The Red King (24 page)

The tears spilled, sliding down Andrew’s
cheeks. “Why?”

Rory felt tears of his own. He wanted to
scream. He wanted to curse and rail against fate, God… everything.
He gritted his teeth and clenched his hands on Andrew once more,
resting his forehead against Andrew’s. It hurt that he would find
this feeling, here, now, for the one person he had begun to believe
would indeed kill his tormentor.

“Let me go.” Andrew began to struggle. When
Rory did not move he said, more loudly, “Rory, let me go!”

“No,” Rory answered, and looked him in the
eyes. “The matter is this, Andrew; I would rather spend eternity at
his mercy than to live with the knowledge that he ever touched
you.” He leaned in, intending to press a kiss to Andrew’s trembling
lips, but met only a scraped and bruised cheek.

“Don’t do that,” Andrew said, head turned to
the side and eyes closed.

Rory ignored him, moving down to mouth at
Andrew’s neck. “Andrew,” he murmured, “Forgive me.”

Andrew remained unmoved, quiet and shaking,
while Rory slid arms around his back. He worked one leg in between
Andrew’s thighs and pulled them closer together, wanting only to
ease the troubled thoughts with sweetness, pleasure. He felt Andrew
move, wrap his fingers around Rory’s arms and moaned softly. His
own anticipation was warming, his cock thickening and aching for a
touch.

When the pain hit he made no sound. Rory
doubled over, hands going instinctively to cover his burning,
throbbing groin. He looked at Andrew, who had a cold, furious look
on his face, eyes glittering like ice. Andrew pushed at Rory and he
fell back, panting, dropping to one knee to ride out the agony and
nausea.

“I told you not to do that,” Andrew spat at
him. “You continue to take my choice from me; by omission, by force
or by my own weaknesses. You’ll not do it again.” He wiped his face
with his sleeve and walked around Rory to leave the room.

Rory almost called out after him. Instead he
rested there, on both knees, cursing himself for a fool.

The shadows were lengthening and the ship was
growing quiet as the men loaded themselves into the boats to go
ashore. Rory sat at the table, cup and cask empty. He knew he
should rise, find Andrew and return to the gathering village for
the supper. The newly arrived staples and spices, dried meats and
fruits promised to make this quite a feast, but Rory could find no
appetite for food. Instead, he felt a constant twist on his heart
and his stomach that he knew did not come from the blow to his
manhood or the copious quantity of wine he imbibed.

It almost went unnoticed that he had lost the
means for his revenge but it did not escape Rory, entirely. He
wanted to regret that loss, wish instead that he had not told
Andrew the inevitable end, but he could not. He no longer believed
he could have allowed it. Andrew had become too necessary, too
vital to his existence.

As though he had not trial enough, his mind’s
eye showed him Andrew’s face; wearing an unfamiliar mask of hard
fury as he left. It may have even been hate. Rory tried to convince
himself that it was unavoidable, as he’d told Andrew it would be,
but in his heart he could not justify the duplicity.

Rory had never hated himself more.

“Captain?”

Malik’s deep voice carried a note of
hesitancy. He stood in the room and Rory had not even noticed he
was there.

“Yes,” Rory answered, emotionless.

“A word, please,” Malik requested,
formally.

“Go on.”

Taking a breath and staring at a point above
Rory’s head, Malik assumed as bland a voice as he could. “Andrew
has requested to join us, as a crewman.”

Rory closed his eyes. “Is there a problem
with this?”

Malik glanced at him, astonished, but quickly
returned his eyes to their original focus. “Not with the other men,
no.”

“With you, then?”

Malik breathed deep once more. “Yes.”

There was a pause, as if Malik was waiting
for permission to continue. “You may speak your mind, Malik,” Rory
told him with more patience than he felt.

“Andrew appeared at my side in such a state
that I had to take him below decks to prevent him taking a boat or
leaping from the bow to swim to shore. I do not know what happened
to cause it, but I do care for his well-being and at this time,
Captain, he is not well.”

“And what do you think I can do about it?”
Rory asked, sharply.

“I am not a clever man, but I am not a blind
man, either. I saw you two arrive happy with life and each other,”
Malik said, looking him in the face for the first time. “When next
I saw him, Andrew was…broken. And you stay in your cabin, brooding,
not joining to help speed us to the reward of our day. It does not
take a clever man to find at least a meaning, if not a cause.”

