by Lee Rowan
And the ocean waves do roll
and the stormy winds do blow
and we brave tars go skippin’ on the deck
while the landlubbers lie down below, below
While the landlubbers lie down below!
Then up spoke the Captain of our gallant ship
and a brave young skipper was he
“Well, no fishy mermaid will ever frighten us
For this crew is the bravest on the sea!”
Another chorus, God help us, Will thought. It wasn’t that he didn’t like music. He liked it very well indeed—but between MacIvor’s ill-tuned fiddle and a foretopman who couldn’t carry a tune if his life depended on it, Will wasn’t sure this performance could even be considered music.
Then up spoke the owner of our gallant ship
and a brave young tradin’ man was he
“No mermaid will scare us, we’ve got a job to do
A fishy lass will never frighten me!
Marshall leaned close to his friend. “Seems you’ve been included as well,” he said as the crew ground through another chorus.
Then up spoke the bosun of our gallant ship
and a wise old sailin’ man was he
“Our mermaid’s a good lass, she’ll bring us home again
She’ll keep us safe upon this stormy sea!”
Finally, the end was in sight, and the crew finished up the final chorus with more enthusiasm than skill. When the last landlubber was lyin’ down below, Davy inclined his head subtly. Finished, at last! Marshall nodded his approval.
“No landlubbers on this ship!” Barrow said emphatically.
“And no nonsense about going to the bottom of the sea!” Marshall responded. “Thank you, men! Mr. St. John and I are going to retire to our dinner and leave you to your celebration. Merry Christmas!”
“A fine speech, Captain,” Davy said as he followed Marshall into their cabin and slid the folding table from its brackets behind his cot. “Brief and to the point. Would you care for a little more wine?”
“Not just yet.” One folding chair fit on either side of the table, and he lit the candle lantern that hung above it. They’d barely finished setting up when the steward arrived with their dinner, a nicely stewed chicken, with potatoes and carrots and bread bought when they’d been in port two days before. And coffee, for which Marshall had developed an irrational fondness as the Beauchenes’ guest.
“Well?” he demanded, as they enjoyed their meal. “Have you determined what you would like for Christmas?”
“I’m still thinking,” Davy said. And he said little more until they were finishing the juicy slices of their own oranges. The sweet tartness on Marshall’s tongue reminded him somehow of Davy, and he asked once again.
“I’ll tell you when Clement has cleared the dishes,” Davy promised. “But in the meantime, this is for you.” And he held out a small package, neatly wrapped in brown paper and held shut with a bit of red ribbon. It proved to be a pair of gloves of soft black leather, exquisitely tailored and lined with lambswool.
“Oh…. These are too grand, Davy!”
“Try them on.”
They fit perfectly, of course, and he could remember one morning sometime back when Davy had made a point of comparing their hands, Will’s fingers much longer than his own neatly shaped ones.
“They’ll never fit anyone else properly, so you must keep them.” Davy leaned forward, eyes twinkling. “I can’t tell you how distressing it is to have your icy digits inserted into places where they can get warm,” he whispered.
Their steward, Clement, chose that moment to return and clear the table. Marshall took the opportunity to retrieve the present he had bought for Davy before they had first sailed out in the Mermaid, a small collection of poetry that he had taken pains to determine his friend did not possess.
“It’s beautiful, Will,” Davy said, opening the leather covers reverently. “Some old friends… and some of these I’ve never read!”
“I’ll never have your gift for words,” Marshall said, embarrassed. “I’d write the stuff for you myself, if I could.” He was rewarded with a look of such uncomplicated affection that he took Davy’s hand, across the table. “Will you tell me, now, what you would like?”
“Whatever you wish to give,” Davy said.
“What?”
“Will, I’ve known you for seven years now,” he said, mischievousness replacing the softer sentiment. “And one thing I have learned: when given an objective and free use of your imagination, you always excel. So… I would like to be ravished, by whatever means you choose.”
