*
Richard Sharpe was rarely uncertain of himself, and today was no exception. In fact, he was certain of three things: he was hopelessly lost, he had a fever that threatened to topple him, and when he got back to camp, he was going to beat bloody hell out of Pat Harper.
It was Harper's fault he was in this damned mess in the first place. Pat had sworn upon his granny's grave that there was an orange grove in the wilderness outside Sagunto, full of trees thick and heavy with fruit. Sharpe had not eaten an orange in almost a year, and the description had been too tantalizing to ignore for men subsisting on salt pork and hardtack, so Sharpe and the Chosen Men had shouldered their packs for the short journey with orders from Wellington to reconnoiter along the way. The French were massed some thirty miles west, but it did no harm to have a nip about.
The day had been clear and bright, and the men cheerful and perhaps not as alert as they ought to have been, for they'd been surprised by a small company of French soldiers -- like as not, Sharpe thought sourly, looking for the same bloody orange grove. The Frogs were quick on their feet, but the Chosen Men were fast, too -- they'd downed five of the buggers before another twenty or so came shrieking out from behind trees and rocks and Christ knew what else. Sharpe and the riflemen had split up to elude capture, and Sharpe, hiding in a barn, had tripped over a milking stool, fallen, and gashed his head on a hoe. He'd woken with an aching skull and a dull discomfort throbbing in his limbs, and staggered outside, dismayed, to discover the bright sun approaching the horizon. He'd been out half the day.
Despite a bump of location that rarely failed him, Sharpe could not for the life of him get his bearings. Which way was the camp? They'd traveled east to find the orange grove, but then -- was it north or south he should be going? Groggy, rubbing at his eyes to clear his head, he stumbled to the farmhouse and knocked on the door. When no one replied, he knocked again, then pounded on it with the butt of his rifle.
Either there was no one home, or he hadn't disposed the owners to hospitality with his hammering. Muttering a curse, Sharpe trudged down a dusty brown ribbon of road, gingerly touching the wound on his scalp. His fingers came away sticky with half-dried blood. More blood had crusted in streaks on the side of his face, he realized; he must look a right terror. Too damned bad.
Hot in his green rifleman's jacket, Sharpe stumbled along the road for an hour or so. None of the terrain was familiar to him. It was entirely possible that he was walking in the opposite direction of the camp. He could no longer smell the sea, though he might have grown used to it by now. None of the 33rd were anywhere to be seen. There was no evidence that any army, British or French, had been in this part of the country. No doubt about it: Pat Harper was due for a thrashing.
The sound of lowing cattle floated on a warm breeze. Sharpe squinted in the distance, seeing a drover and his small herd approaching. He hailed the man and spoke in his faulty Spanish. "Sir -- which way to Puerta de la Santa Cecilia?"
The man examined his uniform and his face, then shrugged. "That way," he replied, pointing. "Two miles to the crossroads, and then southwest. But it's unwise to go that way now."
"Why is that?"
Crossing himself, the drover shook his head. "It's dangerous at night, sir. Evil spirits on that road. Especially by El Penitente."
The name meant nothing to Sharpe, and with his fiercely aching head, he was in no mood for an interrogation. "That's the way?"
"Yes, sir. But you should not --"
"Thank you," Sharpe interrupted, and moved on. The smell of the cows and the dust from the road was worsening his headache, and he yearned to lie down. Distant church bells chimed eight o'clock, reminding him that he'd not eaten a thing since early morning. He drank the last of the water from his canteen and sighed. A mug of tea would have suited him fine; better yet, a nip or two of rum. Or at least those bloody oranges.
The sky was purpling as Sharpe approached a huge house looming atop a high ridge of land. He stopped, leaning on his rifle and panting for breath. The throbbing and aching in his limbs made every step an effort now, and he had no idea how far he'd walked; he'd not yet come to the crossroads, that much was certain. He saw no village lights, nothing to point the way once night fell. The road here was no more than a faint rocky path. If he strayed from it, he might wander all night in circles.
"Pat, you bastard," he mumbled.
There was nothing for it. He had to seek shelter, sleep off the headache, or he'd be worse than useless come nightfall. Wearily, he began the long slog up the ridge toward the house, hoping it wasn't already sheltering a Frog battalion.
