Lymond: "The Last Temptation of Jerott Blythe", PG13, Philippa/ Jerott/ Lymond
Summary: There never was any doubt how this would end.
He meant to go. He meant to have them saddle his horse; he meant to turn his back on Scotland and on Lymond, and to ride away forever. He meant to take a ship to Malta, and from Malta-he would go on. There were always wars to be fought, and fighting was the one thing he did well. He had lost his faith, he had lost his wife, and he had lost the comfort he had once been able to find at the bottom of a bottle. He had lost Lymond, who had never been his to begin with-lost him to Philippa, for once and always.
He did not mean to stay, and let them rub salt in his wounds. He did not mean for them to pity him. He did not mean to be pitied ever again. And there was blood on his hands, and awkward questions that the English government would have to ask, if he chose to stay. He said his goodbyes: to Sybilla, who did not like him, but who had never been anything but kind to him; to Richard Crawford, whom he had come to love like a brother. To Philippa, who had always treated him as a sister; to Archie, whom he would rather have had at his back than any other man living. To Lymond-and there it was that words failed him: in the end he only put out his hand, because he thought that there was nothing left to say. And there was nothing Lymond could say to him that would keep him from going.
He was standing a little apart from the others, there in the stableyard. Moving toward him, Jerott moved away from them: Lymond still drew him, as the sun drew the earth in its orbit. "Stay," Lymond said to him. It was not a command, it was a request. Jerott could have refused a command. He was a soldier still; he did not go down without a fight.
"Philippa," he said in answer; he too could compress what needed to be said into a single word.
"Stay," Lymond repeated, and he took Jerott's outstretched hand, not as a friend might, but as a lover would. "Stay with us."
So quickly was the last of Malta's great knights lost. And as easily as they had said farewell to him, they drew him back into their fold. He had meant to go, but he had not wanted to go. He followed them back into the house; the grooms led his horse away to be unsaddled, and shook their heads at the foolishness of the great.
Lymond and Philippa brought him upstairs, to the room that they shared. Philippa loosed her hair with nimble fingers while Lymond began to undress. Jerott stood watching them, reluctant to join them, unsure that it was not all some kind of trick. It was Philippa who convinced him-because, gifted as Philippa was at dissembling, he did not think that she could lie with her body so well that she could fool him. He knew, when she stood on her toes and pressed her mouth to his, that what she asked for was what she wanted.
He kissed her back. He was a man, and she was young and willing and beautiful, and more than that she was the key to everything he had ever wanted. She was the vanguard to Lymond's advancing army. He kissed her, and thought of Marthe, who had been fierce where Philippa was gentle, and gentle where she was fierce. Philippa was not an innocent or a child, but her mouth on his was tender and shy. Despite her time in the harem and her time in the French court she was lacking in practical experience.
He closed his eyes, put his hands on her shoulders so that her hair spilled over his fingers. He did not love her the way he had loved Marthe, the way he loved Lymond, but he loved her-her courage and her intellect and her beauty and her stubborn loyalty-all the same. Philippa began to undo the fastenings of his shirt, and he did not help her but he did not stop her either. He could feel Lymond at his back, almost close enough to touch, and he dared not even breathe.
Philippa had his shirt undone, and he felt her fingers, soft and cool against the medal he wore around his neck. "Come to bed, Jerott," she said, and pressed her lips against the hollow of his throat.
He shook his head. "Tell me," he said, and his voice came out hoarse, thick, and awkward as a broken chord. "Tell me why you're doing this." Because Lymond could do it for love or lust or money or information, and tell him the truth and make it sound like a lie, but he does not think Philippa is capable of lying about it with the taste of him still in her mouth, and the mark of his hands still on her shoulders.
Behind him Lymond stirred. "She is doing it because I asked her to," he answered. "Is that not enough?"
It was, of course it was. It was the only answer Jerott would have accepted, the only one he would have believed. He pushed Philippa gently away, and turned. "Why?" he asked. "You wanted me gone as much as I wanted to go."
"Yes," Lymond agreed. "As much as you wanted to go, we wanted you gone." And when he kissed Jerott his mouth was neither tender nor shy. "Come to bed, Jerott," he said, and this time Jerott went, and without even looking over his shoulder to see if Philippa followed. Lymond had won, and Jerott knew it, and did not care.
