Chapter Ten

Cassian once again woke with Daizell wrapped around him.

He lay there, quivering with the awareness, feeling Daizell's breath on his neck and the weight of his arm. The wanting was overwhelming.

He'd never woken up with anyone in his life before this trip. He'd always had his own space, in bedrooms and in carriages and hotels and everywhere else lesser mortals were expected to crowd together. A ball or rout might be a sad crush, but nobody jostled the Duke; when he travelled, crowds parted before him or, more precisely, before the people whose job it was to make the crowd part. He'd never asked anyone to get out of his way and leave him untouched; he'd never had to, since inviolability was one of the privileges of his position. The Duke of Severn was a man apart.

Cassian was a man with a handsome lover draped over him in bed, warm and intimate, and for all that they had an urgent need to leave Stratford, he gave himself a moment to luxuriate in the feeling.

Just one moment, though. ‘Daize?' He shook his companion until he got a grunt. ‘We have to go.'

‘Oh, God,' Daizell muttered. ‘I suppose we do.'

They really did, Cassian reflected as he dressed. There was the outraged Mr Bezant, for one. Cassian hoped he would count his blessings at being reunited with his horse, or, failing that, would be unable to track them down, but Daizell had unquestionably committed a serious offence. Then there were Sir James's men. He doubted they'd risk making a complaint of horse theft under the circumstances, but they now had a grudge against Cassian to go with the one against Daizell. He had a feeling the First Bravo in particular would be keen to avenge his humiliation at kidnapping the wrong person and then losing him, not to mention he'd have a long and tedious walk into Stratford, and a deal of explaining to do to his master if he failed to find Miss Beaumont. Vier's men had been both more violent and more ruthless than Cassian had anticipated, and he had to remind himself very consciously that it was good they were following Daizell. Every day Vier's men spent chasing him was a day for Miss Beaumont's track to grow colder, and Cassian knew first hand how easy it was to lose track of somebody.

‘Where will we go?' he asked Daizell. ‘Back to Worcester?'

‘But not by the same route. There should be more coaches to Birmingham and we can shake off any pursuit there much more easily.'

That seemed an excellent plan. Cassian followed him down, and ordered breakfast while Daizell took seats on the first coach. That was scheduled to depart a half-hour hence, which gave them time for a substantial meal of eggs and bacon and a pot of adequate coffee. He was wondering about a second cup of the latter when Daizell said, ‘Shit!'

Very few people had ever sworn in front of the Duke of Severn. Cassian tried not to show shock. ‘What is it?'

‘One of Vier's men. The big brute with the horsewhip. Outside.'

‘You're joking.' Cassian fought the urge to duck under the table. ‘The fellow from last night?'

‘No, a different one. Appalling lout.'

‘Is he coming in?'

‘Don't know. He went past.' Daizell looked decidedly alarmed, as well he might. ‘Hell's teeth. He'll spot me at once.'

‘He's got no grounds to accost either of us,' Cassian said with more hope than certainty.

‘Don't be a fool. He's Vier's man, looking for a runaway ward and I took out a marriage licence with her. And if he's talked to the men you met last night . . . We need to get in the coach and away without being seen, or we'll have to come up with a lot of explanations.'

Cassian considered the many explanations that might be required of them both, in the matters of horse theft, young ladies, and identity. ‘We do, yes. How—' He cut himself off.

He had been going to say, How will we do it? from sheer force of habit. He didn't want to. Cassian had very much liked being the kind of man who extricated himself neatly from a tricky situation; he'd recounted the tale to Daizell before they'd gone to sleep, and basked in his admiration because he'd earned it.

Daizell had heard the question, for all he'd tried to stifle it. ‘I don't know. He doesn't know you, so I suppose you could get on the coach and I can try to dodge him?'

‘Don't be absurd. Here.' Cassian pushed coins across the table. ‘Pay our shot while I see what's going on outside.'

He stuck his head out of the door, rebuking himself for the fluttering in his stomach. Really his nerves were nonsensical, the fears quite overblown—

No, wait. The man was terrifying.

