Chapter Six #2
The rest of them, of course, would’ve dithered about for an age before someone thought to enquire.
Dermot was keen to finish the farce as swiftly as possible and leave Aubrey’s side, his presence stirring a pain so profound and unfamiliar that every brush of air against his face felt like a lash.
He maneuvered himself as necessary to hide his erection and stood decisively. ‘I will fetch some for you.’
‘Too kind, dear boy,’ Robert said, staring intently at his empty plate.
Thorne’s otherworldly eyes lingered on him for but a moment, a habitual frown on his face, before he turned away and ran his fingers through his curls.
At this, Dermot rushed out of the room, hurrying down the staircase reserved for the family.
When he finally strode into the kitchen, it was with an air of importance.
He intended to fetch the supper himself, delighting in being Thorne’s saviour. The man who had foregone his own dinner, however distasteful, in favour of appeasing a pretty young zealot. But Béchard sat staring at the table with a dark look, not even allowing him this small indulgence.
Dermot hesitated only a moment before racing inside to where he knew the beef was, flinging the cupboard open. It was usually reserved for Béchard’s use alone.
‘What the bloody hell!’ Béchard shouted.
Dermot glimpsed the man, watching veins splinter beneath his skin as he flung a wooden board just inches from Dermot’s head.
‘Coming in here without notice, startling me like that, going for the bloody cupboards! What do you think you’re doing, you blasted lout?’ Béchard shouted, loud enough to be heard upstairs. ‘Aren’t you having dinner with your fancy fucking lord?’
Having just grasped the plate and being much alarmed by Béchard’s taking against Robert, Dermot said only, ‘The witchfinder wants beef, not pheasant.’
Béchard threw the table with both his hands, causing its rickety legs to shudder as it moved to and fro, finally settling upright rather than collapsing face-down.
‘Beef? The pheasant was perfection, a work of bloody art! Is he blind, his stomach weak? Why would you come for scraps of beef?’ He sat back down, heavy body practically sinking from the stool as his fist resounded against wood.
Such was the ferocity of the blow and strength of the man Dermot was amazed it hadn’t broken in half.
‘Damn it all,’ Béchard said, those same hands going to massage his bald head.
Heedlessly, Dermot went to collect the beef from where it was stored, heaping a few choice pieces onto the plate and striding over the board Béchard threw while a few curses swept through his mind.
He had never seen the chef so distressed, and this tantrum was not to be borne.
That the bastard should complain of him voicing but a few complaints but behave like this at the first opportunity.
He was disgusted, never having subjected another to such a pathetic display of violence.
‘Dermot,’ Béchard said, ‘before you take the plate up to the bastard, do you know exactly what is bothering Will?’
Dermot turned just before his hand caught the doorknob. Of course, any problem he had would’ve been naught but trouble to Béchard.
‘What on earth has Lord Robert been doing? Never in my life would I have imagined… I knew Tristan was keen on the maids, but…’ Béchard mumbled to himself, fitting the pieces in his mind and perhaps only wanting Dermot there for reflection.
He went on, ‘Bullying my staff? Tell me, has he been treating you the same way?’
At the first notion of himself serving Robert in the same manner Will did, Dermot could not contain his disgust. He huffed, near walking out of the room at the accusation, prevented only by Béchard’s position as chef.
‘I have not seen him with any bruises is the thing. Not a damn one of you with anything to suggest foul play. So then… I feel I am only left with…’ Béchard began, lingering on each word as if in the midst of confessing a great crime.
‘He does not do the same to me,’ Dermot said, intent on keeping some of his masculinity intact in a place that had already stolen both his pride and want of living.
He stomped away with intent, back up the main stairwell.
Perhaps he should’ve been pleased at the prospect of a warm dinner, but he could not be happy, knowing that yet another working day cast a shadow over his immediate future.
And he had nothing to fill the void. He took no alcohol, relied on Maldred for sexual release and was left wanting, and had no time for hobbies.
He was but a puppet, even if he was sometimes put in a room of some splendour, he was nothing but a cheap tool.
‘Dermot, what has taken you so long? Our poor guest has been left standing and none of us able to eat even a crumb,’ Robert said, though his tone was light. He was, Dermot thought, pleased his prized witchfinder had been made to wait on a servant’s pleasure.
