Harold's Haven Lee Brazil

Evernight Publishing

www.evernightpublishing.com

ISBN: 978-1-77130-507-5

Cover Artist: Sour Cherry Designs

Editor: JS Cook

WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this
copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be used or
reproduced electronically or in print without written permission,
except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are
fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or
persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

DEDICATION

This book is dedicated to the ever inspiring genius that is Raven
McAllan. It's been a pleasure working on this project with you. May
your muses continue to babble.

HAROLD’S HAVEN

Behind Closed Doors, 3

Lee Brazil

Prologue

The rumblings and grumblings of his offspring were growing

louder and Gerard knew he couldn't put this moment off any longer.
Glancing over at his secretary, Martin Nelson, he asked, "Are they all
here?"

The man tilted his head to the side as though assessing the

sounds outside the locked study door. Cecily's pert voice was easily
discernible as she bantered with her brothers. "Miss Cecily is there,
and if she's giggling it's a certainty that Mr. Randall is teasing her. I
saw Mr. Harold with his nose buried in a book in the library, so he's
present, Peregrine wouldn't miss a scheduled meeting if the Regent
himself attempted to hold him up, and as for that youngest lad of
yours, those are his dogs and where he goes, they go. I'd say they're
all present."

Steepling his hands together, Gerard eyed the papers on his

desk. Was he doing the right thing? "You will stay on and assist
Peregrine? Make certain the others have all they need?"

"I am in your employ My Lord, and until such time as you

terminate my employment, I will do my utmost to follow your
instructions."

Nodding, Gerard sighed. The time had come. "I did my duty. I

married, I had children."

Nelson's chuckle interrupted him. He quirked an inquiring

brow in his secretary's direction. "You find my plight amusing?"

"No, not at all. It's your children, you say it so prosaically, as

though they were not... Well, you know your children as well as I
do!"

Gerard regarded the fond smile on his longtime friend and

employee's face. Martin Nelson had been with him since before his
marriage to Penelope, since his father's death when he'd realized just
how disastrous the old man's spendthrift habits had been to the family
fortunes. Side by side they had worked to rebuild the Brigstock family
coffers, to repay debts and to rebuild the family position in society.
"We've worked hard, we deserve our reward. When I have found him,
when you decide Perry can handle the situation on his own—"

"You mean when he's learned not to act like such a lordly

prick toward his brothers and sister?"

Gerard nodded again, hiding his smile at his oldest friend's

assessment of his eldest son's character. "Even as you say. When it's
all sorted out, you'll hire your successor and come join us?'

Nelson rose from behind his smaller desk. "If things work out,

I may join you. If...your friend's situation is as it was when last you
met him."

Gerard understood Nelson's meaning clearly. The secretary

had spent years putting his best effort into furthering Gerard's causes,
but he had his own interests to pursue as well. At this point, neither of
them could tell if their courses would continue in the same traces.
"Well, let them in then—we'll neither of us discover our futures until
it's all set in play."

Nelson didn't hesitate. The children's voices rose as he pulled

the heavy door open, then fell into silence. Nelson slipped out as the
tide of Gretton children trooped into the room, five handsome
children with dark hair and piercing blue eyes, aristocratic noses, and
the characteristic Gretton ear lobes. Gerard sighed. He'd done his best
to establish each of his progeny on a path that suited his temperament,
but the thought of leaving them to their own devices for the indefinite
future didn't quite rest easily.

"Please, be seated." He held up a hand to forestall the

explosion of sound. "I have a matter of grave importance to discuss
with you. I regret summoning you all in such a pompous manner, but
it seemed prudent to speak to you all at once."

He paused to look around the circle of chairs. Perry sat stiffly,

lips compressed in a thin line. Next to him sat Randall, perfectly at his
ease in his scarlet uniform, knees crossed, tassled Hessians gleaming,
eyes twinkling. Harold sat next to his brother, and from the dreamy
expression in his eyes, he was either contemplating some scholarly

inanity, or dreaming up some bit of mischief. Cecily was perched on
the very edge of her chair, toe tapping impatiently as she twisted a
handkerchief to shreds in her lap.

Cecily. He had somehow failed in his duty with her. Girls her

age should have been long since married and providing heirs for their
husbands, but Cecily hadn't taken, as it were, and though she was
quite popular, had inexplicably not received any acceptable proposals.
You did your best, he reminded himself. Seven seasons, a tour of the
continent, visits to Brighton and Bath and house parties innumerable.
In another year the girl would be twenty-five and she could take up
residence in the house her mother had left her in Tunbridge Wells.
He'd provided the same allowance for Cecily as he had his sons in
order to cover just such an eventuality.

His attention was drawn from his musings about Cecily's fate

as a spinster when a minor scuffle ensued between his youngest son
Nash and Cecily that apparently involved some kicking and flying
elbows. "Children!" he scolded. Nash was such a scamp, always
getting into mischief of one kind or another. "This is serious business.
Save your bickering for later."

"Perhaps, Father, if you would..." Perry paused meaningfully.
"Yes. Of course. I'm leaving," he announced baldly and waited

for responses.

They exchanged bewildered glances. Again, Peregrine broke

the silence. "Would you like us to accompany you to the country,
father? Leaving town isn't exactly convenient right now."

Gerard waved him impatiently to silence. "No. I'm leaving the

country. I've some old friends I want to look up, and many places I've
never been. I sent each of you on a Grand Tour, but when I was of the
age for it, my family hadn't the funds to send me. Now, everything
here is in order, and you all, well. You don't need me. Each of you is
independent, and none of you wants me interfering in your lives. So,
I'm going to travel, look for my particular friend, and enjoy myself."

He cast a glance over each stunned face in turn. "Cat got your

tongues, eh? I've done my duty by this family since I was nineteen.
I'm turning fifty soon, and I think it's my turn to enjoy life. Perry, I'm
leaving you power of attorney to run the estates."

He forestalled Perry's moment of triumph by continuing,

"Under the direction of Nelson. He has my authority to naysay
anything too outrageous. The rest of you, I've set up your allowances

to be paid quarterly. If there is a problem, you may direct
correspondence to me through Nelson, but I advise you to do your
best to live within your means, because neither he nor Perry will be
able to bail you out if you take a swim in River Tick. That's all. You
may go now."

He held his breath as they rose, pretended to study the papers

on his desk. It was too much to hope that the lot of them would just
troop on out and let him get on with finding Jonathon.

"When?"
"Pardon?" He glanced up at Nash, his youngest child, the jack-

a-napes who courted scandal assiduously in the tradition of younger
sons everywhere.

"When are you going?" Was that regret or sorrow in the boy's

eyes?

"In the morning." Good boy, that Nash. High spirited as hell,

but a heart of gold.

"And when will you return?" Harold piped in, focusing his

gaze on his father for the first time since entering the room.

Gerard hadn't been at all certain that his dreamer son had even

understood that he was leaving. "I’m not certain. All depends on
whether I find my friend, and once I find him, whether I can convince
him to return with me." He caught Randall's startled look of
cognition. "Yes." He knew Randall understood the significance of his
words. "Yes, exactly, Randall. I had no choice you understand, as I
had no brothers to take my place. You're fortunate in that Perry and
Nash are so eager to propagate the family name."

"I wish you every success on your journey then, father."

Randall bowed deeply and followed his younger brother from the
room.

Cecily crossed the room and pressed a kiss to his cheek. He

patted her head briefly. "Now then, my girl. No need for you to be
concerned. I've set things up for you. You'll have your pin money as
always, and the use of any of the houses. Perry will look after you. I
don't suppose you've found a husband yet?" he teased his only
daughter.

"I’m afraid I'm not actually looking. You know, I'm quite old

enough to look after myself." The apple of his eye cast a disparaging
glance at her elder sibling. "Perry needn't trouble himself."

"It's done. There's no need to argue the point, puss. Perry will

look out for you until you turn twenty-five, and then you'll have all
the joy of looking out for yourself you could wish. A year isn't so
long to wait. And Perry," he frowned sternly at his eldest son, "will
not be a trial to you, will you my boy?"

Perry grunted non-committally and Gerard sighed again. "Go

on. I've a lot of packing to do. And you...Yes, it is necessary to leave
Nelson to help you. You've a damned supercilious attitude and
frankly, I'm rather concerned that you'd run roughshod over your
siblings if I left their care entirely up to you. Oh, I know you wouldn't
abuse them, but they aren't a stack of blank canvasses to be repainted
in your image, either."

"But..."
"But nothing, Peregrine. They are high spirited and lively, and

that's the way we love them. Help them, support them, and if they are
in true danger, rescue them, but otherwise let them live their lives. I
intend to at last live mine, and you, my serious son, I highly suggest
you live yours."

Chapter One

"It's not ready! I can't perfect the new firing mechanism if you

keep dragging me over here!" Harold shouted as he stumbled through
the doorway of his brother's office. He was conscious of curious and
reproving stares alike from the clerks in the outer room, but
Peregrine's sardonically quirked brow across the broad expanse of his
desktop made him painfully aware that he'd been dragged over here to
the Home Office straight from his lab. He was in his shirtsleeves and
braces, and suddenly felt keenly the lack of waistcoat and jacket. Why
he might as well be naked! Damn Peregrine for being a domineering
older brother, and damn his father for abandoning his children to their
priggish older brother's iron fisted care!

His brother sat, stern–faced and imposing behind a large

mahogany desk. As always Peregrine was impeccably attired in form-
fitting garments. Harold scowled impatiently. Even if he had the
desire or the time to spend hours with a tailor and valet, he'd never
look so simple and elegant. His clothes always managed to wrinkle, or
stain, or get forgotten when he got distracted. A lock of hair fell into
his eye, and he brushed it aside impatiently, leaving a streak of black
oil across his forehead. Fuck. He felt a nervous thrill even thinking
the uncouth word he'd overheard Randall using. His hands were
streaked with gun oil and grease, and he knew well enough he'd patted
himself down for his spectacles before opening the door, so he didn't
have to look at his shirt and breeches to know they were streaked as
well.

"I see you are indeed hard at work, Harry. But I've called you

here about something else." Peregrine the prig tipped his head
meaningfully at the other gentleman in the room, a tall, broad
shouldered, dark haired, green-eyed man who appeared vaguely
familiar. "I'd like to make you known to our cousin Jason Dancourt,
recently of Paris."

Harold paused, then began absently patting himself down for

his spectacles again. Cousin? Oh yes, Uncle Sebastian's by-blow.
Giving up on the missing spectacles, he contented himself with
squinting to bring the man's face into focus. Ah yes. "You do have a
bit the look of our Uncle." An uncomfortable silence fell for a
moment as he remembered that discussing the man's father might be

awkward since Sebastian had never seen fit to claim the man. This
was why he preferred his laboratory. You could say what you liked to
the bits and pieces, and none of them got offended. "How he could
pretend you weren't his, I'll never understand. Even without my
spectacles, I can see the resemblance. You just have to see the
portrait…" His voice trailed off as he realized that he was just making
things worse.

Perry coughed and Harold turned to him, waiting curiously.

"You're wearing your spectacles, Harold."

"Am I?" He tilted his head forward and the thin wire frames

slid down his nose. "Ah, so I am." Should have remembered that
squinting trick hadn't worked since he was twelve.

"Indeed. I am pleased to make your acquaintance." Dancourt

spoke with a faint Continental accent, almost indistinguishable,
possibly Italian, or French. A faint interest in the man stirred, and
Harold narrowed his eyes in concentration.

Harold stepped a little closer, then flopped into a chair, staring

at the man, willing him to speak again so he could identify the accent.
"Say something," he muttered. Just the hint of a rolling of the r's, a
nasal quality that teased at his meticulous mind. He needed to hear
more to place the origin entirely though.

"Something?" the man asked, curiously, his amusement plain

in the sparkling eyes.

"He's trying to identify your accent. Syntax and language are

one of Harry's areas of interest." Perry winced as Harold gripped the
arms of his chair and Harold snatched back his hands. He'd forgotten
the grease. He shrugged at Perry and rubbed at a mark on the chair
with his sleeve. His feet scarce touched the ground when he scooted
all the way back, so he slid forward to the edge. Damned lack of
height. Even his sister was taller than he was at five foot six inches,
and his brothers and father all towered over him by at least a foot
apiece. "You need normal sized furniture, Perry. This giant stuff
makes us small fellows feel like midgets."

Perry laughed. "Don’t you recognize that? It's the

interrogation chair you designed for me based the interrogation
techniques discussions we had some three years past?"

"No. I do recall, yes, that power perceived is power achieved.

Make the man feel smaller and yourself appear bigger." He went

ahead and slid to the back of the seat then. "That theory works
splendidly. I was quite getting an inferiority complex there."

"Ah, the accent is plain ordinary common French," Dancourt

confessed. "I'm sorry it's not more exotic." He seemed amused by the
interaction between Harold and his brother, and Harold relaxed a
little. Generally other men found him trying, and women, well,
women generally left him tongue-tied and they seemed to regard him
the same as they would a bug on their linen.

"That's quite all right. If you'd consent to read something for

me, then I could identify the district in which you were raised."
Harold reached for his pocket but the passage wasn’t there of course,
because he'd been working in his lab. The passage was in the inner
pocket of his jacket, hanging on its peg, back in his lab. Where he
should be. He glared at Peregrine again. "You interrupted my work.
Those thugs dragged me by the arm out of my own rooms!"

"I sent three messages. You ignored them all." Peregrine

sighed, and Harold refocused his attention on his brother. "He's not
the project I asked you here about."

"I told you, the firing mechanism is a work in progress. It's

very dangerous to play around with. I can't allow you to observe or
use the pistol until I'm certain it's safe." The weight of the tiny pistol
in his boot seemed to mock him, but he ignored its presence. He
needed to test the weapon's concealability, as well as its accuracy and
speed of use.

"It's really about a favor I need, not whatever you're working

on for Perry." Perry's elegantly attired visitor smiled openly, and
Harold's cheeks burned as he flushed in embarrassment. The man's
perfect neat attire, tight fitting pantaloons and mid-calf boots
reminded him all to clearly of the gawky picture he must present in
his baggy breeches and the pumps that had been the first shoes he'd
been able to lay his hands on while being dragged out the door.

"Oh, well in that case." Peregrine always had the most

interesting project ideas for him, and his imagination went wild at the
thought of what his brother would ask for now. He'd already created a
copy machine, a refinement really of James Watt's design, to make
life easier for the numerous clerks in the department, though he hadn't
seen any on the desks he'd passed. "What happened to the copy
machines?"

Peregrine checked in the act of picking up a sheet of paper

from his desk. "The copy machines? Oh yes, those. My superiors
deemed them too risky. The ability to create up to twenty copies of a
document at once leads to the ability to sneak a copy out and sell it to
the highest bidder apparently."

"Who would do a thing like that?" Harold asked, bewildered.

"I just thought the device would make things more efficient."

"And so it would, if all men were honorable and decent."

Peregrine leaned forward over the desk blotter to hand him the piece
of paper.

Harold glanced down at the page automatically. "An address

on Hampstead Heath?"

"There is a man there who is a stranger to London. He's very

important to me, as he and I were imprisoned together for a period of
time," the stranger, his cousin, answered.

"But what has this man to do with a project for me? Is he an

inventor or a scientist?" He could usually manage to converse quite
well with people who shared his interests, for a while anyway. At
least most of them seemed to understand when he became lost in
thought mid-sentence.

"Not really, no." Perry assumed a solemn expression. "What

I'm about to tell you cannot go any farther than this room," he intoned
in serious, businesslike tones that would have grated on Celia's nerves
and set up Nash's back.

Harold rolled his eyes. "You know me better than that, Perry.

If it's not scientific or interesting, I'm not even going to remember it
twenty minutes from now."

Dancourt burst into outright laughter, and Harold scowled at

him. "My old nurse would have smacked you for that."

"My apologies again. You're very different from most

Englishmen I've met. I rather like you." The statement made Harold
feel a little warm and funny, as so far as he could tell, not many
people "liked" him outside his own family, who were very indulgent
and tolerant of his whims.

He didn’t know quite how to respond to that, so he just

nodded.

"Martin Tillman is a fugitive."

Well, that was quite different. "You want me to apprehend a

fugitive? Wouldn't someone else be better suited to this task? Maybe,
I don't know, Randall? He's got some kind of authority, doesn’t he?"

"I don't want him arrested; I just want him hidden until I can

get him out of the country."

Bewildered, Harold sank deeper into the chair. He nibbled his

lower lip and glanced between the two men. "You helped him
escape?" The intuitive answer was correct. He could see the truth in
his cousin's hastily blank expression, though Perry made no
acknowledgement. Well, he wouldn't would he? Being some high
muckety-muck in the Home Office. "Perry, the shortest distance
between two points is a straight line."

The other two men stared blankly at him.
"Euclidean geometry? Really…Fine. Just tell me straight to

the point in fifteen words or less what you want me to do so I can get
out of here. This office is full of spies and creepy people. Always
watching me." He frowned over his shoulder at the shut door.

Perry folded white hands on his desk and seemed to consider

carefully what he was going to say. His cousin was smiling broadly,
and Harold nodded shortly at the man before training his gaze on
Perry again.

"Harold, why fifteen words?" The French accent tickled at his

mind again, but he refused to be distracted.

Harold didn't even look at Dancourt as he answered, "Because

I get distracted easily and if he has a limit to the number of words he
can use Perry will cut to the chase."

He was a bit proud of himself at getting that bit of cant in. Too

bad Nash wasn't around to hear it.

"Assure he isn't recaptured while I find out who holds a

grudge against him."

"Damnation, Perry! You don’t ask much, do you?"
"I'll make the task well worth your while. I noticed you're

running close to the mark with your funds since father's been gone. I'll
advance you a portion of next quarter's allowance if you do this for
me."

More funds would enable him to complete his work on the

pistol's design more quickly. Then again, it would also…. He recalled
more of his work with the interrogations experts. "I'm not sure I'm
right for this, Perry."

"Five thousand."
"I want the five thousand, and a new wardrobe." He needed

garments that would allow him to conceal his newly modified
weaponry on his person. His mind was awhirl with skintight
pantaloons, calf length boots with cunning pockets…

"Done. I'll happily escort you to my tailor."
Tailor? "Um…No. I'll find someone myself."
A pained expression crossed Perry's face. "Not, I beg of you,

the same man who did that puce monstrosity you wore to dinner the
other night."

"I don't know who that was," he confessed, "Boots. I need

someone discreet."

He glanced up to see himself the object of amused glances.

"Fine. I'll mind your prisoner. But you realize this will delay the
completion of your other project."

"This is much more important. Someone in the office is

abusing his access to information and to power. There is no reason
that anyone can give me for Tillman to be imprisoned at all."

"So you decided to abuse your own power and unimprison

him?"

"It's a question of justice."
"Justice?"
"Never mind all that, Harold. For you it's a question of

funding. I'd appreciate if you could get there tonight."

"Fine, but I'm stopping at Hatchard's on my way. You can pay

for my entertainment too."

Chapter Two

Someone jostled him from behind then pushed in front of him,

as though they stood in a queue at the theater or a boxing match, or on
the wharf watching ships or something instead of strolling down a
fashionable thoroughfare toward Piccadilly Street. Biting back a
curse, Martin Tillman started to protest when he caught a fleeting
glimpse of the man's face before he darted ahead of someone else in
the throng.

"Damn!" The view accomplished what the action had not.

Ignoring startled gasps and protests at his rude language, Martin

stopped walking and stared. He wasn't the only one. A young man,
early twenties at the most, was strolling down the street. That in itself
wasn't unusual, the thoroughfare was crowded with ladies and
gentlemen alike, shopping, chatting, seeing and being seen, which
activity seemed to be the end all and be all of their existences on this
continent.

Let any of them set foot on American soil and he or she would

learn fairly quickly that respect and admiration were earned, not
gifted at birth. He was forced to retract that thought as he recalled the
grand dames of New York society and their snobbery. Those dames
would have had hysterics at the sight of the gentleman, for such he
obviously was, who had captured Martin's attention.

The young man was slender, with broad shoulders clearly

visible because he'd apparently managed to leave his home in his
shirtsleeves. Unlike the other men about town this morning, he wasn't
wearing a waistcoat or a jacket, or even a greatcoat. Just fine billowy
linen tucked into baggy breeches rather than the elegant trousers and
pantaloons the others favored, and an enticing length of stockinged
calf was revealed, as he'd apparently run out in a pair of pumps rather
than the half boots society favored, or even the knee length boots that
his breeches cried out for.

Beyond his shocking lack of clothing, the fellow was smeared

with grease or paint of some sort about his face and white linen, but
even that sloppiness couldn't detract from the attractiveness of his
profile, the seeming innocence of his very posture.

He walked practically naked down the streets of London,

alternately smiling and muttering to himself, paying no heed at all to
the other foot traffic, as though certain that anyone and everything
would step out of his path.

And they did, some in bemusement, some in anger, some in

apparent mockery, but nothing seemed to impinge on the fellow's
little bubble of peace.

And the face that Martin had glimpsed as the man crossed in

front of him? Well, his brow was unwrinkled though besmirched with
a streak of grease, his eyes were a pure sparkling blue behind the wire
rims of spectacles, and his lips were a gleaming temptation to sully
the innocence that didn't seem to see the pickpockets hovering, the
whores watching, the cutthroats lurking. Overlong dark hair had been
so haphazardly tied back into a queue that strands had been worked

loose and framed the high cheekbones and narrow chin. He could
easily imagine that the streak on his brow had been caused by pushing
that hair back behind an ear.

And since he had nothing better to do, Martin followed his

interest and trailed behind the unaware fellow as he wreaked havoc on
an otherwise peaceful street, hoping that an opportunity to speak with
the other man would present itself. The wind and braces gave him a
fair idea of the length of back and the broadness of shoulders. The
slim hips were well defined, the calves neat and muscular, but he kept
glancing at the baggy seat of those breeches, imaging the last secrets
hidden from his view.

His quarry ducked down a side alley, and Martin frowned. He

was rather far back, but a surprised shout caused him to push his way
through the crowd, who were unsurprisingly less obliging to his desire
to pass than they had been of the other fellow.

Refusing to waste his time on pretty words and phrases, the

man might be in danger, after all, he lengthened his stride and strode
around and between the couples, groups and laggards until he found
the alley he thought the fellow had ducked into.

He'd half convinced himself he was being foolish when no

further outcry came, but as he'd reached the corner, he turned his head
anyway, reasoning that he might as well check on the man, as only he
would be aware of his folly and he'd never been afraid to laugh at
himself.

Martin's breath caught in his throat and his blood ran cold at

the sight that met his eyes. Just inches off a street full of men and
women, a silent battle fraught with danger was being carried out. The
slight man he'd been following was on the ground. A quick glance
showed that he had apparently been assaulted by two men, both rough
looking thugs who appeared to tower over the man on the ground.

The face that had caught his attention was now streaked with

blood as well as dirt, and the spectacles were bent awkwardly at an
angle.

"I suggest you two depart and leave me to my business." The

cultured tones were steely and determined and quite at odds to the
defeated picture the man made, patting at his shirt and breeches.

The idiot didn't seem to know enough to be concerned for his

safety. Some heretofore unsuspected protective instinct raised
Martin's hackles. He didn't like the sight of that innocence being

sullied. A man ought to be able to walk blindly down a street without
being assaulted.

