A Most Personal Property (Ganymede Quartet Book 1) (50 page)

Martin lay down to curl against Henry’s side, his head on Henry’s chest, hair spreading across his ribs. Henry put an arm around his shoulders and drew him closer. He was pleasantly tired. The skin of his cock felt a little raw, a little sore, and he was glad of it. He was almost asleep when Martin slipped out from beneath his arm.

“Martin?”

“It’s time for my dinner, Sir. You rest until I come back.”

Henry let his eyes fall shut, dimly aware of Martin moving about their rooms. He woke again when Martin returned and kissed him awake.

“Hey.” Henry blinked and smiled. “It’s you.”

“It’s me, Sir,” Martin agreed. “It’s time for you to dress.”

At dinner, Henry fought to keep a sober expression while he cut his
filet de boeuf en croute
. He just wanted to smile, foolish and happy. He thought about the weekend ahead, the opportunities for more sex, of course, but also to just be with Martin, to touch him and smell him, to hold him, to know him better.

“Henry,” Father said. He cleared his throat and said it again. “Henry. Your Martin needs a horse. Timothy will be taking you out to Pierce’s tomorrow to pick one out.”

“Oh.” So much for his sex weekend. “Thank you, sir.” This was good, though. He wanted Martin to have a horse, after all.

On their way out of the dining room, Timothy stayed back to speak with Martin, making arrangements. Up in the parlor, Pearl opened
Cherie
and began to read. It was ridiculous, as expected, and Henry found it excruciating to sit through the recitation, but Mother did seem engaged, so that was a point in the story’s favor.

When at last they could go, Henry kissed his mother’s cheek and thanked Father in advance for letting him have Timothy for the day, which Father acknowledged with a stiff nod.

As they walked to Henry’s room, Martin explained to him that they would have an early morning. “We’ll all eat together, Sir,” he said. “You, Mr. Tim and I, and then Jack will take us to the early train.” He seemed excited, and Henry supposed he might well be.

He undressed Henry and put his clothes away. Naked, Henry brushed his teeth, listening to Martin bustling about, collecting their laundry.

“I’ll be right back, Sir,” Martin called, and Henry heard the door shut behind him.

Henry got in bed to wait. He felt so happy; he couldn’t quite believe it. He had this wonderful slave, this beautiful boy who seemed to really like him, and he was half in love, and it seemed like he was going to get away with it. No one seemed to have noticed anything yet, at any rate. He was restless, impatient and giddy, awaiting Martin’s return. He had so much affection to give, so much love to lavish on him, if he would have it.

Martin came in smiling, locked the door behind him, and let his clothes fall to the floor. “Let me just brush my teeth, Sir.” Henry could hear him running the taps and spitting, and then he emerged, smiling again, and came to the bed. He pulled the tie from his hair and shook it loose over his shoulders, then put the tie and his glasses on the nightstand. He looked so beautiful, sculptural, the angular planes of his hips and flat belly so inviting to Henry’s hand, and his tattoo was vivid against the white of his skin. “May I get in, Sir?”

Henry felt so full up with love he couldn’t speak. Instead, he smiled and folded the covers back in invitation.

Martin slid in between the sheets and came into Henry’s arms, fitting so well. He ducked his head to press his face against Henry’s neck. “Henry, Sir? Would it be all right if we didn’t make love again today? I’m a bit sore, and I’ll be in the saddle tomorrow.”

Henry blushed. Martin had said “make love!” Was that what they were doing? Not just rutting for health reasons like his cloddish classmates, but making something between themselves, an accretion of affection and regard. He hugged Martin closer. “Of course it’s all right.”

“I could suck your cock if you’d like, Sir.” Martin sounded so earnest, even eager.

Henry kissed the top of his head. “You don’t have to. Let’s just get some sleep.”

Martin turned off the lamp and came back to Henry’s arms, and they fell to sleep closely entwined. Henry half-woke in the middle of the night, his mouth on Martin’s, their bodies moving together, and it felt so good, but he couldn’t quite wake up enough to follow through on the actions and spiraled back down into sleep.

He woke in the morning to Martin’s hand on his shoulder and the usual, “Rise and shine, Sir,” though now it was followed up with a tender, lingering kiss.

He showered, Martin shaved him, and he was dressed. They went down to the breakfast room where Timothy was waiting for them.