Marshall felt as he had one Christmas when he was six years old, and a kindly woman, one of his father’s parishioners, had given him a whole sack of cookies. One sort had nuts, another raisins, another was dusted in sugar… it had taken him most of an hour to decide which to eat first.
“I’m going to stretch my legs,” Davy said, still smiling. “I’ll be back momentarily.” He didn’t bother to put his greatcoat on, which seemed to indicate a short trip.
Clement came in as he left, to put away the table, but Marshall told him to leave it up. “Mr. St. John and I are going to have a game of cribbage before we turn in,” he said. “We may stay up late, and we’ll attend to the furniture. You’re off-duty for the night, and a Merry Christmas to you!” He passed a half-crown to the grateful steward. It was very, very pleasant to have a little money to spare for generosity, and having observed Captain Smith’s treatment of his cabin servants, back aboard the Calypso, he was sure the investment was worthwhile.
He put the table away immediately; they were going to play, but not cribbage! A towel stuffed into the deck-glass assured them a bit of privacy—barring the outbreak of war, of course, but it was unlikely that the French would attack on Christmas night.
A tap at the door, and Davy poked his head inside. “Ready or—wha—!” He stifled a yelp as Marshall caught his wrist, yanking him all the way into the room.
“One ravishment,” Marshall whispered, “as ordered.” He pulled Davy against him, capturing his mouth in a fierce kiss. But Davy was seldom at a loss for long, and as Marshall lifted him in his arms, Davy wrapped his legs around Marshall’s hips. Overbalanced, he tipped forward, pinning his lover against the bulkhead. “Mister St. John!” he gasped. “If you please!”
“Mm?”
“Who’s ravishing whom, here?”
Davy blinked, his eyes slightly unfocused. “Oh.” He unwound himself, grinding against Marshall as he lowered himself to his feet. “Was I giving offense?”
“Not at all! I only expected—if you wish to be ravished, sir, you might be a little more receptive!”
“Receptive? I thought I was!” Davy grinned. “Very well, then—what shall I do?”
“Allow me to demonstrate.” Marshall reached up and began to unbutton his lover’s short jacket. David St. John, civilian, dressed a trifle more elegantly than his naval predecessor, but for ordinary shipboard life, a gray wool jacket and darker trousers served well enough.
As the buttons yielded beneath his fingers, Marshall was aware of Davy’s eyes upon him; he felt his face growing warm and reminded himself that he was doing the seduction here.
Silly notion. As he finished with the jacket and started undoing the silky blue waistcoat, Davy sighed, and Will felt his hands tremble. It was silly; they’d been rolling around only a couple of hours before, and here he was, eager as a bridegroom.
He slid the jacket and waistcoat together from Davy’s shoulders, leaning forward for another kiss. He felt Davy’s hands on his hips, and they leaned against each other gently this time, rocking back and forth with the motion of the sea.
I could stay like this forever, Marshall thought foolishly. But this wasn’t ravishing; this was romantic mooning. “Mister St. John,” he murmured, “would you object if I remove the rest of your clothing?”
“I would be crushed if you did not.”
It was chilly in the ca
bin, and damp, but not quite chilly enough to see one’s breath, and he intended to keep Davy sufficiently warm even without his clothing. Nuzzling down the side of his neck, Marshall moved around behind his lover, pulling Davy close to his body’s warmth and alternating nips and kisses while he worked loose Davy’s trouser buttons.
As the clothing fell to his ankles, Davy pressed backward. “God, Will—”
“Patience, sir. I intend to make a proper job of this!” He let his hands roam over the front of Davy’s body. The scar of his terrible wound was smaller now, but he felt a pang as his fingers brushed across it. They had come so close, so very close…. “Davy….”
“You mustn’t say—”
“I know. But this is important. I love you, Davy.” It was difficult to say the words. Why? Why should the greatest truth of his life be so hard to express? An awkward truth, even a dangerous one, but all the more precious for that. “I love you.”
Davy’s head fell back against Marshall’s shoulder, and he twisted around for another kiss. He was all smooth, warm skin and supple strength, turning like an eel within the embrace. Marshall scooped him up and deposited him in one of the cots, then pulled off boots and stockings, leaving that beautiful body naked against the striped ticking.
