The Wages of Sin [The Mysterious] (11 page)

The butter again. In the fire's amber light the lines of Jasper's muscles gleamed like topaz as he cradled the flashing liquid in his hand. He dripped it, yellow gold, onto the darker fallow curls of Charles' groin. It slid, oily smooth, over his newly hard prick, eased over his bollocks and insinuated itself, trickle by trickle behind them into the crack of his arse, coating all his secret places until they glistened. He felt deliciously wanton, dressed for consumption. When he wriggled, the slide of his arse cheeks together sent a thrill through him that made his face burn.

Then Jasper handed him the bowl. He filled his own hands and worshiped Jasper's cock with them, leaning in to taste the tip, his senses filled with the smell of clean sweat, musk, and the creamy fat smell of the butter. Jasper's breath came ragged and he thrust in the circle of Charles' hand. The slide of heavy shaft, foreskin and hot head through his slippery fingers gave him a little jolt of delighted power.

Determined not to show himself for the virgin he was, he got up on hands and knees and cast a challenging look over his shoulder, but when a big hand closed about his hip, holding him still, and the other stroked down from his tailbone and touched the defenceless pucker of his arsehole he still jerked as if stabbed from the shock.

How could that feel good? And yet it did. It was positively the most intimate thing that had ever been done to him. And the reaction in kind was deeper than he had ever felt. He was tempted to run away, for a moment, to huddle back into the shards of his bodily integrity, not to let a stranger breach his bounds. He found himself breathing hard, his muscles tense all over.

Jasper's little laugh sounded awed. Cool air hit Charles' damp back as Jasper stood up, moving away to the mantelpiece. But before Charles could wonder what this meant Jasper returned, kneeling down once more, his belly and chest curved protectively over Charles' back. He kissed Charles' shoulder. "You could fuck me instead."

"No. No." That gorgeous cock—Charles wanted it in him, wanted to be able to feel it with his whole body. "Please. I want this."

Jasper's voice was smoky dark, soft as steam. "Hush then. Don't be anxious. It's good, I promise you. You'll like it." He stroked Charles' hair and shoulders, easing the tension away. Gentle touches all over his back and chest, and the feel of that big cock shifting with each movement, rubbing against his balls and the cleft of his arse. More butter, and the delirious slide got better. His arms shook and the riot of need made him push back against that hardness, forgetting his fear.

"Yes," Jasper leaned forward, opened his hand and showed Charles the candle he had taken from the mantelpiece, its base smooth and round, its tapered length a little wider than a finger. Charles almost choked on his indrawn breath. His balls tightened and his stomach twisted as a throb of gleeful, horrified, fascinated joy swept through him. Jasper drew the candle down his backbone. He closed his eyes and pressed up against its slide. When it dipped between his legs he had no reluctance left; the cool, hard touch on his hole sent a rush of bone deep pleasure up his spine.

It slid in easily. He felt it push through walls of muscle, emerge, within, into a more welcoming cavity. Every slight movement sent that same deep swirl of dark, sensual bliss through each fibre of his body. The round wax tip swept across something inside him and his mouth opened in silent disbelief at the throb of wondrous need. With a little pleading whine, he pushed back, taking in the candle all the way until he was pressed tight against the knuckle of Jasper's thumb.

"Better," said Jasper, withdrawing the candle with a slow, maddening drag. Charles might have protested at its loss, had his lover not shifted his weight and pressed something better there instead. Something blunt, unyielding, softly sheathed in hot, hot skin and slippery as sin. "You push when you can."

Charles could. Imagining himself as a slave boy in the harem of a Sultan; practiced, eager, long broken in, he spread himself wider. Pushing, writhing, the buttery slide of heat and hardness more than making up for the slight burning graze, he forced himself onto Jasper's cock, until gradually that barrier within him yielded, and the whole long length of it slid inside, heavy and hot.

Prickles of pleasure, little hooks of delight, plucked at him all over. Sweat rolled down his arms, and the love bites stung, and he felt too full to breathe. Even when he did, the shuddering inhale seemed only to make him more aware of the other man inside him. He trembled on the brink of some vast mystery. Then Jasper pulled out slightly, slid back in, and all fine observation went out of the window. He braced himself, pushed back to meet the next thrust, and Jasper's deep, ragged groan made his hanging prick leap. "Oh please," he said, reaching for it. "Please. Harder."

