The Red King (49 page)

“Then sail with on with a new captain.”

All turned to Malik, who sat in his mighty
chair at the stern, one hand on the rudder.

“I’m in no hurry, you understand. I wish to
refit this fine beauty, to make her as glorious as her
namesake-to-be. There will be no revenge, no battles save for the
ones that seek us. But know that even in a quiet life, the life of
a trader, I would be honored to have such a crew,” the man
announced.

There were murmurings. “Tis bad luck to take
a ship’s name and give a new one.”

Malik laughed, booming across deck and sea.
“And we have this ship, stolen with a stolen name! ‘Tis bad luck to
have a captain with hair like fire, sail upon the New Year, and
begin a voyage on Friday! We have done all of those, my brothers,
time and time again and yet here we stand.” He stood proudly, his
dark eyes glittering in the half-light of evenfall. “If it is not
me you wish for as captain, then we will take a count.”

“But know that I will not remain, no matter
the outcome,” Rory reiterated. “The Red King is no more.”

More murmurs and mutterings swept through the
crew, growing louder and more agitated until Yousef leapt up to
hang from the clewlines of the mainmast. “I say Malik! Aye, for
Malik!”

In no time, the rest of the men had taken up
the cry. Malik grinned broadly and roared his acceptance by
ordering, “Haul the anchor and prepare to bring her about!” He
returned to his chair as they set to work, waiting to guide the
rudder. His happiness was palpable in the very air around him.

“There was never any doubt,” Rory told him as
the uproar faded. “It is deeply gratifying, however, to see it all
played out.”

“Aye, for a moment I feared we would lose
them,” Malik agreed. Then he amended, “That I would lose them. I am
not half the captain you are and would not blame them if they
decided to go.”

“In some ways you are twice the captain I
am,” Rory quipped, which brought another thunderous laugh out of
Malik. He leaned over to put one hand on Malik’s shoulder and meet
his gaze. “It was you who devised all of this. You are the reason I
still live, for insisting on digging me out of that cairn when
others would have left me. You rallied them all when I could not.
The design to fool the Danish king we owe to you, as well. You will
be a just, wise, and patient captain, Malik. You will do well.”

Malik may have been blushing but the light
was almost gone and Rory couldn’t tell. Still, there was a sheepish
grin and a soft, “My thanks,
Rua
—…Rory.”

“Do you know what you’re going to name
her?”

The question came from Yousef, but all the
men turned their heads to listen for the answer.

“Aye,” Malik answered, with a good deal of
warmth. “She will be called
Amira
.”

Though it was dark now, Rory navigated the
hold and passageway with ease. He trailed his fingers along the
bulwark, speaking softly, thanking the
Taibhse
, and praising
her strength and beauty. Telling her goodbye. He could hear her
whisper to him, too, of their travels, battles, of all that was
lost and the glory of what was found. It was her final gift to him;
the quiet memories that told his story. “Thank you,” he whispered
in return. He pressed a kiss to his fingers and touched the deck
beam above his head. “Take care of them, please, my lovely
lady.”

He quietly entered his cabin. His, he’d been
told, until Malik could refit it with a larger bed. Etienne sat at
the table, cup in hand, staring into the low-lit lamp. He looked up
when Rory entered, holding a finger to his lips. “Shhh,” he
admonished before Rory could speak.

Andrew slept, curled into a tight knot
beneath a wool blanket. Rory’s heart ached from the sight; for all
its sweetness and familiarity it still reminded him of time gone,
of innocence stripped away. Bearing up to his own guilt for that
was more difficult than he’d anticipated.

“If you plan to join him I feel I must warn
you,” Etienne whispered. “He has slept quite restlessly this time.
Don’t be surprised if he wakes you with his fist or foot.”

“I’ll manage,” Rory answered with a soft
smile. Leaning against the table, he toed off his boots and
shrugged his doublet loose. “You do not have to stay, Etienne. You
should rest, also.”

Etienne reached out, took his hand. “If you
don’t mind, I would stay. If only to make sure you do not fall off
of the bed or tempt Andrew into more licentious exercise.”

Rory chuckled, returned the grasp and leaned
over to kiss the man’s head. “Stay, for a long as you like.”

As he climbed in beside Andrew, carefully
easing the sleeping man farther into the bunk, Etienne whispered,
“You should come to Algiers, stay with me and under Laurent’s care
while you heal.”

