by March, Ava
“Shall we head back?”
Head tipping back, Jack brought his pint to his lips. With a hollow clank, he set the pewter tankard on the table. “All right.”
Quick and casual, he passed a glance over Jack and was relieved to see that thread of tension had not returned.
Another fact about Jack cataloged itself in Will’s brain. Jack wasn’t the sort who craved the exhilarating bite of anticipation. He was certain if he could get Jack started down a path, Jack would willingly stay with him. Allowing Jack time to think about what he believed was to come... Not the wisest choice. At least not yet. Jack turned expectation into worry, the unknown too much for him to embrace. Maybe someday in the future, Will could play with anticipation, use it to ramp up Jack to a fever pitch before he laid a hand on him or got him behind a closed door.
The prospect of someday having Jack hot and hard and aching to come off, beyond desperate for Will’s touch before they even—
But there would be no someday for them. He didn’t have a future with Jack.
With a mental shake to throw off the painful reminder, Will pushed from the table. He needed to remain focused on what he could have—no, had—with Jack and not allow what could not be to tarnish this time they had together.
They left the tavern and began to make their way back to the hotel.
“Tomorrow’s Sunday,” Jack said. “I won’t need to escort Mr. Walsh to the tailor’s shop.”
Good. Jack could use a bit of a lie-in to erase the dark smudges beneath his eyes. They hadn’t gone to bed until the wee hours of the morning last night. While Will had been able to laze about, eventually making an appearance at the coffee house in time for luncheon, Jack had risen near dawn to tend to his duties.
They paused at an intersection, allowed an old hackney cab, its driver hunched within a tattered coat, to pass then continued on their way.
“Did he mention if he had any plans for the day that would require an escort?”
“No, but I also didn’t ask,” Jack said, as they rounded a corner.
Of course Jack would not have asked. That would have been an imposition.
The sound of a hard voice, words indistinct, followed by a muffled thud drifted down the street. Jack moved closer to Will, biceps pressing against Will’s shoulder. He felt the instantaneous change in Jack—muscles drawing tight, senses going on full alert.
Another muffled thud. If Will wasn’t mistaken, that had been a fist impacting with flesh. He scanned the empty walkway up ahead, one side lined with dark buildings with occasional gaps between them. A fight in one of the alleys. Not an uncommon occurrence.
Jack stopped in his tracks. Throwing out an arm, he kept Will from preceding him. “We should take another route back to the hotel.” He pitched his voice low, for Will’s ears only.
“No reason to. They won’t bother us.”
Any other route would involve backtracking, which meant a longer walk to the hotel and more time before he could get Jack alone. As long as they continued on and did not stop to gawk, whoever was involved in the fight would ignore them. And even if those throwing punches dared to consider pummeling them, Jack’s size alone would be a very effective deterrent.
When Jack didn’t move, Will nudged at his arm. “Come along. As long as we don’t interfere—”
“He’s tired of waitin’ for his blunt, Tilden,” said a coarse voice, the threat clear as the night sky.
Jack’s head snapped toward the alley a few paces up ahead. Then he looked to Will. “Stay here.” And Jack was off, his massive figure disappearing into the shadows of the alley.
“Hell and damnation,” Will muttered, slipping a hand into his pocket, fingers closing around one of the blades he never left his room without.
Rather than dart toward the fight as Jack had done, Will moved along a building front, its two windows boarded up with planks, and paused to check around the corner.
Counting Jack and Tilden, five men in total. That meant three opponents, none overly large. Very good odds. Two of the three were focusing their efforts on Jack, with the third pinning what could only be Tilden against one of the brick walls of the alley. Judging by the way that man held his right arm at Tilden’s side, he was holding Tilden still with more than threat of a punch.
Will switched his blade to his left hand, adjusted his grip, settling the metal handle securely in his palm. Keeping his steps light and quiet, he crept down the alley, gaze pinned on the back of that man’s head as the man watched his fellows’ futile attempt to fend off Jack.
A low, heavy thud coupled with the scratch of gravel indicated it was now one against Jack.
