Chapter Eleven

Daizell woke first.

He was, as ever, spooned against Cassian, his arm over Cassian's hard hip bone, chest to back. It was very warm and comfortable, and he enjoyed the sensation for a moment before he remembered last night.

Well.

He wouldn't have imagined that Cassian harboured such peculiar desires, but then again, if peculiar desires were obvious, he supposed they wouldn't be peculiar. This one did no harm, or at least he hoped it wouldn't. Daizell had not in the slightest enjoyed waking up to find a strange hand rummaging between his legs, and he had not forgotten the sense of violation, the fear, the fury. He couldn't help wondering what would happen if Cassian woke up with a similar set of sensations.

But he'd been asked, and it had cost Cassian something to do the asking, and if it worked, well, that would be something he'd have given Cassian that nobody else ever had. Something he'd wanted and not been able to have, something he'd remember and be happy for. Daizell, leaving a mark on Cassian's life for the better.

He wanted to get this right.

He dwelled for a moment on those whispered words from last night. Take whatever liberties you care to, because you can. As you please. Cassian had sounded so lost, so longing, and the tone as much as the words had gone straight to Daizell's groin. He'd woken with a reasonable case of morning wood: now he pressed gently against Cassian's bare arse, wondering how to go about this.

He shifted his hips, pressing a little closer, rubbing against the soft skin of Cassian's back and buttocks. It felt undeniably wrong to be doing this to a sleeping man, and he reminded himself he'd been asked. Cassian had trusted him with this strange wanting; Cassian trusted him enough to hand over his unconscious body. The thought quivered through him.

He could do this. He'd just take his time. And be wary of flying elbows, because he liked his nose the way it was.

So he moved a little more, just a little, thinking of that soft pleading voice, imagining Cassian's murmured endearments whenever he got near a horse. Such a good, willing boy . Gently frotting himself, moving lightly, finding the groove of Cassian's arse and rubbing against it.

He felt it when Cassian woke. A slight shift in the body he pressed against, a slight change to the breathing that Daizell had come to know so intimately. He froze for a second with a feeling of dreadful guilt at being caught, and indeed an instinctive desire to shield his face, but Cassian didn't react, just stayed unmoving. Pretending to be asleep.

That brought a couple of other mornings to mind. Daizell found himself wondering if this was what he'd wanted the first time they'd woken tangled together. The cheeky little beggar. The thought was a spur, and he started moving again, perhaps a touch harder, rubbing himself against Cassian's unmoving flesh, ears twitching like a bat's for the tiny shifts in breath.

He'd bet money Cassian was loving this. Something in the quality of the silence, the shallowness of his breathing: Daizell couldn't have put his finger on it, but now he was sure, and it spangled through his veins. And since he was in fact awake . . . He slipped a very light hand down, between Cassian's legs, gently parting the meat of his thighs with as much care as if he had believed him asleep, and so slowly, so carefully, eased his stand between Cassian's thighs, quite as if he intended to pleasure himself at Cassian's expense.

No reaction. Cassian must have been very good at statue games as a child, or had been taught a deal of self control. Daizell frigged himself gently against the warm pressure, wondering when he might force his lover into reaction, and suddenly realised he was enjoying himself enormously in this odd game of pretence.

He wasn't going to touch Cassian's prick. That was not in the spirit of his instructions. Therefore . . .

Daizell applied a little pressure, just a little, easing Cassian onto his front with immense care, and now he had Cassian under him, now he could thrust just a little harder, just as he might do if he didn't care about waking him up any more. As if all he wanted was his own climax, and he was going to take it. He ground his hips against Cassian's firm arse, and heard an audible moan of pleasure, no more pretence, and, driven by an impulse he didn't understand or question, he put a hand to the back of Cassian's skull, pushing his head down into the mattress. He held him there as he thrust harder, quite as if he only cared about finishing himself off, and as Cassian bucked under him, he spent as if his balls were on fire.

Once his head cleared, that seemed a slightly less good idea.

‘Hell,' he said, snatching his hand away. ‘Cass?'

Cassian groped behind him, and grabbed his hand, holding it hard. He didn't speak for a moment, then he made an incoherent noise into the pillow.

‘Cass?' Daizell said again. ‘I got carried away.'

‘So did I.' Cassian twisted his head round. The one eye Daizell could see looked wet. ‘Oh God, Daizell. That was the best – my whole life – God .'

