by Lee Brazil
Jason scowled. He stepped out of the tub, grabbing a towel from the table. "This man may well have killed my operatives. I have sworn to avenge them. You won't stop me."
"I can't let you do it, Jason. This man, whoever he is, will need to be debriefed by the home office, so they can discover the extent of the damage he's done, and then he will face trial by a jury of his peers."
Sneering, Jason scrubbed the towel over his body. Randall's eyes following his every movement. "His peers? A lot of fancy pants titled aristocrats? What will they know of the damage he's done? Will they know the horror of seeing your friends and comrades bleed out before their eyes? Will they know the agony of watching as their men die, one by one? Or will they band together to protect one of their own, as they have done for hundreds of years?"
Sympathy lightened Randall's eyes and he crossed to Jason's side, taking him in his arms. "He will be punished, Jason. You may not have much faith in the justice system in our country, and I will admit that at times it is a bit faulty, but Perry will see justice done in this case, I promise you that."
Jason pushed him away with a bitter smile. "I never trust in promises, Randy."
"Have I broken any promises to you?"
"Have you made any promises to me?" He stared deep into the bright green eyes, saw them warm, melt even with something that wasn't lust, but that stirred him just the same.
"I made you one. I didn't look, didn't try to find out who you were. I'll make you another right now. I promise, Jason Dancourt, that I will not be one of the men who lets you down. You can trust me, and I ask nothing more of you than that you let me prove it to you."
Overwhelmed with conflicted emotions, Jason nodded. His lips had a disturbing tendency to tremble, some strange words hovered on the tip of his tongue, so he yanked Randall close and kissed him fiercely. Their lips meshed, teeth clinked together, and their tongues dueled.
Randall accepted his embrace, leaned into him, stroked his naked skin with soothing hands, and slowly, Jason realized the man was gentling him. The trembling fury that had seized him died away. The passion that had flared faded, gentled as well into a kiss that teased, and soothed and yes...promised so much more.
Chapter Eleven
Ignoring the aches and pains of his encounter with the smugglers the night before, Randall set a bruising pace. At the head of a borrowed troop of men from Newton –Bushel, he led the way to The Auk's Roost in Tor in Fieldside. The traitor would be there, waiting for his man to deliver payment.
Randall wanted nothing more than to see the fiend arrested and on his way to Perry in London. He planned to forego accompanying the man to London. He wanted to return to the little village where he'd left Cecy watching Jason.
Jason. The man he'd come to realize stirred more emotion, more passion in him than any other.
"We're nearly there, sir. This next village up ahead is Tor. The Auk is there on the riverfront. It's not the sort of place where a man of means would stay."
Jason nodded shortly. "Naturally not. He'd scarce do business of such a disgraceful nature in a place where he might be recognized. No, I'd fully expect a seedy little dive of an inn."
The lieutenant sent him startled look. "Well, I wouldn't say it's that bad, sir!"
"What would you say? You know these parts well?"
"Born and raised, sir."
"Then tell me, in this village, this inn, are we like to be treated as heroes or villains?"
"Beg pardon, sir?"
"You know bloody well what I mean. The home office and I are well aware that the local folk favor smuggling in general. What I want to know is, do they favor treason as well? Or will the innkeeper work with us to put a stop to this?"
The young lieutenant looked aghast. "Sir! We aren't criminals here!"
Randall stared, mouth twitching in amusement. "Really?"
"A bit of smuggling, doesn't count sir."
"So in your estimation, the landlord will not hinder us in carrying out our duty?"
"No, sir." The man fell silent and they rode on into town. "Turn left up here along the river road, sir."
Randall bit back the sarcastic comment that trembled on the tip of his tongue.
"You'd better let me speak to the landlord, sir."
"Stop calling me sir in every sentence." Every little thing grated on his nerves, though he knew it was the impatience to be done with this mission, to be back in Chaldon, curled up in bed next to Jason, watching the man sleep.
