Dark and Stormy Page 5

  After a moment, Dylan lifted his hand and ran his fingertips gently down the side of Martin’s face. “You’re so young…I tend to forget. You seem very mature. Your concern for and care of the children has nothing of careless youth about it, but I know you only completed your own schooling not long ago. I’ve no intent to take advantage of your inexperience, your youth. Do you really know where we’re going?”

  Martin turned his head and pressed a swift kiss into Dylan’s palm. Then he looked up to meet the taller man’s intent gaze. “I’m three-and-twenty. While I realize I haven’t been as many places and seen as much as you have, I’m not a child, even a youth. I consider myself a man. When the last of my relatives fell on hard times, I took charge of my own life and sought a means to support myself. That means just happened to lead to this post with you.”

  The tenderness of Dylan’s smile went straight to his heart. “Yes, that’s true. I believe your father was a baronet who died in India, did he not? Since your mother’s demise followed not long afterward, you wound up the ward of a maternal uncle whose lifestyle was anything but prudent. At least you got schooling, if little else. You’ve done an admirable job of making your own way. I admire that. And I did not intend to demean you by reference to your age. It’s just that I’m thirty-four. I’ve seen death and brutality in war, and treachery in many circles, enough to know life is harsh and unforgiving. I fear I may be too old, jaded, and cynical for you.”

  “No! I won’t accept that. You’re a fine man. Everything I would aspire to be myself, other than your rank, of course. I suppose I’ll never be in the military. Beyond that, though, I’ll not turn into a clinging, whining sort of lover or behave in a juvenile and foolish manner, I promise. Nay, I swear.”

  With a shake of his head and a somewhat wry twist to his smile, Dylan drew Martin into his arms again. “Very well, then. If you’re that sure, I’m not going to send you away!”

  Any reply Martin would have made was silenced with another passionate kiss. After that, only a few moments passed before they tumbled together onto the bed. Little more time was needed before both of them had shed their trousers and came fully together, skin-to-skin.

  Breaking another kiss, Dylan again looked at Martin intently. “What have you done before, or had done to you? I need to know what you expect.”

  “We—a friend or two and I—fondled each other, sucked and got each other off by hand. I never spent the night with a lover or took it in the arse. I think we were all a bit afraid to try that. Buggery seemed somewhat extreme.”

  Dylan laughed. “Yes, I expect it would. I’m not much for that myself to be truthful. We can start by caressing each other. Don’t be shy about touching me, and I can promise I will not hesitate to handle you.”

  Martin accepted the invitation, reached down, and wrapped his hand around Dylan’s prick. Its heat and hardness delighted him. It felt so vital, full of power and energy. He stroked, hesitated, and then, as Dylan made a deep growling sound, continued with more confidence. Vague memories came back, enhanced now by his mounting desire. One slid like this, tugged like that, moving sleek skin over the iron-hard core within…

  When Dylan grasped him, Martin gasped and went still for a few seconds. The other man’s strong, long-fingered hand seemed to take charge, promising mastery, and yet with a touch both gentle and sure. Martin squeezed his eyes shut and surrendered to the sensations as they grew overwhelming.

  “Slower, please. I’m going to embarrass myself!”

  Dylan laughed. “What’s to be embarrassed about? If you come, that’s only natural and right. And young as you are, you’ll be back, ready for another in no time.”

  “B-b- but…” Martin fell silent. Was he catching Emmaline’s stutter? He felt like a fool, though a blissfully happy one. Moments later he did come, into Dylan’s waiting hand. The captain rolled over and pulled a large handkerchief from somewhere. Turning back, he gently wiped up the mess. Martin felt a blush fire his face, although he could see no censure or dismay in Dylan’s expression.

  “Now, perhaps you can return the favor?”

  “Oh yes!” Martin rolled up onto his knees at Dylan’s side. “I’d love to taste you, feel your beautiful prick in my mouth. May I?”

  Dylan, lolling back on a pile of pillows, gave him an indulgent smile. “Whatever you fancy, dear lad. Whatever you fancy.”

