Raised By Wolves 1 - Brethren (87 page)

“I did not mean to discomfort you. Allow me to present myself, I am called Will.” I bowed.

She flushed a little and curtsied awkwardly.

“Madam,” there was evident pride in the title, “Yvette Doucette. I know what I look like.”

I winced inwardly at the shame in her words. “You are quite lovely from all angles save one.”

She regarded me quizzically, and then she smiled. “Thank you.”

I cocked my head toward Doucette and queried, “Your husband, perhaps?”

She nodded proudly. I responded with a respectful nod of my own.

That was interesting. Gaston had not mentioned a wife.

“I am Gaston’s matelot,” I said and indicated him.

“Gaston?” Her eyes widened for a moment, and then she smiled and regarded him with new interest. “So that is Gabriel? We have not met. I arrived after he left.”

I blinked at my matelot stupidly. Gabriel? I felt unusually stupid.

Of course Gaston was not his given name. It might not even be his surname. Many of the buccaneers had a habit of taking on whatever name suited them or others; I had.

“Oui,” I muttered for her benefit.

She was frowning. “He is so lucky. You cannot tell.”

“What?”

“That he is scarred. Monsieur Doucette says he would not have been able to save me, if it were not for what he learned from treating Gabriel.

He has said I am less scarred about my body, but I feel Gabriel is far luckier. He has no marks one can see.”

I noticed she was wearing long lace sleeves. I also noticed Gaston and Doucette were no longer talking, and they were now looking to us.

Doucette studied me with a dismayed frown very similar to the one Gaston wore while perusing Madam Doucette.

Monsieur Doucette sprang to his feet and stepped to the girl’s side.

“This is my wife, Yvette. My dear, this is Gabriel.”

“Gaston,” Gaston said firmly and then nodded toward me. “That is my matelot, Will. Will, Doucette.”

The dismay returned to Doucette’s eyes as he regarded me. Then he smiled pleasantly and it was gone, though it was replaced by a hint of resignation.

“Pleased to meet you, I am sure.” He bowed.

I returned it. “Likewise. And this is our friend, Tom...” I struggled to remember his surname. “Eaton.”

Tom frowned as he did not speak a word of French, but at mention of his name after seeing an obvious introduction, he demonstrated a sufficient understanding of the situation to bow correctly.

“I hope you will all be staying,” Doucette said.

Gaston nodded. “For a while.”

“Excellent. We have several guest rooms upstairs.” He turned to lead us. I began to gather our gear. I explained where we were to go to Tom.

He asked if he could stay with Dickey, and Gaston relayed this to Doucette, who nodded amicably. So Gaston and I followed Doucette and his wife through the courtyard, up the stairs, and along a wide balcony, to a room with a series of slatted doors for a wall and a wide window on the other side. There was a bed, desk, chair and to my amazement, a tub. Madam Doucette noticed my delight. “I can have the boys bring water.”

“Please.”

She called down to the first boy and told him to fetch others and then water. Doucette was leaning on the wall, regarding Gaston, who was doffing his weapons. The physician approached my matelot and I thought that perhaps they would finally embrace; but instead, Doucette swiped at the mask about Gaston’s eyes and asked, “Why do you persist in doing that?”

Gaston flinched and glared at him. “I like it and it bothers you.”

Madam Doucette and I exchanged a glance and then looked elsewhere. And here I had wondered why Gaston had painted himself with the mask that morning, as he had not done so in weeks.

“I would like Yvette to see your scars,” Doucette said. “I have told her much about them.”

“Doucette,” Madam Doucette chided softly.

Gaston heaved a resigned sigh. Doucette did not flinch from his gaze or retract his words. Gaston removed his tunic. Now I was annoyed, but I said nothing.

Madam Doucette gasped. “They are worse than mine. I am sorry.”

Gaston regarded her quizzically. She began to unlace her bodice.

I frowned. The boy staggered in with a large pail of water, followed by two equally burdened Negro boys. They filled the tub and the first boy announced he would bring the kettle up. I nodded acknowledgement as no one else seemed prone to.

