And in this world of strangers (2/2)
Title: And in this world of strangers
Pairing: Spencer/Brendon
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction.
Summary: Spencer got the note on the 7th of August, with the sky already turned to dusk, the sun lost behind the great wall surrounding the city.
Notes: For the incredible and amazing disarm_d. Happy holidays, darling. Historical AU. I am hugely indebted to Richard Twiss for writing A Trip to Paris in July and August 1792, and to Project Gutenberg for making it available online. Thanks to my betas for their assistance and insight.
Part One
It took two false starts, but on the third attempt they managed to locate the ship, which was nestled in a cove just a few miles away from Calais. It was a cutter, fore-and-aft rigged for speed, its swollen belly hidden beneath the shallow water it rested in. Spencer took one look at the sails, the lack of identification on the bow, and asked, “Smugglers?”
Brendon glanced sideways at him, offering a weary smile. “I’d hardly call a French émigré legitimate cargo, would you?”
Spencer flushed, and kept his head down as they made their way over the rocky terrain to the ship. A short, worried-looking man met them on the deck, and seemed relieved to see Brendon, at least, although Spencer saw the split-second before his fingers twitched away from the pistol tucked into his belt.
“You’re late,” the man said by way of greeting. “We expected you days ago.”
“The city’s sealed, it’s damned inconvenient. Patrick.” Brendon held out his hand to be clasped, beckoning Spencer over. “This is our fine captain; he’ll be taking us across the ocean this evening. We also have one other guest, if I’m not mistaken. I’m sure you two will get along splendidly. This is…”
“Pete,” Spencer said in surprise, half-falling into the enthusiastic hug he was being offered as another man came up to greet them, the seaman’s clothing strange but the face familiar. “What are you doing here?”
“Going abroad for a while to continue my education in a friendlier climate. And it’s Jacques, now,” Pete told him, showing a grin full of teeth that Spencer well remembered from many of Ryan’s social events. He gripped Spencer’s shoulder, hearty and supportive. “You can’t be too careful.”
“Pete is very taken with the idea of an undercover identity,” Patrick informed them, with a distinctly weary note to his voice. Spencer sympathized; Pete had often had the same effect on him.
“Delightful,” Brendon proclaimed, clapping Pete on the back. “Patrick my good man, unfortunate as it is, we may very well have acquired unwelcome company at our heels. When can we set sail?”
“Well, you’ve made the tide,” Patrick answered, squinting up at the sun and frowning, “but the winds are against us.”
Brendon’s grin was blinding and mostly, Spencer suspected, reflex. “All of France is against us,” he pointed out. “It’s part of the challenge. How soon can we leave?”
Patrick sighed, and jammed his hat slightly further onto his head. “I’ll see what I can do,” he promised, and cast a quick eye over Brendon and Spencer. “If you’re hungry, there’s food below. Not a feast, but I suspect you aren’t feeling too choosy.”
“I would be lost without you,” Brendon proclaimed, hand clasped to his heart. “By all means, let us retire.”
“Take Jacques with you,” Patrick suggested, in a tone that made it more of a command. “He looks hungry.”
Spencer suspected that meant Patrick wanted them all out from underfoot, but Pete beamed in response, arm around Patrick’s shoulders as if they were seafaring comrades. “Why Patrick, I didn’t know you cared.”
Patrick shrugged him off and yanked on his cap again, managing to look both disgruntled and tolerant as he did. Spencer found his tongue at last, as Pete gestured for them to follow him across the deck, taking over as guide although it seemed likely that Brendon knew where they were heading. “I thought you were in Paris,” he said, still stunned by Pete’s unexpected appearance on board.
Pete scratched at his chin, looking both proud and sheepish. “I, ah, may have written some poetry not particularly flattering to the current government,” he admitted, and then after a pause, added, “and read it aloud at the mayor’s wife’s garden party.” Brendon chuckled and Pete grinned, then looked around quizzically, as if only now realizing it was merely the three of them. “You came without Ryan?”
In an instant it all slammed back into him, so hard that it took Spencer’s breath away. Brendon spoke when it became apparent that Spencer wasn’t going to, saying quietly, “The Marquis was detained on our way here, and is being returned to Paris.”
Pete’s eyes widened, but he went mercifully silent, only speaking up again when they’d reached the narrow cabin below which must have belonged to Patrick. “There’s wine open,” he said, pulling a bottle from the cabinet. “Or ale, if you prefer. We had soup for supper, but it’s probably gone cold by now. Would you like a biscuit?”
Spencer ate in silence, listening to Pete and Brendon talk in rapid-fire bursts over top of one another, laughing easily. “Crème brulee,” Pete announced, taking a swig from the wine bottle and leaning back, feet planted to keep him from falling backwards over his chair. “That’s what I shall miss most about France, I think. And French lace. I don’t care what you say, English lace isn’t the same.” He flicked a finger at Brendon’s jacket, and then turned inquisitive eyes on Spencer. “What about you? What will you regret leaving behind?”
It was too easy to think it, and harder to say. Finally he said quietly, “My best friend in prison,” and Pete turned suddenly, completely serious. He set his chair down on its legs and leaned over, resting his hand over Spencer’s on the table, not saying anything else.
Brendon cleared his throat softly. “We should sleep,” he suggested. “It’s been a long journey, and the voyage across will take us six hours or more. It will be easiest to ride straight on from Dover once we land, so rest while you can.”
Spencer nodded, and Pete’s hand squeezed his once before dropping away. “Patrick said we can sleep in here,” he said, gesturing to the pile of blankets stacked against the wall of the cabin. “He said he’ll be on deck anyway, so he won’t disturb us.”
“What is he smuggling?” Spencer asked, gaze traveling across the cabin to land on Brendon. He didn’t see anything suspicious, but then whatever it was would undoubtedly be in the cargo hold, rather than the captain’s cabin.
Brendon studied him for a moment, and then said, “Brandies. Wine, cognac, champagne. The French bourgeois fully support having smugglers to transport their wares; they consider it a victory to damage our fragile economy and cheat the tyrannical king of revenue.”
“Will we be received as well on the other side of the ocean?” Spencer inquired politely, eyebrows slightly raised.
Brendon’s lips twisted, slight and fleeting. “We’ll manage,” he said. His tone was surprisingly gentle, as were his fingers on Spencer’s arm. “Get some sleep.”
~
There was a guillotine waiting in Dover. For some reason it didn’t shock Spencer as much as it perhaps should have; he’d thought they were making a clean escape, that once they were in England the danger was past, but that was clearly not the case. He looked up at the blade, shining silver and stained from earlier executions, and wondered if he would even get the benefit of a trial.
“It’s not for you,” Brendon assured him, standing close by Spencer’s side, hand shading his eyes from the sun as he gazed up. “Don’t worry.”
Spencer was about to ask who it was for, then, when the blade came crashing down and there was a sick, triumphant cheer from the crowd gathered around to watch the spectacle. Spencer could see the stocks from where they were standing, and had just enough time to register that the customary basket was missing before the head came bouncing down off of the platform to roll to a sickening stop at Spencer’s feet. He looked down, straight into Ryan’s eyes.
Someone was trying to talk to him, through the shock and horror numbing his mind. Brendon. Brendon was trying to talk to him. “Spencer. Spencer, come on. Spencer.”
Spencer took a deep breath and woke up.
“Spencer,” Brendon said again, low and urgent, but fell silent as Spencer sat up and gasped for breath, shaking. His hand was flat against Spencer’s back, burning hot in comparison to the icy trickle of sweat making its way slowly down his spine. He left it there as Spencer bent over, squeezing his eyes closed to block out the vision of Ryan’s sightless, accusing eyes.
Brendon didn’t say anything until Spencer had mostly recovered his composure, his heart no longer trying to pound its way out through his ribcage and breath not stabbing sharp daggers of pain into his lungs. Then he asked, “Nightmare about Ryan?”
Spencer jerked his head up, trying to make out Brendon’s expression. “How did you know?” he asked, once he was sure his voice wouldn’t shake. He clasped his hands between his knees to keep them from doing the same.
Brendon shrugged a little, hardly more than the soft sound of fabric rustling in the dark. “There only seems to be one thing weighing down on you heavily,” he pointed out. Then he added quietly, “You said his name while you were dreaming.”
Spencer remained silent, not sure of how to reply. He became vaguely aware of Brendon’s hand, rubbing in small, reassuring circles on his back, through the sweat-damp fabric of his borrowed shirt. After a while, Brendon spoke up again, gently inquiring. “You must be very good friends.”
“More than friends,” Spencer said. He and Ryan had grown up together, gone on trips together, had the same tutors, attended the same parties and functions. They had even learned to kiss together.
He hadn’t said it aloud, but he heard the same thought in Brendon’s silence, his deliberate lack of response. Spencer laughed, bitter on his ears as well as his tongue, and said, “You thought I meant sodomy.”
Brendon didn’t answer for a while, but then he shook his head and said quietly, “No. I thought you meant love.”
