Raised By Wolves 3 - Treasure (13 page)

“Your Lord has risen,” I said with my best wolf’s tone of command,

“along with the rest of our household. He wishes to see his translator, Dupree, and no one else.”

Vittese eyed Pete, who leaned on the doorjamb, a pistol held loosely at his side, and then the men of the militia who had moved closer as he approached the house. I could see him cursing but heard none of it. He turned smartly and went to the shaded alley across the street. Dupree scurried from the shadows a moment later. The poor courtier appeared quite disheveled, and I wondered if Vittese had forced him remain in the alley all night.

“Good morning, Monsieur Dupree,” I said pleasantly as he approached.

“Good morning, my Lord,” he said, with apparent relief that I should smile upon him.

I ushered him through the door and Pete closed it firmly behind us. I told Dupree where to find the Marquis and then I went to find Gaston.

He was in the bathing room, filling the tub. There were already hot coals in the tray beneath it, and I supposed Sam had anticipated our need and lit the brazier some time ago.

“How is he?” Gaston asked quickly.

“Rum-bleary, but awake.” I quickly relayed all his father had said.

“I am pleased he is angry with Vittese,” Gaston said thoughtfully as he doffed his clothes.

I was, too; I felt the man was far too arrogant for his own good. But I also felt some pity for him: he was doing his job, and I remembered the Marquis’ words on the dock.

“Your father, when we spoke outside the gaol,” I said carefully, “said that we owe Vittese your life: that he would have beaten you to death that night, but Vittese suggested the whip, and later, Vittese suggested you be exiled rather than sent to an asylum.”

Gaston stirred the water in the tub with a thoughtful mien. I watched the glide of muscle beneath the deep scars on his back. I could understand his father’s anger on that night, and perhaps even before, especially when it was housed in a body and soul that were perhaps as volatile as my matelot’s. I thought Gaston had not inherited madness from his mother alone. Yet, it still filled me with sorrow and rage to look upon him and know the whole of it could have been avoided.

“I do not feel Vittese ever did anything for me out of kindness,”

Gaston said softly.

“Non, I suppose not,” I sighed and gazed upon the matter through the glass of wolfish cynicism. “He was probably doing much to mitigate the situation his Lord found himself in. Your sister was expected to die.

Your death would have had to be explained in some fashion, though.

But, of course, many already believed you mad, so saying you took your own life would probably have sufficed. And as for sending you here.

Well, if you were in an asylum in France, your father’s enemies could have located you. So, non, it was not for you most probably, but for your father. Still, a deed in your favor is a deed in your favor.”

Gaston nodded. He turned to face me, and unbidden, my fingers traced the ragged scar across his chest that I had made, as they often did. I do not know why I was so compelled to touch it.

“I forgive you,” he whispered. “Because I did much to earn this, and I forgive my father, because I did much to earn his wrath that night, though… I know not how I feel about the rest of what he said last night.

But Vittese I do not forgive.”

I shrugged. “Good, I do not wish to defend him. I hope your father lets him sleep in the street for the rest of his stay here.”

I let my hand trace over the rest of his scarred chest, and brush lightly over his unscarred nipple. He grabbed my hand and held it fast.

“Do not,” he whispered, his gaze beseeching. “Promise me you will not attempt to arouse me this day.”

I sighed and nodded. “I will not. Yet… I would say that it is for your benefit: we have not followed our morning regimen and trysting often calms you when you are troubled. But that would be disingenuous. I actually seek reassurance. I am concerned that we will not do anything until your father leaves, and that troubles me, as it stirs my ghosts to life. I am sorry.”

He smiled sadly. “I do not know if I can, and you know it is not you.”

“Oui, I know. It is him, and that minds me of my father and then…”

I sighed. I knew I surely could not tell him of his father’s feelings about sodomites now.

He sighed and frowned. “I feel… I tell myself that he begged my forgiveness; that he gave the answers I have ever wondered at; that all is well; that… I am not evil; that his hatred of me had cause, the cause of his own angry heart; and that was caused by my mother’s madness; and that there is cause for all of the evil done to me, and it is not me; but I do not feel any different, Will.”