*
Well, if this doesn't bloody tear it all, Sharpe thought as he thudded on the door for what seemed the hundredth time. Wasn't there a single buggery house in this part of Spain that actually held an occupant or two? The house -- if it could be called that; it was more like a castle, one of those great Moorish fortresses he'd seen decorating the Spanish and Portuguese coastlines -- seemed utterly deserted. The gate had been open, though unlit, but the house itself was as silent as the grave. Bugger it all; he'd sleep in a doorway, under a haystack, along the damned wall if he had to.
Half-heartedly, he wrapped his fingers round the door's iron ring and pulled. To his surprise, it swung open, hinges groaning. Cautious and silent as a cat despite his aches and pains, he stepped inside, rifle at the ready.
He might as well have danced a jig and sang for all that anyone heard him. It was clear the place was empty. He moved forward, his footsteps echoing hollowly in the vast, soaring room. It had been a very grand establishment once -- even a blind man could see that. He was in a great hall, like a church or an Indian temple, with massive rounded stone arches and intricate tile work everywhere. The last of the day's sunlight filtered through narrow windows of ornamental stained glass, coloring the floor green, purple, blue, gold, and red in a twisting pattern of leaves, flowers, and curlicues. Thick dust carpeted every visible surface. Intricate spiderwebs stretched between the high stone columns. A great iron chandelier in the center of the room shifted gently on its rusting chain.
It was a beautiful place, and but for the headache and fever Sharpe might have been eager to explore it -- could be an overlooked bit of valuable merchandise hid in a darkened corner or two, free for the taking -- but he was near ready to drop. Reluctant to sleep in the open hall, deserted though it was, Sharpe dragged himself toward the far end of the room. Beyond would be bedchambers, the kitchens, likely a chapel. Plenty of places to curl up for a night's rest.
Halfway down the hall he heard the soft but unmistakable sound of footsteps. Whirling behind a column, Sharpe cursed silently and cocked his rifle. A wave of dizziness set him off balance; he leaned his head against the column and tried to blink the sweat and dust from his eyes.
The footsteps sounded again -- slow and even, faintly gritted from the layers of dust and dirt on the stone floor. Sharpe feared almost nothing, but nonetheless, felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Had whoever it was heard him? Why didn't he call out? He waited in agonizing silence as the steps grew closer and closer.
At last, the footsteps ceased. Sharpe waited for the sound of a pistol catch, the hiss of a sword, a cough, a breath, anything -- but there was only stillness. Outside, he heard the distant noise of sparrows chattering before settling down for the night. The sweat stung his eyes, doubling his vision. His mouth was parched, his tongue swollen. His heart tripped rapidly in his chest. The ache in his limbs was like fire now. Where had the bastard gone? Was he planning to wait all night?
A voice spoke quietly in Spanish, nearly at his ear. "Who are you?"
Gasping in shock and fright, Sharpe spun toward the voice. He had a confused impression of a lean figure, tousled brown hair, and a pair of melancholy grey eyes before his finger settled on the rifle's trigger and pulled.
The sound of the ball shattering off stone echoed in Sharpe's ears before the report ricocheted through the hall. Triumph replaced the fear in Sharpe's chest until he realized that the man was still standing in front of him -- indeed, he appeared as though he hadn't moved at all. Sharpe gaped in astonishment. There was no way on God's green earth he could have missed! "Bloody, buggery hell..."
The man lifted an eyebrow. Beneath a drooping mustache, one corner of his mouth turned upward. "Even for an Englishman, Señor, that greeting was somewhat impolite."
Sharpe staggered forward a step. His rifle fell from his hand, clattering to the floor. He groped after it and saw his field of vision narrow to a tiny pinpoint. He lost his balance and only dimly felt himself caught before he drifted into an unconsciousness that was as soft and comfortable as a bed of swansdown.
*
A sudden racket of birdsong wakened Sharpe from a heavy slumber. He opened his eyes and immediately knew he'd slept the night through; that was morning light coming in the little window tucked into the corner, illuminating tiny dust motes that danced and spiraled up and around. Glancing about made his eyes hurt, and his head still ached like the devil. Slowly, he sat up and took full measure of his surroundings.
He was in a bed, a proper bed with a fancy brocade coverlet, lace-trimmed linen sheets and muslin curtains drawn back and tied to the posts. A squat wooden chest sat at the end of the bed. His clothing was neatly folded on it; his boots rested beside them, placed with almost soldierly precision.