Spencer looked over at Brendon, whose eyes were burning dark and sympathetic as he watched Spencer, and suddenly missed Ryan so much it made his stomach ache. He closed his eyes and lay back down, pulling the blanket up over his clammy skin. After a few seconds Brendon lay down as well, presumably taking the hint and giving Spencer his privacy.
It wasn’t what he needed, though. What he wanted, yes, but with the silence came visions of Ryan’s face, his eyes, the sick whistling slice of the guillotine. Spencer felt as if he couldn’t breathe, like there was a weight pressing down on his chest, and he was afraid that if he opened his eyes again he’d see Ryan there, accusing him without words for the abandonment.
Spencer squeezed his eyes shut tight and tried to breathe. He thought about what he would do if Ryan were here, if they were making this journey together; of what Ryan was facing right now, interrogation as a foreign spy; and then he thought he might scream if he couldn’t stop himself from thinking.
Brendon’s breathing was even, but it wasn’t the rhythm of sleep. Spencer rolled onto his side before he could second-guess himself, before he could think, and slid his hand down Brendon’s stomach towards the front of his breeches.
He could feel Brendon’s eyes on him, questioning, but Brendon made no move to stop him. Spencer undid the fastenings of his breeches and pushed his hand inside, finding Brendon not eager, but not entirely unwilling either. “Spencer,” Brendon began, breaking the silence between them, and Spencer rolled closer and kissed him.
It was a short fight. He could feel Brendon’s struggle, the moment when he wanted to pull back, and then he felt the capitulation exhaled into his mouth, the tension draining as Brendon pushed forward into his hand. Spencer stroked him slowly, concentrating all his focus on Brendon’s mouth, the dance between their lips and tongues. It wasn’t enough, he wanted to do more. He owed Brendon, for getting him out of France and for keeping him safe. He wanted to give more than this.
Spencer licked his lips, breaking the kiss, but when he looked down his mind balked at actually tasting, at putting that into his mouth. He tried to reason with himself, to rationalize it as just another experience, but it was still too much. Instead, he rolled over, facing away, and fumbled his trousers down around his knees.
For several seconds, all he could hear was the harsh drag of Brendon’s breathing, and his own heart pounding in his chest. He had his eyes closed tight, willing himself not to think, and nearly jumped when Brendon set his hand lightly on Spencer’s bare hip.
“Are you sure?” Brendon asked softly. His hand hadn’t moved, fingertips barely brushing Spencer’s thigh. Spencer shivered, letting out a breath, and pushed back against Brendon in answer.
Brendon’s fingers trailed over Spencer’s hip, down between his legs, almost wondering. Spencer held his breath without realizing it, only exhaling when Brendon pressed against him, testing. Then there were kisses scattered across the back of his neck, and down over his shoulder as Brendon shifted onto his elbow, leaning in closer. Spencer kept his eyes closed until Brendon slowly pushed into him, and then they flew open as his entire body tensed up, panicking.
Brendon peppered his shoulder with kisses, his breathing uneven and hot on Spencer’s skin. He was tense as well, holding himself rigid and still while Spencer chastised himself sternly and tried to relax, to allow the invasion in spite of the pain. Brendon moved back, doing something Spencer couldn’t hear over the low creaking of the ship around them, leaving him momentarily cold and exposed.
Brendon pressed forward again and Spencer’s breath caught, but he forced himself not to react this time, focusing on the gentle rocking of the ship and the sounds of the waves to keep from thinking about what Brendon was doing. It was less rough this time, slick and wet, and Spencer nearly bit through his tongue when he felt his body give way.
It hurt, but after a while the pain was less sharp, and he could breathe a little while Brendon rocked tentatively back and forth. Then Brendon did something inside of him that made his body tense again, made him say, “Oh,” in surprise and drop his head back against Brendon’s shoulder.
It wasn’t pleasure, exactly, but it was close, and he found himself pushing back, almost without thinking. Brendon chuckled softly into his hair, said, “There?” with breathless amusement lacing his tone, and did it again.
Spencer’s mouth opened, shaped the word ‘God,’ but left it unspoken, warmth beginning to creep up his spine and curl in his belly. Brendon’s hand cradled his hip, guiding them together, and every time he pushed forward now it made Spencer’s toes twitch. ‘Please,’ he said silently, and then repeated it out loud, so softly he almost hoped Brendon hadn’t heard.
Brendon’s hand moved, slipped from Spencer’s hip to between his legs and stroked, bringing the heat from a low burn to flash-fire in an instant. Spencer heard the sound he made and clamped his mouth shut, dropping his head forward as he thrust helplessly into Brendon’s grip. He couldn’t completely stop the noises he was making, no matter how ruthlessly he tried to stifle them, and Brendon whispered, “Shh, shh,” as his hips drove forward hard enough to make Spencer’s teeth clench.
He felt himself crest, felt Brendon still and shudder inside him, and then they both lay there, panting and silent. Gingerly, Spencer shifted forward until they were no longer connected, and Brendon’s hand dropped away from his side.
It took two tries, but Spencer finally wet his lips enough to ask, “Where is Pete?” They were alone in the cabin, but he didn’t know for how long, or what time it was now; if they were close to shore.
Brendon sounded as if he was still struggling for breath, but he answered calmly enough, “On deck, with Patrick. There was a storm, just a mild one, he wanted to see it. I gather he suffers from sleeplessness often enough.”
Spencer just nodded, and willed himself not to think of Ryan. After a moment, Brendon’s fingertips feathered over his shoulder, questioning. Spencer didn’t know how to answer, exactly, but he shifted back into the touch, just enough for Brendon to feel it. He did up his trousers again, in case someone else came in, and felt Brendon do the same. When they lay back down again, Spencer let himself settle within Brendon’s reach.
He fell asleep before he could register more than the gentle touch of Brendon’s fingers brushing back his hair.
~
The voices shouting outside the cabin woke him before Pete had a chance to, his dark head poking in as Spencer struggled to sit up, blinking sleep from his eyes. “We’re about to land,” he said, echoing the calls from above deck. “Patrick says to be ready to move, just in case we have to make a run for it.”
Spencer had no more desire to spend time in an English prison than he did a French one. He rolled up the blankets they’d been using, including Brendon’s, which had been left spread half-over him; stowed them and headed up onto the deck.
His body was shooting tiny sparks of discomfort up his spine every time he moved, a physical reminder of the night before, but Brendon appeared unruffled and unbothered, standing beside Patrick watching the shoreline, still in yesterday’s clothes.
“Fire away,” Brendon sang under his breath as Patrick called an order, and then the hollow retort of a pistol rang out over their heads. Spencer ducked instinctively, heart leaping into his throat, but Brendon caught his arm. “It’s the signal,” he explained, pointing to the cloud of blue smoke that was slowly rising above their ship. “If all’s clear, we should hear…ah, there it is,” he said, tone full of satisfaction, with more than a hint of relief beneath it as an answering shot rang out from the shore.
“Joe, which side is the watch posted on?” Patrick called back, without taking his eyes off of the coast. When ‘Starboard,’ came back from somewhere behind them, Patrick shouted, “Land to port!”
They were easing into the mouth of a river, slowly running up into shallower water. On the land beyond, Spencer could see a small group of men waiting with horses. On the opposite side of the river was an official watch post, too far away for Spencer to see clearly.
Brendon’s hand brushed his arm and Spencer tensed, startled, but tried to shrug it off in the next moment. Brendon didn’t show any sign of having noticed, leaning in to explain what was going on. “Those are our merry band of accomplices, on this side of the river. The guard is on the other side, he’ll have to ride at least half a mile or more down the river to the nearest bridge so he can cross over and ride back to us, and by that time those of us who would rather avoid any sort of confrontation with authority figures will be long gone.”
Spencer glanced over at Pete, who had made himself at home with his chin on Patrick’s shoulder. Patrick looked more flustered than annoyed, and kept shuffling when he needed to move so that Pete could stay with him, his mouth stretched into a toothy grin.
“Him, too,” Brendon confirmed, stepping away towards the rail. “There should be enough horses for all of us. If not, we can ride double to Dover, it’s not far.”
Spencer followed Brendon over the side when he swung over the rail, making his way to where the horses were waiting. Brendon was enthusiastically greeting a tall, slender man who was smiling like a cat with cream and wearing at least twenty pounds of lace at his wrists and throat. “William!” Brendon said as Spencer reached them, Pete tagging along behind. “These are our émigré guests from across the water. Gentlemen, allow me to present William, Lord Beckett.”
“Messieurs,” William greeted them, sweeping an extravagant bow. “It’s a pleasure. I’m sure you’re eager to reach civilization, so if you please?” He gestured to the horses with a graceful dip of his hat. The rest of the men had gone to the ship and were offloading barrels; undoubtedly the less legal portion of the cargo.
They were leaving the other horses for Patrick’s men, it appeared, so William took Pete and Spencer found himself with his back pressed against Brendon’s chest, leaning slightly to one side so Brendon could see, trying not to be distracted by the way the horse’s gait rocked the two of them together. Even worse was the way every other step jolted through the more tender areas of his body. He held himself as stiffly as possible, trying not to give anything away, but after a while Brendon touched his hip, lightly, and murmured into his ear, “I didn’t think about this, last night. I’m sorry.”