  Martin stared avidly at Dylan’s magnificent cock, dark with engorging blood, twitching eagerly with every heartbeat. Oh yes! He wrapped his hand around it, barely able to encompass the girth with his grip. The heat almost scorched him. Then he bent forward and began to explore with lips and tongue. Dylan tasted marvelous, spicy and enticing, exotic and totally male. He began to suck. In a short time Dylan’s indolent and careless pose disintegrated. He clawed at the coverlet, his whole body going rigid, taut as a violin string. He gave a low-pitched growling sort of groan.

  “Oh. Ah. Yes!”

  And then he came in an explosive series of bursts that seemed to go on and on. Martin rode it out, savoring the pungent scent and flavor of cum, salty and a bit alkaline. The very essence of his hero, his love, and now a part of him. No dream had ever been better.

  * * * *

  From that night on, Martin often found himself in Dylan’s bed. Fear and caution had been thrown to the wind, come what may. He never went seeking his employer-lover and if he was not invited, he spent the night alone in his own room. Still, the invitations came often enough to assure him of his place—both his formal job and his newer role as Dylan’s lover. He valued both, almost equally, although the latter was the most appealing and exciting on a personal level.

  He always left before morning, just in case one of the children might seek either him or their uncle. Even Dylan did not seem to want the youngsters to find him and Martin together, and of course not in an intimate embrace. Martin lived in horror of that very thing taking place. How would he explain? It was an appalling thought. They must never find out!

  Although the servants still mentioned vague sightings of someone wandering in the more deserted parts of the rambling house, neither Dylan nor Martin had seen anyone. Then these reports began to mention a woman as well as a man.

  Mrs. Morgan confided to Martin that one of the chambermaids swore she’d seen Angela Mahan, who had been the former lady’s personal maid. The housekeeper was normally not given to gossip, so her next words surprised him.

  “She was never up to any good, that one. I have no notion why Lady Caroline kept her on. I happen to know the girl stole and she made eyes at the earl behind her mistress’s back. I’m sure he never responded to the minx’s sly overtures. She was a clever and nasty wench! Her back again? Oh dear, I pray not. His Honor wisely turned her out when he came back to take the reins. Thank heavens she’s not involved with the children after all that happened…”

  After this disclosure, Martin started to wonder if the housekeeper possessed more knowledge of the tragedy than she had ever let on. He was not sure how to extract any further hints from her because she’d not been given to answering questions or revealing much up until this point. Had she finally begun to trust him or were the issues too much to continue to conceal? At any rate, she clearly thought little of the one-time lady’s maid. He filed that bit away.

  Then came the night he would never forget, one that came so close to a new installment to the old tragedy that it left him with nightmares for several weeks.

  Chapter 5

  Dylan had been away for a ten-day, leaving with obvious reluctance, on some business he declared he could not ignore, as much as he’d have preferred to stay home, keep watch and spend time both with the children and with Martin. His first night back, he invited Martin to come to his room as soon as the children were abed.

  They’d established a habit of sharing the evening meal, all five of them, and Dylan often took a role in seeing the three youngsters off to their beds after an hour or so of quiet play to let their meal settle. Sometimes, he even
read them a story. When he did not, Martin took that task and had even convinced Emmaline to read a bit as well. When she read aloud, her stutter almost vanished and he could see progress in her regular speech as a result. Donovan, though, remained stubbornly mute.

  Although each child had a private chamber, Martin suspected they often ended up in one room. He knew Charlotte often slept with Emmaline. He never chided them as he saw no harm in it, and even if Donovan joined the girls, they were all still young enough for it to be quite innocent. No doubt the three needed the comfort of being together.

  As for him, he found great comfort in sharing at least part of the night with Dylan, although the losses he had experienced were far in the past. This night, after the hiatus, they enjoyed each other thoroughly. At last they relaxed together, Dylan close against Martin’s back. They lay spooned in sated, drowsy comfort, neither one anxious for the pre-dawn parting that would not be long enough in coming.

