Saiyuki (Gojyo/Hakkai)

[emungere.livejournal.com]

Title: The Fatal Cravat
Authors: louiselux and emungere
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Incest
Word count: ~15,500
Notes: Thanks very much to daegaer for the beta.
Prompt: Negotiated sex, historical AU - highwayman!Gojyo, bored nobleman!Hakkai, monk!Sanzo, and sheriff!Goku.


Part 1/2, part 2 linked at the end of this post.

***

Julian's phaeton rattled over increasingly poor roads as he neared home. He began to wish he'd never left Bath, even as the reasons for his departure played over in his head. There was the tedium and routine, of course, but mainly the reasons had names: Sophia Price, Anna Cantrell, Elizabeth Abbot, and every single one of the Misses Barnham. Tedium and routine awaited him at home, but at least without continual harassment and giggling.

He couldn't be properly blamed for the things he'd said to them last night. It wasn't as if he had been lying to them about the real reason Mistress Barnham's butler had left for the continent. Perhaps he would never be invited back. It was something to hope for.

He'd have to marry, that was all there was to it. Married, he would be left in peace by everyone save his wife, and surely he could find someone not too disagreeable to fill that post. He supposed there would have to be children as well. The thought was distantly terrifying, but perhaps more time spent in town was the answer there.

At any rate, the whole thing seemed nearly as bleak as the washed-out landscape and the engorged bellies of the thunder clouds above. He almost hoped for a good soaking despite the chill winding through the breeze. It would make his arrival at home something to look forward to.

He could see the house looming in the distance now, and the sight jerked him out of the haze he'd fallen into, enough that he now heard the sound of hoofbeats behind him. He wondered how long they'd been there. It wasn't a popular road at any time of day, least of all as it got on towards dark.

The hoofbeats continued behind him, speeding up until he felt as if the stranger behind were crowding at his heels. It gave him an excuse to press his tired horse a little harder, and they stepped out in a fast trot. He heard a sharp cry from the rider behind him, the increased pace of his horse's hooves, and let a grin pull at his mouth. A race would be even better than a storm.

He cracked the whip above his horse's head, and squared his feet, leaning forward to take the brunt of the bad road there instead of on his abused backside. Even so, he could see the rider--and it was a rider, a single man on a single horse, probably a fresh one, too--drawing up on his left. No sight of his face yet, but his cloak whipped out on either side of him like crows' wings.

The man's horse sprang forward, and suddenly he was riding easily at Julian's side, tipping his hat to him. "A fine evening, sir," he said.

Julian raised his eyebrows. "Oh, indeed. I wouldn't disagree with you."

The man smiled at him, oddly sweet and open, and then pulled a pistol from under his cloak and aimed it at Julian's heart. "I hope you won't mind spending a few minutes of it with me while I relieve you of your valuables."

"You're sure you wouldn't rather continue the race?"

"Your horse is flagging."

"Well, we've had a long journey today." Julian pulled lightly on the reins and eased his horse down to a walk and then to a stop. The highwayman matched his pace until they stood both quite still, watching each other.

"You followed me for quite a while," Julian said.

"Just wondered where you were going. I'm naturally inquisitive. Or nosy if you like."

Julian pointed to the distant pile of his family home. "There. I'd hate to leave your curiosity unsatisfied."

He looked Julian over, his smile fading. "You're Lord Stornaway, aren't you?"

Julian bowed slightly from his seat. "The same. And you?"

The man shrugged and kicked one foot from its stirrup, stepping lightly over to the phaeton. "I shouldn't tell you, should I? You'll get me in trouble."

"You have my word, I will not."

"Oh, your word." The man smirked. "That's different. You may call me Patrick, if you like."

"Is that your name?"

"It's a perfectly good name. Now! Let's see the loot, my lord."

Julian waved towards his trunk in the back seat. "Take what you like."

"No, no, no. That's not how this works. See, you're meant to dig through and get the stuff out for me while I continue to give you encouragement." He waved the pistol a bit.

"Excuse my ignorance. I've never been robbed before." He climbed into the back seat, and when he turned to face front again, Patrick was leaning over the division, pistol clasped loosely between his two hands, not providing much stimulus at all.

Julian bent to work on the straps of his trunk, watching Patrick through the fringe of his hair. He was tall, and maybe a bit too thin for his height. His hair was dark and ragged and flowed into the collar of his cloak. His eyes were very, very blue.

The trunk straps yielded finally, and Julian dropped his eyes as he opened it. His heart was beating faster than it had during the race, faster he was sure than it had in all the previous three weeks he'd spent pursued by the Misses Barnham. He should be afraid, perhaps, but he wasn't, not at all.

"Open up," Patrick said, with a hint of a smile. "Let's see what you've got."

Julian flung the trunk open, revealing his own haphazard packing. His decision to leave had been somewhat abrupt, and his underthings had ended up on the top. Patrick smirked, and Julian bundled them out of sight, piling shirts and waistcoats on top of them.

