A Free Choice (Ganymede Quartet Book 4.5) (2 page)

Martin shrugged. “I don’t think you meant any of that, not in your heart—”

“No,” Henry hurried to say. “No, I didn’t.”

“—so I believe you’re sorry, truly sorry. I’m sure you don’t want us to end up in a situation like that ever again.” He made a little space between their bodies with his hands flat against Henry’s chest, and ran his hand down Henry’s side before taking a step back.

“I don’t,” Henry promised him. “From now on, I’m going to listen to you, Martin, and we’ll decide things together.”

Martin got a dry towel and thought about this. He crouched at Henry’s feet and dried his ankles and shins.

Henry was offering him a lot of latitude, and Martin wanted to take it, whether it was appropriate or not. Slowly he said, “All right. We’ll decide together.”

“I should really let you make the decisions, though,” Henry said. “You’re smarter. You’re more sensible. My father trusts
you
.”

“No, Henry, I can’t be in charge,” Martin said firmly. Everything Henry said was true, perhaps, but Henry was still Martin’s master. “But I’m always happy to advise you, Henry. Always, on any topic.” It was a small difference, splitting hairs, and there probably wouldn’t be any difference at all in practice, but Martin felt much more comfortable accepting the role of advisor than that of sole decision-maker. He carefully dried Henry’s thighs and hips, cock and balls.

“We shouldn’t have left in the first place. I shouldn’t have made you do it.”

No, he shouldn’t have, but there was nothing to be done about it now. “We’re home, and you’re safe, and we’re together. That’s what matters.” He stood and passed the towel over Henry’s belly, then ducked behind him to dry the muscular curve of his ass.

He finished drying Henry off, and then Henry allowed himself to be shaved, for the first time since they’d been at the Calamus. Martin had always loved shaving Henry, loved making his beautiful face that much more handsome, and his chest grew tight with emotion, and his hands shook so that he was afraid to put the blade against Henry’s lathered skin.

“Are you all right?” Henry asked, so sincere. He stroked Martin’s cheek, put his hand around the back of Martin’s neck. “Do you not want to do it?” He would clearly be disappointed if this were the case.

Martin shook his head. “No, not at all. It’s just…I missed taking care of you, Henry.” He would
not
cry!

“I missed it, too,” Henry assured him.

Martin took a deep breath and let it out. He lifted the razor and his hand was steady. He hoped Henry understood that his service derived from love and wasn’t just the result of his upbringing and training. Certainly he would have served any master well, but Henry was special. Henry got more. In tending Henry’s body, he felt infinitely tender and loving, so protective, so possessive. He’d gone through such misery fretting that Henry might replace him, that another man would have the privilege of touching Henry’s skin. It would have killed him to be replaced.

He did a very good job, shaving Henry’s cheeks smooth as satin. Henry touched his face and gave Martin a slow, delighted smile.

“It’s always better when you do it.”

Martin dressed him in his blue suit and they went downstairs to the breakfast room. Mrs. Blackwell was just getting up from the table, Pearl helping her to her feet.

“Oh, hello, darlings,” she said. “There’s a lovely cake on the sideboard; be sure to try some.”

Henry said, “Thank you, Mother, I will.”

She made to leave on Pearl’s arm, but stopped halfway to the door as if something had just occurred to her. She turned back, smiling her lovely smile.

“Martin, darling, I wanted to say Happy Birthday! Pearl only informed me this morning.”

Martin was taken aback. “Oh! Th-thank you, Ma’am. It’s very kind of you to mention it.” It was shocking that she’d mention it at all!

“You’re such a good boy,” she said blithely. “You’ve been such a big help with the party. I do hope you’ll consider it a celebration for yourself, as well.”

Martin was flabbergasted that she’d suggest such a thing—combining the birthdays of a young master and his slave! It was one thing for Henry to suggest it to him, but Mrs. Blackwell was a grown lady from a society background, and it was quite unexpected for her to propose something so radical. Perhaps
all
the Wiltons were bohemians.

Henry was also clearly shocked. “Er, yes, there’s a party downstairs for Martin later,” Henry blurted. “Since it’s his actual birthday.”

Mrs. Blackwell said, “Will you be going down for that as well, darling?” When Henry did not answer right away, she said, “It’s quite all right if you are, you know. You boys are such good friends, I would expect nothing less.”