“Stop, you bleedin’ bastard, or I’ll gut him,” the man holding Tilden threatened.
One pace from the man, Will pounced. His blade finding but not piercing bare skin right below a scruffy jaw, his other hand grabbing the man’s right arm to keep him from sinking his knife into Tilden’s side. “No, you won’t.”
He heard a swift intake of breath. Felt the man go stiff with shock and likely a fair amount of fear. Any leverage to be used against them was now gone, and the fellow well knew it.
A swift uppercut landed the last of the two onto his arse, where he wisely stayed. Jack’s head whipped over his shoulder, the shadows not quite dense enough to mask the pure vengeance etched in his features. Fists clenched at his sides, he stalked to Will. Pulled back one arm. Will stepped away, his blade-hand falling to his side, as Jack landed a punch to the side of the fellow’s head.
And down the man went, like a crumpled piece of paper, to the dirt-covered ground, the clang of steel impacting with hard earth echoing about them.
Will reached down and picked up the man’s blade. Short and quite sharp. The weight decently distributed. No reason to leave it behind. He slipped it and his own into his pocket.
“What are you doing with that?” Jack asked, a slight pant behind his voice from his recent exertions.
“His blade is safer with me than him. Don’t want to leave it lying where he can get at it.” Though the man would have at least another hidden somewhere on his person. No one with any sense went out at night with only one blade. He motioned to Tilden. “Come along, and mind you don’t step on him.”
Tilden didn’t move from his spot against the wall. Even in the shadows, the man’s injuries were obvious. The once neatly combed hair a disheveled mess. A dark trickle of what could only be blood from the corner of his lips. His left eye already partially closed from a blossoming bruise.
“You want them to finish what they started? No? Then come along before they come-to.” With a nudge to Jack, Will turned to leave the alley.
But Jack didn’t move either.
“Are you injured?” Jack asked Tilden. “Do you need assistance?”
That got a reaction from Tilden. He stood up straight, squared his shoulders. From his waistcoat pocket, he pulled a handkerchief. The pristine linen was a stark flash of white as he wiped the blood near his mouth. “I am in no need of assistance.” Even bristling with affront, the cultured tones of his voice announced he had the standing in Society to call a viscount friend.
“We can offer an escort back to your home, Mr. Tilden, if you would like,” Jack added, ever helpful, ever willing to put himself at another’s disposal.
Tilden’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “How do you know my name? I do not recall an introduction.”
“As we were coming upon the alley, we overheard one of them call you Tilden,” Will said.
The explanation seemed to placate Tilden, at least on that front. “Thank you for the offer but no. I am quite able to manage on my own.”
“But—”
Will laid a hand on Jack’s forearm, halting him before he could press Tilden further. “If you insist.” He took a step back, giving Tilden space. The two of them—particularly Jack—hovering over him likely wasn’t helping matters. A man’s pride wasn’t fond of the idea of others seeing him get bested in a fight. Jack had on
ce described Tilden as unassuming, but the night’s events would try even the quietest of dispositions, fraying nerves and making one twitchy and defensive, quick to lash out. And the longer they lingered, the higher the probability the three thugs would come-to. Jack would simply best them again, but safer not to invite a repeat of a few moments ago.
Tilden gave them a curt tip of the head. “Thank you, and good day.”
The brisk snap of Tilden’s shoes echoed off the brick walls as he left the alley.
“Why did you let him leave? He was injured, Will.”
“He didn’t want our help.” A groan, low and disorientated, sounded behind them. He nudged Jack. “Let’s get back to the hotel.”
“We should follow him, make sure he arrives safely at his rooms,” Jack said, pausing at the mouth of the alley, gaze on Tilden’s back as the man crossed the street.
“No, Jack.” He gave Jack a nudge toward the opposite direction that led back to the hotel. “He doesn’t want our help, and if we follow him, we’ll simply upset him further.”
“Do you think I should inform Lord Rawling or His Grace about tonight’s incident?” Jack asked, as he finally heeded Will’s nudge.
