
“My business is my own. Who are you to ask?”
They glared at each other, taking in their weapons, sizing each other up, looking for the opportunity to strike if needed.
Peter opened his mouth to speak but closed it. He couldn’t tell of his mission—he had no idea if this man was one of Weathers’ men. But he could say that the duke had given him permission to use the lodge.
“I’m a guest of the Duke of Marden. And you?” Peter pointed his sword for emphasis.
“The duke, eh?” His eyes narrowed again. “I’ve never met him. How do I know you’re telling the truth?”
“I have a letter from the duke himself, not that I have to prove anything to you. But you need to explain your presence to me.”
The man lowered his sword just a little. “I have no right, it’s true. But the caretaker here is my friend.”
“You know Arvel?” Peter stepped forward.
“Aye.” The man took another step toward the door, and Peter countered it.
“He didn’t mention you to me.”
The man gave Peter a smile that said much. “That’s odd. I certainly thought I was worth a mention, at least.” His amused gaze burned over Peter’s body, setting it to tingling.
“I’m afraid not.”
“Perhaps he was too busy? With you?” The man’s eyebrow rose at the suggestion.
Peter stepped back. “What do you mean?”
“You know my meaning. Arvel is a beautiful, rare creature. Don’t lie and say you didn’t take notice of him.” He chuckled. “Or did he take notice of you?”
“What?” Peter’s voice squeaked like a mouse. He cleared his throat and resumed his glaring. “I came here to visit. Arvel had been set upon by a group of men determined to beat him.”
The man’s face darkened, and his grip on his sword tightened. “Did they?”
“No, I stopped them before they got too far.”
“Then you have earned my gratitude, my lord.” He swept a low bow. “And I’m sure you earned much from Arvel.”
Why did the man speak of this so openly? As if he knew what Peter and Arvel had done and found it…amusing. But Peter refused to admit anything to the mercenary.
“Let us go inside and greet our pet, then.” The man laughed, returned his sword to its home, and stepped to the door.
“Pet?” Peter cocked his head.
The man shook his head, opened the door, and stepped inside. Peter rushed in behind him, sword still drawn, determined to protect Arvel.
Chapter Eleven
Arvel sat at the table facing the door. From Peter’s vantage point, he could see the joy breaking over Arvel’s face at the sight of this man. The young man leaped to his feet, knocking over his chair, and flew across the room, throwing h
imself into the mercenary’s open arms.
“Arvel, my pet—” His words were swallowed by Arvel’s mouth crashing down on his. Arvel wrapped his arms around his neck, his legs around his waist, and nearly toppled the man.
Peter stared.
Unable to take his eyes off the pair of lovers, he watched as Arvel threw his head back and allowed the man to have at his neck. Eyes closed, mouth open in pleasure, he was thing of beauty.
As well as the mercenary. Peter couldn’t decide which one of them stirred his cock more, the elder man, or the younger. Or perhaps it was watching them both?
“So you do know Arvel.” Peter’s voice didn’t tremble—for that he was glad.
The mercenary broke Arvel’s kiss and laughed. “Aye. We know each other well, don’t we, love?” Love and pure affection blasted through in his voice.
He strode across the room and dropped Arvel on the bed with a bounce. Arvel scrambled to his knees and reached for him, but the man playfully dodged away.
Peter edged closer. “Arvel?”
Arvel glanced at Peter as if seeing him for the first time. His mouth opened. Then the color rose in his pale cheeks, tipping his ears a deep rose. He got off the bed and came to Peter, taking his hand and staring up into his eyes.
“I…” Peter stammered. “I should leave.”
∙•∙
Arvel saw the look of pain in Peter’s eyes and shook his head. He placed his hand over his heart and then put it over Peter’s heart. Then he motioned with the flat of his hand, palm down, at the floor.
Stay.
Peter shook his head. Gareth watched.
Arvel went to Gareth, held out his hand, and curled his fingers, leaving one out. He pressed it to Gareth’s chest, then to his own.
Arvel moved to Peter and repeated the motion of hand to heart, two fingers out.
He touched his own heart.
How could he make them understand?
∙•∙
Peter stared at the stranger.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“I’m called Gareth. And you?”
“Peter.”
“Well, Peter. It seems little Arvel has claimed us both.” His eyes twinkled in amusement.
“You find this amusing?” Peter found it…odd.
“Indeed, I do.”
“And you’re not mad? Furious?” Peter named only a few of the emotions rolling through his body. “Jealous?”
“Nay. I love Arvel and only want what makes him happy.” He shrugged. “You seem to have made him happy while I was away. Enough for him to ask you to stay.”
Peter and Gareth stared at each other as Arvel looked back and forth between them, waiting for some decision or the tension to ease.
Peter dropped his gaze to the young man. Arvel’s beseeching look swayed him, but it was Gareth’s look of what could only be loving indulgence that convinced him.
“I’ll stay.” Peter nodded.
Arvel exhaled and grinned.
Gareth laughed. “Good! Now, my pet, I’m hungry.” He motioned with his hand to his mouth.
Arvel nodded and looked to Peter, brows raised in question. Peter motioned also, and Arvel took off to the hearth to tend the meal. Gareth strolled to the hearth and plopped down in a chair. Peter followed suit.
“So, what brings you to Marden Lodge?” Gareth glanced at Arvel as if checking to see he were well.
“Hunting. I’ve come to hunt for the duke’s larders.” Peter surprised himself with the story and the quickness of its creation.
“The woods are full of deer and fowl, and this is the time of year for it.” Gareth eased back in the chair and stuck his feet toward the fire.
“And you? What is your story?” Peter glanced at the Gareth’s profile. Strong, handsome, virile. A prize of a man, to be sure.