"There it is, The Auk."
It was certainly as unprepossessing a building as one might guess, much like the rest of the village architecture. The walls were whitewashed with lime, and massive beams darkened with pitch supported the old structure. It might have been a hundred years old, it might have been twenty. The windows glowed with a welcoming yellow light, and the faint hum of conversation with an occasional raucous laugh could be heard.
Dismounting, Randall jarred his injured ankle and bit off a curse. "F—Right then. You two come with me. The rest of you lot cover the windows and any other exits. I'll make myself known to the landlord and be out shortly with our man."
Men nodded in deference to his superior rank, and scattered to block all possible exits, though Randall knew he'd caught more than one disbelieving look. Remembering his beating of the night before, he understood where those looks came from. However, this wasn't a crewman on a smuggling ship. It was an English aristocrat, accustomed to only the most genteel of exercise. The man might box, or ride, or even fence. No matter.
Randall was a master of all the gentlemanly sports, with the experience of his military career, he'd no doubt he could prevail.
The public room fell silent as the three of them stepped inside. Randall cast a rapid, assessing glance around the interior of the pub. The room was full of rough looking men, brawny stalwart types who were none too fond of the Riding Office from the darkening of their expressions. A few hostile mutters and scraping chair legs. "I'd like a word with the landlord."
"Alfie!" The grizzled man behind the bar shouted, one eye on a mug of ale he was filling, the other on Randall's uniform. "We don't serve yer sort here."
Randall held up a hand to forestall the young lieutenant's retort. "We've business with the landlord. We'll wait in the hall for no more than three minutes. If he doesn't appear before then, I'll have the troop I've brought with me in here to search for contraband. Otherwise, I've no interest in what you serve to whom, or where it came from. Do I make myself clear?"
Without waiting for a response, almost fearing a knife in his back, Randall stepped into the hall. Several doors opened off of it, and behind one of them lurked his traitor. Half an hour. He thought. In half an hour it will all be over and you can head back to Chaldon and see Jason for yourself. The doctor had insisted that Jason would be fine, but Randall had seen men die of such injuries in battle. Some went to sleep and just never woke up.
Jason would be fine, he just wished he could convince himself that his doubts were foolish. It bothered him that Jason planned to kill in cold blood. Randall had killed, what soldier hadn't in the commission of his duty? But for Jason, this wasn't duty, or battle. It was vengeance, plain and simple.
Randall would resolve the issue. Arrest, trial, hanging. Justice would be served, and he took pride in being able to provide that justice to his lover.
Maybe, if he could do this, Jason would learn to trust him. His heart ached with the knowledge that Jason had learned to distrust everyone. Part of that distrust he knew was directly related to Jason's experience as a spy in a foreign country during battle. You trust the wrong man and you end up dead.
But part of it stemmed from the man's supposed father, Randall's uncle. Sebastian had been a feckless man, loose in the pocket and morals. It was entirely possible that he had been Jason's father. But Jason had few of the characteristics of the Gretton family, including the telling earlobes.
Life as the son of a French dancer educated in the English public school
system couldn't have been easy. Randall wanted to be the man to prove to Jason that not all men were unworthy of his trust, that not everyone would betray him.
The idea shook him more than a little.
Perhaps he owed these thoughts to his father's current situation. Imagine spending your whole life married to a woman, having children with her, giving your family your all, while loving someone else.
Though they had never actually spoken of it, Randall had long suspected that his father was aware of his preferences. In his last meeting with his father he had found an approval of who he was at a fundamental level that he had never expected to have.
Oh Cecy knew. She'd accepted him, but he'd kept his inner self hidden from everyone else. To know that his father had understood him so well, it touched something deep inside of him, set him at ease with himself.
Made him think that he perhaps wasn't evil, or perverted. Made him think that maybe he did deserve to love and be loved after all.
And then he'd stumbled upon Jason, and tumbled directly into love, as though his father's blessing had been the one thing holding him back all these years.