“No. That lot was hired muscle, from a moneylender. Tilden’s in deep with someone, and that someone isn’t pleased about it. But we shouldn’t interfere anymore than we already have. Tilden doesn’t want our help. He was able to walk away, so his injuries aren’t life threatening. Best to do as the man asked and leave him alone. In any case, we don’t know the current terms of his friendship with the viscount or the duke. You were simply asked to locate him over a week ago, nothing more, and you don’t know what came of that information. And I highly doubt he’s even aware you were asked to locate him.” Tilden would not have been able to get a good look at either Will or Jack in the alley, but if he’d known of Jack’s assignment, he would have connected the giant who rushed to his defense with the giant who tailed him less than two weeks ago.
“But Lord Rawling seemed a genuinely nice fellow. Seemed concerned when I told him where we found Tilden.”
“If Tilden chooses to discuss the incident with the viscount or the duke, to seek their assistance, then that’s his choice. Not ours to make for him.” Meddling in another’s affairs led to trouble. In Will’s end of town, one looked out for oneself and left others to their own business.
“But...”
“Don’t, Jack. Don’t meddle. Tilden’s a grown man. He can take care of himself.”
He felt more than heard Jack’s sigh of acquiescence, the fight draining out of him. “All right. But if His Grace inquires after Tilden, I will not lie to him.”
“Fair enough. I wouldn’t want you to embarrass yourself by trying to lie anyway.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“You’re a horrible liar, Jack. Always have been. The only reason the wardens pretended to believe you was because it was easier than trying to get a hold of me.”
Someone had had to be punished for Will’s offenses. Easier to dispense it on the one willing to take the blame. In the end, the wardens at St. Pancras had believed the beatings had served their purpose to deter Will’s deviant behavior. In actuality, Will had simply learned to avoid detection. To sneak out of the boys’ ward and down to the kitchens without anyone being the wiser.
He’d never asked or expected Jack to take his punishments. Had been shocked into silence the first time his new friend had stepped forward, claimed responsibility for Will’s crime. From that moment on, the lanky young boy had Will’s undying loyalty. Though his older self was more than angry with his younger self for continuing to risk the skin on Jack’s back. He’d thought himself so clever when the wardens hadn’t known when a rule had been broken. Once he had realized Jack would take his punishments no matter Will’s protests, he should have stopped. But he hadn’t. Jack had borne the wrath of the warden’s switch five times before they’d been sold into an apprenticeship. Five times too many.
“And thank you, again,” Will said, glancing to Jack. “You never needed to do that.”
Jack shrugged, dismissing the thanks as unnecessary. “I know, but you were much smaller than me. Downright scrawny.”
“Scrawny?”
“Yes. So thin and pale. A slight little thing. Though you aren’t anymore,” he rushed to add.
“Good to hear. Wouldn’t want my—” he caught the word lover before it could leave his lips, “—friend to think I’m a scrawny bastard. Such a thing could deliver quite the blow to my ego.”
“I certainly wouldn’t want to do that. Your ego being such a delicate thing and all.” He held open the front door of the hotel, motioned for Will to precede him. Then he lowered his voice, inclined his head down toward Will’s ear. “I’m just funning you. You know that, right?”
Will couldn’t help but laugh. He clapped Jack on the shoulder and gave him a push toward the narrow staircase. “Yes, Jack. I know.”
As he followed Jack up to the room, he couldn’t help but notice the slowness of Jack’s steps, the way he briefly leaned on the railing when he reached the top, as if he needed the support to finish the last step.
Will frowned. He’d been so focused on Tilden’s injuries and getting Jack back to the hotel that he hadn’t thought to give Jack a thorough inspection. Jack’s face had appeared untouched, no bruises beginning to form, but that was probably because it was damned difficult to knock a man so tall in the nose or eye with any force behind the punch. His ribs or his gut would have been the easier targets.
“Are you sore?” Will asked, once they’d reached Jack’s room and he’d lit the candle.
“Not really. None of them could hit very hard.”
