Fandom: Inception
Rating: R
Pairing: Arthur/Eames with incidental Ariadne/Cobb
Length: 8360 words (in one day, oooof)

Summary:

London, 1589

Lord Charles Eames plans to get revenge against Sir Dominic Cobb by stealing Cobb's intended bride, Lady Ariadne. Standing in his way is Mr. Arthur Sheldon, the girl's tutor and a reputed paragon of virtue.

Yet Eames cannot help but notice the sensual longing in Arthur's eyes. He is sure that the tutor's cool exterior conceals a passion waiting to be set free. And when Eames kidnaps Arthur by mistake, will either of them be able to resist unleashing their desire?

[The above shamelessly stolen and reworked from the original Harlequin's summary.]

A/N: Oh, so many notes. First and foremost, this is the Harlequin challenge portion of svmadelyn's fabulous undermistletoe holiday fic extravaganza. I have written for one of the Harlequin challenges before, but never have I drunk the kool-aid to this extent. The fic exists in that delicious semi-anachronistic "once upon a time" zone of the true faux-historical trashy novel, so please don't be offended by all the historical inaccuracies (though I'm certain they are legion).

Also -- hi, new fandom! I DON'T EVER WRITE LIKE THIS, I SWEAR IT. Please don't judge me by this initial offering to the lovely Inception universe. This is ridiculous and florid and completely, completely OOC for me as a write, but OH. Was it ever hilarious fun!

Lastly, and most importantly, thank you to my faboo sparktastic, who is a great audience and quickly does awesome research for me when I IM her saying "WHAT ARE ROADS LIKE IN LONDON IN 1589 OMG OMG OMG." All inaccuracies (and again, they are legion, I'm sure) are my failure and mine alone. She does what she can with me, which is to say, not very much because I am difficult. Ha.

Read on AO3

Or, right here on DW:

To Capture, Conquer, and Court

“One doesn’t, in general, expect great things from men hired to execute tasks by the virtue of their brute force,” Lord Eames said, a slight frown creasing the skin between his eyebrows, “but really, this is marvellously shoddy work.”

Arthur attempted to square his shoulders for the third time, frustrated by the rope binding his wrists behind his back, tugging his posture down into an unaccustomed slouch. At the very least, control of his facial expression was left to him, and Arthur took the fullest advantage of this liberty by maintaining a carefully neutral mask.

“I mean, really,” continued Eames, gesturing at Arthur but fixing his gaze on his squirming henchmen, “the gentleman may have something of a girlish figure, true, but I refuse to believe even you could mistake him for the Lady Ariadne.”

“It – it was very dark, milord,” managed one of the goons, remarkably shaky-sounding for a man of his physical presence. “We didn’t think to find the lady’s tutor abed in her chambers, milord.”

“Abed in her chambers?” Eames repeated, eyes going wide. “Why, has this delicate slip of a boy beaten me to the prize? I shouldn’t have thought he had it in him, I’m quite taken aback.” Now he turned his eyes on Arthur, his expression some mixture of sharp reevaluation and derisive humour. “What say you, tutor? Have you already despoiled Sir Dominic of his betrothed? Have you bedded the unhappy wench?”

Arthur clenched his teeth and stared across the small room at the hearth, trying to suppress his growing urge to shiver in his wet cold nightclothes. Abruptly, Eames’ hand cupped Arthur’s jaw, and Arthur unwillingly looked up at him, startled. Arthur braced himself for violence, but Eames’ hand was weirdly gentle on his skin; it was almost patient. Something about Eames’ unlooked-for sympathy unglued Arthur’s tongue, quite against his better judgment. “Being suspicious of your attentions to milady of late,” Arthur bit out, “I thought it prudent to construct the ruse as protection against this very possibility.”

“Prudent,” said Eames, and his thumb stroked Arthur’s stubble against the grain, once, before falling away. “Prudence being one of your defining characteristics, I’d imagine.”

Arthur broke Eames’ blue gaze, but not without some difficulty.

“All this time I imagine Lady Ariadne was sleeping safe in your servant’s quarters,” Eames surmised. “And by now the house will have been made aware of the abduction.” He straightened and addressed his thugs: “Get out. My man will see to your payment, undeserved as it is.”

And then the room was cleared and Arthur was left alone with Lord Eames. “I assure you,” Arthur said, shifting and shivering while Eames’ back was turned, “I am quite without value to Lady Ariadne’s father. You’ll find I make a poor bargaining chip.”

