A Most Personal Property (Ganymede Quartet Book 1) (10 page)

Martin was good at reading aloud. He did voices for the various characters, deepening his own voice for Theo and using a slightly nasal, sarcastic tone for wisecracking George. Henry thought these voices very apt and felt pleased and proud to have obtained such a clever slave, his very own George.

The kidnappers weren’t all bad, it turned out. While captive, George persuaded a large number of the pirates to mutiny against their dastardly captain, extolling Theo’s virtues as he did so. All the pirate crew were in agreement that Captain Drake sounded like a man worth following, and by the time the
Dauntless
arrived, the pirate captain was in the brig and the crew were prepared to wholeheartedly pledge their allegiance to Theo.

Theo and George embraced—a
long
embrace, it said so in the magazine—and Henry imagined Theo’s hands ranging over George’s bare back and shoulders and felt a little short of breath.

“You’re unharmed?” Martin-as-Theo asked. “You haven’t suffered at the hands of these men?”

“No, Sir,” Martin-as-George assured him. “I’m glad to be reunited with you, though, Sir. I wasn’t sure you’d find me.”

“I couldn’t rest until I did.” Theo was adamant about this. “We had good winds. There’s a storm coming up behind us, and we’ll want to sail ahead of it if we can.”

They spent a lot of time—
wasted
a lot of time, in Henry’s opinion—examining the pirate sloop and introducing Theo to the pirates, though only one was actually named, this being a gregarious young seaman called Dooley whom Henry was immediately suspicious of, always wary of any character who might divert Theo’s attention from George.

While they dallied, the winds picked up, and then the storm was upon them, churning the sea and dragging all manner of creatures up from the depths, including a monstrous kraken that surfaced between the
Dauntless
and the pirate sloop and thrashed the waters to foam, its slimy tentacles slapping the decks of both ships and sweeping men into the drink. As the pirate sloop was smashed to kindling in the monster’s frenzy, the
Dauntless
yawed precipitously and men clung to whatever they could grasp—railings, rigging, other men, Theo climbed the mizzenmast and reached down for George’s hand, pulling him up to stand precariously on the yardarm at his side, both men clinging to the rigging.

While they watched helplessly, the monster picked up a nameless seaman in a coiled tentacle and dangled him above the deck before dashing him into the wreck of the pirate vessel. The water was full of plunder, broken wood, and frantic seamen.

“Most sailors can’t swim, you know,” Henry broke in. “They’re all going to drown, I guess.”

“That’s terrible, Sir,” Martin said, seeming genuinely concerned. “Is that really true?”

“Or so I’ve read,” Henry said, blushing and feeling unaccountably uncertain of his facts. “Go on, keep reading. I won’t interrupt.”

“I don’t mind, Sir,” Martin said, smiling. He turned back to the magazine.

“Sir, we have to do something!” Martin said in George’s voice, adding a note of desperation that Henry definitely appreciated. “If we don’t act, all will be lost!”

Theo gave George a look, clear-eyed and steady, and asked, “Will you follow my lead, George?”

“I’ll follow you anywhere, Sir.”

Without further word, Theo began to clamber down from the yardarm, his cutlass at the ready, and George was close behind.

“To be continued.” Martin closed the magazine with a satisfied sigh. “Oh, Sir, what a story!”

“I like the way you read it,” Henry offered shyly. “Doing the voices. It was great.”

“Thank you, Sir.” Martin gave him a beautiful smile. “How long until the next chapter?”

“A whole month,” Henry told him regretfully.

“Oh, that’s too long, isn’t it, Sir?”

Henry was thrilled by Martin’s enthusiasm for
Drake’s Progress
. With a boyish fondness for adventure, Martin seemed a bit less intimidating. He was still terribly handsome, however, and hard to look at. He was maybe even more handsome now that Henry knew him just a little.

“Is it time, do you think, Sir?” Martin took out his new pocket watch and checked. “Yes, it’s almost time for dinner. Should we get ready to go down?”

“Yes, that would be fine,” Henry said agreeably.

“May I undress you, Sir?” Martin asked expectantly. It was a reasonable question from slave to master, but it still made Henry blush.

