The Hunt Club Chronicles Bundle (4 page)

Silence. Blessed peace remained.

Henry breathed deep, but the heavy scent of white smoke still permeated the room and he longed for cleaner air. He lifted his head again and looked about, but he couldn’t see much. The numerous legs of drawing room furniture blocked his vision and then his eyes snagged on a pair of polished black boots.

They were empty, possibly discarded by another guest, yet their commonplace presence soothed. When they moved, Henry’s panic returned threefold and he had to stifle a scream.

Black boots, black legs. All he could see was darkness coming for him. They approached silently; no sound would alert the previous occupants of the room that their territory was under threat, unless he managed to raise enough of a fuss, enough strength, to fight off this one remaining man.

But he didn’t want His Grace’s companions to come back. He didn’t want the black boots to come closer either. They paused; mere inches from his body and then Henry heard low-pitched cursing. This dark spirit, towering high above his limited view, cursed him in the worst possible way.

Henry couldn’t hide. He had no strength to scuttle away and protect himself. The cursing stopped and then strong hands grabbed him: pulling him upright with no apparent effort and held Henry against a warm body. Not a spirit; a man. If Henry’s nose wasn’t filled with the stench of white smoke he might find comfort in the scent of this new presence. But he had no sense of smell, only touch and fallible sight. His eyes rose to where the face should be, but he glimpsed only a fantasy: an impossibility.

Henry’s fantasy man forced his arms into the sleeves of a dark greatcoat and, hoping the gesture heralded a rescue, he fumbled to help. He wasn’t sure he sped up the process, but he did try until he was bound tight, clenched against the stranger’s side.

Instead of the door, Henry’s fantasy dragged him toward an open window and, to his horror, pushed him out feet first. Unfortunately, Henry had no strength to stand and his legs buckled, folding him to the damp earth like an empty grain sack. Henry groaned, dragging in the damp night air, scrambling to straighten his body from the awkward position.

Another curse blistered his ears and then those strong hands pulled him up, supporting him against more warmth. In the moonlight, his fantasy remained. His employer, the Duke of Byworth, held him close against his chest, his lower body pressed tight against Henry’s uncovered prick. The itchy wool created an ache within Henry, and he had strength enough to produce an impressive cockstand.

The fantasy man’s hips jerked back, but with surprising dexterity, Henry captured the dark face to determine how great the illusion was. He could feel stubble, warmth, and when he brushed his fingers against lips, a damp exhalation caressed them.

Heedless of the desire not to break the delusion, Henry pressed his lips against the fantasy. He hoped the real man didn’t mind. After the nightmare of Lewes’ hospitality, Henry needed to be in control, to enjoy a moment of true desire. He tasted a hint of brandy on the man’s breath before the fantasy turned away, slung an arm around Henry’s back and dragged him away from danger.

As they crossed a patch of moonlight, a voice called out from behind. It was not clear enough for Henry to determine the words, but his rescuer tightened his grip and forced him to move faster. Unwilling to return to the house he’d been trapped in, Henry tried to keep up. He tripped, but was swept up and carried into the protective darkness of a stand of trees.

Hidden beneath the greatcoat, Henry started to shiver, suddenly afraid of where his fantasy man was taking him. A whimper snuck out before he could stop it.

The man holding him pulled him closer. “Damn it, keep quiet.”

Henry curled into the warmth of the man, willing, daring to believe he was safe. He looped his arms around the man’s neck and pressed his face into the tight folds of a knotted cravat. The man holding him breathed hard. Henry stayed silent, but his lips strayed upward and found a whiskered jaw to kiss.

The man’s skin was delicious. Henry rasped his tongue along the rough jaw line and then flicked along the softer skin below.

The man twisted his head to dislodge Henry’s lips and breath crossed his skin. Henry purred and attempted another kiss, but the stranger juggled him lower so his lips couldn’t reach skin then dragged him off into the night at a greater pace. The jarring force of his speed reminded Henry that he hurt a great deal and he licked his lips, prepared to ask for respite.

Abruptly, the pace changed. He heard the faint jostle of horses and tack, the creak of timber, and the whispered hail of another man.

“There is a change of plan.” A deep voice rumbled above Henry. “Take us to the cottage instead.”

“’cor, blimey,” another man exclaimed. “Is that who I think it is?”

Henry didn’t hear the reply. He was too caught up in misery as hard leather seats embraced his aching body. He moaned, uncaring if his fantasy man would wish him silent still. The great cloak fluttered around him, then settled. Something else pressed over that. He rocked with the motion of the carriage, fighting to ignore the pain, and the only sound he heard was their steady passage along the road and rough breathing close by.

Henry was so used to heavy breathing by now that the uneven gasps didn’t concern him. He wasn’t hearing lust, only fatigue. Relief pierced his terror and he peered through his unruly hair.

This night-dark fantasy had saved him. His hair slipped away from his eyes and he could see again, although with the carriage lights unlit he was deprived of clarity. Flickering moonlight still tricked him into thinking his savior was his employer. The man knelt on the floor between the bench seats, watching Henry with concern the real duke would not.

Since he dreamed the most devastatingly attractive man he’d ever met hovered over him, Henry took matters into his own hands, determined to experience it all. Who knew when someone repulsive would replace this handsome image?

He licked his lips and the man leaned closer. Henry freed one arm, hooked his fingers around the man’s neck and drew the stranger downward.