The thought was tempting. “It would be
pleasant, to be sure, what with your hot baths and fine beds. It
would be too dangerous, though. I cannot be seen for too many know
my face. We must let the strife pass for I have brought much of
that to your door, as of late.”

“As of late meaning seven years,” Etienne
sighed, but smiled as he said it.

“We will visit, again, after a time. After it
is safe,” Rory assured him. Turning to face Andrew, Rory slipped an
arm beneath his head and nestled close. He closed his eyes and fell
into sleep before he took his next breath.

When next he woke, Rory found the room empty
and that lamp barely burning. Andrew had loosened as he slept,
unfurling to lay warm and flush against his side. He could feel
Andrew’s breath on his neck, the weight of one leg thrown over his
thigh. The ship was quiet, overall. Only the gentle sounds of wind
and water, rustled sail and creaking wood could be heard. It was
comfort like no other and he felt himself drifting towards slumber
again…

Andrew jerked against him, his entire body
tensing. Rory held him tight, stroked his hair and made soothing
sounds, but a trembling set in to Andrew’s limbs that nearly shook
the sturdy frame in which they slept.

“All is well, my love,” he murmured, seeking
to quell whatever terrors were rampant in Andrew’s dreams. When
Andrew tried to rear away he held on, kept him close enough that he
could stop an errant blow before it struck. He spoke a bit louder
now, for he could feel when the tremors turned to shuddering sobs.
“Andrew, hear me, now! I have you. I have you!”

With a gasp, Andrew came awake, arching up
and away. He stilled, hands clenched in Rory’s shirt.

“I have you, my love,” Rory repeated,
gentling his hold.

For a moment, Andrew stayed like that,
motionless and taut. Then he went slack, letting his head fall to
Rory’s chest. He was panting and sweating, still shaking even as he
pressed his face into Rory’s neck.

“I’m sorry,” he breathed, sounding tearful
even without his voice.

“You’ve nothing to be sorry for,” Rory told
him. He resumed stroking Andrew’s hair, dropped kisses to his
forehead and cheek.

“I woke you.”

“It is no matter if you did. I will always
wake for your troubles, and gladly,” Rory reassured him.

Andrew’s hands fisted again. “Rory….I
can’t…”

“Shhh, you don’t have to say anything,” Rory
soothed, lifting Andrew’s chin so that their eyes met. “You’ll tell
me when you are ready.”

“What if that…is a long time off?” Andrew
asked, blinking, but not quite hiding the tears.

“Then I’ll wait,” Rory answered, simply.
“Until the end of days, if need be.”

“I love you,
Ruaidhri
.”

Rory smiled, winced a little, and said,
“
Ruaidhri
is no more, Andrew. He had to die. It was part of
the arrangement. To allow us freedom.”

Tucking his face into the hollow of Rory’s
throat, Andrew released a deep sigh. “Etienne told me this, but you
will always be my Red King, my
Ruaidhri
. And I shall call
you what I like.”

Still smiling into the darkness, Rory rested
his cheek against Andrew’s hair. “As you wish, Coinin.”

Time healed wounds, food restored strength,
and sunlight returned the flush to pallid flesh.

Their arrival at Tipaza was quiet, though the
village wished to celebrate with fire and song. It took much
convincing on Rory’s part to hold the feast until the New Year. He
gratefully ensconced himself and Andrew in the small stone house,
put up a proper door and shutters against the winter rains, and
together they staved off the darkest nights.

They found comfort in each other’s arms,
seeking pleasure and affirmation as the dark of the solstice passed
and the Christian Holy days approached. Andrew spent his first
Christmas day without his family of holy brothers in silent,
sometimes tearful, reflection. Rory faced his mortality in the
start of his thirty-first year a few days later. They gave each
other their most tender attention, healing as best they could with
hands and mouths and never any further.

After the forty nights of winter and before
the return of spring, a caravel bound for Tunis anchored offshore.
The smiling men it dispatched brought letters from Algiers, their
delivery paid handsomely for by Etienne. All was well, according to
his report. Laurent was easing into his new life, unsure of his
place, but Etienne was confident he could help. He had even
prompted a smile or two from the young man and his
self-satisfaction fairly leapt off of the parchment.

The
Amira
was all but ready to sail.
She awaited her christening and her crew, and the goods she would
bear down the coast of Africa. There was to be a wedding, as well,
for Amira had consented to become Malik’s wife. It would not be in
time to hide the blossoming of her belly, as the child would arrive
at the start of summer, but neither was troubled by this. Malik’s
letter was filled with joy and pride, and insistent that both
Andrew and Rory be present.

