by Cooper, R.
He cringed, and saw how René blinked. “You have no need for shame.” The feather-light murmur seemed to come from another man, and James wondered if another spirit had entered René, for the man turned to actually look at Ben, studying him in one single allseeing glance. “It is the child who ought to feel it.”
“Don’t you talk about me when I stand here before you!” Ben stalked across to James and slapped the scroll into his quickly outstretched hand, then hurried across to lean against the wall with his arms crossed in front of him, his look promising revenge on Villon. James winced just to see the child’s unseemly behavior. He would have been given the strap, likely, if his true parents had been there to see it.
“Ben!” James called to him in unhappy surprise just as Villon startled them both by speaking in English.
“Child,” he began sternly, not quite raising his voice to a yell. “You will mind James.”
While James could only stare at such a pronouncement, Ben did not seem to have trouble finding his tongue. “Scolding me won’t get you James!” Ben declared challengingly, so absolute in his stance and his tone that James cringed once more in shock and humiliation, his arousal fading to twinges of pain to think of the knowledge in those simple words. His arms fell to his sides and then he lifted them to cross in front of his chest, before dropping them again, almost wanting to hide the bulge in his breeches but not daring to place his hands there.
Not that it mattered in the slightest, for Villon and Ben had eyes only for the other, locked in some silent battle that lasted until James cleared his throat. Then both looked to him, equally reproachful and accusing, both with faces flushed from emotion. Villon probably upset that James could not control even a child, and Ben upset to have seen that display.
“Hush, Ben,” James said finally, focusing on the child to avoid having to meet René’s gaze. Ben blinked several times as if astonished and then his expression went flat, and he tossed a careful look to René.
Without looking in that same direction, James held out the roll of paper, gesturing with it toward the desk. “The contract, Sir.” He dared not call Villon anything else, not now, when he was still so unsatisfied and the name seemed to inflame the other man’s passion so.
“Ah, yes. That.” René returned to French with barely a pause, but just enough of a silence to let James know that he had noticed. It was a deliberate reminder, almost mockingly placing the blame for forgetting the business on James alone, and again James thought of Etienne and Sir Marvell, but mostly Etienne, and the cruelty of the nobility.
He frowned, shoving aside his wants to think of what René had as much as admitted, that this contract meant nothing to him whatsoever. He was to sign his name to a lie. Stiffly, James followed René to the desk after the other man took the paper, opening up the inkpot and carefully dipping the quill. The tip of the feather brushed his still-heated skin and he shivered before stepping back, staying out of sight as a good servant was meant to do. A man did not share his thoughts or plans with his servant, any more then he might with his pet.
From a distance he watched as René bent over the desk and unfurled the paper, running the feather across his face as read the document carefully with the sudden seriousness James had seen once or twice before, as if René would be bound by its contents. His body was slight, especially from this position and enveloped in that damned red coat. Not much of him could be seen in it, and he seemed smaller, and lighter, only his arse firm and distinct in the thick material.
James had no blushes to spare for that shameful thought. There was no mention of Etienne Saint-Cyr in that paper, not by name anyway. Perhaps the sugar he meant to escort as he had promised. James could only wonder at Villon’s motives as he always did, listening to the scratching glide of the quill as Villon signed the contract, writing his own name underneath the large markL’Aranha had made for hers.
“I do not want anybody to be hurt.” Why he bothered or how he dared James did not know or care to ask himself, but René seemed to stiffen momentarily, before turning to him smoothly, leaving the paper where it lay, with the ink still wet.
“This is not your affair. What will happen, will happen,” Villon answered with a slight scowl, leaving James to wonder once more at his meaning. He could easily remember René’s words, that life was pain. He had believed it, even when he had made James feel the most incredible pleasure, had turned his thoughts to him and no one else. This foolish treasonous business of theirs, a collection of thieves out to see who slipped in the blood first, and none looking about them at anything else. Everything was a tool to them in their damned game.
It was just as he had thought before, but worse now, for Villon was a smart man and knew the truth in his soul even if he denied it. “If you are finished, Sir…” He stepped to the door, put one hand to it, and spoke in measured tones, though not quite banishing the rough edge to his voice, or the shaking of his hand upon the wood. He was too overwrought to open the door, afraid of what the other clerks might see in his face when they saw him, and so he could not stop his small feeling of gratitude when René took a step toward him and then halted so abruptly that it was almost as if he had run into the end of an enemy’s blade.
Villon cocked his head to peer in Ben’s direction, and then arched one brow to regard James expectantly. What he desired was so blatant that James jerked his head up, straightening his pose until he felt like a giant from a story, and René seemed almost as little as Ben. He enjoyed how René stretched his pale neck to gaze at him, not minding in the least the thought of thecorsaire having sore muscles.
Undaunted, the man just frowned at him, only seeming vexed at having to raise his head. James watched how the heavy earbob fell back into the tangled, curled mass of his hair, and got caught instantly in the strands, though René noticed it not.
