The Low Road (33 page)

‘How?'

‘I found... means.'

‘What happened to the letters?'

‘I don't know. Perhaps they were never delivered.'

‘Perhaps they're waiting for me at Gordon Hall.'

‘Yes. Maybe.' He drifted off, scowling at the tiny fire we'd built.

‘Charlie.'

‘Yes?'

‘I said many things in those letters. Things which, perhaps, I should not have said.'

‘Such as?'

‘I committed many shameful acts.'

‘Oh, well...' I was hardly in a position to take the moral high ground. ‘I forgive you.'

‘But it was not so much my actions that those letters described, as my thoughts. And my feelings.'

There was something about the tone of this voice that persuaded me to keep quiet. I nodded and shifted a little closer to the fire; closer to him.

Lebecque seemed to be struggling to find words.

‘Charlie, would you describe me as an honest man?'

‘A good man, certainly.'

‘But honest? Open and forthright?'

‘No, I suppose not. I knew you under strange circumstances, remember.'

‘Yes. I could use that as an excuse. I had to dissemble my true feelings, my true self, for the good of the cause that I served. That is behind me now.'

‘Indeed.'

‘Yes. I am no longer in the service of any government, or any cause. I am a free agent. And as such, I have no loyalty except to myself... and to those I love.'

I was no longer an innocent. I knew that his words preceded some kind of declaration.

‘I realised this during my last days...'

‘What, Lebecque?'

‘That love is all that matters.'

‘Yes.'

‘Charlie, do you remember when we were at Gordon Hall, when I first arrived? When you were so angry with me?'

‘Yes.'

‘I had sent away your friend Alexander, hadn't I?'

‘That's right.'

‘Did you... love him, Charlie?'

‘Love him? A little. I was fond of him. I enjoyed his... company.'

‘I see. But love?'

‘I suppose not.'

‘Why was that?'

‘Because I was too young to know what it meant.'

‘I see.' Lebecque pondered a while. ‘Not because... he was a man?'

At last I saw what the conversation was driving at. Poor Lebecque; for all he knew I could be betrothed to some local girl by now, having put behind me the follies of my youth.

‘Not because he was a man, no.
Au contraire.
' I smiled, desperate to introduce a note of levity into this serious conversation.

‘Could you, do you think, Charlie, ever...'

I was beginning to lose patience. ‘Love a man, Lebecque? Is that what you're driving at?'

He scrutinised my face for any sign of disgust. ‘Yes.'

Words! I had had enough of them. Instead I leaned over, slipped a hand round the back of his neck and kissed him on the mouth.

‘Does that answer your question, Monsieur Lebecque?'

He stared at me in disbelief.

‘Don't look so solemn, Lebecque!'

‘I cannot believe it.'

‘Why do you think I chased across Scotland to find you? Why do you think I'm sitting here with my arm around you? I love you, Lebecque. I think I always have.' Perhaps that was not quite true, but in the heat of the moment it made sense. I had always desired him, certainly, and I had come to admire him. Now, after all my experiences, it seemed to me that there was no man that I wanted other than Benoit Lebecque.

This time he initiated the kiss, and I have never known one like it. Not just the kiss of two men who are about to fuck (although it was that as well). This one came from the soul.

Gradually we entwined ourselves until we were lying on the ground. It was hard and lumpy, and not a little damp, but to me it felt like the most luxurious feather bed. The conviction was growing that this was the moment towards which all my adventures had tended - that it was in the arms of this man that I belonged.

I could tell that Lebecque was aroused; his cock was pressing into my thigh. But he seemed diffident about making the next move. I could see his point; I suppose he was still worried, somehow, that he was abusing his position as tutor. Poor man! He had been shut up in a prison cell while I had been fucking my way round the British Isles. Oh well: as usual, I would have to play the slut.

I broke from the kiss and started unfastening his shirt. Lebecque lay back and closed his eyes, perhaps from shame. His chest was hard and dark, with a light covering of hair that was
thicker in the centre, where the mounds of muscles curved in towards his breastbone. His stomach was ridged and rock hard, and heaving more than usual. I kissed Lebecque on the throat, then on the chest, I ran my tongue round each of his nipples and buried my face in his armpits. When I looked up he had his eyes open and was looking straight at me with a smile on my face; at last he had realised that I was not some virginal little soul who would be scared off by the merest whiff of sex. God, if only he knew... I was more concerned about alarming him with my evident experience. I don't imagine many young men of twenty, at least from my sheltered background, had racked up as many sexual conquests as I had.

Now Lebecque took an active part in our lovemaking. He practically tore the shirt off my back, and his eyes shone with delight when he saw my body.

‘God, Charlie,' he said, ‘you've grown into a fine, strong young man.' He placed a hand on my stomach, feeling every contour. It felt good, but I was becoming impatient, and so undid my trousers to expose my red pubic hair. Lebecque needed no prompting; his hand dived in and started rummaging around in my groin. Soon his fingers made contact with my cock which, as the reader must have assumed by now, was as solid as a rock. The look of surprise and delight on his face as he wrapped his hand round it will stay with me for a long time.

For a minute he was content to play with it inside my clothes, but gradually lust was getting the better of him, and he hauled it out into the open air. Of course, Lebecque had only ever seen this part of my anatomy when it was shrivelled by the cold waters of Loch Linnhe during our summer dips; he was clearly astonished by how much it had grown. He gripped it and wanked me gently, accustoming himself to the feel of a hard cock in his hand. I could see him licking his lips, and it didn't take a mindreader to know what he was thinking. I gave him permission.

