Provoked (16 page)

“At least admit you enjoyed it,” Balfour said after a while, his tone faintly hostile.

David looked up from fastening his breeches. “I never said otherwise.”

That didn’t seem to mollify Balfour at all. He stared balefully at the floor.

“What’s wrong?” David asked quietly. He wondered if the other man had resented David’s lack of active participation. Generally, David tended to do most of the work in his encounters, but tonight he’d lain back and let Balfour do everything.

“Nothing’s wrong,” Balfour snapped.

David’s hands stilled. He waited. He’d cross-examined enough witnesses to know a pregnant silence when he heard one.

“It’s just that—” Balfour looked up and fastened that dark gaze on David again. He was scowling. “I find I still want you.”

Unsure what to say, David stayed silent, watching Balfour warily.

“It’s like a sickness,” Balfour continued. “Ever since I met you. You’ve been…preying on my mind. It’s irritating. I never entertain repeat performances.”

“I see.”

Balfour gave a harsh laugh. “Do you?”

David shrugged. “You thought we’d have this, and the itch would be gone.” He understood that delusion. In the past, after every encounter he had with another man, he’d make promises to himself that it would never happen again.
Just this once.

Balfour stared at him, his gaze very cold. “An itch. Is that what you call it?”

“Well, what do you call it?” David shot back, retrieving his cravat from the floor and looping it about his neck.

“I’ve never thought about it before tonight,” Balfour said tightly. “Desire, I suppose. More than an
itch
, anyway.”

David’s hands stilled in the midst of tying his cravat and he stared at the other man, his heart thudding. Balfour stood and glared back. He was such a contradiction, speaking those oddly flattering words in such a cold, almost affronted manner. As though he thought David had done something underhanded to make him feel that way.

After a long, tense pause, David shifted his gaze and reached for his evening coat. “We agree on one thing at least,” he said mildly as he shouldered it on. “Repeat performances are a bad idea.”

He was aware of Balfour regarding him silently for a moment while he buttoned his coat; then the larger man stalked across the room and pulled the servants’ bell.

“We agree on something else,” Balfour bit out. “It’s time you left.”

The sudden aggression in his tone drew David’s attention, and he saw that there was a tightness to Balfour’s jaw, a thinness to his generous mouth, that spoke of barely controlled anger.

David silently bent to fetch his shoes. By the time he was finished dressing, a footman was knocking at the door. Balfour opened it and stood aside to display the waiting servant. He didn’t look at David. “Johnston will see you out,” he said.

David walked to the door, pausing a moment to look at Balfour as he left. He felt he should say something—as though he’d regret it forever if he didn’t speak—but his throat felt oddly constricted, and he didn’t know what it was he wanted to say anyway. So in the end he just gave a jerky nod and went. The door closed behind him with a decisive click.

David followed the footman down the corridor, his mind teeming with thoughts. Why the hell had Balfour been so angry? David had given Balfour everything he’d wanted, hadn’t he? Allowed things he’d never allowed anyone else. The new, fierce memory of what they’d done together hit David like a physical blow: Balfour’s head bent over David’s cock, his fingers moving inside David’s body, his face as he stroked his own cock, clenched in agonised pleasure—

Oh God.

The way David had come. So hard, so unrestrained. Yelling out his pleasure.

David glanced at the footman as they descended the staircase. Had he heard David crying out? The sudden horror of that thought made David’s gorge rise.

God in heaven, what had he
done
?

When they reached the hallway, the footman fetched David’s greatcoat and hat. David allowed the man to help him on with the greatcoat, his shame and mortification growing all the time.

Then, at last, the footman was opening the door, politely inclining his head. As soon as the gap was wide enough, David shoved his way out. He couldn’t wait to leave Balfour’s house. He welcomed the bruising glance of his shoulder against the wood of the doorframe. The pain distracted him for a moment from the turmoil in his mind.