Spencer shook his head, trying to relax back slightly into a more comfortable position. Brendon shifted to accommodate him, arms securely around Spencer to keep him from sliding. Their hips were still cradled together, rubbing suggestively with every step, and Spencer felt his face go hot when Pete glanced back curiously from his perch in front of William.
“We should be all right now,” William said after a long stretch of silence, as they moved out of the thick of the forest onto a dirt trail. “It’s less than a mile to Dover from here, we’ll have you all back in frills and frippery in no time.”
Brendon groaned good-naturedly, but laughed when William winked back at them. “You’ll have to forgive William, he’s a bit of a dandy,” Brendon teased, and William snorted, brushing imaginary dust off of his lace cuff. “Beyond suspicion, though, as far as smuggling French contraband goes. In and out at all hours playing the rake, and no one questions where he’s been. Speaking of such, what have I been up to while I was away?”
“Gambling again,” William chided with a cluck of his tongue. “You lost a hundred pounds at dice and cards, drank yourself into stupor and have been hiding in shame at my townhouse ever since.”
“One hundred pounds?” Brendon inquired. His voice was warm and rich in Spencer’s ear, hands deft when their mount stepped over a log and Brendon touched Spencer’s thigh lightly to keep him balanced. Spencer didn’t know when he’d started noticing these things; only that it was difficult, in their current position, to concentrate on anything else.
“I had to tip the port authority,” William explained, making a face as he did so. “They’re not coming cheaply these days. I did manage to buy off a reasonable number of them this time, though, so I don’t foresee getting into any trouble with them in the near future.”
“Good,” Brendon replied, and his tone was more serious than before, a grim edge to the word. “I’ve left my papers behind in France, unfortunately, and it shall probably be necessary to go back and reclaim them.”
William sent him an inquiring look, and whatever Brendon’s response was, Spencer couldn’t see it. William appeared to understand, though, and turned back to the path ahead. “Pity,” he said mildly. Then, “Word has it that Paris has closed its gates for the time being, to prevent the royal family from escaping. I’d say they must have opened them, since you’re here, but I suspect you’d have found a way out regardless. Do you know if they’ve reopened the city?”
“No,” Brendon replied absently. His hand had, at some point, come to rest on Spencer’s thigh. Spencer wasn’t sure of when it had arrived, just that it was spreading warmth through the fabric of his trousers and a faint flush beneath his collar.
“Well, let’s press on to London in any case, unless any of you need to rest,” William suggested. “We can pick up a carriage and make it back before dark, if this weather holds. It will be better to have you back in the public eye in good time for Lord Blackington’s dinner party tomorrow evening.”
“Damn,” Brendon said, and then laughed. “I’d forgotten; it’s been a hell of a week. Yes, let’s, by all means. I think we can manage one more day on the road.”
~
The carriage ride had been long and tedious, but uneventful, and the sequence of arriving at Brendon’s manor, having dinner, and being shown to the guest room all passed by in a blur. Spencer was asleep almost before his head hit the pillow, with barely a thought for how travel-stained he was, lying on the clean white sheets.
He slept for what felt like years, waking when the light had already begun to dim behind the elaborate curtains, swimming out of the depths of sleep to the realization that he was both starving and almost unbearably filthy.
Investigation of the room turned up a servant’s bell, which shortly resulted in a steaming hot bath and a lunch tray, after which Spencer felt slightly more human. There was also a note from Brendon that said, Leaving for Blackington’s at half-six, you’re welcome to attend. Clothes in the wardrobe; I had to guess at size, but they shouldn’t be too far off. Ring for a servant if you need anything. - B.
Spencer checked the clock and found that he had nearly an hour to decide. There was a large enough selection of clothing in the wardrobe for Spencer to find something nearly tailored to a perfect fit, in what he assumed were this season’s cut and colors. The waist of the coat was higher than he was used to, and the jacket was shorter by far, but he felt more at home in them than he ever had in the carmagnole and trousers of the sans-culottes. Dressed in expensive material and properly groomed, he could look into the mirror, framed by fat, golden cherubs, and almost believe it was really his own reflection looking back.
When he went downstairs, he found Brendon with Pete, the two of them lounging in a blandly-decorated drawing room full of air and light, engaged in casual conversation. Pete was dressed as well as Spencer was, although neither of them came even close to Brendon, who was draped in fabric and bejeweled to within an inch of his life. They both looked up when Spencer came in, but Brendon’s eyes lingered, drifting across Spencer’s shoulders and chest before he asked, “Will you be joining us?”
Spencer hadn’t made up his mind until then, but he found himself nodding. He didn’t particularly want to spend his first night in this house alone, with nothing to distract him from his thoughts. The interior décor was altogether Neoclassical, echoing the Italian style with an abundance of pillars and arches, but the grandeur of Brendon’s manor still reminded him too much of visiting Ryan.
It was a short carriage ride, the conversation mostly carried by Pete, who seemed to be adjusting amazingly well and was telling them of his grand plans to become a pirate terrorizing the French seaboard - “Or a smuggler,” Brendon murmured to Spencer with a quick wink - when they pulled up to the front gates.
“One, two, what a to-do,” Brendon sang under his breath as they stepped out, and before Spencer could ask what he meant, Brendon had propelled them through the door and into the familiar swirl of society, everything about him dripping charm. Spencer kept his composure, still too raw from the past week to do more than smile and respond politely as they began the first wave of introductions.
They found William early, which was a relief to Spencer even though William was merely hanging around near the fireplace in the ballroom looking unutterably bored, immaculately dressed and sleepy-eyed with a wineglass dangling from his fingers. He was a familiar face, and Brendon had suddenly become an alien, dressed up in white frothy lace and silk as an Incroyable, face painted and powdered, laughter brash and grating. Even his voice had changed; when he’d introduced Spencer to another wealthy émigré, he’d butchered the bonjour so badly that Spencer had winced.
“Oh thank God,” Brendon said sincerely as William bit his lip on a smile and passed over a full glass of wine. “You’ve no idea. I’m about to go mad and it’s not even seven.”
“You do it to yourself,” William told him unrepentantly, summoning another wineglass for Spencer with the smallest flick of his fingers. “If you didn’t play the game, they wouldn’t keep making you jump through the hoops.”
“You call yourself a friend,” Brendon muttered, draining half of his glass in one swallow. Spencer was having difficulty adjusting to the rapid shifts, the façade Brendon showed to one person before spinning around and presenting another. He didn’t even know which ones were an act, at this point.
“I play the game too,” William replied, finishing his drink and magically producing another servant to take the glass away. “Have you lost Jacques, or did he decide not to come?”
Spencer glanced around, startled at finding that Pete was no longer with them. “He’ll be fine,” Brendon assured them, looking completely unconcerned. “He’s an inflammatory foreign poet, refugee from a tyrannical and bloodthirsty government. They’ll be eating out of his hands before we get to the first course.”
William started to reply, and then his expression shifted to one of half-amusement, half-sympathy. “Don’t look now,” he said in a lower tone, “but we’re about to have company. He’s probably been all over London trying to catch up with you since you didn’t show at his last card party.”
Brendon reached out as if to admire one of the decorations on the mantelpiece, glancing sideways as he did. Spencer followed his gaze, curious. There was a man cutting through the crowd towards them, pleasant-looking enough, with sharp cheekbones and a riot of dark curls. Brendon muttered something under his breath that sounded like, “Gabriel,” and turned huge, pleading eyes on William, mouth drawn almost into a pout.
William laughed and tugged at his sleeves. “I’ll see what I can do,” he promised, and the smile that flickered over his lips as he stepped away from them was so unexpectedly sweet it made Spencer blink. “You owe me,” he called over his shoulder, and Brendon ducked his head to hide the laugh as he turned so they could make their escape.
They nearly ran straight into a noblewoman, who was watching them with amusement. Brendon came up short, visibly surprised, but he covered smoothly enough, flashing a smile filled with honeyed charm. He did cast a quick glance in William’s direction, which Spencer suspected to mean that he now wished he hadn’t deployed the troops quite so quickly. “Victoria, Lady Asher. What a pleasure to see you this evening. May I present a recent acquaintance?”
“I’m delighted to meet you,” Victoria said, holding out her hand for Spencer to kiss. He did, lips touching the air just above her pristine white glove, while she continued, “Brendon always knows the most interesting people. No one ever seems to know where he meets them.”
There was just a hint of strain in Brendon’s answering laugh, but his reply was as flippant as ever, flawlessly casual. “Why, at the gaming tables, of course, although it’s a wonder I even remember them.”
Sensing tension in the air, Spencer tried to deflect as much as he could. “How do you do?” he said politely, and Victoria’s eyes widened.
“Oh, French,” she said, and turned coquettish eyes back on Brendon, the glint in them too knowing. “They always are.”
Brendon’s laugh this time was almost too careless, and set Spencer’s teeth on edge. “That’s because you already know all of the Englishmen, my dear. Would you care for some wine?”