"I don't know what you're looking for," he said.

"Oh, jewels, bank notes, pirate treasure. Anything, really. I'm not choosy."

"I haven't much," Julian said. He was thinking it ought to be easy to make a try for Patrick's pistol from this position, with it held so carelessly. But where would that get him? Dead or in possession of a pistol he didn't particularly want. The second option would lead either to Patrick's swift departure or a long drive into the village to turn Patrick in to the sheriff. Relinquishing his few valuables seemed much preferable to either of those. And of course, he wasn't especially keen to be shot either.

"No pirate treasure?"

"No, I keep that at home, I'm afraid."

Patrick leaned closer. "Is that an invitation, my lord?"

Julian lifted his head from the contents of his trunk. "If you care to take it as such."

"Oh, really."

Patrick propped his chin on one hand and let the barrel of the pistol graze Julian's cheek. It made him freeze and catch his breath. The metal seemed unnaturally cold, or maybe it was only in contrast with the sudden heat of his skin.

"I'm not used to such invitations from gentlemen," Patrick said.

Julian let his eyes close as the edge of the barrel scraped down over his jaw and under his chin. "Perhaps they're not as tolerant in these matters as I am," he suggested.

"I have to say, I've never met anyone as tolerant in these matters as you seem to be," Patrick murmured, close enough now that Julian could feel his breath on his skin.

A hand slipped into Julian's waistcoat and retrieved his thin fold of bank notes. There was not much left from Bath.

"This is a poor haul for all my trouble," Patrick said softly.

Julian opened his eyes, and saw Patrick so close he could barely focus on his face. "My apologies," he said. "I might do better for you another time."

Patrick's pistol nudged at the folds of his cravat and made a quiet ting as it hit his diamond pin. "I hope so, but this will do for now."

"It was my father's," Julian said, but not with any great reproach. As with most things in his life, he found this was something he ought to care about more than something he genuinely did care about. Anyway, Patrick was unwinding his cravat, and he was finding it more than a little difficult to think about his father. "That's, ah," he said, haltingly. "I'm sure you needn't--"

But by then, Patrick had it fully unwound, and his hand cupped the bared side of Julian's neck. "What do you wear these things for, anyway? They can't be comfortable, even in winter."

"I'm told a gentleman might as well go around unclothed as without one," Julian said.

"Are you imagining me unclothed then?"

"No," Julian said, though that might not be the entire truth.

"That's a shame."

Julian swallowed. "Is it?"

"I think so." Patrick looped the cravat twice around his own neck in no style at all and fixed it in place with the diamond pin. "You're sure there's nothing else I can relieve you of? You look a bit overheated."

"Not just at the moment."

"Also a shame." His thumb rubbed along the line of Julian's jaw, and his fingertips pushed lightly into the back of Julian's neck. His pistol, warming to skin temperature, lay idly across Julian's shoulder at the join of his neck. One or all of the above forced Julian to repress a shiver.

"You're taking liberties," he said.

"None that weren't offered me."

Julian couldn't say anything to that. It was perfectly true.

"Is that quite everything?" he said, instead. "I'm getting rather chilly."

Patrick smiled, showing his teeth. The pistol slipped away from his neck, the small raised nub of the sight dragging across his skin. Patrick looked him up and down, from ankles to hair, his gaze lingering on Julian's breeches. He lowered his hand to Julian's waist and tugged at the black ribbon and the engraved fob that dangled from beneath his vest. He closed his hand around the pocket watch and pulled hard, so that the ribbon tore free.

"I'll just take a little of your time," he said, with a sharp grin. "For now."

"You seem to assume I'm going to let you have more," said Julian.

Patrick pushed the tip of the pistol against Julian's bared throat and Julian shivered at its touch. He stood so close that there was little room between their bodies. The mouth of the gun rubbed over his bared skin once more, almost lazily.

"Let me?" Patrick said. "If I want it, I take it. But, my lord, you're the type who’ll let me have what I like. Am I right?"

“How can you tell?” Julian said. His mouth was too dry to speak clearly and he was sure Patrick could hear that.

Patrick cocked his head to one side, regarding him steadily. It struck Julian then that their eyes were on a perfect level.

"Perhaps because we're more alike than you know."

“That was my grandfather's pocket watch,” Julian said, ignoring him. He realised he was trembling a little. It was the unaccustomed draft of cold air on his neck and chest, surely. “It has a garnet on the large hand but it doesn’t keep the time at all well.”

Patrick lifted his chin in a brief nod, as if he wasn’t paying even slight attention to Julian’s words. He would be infuriating, if he weren’t so absorbingly different from anyone Julian had ever met. Patrick pulled back and raised his pistol and its small black mouth once again fixed on Julian’s heart. He flashed another smile and stepped away, mounting his horse as gracefully as if he were walking on solid land. The sparkling white of Julian's cravat sat at odds with Patrick’s shabby coat and muddy boots, and now it was possible to see the gauntness of his frame as he moved.