I caressed his cheek with the hand he did not hold. “How do you feel?”

He shook his head. “I do not know. Sad. Angry. Hurt. I wish for something, but I cannot name it. Proof of his sincerity, perhaps, or absolution. Something. Some end to it all, because I do not feel it is finished and done with and laid to rest.”

“Then let us keep him here until you receive it,” I said softly.

“Non,” he said sadly. “I do not know if it is a thing he can give.”

I nodded solemnly. “I understand, truly.”

“I know.” He smiled with resignation and kissed my cheek. “Let us bathe.”

He gingerly climbed into the tub. He had only filled it partway, and the water was only as high as his lap. He could extend his legs somewhat ,though, and I thought we could both fit into it if we desired; though it would be cozy.

“How is it?” I asked.

He grimaced. “Rather like being in a stew pot. The metal beneath me is warm and the water is still tepid.”

I was disappointed. “I feel more engineering will be necessary, then.

We will have to determine how to heat the water before it is added to the tub. Perhaps some of the water could be diverted into a boiling pot that could then be emptied into the tub. We will likely have to summon Fletcher here again.”

Gaston was frowning at the spigot above his head. He turned his gaze to me and smiled. “You know I love you.”

“Very much.” I grinned.

We bathed quickly, not because sitting in the tub was very much like sitting in a stewpot, but because we wished to avoid all eroticism we had come to associate with the act of bathing. Still, I could not help but see how very handsome he was in the clothes I had found for him. I think it was because I had seldom seen him attired in boots, or anything other than our buccaneer tunic and breeches. The ecru shirt he wore was not overly ornate or ruffled, but it was tight across his chest with long loose sleeves, and I had forgotten how such a thing could make a man appear wider in the shoulders and more muscular. The same was true for the light brown suede breeches he borrowed. He was a little thicker in the thigh and buttocks than I, and so the pants fit him in ways they did not fit me before tapering to blend with the soft dark brown boots he laced up his legs to the knee.

It was only by concentrating upon my own impending discomfort– as my boots were black, thigh high, and heavily cuffed, and surely contained the leather of an entire steer; and my grey shirt, though linen, seemed to weigh ten pounds and it scratched; and my coal breeches were wool, need I say more – that I did not fling myself upon him.

He regarded me with curiosity when I stood after jamming my foot into my last boot.

“What?” I asked, as I could see mischief begin to play about his eyes.

“You are not revolting,” he said, fighting a smile. “And you do not look as you do when you dress for the part of Lord Marsdale,” he added seriously.

“Thank the Gods for that,” I sighed.

He stepped in close and kissed me, deeply. I savored it and fought the urge to touch him.

“You are mine,” he whispered. “And not even my father will keep me from enjoying that this night.”

My breath caught, and my cock stirred in a somewhat annoyed manner that I should not have informed it before now that something was afoot. I wished to strangle my matelot, or rather, I wished to throttle another piece of his anatomy first until it bestowed its happy blessing upon me, and then strangle him.

Knowing me far too well, he quickly dodged out the door.

I was intent on telling him what a cock tease he was, but as I stepped out of the bathing room I saw that everyone was dining in the morning shade of the atrium, and while I think Pete and Striker, and possibly even Dupree, Rucker, and Agnes would have found amusement in my sentiment, I thought the Marquis, and my sister, who appeared somewhat green as pregnant women often do in the morning hours, would not.

Gaston squared his stance, and I knew he struggled to find the mask. I stepped up beside him and placed my arm across his shoulders, hoping he would accept the gesture as one of reassurance and not an unwanted display of affection. He thankfully relaxed beneath my arm.

“Good morning,” I said cheerily to the assemblage.

I assumed all introductions had been made. They were arrayed casually about two small tables that sat somewhat askew to one another, so we were not forced to negotiate the potential confusion of a formal seating arrangement. Striker, Pete, Sarah, and the Marquis, with Dupree sitting in a chair nearby sipping tea, sat around one table, and Rucker and Agnes sat at the other. We quickly joined Agnes and Rucker with great relief, which I struggled to keep from my face. The positioning did leave us facing the Marquis, but Gaston did not care. He barely had time to give his father a polite nod before Agnes shoved a sketchbook in front of him.