It was over too soon, both of them too keyed up to last. They met the little death together and clung to one another panting and trembling with aftershocks, in a mess of oil and semen and sweat.

Charles' turn to mop up—he used his pocket handkerchief, which he could conveniently lose on the way home—and to draw the impromptu covers over them both. Jasper lay on his back, his mouth lax and his eyes closed. In a fit of sentiment, Charles leaned down and kissed the tip of that bold Spanish nose. Jasper smiled up at him, pulled him down into an affectionate hug. The hollow of his shoulder made a pillow just the right size for Charles' head.

Charles amused himself by tracing each one of Jasper's ribs. His whole body felt creamy with satisfaction. The room floated, an elvish bubble, gold and amber, outside time. Jasper's breathing mixed with the sigh of the fire.

Rolling to the side brought the picture above the mantel into view once more. St. Sebastian's serene face looked down on him as he supposed it must have done all the while they were coupling like hyenas. "No? That's not what I expect to hear from a priest."

Jasper turned the same guileless, loving smile on the crucifix. It made Charles feel jealous. "He and I have come to an agreement on that point. Not one that's shared by the church, perhaps, but then that's no longer my concern."

Sitting up, he looked ruefully at the empty butter dish, the full plate of bread. "Yet that will raise eyebrows in the kitchens. Here." He passed over a couple of slices on a plate, uncorked the claret and poured two glasses. "We'd better eat some."

As Charles dunked his bread in his wine the symbolism of the gesture struck him. "
Can
the church take away from you what God gave? If he doesn’t mind, I mean. If he made you a priest, aren’t you a priest whatever they say?”

Jasper’s hands clenched. He winced. Charles wondered how many of his fingers had been broken when he stood in the pillory. “I’ll… think on that,” he said, heavily. Tossing the wine back, he found his shirt and shrugged it on.

Looking round for something less painful to say, Charles remembered, “Oh, I meant to ask whether Elizabeth could stay here. Only until she is delivered of the child. We hoped you had invented the ghost, but if it’s real…”

“No, of course she must come to us. I hope in fact you will all come, at least until the malignancy can be removed from the house.”

“The Lathams couldn’t possibly all flee in terror!” Charles donned his borrowed clothes with reluctance. He could feel the unlocking of the door coming, and all those problems waiting outside it like a swarm of wasps. He thought about the barge that bobbed against the jetty at the bottom of Jasper’s garden, and all the experienced mariners in Jasper’s household. “But you could do me a different favour if you wished?”

“I’ll keep an eye on the Admiral for you.” Charles moved aside as the footman of earlier raced down the slope and out onto the quay, carrying a barrel of beer. He deposited it in the Admiral’s barge, looking a hundred times more natural in his slops and headscarf than he had in livery. The scar gave him a rakish, piratey glamour.

Jasper too was dressed for work, in a tarpaulin jacket and slouch hat, from which the rain ran off in cascades. He sheltered a lantern in one hand, and in the other held a leather satchel, where a fine silk suit and expensive wig lay rolled together in the smallest possible space. In the deepening autumn darkness the whole scene had an air of Cornish smuggling village that was only intensified when the four men on board began to hoist the topsail.

“I mean to return as fast as ever I can.” Jasper’s look down into his face was as golden as the lantern, though he did not venture to say anything more personal. “We have enough men for three watches. We can sail through the night.” He looked over his shoulder at the footman who now, relieved of his barrel, stood by one of the ropes, ready to cast off. “How fast would you say, Gibson?”

“In this wind, sir, and wet canvas? She’ll do a good twelve knots, maybe thirteen. Should be to Lechlade in less than a day, touch wood.” He suited his actions to his words, squatting down and touching the gunwhale of the barge. “So long as we don’t waste no time, sir.”

