Page 44 of Two Rogues Make a Right
Will looked down and saw that Martin was holding one of his hands, chafing it between his own, in full view of anyone who cared to look that way. It was reckless and stupid and Will’s heart was filled with a fondness that was equally reckless and stupid. With his free hand, he wiped away a drop of moisture that had gathered at the corner of his eye, then reached over and straightened Martin’s lapels.
Chapter Eighteen
Martin’s knowledge of London geography was patchy at best, so he had to rely entirely on Will’s guidance to get them to the Fox. As Will seemed to be in something of a daze, Martin feared they would wander the labyrinth of city streets for hours. By the time they reached Shoe Lane, Martin was all but wheezing—not, he thought, from the exertion so much as the bad air. He had taken longer walks in the country without so much as a cough.
“All right there,” Martin murmured nonsensically to Will as they turned into yet another dark, narrow passageway. He had been filling Will’s ears with soothing foolishness since they left Hyde Park. It was with enormous relief that he finally caught sight of the freshly painted sign hanging above the door of the Fox. He could put Will to bed and trust that Hartley would care for him. Suddenly the prospect of an awkward meeting with Hartley no longer seemed so dire, as long as Will would be looked after and Martin could just sit down.
Martin did not have terribly much experience with public houses beyond the Blue Boar and the inn in the village nearest to Lindley Priory, but he thought the Fox seemed a respectable sort of place, with plenty of clean windows and shiny brass fittings. The air was redolent with the scent of cooking—herbs, rich sauce, and roasting meat—and under that, the smell of ale. Every table was full and the air was thick with the sound of mingled conversations.
“The stairs are through the back,” Will said, indicating a door behind the bar. Before they got that far, they were intercepted by Hartley, who, if he were surprised to encounter Martin, did not show it on his face.
“Is anything the matter?” Hartley asked his brother.
“I’m fine. Ran into a shipmate and had a bad moment. Martin’s just making a fuss, that’s all.”
Martin didn’t bother denying it. “Thank you for letting me fuss. Would you eat if food were put in front of you?”
“I’ll bring supper up,” Hartley said, not waiting for Will’s answer, and disappeared through one of the back doors.
Will led the way to a stairwell. “I really am all right,” he said. “Relatively speaking.”
“You’re doing wonderfully,” Martin said, gasping for air as he climbed the two flights of stairs.
As soon as they had a door shut behind them, Martin pulled Will into his arms and held him as tightly as he could. He didn’t say anything, just felt the solid presence of Will’s body against his own, the softness of Will’s hair against his cheek, the coarseness of his coat beneath Martin’s fingertips, all evidence that Will was safe and they were together. And if he was leaning against Will as much as Will was leaning against him, that was fine too.
“I can hear you breathe,” Will said after a minute, his voice muffled by Martin’s coat.
Martin thought about brushing off Will’s concern, but he didn’t think this was the time for dishonesty. “My lungs hate this city. They hate the smoke and damp. And don’t you dare tell me I ought to have put you in a hackney and gone home. Don’t you dare.” He waited, half-braced to see if Will would protest, but Will only held him tighter.
They were interrupted by three raps sounding at the door, followed by Hartley entering with a tray. Martin immediately made to step away from Will, but Will kept his arms looped around Martin’s neck. Martin knew what it must look like, and he felt slightly exposed but also a little proud that Will would own their relationship like that. And more than either of those things, he was so glad for Will to have a brother he didn’t have to hide the truth from. He had hardly gotten used to having his arms around another person; doing so openly was almost inconceivable.
“I’ll put this here,” Hartley said, placing the tray on a small table that was set beneath the room’s single window. “And you’ll let me know if you need anything?” He addressed the question to Will, but flicked a glance at Martin, and stayed in the room until Martin nodded.
The tray held two plates, a covered dish, and two tankards of ale. Martin lifted the cover and saw that the dish contained a stew of some kind, aromatic and rich. He put a large serving onto Will’s plate and helped himself as well.
“This is familiar,” Will said.
“It ought to be. You spent half the winter putting food under my nose and hoping I’d eat it.”
“I meant that it reminds me of those months you looked after me after I got home.”
Martin was ready to steer the conversation in any other direction, but maybe after seeing his shipmate, Will wanted to talk about that awful period of time. “A piss-poor job I did of that,” Martin said as lightly as possible, paying more attention to keeping the anxiety from his voice than on the words he was actually speaking. “I recall spending a few months dragging you out of damp-ridden opium dens and forcing you to eat solid food. And then my father died and I didn’t even have the funds to continue doing that much.”
Will furrowed his brow. “What does that mean?”
Martin realized he had said more than he meant, but before he could explain away his words or even decide whether he wanted to, Will pointed an accusatory fork in his direction. “You shook your tenants down to get money for me. I thought you needed to pay off your father’s debts.”
Martin didn’t bother denying it. A part of him was even relieved to have it out in the open. Now Will would know the worst.
“Martin, you had to know I wouldn’t want that.”
Martin put down his fork. “At the time, what you wanted was to seek oblivion in a cloud of opium, and I was terrified about what would happen when your money ran out. I didn’t care one way or another about what you’d think of how I treated my tenants. More to the point, I didn’t care about my tenants, or myself, or anybody at all. All I cared about was you. I know that’s immoral and I’m trying to do better, but I can’t even promise that I wouldn’t still do reprehensible things if that were what you needed. I don’t care, so you can save your lecture.” There. The worst was out, and he was both relieved to have it done with and terrified to find what would come next.
Will let out a slow breath. “Next time consider stealing from the rich and powerful, all right?”
“That’s it? You’re not cross?”
“Of course I am. But, Martin, I probably would have stolen from a nun if it meant keeping you alive this past winter. I would have stolen from a nun and liked it.”