Victoria’s hand finally dropped from Spencer’s, although she brushed his sleeve on the way. “They’re not usually this young, though. Not even a proper suit of clothes yet, he must be fresh off the boat.” Her eyes were wide when she turned them back on Brendon, but hardly innocent. “Shame on you, sir, you’ve brought home a baby.”
Spencer flushed, hand closing unconsciously into a fist so that his fingernails dug sharp crescents into his palm. Beside him, Brendon’s voice was calm, with just enough lightness to be written off as a jest. “You haven’t been to Paris lately, my dear. There are no children left.”
Victoria opened her mouth to speak, but Brendon cut her off smoothly, his smile lessening the offense. “Forgive me, I must give my regards to Lord Hurley. My lady.” He dipped into a perfectly-executed bow, pressed his lips perfunctorily over her hand and led Spencer away with a hand on the small of his back.
Within a few feet the polite expression had fallen away, replaced by tense fuming. “I’m sorry. If I’d had any idea she would be here, I would have warned you. She has ideas about me, and her insatiable curiosity has yet to be satisfied, so as you see she keeps at it.” Brendon’s hand was actually shaking slightly as he reached for a glass of wine from the tray nearby, knuckles white.
“It’s fine,” Spencer said quietly. Brendon glanced sideways, as if he didn’t believe that, so Spencer pulled a slight smile from somewhere in reassurance.
It took a moment, but Brendon finally returned the smile, huffing a little under his breath. “Let’s go hide in the billiards room,” he suggested, already moving towards the nearest doorway. “She won’t be able to find us in there.”
~
The party hadn’t ended until nearly midnight, but had thankfully passed without incident. Pete had been an instant success, as Brendon had predicted, and had gathered quite the collection of social invitations. He’d taken time, though, during the dizzy spin of drinks and small talk, to find Spencer and rest a reassuring hand against his elbow. Spencer had been grateful, and even more so when Brendon had declared it time for them to retire.
They were returning to their rooms, walking down the hallway when Brendon said, “I’m going to be leaving on a trip tomorrow morning. I shouldn’t be more than a week, but please, make yourself at home.” He stopped at the door to the master bedroom, turning to face Spencer. “When I return we can get you settled, or William will introduce you to people. It’s an awkward transition, I know, but we’ve done it before.”
Victoria’s questions, Patrick’s participation, and William’s complete lack of surprise at seeing Spencer and Pete were all beginning to come together, coalescing into a suspicion. “You’re not a spy at all, are you?” he asked, guessing his answer by the way Brendon’s hand tightened briefly on the doorknob. “You’re smuggling political prisoners out of France before war breaks out and the borders close.”
Pete had already left them to go to his own room, but Brendon’s eyes still flickered down the hallway before he answered with a quick half-smile, “I told you. I’m more of a precaution.” When Spencer’s gaze didn’t waver, he sighed and added, “A combination, mostly. It’s not as if I don’t learn things while I’m in France, and you could prove useful to my government if you decided to inform on your own.” He only paused a moment before saying softly, “That’s your choice, of course.”
Spencer shifted his weight, arms crossed over his chest. “You never expected me to inform,” he said flatly. Brendon’s eyes were skittering away from his again, as if he could only hide things while Spencer wasn’t looking. “You have no papers,” Spencer said finally, spotting the flaw in the plan. “How will you get back into France?”
Brendon hesitated for another moment, then opened the door to his bedroom. “Let’s not have this conversation in the hallway,” he suggested, leaving the door open behind him for Spencer to close. As soon as the lock clicked shut, Brendon said, “I’m taking Wiliam’s. He’s going to stay out of sight for a while, and if I don’t return he’ll make something up, start a fire and claim they were lost, or stolen.”
“Why wouldn’t you return?” Spencer asked, on edge from the discussion. Brendon turned away, removing the first layer of jewels and accoutrements, and Spencer’s mind turned over slowly, puzzling it out. “Why take William’s papers if you can just claim they were lost or stolen? There’s no way to retrieve yours now, they’ve been…” He stopped, breath caught in his throat, as Brendon’s back straightened into a tight line. Brendon didn’t look at him, and finally Spencer whispered, “You’re going back for Ryan.”
Brendon turned around, and Spencer saw confirmation in his eyes without him even needing to speak. He shrugged, then said, “There’s still time. The French government has larger problems than dealing with a single Englishman being held in Paris. He won’t even have gone to trial yet. Even if he’s been recognized, they won’t be in any rush to be rid of one more aristocrat.”
Spencer felt as if all the blood had drained from his head, dizzy with the idea. “Why?” he asked finally. “Why risk it?”
Brendon shrugged, avoiding Spencer’s gaze again. “As you pointed out, I will eventually need my papers.” He flashed a smile, nimbly tugging the knot out of his cravat. “What better time than the present? They’ll have to reopen Paris eventually, and then I’ll be like every other Englishman in France, heading towards the capital to obtain a passport. No one will remark upon it.”
Hope surged up, dangerous and heady. Conflicting feelings struggled for a moment; joy at the thought of seeing Ryan again, and terror at the admission that Brendon might not be coming back. There were too many things that might go wrong: if they couldn’t escape; if it was too late to save him; if Brendon went to the guillotine in Ryan’s place. He stared at Brendon, who looked softer now in the dim light, bereft of baubles and ribbon, no longer veiled behind any sort of façade. “Why?” he asked again.
Brendon didn’t answer. Spencer took a step forward, watched Brendon’s breath catch, and leaned in to lay a clumsy kiss at the corner of his mouth.
Brendon was very still for a moment, and then he turned his head just a fraction, just enough that their lips met. Spencer made a soft noise, permission or approval, and Brendon moved in closer, still not touching, his tongue slipping out to lick into Spencer’s mouth.
There was a long moment after they broke apart when neither of them moved, just watching each other, breathing faster than before. Then Brendon shifted, kneeling slowly on the thick rug, gaze locked with Spencer’s the whole time.
Spencer closed his eyes when Brendon pulled his breeches open, shocked first by the cool air and then by Brendon’s mouth, hot and damp, teasing first with a line of kisses before he took Spencer fully into his mouth. The heat left Spencer dizzy, his hips rocking of their own volition, pushing him deeper into Brendon’s throat.
When Brendon pulled back Spencer made a sound in spite of himself, helpless protest at the loss, but Brendon mouthed him again, licking and sucking, before he said, low, “If you wanted…” Spencer opened his eyes and looked down, saw Brendon staring back up at him, eyes dark and serious. “It wouldn’t make you any more of a sodomite,” Brendon added, with a twist to his lips that Spencer couldn’t interpret, but wanted to banish all the same.
Spencer was having trouble thinking to begin with, but still he didn’t get Brendon’s meaning until he turned, pushing down his own trousers, and knelt on the bed. Spencer just stared for a moment, blood pooling painfully between his legs, and then crossed slowly to where Brendon was waiting. Spencer couldn’t see his face, but when he put his hand on Brendon’s back, Brendon inhaled audibly and pushed back into the touch.
Spencer had never been fond of chasing chamber maids and kitchen girls, so this was new, sliding slick with spit along the crease and pressing forward, guiding himself in. There was heat and pressure enough to make his head spin, and he heard Brendon make another sound beneath him, half-broken and tight.
Spencer forced himself to stillness, although every instinct he had was screaming for him to thrust. “Should I…slower?” he asked, at a loss, remembering the sting of pain he’d felt when their positions had been reversed, back on the ship.
Brendon laughed softly, barely audible, and said breathlessly, “Gentle would be good.” His voice held a note of wonder along with the pain, almost as if he hadn’t been expecting this somehow. Spencer shifted back for a moment, slicking himself up again, and when he slowly pushed the rest of the way in, he heard another little laughing hiccup of surprise.
Shock held him frozen for a moment when he realized what that meant, but then his body took over, rolling his hips until Brendon shuddered and Spencer poured his concentration into repeating that, earning the same reaction again and again until they were both soaked with sweat, still half-dressed and confined.
He touched Brendon the way he had before, with long, steady strokes that quickened when Brendon twisted against him and begged with open-mouthed, panting breaths. He felt a surge of triumph when Brendon finally tensed and shook beneath him, but it was lost quickly to the demands of his own body, moving more easily now than before.
He let Brendon strip him of his jacket afterwards, making them both more comfortable on the bed. Spencer hazily realized he had no intention of going anywhere, even when Brendon glanced at him inquiringly before putting out the lights.
They were silent for a while, Spencer’s blood humming beneath his skin, prickling electric and raising the hairs on his arms. He thought about Brendon leaving in the morning, and turned until their noses were nearly touching, face to face. “What if I wanted to go with you?” he asked quietly.
Brendon didn’t reply immediately, but his hand skimmed over Spencer’s cheek, so lightly that Spencer barely needed to flutter his eyes closed beneath Brendon’s fingertips. Finally he said softly, “What if I wanted you to stay?”
~
By the time Spencer woke up in the morning, he could see early light streaming through the drawn curtains. There was a breakfast tray on the table with a note beside it, and the bed was already cold.
