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Destiny Wears A Disguise by danceswithgary
Title: Destiny Wears A Disguise (Part 1 of 3)
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 24,710
Cover: (Cover #1)
Summary: Three men. One destiny.
Notes: I enjoyed researching the Regency period, its history, its clothing and its use of the English language. I felt very fortunate in finding the very real Saffron Walden with all of its history, unique crops and a castle! The time frames for some inventions as well as military and political history has sometimes been adjusted to better fit the events of the story, but usually by just a few months or years.
Many thanks to ladydey and magdelena1969 for looking at the storyline and keeping me going and my husband who loves to look at maps. He was quite happy to research locations for me on his laptop as I typed on mine. He is also my truest beta, always demanding my best effort.
Destiny Wears A Disguise
by danceswithgary
// April 1811 London //
The ebony-haired young man sitting against the brick wall shivered, his legs drawn up with his arms around them, as if to make himself as small as possible. His bewildered eyes darted around the lightly populated street, searching faces illuminated by gaslight, but not finding whatever or whomever he was seeking. A woman's desperate scream cut through his confusion and he was on his feet and running, searching for the source. A short distance away, the sounds of a scuffle issued from a dimly-lit alley and he headed in that direction. The three men holding a petite woman between them were quickly disposed of, one thrown back out into the street where he lay groaning on the cobbles, the others dispatched by short fast blows to their heads and midsections. The woman, who had fallen when she was released, frowned up at her rescuer and held out a hand. "Well, air ye goin' to help a laidy up or air ye nickey?"
He didn't seem to understand what the yellow-haired woman was saying, but he guessed she wanted to regain her feet. Reaching down, he pulled her up with no effort, releasing her hand immediately. He stood quietly as she tucked her ample breasts back into the stained and torn red satin gown, staring intently until he blinked rapidly and then looked away. Clothing adjusted to her satisfaction, she bent over the body of the nearest man and searched through his garments until she stood up with a cry of triumph, "A fat reader! I be no roller, but them randy swells hae no right to treat me like a tuppenny dollymop. If ye hadn't come along wi' them punishers, me skirts would hae been o'er me ears and n'er a deaner to be had."
Repeating her actions with the other unconscious man, she raised her shirts and tucked her loot away in a concealed pocket. As they fell back into place, she caught his eyes watching her and she flashed a gap-toothed smile. "Yer a pretty lad, ain't ye? I be willin' ta say thankee and no chink needed." She sauntered up to him, her hips swaying, and placing a hand on his chest, looked up. "A big 'un, too!" Her other hand squeezed the front of his breeches and started to unbutton the flap.
Startled, he stepped back, leaving himself half-unbuttoned and her mouth dropping open in surprise. "Air ye nickey after all?" As his puzzled look registered, her mouth closed and her blue eyes narrowed. "Do ye spake the King's English?" A short shake of his head and an eyebrow lifted. "Yer dusky enough ta be a Didikko, mayhap. Rom?" Another shake and a shrug. Sighing, she studied his broad shoulders and large hands. "Come wi' me. Black Pete'll know what ta do wi' a brawny muck snipe like ye. I could do a tightener meself." She re-buttoned his breeches before he could react and then grasped his hand. Laying a hand on her ample bosom, she said slowly, "Me name's Chloe." She patted herself and repeated, "Chloe." Pointing to her new friend, she tilted her head in question.
His brow furrowed and then relaxed. His clear green eyes met hers and he smiled, taking her aback. "Kal...Kal..El."
Still dazzled by the brilliance of his smile, Chloe returned it with one of her own. "Callum? Pleased ta make yer acquaintance, Callum. Come along then wi' ye." She pulled him out of the alley and they walked down the street together, his curly head nodding without comprehension as Chloe chattered like a magpie. They made quite a pair; the tall, bronzed, strong-looking young man dressed in plain country fashion and the tiny brightly-dressed blonde woman who could easily walk under his outstretched arm.
// July 1813 London //
"What about your parents? Why don't you just go back home?"
Clark looked at the dark, handsome face of his friend and shook his head. "I can't, Pete. The way I left and what I've been doing since then...I just can't." His earnest green eyes pleaded for understanding. "This is my chance to do something my father would be proud of, something he'd understand." He waited for his closest friend to reply, hoping he would accept Clark's decision.
In the rowdy streets they called home, only 'Black' Pete and Chloe knew Clark's real name and where he came from originally. Everyone else only knew Callum Jonson, the bruiser who had never been defeated in the ring, the mysterious top man of the Fancy and protector of the lower class. He was no flash cove, although with his strength, speed and good looks he could have controlled every cracksman, screwsman and tooler from Haymarket to the docks, maybe in all of London. Instead, he was content to make sure every judy and dollymop was safe walking the streets and that the kidsmen took good care of their young charges. The nobblers and punishers stayed far away after Callum broke up a few of their jollies by breaking some bones.
Clark wasn't ashamed of what he did now, trying to protect the weak and poor when no one else would, yet he couldn't forget the first few months of his life on the rough and tumble London streets. He hadn't hurt anyone that didn't deserve it, but his thefts were renowned. Stories of the ream swag he had pulled out of the homes of the richest men in the city were still told in flash houses, rivaling the fame of El Dorado. After his memory had returned, he had refused to continue stealing, choosing instead to enter the boxing ring. Even that choice was questionable considering his unnatural advantages, but Clark worked hard to make sure each fight was a fair as possible and tried not to leave his opponents humiliated in their defeat. If the swells wanted to lay money on whether he would lose despite his record, it was their loss. Clark had never thrown a match.
"You know you could always stay here with Chloe and me." Pete wasn't giving up without a fight. "You have a good thing going. Nice lodgings, no netherskins for you, clothes that make you look like a swell and enough money to buy and sell any number of flash houses or own any of the rackets in London."
Clark shook his head again, his eyes sad as he looked at the man who had befriended a stranger on the strength of a tail's gratitude. He had taught him how to survive, a new language and a new, more flexible morality. Considering his own origins, Pete had shown a surprising generosity, one that his former owners had never displayed. After his first master had died, his heirs were left owning a slave they had no wish to keep. They immediately manumitted Pete when the slave trade was abolished in 1807, but that had left him destitute and on the streets. He was educated, a gentlemen's gentleman, and it had taken him little time to establish himself as the owner of a dollyshop, using his knowledge of the upper-class to assess the value of stolen goods. Now he owned eight shops scattered across London and was a success in his own right.
"I've purchased my colours. We set sail in three weeks time for India. Oliver and Bartholemew have got the new men trained to take over my patrols. They're good and I trust that they'll make sure the women and children are taken care of while I'm gone." He laid his large hand atop his friend's brown one. "I've left the funds in your name so you can make sure they're paid. I'm counting on you."
Pete sighed, knowing he'd lost. "We'll make sure no one forgets Callum Jonson." Withdrawing his hand, he raised his tankard in a toast. "To the man who'll bring back every last bloody gemstone from the East Indies so I can sell them to the lords and ladies of London." Clark smiled and made his own, "To Lieutenant Jerome Walden and his...my quest for fame and fortune."
// August 1813 London //
The fashionable young toff swaggered down the street, using his Malacca cane more than he would care to admit to maintain his precarious balance. A woman's desperate scream cut through his alcoholic haze and he spun around dizzily, searching for the source. A short distance away, the sounds of a scuffle issued from a dimly-lit alley and he headed in that direction. Three men, holding a petite woman between them, were still deciding who would go first when the inebriated would-be hero slurred, "Gentlemen, I must protest. That is not the proper way to treat a lady." Startled at his appearance, the men jumped back, letting the woman fall to the ground. A knife appeared in one man's hand while the other two circled behind, holding short clubs at the ready.
Straightening at the triple threat, the young rescuer took off his top hat and tossed it away before twisting and separating the head of his cane, revealing a gleaming sword. His stance instantly changed and it was soon apparent that he was no novice and that he was not as deep in his cups as he first appeared. He was also completely bald, a startling effect above his exquisitely tied cravat and tailored black dress coat. As he advanced on the knife wielder, he managed to keep one of the other attackers within sight, his steel-blue eyes wary.
Unfortunately, a short scream from the woman did not warn him in time to prevent the blow to his head from the unseen foe. With a choked groan, he dropped to his knees, his sword falling with a clatter. Head down, he waited for the killing blow, the sounds of combat not registering in his dazed brain. Shaking his head in an attempt to clear his vision, he looked up from his position on his hands and knees to find all three opponents tossed in a groaning heap a few feet away. A large hand was offered and he grasped it, scrambling awkwardly to his feet to stand swaying. A tall, broad-shouldered man with black close-cropped hair stood with his back to him, gazing down at the golden-haired woman with his hands on his hips. The woman, sprawled out with legs akimbo, frowned up at her second rescuer and held out a hand. "Well, air ye goin' to help a laidy up or air ye nickey?"
Shaking his head at her words, the young giant reached down to help her to her feet. "You do seem to make a habit of this, Chloe," was the deep rumbling reply, followed by a chuckle. "What are you going to do when you run out of young men to rescue you?"
Sniffing in disdain as she rearranged her stylish blue silk bodice, the young woman complained, "I wouldn't have to worry, Callum Jonson, if you weren't abandoning us for the great wide world." Walking over to her attackers, she delivered a kick with her sturdy shoes. "These lackwits grabbed me while I was on my way to say goodbye to you at the Cock and Crown. They must be fresh off a ship, else they would have known it was foolish to try their tricks on these streets." It was apparent her diction had improved along with her dress due to long hours spent practicing under her friend's tutelage. As a result, so had her customers and she no longer expected to encounter men of that type. "I suppose I'll have to cultivate young Bartholemew." She sighed. "It's not as if I'll miss you in my bed, seeing as you've never visited it."
A choked sound brought their attention back to the third person still standing, although it did not look that that would be the case much longer. His eyelids drooped and as he bent to retrieve his sword, he crumpled. Only tall man's speed saved the injured man from another encounter with the filthy cobbles. "Here now, take it easy." The deep voice of his savior rumbled as he swung the fainting man off his feet and into his arms. "Looks like you'll need some help getting home," was the last thing he heard before he fell unconscious.
"Master Alexander. Master Alexander, can you hear me?" A cool damp cloth and an insistent voice dragged Lex from the quiet, pain-free darkness. "I think he's coming around now, sir." A quiet rumble answered and Lex struggled to open his eyes to see who was there along with his manservant, Damian. "Lay still now, Master Alexander. That's quite a nasty bump on your head."
