Discreet Young Gentleman (13 page)

Dean rubbed his bleary eyes. "The barman won't put us up for the night?"

"He would," Rob said. "I'd just as soon not stay here, if you don't mind." He took a swig from the bottle as they hurried down the stairs and left the pub, door closing on the still-rowdy crowd within.

"I thought you said drinking doesn't solve anything," Dean jeered.

"Yes," Rob said. "But it does kill the taste." He began walking, as quickly as he could, down the road away from the pub.

"Oh, Christ." He put out his hand, and Rob passed over the bottle. Gin. Dean hoped the heat of the alcohol might help dissolve the knot of anger in his gut, but it remained.

"Where are we going?" he said after a time, wincing at the sullen tone of his own voice.

Rob took a breath. "Anywhere. If we don't come to the town soon, let's look for a barn. I'm sorry, I know you must be tired. But I just couldn't stay there."

"What about Erich—did you forget about him?"

"It's taken care of. Someone will come to tow the coach in the morning, and Erich can stay with the carriage-wright in Minchinhampton until the repairs are finished. We can too, or if you prefer not to wait, we have enough to go on to Bath by some public transport."

"Busy, weren't you?"

"Wasn't I supposed to be?"

"I didn't ask you to do this."

"I know." Rob handed him the gin. "What do you want to do?" Dean looked at Rob's profile, clean and pure in the moonlight, and only one thing leapt to mind. Chest tightening, he looked away. "I still have to get to Bath."

"Go home, Dean. You won't get Miss Lewis back if her father doesn't wish it."

"All I have to do is prove that I'm not what he thinks I am." Dean took a long pull of gin. And not actually be it, of course. But he wasn't. Damn it, he wasn't. He might be curious, especially after tonight, but—

"And if you can't prove it?" Rob put his hand out for the liquor, breaking into Dean's thoughts.

"Then I'll see Minerva. She'll believe me, and if we have to marry without her father's consent we'll do it. She's of age."

"Fly off to Gretna Green?" The bottle tipped skyward, and Rob's adam's apple bobbed in the light of the full moon. "You'd wish a scandal like that on a respectable young woman?"

"I need her."

"Yes, your esteem for her shows. In three days you've barely spoken her name, and grabbed at every excuse to delay our journey."

"How could you understand esteem, when you have so little of it for yourself?"

Dean snatched the bottle back and drank. "How the hell could you debase yourself like that tonight?"

"Because I'm too stupid to have come up with a better plan, I suppose. But at least," Rob said, eyes glittering darkly, "I came up with one."

"Oh, Christ." Dean pointed across the rolling fields. "There's a barn. Let's get some sleep."

They made their way to the small hay barn and settled themselves into makeshift beds of straw for the night. Despite the exhaustion, despite the drink, Dean couldn't sleep. He lay there in the darkness burning with anger, and gin. And yes, desire. The sexually-charged atmosphere of the molly house would have affected anyone, he told himself. And here was a whore, lying next to him. Just a whore. Everyone else had used Rob tonight—why shouldn't he?

Pictures of the things Rob must had done tonight swirled with the alcohol in his brain. At last he couldn't stand it anymore, and reached out an arm, pulling Rob roughly to face him. "Damn you," he muttered. "Why not me?"

Rob didn't push him away, or struggle, or any of the things Dean had imagined.

Instead, with a little cry he pressed himself against Dean, mouth warm and seeking.

Rob's kiss was tender and filled with longing. Just for a moment Dean surrendered to it, holding the other man tightly, stroking his back. He felt Rob's fingers on his trouser flap, working the buttons free until he could stroke Dean's erection.

Oh Jesus Christ. Dean wasn't prepared for the sheer pleasure of Rob's hand on him, and especially for the intimacy of the kiss. He pulled his mouth away. "No," he said hoarsely. "Not like this."

He could hear Rob breathing, almost panting, in the darkness, but couldn't see his face. Rob's hand remained where it was, stroked him again. "Do you want me to stop?"

Dean couldn't answer, but he ground his hips forward, against Rob's hand. The straw rustled as Rob shifted himself down, and Dean closed his eyes tightly at the first brush of Rob's lips on his throbbing shaft.