Pairing: Spencer/Brendon
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction.
Summary: Spencer got the note on the 7th of August, with the sky already turned to dusk, the sun lost behind the great wall surrounding the city.
Notes: For the incredible and amazing disarm_d. Happy holidays, darling. Historical AU. I am hugely indebted to Richard Twiss for writing A Trip to Paris in July and August 1792, and to Project Gutenberg for making it available online. Thanks to my betas for their assistance and insight.
Part One
It took two false starts, but on the third attempt they managed to locate the ship, which was nestled in a cove just a few miles away from Calais. It was a cutter, fore-and-aft rigged for speed, its swollen belly hidden beneath the shallow water it rested in. Spencer took one look at the sails, the lack of identification on the bow, and asked, “Smugglers?”
Brendon glanced sideways at him, offering a weary smile. “I’d hardly call a French émigré legitimate cargo, would you?”
Spencer flushed, and kept his head down as they made their way over the rocky terrain to the ship. A short, worried-looking man met them on the deck, and seemed relieved to see Brendon, at least, although Spencer saw the split-second before his fingers twitched away from the pistol tucked into his belt.
“You’re late,” the man said by way of greeting. “We expected you days ago.”
“The city’s sealed, it’s damned inconvenient. Patrick.” Brendon held out his hand to be clasped, beckoning Spencer over. “This is our fine captain; he’ll be taking us across the ocean this evening. We also have one other guest, if I’m not mistaken. I’m sure you two will get along splendidly. This is…”
“Pete,” Spencer said in surprise, half-falling into the enthusiastic hug he was being offered as another man came up to greet them, the seaman’s clothing strange but the face familiar. “What are you doing here?”
“Going abroad for a while to continue my education in a friendlier climate. And it’s Jacques, now,” Pete told him, showing a grin full of teeth that Spencer well remembered from many of Ryan’s social events. He gripped Spencer’s shoulder, hearty and supportive. “You can’t be too careful.”
“Pete is very taken with the idea of an undercover identity,” Patrick informed them, with a distinctly weary note to his voice. Spencer sympathized; Pete had often had the same effect on him.
“Delightful,” Brendon proclaimed, clapping Pete on the back. “Patrick my good man, unfortunate as it is, we may very well have acquired unwelcome company at our heels. When can we set sail?”
“Well, you’ve made the tide,” Patrick answered, squinting up at the sun and frowning, “but the winds are against us.”
Brendon’s grin was blinding and mostly, Spencer suspected, reflex. “All of France is against us,” he pointed out. “It’s part of the challenge. How soon can we leave?”
Patrick sighed, and jammed his hat slightly further onto his head. “I’ll see what I can do,” he promised, and cast a quick eye over Brendon and Spencer. “If you’re hungry, there’s food below. Not a feast, but I suspect you aren’t feeling too choosy.”
“I would be lost without you,” Brendon proclaimed, hand clasped to his heart. “By all means, let us retire.”
“Take Jacques with you,” Patrick suggested, in a tone that made it more of a command. “He looks hungry.”
Spencer suspected that meant Patrick wanted them all out from underfoot, but Pete beamed in response, arm around Patrick’s shoulders as if they were seafaring comrades. “Why Patrick, I didn’t know you cared.”
Patrick shrugged him off and yanked on his cap again, managing to look both disgruntled and tolerant as he did. Spencer found his tongue at last, as Pete gestured for them to follow him across the deck, taking over as guide although it seemed likely that Brendon knew where they were heading. “I thought you were in Paris,” he said, still stunned by Pete’s unexpected appearance on board.
Pete scratched at his chin, looking both proud and sheepish. “I, ah, may have written some poetry not particularly flattering to the current government,” he admitted, and then after a pause, added, “and read it aloud at the mayor’s wife’s garden party.” Brendon chuckled and Pete grinned, then looked around quizzically, as if only now realizing it was merely the three of them. “You came without Ryan?”
In an instant it all slammed back into him, so hard that it took Spencer’s breath away. Brendon spoke when it became apparent that Spencer wasn’t going to, saying quietly, “The Marquis was detained on our way here, and is being returned to Paris.”
Pete’s eyes widened, but he went mercifully silent, only speaking up again when they’d reached the narrow cabin below which must have belonged to Patrick. “There’s wine open,” he said, pulling a bottle from the cabinet. “Or ale, if you prefer. We had soup for supper, but it’s probably gone cold by now. Would you like a biscuit?”
Spencer ate in silence, listening to Pete and Brendon talk in rapid-fire bursts over top of one another, laughing easily. “Crème brulee,” Pete announced, taking a swig from the wine bottle and leaning back, feet planted to keep him from falling backwards over his chair. “That’s what I shall miss most about France, I think. And French lace. I don’t care what you say, English lace isn’t the same.” He flicked a finger at Brendon’s jacket, and then turned inquisitive eyes on Spencer. “What about you? What will you regret leaving behind?”
It was too easy to think it, and harder to say. Finally he said quietly, “My best friend in prison,” and Pete turned suddenly, completely serious. He set his chair down on its legs and leaned over, resting his hand over Spencer’s on the table, not saying anything else.
Brendon cleared his throat softly. “We should sleep,” he suggested. “It’s been a long journey, and the voyage across will take us six hours or more. It will be easiest to ride straight on from Dover once we land, so rest while you can.”
Spencer nodded, and Pete’s hand squeezed his once before dropping away. “Patrick said we can sleep in here,” he said, gesturing to the pile of blankets stacked against the wall of the cabin. “He said he’ll be on deck anyway, so he won’t disturb us.”
“What is he smuggling?” Spencer asked, gaze traveling across the cabin to land on Brendon. He didn’t see anything suspicious, but then whatever it was would undoubtedly be in the cargo hold, rather than the captain’s cabin.
Brendon studied him for a moment, and then said, “Brandies. Wine, cognac, champagne. The French bourgeois fully support having smugglers to transport their wares; they consider it a victory to damage our fragile economy and cheat the tyrannical king of revenue.”
“Will we be received as well on the other side of the ocean?” Spencer inquired politely, eyebrows slightly raised.
Brendon’s lips twisted, slight and fleeting. “We’ll manage,” he said. His tone was surprisingly gentle, as were his fingers on Spencer’s arm. “Get some sleep.”
~
There was a guillotine waiting in Dover. For some reason it didn’t shock Spencer as much as it perhaps should have; he’d thought they were making a clean escape, that once they were in England the danger was past, but that was clearly not the case. He looked up at the blade, shining silver and stained from earlier executions, and wondered if he would even get the benefit of a trial.
“It’s not for you,” Brendon assured him, standing close by Spencer’s side, hand shading his eyes from the sun as he gazed up. “Don’t worry.”
Spencer was about to ask who it was for, then, when the blade came crashing down and there was a sick, triumphant cheer from the crowd gathered around to watch the spectacle. Spencer could see the stocks from where they were standing, and had just enough time to register that the customary basket was missing before the head came bouncing down off of the platform to roll to a sickening stop at Spencer’s feet. He looked down, straight into Ryan’s eyes.
Someone was trying to talk to him, through the shock and horror numbing his mind. Brendon. Brendon was trying to talk to him. “Spencer. Spencer, come on. Spencer.”
Spencer took a deep breath and woke up.
“Spencer,” Brendon said again, low and urgent, but fell silent as Spencer sat up and gasped for breath, shaking. His hand was flat against Spencer’s back, burning hot in comparison to the icy trickle of sweat making its way slowly down his spine. He left it there as Spencer bent over, squeezing his eyes closed to block out the vision of Ryan’s sightless, accusing eyes.
Brendon didn’t say anything until Spencer had mostly recovered his composure, his heart no longer trying to pound its way out through his ribcage and breath not stabbing sharp daggers of pain into his lungs. Then he asked, “Nightmare about Ryan?”
Spencer jerked his head up, trying to make out Brendon’s expression. “How did you know?” he asked, once he was sure his voice wouldn’t shake. He clasped his hands between his knees to keep them from doing the same.
Brendon shrugged a little, hardly more than the soft sound of fabric rustling in the dark. “There only seems to be one thing weighing down on you heavily,” he pointed out. Then he added quietly, “You said his name while you were dreaming.”
Spencer remained silent, not sure of how to reply. He became vaguely aware of Brendon’s hand, rubbing in small, reassuring circles on his back, through the sweat-damp fabric of his borrowed shirt. After a while, Brendon spoke up again, gently inquiring. “You must be very good friends.”
“More than friends,” Spencer said. He and Ryan had grown up together, gone on trips together, had the same tutors, attended the same parties and functions. They had even learned to kiss together.
He hadn’t said it aloud, but he heard the same thought in Brendon’s silence, his deliberate lack of response. Spencer laughed, bitter on his ears as well as his tongue, and said, “You thought I meant sodomy.”
Brendon didn’t answer for a while, but then he shook his head and said quietly, “No. I thought you meant love.”
