Thrust and Riposte

Thrust and Riposte A Torquere Press Single Shot by Julia Talbot

"Again."

Lunge, parry, riposte. Young Edmund, while technically acceptable, was the least

exciting student Rene remembered in his ten years of instruction, and he stifled a yawn as

they repeated the same sequence of moves.

Again and again.

His third yawn caused a reaction, but not from his young charge.

"Perhaps, monsieur, if you are tired, you should stop for the day. I would not have

Edmund injured due to slow reflexes."

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Owen Tregarth. Edmund's tutor and, by all appearances, more protector than teacher. He'd certainly protected Edmund from Rene's more indelicate advances, even though the lad was well old enough to decide such things for himself. "I am not so much tired as frustrated, Sir. Perhaps if you would allow my student to move on to the saber." "I think not." The answer came as immediate as Edmund's fierce disappointment, and Rene smiled at the lad, stepping back and breaking form to signal that their lesson was ended for the day. "I think, then, that we are finished for the day. Why do you not go and clean up, Edmund?" Cheeks flaming, Edmund nodded and left the room, back straight as the blade of a foil. Rene rounded on Tregarth, advancing as he would upon a dangerous opponent. "You are cruel. He only wishes to gain skill. Why do you hold him back?" "I am charged with his safety." The man held his ground, and why should he not? Despite the fact that Rene still held an epee, Tregarth had six inches and a good two stone on him, and Rene would bet he was quick on his feet, despite his size. "I cannot allow you to push him faster than he is ready for, just so you might impress him with your flashy skills." "You coddle him." Dark eyes flashed, Tregarth's brow lowering in a deep frown. "He is the child of an aristocrat. Of course I do. It would be my hide were he to come to harm." Lowering the sword, Rene stepped back, nodding. "That's true enough. I apologize. I simply long for a challenge, and sabers stir the blood." "If you truly wish a challenge, Godard, meet me at the Faith Chapel behind the Rue Mar tonight, after dark." "Should I bring seconds? Dueling is illegal, you know." "I am well aware. I have no wish to truly duel with you. I simply chose that area to add to your excitement, hmm? Getting caught and all that." He opened his mouth to reply, but Edmund came out, cheeks still burning with the righteous rage of youth, and he had time for no more than a nod. "Dark, then." "Yes." Something flashed in Tregarth's eyes the likes of which he had not seen there before, something that put his blood up, and then the man and the boy were gone, leaving Rene with no company save anticipation. ***

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Dark came far too slowly, but Rene managed to keep himself occupied until then, making his way carefully to the Rue Mar, searching the shadows for any other skulkers as he went. T'would not do for him to get caught in such a famous dueling arena, as it would damage his worth as a fencing instructor to the wealthy families that now employed him. Still, he was forced to admit that Tregarth was right. There was a thrill to it, an allure to the darkened streets, wet with mud and other things more foul under his feet, each sound magnified by the slight fog coming off the river, by the way his ears strained for any alarm. His saber lay along his leg, a solid weight that reminded him why he was there, and Rene fingered the guard, hoping Tregarth came soon, part of him hoping the man would not come at all. "Excellent. I was hoping you would arrive on time and not be late, as seems to be the wont in this accursed country." "An Englishman's view of France." He had jumped nearly a foot in the air, but Rene refused to show it, turning to make out Tregarth's features in the dull lamplight. Really, the man was quite striking, with his dark hair and eyes and pale skin, but there was a hardness about him that bespoke a man, not a boy, and one with experience. One not to be trifled with. A harsh laugh was his answer. "Welsh, thank you, and no more fond of Englishmen like young Edmund's father than I am Frenchmen such as yourself." "Such flattery." "I am here to fence. Shall we?" "Do you know, I have never seen you wield a sword. How am I to know you are competent?" He was pushing, he knew, but could not seem to help himself. Seeing Tregarth without Edmund was odd, as if he were seeing the man for the first time, and Rene found him most intriguing, if still as irritating. "I would wager I am as competent with a saber as any man you've faced. Shall we?" The heavy, caped coat Tregarth wore came off, and the man drew his saber, bending deeply at the knees to warm up. Goodness. Rene could not help but stare at the way Tregarth's trousers outlined his thighs. Chuckling and shaking his head, Rene drew his own sword, warming up as well. His besetting sin was his inability to simply look away from a fine specimen, no matter their failings, and it would not do to let Tregarth beat him because he was too busy staring to have loose muscles. "If you're quite finished admiring my attributes, we should be about it."

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"Oh, I do not know, Tregarth. Your attributes are most impressive." "I am quite aware." Not a hint of a blush or stutter, just a bit of a smile, curling Tregarth's lips and making a dimple appear in one cheek. Really, such a man should not have dimples. "En garde, then. To first blood?" They both took up a stance finally, free hands on their hips, and Rene found his own fierce smile mirrored on Tregarth's face. Perhaps he had found a worthy opponent after all. "Oh, no," came Tregarth's reply. "Until one asks for quarter." "Very well." That was all of the bargaining and talking, apparently, for Tregarth attacked in a fury of lunges and thrusts, his long reach surprising Rene, putting him on the defensive, making him parry and retreat, leaving him no counterattack. This was no conversation of arms, it was a one-sided shouting match, and Rene almost stumbled when Tregarth insisted, beating through his parry for a tiny slashing cut to the spot where his arm met his chest. They broke off, taking up stance again, and this time Rene was ready, launching an attack, engaging Tregarth's blade before the man could get the advantage of extension. Back and forth they went, Rene as challenged as he could ever recall, even in his days as a novice. He was also getting hard, heart pounding in his chest, breath coming quick, aroused and enflamed by their rough sport. When they were both bleeding from dozens of tiny, careful cuts, and sweat ran on their skin despite the cool night, Tregarth backed away, holding his saber at the ready, but at an absence. "Do you yield, Godard?" Rene snorted. "Hardly." He got a grin, wide and white, with more than a hint of dimple this time. "Excellent." The man was a madman. Each movement was clearly calculated, and yet executed with such quickness and skill that Rene was left beating air at times, and frantically defending at others. Not that he did not acquit himself well, for he did, his smaller size making the lower range of the saber target easily reachable, yet not as easily defensible to the taller man. He had no idea how long they battled. The formal rules began to break down somewhere in the midst, both of them becoming less polite, more insistent. This was no longer a game, or an amusement. It was a serious test of skill.

