Home From The Sea (10 page)

Even now, when the secret was out, he seemed reluctant to speak of it and chose his words with the utmost care. He turned around and put the scars out of sight by lying on them. Still in his britches, he sprawled across Jim’s bed and looked up at him unblinkingly.

“I might have been caught, but the men who’d have been very happy to flog me never actually did catch me. I won myself these souvenirs by speaking out in the
defense
of others. It was a stupid thing to do, I suppose, but at the time it was a … a matter of
honor
.”

“Damn.” Jim’s erection had dwindled, and he sat on the bedside, stroking the shape of Toby’s lean torso. “I know you don’t want to talk about it.”

“I don’t want to talk at all.” Toby’s half closed eyes were intent on Jim’s body, and his right hand crept into the warm folds at his groin. “I’m damaged goods, but if you still want me …”

“You’re very beautiful, Master Trelane,” Jim growled, “and we’re all of us damaged goods. What
d’you call
this?” He slapped his left thigh and then deliberately stood up, unbuttoned the britches and dropped them fast, along with his linen. With other men he had always dreaded this moment, because if one looked closely enough, his legs were obviously mismatched. The left was thinner than the right because the muscles were smaller, under the palm-sized scar he would carry for life. In a quick encounter he could often hide his legs in darkness or sheets, or contact too close for his partner to even see. But for the first time, with Toby, he realized he had no need to hide, and the realization was like the gift of liberty.

Toby saw everything. He saw the scar, the mismatched limbs and the hopeful erection which even now stood at half-mast. He saw it all, and he smiled. His hand extended for the second time, and Jim was glad to take the invitation.

He settled beside him, toying with the wide brass belt buckle, and then for the fun of teasing, ignored it and cupped his hand around the shape and bulk beneath the pale fawn britches. Toby was up and hard already. He gasped as Jim palmed him and pressed, and he did away with his own belt left-handed, flicked open the buttons and gave a curious wriggle.

Seduced, Jim delved inside, into warm linen and warmer flesh. He found a shaft as hard as a bar of iron wrapped delicately in satin, and curved his hand around it to measure its girth. Toby took a ragged breath and his hips lifted in a long, slow arch, sinuous as a snake.

He had a grace, even here, that Jim envied, and his hand began to move on the long, thick root of him while he watched Toby’s face to see what he liked, and how he liked it. For some time Toby seemed content to be handled, and then he caught Jim’s wrist to stop him and gave him a rueful look.

“One
more minute
, and it’ll be over.”

“I know,” Jim said smugly. “I know what you need.”

“But I don’t want it to be over,” Toby purred. “And I might be able to get by with your hand, but there’s a lot more I’d
like
, if you were willing.” He was catching his breath as Jim let him rest. “Have you done it often? Have you done it all?”

Oh, Jim knew what he meant, and while one part of him might have teased and pretended innocence, the rest of him was too eager. “Often enough,” he confessed, “and yes, I’ve done it
all
, as you put it … though not as often as you might think.”

Toby relaxed visibly. “Ah.”

“You didn’t want an ignorant little virgin?” Jim actually chuckled as he caught Toby’s britches in both hands and tugged them down and off.

“Not really.” Toby propped himself on both elbows and watched as Jim clambered over him, swung astride him as if he were mounting a pony, and settled there. “It
can
be sweet, educating a virgin, but it’s a weight of responsibility I don’t relish. The loss of innocence shouldn’t be taken lightly, and the education can be as bitter as sweet.”

“Ouch,” Jim observed. “Now, that was the voice of experience talking! You were ravished as a youth?”

“Good lord, no. But I’ve had a virgin or two,” Toby said wryly, “and I suppose I’m too tender hearted to be cavalier about the deed. It’s bloody hard work, getting it right, making it all sweet as flowers for them. And if you get it wrong, you’re a monster.” He shook his head with rueful
humor
. “Not tonight. Not here. I’m grateful for a man with some experience. A man,” he added, hunting for a kiss, “who knows how to handle me, knows how it all works … and what he wants.”

“What
you
want,” Jim added, breathing the words into Toby’s mouth.

“What I might want,” Toby murmured against his tongue, “if it were offered by a generous heart, with something like affection.”

They were words Jim had never heard from a man, though he had been with many in the years since he awoke to his desires. The London docks were a rare education on long, chill autumn nights. Jim had lost count of the men he had known, some for a night, others for only an hour. Once, he had spent a whole week with a French lad who was waiting for a specific ship, but even then – affection? The word had never been thought, much less mentioned.

And all at once he realized Toby was right. It was affection Jim had been longing for. Not just the delicious frisson of skin on skin, the heavy beat of another heart against his own, the eruption of excitement, old fashioned lust and pleasure beyond price. These things were precious, but there was more, and Jim had never yet let himself think that far.

Toby was a few years older. He had four or five more years under his belt, and the wants and needs had begun to mellow. Jim leaned down, held his weight on his palms and looked into the remarkable eyes. “You’re an odd one, Toby. Not like the rest.”