‘It is no matter,’ Thorne murmured.
As Dermot walked towards him, careful to hide his erection, Thorne’s eyes darkened, lips seemingly growing redder until the man looked to be the devil incarnate.
Dermot passed the plate to him and gasped when soft fingers brushed against his own coarse hands.
He fled as soon as he was able, hurrying back to Robert with the feeling he’d be overcome were he to stay a moment longer.
‘Dermot, now we are all here, please recite the day’s events. Feel free to have a few potatoes and even, at my pleasure, a piece of pie,’ Robert said, patting the chair again.
All Dermot could think as he took his seat was that yapping like a lady’s miniature dog would hardly have been out of place.
At the kind charity of his master, he dared to take the potatoes and even went so far as to select some vegetables.
As Robert had said, he survived mostly on scraps and gruel.
‘Am I correct in understanding that the accused in your possession are aunt and nephew?’ Thorne said, not having touched the beef brought at his behest.
Looking to Robert, Dermot saw the man already tearing into the innards of an unknowable number of animals, coiled together in death as they had been divided in life, and knew his part in the play had come.
‘Yes,’ Dermot said, continuing only when Thorne raised one finely shaped eyebrow. ‘We found them on a hunting trip. I was accompanying Lord Robert, Lord Tristan, and Lord Aubrey…’
‘We do not need your autobiography,’ Weston said, well into his meal. ‘Please, the events as they transpired and no more.’
Patronising words bravely flung at the man telling the tale, one paid such a paltry sum that his doing nothing would be entirely warranted, left Dermot grinding his teeth.
Bits of potato skin languished between them, torn to shreds in his vexation.
Only when he noticed the witchfinder’s steady, unblinking eyes fixed on him was that same blaze doused by desire.
‘We came to the nephew in the forest, and he ran to his aunt. We apprehended them,’ Dermot said, quite taken by the roast potatoes. Never before had he eaten them hot.
‘I think that quite natural. Was my partner not saying so before? It is often the matriarch of the family that teaches the rest. We men are not prone to such things naturally. It is only a country boy, a rowdy creature, with witch’s blood in his veins that might take an interest,’ Weston said.
His voice softened somewhat as he nodded to Thorne, and Dermot realised he too was entranced.
Watching their interaction keenly, Dermot observed Thorne curl a strand of hair around his finger, tongue running the length of his upper lip, and realised the witchfinder was not quite so ignorant as to his effect on men.
‘Dermot,’ Thorne said abruptly. ‘Did they say something in their native language that you could understand? A curse of some sort or an unnatural moving of the lips, perhaps.’
A surge of pleasure struck him, making him shiver as his body was set asunder. Such rapture he’d known only through Maldred’s hands. Falling back, Dermot gulped down the last of some carrots. His back hit the chair hard.
‘They did! The old whore cursed us in our own language, no natives required. Didn’t she, Dermot? Robert?’ Tristan said, voice muffled somewhat by the pheasant in his mouth, gravy streaming down his chin.
Lord Stanley said nothing to chastise his son, chewing on the same helping of food that doubtless had already been churned to paste. His eyes watched the table, fogged over and lifeless.
Only Weston seemed to understand something was amiss. Gawking slightly and inching towards Thorne, he said, ‘What exactly was this curse?’
Tristan laughed and, enjoying Weston’s burgeoning horror, raised his goblet so red wine sloshed over the brim and onto white cloth. ‘Curse you, she said!’ He giggled like a child, rocking back on his chair in a fit of mania.
‘Brother,’ Aubrey said. This mere whisper brought about a sudden headache, and Dermot pushed himself forward so he could clutch the table.
‘Lord Robert,’ Weston said haltingly, ‘I think your brother has had too much to drink.’
Robert chewed contentedly on a slice of pie, reaching for his own wine glass. ‘Dermot, would you continue on to our examination in the dungeon?’
As every effort had been made to suppress rather than fantasise, Dermot could recall the torture to no great degree.
His mind went through the motions in nightmares, but only because it was the cause of his problems with Will.
Frightened by Aubrey’s effect on him, he looked instead to Thorne.
Lust coiled around him like a viper, and he could not help but let out a fairly amorous groan.