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The lamps had burned low when suddenly Tregarth broke time and feinted him into a poorly planned lunge, commanding his blade and coming up against him corps-a-corps. They stood there, locked together, staring at one another, as Tregarth's hand slid from his sword to his wrist, pressing the bones and nerves there, allowing his saber to clatter to the soggy cobbles at their feet. "Do you yield?" There was no triumph there, only a fierce, competitive fire, and Rene searched those dark eyes, trying to make out Tregarth's expression in the gloom. "Oui. I yield." "Good." Tregarth took his reward immediately, tilting Rene's head back and taking a kiss, lips pressing down on his, tongue pushing inside hard and deep. Shocked, more aroused than he could express, even to himself, Rene kissed back, hard prick pressing against Tregarth's thigh through the cloth of their breeches. How had he thought this man would be easy to manage, to defeat? The clang of metal on stone came sharp, jolting, and both of Tregarth's hands came to press against him, one cupping his buttocks, the other sliding to tease his cock. Gasping, moaning, Rene spread like the most practiced whore, leaning back against Tregarth's arm and letting him have at anything he wanted. What Tregarth wanted seemed everything, unbuttoning Rene's trous and reaching inside, touching his cock, pushing the foreskin back and down. "You say I am impressive, Godard? This is most impressive in its own right." Oh, how he longed for the breath to say something witty. Instead he pulled Tregarth to him and gave another kiss, his hips moving in a parody of their earlier fencing, thrust and retreat. Tregarth engaged just as well in that salle, pulling Rene's cock, thumb against the underside, lips sliding down his throat to suck at the pulse beating in his neck. "Yield to me," Tregarth said, and Rene did, head falling back as he shouted his pleasure to the dark windows of the Faith Chapel, saints and angels looking down upon him as he arrived. Solid as a stone, Tregarth held him as he sagged, still grasping his prick in one large, warm hand. "You, sir, are a fine fencer," Rene said. "I was well trained in the cavalry." That explained a great deal. "I can see that. Perhaps I should be the one taking lessons from you."

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Tregarth moved against his hip, hard and insistent. "Come to my rooms with me and I

will happy to instruct you."

"I would like nothing better."

Truly, he'd been trying his wiles wrongly on the student, rather than the tutor. Rene

looked forward to learning all that he could.

***

"Where have you been?"

Owen sighed, handing his coat to the waiting, silent valet. Without looking he could

imagine Edmund's sullen, flushed face. 'Twas the look he saw most often from the lad.

"None of your business, Edmund."

Edmund grabbed his shoulder, spinning him about. It occurred to him to break the lad's

arm. He did not.

"You would do well to remember you are the hired help, Tregarth."

"And you would do even better to remember who hired me."

The boy was spoiled rotten. Really, t'would be a miracle if he survived to take over his

father's petty fiefdom. Earldom. Whatever. Impetuous, hot-headed, the lad landed in more difficulty than two children half his age or three men twice that. Still, Edmund backed away at mention of his father, arms crossed. "You stink." "Do I? I imagine I smell of the brothel." Better to let Edmund think that was what he'd been about. He could not even explain his bout with Godard to himself. What a reckless, petty, and utterly wondrous thing that had been. "You don't."

"No?"

"No, there is no cloying perfume. If there's one thing these French love it is their

perfume."

"Ah." Well, let the lad think what he would then. "I think perhaps it is time to move on.

Your grand tour would not be very grand if we spent all of our time in Paris, would it?

Perhaps Italy."

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Slumping down on a chaise like a lady with the vapors, Edmund shook his head. "Why should I go anywhere? You will not let me do anything." Owen resorted to the glare that had made grown, war-hardened soldiers quail. It had the same effect on Edmund, for which he was profoundly grateful every day. "When you try to do foolish things, I will stop you, yes. That is what I am here for. Should you rather be back in Surrey with your father and his bride and their new son, I can arrange it." "I hate you."

Staring at the door as it slammed behind Edmund's retreating form, Owen shook his head

and made for the brandy decanter. Edmund hated everyone and everything. Were he

honest, Owen would say he could not blame him, really.

"Chilton."

The valet stepped directly out of the shadows as if summoned by magic. "Yes, Captain

Tregarth?"

"Pack for Italy. I think we should move on in the next few days."

"Very good, sir. Shall I inform Monsieur Godard?"

"Why on Earth would you do that?" Gads, that was who he'd thought to avoid. Owen was

not at all certain he could face the man, glorious though he was. Far better to simply

leave him behind.

"Edmund's father engaged him until further notice is given. He is to tutor Edmund in

French as well fencing, and I gather he speaks Italian as well."

"I am Edmund's tutor."

Chilton sniffed. "You are his guard, and I imagine it is difficult to tutor him from the

good double arm's length where you keep him. Godard comes with us. Sir."

Why that old… "You were impertinent as an enlisted man, and you are doubly so now,

Chilton."

The grayed head dipped ever so slightly. "I am. I also have both your best interests and

Edmund's at heart, Captain. A difficult endeavor, I must say."

"Bah. Have me a bath drawn, will you? And send that bloody Frenchman notice that if he

is not ready two days hence, we leave for Nice without him." Chilton grinned broadly. "Very good, sir."

