I felt he was granting himself some form of absolution in this, and I was very pleased to hear it, yet… I pulled his fingers away.
“I can fall,” I whispered, “Or rather, if melancholy grips me, I will want to lie down and not rise… for a time… I am not so prone to it with you in my life, though.”
He nodded. “I will stand and hold the cart when you cannot. We might not move for a time, though. Unlike you, I do not believe I can haul the cart and you. That too, will cause me to lose my footing.”
“As long as the cart does not roll away and smash somewhere at those times, I do not care if we move or not,” I said.
I saw the love I felt in his eyes.
“Thank you for saying that,” I whispered. “I needed to hear it. And, if I am the stolid member of the team, which is a thing I would have scarce believed of myself in any pairing a year ago…”
He chuckled. “When you teamed with those more sure-footed than yourself, without a cart.”
“Oui.” I chuckled. At Gaston’s curious frown, I said, “I can envision Alonso as a wolf, sitting in the traces before some ramshackle vehicle that would have rattled apart if we attempted to move it, as indeed it did. And he is holding the bridge of his snout in consternation with one paw. It is a thing he did when he was displeased with me.” I demonstrated Alonso’s gesture and expression and Gaston grinned. “And I am standing there arguing with him, a centaur with a wolf pelt draped over my back, as if that will disguise me. And we argue about some matter such as our not being able to move until he appreciates the sunset.” I sighed.
Gaston shared my amusement, and then he caressed my cheek. “I no longer feel jealous of the Damn Spaniard.”
“Good,” I said. “We are a team, a well-matched team. And, as I was saying, if I am the stolid one, then you are the one who leads and sets our pace.”
Tears welled in his eyes and he clutched at me and looked away. “I am sorry. I am… It is as it always is when I am thus. Everything is so loud and bright, and I feel things so intensely.”
“You need not apologize,” I murmured. “You are still caught in the storm that overtook you in Port Royal, are you not?”
“Oui. If I concentrate on you, I am well, but it is as if we stand in a blizzard, pressed shoulder to shoulder. I do not feel I can walk for fear of falling again.”
I grinned. “I wish I could toss you in the cart and haul you along.”
He sighed. “I feel that is what occurred as we sailed here.”
“Do you wish to use the manacles again?” I asked carefully.
He shook his head. “I am reluctant.”
“Then what can I do to offer you comfort? You have done well, alone with me.” I chuckled. “I would say we have done very well indeed while alone.”
He gave a shuddering sigh, but he smiled. “Oui.”
“Should we slip away again? I feel we have won much this day, Savant at least. And though there was danger of it, they did not rip us apart like a pack of hounds. Let us take our things and go for a few days as we planned.”
“Oui,” he at last sighed with relief. His gaze met mine. “Let us hide away somewhere and make love. That is an intensity of emotion and sensation I will gladly feel again.”
My breath caught. “Thank the Gods,” I sighed happily.
He grinned.
We gathered our weapons and bags and went to find the others and tell them of our intentions. Gaston transferred his musket to his left hand, and his right stole into mine. I knew I would not be releasing it until we were well away from the sounds and sights of other men.
A cannon was being hoisted over the side of the Belle Mer, and I assumed she would be careened first. Up the beach, where the meadow intercepted the sand, men were working on boucan pits. A number of men had apparently left to hunt after the morning’s events, as there were fewer on the beach than before. Still, there were some men clumped about, not engaged in any useful activity.
We spied Striker and Pete talking with Cudro and some of the men from the Queen. I wondered where the rest of our cabal were.
Striker eyed us speculatively, and Pete and he came to meet us as we approached.
“Young Tom died,” Striker said quietly. “Dickey and the Bard would speak with you. The Bard feels you walk on water.”
“Well, assure him I do not,” I chided. “I do not even splash about on its surface.”
“Cudro wishes to start schooling men. Are you available?” Striker looked at Gaston curiously.
“Nay,” I said quickly. “Our time to… run about... was curtailed, and we have decided we are still in need of it.”
Striker did not appear to like that idea. “There are hunting parties all through the woods now.”
“Then we will stay on the beaches,” I said. “And avoid cattle.”
“AvoidLookin’LikeACow,” Pete said.
“Can you not stay on the ship?” Striker asked quietly.
I looked to Gaston. He was looking at the sky, but his hand squeezed mine painfully.
“Nay,” I sighed. “We must take our chances in the wilds.”
“I would rather you didn’t,” Striker said.
“Is that an order?” I asked.
He snorted. “Could I give you one?”
I winced, and we immediately looked about to see if anyone else had witnessed that unfortunate exchange. I was damned if I would be seen as challenging Striker’s leadership. Thankfully, there were only the four of us. No one else seemed to be paying us much heed, or close enough to overhear if they were looking our way. As for us, Gaston was not pleased; Pete was not either. They were staring at the horizon as if it annoyed them. Striker’s gaze met mine again.
“You are captain,” I said quietly.
He swore as quietly and looked away.
“Though I would rather not test that on this matter,” I added.