Once he was out, he didn’t look back. He practically fell down the steps to the street below in his hurry to leave and started running. He ran along Queen Street, streaking past serried ranks of identical townhouses, turning off to pound up the steep hill of Hanover Street. When he crested the hill at George Street, his heart felt ready to burst out of his chest. Still he ran. Across Princes Street and all the way up the Mound. Farther, till he reached the bottom of Fleshmarket Close. Only then did he stop, at the foot of that steep alleyway, to bend over, panting and half retching, sick with exhaustion and regret.

Once he had his breath back, he slowly straightened and looked into the darkness of the close. He never came this way at night, though it was a shortcut home. The close was unlit and black as hell. He could hear the panting curses of a man fucking a whore up against the wall. When he stepped into it, when the gloom swallowed him up like the maw of a great beast, the stink of piss and ale and sour fear was overwhelming. A distant part of him knew he should turn back.

But he didn’t.

Halfway up the close, once David was as far into the dark as he could be and with the stink near choking him, a man stepped out of the shadows.

“Gi’e us your coin.”

The man’s voice was thick with drink and thrummed with the threat of violence. David knew he should be afraid but he felt…nothing. The whole situation felt unreal, but some sort of response appeared to be required.

“I think not,” he said, marvelling at how calm he sounded.

It was only when the man’s hulking shadow shot forward that the numbness dissipated. Fear exploded in David. His heart pounded and energy flooded his limbs. Time seemed to slow as he braced himself for the man’s attack. But it was a blow from behind him that hit him first. Something stout and heavy that struck the back of his head. He staggered forward, just as the first man’s fist came forward and hit his temple a glancing blow.

Even as David reeled, a strange calmness came over him, as though this had always been inevitable. As though it was right. Energy surged in him. All that mattered was this single struggle. He drew back his fist and punched the aggressor in front of him with everything he had. The jarring pain that travelled up his arm was almost as shocking as the pain in his head, but somehow he kept going, striking again and again, twisted satisfaction filling all the yawning spaces inside him when he heard someone grunt with pain. The brawl lasted only a minute—less. The end came with a second blow to the back of his head.

He dropped like a stone, the ground coming up to meet him, cold and hard beneath his cheek. Hands rifled over him, and a vicious boot caught him twice in the ribs, making him groan and curl in on himself.

And then he was left, stunned and bleeding on the wet cobbles.

Chapter Twelve

One of the whores helped David up. She sat him on her stoop till he came round and gave him a nip of gin. She made him lean on her while he walked up to the top of the close. Her name was Janet, his mother’s name, and she looked about the same age.

His money had been stolen, along with his watch. He told Janet he’d come back with a coin for her in thanks another day. Janet just snorted and waved him on. “Away ye go and get tae bed.”

It wasn’t far to his rooms, and he managed to weave his way dazedly home without further incident. He staggered inside, lit a candle and washed the blood from his face and the back of his head, which was now pounding. He felt tired and shaky, not even up to undressing. He lay down on the bed in his clothes and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

The next day, he awoke feeling like hell. There was a crust of dried blood on the back of his head, which felt sore and tender. When he looked in the mirror, he discovered that half his face was grazed from his fall to the ground and he had a black eye. It hurt when he breathed in. What had possessed him to walk through Fleshmarket Close last night?

It was a question he asked himself over and over, and at the back of his mind, an answer lurked, one he didn’t want to examine too closely. A morbid desire for oblivion had suffused him last night, carrying his feet forward into a darkness he had known to be dangerous. He hadn’t cared in that moment what would happen to him.

He hurt in a different way when he thought about the events at Balfour’s house. Removing his stiff, dirty clothes, he had to banish memories of Balfour undoing his buttons, unwinding his neckcloth, pulling his shirt over his head. He tried to push the memory of that slow undressing to the back of his mind, but the pictures were still there. As was the ghost of Balfour’s mouth kissing him, Balfour’s big, warm body pressing against his own.

Years of keeping his encounters with other men as anonymous and impersonal as possible had gone to hell last night. He’d broken all his own rules. He’d gone to Balfour’s home, laid in his bed, kissed him, allowed the man to penetrate him intimately. Even now the thought of it had his gut clenching and regret washing over him. But Christ, it had felt so good. Far too good.