But no.
No other man had ever affected him the way Jason did.
"It had to be Jason." He murmured.
"Beg pardon, sir?"
"How might I assist your Excellency?" The obsequious voice belonged incongruously to a burly looking man who must be the innkeeper.
"You've a gentlemen staying in a private parlor. We require the location of that room and then, your cooperation in keeping everyone out of the way while we deal with the gentleman."
Shifty eyes darted to the third door down the hall. "I can't tell you anything sir. His Lordship paid for privacy, and privacy he gets."
Snorting at the innkeeper's warped sense of integrity, Randall nodded shortly. "I understand." Gesturing to the two men behind, he pointed one to the door of the public room. "You stand there. If anyone attempts to leave that room, shoot him. You, come with me." He ordered over his shoulder as he strode down the hall, boots clacking authoritatively.
He raised a hand to rap on the door when his ear caught a familiar voice. His blood ran cold and a sweat broke out on his brow. "It by damn cannot be." He muttered sotto voce.
Rapidly revising his plans, he reached for the doorknob. He'd scarce begun to turn it slowly hoping to open it and catch the two men behind the door in the act of committing treason, when a muffled thump came through the door.
"What was that?" The lieutenant asked.
"I couldn't say." But he knew it. The sound was low and muffled, but he'd heard it before. Gun shot. The noise coupled with Jason's voice filled him with dread.
Forgoing caution, he flung the door open and darted inside, glancing wildly around, half expecting to see Jason's body prone on the floor.
He wasn't sure that what he did see made him feel any better. Jason stood, smoking pocket pistol in hand, over the body of a very familiar man.
Randall's gut churned sickly. His heart raced and adrenaline surged through him. "Jason," He fought to be still, not to race over and take the man into his arms and smother him in kisses of relief at finding him alive. His brain was slow to catch up with his emotions on this occasion.
Chapter Twelve
It was a poor excuse for a private parlor, even for an inn as shabby as this. The carpet was thread bare, the furnishings worn and rough. A bench sat on one wall. Two chairs faced the fireplace, but the central object was a long rough- hewn table of oak. A few candles, tallow, were lit in sconces, rendering the room dark and shadowy anywhere outside their pitiful radius. The room was clearly more accustomed to being put to use by the local gangs planning their next smuggling run than by the traveling privileged classes.
He'd used the darkness to his advantage. Lying in wait for the man he'd been seeking. Instead, he'd been faced with the same fat tuck he'd tracked down in London. Gravesend had nearly pissed himself with terror, when Jason stepped out of the shadows and put his knife to his throat.
But terror hadn't been enough to get the man to reveal his superior. Whoever the man was he held a much stronger hold over the weak Gravesend than any random highwayman could muster.
In the end, the man had revealed only one small tidbit of information. The man he couriered for was based in London, never left the town. Jason had allowed his impulse to lead him, and fired when it became clear that he would gain no more information from him. If he'd been in Paris, had his tools and his men about him, hell, if he'd only had time, he'd have found a way to make the aristocrat spill his knowledge. But he didn't have time. The Frenchman would be arriving, and sometime after that, Randall and his troop of revenue officers.
Gravesend hadn't confessed to any more than Jason already knew before he died. And now he was left, staring down at a corpse on the floor of an inn full of smugglers. Someone might have heard his shot, though he'd muffled the sound.
Revulsion, triumph, hate, frustration. They all boiled up inside him. The stupid bastard had refused to give up his master, had remained stubbornly silent in the face of Jason's threats, his promises. In the end he'd had no choice but to kill the man.
Mortimer Gravesend lay on the ground at his feet, fat face crinkled in an expression of permanent shock. "What did you expect you stupid sot? I told you I'd shoot you."