‘Oh. Well, then.'

Cassian exhaled, apparently breathing out his bones as he did so, because he flattened into the bed like an unset jelly. ‘Perfect. Perfect. If you want to be unbearably smug, feel free.'

‘That went as you hoped, then?' Daizell was milking this shamelessly. He felt he deserved to.

‘Yes. God, yes. I woke up, and I felt you – Lord above.' He twisted round, and Daizell did too, so they were lying in one another's arms, legs tangling stickily. ‘Perfect. Was it – did you like it?'

‘More than I'd thought I would,' Daizell said honestly. ‘Though I felt like quite a bad person for a while. I, uh, thought you wouldn't want me to bring you off with my hand?'

‘You didn't need to,' Cassian said, with deep sincerity and a touch of awe. ‘All over the sheets, good Lord. That was magical, Daize. Thank you.'

‘It wasn't a hardship,' Daizell assured him.

Cassian put a hand to his cheek. ‘I mean it. You asked me what I wanted, and you cared to give it to me. And I realise you weren't quite comfortable with the idea, and I feel rather selfish for pressing.'

‘Nonsense. I offered, and I'll very happily do it again if that's what it does to you. Not without discussion beforehand,' he added hastily. He wasn't going to make a habit of grabbing sleeping partners without a by-your-leave. ‘But if you insist on saying that I'm the best fuck of your life, I suppose I'll just have to live up to it.'

‘You absolutely were. Are. How are you so marvellous?'

Daizell was not used to being marvellous. He rather felt he could be led around like a dog on a string by Cassian telling him he was marvellous. ‘Well, you asked me to be, so it's probably your fault. Uh, at the end, when I held you down, it seemed a good idea at the time, but—'

‘Perfect,' Cassian said again. ‘Which – that's not really something I'd want normally. I know some people do, but it doesn't appeal at all as a rule. But just then, it was exactly right.'

‘Thank God.'

Cassian nuzzled into him. ‘Goodness. Is there – while we're here – is there anything I can do for you?'

‘I did very well already, thank you.'

‘Not now: I need a moment. I meant – well, is there anything you want? You did that for me, and I don't want to be selfish.'

He was such an odd fish, with that tiny line of worry between his eyes. Daizell kissed it. ‘That wasn't selfish. It was a marvellous idea. If you're asking if I'm harbouring any secret desires: no, not really. I'm a fairly straightforward sort of man, I'm afraid.'

‘You needn't apologise.' Cassian paused. ‘Um, we haven't discussed whether you might want to . . . you know.'

‘Know what?'

‘Buggery?'

Daizell choked. ‘There's a question. I don't much care for it on the receiving end. Or do you mean you'd like me to fuck you?'

‘Um. I don't much like receiving either, but if that's something you want, I could try? I imagine it would be better with you.'

And that was another chunk of Daizell's foolish heart broken off and floating away, like a melting icicle. ‘I hope it might, but I've no great urge to find out. It's not something I greatly care about in either part.'

‘But you must want something. Really, Daizell, you just gave me something I've thought about since I thought about these things. Isn't there anything I can do for you?'

‘It's not a quid pro quo,' Daizell pointed out. Had Cassian not had a lover before? Well, no, clearly he had, but he seemed oddly uncertain of the etiquette all the same. ‘I'm honoured you trusted me with that, and it was magnificent for me because you loved it. And I would absolutely share my secret desires with you if I had any.' He wished he did now, just to give Cassian something back for his gift of trust. ‘Uh, maybe—'

Cassian cocked his head. ‘What was that?'

‘Oh, nothing very meaningful. It's just . . .' This would sound dreadfully stupid, but then so did Please molest me in my sleep , and Cassian had found the courage to voice that. ‘Well, it's only that I like the way you talk when you want, well, to give instructions. Encouragement.' Cassian was looking blank. Daizell said, muffled by embarrassment, ‘I like the way you talk to your horses.'

Cassian's eyes opened wide, the sun-and-rain mix glowing with something that might have been laughter. ‘Are you asking me to ride you, at all?'

Daizell winced. ‘Apparently.'

‘Oh, but I could do that.' Cassian's voice dropped into that spine-tingling gentle croon. ‘I could ride you just as you want, my Daizell, my very wonderful Daizell, and tell you how wonderful you are as I do it.'

A small whimper escaped Daizell's throat. Cassian tightened his arms, and then they were tangled up in kisses again, blissfully lost to the clock, or pointless missions, or anything except one another.

