*
Carver Doone has no use for dignity. Grab what you will, he tells his men, and the Devil take the hindmost. Dignity is a city-dweller’s sham, a false fool’s game played to conceal the natural greed that all men possess but few embrace, and those who do nowadays grasp timidly. They’re politicians and merchants, and about as useful as tits on a bull, every last one of them. Carver prefers a straight fight: quick, dirty if necessary, and blessedly shorn of manners.
It’s passing strange, then, that he finds himself grudgingly admiring the quiet poise of the man who lies bound hand and foot in the coldest corner of the house. Passing strange indeed.
*
Gilbert, Jamey, and Will had found him, overwhelmed him, and brought him neatly trussed and slung over the back of his sturdy roan. They’d dragged him into the house and forced him to his knees near the chair where Carver sat eating breakfast. A foreigner, a Spaniard. Poaching, they’d said, and they’d not been able to get so much as a name from him. But he’d been poaching for sure. As the captive had been gagged, he’d been in no position to contradict them. The man’s pale eyes, one swelling shut from a fresh blow, had gleamed with anger despite his predicament, and Carver had found himself momentarily impressed. He’d ordered Will and Jamey to make the man fast to a beam, and had gone about the business of the day, forgetting the prisoner.
Now he comes face to face with the man, who returns Carver’s stare without fear. Carver can’t prevent a sudden and unwilling grin. “You’re a bold one, aren’t you, Spaniard?” He turns to Gilbert and Jamey. “Take him outside, if he hasn’t pissed himself already.”
When they bring him back, it is clear that some of the fight has returned; Gilbert sports a bleeding mouth and Jamey has bits of mud and grass on his clothing and hair. The prisoner’s nose is bloody, and he staggers, bent almost double in obvious pain. “Tried to escape, did you?” Carver asked, amused. “The lads are more than equal to the challenge, as you’ve likely noticed. Tie him to my chair, Jamey. Wouldn’t want him to spend an uncomfortable evening.” He watches, arms folded, as the men comply, then nods curtly. “Get out.”
“Carver,” Gilbert begins uneasily, “He’s a wild man. Savage. Someone should be guarding him.”
A sneer curls Carver’s upper lip. “The day I can’t defend myself from one bound and helpless man is the day I let an old woman like you run me through and lay claim to all of Doone Valley,” he snarls, contradicting his earlier praise. “Get out, both of you.”
When the men are gone, Carver takes a seat, propping his feet on the table, and regards his captive with lively interest. The man is older than he first seemed, possibly as old as forty, but he wears his years lightly; his carriage is youthful, as are the pale eyes that meet Carver’s. His clothing is without any visible adornment, and battered from long, hard use, as is the sword resting against the hearth.
Carver knows a fighting man when he sees one. He swings his legs down from the table, leans close to the man, and draws his knife, sliding it delicately beneath the ropes binding the prisoner’s mouth. “I’ll free your mouth, Spaniard, but if you try to bite me, you lose an eye. Do you follow me?”
The captive hesitates, then nods almost imperceptibly.
“You understand English. And you’re not stupid. Good.” Carver slices through the ropes and pulls a wadded kerchief from between the prisoner’s cracked and bleeding lips. Deep imprints of the harsh rope crisscross the stranger’s pale, unshaven cheeks. The lads were a bit rougher than necessary, it seems. Carver shrugs off the cruelty and lets the sodden cloth drop to the floor. He sits back. “Well?”
Though the man is clearly relieved to be free of the gag, he refrains from licking his lips or stretching his jaw. He does not speak, but meets Carver’s gaze calmly and steadily.
“Nothing to say?” Carver reaches down and lifts the Spaniard’s saddlebag. He unbuckles the strap and begins to remove its contents, examining them and then carelessly tossing them to the floor. When the man does not reply, he looks up. “Do you know what I do to poachers?”
The prisoner seems to consider a moment. “I am not long acquainted with Your Mercy, but your general treatment of strangers speaks for itself. It would not be a difficult guess.” His voice is soft, raspy, and heavily accented, but perfectly understandable.
Carver frowns, then sets the saddlebag down, rises, and swings with all his might. The prisoner’s head snaps backward, and the heavy chair rocks to one side, nearly tumbling over. Carver catches the man by the sleeve of his coat and yanks him upright. He pulls his knife and pushes the blade close to his captive’s throat. “You had best mind your tongue, Spaniard. I’ll not have you make a mock of me. You’ll have my boot in your mouth instead of that rag, and the point of this blade in your gullet. That what you want?”
The man touches the tip of his tongue to the blood running from his split lip. Pain clouds his pale eyes, but they do not waver in attention. “I cannot strike back or defend myself. The advantage is yours.”