“It’s very kind of you to provide for me in this manner, my lord,” he said, with another sweet smile. “I won’t forget it.”

He turned his horse with a jerk on its reins and it surged away at the dig of his heel. Julian saw one hand raised as if in salute. Patrick’s fingers were stained with black oil, no doubt from his weapon. What an uncouth fellow.

Yet Julian watched till he’d dwindled to just a speck on the lane that swooped across the fields.

***

His butler, White, was waiting on the steps. The lanterns were lit and they flickered and swung in the wind that had got up. White’s old fashioned powdered wig was buffeted by the wind. It fitted badly and strands of mingled black and white hung down. His eyes looked almost black, like jet. Julian did not meet them.

"A bath," he said, as White came after him into the house.

"Sir?" said White. “Is everything well?”

"And brandy while you’re at it. Quickly."

“Are you ill? Has something happened on the road?”

Julian stopped and turned, halfway up the stairs. White’s voice was quiet and controlled and Julian always found it damnably hard to ignore. White looked at him, clearly taking in his bared neck. His eyes widened and Julian sighed. Well, there was no point at all in trying to keep it a secret.

"I was robbed on the road, coming down from Park Wood. A highwayman."

"Did he harm you?" White said, his mouth flattening into a thin line.

"Hardly. He seemed more interested in making weak jokes. He took my neckcloth and my pin. And my money, and also grandfather's pocket watch." Julian touched his neck, remembering the heavy cool weight of the pistol.

White's eyes narrowed.

“My lord, can you describe this wretch?”

“Why? I do hope you aren’t intending to rouse the village to a rampaging fit. The last one created an awful mess.”

“No, my lord. Of course not,” said White, bowing his head so that his face was hidden. “But, still. I require a description for the sheriff. The thief must be punished.”

“My height, rather starved looking, dark hair. Blue eyes,” Julian said, remembering them. “And now a very pretty linen necktie. He didn't care to tell me his name, of course.

“Thank you, sir,” said White.

“What is it? Do you know this man?”

White’s mouth curved into rather a vicious smile. "I believe he is known in the village as Patrick Crowtrees, sir."

"Crowtrees?"

"A local boy," said White.

"And… ?"

"He's a bad man sir. Some say that he was born that way."

“Bad in what way?”

“I would not want to sully your mind, my lord.”

“White. For goodness’ sake.”

“Debauching young ladies. And drinking, and other, worse things that I cannot bring myself to speak of.”

“I see,” said Julian, thinking that he could very well guess. “Do his family live in the village?”

“He has no family that would claim him, sir,” White said, with a look that would struggle to be any blanker.

“Then why did he come back here?”

White lifted his shoulders in a shrug, and scowled more deeply, which was no answer, but Julian was too exhausted to properly care. As he walked upstairs, he heard White calling for Sally, telling her to fetch the water jugs and to look sharp, the master had had a nasty upset.

I'm not at all upset, he thought, as he let his torn shirt fall to the floor. White was quite wrong.

The bath finally arrived, and so did the decanter, but he barely noticed until White pressed the glass into his hand and made him drink. He gazed at himself in the silver mirror and saw then what his butler must have so clearly seen: a long black streak of oil from the pistol barrel had marked his neck, and there were fingerprints on his skin, trailing down to his chest. He touched them and they smeared under his hands.

The water was almost too hot to sit in, just as he liked it, and the brandy burned in his belly. He lay back and watched his skin flush red where the water touched it. White had set out a cake of scented soap from London and he lathered it between his hands, then let them slip between his thighs, where his erection jutted from the water. The smooth glide of his own palm was shocking and he arched out of the water a little, tipping his head back against the cool enamel. He'd been waiting for this and he hadn't even known.

The Misses Barnham did not dance before his eyes, as they should. Instead, he saw someone else; Patrick Crowtrees, a common thief. He closed his eyes and imagined him more clearly, his blue eyes and his mouth so near Julian's own, opening in invitation. He tightened his hand and saw white cotton winding across the strong elegant curve of his sun-darkened throat, his heavy old fashioned coat and the way his shirt gaped open, showing a curve of brown skin. He was bold, taking what he wanted, and Julian pictured it, the two of them. He saw Patrick Crowtrees stripping off his clothes at Julian's request, on his knees with his black hair spilling over his shoulders, and Julian taking back what was his.

He lay slumped afterwards, enjoying the warmth and the lazy pleasure of it, scrubbing a little at the oil marks. White was indeed wrong. He wasn't upset, or harmed in any way. He was changed.

***

Harry Stone leaned back in his saddle, one hand loosely closed around the reins as his horse ambled along the path back towards the village. It was set about with trees on either side: towering oaks and a few brilliant maple trees, their autumn colours shining against the blue sky.

