A Most Personal Property (Ganymede Quartet Book 1) (33 page)

“So, what then?”

“Perhaps you are ill, Sir. Mr. Tim will know something is up, but I think your father will believe it well enough.”

Something occurred to Henry. “Martin?”

“Yes, Sir?”

“Will you be in trouble with Timothy because I’m drunk?”

“You needn’t worry about that, Sir,” Martin said, not meeting Henry’s eyes.

“Don’t worry,” Henry reassured him. “I won’t let them whip you.”

Martin blanched, but put together a smile. “Thank you, Sir. Shall we go home now?”

Henry did not bother to say goodbye to Louis or James. Patrick let them out and Henry held Martin’s arm as he made his unsteady way down the Briggs’ front steps. The air was cool and there was a light, refreshing breeze. Henry recognized that he was still quite drunk, but it really seemed that the worst was past.

Martin kept his arm around Henry’s waist for the short distance to the Blackwell home though Henry was so distracted that he couldn’t really appreciate the closeness. As they reached the Blackwells’ corner, in view of anyone looking out the windows, Martin took his arm away. “Can you make it on your own, Sir? You’ll seem less drunk if you can.”

“I can do it,” Henry said with more confidence than he truly felt.

Inside, Paul wrinkled his nose at the stink coming off the both of them but of course said nothing.

Martin got Henry into his room without their encountering anyone else and ran him a bath. While the tub was filling, Henry sat slumped on the edge of his bed, boneless and with a sour stomach. Martin undressed him to the extent possible while he remained seated, then led him into the bathroom still wearing his trousers. Blearily swaying beside the tub, Henry almost didn’t notice that Martin was unbuttoning his trousers, then his drawers. He was in no condition to be either aroused or self-conscious.

“Here, Sir, hold onto me while you step in,” Martin said, ducking under Henry’s limp arm and taking his weight. “I don’t want you to slip on this tile.”

“You’re good to me,” Henry blurted.

“It’s kind of you to say so, Sir.”

Martin let him soak a few minutes before insisting that he wash his hair. “It smells the worst of anything, Sir. All that smoke.”

“What about you, then?”

Martin frowned and held a strand of his own hair in front of his nose. “I’ll have to wash, too, Sir.” He turned on the water in the shower stall and began unbuttoning his waistcoat. “I’m sorry to intrude on your privacy, but circumstances necessitate.” He stripped quickly and unselfconsciously.

From his seat in the tub, Henry goggled at all of Martin’s creamy naked skin and blushed, but Martin either didn’t notice him staring or didn’t care that he did, and stepped into the shower stall. Henry sighed and ducked under the water, wetting his stinking hair.

After they both were clean, Martin dressed him in his pajamas and put him in bed. Every time he closed his eyes, the dark began to spin again.

“I’m going to go talk to Mr. Tim, Sir.”

“What are you going to tell him?”

“That you’re feeling ill, Sir, and as much of the truth as necessary so that he’ll help cover for you.”

“All right,” Henry said. He had no plan of his own and Martin’s sounded at least as good as anything he might have come up with. He let his head roll on the pillow so that he could look at Martin. “Will you bring me something to eat?”

“Yes, Sir. Something that will settle your stomach. I’ll be back directly.”

Some time later, Martin returned carrying a tray with soup and crackers, Timothy frowning at his back.

“Young Sir,” Timothy said, his stern demeanor conveying his deep disappointment.

Henry looked down at the bedcover, flushed with shame.

“Perhaps you have learned something from this experience, Sir,” Timothy suggested. “A lesson you can apply next time young Mr. Briggs offers you a drink.”

“I’m sorry,” Henry muttered, eyes averted. Then he added, “It’s not Martin’s fault.”

“Of course not, Sir,” Timothy said. “After all, what can a slave do in the face of a willful master?” He turned on his heel and walked to the open door where he paused and said, “I will tell your father you have an upset stomach, Sir. Goodnight.”

Henry ate the food and drank all the water that Martin insisted he drink. Martin took away the tray and Henry lay down and stared at the spinning ceiling. Martin moved quietly about his tasks, tidying Henry’s room. He changed into his own pajamas—Henry could see his shadow undressing, stretched along the short hallway—and then took the heap of their smoke-stinking clothing out of the room in the laundry basket. When he came back from delivering their laundry, he paused at Henry’s bedside.