“I believe that was a hint.” Jasper’s little smile was limned by rainwater. Flickering in the light of his lantern, it slid into the corner of his mouth and gilded his lips. Charles tore his gaze away before he yielded to the wish to lick the little droplets dry. Though the wind that filled the sails and creaked in the ropes drove his borrowed greatcoat into his legs and plucked chilly around his ears, he still felt enclosed in the warmth of the study; glowing with it. A mixture of sexual satisfaction and joy must be rolling off him in a buttery wave, surely? It astounded him that no one seemed to notice.

“God willing, he will not pass until I return. And you… Take care, Charles.”
There was so much to say, and none of it could be said here. The great red mainsail of the barge sheeted home, the foresail following it, in a straining red triangle at the bows. The wind knocked the leeboard against the jetty, and Gibson cleared his throat meaningfully.
“Good luck.”
Scrambling on board, Jasper threw his satchel into the hatchway behind the main mast, picked his way forward to stand at the bows with his lantern. He gave a jaunty wave as Gibson threw both painters on board and leapt after them. They were underway at once, leaping forward like a greyhound from the leash. Gibson replaced the man at the tiller, settled in with the rope of the tiny mizzen sail under his foot, the tiller beneath his elbow, cutting himself a quid of tobacco as he steered.

With a final wave, Jasper crouched down, bringing the lantern low at the bow, looking out for obstructions. The rounded stern of the barge swung towards Charles, gilded with extravagant curlicues and mermaids fit for an admiral, all water-blue in the failing light.

He watched the lantern dwindle to a pinprick, sweep about the bend in the river and wink out. Then he folded his arms across his chest and pressed the heel of his hand to his bruised nipple, feeling suddenly, extraordinarily tired.

It was fully dark before he got home, and in the gusts of wind the little childish wailing voice floated out from the walls to meet him, an oppression he had not noticed until he had once escaped it. The entrance hall was brightly lit as always, but he fancied he
could
feel the malignancy Jasper had spoken of like a grey stain smeared lightly over all.

But the library was welcoming as always. Collapsing into an armchair by the fire, he moved the embroidered screen so that the heat would hit him in the face and waited for someone to bring him a drink. What an astonishing day! The embers of the fire, vivid, transparent shades of orange and sunny yellow, were a portal through which he could see again the events of the last few hours; the intimacies of the study, and the great, new found land of love, rich and endless as the new world. How good to have an ally. How good to have a friend, who would drop everything and go on a hard journey, on a dark night, merely because he was asked.

The thrash of rain against the curtained windows made him look up and give thanks that there had at least been somewhere on the boat for Jasper to sleep dry. As for himself, he would make no progress on this matter by sitting here in a daze of tender contemplation. Getting up, he combed the section of family history for anything that might mention the ghosts. Where did you look for a white lady? Or how put a name to a voice in the walls?

Ye gentlemen, being Obliged to give up the Hunt by reason of their great Wounds, whereby not one of them could Sit a Horse, grew restive and declared they would find Sport enough at home. To this End Sir Henry Declared he feared no nightly Apparitions, but would rather put the fear of God into the said Ghosts.

Over the course of his Return to Health, he and his Noble Friends thus stalked ye Phantoms of Latham House inasmuch as the Hunter stalks ye Boar, setting up sundry and various Traps and Devices, viz Bells upon Wires across the passages and Balls of Chalk dust upon the doors, the which would Descend upon the unwary Spirit as it passed and Reveal it to All. By these means they at once espied the Hideous Spectre of a Rude Celt upon his wagon in the Laundry Room.

Sir Henry, with great Fortitude, discharged his Dragon at the Apparition, when it was observed that the pellets passed straight through ye Unfortunate Celt and Buried themselves in the Wall. The Ghost, however, with a look of the most Severe Affront, sank into the floor and has not been Heard of since.

“If in doubt, shoot the bugger,” appeared to be Sir Henry’s motto on all occasions, Charles thought with increasing distaste as he scanned the later pages for anything else. His mother’s pet dog, his father’s prize hunter and his own valet had fallen victim to the man’s blunderbuss pistol. The valet received a flesh wound, but the brother of one of Henry’s paramours had not been so lucky—left crippled for life. And this when he had come to Henry in distress, searching for his vanished sister. The chronicler, since the young man was a Catholic, appeared to think the event an amusing tale of noble high spirits, but Charles found he could no longer agree.