The Gentleman and the Rogue (22 page)

The sour, sick feeling that always churned in the pit of Alan's stomach when remembering those hellish hours in Badajoz was still there, yet he felt unaccountably lighter. Perhaps it was speaking the words aloud which had unburdened him. He'd never said a word about what he'd seen to anyone, not even Badgeman, who'd experienced enough horror himself.

As the carriage came to a corner, a shaft of sunlight pierced the overcast sky and gleamed on the rain-slicked road. The sudden light was like the odd feeling rising inside Alan, hopeful and new. Despite his fears on Annie's behalf, despite his worries about the future, he felt better than he had in a very long time.

Chapter Thirteen

Jem couldn't bear the thought of Alan pale and near death, bleeding on the ground, dumped there by that bastard Schivvers. The anger settled in his gut, heavy and sour.

He had to think, a change for a lad who'd always responded to the heat of the moment with pure action. That response had kept him alive in his old life. This new one required another style. Jem would come up with a solution to this problem of the girl and stop his master's useless fretting over the past.

He closed his eyes and recalled the visit to the servants' domain of Schivvers's house. No sign of anything havey-cavey, though with the exception of his new chum Melvin, the lot of them struck him as even more full of airs and arrogance than Mrs. C. They'd unbent slightly after they'd seen the phaeton, washed clean by a stableboy at the inn after its long, rough journey. Burton must have decided a wealthy baronet's valet was top of the trees enough to warrant their civility. In fact, the butler had allowed Melvin to give him a tour of some of the house, which had ended only when Jem had been brought before Schivvers. They hadn't toured the bedrooms, of course, or the basement, which Melvin referred to as the master's workspace.

The footman had lowered his voice and glanced up and down the empty hallway with his bulging eyes. “The master's workroom is kept locked at all times. The maids ain't even allowed to go in and clean. We don't even go down the stairs.” He raised his eyebrows at Jem as he shared this juicy titbit.

“How're you going to pack it up, then? I thought you lot were heading down to London.”

Melvin had heaved a big sigh. “Just learned today the servants are to stay on here, as we're attached to the house. The master travels alone with the girl. He doesn't so much as go out without her.”

Poor Melvin, Jem had thought. No big-city adventure for him.

“We expect Mr. Schivvers won't stay long in the south, for he isn't removing all his possessions to London. He don't tell us his plans, but mentioned he would only take his books and such.”

“So you do have some work to do packing up.”

Melvin had shaken his head. “Not at all. He keeps them locked away down there.” He'd pointed dramatically at the stairs leading to the basement and Schivvers's mysterious chamber.

His journals. Of course.

Now, rolling along the rutted country road, Jem opened his eyes and absently pushed the back of his hand at the trickle of rain down his cheek. “Sir. What do you think he'd keep in them notebooks? The servants said he kept a close eye on them. Keeps 'em locked up in a 'workroom.'”

Alan had been staring at something far away over the horses' backs. No doubt looking back at those bad Spanish memories of his. “What are you suggesting, Jem?”

“You need something he cares about to trade for the chit. Or something to hold over him if he comes after her, p'raps. Yeah, that's the way. Tell Schivvers you'll keep mum about what's in those books of his if he gives her up.”

Alan straightened. As he did, a rush of cold water washed down from the protective brim of his hat onto his nape, and he grimaced as he rubbed his neck. “I doubt we could wield much power with those books,” he said slowly, “but any weapon we can find in this situation might be useful.”

We, Jem thought.
That's good.

“I wonder how we could get such a thing,” Alan said thoughtfully.

The rain had finally stopped, and Jem pulled out a handkerchief to wipe the last of the damp from his face and hair. He jammed the wet cloth back into his pocket, determined to speak. Sir Alan wouldn't be surprised to learn of his other talents, so he might as well admit the truth. Still, he kept his eyes focused on Alan as he said, “Now's the time to tell you about my time as a standing budge.”

“Pardon?”

“Early on, as a wee chub, I'd scout the lay. I learned to dub the gig of the case.”

The corners of Alan's mouth twitched. “English, if you please.”

Jem grinned. He positively loved the gleam of amused exasperation Alan shot at him. Jem raised his voice and spoke slowly, as if explaining to a simpleton. “I was a scout for housebreakers. They also taught me how to open the doors of the houses.”

