A Proper Lover (Ganymede Quartet Book 2) (26 page)

“Where?” Henry craned his neck to look. The red bird jumped from one twig to another, seemingly alone. “I only see the one.”

“She’s not red, Sir. She’s brown on top and red beneath, like she’s wearing a fancy petticoat. You’ll see it when she flies, Sir.”

“A petticoat?” Henry laughed.

Martin laughed, too, and colored. “That’s how it was explained to me when I was a boy, Sir.”

The red bird darted ahead again, this time followed by a brown bird who showed flashes of red as she flew, revealing her secret beauty.

“Do you want to gallop, Sir? Partita wants to run.”

They galloped around the top of the reservoir and Henry purposely let Martin get a short distance ahead so he could admire him, his perfect ass in tight breeches and his tawny tail bouncing against his back.

Martin turned and grinned at him, calling out, “Catch me, Sir!” as he put on speed.

Henry put his heels to Marigold’s sides and made a valiant effort to catch him. When Marigold pulled even with a last burst of effort, Martin put out his hand and touched Henry’s arm and turned his beautiful laughing face toward Henry as they slowed the horses.

“Partita’s faster, isn’t she, Sir?”

“Lucky for you,” Henry said, “since you’re the one who likes races.”

“But you liked that, didn’t you, Sir?” Martin looked puzzled. “You liked racing just now.”

“I just like doing things with you,” Henry admitted, blushing.

Martin blushed, too, and leaned close. In a hushed tone, he said, “You’re so sweet, Sir. I don’t think I’ve ever known a sweeter boy.”

Henry liked this idea, that he represented the pinnacle of some admirable quality.

They made their way back to the stables and Martin was eager to inform Arthur that Partita was definitively faster than Marigold, news which Jerry was not pleased to hear.

“Is this true, Sir?” Jerry asked, sounding affronted.

“I’m sorry to say it,” Henry told him, “but it’s true. Partita’s faster. Not by much, but by enough.”

Jerry frowned, looking aggrieved. “But Marigold’s an excellent horse, Sir. Overall, she’s a better animal than Partita, I can promise you that, Sir. She has perfect conformation, and her gait—”

Henry realized that Jerry thought Henry cared about racing, that Henry would want to put Marigold aside in favor of some faster animal. “I’m not getting rid of her, Jerry. I don’t care about having a faster horse.”

“He doesn’t care,” Martin reiterated with an affectionate laugh. “Don’t worry, Jerry. You’ll keep your darling.”

Jerry blinked and reddened. He cleared his throat self-consciously. “My apologies for overreacting, Sir. I do believe she’s a wonderful horse, Sir.”

“I appreciate how much you care for her,” Henry told him.

They walked back home in the chill air, their shoulders rubbing, casting shy glances at one another. Henry knew they should be more careful; anyone who saw them might realize how fond they were of one another.

“Maybe next week we’ll take your sister, Sir?” Martin cocked his head, curious what Henry would think of this idea.

Henry was less enthusiastic, but said, “We might do that. Depends on the weather, I think. Nurse won’t want her out if it’s cold like this.”

At home, they ate lunch in their riding clothes, melted cheese sandwiches and tomato soup with marble cake for dessert. They went upstairs and took turns in the shower, Henry sitting on the edge of the tub in his damp towel while Martin stood under the water, the room full of steam. When Martin got out, Henry dried him off and got down on his knees and nuzzled his cock, embracing his hips and holding him close. They lay down before the fire in their dressing gowns and necked awhile, neither wanting to get up and leave the other in order to fetch the oil.

At last, Martin got to his feet and padded over to the nightstand, returning with the green glass bottle. “Get me ready.” He knelt astride Henry’s hips and put the bottle in his hand.

They shared a leisurely fuck, the sort of thing that Martin referred to as lovemaking, wherein Martin rode Henry’s cock as if he had all the time in the world to do it, the sweet friction making Henry feel exquisitely raw. Martin asked permission to come, and Henry gave it to him. Martin looked beautiful, high color in his cheeks, and he whimpered Henry’s name and came hard, his semen splashing hot against the underside of Henry’s jaw and dripping down his neck. Martin bent to lick him clean while Henry held his hips and fucked up into his ass. Henry came loudly, wanton groans, and wrapped his arms around Martin’s back and wouldn’t let him go, instead holding him close and rubbing his shoulders and neck and playing with his hair.

