Randall's Romance (Behind Closed Doors) (4 page)

"You think so, eh?" The man ignored him, pulling Randall's watch from its pocket in his waistcoat and examining it. Chagrin at losing the piece made him grimace. It had been a gift on his twenty-first birthday from his father. Since Lord Brigstock's departure for the continent six months earlier, Randall had found himself wearing it more and more often, when he had others that were more appropriate. Somehow it brought his father closer to him, and he cherished it the more since he'd learned of his father's illicit love. It seemed they had more in common than Randall had ever expected.

Perhaps his feelings showed on his face, because the highwayman thrust the watch back at him. "I leave you this; it would be too hard to fence. But you will hand over the signet ring, please."

Again, Randall obeyed the brusque command with alacrity. He thought he'd managed to get off lightly when a warm, callused hand slid into his pocket, and he stiffened. This close he caught the lingering faint hint of sandalwood, the heated touch, practically scalding him through the thin fabric of his trousers, and Randall leapt intuitively to a conclusion that was probably just the wishful thinking and the product of more than one night of sensual dreams. "You were at the ball." He blurted as a careless finger brushed against his stirring cock. At once his senses were on high alert and he nearly sagged with relief.

The man stilled, then his hand casually explored Randall's stiffening cock. "Was I then?" He pulled away, taking with him Randall's purse, which he had to admit was no great loss, as it contained only a few coins, and shoved it into his own jacket pocket. "Things might have gone a bit better for you if you hadn't realized that, my good man."

The altogether foolish unfounded faith he'd placed in the highwayman who'd sucked his prick in Gravesend's ballroom was brought home to him when a sharp pain exploded across his temple, sending him tumbling into darkness.

Chapter Four

Catching the falling man brought Jason dangerously close to a temptation he had hoped to avoid. A whiff of the bay rum cologne and the underlying scent of clean masculine sweat made his nostrils flare. It also brought too much to mind the pleasure of the man's touch, the hard muscles under his Robin Hood garb, the erotic friction of his hand on Jason's cock.

Having rendered the young aristocrat unconscious with his blow, Jason found himself in a quandary as to what to do with the man. Leaving him here was tantamount to a death sentence. Taking him along was tempting, but equally dangerous to his mission and his peace of mind.

"
Damnation
." He uttered as a pleasant burr of awareness took shape in his belly. He'd wanted the opportunity to meet that gentleman again, but not under such circumstances. In this place he had to stay focused on his task, on his revenge. Being distracted by lust was unacceptable, and dangerous to boot.

"And what brings you here in the first instance, my fine gentleman?" He murmured, guiding the prone figure to lie on the rough path. The man's headed ended up in one of those strange pools of moonlight the gnarled trees dappled the countryside with.

"Fuck me." Fury surged through him. He recognized that face, the proud, aristocratic nose, the dark hair cropped close in the military fashion. In the pale moonlight everything about the man screamed Gretton. Reaching out, Jason traced a shell of an ear down to its unattached ear lobe. Lord Peregrine had just such an oddity. "It had to be one of you, didn't it? Now was it mere coincidence that brought you to this town, or is the mighty Peregrine suspicious?"

His doubts were removed now. He had no choice about what to do. Efficiently he stripped the man of his valuables, the watch, weapons, a small amount of currency, setting the scene to look like a robbery. The chill breeze of a night wind blew in from the ocean, stirring the thin tree branches, causing the sea grass to ripple. It was quiet, but it might not remain so for long. How much time did he have? What would happen if the next person along the path found Gretton here defenseless?

It might be any nameless villager, who would help him to the town or the doctor.

Or it might be one of the rough trade smugglers, or even the spy himself. If that happened, and the man recognized Gretton, as he himself had done, then the man was as good as dead if he left him here. Jason had no love of the Grettons. His Lordship might be his uncle, or he might not, according to his mother. But the child of a ballet dancer had no place alongside the Earl's rightful children, and he deeply resented that he'd been deemed second rate in society's eyes.