Eames didn’t answer, didn’t even seem to hear Arthur’s words. He leaned against the wall by the hearth, frowning, musing. Every time Arthur had seen Lord Eames before, it had been in the company of his young charge, and his evaluation of Eames’ manner and appearance had been from the perspective of a guardian, a chaperone. He’d seen Eames’ smiling charm as worrisome and untrustworthy, nothing more. Now, unexpectedly alone in his company, Arthur was forced to admit that he was susceptible to Eames’ baser qualities, perhaps even more so than the blushing young Ariadne. Lord Eames was handsome in the flickering firelight; Arthur had to work hard to avoid staring openly.

“Whatever the views of Ariadne’s father,” said Eames at last, “I think the lady herself is very fond of you.”

“I must insist,” said Arthur, “I have not taken advantage of the young lady, nor would I ever”—

“Oh, bloody hell, that isn’t what I meant, of course,” snapped Eames, cutting Arthur off. “I meant that I’ve seen the way she looks at you, like she’d follow you to the ends of the earth if she thought you wished it of her. Her regard for you isn’t romantic in the least, that’s clear enough, but she certainly trusts you.”

“I will not lure her to you,” said Arthur, surprising himself with the baldness of the statement, hardly befitting a tutor addressing a lord. “I shan’t do it, I shan’t be any part of your”—

“You’re cold,” said Eames, changing the subject with breezy calm, unbothered by Arthur’s insubordination. “No wonder, in that gauzy nightshirt, soaked to the bone.” His hand went to his belt and came back with a short dagger, and Arthur quickly stifled the gasp that wanted to escape him. Eames circled around behind the chair where Arthur was seated, moving with predatory grace. Arthur closed his eyes, hoping it would be fast at least, and then he blinked them open again with shock when the dagger slipped between his bound wrists and cut the rope joining them.

“Did you think I was going to kill you?” whispered Eames, suddenly very close to Arthur, his breath tickling Arthur’s ear. “My, you are an untrusting young man.”

“I often mistrust those who forcibly abduct me in the dead of night,” said Arthur, deadpan.

Eames laughed, the sound startling and loud so close to Arthur’s ear. “God, you are a prim one,” he said, and his big hot hand clamped down over Arthur’s wrists again, containing them as firmly as the rope had done. “How could I have thought you might have bedded the Lady Ariadne? I doubt you could even bring yourself to look at her maidenly ankles without shading your eyes.”

Arthur kept his peace, flushing against a weird outraged hysteria that threatened to overtake him.

“I shall let you change into something warm and dry,” Eames said, voice softening, “but you must give me your word of honour that you shall not try to make an escape.”

“I am no noble,” Arthur bit out, more sharply than he’d intended. “What value does my word hold with you?”

“I am convinced,” said Eames, his fingers tightening ever so slightly, pushing the narrow bones of Arthur’s wrists together to produce a twinge of pain, “that noble or no, your sense of honour runs quite deep, my dear tutor.”

Arthur ground his teeth. “I swear it,” he said, “I swear it.”

“I am glad to hear it,” said Eames, “but I’d like to hear the whole oath, if you please.”

“I swear,” Arthur said, eyes starting to water from the pain, “I swear that I shall not attempt to escape if you release me. I swear on my honour.”

“Swear on your name,” said Eames in a dangerous whisper, looming warm and huge behind Arthur.

“I swear on my name. I swear on the name of Arthur Sheldon.” And no sooner had he spoken the words than Eames’ grip eased and then moved away entirely, and Arthur sighed in spite of himself, able to pull his hands free and finally – finally – square his shoulders and sit up straight.

“I take you at your word, Arthur Sheldon,” said Lord Eames. “I shall have a servant bring you some clothes and take you to your quarters for the night. At dawn, we ride. I trust you are a good horseman?”

Arthur wasn’t sure what he was at the moment, so confused were his feelings between rage and fear and a weird twist of unbidden lust, so he nodded his head once, wishing Eames gone already.

“I bid you goodnight,” said Eames, sketching a mocking bow in Arthur’s direction before exiting the room in a sweep of fine cloth.

***

Safely gaining his own chambers, Eames shooed away his manservant and poured himself a generous glass of port. He wasn’t shaken, or nervous, he told himself firmly.

