Master of Pleasure Page 3

  Rafael still said nothing.

  Bissette grabbed Rafael’s face hard, digging his fingers into his flesh, causing more blood to gush out of that nose. “You clearly have not been here long enough to know what I am capable of. Answer or I will shackle you to the ceiling of the altar and leave you to hang there until your very bones slip through the iron. Do you think I care if you live or die? No. I get paid by your parents either way. The real question here is…do you care if you live or die? Do you?”

  Rafael trembled. “I stole it out of your shaving cabinet, Monsieur. I was trying to defend myself against Thayer. He has done nothing but assault me and lives to give pain!”

  Wah, wah, wah.

  Bissette shoved his face away. “Go to my office, Alfaro. When you get there, face the wall and recite Te Deum Laudamus. Your punishment will be determined when I see you. Go.”

  “Oui, Monsieur.” Holding a hand against his still bleeding nose, Rafael darted out of sight.

  Pulling out a stained handkerchief, Bissette swiped Rafael’s blood off his hand. He folded the handkerchief so the blood wasn’t visible and tucked it away. “As always, Thayer, you do nothing but disappoint me.” Picking up the razor from the floor, Bissette snapped the blade back into the ivory handle. “I was supposed to approve your upcoming release, but due to your continued penchant for violence, your stay has officially been extended by another year.”

  Malcolm almost choked. “A full year?! But I wasn’t even the one who pulled out the razor!”

  “And yet somehow he ended up bleeding.” Bissette glared. “You know full well why you were sent here. You are no different from any of these boys. So cease pretending that you are.”

  A suffocating sensation tightened Malcolm’s throat. “My only sin is enjoying pain.”

  “And I assure you, Thayer, you will.” Seeing Nasser, Bissette paused. “Forgive this chaotic display of inhumanity, Your Royal Highness. I wish to assure you, neither will be allowed near you or your studies again.”

  Malcolm froze. Nasser was…royalty?

  Tossing aside the blood-spattered cloth, Nasser angled closer to Bissette and announced in French, “In the name of my father’s crown, you cannot punish my new friend, Monsieur. He was only protecting me. That razor should have been locked away. I am holding you responsible.”

  It was rather endearing having a Persian prince come to his rescue. Malcolm eyed Bissette. “I concur. Why wasn’t the razor locked away? I find that incredibly irresponsible. I could have been hurt.”

  Bissette narrowed his gaze. “Go into the corridor for further instruction, Thayer, or your extended year will turn into two.”

  “But I already served a full year. You cannot—”

  “Your father entrusted me to cleanse your soul and permitted me to decide on the length of your penance. It is done. You are staying. Unfortunately, the additional year will cost your father another thousand francs. Which I will remind him of.”

  Malcolm’s chest burned in disbelief. The man only wanted money. Which his father barely had. The son of a— “How dare you take money for what is supposed to be God’s work?” he breathed. “My father already paid you well beyond what this pit of hell is worth.”

  “You wound me, Thayer.” Turning toward the gathering luminaries, Bissette boomed, “Take him out! Lest I bloody the very halls of this sacred space!”

  Dried blood crusted sections of the tall grass and some of the surrounding stones, whispering of the penance that had been issued to other boys earlier in the day.

  It left nothing to the imagination as to what was about to happen.

  Several young faces peered down at Malcolm through the latticed windows of the old library. Their noses and cheeks touched the glass in an effort to better see. Shadows loomed behind the boys as they were ushered away from the windows by several luminaries in black coats. One of the luminaries, whose face was stern and pale with severe lines around his sunken eyes and mouth, lingered before paging through his bible and turning away.

  The courtyard became eerily quiet.

  Malcolm’s throat tightened. He veered his gaze to Bissette. “Rafael almost raped him.”

  “I know. And that is being addressed. His father and I will be discussing the possibility of castration. But as I have repeatedly told you, you are not in the position administer justice. You are here for the same reason he is: to be molded into something more.” Bissette watched him with a hard, stoic expression reserved for those who disappointed him. “You will write a detailed letter to your own father explaining why I extended your penance by another year. Be certain to include the costs involved. Am I understood in this? Or would you rather I write the letter?”