Martin stepped into the alley, and immediately the walls

seemed to close him off from the fashionable crowds and dull the
noise of the street. He cleared his throat loudly, settling into a ready
stance. A thrill of excitement raised his pulse at the coming
confrontation.

The two thugs looked at him, and Martin jerked his head

toward the street behind him. "Go on. There's nothing for you here."

One beefy man smirked, tipping his head back before moving

toward Martin. "That so? Mr. High and Mighty. I reckon there's zactly
what I'm looking fer right 'ere."

Martin rolled his shoulders. A smile flitted over his face, and

he let it grow into a wide grin. "Oh no. This is the most entertainment
I've had since I hit these benighted shores, and that includes the weeks
I spent in prison."

"I'll show ye entertainment!" The villain surged forward, and

Martin swiftly calculated the best tactic. Instinct came to his rescue,
as he swung and caught the fellow on the jaw with enough force to
send him flying into the nearest wall.

Infuriated, the man lunged forward, leading with a massive

fist. Martin sidestepped and the blow merely caught his shoulder. He
struck again, aiming for the jaw. A satisfying pain erupted in his
knuckles as he split the man's lip and crushed his nose. Blood spurted
between them, but they continued to exchange punches and jabs,
neither able to get in a telling blow.

"Augh!"
Martin's head spun at the shout. He'd nearly forgotten that

another thug was present. Relief washed through him as he saw that
the shout had come not from the man he'd been following, but from
his assailant, who was scrabbling backward on the ground as the shirt-
sleeved man glared at him.

He made it to his feet and dragged Martin's opponent after him

out of the alley, leaving Martin struggling for breath, his heart racing
loud in his ears and a growing awareness of various aches and pains.
"What did you do to him?"

"Nothing much. I'd have waited, but you were taking too long,

fighting like a gentleman."

Affronted, Martin snorted. "I am a gentleman."

The small fellow nodded. "I noticed. That's going to hold you

back quite a bit you know, if you're going to be involving yourself in
street brawls."

"You might exhibit some gratitude for my rescuing you,"

Martin protested, dusting off his clothing and surveying his
companion curiously. Mussed and sweaty and downright dirty from
the alley, half-dressed and grubby as any street urchin, he was still
appealing. His heartbeat accelerated again. All the sense that had been
alerted by the fight immediately transferred themselves to the man in
front of him.

He wanted. And thank god for his full coat, because the

fashionable pantaloons he wore did precious little to hide his desire
from the man in front of him. Maybe the baggy breeches, despite
being unfashionably dull, were a wiser wardrobe choice.

"You didn't rescue me." Filthy hands patted down the shirt and

breeches while the man muttered unintelligibly.

His brow shot up. "I beg to differ," he drawled. "Was that not

you that I saw scant moments ago sprawled on the ground with those
two behemoths about to do their worst?"

"Do their worst? Are you under the impression this is a farce

at Drury Lane? I had things under control. Besides, you nearly got
yourself killed interfering like that."

"Come along, I'm weary of standing here. They might come

back and bring more friends with them." Shaking his head, Martin
held out a commanding hand. It occurred to him to wonder just how
the small man had broken away from his attacker. "How did you
manage, anyway?"

"Power perceived is power achieved."
"That's a great lesson. But he'd already beaten you, and clearly

had the upper hand. If I hadn't come along those two would have done
god knows what to you." Though he knew well enough that the
repercussions involved would have been distinctly unpleasant.

"I doubt it. I just showed him that I could change the equation

easily, and he decided trying to steal my non-existent purse wasn't
worth serious injury. They aren't going to come back here." Deep
piercing blue eyes studied him intently.

"I'm no longer in the mood to walk. We'll share a hackney,

shall we?" Martin ushered the now quiet stranger ahead of him to the
street and flagged down a dark carriage, already wondering just how

he could keep the man by his side. As they settled onto the shabby
squabs, he opted for an adage that had worked well for him in his
business as a shipping company owner, and continued as though
consent was assumed. "We'll go back to my place and get cleaned up
and I'll buy you a drink and some dinner."

"Just keep talking."
The man's gaze was fixed on his lips, and the spark of want

flared into a conflagration. "I'm Martin." Finding someone in this
place who shared his interests and tastes in the bed chamber so
fortuitously was one thing, that the man returned that interest so
clearly made Martin want to throw all the niceties and subtleties aside
and drag the him off to bed unceremoniously and fuck him until
neither of them could stand upright.

He reminded himself forcibly of the aura of innocence that,

despite the man's flattering staring, still clung to him. He determined
to take things slow and easy at least the first time, for he was certain
at this moment there'd be plenty of time for fast and raw later.

"I'll happily talk all you want. But don't you think actions

speak louder than words?"

Chapter Three

Inside the hackney carriage and not quite certain how he'd

managed to land there, Harold shrugged and focused on his would be
rescuer's speech. The man was from America, one of the former
colonies in the north. His speech was well educated and clearly city as
opposed to country. Harold didn't get the opportunity to try his skills
with Americans often, given that their countries had been at war for
the better part of his lifetime. Some things were universal among the
well-to-do though, and this man had all the rounded consonants and
clear elucidation of the upper crust.

Having paused to speak to the driver, his would be rescuer

stepped in behind him, efficiently lowering the window shows to
shroud them in darkness and keep prying eyes out. Harold was
conscious of a twinge of disappointment at the darkness. His eyes
would adjust, it was true, but he enjoyed the nuances of expression
and the knowledge to be gained from close observation. To his
surprise, rather than seating himself opposite Harold, Martin elected
to sit next to him on the faded velvet cushion.

That gave him a better view than he would have had, and

Harold relaxed a bit.

He stared at the thin rose tinted lips, waiting for the next sound

to emerge. The carriage jerked into motion, sending Harold back
against the squabs. He winced as a few of his bruises protested the
abrupt contact. Did he still have arnica? Perhaps after Hatchard's he'd
need to visit the apothecary. What did rose tinted lips taste like?
Where the fuck, he stumbled over the word in his thoughts, had that
come from?

"Ahem."
Startled, Harold raised his eyes from the man's mouth and

flushed when he caught Martin's gaze. Embarrassment and a stranger
fluttery something else filled him as he caught the amusement and an
odd heat in Martin's eyes. "I’m so sorry. I didn't mean to stare. I was
just waiting for you to continue speaking."

"Do you have hearing problems?" The sympathy in the man's

voice embarrassed him even more. Martin slid a little closer on the
squabs, and one big hand landed on the dirt-streaked thigh of Harold's
trousers.

It felt like he'd been seared by a bolt of lightning. He couldn't

help the way he jerked away from that touch. "No!" Seeing Martin's
startled expression, he tried to regain control of himself. "I mean, I
don't have any hearing problems. I study speech. I've narrowed you
down to the Northern cities of North America, one of the English
Colonies not the French, and if you'll just keep speaking in a normal
clear voice I think I can identify the city of your origin." He stumbled
to a stop as the hand that had touched his thigh lifted. His breath
caught in his throat and he watched, mouth agape and eyes widening
as the hand approached his face. He couldn’t seem to break away
from that sherry brown gaze, the warmth and humor in those eyes
causing more confusion in his body…and mind.

"Ah. I didn't mean to offend. It's just that I had a clerk in the

Boston office who was hard of hearing, but if he watched a person's
mouth he could understand what they were saying." Martin leaned
even closer, and Harold could swear that heat rose off him in tangible
waves.

"Don't." Was that his voice, so breathy and deep?
The strange flutter in his belly increased, his spine stiffened

and he shrank back against the cushions. Martin's brows drew
together slightly, then he smiled softly. "I'm not going to do
anything." He brushed the lock of hair on Harold's forehead back
behind his ear then withdrew. Martin leaned back against the cushions
in his corner of the carriage and Harold squirmed a bit more under
that curious, thoughtful gaze.

"Oh, that. Um. Thanks. It's forever coming loose."
"You're afraid of me?" Martin asked.
"Afraid? Of you? No, I'm fairly sure I can take you in a fight."

A thin dark brow rose dubiously. "No, really. You fight too clean.
That fellow would have had you in a few more minutes."

"And you could have done better I suppose?"
"Of a certainty. Gentlemen never fight to win, they fight

according to the rules. When some bastard's pulled you into an alley
and is trying to make off with your purse, even though you've told
him you don't have one because your idiot brother has dragged you
out of the house to a meeting even though you're busy working, well
then you have to be as big a bastard as he is and kick him square in
the ballocks."

"Good lord."

"It's not a question of honor when life and death are involved,

you see." But from the non-plussed expression on the man's face, he
clearly didn't see. "Now see here, you should understand this. You
Americans, you didn't even fight the war according to the rules. Why
are you so all amuck over me kicking some miscreant where it hurts?"

Instead of an answer he found himself dragged across the

carriage and hauled into the taller man's lap. It crossed his mind that
perhaps he'd have been better off trusting the thugs, but he didn't have
time to analyze the situation before a pair of hard lips closed on his
own.

Heat exploded from the writhing in his belly, and he gasped.

He'd been kissed before, more than once. Ladies had been attempting
to lure him into marriage or their beds since he'd turned sixteen,
though he'd always assumed their interest had more to do with the
family name and fortune than any attraction to his youth.

Several had stolen kisses at picnics and balls over the years,

yet none of their soft sweet nibblings had felt like this. This kiss
bruised his lips with passion, forced a response he'd never
experienced before.

The closest he'd ever come to this had been on his last visit to

his brother Nash's place out in horse country. The chef, a scientist in
his own right though his medium was edible rather than chemical, had
introduced him to a few new ideas. They shared a great many hot
sticky kisses over kitchen experiments, but even those kisses and the
acts that followed hadn't prepared him for this.

With a moan, he slid his hand up the fine jacket to clutch at

the nape of his seducer's neck, holding him in place as Harold parted
his lips and invited him to more intimate contact. He completely
forgot about his filthy hands and the pristine state of Martin's linen,
completely forgot the differences between his dashing rescuer and his
own shabby appearance.

Martin took immediate advantage, shifting Harold fully into

his lap as his tongue surged past the boundary of teeth and rubbed
along Harold's. Letting his legs fall open and arranging himself so that
he sat astride, Harold returned each touch, mirrored each caress,
cataloging the sensations for future valuation.

Gradually he became aware of a hard length prodding at his

buttocks. As soon as he noticed it he knew what it was, and his own
prick was equally hard and demanding. Shuddering with arousal, he

pulled out of the kiss and stared in wonder at the passion-flushed face.
"Are you…"

"I am. Will you…"
They established exactly what they were doing in half

sentences between kisses. Martin worked the fall of his pantaloons
open as Harold tugged his shirt from his breeches and opened his own
garment to withdraw his prick. The interior of the hackney was
darker than he liked in the comfortable interior of the carriage, but
enough daylight peeked in around the drawn shades that he was able
to see that Martin had exposed a fine, thick prick, cut at the tip in the
Jewish fashion. It was creamy pale and flushed dark pink at the head.
Thick veins trailed down and the whole was nestled in a mass of wiry
curls the color of steeped tea.

Martin's staff was nothing like the chef's prick, and while he'd

handled that specimen enough to grow bored with it before the
summer had run out, his fingers itched to touch and learn the shape
and texture of this one as well as he knew his own.

He raised his gaze to Martin and licked his lips. Martin

groaned, his thighs tensed beneath Harold, and Harold scooted
backward sliding down to kneel on the dusty dirt of the carriage floor.
Martin reached to stop him, and Harold batted his hand away.

"Do you…have you done this before?" Martin seemed

displeased by the thought that Harold had been with others.

Harold shrugged, feeling a little guilty over the harmless

flirtation he'd engaged in two summers back. "A little. It was
interesting, so I experimented some." That seemed to appease Martin
somewhat, and he leaned back. Harold wished his face weren't hidden
in the shadows. He rather relied on visual cues to tell when he was
doing things properly in this realm.

"Then by all means, I offer myself to your experiments."
Frowning, Harold started to protest then shrugged. He knew

why this was happening, and even if their sexual play wasn't an
experiment, he wasn't going to see the fellow again, so it didn't really
matter that this was about something less than scientific, did it?

They were both keyed up from the fight and needed to work

off the excess energy. A sexual release would do that in a very
satisfactory way. He leaned forward and let his gaze travel the length
of Martin's cock. Experimentally, he traced a finger over the swollen
head and found it damp with a clear slick liquid. He dragged his

finger down the thick vein on the underside, then encircled the girth
of the cock with his hand. It felt hot and heavy, and pulsed in his grip.

His own prick throbbed demandingly in return, but Harold

ignored the urge to touch himself. He had uncharted territory to
explore, and it commanded his complete attention. He leaned even
closer to sniff the enticing organ, inhaling a musky, earthy male
aroma that was at once cleanly refreshing and tangy with sweat.
Brushing his cheek over the length, he burrowed his fingers into the
thick curls and combed through them, finding the sensitive cods.

"Yes," Martin groaned, arching into his touch, his prick

leaving a damp trail over Harold's cheek. "Stroke me." A strong hand
came down, closed over Harold's, guiding his touch.

Hm. Perhaps he wouldn't need to see Martin's face to tell if he

got it right. "Like this?" he whispered, letting his breath caress the
moist tip of Martin's cock as he caught the motion, squeezing just a
little harder than he liked himself.

"Ungh." Martin squirmed on the seat, pushing up into his

touch. Harold smiled.

Yes, the principles of pleasure were the same. He stroked and

squeezed and rolled the tight little balls in their pouch, listening to
Martin's grunts and moans and measuring the tension in the bulging
muscles of his thighs.

The gauges of pleasure were everywhere, and Harold tallied

them neatly in his mind, or tried to. Inevitably, he was forced to take
himself in his other hand and ease his own lust.

He bent his head to lick at the leaking fluid, savoring the taste

and flavor of Martin on his tongue. Martin shouted, bucking forward
and then cursing as the first gush of his creamy white seed spewed
across Harold's face.

Harold froze, startled for a moment, then continued his

movements, milking the throbbing cock as spurt after spurt of seed hit
his chin and neck, the final simply dribbling down over his hand.

Martin stared at him from the darkness. He could sense the

weight of the man's gaze, and Harold inched backward until he could
brace himself against the seat behind. The light from outside streaked
across his face, and he licked the seed from his lips.

Hauling his blousy shirt up, he bared his cock to Martin's

gaze, and used his seed-slicked hand to jerk at his cock furiously.

"You like to watch?" he rasped, staring into the darkness, willing
Martin to lean forward so he could see the man's face.

Judging Martin's passion without visual cues had been one

thing, seeing his reaction to Harold's pleasure was something else.
"You surprise me." Martin's voice was lower, husky and raw between
panted breaths.

"I want you to watch me. Let me see you watch me." Harold's

blood roiled and his thighs strained as he leaned farther back. His face
slid into shadow, and the beam of light dappled his belly, his prick.
He swiped his thumb over the tip, spreading the juices down his
length. His balls were tightening, drawing up hard and every nerve
seemed to hum.

Martin's breath caught and then he too leaned forward,

scooting to the edge of his seat until the light crossed his face. "Want
me to open the shades?" he offered, catching his lower lip between his
teeth.

"Agh." Harold shuddered, pushing into his fist, feeling the

orgasm hovering, just out of reach. "No, but…" He fell silent,
drinking in the passion darkened eyes, the flaring nostrils as Martin
tried to catch his breath, to recover himself from his orgasm. "I like
seeing…"

"What?" Martin slipped to his knees on the floor of the

hackney, between Harold's legs. "What do you want to see? This?" He
pulled his own clothing aside again to reveal his spent prick, dripping
with creamy spend, half hard. The pale skin was mottled rosy red with
the violence of his touches, the whole stirring under his gaze.

"Yes," he groaned, stiffening and quivering as the first burst of

seed hit the floor between them. "Yes, yes, yes…" He trailed away as
the orgasm racked his being, lungs seizing.

When the intensity faded he came back to himself and heat

burned his cheeks as he met those warm sherry eyes, staring intently
at him. "Who are you?"

Hastily restoring his garments to order, he recalled exactly

who he was. "I'm… nobody." The fourth son of a prominent family
striving to remain respectable didn't do this sort of thing period, let
alone in a carriage in the middle of…"God. Where the fuck are we?"
He took a momentary pride in how easily the foul word slipped past
his lips.

"Heading to my residence. I promised you a clean-up and a

drink."

Harold wiped his face with his shirttail and lifted the edge of

the shade. Recognizing the street, he banged on the roof of the
carriage. He was only a block or so from his own rooms. "Jarvey! Let
me off at the corner." He tucked himself back together as best he
could and stared broodingly at his rescuer. "Next time, kick them in
the balls, or pull some hair or something. I won't be there to save
you."

Before Martin could speak the protest he could see forming on

his lips, Harold had swung out of the carriage and darted down an
alley.

Chapter Four

A haunch of some sort of meat. A side of bacon. A bowl of

eggs, a loaf of bread. Root vegetables. Gah. Martin scowled at the
contents of the larder. Hunger just added a fine edge to the foul mood
he'd been nursing since the man he'd rescued had jumped out of the
hackney carriage and disappeared into the crowd.

He hated taking back his words of superiority, but while for

the past many years Martin Tillman had been able to consider himself
a productive and hardworking member of society, he had no choice
but to face the very uselessness of himself when faced with a larder of
uncooked food.

Even when he captained his own ships someone else prepared

meals for him. As hard as he worked, and as much pride as he took in
being self-sufficient, this was something he could not do. And as luck
would have it, the tiny little six-room cottage on Hampstead Heath
where Jason Dancourt and Lord Gretton had chosen to hide him,
came with all the luxuries one could ask for. Except servants. He
hadn't thought the lack of a staff would be a problem.

The linens on the beds were delicate and soft. The mattresses

stuffed with feather and down, the furnishing both sturdy and
luxurious. He could warm his own bed and light his own fires, even
tend to his own clothing. Prepare a meal from this largesse? That was
beyond his ken.

Sending a scathing glare at the stove in the kitchen and the

many work surfaces, he was forced to admit that if the average
English aristocrat had the ability to provide his own food, then Martin
was the one who was lacking.

He should have gone back out after he'd cleaned up from his

little unexpected tryst with the stranger in the hackney. Instead, he'd
been too busy being furious at the fellow for not following through on
his implied consent. Then he'd fallen asleep reliving the intensity of
the touch, the little quirks of the encounter that had made it so vibrant
in his mind.

Which was silly, because he knew the man hadn't consented to

anything.

A loud knocking at the door distracted him, and he stalked

from the kitchen down the narrow entry hall that divided the rest of
the bottom floor into an office and dining room on the one side and a

large parlor on the other. Two bedchambers upstairs was the extent of
the home. Only two people knew he was here, so it had to be either
Dancourt or Gretton knocking fit to wake the dead. He'd tear a strip
off the hide of whichever one dared show his face and insist they
either hire him a chef or cook for him themselves.

Flinging open the door, he let his angry words die on his

tongue as he took in the man that stood there.

Shorter than he by about five inches, overlong brown hair

neatly combed into a queue and tied back, face clean and spectacles
gleaming in the candlelight, the identity of his visitor was obvious.
Even without the layer of dirt and grime, he recognized the man he'd
followed over half of St. James.

"It's you!"
Their voices crossed in the soft night breeze and Martin

reached out and tugged the unprotesting man through the doorway.

"You're Martin Tillman?" Blue eyes blinked up at him through

the lenses of his spectacles, and his hunger was immediately muted by
a more urgent, more primal desire.

Warmth pooled in his belly, his skin prickled with awareness.

"I told you that earlier. How did you come here? Did you follow me?"
He'd scarce had time to be flattered by that idea when denial came.

"Follow? No. My brother sent me to look out for you."
"Brother?" This couldn’t be the guard Peregrine Gretton had

thought to set on him?

"Lord Gretton of the Home Office commands, and I leap to do

his bidding." Good humor laced the melodious voice. "Well, not
really, but If I'd known you were my assignment, I daresay I'd have
leapt a lot higher a lot sooner to be here."

Shaking his head, Martin cleared his throat. The strange

warmth the man's presence engendered was there, again, as well as
the desire to strip him down and survey his body with eyes and hands.
But he left Martin even more confused than he had this afternoon in
the carriage. "I’m afraid I'm not following."

"No, you thought I'd followed you, didn't you?" An amused

smile quirked the rosy lips, and Martin felt an answering smile split
his own lips.

"Can you cook?" he demanded, seeing no reason to strive for

polite conversation with someone who appeared to be only passingly
acquainted with its rules. "And who the hell are you?"

"I’m Harry Gretton, Perry's brother. Yes, he sent me to watch

over you, and after this afternoon I can quite see why he thinks you'd
need a keeper. Oh, and yes. Cooking is like conducting an experiment
in science, or at least that's what Andre says. So if you've a book, I
can cook."

Fuck. That Andre sounded like competition. "Later. What

would I have to do to get you to go upstairs with me and conduct
some more experiments?" Appease the one appetite first and then the
other.

Harry's eyes widened and his tongue flicked over parted lips.

Martin groaned. The unfamiliar jealousy was swept away by an
urgent need to taste and touch. He swept Harry into his arms and
pressed their mouths together, teasing and coaxing until Harry kissed
him back. Martin then slipped his tongue inside and shuddered as
Harry pushed into him, returning every caress of his tongue and lips
with an intensity that made Martin hotter than he could have
imagined.

His cock rose, straining against his pantaloons, and he slid his

hands down the fine velvet of Harry's evening jacket, to curl around
his thighs and jerk the man upwards until their groins met, grinding
hard prick against hard prick and increasing his own sense of
frustration until Harry tore his mouth away.

Martin smiled in savage satisfaction at the molten pools of

heat in Harry's eyes. His lover's lips were damp and swollen, his
cheeks flushed with need

"I want to see you."
He remembered the same demand from the carriage ride, and

swallowed hard as a surge of lust ripped through him. "Upstairs. My
room is the one to the left."

Martin reluctantly released his grip on Harry's thighs and

instead grabbed his hand, dragging the other man along the short
entryway to the staircase. He mounted the stairs at a rapid trot, taking
them two at a time, tugging a lagging Harold along behind him. Every
now and then Harry would come to a stop and Martin would tug again
to get him moving.

His lungs were laboring to drag in air just as his brain labored

to come up with a sane, rational thought as they reached the top of the
stairs and darted to his bedchamber door. The room would be chilly as
the fire had gone out when he was exploring the town earlier that day.

The bed was still unmade from that morning, and that was one thing
he didn't need a servant to do for him. He'd just been lazy. He crossed
the threshold, dragging Harry after him, then spun around, one hand
already in his cravat working the complicated knots loose. "If I'd
known I'd be having company…"

Freezing in place, his jaw dropped. Harry's slow progress on

the stairs was immediately explained in that first glance. He'd stripped
away all his garments on the way up, and stood, proudly naked, just
inside Martin's door.

"Well?" the soft voice challenged as Harry stepped closer. "I

want to see." He waved a hand with all the graceful command of the
prince regent. "Strip."

Martin chuckled softly. A mellow warmth had replaced the

urgency he'd felt in the foyer. "Patience is a virtue. You'll get your
chance to look. But for now, I think I'll take advantage of the current
disparity in our wardrobes to look my fill."

Harold began to protest, but Martin cut him off immediately.

"No. You aristocrats may all be used to having your own way, but this
time I'm in charge. My house, my rules."

