of this sort of thing. Martin, despite his ignorance, was fairly certain they were not. “So pick something you like.”
Martin turned toward the shelf that Will had put up over the chimneypiece. Over the last few months, the cottage had started to fill with books. It was, he supposed, only to be expected that Will would spend all his money on books rather than a decent coat, not that Martin minded the steady supply of reading material. He ran his finger over the spines. There was a well-worn copy of Blake, which he dismissed out of hand. He did not want poetry, especially not mad poetry. A novel, then. He did not want to read about unfortunate young ladies trapped in attics or cellars or fleeing from cursed ancestral homes, as that struck rather too close to the heart, and besides he had read all of them already. Nor did he fancy reading about genteel young people who saved their families through a combination of pluck and good character. He wanted misadventure and bad character. His hand alit on a well-read volume and he grinned. He crossed to the bed and handed it to Will.
“Really?” Will asked. “Seriously?”
“It’s one of my favorites, and you don’t have Journal of a Plague Year.”
“Journal of a— Do you need to have seduction explained to you?”
Squabbling was easy, familiar, safe ground. Martin already felt better. He pulled off his boots and settled onto the bed beside Will. “You can start reading to me whenever you want,” he said primly, pulling the covers up to his chin.
“Oh no,” Will said. “You’re reading to me. I have other things to do with my mouth.”
Martin made a noise that he hoped was a dismissive snort but was probably closer to a moan. But he opened the book and started reading at the frontispiece. “The Fortunes and Misfortunes of the Famous Moll Flanders, etcetera,” he began. “‘Who was born in Newgate, and during a life of continued variety for threescore years, besides her childhood, was twelve year a whore, five times a wife (whereof once to her own brother),’”—perhaps Will was correct, and this was not an inspired choice— “‘twelve year a thief, eight year a transported felon in Virginia—’”
“Shove over,” Will said, squeezing between Martin and the mountain of cushions behind them, one leg to either side of Martin’s.
Martin continued reading, and Will did nothing more than wrap his arms around Martin’s chest and rest his chin on Martin’s shoulder.
“You’re skipping bits,” Will said. “You realize I can see the words.”
“Of course I am.” Martin flipped forward several pages. “I’m getting to the part where she—ah, there we are. ‘Thus I gave up myself to a readiness of being ruined without the least concern.’ See, it’s thematically relevant.”
“Am I meant to ruin you? I didn’t know men ruined one another, but I suppose we could give it a go.”
“No,” Martin said, reaching behind him and swatting the top of Will’s head with the book. “You’d be hard-pressed to find a happier heroine in all of literature.”
“In literally the next clause,” Will said, taking the book in his hands and jabbing a finger at the clause in question, his other hand coming to rest on Martin’s stomach in a way that seemed accidental, “she says that other women ought to learn from her bad example.”
“Yes, but she doesn’t believe it. And we’re not meant to believe it either, obviously. If we judge Moll, then we’re judging ourselves for wanting to read about it.”
Will made a skeptical sound but kissed Martin’s temple and pulled him closer.
“Honestly, William, I can feel your erection. Don’t tell me you judge Moll for going to bed with the wrong people when you could not have found a less suitable bedmate in the kingdom. In any kingdom.”
Will pressed a kiss right underneath Martin’s ear, and—oh, he hadn’t expected that to feel so lovely. One of Will’s hands was splayed on Martin’s thigh, and Martin was not sure when it happened but it seemed that he had interlaced his fingers with Will’s.
“The penniless and consumptive son of your brother’s mortal enemy,” Martin went on.
“You are so dramatic,” Will muttered before again kissing that spot by Martin’s ear.
“Your brother’s enemy,” Martin repeated with emphasis, “and who is, one might observe, a man.”
“One might indeed,” Will murmured into his neck. Martin was certain he could feel the man’s smile.
“She’s dealt such a bad hand,” Martin went on. “Every human being in her life is useless or worse.