The Red King (33 page)

If necessary
, Andrew thought.

There were guards stationed throughout; at
each door, each room. It seemed an exorbitant amount of protection
for such squalor, but Maarten’s inclinations towards paranoia kept
the men paid well and they stayed. Wondering if they would be so
steadfast if the walls were falling on them, Andrew had to bite
back a smile. He caught their sneers as he passed, a few appraising
him as if they would be privy to his internment. The thought that
perhaps they would gave Andrew a new chill and he wrapped his arms
around himself, holding the cloak close.

Seek to finish it, quickly. Don’t let him
give you to them
, he told himself, clenching his teeth against
his trembling.

Hold fast.

The servant stopped them before a set of
double doors. They were in better shape than the rest of the keep,
made of fresh, sturdy oak with polished iron at its hinges, bands,
and rivets. Andrew expected them to be heavy, hard to open, but the
man pulled and they moved easily, without a sound. The room beyond
was well lit and warmth poured out into the hall. Ortega and Andrew
both paused, looking to each other in silent understanding, then
stepped past the guards and over the threshold.

Andrew stared, unabashedly. This room was
draped with fine tapestries and filled with beautiful furniture.
Two massive tables with chairs of all designs ran the length of the
room, looking as if they were waiting for a grand banquet.
Candelabras lined the walls, casting a golden glow to the polished
gold and brass items that littered the tables and corners. A shelf
lined with delicate glass vials filled with perfumes and oils
gleamed merrily next to a pile of furs. There were chests of all
sizes, bolts of fine fabric, even a large golden statue perched
beside the fireplace. It was a trove, this room, for Maarten’s
riches.

Ortega strode forward, following the path
made by the tables through the center of the room. At the end of
this stretch was a huge gilded throne on a dais and on it was a
man, slumped low in the chair. Andrew followed slowly, not trusting
his shaking limbs to carry himself with purpose. Shocked, he
watched Ortega lower himself to one knee, as if addressing a
king.

“If it pleases you, I have brought treasures
for you, my lord,” the man said, with reverence. Andrew could only
stare, wide eyed and appalled.

Maarten Jan de Worrt was tall, very pale, and
wearing a robe of black fur. He did not move, only spoke, softly.
“Present them.”

Ortega held out first his right hand. “The
Star of Persia, stolen as it crossed the sea.” It was the large
sapphire, held up on Ortega’s fingertips for display.

“And its thief, where is he?”

Andrew took a step closer. He watched Ortega
remove a bundle from within his doublet and carefully unwrap it.
When the man held out his hand, it was the ripped flesh and shorn
locks of Rory’s hair within its grasp. “My lord,
Ruaidhri
is
dead. This is all that could be retrieved.”

There was a tense moment of stillness. Andrew
held his breath.

“Bring them both to me.”

Ortega stood and slowly stepped forward, both
hands held before him with their offerings.

Once within reach, Maarten sat up quickly,
startling Ortega into retreating. Before he’d moved more than one
step back, Maarten had his wrist caught and he pulled, hard.
Bringing the hand up to his face, Maarten rubbed the clutch of hair
across his cheek, his lips. “Dead? You bring me a piece of his hair
and tell me Rorik is dead?”

Upon the last word, Maarten’s other hand
caught Ortega across the face. Andrew saw his head whip back from
the force of the strike. “My lord!” he cried, taking two long
strides towards the dais.

Maarten froze. His eyes focused on Andrew for
the first time. “Who are you?”

Andrew took a deep breath.
For Rory
.
“
Ruaidhri
fell, my lord. He was crushed by a heavy stone.
That…”he nodded towards the fistful of hair. “That is all that
was…salvageable.”

Plucking the locks from Ortega’s grasp,
Maarten shoved the man aside and stood. “And you know this, how?”
he asked, moving slowly towards Andrew.

“I saw it,” Andrew said, holding his ground
as the man advanced. He was put in mind of a great, stalking beast,
hungry and dangerous.

Maarten was a full head taller than he and
Andrew was forced to crane his neck to see his face. Maarten’s
empty hand opened the cloak and pushed it off of Andrew’s
shoulders. His eyes glittered, falling on Andrew’s mouth and
throat. Fingers caught Andrew’s chin and tilted his head back
farther. “Who are you?” Maarten repeated, bending closer, staring
into Andrew s eyes.