"Who's there?" Lex could hear how slurred his words were and could only hope they were understandable. His eyelids fluttered open only to wince when they encountered the over-bright flame of the candle held over his face by his concerned servant. He cleared his throat and was pleased to hear that the next sentence sounded more comprehensible. "Move the bloody candle away from my eyes, you idiot!"
A chuckle from the doorway indicated his unknown guest appreciated Lex's ready turn of phrase. "I'm glad to hear you've returned to the land of the living." Footsteps approached his bedside and Lex squinted to try to catch sight of the man who matched the pleasant voice. "I wanted to thank you for saving my friend tonight, Mr. Luttrell." The ill-defined shape that emerged from the shadows gave the impression of great height and strength despite the dim light and dark clothing. "It isn't often a man of your class takes the time to help the less fortunate."
Lex sucked in a breath at the sight of golden eyes reflecting the candlelight, deeply set above high cut cheekbones and beautifully mobile lips. He struggled to find the right words to keep the oddly familiar vision at his side, believing he was still unconscious and dreaming. "I'm afraid I had no idea who I was assisting, sir. I heard a woman scream. That was all that was important, I'm afraid." He winced again as the bump and scrape on the back of his head dragged against his pillow as he tried to see his visitor more clearly, the shadows still preventing a full view of his face. "And I believe I owe you thanks in return for saving me after my inept attempts, Mister..."
A faint frown passed over the man's face before he replied. "Jonson. Callum Jonson. At your service, Mr. Luttrell." A gracious bow of his head and a smile accompanied his introduction.
"Please, call me Lex, Callum. We've come a little too far to stand on formalities, wouldn't you agree?" Lex's smile was answered by a wide good-humored grin that exposed beautifully white teeth and caused intriguing changes in the shadows over the still partially-hidden countenance. "After all, I do believe I fainted like a damsel in distress, right into your arms." Lex's smile turned into a rueful grin as he admitted to his weakness.
A large warm hand passed gently over his bare crown as Callum's grin wavered. "You're fortunate you didn't end up with a split skull instead of just a lump. Three against one is never good odds, even if the one is carrying a sword and bolstered by the foolhardy bravery lent by spirits." Lex was sorry when the hand was withdrawn, leaving him feeling oddly bereft. "You need to rest now. I'll bid you a good night, Lex."
A yawn split Lex's face before he could stop it and he chuckled ruefully. "I'm afraid I can't argue with that, Callum. I am tired." His eyelids drooped despite his best efforts. "Leave your address with Damian? I'd..." The rest of his sentence was lost to a gentle snore.
The visitor turned to the manservant. "Be sure to wake him every hour until morning. I believe he'll be all right, but it's best to be certain." At Damian's nod, he continued. "I've left Mr. Luttrell's wallet on the table downstairs. It's fortunate he had his address inside so that I knew where to deliver him." He glanced at the bed. "He's a brave man. Foolish perhaps, but most definitely brave. It's too bad I won't get to know him any better." He turned and left the room, leaving Damian staring after him for a moment before returning to his master's side.
"He's gone."
Lex looked at the frowning blonde woman standing in front of him with her hands on her hips and smiled tentatively. "Can you tell me *where* he's gone?" He lost the smile the instant her face crumpled and tears began to fall. He searched his waistcoat frantically and located his silk handkerchief, which he handed over to her, fully anticipating he would never see it again.
The first flood of tears abated and she sniffed, "He sailed with his regiment first light. I couldn't even see him at the docks this morning." She dabbed at her eyes and blew her nose loudly. "I'll probably never see him again."
"Now, now, Chloe. You know Cla...Callum will be back." A mahogany brown hand came down and patted the creamy skin of Chloe's shoulder. Lex looked up to see a handsome man, most likely a former slave, consoling the young woman. He had been concentrating so completely on her sobbing the he'd failed to see him approach. "Callum and I have plans, big plans. He'll be back before you know it."
"Oh Pete, I miss him so much already!" Turning around, Chloe flung herself into her friend's waiting arms and sobbed against his chest. Patting her back, he looked up at Lex and shrugged, his eyes apologizing for her histrionics. Calling to the innkeeper, he ordered three pints of ale and led Chloe to a nearby table to sit, waving Lex over to join them.
"You're the one that tried to help Chloe last night, aren't you?" Pete had shoved one of the tankards in front of Chloe and urged her to drink, while another was placed in front of Lex. "Callum said he'd taken you home after he saw Chloe safely on her way. You were hit in the head?"
Nodding, Lex took a sip of the foaming ale, grimacing a little at the bitter taste. "I took a club to the back of my head, but I'm fine now." He frowned, "I just wish I'd been here in time to give Callum a proper thank you. I'm afraid I wasn't much of a host last night." He took another sip, the second less bitter than the first as he became accustomed to the taste. "Unfortunately, I didn't wake until after noon and then it took a while before I could remember the name of the inn that Chloe..." he nodded to the woman who had calmed down and was sitting quietly with her head against Pete's shoulder, "...had mentioned to Callum." His smile was self-deprecating, "I'm afraid I was pretty deep in my cups last night and my memory was a trifle spotty at first." His brow crinkled as he pondered, the hand curled around his tankard moving it in a small circle on the age-smoothed wood. "The thing of it is, he seemed so familiar." He looked up at Callum's friends and smiled sadly. "I was hoping I'd get a chance to find out why."
Pete finished his ale and set the tankard down gently so he wouldn't disturb Chloe, who had fallen asleep on his shoulder, her breath coming in little hiccups as she dreamed. "Callum's a good man. I can understand anyone wanting to know him better," he said softly. "I'm sorry I can't help you more."
Lex sighed and rose to his feet, tossing a sovereign on the table to cover the cost of the ale and the information. "Perhaps we'll meet again after I return from the Continent." Placing his hat on his head, he tipped the brim in farewell. "Thank you for your time." He turned and made his way out of the inn, his shoulders slumped a little in discouragement.
Pete watched him leave before reaching into his coat and pulling out a thick vellum envelope. He placed it on the table before him and traced the name spelled out in a strong, clear hand. "Jonathan Kent, Esquire. Littlebury Park, Saffron Walden, Essex," he whispered. "I wish you could have seen him this morning, Squire Kent. He was so handsome in his uniform. He stood at least a head taller than the rest and he shone in the sun." He sniffed a little and blinked away the moisture in his eyes. "I tried to convince Clark to see you and his mother before he left, but he has a strong will, your son does. As much as we'll miss him here, you must miss him even more." He picked up the envelope, tucked it back into his coat, and patted it. "At least he finally wrote to you and I'll deliver it myself. I only hope you can forgive me for not being able to bring that beautiful boy back to you."
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The excited voices of the young men bound for distant lands had died away in the night, those who were lucky enough to be immune to seasickness, lulled to sleep by the gentle rocking of the ship. Clark sprawled sweating in the close air on his thin pallet, clothes neatly folded at his head, and tried not to listen to whispers that spoke of comfort and desire, cursing his acute hearing. He thought of the friends he had left behind, missing Chloe's colorful curses and Pete's gentle smile. Black Pete, his closest friend whose name reflected only the color of his skin, never his heart, would be waiting for his return and that knowledge eased his loneliness.
At least one man would remember him, would miss him in the night, even though theirs was an occasional comfort and did not prevent them from seeking out others. Chloe had never entertained him in her well-frequented bedchamber, but Pete had understood what he had been seeking and taught Clark that his appreciation of lean, hard muscle instead of soft curves was no cause for shame. There would always be those who mocked and even attacked, attaching hurtful names such as 'mandrake' and 'sodomite' to his kind, but Pete had spoken instead of the Greeks and Romans who had appreciated the beauty of the male form and insisted that Clark rivaled any of the sculptures collected in the museums of the world.
Remembering Pete's velvet brown skin, Clark's hand stroked down his chest and belly, his palm gathering sweat along the way so that when he grasped his rising length, it slid easily within a tight moist tunnel. His movements were slow and languorous; he was in no hurry to reach completion. Behind his closed eyes, his large hands caressed skin that changed from dark to a pearlescent sheen, pale against his own honey-gold flesh. Cool blue eyes read his desire, not familiar warm brown and lush full lips thinned to stronger curves, the upper bisected by a scar. Clark moaned once before biting his lip to restrain any further noise, not wishing to disturb any sleeping neighbor. Long and lean, the muscles Clark had felt as he carried Lex to his lodgings now held Clark close in his mind while that voice that spoke as if painted by golden honey consoled Clark for not remembering him from the past.
As the sweat pooled in his concave belly, he stopped to gather more only to find his hand replaced by another's, smaller and more delicate. A whisper of "please" led Clark to relax and allow the invisible other to caress and taste. A talented tongue lapped and circled, gathering up the sweet drops that had collected, and then the broad head of his cock was engulfed in wet heat. He held himself back from his involuntary surge upward, not wanting to choke his unknown companion before he had started. Clark could feel only one small hand on him and knew from the sounds he heard that the other was not waiting for Clark to reciprocate in kind. Clark was content and held his hands to the side, avoiding an accidental brush against hair that would disturb his dream of smooth hairless skin devouring him.
The thought of Lex's lips stretched thin around him, tongue dancing along his length brought Clark to his crisis and he spilled into the waiting mouth, pulsing again and again as he bit back a moan, restraining the name that he longed to shout in triumph. The lips that drank his offering did moan as he felt a splash of heat join the sweat that rolled down his side. A final gentle kiss to the sensitive head and Clark was abandoned while his tremors subsided and his breathing slowed. He listened, but was unable to determine who had joined him in the dark and he was forced to accept the gift and hope that he might return it another night.
As he drifted into slumber, his thoughts were of Lex. Seeing him the previous night had been a precious gift, despite his failure to recognize Clark. When he'd seen that pale, beautiful face, Clark had suddenly known whom he had been running to London to find and that he hadn't been running away from his home in fear. His last thought before tumbling into vivid dreams of the past was, "It was Lex. It's always been Lex."
// October 1813 Athens //
Lex resented the sun that blazed relentlessly down on his uncovered head, stabbing eyes that were still recovering from an ill-advised encounter with too many bottles of retsina and a slim-hipped Greek satyr. Leading the group of disinterested expatriates, the young guide was ignored for the most part as he chattered away in an almost incomprehensible amalgam of French, Greek and English as he pointed to the requisite sights of interest on the Acropolis. Stumbling into a patch of shadow, Lex leaned against the ancient walls of the Parthenon and closed his eyes, letting the cool marble soothe the ache in his brain.
"I thought you said you were following Lord Byron's advice when it came to Grecian pleasures, Luttrell?" The lightly teasing voice brought an involuntary grin to Lex's suffering countenance.