“Er, yes,” Henry muttered. He stood before the mirror as Martin stepped behind him to help him remove his jacket, then his waistcoat. He let his braces slide from his shoulders to hang around his hips. He removed his tie pin and handed it to Martin. “That goes in the box on the dresser,” he told him. He untied the tie himself but let Martin remove his collar and cuffs. He watched Martin’s face as he worked the collar studs. They were close enough he could feel Martin’s breath against his cheek, Martin’s fingers just brushing his skin. He stood no closer than Billy might, or Timothy, but it
felt
closer by far. Martin looked at him, just a flick of a glance and a smile, and Henry was startled again by the intense green of his eyes, a yellowed green like a pollen-dusted pond, and Henry had never seen the like before. He felt the ache of longing deep in his gut and an accompanying dread that he would be found out.

Martin helped him pull his shirt over his head and put it in the laundry basket with the collar and cuffs. Before Martin could put his hands on Henry’s fly, Henry hurried to unbutton his own trousers and let them drop around his ankles; he did not want Martin touching his waist, his hips, his thighs. He did not trust his body to behave in proximity to Martin. He stood in undershirt and drawers feeling miserably vulnerable and exposed.

Martin knelt at his feet, removing Henry’s socks. He looked up at Henry and smiled. “Do you change your underthings with your dinner clothes, Sir?”

If he said yes, he’d have to be naked in front of Martin. “Uh, no,” he said. “What I have on is fine.”

“Very good, Sir.”

Henry had two dinner suits, the more formal one with a tailcoat and the other with a dinner jacket. Martin stood at the open wardrobe with his hand on the dinner jacket’s hanger. “Mr. Tim tells me that the dinner jacket is suitable for family dinners, Sir, is that correct?”

“Yes. You can always believe what Timothy tells you.”

Martin appeared flustered. “Oh, Sir, no, I didn’t mean that I didn’t believe him. I only wanted to confirm with you that I had it right.”

Henry tried to reassure him. “It’s okay. I didn’t mean anything, either. Timothy has always taken good care of me. He knows how things should be done.”

“Of course he does, Sir.”

Martin found black silk socks in a drawer and knelt to help Henry put them on. His hands felt so warm, his touch sure. He’d been trained for this, Henry reminded himself. Of course he seemed sure.

Henry was grateful to put on his trousers; irrationally, he felt protected by the extra layer of fabric, less likely to get an untimely erection. Martin helped him put on his dress shirt and stood necessarily close, almost nose-to-nose, as he worked the buttons, and Henry felt a shameful blush color his cheeks. The tiny measure of ease he’d felt with Martin after the reading was gone. Henry found he was holding his breath as Martin fastened the studs into the bib of his shirtfront. He dared a glance at Martin’s face as he attached his collar. Martin’s bones were both delicate and masculine, an enchanting combination; he might have been made for Henry, to his most secret and exact specifications. It was too much to have him near.

Henry cleared his throat and waved Martin away. “I’ll tie the tie myself.”

“As you wish, Sir.” Martin stepped back and busied himself selecting an appropriate set of braces. “You have such fine clothes. It’s a pleasure to have such nice things to take care of.”

Henry did not know quite how to respond to this. He could not really take credit. Until recently, Timothy had been responsible for choosing most of his clothing, though the green suit had been his own doing. “Thank you?”

Martin elaborated. “Some gentlemen, Sir, don’t have a sense for colors or fabrics. They choose ordinary things. They make do.
Everything
you have is special, Sir.” He held up two sets of braces. “Plain or embroidered?”

“Embroidered,” Henry decided. Martin went to stand behind him and draped them over his shoulders. Martin fastened the buttons at the small of Henry’s back while Henry buttoned them on in front. Martin held up the waistcoat for Henry to put his arms through, but let Henry button it himself. Finally, Martin held the dinner jacket and Henry slipped his arms into the sleeves.

Martin knelt and held Henry’s patent leather boots so that he could step into them. Henry caught sight of the two of them reflected in the mirror on the wardrobe door. They looked good together, complementary, his black hair and Martin’s pale chestnut, his olive skin and Martin’s white. Martin turned and saw him looking in the mirror and smiled; Henry blushed and looked away.

At the dinner table, Martin held out Henry’s chair and he sat, then Martin put a napkin in his lap and stepped back to wait until he was needed. Usually, one of the footmen had stood behind Henry’s chair, just as Timothy stood behind Father and Pearl stood behind Mother, so Henry felt he ought to be used to a presence at his back, but Martin somehow felt…closer. He felt like there was a thread, a filament connecting Martin to him, and that the least disturbance in the atmosphere plucked that thread. He ate his roast beef with his head down to hide his reddening cheeks as he felt his cock stir in response to that faint but persistent connection.

