Randall's Romance (Behind Closed Doors) (6 page)

He caught his breath and stared hopefully at Jason. Jason swallowed his doubts and nodded. "If you deviate from this plan, I will have no hesitation in knocking you out again." He warned.  Randall smiled, and the sheer beauty of it made Jason's heart stop for a moment. "Damn...when is this appointment?"

"At half past four. There's plenty of time..."

"You are a tease indeed," Jason murmured, rolling Randall beneath him smoothly. 

"Danny?" The hesitant tone of Randall's voice surprised Jason.

"Yes?" He rubbed his velvet-covered cheek over the man's bristled jaw, blew hot breath through the fabric to warm his ear. "I'd like to taste your skin, to feel it against my lips. Would you like that Randall?"

"What I'd like, Danny, is for you to fuck me." There was no denying the erotic effect of the crude word uttered in the deep, cultured voice.

The blunt statement set him aback for a scant moment. Then the impact on his body was immediate and undeniable. His prick surged to fullness, his heart raced. "Turn over." The gravelly quality of his voice astonished him. He slapped one firm muscled thigh, sending Gretton scrambling over onto his stomach.

Their hushed breathing filled the little room. Jason slung a leg over Randall's hips, and nestled his prick in the crease of the man's ass. A stifled hiss greeted his action. Randall arched, pushing his buttocks into Jason's touch. Jason swayed, dropped down on his elbows. He rested his chest along Randall's back and brought his mouth to the man's ear. He peeled back the mask and tongued Gretton's ear lobe before biting it softly. "This way, we both get what we want. I'm going to trust you not to anything, Randy." The tenderness that made his chest ache annoyed him, so he continued. "But I am fully prepared to kill you if you do."

Suave. He cursed the pride that made him say something so idiotic and waited to be bucked to the floor.

Randall pointedly pressed his face into his arms, bracing them on the mattress. "I told you, my word is good. If you continue to question my honor, I may have to call you out." The taut buttocks flexed, squeezing him unmercifully.

Grunting, Jason kissed his way over smooth muscles to the base of Randall's neck, then down his spine. He paused to lick the sensitive skin, smiling at the goose bumps that followed in his path. Taking a handful of flesh in each hand, he squeezed and massaged the taut buttocks, urging Randall up to his knees. "I haven't any cream to ease this, Randall."

Randall vouchsafed him a snort in reply, then spread his knees, presenting his perfect pink hole to Jason. "I'm not looking for easy, Danny. So spit on it, and do it already."

Chuckling to himself, Jason leaned forward and blew across the tight hole. The muscle constricted under the light caress. He licked his thumb and then pressed it to the opening. It tightened under his touch, then as Randall let loose a long slow breath, loosened, and softened. Jason rubbed the opening, then licked his palm, smoothing it over his leaking cock.

Holding Randall in place with one hand in the small of his back, he guided himself into position. Applying, steady pressure, he stroked Randall's back, muttering soothing words of encouragement.

"That's right, relax. Let me..."

Randall groaned and shuddered, the tight ring of muscle slowly stretched and he hissed. "Yes..."

Jason let himself sink inward, feeling the muscles clench and soften, enclosing him in a hot grasp that threatened to strip his hard held control away. "Don't let me hurt you," he bit out, gritting his teeth against a wave of pleasure.

"Just...fuck me. Move! Hell fire!" He undulated sensuously, rocking back into Jason, sending his prick deeper. "Yes...like that, there!"

Noting the shudder of ecstasy, the escalation of the man's breathing, Jason withdrew slightly and slid forward again, striking the same spot inside. Randall's body clenched around him. Jason reached around and took his prick in his hand. He stroked in time with his thrust, dragging his thumb over the leaking tip on each upward movement.

Randall rocked back into every thrust, groaning and swearing and demanding that he give him more, and Jason set his teeth and slammed forward with all the force he could muster, praying that the slow building burn in his gut would hold off long enough for him to bring Randall to completion.

His chest heaved, his lungs burned and his vision blurred as he thrust into the tight heat that rippled and clenched around him. "Come on, Gretton." He growled, leaning into his stroke and dragging Randall back to him by the shoulder. "I can't hold back much longer."