"What makes you think I'm not, Wyndham?" Lex rubbed the back of his neck and grimaced. "I'm sure that Byron wrote about the penalties of overindulgence from experience. Who am I to miss any chance to repeat his folly?"
"If it wasn't for your unbelievable ability to drink anyone under the table and still rise from your bed the next day with just a feeble headache to show for it, you'd be returning to England with nothing to show for months abroad save an in-depth knowledge of hotel ceilings." Wyndham's tone chided his friend gently, knowing Lex would reject any strong attempt to control his actions.
Prying one blue eye open, Lex surveyed his companion blearily. "And yet again I've missed a prime opportunity to have my father rail at me about my failure to appreciate the value of his hard-earned pennies and the utter waste of time this tour is when I could be wooing some young heiress or titled lady. I vow he still lives only for the pleasure of spewing vitriol at my unprotected skull." As his friend stiffened, Lex groaned in remorse, "Bruce, forgive me. I'm an ass with an aching head and foolish tongue."
The dark-haired man with tousled curls waved away the apology. "It's been years, Lex. I should be able to hear someone complain about their unreasonable parents without wishing I had the same opportunity."
"Still, I don't know why you tolerate me and my freakish starts."
Pulling his suffering friend out of the shadows, the taller man slung an arm over his shoulders as they walked along in the wake of the voluble guide and his charges. "It must be love, Luttrell. After all, I gave up the chance to study boxing under one of the greatest fighters I've ever seen just to wander these hills with you."
"Really?"
Stepping away from his skeptical companion, Wyndham forced him to halt with a hand in the center of his chest. "Really. He had incredible control and grace, never lost a bout. He moved as if...as if Newton's laws had no meaning for him."
Lex tilted his head and frowned in apology. "Then I'm truly sorry you missed your opportunity to train under this paragon."
Wyndham shrugged his broad shoulders and started walking again. "It wasn't to be, whether or not I toured the Continent with you. When I sent Alfred to propose the lessons, he returned with the news that the man had sailed the day before with his regiment."
Lex faltered at the incredible coincidence. He asked his next question, already knowing the answer. "What was his name?"
"Callum Jonson. I can only hope he'll return from India in one piece and I'll get another chance to meet him."
"Stamato! Arketos!" Lex shoved the olive-skinned youth away and collapsed backwards across the bed, panting in the sultry midday heat. Undisturbed by his rejection, the young Greek guide licked his reddened lips as he sat back on his heels and attended to his own slim cock with lazy strokes, his greedy eyes tracing Lex's pale lean lines. Throwing a sticky forearm over his eyes, Lex tried in vain to dismiss the face that Bruce's careless words had summoned.
In a childish fit of pique, Lex had declined to share his information about Callum with Bruce. He didn't need to know that Lex had sent Damian to the Ministry of Personnel at the War Office, where he had found no record of a Callum Jonson in any past or present British regiment. Angered at the deception, Lex had returned to the Cock and Crown where the innkeeper pretended not to remember anyone named Chloe or Pete. Lex had set off on his Grand Tour a week later knowing only that the golden-eyed man had disappeared and the two people who might have known his whereabouts had vanished along with him.
His unrelenting yearning to see the mysterious man again baffled Lex. A few minutes, less than an hour really, and Lex had been left feeling as if he had missed something important. Lex wanted to believe he needed to thank Callum properly for saving his life and then he could move on, but somehow, he knew it was much more. His father would mock him for his emotions, telling Lex once again about how he'd risen from his humble beginnings as the son of a free-trader to a knighthood purchased with favors and gold.
Lionel Luttrell's marriage to Lex's mother had been about advantage, not love. Too many arguments within Lex's hearing had testified to Lillian Bakerfield's resentment at being treated as if she were a brood mare, her father's wealth having denied her any right to choose whom to wed. There would be cries of pain each night behind bedchamber doors until his father left Audley End for weeks to oversee the mines in Somerset or inspect the London bakeries. A wan-faced Lillian would emerge from her involuntary seclusion to wander the halls of the manor house like a living ghost. Lex would read to her and coax her into the gardens that she loved and her quiet smile would return until blood and pain tore it away, just as it had so many times before. The cycle repeated until Lex's twelfth year, when he walked away from his mother's grave outside Saffron Walden's Holy Trinity Church and climbed into the carriage waiting to deliver him to his father.
In the year before he entered the halls of Eton, Lex watched his father bully, rant, threaten and curse anyone who stood in his way as he expanded his holdings. In the drawing room after eerily silent dinners, Lex would often look up from a book or set of mathematical equations to see his father's penetrating gaze fixed on him. Fearing rebuke, he would repress his shudder at the contempt Lionel displayed when he looked at his son's naked skull. Eton was a relief from that unrelenting scrutiny, but presented its own brand of torture in the shape of boys who attacked anyone different. Lex had his father to thank for his ability to absorb any threat, any pain without displaying emotion. He had learned it was the only way to deflect Lionel's wrath and to prevent him ever learning what Lex hid beneath his facade of indifference.
A world-weary manner often mixed with sly humor and biting wit masked a deep longing for affection and love, those same sentiments denied Lex since his mother's death. Only one boy had come close to filling the aching need, but Bruce had his own demons to battle and could not save Lex from his. Bruce had become the Marquess of Wyndham at age eight when his parents had been murdered before his eyes and was obsessed with fighting and control of his body and surroundings. While Lex experimented with chemicals and mechanical prototypes, Bruce studied historical battles and fencing techniques, and the two shared rooms without conflict. One fumbled caress in the dark had left Lex apologizing for the trespass and afterwards they were nothing more than friends who spoke of their interests and nothing more. Lex learned to seek physical release without affection to protect himself from the pain of rejection. His longing for more remained hidden.
Lex imagined being held in the strong arms of the man who had not only carried him to his lodgings, but also up a flight of stairs to his bedchamber without any effort. He knew he'd feel safe there, in those arms. He could stop battling for the respect denied because of his birth. He would no longer dread the laughter of strangers who looked at him and saw a pale misshapen freak of nature. He would have no need to wish for someone to desire him without money or favors required in return. He'd seen the kindness in those golden eyes, felt Callum's gentle touch caress where others turned away in repulsion. Lex's eyes moistened under the shield of his arm until he laughed in self-derision. His father had taught him well. Love was simply a financial transaction, his own birth was evidence of that.
Sitting up, filled with self-disgust, Lex reached for the sloe-eyed Adonis that still awaited his pleasure. Grasping his lank oily curls, he yanked him forward to bite and lick at pouting lips. "Omorfos, omorfos, nioti," he murmured, "beautiful, beautiful youth," and he pushed the willing head down and held tight to those curls as he thrust into a lush mouth he'd kissed without true desire and wept once more for his dream of the impossible, his tears invisible and his release bittersweet.
// February 1814 Calcutta //
Lieutenant Jerome Walden slung his rifle over his shoulder and signaled his men to precede him across the stream. He'd listened carefully and searched the surrounding underbrush using his special way of looking before issuing the command, knowing that the Indian rebels they were searching for often attacked when the British were most vulnerable, oft times in the middle of a clearing or up to their knees in water. The lieutenant used his enhanced senses to keep his men as safe as possible and to date he had lost only one, when the inexperienced boy disobeyed his order to stay off a path and stumbled into a mantrap. He mourned that loss and resolved to exercise even greater caution during their reconnaissance missions.
Seeing all of his men had crossed safely, Lieutenant Walden followed and then took point again. He smiled as he recalled watching a single sheep dog attempting to chivvy his stubborn charges into the waiting fold and felt a sudden sympathy with the panting beast. His second-in-command, seeing an unexpected grin replacing his lieutenant's normally serious expression, was curious. "What's so amusing, sir?"
Called back to the present and disturbed that he had let his guard down so easily, Walden shook his head. "Nothing important, Benton. Just glad we're almost back to Fort William." He wiped the sweat from his forehead and grimaced at the resulting mud slick on his hand. "I'll be glad of a bath and a shave, not to mention clean clothes." He straightened and searched their surroundings before resuming the march. "It's been a long two weeks."
Benson nodded grimly in agreement. "That it has, sir." A few steps further, his plain face brightened. "I heard there's to be a bout with the 183rd's defending champion, sir. Will you be fighting?"
Walden nodded without taking his eyes off the landscape ahead. "Of course. Can't let it be said the 29th can't hold its own in the ring."
Rubbing his hands in satisfaction, the sergeant smiled. "To be sure the odds won't be long on you sir, but I'll still be happy to wager an alderman or six just to see you do him down."
Frowning slightly, Walden clapped a hand on Benton's thin shoulder and shook it gently as they marched. "Just remember, never wager more than you can afford to lose." Glancing over Benton's head, he caught sight of the fort's eastern guard tower and a guarded smile split his grim countenance. "Even the best of us can have bad days, Benton. Nothing's a sure thing, not even me." Having issued his usual warning, Walden turned and signaled the other men. "Step lively, lads. There it is, all the comforts of home, straight ahead." He stood back and let them go first, regarding his sheep fondly as they entered their well-appointed fold.
Walden's batman had been his usual efficient self and by the time the lieutenant had completed his report, a hot bath was waiting for him in his quarters. After pouring several buckets of water over his head while standing outside to wash off the worst of the muck, the tall, lean man pulled his dripping clothes off at the door. Crossing the room, he ducked behind the folding screen, sank into the large copper tub filled with steaming water with a heavy sigh, and began to scrub vigorously. Clucking his tongue at the mess, the diminutive corporal picked up the uniform and smalls and deposited them in a nearby basket for the laundryman to take away later. That chore completed, he stood behind the tub and upended another bucket of warm water over the officer's head. Sitting up with a splash and sputtering from the deluge, Walden glowered but made no protest as the older man began to wash his hair. Leaning back again, he relaxed and almost purred as the strong hands kneaded his scalp. "Bert Simms, you are a wonder," he murmured gratefully.
"Of course, sir," was the dry response as the hands moved lower and began to work at loosening the knotted muscles that Walden had ignored for days, knowing there was nothing he could do to release the tension while in the field. Seeing the younger man's eyelids lowering, Simms gently shoved forward on his broad shoulders and scrubbed his back and arms before rinsing the shampoo and soap from the exhausted man with another bucket of cooler water. Urging Walden onto his feet, Simms quickly scrubbed and rinsed the rest of his long body and legs before wrapping a large cotton towel around his well-muscled torso. Carefully balancing the exhausted man, Simms waited as he stepped out onto the absorbent mat beside the tub. Standing on a stool, the much shorter man used another towel on the black curls that almost brushed the officer's shoulders and then pushed him gently towards the waiting bed. Dropping the sodden towel to the floor, Walden crawled across the sheets and dropped face downward, instantly asleep.