“His name is Andrew,” Ortega offered. He
stood behind Maarten now.

With startling speed, Maarten had turned and
struck Ortega once more, this time so hard that the man stumbled
and fell. “I did not ask you,” Maarten spat.

“I am Andrew. I was stolen from you, as well,
and by the same thief,” Andrew offered, drawing Maarten’s attention
back to himself.

“The priest?” Maarten actually smiled.

Andrew nodded, feeling his blood chill at the
gleam in Maarten’s eyes.

“Well, here you are, mine at last,” the man
said, strangely soft, and reached out to cup Andrew’s jaw.

Ortega was standing again. Blood dripped from
his nose and spread across his cheek but he maintained his
composure. “My lord, I would take my bounty now, and leave you to
your pleasure.”

“What bounty would that be? You failed me. I
wanted Rorik alive. Alive! Not this!” he shouted, shaking the hand
with Rory’s hair in Ortega’s face.

Ortega stood quickly. “My lord, the papers
said alive or…”

“And what did I say?” Maarten asked, his
voice lower, colder.

Ortega swallowed. “Alive. You wanted him
alive.”

“Alive,” Maarten whispered. He loomed over
Ortega, who took a cautious step backwards. “Now, my happy reunion
shall never be.” That he found funny. He began to laugh; a deep,
rumbling chuckle as sudden and disconcerting as his anger had
been.

“My lord,” Andrew interjected, reaching out
to place his hand on Maarten’s arm. His heart was beating too fast,
his breath came too short, but he knew if Ortega was not allowed to
leave it would be the man’s demise. “It was no fault of his. The
wall was weak. It collapsed on
Ruaidhri
without
warning.”

The lie was trivial, but it served its
purpose. Maarten looked down at Andrew’s hand, took it in one of
his. Andrew could feel the power in the fingers as they closed on
his wrist. Maarten brushed his lips across the pulse. “Well, then,
I shall make a new friend in his stead.”

Andrew gave him a small smile.

Returning his attention to Ortega, Maarten
said, “Since you have brought me my new friend, I shall relinquish
your reward. Go to your ship. I will send the chest shortly.” He
neatened Ortega’s collar while he spoke, brushing a stray slip of
hair from the man’s eyes.

“Thank you, my lord,” Ortega said, bowing as
Maarten brushed past him, dismissing him with a wave.

Ortega met Andrew’s gaze with anger and fear
in his eyes. Andrew slowly shook his head, and then tilted it in
the direction of the door. When Ortega passed, he paused, and
Andrew heard the softest whisper, “Godspeed.”

Then he was alone.

Maarten was reclining on his throne, sprawled
across the thing like an insolent child. “Come closer to me,
Andrew. Let me look at you.”

As he moved closer, Andrew noticed that the
robe was untied, falling open to reveal the man was mostly naked.
Only a thin pair of trousers, an undergarment held with a single
tie, covered his lower half. In the light cast by the candles they
were nearly transparent. He stopped several feet from the dais. “Do
you find me agreeable?”

“Take off the doublet.”

Andrew took to the clasps slowly, controlling
his movements. He kept his face blank, his eyes on his fingers as
they worked. He could hear Maarten’s breathing quicken as the
garment came open and he carefully shrugged first one arm, then the
other free of the velvet.

“Drop it. It is of no use to you,
anymore.”

Opening his hand Andrew let it fall. He
stared at Maarten, remembering Rory’s descriptions.

Maarten was handsome; there was truth in
that. He was extremely tall, limbs long and powerfully built. His
hair was the lightest blond, almost white in the fire’s glow, and
fell to his shoulders in soft waves. Andrew wondered if his skin
had always been so pale, or if the time spent in his isolation had
turned him so. As it were, he looked nearly bloodless; even his
lips lacked all but the faintest touch of pink. Only his eyes had
color; they were rimmed red, from smoke or drink or perhaps just
madness, and they sparkled as would sun upon deep ice.

Andrew kept his own face impassive as he was
observed. He would not look away, but neither would he show emotion
to this...It was first in his mind to call him a monster, a fiend,
but Andrew saw only a man. A dangerous man, to be sure, but a man,
still. A man he could best. A man he could kill.

“You did not kill him.” It was not a
question.

“No. I would guess he had been…distracted,”
Andrew answered, dispassionately.