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Spoiled rotten. The lot of them. *** The trip from Paris to Nice nearly killed Rene. Indeed, he wished at times that it would. He had suggested staying in Lyon for a time, but Tregarth insisted, fleeing Paris as if he were a target of the old Committee of Public Safety. Oh, the carriage was fine enough. High-slung on its wheels to easily pass over the pitted roads, it had a finely upholstered interior, and the seats folded down into a small bed. Too bad he shared the bed with Chilton, not Tregarth. Tregarth slept on the ground beneath Edmund's private carriage. The man was an automaton. Still, the trip did eventually end, and the goose down mattress that awaited him at the villa they rented in Nice while their coachmen broke down the carriages for the trip to Genoa soothed his aching backside well. His instruction of Edmund carried on apace. The young one learned well enough; he was not stupid. The constant use of Rene as a blunt weapon against Tregarth wore on him, though, and made him less than charitable to the boy by the time they broke free of carriages and camps. So it came as a great surprise to him that it was he that Edmund chose to confide in. The new Promenade des Anglais seemed the perfect place to take some exercise, and Rene had taken Edmund there to get out from beneath the constant glower of Tregarth. One of the coach guards trailed behind them, for while the walkway along the beach was possibly the safest place for Englishmen in Nice, Edmund was a wealthy young man, and a temptation to many. Apparently even Owen Tregarth. "I want him, Rene. Terribly." Now, Rene had not been above making a feint for the lad himself, if only to upset his tutor. Tregarth, however, was out of Edmund's reach. Far, far out. "And has he given you any reason to believe he returns your affections, cheri?" Edmund's face fell. "No. Of course, he's terribly honorable. My father hired him to protect me, and he intends to, even from himself." "Naturally." "Can you help me?"

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Could he? Not in good conscience. Not just because he was in the lad's father's employ, but because he wanted Tregarth himself. Greedy, Rene, he thought. Greedy. "I fear not, petit. I cannot." Blue eyes snapping, Edmund stopped their stroll, turning to him, fists tight at his sides. "Why not? You are here on my whim, Godard. Owen Tregarth would have left you in Paris." Oh, no. This pup would not make him feel like a lackey, even if he was the help. "And I would happily have stayed. There are a thousand bored aristocrat's sons in Paris on any given day, my dear. You are no more special than I." Perhaps that was the wrong tack, as Edmund turned nearly scarlet, his pale face going mottled and ugly. "I shall see you let go for this, Godard." "You are more than welcome to try." Who else would they be able to get in Nice that was not a pirate to see them to Italy? Rene knew he would not be sent down until they reached Rome at least, for when they landed in Genoa they would have the same difficulty. He watched Edmund walk away, feet setting down hard on the famous walkway. He really ought to go and talk to Tregarth. He really ought. Instead, he thought he might go and have some wine. Perhaps some cheese. If Tregarth did not wish to talk to him, then Rene would not trouble him with his charge's youthful lust and arrogance. *** "He is impertinent. I want him let go immediately." Owen did not pause in the act of folding his linens, did not even look up. "Why? Did he try to harm you?" "He made advances." Oh, for. Of course Godard had made advances. He had been from the beginning, and had Edmund complained ere now? No. What was the lad up to? "You did not seem to mind in Paris." Edmund came and closed his trunk, almost on his fingers, standing directly in his sight. Owen sighed. Edmund thrust out his lower lip. "Then he was charming. Just now he was utterly contemptible."

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"I find that difficult to believe." Especially considering that he could still feel in his mind Rene's mouth on him, Rene's prick in his hand. The man had talent. He had charm. Godard had no need to force himself on anyone. "You take his side? How dare you?" "I am not taking side, Edmund. Merely pointing out that it will be hard to find a translator we may trust ere we reach Rome. He will stay with us through Genoa and on to Rome, and we will engage someone else there." For a moment he thought Edmund might hit him. The tense and release of Edmund's muscles gave him reason, the lad too inexperienced to give no sign. Eventually the lad backed down, however, backing away. "My father shall hear of it." "As you wish." Inclining his head, Owen picked up another shirt. "If you do not mind, Edmund?" The lad stormed away, as he always seemed to do, leaving him with his linens and his thoughts. He would make sure Godard knew his status, through Chilton. All they had to do was get to Rome in one piece. *** They had procured a berth on a boat from Nice to Genoa, thanks to Chilton's amazing power of persuasion and, admittedly, to Rene's translation skills. The boat was not up to Edmund's standards, of course, and neither was the Captain, but it hardly mattered once they were underway. Edmund was consumed with seasickness thanks to the vicious storm that tossed the boat like it was a child's wooden toy. The skies, gray and heavy when they left, had opened upon them not a half an hour out, pelting them with rain and threatening with lightning. For Owen the motion of the boat was more familiar. Easier. So many crossings he'd made, to so many muddy battlefields. Braving the storm, Owen made his way to the deck, finding a spot near the wheelhouse where he could hunker down and watch the storm. The bright streaks of lightning illuminated the night, showing him black waves and white foam as it crawled above the rail along the deck. "Are you mad?" For a fanciful moment, Owen thought the wind spoke to him. Then he looked up and saw Rene Godard, clutching his coat closed and his hat on his head, looking at him as if Owen had indeed lost his mind.

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"What do you want?" "I need to speak with you. Belowdecks, if you please." Did he please? Not really, but he ought to speak to Godard about Edmund nonetheless. "Very well." Hoisting himself up, Owen slipped and slid to the hatch, water running off him in sheets. When he reached the bottom of the ladder he shook like a wet dog, drawing a curse from Godard, who followed him down. "Must you? I am wet enough already." Warming to the thrust and parry of words, Owen nodded. "I fear I must. Madmen do as they please. Where shall we go?" "A quiet corner. I need to speak to you about Edmund." Godard appeared earnest, not at all his usual self, and Owen followed, intrigued. He'd let the man have his say before lambasting him. They settled into a shadowy area beneath a ladder, out of the way and quiet. "What is it, Godard?" "I thought you would be best forewarned. Edmund has confided in me. He wants you, Tregarth. Badly." Surely his eyes had simply bugged out of his head. "And he tells me you have made inappropriate advances." "Does he?" Rene appeared both amused and flattered. "The only one I have made advances on of late, Tregarth, is you." "Not lately enough." Well, damnation. The idiotic words fell out of his mouth like the rain abovedecks. He did not want Godard advancing. Not a bit. Their last encounter had come at his instigation, but his blood had been up, and he'd been incautious. Too bad for him, though, for advance was exactly what Rene did, crowding him back into the little den they'd found, as if Owen had lost his blade and was retreating from a threatening saber. "I can certainly rectify that, Tregarth. You are the one who has been avoiding me, after all."