Drawing another sheet over the naked man for modesty's sake, Simms could not suppress the smile that crossed his lined features as he examined the face that resembled a dissolute angel's in sleep, long lashes sweeping across high ruddy cheekbones, stubble darkening the strong jaw. From experience, he knew the younger man would sleep the clock around after returning from reconnaissance, his concern for his men's welfare having kept him awake throughout the long nights outside the fort's walls. He would have food waiting for him when he finally awakened, for Simms knew that young giant would be ravenous and ready to down three men's rations in a sitting. After tidying up the quarters, Simms stepped outside. He sat in his customary chair by the door and polished Lieutenant Walden's boots, ready to protect his charge from all unwanted visitors.
A cheer went up from the men of the 29th as their unbeaten champion entered the ragged circle formed by bodies jammed shoulder to shoulder. Stripped to his trim waist and lightly sweating in the heat, his skin glistened in the sun, lithe muscles rippling as he stretched and swung his arms to keep them supple. Glossy black curls were brushed back by a hand half again as large as an ordinary man's was, while gleaming green eyes swept the faces of the men around the impromptu ring. Boxing was not encouraged by the high-ranking officers, but they turned a blind eye when necessary. More than one had chosen to attend today's bout knowing Walden would be fighting, his reputation well-established within more than one regiment in India.
An answering roar came from the 183rd as their ranks parted to let their own fighter enter. Almost as tall as Walden, the officer with hair the color of corn silk stripped off his coat and shirt to reveal a body that easily withstood comparison with his opponent. Rotating his head on his tautly held neck, the blue-eyed man grinned good-naturedly at Walden who returned one of his own. Stepping forward into the ring, the referee beckoned to the two fighters, requesting that they join him in the center.
"Lieutenant Jerome Walden, Captain Whitney Fordham." The two men were introduced to each other and they shook hands politely, Walden drawing his back with a hiss. He glanced down as a wave of nausea rolled over him and saw a large signet ring flare green on the captain's right hand. "I'll have to ask you to remove that, milord," prompted the referee.
"My apologies, I'd forgotten I had it on." Backing up a few steps, the captain pulled the ring from his finger and placed in a small pocket at his waist. His easy grin flashed again. "I certainly wouldn't want to mark that pretty face by accident."
Walden drew a deep breath in an attempt to settle his queasy stomach. He tipped his head at his opponent and asked, "Milord?"
The fair-haired man took a bow that would have been appropriate in the most genteel of drawing rooms. "Viscount Fordham at your service, sir." Introductions complete, his fists came up to the ready as he began to circle Walden, searching for an opening.
Walden's hands flexed and curled and he too raised his fists, readying himself for the initial flurry of blows. He never went on the attack, preferring to let his opponents make the first move. This allowed the large man to assess their strength so that he could control his blows and avoid inflicting serious injuries on men who did not have his natural advantages. The blond was no exception, quickly advancing to jab at Walden's face, his blows easily blocked by Walden's brawny forearms.
At least that was how it began. Each time Fordham came close, Walden felt weak and dizzy, the nausea becoming grinding pain in the pit of his stomach. He glanced down at his opponent's waist and saw that the pocket holding the signet ring was the center point of his pain. He had to believe the green flare he'd seen was exactly what he had feared and knew that he had to end the bout as soon as possible to avoid defeat by a force he could not control. Unfortunately, the glance downward had left him wide open and a fist shot through his dropped guard, splitting his lower lip against his teeth.
The unexpected explosion of pain rocked Walden back on his heels and he shook his head, fighting to regain his balance as the dizziness increased. He raised his hands again, too late to prevent the blow that broke his nose and left him coughing and spitting blood. Each time Fordham's fists landed, it left torn and bleeding flesh behind and Walden soon found it difficult to see through the blood pouring down from a cut above his brow. Desperate, he used his longer reach to strike at his opponent only to have him dodge away at a speed Walden could no longer match. He was able to land a few blows, but without any power behind them, they caused little damage. Staggering, blinded, the end came quickly for Walden when a solid hit to his jaw snapped his head back and he crashed to the ground. He never heard the groans of despair and cries of anger that issued from his disgruntled backers as they turned away from their fallen champion.
"There now, sir, just lie still." A soothing voice made its way through the haze in Walden's head. He could feel a cool damp cloth gliding along the side of his face and across his forehead, carefully avoiding the burning cuts and livid bruising. "You'll be fine, just lie there and let me take care of you." Walden could not remember hearing such kind words from his batman before, far more accustomed to his typically brusque manner.
Another voice, stronger and peremptory, intruded. "I don't understand. What happened to him out there?"
"It was as if he took sick right there in the ring." Walden recognized his second's puzzled tones. "I've seen him use his punishers before and there was definitely summat wrong."
An intense wave of pain and nausea rolled over Walden and he curled up on his side and retched, bringing up strings of bile and blood. Several sets of hands eased him onto his back, allowing Simms to continue to bathe his face and attempt to determine the extent of the damage. As the blood was gently cleared from his eyes, he was finally able to open one and blearily look at the faces gathered around him. Simms and Benton were no surprise, but the third was a shock.
"Ah, he's finally coming around." Viscount Fordham's face swam into view, his blue eyes reflecting the concern in his voice. His right hand came up to grasp Walden's arm, causing him to hiss and writhe in pain before vomiting again uncontrollably. Fordham drew back and winced in sympathy. "You're right, he's definitely ill. He shouldn't have been fighting today." He shook his head in dismay. "I hate the thought of winning against him like that. I saw him take down Galloway of the 86th handily and I knew something was wrong from the start."
Simms had seen the odd ring on the Viscount's hand glowing as he touched Walden and noticed how the spasms contorting his body had lessened when the other officer moved back. "Milord, thank you for helping us bring the lieutenant back to his quarters, but we can take care of him now." Dipping his head respectfully, Simms appealed to the officer's intelligence. "He's very ill, milord, you should leave. He wouldn't want you to become sick also and possibly expose your men."
Nodding, the blond officer reluctantly agreed. "Please tell him I'm sorry that he wasn't well enough to give me a proper fight and that it doesn't reflect badly on his prowess in my eyes." He walked to the door and looked back, "I hope we'll meet under better circumstances one day." The door closed behind him and Simms turned back to the bed in time to see Walden relax, the pain that had racked the young officer visibly improving as he watched. Benton exchanged a baffled look with the batman as the vicious wounds began to heal and the extensive bruising faded.
Slow, even breathing signaled Walden's descent into sleep as Benton nodded and headed for the door. "I'll keep watch. There's no need for visitors. Not that there'd be any, the bastards," he growled. "They just left him laying there like he was nothing."
Taking a deep breath, Simms resumed cleaning the blood off the lieutenant's unmarked face. He never roused as the faithful batman removed his stained clothing and bathed his limbs before changing the fouled sheets. Clean and dry, he slept peacefully as Simms and Benton kept vigil, protecting him from harm, just as he had done for so many others in the past.
Simms leaned against the wall with his arms crossed and watched as Walden prowled about the room, picking up items only to discard them and resume his pacing. "I need to get out of here," he muttered, flexing and releasing the muscles in his shoulders and arms as if trying to break free from an invisible cage. After sleeping almost two days after the disastrous bout, the young officer had awakened with a fierce hunger that Simms and Benton had barely been able to sate. Now, restricted to his quarters until enough time had passed to account for his amazing recovery, he tested his restraints repeatedly just as any other wild creature would under unjust confinement.
"My son Joseph would be about your age, if he'd lived."
Walden froze in place, and then slowly turned to regard the grey-haired man who calmly waited for his response. "You had a son?"
Simms nodded and a sad smile emerged, "Yes, I did. I made the army my life after I lost him and my wife to a fever about ten years back. He was a smart one and I would have liked to have seen what he would have made of himself. I don't know as I would have chosen the army for him, he wasn't a tall or brawny lad, he was built more like myself." Simms' eyes seemed to gaze into the past. "Even at only twelve years old, I could look at him and see that he would have made a good teacher or even a barrister."
"I'm nineteen, at least that's what my parents thought I would be." The reluctant admission seemed to be an offering, an attempt to provide solace for an old grief. "I always thought I'd be a farmer like my father, and his father before him."
"Why are you here then? Why aren't you on your parent's farm?"
Walden frowned, his eyes cloudy and dull, "It seemed like the best thing to do. I'd made some mistakes..." His voice trailed off as he lost himself in memories.
"Would he be proud now?" Simms waited for Walden to answer and when he saw that the young man was adrift in the past, he pushed himself away from the wall and touched Walden's arm gently. Waiting until he saw the green eyes clear, Simms repeated his question. "Would your father be proud of you now?"
A shiver ran through the large frame and then a smile burst through the gloom. "You know, I think he would be." He chuckled at the thought. "He liked to tell the story of a dashing young captain who captured the heart of a beautiful baron's daughter and how he carried her away to live happily ever after in his family's old country manor, despite her father's objections."
Patting Walden's arm, Simms took a seat on the stool he kept in one corner of the room. Looking up at the smiling young man, he confessed in a steady voice, "I never told you that on my last leave in London, I had the good fortune to see Callum Jonson win several bouts quite handily." He raised an eyebrow at the stricken face above him. "I made a tidy sum betting with some young dandies who hadn't any idea who Callum was." He shook his head at the memory, looking down at his loosely clasped hands. "I knew. I'd heard tales of him, but not just about his unbeaten record in the ring. The stories I was interested in told of a tall, dark man who was stronger and faster than any other, a kind and gentle man who helped where he could and protected those who needed it most." A choked sound brought his head back up and he offered a kind smile. "When my leave was over and I rejoined my regiment for our assignment to Fort William, imagine my surprise to see a familiar face, with an unfamiliar name."
"I..."
"Seniority has its privileges and the major was quite willing to assign me to the newest lieutenant, at my request." He nodded, looking into wide green eyes. "I've always believed in second chances." Simms waited patiently for the young man's clenched fists to relax and a tentative smile to appear on his disbelieving face. "I'd be proud as any father if I could help a good man start over in a new life." He stood and offered his hand as a pledge. "Sergeant Albert Simms, at your service."
His much smaller hand was swallowed inside the larger with a gentle enthusiasm. "Lieutenant Jerome Walden, formerly known as Callum Jonson, who was in turn formerly known as Clark Jerome Kent, Esquire, of Littlebury in Saffron Walden, Essex. I'm very pleased to meet you, Sergeant Simms." The large hand yanked the smaller man into a crushing embrace that only loosened a trifle with his involuntary grunt. The surprised sergeant awkwardly patted his lieutenant's broad shoulders as he felt the brush of damp lashes against the side of his neck and heard a broken whisper. "Thank you."