  Dylan’s cock nestled between Martin’s thighs. The captain moved just enough to sustain a subtle, gentle friction. He reached across Martin’s side and clasped Martin’s prick, teasing it with his fingertips. Although neither was really aroused nor seeking to be, the languid caresses still felt delicious.

  Martin was edging toward dozing off when a piercing shriek tore through the silence.

  Drawing apart, they both sat upright at once.

  “What in the name of bloody Hades was that?”

  They leaped off the bed and grabbed trousers and dressing gowns, donning them as they dashed out into the corridor. Martin now knew the shortcut from the master’s suite to the nursery area in the adjacent wing and did not need Dylan’s lead to know where to go. They both thought first of the children, of course. They pelted down the corridor in step.

  The door to the playroom stood ajar. Fear clenched in Martin’s gut. What? Who? He prayed desperately for the three children to be snug in their beds, or any of the three beds, although he had a fearful hunch that would not be the case.

  Just then Donovan burst out from behind the partly open door to his room. He brandished a toy sword Dylan had brought him from the latest trip to London. Shocking oaths erupted from his young mouth. “That bloody damned murdering bastard! I tried to stop him. I think I cut his arm. Despite that, he’s taken Emmaline and his trollop has Charlotte. I wiggled like an eel and fought him off. It was not enough for him to kill Mama and Papa. He has to do this as well. The whoreson scum!”

  Dylan and Martin both skidded to a halt, shocked mute themselves to hear the boy speak. No one was about to reprimand his salty language just then, shocking though it would have been under other circumstances. That he finally spoke was the most important thing and what he said a very close second.

  “When?”

  “Where?”

  They both asked at once, swiftly scanning the room for any sign of the girls or their abductor.

  Then more importantly: “Who?”

  “‘Twas Merlan, my filthy bastard uncle, the foul one I will not claim. I saw when he killed Papa and then Mama, making it look like something else had happened. No one else ever knew, but I saw. He’s mad as a March hare. I heard them plotting before it happened, him and the red-headed woman, Mama’s maid. When I tried to tell Mama, she thought I was making up wild tales.”

  The lad fell silent then, as if he’d just realized he had spoken for the first time in many months. He opened and shut his mouth a time or two, almost like he was rolling long-idle words around to regain the use of them. Then he threw himself into Martin’s arms and began to weep. “No one would listen to me, no one ever, so I just stopped talking.”

  “There’s no time to waste,” Dylan said. “Can you tell me which way they went?”

  Donovan drew back, swiping a hand across his streaming eyes and nose. He shook his head. “Down the back way, perhaps. Into the old wing where we’re forbidden to go.”

  Dylan turned to Martin. “Go back to my room and get my pistols. They’re in the military trunk at the foot of the bed. Then come back and follow down that hall.” He pointed the way into a dark corridor. “Meanwhile, I’ll try to find a trace of them before it’s too late. No telling what Merlan plans to do.”

  Fear and worry curdled in Martin’s viscera. He wanted to tell Dylan to wait until he was armed. If Merlan truly was capable of murder as Donovan’s story indicated, he probably had a weapon on him now. How could Dylan tackle him barehanded? Still, he knew better than to argue.

  He whirled and ran back the way they had come, the boy on his heels. “Just stay behind me, Donovan, and stay close. I’ll do my best to keep you safe, and your uncle will do his best to bring your sisters back to safety. We’ll be soldiers together and win this battle.”

  “I’m not afraid. I’ve got my sword,” Donovan said. “It may be a toy, but still it’s sharp. The point especially. I’d love to run the blackguard through!”

  After that announcement, Donovan fell silent. For the moment, Martin appreciated the quiet as his thoughts raced in a hundred directions. The pistols were exactly where Dylan had told him. He grabbed them and spun back toward the door.

  “A light, sir. A candle or a lantern. The old wing is very dark.”

  Not bothering to ask how the boy knew, since the area was allegedly forbidden to the children, Martin snatched two unlit candles. Stubby fat new ones, they should burn for some time. He also grabbed a match safe off Donovan’s bedside table and shoved it in the pocket of his dressing gown. Then, with Donovan right behind him, he charged back to the point where the corridor led to the unused part of the rambling manor house.