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Rene's hand touched his cheek, wet, rough with sword calluses, and Owen closed his eyes against the need that welled in him. He'd fought this too hard, for too much of the torturous trip across France. When Godard's lips pressed against his, Owen snapped, grabbing Rene roughly by the arms, pulling the man to him. The kiss struck him like the lightning might were he still on deck, a jolt of pure fire. Owen moaned, his cock rising, pressing against the placket of his trousers. Pulling at Godard, he moved to a more comfortable position and drew Rene down astride his thighs, the wet wool of their clothing dragging. Still, it gave him the pressure he craved, and his breath huffed out of him, a soft cloud in the cold air. "Tregarth." Eyes dark, almost wild, Rene pressed down against him, and Owen cupped a hand behind Rene's neck, pulling down until their mouths rested upon one another. "My name is Owen." Godard tried to kiss him again, but he would not allow it. Not until he heard his name in that impossibly ridiculous French accent. Rene blinked, tongue wet and red as he licked his own, and therefore Owen's, lips. "Owen." "Yes." He kissed Rene again, tongue pushing in to taste, his teeth hard on Rene's lips. They did not stop, not to breathe, not even when he tasted blood. Clever and quick, Rene worked at their clothing, opening it just enough to gain skin. Oh, yes. Warm and firm, just dusted with black hair, Rene was male beauty incarnate, and Owen wanted nothing more to posses him utterly. "I wish to be inside you, Godard. Now." "Rene," he was corrected. "Here, get my fingers wet." Licking and sucking the proffered fingers took only seconds, and as he watched, Rene hitched his trousers down more and reached behind himself. Just the very idea of what Rene was doing made Owen shake. His cock. Oh, it throbbed, ready to be inside Godard's heat, thrust and riposte. He was forced to take hold of the base of his cock hard, pressing down so that he did not arrive too soon. "Now, Rene." "Soon. Just let me." "Now."

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Rene looked at him long and hard before nodding and pushing back atop him, lifting up so that Owen's cock prodded Godard's ass. Yes. Reaching back, Rene guided him in, and while the slick he needed was not actually present, it went easily enough once they got started, Rene only protesting once. Once he was well seated, they began to move, Godard clutching his shoulders, panting, rough French curses falling about them. The feeling became huge, bigger than the storm raging outside the boat, and it was all he could do not to spend himself violently well before it was time to arrive. His wetness did ease the way, however, and soon Rene was urging him to an even faster pace, their bodies sparring with an ease that amazed him. Groping along his arm, Rene took up Owen's hand, and like a fencing master teaching a student to grip a blade, wrapped it around Rene's cock. They both gasped and groaned, and Owen began to stroke in time with Rene's motions atop him, his fist swinging along Rene's flesh. When Rene shot his seed the sharp, utterly male scent became the last straw, and Owen spent himself deep in Rene's willing body, his hips thrusting wildly even as he cried out, the sound loud and shocking. They rested together, both breathing as though they had fought a duel, and indeed, perhaps they had. Finally, Rene lifted his head and looked at Owen, serious and sober. "What are we to do about Edmund? He is certainly lying to at least one of us." "Assuredly. I will speak to him, but I warn you, Godard, he wishes you set down when we reach Genoa." Shrugging in the casual way only a Frenchman could manage, Rene smiled. "So long as you pay my passage back to Nice, I will not raise a fuss. It will not be the first time I have outstayed myself." Merely an hour ago, Owen might have agreed that Rene's departure was long overdue. Now he found himself reluctant to let go. "We shall see, Godard. It is nigh impossible to find an interpreter in Genoa who is not a rapscallion." Those eyes laughed up at him, and Rene moved gently, reminding him it was silly to be so formal with his prick still lodged in the man's body. "As you say. Then I shall on to Rome with you, if necessary. We will worry on that when we land." The kiss he received felt warm and soft on his bruised lips.

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"Until then," Rene continued with a warning frown, "watch your back."

He only smiled, touching Rene's cheek. "I will count upon you to watch it for me."

A sharp laugh and a nod came from Rene. "With pleasure, Tregarth. With pleasure."

***

The great Lanterna, or lighthouse, of Genoa showed through the window of their rented

accommodation. Edmund had finally recovered from his seasickness, and was out with Chilton seeing the sights. Grâce à Dieu.

Sullen, withdrawn, the boy simply refused to apply himself to his French, or to his

fencing. During their last lesson Edmund had almost skewered himself upon Rene's

sword, so distracted was he with being foul tempered.

Tregarth was little better, and Rene became determined to beard him in his den now that

the nosy valet and the young master had both taken themselves off.

The door to Tregarth's room flew open in his face as soon as he gained the narrow

landing on the stairs, and the man himself almost bowled him over.

"Ah, Tregarth. We need to discuss."

"Get your sword, Godard."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Your sword. I wish to spar."

Oh. Oh, my, yes. "Very well. Shall I meet you in the courtyard?"

"Yes."

The stairs seemed much less steep as he pattered down them. Fencing was, after all, his

greatest love. Talking could wait.

Tregarth barely gave him time to unsheathe his rapier, certainly no time to warm his

muscles before engaging him with an indirect attack, forcing him back and displacing to

the other side. Rene parried, and the first phrase of their conversation of steel ended with

them both circling, looking for the next opening.

They worked back and forth across the courtyard, using its entire length and breadth,

careful not to trip on the flagstones. Tregarth feinted. Rene ignored it and attacked,

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cutting along the back edge of the feint, baring his teeth in a fierce, happy smile. They both ran with sweat, and soon, with blood from the tiniest of controlled nicks. How long they fought he did not know. Rene knew only that his chest heaved like a bellows and that his arm felt heavier than the saber he held. He was nearly ready to call the match when Tregarth attacked in glissande, blade sliding until they came guard to guard, body close to his. "Do you yield, Godard?" His mind immediately went back to their first bout, where he had yielded the field to Tregarth and been rewarded with such skill that he had eventually passed out from sheer bliss. Smiling, Rene nodded. "Yes. I do." "Excellent." Tregarth bent to him, mouth coming close, but just as their lips met, the courtyard gate opened, and Edmund stood staring at them, all color draining from his face. To his credit, Tregarth did not falter. He simply stood straight and turned, saluting Edmund with his blade. "Edmund. I trust you and Chilton had a fine morning outing?" The lad rushed past them with a wordless sound of pure rage, and Chilton followed more slowly, arms laden with packages. "We had a lovely morning. Captain," Chilton said. "He sulked. I shopped. He raged, I bought fabric for new underclothes. He flirted shamelessly with a young Italian, I contemplated castration… really, Captain, you should try going out of the house with him at some point. It is most entertaining." Rene smothered a laugh as Tregarth glowered, waiting until Chilton had gone to comment. "He really is most adroit at the subtle insult." "Bah. Subtlety is not his way. Thank you for the exercise, Godard. Now I must go and have that talk with Edmund. I have put it off, I fear." Oh, poor man. "Then I shall keep my blade at the ready while I take refreshments. If I hear you scream, I shall come to the rescue."

