by Lee Brazil
"I have no recourse but to arrest you for murder."
Outrage flared in his heart, and his mind. "Fuck you. You don't have to do that." He hated the inner part of himself that wanted to plead with Randall for understanding, to remind the man that he'd made promises. "You promised you'd never let me down." The words were out, and he couldn't call them back. They struck true, too. Randall's face whitened, his lips tightened, his knuckles turned white on the doorknob.
"That was before I knew you would let me down." Randall's shoulders drooped, he rested his head on the oak door.
Jason searched the room for another way out. There were several windows hidden behind somewhat moldy drapes. He could be out of here and on his way back to London of his own accord in seconds, if he were willing to do what was necessary. His head told him to pick up the pistol and strike Randall with it, render him unconscious and make his escape. He'd done it easily enough once, hadn't he? He knew just where to strike to do the job quickly.
Remembering the battering the man had taken the night before though, he couldn't bring himself to inflict more damage upon the body that had brought him so much pleasure, that he'd enjoyed touching, fucking. "I don't want to hurt you Randall. There's no reason you can't just let me walk away from here."
"You think not? The thing about this that tears me apart isn't that you've demonstrated that you don't trust me, or that you have no respect for my honor, my integrity. It's that if I had any choice at all, I'd just turn around and walk away, let someone else find the body and let you ride off into the night."
"Then do it." Jason urged. "Just leave and I'll meet you back in Chaldon when it's all over, and we can pick up where we left off." He was humbled by Randall's apparent willingness to sacrifice his own code of behavior.
"I can't."
"You can. Just step out into the hall and act as though nothing has happened."
"You can't even bring yourself to trust me that much? That when I tell you something cannot be done, you can't just believe me? Very well then. I'll step into the hall. You go right ahead and climb out that window you've been eying."
He opened the door and stepped through, pausing just on the other side of the threshold. Jason scooped up his cooled weapon from the table and shoved it in the pocket of his black great coat. He'd crossed the room and had one hand on the drape when Randall's final words registered.
"But don't bother coming to Chaldon. I shan't be there."
Chapter Thirteen
"Report." Randall ordered, stepping into the dim hallway to find three of his men eyeing him, expressions blank.
Lieutenant Harris stepped forward smartly. "Gayner and Lloyd caught a Frenchie trying to sneak in the back, sir. They've got him in irons out back." Randall stepped forward and closed the door soundly behind him as he caught the other men attempt to discreetly peer over his shoulder into the recesses of the room.
Closing the door didn't seem to help. Muffled noises came from the room behind them, and the three officers appeared unable to look away from the closed door.
Randall let his shoulders sag. While there was always the chance that Jason had slipped away, it was more than likely that Jason had attempted to leave through the window, and discovered that it too was guarded. His men had come prepared to face resistance, and Jason, while a formidable opponent, was outnumbered by at least ten men. He could only hope that Jason didn't do anything foolish, that he would not be furthered injured. Schooling his expression to show only stern authority, he directed his troop of borrowed men into action. "That will be our other man. We'll need two men to remove the corpse from this room. The corpse will need to be turned over to the magistrate, and these two men to goal pending transport to London for trial." Images of Jason as he'd seen him that morning flashed before his eyes, complexion pale, blue eyes dark with injury and remembered disappointment. He'd seemed so lost, vulnerable, like a soul aching to be found and cared for. Randall had responded to that look with all the noble and base feelings a man was capable of. He wanted Jason physically, the man was perfect in form, attractive, and God knew he had just the skill Randall enjoyed most in a bed partner. But inside, that part of Randall that had just begun to blossom, to realize that he had the right to seek more than illicit passion and stolen moments, had recognized Jason. The realization that he was really and truly in love with a man he'd scarcely met had nearly floored him. He'd heard himself making promises he'd had every intention of keeping, but the man standing over a corpse with a smoking pistol had not been the man in his bed that morning. That man hadn't seemed capable of cold-blooded murder. That man had seemed to need him and everything he could offer, and he'd leapt at the chance to serve him.