He meant to go. He meant to have them saddle his horse; he meant to turn his back on Scotland and on Lymond, and to ride away forever. He meant to take a ship to Malta, and from Malta-he would go on. There were always wars to be fought, and fighting was the one thing he did well. He had lost his faith, he had lost his wife, and he had lost the comfort he had once been able to find at the bottom of a bottle. He had lost Lymond, who had never been his to begin with-lost him to Philippa, for once and always.
He did not mean to stay, and let them rub salt in his wounds. He did not mean for them to pity him. He did not mean to be pitied ever again. And there was blood on his hands, and awkward questions that the English government would have to ask, if he chose to stay. He said his goodbyes: to Sybilla, who did not like him, but who had never been anything but kind to him; to Richard Crawford, whom he had come to love like a brother. To Philippa, who had always treated him as a sister; to Archie, whom he would rather have had at his back than any other man living. To Lymond-and there it was that words failed him: in the end he only put out his hand, because he thought that there was nothing left to say. And there was nothing Lymond could say to him that would keep him from going.
He was standing a little apart from the others, there in the stableyard. Moving toward him, Jerott moved away from them: Lymond still drew him, as the sun drew the earth in its orbit. "Stay," Lymond said to him. It was not a command, it was a request. Jerott could have refused a command. He was a soldier still; he did not go down without a fight.
"Philippa," he said in answer; he too could compress what needed to be said into a single word.
"Stay," Lymond repeated, and he took Jerott's outstretched hand, not as a friend might, but as a lover would. "Stay with us."
So quickly was the last of Malta's great knights lost. And as easily as they had said farewell to him, they drew him back into their fold. He had meant to go, but he had not wanted to go. He followed them back into the house; the grooms led his horse away to be unsaddled, and shook their heads at the foolishness of the great.
Lymond and Philippa brought him upstairs, to the room that they shared. Philippa loosed her hair with nimble fingers while Lymond began to undress. Jerott stood watching them, reluctant to join them, unsure that it was not all some kind of trick. It was Philippa who convinced him-because, gifted as Philippa was at dissembling, he did not think that she could lie with her body so well that she could fool him. He knew, when she stood on her toes and pressed her mouth to his, that what she asked for was what she wanted.
He kissed her back. He was a man, and she was young and willing and beautiful, and more than that she was the key to everything he had ever wanted. She was the vanguard to Lymond's advancing army. He kissed her, and thought of Marthe, who had been fierce where Philippa was gentle, and gentle where she was fierce. Philippa was not an innocent or a child, but her mouth on his was tender and shy. Despite her time in the harem and her time in the French court she was lacking in practical experience.
He closed his eyes, put his hands on her shoulders so that her hair spilled over his fingers. He did not love her the way he had loved Marthe, the way he loved Lymond, but he loved her-her courage and her intellect and her beauty and her stubborn loyalty-all the same. Philippa began to undo the fastenings of his shirt, and he did not help her but he did not stop her either. He could feel Lymond at his back, almost close enough to touch, and he dared not even breathe.
Philippa had his shirt undone, and he felt her fingers, soft and cool against the medal he wore around his neck. "Come to bed, Jerott," she said, and pressed her lips against the hollow of his throat.
He shook his head. "Tell me," he said, and his voice came out hoarse, thick, and awkward as a broken chord. "Tell me why you're doing this." Because Lymond could do it for love or lust or money or information, and tell him the truth and make it sound like a lie, but he does not think Philippa is capable of lying about it with the taste of him still in her mouth, and the mark of his hands still on her shoulders.
Behind him Lymond stirred. "She is doing it because I asked her to," he answered. "Is that not enough?"
It was, of course it was. It was the only answer Jerott would have accepted, the only one he would have believed. He pushed Philippa gently away, and turned. "Why?" he asked. "You wanted me gone as much as I wanted to go."
"Yes," Lymond agreed. "As much as you wanted to go, we wanted you gone." And when he kissed Jerott his mouth was neither tender nor shy. "Come to bed, Jerott," he said, and this time Jerott went, and without even looking over his shoulder to see if Philippa followed. Lymond had won, and Jerott knew it, and did not care.