Still, this particular Gretton appeared to him an altogether different sort. He wasn't as uptight as his brother, for one thing, and he was damned attractive. As though physical beauty merited consideration in such circumstances? Maybe it was just that he'd seen too much of death in the past six months to wish it upon someone whose touch he had enjoyed, who he had if he were honest, whiled away many a tedious hour of waiting the past week in dreaming and speculating about.

He hesitated, considering. He needed to know what the man was doing here, and how much he knew about what Jason was doing in Devon. Sighing, he stripped off the man's thin cravat and tied his hands tightly in front of him, then heaved the man over his shoulder.

The inert bundle was awkward, and heavier than he expected, but he managed to toss the Gretton over the saddle of the horse before swinging himself up behind. It wasn't comfortable, and the nag protested the extra weight by tossing his head and nickering, but it was the fastest method of moving the aristocrat before he awoke.

The horse followed his direction and they left the path, cantering swiftly over the terrain in a random path. No sense leading anyone directly back to his hide out. Some distance from the path where he'd met his nemesis, Jason pulled the horse to a halt in front of a small thatched cottage. He slipped off the rump and led the beast to the lean to tie it up hastily.

"I'll return to see to you as soon as I've seen to our guest." He assured the stalwart Horace. The horse tossed his head and huffed softly, as though understanding.

Jason tugged the unconscious Gretton from the saddle and hefted him over his shoulder, grunting at the weight.

"Stupid sod. Why the hell did you have to be so damned observant?" He continued to grumble as he manhandled the body onto the single bed in the back room of the sparsely furnished cottage. Heaving a deep breath and steeling his resolve, he stripped his captive down, trying not to notice the ridged abdomen, taut thighs and damn, the outright temptation of the man's body. Even in unconsciousness, his flaccid cock appeared thick and long, lying on the lightly furred expanse of a finely sculpted thigh. Fingers twitching with the urge to touch, to explore the treasures exposed to his gaze, Jason moved on to the boots that blocked the passage of the grey trousers. The boot on one foot was impossible to remove, so he used his knife to slit the black leather. "You'll be spending a pretty penny replacing these, my boy." He muttered as he peeled the leather off, revealing an ankle swollen and purpled.

"What the hell have you done to yourself, fool?" He probed the injury, grimacing in sympathy as the fellow twitched. "I don't think it's broken, but you might not be walking too comfortably for a while."

Untying the white linen cravat from one hand, he wrapped it around the headboard of the bed, then tied it back around the man's wrist.  Stepping back, he surveyed his handiwork. Gretton was stretched out, completely naked and vulnerable in the middle of his mattress, and...Cursing again, Jason snatched up the thin homespun sheet from the foot of bed and flung it across the man. Now, he could look away.

"That will have to do for now. I'll leave you to your sleep, as there's work to be done tonight." The click of his boots on the hard wood floor sounded unnaturally loud. Pausing in the doorway, Jason glanced back over his shoulder at the still figure. He hadn't hit him that hard, the man should be awake by now, shouldn't he?

"You damned well better wake up while I'm out, too. I've no intention of explaining to the mighty Peregrine how I managed to permanently damage his brother when I'm supposed to be dead."

Did he just imagine the stilling of the steady rise of that chest? Not willing to take the chance, he retraced his steps and scooped up the man's clothes. "I'll be taking these with me, just in case." He wouldn't dare leave and walk home naked. Satisfied with his prisoner's status, Jason left the room.

He fed and watered the horse, then changed into rough garb much like the locals wore, storing Gretton's finery and his own costume in a locked chest in the front room that held the bulk of his belongings. Pocketing the key, he slipped outside and made his way back to the beach. It might already be too late, and there might be nothing at all to see in any case, but he'd watched closely for several days now and to his untrained eye, it seemed that conditions tonight were perfect for the retrieval of the waterproofed casks the smugglers shipped their goods in.

He'd seen a ship offloading over a dozen casks in the inlet a few days prior, and the tavern had been a-bustle with expectation. On his last trip to Devon, before he'd tracked Gravesend to London, he'd discovered a perfect vantage point for spying on the smugglers as they conducted their business. If it hadn't been for Gretton he'd have been concealed in the small crevice, able to listen for any hint of a French accent, any indication that these were the smugglers who dealt in the trade of more than fine brandy and precious lace.