Staring down his men until they realized he wasn't going to explain what had happened behind that door and scrambled into action, Randall stiffened his spine and hardened his heart. Jason had made his choice. The matter was out of his hands. Jason was out of his hands. Why the hell couldn't the man have just stayed home in his sickbed as he'd been told? All day Randall had been holding that image of Jason in his bed at the back of his mind, a carrot held out to keep him going one more mile, one more task despite his aching body. He'd imagined returning to his home late at night and sneaking into his warm bed, curling up next to Jason and sleeping the sleep of a man who'd done his duty, for God, country, and lover.
Randall strode down the hall, ignoring the calls of his subordinates. The publican met him at the door. Randall waved him off, "Thank you for your cooperation. We have no further interest in this place."
He was beset with a sudden urge to hurry back upriver to his little house and Cecy. Oh good Lord Cecy. What if Jason in his desire for revenge had done something to her? Had she tried to stop him from leaving? While he'd told Jason he wouldn't be at home, it looked like he had every need to return anyway.
His feet picked up speed without conscious volition and he reached his horse practically running. The stalwart beast nickered at his approach, and he slowed, breathing deep to calm himself. It wouldn't do to spook the capricious horse.
His Benedict was fleet of foot and had the endurance of an elephant, but the creature was temperamental. He'd been ridden hard today, allowing Randall to reach Newton-Bushel in record time.
"You can make it another few miles, can't you Ben?" Swinging his leg over, Randall settled into the saddle.
"Sir!"
"What is it?"
"The gentleman would like to speak to you."
"Tell him we have nothing to say to one another." Randall turned Benedict in the direction of home and set off.
The ride was long enough for him to cool down. He spent much of it cursing his foolishness in falling for a man like Jason Dancourt, who had no understanding of honor, or of love.
When he spied the little house he and Cecy shared, the house he had dreamed of inviting Jason to share with them, he let the anger go. Being angry at Jason for being Jason was futile. If he were honest with himself he could even admit that he wasn't angry at Jason for killing the traitorous Gravesend. If the men under his command had been massacred, he might have been tempted to follow the same route, to act outside of convention.
No. He stared down at the small house. Its windows glowed with welcoming, cheerful light. Cecy had wrought miracles in the gardens, the house and furnishings had the potential to be a real home. He liked it. He liked the peace, the cantankerous neighbors, and the cohesiveness of the community.
He'd imagined Jason living there with him, without even being aware of it, his subconscious had crafted dreams of the two of them meeting over the breakfast table, sharing rashers of bacon and pots of coffee in lieu of tea. Perhaps Jason drank chocolate, as so many of the French did in the mornings.
He'd built an entire future on the possibility of a life with Jason that didn't exist, couldn't exist, because Jason didn't give a fuck about him. Jason's actions tonight had made that clear.
All Jason cared about was his revenge, and that revenge would dest
roy him.
Having Jason arrested hadn't been his finest moment. If he'd thought about it, he probably could have come up with some way of getting Jason out of there that didn't involve criminal charges. Jason's simplistic an eye for an eye attitude was understandable. He hadn't made any secret of his intentions.
The fact of the matter was, he'd been too hurt by Jason's lack of faith in him to bother thinking of a way out. He'd reacted in anger, and stormed off full of righteous indignation. But he knew that he couldn't let Jason hang, and he couldn't prevent the man from his path of vengeance.
Somehow knowing Jason would never share the house with him made it seem lonely instead of cheerful.
Randall rode into the stable with a heavy heart. He turned the horse over to a groom who accepted Benedict silently. Ordinarily, he would have cared for his horse himself, but he hadn't the heart tonight. He wanted to wallow in the misery of knowing that like his father, he was doomed to spend his life alone.