“You’ve said that before. But do you cherish me for it, or scorn me?” Toby wondered.

“Scorn,” Jim told him, “is the
last
thing I feel for you.” And he put his head down to kiss as, slowly and deliberately, he settled on Toby, matched their bodies hip to hip, shoulder to shoulder, and began to hump in the ancient, exquisite rhythm.

Soon enough – and far sooner than Jim would have preferred – the leg began to spasm and a thin knife of pain lodged in the muscles. He knew when to stop, and looked down into Toby’s face with a murmur of apology. Without a word, Toby’s arms closed about him and Jim found himself rolled over, set down on the mattress with surprising gentleness, before the slow, humping rhythm began again.

Toby might have been lean but he had
a strength
like whipcord, and Jim envied his muscles as well as the legs that never seemed to tire. A fine sheen of sweat broke across Toby’s skin. Jim’s fingers slipped in it, across the scarred back, and Toby stilled. He lifted his head, eyes closed, and Jim felt a shiver course through him. It might have been the first time anyone had touched those scars with a caress, an expression of tenderness.

With a soft sound that might have been anguish the balladsinger moved down, and down again, and Jim held his breath, expecting the heat of his mouth, wanting it.
Needing it.
He gasped, swore, as Toby’s lips discovered him, and his hands clenched into the sheet.

Oh, Toby Trelane was good at this. Jim could not remember another as skilled, nor as willing, and he
reveled
shamelessly in everything Toby gave him. At last the fair head lifted and Toby was on him again, hard, and heavy for one who was so slender. Those limbs possessed an astonishing strength, and Jim
reveled
in this too.

He was perilously close, and Toby knew it. He had wanted to taste Toby, feel the size and shape and heat on his tongue, but it seemed Toby was far too close to let him
do
it this time. Instead, he settled down and those strong hips kept the age-old rhythm as long as he could while Jim arched under him, thrust up against him, needing little more.

For a man whose songs could be ribald, he was strangely quiet as he came. Jim might have expected him to cry out, even to shout, but Toby made no sound at all. A moment later Jim followed him, holding onto the moment of pleasure, making it last as long as it would before reality encroached.

Rain pattered; one of the lamps stuttered in the draft from the shutter which had needed fixing for too long; far away, a dog was barking. The world righted and Jim opened his eyes to find himself looking into Toby’s face. His cheeks wore a slight
flush,
the blue eyes were languorous, dark.

“Thank you,” the balladsinger said, barely a murmur.

“You’re thanking me?” Jim chuckled. “It takes two to dance this particular quadrille.”

“And you dance it very well.”

“So do you.” Jim reached over the side of the bed for his shirt, which was bound for the laundry anyway, and used it to swab away the evidence. It was impossible to tell which seed was
his own
and which was Toby’s, and the thought made him smile. He threw the shirt toward the door and reached for the counterpane. “I’d speculate you’ve had a great deal of practice.”

“Some,” Toby admitted. “And before you ask … don’t. Please.”

“You’re full of secrets.” Jim frowned at him as he settled, head on the same pillow.

“I am indeed.” Toby stretched his spine, flexed his hips and shoulders. “And you’ll fare better for not knowing the reasons for them.”

But Jim was far from certain. He was sure of only one thing, and the thought haunted him as he lay awake, long after Toby was asleep. He wanted Toby Trelane here for a long time. Wanted to wake up with this body beside him, see this face first thing in the morning and last thing at night. And the only doubt that
bedeviled
him was the question of whether the balladsinger would stay, or if he was the wandering type whose feet itched to move on, no matter how agreeable the place he found himself.

Chapter Seven

Toby woke early, while dawn was still dim, and the first Jim knew was the kiss on the side of his neck, the whisper in his ear. “Stay where you are. I’ll bring coffee, and a piece of Mrs. Clitheroe’s apple pie, if you could eat it.”

In fact, Jim discovered himself starving as soon as his eyes were open. With lazy appreciation he watched Toby gather up his clothes, and murmured in surprise as he saw a mark he had not seen in the lamplight. It was a brand, old and pale
now,
the kind of mark a horse would wear, high on his flank, where it had been invisible in the softer light. Toby had cracked the shutter and swung open a window for air, and just enough daylight made it into the room for Jim to see the brand.

“What’s that?” He yawned, rubbed his face and peered at the mark until Toby pulled up his britches and set it out of sight. “Were you a prisoner?” It would explain so much.

“Of a kind,” Toby said, as evasive as always.
“You promised not to ask.”

“No, I didn’t,” Jim retorted as he pushed himself up against the pillows and dragged the counterpane around himself for warmth. The hearths had been out for hours, the chimney stack was cold and the sea air was sharp with chill. “But I know how to respect a man’s privacy,” he added as Toby shrugged into shirt and waistcoat and swiped up his shoes and stockings. “Seriously, Toby … you’ve no need for secrets. Not after what we did last night.”

“What we did wasn’t much,” Toby said chidingly, “and as I told you even then, you’ll be better off not knowing any more about me than you already do!”