The Red King (42 page)

When Rory opened his eyes again the cabin was
dark. Someone had come in to lower the lantern and had spread
another blanket atop them. It was warm and quiet, only the barest
sounds of the ship could be heard over the water moving against the
hull. He wondered what had woken him, thought that maybe it had
been the bell, but then he felt the pull on his hand.

“Andrew?” It came out on a breath. He
couldn’t speak any louder, so tight was his throat.

There was movement beside him and then a
gasp.

“Wait! Wait, let me light the—” Rory cried,
sliding towards to edge of the bed.

He was not released but was pulled back, one
hand brought to the side of Andrew’s face. He felt the words as
Andrew’s lips moved across his palm.
Hold me
, Andrew
mouthed, repeated and repeated until Rory had taken him to his
chest.

“I will always hold you,” Rory said, his
voice breaking, and his arms wrapped around Andrew to keep him
close.

Andrew clung to him, pushing his face into
Rory’s chest and his lips traced the words into Rory’s skin.

Alive…alive…how…love you…alive…
and
then there was the spill of tears and a breathy sob.

Rory shushed him, soothed him by stroking his
hair. “I will tell you tomorrow. Sleep now. I will not let you
go.”

I love you…Rory, I love you…

“Shhh,” Rory whispered. “I have you, Andrew.
I have you.”

There were no tales told the next day. Or the
day after.

They slept. Rory woke for water and food and
another potion. He did not leave the room, barely wandered from the
bed except to relieve his body’s urgency. Andrew did not fully
wake, seeming to drift in a state of half-dream, half-aware. His
lips moved as if he spoke, his face showed emotions isolated from
the rest of his stiff and wounded body. Though he obeyed Rory’s
gentle commands to swallow the water and tonic, it was clear that
the action pained him. Tears leaked from the corners of his
unopened eyes and Rory knew that if his voice were not hampered by
his wounds, there would be moans, whimpers. At one point Andrew
choked and Rory pulled him up to sit, stroking his back as the
coughs racked his body. Rory remained upright with him, resting
against the bulwark and holding Andrew cradled to his chest.

He must have fallen asleep again, for there
was a touch to his arm that startled him.

“Forgive me,” Laurent said, softly. “I’ve
brought more food. You should eat.”

Rory scanned the platter in his hands. “The
bread…is it good?”

Smiling, Laurent set his burden down and
plucked the golden triangle from the offerings, passing it to Rory.
“It’s very good; freshly baked and sweetened with currants.”

The first bite was enough to make Rory groan.
“I would know the makings of this, to share with Andrew,” he said,
his arm tightening, curling Andrew in closer to him. “When he is
able.”

Laurent sat on the edge of the bed. “He will
be able, soon, after the swelling goes down,” he said, leaning over
to look at Andrew’s throat. “It is not as bad as I thought; perhaps
he is a fast healer.”

“Perhaps,” Rory echoed. He felt a smile
stretch his lips, remembering a bruised face and swollen mouth,
neither of which had stopped Andrew from kissing him. The smile
faltered as questions rose in his mind; questions with answers he
needed but did not want. The bread was suddenly too dry, sticky and
cloying as he tried to swallow. Laurent handed him a cup of
water.

“Was it…did Maarten…” Rory was unable to
speak the words.

Laurent folded his hands in his lap. “Are you
sure you wish to know?”

“I must. He will tell me in his own time, but
I need to know first, and deal with it in my own way,” Rory
said.

“I understand,” Laurent said. He sighed,
straightened his shoulders, and looked into Rory’s eyes and began.
“Andrew was different, from the start. He did not cower or beg for
mercy. He did not wait to be taken. I think it surprised Maarten,
at first. He watched Andrew with a light in his eyes, almost as if
he were,” Laurent paused, searching for the words,
“
infatuated
. It was the closest to true emotion I had ever
seen from him. He had Andrew bathed and oiled, dressed him in
finery that had lain in chests for years.”

Rory nodded, knowing full well the desire to
treat, to gift the world to Andrew.

“Things changed after the Inquisitor
came.”

“Inquisitor?” Rory felt cold.