Spencer looked over at Brendon, whose eyes were burning dark and sympathetic as he watched Spencer, and suddenly missed Ryan so much it made his stomach ache. He closed his eyes and lay back down, pulling the blanket up over his clammy skin. After a few seconds Brendon lay down as well, presumably taking the hint and giving Spencer his privacy.
It wasn’t what he needed, though. What he wanted, yes, but with the silence came visions of Ryan’s face, his eyes, the sick whistling slice of the guillotine. Spencer felt as if he couldn’t breathe, like there was a weight pressing down on his chest, and he was afraid that if he opened his eyes again he’d see Ryan there, accusing him without words for the abandonment.
Spencer squeezed his eyes shut tight and tried to breathe. He thought about what he would do if Ryan were here, if they were making this journey together; of what Ryan was facing right now, interrogation as a foreign spy; and then he thought he might scream if he couldn’t stop himself from thinking.
Brendon’s breathing was even, but it wasn’t the rhythm of sleep. Spencer rolled onto his side before he could second-guess himself, before he could think, and slid his hand down Brendon’s stomach towards the front of his breeches.
He could feel Brendon’s eyes on him, questioning, but Brendon made no move to stop him. Spencer undid the fastenings of his breeches and pushed his hand inside, finding Brendon not eager, but not entirely unwilling either. “Spencer,” Brendon began, breaking the silence between them, and Spencer rolled closer and kissed him.
It was a short fight. He could feel Brendon’s struggle, the moment when he wanted to pull back, and then he felt the capitulation exhaled into his mouth, the tension draining as Brendon pushed forward into his hand. Spencer stroked him slowly, concentrating all his focus on Brendon’s mouth, the dance between their lips and tongues. It wasn’t enough, he wanted to do more. He owed Brendon, for getting him out of France and for keeping him safe. He wanted to give more than this.
Spencer licked his lips, breaking the kiss, but when he looked down his mind balked at actually tasting, at putting that into his mouth. He tried to reason with himself, to rationalize it as just another experience, but it was still too much. Instead, he rolled over, facing away, and fumbled his trousers down around his knees.
For several seconds, all he could hear was the harsh drag of Brendon’s breathing, and his own heart pounding in his chest. He had his eyes closed tight, willing himself not to think, and nearly jumped when Brendon set his hand lightly on Spencer’s bare hip.
“Are you sure?” Brendon asked softly. His hand hadn’t moved, fingertips barely brushing Spencer’s thigh. Spencer shivered, letting out a breath, and pushed back against Brendon in answer.
Brendon’s fingers trailed over Spencer’s hip, down between his legs, almost wondering. Spencer held his breath without realizing it, only exhaling when Brendon pressed against him, testing. Then there were kisses scattered across the back of his neck, and down over his shoulder as Brendon shifted onto his elbow, leaning in closer. Spencer kept his eyes closed until Brendon slowly pushed into him, and then they flew open as his entire body tensed up, panicking.
Brendon peppered his shoulder with kisses, his breathing uneven and hot on Spencer’s skin. He was tense as well, holding himself rigid and still while Spencer chastised himself sternly and tried to relax, to allow the invasion in spite of the pain. Brendon moved back, doing something Spencer couldn’t hear over the low creaking of the ship around them, leaving him momentarily cold and exposed.
Brendon pressed forward again and Spencer’s breath caught, but he forced himself not to react this time, focusing on the gentle rocking of the ship and the sounds of the waves to keep from thinking about what Brendon was doing. It was less rough this time, slick and wet, and Spencer nearly bit through his tongue when he felt his body give way.
It hurt, but after a while the pain was less sharp, and he could breathe a little while Brendon rocked tentatively back and forth. Then Brendon did something inside of him that made his body tense again, made him say, “Oh,” in surprise and drop his head back against Brendon’s shoulder.
It wasn’t pleasure, exactly, but it was close, and he found himself pushing back, almost without thinking. Brendon chuckled softly into his hair, said, “There?” with breathless amusement lacing his tone, and did it again.
Spencer’s mouth opened, shaped the word ‘God,’ but left it unspoken, warmth beginning to creep up his spine and curl in his belly. Brendon’s hand cradled his hip, guiding them together, and every time he pushed forward now it made Spencer’s toes twitch. ‘Please,’ he said silently, and then repeated it out loud, so softly he almost hoped Brendon hadn’t heard.
Brendon’s hand moved, slipped from Spencer’s hip to between his legs and stroked, bringing the heat from a low burn to flash-fire in an instant. Spencer heard the sound he made and clamped his mouth shut, dropping his head forward as he thrust helplessly into Brendon’s grip. He couldn’t completely stop the noises he was making, no matter how ruthlessly he tried to stifle them, and Brendon whispered, “Shh, shh,” as his hips drove forward hard enough to make Spencer’s teeth clench.
He felt himself crest, felt Brendon still and shudder inside him, and then they both lay there, panting and silent. Gingerly, Spencer shifted forward until they were no longer connected, and Brendon’s hand dropped away from his side.
It took two tries, but Spencer finally wet his lips enough to ask, “Where is Pete?” They were alone in the cabin, but he didn’t know for how long, or what time it was now; if they were close to shore.
Brendon sounded as if he was still struggling for breath, but he answered calmly enough, “On deck, with Patrick. There was a storm, just a mild one, he wanted to see it. I gather he suffers from sleeplessness often enough.”
Spencer just nodded, and willed himself not to think of Ryan. After a moment, Brendon’s fingertips feathered over his shoulder, questioning. Spencer didn’t know how to answer, exactly, but he shifted back into the touch, just enough for Brendon to feel it. He did up his trousers again, in case someone else came in, and felt Brendon do the same. When they lay back down again, Spencer let himself settle within Brendon’s reach.
He fell asleep before he could register more than the gentle touch of Brendon’s fingers brushing back his hair.
~
The voices shouting outside the cabin woke him before Pete had a chance to, his dark head poking in as Spencer struggled to sit up, blinking sleep from his eyes. “We’re about to land,” he said, echoing the calls from above deck. “Patrick says to be ready to move, just in case we have to make a run for it.”
Spencer had no more desire to spend time in an English prison than he did a French one. He rolled up the blankets they’d been using, including Brendon’s, which had been left spread half-over him; stowed them and headed up onto the deck.
His body was shooting tiny sparks of discomfort up his spine every time he moved, a physical reminder of the night before, but Brendon appeared unruffled and unbothered, standing beside Patrick watching the shoreline, still in yesterday’s clothes.
“Fire away,” Brendon sang under his breath as Patrick called an order, and then the hollow retort of a pistol rang out over their heads. Spencer ducked instinctively, heart leaping into his throat, but Brendon caught his arm. “It’s the signal,” he explained, pointing to the cloud of blue smoke that was slowly rising above their ship. “If all’s clear, we should hear…ah, there it is,” he said, tone full of satisfaction, with more than a hint of relief beneath it as an answering shot rang out from the shore.
“Joe, which side is the watch posted on?” Patrick called back, without taking his eyes off of the coast. When ‘Starboard,’ came back from somewhere behind them, Patrick shouted, “Land to port!”
They were easing into the mouth of a river, slowly running up into shallower water. On the land beyond, Spencer could see a small group of men waiting with horses. On the opposite side of the river was an official watch post, too far away for Spencer to see clearly.
Brendon’s hand brushed his arm and Spencer tensed, startled, but tried to shrug it off in the next moment. Brendon didn’t show any sign of having noticed, leaning in to explain what was going on. “Those are our merry band of accomplices, on this side of the river. The guard is on the other side, he’ll have to ride at least half a mile or more down the river to the nearest bridge so he can cross over and ride back to us, and by that time those of us who would rather avoid any sort of confrontation with authority figures will be long gone.”
Spencer glanced over at Pete, who had made himself at home with his chin on Patrick’s shoulder. Patrick looked more flustered than annoyed, and kept shuffling when he needed to move so that Pete could stay with him, his mouth stretched into a toothy grin.
“Him, too,” Brendon confirmed, stepping away towards the rail. “There should be enough horses for all of us. If not, we can ride double to Dover, it’s not far.”
Spencer followed Brendon over the side when he swung over the rail, making his way to where the horses were waiting. Brendon was enthusiastically greeting a tall, slender man who was smiling like a cat with cream and wearing at least twenty pounds of lace at his wrists and throat. “William!” Brendon said as Spencer reached them, Pete tagging along behind. “These are our émigré guests from across the water. Gentlemen, allow me to present William, Lord Beckett.”
“Messieurs,” William greeted them, sweeping an extravagant bow. “It’s a pleasure. I’m sure you’re eager to reach civilization, so if you please?” He gestured to the horses with a graceful dip of his hat. The rest of the men had gone to the ship and were offloading barrels; undoubtedly the less legal portion of the cargo.
They were leaving the other horses for Patrick’s men, it appeared, so William took Pete and Spencer found himself with his back pressed against Brendon’s chest, leaning slightly to one side so Brendon could see, trying not to be distracted by the way the horse’s gait rocked the two of them together. Even worse was the way every other step jolted through the more tender areas of his body. He held himself as stiffly as possible, trying not to give anything away, but after a while Brendon touched his hip, lightly, and murmured into his ear, “I didn’t think about this, last night. I’m sorry.”