“Are you suggesting that you break into Schivvers's house?” The amusement died in Alan's eyes.

“Sure. I'd nab the books and even the kiddie, if I can find her. I'll wager my new shoes I sniff out those books. Easy enough. They'd lie in that workroom of his.”

Alan shook his head. “No. Too much of a risk. He is naturally suspicious, and now that I've visited, he'll be far more alert. I'll wait for him to remove to London and take care of the matter then, using legal means. I'm still hopeful I can be named a guardian for the girl.”

Jem made a rude sound with his lips. “Legal be damned if he takes off to save his bacon. You think you'll find the bastard so easy once he flees this small town?”

“I think it's a chance we'll have to take. If you got caught breaking into his house, he wouldn't think twice about killing you, and the law would be on his side. As it is, he surely knows your story about waiting for the twins was a lie.” He frowned at Jem. “Tell me, are there truly twins? Redheaded twins?”

Jem resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “'Course there were. I know a suspicious cove like that would check my story.”

Alan smiled. And then he laughed, a lovely rich sound echoing through the country lane and the still-dripping trees. “You were good, Jem. I'm impressed.”

Despite the chill in the air and from his wet clothes, Jem felt warmth down to his fingers and toes. He was silly to care about the man's approval, but no denying the fact of it. He considered dropping the topic—his gadfly act might annoy Alan. But he was convinced they had to act fast.

“That Mr. Schivvers isn't coming back north, I'd reckon. He don't tell the servants here boo. Maybe he's secretive always, but I'd wager a pony he's planning to disappear into the night. I mean this night, too. Or maybe next. He's got the coin for it.” Jem paused. Maybe that could be point, a way to gain power over the man. Find something dirty as the source of his riches. “Surgeons ain't exactly wealthy—how'd he get his money?”

“I don't know. Perhaps he robbed enough dead soldiers to make his fortune, or perhaps he has inherited money. I know very little about his family except he has no parents or siblings.”

No one to notice if the man simply disappeared, Jem couldn't help but think.
That'd be the easiest solution
. The rain had stopped, but now a breeze picked up, and Jem began to shiver.

“Bloody English weather,” Alan said. He turned the horses into the inn's stable yard. “We'll change clothes and discuss what to do next.”

We'll discuss it
. Jem liked hearing that.

Up in their room, Jem built up the fire, and they stripped to their bare skin quickly. Jem jumped under the thick eiderdown and heaved a sigh. “There is nothing better 'n being frozen to the bone.”

“What on earth can you mean?”

“Because warming up is bliss.” He winked and grinned at his master.

Alan stood naked by the fire, rubbing his hair with a cloth. He spread out his shirt and trousers so they would dry more quickly.

“You're doin' my job for me, sir.” Jem heaved up on an elbow and watched. The firelight picked out the muscles of Alan's back and arms. Very nice.

“Don't think I haven't noticed.” Alan squatted and picked up a stocking. He grunted as he rose to his feet. The damp weather must have been making his leg hurt like hell. He draped the stocking over the back of a chair. “I should dock your pay.”

“Teach me a lesson,” Jem agreed. He slid back from the edge of the bed in invitation.

He was almost certain Alan would refuse, likely say something about making plans for travel or the obscenity of such a thing as two men in bed together—particularly in the middle of the day—but he only shook his head and ambled over to the edge of the bed. “A lesson, eh?”

To Jem's great delight, he lifted the covers and climbed in. But instead of lying down, he reached over for Jem and…

“Youch! You got ice instead of hands.” Jem bolted upright.

“And your skin is warm. You're quite right. Warming one's self
is
pleasant.” Alan continued to run his freezing fingers up Jem's side, ignoring his protests and laughter.

What the hell? Was the man
playing
? The grave and glum Lord Doom was behaving like a child.

Jem could only hope so.

He struggled away and got onto his hands and knees, facing Alan, who'd landed on his side during the brief onslaught. Praying he wasn't overstepping his role in this new game, Jem started to crawl toward him. “My hands aren't so very warm either, sir. Lemme show you.”

“Oh, I don't think so.” Alan scrambled to his knees, hands outstretched, ready to grab at Jem when he attacked.