He nodded with a snort of amusement. “Nor would I.” He met my gaze again. “You truly cannot?”
“We will be very careful,” I assured him. “Just for a few days. Please.”
“Do not beg him for me,” Gaston spat, and then he addressed Striker earnestly. “I am not well. I am more of a threat to us, you included, here, now, than anyone else on this island will be a threat to us out there unless they are as many as they are on this beach. Out there, we take them if necessary. Here, there will just be trouble.”
“HeBeRight,” Pete said quietly. “HeBeNoGoodHere. WillBeCarin’ Fur’ImAnNothin’Else. WeAllBeWatchin’ AnWorryin’’Bout TheBothO’’Em. ThenYaGotThe FrenchiesTalkin’’Bout That. Let’EmGo.”
Striker swore and glared at Gaston and me. “I don’t want to lose either of you. I won’t forgive the damn bastards if something were to happen. And I don’t know what I would do then.”
I wanted to embrace him, but I had a musket in one hand and Gaston in the other. With a sigh, I thrust the musket at Pete, who thankfully had the good sense to take it. Then I embraced Striker with my free arm. He returned it.
“You are quite the mother hen,” I whispered. “And I love you as a brother for it.”
“I wouldn’t cluck so much if I didn’t have such unruly chicks,” he chided as he released me. “Now get out of here.”
“We will return in two days,” Gaston said.
Striker sighed. “Can you guarantee that you will be able to in two days?”
Gaston studied the ground. “If the storm gripping me now has not passed, Will can chain me to a tree when we return.”
“ThatAin’t GonnaHappen,” Pete said.
Striker met my gaze and we smiled.
“Nay, it’s not,” Striker said.
I shook my head. “We will return and let you know we are well, in two days at the latest.”
“I will hold you to that,” Striker said. “Now leave.”
Pete handed me my musket and embraced me warmly. He looked to do the same to Gaston and thought better of it.
We slipped away among the wind-b
lown trees along the shore. We made our way around the northern side of the island for a few hours, until Gaston at last found a cove sheltered by a little thrust of land. It was a lovely place. Due to the sand banks, there was a lagoon, and the water by the beach was quite tame and devoid of surf.
We had not heard the musket fire of hunters for a while. Still, we sat in the shadows of the trees in silence, and listened until the birds became accustomed to our presence, and the ones we had passed earlier had forgotten us and heralded no one else.
“Now what shall we do?” I teased when at last he seemed to relax.
He grinned. “I shall teach you to swim.”
I stood and eyed the clear waters of the lagoon with trepidation. I could see fish swimming about. “I do not suppose we could find a body of water with nothing living in it?”
“I cannot teach you to swim in a cistern.” He grinned.
He was shedding his weapons and arranging them carefully along the shore. I understood his reasoning and did likewise. When we finished, we could leave the lagoon from any side and find a loaded piece and a blade.
Then we doffed our clothing. He smeared his pale shoulders with fat.
“The sun is very bright upon the water, and I am not brown as you are,” he explained. “I burned my skin when first I learned to swim.”
“Will the fat help?”
“It will not hurt,” he said flatly.
“Who taught you to swim?” I asked.
“I taught myself.”
“Here?”
He snorted. “Will, the water in much of France is not much warmer than England’s. It is why no one in Christendom learns to swim unless they know the waters of the Mediterranean.”
He waded into the water. I followed. It felt luxurious on my tired body. Gaston took my hand and led me out until we were chest deep.
“Beyond bathing – which some have said I have an unhealthy fascination with – and our occasional splashing about in the surf, I have been fully immersed in water only twice,” I said. “Both times it was cold and decidedly unpleasant. This is not, but still…”
Gaston beckoned me closer and gently commanded, “Hold your nose and kneel down so that you are completely immersed.”
I did as he bade. It was no colder on my head than it had been elsewhere. I surfaced and found him grinning when I opened my eyes.
“Now, do it again with your eyes open,” he said.
I reluctantly complied, and was surprised to be able to see things. And my eyes did not sting as I had expected.
He began to teach me how to exhale under water, so that I need not hold my nose; and how to move about.
“I thought swimming involved staying above the water,” I said the fourth time I came to the surface.
“People who only wish to stay on top of the water are afraid of it. I will teach you how to cover distance on top of it, but first you need to lose your fear.”
“I feel I am conquering that fear,” I said.
He was grinning at me. “Do you think you will sink?”
I nodded. “If the water is deep enough.”
He shook his head and beckoned. “Do you trust me?”
“In all ways,” I said solemnly.
“You must trust me about water. You will not sink. The body floats.”
I snorted. “I know they float when dead.”
He kicked up from the bottom and spread himself atop the water for a moment, and then as I expected, he began to sink – but to my surprise, only so far; and then it was obvious he was floating with no conscious effort.
“All right, you can indeed float,” I said. “You even make it look quite relaxing.”
He bent at the waist and put his feet back under him. “Your turn. And it is relaxing, but it is like another thing you must relax to enjoy.” He grinned.