He wasn't tall but he was thick-muscled and brutish, with a malevolent expression and piggy eyes. He couldn't help his face, of course: he might have the pure soul of a gentle saint under the menacing exterior. Cassian wouldn't have put money on it, what with the scarred knuckles and the billy club he held loosely in one hand.

Cassian slipped out, walking past him in a carefully nonchalant manner, skin prickling with the anticipation of a shout, or even an attack. It didn't come: the brute ignored him. Thankful for his insignificance, he strolled around the yard, wondering what he could do. The stage was due to leave in seven minutes by the yard clock. He wasn't sure he could distract the fellow, who was presumably standing watch for Daizell here, for that long or at all. And if Vier's other men were on their way, they'd recognise them both. He and Daizell were in real trouble, and he wasn't sure his name would protect them, or not nearly soon enough to avoid arrest, perhaps a beating. His pulse thudded unpleasantly.

A small fuss was happening at the entrance to the yard. Cassian glanced over and his heart plummeted even further. It was the man from last night, Mr Bezant, rubicund of face and ruffled of manner, expostulating with one of the ostlers. He had someone who looked like a constable by his side. Clearly, he was not taking yesternight in his stride.

This was a nightmare. If they were trapped between the man whose horse Daizell had stolen and the men whose horses Cassian had stolen, they'd never get out of here.

Mr Bezant looked around at that moment, saw Cassian, and called, ‘Hey! You!'

Inspiration struck like a falling apple to the skull. Cassian didn't stop to think it through; he just strode up. ‘Ah, Mr Bezant, wasn't it? Excellent. I was about to write a note for you.'

Mr Bezant looked nonplussed, but made a recovery. ‘I want you, sir. Your companion stole my horse last night, I am sure of it.'

‘He did not,' Cassian said. ‘We spent the day together, rode up to Hampton Lucy in the evening, and found your horse astray on our return. As you say, it was night, and you cannot be blamed for poor eyesight with your distinguished years.'

‘My eyesight is not —'

Cassian barrelled on over him just as Lord Hugo might, wincing internally at his own rudeness. ‘But I think if you look around, you will see where you made your error.'

‘Look? Where?'

‘That surly, disreputable fellow on the other side of the inn. He is much my friend's height, if rather more thickset. Easily mistaken in the dark. And I just heard him say, "We lost that horse last night".' He gave Mr Bezant a meaningful look. ‘Of course, he might have been referring to another lost horse, but . . . Well, it is your concern, and it is up to you to decide if you want to question him further. After all, my friend and I found your horse and returned him to your possession, so you might very well think it ill-judged to confront such a fellow. Discretion is the better part of valour, after all.'

Mr Bezant swelled like a bullfrog, shouldered Cassian to the side, and marched over to Vier's henchman, visibly bristling. By the time Cassian had got to the stagecoach, Mr Bezant was poking a finger at the man, and Daizell was slithering out of the inn door behind the brute, with all their bags in hand.

Cassian grabbed them. ‘Get in the coach, get in .'

Daizell nipped around the other side of the coach with haste. Cassian threw their bags in with the other luggage, and got in, to see Daizell had kept him the corner seat again. Cassian made a mental note to swap with him on the next stage.

They both waited breathlessly. The stage should surely be leaving now? Daizell's fingers tapped lightly but relentlessly on his knee. Cassian heard angry voices raised outside, and a demand of ‘Where is the fellow?' that clashed with the driver's bellow. Someone rattled at the door, and an ostler shouted. The stage jolted into motion, and they were off.

Cassian sagged back against the seat, weak with relief. Daizell leaned over and murmured in his ear, ‘You're a genius. What did you do?'

‘Tell you later.'

‘You're a genius,' Daizell repeated, and Cassian glowed quietly as the coach rocked its uncomfortable way towards Birmingham.

It would be three stages to get there. The inside of the coach was full, and they couldn't talk about anything they didn't want overheard. Cassian did comment, at the first stop, ‘Will they come after us?'

‘Almost certainly,' Daizell said. ‘But we've a head start and we can disappear into the town easily enough. We get out at the centre, and we walk some way, and I think we both need to buy new hats so as not to attract attention.'