Sent half asleep by the rock and sway of his horse's gait and dazzled by the gold of the leaves, he almost missed the man walking by the side of the path. His hair was the colour of maple leaves, and his brown habit blended with the road dust that swirled around his feet.

Harry smiled and dismounted, jogging a few quick steps to catch up. "Good day, Father Abbot," he said.

The abbot said nothing, and indeed gave no sign that Harry lived and breathed and walked the earth, but Harry was used to that. He was happy to walk in silence for a time. His horse was happy too and butted the abbot gently in the back. This got no response, but the horse was as used to the abbot's ways as Harry was. He settled for nibbling at the abbot's hair until he was pushed away.

"I suppose the day is well enough," the abbot said.

"I hope the same can be said of you and your monks."

"To be sure," the abbot muttered.

"You seem to be in a good mood today," Harry said, surprised. Usually, inquiries after the monks got him dirty looks and on at least one occasion a sharp whack across the shins with the abbot's walking stick. "Are you going to see Mrs. Granby?"

"I am. Her daughter sent to tell me she was doing better and wished to know if she could stop her medicine. She complains of the taste." The near-invisible smile that accompanied that statement lent weight to Harry's theory that the abbot made his concoctions taste foul on purpose.

"You shouldn't walk alone," Harry said. "At least ride if you will not take company. There have been gypsies seen often camped nearby and they might easily decide to take advantage of a single traveler."

"So speaks the sheriff."

"It is my job. I don't know what else you would expect of me."

"Oh, nothing surely."

Harry sighed and kicked at the road. "Father, too often I cannot tell if you mean to tease or offer me insult."

The abbot's hand came up to rest on his shoulder. "It's always safer to assume I mean to offer insult."

He left his hand there, and Harry was careful to stay in step with him. He might need the support, after all, unlikely as it seemed. This close, Harry could see the threads of white in his hair. The abbot had to be nearly twenty years his senior, but except for that one sign, he hardly showed it. The walking stick seemed less for support and more for unexpected (and often undeserved, in Harry's opinion) punishment of all who crossed his path.

He felt the abbot stiffen and looked up to see a man had stepped out of the trees and now blocked their path. He was holding a pistol.

"Worse than gypsies," the abbot murmured.

"Oh, my," the man said. "How touching. Much as I hate to interrupt your courting, I'm afraid I must. I believe the phrase is, your money or your life? Or would you prefer, stand and deliver?"

"Does anyone actually say that?" the abbot asked.

"It does save time," the highwayman said.

"Then that is its only recommendation. I have no money and no time to waste on fools and the filthy-minded."

The abbot started forward, shaking off Harry's restraining hand. For a moment, it seemed he would get by, but when he went to push past, the highwayman caught him fast and pressed the pistol to his temple. He smiled at Harry. "A change of plan. Your money or your friend's life."

The abbot looked more outraged than afraid, and Harry quickly handed over his money. He hesitated over the one ring he wore. He disliked removing it, but he bit his lip and tugged it off before the abbot could decide to put his outrage into action. He wasn't quite fast enough. As the highwayman reached out to take the ring, the abbot ducked and knocked both legs out from under him with his walking stick.

Harry grabbed the abbot's arm and yanked him out of range with relief that made him dizzy. "You're all right? Are you hurt?"

"I'm well. You're crushing my arm. Stop it."

"That man--" But he was already gone, slipping into the woods as Harry looked up, with a quick grin and a flash of Harry's money clip. Harry sighed.

"Here," the abbot said.

He stooped and picked up Harry's ring, where it lay on the path. It glinted between his fingers, a slim band of gold with a ruby. The design was fussy, of another era, but Harry liked it. It had belonged to his father, or so his mother had always told him. As he took it, their fingers brushed together. He quickly slipped it back onto his hand, his heart pounding. The abbot was watching him with mingled irritation and something else. Some interest that Harry couldn't fathom. He shook the thought off.

"Did you recognise that man?"

"No," the abbot said. "Hadn't you better run off after him?"

"No, no! He might attack again. I'll make sure you're delivered safely first."

"What's he going to take? My stick? Or perhaps my sandals?"

It was a fair point. Harry felt himself go red.

"All the same, I'll escort you."

The abbot sighed, then laid his hand on Harry's shoulder once more.

"If you must."

***

"Does my lord prefer the linen or the cotton?"

Julian surveyed the pile of cloth.

"Black silk," he said.

White nodded. He moved toward the wardrobe and then paused. "For the ball, sir?"

"Yes, for the ball. I feel in need of a change."

"Of course, sir. It's only that I'm not certain..."

"If you try to convince me we have none clean, I will not be pleased."

White bowed his head briefly and fetched the black silk. Julian felt quite reckless as he put it on. Possibly it was a mistake; certainly people would feel shocked. A white throat, perfectly creased, was the done thing at evening affairs. But Julian was thinking of how the black would look around his highwayman's neck, should he make an appearance.