Eventually, Cassian squirmed down a bit to lie on Daizell's chest, toying idly with a nipple, to interesting effect. ‘I feel I should thank you.'

‘For what?'

‘Not assuming that I must like to, uh, receive, just because I'm not a great hulk of a man. That's at least one thing John Martin got right.'

‘It makes no sense,' Daizell said. ‘Why should that— Hold on. What?'

‘Oh.' Cassian's ready blush flooded his face. ‘Yes. I wasn't entirely honest with you about how I came to be robbed, was I? Well, I couldn't be, at the time. But it's how I came to be in an inn with him overnight, that's all.'

That did make rather more sense, now Daizell thought about it. He hadn't troubled to consider the story deeply. ‘The thief was your lover?'

‘Hardly that. We met in a park. He paid me some very flattering attention, and persuaded me to meet for a night together. He was exceedingly charming and it was – well, I'm not used to being courted and it felt like he was doing that. I was quite taken in. And we met, and had a very nice meal, and he plied me with drink and had me ride him. It was good, I think – it's not quite clear in my memory, but I'm reasonably sure I enjoyed myself up until I fell asleep. And then I woke up with my clothes and possessions and ring stolen. I did not enjoy that part.' He was trying to sound light, but Daizell could hear the hurt. ‘Granted he wanted to rob me, did he have to make me feel quite such a fool? He even left me a note saying it was my fault.'

‘Your fault that he robbed you?'

‘He said I shouldn't put temptation in people's way, I suppose by having a few costly items with me, or perhaps by falling asleep too soon. I felt it was rather an unkind jab.'

‘Temptation in people's way,' Daizell said. His voice sounded hollow in his own ears. ‘About your height, dark hair, hazel eyes . . . he didn't, by any chance, have a purple birthmark on his arse?'

‘He did, actually,' Cassian responded, and then his face changed as his brain caught up with the words. ‘How the devil do you know that?'

‘Because I've seen it. The same way as you did.'

Cassian sat up in a jerk. ‘He robbed you too?'

‘Of course not: I've nothing to steal. His name's Martin Nichols. He's a . . . friend, I suppose.'

Cassian was staring at him. ‘You knew who he was all along?'

Daizell rolled his eyes. ‘If I had, I'd have spared myself a lot of time in stagecoaches. I would have known all along if you'd told me you'd tupped him and what happened. That's a lot more distinctive than a mulberry coat.'

‘You're friends with a thief?'

‘He's a valet,' Daizell said. ‘Or he was, until an unfortunate incident left him with the sort of reference that does you no good.'

‘You mean he robbed his master?'

‘Yes and no.' Daizell had no great urge to defend Martin, but he also had strong feelings about false accusations. ‘His master, uh, wouldn't take no for an answer. He had his way by force, and told Martin afterwards it was his fault for putting temptation in his way. So, working on that principle, Martin helped himself to all the valuables he could carry, and left. I grant that's theft, if you want to apportion blame, but in the circumstances—'

‘No.' Cassian looked rather sick. ‘I see.'

‘He's got a bit of a temper, and little fondness for gentlemen, and if you heard some of his stories, nor would you have.'

‘I see. And you are, or you were, lovers?'

‘We used to fuck,' Daizell said, which wasn't quite the whole truth. ‘He can be charming – you know that. We got on very well for a while, only . . . ugh. He was determined to be independent. I care for nobody, and nobody cares for me , that was his song. But, like a fool, I did start to care for him, and he didn't like it. We had quite the pretty row, in which he made it very clear I wasn't necessary to his happiness, and he walked out.'

‘Oh, the swine,' Cassian said, with startling venom. ‘The miserable swine.'

‘That's Martin. Anyway, now we know who stole your ring, which means we can find him, pick him up by his heels, and shake him till the ring falls out.'

Cassian's face changed, as if he hadn't realised what this meant. ‘You can find him?'

‘I should think so. I bump into him now and again.'

Cassian scrubbed his face with the heels of his hands. ‘I am going to need a moment to grasp this. I'd given up, in truth. I was going to drag myself round a string of pawnshops to prove to myself I'd tried everything, but I didn't really believe we had a chance. And now – Daizell, you are astonishing.'

‘I'm nothing of the kind. It's pure good fortune we both happened to fuck the same man.'

‘I wouldn't call it good, myself. Why is he your friend still?'