‘Your hair is memorable,' Cassian agreed, and liked the grin that won him.

They rumbled on towards Birmingham. Cassian realised with mild surprise that he was no longer particularly troubled by the jolting, the distressing proximity to his fellow men, the noise, the smell, or even the prospect of another accident, which had faded in his mind to the point he could make himself discount it. He still felt like his backside had been cudgelled and that his fellow passengers were a blight on the earth, but only in a general sort of way rather than as a matter of sharp distress. He was becoming used to the stage, and that pleased him.

Birmingham was huge. Cassian was used to London; he was not used to towns that approached London in size, or density, or grime. It had an encouraging bustle about it though, and some gracious, recently built streets indicated prosperity. He had never visited an industrial town before and he looked out of the window, intrigued, hearing the hammer and clatter of factories over the sound of their wheels. He eavesdropped shamelessly on the only intermittently comprehensible conversation of the other passengers, one an iron merchant, the other a maker of buttons and buckles, and wondered if he might find out more of this alarmingly modern world. He had an urge to see how it worked.

That was for later, when he was the Duke of Severn once more. For now, he needed to disappear into Birmingham with Daizell, and then disappear right out of it again to head back to where they started.

‘What are you grinning about?' Daizell asked him.

‘It occurred to me that, from some perspectives, our travels might look like an exercise in futility.'

‘Well, that's my life,' Daizell remarked, but when Cassian looked around at him, he was wearing his usual smile.

They jumped off the coach in the centre of Birmingham. The air was thick with the odours of industry, metal and slag and some very sharp, unpleasant scents. It felt dirty, and caught in Cassian's throat. Daizell wrinkled his nose but didn't comment.

‘Now what?' Cassian asked.

‘Let's head off.'

‘Do you know the town?'

‘Not at all. I suggest we plunge in, and start asking directions when we're well and truly lost. If we don't know where we're going, how will anyone else be able to follow us?'

That struck Cassian as unassailable logic, and he set off happily into the elegant new streets. They passed any amount of shops selling Brummagem-ware, although Cassian rather thought he wouldn't use that disparaging term within earshot of any local, and found a very acceptable hatter who returned them both to respectability. They bought pastries on the street that were apparently called fitched pies, whatever fitching might be, and ate them sitting on a low wall watching people go by. Cassian had never done such a thing in his life: eating so informally, outside, where everyone might see. His pie appeared to contain ham, apples, onions, and cheese. It tasted like being somebody else.

They talked over the business as they sat.

‘How likely are they to pursue us?' Cassian asked. ‘Of course they want Miss Beaumont but it should be clear now that we aren't with her. And there is the matter of kidnap and robbery. I could swear against them.'

‘Robbery?'

‘They took my money and my watch.'

‘You didn't say. How much? Enough to get them in trouble?'

‘Very much so, yes. I had a lot with me.' He'd had vague ideas of buying Daizell some sort of gift in Stratford as they took their holiday. In the event, it had felt like it might distract from their day together and he'd decided he could do it later.

Daizell blinked. ‘You didn't think to mention that at the inn?'

‘Well, not with Mr Bezant shouting about you stealing his horse, and also, I didn't think they'd run away if I threatened to call a magistrate and accuse them of theft and kidnapping. Do you think they would have?' he added, suddenly feeling rather foolish. ‘Should I have confronted them?'

‘Probably not,' Daizell said. ‘We'd doubtless have all ended up thrown in gaol accusing one another of things, what with the missing heiress and the stolen horses. No, you handled things perfectly. You always do; I don't know what you thought you needed me for.'

That entirely took Cassian's breath. He sat, heart thudding and lips parted, for a few seconds before he could answer. ‘I did need you. I do . I couldn't have done anything if you hadn't showed me how.'

Colour surged in Daizell's cheeks. ‘I think you'd have managed, you know, but – glad to be of service.'

They smiled at one another. Daizell cleared his throat. ‘On the subject of money, though, how much did they take? That is, do you have enough to keep going?'