One brown brow rose in a haughty imitation of Peregrine

Gretton that was amusing and somewhat disturbing. "I beg your
pardon, but a man raised in the high society salons of New York City
society can practically be called aristocratic himself, couldn’t he? And
I hesitate to mention the fact, but this is actually my brother's house.
He keeps his little love birds here, when he is forced by need to admit
that he's human, that is." Even his tone and phrasing seemed suddenly
off.

"Don't put on affectations with me, Harry." Martin nearly bit

off his tongue when he realized what he'd said. "I mean, I rather liked
the man I met this afternoon."

"The man who dropped to his knees and serviced you like a

whore in a carriage?"

"The man who rambled on and gave me advice on defending

myself, the man who insisted that he couldn’t come unless he could
see me. The one who made me see him as something more than what
he wore and how he spoke."

A beaming smile nearly knocked the breath right out of

Martin.

"I'm that man, Martin. I was born an aristocrat, but I make a

very shoddy one. I can't remember all the rules, so I make them up as
I go along."

"Let me make the rules this time?"
Frustration flickered over Harry's face. "I…look, Martin. I'm

not like the other gentlemen, you understand?"

Oh he understood that all right. "Not just a pretty face, I

know." Sudden suspicion about just how much experience Harry had
crossed his mind. "Harry, come here." He held out a hand and Harry
took it easily enough. Martin led them to the bed and sat down.

He glanced around swiftly and realized the room was indeed

slightly feminine, though austere enough in its own way to appeal to
Harry's stiff-necked older brother. "You've been with men before,
right?"

"With Andre at Nash's place. He kissed me, and his kiss was

very different from the ladies who kissed me, and I wanted to know
why that was. He promised to show me. It was an experiment. I
collected as much information as I could, but well, there was an
incident, and Nash said I had to leave." Harry sat beside him on the
bed.

While he processed that information, Martin gave in to the

temptation of the creamy skin and lean muscles. While his baggy
clothing earlier had given the young man an illusion of slenderness
enhanced by his short stature, without clothing it was clear that he
was thickly muscled and very fit. Fine dark hair curled around flat
pink nipples, narrowing into a thin trail that circled a shadowed belly
button and then flared out into the nest of tempting dark curls he'd
seen in the carriage.

Strong thighs, muscular calves, feet no man would call

elegant, decked with hair on the big toe and the crest. Martin combed
his fingers through hair, finding soft skin over firm muscles. His
palms tingled, his mouth watered.

"Are we going to conduct some more experiments?" Harold

asked, chest rising firmly into Martin's touch.

Martin laughed. "I think we are. But you'll have to let me

guide the experiments, okay?"

Harry nodded. Somehow, his hair had worked its way out of

the old-fashioned queue and fell across his forehead, reminding
Martin of the way he'd looked this afternoon. "Andre said the same

thing, but I have to be able to make observations, and to do that I need
to see."

Fucking Andre again. Tenderly, Martin brushed the hair off

Harry's brow, tucking the strands behind his ear. "So you want me to
strip so you can observe?"

A wicked smile crossed Harry's face. "Well, that's part of it. I

need to make all sorts of observations. Measurements, textures, and so
forth."

Martin jerked off the bed and stepped back on to the rug by

the fireplace. "You can't gather all the information at once. This time,
you can look. Next time you can touch." If he could trust himself not
to go off in ten seconds once the man handled him.

The pout Harry gave him was endearing. The jealousy he felt

towards this Andre was not. His cravat hung about his neck still, and
Martin gripped the fabric in both hands. He had an idea, but not all
men would agree to something like this.

"Harry? You trust me right?"
"Right. Or I wouldn't be like this with you." Harry gestured at

his nakedness, and Martin's gaze followed the movement of his hand,
once more entranced with the body he wanted to explore.

"So, you know how it's hard to think and remember when you

get caught up in an experiment?"

Lying back against the pillows, Harry nodded, nibbling his

lower lip. Martin found it amusing that Harry frequently got so
absorbed in what he was doing that he forgot about everything else.
"You're supposed to be disrobing," he pointed out.

"I will. But…I have a way for you to remember that you can

look but not touch this time. Is that acceptable?"

"Of course. Keeping the parameters of the experiment is

necessary. Oh…You're going to…"

His voice faded away in a loud breathy sigh as Martin scooped

up both wrists and stretched them over Harry's head. His own heart
beat unbearably loud in his ears. "Tie you up. Yes."

Chapter Five

Harold couldn't believe the way just that sentence sent his

systems into overdrive. His heart pounded so loudly the beat drowned
out every other sound in the room. It was as bad as when he'd created
the explosion in the kitchen at Nash's. His mouth went dry and his
hands curled into tight fists to prevent himself from reaching for
Martin.

Martin. God. He couldn't believe it when the door to Perry's

love nest opened and the man he'd met that afternoon stood in the
entryway, staring at him like he'd like to devour him. His prick had
been instantly on alert and his brain had scattered. Perry expected him
to protect this man, and all he could think of was getting his trousers
down again.

Now, he wanted to experiment with Harry and tie him up?

Things he'd never even considered tripped through his mind in rapid
succession. Andre had touched him, kissed him, allowed himself to be
touched and fondled, and kissed in return, but their sensory
experiments had definitely never included anyone tying anyone up.

Trust. Did he really trust the American? Maybe. He could trust

him in the matter of bed sport, apparently. That was different than
trusting him with anything important, like his heart. What they shared
was just sex, and fuck if he didn't like the fellow, for whatever reason.
As long as he didn't forget that their affaire wasn't forever, that no one
hung around forever, there wouldn't be any problems.

Martin leaned over him, pulling his arms high to loop the fine

linen cravat through them, through the iron bedposts, and knot them
tightly. Harry's heart pounded in his chest, thumping so loudly he
thought surely Martin could hear it.

Licking his lips, Harry closed his eyes and inhaled the scent he

remembered from that afternoon: sweat, salty and clean, arousal,
pungent and earthy, the spice of a citrus cologne, the faint odor of
tobacco. Martin Tillman was taller than he was, and stretched across
Harry like this, his shirt open at the neck, Harry could see the jumping
pulse in his throat, and arched his neck to taste it, to feel it thump
eagerly against his tongue.

He groaned in frustration as Martin jerked back, breathing

heavy. "No. This time you look. The next time you touch."

One sense at a time. How could he avoid smelling and

touching though? They were involuntary actions, after all, beyond his
control. Harry nodded blankly, filing away images for future
examination and contemplation. Martin's eyes were deep, dark brown
pools of lust, the pupils widened, and the lids heavy. His nostrils
flared, his lips were plumped and shiny from kissing. "When can I
taste? Tasting is important too."

"We'll get to that. For now, I've got all I can handle with you

looking."

Harry nodded. He knew the feeling. He'd discovered with

Andre that looking was his biggest trigger. "Give me something to
look at then," he challenged. His prick jerked against his belly as
Martin's eyes narrowed further, and his lips tightened. The man's
hands froze on the buttons of his jacket, and Harry regretted his
demand. "I didn't mean anything…" His voice trailed away and he
struggled to make himself understood. "Damn it! This is why I'm not
meant to be in society. I never say the right thing." He let his eyes
close and tried to assess the situation. Had he ruined the moment with
his awkwardness? The mattress dipped and Martin settled between his
thighs. Warm breath gusted over his face.

"Shh…" A warm, rough palm cupped his jaw and firm lips

brushed lightly over his own. "Shh…It's fine. I thought you wanted to
see?"

Harry pried his eyes open and met Martin's smiling face.

"You're not upset? I was rude."

"You were demanding. I like it. Just like in the carriage this

afternoon, remember?"

"You were aroused again when I told you I needed to see, I

saw your prick stirring…" He licked his lips as the memories flooded
his mind, the sharp flavor of Martin's skin, the sensuous glide of that
steely muscle gliding across his tongue.

"Yes. And I had to pause just now to get myself under control.

Your wanting me makes me hotter than a two-dollar pistol. Now open
your eyes, close your mouth, and just watch how much I want you."
Martin edged back off the bed and resumed his spot on the rug.

The mention of the pistol reminded him that he'd abandoned

his new project on the stairs somewhere. He'd have to fetch the
weapon before Martin found it. The device wasn't safe yet, and
secrecy was important. Harry swallowed hard, shifting restlessly as

much as he could with his arms stretched over his head. "Yes." He bit
his lip to hold back the demand that Martin move faster, get naked
sooner.

Martin met and held his gaze as he stripped. His black jacket

landed on the hearthside chair followed swiftly by what Harry
supposed was an elegant waistcoat. He didn't know about style, but he
did know that waistcoat had emphasized the flatness of Martin's belly,
the trim width of his hips.

Waistcoat and jacket disposed of, Martin paused for a

moment, thumbs hooked in the braces of his pantaloons, watching
Harry.

Harry licked his lips again and let his gaze wander from the

dark brown curls to the fine square jaw, the flushed cheeks and parted
lips. Martin wanted him, and made no effort to hide his lust.

He let his gaze wander over broad shoulders and flat stomach,

to the crux of the situation as it were. The fine pantaloons were
stretched obscenely tight across the bulge of Martin's cock, and
Harry's memory sketched in the sight he'd beheld that afternoon.

"Take them off." He scarcely recognized the hoarse demand as

his own voice.

Martin obeyed though, shrugging his braces off his shoulders

and then opening the falls of his trousers to pull his shirt out. He toed
off his boots with some difficulty, bracing himself on the mantles to
tug the left one off when the gleaming leather proved particularly
tricky.

He shucked the pantaloons down his strong thighs and kicked

them aside, then stood, arms on his hips, surveying Harry's body with
a smug grin.

"Tease!" Harry accused, twisting self-consciously on the bed.

"Show me."

"Show you what?" The deep baritone was as husky as Harry's

own voice and he felt a momentary triumph. "This?"

Martin covered his prick with one hand, smoothing his palm

up the length, teasing Harry's with its outline under the shirt. "Yes."
God, he was practically panting now. "I want to see your prick."
Blood pulsed in his ears, his cock throbbed on his belly, and his hands
jerked and twitched with the need to touch.

Martin stripped the shirt over his head abruptly. All good

humor had faded from his face when it was revealed again. "You

want to see this?" He gripped his erection and stroked a few times,
then let his hand fall away.

Harry nearly mewled. He couldn't quite describe the sound he

made at the sight of Martin's prick any more than a tomcat in heat.
The prick was thick and long, curved upward to a plump rosy head,
gleaming with the clear liquid of pre-ejaculate. "Closer," he gasped
out.

Martin smirked and climbed up on the bed between Harry's

spread thighs. "Is this close enough?"

Heat seared through him everywhere their skin touched.

Martin aligned their bodies, cock to cock, then braced himself on his
elbows, staring down at Harry. "How far did your experiments with
this Andre go?"

Experiments with Andre? "Um…We both came to completion

several times?" He twisted, pushing up to grind himself against
Martin's prick, hissing in a breath as pleasure exploded. The skin of
his cock seemed fragilely tight and yet he knew from experience that
when he was this hard, this aroused, the throbbing organ could take
any amount of abuse.

"You did this with him?" Martin thrust, churning his hips

against Harry's, sending ricochets of fiery pleasure rippling through
him again and again until his belly tightened and his hips curled
upward of their own accord seeking more stimulation.

"Not…exactly," he gasped out. His balls were drawing up,

tight and hard. His muscles strained as he rubbed himself against
Martin, the silky glide of prick on prick lubed with pre-ejaculate that
seemed to flow from them both, heated and slicking their movements.
The head of his prick caught on the rim of Martin's, and they
shuddered.

Martin dropped his head to rest his forehead against Harry's.
Harry choked as his vision blurred. "Fuck." He strove to

recreate the sensation, thrusting into each downward glide, muscles
straining as his nerves prickled and caught fire. A tingling pooled in
his spine, his lungs seized.

Hot breath gusted over his face, fogging his glasses. Low

moans flooded his ears. "Not exactly, what then?"

"Hands… he let me touch him." Martin trembled, and jerked

against him. The odor of sweat and arousal intensified, Harry's eyelids
drifted shut. He forced them open, though this close all he could see

was the tiny stubble of hairs on Martin's jaw, the tanned skin and dark
lashes fluttering, even the wire frame of his own glasses kept him
from seeing what he wanted, needed to see.

"Martin," he groaned in frustration. "Let me see!" He jerked at

the cravat binding him to the headboard, desperate to push Martin
away so he could see the man's creamy seed flowing down the
stalwart length of his shaft. "Fuck!" Hot liquid spilled between them,
and Harry whimpered, grinding harder, body quivering with
unbearable tension.

With a cursed groan, Martin lurched to his knees, and Harry

gasped, then cried out. Martin's fist closed on his swollen prick,
squeezing another gush of seminal fluid from the purple head, a hot
moist blast that landed on Harry's belly. He shivered and shuddered
and met each gush with one of his own, until their seed mingled on
his belly, thin white trails crisscrossing and matting the hair of his
abdomen.

Harry regretted the loss of the man's weight but his eyes drank

in the beauty of his form, the glorious sight of his release as Martin
stroked himself a few times, mouth open in a shout of pleasure,
muscles bunching and jerking as he thrust into his fist. Sweat beaded
and dripped down his brow, his nostrils flared and he struggled for
breath, his entire body finally sagging with relief as the last strains of
orgasm were milked from him.

Harry stared at Martin in awe, startled by the belligerence in

the brown eyes when Martin opened them to glare down at him.
"Why do you do that?"

Bewildered, Harry tugged on his bindings. "Um…I like to

watch. Seeing the seed…" Martin scowled and reached upright,
loosening the cravat that held Harry's hands captive.

He took advantage to flick his tongue over the sticky tip of

Martin's softening cock, laughing when Martin flinched away with a
curse. "Sensitive?" he teased, trying to restore them to happier
footing.

"Maybe too much so." Martin rolled to the side and picked up

a cheroot box off the table beside the bed. "Do you mind?" He waved
the box at Harry who wrinkled his nose in disgust.

"No. Thank you. You go ahead, though." He sat up and

pushed off the bed. "I'll go make us something to eat and then we

should probably go ahead and talk about Perry and Jason and what
I'm doing here."

"Certainly, if you like."
The indifferent tone annoyed him, and he stiffened his spine.

Residual adrenaline from this afternoon's fight, the surprise of seeing
the attractive man, the allure of continuing the experiments he'd
enjoyed, the sheer pleasure of sensual release.

That's what this inexplicable emotion was about. Not the

warm glow he'd felt when the man said he liked him.

Chapter Six

The weight of the meal Harry had prepared for them that

morning sat heavy in Martin's stomach. After the sensual interlude
they'd experienced, Harold Gretton had concocted a simple dinner of
cold sliced capon, bread, cheese, and roasted root vegetables. They'd
eaten in awkward silence, with Harold ignoring every conversational
gambit Martin threw out, answering him only with startled gazes and
mumbled indistinguishable sounds.

In the end Martin had stalked off to the gardens to smoke and

returned to find Harold had taken himself off to bed in the second
chamber upstairs. He tossed and turned through the night, eventually
determining to apologize for whatever he'd said to offend his lover at
breakfast.

Only when he'd awakened, he'd found breakfast on the table

and Harold in the small office, with the door locked. When his calls
and knocks went unanswered, he stormed out of the small house,
determined to stop acting the fool. Catching a hackney, he rode into
town and then walked until his anger faded and he was captivated as
before by the architecture and the mingling populace that thronged the
streets.

And so he found himself at one of London's smaller parks,

making up one of a crowd gathered to watch a balloon ascension.
He'd seen the marvel a few times in New York, but found himself still
fascinated by the idea of man flying above the crowds and looking
down on the world. What would it be like? Being a practical man who
weighed his risks before he took them, he'd never found out. One day
though, he could imagine fleets of the colorful balloons flying in and
out of the cities, dropping off and returning passengers like some
grand aerial post chaise.

Smiling at his folly, Martin stuffed his hands in his pockets

and leaned against a tree, eyeing the silk balloon and the small
brazier. The sport wouldn't catch on. Ballooning was too dangerous.
Hmm….Perhaps James Watt could be convinced to apply his
knowledge of steam engines to the problem of keeping the air in the
balloon hot?

A hot air balloon that could travel greater distances and was

not at the whim of the winds… now that was a marketable concept.

He made a note to mention the idea to Watt when he met with the
fellow about his replication device.

Now that was a concept that made Martin's fingers tingle. He

was good at making money, and while according to all reports, Watt
seemed to think his replicator plans weren't all that valuable, Martin
could see their value.

Factories of machines that created exact replicas of artworks

would put elegant household treasures in the hands of the middle
classes, make art affordable and line his investors' pockets quite
nicely. He sneered slightly. The aristocrats hoarded their treasures,
locking them away, deemed them above the eyes of the common man,
but making things affordable to all meant money in the coffers, and
elevated the intellect of all men. Funny how these snobs kept their
working class down by withholding education and beauty when those
were the two things that were dearly needed to make men's souls soar.

Well, those and a good fuck, and here he was back at thinking

about Harold again.

The balloons soared up into the sky to the cheers of the crowd,

and Martin sighed. Harry was a complex and very puzzling man, from
his bizarre need to see Martin's orgasm to his current attitude,
ignoring his very existence.

All he really knew was that he did, as he'd so awkwardly

confessed, like the man. He'd liked him as he'd met him grubby and in
his shirtsleeves, wandering the streets of London; he'd liked him as
he'd knelt on the floor of that carriage and Jesus Fuck he'd more than
liked him as they ground together. At least until that moment when
Harold had forced him away, but even then he had to admit that he'd
more than liked the sight of his seed spraying over the man's chest.

He drew in a deep breath, willing away the erection that

threatened. And he'd more than liked the fact that apparently watching
his orgasm was enough to bring Harry off as well.

And he wanted more of it. More experiments, to drive the

cursed Andre from his lover's memory, to wipe his touch from his
body and mind. Course of action decided on, he whirled and headed
off to Piccadilly. A courting gift wouldn't go amiss, and if he had the
measure of the man correctly, he'd be able to find what he needed at
Hatchard's. After all, hadn't Harry said that's where he was going
when they met yesterday?

By the time he reached the door of the renowned bookshop,

he'd decided that his best option was to ask the clerk if she had books
set aside for Harry. That way he could be certain of his choices, but
he also wanted a blank journal for Harry to inscribe his observations.

"Good afternoon," he addressed the thin clerk. "Do you have

an order for Harold Gretton?"

"You aren't Mr. Harold Gretton." The clerk eyed him up and

down with a supercilious blue gaze, and Martin squared his jaw
pugnaciously.

"Harry asked me to pick the books up for him, and a blank

journal as well." He stared the man down, taking satisfaction in the
way his face paled and he swallowed hard. The clerk's gaze skittered
away.

"Please do allow us to pick up my brother's packages and be

on our way." Peregrine Gretton's smooth, cultured voice was
immediately recognizable, as was his thinly veiled anger.

Martin refused to flinch, or look over at the man. "A leather

bound journal, mind you," he said sharply as the clerk set a stack of
books on the counter and began wrapping them with trembling
fingers. "One with a lock," he added, recalling the sensitive nature of
the information he was about to suggest Harry write in the journal.

Peregrine stood close behind him, and the fury radiated

between them, sparking Martin's temper. "Do you mind?" he muttered
under his breath.

"Not at all. Is it your intention to get yourself picked up

again?"

"Don’t be ridiculous. I blend right in with the rest of the

gentlemen here. No one will know unless you announce my status as
an escaped prisoner to them."

"We'll discuss this outside in the carriage."
Martin bristled at the brusque order. The clerk showed him

three journals, and Martin pointed out the one he preferred. The clerk
added the volume to the stack and swiftly wrapped them in brown
paper tied with string. Martin offered him a bill to pay the account,
but Peregrine pushed his hand away.

"Put them on our account, please Benson. We must be off."

Peregrine's arm looped through his as though they were the most
intimate of friends and resentment bubbled inside of Martin as he was
dragged away.

By the time they reached the street Peregrine had apparently

lost all appearance of civility and outright shoved Martin into the
plain black carriage. "My, you're a bit pushy aren't you?"

"You seem not to understand the gravity of your situation,"

Peregrine gritted out, swinging himself into the carriage and taking
the seat opposite Martin. He banged on the ceiling of the carriage with
a clenched fist, gritting his teeth.

"I think you over exaggerate my situation. I'm not of any

interest to anyone here. My arrest was a mistake. They've no grounds
for holding me, and you know it." Martin forced himself to relax in
the carriage, though tension radiated from Peregrine. The carriage, for
all that it was plain and bore no coat of arms, was luxurious and
elegant. The contrast between Perry's obvious wealth and style and
Harry's general shabbiness intrigued him.

"I know it, and they know I know it, and therein lies the

danger. Someone had you arrested, and brought here with Jason
Dancourt, and it wasn't my brother Randall. Nor was it at my
command. But someone damned well wants you nearby. That's why I
asked Harry to watch over you. Where is my baby brother, by the
way?" The piercing blue eyes narrowed intently.

Remembering Jason Dancourt's urging him to be more

cautious about his proclivities on British soil, Martin schooled his
expression to blankness. Gretton can't possibly know what you've
been up to with Harry, Martin assured himself. Just don't give the
game away. "Holed up in the study talking to himself from what I
could gather. And if you were so worried about my safety, you'd have
sent someone more competent to look after me, wouldn’t you?"

"There isn't anyone at all more competent in certain matters

than Harry."

"Please, Perry. I had to rescue him in the alley behind the shop

just yesterday afternoon or you'd have been attending his funeral
instead of purchasing his books today." He took a small measure of
satisfaction in the frown on Peregrine's face.

"I’m not sure I believe that. Harry is the youngest of four

rambunctious boys and a hellcat of an older sister. He learned to fight
dirty before he learned to spell his name, and that was at a precocious
age at that."

Chuckling, Martin leaned back against the comfortable

squabs. "He advised me that I'd be better off kneeing a man in the
groin than trading jabs like a gentleman, so that I can quite believe."

Grimacing, Peregrine shifted on the seat as though

remembering something. "That's just one of his dirty little tricks."
Peregrine leaned forward, his expression sober. "Tillman, I don't
know what is going on here, but I cannot emphasize enough that men
have died over it. Someone in my department is dirty…selling secrets,
murdering to cover his tracks, and whoever is behind the plot seems
to want you. Is there anything you can tell me that might shed some
light on why?

Martin shook his head. "Nothing. I was coming to see James

Watt about an invention, when my ship was destroyed in a storm off
the coast. I was picked up by the gentlemen in Devon, and met up
with your brother and his crew at the inn as I was making my
arrangements to get up to Scotland to Watt's place there. How I ended
up here, I couldn’t tell you. To be honest, I had that idea that maybe
some of your people weren't aware the war had ended. News travels
slowly across the Atlantic sometimes."

"Not that slowly. And there was nothing during your voyage

or before you left?"

"No. Well, I nearly fell overboard the day before, but Garret

rescued me and I decided not to kill the fellow that bumped into me."
The carriage rolled along the streets, and the two of them swayed with
its motions. Despite the similarity in their appearances, none of the
sexual tension of yesterday's ride arose.

Peregrine seemed to weigh his words carefully. "Did anyone

give you anything, ask you to deliver anything, for them?"

"Well, yes. Garret did, now that you mention it, but I couldn’t.

The ship capsized and everything was lost. I barely managed to keep
my wallet and personal papers on me. Garret's package was in my
stateroom, and it's gone. I sent him a message from Devon that I
couldn’t deliver the item. I regretted that, because he saved my life
you know, but there really wasn't anything I could do." Peregrine's
scowl was fierce and Martin shifted back again. Why didn't he find
this brother as attractive as the younger? He was clearly just as
demanding, and certainly just as handsome, perhaps even more
physically perfect, being taller and not quite so broad. His apparel was

elegant, he grooming impeccable. So why could Martin not wait to
quit his company and find Harry?