  It was pointless to even argue. His father would only take the side of the luminary. God before son. “I will write to him, Monsieur.”

  “Good.” Bissette pointed to the slab of stone set before him on the ground. “Let us now focus on your soul’s perpetual need for restraint. Pray for the forgiveness only God can give.”

  Malcolm grudgingly knelt on the stone, his knees long accustomed to the ache of a hard surface penetrating his bones. Bringing his hands together and folding them in prayer, he lifted his gaze beyond the man, beyond the old tree and beyond the stoned walls of the garden that were too high to climb. “O Lord, prepare my soul for the punishment I deserve. Amen.” It was the only prayer he could muster.

  “Stand.” Bissette wagged his fingers, demanding it.

  Malcolm rose to his feet.

  “Remove everything, including your boots.”

  Sometimes, he wondered if the bastard enjoyed whipping naked boys. Stripping his linen shirt with the shrug of both muscled arms, Malcolm tossed it aside onto the grass. Kicking off his boots and wool stockings, he unbuttoned the flap of his trousers and shoved them down along with his undergarments. The cool air tightened his bare skin.

  “Gather them and set them aside.”

  Malcolm neatly folded his clothes and set them aside.

  “Face me.”

  Squaring his bare shoulders, he faced the luminary and placed his hands against his cock for the sake of protecting it against blows. Help me, Lord. I have stupidly gotten myself into a situation I cannot get out of. I thought my time here would be spent in Your presence and in prayer. Not this. This is not what I want to be.

  Bissette snapped up the leather and metal strap laid out at his booted feet and approached, crushing the tall grass with solid movements. Wrapping its end around his hand, he whirled the length of the thick strap, forcing the air to whistle around it.

  Malcolm closed his eyes. The first lash was always the worst.

  The blow of the leather strap bounced off his back and made him gasp. The metal sewn between the leather spliced into his skin like a blade, but he defiantly remained standing.

  Grunting to keep the blows steady, Bissette struck downward with a full arm swing from over his head and down, skidding and dashing the strap into flesh and bone. “Four…five…six…”

  Blinded by tears he could no longer control, Malcolm staggered beneath each skull-penetrating impact of metal and leather, his legs growing unstable and weak. His heart responded by pounding so fast and so out of control, it made him lightheaded. Glimmers of euphoria found him only to remind him it was nothing but pain. He choked and gasped for breaths, unable to hear the count and eventually stopped fighting it. He let that dark, dark morbid part of himself, the one he’d always shoved away, enjoy the pain.

  He was now his brother.

  A loud crack shook his core as the metal snapped in half against the flesh of his upper thigh. Everything whirled white beneath his eyelids as the taste of blood filled his mouth. Malcolm staggered forward and back, no longer feeling a part of the world. It was beautiful. In a pulsing void, he watched his own blood slowly finger its way down his arms and legs.

  “Enough!” someone boomed, sending an echo throughout the courtyard. “How dare you go against what I commanded? You were not
supposed to touch him!”

  The air seemed to thicken. It was Nasser.

  A flurry of blurring words were feverishly exchanged between Bissette, Nasser and all of Nasser’s servants who grabbed the blood-soaked strap from Bissette. Malcolm couldn’t focus long enough to decipher what was said. He slumped onto his hands and knees, the grass cushioning his fall. His trembling fingers dug into the thick grass, blood smearing over its green as he savored its unexpected softness. He drew in shallow half-breaths, reveling in the lull from all the earlier pain.

  A quick movement rustled through the grass. Sensing someone stood before him, Malcolm edged into a kneeling position. Everything swayed. He squeezed his eyes to steady himself. It was so nice to feel numb. It was so nice to feel nothing after feeling so much.

  “Upon my life, you will never be beaten like that again,” assured a familiar voice.

  Malcolm slowly shut out the darkness he had let in and returned to being who he wanted to be: himself. He opened his eyes, willing each breath. Standing before him against the vast blue valley sky was Nasser dressed in flowing silk garbs of blue and gold. They flapped freely against the wind.