‘Oh.' He hadn't even considered it. ‘Uh. No. I have— Oh.' He had no idea what to do now. If he wanted money, and he rarely did, he just told his people to give it to him. A sense of panic swept over him, as though he found himself hopelessly adrift on an open sea. ‘Oh God almighty. I've only got about twenty pounds left.' It was a tiny sum, a nothing. When it ran out, he wouldn't have anything else. He stared speechlessly at Daizell.

‘Twenty? Lord, that's all right,' Daizell said with staggering airiness. ‘I thought we had our pockets to let. You, I mean; I already do. Er, you can get more, yes?'

‘I have plenty of money. I can send to home.' But that would doubtless mean he'd lost the wager, and he'd have to admit he'd been robbed again . Leo would laugh, the aunts would flap, and Lord Hugo would say he'd known all along that the Duke would come to this. No. He would – how did people get money?

‘We're in Birmingham,' he said, thinking it through. ‘I can surely find a bank. Of course I can.' He looked a disgrace but he had his card case, which had, thankfully, been hidden at the bottom of his luggage. ‘We might need to stay here a night or two if they have to send to verify that I have the funds, but – yes. Bank.' It was a plan. He wasn't going to be destitute. He could breathe again.

‘That seems very sensible,' Daizell said. ‘Shall we find a place to stay and then you can do that?'

It took Cassian a while. He banked with Coutt's in London, but they had no office here; he eventually discovered that Birmingham offered a branch of Taylors and Lloyds. There he had a stroke of luck: the manager was an ambitious man who had used to work in Gloucester, and knew the Duke of Severn when he saw him even in an ill-fitting coat. He insisted on serving tea with great ceremony, promised absolute discretion, made no comment at all about his dishevelled appearance or unattended presence in Birmingham, hinted that Taylors and Lloyd's would provide His Grace with exceptional service at all times if they should be so fortunate as to have his business in the future, and furnished him with a hundred pounds.

Cassian emerged after a couple of hours with money in his pocket, a little soothed by the comforting exercise of privilege. He didn't want servility but it was undeniably pleasant to be recognised. He also felt slightly guilty, as he wasn't entirely sure if this fell within the terms of the wager, but decided it was fair: he'd never agreed to be a pauper.

That said, he was irritated at himself for having lost so much money to thievery. He added it to his list of reasons to resent Sir James Vier, who would under no circumstances be getting his greys.

He returned to the Spread Eagle inn where they had decided to stay, and found Daizell cutting a profile. A little crowd stood around him, chanting. ‘Fifty-seven, fifty-eight, fifty-nine . . .'

‘Said he'll do it before a count of a hundred,' a fellow watcher informed him in a very strong accent. ‘Start to finish. Mr Bignall said he couldn't, but look at them scissors twinkle!'

Daizell was moving the paper rapidly in that smooth manner, gleaming eyes flicking from subject to scissors. His face was intent but a smile curved his lips as the count carried on. ‘Ninety-one, ninety-two—'

‘Done!' Daizell said, triumphantly holding up the profile. The crowd gathered round to judge it against the subject, and made loud noises of admiration.

A man, presumably Mr Bignall, handed over what looked like a banknote and shook Daizell's hand. ‘Well, sir, you made good on your word. That's a fast hand and a good eye you have. I wouldn't have thought it possible.'

‘Thank you kindly,' Daizell said. ‘Would you care to be cut yourself, as a memento? Not quite so fast this time, my fingers wouldn't take the strain.'

Within a moment, Bignall was sitting for a profile. Cassian watched from the outskirts, fascinated. Daizell had slipped into what was clearly a practised persona, charming and friendly when he wasn't locked in concentration on his work, and several more people asked for their profiles, at three shillings a time. By the last, Daizell looked in his satchel and clicked his tongue. ‘I've no more blackened sheets, I'm afraid. How about a hollow cut?'

‘What's that, then?' asked his hopeful customer.