The ball had, of course, been planned for months, but Julian admitted to a certain renewed enthusiasm for it after his encounter on the road home. Perhaps it was foolish to think Patrick might take this occasion to appear, but Julian had been imagining nevertheless. Rather vividly, and often after he'd retired to bed and snuffed out his candle.

He fixed his cravat in place with a pearl-tipped pin and let White help him into his coat. Catching his reflection in the mirror, he nodded, satisfied. Tonight he welcomed the severity of evening dress. It made him look like he knew what he was doing, even when he was fairly certain he didn't.

It wasn't as if he'd sent Patrick an invitation, but he had an idea the sheer amount of jewellery he could collect might be its own invitation. Perhaps not the most generous thought to have when the owners of the jewellery were one's own guests, but there it was. He had few enough real friends among them anyway, and not one soul whom he thought of as often as he'd thought of Patrick Crowtrees in the last week. He let White smooth down his coat and fuss with his hair--it would never hold a curl, not even with the new hot irons brought from London-- and felt a sharp rush of excitement in his belly.

Much of it had faded by the time the clock struck ten. Julian could not believe that even Patrick Crowtrees could countenance the rudeness of arriving so late. He had not shown so much as a cuff, and Julian had been compelled to dance the cotillion until the soles of his feet ached and he wished never to have to discuss the prettiness of the flower displays or the fine quality of the punch ever again. No one had mentioned the black silk to his face, but Lady Parr, easily his most important guest, had not spoken to him beyond a cool greeting. Others were following her lead.

He made a terrible host in any case, he decided. He was almost moved by the expression of naked despair on Miss Petersham’s face when he excused himself after the Lancers.

He took some punch and watched the dancers as they moved. The hall was full of colour; elegant gowns in silk and muslin and lace; shell pink and yellow and green, the scents of rose and lavender and lilies, and underneath that sweat.

A small woman in midnight blue taffetta swept past, her dark red hair piled up in elegant curls. She glared at him and stuck out her tongue: Lady Alice Borton, who had recently married her handsome young soldier. She had confided in him once that her stepmother was an appalling hag, who was conducting an affair with the local doctor. Julian believed her. He saluted her, but didn't win a smile. She glared at his neck and shook her head.

“Lord Stornaway. Accept my apologies, please,” someone said, at his elbow.

Julian turned. Patrick Crowtrees stood in front of him, his hair trimmed and curled and sparkling white linen tucked at his throat. He had shaved, and his coat was stiff and new, a heavy dark blue fabric cut close to his body and swooping away to show his embroidered vest and sleek legs. He dipped his head in a bow.

“I don’t believe I did invite you,” Julian said, his heart thumping against his ribs.

“Forgive me,” Patrick said, meeting his eyes. He curved his lips in a smile. “But how could I resist?”

“Do you mean resist the temptation of so much easy prey?”

“Is that the meaning you'd prefer?” Patrick said.

Over his shoulder, Julian saw White. He was manning the punch bowl, silver ladle in hand, and he was watching them. Julian didn’t appreciate the flat resentful gaze. He looked away deliberately.

"I'm sure I couldn't care less," Julian said. "What have I said or done to make you believe your motives would have the least importance to me?"

Patrick laughed, not quiet at all, but loud enough to turn heads all over the room. "You cannot be serious, my lord."

"Can't I?"

Patrick leaned close. "After your behaviour at our first meeting? I would think you interested in every aspect of my...motives."

Julian met his eyes as steadily as he could, ignoring the sudden general descent of the noise level in the room and the rustle of silks as everyone tried to drawn one inconspicuous step closer all at once. "As host, it is my duty to ensure you do not incommode my guests, but beyond that..."

Patrick's fingertips brushed his arm, and Patrick was really leaning too close now. "You're lying, my lord. But never mind. Please do ensure my obedience in this matter. I cannot wait to see how you manage it."

Julian took a deep breath and a half-step back. Patrick's warmth and simple presence were dizzying beyond reason. "I know something about you," he said.

"Oh, yes?"

"I'm told you were born bad."

"That's not a very specific piece of information."

"Also that you went away to sea." White had told him more later, upon request, though there was a limit to what Julian could get out of him.

Patrick gave Julian a brief flash of his teeth, barely a smile. "The second is true. Five years on a merchant ship in the China seas. The first I might argue if I cared to make the effort."

"Don't you? It's quite an indictment."

"Worse things have been said of me, my lord, believe me."

"Such as?"

"I wouldn't wish to shock you."

"I think that's exactly what you want."

Patrick watched him steadily for a moment, and then stood back. The air between them eased somewhat, and Julian felt as if the whole room had just released a collective breath.

"Me?" Patrick said lightly. "Shocking? I'm not the one wearing that." He nodded to the black silk at Julian's throat. "My dress is as impeccable as your pedigree, even if I did sell something of yours to get it."

The diamond, no doubt. Julian had noted its absence. "Really? I thought you might've sold something dearer to you."

Patrick's eyes widened in patently false shock. "My lord, whatever can you mean by saying such a thing?"