‘Suck me.'

As far as I knew he had never actually done the deed before, but he must have had a natural talent. He swallowed me whole, and I felt my head breaching his throat. He neither gagged nor choked, but carried on caressing me in great long strokes, while his hands explored my balls and my bum. Then he let me go and continued licking every inch of my shaft.

Now, however, I wanted to get my hands on what I had only ever seen through a window before. While Lebecque busied himself with my cock, I shifted round and undid his trousers, pulling them down to his knees so that he was naked from the neck down. His cock was stiff and dark, throbbing in its nest of black hair. I repositioned myself and took the head between my lips. I could not see his face, of course, but I assumed from the grunts and the increased vigour with which he played with my cock that he was happy with the arrangement. We carried on with this game until, to the astonishment of both, we came simultaneously in each other's mouths. I scarcely knew where Lebecque ended and I began. I had never known such a sensation of bonding with another.

Neither of us had had enough. Lebecque seemed possessed by a devil of desire, and pinned me to the ground, calling out my name again and again, kissing me wildly on the mouth as if he was afraid that I would disappear.

‘It's all right, Lebecque. I'm here. I will never leave you again.'

He was hard once more, and I knew exactly where I wanted him to put it. I whispered in his ear.

‘Would you... fuck me?'

He looked down at me with such tenderness and concern; perhaps he believed that he was really going to take my virginity. I didn't care to disabuse him; it pleased me to play the role, and besides, I really felt that this was the first time again. To my astonishment, I felt slightly shy - me, who had spread my legs for anyone
with a handsome mug and a ready prick, who had enjoyed entire garrisons up my arse, sometimes two at a time.

‘Yes, Charlie.'

Gently, he picked my knees up from the hard ground and surveyed my arse by the firelight. The stubble was still growing back, and it looked unusually gold, I suppose. He was lost in admiration - which soon had me stiff again.

We did not speak again that night; finally, we had gone beyond the fumbling of words, and let our bodies express our feelings. Lebecque spat into his hand and wet his prick, then guided himself slowly into me. It took the best part of five minutes before he was fully inside, and then he stayed still, allowing me to get used to the feeling. For once, I reined in my appetites and enjoyed the moment, rather than hastening on to the next.

Then he began a slow rocking movement within me, which soon developed into a cruder in-out, in-out. Before long he was pistoning into me, supporting himself on his toes and elbows and using his cock as a fulcrum. When he came, he stared straight into my eyes.

For the rest of the journey we enjoyed ourselves. Occasionally we spoke of our feelings, but mostly we revelled in the novel sensation of not having a care in the world. Nobody knew where we were, we had no responsibilities, and we were in no hurry to assume any. We sat outdoors during the long June evenings and watched the sun set over the first of the lochs. We dined at taverns and inns, and occasionally raided the last of my gold to pay for a room. By the time we had neared Fort William, my name alone was enough to ensure credit and welcome in any of the houses along the road.

And of course we fucked. We fucked in every conceivable
position, in every place, outdoors, indoors, in public, in desolate stretches of countryside. Lebecque fucked me; I fucked Lebecque. We did everything that I had ever done before, and more. None of my suggestions disgusted him; rather, they delighted him. As our animal passions became wilder, Lebecque himself revealed a side of his character that I could scarcely believe existed: playful, humorous, considerate, relaxed. Perhaps this was the young man who had been hidden so long beneath the black robes of office.

The holiday had to end. I felt exhilarated and sick when we crossed the bridge at Ballachulish and re-entered the familiar homelands. Nothing had changed. There were the same old trees of the forest, the burns and rocks that I had known all my life but which I saw, now, through the eyes of a man. How beautiful they were! Once I had thought of my home as a prison. Now, returning at last, I felt that it was where I belonged. I turned to Lebecque, who was smiling like a man who has entered the promised land.

Less happy was our arrival at Gordon Hall. The park gates, which had always been carefully leaded and oiled, were dingy and interwoven with climbing weeds. Dead leaves had blown into the porter's lodge. The gates were chained.

Of course, I knew every entrance to the estate, and so we rode on a little further until we found a gap in the fence, where we tethered the horses and continued on foot. It was about six o'clock in the evening; the sun was low in the sky.

Everywhere I looked were signs of decay and neglect. The house itself seemed dead; the shutters were up at the windows, there was no sign of light or life anywhere. But it was still standing, and it looked, somehow, safe. Somebody, I realised, must have shut it up properly after my sudden departure.

We walked round the outside of the building, unwilling to enter. I felt strange, like a burglar in my own home. I had no idea what had happened here - or if, indeed, I still belonged.

Someone in the village would be able to tell us what was going
on, and so we strolled over the lawns, past the beach, past the coppice and towards the stables. We would have carried on to the village, but Lebecque suddenly stopped and pointed.

There was a horse in the yard.

It was Starlight.

I wanted to scream with joy, but Lebecque put a finger to his lips and we walked stealthily on towards the buildings. Starlight snuffled and stamped a hoof - recognising his old jockey, I suppose. Lebecque beckoned me on to the side of the stable, to the shed where, in more prosperous times, we had kept all the tackle and parked the little pony carts that I had ridden as a child. We peered in through the window; a candle was burning.

At first I could see very little, half blind as I was from the brilliant setting sun. Then, as I grew accustomed to the gloom within the shed, I noticed movement. I screwed up my eyes and tried to focus. Something looked familiar.