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He got a dark look, but not without humor. "You do that, Godard. He may be the death of me yet." *** His explanation to Edmund that Godard would stay on until Rome and that he, Owen, had no interest in a liaison with Edmund was met with… well. No small amount of youthful resentment. In fact, Edmund had spoken hardly a word to him since they had left Genoa through the Porta Romana and headed for Rome, insisting that he ride with Godard while Edmund rode in the lead carriage with Chilton. Owen chose instead to ride horseback, as he needed air and freedom, and he could best protect them from the more dishonest denizens of the road if he were not fettered inside a tiny conveyance. Godard chose to ride as well, which was a serious distraction, as the man looked. Well. Plainly seductive with his thighs spread over the saddle, making Owen want to stop the caravan for luncheon and toss Rene on the ground with his legs in the air. Damn the man for refusing to let this thing between them die. "It appears," Rene said, breaking his reverie, "that Edmund took the news poorly." "What gave him away, Godard? His excessive drinking and carousing these last days? Or his sullen silence?" "Oh, I think it would be both, plus any number of other indicators, Tregarth. Really, you have no tact." "Tact? I beg to differ. He is simply impossible." "He is young. Impulsive. Full of the passions of lads his age. You should be more flexible." "His father allows me no flexibility." He spurred his mount on, so that he rode in front of the lead carriage. He had a feeling this would be a long trip. *** Rome. Rene had not been to Rome since his youngest years, but he remembered it well and fondly. The sights of it called to some deeper part of a man, so ancient and majestic were they.

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The old forum, the Coliseum, all of the old roads paved in brick; even if Tregarth was forced to let him go now that they had arrived and procured a villa, he would stay for a while, he decided, and take it all in once more. Edmund had taken up with a group of young Italian men, wild bucks, the lot of them, and Rene had begun to feel rather redundant. His services were most often used by Owen Tregarth, both in translating and swordsmanship. And on occasion, Tregarth came to his rooms at night, acting as if he could not help himself. The man was a fascinating mixture of repression and need. Rene had never been much for repressing himself. In fact, he thought he might go now and avail himself of Tregarth's charms. The afternoon came long and lazy in Rome, and he was in the mood for a bit of fun, followed by a decadent nap. He knocked on Tregarth's door, only to be answered with an agonized moan, the like of which he had only heard during their more vigorous… engagements. Unaccustomed jealousy surged through him, and he tried the latch, pushing the door wide when he felt it give under his hand. The harsh words he meant to loose stilled on his lips when he saw Tregarth, however. The man lay in bed, certainly, but he was alone save for his chamber pot, wherein he retched violently. "Tregarth!" Rene was at the man's side in an instant, and as he drew close he saw the deathly pallor of Owen's skin and the sweat that beaded on Owen's face. "What is it? Is it something you ate?" "I… get Chilton." The words took so long to choke out that Rene feared Tregarth had done some permanent damage to his throat, but they came clear enough, and he ran as fast as his legs could carry him, calling for Chilton as he did. "Chilton! Where are you, you son of a goat?" "Right here, Monsieur. And I resent that, I believe." Grabbing a hold of Chilton's arm, Rene began dragging him up the narrow, winding stairs. "Captain Tregarth is ill, Chilton. Very ill, I fear."

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The elbow lodged in his ribs helped Chilton vault past him, and nearly sent him plummeting. He stared a moment, watching the back of those skinny ankles disappear. Goodness. Then he ran again himself, needing to be near Tregarth, to see him all right. He found Chilton bent over Tregarth, holding him down when he would have curled into

a ball.

"No, you must let me help you, Captain."

Chilton's deep concern sent chills up Rene's spine. The man was not given to panic.

"Bitter, Chilton." Oh. That poor, raw voice. "Burns."

"Milk, then. Godard, get the milk."

Chilton, bless him, insisted on fresh milk every day for his tea, and they kept a bucket of

it in the cool lower level of the house.

Rene ran. Again.

The next hours seemed endless. Chilton fed Tregarth milk, and in the end, opiates to keep

his muscles from convulsing. Where the man had gotten his knowledge of such things,

Rene did not know, but he was grateful. The gratitude did not extend to Tregarth's current

condition, however. The man had finally stopped vomiting, but he now lay still as death,

pale, barely breathing.

Chilton looked at him, those washed out blue eyes direly serious. "He has been poisoned,

Godard. Where is Edmund?"

"I do not know. I have not seen him since early this morning. Surely you do not think..."

"I think we cannot rule anything out." Those eyes were shrewd as they watched Rene's

hand stroke the sweaty hair off his face. "Except perhaps you and I. I would never harm

the Captain, and I think you, if you meant to, you would do so with a sword in hand."

"Yes." If he intended harm to Tregarth he would not hide behind a woman's weapon.

"What would the poison be?"

"Well, it could be any number of things. But from the greenish cast of his stomach void?

I would say savin of some sort."

"Juniper."

"Yes. Can you go look for Edmund, please?"

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Utterly reasonable, their conversation, when all he wanted to do was scream. And stay by Tregarth's side. "Of course. I will be back in a moment."

Chilton nodded, his look holding sincere sympathy. "I will watch over him. I have done

for years now."

He would simply have to trust in that. A thorough search of the house yielded nothing save echoing emptiness. Nothing. No trace of Edmund. The more telling thing was the lack of Edmund's belongings. At least one trunk was missing. "Damnation." He took the stairs two at a time, feeling the burn in his legs from running up and down

them so many times so shortly.