Not even through choice, as he had the impression his father and his lover had chosen separate lives. If it were his choice, he'd choose Jason. Since Jason wasn't an option, he doubted he'd ever find anyone else, certainly not some vapid female.
He found Cecy in the parlor, wringing her hands and if he was not mistaken, cursing under her breath. Leaning in the doorway he studied her silently, waiting for her to become aware of his presence. At length it became clear she was too lost in her own thoughts to do so, and he cleared his throat.
She started upright, "Oh Randall! I've misplaced your man!"
That startled a chuckle form him. "Misplaced him? You mean he sneakily gave you the slip. He's a former intelligence officer you know."
"A spy?" Her eyes widened and her lips parted in surprise.
A surge of pride and admiration for his lover's achievements swept through him. "Yes. One of Perry's crew. He was leader of a squad in Paris, sending information back home."
"Then I should not be surprised or ashamed that he outwitted me."
"No. It was bound to happen. He's outwitted and out fought me on more than one occasion as well." He confessed.
"But Randall," Cecy leaned forward confidingly. "What shall you do? Will he return for you? How will you find him again?"
Dryly he replied, "Finding him won't be a problem. I met up with him in Tor in Fieldside."
"He followed you?"
"No. He was there afore. He killed the man we went there to arrest."
Cecy's gasp of shock drew his gaze from the fire. "Oh, it was perfectly understandable. You see, the man was part of the French spy ring that killed Jason's team."
"It was revenge?"
"He called it justice, but yes, it was revenge."
"Then why didn't he return with you?"
"Why indeed? To put it shortly, I had him arrested."
"Randall! You did not!"
"Indeed I did." He sank onto the sofa beside Cecy, and stared into the fire again, frowning, heart aching. Cecy placed a comforting hand on his arm, and he covered it with his own, squeezing lightly.
"What will you do now?"
"Now?" He snorted inelegantly. "I leave in the morning for London to give Perry the good and bad news." He gathered himself and continued bitterly, "Good news, brother--the cousin we buried isn't actually dead. Bad news, I had to arrest him for murder. Good news, your little spy ring wasn't entirely wiped out, bad news, one of them has gone rogue and taken it into his head to commit homicide."
"Oh. What do you think he'll do?"
"This is Perry. He'll do what's right and proper and legal. In other words, I get to be instrumental in the hanging of the man I love. And all because I couldn't take a moment to calm myself. I let my emotions guide my actions, and now Jason shall suffer for it."
Chapter Fourteen
The guards turned them over to the prison for safekeeping while arrangements for transport where made. Jason didn't even bother straining his ears. He didn't give a fuck what the transport plans were. Let the government worry about getting him to London. Once there, he'd set himself to achieving his ends. After all, London was where he needed to be.
The prison guard led him and his fellow prisoner, still shackled, to a small cell set apart from the general population. The room was small and rank, boasting a single barred window high up the far wall, a dirt, or perhaps just very dirty, floor, and a single straw pallet on the floor. It wasn't meant to hold two men that was clear.
Disdaining the most likely flea and louse-ridden mat, Jason threw himself onto the floor of the holding cell, fuming in disgust. He never learned, did he? Trusting Randall was about the stupidest thing he'd ever done. Now he'd have to reveal himself to Peregrine and beg for rescue. No doubt getting his revenge had just become a damn sight harder. He drew his knees up to his chin and stared at the fabric of his trousers until his eyes blurred.
"Selfish bastard." He grumbled, rubbing a bit at his aching heart. The cold seeped into his bones, into his heart through the floor, leaching away the heat of his anger and replacing it with sorrow, regret, disappointment. He couldn't shake off the look in Randall's eyes, the expression on his face in that inn. Almost he could think he'd hurt the man, but he'd known, hadn't he? Known exactly what Jason planned to do, known that he'd take every opportunity to see his revenge accomplished.