Furrow-browed, Sharpe stared at the folded clothing. If all his clothing was on the chest, that meant...yes indeed. He grinned ruefully as he looked down and confirmed that he was naked as the day he was born. He did not remember undressing, or finding this little bedchamber. Blinking in astonishment, he eased himself close to the edge of the bed with a groan, rummaged his hand beneath, found a chamber, and used it. China, it was, patterned with roses. Roses. Sharpe snorted in amusement.
Suddenly, he almost dropped the pot as he remembered last evening. The man! The man he'd shot at and missed -- had that fellow brought him here? Must have been, he thought. Damn near scared the piss out of me. And all night I've been here. Shaking his head, he set the pot down, noticing that his hand still shook slightly. He rose from the bed and walked on trembling legs to the door, wondering if the bastard had locked him in here. The window was too small to climb out of, but maybe he could lure his jailer inside, then give him a good walloping....
The door swung open easily at his touch, revealing nothing but a stone corridor. Frowning, Sharpe closed the door again and shuffled toward the bed. The effort of walking had made him dizzy and a little sick. He collapsed onto the soft sheets, cradling his head in his hands. Only then did he realize that his head had been bandaged. Strange thing for an enemy to do, put him to bed and dress his wounds. Where had the man gone, then? He remembered the fellow's light eyes, the thick mustache. He remembered the voice, soft and faintly gravelled. Then Sharpe's eyes fell upon the bedside table. On it rested a stone pitcher and -- peculiar as could be -- two round, plump oranges.
Sharpe sighed in pleasure and drew the pitcher close. As he hoped, it was brimming with clear water. He drank and drank, letting it spill down his chin, cooling his still fever-ridden skin. When half the pitcher was empty, he turned to the oranges. He peeled them hurriedly, splashing himself with juice, licking it off his fingers. Sharpe devoured both fruits in less time than it took to tell about, then took another deep draught of water. He lay back on the bed, the gnawing in his belly satisfied, and closed his eyes. In a moment, he would get up, get dressed, and head back to camp, but he needed to rest his eyes for another minute or two. Just until the water settled.
*
When he awoke again, the sun had already set; the light that bled in was coral-colored. Alarmed, Sharpe lurched upwards. Wellington, not to mention the Chosen Men, would think he'd been shot by the Frogs and left to rot in a ditch. He'd be surprised if they hadn't broken camp already. Throwing back the bedclothes, he swung his legs over the side. Still dizzy, but not as much as before. And feeling better for the rest, he admitted silently.
"Have a care, Englishman."
"Christ!" Sharpe nearly leaped into the air. He hadn't seen the man standing in the far corner of the room, resting against the wall with his arms folded, his posture patient, as if he'd been watching Sharpe sleep for hours. "You always lurk about in dark bleeding corners like that?"
The man smiled. "A thousand pardons, sir," he said in accented English. "I didn't mean to frighten you."
Sharpe was about to deny it, then shrugged. "Well, you bloody did frighten me," he snapped. "Where am I, anyroads?"
The man moved to a table against the wall, struck a lucifer, and lit four stout candles jammed into an iron candelabra. "This place is called El Penitente."
Sharpe scowled and rolled the name on his tongue. El Penitente. It was distantly familiar, but he could not recall why. "And who are you?"
Chuckling, the man turned to face Sharpe. "You ask a great many questions, sir." He gave Sharpe a swift up-and-down glance. "That is, for someone in such a vulnerable state."
Freshly aware of his nakedness, Sharpe drew the sheet up, feeling a little foolish. "You brought me here?"
"I did. You are no light burden, I can tell you."
"And -- and undressed me?"
The man nodded.
"But I were unconscious all the while!" Sharpe burst out, scandalized.
"I did try to wake you," the man shrugged, "if that is any consolation."
The situation was rapidly spiraling out of Sharpe's control. He felt a flush, unrelated to the fever, creeping up his neck. "I am an officer in His Britannic Majesty's Army," he said with tardy composure. "I...ask your pardon for my discourtesy, and I thank you for your hospitality."
The man inclined his head graciously. "And your name, sir?"
"Captain Richard Sharpe, 33rd Light Company."
"A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Captain Sharpe." The man gave a sweeping, old-fashioned bow. "Allow me to introduce myself. I am Captain don Diego Alatriste y Tenorio." Sharpe frowned. Always seven or eight bloody names with the Spanish. Never content with a simple first and last name, the lot of them. "Alatriste will do, to save you a bit of breath," the man continued, a faint gleam of amusement in his eyes.