  Sure enough, the farther they went down its length, the darker it became. He realized there were no windows and any doors were closed. The air seemed stuffy and stale, too. His house shoes made little sound as he ran, as did Donovan’s bare feet. Even those slight sounds seemed loud in the weight of silence. His heartbeat drummed in his ears.

  Underfoot, the floor felt somewhat gritty, as if old dust lay thick over the hardwood. There were no rugs or carpet. Although he hated to waste even seconds, he paused to light a candle and then had to move slower lest he blow it out by the breeze of a fast pace. Finally, a sound came, the crash of a door perhaps forced open roughly or slammed shut. Shielding the candle with one hand, Dylan’s pistols clenched under one elbow, he rushed on.

  When the corridor ended suddenly against a stone wall, it took Martin a moment to see the stairwell leading downward on the left side. Now he had to slow his pace for the stairs were steep and the worn treads slippery and narrow.

  “Watch your step,” he told Donovan. He’d lowered his voice to a whisper when he noticed how sounds echoed as they descended the steps.

  Donovan did not reply.

  Then a muffled shout came from below, sharp words that sounded like Dylan’s voice, although Martin could not be sure. He thought he heard “Halt,” and then “Let the girl go.”

  Dylan was going to need those pistols. Martin quickened his steps, praying he would not slip and tumble headlong down the stairs, which seemed to go on and on, switching back at least twice at what he thought were landings to access lower floors. Yet the bedroom and nursery wing were only on the second floor with no higher levels above them. He tried to recall the back wing. Outside it seemed only to be two stories as well. Did it go underground then? He recalled how the surface sloped off sharply on that side of the grounds, so perhaps there was a third lower story.

  The stairs ended at the apparent end of another hallway. Fresh, cool air hit his face as he turned into the area and he glimpsed a brighter rectangle, a doorway apparently open to the outdoors.

  Donovan edged up beside him. “They’ll have gone to the left, sir. That’s the way to the stables and Merlan will try to take a horse and make a run for it, I think.”

  Martin did not question his charge’s assessment. They turned together and darted down the graveled path. He let the candle go out now because he could see well enough by the starlight and r
ealized the sky had begun to pale to the east over the higher hills behind the manor. Just as they reached the stable, a commotion broke out inside. A horse neighed, someone screamed, and Dylan’s voice roared out in a furious challenge.

  “You scabrous coward, let the girl go. Your fight is with me, not the children. She can’t even inherit the title, so what use have you for her?”

  Martin shoved through the door and almost ran into Dylan. “Here. Your pistols.” He gasped out the words, breathless from the mad dash.

  Dylan grabbed them without removing his gaze from the other man, who struggled to tighten the girth on the saddle he’d flung onto a tall black horse. Dylan drew one gun from its holster and cocked it, dropping the other and the empty holster at his feet. Martin hoped the weapon was loaded and ready.

  Merlan needed three or more arms to restrain Emmaline, whose face was as white as her nightgown, while he sought to tack up the horse. He held her between himself and Dylan as he attempted to control the restive steed. In a sudden, distant thought, Martin recognized the horse. It looked exactly like the mount of the mysterious cloaked rider. Many things began to make a strange kind of sense.

  Finally satisfied with the saddle, Merlan almost threw Emmaline onto the horse’s back. Although the animal snorted and danced, it did not bolt or buck. She lit on the beast’s withers and clutched a handful of its mane in a desperate attempt to stay in place. Then the man vaulted up behind her.

  He kneed the horse around until it quartered toward Dylan, again keeping Emmaline between himself and a possible shot. “Go ahead,” he challenged. “You’ll hit the girl before you hit me.”

  The horse began to rebel then, fighting the bit and the unfamiliar rider he clearly did not respect. Merlan jerked and spurred it, which only seemed to madden the powerful animal even more. Dylan spoke a sharp command, which briefly stilled the beast’s antics.

  He stood between the horse and an open door, barely large enough to take a mounted man if he bent low. The main doors were apparently barred for the night. “Nightwind will not run me down. You’ll not get past me.”