He was beautiful, the loveliest thing Marshall had ever seen. Even with the golden mane shorn short, the sight of that strong curve of shoulder, the scattering of wiry hair across the broad chest, smooth, flat belly….
Marshall had never had any artistic pretensions. He could appreciate the sun’s bright rays angled low over water, or white sails straining against the wind; paintings and statuary had never moved him. But this living, breathing work of art was something else altogether. When he looked at Davy’s naked form, the very sight awoke the memory of how wonderful that body felt against his own.
He took a moment to be sure the door was latched shut and shed his own clothing as he returned to the cot. He barely noticed the cabin’s temperature; he felt very warm indeed. “Now, then, this matter of ravishment….”
Davy merely smiled and held out a hand. Marshall took it, caressed it, and brought it to his lips. Davy had done this for him, once, and it had nearly driven him out of his mind. He licked the palm of that small strong hand, flicking his tongue between the fingers, then ran his tongue from wrist to elbow in quick, short strokes. As he neared the armpit, he was overwhelmed by the scent of this beautiful man, his beautiful lover. Davy was habitually clean, but sex had its own scent, and their earlier encounter had marked him. Marshall’s cock hardened as that most particular musk worked its magic on his brain and body.
He met Davy’s eyes. The glass of wine Will had earlier could not account for the flush that heated his lips as he slid them down that warm shoulder. The blue eyes slid shut as his lips fastened on a nipple; Davy’s chin tilted up as he gasped and shivered. Marshall felt a bit unsteady himself and held tight to the cot as he ran his tongue across the sensitive nub. He let his other hand caress his lover’s tight belly, roving down to the springy curls that surrounded his now rampant cock.
Davy squirmed and whimpered under the dual teasing. The tip of his cock was wet already, and Marshall worked the fluid around with his thumb and transferred his attentions to the other nipple. “Are you feeling ravished yet?” he mumbled around the tiny nub, and gave it another careful pinch.
“You’re getting there,” Davy said breathlessly. His nails dragged across Marshall’s shoulder. “In fact, I—oh!”
Marshall had taken a firm grasp of the main objective and began licking a slow trail from chest to groin. He paused to kiss and lick the navel. His own wasn’t especially sensitive, but such attentions drove Davy mad. When his whimper indicated that objective was achieved, Will proceeded to mount his main assault.
Such a silly thing, a cock. The Great Architect must have a truly bizarre sense of humor. But when attached to a beloved, what a perfect gauge of passion.
He had not paid such homage often. In the years since they’d become lovers, Davy had often thrown dignity to the wind and worshipped Will’s body with his mouth. Marshall, squeamish, had offered but had usually been relieved when the offer was declined.
Now, for reasons he did not understand himself, Davy’s cock became an object of veneration. He slid the foreskin down, rubbing the slippery head against his lips, delighting in the stifled cry the movement produced. Holding it tight, he ran his tongue delicately around its head.
Davy’s fingers tangled in his hair, and a whispered, “Oh, yes!” delighted him. And then he took it wholly into his mouth, letting his tongue move against its length, and Davy let out a low moan and rose up to meet him.
He feasted. Why this had bothered him before he could not say, but some inner censor had at last been silenced, and he took such delight in pleasing this precious human being that he felt he had almost become some other person. There was no room here for William Marshall’s sense of dignity, the burden of rank or position.
There was only Will, who loved Davy, who was whimpering, “Yes, please!” and writhing on the cot in complete abandon.
He cupped Davy’s balls in one hand, reaching back to tickle his sensitive opening, and Davy trembled, thrust, and cried out quietly as he pushed Will’s face against him and arched, tensing as his body spent itself and then relaxing completely.
Marshall snatched the bottle of wine from the table and took a long swallow, then draped himself over his lover and pulled the blanket over them both. So strange; he had not reached his own satisfaction, but Davy’s pleasure was one he could feel in a magical, nearly physical way; he shared somehow in that release. He was conscious of Davy’s arms going around him before he dozed.