Dinners at the Blackwell house were not particularly lively affairs. The slaves served as unobtrusively as possible. Mother was quite silent unless spoken to, most of her discourse carried out in whispers with Pearl rather than her husband or son. Father likewise spoke more to Timothy than his family, although he didn’t bother to whisper. “How is the new one settling in?” he asked, and Henry knew automatically that Father was not asking him.

Timothy smiled at Henry, then smiled over his head, presumably at Martin. “He’s a good boy, Sir,” he said. “I think Young Sir has done well in choosing.”

After the meal, they all retired to the upstairs parlor. Pearl had been reading to them from
The Wicked Master
, which was a very long and very slightly risqué novel chosen by Mother. Timothy—and now Martin—stood behind their masters’ chairs, but Pearl sat beside Mother on the sofa so that Mother might lean on her shoulder if need be. Mother tired easily and was often the first to go to bed. Father read over paperwork with a frown on his face; as soon as he was rid of Mother and Henry, he would end the evening in his study downstairs, puffing cigars. Henry wondered why they bothered coming together as a family in the upstairs parlor at all, as they very evidently did not enjoy one another’s company. Instead, they ought to disperse to their various bolt holes and attend to their particular interests and needs in happiness and peace. He did not suggest this, however.

In preparation for the beginning of classes next week, Henry had been flipping through his textbooks in a desultory fashion, with Father’s edict that he improve his grades in mind. He was not actually stupid, but neither was he particularly clever, and he found most subjects terribly boring besides. Latin was his particular bugbear. He did not see that there was any point to it and it was frustratingly difficult. His teacher, Dr. Foster, had encouraged him to consult his Latin grammar textbook over the break, to study it seriously and consistently, and Henry had said that he would, but of course he had lied. He opened the book for perhaps the third time all summer and tried to read the section on orthography, but the tiny letters turned to gray blurs on the page. He could not concentrate.

Martin was at his back, and they were connected.

Pearl began to read. She was a good speaker, but she didn’t do voices. The story, Henry thought, would be better with voices.

He could hear Martin’s shoes scuff on the carpet as he shifted his weight. He listened harder and heard a quiet cough, a slight clearing of the throat.

He thought about Martin reading
Drake’s Progress
, how nice it was that he seemed to really like the story, even if he probably didn’t like it for the same reasons Henry did. Louis, for instance, also enjoyed
Drake’s Progress
, but he liked the adventure aspects best of all, like most boys—like regular boys. He didn’t dwell on Theo’s affection for George the way Henry did, and Henry instinctively knew he should keep his obsession to himself. He knew perfectly well that normal, healthy boys didn’t luxuriate on thoughts of manly bare chests beaded with sweat, muscular thighs flexing in tight breeches. Regular fellows didn’t fantasize about men tending to one another’s bruises. James, for instance, would never bother to think of such a thing, though Henry had dared to think of James in that capacity on many occasions, imagining himself injured ever-so-slightly, shirt torn off, lying back in James’ strong arms and enjoying the warmth of his body. The James fantasy, however, was somewhat hampered by Henry’s knowledge of actual James, who was charismatic and great fun but not likely to care tenderly for anyone.

Henry had tried to keep his fantasies modest, under control, but his imagination ultimately got the best of him. For a long time, Henry had only allowed himself to imagine Theo and George doing the things that masters and slaves were allowed to do together: George touching Theo, but never the other way around. He was too embarrassed to picture Theo buggering George, though that, of course, was also allowed. He had imagined them tending to each other’s battle scars with a bit of leeway for the incidental touching of nipples, and that was as transgressive as he would allow his thoughts to be. But one day he had licked his own lip in the midst of a particularly heated session of self-abuse and it had felt like it was someone else’s tongue, not a young lady but a slave or another gentleman, and then he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about kissing, even though men kissing men was the province of fairies and queers, even though no one ever kissed a slave. He had wallowed helplessly in fantasies of Theo and George pressing their lips together and burned to know how that felt. He had kissed the soft skin of the inside of his own arm and came imagining he was Theo, George’s mouth wet and soft against his own.