“Make your point.”

Malik didn’t speak until Rory, goaded by the
mild disobedience, lifted his face and stared in the other man’s
eyes. Despite the invitation, Rory meant to intimidate Malik into
silence, to force a retreat. But for their first time since he’d
known Malik, his frank displeasure had no effect at all.

“I cannot believe Andrew has earned the pain
he suffers. I believe you have misused him. Therefore the only
remedy, Captain, is for you to ask his forgiveness.”

Rory went cold. Fleming would have torn out
his tongue before saying such a thing. Rory was no longer a slave
to be ordered about. He was Captain. He was
Ruaidhri
. He was
master aboard this ship, if nowhere else. Before he knew it he was
on his feet, fists clenched, the last effects of the wine burnt
away.

“I did not hear you,” Rory said in a soft
voice. “Repeat yourself more clearly, and with care.”

Malik lifted his chin. “Recall your
inamorato
and ask his forgiveness at once, before you put
the torch not only to Andrew’s happiness but your own.”

It was on Rory’s tongue to pronounce sentence
– the brig, the lash, even expulsion from the crew. He stared at
Malik and Malik stared back, breathing a little quick, pulse
visibly throbbing in his massive neck, but otherwise steadfast.

Rory let out a choked laugh. He sat down
again. “Andrew inspires such affection, does he, that you would
risk all? Insult me to my face?”

“No, Captain.”

Rory waited with his eyes on the table. Once
again he was forced to lift his gaze before the other man would
speak.

“It is you who inspires such affection. You
are the bravest man I know,
Ruaidhri
. Alas, you are not the
wisest. But if you can summon the courage to hear the truth,
perhaps you can summon the courage to act upon it.”

Rory stared at Malik until he could bear the
other man’s gaze no longer. Then he sighed.

“Bring Andrew to me. Please.”

Andrew stepped into the cabin taut with
expectation. His eyes were red, his face swollen, but his mouth was
set defiantly. Rory saw the shade of his younger self, brought
before Maarten and steeled for the hours or days of pain that would
come. Andrew stayed in the shadows, out of reach.

“Step forward.”

Andrew squared his shoulders and moved
closer. He met Rory’s eyes directly, brows down, scowling like a
cornered wolf. It was that same look, glittering, hateful, that
Rory had never wanted to see again. That he’d feared to see, as
Malik pointed out.

“I understand you have asked to join the
crew.”

Andrew gave a curt nod of the head.

It was on his tongue to correct Andrew
severely, to inform him that if he were to join the crew he must
learn to correctly address its captain. Then Malik’s words “the
bravest man, but not the wisest” returned to Rory. Then he looked
at Andrew’s face, saw the raw red of his eyes and the fierce clench
of his jaw. Of course, Andrew restricted himself to a nod. If he
spoke he would weep, and while he awaited recriminations,
punishment, banishment or even violence, he had doubtless sworn to
himself that he would not weep.

Rory gathered himself. He wished the
intoxication hadn’t faded so quickly. “I … am grateful,” he managed
to say. “Malik told me your first inclination was to leave. For you
to remain is quite generous.”

Andrew blinked. His teeth found his bottom
lip.

“Throughout my boyhood and early manhood, I
enjoyed many things as Maarten’s slave but I was never given a
choice. When I was clapped in irons, I was given pain and labor and
occasional respite, but never a choice.” He took an unsteady
breath. “Only when I became
Ruaidhri
did I make my own
decisions. But in the bargain, as Captain, I took iron control. The
only choice aboard this ship is mine. It has always been natural to
me. That does not make it right.”

Andrew was staring at Rory so acutely, he
found himself looking away. He had not planned the words, they were
coming of their own accord, and if he paused to gauge Andrew’s
reaction they would halt altogether.

“When I found you, you were nothing to me,
not a person. Just a lovely vessel I could use for the vengeance
that claimed my heart and also to warm my bed, slake my lust.
Beyond that, your life had no value. To a man who cares for
nothing, not even himself, whose sole purpose is vengeance, no one
else will ever have meaning. I did not treasure my own existence.
So I couldn’t treasure yours.”