After Martin had washed Henry with soap and water, he let himself be drawn back down to lay on the carpet. Martin looked so beautiful in the firelight, a gilded faerie, and Henry wondered if the firelight made him magical, as well, but was too shy to ask.

Martin was the beautiful red bird, Henry thought, and he was the brown, the best of himself kept secret. He rubbed his face on Martin’s hair, breathing in vetiver and clean skin, and slept, dreaming that their bodies were covered in sleek feathers and they raced through the air from tree to tree, Martin always just a little faster, always urging him on.

Fearful of his father’s cold judgment, Henry panicked and made a last-ditch effort with his schoolwork as the term came to a close, sometimes even foregoing after-school sex until he’d completed his assignments. Martin seemed somewhat baffled by Henry’s frantic efforts, as Henry had successfully led him to believe that he did perfectly well in school on his own and required no help. Even now he refused Martin’s offers of assistance. It was inevitable, perhaps, that Martin would find out he was stupid, but Henry would put off the discovery as long as possible.

On Wednesday afternoon, with a week left in the term, Henry diligently plodded through a chapter in his history book as Martin sat sewing a button back onto Henry’s school jacket.

Martin cleared his throat. “Henry?”

“Yes?”

“Can we talk a moment? Only if I’m not interrupting.”

Henry was happy to be interrupted. “Of course. What is it?”

“It’s about my friend Sam.”

“Adam’s Sam.”

“Yes, Mr. Pettibone’s Sam. Henry, I’m so worried about him! Mr. Pettibone treats him so terribly. Someone needs to do something!”

“What’s Adam doing to him?”

“He’s hurting Sam badly—and I'm afraid he's going to hurt him even worse than he's already done.”

Sam did seem to be a truly miserable creature, growing gaunt and looking haunted, but Henry had done his best to ignore this. Sam was Adam's property and Adam could do what he wanted with him, just as Henry could do as he wished with Martin. “It's a sad thing, I agree, but he belongs to Adam,” Henry said. “I don't know what you think I can do.”

“He's going to kill him.”

“If he does, there'll be a fine and his father won't be happy to pay that. Adam won't kill Sam,” Henry said with confidence, “because then he'd have to answer for it to Mr. Pettibone, and Mr. Pettibone would thrash him. It’s a really big fine!”

“He'd deserve a thrashing,” Martin said, aggrieved. “Sam is weak, Henry, and he's not allowed to say no. You don't understand because you're kind you'd never treat me that way, but not all the masters are as kind as you.”

“I can't talk to Adam, Martin. You know that. Adam might hurt Sam just to spite me.”

“Maybe if you were to ask Mr. Briggs…he sometimes talks to Mr. Pettibone, doesn't he?”

Henry shook his head. “You know they're not friends. You should be talking to the slaves of Adam's friends. They might have some influence with their masters.”

“Their masters are all intimidated by Mr. Pettibone,” Martin said, sounding disgusted. “Mr. Pettibone does terrible things to Sam, Henry. Tortures him. He burns him where his clothes cover, and he…he puts
things
inside him. Oh, Henry, please…”

It hurt Henry's heart to deny him. “Martin, there's nothing I can do.”

“You understand that if Mr. Pettibone had taken me at auction, it would be me being tortured and burned right now. It would be me being mistreated.” Martin had tears in his eyes and his chin trembled.

“Please, Martin,” Henry begged. “It’s terrible, what you’re telling me, but it doesn’t change that it’s Adam’s
right
to do what he wants. The law—”

Martin shook his head vehemently, not caring about laws. “Could you ask your father? Could Mr. Blackwell do something?”

“I-I don’t see how,” Henry admitted reluctantly. “You know our fathers aren’t friendly at all, Martin. It’s the completely opposite situation.”

“But what you said about the fine… Maybe Mr. Pettibone’s father would appreciate knowing about the possibility of a big fine, even if the information came from a hostile quarter.”