"Are you addressing me?" The amused comment came from his cellmate, the stupid American who had been arrested loitering in the stables. The man strolled back and forth in the tiny confines as though he had an entire avenue at his disposal, his long legs crossing Jason's view at short, regular intervals. The man's boots were fine leather, well crafted and sturdy.
"No." He answered shortly, refusing to look away from his knees. The ache in his head from last night's blow returned with a vengeance as tension knotted his spine.
"Ah, you're the Frenchman everyone was waiting for?" The man stopped pacing and stood in front of Jason, waiting expectantly.
"I doubt it." He raised his eyes and glared up at the smiling man, who didn't seem to be taking their incarceration seriously. The man was clearly astute if he picked up the barely there continental accent Jason had never quite eradicated from his voice. It had come in quite handy during his years of spying for the crown. "You find this amusing?"
"Somewhat, yes." In the dim interior of the cell, it had taken his eyes some time to adjust to the darkness, but now he could make out the American's appearance. He'd barely spared the man a glance as they were conveyed to the prison, so embroiled had he been in his own thoughts. The American had warm brown eyes, the color of steeped tea and brown hair, his face was a tanned sort of brown that you wouldn't see on any English or French aristocrat, and yet he spoke with the cultured accent of the elite. His clothing had the simple elegance of the American upper class, dark colors, white linens, fine fabrics and exemplary tailoring that displayed the breadth of his shoulders and barely covered the strength of his frame with an elegant veneer of civilization. Money, and education…
"You do know the penalty for spying, don't you?" Jason sneered at the man's seeming good humor.
Seating himself opposite Jason, the man relaxed against the door. One dark brow rose faintly, the man's smile stiffened but his voice remained affable. "Are you a spy then? How interesting, I've never numbered one in my acquaintance before."
"Me? It's not me you should be worried about, fool. You're an American, and the War has not been ended long enough yet that you should rest comfortably on your arse there smirking like a loon."
That wiped the smile from the man's face fast enough. "A treaty between the Americans and the English was signed in December of last year." His eyes darkened enigmatically, his lips twisted into some semblance of a grin.
Jason snorted contemptuously. "I put no faith in treaties. In January British naval vessels were still taking American ships. Besides, this prison is chock full of American prisoners. They'll just chuck you in with the others and let you die." He'd come damn close to putting his fa
ith in Randall Gretton, though and look what a mistake that would have been.
"Again, I doubt it."
The arrogant confidence annoyed Jason. "Why?" He stirred himself from thoughts of Randall to demand an explanation.
"I have connections. What are you doing here then, if you're not a spy?"
"I never said I wasn't a spy. I'm just not the spy they were looking for." He scowled at the tiny window, where the sky showed a few tiny pinpricks of starlight in an expanse of darkness the size of a pocket-handkerchief.
"Are you then? What are you here for then?"
Turning his fury on the hapless American, Jason snarled. "Murder." Let him stew on that while Jason considered his options. His heart sank even as he thought of what lay ahead. The only way to get out of this was to send word to Peregrine Gretton.
"Murder? Who'd you kill?"
"Which time?"
A startled laugh forced its way from the American's lips. "I'm Martin Tillman, of New York." The man held out a hand, which Jason considered ignoring. "Come on, I don't have any infectious diseases, and damned if I know why, but I like you."
"I assure you the feeling is entirely singular." Nevertheless, he took the proffered hand and shook it firmly in the American fashion. "There's not a chance in hell that you're going to shut up and just let me sulk is there?"
"Is that what you're doing? Then no, I won't. We might as well pass the time in friendly conversation." The man pulled a box of cheroots from his jacket and offered one to Jason, who shook his head. "Haven't acquired the taste? I wish I could break the habit. I've been told it makes kissing revolting." He lit the thing smoothly, dragging in a deep breath then exhaling with a satisfied sigh. "Well, I suppose the right man will come along one day and make it all worthwhile, eh?"
Jason jerked upright and glanced frantically around the tiny space. "Good lord man! Have a care what you say!"