Sharpe coughed, a bit flustered. He felt as though Alatriste had plucked the unkind thought from his head. "A captain too, is it?"
"An honorary title, I assure you," Alatriste replied, dropping into a chair. "Though I was a soldier at one time. That is a very effective weapon you carry, Captain Sharpe, even if it did not reach its intended target."
"It's a Baker rifle," Sharpe said with pride, then coughed again. "I'm sorry for that. I heard your footsteps, but you were behind me before I knew it. Scared the devil out of me."
"No harm done." Alatriste leaned back in his chair, and Sharpe felt free to take his measure. He was lean, almost gaunt, about Sharpe's height. He wore a loose-fitting white shirt and baggy trousers tucked into high, scarred boots. His hands, splayed on his thighs, looked strong and capable, like a farmer's or blacksmith's. Chestnut hair fell over a clear brow, framing his pale eyes. Not so melancholy as last evening, they regarded Sharpe with interest. "You were quite ill last night. Did the oranges refresh you?"
"Yes, thanks." Sharpe half-smiled, wondering if Pat had found his orange grove. "Do you live here alone?"
Alatriste lifted his eyes as if examining the ceiling; a faint smile twisted his mouth. "I do occupy this house by myself, Captain Sharpe. How did you happen to come here?"
Sharpe explained briefly about the quest for the oranges, the French battalion, and his misadventure in the barn.
"So the French have occupied Spain," Alatriste said. "And you're here to remove them?"
"Aye," Sharpe said. "Boney'd take over the world if we let him."
"Boney?"
"Bonaparte."
Alatriste tugged on the end of his mustache. "I confess the name is unfamiliar to me."
Taken aback, Sharpe gaped. Did this man never leave his house? How was it he knew nothing of Boney, of the war? What in God's name did he do all the day long? It wasn't dusting and cleaning, that was certain. "Aye -- we're allies now, England and Spain."
"Allies," Alatriste mused. He shook his head, then snorted, then laughed. "Mi Dios, Captain, I thought nothing more could surprise me. How wrong I was."
"Funny, eh?" Sharpe replied sourly. "Maybe. You lot don't want us here -- you just want the Frogs out. We're a...a convenience. Aye, that's it."
"The whims and vagaries of international politics, Captain Sharpe, are matters with which I no longer concern myself. In any case, you are here now, a guest in my house, so you can scarcely...what is that phrase? Tar all Spaniards with the same brush?"
Sharpe cracked a grudging smile. Captain don Diego Alatriste y Tenorio was unflappable, and too good-natured to provoke anger for long. "I reckon I can't at that. And I'm obliged to you. But I must get back to my regiment." He started up from the bed, remembered he was buck naked in front of a stranger, and sat again, nodding toward his clothing. "If I could just get my --"
"Captain Sharpe, look outside. Night has fallen, and I fear you're still not altogether well. If you left now, you might wander in the darkness for hours. Leave in the morning. Your regiment will still be encamped, I assure you."
Now how would he know that, Sharpe wondered with wry amusement. He didn't even seem to know his own country was embroiled in war. "That may be, sir, but I should still be on my way. Wouldn't do to lie about here."
"You could tell them I locked you up." Alatriste's eyes were merry.
Sharpe laughed. "They'd never believe it."
"Very well," Alatriste sighed. "I can't stop you. I do beg you to reconsider, though."
"I'll be fine," Sharpe replied. "Thanks all the same." He hesitated, saw that Alatriste, lounging comfortably in his chair, had no intention of moving, and pushed the rumpled bedclothes aside. Tottering to the chest, he leaned against it for a moment before reaching for his trousers. He shook them out, but could not seem to get his foot inside. His head swam, and his balance became precarious. Abruptly, he sat on the chest, breathing hard.
"Captain...do stay the night."
"I'm knackered. Don't know why." Sharpe rubbed at his eyes. "I've not been this bad off since India."
Alatriste rose and crossed the room, extending a hand. "Come along. Back to bed."
Sharpe allowed himself to be herded back to the bed as if he were a weary calf. He sank down into the pillows and let Alatriste pull the sheets and blankets up. "Don't mean to be a burden," he mumbled.
"I have very little company here, Captain Sharpe. Your presence is a pleasure, not a burden."
"Maybe," Sharpe said hazily. "Why no company?"
"There are those who claim this area is haunted. Therefore, my visitors are few. You are the first in many months."
