Master of Pleasure (2 page)

No wonder Rafael was interested.

Malcolm cleared his throat, trying to be social. “How are you?” He said it in French. It was the only common language everyone in the abbey shared. “What verse are you reading?”

The Persian glanced up from the Bible, his dark eyes fierce and penetrating. “I wish to be alone,” he tossed out in French. “I am here to think and to pray. Nothing more. Leave.”

Malcolm wanted to oblige. He really did. For all he knew the youth had been committed for molesting camels in the desert. But it wasn’t in Malcolm’s nature to abandon anyone in need. Especially when they didn’t realize they were in need.

Digging his spoon into the stew, Malcolm started eating again. “Where are your servants? The ones who usually follow you around?” He chewed. “Why are they not with you today?”

The Persian hesitated. “I gave them a day of religious rest. Why?”

“Religious rest on a Friday? What calendar are you on?”

“It is
Joma’a
. Muslims pray on Fridays.”

Oh. Malcolm swallowed what was in his mouth. “I don’t mean to be a nuisance to you or your religion, but Rafael has taken a keen interest in you, which is never good. If there is any trouble, I will break his legs, then his arms and if there is time, you can do the rest. Agreed?”

The youth edged the Bible closer to himself, covering the large ruby ring on his finger. “I am trying to learn the Christian way.”

Malcolm rolled his eyes. “Do you honestly think a good Christian would let people take advantage of other people? As I like to say, God is great and merciful but He still sent a flood. Otherwise, who would take Him seriously? No one.” He shoved another spoonful of stew into his mouth and chewed more enthusiastically. It was nice talking to someone. “I hear you speak English. Do you?”

Those pinched features softened. “Yes. I do,” the boy replied in clipped English to demonstrate. “I was raised in Persia, but my mother grew up in Wiltshire after her family fled France during the revolution. Mother and
Grand-pére
were the only ones in their family to survive. Although the title was revoked,
Grand-pére
still goes by the name of Vicomte de Chastain. He has grown incredibly popular in England given what he survived at the hands of the National Assembly and has become
very
involved in politics. Everyone in London knows him.”

Startled at the irony of their meeting, Malcolm stared. “Even I know him. Your grandfather goes to our church. He ties red ribbons around eight candles every Sunday.”

The boy sat up, eyes widening. “That is indeed
Grand-pére
. He had three brothers, one sister, two cousins, and two uncles who were all guillotined during the revolution. Red ribbons around candles is how he honors them. My mother, who was fifteen at the time it happened, remembers just as much and does the same.”

Malcolm hesitated. “How did your mother end up marrying a Persian?”

“My father was always fascinated by Western culture. He was visiting London when he met my mother. Allah only knows what she saw in him, but she gave up her entire way of life to be with him. The two are disgustingly obsessed with each other.” The boy eyed him. “Might I ask what happened to your face?”

The face, the face. Always the face. The only good that ever came of his ear-to-jaw scar was it prevented him from looking
exactly
like his brother. “My birth was a little rough.” Malcolm kept eating.

Leaning into the table, the Persian quieted his voice. “How so? What happened?”

Sometimes, Malcolm wanted to make up stories about it. He was tired of repeating the same tale over and over to anyone who asked. Unfortunately, he wasn’t much of a liar. “There were two of us in my mother’s womb, and given her labor wasn’t progressing, the doctor used more force than was necessary. Most of the damage you see was caused by an infection after the forceps sliced my face. For some reason, God was gracious enough to grant me the strength to live. It’s been an unexpected blessing that distinguishes me from my brother. He and I are identical in every way. Even our voices are the same. It’s annoying.” Picking up his wooden spoon, Malcolm started eating again trying not to think about his brother. “So what do you think of our Bible? I see you reading it all the time.”

The Persian sighed and drifted his fingers across the Latin text. “There is much here I do not understand. What is Christianity’s view about sexual relations outside of matrimony? Is it permitted?”

Malcolm almost choked on the vegetables he was trying to swallow. He glanced toward the luminaries on the other side of the dining hall who were still occupied. “What in Satan’s name is wrong with you? Are you trying to get us both whipped?”

The Persian flushed. “No. I…”

“If it were permitted, my friend, the church would have its own brothel and charge us all admission. No. It’s
not
permitted. A true Christian awaits the blessing of a marriage by God.”

“Are you certain? Because unlike our
Qur’an
, which is very specific about condemning such acts, this Bible of yours does not appear to condemn premarital relations at all. It merely speaks to sexual
immorality
, which is an incredibly broad term.”

Malcolm gave him a withering look. “Oh, I see. Apparently, you’re looking for an excuse to indulge. That is certainly your right, given you’re a Muslim, but I was raised better.”

“So you do not question your church or its beliefs? You simply accept what is written?”

Malcolm lowered his chin. “What I accept and what I believe are two different things. Let there be no doubt in that.”

Those dark eyes brightened. “Ah. So you have doubts about your Christian faith?”

“All the time.” Malcolm made sure there wasn’t a luminary in sight. “This never leaves the table, but I firmly believe the church is part of a conspiracy to control world population. After all, the more people there are, the less they can control.”

The Persian sat up. “Fascinating. Where is your proof?”

“In plain sight.” Malcolm gestured to the open Bible. “In the Old Testament, for example, polygamy was the foundation of our culture. Exodus clearly states a man can marry an infinite amount of women without
any
limitation as long as he could provide for them, and yet in the New Testament it suddenly proclaims a man of the church can only have
one
wife. It’s a conspiracy to control how we, as humans, reproduce. How do I know this? Because Jesus himself stated he upheld the Old Testament in its true form, which, obviously,
would
have included polygamy.” Malcolm leaned into the table. “Pages are missing, my friend.
Missing
. But what do I know? I’m only a follower.”