The door swung inward, and Jason raised his gaze from the body on the floor at his feet to meet startled green eyes. Randall. The turmoil inside him stilled to a manageable level, he nearly smiled. So pleased was he to see the man that he'd nearly taken a step forward before the second red-coated figure stepped through the doorway. The second king's officer had a carefully blank expression, and that reminded Jason that they were in a public venue and discretion was called for. He forced himself to stay where he was, letting the smoking Manton pocket pistol in his hand fall to the tabletop next to a decanter of cheap whisky and a soiled glass.
"Jason." The appalled horror in Randall's tone brought Jason up short.
He studied Randall's face intently, dismay growing in his heart. "Randall, I told you what I needed to do. You said you understood my feelings."
Throwing up a hand in a gesture for silence, Randall turned to the man behind him. "Step outside. I believe Reilly will need help at the public room door."
His hackles rising, Jason watched as Randall closed the door behind his underling and stepped up to Gravesend's body. "You knew, Randy."
A bitter glance was cast in his direction. "I knew how you felt, yes. You knew my duty as well was to arrest this man and see him up for trial."
"He deserved death."
"Oh for fuck's sake," Randall began pacing the room, his boots striking the wood floor with angry thuds akin to a judge's gavel. "Why? I left you with the doctor's orders to stay in bed or risk permanent injury. Why could you not just trust me to see to this?"
Snorting in disbelief, Jason watched his pacing lover. He schooled his features to reveal nothing of the conflict he felt. "Because as you say, I knew you would do your duty."
"He's not even the leader of this traitor's ring!" Randall burst out, pausing to stare down at Gravesend with disgust.
"He refused to give up his superior, but he did let slip a bit of information that will allow me to track the man down. I am closer to completing my revenge than before, Randy. I can feel it."
Randall's head snapped up form contemplating Gravesend and he stared at Jason, mouth falling open in an "o" of astonishment. "You can't be serious."
Jason stared him down, heart thudding in excitement.
"You are. Don't you know what you've done here, Jason?"
"I killed a traitor who colluded in the cold blooded murder of my men. It was justified."
A deep frown marred Randall's handsome brow. "This isn't the battlefield, Jason. It's a pub on British soil. You can't dispense justice as though you were ordained judge and jury. The man was a peer, as such he is entitled to a trial in the House of Lords."
; "He was a traitor, a danger to our troops and our populace."
"You may be accustomed in your work to doing as you please, without regard to what is considered right or moral, Jason, but this isn't the anonymous killing field of a foreign city at war time. No one can chalk this up to an accident, or unknown villainy."
Ah. He well knew how many of the "regular army" viewed those who gathered intelligence, even when they relied upon that intelligence to get through battle. Somehow, he hadn't expected Randall to look down on him for it though. Hardening his heart against the pain of certain loss, extrapolating Randall's disapproval from his manner, Jason pointed out, "I've killed many a man, and never on a battlefield, all in the service of my country. In my profession, one makes decisions quickly and acts upon them. Justice has been served."
"Murder has been committed." Randall asserted flatly, meeting his eyes squarely.
"Murder? I think not. The man was a criminal." Jason sneered, glaring down at the corpse of Mortimer Gravesend.
"That would have been for the courts to decide." Randal spun about on his heel and made another circuit of the room. "Where is the honor to your colleagues in this act, Jason? Tell me. Because I fail to see how doing something so dishonorable does them justice."
"It's a start. I'll track down the man responsible, and you may as well understand that I'll kill him too." He challenged Randall with a quirked brow.
"You still don't understand do you?" Randal's mouth drooped at the corners and his eyes narrowed slightly. "I am an officer of the King's army, sworn to uphold the laws of the land. I was sent here to apprehend that man, in the course of an investigation."
"You never would have killed him, Randy and to be honest, I wouldn't have wanted you to. This was something that I had to do." He studied his lover's face, and so saw the exact moment when he shut aside his emotions and became completely an officer of the law again. "I have a different, less aristocratic code of honor, I suppose. It allows me to value things like justice above jurisprudence."