"You didn't mention this before."
"Well, to be honest, I forgot about the parcel. I did my duty as

best I could considering the package was gone, and I just wanted to
go about my business and get up to see Watt then head home."

"This changes everything. That package…describe it."
Shrugging, Martin frowned back at Peregrine. "Don't try it on

with me. I won't be intimidated. The parcel was about sixteen inches
by eighteen inches, maybe an inch thick wrapped in oilskin and sealed
with wax. That's all I can tell you." He huffed out a breath and stared
at the packages on his lap. "And I can't believe anyone is going to
recognize me. Just another brown haired, brown eyed gentleman in
the streets."

Perry's eyes widened in incredulity. "With a distinct accent

that it wouldn't take a genius with languages like Harry to pick out
and a cocky swagger that just screams rich American? You, my
friend, stick out like a six foot tall sore thumb."

"I'll take your word for it."
"Just please stay off the streets and if you can't stay inside, at

least take Harry with you when you go out. I promise you, he's quite
capable of turning the tide in any fight." The driver opened the
carriage door and lowered the step, standing back to give Martin room
to exit. He rose, shuffling the books under his arm.

"I'll leave it up to him, then. Are you coming in?" He hoped

his desperate need for Peregrine to say no didn't show. He didn't want
to entertain his jailor. He rather had plans for the entertainment of the
man's brother.

Chapter Seven

His ears still ringing with Peregrine's pejoratives, Harry

glowered at the front door as Martin strode into the foyer. "Are you
trying to fuck me over?" The word was coming a lot easier now, and
he was proud of the fact that he was so angry he didn't even blush.

"I beg your pardon?" A smooth brow shot up, and Martin

regarded him through narrowed eyes.

Harry swallowed and let his gaze flinch from those hard

brown eyes. The lips he'd kissed the day before were tight and hard,
and he rather wanted to kiss them back to smudgy gleaming softness.
How much pressure would he need to apply? How long would the
kiss have to last? He tried to refocus, on the broad shoulders, the
elegant attire, the tight, clinging pantaloons that were stretching tautly
over…Damnation. "Peregrine just read me the riot act over your
absence. He threatened to cut off my funding if I didn't look after you
better."

"I don't mean to offend, but I am quite capable of looking after

myself. I have done so for the past fourteen years or more since I was
sixteen. I think your brother is overreacting." Sweeping an admiring
gaze from Harry's head to his toes, Martin smiled and stepped in
close, crowding Harry back into the parlor. "I'm taller, and I'd venture
to say quite a bit stronger than you. Assuredly I'm as safe on my own
as I'd be with you. Besides, I only went into town to finish your
errand at the book shop."

Harold accepted the proffered packages automatically. "Thank

you, but I think I am offended." Annoyance simmered below the
surface, and he felt a daft urge to prove himself. He placed the
wrapped parcels on a nearby table. "I wonder if you've the guts and
garters to stand behind what you're saying."

Martin's smile vanished in a flash, and Harry smugly crossed

his arms over his chest.

"What are you saying?"
"I challenge you to a duel." Harry grinned, hoping Martin

would take his challenge in the spirit it was offered. "Not a real one,
of course, because I don't want to hurt you, but…just to show you I'm
right."

"You're challenging me to a duel to prove you can protect me

from Peregrine's imaginary schemers?"

"Yes. Plus, you'll have to take off your jacket, and…I'm a very

visual person you know. I have a theory about how it'll turn out."

"Ah…another experiment then. I did say I'd help you with

them, didn't I? But I doubt you could hurt me. I shall of course, return
your offer. I promise not to hurt you."

Harry gulped as lean brown hands began unfastening gold

buttons and Martin slowly stripped away his claret jacket and ivory
waistcoat, leaving him standing in front of Harry in his shirt-sleeves
and braces, with those skin tight buff colored pantaloons sculpted
lovingly to his body like a second skin. "Uh…choose."

"Choose?" Martin was laughing at him and Harry didn't even

care. He was too absorbed in the play of light and shadow on that fine
lawn shirt, the brown skin of hands that had touched his
body…"Harry? Choose?"

What? "Oh. Yes. I challenged you, so you get to choose the

weapons."

"Kisses at close quarters?"
"You can't choose kissing in a duel."
"No? I honestly don't want to fight with you, Harry."
"Of course not. It's a gentlemanly thing. Sport, you know. You

can choose fisticuffs, pistols, or swords."

"Fisticuffs are out. If I lay a finger on you it will be out of

passion, not brutality."

Harry snorted. "If your performance the other day is anything

to judge from, you don't have to worry about that."

"All right then, I don't want you kneeing me in the ballocks.

I've plans for them and you later." Martin's hot gaze left Harry in no
doubt what those plans entailed.

He sighed softly. "I get to touch this time."
"Absolutely." Martin tilted his head to the side. "Fencing is

out. Bloodshed isn't sensual or appealing to me. So I suppose that
leaves us with pistols to prove your mettle."

"Really? Are you quite certain?" He couldn’t believe his luck.

"Perhaps you'd like to place a wager on the outcome?"

"No, I rather think I'm being gulled somehow, but I've no

notion how. I'll pass. How do we do this? I am not quite certain I can
bring myself to fire at you, either."

"No. That wouldn't go over well. Dueling is forbidden here.

We could be arrested if we're seen, which puts you back in custody,
and so…I've a deck of playing cards. Let's shoot pips."

"I'm afraid that I don't actually have a pistol on me," Martin

apologized.

"Oh, that's not an issue. I'm certain Peregrine has a set of

dueling pistols in the study. He's generally quite well armed for a
politician." He tore his gaze away from the enticement of Martin's
figure, the allure of the experiments, the memories of what they'd
done yesterday and the things left for them to explore. "Um…the
wager?"

"Wager?"
"On the winner?" He could feel his pulse beating in the base of

his throat. His fingers itched to smooth over that fine lawn shirt.

"Ah yes, well since you insist, name your terms."
That's what he'd been hoping for. "The winner gets to direct

the experiment."

Martin chuckled softly. "Agreed. If you win, I place myself

entirely at your disposal. And if I win…."

"Likewise." He shuddered. The wager wasn't fair: even if he

lost he was pretty certain he'd come out the better for it. But, neither
could he resist the somewhat primal urge to prove to Martin that he
was perfectly capable of defending what was his.

Um….He pushed aside the thrill of pleasure he got at that

notion. Martin wasn't his, he was Perry's and Harry just had him on
loan. Or was he Jason's?

Fuck it. "The playing cards are in the parlor in the drawer of

the side table. I'll get the pistols from the study." He discreetly
adjusted his prick as he turned to exit the parlor, grateful for his
unfashionably baggy breeches. Some magnetic force of attraction
made him glance back over his shoulder in time to catch a grimacing
Martin adjusting himself as well. Grinning happily, he picked up the
pace and darted down the hall to Perry's inadequate study.

It was good to have proof that Martin was as affected by their

banter as he was, that his desire was apparently just as strong.

In Perry's study he searched the obvious places. At their home

on Grosvenor Square, his father kept a box of elegant pistols on the
mantle in his office. Perry was much more subtle than their father

though. There was no carved box on the mantle, nor on any of the
tabletops.

The desk then was the most likely place. Whistling softly,

Harry seated himself in Perry's chair, letting his feet touch the floor
with satisfaction. That interrogation chair had been genius, but it was
his genius not Perry's. This was much better. He swiftly began
combing through the drawers, all of which were scrupulously locked
and had to be forced open with the tiny metal tools he kept.

As he suspected, in the bottom drawer of the desk he found a

set of dueling pistols, of Manton's design. He looked them over
carefully, noting with approval the balance and weight in his palm.
Perry had almost as good an eye for firearms as he did for beauty.

He replaced the ivory handled weapons in their velvet lined

case and made his way with the carved mahogany box back to the
parlor.

Martin stood in a beam of sunlight, shuffling a deck of playing

cards with a thoughtful expression. He smiled when he noticed Harry
watching him, and Harry' stomach gave that odd little lurch he'd
noticed the day before in the alley when he'd seen the gentleman
coming to his rescue.

"Found them. Perry keeps his weaponry in fairly decent shape,

but you'd perhaps like to look them over and ascertain for yourself
just how fine they are?"

He enjoyed the intent expression on Martin's face as the man

stalked like some lethal American jungle cat…Did they have jungles
in America? Perhaps not…nevertheless, there was an aura of danger
and elegance about the man who suddenly stood entirely too close to
Harry for comfort.

Harry cleared his throat and stepped back, feeling his cheeks

burn with the tell-tale blush. Damn it. "I…er…"

"Thank you." Martin easily pried the box from his hands and

began inspecting the weapons closely, another trial that Harry was
forced to endure as the strong brown fingers stroked sensually over
the ivory handles, the long barrels.

Gasping, he wrenched his gaze away and scooped up the deck

of cards Martin had abandoned on the tea table. Harry removed the
two red sixes and the two black sixes and left the others on the
tabletop. He was conscious of Martin's gaze on him as he crossed to
the back of the room to a candle sconce.

Using a bit of wax Harry affixed the first card to the sconce,

then the second. The cards were only six inches apart, about level
with a man's heart if they stood on a field of honor. He slipped the
other two cards into his pocket for the second round.

Attempting to judge that both cards were fairly presented, he

stepped back twenty paces and nearly stumbled over the same table.
Martin caught him with a chuckle that rippled sensually along his
spine. Wrenching away, aware that he must look a complete fool,
Harry wiped damp palms on his breeches and dragged in a fortifying
breath. "Twenty paces, three shots apiece. You may shoot first."

Martin eyed him incredulously. "You want me to shoot a

pistol inside your brother's house?"

Harry stared at him, chewing his lower lip. "Yes? I do it all the

time. How else would one determine the velocity and impact?
Besides, Perry has already said we mayn't go out again."

Martin muttered something that sounded a bit like bloody

English aristocrats, but Harry was too busy watching his form as he
pushed the table back until it bumped against the settee. When the
furnishings were rearranged to his satisfaction, Martin selected one of
the dueling pistols and loaded it carefully.

He sighted along the barrel and took careful aim. Harry shook

his head. He opened his mouth to offer advice, but remembered the
prize to be won, snapped his lips shut and stared at the black pips on
the playing card.

Martin's shot hit the card, but missed the pips. Exultation

made Harry smile. He picked up the other pistol and continued
smiling at Martin as he loaded the weapon. Martin's brows shot up
again in that way that so intrigued Harry.

"That confident in your ability to do better?"
Harry nodded. Pride made him boast on. "I'll shoot out the

third pip on the right in the second card. Would you care to up the
ante of our wager?"

"If you can make that shot, then I'll concede the victory to

you." Martin laughed again.

Harry whirled and fired, anxious now to get the contest over

with. Tossing his pistol to the table, he crowded in close to Martin and
lifted his head to brush his lips over Martin's smiling mouth. "I want
you upstairs in my bed this time, properly."

Martin's hands closed on his hips, dragged him impossibly

closer and he tipped his head down to take Harry's mouth in a hungry
kiss. Their lips mashed together, tongues dueling. Harry slipped his
arms around Martin's shoulders and writhed a bit, rubbing his erection
against Martin until he discovered the man's erection.

Martin's grip on his hips tightened, forcing him to be still.

"Are you so confident that you won? Without even looking?"

Rolling his eyes, Harry stepped back, reluctantly removing the

bruising grip from his hips. "If you insist, you may retrieve the cards,
but I'm positive that I hit my target." Spinning about and snapping his
braces, he strolled from the room. In the doorway he paused and
looked back over his shoulder again. "I'll be waiting in my room for
you to pay up."

Chapter Eight

The second room was as feminine as the first, and Martin

spared a moment to wonder at Peregrine's proclivities, as the only
masculine room in the small house was the tiny study. His attention
was immediately stolen by Harry, the engaging and bewilderingly
talented man.

Harry was sprawled stark naked across the bottom of a pearly

pink comforter, lazily stroking his thick cock. Martin swallowed hard,
feeling sweat on his brow as he watched.

His own cock sprang to life with urgent need, his mouth

watered to taste. But….He held out the playing cards he'd retrieved
from the sconces. His red card had a hole off center, a respectable
shot even at short distance. Harry's card, though…. "How the devil
did you do that? You didn't even look, let alone aim."

Harry's cheeks flushed charmingly, and Martin realized he'd

removed his spectacles for the first time. "I've had a lot of practice."

"I am acknowledged as a fair shot, Harry. Not a man in twenty

could make the shot I made. Not a man in a hundred could call his
shot like you did and then hit it so neatly."

"Then you must admit, I've won this wager fair and square."

Harry thrust out his lower lip pugnaciously and Martin began
stripping off his clothing.

"I admit, you are the better shot."
"And I am quite capable of protecting you."
"I don't need protection."
"Can't you just admit it?"
"Admit what? I'll admit any number of things. That you're the

sexiest creature I've ever encountered, that I want to fuck you so badly
I think my aim was off, that…"

"Fuck!" Harry scrambled upright on the bed, kneeling, long

cock bobbing in front of him temptingly. "I get to direct the
experiment this time. You tied me up last time."

Martin shrugged his braces down and bent to tug off his boots.

"Is that what you want this time? To tie me up?"

"No. I just want to be free to touch you this time."
Dropping his boots, Martin unfastened the fall of his breeches

and pushed the tight pantaloons down. His cock swelled instantly in
relief, pushing against the blousy shirt he wore. "You can touch me all

you want." He bit his lip, pulled his shirt off over his head and sent it
to the floor after his pantaloons. "Harry…" He waited until Harry
raised glazed eyes from surveying his body to continue. "I need to ask
you something about what you've done with your other lovers."

"Lover," Harry corrected, leaning forward and squinting at

him. "Can you come closer?"

Obligingly Martin stepped closer, only one lover? "Just

Andre?"

"Just Andre. Closer, please." Martin watched the pink tongue

slip out from parted lips and drag over them, leaving them glistening
and enticing. He approached the foot of the bed, gripped the post with
one hand and hauled himself on to the mattress so that he was directly
in front of Harry. "Why not put your glasses on?"

"One sense," Harry murmured, reaching out a tentative hand

and pressing it flat to Martin's chest, Martin dragged in a breath as
heat seemed to radiate from that touch, straight to his prick. "I want to
focus on touching, feeling."

Oh thank god. Martin wrested control of his breathing and

tried to find his thread of conversation. "So, this Andre, did he ever
fuck you?"

Harry's hand clenched, tugging at Martin's chest hair. He

hissed at the stinging pleasure/pain. "He touched me. I touched him.
He tasted me, I tasted him. Is there more?"

Heart racing in inexplicable elation, Martin closed the distance

between them and bent to kiss Harry. He pushed his tongue over the
slick lips, diving immediately into the sweet recesses to claim that
heat for himself. He'd wipe every memory of Andre and his taste from
Harry's mind. Crushing Harry close, he continued kissing, sucking
and nibbling at Harry's tongue until he was forced to release the other
man so they could gulp in air. When he could form words again he
pushed them out into the silence to the rhythm of their beating hearts.
"There's more. There's so much more."

"Then show me. I want to experience it all."
Martin nodded. "Have you been with a woman?" How much

did Harry know about making love? He was an incredible mix of
naiveté and surprising knowledge.

"Yes. When I was a lad, Nash bought me a light-skirt for my

sixteenth birthday."

"You were inside her?" He clenched his hands in Harry's

buttocks, kneading the firm muscles, enjoying the way Harry
alternately arched into his touch and rubbed against him in front.

"Yes. It was pleasant enough, but I didn't find the experience

worth the expenditure when books provide entertainment for so much
longer."

Biting back his chuckles, Martin dipped his finger into Harry's

crease, and rubbed teasingly against the crinkled hole. "Has anyone or
anything ever been in here?"

The heat of Harry's blush could have scalded milk. "No. Is

it…Are you going to?"

"I am if you'll let me. I promise you, it feels every bit as good

as what we've already done."

"And I'll be able to touch you the whole time? I need my

observations, you know. Science needs to understand this
phenomenon."

"You can touch me all you like, and I'll touch you as well."

Harry shuddered in his arms, and Martin placed soothing kisses on his
brow and temple, trailed his lips down to blow across his ear.

"All right then. I'll allow you to conduct your experiment first.

But afterwards, you'll have to allow me to touch you at my leisure."
Harry's breath came fast, minty puffs up into Martin's face as Martin
drew back to look into those piercing blue eyes.

"Do you have some hand lotion, or ointment?"
Harry glanced around the room vaguely. "Well, this was

Marietta's room, so I imagine there might be some feminine frippery
left. If not, you can check Abigail's room where you're sleeping."

Remembering that Harry couldn’t see, Martin reluctantly left

the bed and searched the bureau tops and drawers, at last coming up
with a pale blue porcelain bottle. Unstoppering it, he poured a creamy
liquid into his palm and sniffed. Violet.

He rubbed a bit of the stuff between his fingers. It was silky

and smooth, and should do the trick nicely. Using the lotion, he
slicked his aching prick, and approached the bed again. "Lie down on
your back." Penetration would be easier, if Harry were on his
stomach, but he was mindful that Harry had insisted that he wanted to
be able to touch.

Harry lay back against the pillow, his body a swath of furred

cream on the pink coverlet. Martin licked suddenly dry lips and

climbed onto the bed. He positioned himself between Harry thighs,
and hoisted them so that they were propped over Martin's. "Can you
reach me from this position?"

Harry's hands landed on his chest, stroked down his sides. "I

can. Not everywhere I want to, but it’ll do for a start."

"Then touch me all you want," Martin choked out, biting his

lip as a fingertip traced around his nipple, rubbed over it until the nub
pebbled and thickened. Satisfied that Harry was occupied, and
praying that he could retain his own strength of will long enough to
allow Harry to play at leisure while he prepared him for what was to
come, Martin dipped his finger into the bottle of lotion again, then
dragged it down Harry's cock, smiling at the harshly indrawn breath.

Harry's hands stilled, but when Martin just stopped moving as

well, Harry resumed his teasing touches, stroking the muscles of
Martin's arms and chest, what he could reach of his back. Then Martin
smoothed the lotion down over Harry's length, lifted and cupped his
ballocks from their thick nest of hair, rolled them on his palm while
he searched beneath.

Harry gasped again, arching up. "That's nice, Martin. Squeeze

them?"

Obligingly, Martin squeezed and tugged, then gave in to

temptation and bent low to kiss Harry again.

Harry returned the kiss with fervor, but all the time his hands

roamed, and Martin shuddered under the touch. At last he found the
puckered opening he'd teased before and brushed over it again with
his slick fingers. To his surprise, the hole clenched, kissing his
fingertip. He groaned. "God give me patience," he muttered between
clenched teeth. His prick throbbed, and leaked against Harry's thigh.

Harry was moaning in unison with Martin, and Martin rubbed,

wiggling his finger until it slowly slipped into the tight opening.

Harry's hands clenched on his arms, "Martin! Is that…"
Panting, Martin leaned forward for another kiss, waiting until

Harry relaxed before moving his finger again, sliding gently in and
out until it moved easily. His heart beat furiously in his chest,
pounding against his ribcage as though he'd run for miles. "Just a
minute more…"

Withdrawing, he fumbled between them with his slippery

flesh until his prick pressed against that tiny opening. Bracing himself
on his elbows, he stared into Harry's blue eyes. "Try to relax, breathe

deep. It might take a bit of time, but trust me. I've done this before
and even if the act hurts a little to start, the pain will fade and you'll
feel amazing."

Harry smiled up at him, brushed the hair off his sweat

dampened brow. "I don't mind the hurt if it's part of the experience,
Martin. Stiff upper lip and all that rot, you know?"

Martin nodded. "Still, don't want to hurt you when I can help

it." Sweat beaded on his upper lip and dropped to splash on Harry's
face. His muscles strained as Martin fought against his own need to
thrust, to plunder. Grimacing, he bore steadily forward, feeling the
muscle loosen and soften. The head of his prick popped inside and
Harry grunted in surprise, brows knitting together in pain. Martin
stopped, belly rippling. "God Harry, you're so tight, so hot around
me."

Harry's eyes closed and he drew in a shaky breath. "Yes. You

feel…bigger than you looked. But it doesn't really hurt, more of a
burn, like after a good boxing match or run, your muscles ache in that
pleasant way." His eyes popped open and he continued, "I think I’m
ready for the more. There is more, right?" Harry wriggled beneath
him and Martin slipped a little deeper.

"Right." He thrust gently forward, and Harry met his

movement with one of his own. Gritting his teeth, Martin grabbed for
Harry's hips and held him still. "You're going to have to be still. I
can't hold on if you're not."

"But I won the wager. I'm supposed to conduct this

experiment." Harry pouted at him, and Martin shook his head.

"No. You wanted to touch, touch. In fact, why don't you touch

yourself and I'll tend to the rest?" He withdrew slightly then surged
forward, liking the way Harry's pout softened into a slack moan, the
way he lifted seemingly unconsciously to take more. "Stroke yourself,
go on," he urged, feeling his prick swell in its snug chamber, his balls
tighten.

Blindly, Harry obeyed, clenching his cock in his fist and

stroking rapidly. Martin waited bare seconds before burying himself
as deeply as he could in the rippling passage. They fell swiftly into a
rhythm of thrust and withdrawal, matching tugs on Harry's cock to his
movements, their bodies moving together awkwardly at first then with
a certainty born of need, and approaching crisis.

It all fell apart into jerky, clumsy movements as the first spray

of seed hit Harry's belly, and his passage clenched unbearably around
Martin's prick. Martin growled, Harry shuddered and nearly whined,
squeezing another blast of seed from his purpled prick, to smear on
Martin's abdomen.

Nostrils flaring, sweat stinging his eyes, Martin increased his

pace, gasping as his prick swelled—incredibly—further, balls tingling
as the first jet of seed spilled. The pearly liquid changed the texture,
the sensation and the scent, driving him on as he pumped jerkily into
Harry's body, before stilling with a groan and a shudder.

Harry typically recovered first. "That was a lot to process,

Martin. I think we need to do this experiment again."

Choking on his laughter, Martin rolled to the side. He flung a

hand over his eyes and panted softly. "If you feed me, I can oblige
you. But just wait until you try it from the other end."

Harry gasped. "I…I’m going to need to gather a lot of

information about this, Martin."

"I'll be happy to assist."

Chapter Nine

"A tingly sensation in the solar plexus at his smile over the

bacon this morning." Conscious that he was smiling like an idiot,
Harold jotted down a few more notes in the leather bound journal that
Martin had presented him with. He couldn't believe how many of the
pages he'd filled already. Their "experiments" were becoming all
consuming. He'd scarcely given a thought to the refinements to his
pistol.

He stared at the note he'd just made and frowned. Breakfast

wasn't really a part of the experiment, was it? He scooted back on the
seat and leaned his head on his hand. Thoughtfully, Harry flipped
back through the pages of the journal that he'd filled over the last
seven days.

He'd had plenty of raw fodder to turn into notes about the

physiological effects of sexual activity, different activities, positions,
senses. He should have an abundance of data. There were plenty of
notations about the parameters of their activities, the orgasms, the
touches, the tastes of passion. But there were plenty of others that
were…not. And those weren't in the least scientific. They were
useless.