Julian was denied the opportunity to answer by the arrival of Lady Borton's stepmother, Mrs. Beckett, and the curl of her claw-like hand around his arm. "Why, my lord, the next dance set is about to begin, and there are several young ladies without a partner, my own dear Maud included. And yet here you stand talking with your handsome friend." She gave Patrick an all too obvious once over that made Julian want to smack her even more than he had on previous occasions, and it was not an infrequent urge.

He made himself smile. "Mrs Beckett, let me present my...friend, Patrick--"

"Denby, son of the Earl of Ladderham," Patrick cut in smoothly. He bent over Mrs. Beckett's hand with far too much flourish and enthusiasm for Julian's taste. "And I would be delighted to escort your daughter in this dance."

And that quickly, he was gone. Julian danced as well, unwilling to let Patrick out of his sight--lest he do Miss Beckett some harm--and unable to gain a good view from the edge of the floor. He stood up with Miss Lucy Haversham, a polite, serious girl, who sometimes helped Father Luke when he tended the sick. Julian liked her, in a distant way, and so it was especially unkind of him to ignore her for the merest glimpse of Patrick's hair and coat amid the swirling dancers.

"You seem distant, my lord," she said quietly. "I hope there is nothing wrong."

"No, nothing. My apologies. I am distracted tonight."

"By your friend? I do not know him."

"Yes, he's--not local. Only visiting."

"I hope you enjoy your time with him then," she said peacably.

He was grateful to her for not pressing him and tried to show it with increased solicitude, but still his eyes wandered. He couldn't help himself, and that was new for him. He'd always been able to keep up a good front, regardless of his true thoughts and feelings, but now eyes and mind alike followed Patrick closely, and he feared he was being far too obvious.

When the set ended, he found Patrick at the centre of an attentive group, mostly Mrs. Beckett, her daughter, and their friends. The doctor hovered at the edge of the group, unshaven, cravat dulled and yellowed by improper cleaning. Julian couldn't remember inviting him, but he didn't want to make a scene. Not when Patrick seemed perfectly capable of making one all by himself.

He was leaning over Lady Barton, touching her arm, fingers brushing her curls, and all this with her husband standing at her shoulder. Barton looked about at the boiling point, and no one would blame him.

Julian stepped forward and bowed very slightly, smiling around at everyone assembled. "I am sorry, I'm afraid I must borrow your entertainment for just a moment. A business matter." He took Patrick's arm more tightly than he needed to and tried not to look as if he was dragging him away. A few protests were made about the conduct of business at a social event, but he ignored them.

He didn't look at Patrick until they were alone in the library with the doors firmly shut. Patrick shook off his hand and sprawled in a leather chair, one leg hooked over the arm. He smiled, slow, and Julian was equally caught by the knowledge in that smile and by the tight pull of his trousers at the join of his legs.

"What did you think you were doing out there?" Julian tried to keep his voice calm and level. He was only mostly successful.

"Enjoying myself? I can't see your objection, my lord. I think I've been the perfect gentleman."

"You are not any sort of gentleman, perfect or imperfect." He had somehow ended up standing over Patrick, hands in fists at his sides. The position allowed Patrick to reach up and cup Julian's hip, hand straying back to his buttock and down the outside of his thigh. Julian swallowed and refused to shift away.

Patrick looked solemnly up at him. "An accident of birth."

His hand started on up the inside of Julian's thigh, higher and higher, nails scraping along his inseam. Julian could feel a touch of sweat a the back of his neck, and his cheeks were warm. His legs seemed weaker than they should be. He couldn't think of a response, or really of anything else.

"Do you want this, my lord?" Patrick murmured. "Do I even need to ask? You look ready to beg for it."

Julian jerked himself away at that. He didn't like how true it was. "What are you doing here? Truly?"

"You did invite me. Perhaps not to this occasion, but I saw it more as a standing invitation." He spread his arms wide. "And here I am."

Julian turned his back on Patrick, maybe not a wise thing to do, but he needed to think. He considered walking out of the door and back out into the ballroom. He could lock Patrick in here and wait for the sheriff to arrive. That would be the sensible path. He stared at the brass key that sat in the lock and then turned around.

Patrick was still sprawled in the chair in an attitude of supreme carelessness, yet he was watching Julian carefully.

"Stand up," Julian said.

"Why should I?"

"Please do it. If you don't I shall beat you, and no one would blame me. You stole from me."

Patrick lowered his foot to the floor and stood in one easy graceful movement, light on his feet and wary. His breeches were well fitted enough that Julian could see the curve of his thigh muscles and the sleek lines of his calves. Patrick's smile faded as Julian got closer. He ran the tip of his tongue between the seam of his lips, wetting them. He shifted a little.

"You know I didn't come here to fight," Patrick said. "But if that's what you want-- "

"I don't know why you came here."

"Yes, you do," Patrick said, his voice husky. "You know as well as I."

