tossing the rings to the floor. “I’ve thought about killing you, of course. I killed Skeres, you know,” he added conversationally, as he loosened and cast aside Walsingham’s ruff and started on the doublet and shirt. “I lured him into an alley by playing drunk and flashing my purse, then, when he followed, I cut his throat and told him why as he bled to death. I enjoyed that. But you, no, you I will have to think about.” Walsingham shuddered, but the relentless voice went on.
“Do you remember how you used to visit Bedlam and prod at the lunatics with your sword? It could be you chained there in your own filth for the gallants to jape and jab at, remember, if you try to tell anyone what has passed here tonight. But now, come here, my not-so-pretty Tom, come to me.” Walsingham felt the hand tangle in his hair, wrenching his face up, and he struggled to free himself, tears blinding him and that hateful voice filling his ears. “You used to like to play at rape, Tommy, making believe that I was forcing you . . . is it too real now? I could force you, you know, but I won’t, or at least, no more than this. . . .” and those cruel lips pressed against his, the tongue pushing into his mouth. He felt the desire kindling in his groin, and he knew that he wanted to be forced, wanted this man to master him, to make him submit to his demands. Then the cool lips moved to his neck, he felt sharp teeth piercing his throat, and he lost himself in a welling sea of pleasure.
The next morning he woke alone, lying across his bed fully clothed, his velvets ruined and reeking from his body’s emissions. He would have thought the previous night’s encounter but a dream were it not for the rings scattered among the rushes on the floor, and the handkerchief missing from the casket on the table.
Chapter 8
The late night air was cool, as I made my way back to Blackavar House, enjoying the quiet power of the stallion I rode across the fields and delighting in jumping the small streams and stiles. I had been warned of the dangers inherent in so approaching Tom, but Geoffrey had not thought of the most perilous: even though Tom was the author of my murder, I found that I loved him yet; even though he was aging, I desired him yet.
Upon my return I found Geoffrey practicing sword in the candlelit Hall. Invigorated by the ride, I plucked a bated blade from the rack near the door, pausing only long enough to rack my own rapier out of the way before falling to. It was a good bout, almost seven minutes passed before I stood with Geoffrey’s slender blade at my throat, my own held carefully in surrender. At least, I thought ruefully, I can hold onto it now.
Geoffrey smiled, showing his sharp white teeth, and said, “Come, let us rest and speak for a time,” indicating the chairs pulled up to the hearth. “Did it go as you thought? Good.” He poured two cups of the white Rhennish wine and passed one to me. Even though it was neither nourishing nor intoxicating, I found the flavor refreshing after the recent exercise. I shifted a bit, stretching my boots out to the fire.
“Frizer’s blackmailing him, of course, which has interesting possibilities,” I reported. “I will have to pay a call on that one soon, I think, after I see how things are running with Tom. He, Tom, I mean, knew that I cannot read, so someone at Cecil’s is less circumspect than his master might wish, or he has bruited it about himself.” It had been less than a week since the letter had summoned us to the Lord Secretary’s.
I yawned, and rose to go to my bed, but a sudden thought turned me back at the threshold. “Have you heard the latest prattle concerning us?” Geoffrey shook his head. He had shown an interest in the rumors flying about us, and had managed to turn more than one to our advantage. It had been speculated, among other things, that I had lost my eye dueling, or that it had happened while I had been fighting as a mercenary, that I was not Geoffrey’s brother, but his hired assassin, his bodyguard, his lover or his victim, depending upon the inclinations and imaginations of