The Red King (12 page)

“Shhh,” Rory soothed. “It is the call to
midday prayer.”

Andrew listened for a moment, head cocked to
one side like a curious bird. “It’s beautiful.”

“It is,” Rory said, pleased with the young
man’s ready appreciation.

They listened for another moment and it was
Andrew who leaned in to take Rory’s mouth.

The call went on as they kissed and, though
Rory knew otherwise, its otherworldly song felt like a blessing. “I
need you on the table,” he said, pulling away just enough to speak.
He helped Andrew stand, hurriedly taking the dates from the surface
and dropping them into the empty wash bowl. Rory reached for
Andrew’s belt and Andrew reciprocated, but Rory stopped him. “Not
yet,” he whispered, letting the strap fall open and Andrew’s
breeches drop to the floor.

Rory’s eyes drank their fill of Andrew
leaning back on the table, naked. His pale skin was faintly
luminescent, his frame slender but still hollowed with muscle, not
childish at all. Andrew’s cock was the same red as his lips, thick
and stiff where it lay on his belly. Its head peeked through the
foreskin and gleamed with moisture. Licking his lips, Rory put his
hands on the table and leaned over.

Forgoing the soft and ready mouth Rory bent
to Andrew’s chest and licked a wide swath from ribs to nipple,
taking that knot of flesh with his lips and teeth. Andrew groaned
and reclined fully, his hands gripping the edge of the table so
hard his knuckles were white. Rory nipped again, catching the other
nipple. Andrew’s hips jutted forward and a drop of filmy white
fluid fell on his stomach. Andrew raised his head to see, and Rory
held his gaze while he bent to lap the wayward trickle from his
flesh.

Andrew groaned when Rory followed to the
source of the leak and licked the glistening tip.

With a smile, Rory took the whole of Andrew’s
cock into his mouth. He was still but let his tongue work along the
underside, nudging the foreskin down to run along the sensitive
vein throbbing there. When he pulled back, sucking as he withdrew,
Andrew thrust eagerly, desperately. Rory gripped his hips, pressing
down as he took the whole of it in again, just as slowly. Andrew
sobbed and Rory lifted his head. He found Andrew looking at him
with watery eyes and bright red cheeks. Releasing Andrew’s cock, he
asked softly, “Are you all right?”

Andrew nodded; his mouth slack.

Rory grinned. “Put your hands on my head,
Andrew. Hold on.”

It did not take much longer. By the end,
Andrew was upright, curled over Rory as he moved. Rory moaned with
him, loving the tight grip of Andrew’s hands in his hair and the
hardness pressing into the roof of his mouth and throat. When
Andrew came Rory swallowed hungrily, nose pressed to the damp, dark
curls at the base of Andrew’s cock and his fingers brushing softly
across the tight skin of the sac beneath.

Andrew fell back again, chuffing like a lion,
unable to catch his breath. He shivered and groaned as Rory pulled
his mouth away to press kisses across the top of each trembling
thigh. Andrew released his hair and Rory shook it free, letting it
fall around his face as he moved up. They kissed, the tastes of
come and honey mixing in their mouths.

Putting one knee on the table, Rory swung his
other leg over and set it on the other side of Andrew’s hips.
“Touch me now, Andrew. Put your hands on my cock.”

Andrew made short work of the belt and pushed
the breeches down. He gripped that massive thing, so dark and
purple with need. Both hands squeezed, and he bit lip as he pulled
up Rory’s prodigious length. Rory moaned and covered the hands with
one of his own, guiding until Andrew had the speed and intensity he
desired. Rory let go and put his hand back on the table, letting
Andrew finish the deed. They watched together as Andrew worked his
cock until he groaned and thrust and then it spilled across
Andrew’s stomach and chest.

Panting, shaking, Rory watched Andrew run his
fingers through the slippery mess. His eyes were heavy lidded; dark
and focused on the still dripping knob-head over his belly. Andrew
brought his hand up to his face, rubbed his finger and thumb
together and then touched them to his tongue. Rory groaned. “I must
get you dressed or we’ll never leave.”

Andrew had the cheek to smile at that as he
pulled Rory down for another kiss.