PART TWO
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 24,710
Cover: (Cover #1)
Summary: Three men. One destiny.
Notes: I enjoyed researching the Regency period, its history, its clothing and its use of the English language. I felt very fortunate in finding the very real Saffron Walden with all of its history, unique crops and a castle! The time frames for some inventions as well as military and political history has sometimes been adjusted to better fit the events of the story, but usually by just a few months or years.
Many thanks to ladydey and magdelena1969 for looking at the storyline and keeping me going and my husband who loves to look at maps. He was quite happy to research locations for me on his laptop as I typed on mine. He is also my truest beta, always demanding my best effort.
Destiny Wears A Disguise
by danceswithgary
// April 1811 London //
The ebony-haired young man sitting against the brick wall shivered, his legs drawn up with his arms around them, as if to make himself as small as possible. His bewildered eyes darted around the lightly populated street, searching faces illuminated by gaslight, but not finding whatever or whomever he was seeking. A woman's desperate scream cut through his confusion and he was on his feet and running, searching for the source. A short distance away, the sounds of a scuffle issued from a dimly-lit alley and he headed in that direction. The three men holding a petite woman between them were quickly disposed of, one thrown back out into the street where he lay groaning on the cobbles, the others dispatched by short fast blows to their heads and midsections. The woman, who had fallen when she was released, frowned up at her rescuer and held out a hand. "Well, air ye goin' to help a laidy up or air ye nickey?"
He didn't seem to understand what the yellow-haired woman was saying, but he guessed she wanted to regain her feet. Reaching down, he pulled her up with no effort, releasing her hand immediately. He stood quietly as she tucked her ample breasts back into the stained and torn red satin gown, staring intently until he blinked rapidly and then looked away. Clothing adjusted to her satisfaction, she bent over the body of the nearest man and searched through his garments until she stood up with a cry of triumph, "A fat reader! I be no roller, but them randy swells hae no right to treat me like a tuppenny dollymop. If ye hadn't come along wi' them punishers, me skirts would hae been o'er me ears and n'er a deaner to be had."
Repeating her actions with the other unconscious man, she raised her shirts and tucked her loot away in a concealed pocket. As they fell back into place, she caught his eyes watching her and she flashed a gap-toothed smile. "Yer a pretty lad, ain't ye? I be willin' ta say thankee and no chink needed." She sauntered up to him, her hips swaying, and placing a hand on his chest, looked up. "A big 'un, too!" Her other hand squeezed the front of his breeches and started to unbutton the flap.
Startled, he stepped back, leaving himself half-unbuttoned and her mouth dropping open in surprise. "Air ye nickey after all?" As his puzzled look registered, her mouth closed and her blue eyes narrowed. "Do ye spake the King's English?" A short shake of his head and an eyebrow lifted. "Yer dusky enough ta be a Didikko, mayhap. Rom?" Another shake and a shrug. Sighing, she studied his broad shoulders and large hands. "Come wi' me. Black Pete'll know what ta do wi' a brawny muck snipe like ye. I could do a tightener meself." She re-buttoned his breeches before he could react and then grasped his hand. Laying a hand on her ample bosom, she said slowly, "Me name's Chloe." She patted herself and repeated, "Chloe." Pointing to her new friend, she tilted her head in question.
His brow furrowed and then relaxed. His clear green eyes met hers and he smiled, taking her aback. "Kal...Kal..El."
Still dazzled by the brilliance of his smile, Chloe returned it with one of her own. "Callum? Pleased ta make yer acquaintance, Callum. Come along then wi' ye." She pulled him out of the alley and they walked down the street together, his curly head nodding without comprehension as Chloe chattered like a magpie. They made quite a pair; the tall, bronzed, strong-looking young man dressed in plain country fashion and the tiny brightly-dressed blonde woman who could easily walk under his outstretched arm.
// July 1813 London //
"What about your parents? Why don't you just go back home?"
Clark looked at the dark, handsome face of his friend and shook his head. "I can't, Pete. The way I left and what I've been doing since then...I just can't." His earnest green eyes pleaded for understanding. "This is my chance to do something my father would be proud of, something he'd understand." He waited for his closest friend to reply, hoping he would accept Clark's decision.
In the rowdy streets they called home, only 'Black' Pete and Chloe knew Clark's real name and where he came from originally. Everyone else only knew Callum Jonson, the bruiser who had never been defeated in the ring, the mysterious top man of the Fancy and protector of the lower class. He was no flash cove, although with his strength, speed and good looks he could have controlled every cracksman, screwsman and tooler from Haymarket to the docks, maybe in all of London. Instead, he was content to make sure every judy and dollymop was safe walking the streets and that the kidsmen took good care of their young charges. The nobblers and punishers stayed far away after Callum broke up a few of their jollies by breaking some bones.
Clark wasn't ashamed of what he did now, trying to protect the weak and poor when no one else would, yet he couldn't forget the first few months of his life on the rough and tumble London streets. He hadn't hurt anyone that didn't deserve it, but his thefts were renowned. Stories of the ream swag he had pulled out of the homes of the richest men in the city were still told in flash houses, rivaling the fame of El Dorado. After his memory had returned, he had refused to continue stealing, choosing instead to enter the boxing ring. Even that choice was questionable considering his unnatural advantages, but Clark worked hard to make sure each fight was a fair as possible and tried not to leave his opponents humiliated in their defeat. If the swells wanted to lay money on whether he would lose despite his record, it was their loss. Clark had never thrown a match.
"You know you could always stay here with Chloe and me." Pete wasn't giving up without a fight. "You have a good thing going. Nice lodgings, no netherskins for you, clothes that make you look like a swell and enough money to buy and sell any number of flash houses or own any of the rackets in London."
Clark shook his head again, his eyes sad as he looked at the man who had befriended a stranger on the strength of a tail's gratitude. He had taught him how to survive, a new language and a new, more flexible morality. Considering his own origins, Pete had shown a surprising generosity, one that his former owners had never displayed. After his first master had died, his heirs were left owning a slave they had no wish to keep. They immediately manumitted Pete when the slave trade was abolished in 1807, but that had left him destitute and on the streets. He was educated, a gentlemen's gentleman, and it had taken him little time to establish himself as the owner of a dollyshop, using his knowledge of the upper-class to assess the value of stolen goods. Now he owned eight shops scattered across London and was a success in his own right.
"I've purchased my colours. We set sail in three weeks time for India. Oliver and Bartholemew have got the new men trained to take over my patrols. They're good and I trust that they'll make sure the women and children are taken care of while I'm gone." He laid his large hand atop his friend's brown one. "I've left the funds in your name so you can make sure they're paid. I'm counting on you."
Pete sighed, knowing he'd lost. "We'll make sure no one forgets Callum Jonson." Withdrawing his hand, he raised his tankard in a toast. "To the man who'll bring back every last bloody gemstone from the East Indies so I can sell them to the lords and ladies of London." Clark smiled and made his own, "To Lieutenant Jerome Walden and his...my quest for fame and fortune."
// August 1813 London //
The fashionable young toff swaggered down the street, using his Malacca cane more than he would care to admit to maintain his precarious balance. A woman's desperate scream cut through his alcoholic haze and he spun around dizzily, searching for the source. A short distance away, the sounds of a scuffle issued from a dimly-lit alley and he headed in that direction. Three men, holding a petite woman between them, were still deciding who would go first when the inebriated would-be hero slurred, "Gentlemen, I must protest. That is not the proper way to treat a lady." Startled at his appearance, the men jumped back, letting the woman fall to the ground. A knife appeared in one man's hand while the other two circled behind, holding short clubs at the ready.
Straightening at the triple threat, the young rescuer took off his top hat and tossed it away before twisting and separating the head of his cane, revealing a gleaming sword. His stance instantly changed and it was soon apparent that he was no novice and that he was not as deep in his cups as he first appeared. He was also completely bald, a startling effect above his exquisitely tied cravat and tailored black dress coat. As he advanced on the knife wielder, he managed to keep one of the other attackers within sight, his steel-blue eyes wary.
Unfortunately, a short scream from the woman did not warn him in time to prevent the blow to his head from the unseen foe. With a choked groan, he dropped to his knees, his sword falling with a clatter. Head down, he waited for the killing blow, the sounds of combat not registering in his dazed brain. Shaking his head in an attempt to clear his vision, he looked up from his position on his hands and knees to find all three opponents tossed in a groaning heap a few feet away. A large hand was offered and he grasped it, scrambling awkwardly to his feet to stand swaying. A tall, broad-shouldered man with black close-cropped hair stood with his back to him, gazing down at the golden-haired woman with his hands on his hips. The woman, sprawled out with legs akimbo, frowned up at her second rescuer and held out a hand. "Well, air ye goin' to help a laidy up or air ye nickey?"
Shaking his head at her words, the young giant reached down to help her to her feet. "You do seem to make a habit of this, Chloe," was the deep rumbling reply, followed by a chuckle. "What are you going to do when you run out of young men to rescue you?"
Sniffing in disdain as she rearranged her stylish blue silk bodice, the young woman complained, "I wouldn't have to worry, Callum Jonson, if you weren't abandoning us for the great wide world." Walking over to her attackers, she delivered a kick with her sturdy shoes. "These lackwits grabbed me while I was on my way to say goodbye to you at the Cock and Crown. They must be fresh off a ship, else they would have known it was foolish to try their tricks on these streets." It was apparent her diction had improved along with her dress due to long hours spent practicing under her friend's tutelage. As a result, so had her customers and she no longer expected to encounter men of that type. "I suppose I'll have to cultivate young Bartholemew." She sighed. "It's not as if I'll miss you in my bed, seeing as you've never visited it."
A choked sound brought their attention back to the third person still standing, although it did not look that that would be the case much longer. His eyelids drooped and as he bent to retrieve his sword, he crumpled. Only tall man's speed saved the injured man from another encounter with the filthy cobbles. "Here now, take it easy." The deep voice of his savior rumbled as he swung the fainting man off his feet and into his arms. "Looks like you'll need some help getting home," was the last thing he heard before he fell unconscious.
"Master Alexander. Master Alexander, can you hear me?" A cool damp cloth and an insistent voice dragged Lex from the quiet, pain-free darkness. "I think he's coming around now, sir." A quiet rumble answered and Lex struggled to open his eyes to see who was there along with his manservant, Damian. "Lay still now, Master Alexander. That's quite a nasty bump on your head."
"Who's there?" Lex could hear how slurred his words were and could only hope they were understandable. His eyelids fluttered open only to wince when they encountered the over-bright flame of the candle held over his face by his concerned servant. He cleared his throat and was pleased to hear that the next sentence sounded more comprehensible. "Move the bloody candle away from my eyes, you idiot!"
