Think of England (20 page)

“Not at all. It feels better than it has since Jacobsdal. I’m serious,” he insisted as Daniel twisted round to give him a look of incredulity. “My doctors have told me for months now there’s no permanent damage done, no reason for the pain, and that exercise was all it needed, and perhaps they were right. It’s been better since I came here, in fact. I wouldn’t have described this as a rest cure, but it seems to have worked, all the same.”

“Really?” Daniel reclined again. “Hmm.”

“What?”

“I met a chap in Vienna, an up-and-coming young doctor, who had some interesting ideas on this sort of thing. He’d probably tell you that your mind created the pain, and took it away again.”

“What? Why would it do that?”

“The idea is that your unconscious mind—you know what that is?—operates on the body. So, for example, you might have felt guilty about not fighting as a soldier any more, so your body acted as though it was wounded, creating the pain to justify you being out of action. Then once you were recalled to active service, as it were, you no longer needed to inflict the injury on yourself and the pain went away. Something along those lines.”

“What absolute hogwash. Why on earth would one do such a thing to oneself? How?”

“It’s unconscious, that’s the point. Look, that African magic one reads about, when an unfortunate is placed under a curse and pines away. Does that happen?”

“It does, yes. My uncle saw it a few times.”

“Is that magic at work?”

“No, of course not. The victims are persuaded they’re going to die, so they do.”

“Exactly. The unconscious mind affects the body. Isn’t that the same thing?”

“But that’s native superstition,” Curtis protested. “I’m an educated Englishman.”

“With a much less painful knee.”

“Yes, but… No, really, it’s nonsense.”

Daniel shrugged. “Well, I don’t know. It’s a new theory, but the doctor struck me as a very bright man. That said, I actually went to see him about my fear of the underground, since he’s already achieved some remarkable results with phobias, and he told me it was undoubtedly related to my homosexuality, so judge for yourself.”

Curtis blinked. “To your…?”

“Homosexuality. Inversion. Attraction to one’s own sex, dear heart. You must read Krafft-Ebing.”

Curtis had no idea what that was, and suspected that he would rather not find out. He struck back to the point at issue. “This quack said you’re afraid of caves because you’re inverted?”

“Such was his theory, yes.”

Curtis had no trouble spotting the logical flaw in that bit of claptrap. “Well, that doesn’t hold water.
I’m
not afraid of—” He stopped dead.

There was an electric silence for a few seconds, then Daniel spoke, tone light and casual. “Thus, we have a hypothesis to test. How many times must one toss a chap off before a cellar paralyses one with terror? Feel free to research the theory in depth.” He batted his eyelids absurdly.

“You do talk a lot of nonsense.” Curtis brushed a grateful hand over Daniel’s fingers.

“Don’t blame me, blame the Viennese doctor.” Daniel paused. “He did have fascinating opinions, though. Do you know what he said came between fear and sex?”

That sounded like it was going to be another of those appalling modern ideas. Curtis asked, cautiously, “What?”

“
Funf
.”

It was a ridiculous schoolboy joke, one that he’d heard cracked a dozen times at Eton as they’d learned to count in German. It was also the last thing in the world he’d expected to hear from Daniel at this moment, and Curtis doubled over with laughter, not so much at the absurd pun as at the ease with which he’d been caught. Against him, Daniel was shaking with amusement too, and Curtis held him and laughed till tears ran down his face, in a way he hadn’t done since Jacobsdal, in this little safe place outside the world.

Chapter Thirteen

They sat in silence for a few moments after the laughing fit had passed, sharing the whisky. Daniel took a swig from the hip flask and passed it over. “Ought you sleep?”

“I’ll watch. You sleep.”

“I slept all day. I’ll wake you in the event of trouble. Are we anticipating any?”

“I don’t see why we should be. Sir Maurice told me to expect reinforcements early in the morning. I’ll go back in, I suppose, and try to keep things looking normal.”

“Good. The trick will be to stop them destroying the evidence when they realise they’ve been rumbled. Vaizey will want to know who’s been up to what, and for that, he’ll want the files.”

“About that,” Curtis said reluctantly.