Thus we began to eat and an exhaustive discussion of each sketch ensued while Sarah, Striker, and Pete remarked from the other table on ones they found particularly enlightening or disturbing, such as Agnes’ rendering of globules in blood or of the number of little parts an insect possessed. The Marquis frowned with interest; and Dupree with consternation as he attempted to translate the English. At last they moved closer to the table. Gaston was too involved in what he was seeing to show concern at his father’s change in proximity, but he did turn the sketchbook somewhat so his father might have a better view, and he began to discuss the various pieces in both French and English.

I found amusement in the fact that my matelot did not do this so that he was speaking directly to his father, but such that he spoke to Dupree so that he might make a better translation.

I was, of course, quite interested in what the book held, but I knew I could see it again any time I wished and that we would probably be spending many an afternoon looking through the lenses ourselves. I was more interested in the Marquis. He was far less disheveled, with his hair combed and his clothes straightened, but he had eschewed his wig and coat. He spent as much time studying his son as he did the book, and was surely aware of my scrutiny though he made no remark of it, not even by a silent meeting of my gaze. And he was truly paying attention to what was being discussed and not merely observing his son: when the pages were turned to Agnes’ sketches of the things she found in water, he looked down at his tea cup with alarm.

“They do not exist in boiled water, such as that used in the tea,” I said quickly in French.

Agnes frowned at us, and Gaston quickly translated for her.

“Nay,” she said. “They do still exist, they are just dead.” She pointed to another page. “At least the larger things are. I boiled a very small sample of water and viewed it. I suppose one would not notice the dead ones in a large pot, as they sink to the bottom.”

I thought it likely we would have to change our instructions to Sam concerning the boiling of water.

My sister proved my father sired no fools once again. “I have told Samuel to never use the dregs,” she said.

“Would it not be something akin to soup?” the Marquis asked after Dupree translated for him.

Gaston frowned at this, and actually met his father’s gaze. “Oui.”

“Did you learn all this from Doucette?” the Marquis asked.

“Non,” Gaston said and returned his gaze to the book. “I started learning of such things from the monks.”

The Marguis gave a little head bob with a small moue of surprise. “I am impressed.”

“Thank you,” Gaston said. Then he regarded his father again and asked, “That the monks should know such things, or that I should learn it?” His father raised one thin eyebrow and cocked his head. “Both. I did not realize the monks would be so interested in the natural world, I have always felt they are much like priests and nuns in that regard.”

“Non,” Gaston said. “The monks I lived with regarded the natural world as God’s creation and a thing to be studied in order to gain a better understanding of God.”

He continued to gaze at his father.

“And…” the Marquis sighed with a sheepish mien. “Your mother was never particularly intelligent, but perhaps it was because she was educated by nuns.”

“So you have felt I was mentally deficient?” Gaston asked him with the beginnings of the Horse’s usual tone.

His father shrugged. “I have lacked any evidence to the contrary until I arrived here and found you were considered a physician. I supposed your letter was written by another for you, and that Doucette had lied in all of his in order to gain favor with me, and prior to that, the only reports I received from any school’s headmasters said nothing about your academic performance.”

I lay a calming hand on Gaston’s thigh and was rewarded by his returning his attention to the sketchbook and sighing heavily.

The courtyard was silent: even though only Sarah, Rucker, and Dupree understood the exchange, they did not translate it for anyone, and thus all felt the tension but few understood the why of it. I was interested to note the Marquis had even changed his position in his chair, pulling back and away from Gaston in a seemingly casual fashion. It made me wonder how Gaston’s mother’s Horse had sounded, and what warning signs she had given.

“I can see where you may have come to such a supposition over the years,” I said carefully, “if your mind was already prejudiced to that outcome, and, as you said, you had no information to contradict it.”