  He stared down at Malcolm with intense, dark eyes, his jet-black hair hanging around his young, vibrant face. “The luminaries refused to tell me where you had been taken.”

  Feeling his wounds oozing, Malcolm gasped between breaths. “I…I’m fine.”

  “You most certainly are not. Do not move.” Yelling something in Persian to his servants, Nasser tossed the bible he held, causing it to thud open. “If this is the God who is supposed to save me, I return my faith to Allah. We leave within the hour and head to Paris. My offer is not negotiable.”

  Surprise flitted through Malcolm as he squinted through stabbing breaths. “Paris?”

  Nasser removed his long flowing shawl, leaned in and gently draped it around Malcolm’s nakedness. “I am buying your freedom, Dalir,” he said in a low voice. “Monsieur Bissette is willing to release you for fifty thousand.”

  Fifty thousand? Malcolm choked. “I wouldn’t even be able to repay you. My father isn’t worth that much. He isn’t worth anything anymore. No. I cannot accept such grace. I cannot—”

  “I am not leaving you here another year knowing I was the reason for it.” Nasser hesitated. “I welcome you to travel with me to Persia and see a bit of the world at no expense to you. Allow me to show you what a brother should be.”

  Malcolm swallowed. “I happen to love my brother.”

  “’Tis obvious you do.” Nasser leaned in closer his lean face sharpening. “But the world does not need a martyr who disappears for one brother and one cause. It needs a hero who appears for every cause. While I admire your devotion to your brother, it is crippling you. Allow yourself to be more. What you did for me today can be replicated on a far greater scale. I have never seen anyone take on a blade with no fear like that. Do you know what you can do with a gift like that? My country is on the brink of war with Russia and needs true fighters. We need someone willing to swing a sword at those who only seek to make the world suffer. You can be that someone and help worthy people. But not if you feel your brother needs you more.”

  God was speaking to him through this young man. After too many years of carrying the burden of being responsible for an unruly, tempestuous brother incapable of being responsible for anything, God was finally offering him a greater cause. One worthy of his mind and heart. For although, yes, he stupidly gave into temptation and kissed Miss Silverthorn, thereby damning himself to a situation he wished he’d never been a part of, he did not deserve to continue to punish himself for the sins of his brother. If he returned to England, he would never be his own man. Even if his brother forgave him, he would be nothing more than what his twin had always wanted him to be: his shadow, but even darker and more twisted. “I’m tired of Wiltshire and London. I want to be my own man. I want my own life. Separate from my brother.”

  “I can give you that.” Nasser’s voice softened. “Do you enjoy being at sea, Malcolm?”

  A breath escaped him. “Very much so. Yes.”

  “Good. Because we have a long journey ahead. I will ensure you are knighted into the Persian Court by my father. You will be granted the new name of Dalir. It means…brave.” Nasser’s features softened. “I am honored you chose to protect me in the same way you chose to protect your own brother.” Nasser knelt beside him, pushing his garb away from the movement of his legs. “My servants went to fetch salve and cloths. They will tend to your wounds.”

  Malcolm tightened his hold on the shawl that barely covered him. He could feel it sticking to his wounds. They were a little too deep for his liking. “No. I will do it.”

  “There are too many. Let them help you.” Nasser leaned in and touched Malcolm’s face with trembling fingers. “Are you all right?”

  He had almost forgotten what brotherly love was supposed to be like. “I am now.”

  London, England, Spring of 1830

  Clipstone Street – late morning

  Miss Leona Olivia Webster was used to being a pariah. Yes, there were days it was difficult to accept that her only relative and all of society thought she was a whore unworthy of pity, but she had learned that wallowing in one’s misery left very little room for much else. As a mother, it was imperative she set a good example by showing her son one could and should remain optimistic. Even during the worst of times.

  Which was why, without any visible regret, she lingered by the steps of the tenement and watched an array of her son’s expensive clothing and toys as they were carried down the cobbled street by unshaven creditors who spat out chewing tobacco every few steps.