“Ye-es. I’ve failed to remove any photographs of us to date, of course. That needs to be done. I don’t think going in tonight—”

“Out of the question.”

“Then we shall just have to deal with it tomorrow. Leave that to me, if you would.” Daniel hesitated. “Look, the worst that will happen is that the Armstrongs will get those photographs into the hands of Vaizey, or his men and thence to him. Whatever he might think, he won’t allow them, or word of them, to go further. He’s good at keeping matters quiet.”

“I don’t much want him to have them, though.” That was understating things. Sir Maurice was possessed of a cold, ferocious temper and a force of personality that would probably still reduce Curtis to a stammering schoolboy when he was fifty. More than that, he and Sir Henry were Curtis’s family, the closest thing he had to parents. They could not be allowed to know of this. He could not believe that he was doing anything wrong in lying here with Daniel, not when it felt so simple and so comfortable, but he had no intention whatsoever of trying to make his uncles understand that, and to disappoint them was not thinkable.

“Obviously not,” Daniel said. “And I’ll try to avoid it. But if it comes to that, let me handle him. If I tell him the situation was forced on you—”

“No,” said Curtis, with emphasis.

“Then I’ll claim we were posing. Or something. Just let me deal with it, hmm?”

“I’m not having you shoulder the blame for this.”

“I don’t propose to shoulder it, I propose to shift it firmly onto the Armstrongs where it belongs. I bow to your experience in matters of physical violence, my dear Viking. I do wish you’d leave the low cunning to me.”

“Your what?” demanded Curtis.

Daniel rolled sideways so that he could run a hand over Curtis’s chest, slipping a finger between buttons into the coarse hair. “Viking,” he said. “Huge, muscular, rampant—”

“Oh my God, don’t start that again.”

Daniel’s eyes were dark stars, their gaze darting up from under lazily hooded eyelids. “A great, powerful brute of a man, bent on rape and pillage—”

“Good heavens!” Curtis exclaimed, half-laughing, rather shocked. “One wouldn’t believe you’re a poet.” He paused. “You are, aren’t you? That is, you did write those poems? It’s not part of your pretence?”

“Of course I bloody did.” A distinct note of the East End rang in the vowels of that offended response. “Who’d you think wrote them, Gladstone?”

Curtis grinned down at him, absurdly charmed by that tiny chink in his armour. “I didn’t think anyone else could have written them. They’re just like you.” Daniel cocked a wary, questioning eyebrow. “Incomprehensible,” Curtis told him, “and far too clever for their own good, and hiding all sorts of things, and—rather beautiful.”

Daniel’s mouth opened. He didn’t respond for a second, then he sat up, twisted round to face Curtis, took his jaw in both hands, pulled him over and kissed him.

His mouth was soft and tender, and open, tongue darting against Curtis’s lips, and Curtis, amazed and electrified, moved his own tongue tentatively, at first, then more strongly, delighting in the taste, the freedom to explore, in having this at last. It was gentle for a moment, until he felt rather than heard Daniel’s tiny murmur against his mouth and one or both of them started making the kiss harder. Curtis felt Daniel’s hands move over his shoulders and put his own hands on the slender back, and then, with sudden need, pulled him close. Daniel was in his arms now, curving against him, and he was kissing the man so fiercely that he could feel his teeth grinding against his own lips. His mouth was hot and desperate and his hands were clutching Curtis’s hair, and Curtis gave up thinking and concentrated on the sensation of stubble against his skin, the mouth devouring his own with painful hunger, and the slender body wrapping itself around his as though Daniel wanted to press himself inside Curtis’s skin.

Gradually the kiss grew less frantic again, but the need underneath it had built to a point of urgency. Curtis ran his hands over Daniel’s hair and face, careful not to scrape scar tissue against softer flesh, and down and under his jacket. Daniel’s hands were on his own shirt buttons, and Curtis felt the cold air as the linen was pushed back. Somehow they managed to get the layers of impeding clothing undone without entirely breaking the kiss, though Daniel cursed against Curtis’s lips as he struggled with a cuff, until they were clinging together, chest to chest, mouth to mouth.