Spencer shook his head, trying to relax back slightly into a more comfortable position. Brendon shifted to accommodate him, arms securely around Spencer to keep him from sliding. Their hips were still cradled together, rubbing suggestively with every step, and Spencer felt his face go hot when Pete glanced back curiously from his perch in front of William.
“We should be all right now,” William said after a long stretch of silence, as they moved out of the thick of the forest onto a dirt trail. “It’s less than a mile to Dover from here, we’ll have you all back in frills and frippery in no time.”
Brendon groaned good-naturedly, but laughed when William winked back at them. “You’ll have to forgive William, he’s a bit of a dandy,” Brendon teased, and William snorted, brushing imaginary dust off of his lace cuff. “Beyond suspicion, though, as far as smuggling French contraband goes. In and out at all hours playing the rake, and no one questions where he’s been. Speaking of such, what have I been up to while I was away?”
“Gambling again,” William chided with a cluck of his tongue. “You lost a hundred pounds at dice and cards, drank yourself into stupor and have been hiding in shame at my townhouse ever since.”
“One hundred pounds?” Brendon inquired. His voice was warm and rich in Spencer’s ear, hands deft when their mount stepped over a log and Brendon touched Spencer’s thigh lightly to keep him balanced. Spencer didn’t know when he’d started noticing these things; only that it was difficult, in their current position, to concentrate on anything else.
“I had to tip the port authority,” William explained, making a face as he did so. “They’re not coming cheaply these days. I did manage to buy off a reasonable number of them this time, though, so I don’t foresee getting into any trouble with them in the near future.”
“Good,” Brendon replied, and his tone was more serious than before, a grim edge to the word. “I’ve left my papers behind in France, unfortunately, and it shall probably be necessary to go back and reclaim them.”
William sent him an inquiring look, and whatever Brendon’s response was, Spencer couldn’t see it. William appeared to understand, though, and turned back to the path ahead. “Pity,” he said mildly. Then, “Word has it that Paris has closed its gates for the time being, to prevent the royal family from escaping. I’d say they must have opened them, since you’re here, but I suspect you’d have found a way out regardless. Do you know if they’ve reopened the city?”
“No,” Brendon replied absently. His hand had, at some point, come to rest on Spencer’s thigh. Spencer wasn’t sure of when it had arrived, just that it was spreading warmth through the fabric of his trousers and a faint flush beneath his collar.
“Well, let’s press on to London in any case, unless any of you need to rest,” William suggested. “We can pick up a carriage and make it back before dark, if this weather holds. It will be better to have you back in the public eye in good time for Lord Blackington’s dinner party tomorrow evening.”
“Damn,” Brendon said, and then laughed. “I’d forgotten; it’s been a hell of a week. Yes, let’s, by all means. I think we can manage one more day on the road.”
~
The carriage ride had been long and tedious, but uneventful, and the sequence of arriving at Brendon’s manor, having dinner, and being shown to the guest room all passed by in a blur. Spencer was asleep almost before his head hit the pillow, with barely a thought for how travel-stained he was, lying on the clean white sheets.
He slept for what felt like years, waking when the light had already begun to dim behind the elaborate curtains, swimming out of the depths of sleep to the realization that he was both starving and almost unbearably filthy.
Investigation of the room turned up a servant’s bell, which shortly resulted in a steaming hot bath and a lunch tray, after which Spencer felt slightly more human. There was also a note from Brendon that said, Leaving for Blackington’s at half-six, you’re welcome to attend. Clothes in the wardrobe; I had to guess at size, but they shouldn’t be too far off. Ring for a servant if you need anything. - B.
Spencer checked the clock and found that he had nearly an hour to decide. There was a large enough selection of clothing in the wardrobe for Spencer to find something nearly tailored to a perfect fit, in what he assumed were this season’s cut and colors. The waist of the coat was higher than he was used to, and the jacket was shorter by far, but he felt more at home in them than he ever had in the carmagnole and trousers of the sans-culottes. Dressed in expensive material and properly groomed, he could look into the mirror, framed by fat, golden cherubs, and almost believe it was really his own reflection looking back.
When he went downstairs, he found Brendon with Pete, the two of them lounging in a blandly-decorated drawing room full of air and light, engaged in casual conversation. Pete was dressed as well as Spencer was, although neither of them came even close to Brendon, who was draped in fabric and bejeweled to within an inch of his life. They both looked up when Spencer came in, but Brendon’s eyes lingered, drifting across Spencer’s shoulders and chest before he asked, “Will you be joining us?”
Spencer hadn’t made up his mind until then, but he found himself nodding. He didn’t particularly want to spend his first night in this house alone, with nothing to distract him from his thoughts. The interior décor was altogether Neoclassical, echoing the Italian style with an abundance of pillars and arches, but the grandeur of Brendon’s manor still reminded him too much of visiting Ryan.
It was a short carriage ride, the conversation mostly carried by Pete, who seemed to be adjusting amazingly well and was telling them of his grand plans to become a pirate terrorizing the French seaboard - “Or a smuggler,” Brendon murmured to Spencer with a quick wink - when they pulled up to the front gates.
“One, two, what a to-do,” Brendon sang under his breath as they stepped out, and before Spencer could ask what he meant, Brendon had propelled them through the door and into the familiar swirl of society, everything about him dripping charm. Spencer kept his composure, still too raw from the past week to do more than smile and respond politely as they began the first wave of introductions.
They found William early, which was a relief to Spencer even though William was merely hanging around near the fireplace in the ballroom looking unutterably bored, immaculately dressed and sleepy-eyed with a wineglass dangling from his fingers. He was a familiar face, and Brendon had suddenly become an alien, dressed up in white frothy lace and silk as an Incroyable, face painted and powdered, laughter brash and grating. Even his voice had changed; when he’d introduced Spencer to another wealthy émigré, he’d butchered the bonjour so badly that Spencer had winced.
“Oh thank God,” Brendon said sincerely as William bit his lip on a smile and passed over a full glass of wine. “You’ve no idea. I’m about to go mad and it’s not even seven.”
“You do it to yourself,” William told him unrepentantly, summoning another wineglass for Spencer with the smallest flick of his fingers. “If you didn’t play the game, they wouldn’t keep making you jump through the hoops.”
“You call yourself a friend,” Brendon muttered, draining half of his glass in one swallow. Spencer was having difficulty adjusting to the rapid shifts, the façade Brendon showed to one person before spinning around and presenting another. He didn’t even know which ones were an act, at this point.
“I play the game too,” William replied, finishing his drink and magically producing another servant to take the glass away. “Have you lost Jacques, or did he decide not to come?”
Spencer glanced around, startled at finding that Pete was no longer with them. “He’ll be fine,” Brendon assured them, looking completely unconcerned. “He’s an inflammatory foreign poet, refugee from a tyrannical and bloodthirsty government. They’ll be eating out of his hands before we get to the first course.”
William started to reply, and then his expression shifted to one of half-amusement, half-sympathy. “Don’t look now,” he said in a lower tone, “but we’re about to have company. He’s probably been all over London trying to catch up with you since you didn’t show at his last card party.”
Brendon reached out as if to admire one of the decorations on the mantelpiece, glancing sideways as he did. Spencer followed his gaze, curious. There was a man cutting through the crowd towards them, pleasant-looking enough, with sharp cheekbones and a riot of dark curls. Brendon muttered something under his breath that sounded like, “Gabriel,” and turned huge, pleading eyes on William, mouth drawn almost into a pout.
William laughed and tugged at his sleeves. “I’ll see what I can do,” he promised, and the smile that flickered over his lips as he stepped away from them was so unexpectedly sweet it made Spencer blink. “You owe me,” he called over his shoulder, and Brendon ducked his head to hide the laugh as he turned so they could make their escape.
They nearly ran straight into a noblewoman, who was watching them with amusement. Brendon came up short, visibly surprised, but he covered smoothly enough, flashing a smile filled with honeyed charm. He did cast a quick glance in William’s direction, which Spencer suspected to mean that he now wished he hadn’t deployed the troops quite so quickly. “Victoria, Lady Asher. What a pleasure to see you this evening. May I present a recent acquaintance?”
“I’m delighted to meet you,” Victoria said, holding out her hand for Spencer to kiss. He did, lips touching the air just above her pristine white glove, while she continued, “Brendon always knows the most interesting people. No one ever seems to know where he meets them.”
There was just a hint of strain in Brendon’s answering laugh, but his reply was as flippant as ever, flawlessly casual. “Why, at the gaming tables, of course, although it’s a wonder I even remember them.”
Sensing tension in the air, Spencer tried to deflect as much as he could. “How do you do?” he said politely, and Victoria’s eyes widened.
“Oh, French,” she said, and turned coquettish eyes back on Brendon, the glint in them too knowing. “They always are.”
Brendon’s laugh this time was almost too careless, and set Spencer’s teeth on edge. “That’s because you already know all of the Englishmen, my dear. Would you care for some wine?”