Sharpe frowned, then nodded. "Aye -- that's what a fellow said. El Penitente. Evil spirits. So -- is it haunted, then, this place?"
"Do you believe in ghosts?"
"Haven't seen one yet."
Alatriste laughed. "You are a canny, hard-headed Englishman, Captain Sharpe. Well, there it is." He brushed the hair back from Sharpe's forehead in a gesture that was strangely comforting. His hand was cool and dry, if roughened with callus. "Tell me. Those marks on your back -- where did they come from?"
"Punishment. Was sentenced to two thousand lashes -- got lucky and escaped with two hundred." Sharpe snorted at the notion of his dubious luck.
"What did you do to deserve a punishment like that?"
"This bastard -- a sergeant, a right bloody rascal -- tricked me into hitting him. He'd had it in for me."
"I trust you were not a captain at the time."
"Was a private."
Alatriste shook his head. "A barbaric sentence for such a trifling offense."
"It were that, all right," Sharpe agreed fervently. "Is there any water left?" There was. Sharpe drained the pitcher and lay back again. "Christ, that's good."
"If you're hungry, I can find food --"
"No," Sharpe said with a wave of his hand. "I'm not hungry."
Alatriste gestured toward the chair. "May I sit and talk with you? Unless you would rather sleep."
Sharpe shook his head. "I'd like to talk with you." He liked the Spaniard, he decided. Wasn't high-handed for all he owned this gigantic house -- though the dust and neglect in the hall was strange. It was true that the bedchamber was neat as a pin, though, and the linens were fine and soft as silk. Sharpe, accustomed to camp cots or simply sleeping on the ground, felt as if he were drowning in luxury. Alatriste smiled at him. He was a fine-looking fellow too, Sharpe thought, and gentle-mannered for a former soldier. "Were you in the army, or the navy?" Sharpe inquired.
"The army," Alatriste replied. "And afterward, I was a hired sword. I never managed to rise high in the ranks." Alatriste's smile tilted sideways. "Unlike yourself. Tell me about the 33rd Light Company, Captain. Surely if you survived such a terrible punishment and ascended to a captaincy, there must be some allure to the British army."
Sharpe found himself talking easily about army life. Soon Alatriste chimed in with a tale or two of his own, and before long the two were laughing like old friends. The night deepened; pale moonlight shone in through the little window. Sharpe leaned back against the pillows and regarded Alatriste. "Ever been married?"
Alatriste shook his head. "I've savored the companionship of several ladies, but never found one to marry. You?"
"Nay. I've bedded lasses aplenty, but no wife." Sharpe laughed. "Truth be told, it's been so long since I've been with a woman, I mightn't know what to do with her if I found one."
"I'm certain you'd remember if necessity dictated." Alatriste stretched his legs out, crossing them at the ankle. "Besides, there are other pleasures to be had in the absence of women."
Sharpe felt his face grow warm. "Buggery, you mean?" He looked down and fiddled with the lace trimming on the sheets. "I wouldn't know owt about that."
"No?"
"No." Sharpe kept his gaze averted. There had been one time...in a prison in India, when he was but two-and-twenty. Himself and William Lawford, a mere lieutenant then. They'd sat close for guarded conversation. Lawford had been despairing, near tears, and Sharpe's awkward consoling touch on Lawford's shoulder had become a caress. Before long they were kissing fiercely, both ashamed but afire with need, and though they hadn't buggered each other, they'd come close. They'd escaped from the prison in time, and neither ever mentioned the incident again, but Sharpe had thought about it. More than a few times, come to it.
He forced himself to meet Alatriste's watchful gaze. "What about you, then? You ever buggered anyone?" It was meant as a sneering inquiry, but it sounded more curious than contemptuous.
"Yes."
To his horror, Sharpe felt a stirring between his legs. He held perfectly still, afraid that if he moved, his prick would get hard. Ashamed, he stared up at the canopy of the bed. It was a rich red brocade, same as the coverlet, and Sharpe found himself wondering if Alatriste had ever coupled with a man in the bed where he now lay, his cock getting harder by the second. "Well --" His voice broke. He coughed. "That's your business, ain't it?"
"I suppose it is," Alatriste replied softly.
Sharpe flicked a glance toward Alatriste. Unwillingly, he caught himself looking below the man's waist. Beneath the baggy trousers, his arousal was clearly evident. Alatriste rose slowly, and with no sudden movements, folded the covers back, exposing Sharpe's naked and excited body.
