“Thought I’d get you killed I reckon,” Hastings said with an unrepentant grin. “Or kill you myself.” He shrugged. “Either way.”
“So, still doing favors for approximately nothing?” Sir Barnabas asked Simon, who had the grace to blush.
Robert was furious. “That is ridiculous, and if you had told me when you first arrived that that was why you were there, I would have sent you right back to Daniel. I do not need protection from Hastings or anyone else.” He stood up straight. “I am a very good police officer, regardless of what you apparently think of me. I have an exemplary arrest record, and I have, on occasion, been able to get myself out of a scrape or two. I do not need you to come riding to my rescue. Good God, man! You’ve only just been rescued yourself from a Barbary prison. You are in no condition to protect anyone. While I will admit that your advice and experience were much appreciated this evening, on more than one occasion I had to protect you.”
“That is false,” Simon said, clearly fighting for calm. “I let you think you were protecting me, but frankly I thought your efforts were amusing considering my own extensive skill set at getting myself and others out of scrapes, as you put it. Between your complete lack of experience at skulking and your”—he pointed at Hastings—“predilection for attempting to kill someone everywhere you go, I am the only reason we have this information.”
“That is going a bit far, old man,” Robert said with dignity. “I was beside you the whole night. I insisted on watching the house instead of barging in there in the first place, and I was certainly the one who managed to open that window. With your back you can barely open a door.”
“What do you know of my back?” Simon asked. “Did Daniel tell you?”
“No one told me anything until you, just now,” Robert said. “You’ve just confirmed what I’ve been observing for two days. I don’t know what’s wrong with it, but it’s clearly hurt. I assume from your ordeal in Africa.”
“Damn it—”
Sir Barnabas cut Simon off. “They branded his back in Africa. Now, while I am thoroughly enjoying watching you gentlemen flirt, let us get down to business, shall we? Exactly what information were you both instrumental in getting this evening?” He looked at Hastings. “I don’t suppose you heard it, too? Or is that asking too much?”
“I know the Dutchman had a network of spies and the whores killed them all,” Hastings said. “And since one of them tried to slice my throat and gave me a good beating in the process, I believe it. If you can turn that one, you’ll have a prize.”
“Useless. What else?” Sir Barnabas was tapping that finger again.
Robert had been rendered speechless by Sir Barnabas’s accusation. He had never flirted with a man in his life. How could arguing with Simon be misconstrued as flirting? One was an art, the other was the result of unfiltered emotion. Robert had never mastered the art of flirting. And branded? Like cattle? Or a slave? The very notion turned his stomach. How was Simon even on his feet?
“Apparently she’s got all the messages she intercepted from the couriers,” Simon told Sir Barnabas tightly. “And according to her it tells quite a tale. Embedded spies and assassination, as we said. We don’t know who, we don’t know when, we don’t know where.”
“She wants to join forces,” Robert said, feeling he should add something to the conversation. “She wants to give him her network of spies, her girls, since she’s eliminated his. But,” he added, “I don’t think that’s plausible now and I’m sure they both will realize it. We didn’t hide our arrival here. They know someone overheard. The only salient information we gleaned was to be on the lookout for a new network of female spies. Ergo, they are no longer as useful as they might have been had we not learned of their existence.”
“What do you mean?” Simon said.
“The Dutchman said the boys were overlooked by the British authorities, who never suspected a thing. That’s what made them a valuable network. The women, particularly young women, would have been the same. Would your first suspect be a woman, Sir Barnabas? A serving woman, most likely? A maid or cook or washerwoman?”
“No,” Sir Barnabas admitted.
“Doesn’t matter,” Hastings said. “They’ve got a use for those women, even if they can’t use them as spies anymore.”
“What?” Robert asked, puzzled.
“Assassins,” Hastings said, looking at Robert’s now bloody handkerchief. “They’ve gotten very good at killing, haven’t they?”
Robert looked around the room and he saw his own dawning understanding on the faces of Simon and Sir Barnabas. Finding a female assassin, God knows where in London, hunting God knows who, was an impossible task. Gargantuan in scope and a logistical nightmare.