Madam Doucette doffed her blouse; and I found myself staring at what would have been two lovely breasts if they had not been marred with long puckered scars.

“Yvette was slashed with a knife,” Doucette was saying. “Thirty-three times. All fairly deep wounds, but not mortal in the usual sense; though I faced blood loss and the concerns of infection, as I did with you.”

He began to drone on about the treatments he had employed. Madam Doucette looked uncomfortable.

I could see Gaston struggling with his composure. I could see his hand beginning to clench and unclench. Near that hand, I noted something else that was quite shocking. There was a telltale bulge in the front of his breeches. Gaston had an erection.

I was both overjoyed and depressed.

I stepped into the midst of them and faced Doucette, with Gaston safely behind me.

“That is enough.”

I was peripherally aware of Madam Doucette quickly dressing and the boy returning with the kettle. Doucette occupied the center of my attention, though. He seemed quite flummoxed that I had dared intercede, though he was not angry. His mouth opened and closed several times before he spoke.

“Why do you take issue with…?”

“Surely you dissemble,” I said calmly. “Are you blind or just insensitive?”

Doucette recoiled and looked from Gaston to his wife and back again. “I meant no…”

Gaston’s arm snaked around me, and I was forced to fight my own onslaught of anxiety as he pressed against me from behind. I could feel the thing I had seen; and I heard him gasp in my ear, as he must have felt it too. I wondered if he had been aware.

“You will have to excuse Will,” Gaston said tightly. “He is very protective.”

“I am sorry,” Doucette said.

“I do not mind showing the lady that someone is more scarred than she,” Gaston said. “But…”

“Non, say no more. You are correct,” Doucette said. “I have been beastly.” Madam Doucette hurried from the room with a small sound.

With a last apologetic look to us, Doucette ran after her, pleading her name.

Gaston released me and I closed the wall of doors. Once we had privacy, I regarded him. The bulge was still there.

“Perhaps you should enjoy that while you have it,” I said gently.

He shook his head and turned his back to me. “Non, it is vile.”

This was quite alarming to hear. “Why is it so?”

“It is wrong.”

“Oui, but why?” I moved so that I could at least see him in profile and sat on the bed. The telltale bulge was gone. He had effectively dismissed it. The very idea of that was akin to blasphemy to me, and I was disappointed.

“I am not supposed to have one in response to her. She is my friend’s wife and a fellow victim and a lady and… she is not you.”

His words were very sweet in content, but his agitation and mounting anger belied them. “Your reaction to her could be considered the sincerest flattery for her as your friend’s wife, and for her beauty as a lady. And as for the other, you are a man, and your member obviously favors women, as most men’s do. There is nothing wrong with that.”

He turned to face me. His breathing had grown shallow and his eyes were filled with tears. What alarmed me the most was the spasmodic clenching of his fists.

“I dissemble,” he spat. “Do not excuse my behavior until you know the depth of its depravity. It was not because she was a woman. I have seen a number of naked women, and that has not occurred.”

I held up my hands in supplication. If I had thought it would calm him I would have left and let the conversation lie; but I knew we would see this through. I chose to ignore his references to depravity for the moment.

“Perhaps it has occurred now because you have been stimulated in other ways of late and your manhood has begun to wake. And… Have the other naked women been in close proximity to you, and comfortable in your nakedness? Those factors could have profound impact on your perception of the situation.”

His eyes were hard. “That is not why.”

“Then tell me.”

“She resembled my sister. Not truly in face, but in hair and color and… body.” He choked on the last word and looked away.

“Oh,” I said stupidly as many things leapt into my thoughts. It would explain a great deal. It made several pieces of the puzzle slide into alignment; and I doubted my conclusive leap was on faith alone, but more on logic in light of the evidence presented.

“You would not be the first man attracted in that way to one’s own kin. There have been numerous plays. All tragedies, as you well know…

.” I winced at my last choice of words and he turned to me again.

“Say it,” he snarled. “I cannot. Say it!”

I understood what he wanted now. “It is likely…”

I took another deep breath and rushed into it. “It is likely you bedded your sister, and that was the event that drove your father to act toward you as he did with such rage and malice.”

