But Davy was frowning at the tub. The westering sun cast its light at an angle through the small window, glowing in his hair but slanting a shadow that gave an odd, distant look to his face.
“Davy? Something wrong?”
He shook him head. “No, of course not. Do you want to go first, or shall I?”
The echo of his own words jangled even Marshall’s unsubtle ear. “Davy, what is it?”
“Just... just thinking. Sorry.” He slid off the bed and lifted the pitcher from the wash-basin that sat on a little table under the window. “You go ahead, I’ll pour.” He tipped a watercan enough to fill the pitcher and motioned for Marshall to get into the tub. Eyes down, jaw set, David looked as though he’d just been assigned to a punishment detail. What the hell—?
Totally bewildered, Marshall took the pitcher from him and placed it on the floor. He was uncomfortably conscious of his nakedness, standing so close but feeling such a distance. “Davy. What have I done?”
“What?”
“A moment ago you were—you seemed to be—quite merry. Now....” He didn’t know what to say. He had never had a lover before and had no idea what to do when one went all silent like this. “There’s no one else here, is there? I must’ve done something to distress you. Can’t you at least tell me—”
“No!” Davy looked up, finally. “No—for god’s sake, Will, it isn’t you. Just that tub.”
Marshall blinked. It seemed a perfectly ordinary utensil.
“And memories.” David straightened, moving to the window again as a chill wind suddenly blew up, and clouds blotted out the sun. With the unpredictability of August weather, rain began to spatter in.
Uncertain, Marshall waited, torn between concern and an intense desire to run his hands down that smooth bare back. The bruises Adrian had left on David’s body were gone now. But on his spirit—? Davy had never said much about what had been done to him, and Marshall had not asked. What he did know was bad enough.
“He’d make me strip and wash first,” David said abruptly. “As though I wasn’t clean enough for his filthy games!” He brought the sash down with a bang that rattled the glass. “Not afterward, when I’d have given anything to wash him off me.” He leaned against the sill a moment longer, his whole body tight and angry. Then, amazingly, he gave a short bark of a laugh. “Well, I’m damned if I’ll let that bastard frighten me out of a hot bath!”
“Come here, Davy,” Marshall said. “Please.”
Davy turned and met his eyes. Through the cloud of his own turmoil, he seemed to recognize Marshall’s distress. “I’m sorry, Will.”
He held out his arms; David crossed the room—two strides, the room was not much bigger than the cell they’d shared—and as soon as they touched things were somehow all right again.
“I’m sorry,” David repeated, against his neck as the storm rumbled outside.
“Nothing to be sorry for. Nothing.”
David let out a breath, finally. “Unless I let the water get cold, eh?” He stepped in, scooping up the soap. “Wash my back?”
Grinning, Marshall picked up the pitcher, reached for the soap—and a thought stopped him. He nearly asked if Adrian had done this, too, but caught himself just in time. If that had been the case, a reminder was probably the last thing Davy would want. “You will tell me,” he said carefully, “if I should do anything against your wishes?”
“We shall both be very old before that happens, Will.”
Whether David’s spirits had really lifted, or he was just making an effort to lighten the mood, Marshall was not sure. He felt Davy shiver a bit as he poured the warm water across his shoulders, but when he lathered his hands and began to scrub, Davy relaxed into his touch.
It felt so good to touch him like this. He had bathed Davy before, to be sure—half the ship came down with a fever once, and David was so sick and weak he could not even wash himself. Then it had been only a matter of common decency, something to be done as quickly and impersonally as possible to minimize the embarrassment to them both.
Marshall could never have guessed how different it would feel to perform essentially the same act with this new intimacy between them, to let a lover’s hands slide over David’s body, the slippery wetness magnifying his perceptions. He had never really considered male beauty before; he had known his own physical shortcomings, knew Davy was much better-looking by comparison, but he had never been so aware of it, so attracted. Broad shoulders, trim waist... and such beautiful, rounded buttocks. Why did that physical perfection not show more clearly when Davy was in uniform?
He smiled to himself. Just as well it didn’t. It would be worse than embarrassing to have his cock come to attention every time David walked past on the quarterdeck! And he’d better stop thinking about that happening or it would, and that damned woman could be back at any time.