“Then we shall find the Dutchman,” Robert said to himself.
“What?” Sir Barnabas asked sharply.
“We all know finding the assassin is impossible right now. But finding the Dutchman should be much simpler. Yes?”
Sir Barnabas smiled at him. “Yes.” He turned and spoke to a man who had been standing off to the side, taking notes. He pointed at Robert. “He works for me now. Notify his superiors. Until further notice.” He turned back to the room. “Mr. Longfellow, I’ll need you to keep working the murders. I’ll notify your superiors that you are to take the lead on the investigation. You three.” He pointed at Hastings, Robert and Simon. “Your priority is finding the Dutchman.”
He turned and began to walk out of the room. “Clean this up,” he said to his secretary, who snapped his fingers. Men immediately began moving silently through the house, removing everything. Robert was stunned at the efficiency of it.
“But—” He started to protest Sir Barnabas’s highhandedness, but Simon stopped him with an outstretched hand.
“Don’t bother,” he said, resigned. “He gets what he wants. And isn’t it what you want? To find the Dutchman? To catch the killers?” He shrugged. “When it’s over, we’ll all go back to our lives and he’ll clean up any mess he’s made. It’s how he operates. His interest is immediate. He can’t worry about the future when so much is at stake in the present.”
“Exactly,” Sir Barnabas said over his shoulder. He turned his head and once again pinned them all with his predator’s gaze. “Watch your backs, gentlemen. They know they are being hunted. And they are not used to being the prey.”
He looked at Hastings. “They know you now. Soon they will know all of you. It is inevitable.” He turned away and put his hat on. “Find the Dutchman as quickly as you can.”
Chapter 11
Robert knocked at Simon’s apartment door. It was late, passing two in the morning. He ought to be at home in bed with Christy. But he’d sent a note by the house telling her he had to go by the police offices and fill out some paperwork in order to officially transfer to Sir Barnabas’s command. Always there was paperwork. Very rarely did superiors think of it when they issued highhanded commands like Sir Barnabas had. He sighed. So why was he here?
He tapped on the door again. He was here because Simon had looked unwell when they’d parted earlier. He’d been noticeably limping, which was highly unusual. He’d done a very good job of hiding his weakness the last couple of days. Robert had only noticed it because they’d been in such close proximity for a prolonged period of time tonight, in unusual circumstances. He felt an obligation to check on him.
He was still shaken by Sir Barnabas’s revelation. He couldn’t even imagine the horror of being branded like an animal. He knew slavers did it and had always considered it an abomination. But he’d never known someone who’d experienced it. It must have been excruciating. They had to have held him down for it. If it had been Robert, he’d have been fighting like the devil. He’d noticed some scarring on Simon’s face, some still an angry red from recently healed wounds, some fading already. He’d fought, too. Robert knew he had. He was lucky. A wound like a brand in a Barbary prison? That would have been the death of a lesser man.
“Who the hell i
s knocking at this time of night?” Simon demanded as he ripped open his door. He stood there with his robe half tied and falling off one shoulder, his pants only half buttoned. He was barefoot and he held a pistol at his side.
Robert took a step back.
“Oh, God. It’s you.” Simon’s stance immediately went from aggressive to drooping. He ran his empty hand through his hair.
Robert saw that hand was shaking. He looked down and saw the hand that held the pistol was shaking as well. He stepped closer, leaned down and gingerly took it away. “Here,” he said softly. “Let me have that before you shoot your foot off.”
Simon laughed weakly. “Wouldn’t that be a marvelous ending to a wonderful day?” He turned and walked away, leaving Robert to catch the door before it hit him. “You might as well come in.”
Robert followed him in, closing and locking the door behind him. “Thank you, I will.”
“Why are you here?”
“You look awful.” Robert looked around. There was a blanket in a heap on the floor by the sofa, and an almost empty bottle of whiskey next to a half-full tumbler on the table beside it.