He took a long, shuddering breath and nodded. “When I realized I had become aroused, I… It was as if a door opened for just a moment, and I saw… My sister was my angel, lying in that bed all in white.”

I waited, as he seemed lost in reverie. When the tension left his shoulders I said quietly, “Gaston, it is good that you know this now. You can forgive yourself and…”

His eyes snapped to mine, and they glittered with anger – and something else.

“Non!”

I sat very still and forced myself not to look away, or even blink, until his eyes flicked from mine.

“There was more,” he whispered. “I cannot see it.” He regarded his slowly opening and closing hand as if he could see a thing I could not.

“Blood.”

I recalled every reference, no matter how slender, he had ever made concerning his sister, family, or that event. He had said his sister was dead. I was faced with a dilemma. Should I prompt him and possibly bring the last thing to light so that we could be done with the mystery once and for all? Or should I let him be? I wanted done with it.

“You said your sister died. How? Did your father…?”

“Non!” he hissed; and he was upon me, driving me back onto the bed with his fingers clawing at my mouth to close it. I did not resist. I lay quiet beneath him.

“Non, non, non,” he moaned as he collapsed on my chest. I was not sure if I had an answer to my last supposition, or not. After a while, I wrapped my arms around him, and he quieted somewhat.

I pulled his fingers off my lips. They would be bruised later.

“We should use that tub,” I said gently. I rubbed his back a bit, and eased him over to my side. He lay where I left him, with his eyes closed.

I pressed a kiss on his temple and went to check the tub. It was fine.

His eyes were open when I returned to the bed, and he asked calmly.

“Why would I do such a thing? I remember all the visits I made home, and that did not occur during any of them. If the supposition is true, then it was only that once.”

“I do not know. Perhaps it did not occur and we are leaping to unwarranted conclusions.” I did not believe this, even as I said it; and I could tell from his eyes he did not, either.

He shook his head. “It was her.”

I nodded. “And there is more to it. I do not want you to think on it now, though. I want you to bathe, and I will trim your hair and shave you, and then perhaps you can nap for a time. That seems to set you to rights.”

“I am sorry,” he whispered.

I gave him a grim smile and pulled him to standing. “Do not be sorry. Do not apologize to me for things you cannot help. Though I would appreciate some contrition over things you can.”

“What would you have me apologize for?” he asked earnestly as he doffed his breeches.

I could not help but look at his flaccid member and wonder a great many things. I looked away and shrugged as I led him to the tub.

“I cannot think of anything at the moment, but I am sure something will occur to me.”

He sat in the warm water, and I took up a sponge to bathe him. My hand shook, and we saw it.

“Do I frighten you?” he asked.

I found myself studying my hand, watching to see if it would succumb to the tremors again.

“It is not you, precisely,” I murmured. “The demon that possesses you manifests in rage and sorrow. My demon shows itself in fear and shame and sometimes melancholy. Yours just calls to mine, that is all.”

“Can you blame me for nothing?” he asked.

“You blame yourself for everything already; why should I add to it?”

He sighed and leaned forward at my urging, so that I could wash his back. “What do you fear when it grips you?”

“I cannot answer that. What are you angry at when the rage grips you?”

“I see. Everything and myself.”

“The fear is omnipresent, so much so that I feel I fear the fear itself. I can chase about and name things that cause it to twitch.”

“Have you always possessed it, or been possessed by it? Or did it develop when…?”

“Shane brought me to it. Before that, I was merely different and haunted by the knowledge that I was never quite as I should be in anyone’s eyes.”

We were silent as I finished bathing and shaving him. As I trimmed his hair, he spoke.

“Will, you must not let me abuse you so,” he said.

“But you do not.”

He frowned. “Will, the rain is the fault of no man, yet you are not so stupid that you would stand in it if you could seek shelter. When I storm, you need to seek shelter from me.”

“You asked me to never leave you; and I fear, truly and rationally, what would occur if you are left to your own designs or the mercy of others. I cannot abandon you when you need me most.”

He craned his head back so he could regard me. “Then fend me off and strike me, as you did on the galleon. Believe me, I will thank you for relieving me of my consciousness when I am in that state.”