Good lord, he paused on one fairly rhapsodic passage about

the way Martin's eyes seemed to change during the course of a day. A
man's eyes didn't really melt, how the fuck had he come to write such
drivel in the first place?

Closing the book, Harry twined his fingers about the pen. This

wasn't a problem he'd encountered in his endeavors with Andre. That
had been a simple matter of action, reaction, assessable by increase of
heart rate and speed of breath, intensity of ejaculation, though not
measurable.

It had to be Martin. Martin was corrupting the purity of his

experiment somehow. He ground his teeth and squared his jaw. Such
could not be allowed. Dipping the nib of his pen in an inkwell, he
began meticulously scratching out every detail that was not related to
the sexual interplay between them, every sappy, romanticized bit of
drivel about flashing eyes and gut wrenching smiles.

The scratching didn't make him happy though. If anything

each crosshatch made his mood darker, built his fury. Emotions had
no place in science.

"Martin!" he called, flinging the pen on the desk.
The door opened, and Martin peeked in. Harold was instantly

swept back into the morass of foolish sentiment that had corrupted his
note taking. And was it any wonder? Martin had adopted Harry's own
habit of going about the house in his shirtsleeves and stockings,
declaring that it made things much easier.

The sight of Martin, smiling wickedly, in creamy linen

bisected by black braces, faun pantaloons clinging lovingly to
sculpted thighs made "things" infinitely harder for Harry though.
"Fuck! Martin, you can't go about half dressed!" he protested.

Martin laughed and entered the room. Leaning one hip on the

closed door, he struck a languid pose. "Why not? If you can run about
in disarray, then I see no reason why I cannot as well. No one comes
here, and we've agreed not to go out, so where's the harm?"

"The harm," Harry blustered, feeling like a fool, "is that I

cannot seem to get anything done properly with you running about
next thing to all together!"

Martin smoothed a hand down his braces and pressed it to the

fall of his pantaloons. "I distract you?"

"You must know you do!" Harry flounced, to his own disgust,

out of his seat and crossed to Martin's side. He watched mystified as
his hand covered Martin's, seemingly of its own accord. The anger
he'd felt was fading, the heat it had roused turning to something more.
"You have to stop."

Martin slid his hand out from under Harry's and used it to tip

Harry's head up so their gazes met. "Stop what, Harry?"

Blinking, Harry peered through his glasses at Martin's smiling

face. "Absorbing my attention. I have work to do, you know." He
regretted his words instantly when Martin's smile disappeared.

"I thought I was your work." The warmth he'd blathered about

in those tea-colored eyes faded, and while he knew there was no
scientific explanation for it, Harry shivered at the chill that crept into
its place. Eyes aren't hot or cold, he scolded himself. They're just
eyes.

"Our experiments are interesting, Martin. But they aren't my

work, they're just entertainment." And yet again he proved with a few

words that he was quite capable of making any situation worse
without effort. "I didn't…"

Martin pushed him away and opened the door. "I meant

watching over me was your work. Being your work was bad enough,
but I think I quite resent being your entertainment more."

"That's not what…"
The door slammed. Angry thuds signaled Martin's progress

through the house to the kitchen, quite a feat considering his
stockinged feet.

"What I meant either." Harold stared blankly at the

whitewashed door, trying to work out what had happened, and how he
could fix it. He should go talk to Martin.

But what could he say?
He couldn't think of anything worse right now than standing in

the tiny back garden stammering through an apology while Martin
blew a cloud of the disgusting tobacco and stared at him coldly.

He could handle choking on the smoke. He'd done that often

enough in his lab, after all. It was the icy expression in those eyes that
he couldn't face.

The pounding at the front door to the cottage gave him a few

minutes reprieve.

He strode down the hall and opened the door, revealing a

stalwart man in a red waistcoat and black jacket who gazed at him
expectantly.

"Yes?"
The man pointedly looked Harry over from head to toe and

Harry remembered his partial dress. "Is this the home of Peregrine
Gretton?"

Harry scowled. "Lord Peregrine is the owner of this cottage,

yes. He does not however reside here, and so this cannot be termed
his home, though it is in fact one of his houses."

The man on the step bristled, his jaw tightening. "That so?

And who might you be?"

"I might be damned near anyone. Who the fuck are you?"

Nash would be thrilled by the ease with which the crudity spilled
from his lips these days.

"I'm Norton of Bow Street, here on official business."

"You'll have to look for Lord Peregrine at the Home Office or

at Gretton house in Grosvenor Square. You won't find him here." He
began to shut the door, but a bulky booted foot blocked his path.

"I'm not looking for Lord Gretton as it were. I'm looking for a

man named Martin Tillman. He's an American wanted for war crimes.
You don't mind if I look around, do you?"

"I do in fact mind. If you want to search His Lordship's

premises, well, you're going to have to answer to him for it, not me. I
won't let you set foot inside this door unless he allows it." He hoped
his anxiety didn't show on his face. "I'd lose my job if I let you in."
The key to lying successfully was in being as truthful as possible, and
if the runner came in and found Martin, Harry would indeed be out of
a job.

"He needn't know." The runner tried a smile but it just made

him look smarmy in Harry's opinion.

"He'll know. His Lordship is a right bastard, too. You go see

him at the Home Office and if he says it's all right then you just come
on back here and I'll let you have the run of the place."

He leaned on the door, and the runner removed his foot, letting

the door slam shut. Harry collapsed back against it, heart pounding.
He wanted to scream out for Martin to get his gear together so they
could leave, but he couldn’t. That runner was probably still lurking on
the step, waiting to see if anyone exited the building.

He didn't have the luxury of panicking, either. This was what

Perry had warned him about. Someone wanted Martin back in prison,
and that someone had hired a runner to see the job done. Harry waited
until he heard the booted feet retreat, then lifted the drapery on the
foyer window to verify that the man was leaving. He watched the
runner swing himself astride a fat black mare and set off down the
drive.

He was shocked at how badly he'd just wanted to kick the man

in the groin and then bash him on the head. Harry's job was to protect
the man, but kicking a Bow Street Runner in the ballocks wasn't the
way to accomplish the task. It might have felt more productive, but it
wouldn't have been the safest option for Martin.

Sometimes running was the best option. Fortunately, he and

Perry had planned for just this scenario. Randall should have had
ample opportunity to inform Nash of his possible arrival before he
and Jason departed for the continent.

With shaking fingers he slid the bolt home. Grateful for his

stocking feet that made no sound on the marble floor, he darted down
the hall to the kitchen. The back door stood ajar and he poked his
head out, hissing. Though the property itself was large, the garden
attached to the tiny cottage was fairly small. The kitchen garden was
nearly bare, a few straggling vines and overgrown herbs were the only
plants still growing. Over the years someone had decided it would be
a good idea to wall that bit off from the more decorative and formal
gardens and the six foot tall stone walls made it a safe place for
Martin to smoke his foul tobacco. As he expected, that's where he
found Martin.

"Sst."
Martin stood near a paltry rose bush, smoking a cheroot with a

brooding expression on his face. At Harry's hiss he turned his head
from contemplating the shabby garden bench.

Harry gestured frantically for the man to come in.
Martin dropped the cheroot and ground it out beneath his heel.

He crossed to Harry's side, and Harry dragged him in, shutting and
bolting the door.

"What is it?" Martin demanded.
"Pack your things. We have to leave." Harry was halfway to

the pantry to pack up a basket to take with them when Martin's hand
closed tight on his elbow and he came to an abrupt halt.

Shaking Martin's hand off, Harry turned impatiently. "What?"
"What's happened, Harry? This isn't about our little argument.

What's upset you?"

"Argument?" Oh, he'd forgotten what an ass he'd made of

himself so quickly. "I apologize. I wasn't wrong but what I said was
ill-conceived and thoughtless. But we can discuss my culpability in
the carriage."

Martin shook his head. "You're still not making sense, Harry."
"The runners were here looking for you." Martin still held his

arm, and it was difficult for Harry to remain focused when the heat of
that touch burned right through the thin lawn of his shirt. "You don’t
seem to understand the urgency here, Martin. I sent them away to get
permission from Perry to search the place, but we still only have an
hour at the most to get out of here and on the road."

"Why would Perry give them permission to search?"
"Why to prove he's not hiding you, of course."

Martin laughed under his breath. "I'm quite certain that makes

sense to you, but fine. I'll toss my paltry belongings in a portmanteau
and we can be off in ten minutes."

Harry nodded, jerking his arm free and scurrying into the

larder. He dragged in a few calming breaths while he rubbed the
tingling spot on his arm. The damned physiological aspects of passion
were inconvenient.

It wasn't just the odd erection or ten that got in the way either.

Breathing normally and thinking clearly weren't to be underrated.

Shoring up his defenses, he pushed away inappropriate

thoughts about the last carriage ride he'd taken with Martin and the
possibilities of re-enacting those events on the upcoming twelve hour
drive to Nash's place. The basket he needed was on the bottom shelf
and he quickly filled it with a round of cheese, a loaf of bread, cold
sliced chicken, a packet of figs and as much fruit as he could pack in.

He set the full basket next to a bottle of wine on the table. His

own belongings would take only a few minutes to throw in his case.
Racing from the room, he hastily listed off the items he'd need in his
head. Jacket, waistcoat, weaponry…

Skidding to a halt on the marble floor, he veered into the small

study and found Martin pouring whiskey from a crystal decanter into
a silver flask. Harry nodded in approval and darted to the desk.

"Excellent idea, Martin." He picked the lock on the bottom

drawer and withdrew the pistols and their accoutrements. "Can you
take these with your cases into the kitchen? We'll leave by the back
door."

He didn't wait for Martin's answer, though he did hear the

rumble of his voice in the background as he raced up the stairs.

His case was under the bed, and he pulled it out and began

flinging his things in with a complete disregard for their condition
that would have appalled the men of his family, let alone his valet
Michael.

Shrugging on a plain blue waistcoat and a black jacket, he

neglected the buttons in favor of tossing the last of his things into the
case. His razor and pistol went into a smaller bag, his books into the
large one. He hesitated, hand lingering over the porcelain dispenser
with the violet lotion.

It wasn't his, then again, Perry hadn't had any women in this

place for a year or more. So it clearly didn't belong to anyone else,

either. Fuck it again. He swept the bottle up and found himself
hesitating over what to do with it.

If he put it in one of the cases, they'd have the lubricating fluid

at Nash's.

Or…
He slipped the lotion into his pocket. One of the benefits of

baggy breeches. He could pack any number of ridiculous things with
him and no one would be the wiser. Closing both cases, he tucked the
smaller one under his arm and headed off to meet up with Martin in
the kitchen.

Martin stood by the back door, his case in one hand, the

hamper in the other. He held a sack that Harry assumed held the wine
and flask. "Ready to go?" he demanded.

Martin smiled at him. Harry froze, and let that smile warm

him from the inside out. He caught himself going up on tiptoe, lips
parted for a kiss.

"Harry?"
"Mmm?" He brushed his lips over Martin's, teased the plump

lower lip with his tongue.

"Are you going like that?"
"Like what?" he breathed into Martin's mouth, wondering why

the man didn't kiss him back properly.

"Unbuttoned and barefoot?"

Chapter Ten

The rocking carriage had clattered down the lane just as the

red vested runner rode back up. "That's who we're running from?"
Martin demanded. "We could have taken him. Without your dirty
tricks, even."

Harry glared at him. "I considered the option. But that would

give the game away to whoever hired him, wouldn't it?"

Annoyed, still smarting from being labeled first a job then

entertainment, Martin scowled. "To be sure that would probably suit
you."

"For you to be put back in prison? Why would you say that?"
"Because I’m grouchy and lecherous?"
The truth was often disarming, and in this instance it seemed

to completely floor Harry, who sputtered like a fish out of water for a
few seconds. "But you're angry with me for a specific reason," he
protested. "You cannot possibly want to have sex with me when I've
upset you."

"You didn't upset me. I'm more upset by the circumstances. I

liked you before your brother set you on me, you know. The fact that
you're only here with me now because he forced the job on you galls,
I confess. I'd much rather you were with me because you chose to be,
but you're still a very attractive, sensual man and I'd still like to fuck
you, even if it doesn't mean anything more than an hour or so of
entertainment." He couldn’t keep the bitterness out of his tone on the
last part, though he felt rather proud of the way he'd managed to
sound so sophisticated over the beginning.

"I…" Harold chewed his lower lip and his hands twitched in

his lap. "I apologized for that. It wasn't what I meant."

"Apology accepted. Now can we move on?" He pushed

himself back into the squabs and gazed blankly at Harry on the
opposite seat.

Harry made a visible effort to focus, and Martin heaved a sigh

of relief that his tantrum wasn't going to be discussed in detail. Not
that he understood himself why he was so annoyed over a casual
comment. He'd had lovers before, some more handsome than Harry,
definitely some more elegant, even some more articulate, if not more
intelligent.

None of them had tied him up in knots over a casual remark.

Some had even cited his lack of emotion as a deciding cause in their
eventual departures from his life. He'd never regretted the loss of any
of them as much as he suspected he was going to regret leaving Harry
Gretton behind when he went on to Watt's place in Scotland and from
there to New York.

They had only a short time, so he could forgive whatever hurt

Harry's words caused and enjoy the man's company. He opened his
mouth to say so, but Harry it seemed had other ideas.

"Why are they chasing after you?"
"Who?"
"Whoever hired the runner. They aren't cheap, and they don't

give up. Whoever wants you has money to spare and either heavy
connections in society or a healthy disregard for society. Not many
people would have the nerve to attempt to search Perry's home."

Martin eyed Harry speculatively. "It doesn't make any sense.

Peregrine thinks that it has to do with a package a man on the
transatlantic ship asked me to deliver for him."

A sort of light came over Harry, and his eyes nearly glowed.

"It's a spy thing then."

"I’m not a spy," Martin assured Harry, leaning forward to

study the man. Was he even aware of how sensual he was when he
put that powerful intellect to work?

"Naturally you aren't. That's why they used you."
Chuckling softly, Martin lurched across the swaying carriage

and settled himself next to a surprised looking Harry. "Who?"

"The traitor's accomplices, of course. Perry's been chasing

after them for a month or more since Randall and Jason discovered
some sensitive information up in Devon. He must have been getting
close. The real spy passed the package to you when he felt
threatened."

"Perhaps, but if he was a spy he wasn't doing a very good job.

He was just a gentleman from Georgia with a lovely southern drawl
who saved me from falling overboard when some careless drunk
bumped into me on deck one night."

"I've never heard a Georgian. That must have been a

fascinating experience."

"I wouldn't call near drowning fascinating, no," he drawled

softly, reaching out to remove Harry's spectacles.

"Um…what are you…? I can't see without those, you know."
"I know…. You don't need to see. This time, let's focus on

taste." He punctuated the words with a kiss, slipping his tongue
quickly in and out of Harry's mouth for emphasis.

"Not yet. I want to understand this situation. Perry should have

told me the whole story."

"He didn't really know it." Martin confessed, spreading the

still unbuttoned waistcoat and jacket Harry wore to the sides so he
could tug the thin lawn shirt out of his breeches.

"What happened to the package?" Harry gasped as Martin

licked along his jaw, tugging the lawn shirt up in bunched fists until
he'd exposed flat pink nipples surrounded by dark curling hair.

"The package," he paused to steal another kiss, "was lost at sea

when the ship I was on capsized in the channel. I was able to come
away with the clothes I wore, my paperwork, and that was about all."
He licked the right nipple, feeling Harry shiver.

Fingers twined in his hair, holding him in place, so he sucked

the stiffening bit of flesh into his mouth and laved it with his tongue.
Harry moaned raggedly. "That's good…um what you're doing, not
that you lost all your things."

"Things are replaceable. I was able to find all that I needed in

Devon when the gentlemen brought me ashore." He turned his
attentions to the other nipple, licking and sucking at the nub while
pinching the first between his fingers until Harry's pleasure sounds
filled the confines of the small carriage.

"Martin…I can't think." Harry pushed him away, breathing

harshly. "You…are such a distraction for me."

"I like that you can't think when I touch you. What else do we

need to talk about so we can move on here?"

Harry huffed in frustration, brushing hair back off his

forehead. "The package is lost, you're arrested, they won't let you go
even though there's no charge that can stick, Perry breaks you out, but
they're still looking for you. The obvious conclusion is whatever is in
that package was very important."

"I have no idea what was in the parcel, or where it is now. I

sent a message to the man who was supposed to receive it, and within
twenty-four hours was in jail in that little village. That's all. I know
nothing else except that they kept my letter of introduction to James
Watt."

"You were going to see James?"
"I am going to see Mr. Watt when he returns to Scotland next

month. If he'll see me without a letter of introduction, that is."

"That's not an issue. I can introduce you if you like."
He didn't know whether to be amused or relieved at that.

Naturally. Of course a man so interested in science as Harry would be
acquainted with a genius like James Watt. Martin forestalled further
discussion of his business with Watt, which would probably result in
much more conversation and not enough action, by the simple
expedient of shutting Harry's mouth with a kiss.

Harry's wholehearted response assured him he had finally

gained the man's full attention. Long minutes passed as they swayed
with the carriage, tongues dueling, until his lungs ached for oxygen
and he felt a bit lightheaded. Finally they parted, and Harry's hands
went to the falls of his breeches, unfastening them. He shucked his
trousers and small clothes, and revealed the long curve of his hard
prick.

Martin closed his eyes and counted swiftly to ten then popped

them open again at the sound of flesh on flesh. Watching Harry
manipulate his prick, he fumbled open the fall of his own pantaloons,
tugging his prick out of the nest of white linen.

"This was about tasting, remember?" He pointed his prick

toward Harry, who laughed.

"I know your taste, Martin. This carriage with its rocking and

swaying gives me ideas…"

Martin shuddered at the husky tone. "Your ideas are often

inspired. I am, as always, at your disposal." He slouched down,
braced his booted feet on the floor, and pushed his prick through his
fist, easing the need for friction. "Take your time. I'll just…" He
grunted and stroked himself again, working his other hand down into
his linens to squeeze his ballocks.

His eyelids drifted shut and he let the sensations chase away

his turmoil. Watt, traitors and spies, Peregrine and even the strange
feelings Harry engendered didn't matter. This, the sweeping burn of
lust, the anticipation of what Harry might be planning, this was what
mattered. The pleasure of the moment, the promise of ecstasy to
come, were much more important than what might be.

His lips twitched in a grimace of a smile as the scent of violets

wafted to his nostrils. He squeezed his eyes tighter shut. He

recognized the smell of the lotion that had eased his first taking of
Harry's tight ass. His prick seemed to swell even harder at the
memory, and the hint that he'd be getting another taste of it.

His ears strained to catch Harry's hushed sounds, the heavy

breaths, the stifled moans. A wet, slapping, flesh-on-flesh sucking
noise. He pictured Harry plunging slick fingers into his own ass, and
quivered, thighs straining with the urge to fuck.

Then Harry pushed his hands aside and wrapped a palm

greased with violet lotion around his throbbing length.

"Augh!" he cried out, thrusting into the slick touch. Harry

climbed astride his lap, and Martin couldn't keep his eyes shut any
longer. "What…"

"We're going to let the carriage do the work." Harry stared

earnestly down at him, squeezing and releasing his prick in a gentle
rhythm. "No thrusting or pushing, or bouncing or what have you. You
just sit there."

Just sit there? "Harry, I think—" He broke off abruptly as

Harry pressed his slick hole to the top of Martin's shaft, then slid
down in one quick glide that engulfed him in wet, clinging, luscious,
pleasure. "Fuck! Harry…" He clenched his fists on the edge of the
seat cushion, braced his feet on the floor and set his knees.

"Oh, good. Yes. Martin, I'm so…" Harry panted into this face.

"No, no. Don't move."

"You're insane," he groaned. "I can't…"
"Yes, you can."
The carriage hit a pothole and they were jolted. Their bodies

rocked and swayed, Harry clenched around him and Martin closed his
eyes in prayer this time. He didn't know what god he prayed to —
probably one of those ancient Greeks who appreciated lust like Zeus
who was forever fathering children.

The sway and lurch of the carriage provided their only

movement other than the rising and falling of chests, the involuntary
bunching and clenching of muscles for what seemed like hours but
could have been only minutes.

All Martin was positive of was that Harry severely

overestimated his self-control if he thought that this was an
experiment that could last.

He didn't have to worry about it for long though, because the

next pothole they hit on the road must have been a big one. Harry was

thrown against his chest, then flung back into position with a force
that overwhelmed them both. Martin lifted his feet from the floor and
braced them against the opposite seat, steadying Harry with a hand on
his quivering ass.

"Are you all right?" he rasped.
Harry nodded, lips pressed tight together. Martin peered into

his flushed face, trying to gauge the veracity of the assertion. Liquid
heat seemed to pool in the bright blue eyes, and tension had tightened
every muscle.

"Harry," he whispered, feeling his prick throb in its cozy

prison of flesh. "Harry, let it go. Come for me."

Harry shook his head frantically. "Don't…that's outside the

parameters of the experiment."

He lifted one trembling hand to show Harry. "I’m on edge. I

want to spill my seed inside you so badly, I'm shaking with it. You
remember the first time, in the hackney?"

Harry's eyes skittered away and back to his, his body shook.

The muscles in his thighs tensed and Martin groaned as the tiny
movement was translated to his prick. "I…"

"You couldn't come unless I let you see, remember?" Martin

whispered softly, flexing his ass, knowing Harry would feel the tiny
motion. "This experiment is flawed in so many ways, Harry. It's not
giving you what you need. It's not giving me what I need."

Harry's lips parted on a sob of frustration. "I need to come," he

whimpered.

"Let me?" He didn't wait for an answer, just lifted Harry's ass

in his hands and showed the man how to glide back down. "Let the
jolting and the swaying be the background. Like when you ride a
horse. Lovemaking is an active pastime."

Harry's eyes lit up and he repeated the motion. Soon he was

bouncing up and down, cock slapping wetly on Martin's abdomen,
and they were both crying out as the long delayed release overcame
them swiftly.

When he could breathe again, it occurred to Martin that he

should have asked a few questions of his own. "Where are we going,
anyway?" He tucked Harry under his arm and pushed the smaller
man's head to rest on his chest.

Yawning, Harry mumbled his answer. "Rutland, to Nash's

place. It's only about three days’ journey. Faster if we get lucky with

the horses at the post houses. It's a nice enough estate in horse
country. But don't worry. They rebuilt the session houses so Andre
will have forgiven me, and Nash finds me amusing. Besides, Randall
told them before that we might come."

And Harry was asleep by the time he finished speaking,

leaving Martin to stew over the mysterious former lover Andre.

Chapter Eleven

Nash's place was a welcome change from Perry's love nest.

For one thing, the house was completely, almost overwhelmingly,
masculine in its furnishings and manners. The chairs and sofas were
sturdy and comfortable, elegantly shabby and welcoming.

The rooms were devoid of frippery, bits of glass and delicate

object's d'art. Instead, the small home boasted a billiards room, a
well-stocked library, and an equally well-stocked cellar.

A bitch and her litter of liver and white pups roamed the halls

until laughingly evicted, a brace of fencing foils hung over the mantle,
and an astonishing variety of pistols and other weaponry were
available for entertainment.

Unfortunately, the place also came with a brace of servants, a

blushing housekeeper, a stammering footman, and the hapless Andre.
One could only hope the fellow had followed through on his threat
and left Nash's employ in the past year. And if wishes were horses,
then beggars would… be trampled upon by upper class children,
because if a beggar had a wish he'd most likely want food, not a
horse.