Not that he knew what he was listening for, just that something might strike a nerve, that some indication might be given that the next ship out might carry more than British pounds to the French shores.

Traitors. Selling secrets to the French. Bastards. They'd killed his men, God knew how many honest British soldiers had lost their lives to the enemy because some traitor at Whitehall had sold them out.

He arrived to discover that the beach was deserted, and from the fresh expanse of sand wiped clean by the tides, tonight had not been the night either. Wearily, Jason trod back to the cottage and his unwitting guest. Perhaps he'd best don his highwayman’s garb before confronting the man?

Perhaps it would be best if he not allow his face to be seen? Jason stripped and pulled on the breeches, then the black domino. Damned if he'd sleep in his full regalia. It was too bloody hot for such things. Sliding the bolt home on the door, he banked the fire in the hearth and set the guard in place.

The comforting thud of his boots against the hard wood seemed to mock the rapid escalation of his heartbeat as the blood rushed in his ears, dimming his hearing. He shook his head, trying to quell the eagerness that rose as he pushed open the door of the bedchamber. Gretton lay in an inelegant sprawl, arms stretched high above his head where Jason had bound them, legs spread, one knee crooked, a trail of white sheeting twisting from his ankle up to half cover his groin.

Smothering his groan of appreciation, Jason sat on a straight-backed chair and bent to remove his boots. Exhaustion tugged at his senses, and he left the boots to lie on the floor before joining his prisoner on the bed. He sat yawning, on the edge. Pulling his weapon from its sheath, he slipped it under a pillow and lay back, resting his head on the cool linen. To his shock, Gretton rolled into his side with an indistinct murmur, settling against him. The solid weight of his body was comforting, the distinct prod of his erect cock revealing.

Muttering under his breath, Jason tried to edge away, but Gretton followed him, frowning in his sleep when his bounds denied him. Jason sat up abruptly. He leapt from the bed and snatched the sheets, shaking them out with a snap to cover the naked man. Why had it seemed like a good idea to strip him down like that?

"Because you had more faith in your ability to resist him? Or because you had no intention of doing so?" He chided himself with a wry smirk.

Nevertheless, with the sheet as a barrier, a scant guarantee of chastity, he crawled back onto the mattress and this time curled himself into Gretton's body with a sigh of pleasure. It felt good to hold someone, to let that steady soft breathing lure him to sleep, to follow the rhythm of a heartbeat into the land of dreams.

Chapter Five

The pain in his head that had plagued him when he first woke in the early hours of the night had faded, but now his arms ached in their sockets from being pulled above his head for many hours. He could count it a small blessing that his ankle wasn't paining him anymore, though.

Randall didn't bother opening his eyes. His internal clock told him it was just past dawn, the faint grumbling of his belly and the fullness of his bladder testified to the passage of time. He knew where he was, had awoken briefly the night before, alone in a small, somewhat primitive room, probably not too far from where he'd been assaulted the night before, if his estimations of time were correct, no more than an hour's ride at the most from where his traitorous lover had felled him.

"Fuck." He cursed roundly, wriggling about on the thin mattress. A lean, hard muscled frame was nestled against him, and heat seeped through the thin bed covering to stir his senses. He was instantly aware that the ache of his abused muscles wasn't sufficient to dim his morning erection.

An appreciative murmur from his sleeping companion sent him wriggling again, striving to hide the evidence of his arousal. He tugged fiercely at his bonds, hoping futilely that he could escape. A strong hand closed on his prick through the sheets, and he gasped in surprise.

"Mm. Is this how you greet every morning?" The raspy voice was rough with sleep, and stroked over his nerve ending like tinder to a flame.

Shuddering, Randall tried to pull away, but he'd reached the extent to which his bonds would allow retreat. Memory returned swiftly, and with it the same sense of trust and faith in this fellow that had been his downfall the night before. Had the highwayman wanted him dead, he would be dead already.