“Sleep well, Sir?” Timothy asked. Henry blushed, though he imagined Timothy was merely making conversation. After all, Timothy had been interested in Henry’s habits for many years.

“Yes, thank you.” Henry sat in the chair Martin held out for him and waited for Martin to bring him a plate. He ate two helpings of scrambled eggs, six rashers of bacon, a sausage patty, two blueberry muffins and a glass of orange juice in addition to his milky coffee, and Martin ate a similar meal.

“You boys can certainly put away a great deal of food, Sir,” Timothy remarked mildly. “It’s because you’re still growing, of course.”

“I find I’m always hungry,” Henry admitted. “It will stop naturally at some point, don’t you think?”

“It might, Sir,” Timothy agreed. “Or you could find yourself getting very stout and have to put an end to it through sheer willpower.”

Henry, who had always been tall and lean and well-muscled, could not imagine himself getting fat. Of course, his father, who had been a rail-thin young man, was quite fat now, so he supposed it was possible. But, in the meantime, he would eat when he was hungry.

After breakfast, Martin went back upstairs to retrieve the case with his riding clothes inside. Henry was tempted to take his own gear so he might ride alongside Martin, but it seemed very self-indulgent since he had no intention of replacing Marigold with another horse and would be wasting the breeder’s time.

In the Clarence, Timothy let them have the forward-facing seat, which Henry appreciated. Timothy explained to them that he had called ahead and told the breeder’s slaves about Martin, his height and build, and they were going to have a number of suitable horses ready for him to ride.

“I don’t mean to rush you, Martin, but we will need to return home by dinner tonight, so please give all your attention to our errand.”

“Of course, Mr. Tim. I’m eager to see the horses, I truly am.”

Henry could see this was the case, Martin’s energy high, his cheeks pink. Henry could not help but admire him. If it were him and Martin alone in the carriage, he thought, he’d get to his knees and show him exactly how much he admired him. With the thought, he flushed a shameful red. Timothy looked at him quizzically but asked no questions.

At the station, Timothy bought their tickets and they waited in the vast lobby until their northbound train was called. It was an early enough train that there were plenty of seats and it wasn’t necessary for either Timothy or Martin to stand. Henry let his knee touch Martin’s; Timothy was reading the paper and not looking in any case.

The trip took something over an hour. Timothy offered Henry the paper and he took it, thinking it showed maturity for him to do so, but then he only looked at the advertisements.

Restless, he turned to Martin and asked, “When did you learn to ride, anyway? Did you have a horse?”

“We started very young, Sir, at 5 or so, if I remember correctly. We all shared horses, of course. My favorite was Bonnie, a black mare who was a bit temperamental, and I know she liked me, too, Sir, since she only ever bit me once.”

Henry laughed. “Do all the boys get to ride regularly, then?”

“No, Sir. After we were sorted, only the companions and butlers continued to ride.” He turned to Timothy and said, “Excuse me, Mr. Tim, was it the same when you were at Ganymede? Just the top ranks riding after age 12?”

Timothy thought a moment and nodded. “Yes, it was the same.”

Turning back to Henry, Martin said, “Up until then, Sir, it was just about being comfortable on horseback, but after we were sorted, we had to work to become good riders. We had to learn the subtleties.”

“Oh, I see.” Henry wasn’t sure he had any grasp of the subtleties; he’d stopped riding lessons at 12, at the same age the footmen and parlor maids had stopped theirs, apparently.

Martin said, “Mr. Tim, I’ve never chosen a horse before, of course. What should I be looking for, other than one that feels right?”

Timothy had some ideas about the fine points of conformation which, Henry thought, really boiled down to choosing a pretty horse rather than an oddball. Martin listened attentively and had good questions, and Henry thought again how admirable he was and felt lucky, unspeakably lucky.

At the station, there was a carriage from the breeder’s farm waiting for them. It was another half hour to the farm, time which Timothy spent looking at notes from Father, and Martin spent looking at the passing scenery. Henry spent it stealing looks at Martin, catching his eye once or twice and being rewarded with his enchanting smile.

At the farm, the owner, Mr. Pierce, came out to meet Henry and to thank him for the business. He had supplied all the Blackwell horses to date, even Cora’s pony. When Father found someone who provided him with just what he required, he was very loyal.

Martin changed into his riding gear: everything severe and plain and black, of course, appropriate for a slave. He looked very elegant, like some Renaissance prince.