Sharpe lay as if stunned. Shame and desire coursed through him in equal measure, making the blood pound in his ears and throb in his prick. He wet his lips. "I'm...I've still got a fever, like," he explained lamely.
A smile twitched beneath Alatriste's mustache. "Naturally," he said, then propped one leg on the bed, resting the toe on Sharpe's thigh. "Unlace it, if you please."
With shaking fingers, Sharpe obeyed, loosening the side laces of Alatriste's tall boot.
"Thank you." Alatriste sat back in the chair and unlaced the other boot, then pulled them both off his feet, setting them next to the chair. He rose again and unbuttoned his trousers, then removed his stockings. At last he stood clad only in his shirt. As Sharpe watched, he pulled the shirt over his head and let it drop to the floor. "Now."
Sharpe lay still and silent, staring at Alatriste's slim, muscular body, his hard prick.
"Now," Alatriste repeated, "we can share a bed, Captain Sharpe. No one need know. I will be as silent as the grave." Another smile touched his lips. "Or I can turn around and leave. The choice is yours."
"Stay," Sharpe croaked.
Alatriste nodded solemnly and gently nudged Sharpe aside to make room. He climbed onto the high bed, lay beside Sharpe, and propped himself up on one elbow. "You have some experience." It was not a question.
Sharpe blushed. "Aye. Me and another fellow -- it were just frigging, our hands on each other. Nowt else."
"Like this?" Alatriste curled his hand around Sharpe's cock and squeezed gently.
A long, low moan escaped Sharpe's throat before he could stop himself. Mortified, he closed his eyes, and felt a tickle on his mouth. It was Alatriste, kissing him, insinuating his tongue between Sharpe's lips, tasting him. Sharpe opened his mouth wider, and found himself returning the kiss, hard, forceful, plundering Alatriste's mouth. The pressure increased on his cock; he moaned again, and spread his legs wide.
"There's more to pleasure than buggery," Alatriste whispered against Sharpe's mouth. "Or mere hands." He gently disentangled himself from Sharpe's feverish grip and moved down until he lay between Sharpe's sprawled legs. Pushing damp hair from his brow – a strangely charming gesture -- he bent and slowly, lingeringly drew his tongue up the length of Sharpe's erect cock.
"Oh, bloody hell --" Sharpe gasped as Alatriste's mouth slid over his prick and moved down, enveloping him in wet, sucking warmth. Only a few times had he had his cock sucked, and none of the whores he'd bedded had been this skilled. The pulsing was maddening, beyond pleasurable. He grasped fistfuls of Alatriste's hair and pushed down slightly. "Go on," he groaned. "Take it all. Do it." Alatriste obeyed silently, his eyes fixed on Sharpe's. He gagged a little as he took all of the cock into his mouth, but that only fueled Sharpe's excitement. "Ah, Christ. Aye, that's it."
Alatriste pulled away, ignoring Sharpe's moan of frustration. "Did you enjoy that?"
"Aye -- why'd you stop?" Sharpe knew he was pleading, and did not care.
"Wait, Captain Sharpe. There's more still. Turn over."
Sharpe hesitated. "You going to bugger me?"
"Not yet. Turn."
Reluctantly, Sharpe obeyed, glancing uneasily over his shoulder. What was this about? He pushed his cock against the bed, grinding it against the soft sheets. All at once Alatriste's hands were on his arse, spreading him widely. If this wasn't buggery, then --
Alatriste bent and touched the tip of his tongue to Sharpe's hole.
Sharpe gasped in utter shock, almost spilling right there. He hadn't known -- he'd never heard of the like, not even in whispers. It was shameful, filthy, and he'd never felt anything so astounding in his life. As Alatriste's tongue pushed harder and deeper, he whimpered, writhing against the bed, his hands grasping uselessly at the pillows.
Alatriste hummed, sending a shivering sensation throughout Sharpe's entire body. He lifted his head after a moment and wiped his mouth on the sheet. "That was new, Captain, not so?"
Sharpe could barely reply for the need throbbing in his cock. "Finish me," he begged. "Please."
"How can I resist such importuning?" Alatriste knelt on the bed and gently pushed one finger inside. "I don't want to hurt you, though."
"You won't."
"I might. Patience -- this, too, can be pleasurable." Slowly, Alatriste worked his finger inside, then another, moving them round gently, stretching, keeping him at the brink of climax as he slid a hand beneath Sharpe's belly and stroked his cock. "Now." Alatriste spat into his hand and wet his own prick, then pushed inside Sharpe in one languorous movement.