‘Watch.' Daizell pushed a scissor blade into the middle of a sheet of white paper, piercing a hole rather than starting at the edge, and began to cut. Several people leaned forward, obscuring Cassian's view, and by the time he'd moved round to see, the cut was almost done: an oddly shaped hole in the middle of the paper. Daizell found a dark blue card in his bag and pasted the paper to it, and there it was: a profile made of empty space, surrounded by white.

Daizell accepted the acclaim with becoming modesty, let Mr Bignall buy him a drink, and put away his things, giving Cassian a slightly embarrassed look as the watchers dispersed. ‘Hello, there. Success?'

‘Yes, it was easier than I had feared. You seem to have been busy?'

‘Well, you seemed a little worried about funding, so . . .' He shrugged. ‘A few shillings here and there, it adds up. Street-corner flummery, I know.'

‘But impressive. Did you really cut that man's profile in a count of a hundred? Do you not have to draw the outline?'

‘I taught myself to do without. I had a lot of time on my hands.' He shrugged again. ‘It's a party trick, nothing more.'

It seemed to Cassian to be a remarkable skill, if not a profession. ‘Are there not studios for profilers?'

‘There are, yes. John Miers in London has a positive factory now, with people tracing shadows and drawing from them, and there's another fellow, Charles, doing the same. Both of them undercutting the other's prices and making life harder for everyone else. You can charge five shillings for a painted shade in the provinces where you'd only get a shilling in London now.'

‘Weren't you charging three?'

Daizell looked distinctly embarrassed. ‘Well, these are just cuts, no paint. And I'd already won a pound off that fellow.'

Cassian wasn't generally a wagering man, but he had witnessed many a bet, and was quite used to stakes in two, three or even four figures. There was something so small, so vulnerable about betting a pound and having the outcome matter. It ought not matter, and Daizell ought not to be so close to disaster that a pound seemed worth betting. The hundred pounds in his own pocket felt uncomfortable and obtrusive.

‘What if you hadn't been able to do it, though?' he asked. ‘If you'd lost?'

‘Please,' Daizell said. ‘I can cut a profile in a count of sixty if I have to. The hard part is timing it to ninety-something.'

‘Oh.' It seemed rather unethical to bet if he knew perfectly well he could do it. ‘Is that quite fair?'

‘I'm sure you disapprove,' Daizell said, flushing. ‘I dare say you should. But I make my living, such as it is, cutting profiles in inns for shillings, betting on my skills, and performing at parties to earn my place. I don't have the option of going to a bank to refresh my pockets. I'm well aware it isn't the occupation of a gentleman, but I don't have a great deal of choice.'

Cassian recoiled at his tone. ‘I didn't say anything.'

‘You were thinking it.' There was tension in Daizell's face. ‘Cutting profiles for my supper allows me to maintain a little more self-respect than out-and-out begging, that's all. I dare say a man of actual self-respect finding himself in my position would have fled to the Continent, or won a fortune at the gaming tables, or taken up honest labour, but I don't speak French, play, or have any other talents, which rather limits my options.'

He was sounding disturbingly brittle. Cassian put a hand on his arm and felt tension twanging along it. ‘I see you must feel your position painfully, but you're doing what you can in the circumstances. And if you want to know what I think, it's that this whole business is horribly unfair – what your parents did and how you were blamed, and Sir James, all of it. It's miserably unjust that you should be reduced to this—'

‘Reduced. That's the word,' Daizell said. ‘That's the point. I'm less than other people – than Vier, or you – because of my father, and Vier's lies, and all of it, but really because of this.' He gestured at the scissors and bits of cut paper. ‘ Gentlemen don't exploit their skills for profit in alehouses. A gentleman exhibits his talent purely for the amusement of his friends. Well, forgive me if I'm no longer a gentleman, but I should rather bring in a few shillings than be left high and dry. That isn't a comfortable position.'

‘You didn't have to do it now,' Cassian said blankly. ‘I was fetching money . . . You didn't think I'd come back? Daize, were you worried I wouldn't come back?'

Red bloomed over Daizell's cheekbones, though he made a fine stab at airiness. ‘It's not unknown for a gentleman to cut his losses, or abandon his obligations, when he feels the pinch.'