Rory kept his hair barely long enough to
cover the swath of gnarled skin behind his ear. He would let it
grow again, someday, but for now the need to put to rest the tales
of
Ruaidhri
outweighed the loss of his namesake. To venture
into Algiers once more, he had to present himself as an anonymous
traveler, to simply be Rory. He shaved his face smooth for the
first time since gaining his freedom. In the middle of the day, he
took a short, sharp blade, a polished plate of silver, and a bowl
of water, hot from the fire. Outside he knelt in the sun, propped
the plate against a fallen tree, splashed his face with the water,
and set to shearing. Andrew stood in the shade and watched as the
blade scraped his skin, looking alternately mournful and amused.
When Rory finished, he rose and turned to Andrew with a broad
grin.

Blinking, moving closer to gaze unabashedly
at Rory’s newly hairless face, Andrew breathed, “You look
so…young.”

Rory laughed. “Do you like it?”

Andrew brushed his fingers across the soft,
pink flesh. It contrasted his own, for there was now a line of
silky dark hair outlining his mouth and trailing down his chin,
with the promise of a full beard to come. Rory found it quite
fetching, for it defined the dusky rose of Andrew’s lips and
emphasized the ivory hue of his skin. Andrew’s hair now fell in
artless, chestnut curls, thick and glorious, across his forehead
and down his neck. The disparity between himself as hirsute and
newly clean-shaven Rory did not go unnoticed.

“I now look the wild man and you look…”
Andrew whispered, still staring. His thumb stroked the scar on
Rory’s lip, the hollow beneath one high, chiseled cheekbone. The
corners of his mouth curled and a light appeared in his eyes.
“Innocent.”

“But does it please you?” Rory asked,
gentling his toothy smile to encourage an honest answer.

“Oh, aye,” Andrew replied, still soft and
nearly soundless, for the depth of his voice had not returned. His
eyes showed all that his inflection could not convey.

Rory curled his fingers around Andrew’s hips.
“A wild man? Silent and swift, like a wolf in the night?” he asked,
eyes darkening. “Have you come to spirit me away?”

Andrew smiled and rested his hands on Rory’s
neck.

“Would you sully my virtue? Will you force me
to submit to your shameful desires?” That was all he could say
before his words were swallowed by his laughter.

The fingers at his throat twitched, as did
Andrew’s lips. “I give you a chance,” Andrew breathed, moving
closer still, fitting his thigh between Rory’s. “If I can best your
strength, I will have you, all of you.”

“Mmm...and if I best yours?” Rory rumbled,
tightening his thighs around Andrew’s leg.

“If you best me, you will have me.” This was
spoken against his mouth and punctuated with a swipe of Andrew’s
tongue.

“When do we begin?” Already half-hard,
certain of winning regardless of the outcome, Rory still felt a
thrill at the promise of struggle.

“We’ll count, together, to three.”

“One.” Andrew tightened his hold on Rory’s
shoulders.

“Two.” Releasing Andrew’s hips, Rory put one
hand at Andrew’s waist, the other on his neck.

“Three!”

There was a thud when Andrew’s back struck
the ground. Rory had swept his feet from beneath him and sent him
sprawling. He was pulled down as Andrew fell, for the hold on his
shoulders did not weaken. He found himself resting between Andrew’s
legs, held close as those legs closed around his hips and kissed
breathless for a long moment.

When his mouth was released, he stared down
at Andrew, his eyes narrowed in feigned displeasure. “You didn’t
even try,” he admonished, lacing his words with disappointment.

Andrew was grinning, looking more the hungry
wolf now. “Aye,” he whispered. “I win.”

Though it briefly crossed his mind to pout
and pull away, before he could Andrew’s ankles crossed at his back
and their cocks were flush against each other, both hard and eager.
Rory kissed him, rocking their hips together as his tongue swept
through Andrew’s mouth. He felt his shirt shoved up to catch under
his arms and groaned as clever fingertips traced his ribs. Andrew
pushed back against him, legs clenching tight around his waist as
he thrust harder into the resistance. Andrew made a deep, huffing
noise, breathing heavily into Rory’s mouth. It was the closest to
moaning Rory had heard since before the damage and now, just now
when his teeth found the tender space beneath Andrew’s jaw there
was almost….