“Is there anything else you need, Sir?” He touched Henry’s shoulder gently, kindly.

“No, thank you.”

“Then I’ll be going to bed, Sir, if that’s all right.”

“Did you get anything to eat?” Henry asked, suddenly thinking of it. “When you went down to talk to Timothy, did you get your dinner?”

“I’ll eat extra at breakfast.” Martin patted his shoulder. “Goodnight, Sir.”

In the morning, Henry felt horrible. Hollowed-out, squinty-eyed and queasy. Martin brought him water and watched while he drank it. The idea of food was repulsive, and luckily, because of his fallacious stomach complaint, he was exempt from taking part in the family breakfast.

“If you’re hungry later, I’ll bring you a tray, Sir,” Martin offered.

Henry dozed until lunchtime, when Timothy sent word that he would be expected at the table. He bathed and shaved and dressed with perhaps somewhat less of his usual reserve and secrecy. Why not let Martin do his job? After all, Martin had seen him naked now. Martin had watched him vomit. He had been so afraid Martin would find out what kind of person he was, and now he had seen some of it—not the most shameful parts, perhaps, but bad enough. But it didn’t matter: Martin couldn’t leave him, no matter how horrible he turned out to be, and Henry took some comfort in that.

Henry hadn’t felt right all day Sunday, which he attributed to the lingering effects of alcohol poisoning. On Monday morning, he felt hot and peculiar with a stuffy head, and would have liked to stay in bed but he didn’t want to see Timothy make his disapproving face again. He let Martin bustle him into the shower, then stared blearily into the mirror while making a half-hearted attempt at shaving. He scarcely noticed he was being dressed, picked at his breakfast, and felt like it was an effort to keep his head balanced on his neck. He got through the school day somehow, barely awake, lethargic and dull-witted with a head full of snot.

He was relieved when it was time for Latin, Dr. Foster’s class, because that meant it was almost time to go home. Of course, he’d never done particularly well with declensions under the best of circumstances but, as far as he could tell, Dr. Foster was making no sense at all. When he was called upon he stood reluctantly, but before he could give an answer the world went dark.

He came to with Martin hovering over him, his face pinched with worry. “Are you awake, Sir? Can you hear me?”

“What happened?” Henry tried to sit up, but Martin’s hand on his chest kept him down.

“You’re ill, Sir. You fainted.” Martin smoothed Henry’s shirt and fussed with his tie. “I’ve asked for a cab to take us home.”

They rode in silence, Henry’s grip on consciousness not entirely exact. Martin had an arm around his shoulders but he wasn’t sensible enough to either enjoy or be embarrassed by this fact. Henry let his head fall against Martin’s shoulder and his hat came off, rolling on the floor of the cab.

At the house, Randolph paid the driver and helped Martin get Henry inside. Billy helped Martin take him upstairs and they undressed him, put him in his pajamas, and bundled him into bed. Henry made feeble protests, insisting he wasn’t sick, but fell to sleep almost immediately under a heap of extra quilts and blankets.

When he woke, he was too hot and slicked in sweat, his pajama top wet through. Martin was there and helped him strip it off and, although that made him feel somewhat self-conscious and vulnerable, he was much more comfortable. Martin seemed paler than ever, his mouth in a tight, anxious line. Timothy came in and put a hand against Henry’s forehead.

“He’s feverish,” Timothy said. “He’ll feel better if you bathe him.”

Martin nodded assent. “As you say, Mr. Tim.” He got up from the edge of the bed and went into the bathroom and Henry heard water splashing.

Timothy smoothed the hair back from Henry’s forehead. “How are you feeling, Sir?”

Henry grimaced and tried to sit up but, failing that, sank helplessly back against his pillow. “Terrible,” he admitted.

Timothy made soothing sounds and kept stroking Henry’s hair, which was comforting and made him feel young and cared-for. He was almost back to sleep when Martin returned to his bedside with a basin and sponge.

“I’ll let you see to it,” Timothy said, patting Martin on the shoulder. “Call for me if you need any help.”