He rinsed off where he’d washed—back and shoulders only. He was tempted to do more but uncertainty prevented him.
“What’s wrong?” David twisted around. “Why did you stop?”
Marshall suddenly realized that the wonderful thing about David Archer was his ability to speak up. Unlike his own tongue-tied condition. “I—I wasn’t sure if it was all right...”
“Will—” David sighed, turning to face him. “I told you some time back, nothing you do is unwelcome. Nothing. Quite the opposite.” He laid a hand on Marshall’s chest, above his heart, which leapt at the contact. “When you touch me, it seems as though you’re washing away all the old... memories, the old troubles. You can touch me anywhere. Everywhere. I want you to. In fact—” He stopped. “Never mind. But please, don’t stop. Unless you would rather not?”
There was no answer for that but a kiss, and Marshall wondered absently if the film of water between them was going to evaporate as steam. “I’d better finish, then,” he said eventually. “Before your lady-friend returns with dinner.”
He refilled the pitcher and resumed his pleasant task. Since David was now facing him, it seemed only logical to wash his face, smiling at his friend’s sputtering. “Anywhere, you said,” he reminded.
“I was hoping for something a bit lower,” Davy complained.
“Yes, your neck
is
in need of a wash.” He was playing. Playing, by God—and not a game that required a winner or a loser, but a gentle, happy amusement in which they both won. It was very strange. Some magic of Davy’s, without a doubt; none of his own doing.
Neck led to shoulders, chest... the springy golden hair there was stuck down now with lather. Arms... and on the right arm, a bumpy irregularity—the ragged criss-cross of pink scars, still bright and visible on either side of his elbow.
“Those are healing well,” Marshall said, remembering the vicious wounds Adrian had inflicted in trying to fight free of David’s stranglehold.
“I expect there’ll always be some trace of them, though.” David’s lips pulled tight in what was not quite a smile. “Truly, Will, I am almost glad of that. They’re a reminder that I
did
beat him.”
“True indeed. Do you want your hair washed?”
“Mmm.” David pulled loose his ribbon and tipped his head back. “You’re going to spoil me, Will.”
“Not at all. I expect the same service in return.”
“A clever ploy.” His eyes suddenly opened wide. “Will—did you lock the door?”
“No!”
Water splattered as Marshall lunged across the room and slid the latch shut.
“Just thought of it,” Davy said apologetically, blinking as water from his hair ran down his face. “She’d likely knock first, at any rate.”
“I should hope so!” He covered his receding panic by considering the task at hand: he’d cleaned everything from the waist up; should he proceed back or front?
Or both?
David caught his breath as Marshall’s right hand slid down his belly. His hips tilted forward a tiny bit, in anticipation... and Marshall slipped his other soapy hand right down David’s arse.
“Hey!”
His finger slipped between the cheeks, into a warm cleft. Necessary, was it not? The object of the exercise was, after all, a bath. No part of this fine supple body should be left unwashed! Besides, Davy was not trying to avoid his touch, or even objecting...”You said anywhere.”
“And
you
said you expect the same in return.” David said nothing more, but a wicked smile crept across his face as he rocked back and forth between Marshall’s hands.
“Oh, dear.” Perversely, his cock twitched and began to grow, whether from Davy’s movement or the notion of receiving such attentions, he could not say. Somehow or other, Davy had maneuvered his own cock into Marshall’s hand. It was not hard, exactly, but it seemed... interested. And was Davy really pushing back against his finger?
“But I fear we will not have the time for a proper exchange. Unless you want to give the serving-maid an education in naval maneuvers. You’re doing a fine job of sounding the bottom!”
It felt more like running out the long guns with no powder for firing. Marshall hated to admit it, but Davy was correct; after all those years at sea, with the watch rung every half-hour, he had a sort of internal clock that anticipated those bells, and he knew their hour was at least half-gone. “Very well, then...” What was he supposed to do now? “Davy? Do you... um... Shall I—” How awkward it was!
David didn’t make it any easier by chuckling. “Just get all the soap out, Will, I don’t need a rash down there!”
