Page 3 of Two Rogues Make a Right
“If you’re going to sit there,” Martin said, his voice rusty with disuse and weak from lack of air, “at least tell me a story.”
Will almost dropped the cloth. That was the first thing Martin had asked for in the last week, unless one counted “fuck off” and “let me die” as requests. “What, you’re not going to ask nicely?” he murmured.
Martin opened his eyes long enough to raise an eyebrow and cast Will a baleful glance. “William,” he sighed. “Really.” And just the sight of Martin looking scornful and bored warmed Will’s heart a little bit. Maybe everything would be fine.
Never in his entire life had Will been able to refuse anything Martin requested, so he launched into a tale of evil wizards and kindhearted ogres, of princesses who carried swords and merchants with enchanted ships. It was nonsense, and likely would only pass muster with a highly feverish audience. But as the sun crept higher in the sky, Martin dozed, and when he woke his fever was gone.
Chapter Two
Martin didn’t know if it was the sound of Will’s voice or the fact that it meant Will was nearby, but listening to him read aloud was soothing in a way no tinctures or balms had ever been. Even now, when Will was reading a thoroughly mad novel about villainous doctors hell-bent on grave robbing and vivisection, his voice acted like a snake charmer’s flute.
As Martin listened, he looked out the window at this landscape that was neither strange nor quite familiar in its gentle near-flatness. Martin could, he supposed, ask Will where they were. But what mattered more was where they weren’t: not near anyone who would try to browbeat or control Martin—for his own good, of course—nor anyone who thought Martin’s illness was an excellent excuse to politely take away his choices and his freedom, to delicately turn the key in the lock.
And yet. He didn’t think he had come willingly to—to wherever they were. He wanted to know where they were, but more importantly he wanted to know how they had gotten there, but he was afraid he wasn’t ready for the answer to that quite yet.
He became aware that Will had left off reading. “Don’t stop,” he said. “At least not on my account.”
“Your eyes were shut,” Will said. He sat in the chair beside Martin’s bed, his booted feet a heavy weight on the mattress. Martin could almost sense the heat pouring off Will’s body. Will had always run hot. “I thought you might have fallen asleep.”
“I’m paying perfect attention,” Martin lied. His fever may have broken, but his mind was the hollowed-out husk it always was after a fever. It had been two years since he showed the first signs of consumption, which he had acquired in circumstances he strongly preferred not to think about, but before that he had a lifetime of frail health and weak lungs and ill humors and whatever else the physicians and apothecaries decided to call it. By now Martin knew the lay of the land. “I want to know what happens to the poor man.” When Will didn’t answer, Martin opened his eyes and found Will looking at him curiously, his hair tumbled across his forehead in a way that made Martin’s fingers itch to brush it back.
“Which poor man?” Will asked carefully.
“The man who—he lives in the Alps and has an overbearing father.”
Will closed the book. “I think we’ll leave the rest of this novel for when you’re more lucid,” he said, his mouth twitching in a badly suppressed smile, “but I will always cherish the description of Victor Frankenstein as an overbearing parent.”
“You’re mocking an invalid. Shame on you.” But just that short conversation had drained Martin and he already felt his eyelids drooping. “Later,” he said.
“Wait,” Will said. “Let me give you more medicine before you’re asleep. Getting willow bark tincture down your throat while you’re sleeping is a harrowing experience.”
As Will brought the little bottle over, Martin noticed that it was nearly empty. He had the distinct sense that he ought to get better before that stuff ran out or Will would start committing highway robbery. And Will would be a terrible highwayman—all flustered apologies and not a bit of bloodlust—so he mustn’t let that happen.
“What are you smiling about?” Will asked.
Martin shook his head and opened his mouth for the spoonful of tincture, his hands still too shaky to manage the job on his own. Almost as soon as he swallowed, he felt sleep overtake him. “That’s it, love,” Will said, kissing the top of his head.
This was going to be the death of him. He had survived this latest illness only to be murdered by casual affection. Will was the sort of person who could kiss your head and call you love and have it mean nothing other than friendship. Martin knew perfectly well that Will spoke that way to dogs and old ladies. The problem was that Martin was the sort of person who could go a twelvemonth without touching anyone besides the physicians who came to do his bloodlettings. The conversion rate was terribly unequal, like pounds to francs, which led to Martin cherishing all those touches, all that blasted sweetness, hoarding it all in his heart like a dragon jealously guarding its treasure. Which was fine, perfectly fine, God knew he had been doing that for years upon years, but he didn’t want Will to actually notice. That was a degree of awkwardness that Martin didn’t think he could face, and he didn’t think Will could either.
Just before sunrise on their eighth day at the cottage, Will got up from the chair where he had been trying and failing to sleep, shrugged on his coat, and slipped out the door. His breath clouded the air and the ground beneath his boots was crisp with frost. The sliver of moon was barely visible beyond the clouds in the night sky, and Will thought nothing had ever been so still or so dark.
Purely for the sake of doing something, he split a few logs and gathered kindling, then paced a couple of times around the perimeter of the cottage. There was a flat piece of earth that looked like it had once been a potato patch, and where, if he allowed himself to think more than a few days into the future, he might think to plant carrots or turnips.
“And who might you be?” said a woman’s voice. Will looked up to see a plump woman standing on the other side of the garden gate, her head covered in a scarf and a basket looped over her arm. On the way here, Will hadn’t seen any houses between the London road and the cottage, and he hadn’t been able to leave Martin long enough to explore. He was almost startled to discover that they were near human habitation, that they weren’t on a desert isle, just him and Martin, marooned, alone.
“Will Sedgwick,” he said. His voice was hoarse with fatigue. He couldn’t be sure, but he didn’t think he had slept since the previous morning.
“Are you the new gamekeeper?” she asked, more an accusation than a question. “The manor has been shut up for years. Can’t say I know what the new owner wants with a gamekeeper, unless they mean to catch poachers, and that won’t go over too well, let me tell you.”
“No,” said Will, startled. “Nothing like that. The cottage is being let by an invalid who needs the country air. As far as I know, the manor is still unoccupied,” he added, which was true, if not precisely honest.
The woman gave him a long look, but something in her posture eased. “Hmph. And you’re tending this invalid yourself?”
“Yes,” Will said, with the sense that he was walking into a trap, although he couldn’t guess what the trap might be.
“You look like you’re ready to keel over. It’s not men’s work. Is he your brother or your gentleman?”
Will blinked. “Pardon?”