"Edmund has gone, Chilton. One of his trunks is missing."

Chilton rose immediately. "Stay here. Keep putting cool cloths on his head and throat. It

will help. I will see if I can determine what is missing."

For a moment he stared after Chilton, completely unable to see how it made any

difference what that little popinjay took with him. Then Tregarth moaned, and Rene

turned to him, wringing out the cloth Chilton had left behind and draping it over Owen's

throat.

One thing he did know. If he ever saw Edmund again, the lad would pay.

At the point of his sword.

***

"Rene?"

He should most likely call for Chilton, but the last person Owen remembered seeing was

Rene, and that was who he wanted anyway.

"Tregarth!"

His head ached like the devil when he tried to move it, but he did not need to turn far to

see Rene lift his own head from the side of the bed and blink at him with tired, reddened

eyes.

"How do you feel?"

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"Like death warmed over. How long…" he stopped, his voice as torn as his throat, which felt on fire. "Three days. You have been like the dead, I assure you." There was only the slightest hint of Rene's usual offhand banter there, the bravado wavering like his blurry eyesight. All unthinking, he groped for Godard's hand, intending to reassure. Who he was not certain. "Where is Chilton?"

"Let me ring for him. There is news, Owen. You will not like it."

He let go, Rene patting his hand before going to pull the bellpull. His head subsided

somewhat as he rested back against the bolster. A cool cloth pressed against his head, and

he blinked at his erstwhile nurse.

"You have a fine touch, Godard."

Rene smiled faintly. "You have said so before."

A loud sniff echoed from the doorway. "Touching as this is, I fear I must interrupt."

"Chilton."

"Captain." He nearly smiled himself. Chilton was never more rude and bracing than when Owen had been injured. He recalled very well the time he had been run through on the field of battle, and Chilton had insulted him all the while he'd poured gunpowder on the wound and set it ablaze. "You have news?"

"Yes. Two things. Your poison was a very common juniper."

Lovely. He could just imagine what he must have looked like, convulsing and struggling

for breath. He should have known with what he'd regurgitated.

"And the other?"

"The other is much more of a concern, sir. Edmund has been kidnapped."

"Kidnapped!"

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Owen sprang up, only to subside back against the pillows as he reeled, nausea rising in

his belly. Rene held him down with a hand on his chest, and Chilton got the chamber pot.

"Kidnapped. I have the letter. I found it slipped under the door yesterday evening, though

I expected as much when Edmund's trunk was gone, but none of his clothes. Only

valuables had been taken."

"Let me see the letter."

Chilton handed it over, and Rene propped him up solicitously. He gave Rene a surprised

stare, but then turned his attention to the missive.

My dear Sir, it read.

Edmund has come with us thinking we are his friends. He will know better soon enough.

We have taken the liberty of disposing of his protector, Signore Tregarth, leaving you his

one contact with his father.

Please know that we intend him no harm should you do as we ask. We will contact you

soon with the amount we wish to be paid.

Do not involve the gendarme, or Edmund will come to a rather ignominious end.

Yrs,

The band of three

"How very polite and literate of them."

Chilton nodded. "I fear their ringleader must be an Englishman."

"I would say. And someone more familiar with our arrangement than someone Edmund

might have met in a scant three weeks."

"Why do you say that?" Rene looked from one of them to another, eyes clouded with

confusion.

"Well, for one," Chilton said, "none of the lads Edmund has been about with these last

weeks are bright enough for this. What do you think the poison was in, Captain?"

He thought back, trying to recall what he had eaten or drank before the crippling poison

had set in.

"The Greek coffee, most like. It is a bitter brew as it is. And could easily have been

tampered with as you brewed it."

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Owen struggled to sit up, hands scrabbling uselessly against the bedcovers. Rene pressed

him down.

"What on earth are you about, Tregarth?"

"I need to find Edmund. His father will be justifiably enraged."

His head spun, and he flopped back to the bed, useless as a child's toy. The weakness

encroached, and his vision swam. "Chilton..."

"Have no fear, Captain. We will find him."

He only thought he might have heard Rene mutter as his consciousness left him. "And we

will beat him to death when we do."

***

"Where are you going, Godard?"

Chilton followed him down the winding stone steps as Rene took them two at a time,

heading for his own rooms and his sword and dagger. If there were three, as the note

implied, then Florentine would be best.

"I am going to find Edmund. Rome is not so large that an Englishman in league with

Italians will not be unnoticed. Vraiment, it will take no time at all, and I will have

Edmund returned and Tregarth avenged."

"I think, monsieur," Chilton said, panting as he caught up on the landing, "that the

Captain would prefer to avenge himself."

He whirled on Chilton, baring his teeth. "He was almost killed. I will not stand for it."

"You care about him a great deal."

Oh, for. Rene shrugged. "He amuses me. In and out of the boudoir. Now, will you get out

of my way?"

One gray brow quirked. "Of course, Rene. Should you like osso buco for your supper?"

"I should. Along with artichokes. I shall return anon."

His sword and scabbard took moments only to find, his dagger a moment more, and then

he assumed his cloak, heading out quickly, glad to finally have motion. The inaction of waiting for Owen to awaken... well. It grated upon his nerves like an uneven blade.

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He did not run off in all directions. No, he went right to the last place he had seen Edmund frequent with is new friends, a café on the Via Dell'Orso near the Piazza Navonna. He was the only Frenchman to be found there, and the stares he got made him finger his sword hilt until the men looked away. There. There was one he knew he had seen before. "Signore," he said, striding right up to the table. "I would speak with you." "Why?" The look came insolent and dismissive, scorn clear. Rene knew that only violence gained respect of such a man. He had met too many not to know. His dagger slid from its sheath with barely a hiss to mark its passing. "Now, per favore." The man rose, eyes on the blade all the while, and Rene gestured with his free hand. "Keep your hands away from your sides, please, and let your friends know we are simply going to talk." He got a nod, a spate of Italian much rougher than his repeating his words. The man had a thick Roman accent, not at all as pretty as his own Tuscan-learned dialect. It almost made him smile, would have were he not concentrating so hard. "Now," he said as they gained the cobbled street. "You will tell me where the Englishman is." The man spat. "Dead. Poisoned like the dog he is." His sword fair leapt into his other hand, the blades crossing at the man's throat as Rene pushed him back against the wall of the trattoria. "The Welshman is very much alive. Something you will not be if you do not tell me where they are keeping the lad. Where? And who?" Finally, finally, the man looked impressed, eyes widening, a curse falling from his lips. "You are fast, signore. I do not know the name of the man who has him. You can find him though, if you go to Trastavere. On the Via della Paglia. Near Santa Maria." He knew it. Not well, but well enough. Narrow streets lined with tall buildings formed a perfect hiding place, and the neighborhood was notoriously loyal to its own. Rene fairly flew across the bridge to the old neighborhood, knowing that his informant's friends would have slipped out to warn Edmund's captor of his imminent arrival. Still, if there were several of them, and if Edmund was incapacitated, it would take time for them to mobilize.