He met Julian's gaze, as bold as ever, although there was something lurking in it that looked almost like confusion. It shook Julian: Crowtrees wasn't sure of himself.

The noise of the ball faded from his ears and Julian felt as if he were watching all this from a distance as he took a grip on Patrick's lapels and pushed him back against the bookcase, hard, so that Patrick fell off balance. A cloud of dust flew up but Julian didn't see anything but Patrick's eyes, wide open and serious. They were pressed up close, chest to chest, and Patrick wasn't even struggling. Their thighs were pressed together.

"My lord," he breathed. "Are you going to beat me?"

"Shut up," Julian said, his voice hoarse with the dust and with tension. His heart was pounding almost through his chest. "This belongs to me."

He tugged at the pin in Patrick's necktie, then pulled the cloth loose so that it tumbled free in one glorious mess of crumpled linen. Beneath, Patrick's skin was smooth and brown and very naked and he felt Patrick shiver.

"So it does," Patrick said, and their gazes met once more.

His mouth was shockingly soft, like a girl's. It opened under Julian's and Patrick gave a small moan, as if he were overwhelmed. He put both hands on Julian's waist, not roughly, but almost tentatively.

Julian heard himself making small soft indecent sounds as Patrick kissed him slowly, pushing his tongue between Julian's lips and tracing his teeth and the roof of his mouth. Patrick touched his face, cupping his jaw, his fingers sliding down under black silk to touch his neck, so many small touches, as if Patrick wanted to explore every part of him.

Their kisses slowed and became deeper, and Julian thought he might pass out from lack of breath. Patrick was touching him, moving against him, eating him alive it seemed, with his hands everywhere, skimming over his groin and his buttocks, pushing under his shirt to slide up his back. Julian fisted his hands into Patrick's soft black hair and moaned.

"You're so pretty," Patrick breathed, kissing his jaw. He was pushing his fingers down under Julian's waistband and Julian didn’t even have a thought of stopping him. "I wanted you from the first moment I saw you."

"Do you say that to all your conquests?" Julian said, and shivered when Patrick bit at his lower lip, hard enough to sting a little.

"Hardly ever," Patrick said, and took Julian's hand and laid it right over his erection. It was hard and warm under Julian's hand, and utterly shocking. "I want to fuck you with this," Patrick said, his voice lower and rougher. Julian wasn't even sure what that meant, but he wanted it, so much. "I want to put my cock in your arse and feel it when you come around me," Patrick whispered.

"Oh," Julian managed.

His ears were ringing from the blood pounding in his veins. Perhaps that was why he didn't hear the door open until it was far too late. Harry Stone stood in the doorway, hat in hand and his eyes as round as teacups, taking in Julian's untucked shirt and his mussed hair, and beyond him Patrick Crowtrees.

"You!" Stone said, raising a finger to point.

Julian stumbled backwards and it took a second to realise that it was because Patrick had shoved him hard in the chest.

"Hello," Patrick said, as if he wasn't flushed and his clothes weren't half pulled off.

I did that, Julian thought. It was difficult to drag his gaze away from Patrick, and it was rather hard to care that Stone must be deeply shocked. Appalled and disgusted, very likely. Patrick was moving away to the open window, backing up on light feet and pulling his clothes into order. He was grinning.

"My lord, stop him," said Stone, turning to Julian. "He attacked the abbot. He attacked you. Twice, it seems," he said, staring at Julian's ruffled clothing. Stone was frozen, gripping his hat as if he didn't dare take a step further inside the room.

"You low creature! Go and practice your perversions elsewhere."

Julian turned. It was White, advancing on Patrick with clenched fists and his mouth was twisted.

"I didn't mind it," Julian said. "White. There's no need to take that attitude."

White glanced his way.

"You might well mind if you knew what he was to you."

"Shut up," Patrick said. His hand was on the window frame, ready to leap. "Now."

"What do you mean?" Julian said. "What he is to me?"

"He's your half brother, my lord."

Patrick cursed and looked back once. Light from the oil lamp by the window illuminated his face, and Julian got a brief, frozen glimpse of Patrick's face, paled almost to white, eyes huge and dark. In the next second, he was gone, out of the window and away through the gardens.

He was still looking after Patrick when the sheriff ran past him. "Don't worry, my lord. He won't get away." He was out of the window as well before Julian could say a word.

"Well." Julian took a breath, walked over, and closed the window. He slipped the catch into place and turned back towards White. "Close the door, please. And ring for tea. And then you may explain to me why you thought it was acceptable to keep me in ignorance about my own family."

***

Crowtrees beat Harry to the stables, and then to pile insult on insult, stole Harry's horse. Harry himself opted to borrow the doctor's new thoroughbred. She must've cost a mint, and the doctor certainly didn't deserve her. When she sprang out of the stable doors, Harry could just see Patrick as a shadow fleeing across the fields towards the wood.