It could have been minutes that he lolled in the pleasant warmth of his lover’s embrace; it might have been longer. He wasn’t sure he ever really fell asleep. But eventually the gentle rocking of the sea brought him back to the awareness that he had not completed his task—and that however satisfied Davy might be, his own body was ready to be rewarded for its restraint.
He raised his eyelids a fraction and saw Davy’s blue eyes an inch away. “Are you prepared for further debauchery?” he asked courteously.
“Ye gods, Captain, I’d nearly forgotten what a determined fellow you can be.” Davy tangled both hands in Marshall’s hair and pulled him close for a long, involved kiss. “I shall await further debauching at your earliest convenience.”
Davy was such fun in bed. There was no other way to put it; his capacity for enjoyment was amazing. Marshall never ceased to marvel at how a man who had survived so much pain could feel and share such joy. Whatever the cause, he was blessed to have such a lover.
“Well, then.” He assessed the situation, realizing there wasn’t room for a really inspired ravishing. “I propose to leave no inch of you untouched.” He suited his action to the words, holding Davy close with one arm slid beneath his head while the other was left free to roam.
Davy’s lips parted, an obvious invitation for another kiss, as Marshall’s fingers slipped into the crevice of his arse. They didn’t have much room to move, but Davy crooked one leg up over Marshall’s hip, giving him free access. For a little while, he lost himself in the taste and feel of his lover, the heat as his searching fingers found their goal.
Davy jerked forward with a yip of surprise as he slid one finger inside. “That’s cold!”
“My apologies, sir. But you may be chillier still.” Shifting suddenly, he regained his feet beside the cot, turning Davy as he moved so the smaller man was now lying crosswise upon it, his arse caught on the edge and his legs hanging over the side. “Wait a moment.” He grabbed the pillow and wedged it beneath Davy’s head at the far side of the cot, then surveyed his prize. “Are you comfortable?”
Davy seemed to consider his position, Marshall standing between his outstretched legs with one knee crooked over each elbow. If Marshall let go, he’d slide right onto the floor, but he’d know Will would not let that happen.
He stretched his arms out to either side, along the starboard edge of the cot, grinning in a most abandoned fashion. “Quite comfortable, thank you. And yourself?”
Marshall took a step closer, bracing Davy’s rump against his own belly. “Doing very nicely.” He surveyed the riches spread out before him and could not resist stroking the strong thighs spread so invitingly. He felt Davy quiver as he dragged his fingernails slowly across the tender flesh. “I hardly know where to begin.”
Davy was watching him, his gaze so intense it felt like a touch. His eyes closed, though, when Will’s fingers reached his nipples.
Those soft pink lips parted soundlessly as he gasped for air. “Willlll….”
“What would you like?” Marshall asked. “Tell me, Davy….” He leaned forward and caught the sweet lips with his own, tasting, probing. He could feel Davy hardening against him once more, and his own body responded a hundredfold. “What do you want?”
Davy’s body lifted up against his; there was a sharp twinge as their cocks brushed together. “—me.” Davy murmured.
“What’s that?”
“Fuck me! Damn it, Will! It’s been so long—”
He tried to catch Marshall’s arse, but his arms weren’t long enough. Will laughed softly. “You want to be thoroughly ravished, then?”
“Yes!”
And his own body was saying now! Quickly, he found the jar of salve in the canvas bag slung from the hook that supported the hammock. He leaned down to kiss Davy again as he took the cork out of the jar, scooped out a fingerful of the salve, and covered his own cock with the stuff.
He slid what was left into Davy and smiled as his lover bore down around his invading fingers. “Patience, Mr. St John!”
“To hell with patience, Will, take me!”
The heated whisper was like oil on fire, but Marshall had sworn to himself, long ago, that he would never, under any circumstances, risk causing Davy pain. So he took his time, easing his fingers in, using a long, deep kiss as distraction while he made sure his lover was ready to receive him.