“Maybe we can bring it up with Timothy,” Henry said slowly. “If he would talk to Father, maybe he’d listen, but you know Father won’t listen to me.”

“I
don’t
know that, Henry,” Martin said stubbornly. “You never talk to him, so of course there’s nothing for him to listen to.”

“I’ll ask Timothy, all right? Timothy will know better than me how to broach the subject with Father. I get too nervous when I try to ask him for things and he always says no—you recognize that, at least, don’t you?”

Martin nodded in reluctant acknowledgment. “I would appreciate it so much. Sam is my friend. If it was your friend, wouldn’t you do whatever you could to help him? What if it was Louis?”

Henry wasn’t worried about Louis; he was more disturbed by the idea that Adam might have taken Martin home instead of himself, and that Martin would now be subject to Adam’s sick impulses.

“Why does he do these things to Sam, anyway?” Henry asked, confused and repulsed. “Who’d want to hurt someone like that?”

“He’s a sadist,” Martin said grimly.

“A what?”

“Someone who’s excited by hurting people. He likes to make Sam cry and beg him to stop. Sam is just little and weak, and if he forgets his place and tries to fight back, Mr. Pettibone punishes him for it.”

This was all so distasteful. Henry felt vaguely sick. “Look, Martin, I’ll do what I can. I’ll ask Timothy after dinner, all right? But you understand I can’t force my father to act.”

“No, Henry, of course not. But anything you can do, I’ll appreciate it so much.” Martin’s eyes were very green and shiny with unshed tears. He looked a little relieved, though. He took off his glasses and wiped his eyes with his handkerchief, then set his glasses back on his nose and returned his attentions to Henry’s button with a renewed sense of purpose.

After dinner, Henry announced that he had a question for Timothy if Father didn’t mind and Father agreed, making his way upstairs alone. Henry realized belatedly that Father probably assumed it was some very personal matter along the lines of obtaining oil for fucking and blushed in utter mortification. However, he had Timothy’s attention, and he’d promised Martin, so he asked his question.

“What is it you need, Sir?” Timothy asked. He was always so calm, so kind.

“I want you to ask Father something for me, if you will.”

“Surely you could ask him yourself, Sir? Your father is very receptive to your requests.”

Henry did not think this was the case, actually, but he did not want to argue the point with Timothy.

“I get very nervous talking to Father,” Henry pointed out. “He’s not very patient with me and it just makes things worse.”

“All right, then, Sir. What can I do for you? What is your question?”

“It’s about Mr. Pettibone’s son, Adam.”

Timothy frowned. “The boy who bit you, Sir. I remember him well.”

“Yes, him. He’s mistreating his slave, Timothy, doing terrible things to him. Martin told me about it.” Henry glanced back over his shoulder at Martin, who gave him an encouraging nod. “Martin’s afraid that Sam—that’s Adam’s slave—might be killed if Adam continues as he’s been going.”

Timothy frowned and looked very concerned. “How distressing, Sir,” he said. “But I do wonder what you think Mr. Blackwell can do about it? Masters have every right to mistreat their slaves with impunity. It’s a sad fact. That would never happen here, though, Sir. We’re very fortunate here, in your father’s house,”

“Maybe you remember,” Henry suggested, “that it was Mr. Pettibone who was bidding against us for Martin. If he’d won, it would be Martin that Adam was torturing now. The idea has me so upset, Timothy.”

“There was never any chance that would have happened, Sir,” Timothy said with confidence. “Your father would have paid any price to get Martin for you. But I do understand your feelings.”

“I know Father and Mr. Pettibone don’t like each other, but don’t you think Mr. Pettibone might like to know that things are serious? That Adam might be about to incur a huge fine for killing a slave? Surely, he’d want to know that, even if it was someone he didn’t like telling him.”

Timothy looked down at his hands, frowning and examining his very clean nails. “I will talk to Mr. Blackwell, Sir, but I’ll warn you that I don’t think he’ll want to get in the middle of another family’s business.”

“You should ask Martin about it,” Henry said. “Martin can tell you details and you’ll see that it’s very serious.”