A chuckle from the doorway indicated his unknown guest appreciated Lex's ready turn of phrase. "I'm glad to hear you've returned to the land of the living." Footsteps approached his bedside and Lex squinted to try to catch sight of the man who matched the pleasant voice. "I wanted to thank you for saving my friend tonight, Mr. Luttrell." The ill-defined shape that emerged from the shadows gave the impression of great height and strength despite the dim light and dark clothing. "It isn't often a man of your class takes the time to help the less fortunate."
Lex sucked in a breath at the sight of golden eyes reflecting the candlelight, deeply set above high cut cheekbones and beautifully mobile lips. He struggled to find the right words to keep the oddly familiar vision at his side, believing he was still unconscious and dreaming. "I'm afraid I had no idea who I was assisting, sir. I heard a woman scream. That was all that was important, I'm afraid." He winced again as the bump and scrape on the back of his head dragged against his pillow as he tried to see his visitor more clearly, the shadows still preventing a full view of his face. "And I believe I owe you thanks in return for saving me after my inept attempts, Mister..."
A faint frown passed over the man's face before he replied. "Jonson. Callum Jonson. At your service, Mr. Luttrell." A gracious bow of his head and a smile accompanied his introduction.
"Please, call me Lex, Callum. We've come a little too far to stand on formalities, wouldn't you agree?" Lex's smile was answered by a wide good-humored grin that exposed beautifully white teeth and caused intriguing changes in the shadows over the still partially-hidden countenance. "After all, I do believe I fainted like a damsel in distress, right into your arms." Lex's smile turned into a rueful grin as he admitted to his weakness.
A large warm hand passed gently over his bare crown as Callum's grin wavered. "You're fortunate you didn't end up with a split skull instead of just a lump. Three against one is never good odds, even if the one is carrying a sword and bolstered by the foolhardy bravery lent by spirits." Lex was sorry when the hand was withdrawn, leaving him feeling oddly bereft. "You need to rest now. I'll bid you a good night, Lex."
A yawn split Lex's face before he could stop it and he chuckled ruefully. "I'm afraid I can't argue with that, Callum. I am tired." His eyelids drooped despite his best efforts. "Leave your address with Damian? I'd..." The rest of his sentence was lost to a gentle snore.
The visitor turned to the manservant. "Be sure to wake him every hour until morning. I believe he'll be all right, but it's best to be certain." At Damian's nod, he continued. "I've left Mr. Luttrell's wallet on the table downstairs. It's fortunate he had his address inside so that I knew where to deliver him." He glanced at the bed. "He's a brave man. Foolish perhaps, but most definitely brave. It's too bad I won't get to know him any better." He turned and left the room, leaving Damian staring after him for a moment before returning to his master's side.
"He's gone."
Lex looked at the frowning blonde woman standing in front of him with her hands on her hips and smiled tentatively. "Can you tell me *where* he's gone?" He lost the smile the instant her face crumpled and tears began to fall. He searched his waistcoat frantically and located his silk handkerchief, which he handed over to her, fully anticipating he would never see it again.
The first flood of tears abated and she sniffed, "He sailed with his regiment first light. I couldn't even see him at the docks this morning." She dabbed at her eyes and blew her nose loudly. "I'll probably never see him again."
"Now, now, Chloe. You know Cla...Callum will be back." A mahogany brown hand came down and patted the creamy skin of Chloe's shoulder. Lex looked up to see a handsome man, most likely a former slave, consoling the young woman. He had been concentrating so completely on her sobbing the he'd failed to see him approach. "Callum and I have plans, big plans. He'll be back before you know it."
"Oh Pete, I miss him so much already!" Turning around, Chloe flung herself into her friend's waiting arms and sobbed against his chest. Patting her back, he looked up at Lex and shrugged, his eyes apologizing for her histrionics. Calling to the innkeeper, he ordered three pints of ale and led Chloe to a nearby table to sit, waving Lex over to join them.
"You're the one that tried to help Chloe last night, aren't you?" Pete had shoved one of the tankards in front of Chloe and urged her to drink, while another was placed in front of Lex. "Callum said he'd taken you home after he saw Chloe safely on her way. You were hit in the head?"
Nodding, Lex took a sip of the foaming ale, grimacing a little at the bitter taste. "I took a club to the back of my head, but I'm fine now." He frowned, "I just wish I'd been here in time to give Callum a proper thank you. I'm afraid I wasn't much of a host last night." He took another sip, the second less bitter than the first as he became accustomed to the taste. "Unfortunately, I didn't wake until after noon and then it took a while before I could remember the name of the inn that Chloe..." he nodded to the woman who had calmed down and was sitting quietly with her head against Pete's shoulder, "...had mentioned to Callum." His smile was self-deprecating, "I'm afraid I was pretty deep in my cups last night and my memory was a trifle spotty at first." His brow crinkled as he pondered, the hand curled around his tankard moving it in a small circle on the age-smoothed wood. "The thing of it is, he seemed so familiar." He looked up at Callum's friends and smiled sadly. "I was hoping I'd get a chance to find out why."
Pete finished his ale and set the tankard down gently so he wouldn't disturb Chloe, who had fallen asleep on his shoulder, her breath coming in little hiccups as she dreamed. "Callum's a good man. I can understand anyone wanting to know him better," he said softly. "I'm sorry I can't help you more."
Lex sighed and rose to his feet, tossing a sovereign on the table to cover the cost of the ale and the information. "Perhaps we'll meet again after I return from the Continent." Placing his hat on his head, he tipped the brim in farewell. "Thank you for your time." He turned and made his way out of the inn, his shoulders slumped a little in discouragement.
Pete watched him leave before reaching into his coat and pulling out a thick vellum envelope. He placed it on the table before him and traced the name spelled out in a strong, clear hand. "Jonathan Kent, Esquire. Littlebury Park, Saffron Walden, Essex," he whispered. "I wish you could have seen him this morning, Squire Kent. He was so handsome in his uniform. He stood at least a head taller than the rest and he shone in the sun." He sniffed a little and blinked away the moisture in his eyes. "I tried to convince Clark to see you and his mother before he left, but he has a strong will, your son does. As much as we'll miss him here, you must miss him even more." He picked up the envelope, tucked it back into his coat, and patted it. "At least he finally wrote to you and I'll deliver it myself. I only hope you can forgive me for not being able to bring that beautiful boy back to you."
@@@
The excited voices of the young men bound for distant lands had died away in the night, those who were lucky enough to be immune to seasickness, lulled to sleep by the gentle rocking of the ship. Clark sprawled sweating in the close air on his thin pallet, clothes neatly folded at his head, and tried not to listen to whispers that spoke of comfort and desire, cursing his acute hearing. He thought of the friends he had left behind, missing Chloe's colorful curses and Pete's gentle smile. Black Pete, his closest friend whose name reflected only the color of his skin, never his heart, would be waiting for his return and that knowledge eased his loneliness.
At least one man would remember him, would miss him in the night, even though theirs was an occasional comfort and did not prevent them from seeking out others. Chloe had never entertained him in her well-frequented bedchamber, but Pete had understood what he had been seeking and taught Clark that his appreciation of lean, hard muscle instead of soft curves was no cause for shame. There would always be those who mocked and even attacked, attaching hurtful names such as 'mandrake' and 'sodomite' to his kind, but Pete had spoken instead of the Greeks and Romans who had appreciated the beauty of the male form and insisted that Clark rivaled any of the sculptures collected in the museums of the world.
Remembering Pete's velvet brown skin, Clark's hand stroked down his chest and belly, his palm gathering sweat along the way so that when he grasped his rising length, it slid easily within a tight moist tunnel. His movements were slow and languorous; he was in no hurry to reach completion. Behind his closed eyes, his large hands caressed skin that changed from dark to a pearlescent sheen, pale against his own honey-gold flesh. Cool blue eyes read his desire, not familiar warm brown and lush full lips thinned to stronger curves, the upper bisected by a scar. Clark moaned once before biting his lip to restrain any further noise, not wishing to disturb any sleeping neighbor. Long and lean, the muscles Clark had felt as he carried Lex to his lodgings now held Clark close in his mind while that voice that spoke as if painted by golden honey consoled Clark for not remembering him from the past.
As the sweat pooled in his concave belly, he stopped to gather more only to find his hand replaced by another's, smaller and more delicate. A whisper of "please" led Clark to relax and allow the invisible other to caress and taste. A talented tongue lapped and circled, gathering up the sweet drops that had collected, and then the broad head of his cock was engulfed in wet heat. He held himself back from his involuntary surge upward, not wanting to choke his unknown companion before he had started. Clark could feel only one small hand on him and knew from the sounds he heard that the other was not waiting for Clark to reciprocate in kind. Clark was content and held his hands to the side, avoiding an accidental brush against hair that would disturb his dream of smooth hairless skin devouring him.
The thought of Lex's lips stretched thin around him, tongue dancing along his length brought Clark to his crisis and he spilled into the waiting mouth, pulsing again and again as he bit back a moan, restraining the name that he longed to shout in triumph. The lips that drank his offering did moan as he felt a splash of heat join the sweat that rolled down his side. A final gentle kiss to the sensitive head and Clark was abandoned while his tremors subsided and his breathing slowed. He listened, but was unable to determine who had joined him in the dark and he was forced to accept the gift and hope that he might return it another night.
As he drifted into slumber, his thoughts were of Lex. Seeing him the previous night had been a precious gift, despite his failure to recognize Clark. When he'd seen that pale, beautiful face, Clark had suddenly known whom he had been running to London to find and that he hadn't been running away from his home in fear. His last thought before tumbling into vivid dreams of the past was, "It was Lex. It's always been Lex."
// October 1813 Athens //
Lex resented the sun that blazed relentlessly down on his uncovered head, stabbing eyes that were still recovering from an ill-advised encounter with too many bottles of retsina and a slim-hipped Greek satyr. Leading the group of disinterested expatriates, the young guide was ignored for the most part as he chattered away in an almost incomprehensible amalgam of French, Greek and English as he pointed to the requisite sights of interest on the Acropolis. Stumbling into a patch of shadow, Lex leaned against the ancient walls of the Parthenon and closed his eyes, letting the cool marble soothe the ache in his brain.
"I thought you said you were following Lord Byron's advice when it came to Grecian pleasures, Luttrell?" The lightly teasing voice brought an involuntary grin to Lex's suffering countenance.
"What makes you think I'm not, Wyndham?" Lex rubbed the back of his neck and grimaced. "I'm sure that Byron wrote about the penalties of overindulgence from experience. Who am I to miss any chance to repeat his folly?"
