Treasure Page 3

  “Could we not take her with us?” I asked.

  “Do you wish to sail?” he asked. His gaze met mine.

  “To Port Royal to meet your father, or to Cow Island to raid against the Spanish?”

  “To rove and raid,” he said, his gaze still earnest. “The Devil with my father.”

  “I have been quite content here this autumn with you. We do not need the money it… might bring. I do not feel we need the trouble it always seems to bring, either. But…”

  Last year we had sailed because of Gaston’s madness, because he needed to unleash it on occasion against enemies.

  “I do not wish to go,” he said suddenly. “To Port Royal or elsewhere. But, I cannot have him here. And…”

  He gave a ragged sigh and rubbed the heels of his hands upon his temples, as if he were trying to massage the dark thoughts away, or squeeze them into the back corners of his skull where he claimed they always lurked.

  “Let us go to Port Royal,” I said softly, “and tend to the business that must be tended to there, and then let us return here.”

  He took a deep breath and nodded. “What other business?”

  “We must…” I sighed. “I must make some decision about the Damn Wife and act upon it. She is also soon to birth.”

  “Could we not live here forever?” he asked hopefully with a childish mien.

  I smiled. “As long as the Gods will let us. We have more than enough money, and… I am sure we can find some suitable woman to bear children so that you might revel in them. I do not see where I need my inheritance. Even Theodore’s concerns of… Well, I do not see where I must be my father’s heir to accomplish anything else here. I feel many of those concerns shifted when Sarah arrived and married Striker. The plantation will be as it is and I do not feel I can rescue them as I once intended. I have not felt that I could in a long time. And we have the R&R Merchant Company to make us all honest men. I say the Devil with it all.”

  This seemed to please him.

  It did not please me: I felt great unease, as if I had forgotten something, and I wondered at it until his kiss drove my dark thoughts away. Soon we were naked as babes and cuddled together in our wide hammock. We made love tenderly, seeking more reassurance than passion in our caresses and kisses. We eschewed the act of sodomy, choosing instead to hump against one another fitfully, belly to belly, until we at last found our pleasure. And as I drifted to sleep, I could not imagine anything better than spending the rest of my days at his side in our little corner of the world.

  I woke to him hissing in my ear, “Will, I wish to ride.”

  It was dark, and at first the words seemed a distant thing, devoid of meaning. Then his mouth covered mine while his hands woke my flesh with increasing urgency. My cock swelled and, ears pricked and tail raised, my Horse pranced into the light to play with his. Our common need for such games was a thing born of the demons that haunted us, and not a thing we indulged often, but when we did play, I embraced it with fervor and gave myself over to it and him with abandon.

  With nips and licks he traced a path of fire down my jaw and neck until he was somewhat below my ear, and then the nips became biting and he sucked and chewed until I mewled and rocked under him in an ecstatic mix of pleasure and pain. He guided my hands to the netting above my head, and with touch alone, bade me tangle myself there so that I was bound after a fashion. Then his torturous teeth moved away from my neck and down my chest. I writhed and uttered harsh cries and growls, more animal than human. He was silent except for the occasional rumble of mirth. To my gratification and amazement, he left little of me in peace, chewing upon my back, buttocks, thighs, and belly such that I feared for my manhood several times. At last I could run beneath him no more, and the ever-peculiar cessation of the pain came as it always did. I slumped beneath him, sated beyond sex alone, and drifting on a cloud that felt like laudanum, only so much better.

  He covered my face in gentle kisses and moved us such that he could truly mount me. I smelled the almond of our favorite salve and then he was within me. I was run out, but he was far from finished. He rode me with hard thrusts that set the hammock creaking. I felt as if I were the rocks being pounded by the waves of the surf, and then I was the waves and he was the rocks, and then we were both the water, rushing in and out. When at last he came, it was as if he did it for both of us, and I cried out with the joy of it as I felt him spasm within me.

  He withdrew almost before his cry had finished echoing off the stone walls of our tiny abode. He kissed me lightly on the lips and he was gone. He always did that after we played so. His reason returned in the aftermath, and with it, shame.

  I did not wish to move, yet I knew if I did not, it would be that much worse when I did. Sleep would not be a balm for the aches I would suffer for the first day or two. I took my time in stretching and rolling out of the hammock.

  I saw him standing by the cook fire, staring pensively at the glow on the eastern horizon. He was still naked. I went and relieved myself around the side of the hill. I ran curious fingers over the now-darkening marks he had left. Aye, I would be very sore this day.

  When I returned, he winced at my appearance as I approached, and despite the dim light I could see him flush. I sidled up in front of him, to press the right of my chest to the right of his and rest my head atop his shoulder in a way horses sometimes stand together in a pasture. I cupped his balls playfully and he hissed with surprise.

  “Why do you tolerate me?” he asked.

  “Tolerate? Hmmm?” I chuckled. “I believe the question is why do I delight in you when you are thus? Non, tolerate is not the word. Trust, that is the word. I trust you. You are the only one I will ever allow to call the pieces of my soul I wish to keep hidden into the light.”

  He sighed and his arm stole about my waist. “I love you,” he whispered.