The two of them were wrestling, fighting to see who could use the other as a hand warmer. Jem wiggled free and rolled away from Alan. He loomed over Alan, trying to reach his armpits with his own icy hands. Yes, Alan was cursing and laughing as much as Jem, who wanted to crow with joy. Instead he used that burst of pure energy to pin his master and wrap his arms and legs tight around him. Cold fingers had warmed, and now their touches gentled. Horseplay turned into another, even more pleasurable play.

Jem ran his fingers through Alan's still-damp hair and cupped his scalp. He pulled his face close for a long kiss that started easy and light. Alan tilted his head, and the kiss deepened at once.

When Jem pulled back, he wanted to slow things down. Savor the time together and not just fall into the animal lust. Although, God above, the animal lust was perfect too. There were so many things he had longed to do and say to Alan all day, and so few he could. He stroked the man's rough cheek. “You ought to let your valet shave you. He'd do a better job than this.”

Alan turned his head to the side and kissed Jem's thumb. “That's not necessary. My valet's fine right where he is, thank you.”

“Yah,” Jem muttered. “Though truth is, he's better 'n fine at the moment. Truth is, he'd stay right here forever if he could.”

Alan's answering smile was faint and maybe a little sad. Jem gave up fighting the heat for a few minutes. They lay side by side, and Jem kissed him on the cheek, the eyes, and moved again to his mouth for hot, thick kisses. His cock, already aching and hard, pushed against Alan's thigh. Alan groaned into his mouth and wrapped his hand around him.

Jem thrust into the circle of his hand. He longed to push Alan onto his back and fuck him, shove hard into his body. Imagining that pleasure made the lust surge and his heart race. He'd grab Sir Alan and demand he open to him and let him sink into that tight bliss.

But he already knew how well they could catch fire. Passion gave Alan an excuse for giving in to desire. It was the other, rarer moments Jem aimed for now. And just as he'd gentled his kiss, now he drew in a deep breath and pulled back from the body he craved. Time to see if Alan would allow a display of the devotion he so longed to show. He kissed his way down Alan's body, stroking his skin, touching the scars and kissing every one—the light tracing of silver on his biceps, the twisted, gnarled flesh on his side, and all the smaller marks and cuts in between.

Alan drew a sharp breath as Jem lightly kissed and then licked his cock. Jem gently cradled his balls, which were already drawn tight. He put his mouth around the other man's cock and looked up into his face. Alan's eyes were shut tight, his jaw clenched. He blindly, roughly stroked Jem's hair and face, silently begging.

Ah damn. Jem couldn't resist the urgent need. He gave up on the soft kisses and softer talk, and drew Alan into his mouth. He sucked and licked hard, concentrating only on the greediest part of Alan—his aroused body—and not the whole man.

It didn't take long before Alan's cock swelled impossibly large. He spent with a quiet, choked sob that might have been a word. He didn't even open his eyes before his breath slowed and his body sank into sleep.

Alan slept as soundly as a well-protected baby. Jem had seen few of those, but he had seen some lulled to unconsciousness by gin in the tavern, put to sleep by their mums so they could do a bit of trade. You could laugh and shout near them, and they wouldn't so much as twitch.

Jem curled himself around the man's back, pressing his erection along the delicious cheeks he longed to thrust between. Alan made a sleepy sound of contentment but didn't move.

Jem would let him sleep. God knew the man needed it. Eventually he rolled onto his back and examined the fine collection of body parts next to him—shoulders, legs, waist, and rear—as he took care of his own need with a bit of what the preachers called self-pollution. He stroked his cock slowly, taking his time until he spent with a grunt and a sigh. He wiped his belly and chest with the edge of the sheet.

Alan never moved, and his slow, easy breathing didn't change. Jem hadn't seen him sleep so soundly before, hadn't known he could.

Maybe the talk of Badajoz had helped to banish some ghosts. Temporarily, of course. Jem knew such memories would haunt a man for a lifetime.

Despite his self-made sweet release, Jem was still restless and soon climbed from the bed. He pulled on his clothes, which were only slightly damp thanks to the roaring fire he'd built. He straightened the room and looked at Alan. The man was still profoundly asleep.

Jem picked up a book and leafed through it, trying to find words he knew. He checked Alan again. Still asleep.