Rob's mouth was clever and efficient, and soon achieved the desired result. Dean had a quick moment of panic afterwards— Dear God, what if he wants me to reciprocate?—but Rob rolled away and got to his feet, the gin bottle clinking on the dirt floor as he picked it up. He was silhouetted against the door for a brief instance, and then gone into the night.

Dean groped in his shirt for the ribbon he'd tucked away earlier, twisting it around his wrist. What have I done? Oh Rob, what have I done?

Chapter Twelve

Rob was there in the straw beside him when he woke up, keeping a discreet distance even in sleep. The gin bottle lay on its side next to him, empty. Even with morning stubble and a good deal of straw in his hair, he looked angelic, untouchable.

Last night... But he'd been drunk. Lord, had he been drunk. He should have learned his lesson last May—things always went dreadfully wrong when he drank to excess. Dean scowled and staggered to his feet, head aching like a demon had taken up residence within. His stomach lurched as he pulled himself upright.

Well, if Rob felt anywhere near as bad as he did, at least they didn't need to worry about breakfast. He slipped the highwayman's shoes back onto his blistered feet and made his way carefully outside for a piss. It was later than he'd thought. The sun, intermittently visible through a haze of clouds, was approaching its zenith. Dean found a likely tree and accomplished his business, then sat against the barn wall, face turned to the uncertain sun. Not letting himself think about last night, not letting himself think about anything. Before long, he heard the door open and soon Rob joined him against the wall. "Where are we?" Dean said, without opening his eyes. "Blast. I don't know."

"Oh, hell." Dean thought. "We had been traveling south, more or less, when we were stopped by the highwaymen. Right? Since we went back to a pub we'd already passed, it must have been north of where we were robbed. But which direction did we go when we left the pub?"

"Don't you know? I'm sure I was following you."

"No, I was following you. You took off from there like a bat out of hell—I could barely keep up. So which way did we go?"

Rob was silent for a long moment. "I was drunk," he said at last. "I don't remember."

"Hell and damnation! On top of everything else, we're lost too!" Dean climbed to his feet with an effort, looking around at the rolling landscape of the Cotswolds about them. "That tower looks vaguely familiar. It might be a church we used to pass on the way to my uncle's. In any event, it's a town."

Rob shaded his eyes with one hand and looked. "And it's miles from here. Oh, blast. Let's get going. If we're lucky the rain will hold off for awhile."

They eschewed conversation after that, limping along the road in their ill-fitting shoes. Dean avoided even looking at Rob. The going was slow, the road hilly and taking unpredictable turns, so that by the time an hour had passed, they were barely halfway to their goal. Dean's stomach had settled, and was now starting to rumble with hunger. He looked at the sky. It was midday. Their last meal at the New Inn seemed decades ago, and their next could be still hours distant.

"Bloody hell!" Dean stopped in the middle of the road and set his hands on his hips. "Here we are, both lifelong anglers, and streams full of fish all around us. We can catch our own luncheon."

Rob stood on one foot, taking the opportunity to remove a rock from his other shoe. "Without any gear?"

"Let's improvise." There was a young yew tree at the side of the road. Dean examined it for a moment, then reached up and tugged at the spot where a slim branch met the trunk. With a little effort, it came away in his hand. He stripped off the leaves and twigs. "Here's our pole. Strong, flexible." He demonstrated, bending it between his hands.

Rob's eyes kindled with excitement. "Now we need some line." They tested the threads of their various garments, deciding on Rob's silk stockings as the best bet.

They unraveled the thread and plaited it into a thin, strong line.

"Good," Dean said. "If we can find a hook, we'll be all set."

Rob thought, wriggling his bare toes. "Hawthorn? When I was a boy, I remember making hooks from the thorns."

"Did they work?"

"No. Well, not usually. I had better luck whittling hooks from twigs, but we don't have a knife."

Dean looked around. "Stones. If we can find a stone sharp enough to hone the point, a strong forked twig will work fine."

It took some time to put their makeshift tackle together, but absorbed in the task, the minutes sped by.

"Ha," Dean said at last, standing up and giving the fishing pole a practiced flick.

"Will you look at that?"

A smile flickered on his companion's face. "Shall we try it out? May-flies are out of season, and we don't have time to tie a proper fly, but I wager we'll be able to dig up a lobworm or two."

Dean looked at the sky. "We're in luck with the weather, too. Trout always bite better when it's overcast."