“You…” René started, and again shot a glance to Ben, who continued to sulk against the wall. With a dissatisfied mien, he again focused on James. “Your master has invited me to dine again this night.” He stopped the flow of words sharply on the last word, looking as though he had bitten his tongue and was pained. James just nodded, not surprised, but René still waited, and James wondered if the man still hoped for one final fuck before he sailed away. “I will.” His mouth curved into an upside down arch, indicating his annoyance with something. “Youwill be there.”
Perhaps it was the Frenchman’s slow English that had made what should have been a question a command, but James had little faith in that notion. He chose not to answer, hiding his tongue behind his closed teeth as they all stood in silence. When nothing else was said, René swallowed thickly and reached into the depths of his coat.
James grew tense, unable to hide it after witnessing René pull a hidden blade from his clothes days before and knowing the man was rarely if ever completely defenseless. But inflicting pain seemed to be the man’s last thought as if brandished a small, leather-bound book and pried apart the pages to peer at it suspiciously. At least it seemed like suspicion, curling his lips into a silent snarl, making him almost seem like of one the caged leopards at the Tower. James just noticed the sharp point of one of his teeth, and then René was thrusting the book at him, giving James a vicious glare.
“I have returned your book,” René added, unnecessarily, as James had already opened the book to its first pages, and had read the name inscribed there. There was the mark of a boot there as well, and a tear, from when it had been taken from him by some nameless pirate. The rest was undamaged. Deniau was must have kept it from harm, though he must have had little use for it without James to tutor him. Perhaps it had not made a good tool for swatting at bloodsucking insects.
“The book your men stole from me, aye.” James closed the book without further inspection, holding it between his hands and rubbing them against the soft, well-worn leather. It warmed under his touch, as though it had come alive.
Villon reared back, searching for his face with eyes that sparkled. That he was nearly on
his toes did not seem to be worthy of his notice, his attention wholly fixed on James. “You will not be getting thanks from me.” James made it clearer, wondering at himself for his audacity in smiling coldly. “It is only that which was already mine that you have returned to me.” Though in truth he could not tell if Villon had even expected thanks, or had merely wanted to be rid of the thing. He was no nearer an answer when Villon answered him, shutting lids over-bright eyes only to open them again with an unhappy frown.
“You do not like it? It is not…pleasing?” Barely had he said the words when Ben howled with a fit of laughter, startling them both into turning to gaze at the child. Ben lowered the volume of his mirth when he seemed to realize he was being observed, but continued to giggle to himself even after James had looked away. René did not turn as fast, and James had a moment to study his narrow profile, nearly hidden by thick forest of hair. There were still some traces of juice in it, making it cling together in sticky lumps, and James thought distantly that Villon needed to be looked after much as a child might. Marechal was failing in his duties.
“I like it well enough,” James said with impatience, taking a deep breath. He could not quite bring himself to add anything, even to bring some sort of feeling to the frozen mask in front of him. But without his interference, René moved at last, pulling his coat around him and continuing to glare at anything that caught his eye.
“Tonight.” René narrowed his anger to only James long enough to speak the words lowly in French and then put his hand over his to open the door. James’ fingers warmed instantly at the touch, and he nodded and snatched his hand away just as René swung wide the door.
He did not look back as he marched past the rows of curious men and out into the street. James watched until the blazing red coat was out of sight, and then shut the door again.
“Do we sail to England then, Master James?” Ben begged of him immediately, still grinning from his earlier fit of unexplained laughter.
“England?” James’ voice rose and caught, an embarrassing squeak more fitting on a boy like Ben than a man. “He will take us, if y’ask it of him,” Ben went on slowly, his smile fading as he stared up at James. Then he shook his head, almost with despair. James barely noticed that strange gesture, slowly letting his head fall until there was only the book in his hands to see. Then he felt his face and body heat, and his hands shook with the urge to knock Villon flat once more.
“You mean…?” he began to ask and then cut himself off with shame, unbelieving that he would ask such a question of a mere child. The muscles in his arm flexed and tightened, rippling with the urge to throw the book to the floor now that it had been offered back to him in such a profane manner. Mocking everything the writing in its pages stood for, mocking James himself as if James were to be silenced with this bribe disguised as some sort of love token.
The book offered warmth to his palms, a reassuring weight, and from somewhere came the memory of his father pressing it into his hands, smiling at him proudly. He had missed it, and though it burned him he could not toss it aside. Had René guessed that too? He wondered in a moment of flaring heat, before his sense returned.
“We do not sail with Villon,” he managed and saw Ben’s eyes widen at his tone, and how the boy leaned back farther into the wall. But he would not hide his anger, and felt his belly tighten at the thought of what might happen that evening.
Still trembling, he tucked the book inside a pocket, next to René’s gold, and waved for Ben to get the contract as he opened the door to outer office. He would go to see Etienne, and warn him as best he could without any proof, and do his best to shove some caution into the Frenchman’s foolishly proud head. Then he would return to Sir Marvell’s house and hand the man the paper he cared not a whit for. After that there was only to wait for his opportunity to show René that he would not be taken with such a paltry gift.