By the time David was thoroughly rinsed, he was giggling so hard that Marshall was tempted to smack his wet bottom, and annoyed at the hilarity that had subdued his libido once more. He consoled himself with the thought that if a little frustration was all it cost to chase away some of his friend’s old demons, it was cheap at the price.
And besides—if Davy was finished, it was his turn next.
“If you can get hold of yourself—” he began, proffering a towel. And, “oh, hell!” as the phrase sent David into another spasm of laughter.
“Mister
Archer—”
David caught him around the waist and kissed him, his mirth finally subsiding. The feel of his slick warm flesh chased away any lingering aggravation. “Sorry, Will. Here, let me do the honors. Step in, if you please, milord.” He studied William in the tub as though he were a project to be undertaken. “Hair first, I think—start at the top.”
It was sheer luxury to simply stand there and let the warm water trickle down his back. Deft fingers scrubbing through his hair, massaging his scalp—no wonder the Romans were so devoted to their baths, if they had this sort of attention! “We should do this every day,” he said dreamily.
“If we have—head
back,
Will!” A cascade of warm water ran down his face and, as he tilted his head obediently, up his nose.
His turn to sputter, though not with laughter, and by some lucky chance Davy didn’t find it funny either. He simply passed Marshall the towel to mop his face and waited until his head was at the proper angle to finish rinsing his hair.
“Sorry, you moved just as I began to pour. There, that should do it.” David flipped the wet tail of hair to the front of Marshall’s shoulder, then commenced scrubbing his back.
It was heaven. The room was cooling with the sun’s warmth gone, but the hot water kept him comfortable enough. That, and Davy’s hands defining the boundaries of his body with affection unspoken but apparent. Marshall could not recall ever having felt so cherished; perhaps his mother had bathed him with such care, when he was very young, but if so there was nothing of that left in his memory.
Davy was washing him everywhere. Even his genitals; his cock was rather long—he was both proud of and embarrassed by the fact—but it got the same sort of careful attention as the rest of him. David made no remarks, only squeezed it gently as he finished, and sighed. “We just don’t have time,” he said, very close to Marshall’s ear. His grip suggested otherwise, and he was standing so near the tub that Marshall could feel a nudge from behind.
The situation required a command decision. “We’d better dry off and get dressed. That feels very good, but I am not certain much would come of it.” A bald-faced lie; if Davy kept on with what he was doing they’d both be flat on the bed again in no time.
He had made the right choice, though. They’d pulled on shirts and breeches, unlocked the door, and were wondering how long they’d have to wait for someone to remove the bathwater. The tub made it nearly impossible to move in the room, but would block the narrow hallway if they set it outside. They were relieved of the decision when—as Davy had predicted—the maid knocked upon the door.
“Do you have anyone to help you with that?” David asked her, gesturing at the thing. “It’s a hazard to navigation in here.”
“Na, Toby can just pitch it out the window. Garden down below.”
Marshall glanced at the boy who’d helped bring up the meal. He hardly seemed large enough for the task. It would take him a long time bailing with a bucket, time that they could otherwise spend alone together. Marshall raised an eyebrow in David’s direction. “Not that it’s likely to make much difference this afternoon...”
David grinned. “We’ll be heaving to windward, I’m afraid. Here, mate—” to the boy, “When I give you the nod, open the window, right?”
Toby nodded and stationed himself. Marshall seized one of the tub’s handles, David the other, and as they swung for the third time Davy said “Now!” to the boy. He opened the window and they flung the water out. Marshall automatically yelled “HEADS!” A gust of wind blew in a spray of water back at them, but the youngster got the window down fast enough that nothing was seriously doused. Still, they sat down to eat a little damp for their efforts as the highly amused servants took their leave.
In the entertainment of having their guests take on his chore, the boy had forgotten to light the fire, but the meal was a distraction from that. The innkeeper’s wife had made good his boast. Roasted chops, soft rolls, a hearty dish of mashed potatoes with butter, fresh green beans... Marshall forgot his wet clothes as he happily tucked it away. He had been on short commons during their weeks as prisoners; might as well make up for it while he had the chance. He could not remember when he’d last finished a meal with apple pie, and he didn’t think he’d ever had one as good as this. After a few minutes, though, he realized that his companion was uncharacteristically quiet.