  “I know,” I said succinctly. “And I love you, and I wish you were not so troubled over the matter.”

  He shook his head. “I am not troubled over that… If you are not. Which in that regard, you are truly as mad as I. Non, I am troubled that when things trouble me I… need to run so. I wish my damn father had not come.”

  “So do I,” I sighed.

  “I feel I will have to sail, Will. I am sorry. I feel seeing him will…”

  “It will bring much into the light, my love, I know. But, perhaps, that is for the best. Because truly, would it not be best to lay that night, and your sister, and mother, and all else that lies between the two of you, to rest?”

  He nodded. “Oui, it will. But it will be as if I undergo a complicated surgery. I will need much time to convalesce.”

  “I feel you are making light of it. If you feel you must sail, then you expect that this visit will open all those wounds and leave you draining noxious fluids upon the world for some time.”

  “Oui,” he said softly. “I am afraid much will be drained upon you, and I cannot…”

  I put fingers upon his lips and moved so that I could meet his tearful gaze.

  “You will do what you must to heal, and I will assist you,” I said firmly. “We can weather any storm as long as we hold to one another.”

  “It will be a very bad storm, Will,” he said seriously, and then the words began to tumble out in an ever-faster torrent. “I have not had to be as I was before here, without you.” He shook his head with frustration. “I have not had to wear a mask. I cannot imagine meeting him without… He has become tangled with Doucette in my mind, and I cannot… He must not see me as mad. I do not wish for him to see me as mad. Yet, I know I will not be able to help myself. I cannot hide it away any longer. I cannot wear the mask as I once did. He will see. He will see and he will hate me and… And that angers me. That he should judge me so. That he should be allowed to judge me so. It is not my fault! I cannot make it go away!”

  I held him tightly with tears of fear and frustration in my eyes. He did not need to tell me how bad the storm was going to be. It was already upon us
and I saw no end in sight. Only the Gods could know what shore we would eventually wash up on.

  Fifty-Four

  Wherein We Are Distracted

  Gaston and I did our morning run down to the beach and up it for a good league or so. We knew we could not allow his daily routine of calisthenics to lapse now: it helped keep his Horse calm. At the end of this exercise, we did not feel like frolicking in the waves or sparring as we were usually wont to do; we chose instead to walk hand in hand in the surf in silence for a time, listening to the raucous morning call of gulls along the shore and other birds in the bog.

  I felt acutely how much I would miss being alone with him. I, who had spent so much of my life craving constant social interaction with anyone who would spend time with me, no longer wished to engage in pointless conversation, drinking to numb my heart, and, of course, carnal pleasures without love. Gaston’s presence had weaned me of those needs these past two and half years, such that I now viewed the life I once had as being lived by another.

  Our silence this morning was not as companionable as either of us would have liked, though; and at last I felt compelled to speak.

  “I will miss this, this life we have here,” I said carefully, “but I feel we will be all the fonder of it when we are able to return.”

  He sighed and smiled wistfully before turning to look at me. “I pray that someday I will not be the cause of us having to leave it yet again.”

  “Who are you praying to?” I asked with amusement and curiosity.

  He grinned briefly, but his words were somber. “To the Gods of old, as you do. I have told any divinity that cares to listen that I will not always have to rove to release the anger within me, that I will not always be possessed of such anger.”

  I smiled. “I am sure They have heard you, and I have great faith that such a thing will come to pass, either by our hand or Theirs.”

  He chuckled at that, and started walking again. “It is a wonder They tolerate you at all.”

  “Well, the Gods surely help those who help themselves,” I said with mock defensiveness.

  He took a long deep breath. “I also have prayed that I will face my father with dignity, no matter how he behaves.”

  “I am sure you will.” And I was. I had great faith that the mask which he had so often worn while about others would slip easily into place when he was confronted by such a foe. It saddened me in part, in that we had worked so hard this last year toward his being in harmony with all parts of his being, but I thought it far more important he face his father from a position of perceived strength; and that mask, that tight control he could maintain on his madness for short periods of time, granted him a knight’s armor in facing what he must.

  “How does your Horse feel on the matter… this morning?” I asked. “Does it wish to fight him or flee him?”

  Gaston shook his head. “It wishes for his respect and… love. I know you cannot understand…”

  I stopped and pulled him to face me. “Non, non, it is not that I cannot; it is just that I have not reached that turn of the road as of yet. I will understand, just give me time.”

  His eyes were as grey-green as the sea in the hazy morning light, and seemingly as old. “I hate your father, too,” he said softly, so that I had to strain to hear him above the surf.

  “I will try to meet yours with a lack of prejudice,” I said solemnly.

  He smiled and nodded. “You honor me.”

  “Non, I love you, and we will endure and conquer, and come home again.”

  “Amen,” he breathed.

  With the grins of foxes, we ran up the winding path to our house.

  Though the sun was fully in the sky and no longer hovering about the horizon, we still found ourselves alone. Gaston seemed relieved by this; and when I asked him of it, thinking he merely did not wish to confront their lingering gazes of concern, he fingered one of the marks he had made upon my chest. Feeling the fool that I had forgotten a thing so obvious, I went and found a tunic to don. Between that and my breeches, I hoped all he had done was now safely hidden. When I returned to him, I turned about and asked him to inspect me.