"If it wasn't for your unbelievable ability to drink anyone under the table and still rise from your bed the next day with just a feeble headache to show for it, you'd be returning to England with nothing to show for months abroad save an in-depth knowledge of hotel ceilings." Wyndham's tone chided his friend gently, knowing Lex would reject any strong attempt to control his actions.
Prying one blue eye open, Lex surveyed his companion blearily. "And yet again I've missed a prime opportunity to have my father rail at me about my failure to appreciate the value of his hard-earned pennies and the utter waste of time this tour is when I could be wooing some young heiress or titled lady. I vow he still lives only for the pleasure of spewing vitriol at my unprotected skull." As his friend stiffened, Lex groaned in remorse, "Bruce, forgive me. I'm an ass with an aching head and foolish tongue."
The dark-haired man with tousled curls waved away the apology. "It's been years, Lex. I should be able to hear someone complain about their unreasonable parents without wishing I had the same opportunity."
"Still, I don't know why you tolerate me and my freakish starts."
Pulling his suffering friend out of the shadows, the taller man slung an arm over his shoulders as they walked along in the wake of the voluble guide and his charges. "It must be love, Luttrell. After all, I gave up the chance to study boxing under one of the greatest fighters I've ever seen just to wander these hills with you."
"Really?"
Stepping away from his skeptical companion, Wyndham forced him to halt with a hand in the center of his chest. "Really. He had incredible control and grace, never lost a bout. He moved as if...as if Newton's laws had no meaning for him."
Lex tilted his head and frowned in apology. "Then I'm truly sorry you missed your opportunity to train under this paragon."
Wyndham shrugged his broad shoulders and started walking again. "It wasn't to be, whether or not I toured the Continent with you. When I sent Alfred to propose the lessons, he returned with the news that the man had sailed the day before with his regiment."
Lex faltered at the incredible coincidence. He asked his next question, already knowing the answer. "What was his name?"
"Callum Jonson. I can only hope he'll return from India in one piece and I'll get another chance to meet him."
"Stamato! Arketos!" Lex shoved the olive-skinned youth away and collapsed backwards across the bed, panting in the sultry midday heat. Undisturbed by his rejection, the young Greek guide licked his reddened lips as he sat back on his heels and attended to his own slim cock with lazy strokes, his greedy eyes tracing Lex's pale lean lines. Throwing a sticky forearm over his eyes, Lex tried in vain to dismiss the face that Bruce's careless words had summoned.
In a childish fit of pique, Lex had declined to share his information about Callum with Bruce. He didn't need to know that Lex had sent Damian to the Ministry of Personnel at the War Office, where he had found no record of a Callum Jonson in any past or present British regiment. Angered at the deception, Lex had returned to the Cock and Crown where the innkeeper pretended not to remember anyone named Chloe or Pete. Lex had set off on his Grand Tour a week later knowing only that the golden-eyed man had disappeared and the two people who might have known his whereabouts had vanished along with him.
His unrelenting yearning to see the mysterious man again baffled Lex. A few minutes, less than an hour really, and Lex had been left feeling as if he had missed something important. Lex wanted to believe he needed to thank Callum properly for saving his life and then he could move on, but somehow, he knew it was much more. His father would mock him for his emotions, telling Lex once again about how he'd risen from his humble beginnings as the son of a free-trader to a knighthood purchased with favors and gold.
Lionel Luttrell's marriage to Lex's mother had been about advantage, not love. Too many arguments within Lex's hearing had testified to Lillian Bakerfield's resentment at being treated as if she were a brood mare, her father's wealth having denied her any right to choose whom to wed. There would be cries of pain each night behind bedchamber doors until his father left Audley End for weeks to oversee the mines in Somerset or inspect the London bakeries. A wan-faced Lillian would emerge from her involuntary seclusion to wander the halls of the manor house like a living ghost. Lex would read to her and coax her into the gardens that she loved and her quiet smile would return until blood and pain tore it away, just as it had so many times before. The cycle repeated until Lex's twelfth year, when he walked away from his mother's grave outside Saffron Walden's Holy Trinity Church and climbed into the carriage waiting to deliver him to his father.
In the year before he entered the halls of Eton, Lex watched his father bully, rant, threaten and curse anyone who stood in his way as he expanded his holdings. In the drawing room after eerily silent dinners, Lex would often look up from a book or set of mathematical equations to see his father's penetrating gaze fixed on him. Fearing rebuke, he would repress his shudder at the contempt Lionel displayed when he looked at his son's naked skull. Eton was a relief from that unrelenting scrutiny, but presented its own brand of torture in the shape of boys who attacked anyone different. Lex had his father to thank for his ability to absorb any threat, any pain without displaying emotion. He had learned it was the only way to deflect Lionel's wrath and to prevent him ever learning what Lex hid beneath his facade of indifference.
A world-weary manner often mixed with sly humor and biting wit masked a deep longing for affection and love, those same sentiments denied Lex since his mother's death. Only one boy had come close to filling the aching need, but Bruce had his own demons to battle and could not save Lex from his. Bruce had become the Marquess of Wyndham at age eight when his parents had been murdered before his eyes and was obsessed with fighting and control of his body and surroundings. While Lex experimented with chemicals and mechanical prototypes, Bruce studied historical battles and fencing techniques, and the two shared rooms without conflict. One fumbled caress in the dark had left Lex apologizing for the trespass and afterwards they were nothing more than friends who spoke of their interests and nothing more. Lex learned to seek physical release without affection to protect himself from the pain of rejection. His longing for more remained hidden.
Lex imagined being held in the strong arms of the man who had not only carried him to his lodgings, but also up a flight of stairs to his bedchamber without any effort. He knew he'd feel safe there, in those arms. He could stop battling for the respect denied because of his birth. He would no longer dread the laughter of strangers who looked at him and saw a pale misshapen freak of nature. He would have no need to wish for someone to desire him without money or favors required in return. He'd seen the kindness in those golden eyes, felt Callum's gentle touch caress where others turned away in repulsion. Lex's eyes moistened under the shield of his arm until he laughed in self-derision. His father had taught him well. Love was simply a financial transaction, his own birth was evidence of that.
Sitting up, filled with self-disgust, Lex reached for the sloe-eyed Adonis that still awaited his pleasure. Grasping his lank oily curls, he yanked him forward to bite and lick at pouting lips. "Omorfos, omorfos, nioti," he murmured, "beautiful, beautiful youth," and he pushed the willing head down and held tight to those curls as he thrust into a lush mouth he'd kissed without true desire and wept once more for his dream of the impossible, his tears invisible and his release bittersweet.
// February 1814 Calcutta //
Lieutenant Jerome Walden slung his rifle over his shoulder and signaled his men to precede him across the stream. He'd listened carefully and searched the surrounding underbrush using his special way of looking before issuing the command, knowing that the Indian rebels they were searching for often attacked when the British were most vulnerable, oft times in the middle of a clearing or up to their knees in water. The lieutenant used his enhanced senses to keep his men as safe as possible and to date he had lost only one, when the inexperienced boy disobeyed his order to stay off a path and stumbled into a mantrap. He mourned that loss and resolved to exercise even greater caution during their reconnaissance missions.
Seeing all of his men had crossed safely, Lieutenant Walden followed and then took point again. He smiled as he recalled watching a single sheep dog attempting to chivvy his stubborn charges into the waiting fold and felt a sudden sympathy with the panting beast. His second-in-command, seeing an unexpected grin replacing his lieutenant's normally serious expression, was curious. "What's so amusing, sir?"
Called back to the present and disturbed that he had let his guard down so easily, Walden shook his head. "Nothing important, Benton. Just glad we're almost back to Fort William." He wiped the sweat from his forehead and grimaced at the resulting mud slick on his hand. "I'll be glad of a bath and a shave, not to mention clean clothes." He straightened and searched their surroundings before resuming the march. "It's been a long two weeks."
Benson nodded grimly in agreement. "That it has, sir." A few steps further, his plain face brightened. "I heard there's to be a bout with the 183rd's defending champion, sir. Will you be fighting?"
Walden nodded without taking his eyes off the landscape ahead. "Of course. Can't let it be said the 29th can't hold its own in the ring."
Rubbing his hands in satisfaction, the sergeant smiled. "To be sure the odds won't be long on you sir, but I'll still be happy to wager an alderman or six just to see you do him down."
Frowning slightly, Walden clapped a hand on Benton's thin shoulder and shook it gently as they marched. "Just remember, never wager more than you can afford to lose." Glancing over Benton's head, he caught sight of the fort's eastern guard tower and a guarded smile split his grim countenance. "Even the best of us can have bad days, Benton. Nothing's a sure thing, not even me." Having issued his usual warning, Walden turned and signaled the other men. "Step lively, lads. There it is, all the comforts of home, straight ahead." He stood back and let them go first, regarding his sheep fondly as they entered their well-appointed fold.
Walden's batman had been his usual efficient self and by the time the lieutenant had completed his report, a hot bath was waiting for him in his quarters. After pouring several buckets of water over his head while standing outside to wash off the worst of the muck, the tall, lean man pulled his dripping clothes off at the door. Crossing the room, he ducked behind the folding screen, sank into the large copper tub filled with steaming water with a heavy sigh, and began to scrub vigorously. Clucking his tongue at the mess, the diminutive corporal picked up the uniform and smalls and deposited them in a nearby basket for the laundryman to take away later. That chore completed, he stood behind the tub and upended another bucket of warm water over the officer's head. Sitting up with a splash and sputtering from the deluge, Walden glowered but made no protest as the older man began to wash his hair. Leaning back again, he relaxed and almost purred as the strong hands kneaded his scalp. "Bert Simms, you are a wonder," he murmured gratefully.
"Of course, sir," was the dry response as the hands moved lower and began to work at loosening the knotted muscles that Walden had ignored for days, knowing there was nothing he could do to release the tension while in the field. Seeing the younger man's eyelids lowering, Simms gently shoved forward on his broad shoulders and scrubbed his back and arms before rinsing the shampoo and soap from the exhausted man with another bucket of cooler water. Urging Walden onto his feet, Simms quickly scrubbed and rinsed the rest of his long body and legs before wrapping a large cotton towel around his well-muscled torso. Carefully balancing the exhausted man, Simms waited as he stepped out onto the absorbent mat beside the tub. Standing on a stool, the much shorter man used another towel on the black curls that almost brushed the officer's shoulders and then pushed him gently towards the waiting bed. Dropping the sodden towel to the floor, Walden crawled across the sheets and dropped face downward, instantly asleep.