‘I would not do that. I swear.' He slid his hand down, grabbing Daizell's fingers. ‘I just went to get money! I don't abandon people I care for. I would not abandon you.'

The words came without thought, without the consideration a duke should give his every utterance. Daizell gave him one desperately open, hopeful look and then shut his eyes tight.

Cassian's heart was thumping, with panic and with a sense of teetering on the edge of something huge and frightening and wonderful. He squeezed Daizell's fingers and released them, too aware they were in public, wanting to say—

He couldn't say it. He only had the remains of his month as Cassian. Then he would be Severn again, and everything would go back to how it had been.

He didn't want that.

He had no idea what he wanted instead.

He shoved the thoughts aside for now. The important thing for the moment was that Daizell should not have that hurt, lost look in his eyes. ‘I wouldn't do that. And I think you're marvellous.'

‘Oh, come.'

‘Truly. I don't know how you talk to strangers so well but I should like to learn, and as for the cutting, it seems to me to be pure sorcery. I admire it immensely, and I admire that you have developed a skill and use it.' He would have liked to mention some of the many unrewarding hangers-on who had lived off Staplow – they'd had an exceptionally dull ex-military friend of Lord Hugo's for a full twelvemonth – but any story would have raised questions he didn't want to answer. ‘I wouldn't know what to do in your place, or how to go about making a life I didn't expect to lead, alone.'

Cassian had never feared for his own finances, or his social position, which he would probably have to commit public murder to lose, and no matter how exasperating and domineering his family were, he'd never doubted their love or loyalty. To lose all that in a night was unthinkable. ‘It was terrible, what your parents did to you,' he said intently. ‘And you have done your best with what was left. It is hardly your fault you cannot behave like a wealthy gentleman when you aren't wealthy.'

‘The problem is, one quickly ceases to be a gentleman of any sort,' Daizell said. ‘Which is all very well until one has aspirations to mix with gentlemen again. Maybe I should have picked one or the other. Fought harder to retrieve my name and preserve my standing, or given up and settled to profile-cutting: it's made Miers rich. I should have done that, but I thought, I kept thinking, I could retrieve my position one day. Well, I couldn't and I haven't, and now I wish I had done everything differently.'

He sounded so bleak. It looked so wrong on his face. ‘Oh, Daize,' Cassian said. ‘Surely we can do something.'

‘Don't. It's not— Ugh, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to spill all that out on you. It's just been hitting home in the last days that most people wouldn't count me fit company for a gentleman. For you.'

‘Daize, you are,' Cassian said, knowing it wasn't true, or not for the Duke, at least. ‘I hope I haven't made you feel otherwise. Have I done something?'

‘Reminded me I'd rather not be notorious, that's all. Forget it. I'm being foolish. Let's talk about something else. Please?' he added, as Cassian began an objection.

He sounded like he meant it, and Cassian didn't know what he could say anyway, except for things that he couldn't say at all. He bit back the urge to say them anyway, as he had long learned to do because the Duke of Severn weighed his words and considered his commitments. The silence still felt like a betrayal.

Cassian was exhausted by nine that night. The last couple of days had been so absurdly up and down that he felt quite adrift: from the exquisite pleasure of his day with Daizell to its terrifying ending; the sense of need for urgent action coupled with the staggering monotony of his hours on the stage or the lengthy time waiting in the bank, and then Daizell's distress. His eyelids were heavy when Daizell said, ‘Let's go to bed.'

It was another large bed to share, which they had because Daizell had indicated to the innkeeper that they were unconcerned about sharing if that was more convenient for the inn. As simple as that. Cassian washed his face, noting that he definitely needed to shave tomorrow. He would have put on his nightgown too, out of habit, except that Daizell was even then swinging himself into bed stark naked.

He was lovely in the candlelight. The flickering light caught bronze and gilt and copper hairs, making him glimmer, and Cassian stared at his chest, and the glittering hairs that trailed downwards, and then looked back up to a face that was grinning at him.

‘I wasn't going to trouble with a nightshirt. Unless you object?'