"No...need." Randal choked out, body tensing as his prick swelled in Jason's grasp. Jason dragged his prick out, catching the ridge on the rim of Randall's hole, then surged powerfully forward. Randall shouted, a burst of warm seed coated Jason's hand, and he sighed in relief, letting himself go. He pumped Randall's prick, milking every last drop of seed from it as he thrust unrelentingly into the man's passage, groaning and shuddering, finally jerking into stillness as his own release overcame him and he shot his seed into the clenching passage.

They fell forward into the mattress, Jason tugging the mask back down into place before tumbling to the side.

Chapter Seven

The room the shady looking butler showed him into was shabby, the furnishings ancient and worn. Still, it was clearly a room that Haytor spent a lot of time in, as it seemed to have achieved some of its master's personality. A decanter of, by damn, French brandy sat on an oval table between two brocade armchairs in front of the grate. No fire was lit in the grate. A faint chill lingered in the late afternoon air, even as a chill lingered between the two of them.

There was a time he'd counted Caleb Jeffries as a friend. Before he'd seen just how perfidious the man could be, how sunk below reproach his manners. Once, he'd even had hopes of a match between Jeffries and Cecy. Despite the man's precarious financial situation, he'd have approved of Cecy's choice. Until he'd come upon her crying and the whole sordid tale of Jeffries's betrayal had spilled out. Perry should have sent someone else to Devon to deal with this particular gentleman. The urge to challenge the man to a duel he'd felt on that occasion still lurked, and he had to put it aside, thanks to Perry's insistence that the fellow would be helpful, and try to work with the man.

Kicking his heels in the magistrate's study gave Randall plenty of opportunity for reflecting upon the foolishness of his recent actions, not the least of which he counted as promising not to seek out his highwayman. Thinking with his prick instead of his head, he supposed. Still, the pleasant ache in his backside was a reminder of the physical pleasure he and Danny had shared, but pleasure of that sort wasn't enough in general to make him obey another man so easily. Or want to kill whatever bastard had soured that other man's trust and faith in humanity. In lieu of any solid information about his highwayman, or the man's mysterious past, he chose instead to dwell on the animosity he'd felt towards Haytor ever since he and Cecy had fallen out.

Frowning at the twinge in his ankle, he crossed the room and pulled aside the heavy velvet drapes to peer out at the choppy sea. Opening the drapes revealed a neat little padded window seat from which the magistrate had an excellent view of the water and a large portion of the beach itself. Strange that he didn't post someone here to keep watch. Impatiently surveying the room, Randall began to pace. A pair of plain black opera glasses lay in the window seat and he scooped them up upon his return to the window. Upon peering out the window, he was astonished to see how far he could see from this vantage. Perhaps he'd ask Lord Haytor for permission to post a sentry here.

Or maybe not
. His glance fell on an object that appeared out of place, a carriage lamp of sorts with a sliding closure that seemed to rotate somehow. Knowing that it was customary for smugglers to rely on signals from land to indicate that the coast was clear, Randall recognized the significance of the items at once. Such a lantern was perfect for signaling the smugglers.

Perhaps he'd best take advantage of the man's absence to get a closer look at Haytor's study. He'd long known of Haytor's financial problems, and it wouldn't' be the first time that financial need and French gold had come together. His heart rate increased slightly, Randall crept over to the magistrate's large oak desk. The surface contents were innocuous enough, with an inkwell, a stack of writing paper, a ledger that proved to be household accounts, a few nibs and quills.

Biting his lip, Randall cast a cautious glance at the door. He lifted the blotter and peeked beneath. Nothing. Shook out the pages of a leather bound volume on husbandry. A dried rose fell to the desk.

Damn it! Hoping that Haytor hadn't marked any particular page with the memento, he tucked it back between the leaves of the book, noting a scrap of ribbon in a shade of green that reminded him of Cecy's eyes tied clumsily about the flower. Who'd have thought Haytor was a sentimental sort?  His resolve to despise the man faded a bit, until he remembered he might well be a traitor. Keeping half his attention focused on the door and any indication that someone was approaching, he tried the top drawer. Locked. Hastily he worked his way down the remaining drawers. All were locked.