Harry put on a stoic face and dragged a sleepy eyed, rumpled

Martin to the door. The most he could hope for was that Andre would
stick to his semi-subterranean realm in the kitchens and not seek him
out. They had not, after all, parted on the best of terms, with the
delicate Frenchman declaring his undying passion, and Harold
blushing and stammering and swearing he'd no notion what the fellow
was going on about.

Cookery might well be scientific, but it apparently required

more the soul of an artist, if Andre's dramatic declarations and threats
were anything to judge from. All experiments came to an end. He'd
tried explaining to Andre that he'd gathered all the useful information
he could from their interactions, but the man hadn’t seemed to
understand. According to Nash's subsequent letters, he'd been
subjected to inferior beef and bland sauces for months afterward.

Shaking his head, Harry let the knocker fall and stood back

to wait. Martin was glancing around blearily. The American was
always curious, and Harry found his genuine interest in all around
him charming. Not that he could understand it. Sometimes, he had

explained to Martin on the journey, an abandoned building on the
roadside was just an abandoned building. Martin seemed to think
there should be a grand tale behind everything. He glanced
expectantly at Harry every time they passed some abandoned shed or
dwelling, and Harry had racked his brains for details about each ruin,
finally being forced to admit that he'd paid much less attention to the
lessons on his country's history than to the sciences he enjoyed.

"Maybe we could ride back and explore that ruin in the

morning," Martin coaxed, crowding up close to him. Harry shivered
from the closeness. It had obviously rained recently, and a soft cool
breeze rustled the vegetation. The moon shone bright and clear in the
sky above, surrounded by a field of stars that seemed to be reflected
in Martin's eyes.

Clearing his throat, Harry reluctantly pushed Martin a

respectable distance away as he detected footsteps beyond the oak
door. "It's already morning. And I intend to sleep until afternoon."

"Don't mind if I do." Fire caught in Martin's eyes, and Harry

was stunned by a rush of arousal until a discreet cough forced him to
realize the flames were a reflection of the candle held aloft by a
dressing gown clad butler.

"Um…Melbrow. We've come to stay."
Silver gray brows twitched, and the thin lips in a long narrow

face turned down at the corners. "As you say, sir. Mr. Nash has been
expecting you."

Conscious of Martin's looming presence beside him, Harry

stumbled through introductions. "This is Martin. We'll just go on to
bed now and see Nash at luncheon."

Stepping back, the butler allowed them inside. Harry narrowed

his gaze thoughtfully. He knew he wasn't wrong in the resentment he
sensed when Martin leaned close and stage whispered in his ear,
"What stick got shoved up his ass?"

"You'll have to forgive my loyal staff. They're still smarting

over the damage done on Harry's last visit."

Harry whirled at his brother's laughing voice coming from the

shadowed recesses of the long entry hall. "Nash! What are you doing
up so late?"

An elegant, lean gentleman taller than Harry by a good few

inches, but of a more athletic and slender build, attired in the
expensive casual garb of a man born to ride, stepped into the glow of

the butler's candle. "I'll take that, Melbrow. You can see to getting
ready to start the day."

"Damage?" Martin stood uncomfortably close, and Harry

winced as he noticed Nash's gaze narrowing thoughtfully.

"My chef developed a bit of a thing for Harry. His moods

resulted in cuisine that was unpredictable at best. The final straw was
when Harry blew up the session houses and we had no fresh produce
until spring. This way. We've put you up on the first floor, I believe.

"Same room as last time?" Harry asked, squirming under

Nash's assessing gaze. He took a hasty step away from the heat of
Martin's presence, and immediately wished he hadn't as both of them
noticed immediately. He felt a lot less secure under two narrow eyed
gazes, and while he knew well Nash was speculating on his
relationship with Martin, he wasn't entirely certain he even wanted to
know what Martin was thinking as the man had proven himself both
shrewd and strangely open to hurt in a way that Harry just couldn’t
understand.

It reminded him of the overly emotional Andre, but in Martin's

case, Harry's reaction was different. Andre had embarrassed him,
made him want to run away and hide. With Martin, Harry wanted to
guard against anything that might cause a repeat of that hurt he'd seen
in those tea brown eyes when he'd stupidly declared that Martin was
entertaining.

And he certainly didn't want Martin angry at him. He rather

enjoyed the easy companionship they'd shared, not to mention the
excitement of his touch…

Nash's snort dragged his attention to his brother, and Harry

became embarrassingly aware that he'd been staring at Martin while
the other two men waited for him to go upstairs with them.

"Um…" His face burned with emotion, and he ducked his

head to avoid Nash's mockery. Surely his brother didn't suspect? He'd
been so careful to give Nash the impression that he hadn't even
noticed Andre's advances on his last visit.

"I said I've put you two across the hall from one another, so if

you'd like to show Martin his room, I was actually on my way down
to check on a mare that's been having some trouble with her
pregnancy."

His gaze flew to meet Martin's, and Harry's blush intensified.

Martin's expression was calm and placid, but his eyes held so much

promise…"Absolutely, I'll be glad to show Martin the rooms." He
hoped his eagerness wasn't as obvious to his brother as it apparently
was to Martin, who flicked a damp pink tongue over parted lips in a
teasing gesture.

Harry bit his lip to stifle his groan and practically snatched the

candle from Nash's hand. "This way." His voice was hoarse and husky
and he knew he wasn't imagining Nash's laughter as he scrambled for
the stairs.

The solid thuds of Martin's boots on the steps followed him

up, urging him faster, and Harry was nearly running by the time he
took the last few steps. His heart kept pace with his footsteps.
Reaching the end of the corridor, with the room assigned to him on
one side, and the one assigned to Martin on the other, he spun around
and held up a warding hand. "Martin…"

"Left or right?" Martin growled out, reaching for him with

both arms.

Flailing a bit, Harry twisted the knob on the door to his right

and shoved; Martin scooped him up and strode into the room, kicking
the door shut with his booted foot. He tossed Harry onto the bed and
began stripping his clothes off while Harry stared, gape jawed.

"You'd better get started, Harry. After the way you just looked

at me, right in front of your brother and all, I'm on a short fuse."

Gasping, his own prick swelling immediately from half-mast

to full arousal, Harry fumbled at his buttons and stripped off his
cravat. “You think he noticed?"

"That you were looking me over like a side of beef? Yeah, I'd

say he noticed." Martin slung his pantaloons to the floor on top of
boots he'd kicked off sometime while Harry was distracted, and
pounced, sending Harry onto his back with his shirt and breeches still
on.

"I…fuck."
"Indeed."
"No, I meant, I don't know how you all do these things in

America, but in England we're discreet, damn it!" Peregrine would cut
off his funding for sure if he managed to create a scandal about his
preferences. He wished he had the self-confidence and worldly
knowledge that allowed Randall to carry on with his lovers under the
eyes of the ton. Not that he'd ever needed such knowledge before.

He'd write to Randall, ask for information about how he'd managed all
those years of discreet liaisons.

"Well, for the most part we're about minding our own

business. Then again, money can buy any amount of respectability. I
have a respectable amount of both, so as long as no one actually sees
us fucking in Central Park, we'd be pretty much left to our own
devices in New York society."

Harry was lost mulling that over when he became aware that

Martin had somehow removed his trousers and rucked his shirt up
under his arms. "You aren't tying me up again are you?"

Martin stopped moving and raised his head to peer at Harry in

the growing morning light. "Didn't you like that?"

Remembering how intensely he'd experienced every touch,

how his own struggle to respond with touches of his own had seemed
to enhance the sensations, he nodded. "I did, but I'd like to be able to
touch you, too. Your skin, your body fascinates me. I'd like to spend
years studying how the muscles and bones and ligaments work
together."

A wry grimace twisted Martin's lips. "That's quite a silver

tongue you have there, Harry. I don't want to tie you up this time, I
just want to be inside you, to feel you convulse around me. There's
nothing like it."

His vision blurring strangely, Harry pushed away the sense of

inadequacy. He knew Martin was just teasing; the man seemed to
enjoy it beyond all reason. "Don't forget, you promised I could
experience that side of things as well."

Martin's nostrils flared and he shoved Harry's thighs apart. "I

haven't forgotten."

Harry jerked his head toward the bedside table. "There should

be a flagon of oil there. Unless someone has removed it since I last
slept here."

He wondered briefly at the sudden stillness of Martin's

features, then the man was reaching for the oil and Harry was nearly
shaking in anticipation as the scent of sandalwood filled the room.
The flagon clanked back onto the table and slick fingers probed his
hole. Harry sighed in bliss as Martin's fingers slid into him, brushing
over his inner gland, sending sparks of excitement racing down his
spine.

"Now?" he whispered.

"Now," Martin grunted, removing his fingers and replacing

them with the thick head of his cock. Harry gasped as smooth
pressure spread him open and he was filled in a sudden, deep lunge.

A few short strokes, and Martin's hand closed on his prick.

Harry's eyes crossed and his body tensed, he pushed into the stroking
fist, and within minutes they orgasmed, spilling sticky seed across
Martin's hand and Harry's belly.

Lying together in the aftermath, Harry' clutched at Martin

when he made to leave. "Just for a minute."

After the last three days in the carriage, he'd rather grown

accustomed to the beat of a Martin's heart under his ear as he slept.

"Anything," Martin murmured, combing his fingers through

Harry's hair.

Chapter Twelve

Scowling at the cup of coffee in disgust, Martin looked over a

sideboard filled with food, most of it inedible. The bacon was soggy,
the beef overcooked, the tomatoes appeared to have been salted to
death, and the eggs were most definitely the consistency of India
rubber.

"I've had better rations in the middle of an Atlantic storm," he

observed dryly to Nash, who was staring in bemusement at his own
plate.

The other man looked up with a grin. "It's your fault, you

know."

Martin added cream to his coffee, after first sniffing to see if it

was curdled, which appeared to amuse Nash no end. "How so?"

"I told you, Andre has a tendre for Harry for some reason.

He's extremely jealous of you, and so we must all eat slop." Nash
pushed his chair back from the table and threw his napkin on his
plate. "Come on. The pub in the village does a passing fair breakfast."

"Should I get Harry?"
Nash laughed again, louder this time. Martin marveled at his

constant good humor. "He was eating when I came down this
morning. Harry doesn’t notice things like that. Which is what makes
Andre's revenge particularly galling, you see."

"No doubt." Martin gritted his teeth. This Andre, whom he'd

yet to see, was apt to get his eye blackened if and when Martin did
manage to catch him. Harry was clearly made uncomfortable by the
man's presence and had taken to holing up in Nash's study or some
dank room in the basement where he'd apparently long since set up a
lab. He claimed he was finishing a project for Peregrine, but as this
was the first that Martin had heard of such a project in the three weeks
they'd been together, he couldn’t help feeling he was being avoided
along with the vengeful Andre. "You should fire him."

"Andre?" Nash waved Martin ahead of him out of the room.

"But when he's not in the throes of romantic love, Andre is a sublime
chef. I've tasted the best desserts, the most succulent meats since he
came to work for me."

"Is it worth enduring the slop when he's having a tantrum?"
Nash tilted his head to the side consideringly and led Martin

into the barn. "For the most part yes. This is the second longest spell

of bad food I've been forced to endure. The previous, longest spell
being the three weeks after Harry's last visit."

A long pause fell between them as both men contemplated the

coming weeks of ill-prepared food and Martin took some satisfaction
in the fact that from the sound of it, Nash would have to endure the
nauseating cuisine long after he and Harry had departed. Served the
fellow right. Nash seemed to take entirely too much personal
amusement in Martin's predicament with Harry.

"Well, yes. I rather think it is amusing."
Realizing he must have said something aloud, Martin accepted

a leg up from the groom at his side and swung astride. "Why?"

"You must understand, Harry has always been adored by men

and women alike. He's a magnet for people of a certain type. They
look at those wide blue eyes and soft lips and see something that is
completely not there."

Recalling Harry's face, soft in sleep, so innocent and

intriguing, his deceptively malleable and defenseless appearance,
Martin nodded in understanding. "They all think he needs looking
after."

"And that they are the one to do it. Harry, of course is almost

always oblivious. When not oblivious, he is tongue tied."

"He's not so very bad. It just takes him a while to open up."

Like three minutes in a hackney after a brutal bang up in a back alley.

"With you, maybe. But I've friends who've been trying it on

with Harry for years and he's never caught on."

Martin let his horse amble along the path to the village for a

few minutes in quiet as he processed that. "You know, then? What he
is?" What I am by extension. He couldn't help a bit of pride at being
the one who'd caught the elusive Harry. Now if he could just manage
to hang on to him. Every day they spent at Nash's hunting lodge,
despite the nights of sweaty exertion in Harry's bed, made him feel as
if they were drifting further apart.

Nash shrugged. "I used to think he was completely asexual.

On his sixteenth birthday I bought him a whore. He announced
afterwards that while it had been an interesting experience, he didn’t
think it needed repeating and implored me most earnestly not to waste
my funds on such things. Told me that if I was wishful of giving him
a gift he'd enjoy, he had a list of reading material that was sorely
lacking in our family libraries."

Martin laughed. He could easily picture a youthful Harry

making such a declaration. "You don't seem to mind." He tested the
waters cautiously.

"Why should I? It would be entirely hypocritical. I suspect

that such associations are more common than any of us suspect. You
know my brother Randall is of that persuasion, as you are a friend of
his bon ami, Jason."

Casting a speculative glance at Nash, Martin thought the man

had secrets he was hiding behind closed doors as well. "I see. Yes.
And what do you think now?" he challenged.

"Now? I'm very pleased, and as you noted amused, that Harry

has at last met someone who can shake him out of the world he lives
in. And I'm most pleased that he is not, after all, monkish. Here we
are."

They'd arrived at a dull looking little building on the outskirts

of a row of shops. The entire village couldn’t have been comprised of
more than forty structures, but the streets were clean and the whole
had a faintly prosperous air despite the lack of whitewash. "Quaint,"
he murmured. "It might be any number of western villages in the
states."

"The colonies?"
He frowned at Nash who laughed again. "I apologize. Just

seeing if I could rattle you some, lighten up after such serious
discussion. This is the place just up here a bit. But Mack in there will
take good care of my horses while we dine."

Leaving the horses in the care of a taciturn groom, whom

Nash seemed to communicate with in glances and nods, the two
gentlemen strode down to the village pub and were soon seated with
mugs of ale and plates of egg and beef.

The fare was plain but palatable, and far superior to anything

the contrary chef had turned out in the last seven days. "Not bad,"
Martin said, scooping up another bite of fluffy eggs.

"Indeed. I may have to have food sent up to the house from

here until Andre gets over his snit."

Martin set down his fork, at last replete. "You should. At least

let him know there's alternatives to enduring his tyranny. See if the
fare doesn't improve."

Nash eyed him thoughtfully. "You might be right at that. I

think I'll have a word with the host."

Nodding, Martin sipped his ale and spared the dusky interior

an assessing glance. Every pub he'd been in was similar. Dark corners
and well-scrubbed tables, plain fare and good ale. This one, though,
had a cheerful touch here and there that spoke of a woman's hand in
the running of the rooms, and the food had had just a bit more care
and attention than the norm.

The locals sat drinking, some eating, mostly just chatting in

low voices. Occasional glances were cast his way, and when he met a
stranger's curious look, he returned it with a pleasant smile and a nod.

He wouldn't tell Peregrine, but he was fairly certain he'd been

infected by the man's paranoia while staying in London. Being here
among the locals where he could relax and let down his guard felt
good. Then his gaze landed on a bulky figure huddled over a tankard
in the corner, and a faint unease made the hair on his neck prickle.

He stared, willing the man to look up. There was something

very familiar about the wide set shoulders, the ratty black coat. Nash
stepped into his line of vision, smiling broadly. "It's all set. Dinner
will be delivered this evening. Are you ready? Let's ride back. I can't
wait to see Andre's face when I inform him he's earned the night off."

Deciding to set his mind at ease, Martin determined to ask.

Rising, Martin placed his hat on his head and nodded at the corner.
"Who's that fellow?"

Nash turned and stared. Nothing discreet about him. "Some

fellow working over at the Welland place I believe. He's fairly new to
town but I haven't heard any complaints about him."

"Would you have?" Martin continued watching the man in the

corner.

"Most likely. Lots of gossip, small community. We can ask at

the stable when we pick up our horses." The two of them rose and
exited the pub swiftly, making their way back to the stables where
they'd left the horses.

Nash returned from chatting with the groom, shaking his head.

The stable master had no gossip about the newcomer, and Martin
dismissed his unease.

"Nothing?"
"Not a thing. He's been rooming at the pub, does odd jobs at

Wellands, keeps to himself."

"I see." So the fellow bore a passing resemblance to the brute

who'd assaulted Harry in the alley near Hatchard’s. There were

probably dozens of ill-dressed Englishmen in black coats about the
countryside. He was just catching Lord Gretton's paranoia. "Your
blasted brother is to blame for this."

"Harry?" Nash quirked a brow, tapping his riding crop on his

thigh lightly.

"Peregrine. He's got me looking over my shoulder and seeing

assassins and schemers at every corner."

Nash stopped walking and turned to face Martin, frowning.

"Peregrine is Lord Gretton by right of birth, Tillman. That gives him a
certain degree of authority and probably accounts for most of his top-
loftiness and stuffiness. But he earned his position in the Home
Office. In his own way, I'd dare say he's quite as brilliant as Harry,
but applies his intellect in a different direction."

"My apologies. I meant no offense."
"Oh none taken, I do assure you. Perry is the biggest prig to

grace the family name in however many generations. Why, can you
believe he appears to have decided that I should be a cleric? Me?"

Bemused, Martin mounted the superior piece of horseflesh

he'd been assigned to ride from Nash's stable. "A cleric? That would
be a waste of a good eye for horseflesh. This beauty is one of yours,
isn't he?"

"Indeed. I mention Perry's good points only to assure you that

I trust his judgment. I would not so willingly expose my household to
Harry's potential for destruction if I didn't believe that you genuinely
needed a safe place to stay."

Thoughtfully, Martin nodded. He'd dismissed the danger

Peregrine went on about, because it made little sense to him. He
would have to take the idea that someone wanted something from
him, probably the packet he'd lost in the storm, more seriously.

They rode back to the hunting lodge in companionable silence,

Nash occasionally sighing and shaking his head, or smiling faintly at
some memory or thought he chose to keep for himself. Martin used
the time to scheme.

He wanted to get Harry out of his dank lab beyond the

kitchens, away from the spurious Andre, where they could touch and
kiss, and be free of observation. Waiting until the dark of night to
steal across the hall and into Harry's bed like a criminal galled. The
ruined cottage they'd passed on the way in held great promise as an
afternoon trysting spot.

He shifted in his saddle as his body responded predictably to

his plans. "The cottage near the gate, is it occupied?"

Nash snorted. "That ruin? No. It used to house the gamekeeper

and his family, but the place was in such sorry shape that I gave the
current keeper permission to build on the other side of the fen. I've
plans to tear that structure down eventually, but Perry's such a cursed
stickler for the finances, I have to husband my resources. And that's
more than I should have said about that, but it appears you're
practically family anyway." He paused a moment. "I did have a
suspicion a few weeks back that someone was using the place, but
upon investigation it hasn't been disturbed in recent weeks. Probably
just a tramp passing through."

Liking the sound of that, Martin eyed the structure as they

rode past. The cottage was set back from the gate and the path quite a
bit, so should be quite safe. He'd bring a blanket and a basket…

Which meant he'd get into the kitchens and meet the irascible

Andre for himself. "Do you mind if I raid your pantries?"

The stallion beside him shied at something in the grass, and

Nash checked him with a careless grace born of experience. "Not at
all. The food is already quite inedible. What else might Andre do to
discommode us?"

"Set fire to the kitchens?" Martin jested.
Nash's head whipped around, eyes narrowed. "If you and

Harold cause any further damage to my estate, I'll take restitution out
of your hide."

"You would hold me responsible if your chef takes an ill view

of your brother's finding love?"

"I'd take an ill view of having to rebuild my kitchens before

the hunt season begins. You don't have to appease the man, but surely
you can gather your picnic luncheon without riling him to
destruction?"

"I shall do my best to avoid inciting violence."
"You'd have my undying gratitude." Nash leaned forward in

the saddle, peering at something across a field to the left. "Did you
see that flash of scarlet?"

Martin glanced in that direction. "I think, yes. There's

something there. Do you think it's anything to be concerned about?"
That damn Peregrine and his fantastic theories were leading him to be
suspicious of anything and everything!

"No, not really. We've had some trouble with a few of the

neighborhood bluestockings who oppose hunting. I'm going to go
check it out. You go ahead and see if you can't rest Harry away from
his work. The fresh air will do him good. And so will a good fuck."

The crudity floated back as Nash kicked his stallion into a

canter and took off across the field. Martin watched him go for a
moment, curious about his abrupt departure. Shrugging, he returned
his horse to the stable master and warned the man that he and Harry
would be going out again in an hour.

Chapter Thirteen

The bump and roll made it hard to focus on his calculations,

and the sidelong glances at Martin's firmly muscled thighs in his
riding breeches didn't help either. Harry felt his spectacles slide down
his nose and lifted his hand to push them up. The heretofore placid
horse he rode, one he was certain Nash kept in the stables just so that
he wouldn't have to lend Harry a decent horse, took that as a signal to
do whatever the hell it pleased and bolted ahead.

"Whoa there." He tugged at the reins, bringing the beast back

under control. Why the devil had Martin taken it into his head to insist
on seeing that ruin today of all days?

"Because I haven't seen you in daylight since we got here?"
Embarrassment at speaking his thoughts aloud and guilt made

him duck his head. He had been hiding from Martin, from the feelings
that he couldn't stifle in Martin's presence. The horse ambled to the
left to sniff at some shrubbery. "Fuck." He hauled her back to the path
where Martin had stopped and waited patiently for him. "I told you, I
had work to do." His work with the pistol had evolved into something
even more intriguing. Peregrine needed the pistol design, but he might
be even more pleased with the incendiary device Harold had crafted
instead.

"What's so urgent that you must be working from dawn to

dinner? I miss your company."

Harry felt the heat stain his cheeks. "You have Nash for

company. He's much more your sort of man, isn't he?"

Martin scowled at him, and swore under his breath before

kicking his horse into a rapid walk. "No, he isn't. He's been kind
enough to keep me entertained, but I really can't take much more
conversation on the breeding of hounds and the bloodlines of horses."

Once again Harry was conscious that his insecurity had

somehow led him to say something that hurt Martin somehow. "He's
considered a great whip and a bruising rider. He's a Corinthian
through and through, a real man's man."

The trees flashed by as his horse kept pace with Martin's and

Harry let the scenery all pass in a blur as he tried not to feel a bit of
hope. It sounded almost as though Martin really had missed him.

"He doesn't fence, despite the foils in the study, and his idea of

shooting for fun apparently involves maiming some creature he has
no intention of eating. And as for him being a man's man, I have the
distinct impression from the lingering scent of lavender water about
his person and rooms that he is very much a ladies' man."

"Oh, well yes. He does rather enjoy chasing skirts. Is that the

correct phrase?"

"I've no idea if that's the proper way to say your brother

prefers the fair sex when it comes to bedsport. Besides which, I've the
impression your brother has his hands full at the moment."