Dressing Andrew did not provide ample
distraction. Rory wondered at the wisdom of such close cut pants
and flimsy fabrics. At the time, concern for the heat and sun and
Andrew’s reaction to both had weighed his decision. Now, as he eyed
Andrew’s trim thighs, round ass and flat stomach, all prominently
displayed in brown broadcloth breeches, he wondered if the
billowing robes of the Berbers would have been the better choice.
The muslin shirt was no better as his shoulders and chest were
perfectly visible with the sunlight shining through it, and Rory
could easily make out his small pink nipples.

Andrew was delighted, however, with the
lightness and comfort of the garments. The boots were a touch snug,
even with stockings to help get them on, but with time the cowhide
would give and fit perfectly. Rory helped him with the red sash and
the proper wearing of the wide leather belt. The last was a pure
white, hooded cloak, which Andrew eyed skeptically.

“Another layer in this heat?” he asked as
Rory draped it across him in the appropriate manner.

“The hood covers your head to protect you
from the sun’s rays. You’ve been fortunate thus far and haven’t
felt the burn that comes from over exposure. Trust me, wear the
burnoose, especially during the afternoon,” Rory said. He turned
and pulled aside one of the drapes to reveal a similar cloak on a
peg. It was beside a mirror, framed in ornate gold. It caught
Andrew’s eye, and he stepped closer to see. He had a curious
expression on his face, chewing his lip with consternation.

Something occurred to Rory and it was so
strange and implausible that he had to ask. “Andrew, have you ever
seen yourself?”

“In the cistern, and once when the stream
froze over,” Andrew answered.

Rory reached for him, gently tugging him
across to stand before the glass.

Andrew was silent. He studied his reflection
with a critical eye, frowned, released, frowned again, and then
raised his brows high. He touched the fading bruising under his
eyes, beside his nose, and then ran a finger across his lips.
Grimacing, he bared his teeth and looked satisfied by their
appearance. At last he pushed the hood of the burnoose away to
stare at his dark, unruly hair. It stood up at all angles and he
ran his hand through its dense but short growth only to see it all
point skyward. Mashing it down with his palm did not help.

“I’m meant to seduce someone? I look like a
puppy,” Andrew said, still staring at himself.

Rory laughed and let the cloth fall back into
place. “I would send Malik but he doesn’t warm to my instruction so
readily.”

“I suppose he wouldn’t fit in the bed,”
Andrew said with a grin, watching Rory drape his own cloak around
himself.

Rory laughed, his head flung back and smile
happy and wide. “You prove a constant surprise, little wolf.”

Andrew blushed, pleased.

Before they left, Rory fitted Andrew’s belt
with the small dagger he’d been taught to throw. “Stay with me in
the city, Andrew. I don’t want to lose you,” he said. The darker
purpose of his mission threatened to shadow his heart, but he
pushed it aside to revel in the excitement he saw in Andrew’s
eyes.

“Ah,
Ruaidhri
, where do you cast your
nets that you can pluck such fare from the sea?”

Rory slipped his arm around Andrew’s waist.
“Mind your manners, Etienne, and your hands.”

“
Tsk
, still don’t trust me?”

“Not a whit.”

Etienne smiled with still sensual lips. Rory
found him quite dashing, aged or no. The man’s hair was the color
of fine polished silver and hung in soft waves around his long
face. Etienne remained trim and fine, and looked quite regal in his
blue and gold caftan. He was sharply intelligent, as well, and
could argue a point as effectively. But a pimp was a pimp, and this
one had run the trade in Algiers since before Rory was born.

“
Une sage decision, mon amie
.”
Etienne’s smile was then directed at Andrew, with bright blue eyes
twinkling. His gaze swept Andrew with more than admiration; he was
tallying the boy’s gifts and laying a price.

Andrew gave him a shy grin, which Rory did
not think would diminish the proprietor’s aspirations.

“I suppose you’re here to fetch her?” Etienne
took a lengthy draw on his pipe.

“Her?” Andrew looked at Rory, one eyebrow
cocked.

Rory noted the hint of jealousy in Andrew’s
voice and moved his hand up to cup the back of Andrew’s neck. “Her
name is Brighid and you will like her.”

“And what does she do?” It was said softly,
but the implication was there.

Etienne laughed. “You’re as effusive as ever,
I gather? You really must learn to share, Rory. Not everything
needs to be a secret.”