“Yes, Mr. Tim.” Martin set the basin down on the nightstand and took up his place at Henry’s side, his weight slightly tilting the mattress. To Henry he said, “Sir? Are you awake?”

“I’m awake.” Henry tried again to sit up but felt weak and heavy and abandoned the effort almost as soon as he’d tried.

“Don’t try to sit up, Sir.” Martin wet his sponge in the basin and then squeezed it to damp. “Rest and let me help you.” He took Henry’s wrist in hand and lifted his arm. The sponge felt deliciously cool against the inside of his wrist and Henry sighed in appreciation.

“Is this all right, Sir? The temperature?”

“It’s nice,” Henry told him. “Perfect.”

The sponge was just wet enough, just cool enough, and felt like being gently licked all over, or so Henry supposed, dimly aware that he had moaned aloud in response to the sponge passing over his nipple. He looked up at Martin in alarm, but Martin was smiling blandly, as if nothing had happened. “Does it feel nice, Sir?”

Henry nodded and let his eyes fall closed again. It felt incredibly nice. Martin’s touch was firm yet gentle and Henry went pleasantly limp under his fingertips. His nipples felt tight and sensitized and he willed Martin to sponge them again, almost sure that the hardening of his cock would go unnoticed beneath all the blankets. Martin ran the sponge over his arm from wrist to elbow, then elbow to armpit, through the hollow and down his side. A drop of water slid down his ribs to spread on the sheet. Martin dipped and squeezed the sponge and ran it over Henry’s chest again, collarbones and the breadth of his ribs, then nipples and the slope of his chest as it tapered down to the flat of his belly. He felt Martin’s hand then, fingers spread, low on his stomach, and he trembled. Blood rushed to his groin and he made a weak cry for fear that his arousal would be discovered.

“Your skin is so hot, Sir,” Martin said, almost in wonder, his voice low and close. “Your fever is high.” He bent and put his arms around Henry’s body and easily lifted his slack weight to sitting. “I’ll just wash your back now, Sir.” Henry slumped forward, his cheek resting on Martin’s shoulder and Martin held him there with a hand on the back of his neck. They had never been so close before and Henry felt slightly panicked, but he was too weak to protest the embrace.

In his dreamy, woozy state, Henry could do little but submit to Martin’s attentions. Martin’s hair was slippery beneath his cheek; he turned his face against it and smelled vetiver, laundry soap, a human undercurrent. He helped to hold himself upright with a handful of Martin’s shirt and felt the bones of Martin’s shoulder moving under his hand. A drop of water ran from the nape of Henry’s neck all the way down the channel of his spine with a tickle that was half-pleasant, half-annoying and he squirmed a little.

Martin paused in his ministrations. “Is the water too cold, Sir?”

Henry tightened his grip on Martin’s shoulder and said, “No, it’s good.”

Martin eased him down onto the bed and held him just a moment, his chest against Henry’s, and Henry felt Martin’s heartbeat and he shuddered, shocked at the strength of his desire.

Martin sat up and looked at him with concern. “Are you all right, Sir? Are you cold?”

Henry shook his head. Even as sick as he felt, he’d responded to Martin’s closeness with a longing that he felt throughout his entire skin, a magnetic pull that ached. Martin fetched a clean pajama shirt and helped Henry to sit up to dress. When Henry was flat on his back again, Martin tucked the covers close around his shoulders and turned out the lamp.

“Sleep well, Sir. Sleep and get better.”

Henry was dimly aware of someone checking on him during the night, gentle hands cool on his forehead, but he slept through till morning, restive and overheated. Later in the day, there was some fuss, voices, and Henry sensed that there was extra weight on the mattress beside him, but it wasn’t until Timothy woke him to feed him some broth at lunchtime that he understood that Martin was next to him in the bed.

“What’s he doing here?” Henry asked groggily, sitting up with Timothy’s help.

“He’s taken ill too, Sir,” Timothy told him. “I tried to put him in his own bed, but he wouldn’t leave you. He was very worried about you, you see, and didn’t want you out of his sight.” Timothy’s hand was cool against Henry’s forehead, and he petted Henry’s hair affectionately. “He put up quite a fuss, Sir, and I thought it best to let him have his way. I didn’t think you’d mind.” He put an extra pillow behind Henry’s back and handed him a mug of chicken broth.