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The Via della Paglia ran along the backside of the church of Santa Maria de Trastevere, and Rene found it readily enough, ready to pound on doors to see who might harbor a kidnapper. Much to his amazement, there was no need. He was indeed expected. "Monsieur Godard." Rene stopped short, balancing on the balls of his feet as a man stepped out of the shadows between two narrow buildings, holding a rapier. An Englishman, fair, quite lovely really, but whipcord lean and fit. Very like Edmund would look, if the lad was less fond of wine and more fond of work. "And you are one of the three, then?" "I am. Richard Hallon at your service. I understand Tregarth lives?" A relation of Edmund's then. Rene nodded, taking in the ready stance, the easy way the man held his sword. A challenge. He smiled as his blood warmed to it. "He does." Richard sniffed. "Pity. Shall we?" Channeling his surge of rage into cold determination, Rene nodded again. "En garde." The battle held none of the finesse that his sparring with Tregarth did. This was deadly serious, an engagement that tested him to his limits. Richard was not as good as Rene, but he had zeal, and he did not follow the rules. Rene respected that immensely, all the while hating the man with everything he had. You almost killed Owen Tregarth, he thought, and fought harder, blood and sweat making his grip more and more tenuous. The difference in their blades made it all the more difficult, as Richard's cuts came from both sides, and his whip-over barely caught skin thanks to the guard of his own blade. Richard grunted each time his blade cut in, but the man did not falter, simply kept at him. In the end it was the dagger that became Richard's undoing, as Rene retreated and Richard advanced en fleche, trying for a surprise hit. Rene enveloped Richard's blade, throwing it to one side at the end of the move, and slipped in close, digging the dagger deep under Richard's ribs. It hardly felt like the victory it should. "Where is Edmund?"

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Blood ran from Richard's lips as he nodded toward one of the buildings. "Touché,

monsieur. He is there. He will, no doubt, be pleased to see you."

Falling to his knees, Richard wheezed for breath, and Rene lifted the man's head to look

into the fading blue eyes.

"I would have let him rot, Hallon. This? Was for Tregarth."

"Then you are a fool."

Rene grinned, the thrill of the fight still surging in him. "Ah yes. But to a Frenchman

there is no fool like a fool in love."

He dropped Richard as the man slumped to the ground, stepping over the cooling body to

the house Edmund should be in. His haste nearly cost him his life, for as he flung the

door wide, a blade thrust out at him, followed by a portly old man.

"You killed my son, you bastard."

His own reflection stared back at him for a split second in the steel before it passed back

as the old man recovered. Rene took advantage of the poor displacement of his own blow to command his opponent's blade, disarming him. "And I will kill you if you persist. Who in the blazes are you?"

"Edmund's father's brother." Head hanging down, staring at his fallen son, the man was a

picture of defeat. "My son was the rightful heir."

Rene raised a brow. "I think perhaps you should collect Edmund," he said, "and come

with me."

The old man nodded. "Yes. Yes, I think I should."

***

"So who was the other of the three, Captain?"

They all stood at the door of the rented villa, watching the procession of carriages

containing Edmund, his father, and a cadre of armed guards ride away. Owen shook his

head, the effects of the poison having faded almost completely over the last month so that

he felt himself again.

The length of his recovery had astounded him.

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"Edmund's lover, Giorgio Perulia. He ran when he heard they had been discovered. Apparently he was only a blind. One they felt necessary to distract Edmund from other… divertissements." Here he directed a glare at Rene Godard, who looked at him askance. "Strangely enough it was you he told me he was after." "And he told me it was you." Chilton stepped into the breach. "I think Edmund simply felt abandoned by his father and wanted to have some sort of love in his life. We dine in two hours, gentlemen. I am creating a divine fowl with fennel, and roasted root vegetables with a wine gravy and gorgonzola cheese." They glared as one at his jauntily retreating back. Finally, Owen turned to Rene.

"I suppose I ought to thank you."

"Whatever for? After more than a fortnight, I have forgotten."

Rolling his eyes, Owen made his way back into the villa, putting his feet down hard.

Rene followed, so he continued with ill grace.

"For returning Edmund unscathed."

"I see. Is that all?"

"Yes."

"Oh, I think not." Rene caught his arm, spinning him about. "I did not care about

Edmund, Tregarth."

"Well, you should have. You were in his father's employ."

"Merde! You are the most stubborn man." Rene moved close, warm and hard-muscled

against him. "I did it to avenge you."

"I will not thank you for it. I fight my own battles, Godard."

He would not give in to the melting warmth in his belly. 'Twas insipid. And most like

brought on at the idea of fennel.

"Not when you are laid low. I had to avenge you, you idiot."

His cheeks heated, and his hands reached out to hold Rene's arms quite without his

permission. "Did you? Why?"

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"Because I love you, of course."

"Do not be ridiculous, Godard." His heart raced. Loved him. Imagine. He dropped Rene

like an overheated bed warmer. "You do not even know me."

Rene advanced. Owen retreated. That made Godard smile.

'Twas not a pleasant smile.

"Oh, I think I do. You are stubborn in the extreme. Rigidly honorable. You adhere to an

outdated code of behavior you learned in the Calvary. You fence like a man possessed, and you bed a man like you cannot think of another single thing on the earth save him... of course I love you." Oh.

Well, a body could hardly argue with that.