“At least one of them could hit hard enough to make a mess of Tilden. Get undressed and sit on the bed.”
“I’m fine, Will.”
“I’ll be the judge of that.”
Will definitely heard Jack’s heavy sigh as the man settled on the edge of the bed. As Jack pulled off his clothes—favoring his left side a bit—Will prodded the fire back to life, took off his own coat, and closed the drapes.
“His window is still dark,” he informed Jack, taking away any reason for Jack to get up from the bed.
He turned from the window. Jack was clad in his smallclothes. At least he’d removed his shirt and trousers, and he didn’t look uncomfortable with his state of undress. Probably because he was too exhausted to care. The play of the candlelight highlighted the smudges beneath his eyes, his head drooping the tiniest bit. His hands rested limply on his linen-clad thighs, the clothes he’d just pulled off scattered about him on the floor and bed, as if he did not even possess the energy to collect them into a single pile, let alone fold everything and put it neatly on the table.
“You need some rest. No waking at dawn tomorrow. Arms up.” He watched Jack’s expression, looking for any sign of a wince. None. Good.
“But I need to be available if Mr. Walsh decides to leave the boardinghouse.”
“I’ll rise early. Keep a vigil at the window.” No obvious signs of bruising or nicks from a blade marred Jack’s broad torso. “And I’ll let you know if he makes to leave the building.”
“You don’t need to do that, Will. It’s my responsibility.”
“And you need a decent night’s rest, whereas I’ve been lazing about. I can rise early one morning and not have it harm me.” Stepping between Jack’s spread thighs, he ran a hand down Jack’s left side, his touch light at first then deepening the pressure. Took a decent amount of pressure to get Jack’s dark brows to twitch in a hint of a wince. The man was much too stoic. “No bruises, but you are a bit sore. No sleeping on that side tonight.”
“Are you done fussing?”
“For now. And you can drop your arms.” He made to gather Jack’s clothes from the bed and floorboards.
“You don’t need to do that. I can—”
Will held up a hand to stay him. Once Jack stopped protesting, Will snag
ged the greatcoat from the floor and added it to the pile draped over his arm. “You, remain in bed. No arguments, please.”
“I’m not an invalid.”
“I never said you were. Just humor me, all right?” He dumped the pile on the small table then extinguished the candle, giving Jack the darkness he’d need before he would strip off his smallclothes. Tonight wasn’t the night to make any more progress toward Jack becoming more comfortable in his skin. Nor was it the time to finish what they started the other night. Jack’s wellbeing was far more important than an orgasm.
As Jack wiggled out of his smallclothes and slipped under the blanket, Will undressed. Per Will’s request, Jack laid out on his right side. His dark gaze tracked Will as Will pulled off his clothes.
At least Jack wasn’t too exhausted to look. That was a good sign.
Just to give Jack an eyeful, Will crouched down to give the fire another prod, his ballocks hanging freely between his thighs.
A hoarse grunt sounded behind him.
Will smiled.
Definitely tomorrow, after Jack had some rest. Tonight though, nothing but sleep. For both of them.
Will pushed to his feet and, stepping over Jack’s discarded smallclothes, padded the short distance to the bed. Jack drew back the blanket and Will slipped into bed beside him. A brush of his lips across Jack’s. Light and gentle with nothing but comfort behind it. And they settled in to get some rest.
* * *
With a shake of his head, Will gathered the cards. He really hated losing. And losing to oneself? Not enjoyable. A good hour ago, he’d grown bored with manipulating the deck to ensure a win and had resorted to playing clean. But patience didn’t require much skill. It was more a game of chance. The outcome determined by the order of the cards in the deck. Yes, he could deliberately ignore an opportunity to use a card to set up another he needed more. But even trying to beat the deck had grown beyond tiresome.
There was nothing to be done for it, though. He could either play against himself or just sit there and stare out the window. He didn’t have a book or newspaper to distract him as Jack didn’t keep any in the room. And as he’d already folded Jack’s clothes and placed them in a neat pile on the chest of drawers, he no longer had that task to occupy him.