“We have an agreement, Andrew and I. He’ll
know what he needs, when it’s time.”

“Oh, so he’s already in the business!
Wonderful, it makes things so much simpler.”

Rory felt Andrew stiffen beside him. With a
glance he saw the set to Andrew’s jaw, the purse to his lips. He
tightened his fingers on Andrew’s neck and pressed closer. Andrew
tried to shrug his hand away but Rory persisted. When Andrew turned
to face him, Rory saw his red eyes. “It’s the truth, Andrew. I’m
sorry if hearing it spoken upsets you.”

“You ask me to be honest with you and yet you
lie by omission. You share truths with others and leave me to look
the fool,” Andrew said, reaching back to dislodge Rory’s hand. When
it was gone he stepped aside. “How would you feel?”

Rory straightened, aware of Etienne’s
interest but unwilling to face what would surely become an
interrogation. “I have not the time or the inclination to play
nursemaid to your feelings, Andrew. Stay here.”

Sweeping past Andrew and ignoring his hurt,
angry glare, Rory exited into the courtyard. He paused to listen
for any steps that might be following. When he heard nothing he
rested for a moment, shaded by the tall desert palms lining the
enclosure. Etienne’s words had disturbed him, caused a cold swell
of shame in his chest. That shame was doubled in the face of
Andrew’s challenge, the flotsam of his reticent nature. He had not
thought of Andrew’s reactions, of his feelings as he accompanied
him through the day. Rory had only wished for his company.

It had been a blissful start. Andrew was
alight with excitement, observing and noting everything around them
as they passed through the market. He’d been most keen on the open
bags of spice, stopping to sniff the saffron, cinnamon, and cumin
with such delight that Rory had gladly paid the vendors for ample
quantities to be delivered to the ship. There had been more
purchases at fruit stands, tastes of dried apricots, fresh oranges
and more dates. When they rounded on the open air stalls for animal
trading, Andrew had stared unabashedly at the exotica on display.
He’d happily petted the noses of goat, ass, and cow alike, marveled
at the towering camels. When a small, white furred monkey landed on
his shoulder he’d laughed so loud and suddenly it frightened the
animal back to its owner. The sound had shocked Rory, reaching deep
into his soul and loosening something so tightly wound he’d felt
weak from its release.

After ensuring full stores for their
encampment at Tipaza, Rory had taken Andrew to the Great Mosque, to
wait below the minaret and listen to the afternoon call to prayer.
The silence that followed, as the Muslims finished their
prostrations, had afforded them time alone. In the shadows they
stood too close, touched hands in a manner illicit within the city
walls. Rory had even leaned in to press a small kiss to the corner
of Andrew’s lips, to his forehead. Then the streets had come back
to life around them and drawn them back into the ebb of
humanity.

Rory thought of Fleming and his warning that
his vendetta would destroy him and Andrew both, and cursed his own
weakness. It was unexpected and unwanted, and would make things far
more complicated. If left unchecked, it could be their deaths.

The palms rustled in a bit of breeze off the
sea, cooling his face and clearing his head. This was the best
plan; no, the only plan left. It was imperative that any feelings
for his bright, beautiful
protégé
not come into play. Rory
could no longer allow Maarten Jans de Worrt to destroy anyone else;
it was his
raison d’etre
. He moved towards the stables,
determinedly ignoring the doubt, worry and pain festering in his
heart.

“Brighid, my sweet,” he said, entering the
stalls and calling to her softly, “Did you miss me?”

She whinnied, nodding her head excitedly. Her
beautiful black eyes were radiant with love and she nuzzled at his
burnoose, his throat. He patted her neck, stroked her blaze and
pulled a fresh pear from inside his shirt. He spoke to her while
she ate.

“I missed you, too, my love. How has Etienne
treated you? Did you get enough exercise? I see they kept your mane
clean and combed, at least. An improvement over the last.” He ran
his fingers through her silky black tresses and rested his head at
her withers.

She nickered softly, flipping her long tail
so it struck him in the head.

Rory laughed and went to fetch blanket and
saddle. “So eager! Is it me you are happy to see or is there some
young stallion in the field behind the walls, hmm? He cannot be
good enough for you.”

Her head nodded twice, and she nipped at his
burnoose while his back was turned.