Still unable to look at Andrew, to risk
seeing that glittering contempt, Rory turned his back and stared at
the wall.

“But by the time we reached Etienne’s I began
to know you. He suggested you might be seduced away and – and I
think I half wanted that. I wanted you to melt in some whore’s arms
and demand release. By then I knew you to be brave, intelligent,
generous, and open-hearted. I couldn’t even despise your devotion
to God,” Rory added, smiling in spite of himself. “If you stayed
with me, you would die. So I hurt you. I angered you. Yet you
remained.”

“The dreams that I have been having, they are
different now. The one on our journey over land was the first time
I could feel it. It was days later that I realized you were
responsible for the awakening of my…my heart. That meant reliving
the pain that you have seen, that you have talked and held me
through. I have never …” Rory broke off.

Then he forced out the words the way he’d
once forced broken feet through iron shackles. “After escaping
Maarten, I have never lost control that way in another man’s
presence. Yet you did not shame me. And even when I told you my own
truth, all the degradation I suffered, you accepted me. At that
moment I could not send you to die. So I confessed, and the
consequences were well-earned. Even the blow you struck me was
deserved.” Back still turned, Rory drew in his breath. The final
words he had practiced; they, at least, came easily. “Therefore, I
call it generous of you to remain. I ask whatever forgiveness you
can grant me. If you find it impossible, if you cannot follow me as
captain, I will return you to Etienne or anywhere else you wish to
go.”

Rory waited. He knew Andrew was still behind
him, yet the other man did not speak. Remembering Malik’s
stubbornness, Rory felt his own determination rise. He’d said all
he could, as best he could. He would not turn and be answered with
that look, not again, not now. If Andrew had nothing to say, he
could go.

Rory felt Andrew draw up beside him. Light
fingers touched his forearm. He kept his body loose, as he’d
learned so long ago. Taut muscles did nothing to dull pain and
often led to broken bones.

“
Ruaidhri
.”

Rory met Andrew’s eyes. They were still
swollen. His nose was a bit red. He was the most beautiful thing
Rory had ever seen.

“It’s time we returned to the village. The
feast will have started without us.”

They did not speak on the way to shore, nor
during the meal. Rory struggled to respond to Idir’s conversation
and Malik’s outrageous tales while Andrew was cosseted and fed by
every woman in the village, particularly the widows and
grandmothers. Soon he looked like himself again, bright, happy, and
unconsciously flirtatious. Rory had little interest in food, but he
forced himself to eat a reasonable portion. Seeing Andrew in good
spirits again was more fortifying than any meal.

Malik smiled and nodded his approval. Rory
returned the nod, hoping his gratitude was evident in his eyes.

Before the singing had concluded Andrew
stood. He kissed the cheeks of Titrit and the other women, bowed to
Idir and looked at Rory. He said nothing, but the expectant look in
his eyes had Rory on his feet. They walked back to the house
without speaking, Rory moving slowly and Andrew striding ahead.
When Andrew entered, Rory remained outside, pretending to busy
himself with Brighid. Once Andrew slept Rory would enter, find a
different spot to put down a blanket and try to rest.

“Rory.” There was an odd matter-of-factness
to Andrew’s tone. Something was different.

Rory turned warily, raising his eyebrows.

“Come to bed.”

Rory studied Andrew. The other man was
smiling a little, that same gentleness in his eyes. The only thing
that had changed was the tone. He wasn’t addressing Rory as
captain, or mentor, or
Ruaidhri
. He was speaking to him as
an equal.

Rory followed Andrew into the house, dim with
the light of only one lantern. He let Andrew lead him to the
bedding. Andrew began to strip as if to swim, pulling off boots,
trousers, and shirt in quick succession. Rory didn’t move. He
wasn’t surprised when Andrew stretched out nude, his cock
half-erect and nipples tight and hard.

“Come to me,” Andrew said.

Rory did away with his clothes and sank into
Andrew’s arms, putting their mouths together and kissing him
desperately. He was hard even before Andrew’s fingers closed around
him, beginning that perfect rhythmic tug. Moaning a little, Rory
felt Andrew’s legs lock around his waist. He was just reaching for
where he thought Etienne’s vial of almond oil had been left when
Andrew shifted, using his newfound strength to flip Rory onto his
back with a
whuff
of surprise.