Henry hesitated. “Uh…”

“Your father will expect you at dinner as usual, of course,” she said. “You know you can do as you like, Henry, so long as you keep up appearances.” With a particularly winsome smile, she turned on her heel and exited the room on Pearl’s arm.

After she left, Henry sank dazedly into the chair Martin held ready for him. “Martin? Does she know…?”

Martin shook his head. “I don’t know, Sir. She
is
quite astute, but I don’t know that she was inferring anything in particular.”

Henry frowned at the idea of his mother being astute. Martin felt he actually was at an advantage knowing Mrs. Blackwell so briefly. He had known her only months, and she had changed a great deal for the better in that short time; Henry had known her his entire life, of course, and remained suspicious that she would revert to her old, sad self at any moment.

Martin ate a second breakfast with Henry, their boots touching under the table. They had plates of scrambled eggs, potato hash, pancakes with both maple syrup and apple compote, bacon, and the cinnamon cake Mrs. Blackwell had spoken so highly of.

Henry chewed and swallowed a large forkful of potatoes. “Martin?”

“Yes, Sir?”

“Do you think…” Henry seemed to be having trouble finding the exact words. “About your haircut. I was wondering—well, what I mean is, do you remember the barber who cut off your tail? I thought he seemed very kind. Maybe we should go back there. What do you think? We could go to my barber if you prefer, of course.” Henry’s barber, who was also his father’s barber, was downtown by the Blackwell office building.

Martin winced a little, not liking to revisit the cutting of his tail, but getting a haircut today had been his idea, after all, and he would have to let
someone
trim his hair if he didn’t want to look disreputable. Henry was right that the barber had been kind, and he had clearly understood that Martin had not wanted a haircut at all.

“Hmm…” Martin considered. “Yes, Sir, I suppose he would do a good job. I think he would understand that I want my hair long again and would trim it accordingly.”

“Do you remember the cross-street? We can take a cab if you want.”

Martin shook his head. “The omnibus is fine, Sir.” Martin rejected the idea of a cab with a shudder; he thought that it would be quite awhile before he stopped associating cabs with running away.

They did take the omnibus downtown, keeping an eye out for the barber shop, which was perhaps half a mile from the Blackwell home. The kindly barber was shaving another gentleman, so they had to sit and wait; there was a different barber whose chair was empty, but Henry decided Martin should have the same fellow as before, and Martin was grateful for this.

Sitting in the chrome-and-leather chair with a cape protecting his uniform jacket, Martin met the barber’s eyes in the mirror as he tugged at Martin’s hair, checking the length.

“I think I remember you two,” the barber remarked, squinting at Martin’s face in the mirror. “Lovely hair you had. I can certainly understand why you’d want it long again.”

“Thank you, Sir.”

Henry hovered, standing behind the barber looking anxious. “Not any shorter,” Henry reminded the barber. Sounding fretful and recriminatory, he added, “It was a mistake to cut it.”

Oh, Henry
. It was good for Henry to recognize he’d made mistakes, of course, but it was a waste of time for him to torment himself about them. Martin was not interested in Henry’s anguish, didn’t want it.

Martin gave him a reassuring smile. “It’ll grow back, Sir. It grows fast.”

“Not fast enough,” Henry grumbled. He leaned in to look at what the barber was doing with his comb and scissors.

The barber turned to give Henry a very professional smile. “If you’d just like to take a seat, sir, I’ll have your young fellow fixed up in a jiff.”

Sighing, Henry retreated reluctantly to the waiting area, where he flipped listlessly through a newspaper some businessman had left behind.

The haircut didn’t take long. When it was over, Martin looked much tidier and more professional, which he appreciated.

When Henry saw him, he stood up in a hurry, cheeks rapidly pinking. “You look…uh, very nice.” His face grew redder still.

“Thank you, Sir.”

Henry paid and gave the barber a generous tip.

Out on the sidewalk, Henry leaned close and said, “Even with short hair, you’re so handsome.”

Martin was well-pleased with the compliment. “You’re handsome, as well, Sir.”

Henry snorted and nudged him with his shoulder. “Say, do you mind heading right back home? I want to try to talk to Louis if I can.”

“Of course, Sir. I expected that’s what we’d be doing.”