Sharpe stifled his moans in the pillow as Alatriste moved inside him, the thrusts becoming deeper and stronger. Alatriste rode him hard now, pushing with savage strength, both their bodies slippery with sweat. Then Alatriste's cock pushed at something deep within, triggering a pleasure so intense that Sharpe released with a wild cry and felt himself dive swiftly from ecstasy to light-headedness and finally into velvet-soft black oblivion.
*
He awoke to find the rim of a glass against his lips. "Drink," a soft voice said. Obediently, he drank, the cool water trickling down his throat, awakening his body. He opened his eyes to see Alatriste watching him. As if by magic, Alatriste held up another orange. "Are you hungry?"
"Aye, I am. Share it with you."
"Very well." Alatriste skinned the fruit neatly, divided it in half, and pulled a section free to place between Sharpe's lips.
Sharpe laughed and accepted the slice of orange, swallowing it nearly whole. "Christ, I'm starving."
"You must be feeling better." Alatriste popped a section of orange into his own mouth and chewed.
Surprised, Sharpe realized that was indeed the truth. "Aye, I reckon I am." He grinned. "You have owt to do with that?"
Alatriste chuckled. "You have a smile like sunshine emerging from clouds, Richard Sharpe." He stroked Sharpe's cheek. "You are very handsome."
"You're not so bad yourself," Sharpe said, shyly returning the gesture. He allowed his gaze to roam over Alatriste's naked body, from his shoulders, down his muscular chest, his narrow waist and hips, and his legs, ending at a pair of surprisingly long and elegant feet. "Not bad at all."
"I shall accept that as the great compliment it is obviously intended to be," Alatriste laughed.
Impulsively, Sharpe pinned Alatriste to the bed and kissed him. They pressed their bodies together, letting the kiss wax and wane. Like lovers, Sharpe thought, and though the thought made him blush, he did not shy away from it.
At last the kiss broke slowly, languidly. "You have a great deal of experience with kissing," Alatriste observed.
"Aye, and with other things besides."
"Perhaps you can demonstrate."
"Perhaps I can," Sharpe grinned, but then his smile faded. "And afterward?"
The look of melancholy was back in Alatriste's grey eyes. He stroked Sharpe's arm and traced his fingers upward until they rested on the nape of his neck. "And afterward, Captain Sharpe...we say goodbye."
Sharpe was unprepared for the thorn of longing and distress that pierced his heart. Confused, he said nothing for a moment, unable to speak for a queer lump in his throat. At last he mustered another smile, not, he suspected, as sunshiny, and said, "Well then, we hadn't better waste any more time, had we?"
*
"God save Ireland. Will you look at this."
Sharpe opened his eyes. Light from the window pierced them, and he shut them quickly. He started to turn over to hide his face in the pillow, and then stopped. Wait a tick, he thought, and ventured to open one eye. "Pat?"
"And who did you think it was, the Virgin Mary? Jesus, sir, we've been looking for you for two days. Thought you were dead, so we did."
Sharpe sat up, groaning. Pat Harper stood staring down at him with a worried expression, cradling his rifle in his arms. Crowded close were Hagman, Harris, and Perkins. "What day is it?"
"Three days since you went missing," Harper replied with a grin. "And we find you here, feverish, but in the lap of luxury just the same!"
"Aren't you a sly boots," Sharpe muttered. Belatedly, he moved to cover himself with the sheet, and his hand closed on a fistful of dusty grey rag. He frowned in puzzlement. What had happened to the bedclothes? As the question formed on his lips, he realized that he was fully dressed. "What in bloody blue blazes?"
"I think you have a fever, sir," Harper said. "Must get you back to camp so you can recover properly."
"Where's Alatriste?"
"Who, sir?"
"Alatriste!" Sharpe said impatiently. "He owns this house. He let me sleep here. He --" Sharpe broke off, flushing. "Have you spoken with him?"
Harper and the Chosen Men exchanged cautious glances. "Sir," Harris said, "This place is deserted."
"Bugger it is," Sharpe snapped. "There's a man lives here, Captain Alatriste. Captain don Diego Alatriste y Tenorio." He savored the sound of the name as it rolled off his tongue. "Perkins, go find him."
Again glances were exchanged. "Captain," Harper said, "the only one's been here in years is yourself. We found your rifle in the front hall and followed your tracks to this room. One set of tracks, sir. If someone else had been here, we'd know it."