  “The one upon your neck is quite visible,” he sighed. This was followed by a feral and lusty grin such that it drew my mouth to quirk in mirror of it.

  “What?” I asked huskily, and closed the distance between us.

  “You are mine and you are beautiful,” he whispered. He drew my hand to his turgid member.

  “That much?” I teased as I stroked him. “Then let us…”

  He pushed my hand and then me away playfully. “Non, I wish to ache with it.”

  I understood: there were times when the aching anticipation, billowed upon sound faith that it could always be sated, was better than the release. I let him be with only a swat of feigned annoyance.

  As we prepared our morning repast of eggs mixed with minced boucan, I mused on how much I loved to see him as he was this morning: unmasked and mercurial of mood. Some would say it was his madness, but I no longer could define madness as I once would have. I saw the rigid mask he had worn when first we met as a larger symptom of his madness than the openness of soul he was imbued with now. Aye, his Horse’s honesty of emotion was a danger when he became riled, and he had difficulty controlling it still, but I felt he fared far better at the matter of control when he was not constantly reining the animal in. Then, it felt compelled to bolt beneath him when it became troubled. It was far more tractable now that he let it have its head most days.

  And thus, his wish to be masked and under such control about his father concerned me: that was precisely the time when his Horse should have been allowed to choose its own path through the thorny thicket of emotion the whole scenario presented. I hoped the matter of their supposed reconciliation could be quickly done with, and the Marquis would return to France and I could then spend several months assisting Gaston with healing his newly opened wounds: in becoming the man I knew and loved again.

  We were still alone after we had eaten, and it was becoming a matter of amusement for us. I guessed the blame could be laid upon the demon of rum for their absence. And so, we donned our sword belts and kerchiefs, took up several bottles of water, and with the dogs excited that we were off for a romp, went in search of our guests. Taro took the vanguard and ranged all about us in the brush, while we kept our pace slow in honor of Bella’s waddling. She quickly licked our hands when we patted her wide head.

  “Do you truly feel we should take her to Port Royal?” I asked. “I suppose they will be lonely here if we do not, though.”

  Gaston gave me an admonishing look. “Will, we can leave the goats and chickens: they will be well enough as there is much for them to forage on. But if we leave the dogs, they will eat our goats and chickens, and our neighbors’, and the nearest plantations’…”

  I was chuckling as I looked over our canine behemoths. Neither of them weighed less than six stone, and we went hunting for cattle to feed them every fortnight. “Aye, we best take them and let Agnes feed them in town.”

  This set me thinking though. “Do you feel she still works for us?”

  Gaston shrugged. “She loves the dogs.”

  I decided that truly did answer the question of where her loyalties lay.

  We found our guests at Liam’s. Our good Scots musketeer had deemed his abode upon the Point to no longer be a home in which he could remain without his beloved and deceased matelot, Otter; and thus he had gone on the smuggling venture with the rest of our cabal. Gaston and I did not often visit what had been their house. I felt its haunted-seeming emptiness to be a dire warning of what befell all pairs of matelots who roved too long. This morn it was pleasant to hear snores as we approached it. The reverberations rolling across the hillside were affirmations of life and things being as they should.

  Liam’s house was a small two-room structure much like ours, with one wall constructed of the side of a hill and the rest of stacked and mortared stones. We found Theodore sl
eeping on the large table in the front room, and Striker and Pete entangled with one another and a hastily strung hammock in the back. They should well thank the Gods we were not Spanish marauders, as we had to kick them before they noticed us. I found great amusement in watching Pete scrambling about and managing to get a pistol aimed at me with his left hand, when all other limbs were trapped in some manner, either by netting or his matelot. I supposed I should be thankful he did not shoot me, especially while I was laughing.

  Striker swore at us a great deal while they got themselves untangled. Pete stumbled across the room to embrace Gaston. Theodore appeared quite green as he lurched awake and hurried outside to relieve himself of all manner of fluids his body thought it should no longer contain.

  “How many bottles did you daft buggers bring?” I asked once they were fairly coherent.

  “One,” Striker sighed as he stretched so that his back popped several times. “But we found more here.”

  “A tavern’s worth,” I teased.

  “Go fuck yourself,” he said with a grin.

  I chuckled. “No need, I have a matelot.”

  “Aye, you do,” he said seriously.

  Our gazes met, and underneath the after effects of rum and the bleariness of waking, I saw grudging respect in his. It gladdened my heart. I smiled. And that seemed to gladden his, as he came to embrace me.

  “I’ll try very hard to stop… being an arse,” he whispered.

  “Thank you,” I said solemnly. “But understand, I would not have you stop caring, I would just have you show more faith.”

  He nodded as he released me. “I’ll try. Truly Will, it’s not so…” He sighed.

  I glanced about, and found that Theodore had returned and was eyeing us sheepishly. He was not the only one watching our exchange. Gaston stood tensely in the doorway, and Pete was sprawled in a chair gazing upon Striker with pride.

  “Was this the topic of much discussion last night?” I asked.