Curtis pulled back to look at Daniel. His jaw was shaded dark with stubble, hair tousled, that irresistible nipple ring winking bright in the shadowy room, and he was watching Curtis with something like awe.

“Look at you.” Daniel traced a fingertip around the bulky pectorals, over the thick abdominal muscles, up Curtis’s uninjured arm, and back over his broad shoulders. “You
are
a Viking.”

“What does that make you?”

“The wrong side of Europe.”

Daniel’s fingertips brushed Curtis’s nipples. He stiffened, not quite sure if he liked that, and with his usual quick understanding, Daniel ran his fingers away. They headed down, instead, and Curtis felt the buttons at his waist give. He reached for Daniel’s waistband at the same time, and as he manipulated the fastenings one-handed, Daniel shifted forward and claimed his mouth again. Then they were kissing hard once more, rocking back and forth, Curtis’s big powerful hand wrapped round both cocks, holding them together. Daniel grunted and went backwards, pulling Curtis down on top of him so that they lay on the nest of blankets, entwined and still half-clothed, thrusting against each other with increasing urgency. Daniel was hard and hot in Curtis’s hand, moaning into his mouth, and now it was all about the bewildering pleasure of Daniel’s abandoned writhing, the smooth body under him, most of all the warm, mobile lips open against his own. He was kissing Daniel when he came.

He rocked back and forth with the last shudders of orgasm, holding himself tight against Daniel, hand wet and slippery. Daniel was taking longer, and as soon as he had his breath back, Curtis shifted position, still working him with his hand, and brought his mouth to Daniel’s nipple, eliciting what could only be called a squeal. That was good, but he wanted, needed more. He wanted to make Daniel come apart, wanted to do what he should have done days ago, so he gathered up his courage and headed south.

“Curtis,” gasped Daniel as he tentatively licked his cock. It was very smooth, and wet, and tasted musky and—well, that must be the taste of spunk, of course. It was slippery, and more astringent than he’d have thought, but not unpleasant. He moved his mouth over the head, unsure of what he was doing, but gaining confidence from Daniel’s quivering stiffness.

“God. Are you sure—don’t—”

“I want to,” Curtis mumbled, and tried moving his head up and down, as Daniel had done to him.

“Oh sweet heaven mother fuck.” Daniel’s hips were jerking. “
Fuck
. Curtis—”

Curtis pulled his mouth away. “Archie.”

“Archie.” It was almost reverent.

Curtis concentrated on Daniel then, his taste, the shape of him in his mouth, the glorious noises of pleasure he made. He could feel his own body stirring again as he sucked and licked. He’d always assumed the act would be unpleasant, at best a service or a chore. He hadn’t realised how much one might want to give someone that gift, how astonishing it was to feel the jerks and twitches, hear the whimpers, know one had caused them. He hadn’t understood that sucking off a man was not at all the same thing as making love to Daniel.

A hand tightened in his hair. “Get out of the way,” Daniel said urgently.

Curtis took the warning—next time he wouldn’t, he told himself—and withdrew Daniel’s cock from his mouth, then dared to lick at it again, outlining the smooth head, tasting the fluid beading there.

“Archie,” whispered Daniel, and jerked against his hand.

“Daniel. Now, please, now.” Curtis choked out the words as if he were climaxing himself, and gasped as he watched the white spatter hit Daniel’s skin. He could feel the taste in his mouth.

Daniel lay, chest heaving. Curtis licked his lips and reached for the whisky.

“Well might you drink. Ah…have you done that before?”

“No.” Curtis found himself somewhat embarrassed by his own inexperience, which was absurd. The fact was, there were the men who did that to other men, and there were the men to whom it was done, and Curtis had always been in the latter group. It had never seemed expected that he would reciprocate, not with his mouth, and he had never offered. Well, he wouldn’t. He wasn’t that sort of chap.

The thought caught him sharply for a second, but Daniel was looking at him with startled pleasure, and Curtis found himself tugged down for a deep kiss that drove everything from his mind but the sweep of tongues and the movement of lips. Daniel seemed not to object to the taste of himself in Curtis’s mouth.