‘I don't object.' Cassian caught himself from dropping his own nightshirt on the floor, and draped it over a chair instead. He stripped off his breeches and walked, very aware of his own nakedness and his slim build compared to Daizell's far more satisfyingly solid form.

Daizell didn't seem to be complaining. He reached for Cassian's hand, his laughing eyes alight. ‘You are lovely. Come here.'

Cassian would have given one of his minor estates not to be so tired. Daizell was so warm, so beautiful, and Cassian shifted willingly under him, feeling Daizell's thigh settle between his own, and reached up to pull Daizell's head down. Daizell kissed him gently but thoroughly, and Cassian wrapped himself around whatever of Daizell he could, straining up into him with relief and joy and a sense of wonderful rightness, and very aware his eyelids were sagging.

Daizell broke off to kiss his ear, then snort in it. ‘You look half asleep.'

‘Don't mind me.'

Daizell nuzzled his way down Cassian's neck. ‘Go to sleep. We've all the time in the world tomorrow.'

‘I'd rather . . .' Cassian tightened his grip indicatively.

‘Don't be silly. Look at you. You'll fall asleep half way through.'

‘I don't mind. I'd like it.' The words were out before he realised, his sleepy brain betraying him.

‘Well, I wouldn't,' Daizell said. ‘There I'd be, having my wicked way with you and you'd be snoring. Aside from the questionable morals, it would be quite offensive to my self-esteem.'

‘Uh,' Cassian said, stifled. ‘Yes. Sorry. I—'

‘Cass.' Daizell pushed himself up on an elbow. ‘Is something wrong?'

‘No.'

‘It is. Did I just say something stupid?'

‘No.'

‘ Cass .' He spoke with a touch of exasperation. ‘I felt you tense there. What did I say?'

‘It wasn't you. Nothing. I'm just sleepy.' He could have kicked himself. If he'd just kept his mouth shut they could have been kissing and stroking still. He tried to tug Daizell back down to him.

Daizell resisted, contemplating him with a little frown. ‘Did you – were you just trying to tell me something?'

Cassian felt the tide of blood flood his face, thickening his throat so he wasn't sure he could answer. Daizell was looking down at him with an expression that was mostly baffled, and a little worried, which made everything worse. ‘It doesn't matter,' he mumbled, turning on his shoulder, away.

There was a second's silence, and then Daizell settled behind him, arm coming over Cassian's waist and curling up to hold him close. ‘It matters to me,' he said softly. His breath tickled Cassian's neck ‘It matters that I don't say stupid things to you, and it matters that something I said made you unhappy. And it matters very much if there's something you want from me that you haven't said, because there's nothing I'd like more than to do whatever it is you want. So could we go back to the part where you said you'd like it and I didn't listen?'

Cassian squeezed his eyes shut. ‘It's stupid.'

‘You've come to the right place then: I've done more stupid things than you've had hot dinners. If you want to tell me, I promise I'll hear you out. You don't have to but I wish you will.'

Cassian glared at the sheets. Somehow, wretchedly, from being on the verge of passing out, he wasn't tired at all any more. He sent a curse in the general direction of whatever controlled sleep. ‘It's just . . . a thing I thought about. Think about. Sometimes.'

‘This is the kind of thinking one does with a hand on one's cock, yes? I would love to know what you think about.'

He'd never told anyone this. He hadn't had anyone to tell, and he simply couldn't with paid company, and he was the Duke of Severn. Except here, where he was Cassian, with Daizell. ‘I . . . being with someone who'd . . . you know. While I was asleep.'

There was a short pause. ‘Really?'

‘Mmm.'

‘Actually asleep? That is, and I'm not being difficult, but wouldn't one wake up?'

‘Well, one might, but . . . I don't know. It's just a thing I think about.' If he blushed any harder, he might set fire to the sheets.

‘No, I see that,' Daizell said. ‘Is it something you've tried, at all?'

Cassian shook his head. Daizell leaned in, resting his own head on Cassian's shoulder. ‘Well. So one would want to wake up and find oneself being, uh, manhandled?'

‘It's all right. You said you wouldn't want to.'