“By you? Yes, you would be Delilah, wouldn’t
you? You sheared his locks and took his strength.” Maarten was
laughing at him, but Andrew did not rise to the taunt.

Taking a deep breath, thought to himself,
For Rory
, Andrew answered softly, respectfully, “I merely
took the proof and brought it to your man. I had no hand in the
deed.”

“Did ‘my man’ offer you part of the reward?”
Maarten asked, his fingers toying with the bundle of auburn hair in
his lap. He petted it, drew it out to loosen the tangles with hands
so large and square they looked unnatural.

Andrew’s heart clenched, but he maintained
his impassive voice. “Yes, he did.”

“Why did you refuse?”

“He offered me but a cup. I want the well
from which it springs.” As he said it, he cast an appreciative
glance over his shoulder at the display of wealth.

Maarten smiled and his rumbling laughter
grated across Andrew’s skin. “My, you are an odd little bird. A
dove with a taste for blood, it seems. Move closer; let me see you
more clearly.”

Andrew took two slow steps forward.

“Closer.”

Andrew stopped just shy of stepping between
Maarten’s toes. He watched the man’s face, even as Maarten reached
out to run a hand across his stomach.

“Do you know why Rorik stole you?” Maarten
asked, fingers trailing up to brush Andrew’s nipples. The thin silk
offered no protection, no buffer. He felt them harden against the
man’s touch.

“To anger you, my lord,” Andrew answered,
coolly.

“Yes, he hated me, it’s true. Did he tell you
why?” Maarten’s hand moved down, measured his waist, his hip. When
it slid between his thighs, Andrew stiffened, hands clenched once
more at this back.

“No,” Andrew said, using what he knew would
interest Maarten, what would arouse him. “He showed me.”

Maarten’s other hand clutched at his own
thinly covered cock. Rory’s hair made the action look ghastly, like
vermin writhing in the man’s lap. “Oh,” Maarten moaned, softly.
“Did he now?”

“Aye,” Andrew whispered. “And I hated him for
it, as he hated you.”

“And what did you learn, my dove?” Maarten
asked, his fingers closing on one nipple.

Andrew let the shiver come, took a sharp
breath through his nose. He raised his hand and placed it on
Maarten’s cheek. The man’s skin felt too warm, fevered and dry.
“Would you like me to show you?” he countered, a slow smile
spreading across his face.

When Maarten pulled him down, Andrew let his
lips part to receive a violent, biting kiss. The force of it threw
him off balance and he stumbled into Maarten’s body. The chest and
thighs against him were hard, as was the man’s cock. For an instant
he panicked, feeling the close of Maarten’s legs on his, the other
hand still clutching Rory’s hair gripping his hip to hold him still
as he thrust.

“My lord!” he cried, turning his face away.
He pressed on Maarten’s shoulders, levering his upper body away.
“If I am to prove my talents, I must ask for a moment to remove my
clothes.”

Maarten smiled. “Do it then, for me. Make
it…pretty.”

Andrew bit the inside of his cheek and smiled
in return. “As you wish, my lord.”

Andrew was released and he stepped back,
navigating the raised platform with grace he’d never been more
thankful for. To fall, to be beneath this man now, would ruin
everything. How would he do this? He must keep the man entranced,
must use his form and face to seduce him into carelessness, but he
had no experience in disrobing for another’s pleasure. A memory
came to him, one that nearly blinded him with its course, but in it
he saw Nadir. The boy had purposefully distracted Etienne with his
movements, his expressions, teasing until Etienne had excused
himself and left Andrew alone in the garden.

I can do this
, Andrew thought.
I
will do this
.

Slowly, Andrew turned away and walked to the
end of the table to his left. He placed his hands flat on the
surface and lifted himself to sit upon it, eyes on Maarten as he
did so. He sucked his lower lip into his mouth and leaning back on
his elbows, toed off one leather boot, then the other. His teeth
caught the fullness of his lip before he let it go, leaving it red
and tender. When Andrew lifted his shirt to unlace his breeches, he
heard a deep, low growl and looked up.

Maarten was stroking himself, watching
avidly. Andrew held his gaze and opened the waist of his trousers
completely. He slowly pushed himself up and off the table, letting
the breeches fall to his feet. He stood in only his shirt and
stockings, both white and pure, and took the edge of the shirt in
his hands to pull it over his head.