Remembering his visit to Nash's small upstairs study two

nights past, and a fine scarlet silk scarf tied about the arm of the chair
he'd sat in, Harry rather thought Martin might be right. "He's always
been a very sensual sort." Was he defending Nash now? As though
the man had done something wrong? "There's nothing wrong with
being libidinous at his age. In fact, I've become quite certain in recent
weeks that it's fairly normal."

"I’m glad to hear that, as I rather enjoy that aspect of being a

man myself. I didn't ask you to come out with me this afternoon to
discuss Nash's liaisons, you know."

"Then why?" Harry caught the smoldering glance that Martin

threw his way and every muscle in his body tightened in response,
causing the sensitive mare to nicker. "Oh."

They ambled to a stop in front of the ramshackle ruin of the

former gamekeeper's cottage. The basic structure appeared sound,
though the roof had caved in on one side. Vines grew in thick
profusion, covering most of the stone surface. Harry surveyed the
building cautiously. He'd never been in the building before, but if it
were truly dangerous, then Nash would have condemned it, or
boarded it up. He couldn’t dismiss the feeling that something wasn't
right, though.

Harry watched as Martin swung off his horse. He looped the

beast's reins over a stout tree branch, then turned to Harry. "Here we
are."

Dragging in a calming breath, Harry slipped from the saddle

with less grace. He landed awkwardly and was instantly aware of the
tiny pistol secreted in his boot. He'd hoped for the chance to test the
weapon in the outdoors, but it appeared that Martin had other things
on his mind. He tossed his own horse's rein over a similar branch and

casually checked the area to determine the cause of his unease. The
clearing seemed unusually quiet, but then again, their approach had
hardly been unnoticeable. A single note of birdsong broke the silence.
Wind rustled the leaves on the trees and whispered through the
underbrush. The leaves filtered the afternoon sunlight to a soft glow
that made Martin's eyes gleam and glinted off his hair like
candlelight. A spark of desire caught in his belly and flared along his
veins. How could he have been so fortunate to have stumbled upon a
man like Martin? One who seemed to accept all his flaws, from the
lack of social skills to the complete absorption in his work, to what
he'd begun to suspect after a few frank discussions with Nash were
very odd demands in the bedchamber.

"Yes, here we are at the old, ruined, and broken down

gamekeeper's cottage," he teased softly, deliberately closing the
distance between himself and Martin. "And now what? Did you
brings foils for us to fence? Pistols so we can shoot? Perhaps you're
just in the mood to strip down to our shirt sleeves and have a nice,
sweaty Grecian style wrestling match?"

Martin's eyes crossed and his breath whooshed out. "Damn. I

just brought a light meal from your kitchen admirer."

Harry crowded Martin back against his horse. "Didn't you

bring a blanket?"

"Of course. You didn't think I'd expect you to seat yourself on

a bare floor, did you?"

Rubbing himself against Martin's tall frame, Harry rose up on

tiptoe and whispered in his ear. "I missed you too. First one inside and
naked calls the shots!"

He spun about and raced the short distance to the door,

shoving it aside as he yanked at his cravat. Damn Nash's decree that
they must wear proper dress while at his residence!

Sensual laughter followed behind, and he pushed the door shut

with his foot to give himself more time to get naked before Martin
arrived. Leaning against the door, he pried one boot from his foot and
let it fall to the dirt floor. Martin pushed at the door, and Harry
smiled.

"You're going to want that blanket!" he called out as he heard

Martin bang on the door. He was working the second boot off more
carefully, cautious of his modified pistol in its little pocket when he
inhaled something.

Fire. Or smoke to be more exact. His head snapped up by

instinct and he glanced toward the hearth. The remains of a fire lay
there, coals still faintly glowing. "Fuck! Martin! Run!"

"Too late for that, my good fellow." The cultured tones came

from a dark corner, and were followed by heavy footsteps as a figure
emerged from the shadows.

A heavy shove against the door sent Harry sprawling to the

ground. He scrambled for his boot, seeking his gun, but a beam of
sunlight through the vine covered window glinted on the barrel of the
man's pistol.

"Where d'ya want this un, Yer Lordship?"
Keeping one eye on the man with the gun, Harry saw Martin

being shoved to the ground next to him by the same behemoth who'd
attacked him in the alley by the bookshop three weeks previously.
Fury at his own complacency overrode his good sense.

"Didn't get enough last time?" he taunted the man, who

reacted by kicking him swiftly in the side with a heavy boot.

"Watch at un, Yer Lordship. 'e don't fight proper-like." The

man nudged Martin to his knees. "I'd 'ave had yer man in Lunnon
afore if 'e 'adn't kneed Charlie right in the ballocks."

"Is that a fact?" The husky voice was muffled by a cravat

drawn up over his lower jaw, his face obscured by a dark mask.

Harry tilted his head to the side. The man's voice, his accent,

teased at him. The man the thug referred to as His Lordship was tall
and a bit stout. His shoulders were slumped and he probably wasn't
more than an inch taller than Harry. If he'd just keep talking…

"What do you want?" Martin demanded.
"Mr. Tillman. It took you long enough to show up. I want only

what is mine."

"I haven’t the faintest idea what you're talking about." Martin

sounded bored. Harry approved his nonchalance even though he could
read the tension in his frame.

"I gave you the package myself Mr. Tillman, so I know that

isn't true. Please return my property, and I'll allow your…paramour to
live." The man's gun never wavered from Harry, and his hand was
steady as could be.

""Me?" Harry laughed. "Shoot me. I daresay he's dying to do

it himself. I'm not at all what a wealthy American businessman needs

hanging about in his past, you know. He's been trying to get rid of me
since we were forced together."

"Don't be an ass," Martin retorted.
"Ah, ah, ah. Do not think to pull the wool over my eyes so

easily Mr. Gretton. We've been watching you long enough to see
exactly how things are between you. After all, had I not made myself
known to you when I did, we'd be having this conversation with you
in a more naked state, wouldn't we?"

Fuck. "He doesn’t have the package. The damned thing was

swept overboard in the storm, as you know since you were on the ship
when it went down."

"Ah, but I wasn't. I handed the package off to Mr. Tillman and

then slipped away on a small craft I had waiting. I planned to reclaim
the package when he landed at Dover."

"What's in it, anyway?" Martin demanded. "If someone is

going to die for the parcel, then I might as well know."

"Some information that I needed to put on paper to protect

myself. Now that the danger has passed, the paper is unnecessary; in
fact, its existence is inconvenient." The man gestured at the thug in
the black coat. "Prepare the horses."

The man grunted and cast another belligerent scowl in Harry's

direction. Harry shrugged. The door closed behind him, and Harry
narrowed his gaze, calculating the distance between himself and the
gun.

"I wouldn't, were I you," the stranger said softly. "I’m

accounted quite a good shot, and I have no qualms at all about killing
Peregrine Gretton's brother. In fact, I rather think I'd enjoy it."

"No!" Martin exclaimed. "I have the packet."
"Excellent. Then hand it over and we'll be on our way."
"I should have said that I know where the package is. I don't

have it here, of course."

What the devil was the fool up to? "Don't listen to him. If the

packet existed he'd have turned it over to Perry. Or Perry would have
located it himself."

"That's right, I did. But I know where he put it."
"Tell me or I shoot."
"I'll have to show you."
Shocked, Harry turned to glare at Martin. "What the fuck,

Martin?" he demanded.

"Oh stuff it. He's going to kill you if I don't give it to him.

Peregrine will manage without it." Martin stared intently at him, and
Harry swore softly.

"Don't you get it, Martin? He's going to kill us both anyway."

Martin's foolish bravado was admirable, but the man clearly still
operated along the chivalrous standards of bygone eras.

"Not at all. I’m an honorable man. I keep my word and fight

like a gentleman." The implication being of course, that Harry didn't.
He rolled his shoulders and dipped his head in an acknowledging
gesture.

"I fight to win," he admitted. "Especially when that fight is

against thugs and criminals. Their very nature belies the notion of
honor."

"There, you see?" Martin sounded odd. "The gentleman will

respect our bargain."

"You idiot! He hasn't given his word!" Martin was up to

something, but damned if Harry could figure out what. On the other
hand, perhaps if he could just get Martin out the door, he'd stand a
better chance of taking care of the villains. "Oh, go on then. Give it to
him. I should have known better than to trust an American. Treason is
second nature to you Yanks." He braced his heart against the
wounded expression in Martin's eyes before the tea brown orbs went
blank.

"You have thirty-six hours." The gentleman waved his pistol

menacingly at Harry. "If you do not return with the package within
that time, then Mr. Gretton dies."

"It took us three days to get here!" Martin protested, his hands

clenching into fists at his sides.

"If a highwayman can make it all the way to London in fifteen

hours, I'm certain you can cover the distance needed and return with
the item in question in twice that time. If I give you too much time,
you'll be inclined to plot against me, and I can't have that, can I?"

"I need at least forty-eight hours."
"Thirty-six. And I promise you, if you are one minute late,

then Mr. Gretton will have great cause to regret his association with
you. Deke will watch you leave. If you turn toward the house, Mr.
Gretton will suffer the consequences."

Fuck it all. Harry had hoped that Martin would have the sense

to seek out Nash's aid. There were surely enough ablebodied men on

the premises to take out the villains, but he could see from the way
Martin stiffened his spine and set his jaw that the man was set on
being brave and honorable.

Chapter Fourteen

When Martin strode through the cottage door he noted that the

sky had darkened dramatically. The afternoon sunlight had been
replaced with dark, overhanging clouds that hinted at deluges to
follow. It seemed more fitting somehow than the sunshine of
moments before. Concern for Harry and remorse that his own
disregard for the danger of their situation warred within his heart and
soul.

If Harry were harmed—he refused to even think the word

killed—because of his refusal to acknowledge the validity of
Peregrine's concern, he'd never forgive himself. It had seemed such a
silly idea, that someone would have him imprisoned and followed
over a thin little packet wrapped in oilskin. He'd had time to spare.
His meeting with Watt had been scheduled around a stopover in
Calais and a few weeks in the French countryside, so he'd indulged
his new friends. But clearly he should have taken heed of their
warnings. Instead, he'd carried on as though he were on a grand tour
instead of in hiding. Visiting Hatchard's, watching balloon ascensions,
eating meals in public pubs.

He'd endangered Harry. Despite what they had all said about

Harry being there to protect him, Martin knew that he could have
done more to keep them both safe if he'd just accepted the danger they
were in. It was all his fault.

The horse he'd ridden from Nash's stable stood ready and

waiting for him. In the dim light, with a head-on view, he recognized
the man who held the beast as the millworker from the pub where he
and Nash had broken their fast. "You. I shall remember your face, and
seek you out if harm comes to him." His hands clenched in fists of
rage. If he'd only had more faith in his own instincts that morning,
this situation would have been avoided.

"Best ride fast, Yank. His Worship ain't patient." The ruffian

from the pub handed him the rein of his horse with a mocking smirk.

Martin scowled at him as he swung himself up into the saddle.

"You accosted Harry in the alley."

"More like t'other way round. We was waitin' fer ye, and he

tumbled to us somehow. Busted up Gert's leg."

It struck Martin as preposterous that Harry should be the

aggressor in the alley confrontation. The incident had resembled

nothing so much as a robbery to him when he'd happened upon the
scene. The furtive glances the man cast at the cottage gave the lie to
his story. "I think you thought to take advantage of Harold Gretton,
that he looked like an easy target. Your boss doesn't know, does he,
that you were shirking your duties in order to rob the citizenry?"

"An‘ nor he won't be 'earing it from ye, neither!"
"And it was you in the pub this morning."
"Aye. His Worship’s a smart 'un. He sent men to all the

Gretton 'ouses. Figured ye'd show up at one of 'em eventual-like."

"I thought I recognized you but the stable man said you'd been

here three weeks."

"Thought ye might have and I told His Worship so. Twas

fortunate for us that ye and yer nancy boy stumbled into our hiding
spot as it were."

Fuming, Martin glared down at the man. Cruelty shone in the

deep set eyes, the pinched lips. He looked as though he'd take great
pleasure in any pain he caused. "If one hair on his head is harmed, I
shall make you pay."

The man spat into the shorn grass, and leaned forward

threateningly. One beefy hand curled into a massive, white-knuckled
fist. "Ye can try. I'd have had ye last time if not for that pansy's
trickery, and I can take ye again."

Questioning his own foolishness in riling up Harry's keeper

before he left the man unprotected, even if for so brief a time, Martin
counted to ten silently. He had to get himself under control and
thinking like a successful businessman instead of a lovelorn, callow
youth. He was a man of thirty-one, damn it!

"I've not time to waste." He kicked the horse into a walk and

turned its head toward the gate. His original plan had been to head
immediately to the hunting lodge for reinforcements. Nash was a
shrewd enough fellow, and Martin had been sure between the two of
them they'd have been able to come up with a scheme to rescue Harry,
but the time limit and the malevolent eyes boring into his back made
him re-evaluate.

He cantered along the dusty, travel worn path to the village,

deciding he could stop at the stable and send someone to the house to
fetch Nash. Frantic with worry for what might befall Harry in his
absence, he scrambled over plan after plan. There were many things
he could do, from storming the cottage with a backing of armed

servants, to sneaking back in and knocking the masked gentleman
over the head, but none of them guaranteed Harry's safety, and if he
couldn't guarantee Harry's safety, then there wasn't any point in the
whole of the operation.

In the village, Nash's friend the stable keeper was more than

willing to send someone for Nash. A young stable boy slipped out the
back with a hastily scribbled note and orders to put it directly into Mr.
Nash's hand.

Tense and growing irritable, Martin paced the small confines

of the tack room. He wasn't certain that the thug had followed him, or
if the gentleman had other henchmen in the village. In the end he
decided his best option was to stay out of sight.

A rattling carriage pulled into the stage and he crept to the

door, hoping that Nash had arrived, though why the fellow would
come in a carriage instead of on horseback, he'd no notion. In the yard
he spied an elegant, unmarked equipage. The vehicle was black, with
a narrow, understated trim of gilt and scarlet that revealed its
moneyed origins without revealing the identity of its owner. The
phaeton definitely wasn't from Nash's stable, or he'd have noticed it.

Instead, a familiar clipped voice ordering others about with

cool command came to his ears. Martin couldn't believe his luck.
Perhaps the coming storm had brought a ray of sunshine his way after
all. He had no doubt that Peregrine Gretton had pulled into this stable
to wait out the storm before proceeding to his brother's house.

"Peregrine!" he called out, poking his head around the door to

peer into the stable yard.

An elegant gentleman, tall and broad of shoulder turned from

directing a discreetly liveried groom in the disposal of his carriage,
smiling sardonically. "Ah. Tillman. Is this your idea of being
discreet?" He appeared relaxed and welcoming, friendlier and more
open than Martin could recall seeing him.

While Martin thanked the god above for the spymaster's

unexpected presence, Peregrine crossed the distance between them,
slowly coming to a halt. He stood, eyeing Martin sternly.

"You've no idea how grateful I am to see you," Martin finally

said when Peregrine remained silent.

"What's happened?" Sincere concern marked his cultured

voice.

"Come in here." Peregrine jerked from his grasp and dusted

the sleeve as though it had been soiled by Martin's touch. Martin
rolled his eyes. "We don't have time for your show of fastidiousness.
Harry doesn’t have time."

Peregrine shoved Martin into the room and slammed the door

shut behind him. His features were suddenly harsh and menacing, his
eyes glittered with anger. "Harry?"

"He's being held at gunpoint. They want the package, just as

you said."

"Damn it!" Peregrine exploded. "This is your doing," he

accused, glaring at Martin. "I warned you to stay out of sight!"

"You want me to go down on my knees and beg your

forgiveness, kiss your all-knowing omniscient arse, you can damned
well wait until after we've got Harry back." Martin couldn't feel any
guiltier, but Lord Gretton's accusation infuriated him.

"Tell me the whole story." Anger radiated from him in almost

palpable waves as Perry began to stalk about the dark confines of the
tack room. "What happened?"

"Harry and I went out on horseback to check out the ruined

gamekeeper's cottage near Nash's gate."

"Where the devil is Nash in all this? He agreed to look out for

the two of you in the event that you were forced to flee London. I sent
you here for that very reason."

"Do you want to play blame games, looking for a scapegoat or

would you like me to tell you the story?" Martin sneered. He was
conscious of every second that passed.

Peregrine stopped his pacing and to Martin's astonishment,

slammed his fist into the wall with vicious force. "Tell me, damn it!"

"We arrived at the cottage, and Harry entered first. He called

out, warning me not to follow, but someone shoved a knife in my
back and forced the door open. I stumbled inside to find Harry on his
knees in the dirt whilst a man stood over him with a gun in his hand.
Long story short, he ordered me to go to London and retrieve the
package and return to the cottage within thirty-six hours or he'd shoot
Harry."

Perry leaned his forehead on the wall and his shoulder

slumped briefly. Martin waited while the man drew a few calming
breaths. "You don't have the package. Or at least, you told me you
didn't."

"No, I don't," Martin averred. "But he doesn't believe that. I

told him I gave it to you."

Peregrine straightened and turned to face him. "Describe this

package again."

"I've already told you." Martin clenched his fists. Concern had

dropped from Peregrine's features to be replaced by a cold, calculating
expression that made Martin shiver. He'd have hated to be subjected
to that stare were he the villain of this piece. Then, for all he knew,
Peregrine regarded him in the same light as the traitors. "We haven't
time for this."

"Try to remain calm, Martin. Reacting with anger and passion

is almost always a mistake that will get someone killed. You've a
reputation as a cool headed businessman. Do try to call on some of
those reserves. Frankly, I've seen nothing of your character so far to
account for that success."

Martin stifled his protest as he noticed a faint shadow pass

over Peregrine's face, as though he spoke from experience. "It was
about sixteen inches long, perhaps a bit more wide, less than an inch
thick, wrapped in oilskin and sealed with twine and ordinary wax. It
didn't appear to be anything special."

"Excellent. And you told him that you gave it to me? That

may have been the smartest thing you've done throughout this entire
ridiculous ordeal, Tillman." Unlike Martin, Peregrine seemed to grow
still as he thought, until Martin would have sworn he didn't even
breathe. His own pounding heart and the muffled sounds of the stable
and its denizens were all that Martin could hear in the oppressive
silence created by Peregrine's thinking.

"I just don't see how rehashing old information is going to

help us rescue Harry!" he burst out, when the silence became
unbearable. Cool headed businessman be damned, his lover was in
danger! The man he loved might die in answer to his own actions.

"Harry? Harry can take care of himself, I've no doubt. No, I've

every intention of capturing those treasonous hounds. This tiresome
little escapade of yours may just end up well for all concerned despite
your bacon-brained behavior."

Stunned, Martin's jaw dropped. All this time and the man

didn't even intend to rescue his brother? He thought he'd known anger
before, but the fury that Peregrine's callousness ignited made him
aware that he'd underestimated his own nature.

"I don't give a good goddamn what you think of me, My Lord.

I will not allow Harry to be harmed. We have thirty-six hours to get
him out of there. I sent someone to get Nash. I can't give what I don't
have, but I can certainly do my utmost to ensure that Harry doesn’t
pay for my failure to take this situation seriously."

"He won't. I have a plan."

Chapter Fifteen

Good lord his lover could talk. Harry wanted to call out a

reminder that their time was short, just to get Martin headed away
from the cottage. It seemed he'd been listening to the rumble of the
man's voice arguing with the thug from Hatchard's for at least fifteen
minutes!

Why he could have dealt with the situation already if Martin

weren't so all-fired loquacious of a sudden. Harry shifted slightly on
the straw covered packed earth of the floor, warily watching as the
unwavering pistol tracked his movements. "I'm not doing anything,"
he protested. "Just getting a little more comfortable. This floor is hard
on my knees."

"From what I know of your sort, you should be quite

accustomed to spending time on your knees. Be still or I'll cut that
thirty-six hours short." The snide jeer was no more than he might
have expected, but some slightly soft element to the voice, something
very much unexpected made Harry stiffen his spine.

He studied the masked gentleman, trying to be discreet. "Have

we met?"

"Indubitably. But even you are not clever enough to penetrate

my disguise."

Overweening pride was the downfall of many a criminal. He'd

told that to Peregrine more than once. Unfortunately, the mask hid
many of the features that would have told Harry more about this
villain. "Quite likely I could, if you didn't feel it necessary to hide," he
poked at the man, and then waited for a reaction.

"You may be grateful that I am well hidden, Gretton, for if I

had the slightest inkling that you knew my identity I'd perforce have
to kill you, whether the American returns my property or not."

"I rather thought you intended to, regardless."
"Unlike you, and yes, I've heard many a tale of your exploits, I

do adhere to a code of honor." The derision was clear, the sense of
superiority needling.

Taking a chance, having noticed the silence outside the

cottage, Harry sank onto his heels. "Honor? Surely honor is a
commodity in scarce supply amongst traitors."

"Traitor? I am merely a shrewd businessman who took

advantage of the opportunities offered me to increase my family's
wealth."

"By peddling information to the enemy?"
The gentleman shrugged. "Information is much more lucrative

and less bulky than casks of French brandy and reams of laces."

"Your actions cost the lives of many innocents." Unbelievable

that this man claimed to have honor and yet behaved as he had.

"Spies? What honor is there in lurking in the shadows

uncovering the secrets of your enemies? If the war could not be won
with integrity on the battlefield, then we should perhaps have lost."

Disgust filled Harry, though he knew that what the man said

merely expressed the sentiments of many of the soldiers and officers
of the king's army. "If that information saves lives, allows our men to
return home to their wives and children, then I have utmost respect for
those who ply the trade at the risk of their own lives."

"Yes, but then, you've no qualms about kicking a gentleman in

the ballocks, either have you? You're quite a disgrace to the Gretton
name. Well, that's one strategy that won't avail you anything with
me." The smug rejoinder made Harry want to lash out with his booted
foot, but he refrained. Reacting in anger would lead to mistakes that
could cost him and Martin their lives. He had every hope of getting
out of this alive and when he did…

Well, as they'd proved after the alley fight, adrenaline was a

marvelous aid to experimentation. He controlled his smile at that
thought as the door behind grated open. That was what he'd been
waiting for… now all it needed was for the man to move around the
room and out of the way of Harry's exit path.

Conscious of the thug looming behind him, and almost certain

he could hear the man's vengeful thoughts over that kick to the
ballocks, he controlled his breathing and tried to remain calm.
Keeping his gaze on that masked face was more difficult than he
thought it would be though. It was unnerving to stare where eyes
should be and see only a glimmer of light in a dark hole. Not a bit of
skin showed, though he fancied that if he squinted he might be able to
discern thick eyelashes, which would be ridiculous and wasn't in the
least bit helpful in identifying their culprit.

Why most ladies of the ton and half the gentleman boasted of

thick lashes. Then again, half were blued eyed and half brown, with a

few unique shades of grey and amber thrown in. Once he'd even spent
twenty minutes studying a damsel with violet eyes.

No. Better not to rely on physical characteristics. Best to focus

on the voice and the manners. His glance wavered at the thought and
he drew in a sharp breath, biting into his tongue and exclaiming
before he'd thought.

In the window over the gentleman's shoulder, a pale visage

appeared, blue eyes wide and frightened in a ghost-like face framed
by a scarlet silk scarf. The very scarf, his eyes narrowed in
disapproval, that he'd noted tied to the arm of a Windsor chair in
Nash's study the other night. He'd dare say the feminine bit of fluff
was partial to the fragrance of lavender too.