True enough. Carver contemplates the man for a moment, then thumps heavily into his chair again. “You don’t lack courage, Spaniard, but you’ve a great want of common sense.” He resumes his search of the man’s saddlebag, and withdraws a sealed and stamped paper packet. “What’s this, then?”
“A matter of little consequence to Your Mercy,” the man replies quietly.
“We’ll see about that.” Carver breaks the seal and opens the packet. It is a single sheet of vellum covered in thin, spidery handwriting. Carver squints in the light of the candles. He’s never learned to read more than his name and a few prayers; even with those rudimentary skills, he cannot make out a single word. “What does it say?”
“It is Latin,” the man says. “I am not too familiar with written Latin.”
“Papist claptrap.” Carver brings the vellum close to his nose, as if trying to detect the scent of brimstone. There are always skirmishes between Catholics and Protestants, but Carver is as indifferent to them as he is to the heavy rains that turn Doone Valley to a quagmire in springtime; they are at times inconvenient, but ultimately easily ignored. “Are you a spy?”
“A courier only.”
A thin smile stretches Carver’s mouth. He lets the letter fall to the floor. “Is that so. What’s your name, Spaniard?”
“Diego Alatriste.” The man inclines his head politely, and an expression of ironic amusement flashes over his face for an instant. “At your service.”
“Have you anyone willing to pay a ransom for your safe return?”
“I am quite alone in the world, Your Mercy.”
“It’s Doone. Carver Doone. And you’ve trespassed on my land, and poached for good measure. Tell me, if you’ve no family or friends to pay a ransom, why shouldn’t I kill you and have done with it?”
“I did not know I was trespassing, Carver Doone.” Alatriste lifts his chin; his peculiar dignity is restored. “I apologize. I merely sought sustenance for my journey. Killing me for the sake of an elderly rabbit seems a trifle excessive.”
“I’ve killed other men for less.”
Alatriste’s mouth twists upward. “I’ve no doubt of that.”
Carver scowls. “Mock me once more, Alatriste, and you’ll be wearing your guts on your lap.”
“I give you my solemn word: no mockery was intended.”
Still glowering, Carver slumps in his chair, tugging at the filthy Valenciennes lace on his sleeves. This is a new and unsettling experience; the Spaniard simply refuses to show fear. Such self-possession is strange and vexing, for Carver Doone has long prided himself on inspiring terror in his victims. And yet...and yet there is something peculiarly arresting about this pale, nearly silent individual, so helpless but nearly serene despite the peril of his situation. “Well, then. What am I to do with you?”
“You might free me.”
“I could. But what’s the benefit to me?”
“Perhaps there is some service I could perform for you.”
Carver lifts a brow. For the first time, he allows his gaze to travel the length of the man’s body, then he aims a stare at the sword leaning against the hearth. “I gather you’re a swordsman of sorts.”
Alatriste permits himself a nod. “I have some small ability.”
“It must be small indeed, if you allowed yourself to be captured.”
“I was asleep. Your comrades surprised me.”
Carver shrugs indifferently. “I have all the swordsmen I need. Besides, you have your errand, do you not?”
Alatriste returns the shrug, as if to say he has already been delayed, so of what consequence is a little more time? “Some other service, then. Something...tailored to your particular needs.”
The room is chill and damp, but Carver is beginning to feel uncomfortably warm. “And what needs might those be?”
Alatriste’s gaze is mild. “That is for Your Mercy to say. I am your prisoner. You are not mine.”
A bubble of confusion and anger swells in Carver’s chest. He rises, knocking his chair over in his haste, and in one quick motion, his blade is at Alatriste’s throat once more. “You think I’m a molly. Is that it? Eh, Spaniard?” The knife digs in. A bright red bead wells over the tip. “I’ll show you. I’ll bloody show you.” With a swift stroke, he slices into the ropes binding Alatriste to the chair, then drags him up by the hair and shoves him face-down against the table. Alatriste’s hands, bound behind his back, crosshatched with scars and knotted with callus, scrabble futilely at the air, the first sign of unease or true resistance Carver has seen. It inflames him. He slashes at his captive’s trousers, tearing them and exposing Alatriste’s arse.
Pride be damned. It’s not the first time Carver’s fucked a man; far from it. He’s never taken one by force before, though, and it feels sweet, as heady and thrilling as hot-blooded murder. He grinds in dry with a grunt, savoring the struggles and muffled groans of his victim, and ignoring his own pain.
