Page 45 of Two Rogues Make a Right
Martin felt himself preening, almost, at Will’s admission that he’d do bad things for him, and then caught himself. “Only a rich and powerful nun, though.”
“Of course,” Will said, with the first hint of a smile since they had left Hyde Park. “Did it ever occur to you that we were together even before we were... together? I mean, you’re always at the front of my mind, even when we’re hundreds of miles away. You’re the most important person in my life. Even if we had never gone to bed together, even if neither of us fancied men, we’d still be together. We just wouldn’t have a name for it.”
“Did it occur to me?” Martin repeated faintly. “Yes, William. It occurred to me. Did it occur to you that even if we had never gone to bed together, you might still be jealous of any wife of mine?” Will looked up at him with a round-eyed surprise, but he didn’t deny it.
Martin didn’t know which of them stood first, or which of them led the way toward the bedroom. Half an hour earlier he wouldn’t have thought it possible that either of them could have wanted this. Will was shaken and anxious; Martin was tired and ill. But there they were, peeling one another’s clothes off, kissing with more affection than heat. He had always thought sex was something base and animalistic, and maybe sometimes it was. But it was also this—a comfort after a long day, a reminder that there was someone who wanted to take care of you, a small piece of mercy in an unyielding world. When Will lay back and Martin bent over his lap, he was astonished by the gentleness of the act, the tenderness of his own lips and tongue, the sweetness of Will’s hand in his hair. And then, later, his face buried in Will’s neck, he found that there could be a sort of surrender in his own release, a slackening of the line between what he needed and what was possible.
Martin woke up warm but still tired, Will’s back plastered to his chest. Will was very much asleep, and if Martin knew anything about his friend’s morning habits, it would be at least another hour before he even cracked an eye. Carefully, Martin eased himself up to sitting position, extricating an arm from underneath Will’s chest and a leg from over Will’s hips. Will let out an unsatisfied little huff and tipped over onto his stomach.
This gave Martin a view of Will’s dark curls tumbled over the pillow, one wiry arm flung out to the side, and the lattice of scars that covered Will’s back. In the morning light, some were faint and fine, mere pale slivers that might have passed unnoticed if not side by side with their raised and ropy mirror images. He knew, from the few things Will had said and the many things he hadn’t said, that these marks had been the work of months as theFotheringaymade its slow progress from the West Indies to Portsmouth.
Martin had always thought that officers in the navy were spared floggings. It turned out that this was true only insofar as officers were sparedpublicfloggings. What went on in the cabin was quite a different matter. What went on when the captain was a power-mad despot was a different matter still. Martin bent down, pressing a kiss between Will’s shoulder blades, then raised the sheet to Will’s neck.
The man they had met in the park yesterday had said Will saved lives. Martin wasn’t certain exactly what Will had done—whether he had spoken to the rightfully disgruntled sailors and then been punished for it, or whether it was simply a matter of allowing himself to be used as a scapegoat—but if there was any man in the world who could have done it, Martin believed it would have been Will. And somehow, despite that nightmare, despite the year of oblivion he had sought upon coming home, Will still found joy. He still trusted and loved. Martin wasn’t much given to considering the existence of any divine creator let alone going so far as to thank it, but Will’s continued existence seemed like nothing less than a miracle and just looking upon him overwhelmed Martin with gratitude.
He might have spent the rest of the morning petting Will’s hair and in general behaving like a daft fool but he needed to cough. His lungs were never at their best in the mornings, mornings in London even less so, mornings after a traipse across town followed by a night in a close and dusty room even less still. He grabbed his clothes and silently shut the door behind him, then coughed as quietly as possible in the tiny sitting room. There was no blood, which was a good sign.
Feeling slightly better, he dressed and sat in the hard-backed chair near the window. The sun was out, at least as far as it was ever out in London, and he could see the room with a clarity he had not the previous night. There was a shelf with a handful of books and a cupboard that held a couple of mugs. When Martin fished his new spectacles out of his pocket, he saw that the books and cups were covered by a layer of dust. Will had distinctly said he was staying with Hartley, but if these were Hartley’s rooms he did not live in them. He certainly had not stayed in them last night, nor had Will expected him to return.
On a writing desk was a stack of papers written in Will’s familiar scrawl. Martin could tell at a glance that it was a play, and based on the names of the characters listed along the left-hand side of the page, it was a new play, not the one that was to be performed later that week. Martin picked up the sheaf of papers. Will had let him read the last manuscript, so he didn’t think this was forbidden. He took his spectacles out of his coat pocket, sat back in the chair, and started to read.
An hour later Will was still asleep, the sun was visible even through the hazy sky, and Martin placed the manuscript on the table where he had found it and walked down the stairs to a small sitting room he remembered passing through the previous day.
He found Hartley deep in conversation with the tall dark-skinned man who had been behind the bar when Martin and Will arrived. Martin vaguely remembered having seen, if not precisely met, this man in Hartley’s company last winter at the peak of his illness. He almost certainly owned this public house and—unless Martin had things entirely wrong—was the person Hartley actually lived with, the dusty rooms upstairs existing only to keep up appearances.
“Oh,” Hartley said blandly, looking up from a cup of tea. He did not look pleased to see Martin, but then why should he? “So you did stay the night. How’s Will?”
“Will’s asleep.” Martin was horrified to realize he was blushing.
“This is Mr. Fox,” Hartley said, gesturing to his companion. “He owns this tavern.”
“Sir Martin,” Mr. Fox said.
“Mr. Fox.” Martin bowed his head in acknowledgment. “I’d like to apologize to you, Hartley.”
Mr. Fox got to his feet, kissed Hartley on the top of his head, and left the room, shutting the door behind him.
“You needn’t look shocked,” Hartley said, his lip curled in a faint sneer, but the tips of his ears bright pink.
“I’m not,” Martin said honestly. “I just didn’t expect to be let in on the secret.”
“It’s not like you don’t know my... proclivities.” He stared directly at Martin, a plain challenge.
“Hartley,” Martin sighed. “I just spent the night in bed with your brother. I really don’t think we need to pretend that either of us are anything but what we are. Besides, if you’ll let me, I really do want to apologize to you.”
That seemed to catch Hartley off guard. “Nobody’s stopping you.”
“May I sit?” Hartley shrugged, and Martin sat in the chair Mr. Fox had vacated, his heart racing and his mouth dry. “I’m sorry for blaming you for my father’s squandering—” he paused, reflecting that this was not the correct phrasing “—for my father’s choices. I thought he looked upon you as a son and I envied you so much I hated you for it, but now I know better.” Hartley stared into his teacup and said nothing, so Martin went on. “We were friends once and I know I ruined it.” He really looked at the man sitting across from him, saw the traces of the boy he had been friends with, and his eyes got hot. “Oh damn,” he said, and took off his spectacles, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. “I didn’t mean to do this.” He got himself together. “I apologize for not being a friend to you when my father was treating you in an unspeakable manner.”
“Apology accepted,” Hartley said tightly. “Is that it?”
“No,” Martin said, almost laughing. “I’m sure it isn’t. I haven’t done anything right in years and doubtless there are dozens of other things I ought to be apologizing for, but I don’t even know what they are yet.”
“My brother seems to disagree.”
“Will has always had a blind spot where I’m concerned. I could set fire to a village and he’d make excuses for me. Let’s not pretend he’s an accurate judge of my character.”
For whatever reason, this was what made Hartley soften. “Well, our hearts are all idiots.” He glanced at the door through which his companion had exited, and Martin realized that Hartley Sedgwick was arse over teakettle in love with his Mr. Fox.