Victoria’s hand finally dropped from Spencer’s, although she brushed his sleeve on the way. “They’re not usually this young, though. Not even a proper suit of clothes yet, he must be fresh off the boat.” Her eyes were wide when she turned them back on Brendon, but hardly innocent. “Shame on you, sir, you’ve brought home a baby.”
Spencer flushed, hand closing unconsciously into a fist so that his fingernails dug sharp crescents into his palm. Beside him, Brendon’s voice was calm, with just enough lightness to be written off as a jest. “You haven’t been to Paris lately, my dear. There are no children left.”
Victoria opened her mouth to speak, but Brendon cut her off smoothly, his smile lessening the offense. “Forgive me, I must give my regards to Lord Hurley. My lady.” He dipped into a perfectly-executed bow, pressed his lips perfunctorily over her hand and led Spencer away with a hand on the small of his back.
Within a few feet the polite expression had fallen away, replaced by tense fuming. “I’m sorry. If I’d had any idea she would be here, I would have warned you. She has ideas about me, and her insatiable curiosity has yet to be satisfied, so as you see she keeps at it.” Brendon’s hand was actually shaking slightly as he reached for a glass of wine from the tray nearby, knuckles white.
“It’s fine,” Spencer said quietly. Brendon glanced sideways, as if he didn’t believe that, so Spencer pulled a slight smile from somewhere in reassurance.
It took a moment, but Brendon finally returned the smile, huffing a little under his breath. “Let’s go hide in the billiards room,” he suggested, already moving towards the nearest doorway. “She won’t be able to find us in there.”
~
The party hadn’t ended until nearly midnight, but had thankfully passed without incident. Pete had been an instant success, as Brendon had predicted, and had gathered quite the collection of social invitations. He’d taken time, though, during the dizzy spin of drinks and small talk, to find Spencer and rest a reassuring hand against his elbow. Spencer had been grateful, and even more so when Brendon had declared it time for them to retire.
They were returning to their rooms, walking down the hallway when Brendon said, “I’m going to be leaving on a trip tomorrow morning. I shouldn’t be more than a week, but please, make yourself at home.” He stopped at the door to the master bedroom, turning to face Spencer. “When I return we can get you settled, or William will introduce you to people. It’s an awkward transition, I know, but we’ve done it before.”
Victoria’s questions, Patrick’s participation, and William’s complete lack of surprise at seeing Spencer and Pete were all beginning to come together, coalescing into a suspicion. “You’re not a spy at all, are you?” he asked, guessing his answer by the way Brendon’s hand tightened briefly on the doorknob. “You’re smuggling political prisoners out of France before war breaks out and the borders close.”
Pete had already left them to go to his own room, but Brendon’s eyes still flickered down the hallway before he answered with a quick half-smile, “I told you. I’m more of a precaution.” When Spencer’s gaze didn’t waver, he sighed and added, “A combination, mostly. It’s not as if I don’t learn things while I’m in France, and you could prove useful to my government if you decided to inform on your own.” He only paused a moment before saying softly, “That’s your choice, of course.”
Spencer shifted his weight, arms crossed over his chest. “You never expected me to inform,” he said flatly. Brendon’s eyes were skittering away from his again, as if he could only hide things while Spencer wasn’t looking. “You have no papers,” Spencer said finally, spotting the flaw in the plan. “How will you get back into France?”
Brendon hesitated for another moment, then opened the door to his bedroom. “Let’s not have this conversation in the hallway,” he suggested, leaving the door open behind him for Spencer to close. As soon as the lock clicked shut, Brendon said, “I’m taking Wiliam’s. He’s going to stay out of sight for a while, and if I don’t return he’ll make something up, start a fire and claim they were lost, or stolen.”
“Why wouldn’t you return?” Spencer asked, on edge from the discussion. Brendon turned away, removing the first layer of jewels and accoutrements, and Spencer’s mind turned over slowly, puzzling it out. “Why take William’s papers if you can just claim they were lost or stolen? There’s no way to retrieve yours now, they’ve been…” He stopped, breath caught in his throat, as Brendon’s back straightened into a tight line. Brendon didn’t look at him, and finally Spencer whispered, “You’re going back for Ryan.”
Brendon turned around, and Spencer saw confirmation in his eyes without him even needing to speak. He shrugged, then said, “There’s still time. The French government has larger problems than dealing with a single Englishman being held in Paris. He won’t even have gone to trial yet. Even if he’s been recognized, they won’t be in any rush to be rid of one more aristocrat.”
Spencer felt as if all the blood had drained from his head, dizzy with the idea. “Why?” he asked finally. “Why risk it?”
Brendon shrugged, avoiding Spencer’s gaze again. “As you pointed out, I will eventually need my papers.” He flashed a smile, nimbly tugging the knot out of his cravat. “What better time than the present? They’ll have to reopen Paris eventually, and then I’ll be like every other Englishman in France, heading towards the capital to obtain a passport. No one will remark upon it.”
Hope surged up, dangerous and heady. Conflicting feelings struggled for a moment; joy at the thought of seeing Ryan again, and terror at the admission that Brendon might not be coming back. There were too many things that might go wrong: if they couldn’t escape; if it was too late to save him; if Brendon went to the guillotine in Ryan’s place. He stared at Brendon, who looked softer now in the dim light, bereft of baubles and ribbon, no longer veiled behind any sort of façade. “Why?” he asked again.
Brendon didn’t answer. Spencer took a step forward, watched Brendon’s breath catch, and leaned in to lay a clumsy kiss at the corner of his mouth.
Brendon was very still for a moment, and then he turned his head just a fraction, just enough that their lips met. Spencer made a soft noise, permission or approval, and Brendon moved in closer, still not touching, his tongue slipping out to lick into Spencer’s mouth.
There was a long moment after they broke apart when neither of them moved, just watching each other, breathing faster than before. Then Brendon shifted, kneeling slowly on the thick rug, gaze locked with Spencer’s the whole time.
Spencer closed his eyes when Brendon pulled his breeches open, shocked first by the cool air and then by Brendon’s mouth, hot and damp, teasing first with a line of kisses before he took Spencer fully into his mouth. The heat left Spencer dizzy, his hips rocking of their own volition, pushing him deeper into Brendon’s throat.
When Brendon pulled back Spencer made a sound in spite of himself, helpless protest at the loss, but Brendon mouthed him again, licking and sucking, before he said, low, “If you wanted…” Spencer opened his eyes and looked down, saw Brendon staring back up at him, eyes dark and serious. “It wouldn’t make you any more of a sodomite,” Brendon added, with a twist to his lips that Spencer couldn’t interpret, but wanted to banish all the same.
Spencer was having trouble thinking to begin with, but still he didn’t get Brendon’s meaning until he turned, pushing down his own trousers, and knelt on the bed. Spencer just stared for a moment, blood pooling painfully between his legs, and then crossed slowly to where Brendon was waiting. Spencer couldn’t see his face, but when he put his hand on Brendon’s back, Brendon inhaled audibly and pushed back into the touch.
Spencer had never been fond of chasing chamber maids and kitchen girls, so this was new, sliding slick with spit along the crease and pressing forward, guiding himself in. There was heat and pressure enough to make his head spin, and he heard Brendon make another sound beneath him, half-broken and tight.
Spencer forced himself to stillness, although every instinct he had was screaming for him to thrust. “Should I…slower?” he asked, at a loss, remembering the sting of pain he’d felt when their positions had been reversed, back on the ship.
Brendon laughed softly, barely audible, and said breathlessly, “Gentle would be good.” His voice held a note of wonder along with the pain, almost as if he hadn’t been expecting this somehow. Spencer shifted back for a moment, slicking himself up again, and when he slowly pushed the rest of the way in, he heard another little laughing hiccup of surprise.
Shock held him frozen for a moment when he realized what that meant, but then his body took over, rolling his hips until Brendon shuddered and Spencer poured his concentration into repeating that, earning the same reaction again and again until they were both soaked with sweat, still half-dressed and confined.
He touched Brendon the way he had before, with long, steady strokes that quickened when Brendon twisted against him and begged with open-mouthed, panting breaths. He felt a surge of triumph when Brendon finally tensed and shook beneath him, but it was lost quickly to the demands of his own body, moving more easily now than before.
He let Brendon strip him of his jacket afterwards, making them both more comfortable on the bed. Spencer hazily realized he had no intention of going anywhere, even when Brendon glanced at him inquiringly before putting out the lights.
They were silent for a while, Spencer’s blood humming beneath his skin, prickling electric and raising the hairs on his arms. He thought about Brendon leaving in the morning, and turned until their noses were nearly touching, face to face. “What if I wanted to go with you?” he asked quietly.
Brendon didn’t reply immediately, but his hand skimmed over Spencer’s cheek, so lightly that Spencer barely needed to flutter his eyes closed beneath Brendon’s fingertips. Finally he said softly, “What if I wanted you to stay?”
~
By the time Spencer woke up in the morning, he could see early light streaming through the drawn curtains. There was a breakfast tray on the table with a note beside it, and the bed was already cold.