Page 23 of Rears & Vices

The second room was as promised: identical except with blue bedcurtains instead of maroon, and three windows instead of two. He nearly slammed the door shut behind them, like a child in temper—but the thought of Maud’s kind dimples stopped him.

“Sit,” he demanded.

D’Arcy sat at the duplicate spindle-leg table. He’d kept the napkin of bollos; now he bit into one. “Going to miss these,” he said thickly. “You don’ wan’ any?”

Everard sighed. “No.”

“What d’you want, then?”

Primarily, sleep. But first: “May I undress?”

“Wha—” D’Arcy coughed on sugar. “By all means,” he croaked, waving the bread. He hummed. “Preferably a slow means.”

Everard tugged off the shirt and, after a moment of indecision, laid it over the fireplace screen. The utterly ruined boots came next. He stood these in the breeze of the open window.

D’Arcy watched, rapt, chewing.

The breeches were fawn leather, and their wet abrasiveness while running had made his legs feel as though they had been lightly scrubbed all over. A wonder he still had hair there. He unbuttoned, peeled them down, inside out.

“Why are you on given name terms with a private-marine?” Everard asked.

D’Arcy swallowed the last bit of bollo and twitched his fingers delicately free of sugar. “That’s none of your concern.”

Though he’d unbuttoned the knees, the breeches had taken the stockings with. Ah, well—the things had holes anyway. On to drawers.

“You shot a man point-blank for name-calling. If not for the Ontario, I’d still wear his blood.”

“I don’t see any now,” D’Arcy agreed with a wolfish grin.

Everard pushed open all four blue bedcurtains—a four-poster was brilliant in an Upper Canadian winter but stifling in summer—then turned down the sheets, and climbed in.

“It was murder, Preston.”

“Because we neither of us has ever done that, while in the service.”

He had a point.

D’Arcy stood. “It was a horrific name. And he was a prick. Do you mind if I also…?”

Everard raised up on elbows to see over the footboard. He intended nothing. That didn’t mean he couldn’t watch. “Not at all. Do you?”

D’Arcy gestured southward. “Obviously not.” He did not take slow means; the waistcoat fell fast despite a dozen buttons. Then the pantaloons—linen, lakewater-stained. No drawers, and D’Arcy plainly did not mind being watched.

Not that Everard didn’t already know that.

“You haven’t changed at all.”

The shirt went in one easy pull.

“I’ll agree with you there,” D’Arcy said. He raised an arm and sniffed. “Ugh. Excepting I smell like rank seaweed. Apologies in advance.”

He moved round to his side, pulled down the sheet, and climbed in. He rolled onto his stomach, which, all things considered, couldn’t have been totally comfortable.

“Never think of it,” Everard replied, sliding farther over. He’d forgotten how very much space the man took up.

“Think of it too often,” D’Arcy mumbled.

Everard slid down to his own pillow. “Preston.”