He pressed his heels sharply against the mare's sides, and they leapt the low hedge, gaining on him almost at once. Rain began to spit down from the sky, soaking first Harry's hair and the front of his shirt, and then the thighs of his breeches. A cold wind whipped around his neck and he leaned forward along the mare's neck.

Lord Stornaway's half brother. He'd never heard the least rumor of such a thing. He wondered if the butler could be lying, but--why? And what a thing to lie about. Had the abbot known? He seemed to know everything about everyone for fifty miles

Harry rose in the stirrups as the mare cleared a low fence. "Stop!" he shouted, but of course Crowtrees wouldn't. Indeed, he didn't so much as glance back to see the waning distance between them.

And when Harry caught up with him, then what? He didn't know. Normally, it wasn't a problem. This was a simple village with simple crimes, easily punished. Theft of Harry's own money, that was also a simple matter. He thought, though, that whatever Crowtrees had been doing with Lord Stornaway was something less than simple.

Crowtrees led him further from the road, away from tilled fields until they were skirting the edge of the forest. Branches dipped low and ripped off Harry's hat. Brambles caught at his boots and breeches, and he feared for his horse, pushed so hard in the dark and over uneven ground.

He was so close now that he could see the clumps of mud thrown up by the hooves of the horse in front of him and the white flash of Crowtrees's face when he turned back for a bare second. Harry spurred his horse still harder and came level with the other's hindquarters. Crowtrees's cloak flapped wild and, as Harry reached forward, flew into his hand. Harry gripped tight and yanked, calling out to his horse as he did.

For a miracle, his horse paid him some heed, wheeling in a half circle back towards him as the doctor's horse bounced and snorted beneath him. Another yank tumbled Crowtrees from the saddle. He fell with a harsh cry, and Harry was down and after him in a second. He got Crowtrees's fist driven into his nose for his trouble and hit back blindly, mud soaking into his clothes and spattering up around them as they struggled.

He got a knee in Crowtrees's stomach and heard the hoarse grunt it caused, got his knees under him again and flipped Crowtrees face-first against the ground. Harry pressed down on his back, and he stayed there. Both of them breathed hard for a few seconds. He felt Crowtrees shiver as the rain picked up.

"Let me go," Crowtrees said.

"Don't be foolish. You know I cannot."

"Oh, yes?" Crowtrees craned his head to look back at him, mouth set in a sneer. "What will you do with me then? Even bastard nobility can prove damnably hard to do away with."

"You'll be tried, just like any other common criminal."

"Really? You think he'll let it come to that?"

"What reason would he have to protect you? You stole from him, you attacked him. Your own brother!" Still, something in the back of Harry's mind suggested that perhaps 'attacked' was not necessarily the correct word. Crowtrees's clothes had been just as disarranged as Lord Stornaway's, his cheeks just as flushed.

"He's got reason enough. Not least to protect his own name from scandal. Other reasons too."

"Such as?" Harry said, when Crowtrees didn't elaborate.

"What sort of interest do you think Stornaway has in me?"

Harry wasn't entirely paying attention to the man's words. If Crowtrees didn't struggle, Harry might have a chance of lashing his wrists. Perhaps a knock to the temple with his pistol should help.

"I suspect he wants your hide," Harry said, grinding him down into the dirt.

Crowtrees didn't have the grace even to sound worried. Instead he laughed, and it shook his body.

"You're a naive man, sheriff. You're quite right though, in a sense. He does want me."

Crowtrees turned his head and his lip curled in a smile. Harry was suddenly quite glad he was naive. That look suggested things that he didn't understand, not even a little. He wondered what the abbot would make of this sorry fellow, and longed for his advice. Crowtrees tugged experimentally, but Harry grabbed his arms tight.

"Your brother has a great deal to lose," he said. "Far more than you. Do you really believe that he'll take your side in this? Why would he care about you?"

"You don't understand."

"You're a thief and an interloper. You're nothing but shame to him." He felt Crowtrees shudder under him and then go limp, the struggle going out of him. It was impossible to tell if from anger or fear. "Come peaceably now. I'll see you have a fair trial. Even though you hardly deserve it."

He sat back, yanking on the man's arms. Rain lashed down, coming in streaks now as of the sky wanted to get rid of its burden all at once. In the distance, through the blackening trees, Harry heard a snort and a whinny. The horses. Crowtrees heard it too, because he raised his head and whistled, piercingly through his teeth and Harry heard the thud of hooves.

"Don't even think you'll get away," Harry said, but it seemed he'd been wrong about Crowtrees. He writhed under him, flipping up in such an acrobatic way that Harry was toppled over backwards, hard, landing on his back with such force that he couldn't breathe. His head connected hard with something and as his sight faded he saw Crowtrees bending over him, then fingers on his brow. In the distance, coming closer, he heard the hounds.

"You'll be all right," Crowtrees muttered, then took his pistol. Rain dripped from his hair onto Harry's face. "Good day, sir."


On to part 2/2