He finishes, shuddering and moaning, leaning close to Alatriste’s tight body. A shaky laugh escapes him. “You stink, Spaniard.” He pulls out and staggers to the bed, collapsing on it. He hears a thud; Alatriste, his hands and ankles still securely bound, has fallen to the floor. His eyes are closed and his chest heaves with exertion or anger. Carver grins. “Did you enjoy that, Diego?” Alatriste does not answer. Carver shrugs, closes his eyes, and drifts into slumber.
*
A tickle at his throat twitches him into groggy wakefulness. He frowns and shakes it away, but the tickle persists. He attempts to brush it away – damned insects – and jolts into full consciousness when he discovers he cannot use his hands, as they are bound to the posts of the bed.
Alatriste is standing over him, a blade in his hand, a faint smile curving his mouth, nearly hidden beneath his dashing mustache. He is dressed in Carver’s best clothes: his new linen shirt trimmed with Flemish lace, a wine-colored jacket, a quilted leather jerkin, his black woolen breeches. “Did you sleep well, señor? You must have. It was hard to waken you.”
Carver tries to roar for his men, but the shout is muffled by the cloth stuffed and tied in his mouth. He struggles fiercely, only to discover that his ankles, too, are bound to the bed. Furthermore, he is naked. Enraged, he bellows at the top of his lungs, but only a stifled whimper emerges.
Alatriste gently places the tip of the blade against Carver’s neck. “That’s enough, I think. Your men won’t dare to disturb you, even if they hear peculiar noises from your house. That is the price of being a leader of men.”
Carver shrinks back against the pillows, but he spits a smothered curse at Alatriste.
“You are wondering, perhaps, how I freed myself?” Alatriste holds up a thin slaughterer’s knife. “Your compadres are careless. They searched inadequately.” Laughing softly, Alatriste replaces his blade. “We are men of action, Carver Doone. It is difficult to break us. I hold no grudges. Youth and impetuosity can be excused, but you are sorely in need of a lesson.”
A frown creases Carver’s brow, replacing the fear and anger that blazed there.
“Finesse. You know the word? No? It means subtlety, artfulness.” Alatriste rests a gloved hand on Carver’s naked belly, then traces his index finger round and round the cup of his navel. “Delicacy.”
The sensation sends a shudder through Carver’s body; he feels his prick beginning to respond. He moans and twists against the bonds.
“Be still.” Leather-clad fingers brush against Carver’s nipples, scraping them, rubbing them into stiffness.
For what seems like hours, Carver continues to struggle as Alatriste tortures him with soft, teasing caresses, but he clamps his teeth on the cloth wadded into his mouth, unwilling now to cry out for help. If his men were to find him writhing like a common whore, like a molly – he whimpers as Alatriste’s gloved hands descend on his thighs, spreading them further apart. His hips rock upward of their own accord, begging shamelessly even as he thrashes and squirms to free himself.
Alatriste draws off his gloves – Carver’s gloves – and unbuttons his breeches. He spits into his hand and strokes himself, then lifts Carver’s hips and slides inside, gasping.
Carver’s fingers and toes curl and his limbs tighten as Alatriste pushes inside him, then establishes a rhythm, pulling back, then plunging deeper. The motion continues, first slow and gentle, then harder, rougher, until Carver is moaning and begging beneath the gag, and his body is rising to meet Alatriste’s. When Alatriste’s hand encircles his prick, his back arches, and he climaxes with a smothered shout of rapture. He sags as Alatriste pounds into him, and finally empties himself inside Carver with a stifled grunt.
Long moments pass; neither man moves. Finally, Alatriste rolls off Carver and cleans him with the remains of his own shirt. He rises, adjusts his clothing, and bends close. “That is finesse, Your Mercy. I leave you to contemplate it at your leisure, and I consider our score settled.” He takes Carver’s hat with its great swooping plumes, pulls on Carver’s cape, and takes his saddlebag, now well-filled, from the table. “I trust you will not begrudge me the food I’ve packed. I never did get to finish that rabbit.” He bows low, and departs in silence.
Carver shouts muffled curses at Alatriste’s retreating back, then at the closed door. His head churns with fury, bewilderment, and humiliation, but his body is spent and sated. His fingers pluck at the knot of the ropes. They are tied tightly, but with effort and determination, and a few hours of deliberately imposed calm, he can free himself and preserve his dignity.
Such as it is.
Summary: Diego is captured and in the cruel hands of Carver Doone.
Rated: NC-17
Categories: Crossovers Pairing: Carver Doone/Diego Alatriste
Warnings: Non-conChallenges:
Series: NoneChapters: 1 Completed: Yes
Word count: 2637 Read: 1212
Published: 16 Aug 2009 Updated: 16 Aug 2009