Harris coughed. "Fever can induce all sorts of visions, sir. Plenty of documentation to that effect."
"Are you saying I've gone starkers, Harris?" Sharpe demanded. Of course Alatriste was here -- the lazy buggers just hadn't looked for him, was all. "Is that what you're saying?"
"'Course not, sir!" Harris replied stoutly. "It's just -- you've been ill."
"Sir," Harper said, tugging gently at Sharpe's sleeve, "come have a look."
Scowling blackly, Sharpe allowed himself to be led into the corridor.
"See that?" Harper pointed to the floor. "Our tracks, and yours. But nowhere else..." He pointed down another corridor, thick with soft grey dust. "There. Or there," he said, pointing to a stairway. "Only ours, sir."
Sharpe looked back into the bedchamber. The red brocade and white linens were gone, replaced by ragged greyish cloth that held what must have been a hundred years of dust and the imprint of his body. One imprint.
"We should go, sir."
Speechless, Sharpe walked into the room. The night table was gone, as was the pitcher and the orange peels. The trunk was there, but it was half-rotted, scarcely splinters holding more splinters together. Sharpe obstinately got on his hands and knees and looked under the bed. The rose-painted chamber pot was nowhere to be seen.
Sharpe rose slowly and looked at his men. They were staring at him as if he were mad after all. "But I saw him," he whispered. "We...I saw him."
"Maybe you saw a ghost, sir," Harper suggested.
"Don't be a bloody fool, Pat."
Harper put a gentle hand on Sharpe's arm. "Come along, sir. We'll get some food in you, and you can have a real sleep. Get that nasty cut on your head looked at."
"I'm not a bloody invalid!" Sharpe yanked his arm out of Harper's grip, then sagged, staring round in bewilderment. He touched the wound on his head; it was crusted with dried blood. It made no sense, none at all. "Sorry, Pat. I'm sorry. It's just that...." He opened his hands helplessly.
"Don't worry, sir." Harper's smile was forgiving. "You've had a rough time of it. Come on, lads – time to go."
The Chosen Men trooped into the hall, Sharpe following slowly. He winced as he moved; his whole body ached, though not with a fever. It was as if --
"Sir?"
Sharpe had stopped, his mouth agape. Hanging on the corridor wall was a life-size painting -- faded, but still visible -- of a man, lean, nearly gaunt, with brown hair and melancholy grey eyes. The man held a folded cloak over one arm, a long, old-fashioned sword in the other. The canvas was thick with dust, but Sharpe could just make out the silhouette of El Penitente in the background. The man stood casually, one foot clad in its battered laced boot resting on a rock.
It was Alatriste. No question.
Sharpe moved close to the painting, touching it reverently. He bent to read the notation. The first line and the name of the artist were faded almost beyond seeing, but the date was clear enough: 1626.
Almost two hundred years ago.
"Sir?" It was Perkins. "Your rifle, sir."
Sharpe accepted the rifle silently and stood still for a moment. What had happened? Had anything happened? Perhaps it had been a fever after all. He'd seen the portrait, been delirious -- but last night! He couldn't have even imagined some of the things they had done, not in his wildest dreams. Impossible.
"Come on, sir."
"Aye," Sharpe said. "Go on. Give me just a moment, lads."
"Are you certain, sir?"
Sharpe nodded vigorously. "A moment is all." He watched the men fall into file, and move toward the great hall. They disappeared, but their voices floated through the cavernous room. Sharpe stared at the portrait and touched it again. "I didn't dream it, did I?" he murmured.
Silence surrounded him. Dejected, he trudged down the corridor. If it had been a dream, he consoled himself, it was the most amazing one he'd ever had in his entire miserable life. He'd never forget it, not as long as he lived. Before he slipped into the great hall, he craned his neck for a last look at the portrait.
A tiny ray of warmth and happiness filtered into his heart. It was a strange thing, and maybe nothing at all, but -- from this angle, at least –- there appeared to be a faint gleam of a smile on the face of Sharpe's phantom.
Summary: Lost in the Spanish countryside, Richard Sharpe meets an unusual benefactor.
Rated: NC-17
Categories: Crossovers Pairing: Diego Alatriste/Sharpe
Warnings: NoneChallenges:
Series: NoneChapters: 1 Completed: Yes
Word count: 6645 Read: 869
Published: 16 Aug 2009 Updated: 16 Aug 2009