The man scowled, but Henry cradled that dark face, pulled those lips close enough to feel breath cross his and kissed the phantom duke as he’d longed to do since he first began working for him.

At first, his fantasy resisted. Henry didn’t particularly care for that. Since this was his dream, he freed his other hand and pulled the man closer to set about breaching his defenses. His insistence seemed to attract the other man’s complete attention. A tongue touched his and the phantom duke took over kissing.

That was probably a good idea.

Although he didn’t want the dream to end, Henry was weary. The rocking carriage was lulling him towards sleep when all he wanted to do was ride this sweet dream to its inevitable conclusion. The hot, open-mouthed kisses devoured Henry as if the other man were starving. All Henry had to do was respond.

Chapter Five

Nathan drew back as his servant’s eyes fluttered shut. Stackpool’s face slacked, lips parted but damp from his kisses. His steward slept, fingers slowly uncurling from Nathan’s hair. Reaching up, he grasped Stackpool’s wrists and tucked his arms below the greatcoat where he could stay warm for the journey.

Then he scrubbed the back of his hand across his lips. Still reeling from that kiss, he contemplated the ill man opposite. The thought of hours of silent travel were a balm to his shaking senses. He was afire with lust, but such a reaction wasn’t natural for him to enjoy. It was downright bloody dangerous to his health.

Henry Stackpool: his steward, his essential assistant. A man he’d thought would never kiss him with such passion, a man that had been beaten and buggered while he’d hidden out of sight. Anger coiled within him. He would make Lewes pay dearly for this.

But then he remembered that in his haste to retrieve Stackpool, he’d failed to locate his wife’s diary. Nathan punched the seat beside him. Damn it all, he’d have to go back again, but not before he had seen to Stackpool’s welfare.

Across from him, his servant slept peacefully now. But there would come a time when he would remember what had been done to him and Nathan wondered if the humiliation would break him. Determined that he wouldn’t lose Stackpool, he would avoid the subject of buggery entirely, unless his servant brought the subject up.

But that kiss, that insistent need of Stackpool’s to be kissed, confused Nathan. Surely a man with normal needs did not go around kissing men under the influence of white smoke. He’d never heard of such a thing.

Family, responsibility, duty—all managed to drown out the confusion pounding through his body and he closed his eyes, thinking of his children’s smiling faces and allowed the dark night to smother his desire.

He woke when the carriage stopped.

Dawn was a smudge of grey on the far horizon and he blinked to orientate himself. They were at his summer cottage, his retreat south of his ducal seat. He heard the relentless pounding of waves upon the shore and drew in a deep cleansing breath.

This place was his refuge—the home of his heart. Here Nathan could be himself without the responsibilities that came with the dukedom. He didn’t get a chance to come here enough.

A glance at his companion showed Stackpool still slept, one hand curled beneath his cheek the other clutching the blanket tight. The sight of his steward lying so defenseless stabbed at him and he eased out of the carriage to speak to his coachman.

The coachman peered around Nathan, trying to catch a glimpse of the sleeping man. “That
is
Mr. Stackpool. Is he going to die?”

Gossiping servants could be a problem. He didn’t want word of Henry’s misadventure to be a source of speculation amongst them. “I doubt there will be any lasting infirmity, but hear me well. I want no word of his illness to pass your lips. Given his duties with my children, I’ll keep him away from them to spare them the distress of witnessing his bruises. Do you understand me?” Nathan dug in his waistcoat pocket and handed over coins. “I’ll need you to get provisions for our stay.”

The coachman nodded rapidly.

“Once you have the fires lit, and provisions fetched, I will require you to return to
Grantley
Park
and obtain sufficient clothing for my stay.”

“What about Mr. Stackpool?”

Nathan pursed his lips. “Obtain the bare necessities he needs from his chamber without being noticed, but if you have difficulties he can wear something of mine.”

The coachman blinked at Nathan’s generosity. “Yes, Your Grace. I’ll be quick about it.”

“Get some water to heating. I’m sure Mr. Stackpool’s cuts require attending.”

The coachman took a last look toward the coach and then went on his way. When his servant was safely removed from the carriage’s vicinity, Nathan stepped back in to wake Stackpool.

His steward blinked groggily and ignored Nathan’s attempts to rouse him. But the frightened whimper he uttered in his sleep tugged at Nathan’s little used heart. He pressed his finger against Stackpool’s lips.

Stackpool quieted.

On impulse, Nathan brushed his steward’s long hair from his eyes. Lashes fluttered, but he didn’t wake. Nathan considered that pale, serious face, familiar, yet distinctly not, and removed his hand. Sitting back, he contemplated his servant’s appearance. Whatever must the coachman think of his bare feet and legs sticking out of the blanket? Not to mention the bare ass beneath.

Just thinking of that ass proved a problem. Stackpool’s trousers had been nowhere in sight when Nathan had found him, and he’d had little time to look around. Nathan’s prick stirred. He did his best to ignore those imaginings around his steward. A man in his position, a duke, couldn’t let down his guard for a moment. And especially not with a man he would see every day.

Regardless of the unwanted lust humming through Nathan’s blood, he couldn’t risk his reputation. But Stackpool belonged at his side. His skills and knowledge were needed. Despite what he had just witnessed and experienced of Stackpool, he had to set aside these disturbing thoughts. He had to pretend he hadn’t seen his steward take a prick up his ass without so much as a whimper. No doubt, the white smoke had blotted out the pain. Tomorrow, and the days following, he’d be aching.