Daizell opened his mouth to reply, and realised there wasn't much to say. ‘When you've nothing to do and you drift, and you meet the same person drifting the same sort of way . . . well, an awkward friendship is still better than nothing. He's not a bad fellow, truly, underneath. But he was badly treated, and he passes it on to people he shouldn't.'

‘Is it that bad, Daize? The way you live?'

He felt himself redden. ‘Oh, well. I feel lonely, sometimes, but it suits some people. I expect you'd do perfectly well in my shoes, because you're not needy.' Needy and tiresome , Martin had said, when Daizell had attempted to suggest they try something more than drifting in and out of one another's orbits. It still hurt.

‘You aren't needy,' Cassian said, which just went to show he wasn't that acute, or that Daizell had finally learned to conceal his desperate craving for affection. It was about time he did: his parents had taught him how pointless it was, and Martin how unappealing. ‘And I don't know about that. I have plenty of aunts and uncles and cousins. This journey is the first time I've done things on my own in my life.'

That explained a lot. Daizell nodded. ‘What about your parents?'

‘My mother died when I was a baby, and my father when I was six.'

‘Oh, that's hard. I'm sorry.'

‘I wasn't deprived of care by that,' Cassian said. ‘The opposite, really. My father was . . . preoccupied, and quite vague, and didn't know what to do with a small child. I don't remember him very well, to be honest. He used to come into the nursery sometimes, and I thought he was terribly tall and grand, but mostly I remember him after. When he was dead, I mean. I remember that very clearly, because they brought me in to see him and gave me the ring from his hand and I didn't want to put it on. It was still warm, you see, although he was dead, and it felt – well, children have fancies, don't they?'

Daizell gaped at him. ‘Literally off his hand? Why on earth . . . ?'

Cassian, who had been looking rather lost in memory, blinked and went very red. ‘Oh, it's a tradition. My great-grandfather's ring, heirloom, you know. Lots of families do it.'

‘It's demented,' Daizell said frankly. ‘What a thing to do to a child, good Lord. And that's the one Martin stole? Er . . . you do want it back, do you?'

‘Yes!'

No accounting for taste. ‘Then we'll get it back, by hook or crook.'

Cassian swallowed. ‘Thank you. But what I had intended to say was that you needn't feel sorry for me for lacking parents. Nurse was always wonderful, and my uncle went to the greatest possible lengths to act in loco parentis, far more than my actual father would have, while the aunts – I had five – gave a non-stop commentary on how well or poorly he was doing. I have been surrounded by people who look after me all my life. If anything, I could do with a great deal less coddling. I love them all, and I am truly grateful, but sometimes it makes me want to scratch my skin off.'

Daizell blinked at the sudden snap in his voice. Cassian raised a hand, the brief expression of frustration dissolving. ‘I have no reason to complain, none in the world. But I have come to find it a little stifling, so I leapt at the chance to take this month away, as generously granted by Mr Martin, or whatever his name is. I was desperate to be myself alone, whereas you have a great deal more solitude than you want. Things are very poorly distributed.'

Daizell had snagged on ‘alone'. ‘Are you saying that you want more time on your own now? Because if—'

‘No!' Cassian said quickly. ‘No, not at all. Your company isn't, oh, overbearing, not in the slightest. It never is. You're wonderfully easy. The best companion I could have asked for.'

‘Oh.'

Cassian gave him a glinting smile. ‘And full of ideas, and going to find my ring with a bit of luck, and – I think we mentioned this earlier – the best, um, you know.'

‘What was that?'

Cassian pinked. He wasn't prone to bad language, and Daizell could see him gather his nerve. ‘The best, er, fuck of my life?'

‘You can say that whenever you like.'

Cassian looked wonderfully flustered. ‘The point is, I don't at all want time on my own. Actually, if we could – well, keep on being with one another, I'd like that very much.'

Daizell couldn't quite find a reply. Or, he could, but it would entirely explode Cassian's bizarre idea that he wasn't needy or overbearing, because what he wanted was to demand exactly what ‘being together' meant, and precisely how long ‘keep on' might mean. He failed to answer for long enough that Cassian's smile wavered. ‘If you want to, I mean, once we have the ring. It's up to you. I do realise I'm not terribly exciting—'

‘What? No. Yes. Yes, of course I'd like to carry on, but what the devil do you mean by exciting? My father was exciting. I've been exciting, and it's got me expelled and disgraced and nearly horsewhipped. And you . . .' He groped for words. ‘It's not even that you aren't exciting yourself, it's just that you do it so quietly. You quietly calm a set of panicking horses, and quietly let yourself out when you're kidnapped, and quietly scheme to bamboozle parsons. Good God, Cass, you're like a cool drink on a hot day. Anyone who tells you otherwise isn't paying attention.'