“Salvatore. He had visited before, more than
once, to conduct business with Maarten. It was revealed to Andrew
that Salvatore was the instigator of all his woes—from the attack
of the ship taking them to Spain to the raid on the village,
seeking you. Andrew threatened him, cut him with a blade, and told
him to go to Hell,” Laurent said, lips twisting in repressed
amusement. The humor was gone in the blink of an eye. “Maarten was
incensed; no, more than that. He was greatly aroused by Andrew’s
defiance of the council. He had Salvatore and his Guard taken
hostage. His treatment of Andrew was quite…following the
confrontation he…”

“That I can guess, Laurent,” Rory said,
darkly.

Laurent swallowed. “It was the first time I
had to tend to Andrew. He thanked me. No one had ever thanked me
before.”

“The Inquisitor, what happened to him?”

“He was put in a dungeon cell. Maarten took
Andrew and,” Laurent’s voice cracked, “while Andrew was still
muddled by the potion, he took Andrew to the cell. He convinced
Andrew to…somehow he made Andrew…”

“Andrew killed the man,” Rory finished.

“Tortured first, then killed. Maarten was
beside himself with joy. He came up from the dungeon with Andrew in
his arms, singing,” Laurent said, shuddering. “They were covered in
blood, both of them, and Andrew was unconscious and Maarten
presented him as…as his
bride
.”

“Tortured,” Rory whispered. The horror of it,
of Andrew so lost that he would willfully commit such an atrocity,
was too much to bear. He closed his eyes and pressed his face into
Andrew’s hair.

“The rest you know.”

Rory saw the weariness in Laurent, the lines
around his eyes and mouth. “How many, Laurent? How many did you
see?”

Laurent shook his head. “I stopped
counting.”

There was nothing Rory could say.

“You should rest. Keep him up, like that, it
will help,” Laurent said, rising.

Rory fell asleep again, holding Andrew
against him. When he woke they were lying together on their sides,
fit as close as nesting spoons. It was night and the cabin was dark
with no lantern lit. For a moment he stayed there, drifting, half
dreaming, and relishing the warmth and weight against him. His
hand, previously resting open and loose on Andrew’s stomach,
flattened out across flesh. Pressing closer, he nosed at the curls
at Andrew’s nape, tasted the salt of skin and sweat with his lips.
His body awakened, senses filled with the scent and taste, the
touch of his … his mate, and it craved consummation.

“Andrew,” Rory murmured, his voice low and
rough. Desire thrummed through him, stirring his hips to rock
gently against the firm, smooth roundness cradled against him. His
hand moved slowly down, caressing hip, thigh, and grazed the
prickly edge of Andrew’s groin. He slid his hand back up and caught
on the bandages wrapping Andrew’s chest. He woke and remembered.
Shame subdued his passion and with a whispered curse, he hid his
face against Andrew’s neck as guilty tears stung his eyes.

There was a twitch, then a sharp inhale, and
Andrew came awake. Rory felt the tension in his back, his
shoulders, and kept still. It was only when a drop fell onto
Andrew’s throat, a tear that could not be held back, did the
silence end.

Andrew was up and away with one push, on
hands and knees above him. There might have been a word, or a
shout, but all that could be heard was a wild rush of air as Andrew
shoved himself to the end of the bed.

“Wait! Andrew!” Rory cried, sitting up
against the bulwark. He kept his hands down, made no move to
follow, merely repeated his name. “Andrew, Andrew, wake now! It’s
Rory! Only Rory!”

The sound of Andrew’s panting, noisy and
trembling, met his ears. He could barely make out the edges of
Andrew’s form, but he could feel in the ticking how the man
shook.

“It’s me,” he said again, keeping his voice
clear but gentle and slowly reached out one hand.

There was a huff, followed by a deep,
shuddering inhale, and then, a timid touch of fingers.

His hand was clasped and he was pulled
forward. “Yes, Andrew, yes, I’m here,” he said, slowly moving
closer. He let Andrew guide him, crawled forth upon the bedding and
sat on his knees to wait. Would they have to repeat this ritual
every time Andrew woke? The thought was frightening and all too
possible.

Andrew made a noise, grating and painful to
hear, and then coughed.

“Don’t try to speak. Your throat is bruised,
don’t you remember? You woke once before,” Rory clutched the hand
in his and reached out with the other. He gently placed his palm on
Andrew’s cheek, felt the wet heat of tears.

Shaking his head, Andrew pressed his lips
into Rory’s hand.
A dream, not real
.