The stream ran very close beside the road, three or four feet deep at most but quick and nicely cool on blistered feet. They sat on the bank with their legs dangling into the water and waited. After a time, Rob lay back and was soon asleep. The pole was beginning to droop in Dean's hand when at last he felt a tug on the line.

"Rob," he whispered. Carefully, he eased the line toward him with his fingers.

"Rob, I think I have a bite."

The other man's eyes flew open, and he sat up. "Gently, now. You'll lose him if you—"

"I know." A little closer, and—Dean jerked on the line, hooking the trout neatly through its lip. "It's holding! The hook is holding!" He knelt on the bank and leaned forward to look at the fish thrashing in the water. "He's enormous! Rob, take the pole—I'm going to try to net him before the line breaks."

Rob took over playing the fish, attempting to tire him out so he could more easily be landed, while Dean stripped off his shirt and waded into the water.

"Pull him in a little!" Dean called. "I'll get behind him and catch him in the shirt."

"Hurry! The line's not holding!" Rob grabbed the braided silk thread and twisted it around his hand. "Hold, sweetheart, hold," he muttered under his breath.

"Got him! No, wait..." Dean snapped the water out of his sodden shirt and dove again for the struggling fish. He came up gasping, arms wrapped around a wriggling bundle of cloth and trout. "Jesus, he must weigh ten pounds. Help me up."

Rob grasped him under one arm and hauled him onto the bank. "Oh, well done!"

Dean knew he must be beaming like a proud father. "Look at you," he crooned at the fish. "I bet the locals call you 'Old Bill' and have been trying to catch you for ten years. Ha! Gotcha, Bill!" With practiced fingers he pulled the hook free and laid the trout, still flopping weakly, on the grass. "Now, all we have to do is start the fire, and this will be a breakfast we'll remember for years." Rob made a strange coughing sound. "Um...Dean?" "Where's our whittling stone? If I clean him, will you—" "Dean?

You wouldn't happen to have a tinder box, would you?"

"Of course. In my.. .purse. Oh," Dean said, remembering where his purse wasn't.

"Me too," Rob agreed. "Not even a bit of flint?"

"Of course not," Dean said flatly, staring at their magnificent fish. "The highwaymen took the lot. What the hell are we going to do?"

"Well," and Rob's voice sounded a little funny, "in the Far East, raw fish are a great delicacy. Or so I'm told."

"Ugh." Dean shuddered. "No Englishman could ever be that hungry. Oh, damn.

Damn. There must be some way..."

Something that sounded suspiciously like a strangled chuckle escaped Rob, but by the time Dean looked up, his face was solemn. "You know," Rob said, "if we had a magnifying lens, we could concentrate the sun's rays and start a fire that way."

"If we had a lens," Dean agreed. He looked up at the sky. "Or any sun."

That did it. Rob collapsed in a great burst of laughter, and against his will Dean joined in. Soon he was on the ground, laughing so hard his empty belly hurt all the more, and Rob was no better off, both of them streaming with tears and gasping like—

"Shit!" Dean scrambled to his knees and crawled, sides still heaving, to the abandoned trout. It twitched when he picked it up and set it gently in the water, where it lay motionless for a moment on its side before righting itself and streaking off into the depths of the stream.

"Good bye, Old Bill," Dean shouted, shaking out his soaking shirt and putting it back on. "I will be back for you!"

"Bring a tinder box next time," Rob sputtered, wiping his eyes. "Oh, God. Oh God, I needed that." He grinned at Dean, and Dean grinned back, the tension of the morning gone.

"Rob," Dean said, before he could lose his nerve. "Last night. Why did you let me use you like that?"

Rob sobered. "Is that what happened? I rather thought I took advantage of you."

"Of me?"

"You were stinking drunk. Or you never would have let me touch you." "But I...but why would you want to?"

Rob looked down at his bare feet. "I guess it seemed important to me, to touch someone I really fancied."

"Someone like you fancy someone like me?"

Now Rob's head snapped up, chin set, and too late Dean realized that the incredulity in his voice must have sounded a lot like scorn. "A cat may look at a king, my lord. I know you're quite out of reach of the likes of me."

"No. Rob, that's not what I meant." Dean felt himself flush. Rob's eyes were brilliant with hurt, and he made himself meet their gaze. "It's just—just that you're so very handsome. And I'm so very not."