Drawing another sheet over the naked man for modesty's sake, Simms could not suppress the smile that crossed his lined features as he examined the face that resembled a dissolute angel's in sleep, long lashes sweeping across high ruddy cheekbones, stubble darkening the strong jaw. From experience, he knew the younger man would sleep the clock around after returning from reconnaissance, his concern for his men's welfare having kept him awake throughout the long nights outside the fort's walls. He would have food waiting for him when he finally awakened, for Simms knew that young giant would be ravenous and ready to down three men's rations in a sitting. After tidying up the quarters, Simms stepped outside. He sat in his customary chair by the door and polished Lieutenant Walden's boots, ready to protect his charge from all unwanted visitors.
A cheer went up from the men of the 29th as their unbeaten champion entered the ragged circle formed by bodies jammed shoulder to shoulder. Stripped to his trim waist and lightly sweating in the heat, his skin glistened in the sun, lithe muscles rippling as he stretched and swung his arms to keep them supple. Glossy black curls were brushed back by a hand half again as large as an ordinary man's was, while gleaming green eyes swept the faces of the men around the impromptu ring. Boxing was not encouraged by the high-ranking officers, but they turned a blind eye when necessary. More than one had chosen to attend today's bout knowing Walden would be fighting, his reputation well-established within more than one regiment in India.
An answering roar came from the 183rd as their ranks parted to let their own fighter enter. Almost as tall as Walden, the officer with hair the color of corn silk stripped off his coat and shirt to reveal a body that easily withstood comparison with his opponent. Rotating his head on his tautly held neck, the blue-eyed man grinned good-naturedly at Walden who returned one of his own. Stepping forward into the ring, the referee beckoned to the two fighters, requesting that they join him in the center.
"Lieutenant Jerome Walden, Captain Whitney Fordham." The two men were introduced to each other and they shook hands politely, Walden drawing his back with a hiss. He glanced down as a wave of nausea rolled over him and saw a large signet ring flare green on the captain's right hand. "I'll have to ask you to remove that, milord," prompted the referee.
"My apologies, I'd forgotten I had it on." Backing up a few steps, the captain pulled the ring from his finger and placed in a small pocket at his waist. His easy grin flashed again. "I certainly wouldn't want to mark that pretty face by accident."
Walden drew a deep breath in an attempt to settle his queasy stomach. He tipped his head at his opponent and asked, "Milord?"
The fair-haired man took a bow that would have been appropriate in the most genteel of drawing rooms. "Viscount Fordham at your service, sir." Introductions complete, his fists came up to the ready as he began to circle Walden, searching for an opening.
Walden's hands flexed and curled and he too raised his fists, readying himself for the initial flurry of blows. He never went on the attack, preferring to let his opponents make the first move. This allowed the large man to assess their strength so that he could control his blows and avoid inflicting serious injuries on men who did not have his natural advantages. The blond was no exception, quickly advancing to jab at Walden's face, his blows easily blocked by Walden's brawny forearms.
At least that was how it began. Each time Fordham came close, Walden felt weak and dizzy, the nausea becoming grinding pain in the pit of his stomach. He glanced down at his opponent's waist and saw that the pocket holding the signet ring was the center point of his pain. He had to believe the green flare he'd seen was exactly what he had feared and knew that he had to end the bout as soon as possible to avoid defeat by a force he could not control. Unfortunately, the glance downward had left him wide open and a fist shot through his dropped guard, splitting his lower lip against his teeth.
The unexpected explosion of pain rocked Walden back on his heels and he shook his head, fighting to regain his balance as the dizziness increased. He raised his hands again, too late to prevent the blow that broke his nose and left him coughing and spitting blood. Each time Fordham's fists landed, it left torn and bleeding flesh behind and Walden soon found it difficult to see through the blood pouring down from a cut above his brow. Desperate, he used his longer reach to strike at his opponent only to have him dodge away at a speed Walden could no longer match. He was able to land a few blows, but without any power behind them, they caused little damage. Staggering, blinded, the end came quickly for Walden when a solid hit to his jaw snapped his head back and he crashed to the ground. He never heard the groans of despair and cries of anger that issued from his disgruntled backers as they turned away from their fallen champion.
"There now, sir, just lie still." A soothing voice made its way through the haze in Walden's head. He could feel a cool damp cloth gliding along the side of his face and across his forehead, carefully avoiding the burning cuts and livid bruising. "You'll be fine, just lie there and let me take care of you." Walden could not remember hearing such kind words from his batman before, far more accustomed to his typically brusque manner.
Another voice, stronger and peremptory, intruded. "I don't understand. What happened to him out there?"
"It was as if he took sick right there in the ring." Walden recognized his second's puzzled tones. "I've seen him use his punishers before and there was definitely summat wrong."
An intense wave of pain and nausea rolled over Walden and he curled up on his side and retched, bringing up strings of bile and blood. Several sets of hands eased him onto his back, allowing Simms to continue to bathe his face and attempt to determine the extent of the damage. As the blood was gently cleared from his eyes, he was finally able to open one and blearily look at the faces gathered around him. Simms and Benton were no surprise, but the third was a shock.
"Ah, he's finally coming around." Viscount Fordham's face swam into view, his blue eyes reflecting the concern in his voice. His right hand came up to grasp Walden's arm, causing him to hiss and writhe in pain before vomiting again uncontrollably. Fordham drew back and winced in sympathy. "You're right, he's definitely ill. He shouldn't have been fighting today." He shook his head in dismay. "I hate the thought of winning against him like that. I saw him take down Galloway of the 86th handily and I knew something was wrong from the start."
Simms had seen the odd ring on the Viscount's hand glowing as he touched Walden and noticed how the spasms contorting his body had lessened when the other officer moved back. "Milord, thank you for helping us bring the lieutenant back to his quarters, but we can take care of him now." Dipping his head respectfully, Simms appealed to the officer's intelligence. "He's very ill, milord, you should leave. He wouldn't want you to become sick also and possibly expose your men."
Nodding, the blond officer reluctantly agreed. "Please tell him I'm sorry that he wasn't well enough to give me a proper fight and that it doesn't reflect badly on his prowess in my eyes." He walked to the door and looked back, "I hope we'll meet under better circumstances one day." The door closed behind him and Simms turned back to the bed in time to see Walden relax, the pain that had racked the young officer visibly improving as he watched. Benton exchanged a baffled look with the batman as the vicious wounds began to heal and the extensive bruising faded.
Slow, even breathing signaled Walden's descent into sleep as Benton nodded and headed for the door. "I'll keep watch. There's no need for visitors. Not that there'd be any, the bastards," he growled. "They just left him laying there like he was nothing."
Taking a deep breath, Simms resumed cleaning the blood off the lieutenant's unmarked face. He never roused as the faithful batman removed his stained clothing and bathed his limbs before changing the fouled sheets. Clean and dry, he slept peacefully as Simms and Benton kept vigil, protecting him from harm, just as he had done for so many others in the past.
Simms leaned against the wall with his arms crossed and watched as Walden prowled about the room, picking up items only to discard them and resume his pacing. "I need to get out of here," he muttered, flexing and releasing the muscles in his shoulders and arms as if trying to break free from an invisible cage. After sleeping almost two days after the disastrous bout, the young officer had awakened with a fierce hunger that Simms and Benton had barely been able to sate. Now, restricted to his quarters until enough time had passed to account for his amazing recovery, he tested his restraints repeatedly just as any other wild creature would under unjust confinement.
"My son Joseph would be about your age, if he'd lived."
Walden froze in place, and then slowly turned to regard the grey-haired man who calmly waited for his response. "You had a son?"
Simms nodded and a sad smile emerged, "Yes, I did. I made the army my life after I lost him and my wife to a fever about ten years back. He was a smart one and I would have liked to have seen what he would have made of himself. I don't know as I would have chosen the army for him, he wasn't a tall or brawny lad, he was built more like myself." Simms' eyes seemed to gaze into the past. "Even at only twelve years old, I could look at him and see that he would have made a good teacher or even a barrister."
"I'm nineteen, at least that's what my parents thought I would be." The reluctant admission seemed to be an offering, an attempt to provide solace for an old grief. "I always thought I'd be a farmer like my father, and his father before him."
"Why are you here then? Why aren't you on your parent's farm?"
Walden frowned, his eyes cloudy and dull, "It seemed like the best thing to do. I'd made some mistakes..." His voice trailed off as he lost himself in memories.
"Would he be proud now?" Simms waited for Walden to answer and when he saw that the young man was adrift in the past, he pushed himself away from the wall and touched Walden's arm gently. Waiting until he saw the green eyes clear, Simms repeated his question. "Would your father be proud of you now?"
A shiver ran through the large frame and then a smile burst through the gloom. "You know, I think he would be." He chuckled at the thought. "He liked to tell the story of a dashing young captain who captured the heart of a beautiful baron's daughter and how he carried her away to live happily ever after in his family's old country manor, despite her father's objections."
Patting Walden's arm, Simms took a seat on the stool he kept in one corner of the room. Looking up at the smiling young man, he confessed in a steady voice, "I never told you that on my last leave in London, I had the good fortune to see Callum Jonson win several bouts quite handily." He raised an eyebrow at the stricken face above him. "I made a tidy sum betting with some young dandies who hadn't any idea who Callum was." He shook his head at the memory, looking down at his loosely clasped hands. "I knew. I'd heard tales of him, but not just about his unbeaten record in the ring. The stories I was interested in told of a tall, dark man who was stronger and faster than any other, a kind and gentle man who helped where he could and protected those who needed it most." A choked sound brought his head back up and he offered a kind smile. "When my leave was over and I rejoined my regiment for our assignment to Fort William, imagine my surprise to see a familiar face, with an unfamiliar name."
"I..."
"Seniority has its privileges and the major was quite willing to assign me to the newest lieutenant, at my request." He nodded, looking into wide green eyes. "I've always believed in second chances." Simms waited patiently for the young man's clenched fists to relax and a tentative smile to appear on his disbelieving face. "I'd be proud as any father if I could help a good man start over in a new life." He stood and offered his hand as a pledge. "Sergeant Albert Simms, at your service."
His much smaller hand was swallowed inside the larger with a gentle enthusiasm. "Lieutenant Jerome Walden, formerly known as Callum Jonson, who was in turn formerly known as Clark Jerome Kent, Esquire, of Littlebury in Saffron Walden, Essex. I'm very pleased to meet you, Sergeant Simms." The large hand yanked the smaller man into a crushing embrace that only loosened a trifle with his involuntary grunt. The surprised sergeant awkwardly patted his lieutenant's broad shoulders as he felt the brush of damp lashes against the side of his neck and heard a broken whisper. "Thank you."
PART TWO