“No dream,” Rory reassured him, tugging
Andrew closer to press palm to chest. He held Andrew’s hand there
and let the beating of his heart prove true. He heard Andrew sob,
just a whisper in the dark, and lifted Andrew’s fingers to his
lips. “I am real, love.”

A thumb traced over his mouth, brushing the
whiskers let grown too long. Fingers gingerly slid up his cheek, to
his hair to tangle into the short, messy curls. He heard a gasp as
Andrew searched for the remnants of his lengthy tresses. “They were
shorn away, to keep the wound from festering,” he whispered,
guiding those fingers to the now hard and scabrous wound behind his
left ear.

Andrew’s hand withdrew a bit but Rory pressed
it back. The strip measured as wide as a dudgeon dagger and as long
as Andrew’s little finger. It was still tender to the touch, but
Rory ignored the pain and spoke. “The skin was ripped away by the
rocks, but I was neither cut nor crushed beneath them. It seemed,
according to Malik, that I was held in God’s hand, and that there
was not enough room for all of my hair.”

He smiled as he said it, but felt Andrew sob
against his palm once more.
Alive…left you…you were
alive…

At the rush of new tears, Rory cast aside his
caution and swiftly took Andrew into his arms. “Shhh…you could not
have known. They expected to find a corpse, Andrew, not to find me
breathing and bleeding still.”

Shuddering, Andrew fell weakly against him,
pressing his face to Rory’s neck.

“I’m real, Andrew, blood and bone and flesh
and I am yours.” His lips chased tears from Andrew’s eyes, tracing
the curve of one cheek until their mouths met. He drank Andrew’s
sobs and bore the bruising grasp on his shoulders, only breaking
the kiss when Andrew climbed onto his thighs.

“Andrew, you can’t…” he gasped, his hands
holding Andrew’s face.

Shaking his head, Andrew pushed Rory back,
resting atop his chest and straddling over him. He ground his hips
down, his erection pressing hotly against Rory’s stomach. Rory’s
ardor returned with such swiftness that his whole body ached. His
cock was hard and thrumming against the velvet of his caftan,
straining to meet Andrew’s thrusts. Andrew rose enough to allow the
offending garment to be pulled up and off and tossed aside. When
they came back together, bare flesh to bare flesh, both of them
shuddered.

They rutted without caution or concern for
their injuries, dislodging bandages, knocking all bedclothes to the
floor, leaving new bruises with gasps and moans. Rory rolled,
taking Andrew with him so that they lay on their sides as each
sought the other’s release. When climax came it took them together,
their mouths locked and their fingers clasped around their cocks.
Then, as they clung to each other, Rory rolled them again, pulling
Andrew back to rest on his chest.

You’re real
, Andrew mouthed into
another kiss.

“Aye,” Rory answered, then grinned beneath
Andrew’s lips. “Unless you require more proof. I would gladly play
the specter if it would grant me another chance to confirm it.”

He nearly wept when he felt Andrew smile
against his lips.

“Rory.”

Taking a deep breath, Rory pressed his nose
deeper into warmth and softness.

“Rory.”

“Hellfire,” he muttered and had to turn his
head to free his mouth of hair. He cracked one eye.

Etienne stood beside the bed, incredulity,
displeasure, and amusement warring for a place in his
expression.

Rory closed his eye again.

There was a sigh. “Rory, I would recommend
you rise and find your garments, then arrange Andrew in a
less…provocative pose. Ortega would like a word and I don’t think I
can keep the man from his own cabin much longer.”

At this, Rory opened both eyes. He looked
down his front, finding Andrew laying over him, face pressed into
Rory’s neck. The line of Andrew’s back was broken with loose
bandages, the exposed scoring of the whip, and one of Rory’s arms.
Below that, Rory could see Andrew’s ass, curved and pale and
propped up on Rory’s thigh. For a moment he simply considered the
sight, tightening his hold and shifting his leg to improve the
view, but Etienne’s words sharpened in his mind.

“He comes here? Now?” Rory asked, fully awake
in an instant.

“Not just yet, but I’ll wager soon,” Etienne
answered. He looked down at his feet, huffed, and bent to retrieve
something from the floor. “I’ll not lend the use of my clothes
again, if this is how you treat them.”