“I’m a mercenary. I met Arvel over year ago. He’d been here at the lodge, caring for it. I was passing through the village, wounded from my last battle. I rescued him and he took me in, healed me, and”—he shrugged—”I’ve been visiting every chance I can.” Arvel stood and went back to the meal.
“So you don’t stay here all the year?”
“No. My work takes me all over the land, hiring as I can. I earn my money, then return here to him. I suppose one day I won’t be able to return.” His loving gaze shot over to Arvel, then back to Peter. “I worry about him when he’s alone. Those men you dealt with… It’s not the first time he’s been set upon.” He growled, and he tightened his grip on the arms of the chair.
“I understand. Is that why the way to the lodge has grown over, become a secret?”
“Aye. I thought it best. Safer. He understands.”
“The duke doesn’t know. He knows of Arvel, aye, but not of the secrecy of the path or the lodge.”
“I’m sure some of the older villagers know of it, but I think they keep quiet to protect Arvel also. He doesn’t go there often. I wonder why he was out on the road.” Gareth rubbed his chin.
“He had a sack of food with him.”
“Damn! I’d hoped to return before his stores ran out. I’ve been buying the food, bringing it here for him so he’s not so exposed.”
Peter nodded. “Does he mind? Being alone?”
“Alone?” Gareth chuckled. “He’s locked in silence day and night. How more alone can he be?” His eyes darkened. “I call this place Silent Lodge, for as long as Arvel is here, it remains silent, without sound.”
“How did he become deaf and mute? Do you know?”
“Aye. It was an illness when he was a child. One of the old women in the village told me. He’s prone to illness, you see. Fevers and such.” He shrugged. “I know not of such sicknesses—my experience is in battlefield wounds, but I do know that if he’s not kept warm, he tends to fall ill.”
“Then we must chop more wood. Enough to last the rest of the season, at least.” Peter began thinking of how they’d insure Arvel’s well-being.
“Indeed. I noticed the lack of wood and of hay and feed. I’ll go into the village in the morn and purchase some grain.”
“Do you want me to come with you?” Peter offered.
“Nay. Best if we’re not seen together, isn’t it?” Gareth cocked an eyebrow at him, a sly smile on his face.
So he didn’t believe Peter’s story about hunting, eh?
“Aye.” Peter nodded and leaned back against the chair. “I have money also, for food and such needs. Let me give you some to pay for what you buy. My horse is eating your hay and oats.”
“Fair enough.”
Arvel came to the hearth, swung out the pot, tasted the stew, and then banged the wooden spoon on its side. He used a rag to gather up the pot by the handle and move it to the table.
“Time to eat.” Gareth slapped his thighs and stood.
Peter rose, and together they went to the table. Gareth sat on one side, Peter on the other, and Arvel at the end, between them. He served the meal and they ate.
Peter’s mind raced with a hundred questions, but only one loomed above all. What would they do about sleeping? Although the lodge held only one bed, it was a large one. They could all fit, but it would be cramped. Still, Peter preferred the bed better than the cold floor. And what would they do about…Arvel?
Should Peter offer to tend the horses and let Gareth and Arvel be alone?
Should he give up on ever touching Arvel again, now that his true lover had arrived? Why did that bother him? He knew he didn’t love Arvel. Cared deeply, worried about him, enjoyed his company and his body, of course. But it wasn’t love.
He glanced at Gareth, and that same rush came over him, coursing through his body as it did earlier in the day. Strong arms and hands, broad shoulders, thick legs. Was his cock as thick? Was it silky softness over iron hard flesh?
Peter shifted as his cock grew with his thoughts.
He didn’t intend on asking his questions, so he’d just wait and see what progressed. That was safest. Less embarras
sing for all involved. And really, why was he so put off? He’d shared before, hadn’t he? And Logan and Drake had been lovers even then.
No difference.
He exhaled and tried to relax.
Then the meal was over. Arvel gathered their plates, and Gareth stood, giving Peter a look that said all and nothing.
“The bed is large enough for three. Arvel’s small and doesn’t take much room.”
Peter’s mouth went dry. So it had been decided. He nodded.
Arvel worked washing off the platters, unaware of what words passed between his old and new lovers.
“Perhaps I should tend the horses?” Peter swallowed as his gaze flicked to the bed and back to Arvel’s back as he worked.
“I’ll help you. Faster that way.” Gareth seemed to be amused again. Damn the man, but he was making light of Peter’s attempts to be chivalrous.
“As you wish.” Peter nodded.
Gareth moved to Arvel and touched his shoulder. Arvel turned and smiled as his lover’s hands moved in quick motions, telling him that he and Peter would go outside, to the horses, as he also spoke in low tones.
“Let’s go.” Gareth pointed to the door and led the way out, and Peter followed.
Once outside, Peter exhaled. “You speak to him well with your hands.”
“Aye. He’s taught me much, our little pet.”
Our little pet? “Why do you call him pet?”
“Pet. Sweetling. Lover. What would you have me call him?” He grinned at Peter. “What shall I call you?” His voice lowered and teased.
Peter halted in his tracks. “Me?” Damn, did his voice sound more like a mouse than a man?
“Aye. You.” Gareth reached the stables and disappeared inside.
Peter rushed to catch up. “Peter. My name is Peter,” he said, perhaps a bit too forcefully.
“Well, Peter. I shall have to think upon that.”
The arrogance of the man angered Peter. He’d think upon it? Who did he think he was?
“And what shall I call you?” Peter fired back.
Gareth spun, took two large steps toward him, and had Peter pinned against the stall boards with his larger body. “You can call me…” He leaned close enough for Peter to feel his breath on his lips. God help him, he couldn’t keep from leaning closer. “Master Gareth.”