But whoever the hell Nash was fucking, she shouldn't be here

of all places, now of all times. Narrowing his eyes, he tried to tell her
so. She backed hesitantly from the window. Go, he thought fiercely,
You'll ruin everything if you don't. Ah. He relaxed as the face
disappeared from the window. But…her presence had given him an
idea. He widened his eyes dramatically and gave his head an aborted
shake.

"What is it?" The gentleman, contrary to his avowal of

cleverness, fell for his display, and the gun wavered just a fraction.

Harry pretended not to notice, and continued to stare at the

window.

"Check the window, Deke," the man ordered, widening his

stance and seeming to puff himself up, as though magnifying his
presence would keep Harry on his knees.

"It's quite all right," Harry murmured, still watching the

window. "You've got the gun and full mobility. I'm here on my knees,
waiting to be rescued. All is going according to plan. No need to get
twitchy."

The thug stepped up to the window and peered out. "Tain't

nothing there, your worship."

The gun wavered slightly as though the gentleman were

tempted to turn and check for himself. Harry moved as quickly as he
could to retrieve his own weapon from his boot. The thing had a hair
trigger and using it was risky, but he was confident that if he could
lob the weapon directly between the two villains he'd have ample time
to escape without too much damage.

It took more time to think about than to accomplish, and he

was rolling for the door even as the gentleman fired his own pistol in
reaction to the suddenness of Harry's movement.

The explosion was louder than he thought, and the heat more

intense as the old building seemed to catch fire impossibly quick. He
scrambled to his knees in the doorway as the old furnishings and piles
of hay burst into flame behind him.

As he managed to get to his feet and stumble into the clearing,

screams and cries warned that his incendiary device had caught
someone, with any luck both of them. He raced forward then turned
back, hands braced on his thighs as he panted for breath. The blaze
swiftly encompassed the whole building.

Harry forced himself upright. He didn't have time to bask in

the brilliant way his device had functioned, or in catching the traitors
that had eluded his elder brother. He looked about for the horse he'd
ridden earlier, and spotted the broken branch he'd tied her to. The
beast had apparently broken free after the explosion.

Fuck. No help for it but to walk to the manor and bring Nash

back. He looked down at his feet, one boot on, one off. Thank god for
small favors: he still wore his breeches. In the ensuing excitement
he'd nearly forgotten he'd been in the process of stripping when he'd
been accosted.

Shrugging, he began hobbling his way down the path. Nash

had seen him in less, and unless Andre happened to be lurking above
stairs, there wasn't much chance that any of the servants would care
about his nakedness. If the blushing housekeeper should happen to
faint, so much the better for distracting everyone else from his
nakedness while he sent Nash to fetch Martin back from the road to
London.

Nevertheless. It was something of a relief to encounter Nash

on the road to the manor, riding hell bent for leather. Perhaps the girl
at the window had had the good sense to fetch help. "Well met,
brother!" he called.

Nash reined in the huge stallion he sat astride. The beast

reared up, and Harry darted away. "Harry! I just received word from
the village. What the devil has happened to you?"

"It's a bit of a long tale. I don't suppose you'd mind taking me

up and returning to the house?"

Nash chewed his lip thoughtfully. "Perhaps it would be best. I

received a missive from Martin followed by one from Peregrine
demanding my immediate presence with a most unusual list of
stationary supplies. I assume it's all related to your current state of
…er…dishabille."

"Most likely." Harry felt infinitely more cheerful knowing that

Peregrine and Martin were so close. "If you don't mind, I'd rather like
a bath and a clean set of clothes."

Nash reached down a strong arm and hauled him up behind.

"You will tell me what this is all about, won't you?"

"Treason."
Nash stiffened in the saddle. "Harry? Are my woods afire?"
Oh blast. He peered over his taller, broader brother's shoulder.

Sure enough, orange flames flickered just within sight and plumes of
black smoke rose in the darkening sky. "Um. I rather hope it's just the
cottage. Perhaps the incipient rainfall will take care of it?"

Furious curses rained down on his head as Nash wheeled the

horse about and set off for the manor in a gallop. Within fifteen
minutes every man on the estate was gathered to control the blaze,
and a youth from the stable sent to the village to fetch Peregrine and
Martin. Harry had to make do with an ewer of water and a rag to wash
himself.

Chapter Sixteen

"Thank god!" Martin was relieved that the butler's assertion

that the master and his brother could be found in Nash's small study
was correct. He'd taken the stairs recklessly two at a time, slipping on
the dangerously polished wood risers more than once in his urgency
to assure himself of Harry's well-being.

Nash and Harry sat in upholstered armchairs in front of a

blazing fire, drinking glasses of brandy and staring shell-shocked at
the flames. Harry's overlong brown hair was still damp from bathing
and he was wrapped in a deep blue velvet robe that Martin had never
seen before. Nash was in a like state of undress, and both were
barefoot. Their chairs were angled to the fire and both men had
stretched their feet out to the flames as though chilled.

Ignoring Perry's imposing presence behind him, Martin darted

across the room to kneel at Harry's feet. He embraced Harry,
squeezing the other man so tightly he could feel his heartbeat against
his own damp jacket. The ache in his chest he hadn't been able to ease
since he'd left Harry in the cottage with the traitors finally faded as the
man's warmth soaked into him.

"Martin? You're making me wet again." Harry's hand on the

nape of his neck didn't seem to push him away though, and Martin
merely relaxed his grip. To his pleasure, Harry snuggled closer.

Closing his eyes helped to get his emotions under control. "I

saw the remains of the cottage. The workmen brought out a body, but
none of them could tell us if they'd seen you." He drew back slightly
to stare down into Harry's eyes through his spectacles. "I thought I'd
lost you."

"I'm right here," Harry soothed him, softly, leaning into him.
"He torched my cottage," Nash said sourly, swirling his glass

of brandy before taking another sip. "I lay the blame for this at your
door, Peregrine."

Perry approached and leaned against the mantle, letting the

heat of the fire dry out his own rain dampened clothes. "I fail to see
how I am responsible for Harry's setting fire to your cottage."

Harry turned to his brother. "It was the pistol I was modifying

for you, Perry. It worked beautifully."

Straightening slowly, Perry spoke with soft and deceptive

calm. "The pistol I asked you to modify was supposed to fire three

shots instead of one and to do so in rapid succession if necessary. It
was not supposed to blow up buildings and set them aflame."

"Oh, I know. But while I was working on that, which by the

way, wasn't working out correctly anyway, I figured out a way to
make the whole into a small incendiary device. It worked brilliantly."
Martin urged Harry to his feet and then slipped into the chair, pulling
Harry down onto his lap. Harry looked at him curiously then turned
back to Perry. "Your agents will love them."

A strange expression crossed Perry's face, his eyes widening

then narrowing, lips tightening to a thin line. "No, they will not. I
wanted something small and discreet. There is nothing discreet about
exploding buildings and setting them afire." Apparently that was the
end of that discussion because Perry turned his back to them and
addressed Nash. "That cottage was in terrible condition anyway. I had
understood that you intended to tear it down, so I seem to have done
you a favor."

"What happened?" Martin murmured to Harry when he'd

satisfied himself thorough examination that Harry was not injured.

"Perry, there's a decanter of decent smuggled brandy over

there on the table by the door to Nash's room. If you'll fill us all up
again, I'll fill you all in on what happened." Hiding his smile by
ducking his head and burying his nose in Harry's damp hair, Martin
thought that only Harry would have the temerity to order Lord
Gretton about like a servant.

Nash bolted out of his chair so fast all stared at him in shock.

"I'll fetch it. Perry needs to dry out before he ruins any of the rugs and
furnishings."

They watched silently as Nash in his stocking feet crossed to

the little table and picked up the entire tray with its remaining two
glasses and the crystal decanter. He set the tray on the floor by his
chair and poured glasses of brandy for both Perry and Martin.

Martin accepted his glass and took a sip, wrapping his other

hand around Harry's waist to reassure himself of his lover's safety.

"Ahem." The throat clearing dragged his attention from where

a tiny pulse beat at Harry's temple to realize that the other men in the
room were staring at him.

"Ah…" He gulped down more brandy. The fiery liquid seared

its way to his gut, giving him the courage to face his lover's brothers

with insouciant disregard of their patent disapproval. "Oh come now!
Neither of you can be surprised!"

Harry laughed. "You misunderstand, Martin. They accept that

you're bold enough to sit in Nash's study and hold me thusly. I think
they'd like me to get on with the telling of the tale so they can get
back to their own love affairs."

"Exactly," Nash conceded, flicking a glance to his bedchamber

door.

Perry merely raised a sardonic brow.
"I would like to know what happened, too," Martin conceded.

"I rode off and sent for Nash, then stumbled upon Perry by accident.
I'd scarce shared the situation with him when Nash's note arrived."

"There's not a lot to tell, you'll be glad to know. Once you'd

ridden off, I waited until Deke, that's the big fellow, came back in.
When the two of them were on the opposite side of the room, I tossed
my little device at them and rolled out the door."

"That's all." Nash stared up at the ceiling. "You set fire to my

blasted cottage and endangered the entire estate!"

"It's not my fault the place was full of straw and broken down

furnishings. I will concede I am grateful that it was because that's the
only reason there was a fire at all. I assure you, Nash, I calculated the
potential damage based on the probability of rain and the location of
the cottage. The risk seemed feasible."

"You could have been killed!" Martin exploded. "That

gentleman had a weapon trained on you!"

"Not likely. I calculated the likelihood as an acceptable risk

once I determined what about the gunman bothered me." The smug
tone of Harry's voice grated on Martin's already raw nerves.

"Damnation!" The chill he felt owed nothing to the cold rain

and everything to the reinforcement of his realizations that he'd come
close to losing his lover. Martin scowled. "Harry…he was cool as a
cucumber. That fellow would have had no qualms about shooting
anyone."

"Once I realized that he wasn't even a he, I decided the risk

was worth taking."

"The traitor is a female?" Perry demanded. "What makes you

think so?"

"A female from Derbyshire, one who attended an excellent

female academy no doubt, but yes. One who plays a part in society, as

she claims to have met me, and the upper class as well, as she was
quite derogatory about my methods of fighting."

Harry stared at them all as though it should have been

obvious. "I'll admit I didn't actually think of it myself until she said
that kicking her in the ballocks wasn't going to be a viable strategy.
That set me thinking along a different track."

Perry seemed to accept it at face value; he appeared lost in

thought. Nash was eying the door of his room again. Martin didn't
care. He had Harry safe in his arms, and the villains were gone.
"Wait. What happened to the other body?"

"There was only the one." Nash sounded apologetic. "I have to

assume that the woman got away, as the body they found was most
definitely male."

"I see it now." Perry murmured. "You'll excuse me brothers,

Tillman. I've personal business to tend to in the neighborhood now
that business is cleared up." Still damp, he crossed to the door that led
to the hallway.

"Wait," Harry called out. "Why were you here anyway?"
"Oh that." Perry turned back and flashed Martin a grim smile.

"I just wanted to let you and Harry know that passage to Scotland has
been arranged. Watt appears to have returned early from his trip and
is willing to see you."

"But…" Harry stiffened and struggled out of Martin's arms.

"Then I'm not needed anymore."

"What?" Martin jumped upright and grabbed Harry's arm. "Of

course you're still needed. That traitor is still out there and he doesn’t
have the package yet. It's not over. I need you."

Harry shook his arm off. "No you don't. I don't think you ever

really did. You're perfectly capable of defending yourself. Not the
same way I would do it, of course, but then my way is practical and
lacking in honor, which you are not."

"Neither are you!" Martin roared. He hadn't endured all this

turmoil to calmly go on his way alone.

"You two don't mind if I er…leave you to it, do you?"
Harry glanced sideways at Nash. "Your brunette most likely

isn't still in there, Nash. She was on her way somewhere when she
peeked in that cottage window this afternoon and I doubt she hung
around long after the rain stopped."

Nash raced to his bedroom cursing loudly, but Martin refused

to let his focus stray from Harry. "Harry. You can't think that I'm
going to go on to Scotland without you, after all that's happened
between us."

"I'd prefer that you didn't," Perry inserted smoothly.
Martin and Harry turned to glare at Perry in the doorway as

Nash slammed the door of his room. "Why?"

"Well, logically speaking, Harry, the villain now knows your

face just as well as Tillman's. If you don't go to Scotland, I'll have to
assign someone to watch over you. If you do, then the two of you can
carry on as you have been, watching over each other."

Doubt lingered in Harry's eyes, but Martin's heart leaped with

elation. "There, Harry. We have the support of your family."

"I rather suspected this would happen." Damn it! Would the

man never leave? He could persuade Harry much easier once they
were alone.

"What this, Perry?"
"That you'd never even realize you were in love."

Chapter Seventeen

"Of course I realize I'm in love!" Harry blurted. "Do you take

me for an idiot?"

"Now that that's cleared up, I'll be on my way then. Do write

when you reach Scotland, won't you?"

Harry opened his mouth to continue arguing with Perry, but

Martin covered it with his hand and the scent and texture of his lover's
flesh distracted him. Perry closing the door gently as he left barely
impinged on his consciousness. When the hand didn't move, and
Martin didn't speak, Harry gave in to whim and licked a broad swath
across the palm.

"Do I have your full attention now, Harry?" Martin was

smiling at him, and Harry couldn't help returning the gesture.

"You always have my full attention when you're in the room,

Martin. That's the problem."

"I fail to see why it’s a problem." Martin raised a quizzical

brow.

"Because…" Glancing swiftly at the whitewashed door to

Nash's bed chamber, Harry spun about to follow Perry. "Let's take this
down the hall. Nash is the most mellow and understanding of fellows
but even he draws the line at…"

Martin nodded his understanding and pushed Harry ahead of

him out the door. "Your room or mine?"

In the elegantly papered hallway Perry stood, head bent in

conversation with the blushing housekeeper. Harry stifled his
curiosity over the sight of his top-lofty brother associating with the
servants and led the way to his chamber. "Mine."

He ushered Martin into the room, only realizing as the man's

eyes went wide and his lips twitched in amusement that he'd left it in
disarray after returning and bathing earlier. "I didn't have time to
clean up and all the staff were dealing with the fire until the rains
came," he excused his mess.

"That's quite all right." Martin shrugged off his blue velvet

jacket and tossed it carelessly aside before bending to remove his
boots.

"What the devil are you doing?"

"I'm removing my wet garments and making myself

comfortable."

The habitual, irritable flare of attraction sparked to life, and

Harry couldn’t tear his gaze away as Martin continued to remove
garments until he stood in shirtsleeves and braces, one hand on the
fall of his pantaloons, one brow quirked in inquiry.

"Oh, go ahead. But I warn you, sex isn't going to change

anything."

"I didn't expect sex to change anything. After all, you're the

one who introduced me to the concept of going about half clothed."
The gentle mockery made Harry blush.

At least, that's what he was blaming the heat in his cheeks and

nape on. "You're distracting me again!" he accused. "We need to talk,
not engage in sexual activities."

"I agree. However, we can be comfortable while we talk, can't

we? I promise you…my pantaloons are soaked to the skin and chafing
me raw. I won't touch you at all. Just let me get them off and we can
crawl up in the bed and talk this out."

Reluctantly, Harry nodded. To make his point more clear, he

left his robe on as he climbed into the bed on the far side. Pulling the
coverlet up from where they'd kicked it to the bottom of the four
poster bed the night before, he tucked the fabric tightly around his
lower half, pretending he didn't notice Martin laughing softly at his
behavior. The bedpost was a thick, hand carved piece of oak and he
trained his gaze on it, following the carved vines and flowers with his
eyes to the top newel and back down in order to keep from looking at
Martin who was grunting and muttering through the onerous task of
peeling down his damp pantaloons.

Misery twisted and wound through him. It squeezed the joy

he'd experienced at Martin's greeting in front of his brothers out of his
heart, leaving the confusion he'd almost always felt in the company of
others. Love…if there was anything more unreliable upon which to
base a liaison, he couldn't imagine it.

The bed dipped as Martin climbed in opposite him, wearing

only his linen shirt. He burrowed his bare feet into the bedcovers until
he worked them under the barrier Harry had built. Harry continued
staring resolutely at the foot of the bed.

Icy toes brushed along his calf and Harry gasped. "Martin!"

His gaze jerked to the left and locked with Martin's warm brown eyes.

He had the eerie sensation that he was doing something that he'd done
before, staring into gold flecked brown eyes, unable to tear his gaze
away. Of course you've done this before! he chastised himself. You've
looked into his eyes innumerable times in the past month! This time
though, he was haunted by the certainty that if not the last time, then
it was close to it.

"I love you."
Harry heard the words. His body reacted to them. Strange

sensations whirled and whipped through him, joy and dread and terror
and ecstasy and…"It'll pass."

"I beg your pardon?" Affront caused Martin's mouth to

tighten, his brows to knit.

Harry regretted the pain he'd evidently caused, but he couldn't

regret his words. "I said it'll pass. Emotion doesn't last. Love isn't
reliable or quantifiable. One replaces another as easily as men change
their shirts. You love me today, you'll love another tomorrow."

The mattress shifted under Martin's weight as he twisted to

face Harry. "That's not the proper response to a declaration of love."

"I've never been one for doing the proper thing. I thought

you'd realized that. Telling you I love you is redundant. Perry has
already said as much."

"It would mean a great deal more to hear it from your lips."
"Fine. I love you."
"And will you love me tomorrow?"
Harry pretended to think it over, though he knew the answer

already. "I believe so. Will you love me tomorrow?"

"Yes."
"You can't know that." Harry debated how to explain his

feelings to Martin, who seemed strangely capable of just accepting the
turmoil of love. Or maybe, for him it wasn't a turmoil?

"Indubitably. I cannot imagine a time when I will not." His

tone was steady, his presence a solid warmth beside Harry in the bed.
He wanted to lean into that warmth and ignore all the logical reasons
why counting on a future with Martin was silly.

"What if you can? What if I go with you to Scotland and

beyond, and you wake up one morning and decide that you don't love
me anymore. What then?" The gaping maw of his childhood rose
before him, haunting images of icy silences between his parents, of

dinners and outings fraught with tensions, of realizing at a very young
age that his parents had very little real affection for one another.

"Are you asking me to guarantee the future?" Martin cupped

his jaw and brushed his lips over Harry's. Harry caught his breath at
the gentle touch. "I can't guarantee it."

"Exactly. So it's better just to say goodbye now."
"Why? Why shouldn't we indulge our emotions while we

can?"

"Because I can't. You don't understand. My father left home a

few months ago to go find the man he'd been in love with before he
married my mother. He waited he said, until we were all old enough
and set on lives of our own. Then he left us."

"But Harry," Martin whispered softly. "That's not an argument

for the weakness of love. Your brother Perry is thirty if he's a day.
Your father…he's been in love with this fellow for thirty years.
Doesn't that tell you that love can last?"

"On the one hand, it does. But it also tells me that if my father,

who was everything a gentleman could be, couldn’t love me enough
to stay, then why should anyone else?" He cringed inside at the
pathetic sound of his own argument.

"I'm not your father, and if you think on it long enough, I'm

certain you'll realize that his love for the other fellow has nothing to
do with his love for you. He's not gone forever, and he did indeed
ensure you could take care of yourself." The gentleness of Martin's
voice was Harry's undoing, and he gave in to his desire to inch closer
and rest his head on Martin's shoulder.

"I won't be an unwanted burden, a stone tied round your neck

by Perry's machinations." He was weakening. He wanted very badly
to stay with Martin, even though he couldn’t quite banish the feeling
that he was courting pain in the future.

"I could say the same." Martin's breath was warm on his face,

and his feet rubbed soothingly along Harry's limbs.

"I'll go with you," he declared abruptly. "On the condition that

you do not distract me from my work, and that if you do wake up one
morning and realize that you do not love me any longer, we separate."

How it happened he couldn't quite explain, but he found

himself lying on his back, being pressed into the mattress by the
weight of Martin's body. His lips were seized in an all-consuming
kiss; a tongue swept in and dueled with his own. Heat rose between

them in waves as sensation and emotion combined in a rush of arousal
so intense he was left breathless.

The scent of smoke and the taste of tobacco reminded him of

something else.
"One more condition."

Martin grunted, shifting so that he kissed Harry's jaw. "Very

well. But if this contract has many more points, I'll have to get a
solicitor to go over it!"

"This one is simple enough. You must give up smoking those

cheroots."

Martin stilled, then his shoulders began to shake as he muffled

his laughter against Harry's skin.

"It's just that after the explosion…"
He broke off when Martin raised his head. "Jason said I'd meet

a man one day who'd care about the taste of smoke. It appears he was
right. For you, I will give up cheroots."

In the spirit of fairness, having made several demands of his

lover, Harry hesitantly offered, "Is there anything you'd like me to do,
or to not do?" He held his breath as he waited for a suddenly sober
faced Martin to answer.

"I'd like you to admit that it was never about experimenting

and always about wanting."

Blushing again at how easily Martin had seen through his ruse

all along, Harry ducked his head in an effort to hide his thoughts.
Martin tipped his chin back up though, refusing to allow it. "It's not
too much to ask, is it?"

Remembering the journal he'd filled with more romantic drivel

than scientific data, Harry shook his head. "No. I always knew it
wasn't about experiments."

Martin stared at him expectantly.
"It was about wanting. At first, after the alley, it was about

wanting to expend the energy and adrenaline that the danger created.
After that, it was about wanting to feel the way I felt that first time
with you."

Martin's brow rose again in command.
"I felt like you really saw me, wanted me—not a Gretton, not

a wealthy aristocrat."

"I followed you there. I didn't even know who you were. It

doesn’t matter to me that you're an aristocrat or wealthy. I just knew

I'd never seen anyone so comfortable in his own skin that he'd go
half-dressed and grungy about the streets of London. I wanted to
know more about you."

"You wanted to fuck me, you mean."
"That too." Martin's easy smile made Harry's heart sing.
"And that reminds me. You've been telling me that I need to

try it from the other side."

"Does that mean we can get rid of this?" Martin flicked the

velvet robe that was suddenly too warm with one lean finger.

"Indeed. We've many more experiments to devise, and the

only way to verify results is via repetition." He laughed at Martin's
censorious expression, and forestalled further discussion by shedding
the robe.

"Call it what you will. As long as you do all the experiments

with me, I'm game."

The End

www.leebrazilauthor.blogspot.com

Other Books by Lee Brazil:

www.evernightpublishing.com/lee-brazil

If you enjoyed this book, you may also like:

Bonded Hearts by Tamsin Baker

Gothic by Marie Medina

Head Shy by Katherine Wyvern

Evernight Publishing

www.evernightpublishing.com

Wyszukiwarka

Podobne podstrony:
Lee Brazil Loving Eden
Lee Brazil Chances Are 4 Ghost of A Chance
Lee Brazil The Man Trap
Cold Snap Lee Brazil
because you re you lee brazil
Lee Brazil Its Simple Simon
Lee Brazil a beautiful silence
Lee Brazil The Interview
Lee Brazil Chances Are
Lee Brazil The Librarian
Lee Brazil Be a Bad Boy
Lee Brazil Trapping Drake
Brazil, Lee Mark s Opening Gambit(1)
Brazilian Portuguese PodClass
Brazil and Andean Highlands
Human Rights Issues in Brazil
Brazil National Context
Brazil

więcej podobnych podstron