It took several tries, all of which failed because I panicked when I thought I sank too deep, or because I stiffened my body and somehow drove myself under. Gaston was patient, and when at last I floated there, staring up at the sky with the lightest reassuring touch of his fingers on my back, I wondered at how his madness truly worked upon him, in that he could be so calm here and now and so distraught only hours before. Did it have a thing to do with how relaxed he felt with his Horse? Was he a man trying to keep himself above water?
“Are you afraid of your madness?” I asked the sky, as I was still somewhat unsure of turning my head toward him while floating.
He moved closer to peer down at me with a frown. “Oui.”
“Perhaps you need to float on it.”
His frown deepened in thought and then slowly transmuted to a smile. “There are times when I am comfortably immersed in it.”
“As you were when we sailed here,” I said.
“Oui. And other times I hold myself above it, as when I wear the mask of reason.” He sighed. “Thank you for giving me another way to interpret it.”
“We will find the perfect metaphor yet, my love.”
He shook his head. “Non, Will, they are all excellent. They all provide perspective. They all… Before you, I had no one to discuss my madness with. It was a thing, an indescribable thing that overtook me. Now that I have someone to speak with about it, I must contain it within words and ideas that can be conveyed. It has given me power over it.”
I closed my eyes and floated, thinking on words and power. There was something just beyond my ken on the matter, some half-remembered myth or memory.
Gaston’s hand covered my member.
I looked at him with alarm. “I do not feel so steady…”
He grinned. “I am not playing. When first I learned to float I burned there. I would save you that.”
I winced and laughed. “Please do.”
“Though…” His grin widened. “I might as well.” His fingers began to move upon me. “Float, Will. Relax all except this.”
I knew I would not drown if I rolled away from him and got my feet under me; still, I felt defenseless. I squinted up at his shadowed face as my member rose to his challenge. His eyes were slightly narrowed, and though not hard and dangerous, there was a glint of something more sinister than mischief to them. Whatever that look might be named, my Horse found interest in it, and rose to that challenge as well.
“You enjoy my being helpless, do you not?” I murmured.
“You enjoy being helpless, do you not?” he asked huskily.
“Only at your hand.”
“My hand?” He grinned anew. “And ought else?”
“I surrender to every part of you.”
His gaze sobered, and he appeared almost pained; and then he was upon me. His mouth covered mine as he drove me under with his weight. I struggled not to panic, and to determine how to hold my breath while he plundered my mouth. I thought I would drown. Then there was only him. I realized I might drown in him, as he was far more encompassing than the water. When he released me, I did not move; I hung in some place near the darkness of unconsciousness, bereft of my senses, feeling everything and nothing.
He pulled me to the surface and my body gasped air of its own accord. I clung to him. He was very somber and conciliatory, not in words, but in his touch, as he led me to shore. He would not allow me to collapse in the sand, however; choosing instead to haul me farther into the shade, pausing only to take up a pistol as he went. When finally he leaned me against a palm next to our clothes and bags, I had stopped coughing and gasping, and I had discovered his cock was quite erect.
“I am sorry…” he started to say.
I stopped him with my mouth. I did not want words.
He returned my kiss hungrily, and my manhood rose to match his in the ferocity of its tumescence.
“I thought to wait until the sunset,” he whispered as his teeth explored my neck.
“Non,” I said emphatically. I did not wish to explain how he would not deny me at this moment. It seemed a waste of precious breath.
We were as frantic and awkward as two lads.
I turned and hugged the tree with one arm, sparing my manhood from the bark with the other. His greased fingers were soon upon me, and I squatted into them, willing myself to open and convince him I could take them all, or his whole damn hand if necessary, just to speed the process along.
He did not make me wait. He impaled me smoothly, in a long vertical thrust that pushed me up the trunk. My knees weakened at the feel of it, and the tree felt as if it groaned inaudibly against my chest. The world spun and I closed my eyes. Partly to take him deeper, and partly because I was unsteady on my feet, I settled onto him and he pushed back, until we reached some balance of position. Then he held still. He was huge inside me, but I did not feel rent asunder so much as held from within and without, embraced in warmth that saturated my soul. I felt as I had under the water with his mouth upon me. I could not breathe. There was only Gaston. Somehow I needed to come up for air.
I gasped, little meaningless sounds. Words would not come, until finally, “fuck,” escaped my lips in a short bark.
Thankfully he understood and began to move. He thrust upward, lifting me with every stroke. Though my chest was oblivious to the tree’s rough caress, I was still somewhat mindful of my cock. Yet, I cared not if it felt pleasure. In fact, it did not. It nestled full but weak in my hand, and allowed all sensation to radiate from my arse. He seemed larger with every stroke, and I felt I was being pushed open by degrees, until at last he might crawl inside me, and I could hold him there forever and never be without him.
And then he came, with a growl and one last shove. I could feel him throb within me. I clenched; both to wring him dry and keep him. But alas, he eventually slid free despite my efforts.
We stood panting for a time: him holding me, and I the tree. And then he covered my shoulders with light kisses and licks.
“Are you well?” he murmured.
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