“I never entertain repeat performances.”

And neither did David.

Once David was naked, he examined himself. His torso was badly bruised. If he’d been at home, his mother would have wrapped it in coarse paper soaked in vinegar. For a moment, he wondered if he should do that, but he was sure he didn’t have the right sort of paper. In the end, he merely donned a nightshirt and went back to bed, where he spent most of Sunday, sleeping on and off, emerging only once to unearth some food. While he slept, his dreams looped anxiously—missed hearings, mislaid papers, looking for something, looking for someone. He’d feared he’d dream of Balfour, but he didn’t—not once. It was only his waking hours that were haunted by the man.

Whenever he thought of what he’d done with Balfour, his prick swelled, even as regret suffused him. Twice he took himself in hand and brought himself to completion at the memories. Both times he was swamped by bitter regret after.

He felt better on Monday, though his bruises and grazes possibly looked worse. His maidservant, Ellen, arrived early and cried out when she saw his face. “What happened to you, Mr. Lauriston?”

“It’s nothing,” he said. “I was foolish enough to take a shortcut home on Saturday and was lucky only to suffer a few bruises and a stolen watch.”

“Oh, but your bonny face, sir!”

She made him sit while she examined him. “I’ve brought your breakfast, but you’ve not a thing else in the place—as usual.” She always scolded him like this, even though she was several years his junior.

“You know I usually eat my meals out.”

“Aye, well, you’ll no’ be out today, will you? I’ll go and get you some food, and when I come back, I’ll bring you some good ointment for that bruisin’.”

Within half an hour, she’d laid a new fire, swept and tidied his sitting room and set down his breakfast—two kippers and butter. Then she took the coins he gave her and departed while he ate. He hadn’t thought he was hungry, but he ate both kippers and mopped up all the butter with his bread. He felt much better after his meal, and while the maidservant was gone, he shaved and dressed himself properly.

“You look better already,” she declared with satisfaction when she returned, but she still made him sit again and applied her ointment to his bruises.

He stayed at home all day, immersing himself in reading for the case he and Chalmers were working on and trying to banish all thoughts of Saturday’s events from his mind. Ellen stocked his meagre larder and cleaned his rooms during the morning, taking a bundle of laundry away with her when she left and promising to have it back when she came again on Wednesday. For the rest of the day, he was alone.

He managed well enough till evening came. He’d slept so much the day before that he wasn’t tired at all, but his head still ached and his concentration was poor. Eventually he abandoned his work and tried to read the
Edinburgh Review
instead, but it was to no avail. All he could think about was his behaviour with Balfour. He’d allowed Balfour to touch him more intimately than any person ever had before, and when he thought of where the man had put his mouth, his fingers—

David dropped his head into his hands and squeezed his eyes tightly shut. However ashamed he might feel now, he wouldn’t tell himself lies. He had willingly let go of his reservations and allowed Balfour to do things to him he had sworn to himself he would never allow. And when he remembered the sensations that had racked his body as Balfour had worked him—as he’d sucked David’s cock and penetrated him with his fingers in skilful counterpoint—it made David want to experience it all again.

“No,” he moaned aloud, his head still cradled in his hands. But no matter his feelings now, it had happened. It had. One of those carefully tended fences of his had been breached forever.

He stood and went into the kitchen. On the top shelf of the larder, he kept his whisky. He took it down, poured a generous dram and threw it straight down his throat. Snatching up both bottle and glass, he headed back to the sitting room, sat down and began to drink in earnest, chasing oblivion.

An hour later, with more than half the bottle gone, he finally fell asleep in his chair, the glass tumbled, forgotten, to the floor.

On Tuesday, David ventured to the faculty library. He had little choice. He and Chalmers were meeting the solicitor in the MacAllister case at eleven o’clock. The hearing was in a few weeks. David had meticulously reviewed all the papers and witness precognitions again to identify the weakest areas of their case and suggest how the gaps might be filled. He was to sit down with Chalmers at nine o’clock to take him through his conclusions.