Where would you hide incriminating evidence if you were the local magistrate and involved in treason
? Snorting softly, Randall left the desk and crossed to a chair by the window. He crossed his booted feet at the ankle and rested his chin in his palm.
Not in the same room where I interviewed the local exciseman.
The man might be a traitor, but he was hardly stupid.

And neither was Perry. If Perry trusted Lord Haytor, then Randall must do so as well, besides, if he was going to trust someone who held him up, tied him up, stole his father's watch after promising not to, and ...fucked him into unconsciousness, then he might as well trust Haytor as well.

"My apologies for keeping you waiting, My Lord." A tall gentleman stepped into the room, face impassive.

"That's quite all right." Randall rose, stepping forward to shake the man's proffered hand. "I'm sorry for disturbing you after missing my appointment yesterday. I was indisposed." Pushing aside the memories of just why he'd ended up missing the meeting after all, he let his glance stray tellingly to the opera glasses and the lantern in the window seat. "I've come at my brother Peregrine's behest to look into an urgent matter for the home office."

Haytor noted the direction of his gaze. A supercilious brow rose, the thin lips twisted with mirthless amusement. "You have something to ask me, Gretton?"

Blunt bastard. So be it. "You are aware, I'm sure that the fine for signaling is quite steep at one hundred pounds."

His nostril flared, and his lips pinched together in a thin line. "As the local magistrate, I am well aware of the fines and penalties for most offenses. Do you have any other business to discuss, or is this a social call?"

"I don't like you. Cecy told me about you. I say anyone who behaves as you have done is without honor and lower than a dog. I'd have cheerfully killed you then, but Cecy wouldn't let me. Now, Peregrine is my superior and the acting head of my family, however. He says you can be trusted. "

The amusement vanished in a flash. "Lady Cecily is well, I trust? Why would you bring her here, into danger?"

"Who said I had any choice in the matter?  Just as Peregrine sent me here, he sent Cecy. Surely it wouldn't surprise you to learn that her rebellious bent and shameless courting of scandal do not meet with his approval?"

"Ah. Then you
do
have some business other than my private matters to discuss?" The magistrate seated himself behind the massive desk and waved Randall to a chair. He picked up a pen and drew a sheet of clean foolscap across the desk.

Hiding his surprising urgent need to do violence to this man, Randall seated himself warily. "Last month Perry lost an entire cell of agents who've been operating in France for the past five years. Four men, each speaking French like a native, decimated, brutally assassinated. The only way the French could have known their identities was if they were told. Perry suspects there's a traitor in the home office. He's taking care of things that end."

"And how can I help?"

"You have connections with the smugglers. It's the Home Office's considered opinion that the most likely way classified information, such as the names and locations of our spies, and troops, travels across the Channel is through the smugglers."

The pen hit the foolscap with a definite splatter. Haytor jerked his head up and glared fiercely at Randall. "Are you accusing me of treason, Gretton?"

Feeling a bitter pleasure at the man's outrage, Randall continued poking at him. "You do have a certain...intimate friendship with an émigré." He stared at the magistrate in calm challenge.

"The
vicomte
Philippe de Caen is an old and valued family friend. England is littered with
émigrés
right now, and damn near all of them are impoverished. None of them have access to classified files, at least, Philippe has not. Having a friendship with an
émigré
is not treasonous."

"I'll be blunt with you. De Caen is known to be in smuggling. They've been watching him for a while now. If Perry weren't certain he was more interested in gold than troop movements, I wouldn't be here." Crossing his legs at the ankle, Randall slouched back in the chair and waited to see how Haytor responded to that volley.

"And yet, you felt the need to suggest it, anyway." His lip curled in a sneer, his hand flattened on the desk.

"I need to know if there have been any live cargo smuggled over with the barrels of goods. The government, in this instance has no interest in your brandy or lace. Someone is carrying these shipments, or sending sealed packets for delivery. The only way that person can come and go, or send information is via the gentlemen. Have you, or your men, heard of human cargo, or been asked to carry a packet?"