“Thank you,” Simon said. He grabbed another glass from the shelf and then limped over to the sofa and dropped down onto it, wincing. “I feel much worse than I look, if that’s any consolation.”
He poured some whiskey in the second glass and shoved it in Robert’s direction and then added some to the glass on the table before he picked it up. He saluted Robert.
“To whatever brought you here.” He took a deep swallow. He was quite pale and his hair was damp, as if he’d been sweating. The evening was almost cool considering the recent heat wave, and the apartment felt cold and damp.
“I came by to check on you,” Robert said. He moved aside some pillows and sat down next to Simon. “You didn’t look very well when we parted this evening.”
Simon leaned back against the sofa cushions and perused the whiskey in his glass dejectedly. “There was a time I always looked very well indeed,” he mused. He smiled wanly at Robert. “Those days are long past, I’m afraid.”
“Nonsense,” Robert said, taking the glass out of his hand. “I think you need less of that, however, and more sleep.”
Simon closed his eyes and let his hand fall to his lap as his head dropped slowly against the back of the sofa. “God, what I wouldn’t give for more sleep.”
“When was the last time you slept?” Robert asked in concern. He hadn’t thought he looked too exhausted today. Just a little tired.
Simon laughed wryly. “Right before you knocked.” He opened one eye and looked at Robert as his mouth quirked in a smile to match the laughter.
Robert felt himself blush. “I’m terribly sorry,” he said, starting to stand. “Then I shall take my leave.”
He was surprised when Simon grabbed his arm and pulled him back down. “No,” he said quickly. “Don’t leave.” He sighed and let go. “I didn’t say it was a restful sleep.” He ran his hand over his face in an age-old gesture of exhaustion. “I haven’t had a restful sleep in years. Definitely not in the last few months.”
Robert felt a bit at sea. He wasn’t used to such confessions, especially from men. He didn’t know Simon that well. They’d both been involved in helping Christy and Harry last year when Harry’s family was trying to kill her for his money, before they knew Harry was still alive.
And he’d rejected Christy and let Robert have her. Robert mustn’t forget that. His wife had wanted Simon, who had not wanted her.
Looking at Simon now, Robert thought Christy would be surprised to see him this way—vulnerable, weak, ill. But she would know what to do. Robert was sure of that. Christy always seemed to know what to do. She liked to pretend to be gentle and soft spoken, easily swayed, but the truth was Christy was much more like the woman who had been in Robert’s bed last night. God, was it only last night? He tried to do what he thought she might in this situation.
“Why?” he asked. “Why haven’t you slept?” He placed his hand on Simon’s thigh comfortingly. “Go ahead. You can tell me.”
Simon looked at Robert’s hand on his thigh for a moment and then held his hands up in front of him—they were shaking. “Look at me,” he whispered. “How they would laugh if they could see it.”
“Who? Who would laugh?”
“Everyone.” Simon let his hands drop. His eyes closed, and to Robert’s horror a tear fell from the corner of one. “They won’t leave me alone at night, those bloody memories. Giselle, the war, those goddamn pirates.” A sob escaped, and was all the more devastating because Simon didn’t try to cover it, didn’t hardly react to it. Just continued to sit there, his shaking hands in his lap, his shoulders slumped dejectedly.
“Simon,” Robert whispered.
“Don’t call me that,” Simon whispered brokenly. “Don’t call me that unless you’re going to hold me.”
Robert was frozen, shocked at Simon’s words, but even more so by his immediate reaction, which had been to gather Simon in his arms and hold on tight, so the memories couldn’t get past him to hurt Simon anymore. At least not tonight.
Where had that come from? His thoughts of Christy, perhaps, and what she would do.
“Hold me, Manderley,” Simon whispered, so quietly Robert barely heard him. “Please hold me. Right now you’re all I’ve got. Everyone else has gone and left me here alone.”
That was enough to spur Robert into action. He didn’t think anymore, but just wrapped an arm around Simon’s shoulders and pulled him into his embrace, squeezing him tightly. Simon wrapped his arms up and under Robert’s, his hands gripping Robert’s shoulders tight enough to bruise.