They took the omnibus back uptown, and Martin sat down beside Henry when invited to do so. He was still uncomfortable doing it, but it made Henry very happy, and it did no real harm.

Immediately they arrived at home, Henry ducked into the telephone alcove, and Martin lounged in the doorway listening to his end of the call, which was stilted and monosyllabic, but Henry was cheerful when he put the receiver in its cradle.

“We’re going over to Louis’ house,” he said happily.

At the Briggs residence, Patrick opened the door to them with a genuine smile.

“It’s good to see you, Sir. Martin. Mr. Briggs is expecting you if you’d just like to go upstairs.”

The boisterous younger Briggses were nowhere in evidence, nor were James Briggs or his new wife. Outside Mr. Briggs’ door, Henry stood aside to let Martin knock, and Peter opened the door wearing a broad smile.

“Sir, Martin. Welcome! Please come in!”

Mr. Briggs was flopped on his back across his bed, but he sat up as they entered, and he smiled sheepishly, his face hot and red. “Hi.”

Henry stopped halfway across the carpet, also red-faced. “Hi.” He stared down at his boots.

When it became apparent that their masters were not prepared to do anything more just yet, Peter came and opened his arms, drawing Martin into a warm embrace. He whispered, “I missed you,” in Martin’s ear.

“I missed you, too.”

Mr. Briggs cleared his throat. “Er…you should know, I’ve told Peter about your…your situation. So slaves can stay in the room this time.”

“Oh. That’s all right, then.” Henry seemed slightly flustered, unsure what to do with himself.

Mr. Briggs got up off the bed and came to awkwardly shake Henry’s hand and thump him on the back. When they were done shaking, they stood with their hands still clasped, which seemed to make them both uncomfortable, until at last Henry drew back.

“Do you want to sit?” Mr. Briggs asked. Like Henry, he had a pair of armchairs before his fireplace, and he made a gesture that took these in. “Or we could just sit on the bed, like always.”

“The bed’s fine.” Henry crossed to the bed and sat on the edge, seeming tense and ready to get up again at a moment’s notice.

Peter leaned close. “Do you mind the floor?”

Martin shook his head. “Of course not.” He lowered himself to sit cross-legged on the carpet next to Peter, their knees touching, watching their masters.

“Where is everyone today?” Henry asked. “Your house is so quiet.”

Mr. Briggs shrugged. “Out. All different places.” He sat next to Henry and began fidgeting with the bedcover, tracing a pattern with his fingertip. “So.” He cleared his throat self-consciously. “So, you got my letter, and you know what I think.”

“Yes. That’s why I’m here,” Henry pointed out.

Mr. Briggs was silent another long moment. “I’m sorry. It’s hard for me to talk about this stuff, Henry.”

Henry snorted. “I’ve heard so much from you about what you’ve done with Peter, and what you were doing with Miss O’Malley, that I don’t really understand why
my
situation should be difficult to talk about.”

Mr. Briggs shook his head. “But what I’ve used Peter for is
normal
, and it’s for
health
. What I did with Bridget was
normal
. What you’re doing with Martin is…well, I don’t want to say it’s not normal, because that sounds bad, and I don’t mean it like that, but it’s not…not
regular
.”

Henry was apparently willing to concede this point. “No. Not regular.”

“I’ve thought about it a lot,” Mr. Briggs said, still tracing swirls on the bedcover, eyes cast down, “and I’m going to try to think about it like a normal situation, like if you had a girl. You know I’ve worried about you being a late bloomer and all. I always wanted you to have a sweetheart, and I thought I’d encourage you in every way if you found someone you liked.” He sighed, his gaze flicking up to Henry’s face. “I just didn’t expect your sweetheart would be a
boy
and a
slave
.”

Henry attempted levity. “Well, you know my family always does things wrong.”

Mr. Briggs did laugh, albeit somewhat ruefully. “It seems obvious now that you just aren’t interested in girls
at all
. I don’t know why I was surprised—you’ve never been interested in a girl as anything other than a dancing partner in your whole life. I thought I knew you better than anyone, so I feel really stupid that I didn’t figure this out already.”

Henry shrugged. “Like you said, though, it’s not regular, so you had no reason to suspect it, I guess.”

“Well, it seems really obvious now,” Mr. Briggs repeated. He was quiet a moment, then said, “I’ll help you, all right? I’ll try to keep the other guys from pestering you about girls.”