Owen let Rene come right into his arms, attacking just as he would in a fencing pass,

mouth pressing down on his own. The kiss took him, overwhelmed him. Transported

him. Owen simple opened to it, let Rene in, as he had ever since the start. They slammed into the wall behind him, plaster falling around them from the old frescoes. Rene practically climbed atop him, holding on tightly as the world spun. Owen cupped Rene's bottom, holding him close, rubbing against him through their trousers. His prick stood hard and proud under his buttons, responding to Rene's closeness, to the friction there, and yes, to Rene's words. Rene felt it, brushed against it, smiling at him as the kiss ended. "Upstairs?"

"Here."

He groped at Rene's clothing, opening jackets and cravat and pants and all of the

ridiculous flapdoodle being a gentleman required. His own clothes just seemed to melt

away under Rene's much more clever fingers, dropping away to the floor. It felt at once illicit and free. He knew no one but Chilton might see, but still it seemed that making love in the day, in the hallway... well. It was. Owen lost every thought in his head as Rene's hand wrapped about his shaft, stroking. "Godard..."

"Rene, you båtard."

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"Rene then." He did not care, for he knew who he was with, knew the shape of Rene's face and the texture of his skin, no matter what Owen chose to call him. His hips rolled, thrusting his prick into Rene's sweat-slick palm, making his breath come short. "Please." "Please what, Owen?" "I need. Rene. I…" He'd lost the ability to think, clearly. Rene knew, though, undoubtedly, for that look was wicked, and Rene dropped to the floor in front of Owen, mouth engulfing his cock. He cried out, his prick sliding between Rene's lips, them so soft, him so hard. "Yes. Yes, that's it." His balls nudged Rene's chin, the harsh whiskers burning his skin, and Owen gasped, his cock jerking, spending with great force into Rene's willing mouth. He sagged against the wall, panting. "Come, Owen. Upstairs." Rene stood, lips shining and wet, and took his hand, tugging at him. Unable to resist, he stumbled along behind the man like a great, shambling bear. Up and up they went until they reached his rooms, and he felt as wrung out as he had in the wake of the poison. Pressing him back on the bed, Rene undressed him, touching each bit of skin as it was revealed. Their previous encounters had all been hurried, hidden things, either in the dark of night or in the hidden places such rendezvous could occur when Edmund was about. This seemed a decadent luxury. His prick struggled to rise again as Rene sucked at his throat, licked at the line where his chest met his arm, nuzzling in to breathe deep. Owen plucked at Rene's shirt, open, but still worn. "Off with them, Rene." "Arrogant." "Now." Nodding, Godard knelt up, obediently removing the remainder of his clothing. Owen looked, really looked at the man, and he was transfixed by the beauty of Rene's body. Lean muscles lay under smooth skin, darker than his, shifting with every breath. He reached out to touch, but Rene took his wrists in his hands and pressed them back to the bed. "No, Owen. I intend to have you. Now. I will not have you distracting me."

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He nodded, unable to speak a yes, but meaning it all the same. Rene wet his fingers and pressed between Owen's legs with no further warning, one finger slipping right inside him, causing him to gasp and go still. "Are you well?" "Yes. Yes, more." The smile he got belonged more to a fox than a man, sly as it was, but Rene did not argue, giving him what he asked easily. Two fingers moved inside him, opening him inexorably, and Owen planted his feet against the down mattress and lifted up, demanding. When he was wet and pliant, Rene withdrew, his prick instead of his fingers coming to rest at Owen's opening, hot, indeed, scalding. Owen felt Rene's wetness ease the way, and then that burning prick came inside him, riding past the initial resistance his body gave, coming to rest like the clichéd sword in sheath. "Owen…" Rene rested his forehead against Owen's breathing hard, and Owen took in his breath, finally moving, reaching to stroke Rene's back. "Yes. Yes, good. More. Please." "I knew you could be a gentleman, Tregarth." They both laughed, and Rene began to move, making him grunt and writhe, making him urge Rene on with harsh words and increasingly rough touches. The feeling became immense, too much to contain inside him, and he burned with it, sweat dripping off his skin. Faster and faster they moved, rocking, the ropes under the bed creaking and pulling, until finally Owen drew his hand down Rene's arm, pulling Rene to touch him, to wrap strong fingers about his cock and pull. 'Twas all it took for him to spend himself, just that touch, and the look that came from Rene when it was given. He came, his little death stunning him into a near daze, making it impossible to catch his breath. Rene was not far behind him, crying out roughly, eyes closing as he shuddered and shook. Finally, Godard collapsed against him, breathing heavily, fingers tracing arcane patterns on his skin. "Now do you believe me, mon amour?"

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Owen shook his head, smiling at the ceiling. "I do not believe a word you say, Godard,” he replied. "But I love you anyway." Epilogue "So this is Wales?"

"You know very well it is."

Yes, Rene Godard did indeed know where he was. The journey to the Welsh heartland

had been a long one, retracing their route from Italy to France and beyond, but it was well

worth the look on Owen Tregarth's face when they arrived at his family home. The country surrounding it was hilly and green, so far removed from the streets of Paris that it might have been another world. He peered about, the rain that had met them on arrival having cleared now, allowing him a fine view from Tregarth's bedchamber window. "You have a fine home, Owen. I think I can stay." Hard-muscled and warm, Owen's arms slipped about him from behind, the man's strong

body pressing against his. "For a time, at least?"

"Until you tire of me."

"Oh. I think not, Rene. You constantly keep me on my toes."

He turned, wrapping his arms about Tregarth in turn, taking a kiss.

"Yes. I must, for as well as you fence you have much to learn."

"Oh, I do, do I?" His bottom stung from Owen's hard smack. "Such as?"

"Your thrust is divine," he answered with a smile. "But your riposte? We shall have to

work on that, Tregarth. With any luck, you will be a slow learner."

end

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Thrust and Riposte Copyright © 2005 by Julia Talbot All rights reserved. No part of this eBook may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information address Torquere Press, PO Box 4351, Grand Junction, CO 81502. Printed in the United States of America.

Torquere Press: Single Shot electronic edition / May 2005

Torquere Press eBooks are published by Torquere Press, PO Box 4351, Grand Junction,

CO 81502.

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