“Don’t let go,” Simon said. “I might slip away tonight.”
“I won’t,” Robert promised. “I’ve got you. And my name is Robert.” Whatever demons haunted Simon, they weren’t going to get him tonight.
Simon drifted in and out of sleep. The pillow under his head was abnormally firm, but it smelled divine, like Robert’s cologne. He took a deep breath and hugged the pillow tighter. The pillow hugged him back. Then it rolled him onto his back and crawled on top of him and kissed him.
He kissed his pillow back. This was quite possibly the damnedest dream he’d ever had, but it was most definitely better than any he’d had recently. His pillow was a man, with a scratchy morning beard and a hard cock that he ground into Simon’s. Simon moaned and slid his hand over his pillow’s hip to his firm derriere and up his back to his nice, thick hair. The caress made his pillow hump him deliciously, and Simon let the dream go for reality.
This was no pillow. He spread his legs and ground his cock against his lover’s. They were dressed. He wrapped both arms around broad shoulders, both hands in that thick, luxurious hair now as the kiss went from languorous to passionate.
He opened his eyes and nearly shouted in shock to see Robert on top of him, kissing him so roughly. Robert’s eyes were closed, his face flushed with sleep and desire. He sucked on Simon’s tongue and Simon moaned, reaching down and cupping his buttocks to pull their hips in tight, grinding against him.
He was so damn close. He didn’t want Robert to wake up and realize what was going on before he came. It was selfish and quite possibly self-destructive and he didn’t care. He hadn’t had this in so long.
He began to climax and he dug his fingers into Robert’s firm flesh, grinding against him. “Robert,” he groaned into his mouth.
Robert pulled away and blinked, confusion on his face. Before he could face reality, Simon kissed him again passionately. It only lasted a moment before Robert jerked up onto his hands, his hips pressed hard into Simon’s, and on his small clothes Simon could feel the damp, damning evidence of their morning encounter.
Robert stared, dumbstruck, into Simon’s face and then he scrambled off of Simon, nearly unmanning him in the process. Robert fell ungracefully to the floor and banged his elbow on the table, knocking over a glass of whiskey still sitting there. Simon realized t
he sun was up already. The room was brightly lit.
“I’m sorry seems inadequate right now,” Simon said hesitatingly. “Especially because I’m not really sorry. So I’m sorry for that, too.”
“I don’t even know what to say right now.” Robert sounded like men during the war who were shocked insensible after their first battle. His eyes were large and his breathing was fast and he looked like he’d watched his dog die. Repeatedly.
Simon rolled onto his side and propped his head on his hand. He was actually feeling remarkably better than he had in recent memory. He was of the school that sex tended to make everything better, although he had indeed seen it make everything worse. It was a dichotomy he had yet to resolve. “Well, the truth is at first I thought I was dreaming and you were some sort of sentient and very ardent pillow.”
“I don’t know what I thought,” Robert said tonelessly.
“Really? Well, I confess I realized it was you before the dénouement,” Simon said without an ounce of contrition. “But by then I was past the point of no return. You see, it’s been a very long time since I’ve had that sort of passionate, voluntary encounter with a man.” He pushed aside thoughts of the involuntary encounters he’d endured while immobilized and injured in Africa. If he thought about those he’d go mad, and he was feeling far too satisfied to endure self-inflicted torture today.
The look Robert gave him said he’d noticed the distinction he’d made. “I have never been with a man like that,” he said. “I know you may not believe that, considering Daniel is one of my oldest and dearest friends, but it’s true. I’ve never even been tempted. I had never even been with a woman until…until my wife.” He put his head in his hands. “Christy. What am I going to tell her?”
Simon sat up then. His stomach churned a bit and he chose to attribute it to last night’s whiskey and an empty stomach rather than guilt over cheating on Christy with Christy’s husband. Or rather, forcing Christy’s husband to cheat on her with him. Although forcing was a strong word. It was the right word, but it was strong.
Mission to Love (Brothers in Arms Book 14) Page 8