Page 24 of Two Rogues Make a Right
Martin suspected he was supposed to be doing something. With his hands, perhaps, or more likely his mouth. He doubted that most of Will’s many lovers had just sat there in his lap. And yet, Will hardly seemed to be suffering. At that moment he was nuzzling into the place where Martin’s neck met his shoulder, as if he wanted to get as near to Martin as he could. At the same time, Martin could very plainly feel Will’s erection pressing against his back. There was no ignoring it—except Will did seem to be ignoring it. God, Martin wanted to touch him. He wanted to lie down and have Will’s body cover him, press him into the ground, never ever stop kissing him.
“You know, I thought the consumption killed all that,” Martin said, letting out a shaky breath.
“Killed what?” Will asked, moving so he could nuzzle into the other side of Martin’s neck.
“My prick, William, pay attention. I thought it was broken.” He heard Will wheeze and felt him shaking against Martin’s back. “You had better not be laughing at me.”
“I’m not. It’s just funny. Especially since every morning I see for myself that it’s working perfectly fine.”
“Well,nowit is, especially since I wake up with yours ramming me in the thigh half the time.” Without even planning to, he pushed back, gently pressing against Will’s length.
Will hissed and jerked his hips forward, then stayed there, not moving, just holding their bodies close together.
Then Martin sneezed and Will handed him a handkerchief so he could blow his nose, and the tension was broken. Or, rather, not broken, just eased enough that they could live with their arousal and not feel like they had to do anything about it.
When they went indoors, Will threw open the curtains and shoved the bed against the wall, announcing that this way Martin could see the stars without having to go outside if he didn’t want to, then pulled Martin down into bed beside him. They fell asleep tangled up together, and the last thing Martin remembered before falling asleep was the feel of Will’s fingers carding through his hair.
The next morning Martin was no better and grudgingly agreed to let Will send for Mr. Booth. As soon as the doctor walked through the door, Will almost sagged with relief to finally have an expert on hand.
His hopes were dashed almost immediately. “Not much to be done,” the doctor said, clucking over Martin. “He needs brisk walks and fresh air. No need to keep the fire burning quite so high.”
Brisk walks and fresh air? The physician in London had advised rest and warmth and spoken at length about the dangers of drafts. Will had no idea whose advice they were meant to follow.
The doctor took a vial out of his bag. “And a spoonful of this, whenever the coughing gets too bad for him to sleep.”
“What’s in it?” Martin asked.
“What’s in it?” the doctor repeated, as if startled to hear his patient speak. “Things that will help you get better, young man.”
“I believe he wants to know the ingredients,” Will said, already regretting having sent for the doctor.
“I see,” Mr. Booth said, as if Will had asked him something highly inappropriate. “Camphor, peppermint oil, tincture of opium, licorice, and honey. I mix it up myself, and can assure you—”
“I won’t take it,” Martin said. “Please remove it.”
“I’ll just put it here by your bed—”
“I said to remove it,” Martin repeated, every inch the heir of Lindley Priory.
“Thank you, Mr. Booth, but that’ll be all.” Will paid the man his fee and sent him on his way. “I can afford medicine,” he said quietly upon reentering the cottage.
“I’m well aware. But there’s no sense in paying for a thing we already have.”
Will looked at the assemblage of vials and bottles that stood on the chimneypiece. On the last market day, Will had stocked up on the remedies everybody seemed to recommend for a persistent cough. Peppermint oil, camphor, and licorice were all there, not to mention willow bark. The only ingredient they didn’t have was—Will’s face heated. “Tell me you didn’t turn that medicine down because you don’t trust me in the same room as opium.”
From the look on Martin’s face, Will knew he was right. Will shoved his hands in his pockets and stared up at the ceiling. “I’m going for a walk,” he said, striving to keep his voice calm and failing utterly.
He walked to the hill overlooking Friars’ Gate. That was where Martin ought to be, a house like that, with people who knew how to take care of him. He was sick with shame that Martin turned down a medication that might have brought him some relief only because he was worried about Will. That winter, Will had eyed that bottle of laudanum, had inhaled its peculiar odor and thought about what it would feel like to swallow just a little, but he hadn’t done it. Partly because that laudanum belonged to Martin, partly because he didn’t want to go down that path again, and, if he were honest, partly because he doubted the amount of opium in the tincture would have had much of an effect on him. But he had been able to resist.
When Will got back to the cottage, Martin was out of bed and in the chair by the fire, wrapped in a quilt. “Let me talk first,” Martin said. “My refusing that medicine has nothing to do with not trusting you. I was with you those first few months after you got home.”
“I know, and I’m grateful.”
“I’m not looking for gratitude,” Martin snapped. “I saw how the laudanum affected other people in those places. I saw how desperate people got when they were in the habit of taking it. And I also saw how much relief it brought you, at a time when nothing else seemed to help you at all. From all that, I can infer that it’s taken an effort for you no longer to use the stuff, and I don’t want you to be forced to look at it every day in your own home.”
Will dug his fingernails into the meat of his thighs. “The first two weeks we were here, I gave you laudanum around the clock until the bottle ran out. I was sorely tempted to help myself. But that’s going to be the case for the rest of my life and—damn it, Martin, if you let my own bad choices ruin your health, I won’t forgive you. I won’t forgive myself.”
“Your bad choices,” Martin repeated, his voice suddenly gentle. “Will. When you came back to England with your mind half gone and your back still bleeding, I don’t think a damned thing you did was much of a choice.”