They stared at each other.

The awkward silence made Malcolm realize he’d spent
way
too much time in his own head thinking about religion. He was used to it. Even well before entering the monastery. After the unexpected illness and death of his mother, his father had become abnormally devoted to prayer, claiming her death had been a warning from God. In a desperate effort to reclaim God’s favor, the earl did away with all extravagances, reducing their lifestyle to resemble the middle classes and tried to mold Malcolm and his twin brother at fourteen into the paragons of religious virtue neither of them were prepared to embrace.

Their tutors were dismissed and replaced with priests who taught them Latin and the history and beliefs of the doctrine and Bible. Their lavish clothes were donated and replaced with simple tweeds and wool. The ancestral lands and home were sold, after being stripped of all furnishings, and donated to local charities, so that instead of occupying thirty-two rooms, they only occupied four in a humble cottage on the outskirts of Wiltshire.

Malcolm’s twin brother, James, who had been born three and a half minutes too late, was being prepped to attend a seminary to become a vicar as opposed to going to a university to be a surgeon. James didn’t plan to cooperate. The idea of slicing people open and sewing them back up fascinated him too much.

By good fortune, Malcolm was spared that path. As heir, he was granted permission to go into the military until it was time to inherit whatever remained of the estate. Which was nothing given how often they donated to charities.

Despite their father having obsessive tendencies that included washing his hands as many as forty-five times a day, and refusing to let them near him if they weren’t wearing gloves, the man did his best to love them. He simply didn’t know how.

Setting aside that their father made them wear unfashionable clothing the upper crust snickered at, what was even
more
annoying was that all of the games the other adolescent boys played, such as cards, dice, pall mall, and cricket were no longer permitted. According to their father, it was a rake’s sport that did not progress the soul. Charades were permissible (huzzah!) but only under the proviso that it involved Bible characters, parables and religious landmarks. Charades became an inside joke between Malcolm and James. It was how they communicated when they didn’t want their father knowing what they were talking about:
women
.

Christmas did become more interesting. They began hand-delivering bibles to countless places in dire need of the Lord’s word. Places he and his brother had
always
been curious about. One particular year, their father trooped them into a brothel where they set bibles on all of the beds before getting thrown out by the clients who didn’t want them there. In vast appreciation, one of the prostitutes flashed her charms (both breasts) and yelled, “Happy Christmas to you and Jesus!” He and his brother laughed so hard, his father decided converting prostitutes was no longer a respectable option.

The Persian tapped the table. “So what is your name? You never introduced yourself.”

A breath escaped Malcolm. “Forgive me. I was too busy preaching conspiracy theories. The name is Thayer. I’m set to inherit an earldom one of these days but there really isn’t much to inherit outside the name itself, so I ask you call me Malcolm.”

“A pleasure to meet you, Malcolm. ’Tis unexpected to meet someone so civilized among these walls. I am Nasser.” The Persian set his chin. “I am sixteen and commenced fully shaving four months ago.” He smoothed a hand over his jaw and angled closer. “Can you see the stubble on my face? Is it not magnificent?”

How adorable. This one took pride in being male. “Oh, yes. Very. You must be proud.”

“I am. I have been waiting to shave since I was eight.”

Malcolm eyed him with renewed interest. “You seem…
normal
to me. And I have been here long enough to notice what normal is. Why are you here? And how long is your penance?”

The olive tone of Nasser’s face heightened. “I have no set penance. I have the freedom to leave anytime. My mother is actually waiting for me in Paris. She is being very supportive of my decision to be here. It could be a month or a year. It depends.”

He made it sound like a holiday. “If you have the support of your mother and can leave anytime, why don’t you?”

“Because I am ravaged by a sin I cannot control.” Nasser lowered his gaze and smoothed his garb. “I did not want you sitting with me earlier, because I am physically drawn to men. I heard about the abbey’s ability to cure depravity and decided to see if converting to Christianity might be an option.”

Malcolm quirked a brow. “So you think surrounding yourself with sexually deviant Christian boys is a good option? Really? Whatever gave you
that
brilliant idea?”

Nasser glanced up, fighting tears. “What are you accusing me of?”

“I’m not accusing you of anything,” Malcolm countered. “I have a cousin who is drawn to men. Not that anyone in the family knows about it. His father and my father are so incredibly religious, they would have carved a crucifix into his bollocks. So my brother and I decided it was best to say nothing. Trent owes us for life.”

Nasser hesitated. “Why are you here? What did you do?”

“I’m an idiot who loves my brother too much.” Malcolm puffed out a ragged breath. “If we are to lay out the gossip
and
the crime, I was accused of impregnating the bishop’s daughter, Miss Silverthorn.”

Nasser’s lips parted. “Did you?”

Malcolm glared. “No. Absolutely not. I only cornered, grabbed and kissed her.”

Those brows came together. “I do not understand. If you only kissed her, how did she end up pregnant?”

Swallowing hard, Malcolm averted his gaze. “She wasn’t pregnant. The poor girl had never been intimate with anyone. Not even my brother, who, as it turns out, was
very
attached to her. Not that I knew. No one did. Those two kept their strange little bond a secret since they were children. Imagine my surprise when, after I grabbed and kissed her, she went and told my brother she was pregnant with my child. Needless to say, James tried to knock my brain out of my skull for it. And not in an angry, it-will-pass sort of way, but rather in a ‘
I will murder you and be branded Cain forever
’ sort of way. The lunatic came at me with a blade and tried to stab me through the heart. My father had to tie him to a chair and whip holy water at him to calm him down.”