“I am a lucky man,” Jack said.
It was the last thing that made any sense to Arden before his mind sank deep into his body, and he once again went wild.
CHAPTER 7
BECKETT
Beckett was the first to wake the next morning. He never needed to be called from the dormitory like some of the others. He prided himself on being up and out well before Marl had sent someone banging up the stairs to the servants’ quarters to turf out any stragglers.
He feltfantastic.
Sore, aching, and fantastic.
He blinked his eyes open slowly, sighing, and looked straight into Jack’s handsome face.
He smiled. “Mhm,” he said, a soft sound of approval and welcome at the back of his throat.
Then he remembered.
This wasn’t any old morning. And while the bed was huge and soft beneath him and the ceiling soared high above, this wasn’t Jack’s bed.
Jack wasn’t the one he’d spent hours shagging until they passed out.
The surprised but happy expression that had settled on Jack’s face when Beckett smiled at him faded. “Good morning,” he said quietly.
Beckett was sprawled out on the bed and Jack was sprawled in a wingback chair brought over from the seating area by the enormous bay window. The glass was still streaked with rain. Jack had his stockinged feet up on the edge of the mattress, ankles crossed, and was sipping coffee from a delicate cup.
A soft weight rested on Beckett’s chest, and he squinted down. A mop of gingery hair spilled over his skin and a small, long-fingered hand rested over his heart.
“Fuck.” Beckett glared at the vaulted ceiling.
“Indeed,” Jack said with wry amusement. “Here, have some water.” He held out a glass. It was only half full, and Beckett realised why when he accepted it and his hands shook, sloshing the water about.
Just as Beckett had been watching the duch and making him drink all night long, Jack had been doing the same for Beckett. Good job. Beckett had never come that much in one night in his entire life. If Jack hadn’t kept him hydrated, he’d have a hangover like you wouldn’t believe.
The duch gave a quiet grumble of complaint when Beckett tried to shuffle further up the mound of pillows. Sliding a warning look at Jack that dared him to say anything about it, he stayed where he was and drank his water despite the awkward angle. He passed the empty glass over to Jack and curled his arm around the duch’s narrow shoulders, nestling him closer.
“I think,” Jack said, “that I’m going to leave you two together for a while.”
“No,” Beckett snapped.
“Why not? I think it would be good for you and Arden to?—”
“He’ll be scared if he wakes up and you’re not here.”
“He’ll be fine. The worst of the heat’s passed. He might have a second wave in a few hours, but it’s gone for now,” Jack told him. “Can’t you tell?”
“Yes. Ain’t that. Heat or no heat, he’s just plain scared of me.”
“Why? What did you do to him?” he asked mildly.
There was nothing accusatory in his voice, but the question still got Beckett’s hackles right up. “Not a damn thing,” he said. “The little mouse kept scurrying away every time he saw me. Managed to ask me to bring him tea the once, and that was it.”
“He’s shy,” Jack said. “He’s been very sheltered, and that certainly hasn’t helped build his confidence, but at heart, Arden is a gentle, shy man.”
When Beckett had brought the tray in and set the things out on the table, the duch had been hyperventilating over by the hearth.
That wasn’t shy, it was odd.