Just imagining the shock that would make the rosy mouth fall open was enough to have James chuckling softly to himself, just as René was wont to do.
Chapter Nine
The smell of whiskey lingered in the air even by the window, far from Sir Marvell, who sat in a chair by a cold hearth, sipping from a nearly emptied cup. It was perhaps his fourth of the evening, but the man’s drunkenness did not concern René, in fact it
soothed several of his fears about the state of the old fox’ mind this night. It served him well to have the red-faced ass fall asleep from drink before the great and costly clock in the room struck midnight. A liquor-soaked mind would have no interest in asking questions of him.
A glance out the window told him the hour grew late, later than he would have liked, with so much to do before he sailed with the tide, and another glance told him where James was standing, far from him, though René had not forgotten that in the moments he had looked elsewhere.
He wore his ugly suit again, a sour yellow to match his serious face. Not once had he smiled during his master’s supper, no doubt missing Saint-Cyr, who had chosen not to attend. That suited René very well; it had probably made it easier for Honoré to snatch that fool from a tavern than to wait for him to return to his bed. René nearly smiled with anticipatory pleasure at the idea of Saint-Cyr’s fear, and the ruthless grin that he knew would be the only answer he would receive from Thierry were he to wake and have time to question his abductor. He would be afraid, and helpless, like a child among strange men alone on his ship, and that would be enough until René dealt with him personally.
James’ stern face did not match René’s mood, nor give any hint to James’ thoughts; any tension the Englishmen might feel at the press of time would be in his eyes alone. But nothing would be visible in his own to James Fitzroy if he chose to look in René’s direction.
It would not please James to learn of his thoughts now, even if he were to learn that he had succeeded in influencing him to a small degree. Perhaps killing Saint-Cyr outright was not the best, living could be a pain in itself, something it was time the son of Saint-Cyr learned. He would learn to accept, even bow to the bonds that held him, knowing that to be free of them meant an even worse fate.
Who would the Saint-Cyr name be passed to, once René had ransomed Etienne Saint-Cyr and then killed him? With James still ignoring him, René spent a moment contemplating what desperate measures Saint-Cyr might take, with only two daughters and perhaps scores of bastards to his name. Then he shook the thought aside for now, idly contemplating the great noble’s careless, drunken ass of a son tied up and struggling.
His eyes flicked to James once more moments later, surprised to see that James had moved, and was no longer talking to his master. He could see, in that same moment, James tied up and struggling, and licked his dry lips, remembering well the feel of having James in his power, though he thought perhaps that James might enjoy such a game as that as well as he would, but with so little time and his body aching already it was unlikely that he would find out, unless James for once did not act the fool and let things proceed quickly.
He could still recall the note of scorn in James’ voice as he had taken the book from him as though it were his due, clutching its bindings closely, jealously, when it was only nonsense by another mad Englishman, written in Latin as if in recognition of the fact that English was a poor tongue.
James was moving now, as though to mock René anew, replying to his doubting thoughts and striding toward the window and René with bent shoulders and flat eyes, and René watched in amazement to see no stumbling steps, not even when he stepped widely around the shadow of Marechal, within an arm’s reach from him.
Other than to notice how near James had come to him, René did not acknowledge the larger man either. It was likely that Marechal noticed, but that was of no concern. The man had insisted on coming here when he had learned that René went alone, and now he could stand by the wall and be ignored by any of the others in the room until the great horned beast rose up in the East to roast them in fires of Hell. René had no need of protection an
y longer, and it was time Marechal saw this.
“I have warned him.” Softly whispered, it drew René’s eyes up much as a shout might have, and he regarded James steadily. For a small moment, James’ eyes shone with ferocity, and then René own eyes grew dry, and he blinked. What James spoke of now did not improve René’s humour.
“I have no doubt that you did.” Turning toward the window afforded him a view of stars growing brighter as the night darkened around them. The evening air did not ease the sting in his cheeks, and he wondered at it, when he had not had more than a sip of Sir Marvell’s offerings. His fingers reached into his coat, delving through the worn threads to seek a heavy, misshapen sack filled with his own offerings for the evening.
He could see how his words took James aback, though he struggled to hide it before his curious frowns began to return, and René licked his lips to halt further idiotic statements and pressing questions. There were more things to be spoken of this night than a fool who was as good as dead. Not with the stars growing brighter and the sky being painted black and James still wearing the ugly suit that another man had given him.
Those offerings he took and yet a simple collection of pages he sneered at as though it were shit on the street. René spun on his heel, half turning toward James with one hand extended, smoother than Etienne Saint-Cyr had ever done, but it did not even make James widen his eyes.
“I am sure young Saint-Cyr is off with a woman somewhere…” Sir Marvell’s knowing voice drifted over to them, and René’s mouth tightened, somehow certain that Sir Marvell had intended this to be heard.