Pierce had a barn with a riding ring and Henry stood on the outside of the ring with Timothy, his elbows on the rail, and watched as Martin put the horses through their paces. He was a good rider, his posture quite perfect, though this did not surprise Henry in the least. The breeder’s slaves had selected five horses for Martin to try. First, there were two bays, one a mare and the other a gelding. The mare was the shortest of the group and was eliminated immediately. The gelding was tall and seemed like a nice enough horse, but a little boring, in Henry’s opinion. Martin deserved something special. There was a glossy black gelding, and Henry thought this was a little more like it, a very pretty horse, but once Martin was on its back, it seemed a bit short, as well. A sorrel mare was also a nice, if unexciting, horse and Henry began to worry that they would find nothing suitable. He supposed if Martin was happy with a boring horse, he would try to be pleased for him, but he would be disappointed.

The fifth horse brought to the ring was a blue roan mare, very tall, elegant, with a playfulness about her that seemed quite fitting for Martin, in Henry’s opinion. Martin looked like something out of a fairytale on her back, and he beamed at Henry as he made a circuit of the ring at a trot.

“That’ll be the one, Sir,” Timothy remarked, and he was correct. Before Martin made it official, he lingered in the ring with the mare, talking in her ear and petting her neck, and then he led her over to where they stood.

“What do you think of this one, Sir? Mr. Tim? Isn’t she a beauty?”

“She’s the one I’d pick,” Henry said, petting the horse’s velvet nose. “The rest are nothing compared.” It was like Martin himself, Henry thought. There had been none other.

Henry and Martin walked with the farm’s slaves to take the horse back to the stable while Timothy went to Mr. Pierce’s office and made the necessary arrangements. The slaves gave Martin an apple to offer to his new horse and chatted with him about her temperament with frequent shy glances at Henry. They were perhaps not used to masters other than their own loitering in the stables.

Timothy came and found them and bade Martin get dressed in his street clothes. While Martin was changing, Timothy explained to Henry that the horse would be transported by train to the city on Monday and the Blackwell stable slaves would be waiting for her. “Unless Martin wants to choose the saddle himself, I think we can leave that to Jerry, Sir,” Timothy remarked. “The goal being, of course, to allow Martin to ride as soon as possible. If he insists on choosing his own tack, it will take longer.”

“I’m sure it will be all right to let Jerry do it,” Henry told him.

“Mr. Pierce very kindly offered us a hot meal, Sir, but I turned him down on your behalf. Your father wants us back in the city as soon as possible, so it seemed prudent. However, you will be happy to know, Sir, that his kitchen has made some sandwiches you boys can eat in the carriage.”

Henry was relieved to hear this. The lunch hour had come and gone, and he had become very hungry just watching Martin ride around the ring. He supposed that Martin would have worked up an even greater appetite. Martin came forth from the stables dressed in his regular clothes and black coat, traveling case in hand. He beamed when he saw Henry and took a little skipping, hurrying step.

“Oh, Sir, I’m quite beside myself!” He put his hand on Henry’s arm and leaned in. “Isn’t she beautiful?” he said confidingly. “She moves like a dream.” He turned and looked back longingly toward the stables. “Could we see her again before we go, Sir?”

Timothy shook his head firmly. “We’re on a schedule, Martin. We can talk about the horse on the way to the station. Sir, Martin—let’s go boys,” Timothy said, shooing them towards the waiting carriage.

There was a box of sandwiches waiting for them on the carriage seat. Henry lifted the bread to check what they were filled with. He made a face. “This one’s tongue,” he said to Martin. “Do you want it, then?”

“I’ll eat it, Sir,” Martin said happily.

Henry discovered a ham and cheese and ate that. “So,” he said, and then paused to finish chewing and swallow. “So, what are you going to call her?”

“Oh, I hadn’t even thought, Sir.” Martin seemed slightly awed by the infinite possibilities, dreamy-eyed. “Do you have any ideas?”

“Well, just one,” Henry said. “And maybe it’s stupid, but…what’s the name of that piece of music you’re working on? Why not name her after that?”

“Oh!” Martin thought on this, then hurriedly added, “Sir,” with a glance at Timothy, who did not seem to have noticed Martin’s slip. “Well, it doesn’t really have a name, per se, Sir, not like a popular tune, but it’s a
type
of music, a partita. That could be a rather pretty name, don’t you think?”