‘I wouldn't want to do it to someone who didn't want it done to them. Although, if you think about it, that covers everything from kissing to two-at-a-time buggery. I asked because – well, actually, I have woken up with someone manhandling me, very much not someone I'd invited to do so, and in what you might call the ensuing discussion, I broke his nose. Which was very much a matter of instinct, and I'd rather not have my nose instinctually rearranged by someone else. But I suppose if one was expecting it or familiar with one's bed partner, that would be different.'

‘I've never broken anyone's nose,' Cassian managed. ‘You seem to make a habit of it.'

‘Once. I've done it once ,' Daizell said indignantly. ‘Or twice, I suppose, if you count that prick in the crash.'

‘How could you not count him? You broke his nose!' He knew very well what Daizell was doing, easing the mood with absurdity. It still worked. ‘I – can't promise I wouldn't strike out, I suppose. It's probably—'

‘Don't say a stupid idea. It isn't stupid to want things.'

‘It can be,' Cassian said, with feeling.

‘No, it isn't. Sometimes it's stupid to try to get them, or we go about getting them in stupid ways, but you can desire whatever you want. And if this is something you've thought about a lot, and you want me to—'

‘But if you had a bad experience—'

‘That wasn't a bad experience. I've had lots of those, but this was just a prick in a shared bed who got a five-second feel before I put my elbow into his face. No, I'm happy to try. Two things, though, Cass?'

‘What?'

Daizell's hand moved, gently stroking his hip. ‘First, if you wake up and you don't like it, don't hold it against me? The fact of doing it, I mean.'

‘Of course I wouldn't. Why would I do that?'

‘Plenty of people prefer not to take responsibility for their mistakes. Just remember I'm not trying to take anything you didn't want to give? And actually, another thing: if you don't like it, promise me you'll say so. Don't pretend anything's all right if it's not, or feel you have to go through with it.'

It was slightly embarrassing to feel quite this known. Cassian said, ‘I promise but – Daize, are you sure you want to do this?'

‘Not at all,' Daizell said cheerfully. ‘Suppose we find out tomorrow morning?'

Cassian's chest tightened a little with alarm and anticipation. ‘Really?'

‘If I wake up first, I'm happy to give it a go. If that suits you?'

‘Yes,' Cassian said. ‘Please.'

‘Then it's a bargain. Right: that's one thing. The other . . .'

‘What?'

Daizell's hand slipped downward, to his groin, not provocative, just covering him. ‘You might tell me what's so exciting about the idea. So I understand.' His hand tightened a fraction. ‘So I can make it good.'

Cassian attempted to clear his throat. ‘Uh. I . . . it's the idea of . . .' He wasn't sure how to voice it. He'd been tossing himself off with this in mind for years, one way or another, and the idea of exposing the details of those private dreams was excruciating. The only worse prospect was that of holding back now and wondering for the rest of his life what might have happened if he were braver. ‘Just, that someone could just do that. Not in an unkind way, not unwanted, but to wake up to your body being used by someone – that sounds dreadful.'

‘Not to me.' Daizell's voice was gravelly in his ear. ‘Not if you want it. And since the only people hearing it are you and me, tell me more.'

‘I want you to touch me while I sleep.' He said it in a breath. ‘I want you to – to take whatever liberties you care to, because you can, and to be trying not to wake me so you can carry on doing as you please.'

‘Sweet Jesus.' Daizell swallowed audibly, and, Cassian realised, he could feel the hard line of a cockstand against his back. ‘And that's what you think about when you stroke your prick at night?'

‘Sometimes. Yes.'

‘And you look so innocent. I am going to do my very best to live up to this.' He crawled over Cassian, tugged him round, and kissed him, hard. Cassian kissed him back, snaking his arms over those sturdy shoulders, feeling himself relax into Daizell as the kisses became slower, more gentle, decidedly sleepier.

Daizell shifted off, snuggling against him. ‘Thank you for trusting me, Cass. I will do my best. For which we both need some sleep.'

Cassian couldn't argue. He blew out his candle as Daizell did the same, and felt a solid arm settle over his waist again as his eyelids fluttered closed.