‘That . . .' Cassian looked far more struck than the remark deserved. ‘That is very lovely, and – goodness. I intend to think about that. Um, I have two questions.'

‘Mmm?'

‘What do we do next? And' – his hand slid meaningfully down Daizell's flank – ‘do we have to do it yet?'

‘I'll work on it, and no,' Daizell said. ‘We most definitely do not.'

Once they got up, which was shamefully late, Daizell turned his mind to the matter of finding Martin Nichols. It wasn't a problem he'd considered before. It was a long time since he'd wanted to find him.

Martin had had the stuffing knocked out of him rather worse than Daizell had. He'd been a valet to a baronet and had high ambitions of improving himself, snatched away by a selfish swine who took what he wanted and left wreckage in his wake. Daizell had only sympathy with that, and he quite understood Martin's reaction both to escape, and to do something vengeful on his way out.

Unfortunately, that reaction had ruined him. He'd robbed his abusive master and made himself a criminal by it, and he was still stewing in anger at himself and the world when he and Daizell had had their affair. Daizell had been desperate to care and be cared for; Martin had wanted to care for nothing and nobody; the affair had ended up hurting them both for no good reason. It didn't do to want more than people were willing to give.

Daizell had never set out to find the man in his peregrinations, and had absolutely no idea how to go about it. But Cassian was regarding him with a calm, confident expectation that he'd perform some piece of wizardry and Daizell felt a strong urge to live up to it.

‘I've several times met him at the Green Lion in Coventry,' he mused as they pored over a map Cassian had acquired. He put his finger on the town. ‘He's the landlord's cousin or some such. And I've met him in Kidderminster, and Leamington Spa. And you met him in Gloucester.'

They contemplated the map, obscured by his splayed hand. Cassian said, ‘We need a pen,' and then, conscientiously, ‘I'll get it.'

He returned with a poorly cut pen and a pot of execrable lumpy ink, which was about what Daizell expected from an inn, especially one in a provincial town. Cassian clicked his tongue but circled the places they'd met Martin between them.

Daizell contemplated it. ‘I don't know if that tells us anything at all, honestly.'

Cassian frowned at the map. ‘Is it him sticking to the Midlands, or you?'

‘It's not me. I've never met him outside the Midlands, though.'

‘I suppose, given he recently robbed me in Gloucester, he would want to stay away from there. And we know he headed to Stratford.'

‘Going east. And I've met him in Coventry several times. For want of any better ideas, shall we start there?'

‘So we have to get there from here. Ugh.'

‘Ugh, indeed.'

‘Might this be the time to hire a coach?' Daizell suggested.

Cassian's head came up with a startled, almost wary look. ‘Sorry?'

‘It wouldn't cost so much more to take a private coach and pair than to go on the public way, and we'd get there a deal faster and more comfortably. I'm not telling you how to spend your money,' he added, since Cassian didn't look as if this was a welcome suggestion. ‘Do as you please. But it would seem to make sense.'

‘Yes, it would,' Cassian said. ‘I, uh, can't.'

‘Can't what? Drive?' He didn't believe that for a second.

‘No, of course I can drive. I can't hire a private chaise. Ugh. The thing is, I made a wager.'

‘A wager? To do what?'

‘Take the public coach for a month, or at least, not hire my own carriage. My cousin told me that I, uh, lacked experience of life and wouldn't be able to manage on my own. We had something of a dispute and we made a bet.'

Daizell sat back with a sigh. ‘Seems harsh. Granted you were something of a greenhorn initially, you've learned fast enough, and there's nothing praiseworthy in using the stage for its own sake. It's just a damned uncomfortable means of transport. Still, if it's a wager . . .' He shrugged acquiescence.

Cassian tipped his head. ‘You don't mind? It's inconvenient and uncomfortable for you, and for a rather foolish reason.'

‘But it's a wager. I take it you want to win?'

‘Yes.'

‘Well, then,' Daizell said, trying not to let his weariness show, and reached for Paterson's British Itinerary again.