  Well. At least she didn’t owe anyone anymore money.

  A small hand tugged at her skirts. “Mama?”

  “Yes, Jacob?”

  “They took Jesus.”

  She paused. “What?”

  “My bear,” he whined. “The one you bought for me last week. I named him Jesus like Mrs. Henderson told me to. And those men took him. They took him.”

  Leona glanced down at her six-year-old son with a quirked brow. “Unlikely. I paid one of those gentleman two shillings to leave him behind. I was going to surprise you with it later. Mrs. Henderson had just enough to save him. He is waiting upstairs on the table.”

  Jacob shook his head, sending strands of dark hair into his eyes. “No. He isn’t. They took him.”

  She squinted. “Are you certain?”

  “Yes. They stuffed him into a crate and carried him off like some…some…criminal! Whatever will become of him? I might die knowing I’ll never see him again.” He gaped up at her. “Speaking of death, Mrs. Henderson says children who aren’t baptized go to hell. Is that true?”

  Leona tsked. “Don’t listen to what Mrs. Henderson says. Her husband used to commit forgeries for the aristocracy and was hanged for it. It scared the poor dear into going to church far more than any person should.” The elderly woman, who was a very, very distant cousin, went every morning, every afternoon and sometimes, when the spirit moved her, she would knock on the locked doors of the church at night, yelling about her need for salvation.

  Jacob’s brows flickered. “Why haven’t I been baptized? Don’t I deserve to be?”

  She softened her voice. “Of course you do. But the circumstance of your birth makes it difficult.”

  “So I’m going to hell?”

  “No. Of course not.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I don’t. But if hell does exist, I hardly believe God would send a child into the flames merely because a bit of water wasn’t splashed on its head. You’re a good boy, dearest, and that is all that matters. Hell has nothing to do with it.”

  Jacob chewed on his lower lip before tugging on her skirts again. “Mama?”

  “Yes, dear?”

  “Please don’t let the creditors take my bear. Please.”

  She leaned down, and smiling as brightly as she could, tweaked
his freckled nose. “I promise he isn’t going anywhere. They should have left him on the table, but obviously there could have been a mistake. Let me see if they accidentally took him. I’ll be right back.”

  Jacob’s green eyes brightened. “Can we buy Jesus a new cravat? He needs one.”

  She sighed. “Aside from the fact that we can’t afford it, can you please name him something else? It’s incredibly inappropriate.”

  “But Mrs. Henderson thinks it to be a brilliant name.”

  “And it is. Believe me, it is. But Mrs. Henderson also thinks we should crawl on our knees to Jerusalem.”

  “I take it Jerusalem is very far?”

  “Yes. Very. So far our knees would disappear in an attempt to get there. The sad truth is, Jacob, I cannot and will not support a religion that won’t baptize you. It’s wrong.” She brushed his hair away from his forehead. “Now please. Name the bear something else.”

  Jacob tapped his chin thoughtfully with two fingers. “What about Mister Moses?”

  She supposed there were worse things a child could believe in other than God. He could be worshipping the devil. “I…fine. That name will do just fine. Now stay here. We don’t want Mister Moses disappearing into the Red Sea, do we?” Hurrying down the stone stairs of the tenement, she gathered her calico skirts and bustled down the busy street, dodging women and men on the pavement. “Gentlemen!” she called out to those loading the cart. “Gentlemen, pardon the delay, but my son seems to think you’ve taken his bear. Do you know where it is?”

  One of them shoved her belongings further into the cart. Adjusting his sweat-soaked shirt, he playfully clicked his tongue at her. “I’ll be your bear.”

  It was humiliating. And even worse? They didn’t care that it was humiliating. “I don’t associate with hairy clackboxes,” she tossed back in a much sharper tone. “Now where is the bear? Don’t make me climb into that cart, gentlemen, because I’ll throw everything out of it and ensure you’re here all week. Is that what you want?”

  Eyeing her, they busily tied items into place with tangled rope.