Ariadne would come for this Arthur Sheldon, he was certain of it. It was not quite the plan he’d made at the outset, but it would do nicely – perhaps even better. After all, now the Lady Ariadne was the one coming to him, not being forcibly extracted from the bosom of her family, and perhaps it could even be made to look as though they were eloping together with the treacherous assistance of the young lady’s erstwhile chaperone and tutor.

Well, perhaps not that last bit, Eames conceded with a helpless laugh. No one who had ever met the severe young man could believe for a minute that Arthur would be anything but the soul of propriety. Stolen from his bed in the dead of night, soaked by the fierce storm raging outside, bound at the wrists and hooded with a burlap sack over his head, and the damned man had sat there in Eames’ study with not a hair out of place – even wet and shivering with his too-transparent flimsy nightshirt sticking to his skin in patches. Eames didn’t think he’d ever seen so proper an abductee, so calm a victim. It was infuriating, to be condescended to by such a man. It was enraging. It was –

Eames threw back the last of the port, glad of the sudden burn in his gut.

“He is insignificant,” Eames said aloud, forcing the derision into his tone. “Ariadne is all that matters.” Ariadne, and Sir Dominic Cobb.

***

Arthur’s head had scarcely hit the pillow, it seemed, before the scullery maid was clanging in his tiny hearth and he was awake again. There was a dizzying instant of disorientation – this wasn’t his room, these weren’t his clothes – before it all came back to him.

“Milord asks that you hurry,” said the maid with all indifference. “He is waiting with the horses in the courtyard.”

“Already?” said Arthur. “What of breakfast?”

“My, my,” said the maid, “aren’t you the fine one?”

Arthur didn’t have any other clothes, of course, so he had to confine his morning ablutions to a quick wash in the cold water of the basin before donning the cloak and riding boots that had been given to him the previous night. For all his talk of breakfast, he couldn’t imagine eating anything, his stomach was such a knot of nerves and anger.

Lord Eames was indeed waiting for him in the courtyard, looking for all the world as though he’d had far more than a few hours of sleep. “At last,” he said. “You’re quite an appalling lay-about in the morning, my dear Arthur Sheldon.”

Arthur didn’t bother answering, instead focusing his gaze on the chestnut mare who was apparently to be his mount. She seemed a docile enough beast, but Arthur had only rarely ridden and was far more accustomed to travelling in the confines of a carriage with his charge as company.

“Well?” prompted Eames, waving at the mare. “We must be on our way.”

Arthur hesitantly put one foot in the hanging stirrup, then throwing caution and dignity to the wind, grabbed hold of the saddle and swung himself up in a decidedly ungraceful manner. His ears were hot but he refused to look at Eames and see the amusement that must be all over the young lord’s face. Arthur saw Eames mount his horse in his peripheral vision, a fluid athletic single motion that made Arthur’s ears heat even more, and then two other waiting manservants – armed, of course – mounted their horses and they clopped their way out of the courtyard, Arthur and Eames taking up the middle position riding abreast with the armed men in front and behind.

It was a short ride out of London on cobblestone streets but not long out of the city the unpaved roads grew dirty and wet, left in bad condition from the previous night’s rain. Even if Arthur had been inclined to break his word, he couldn’t have gotten very far very fast on these roads, especially when Eames and his men rode superior horses and Arthur was no horseman at all. Added to that, Arthur’s beleaguered posterior was in no condition for so long a ride and within an hour, he was in some considerable pain as they continued to jounce on down the rough terrible road. They passed first one coaching inn, and then another, and as they drew level with a third, Arthur broke his composure quite unwillingly and glanced over at Eames, wondering if they would stop at last here.

Eames, damn him, didn’t miss the glance. He grinned wolfishly. “What say we break our fast here, my dear Arthur? Unless you’d prefer to continue?”

“No,” said Arthur, with all possible dignity, “I shouldn’t mind a small breakfast if you’re inclined, milord.”

Eames snorted, but his smile lost a little of its teasing quality and became somehow more genuine. “My country estate is not much farther,” he said, “never fear.”

“I am sorry to hear it,” said Arthur stiffly. “I was quite enjoying the exercise and air.”

Eames’ servants had to help Arthur dismount when they got to the coaching inn but Eames showed unexpected tact and kept his back turned for the whole agonizing procedure, pretending great absorption in the management of his horse’s tack.

***

Eames had given Arthur one of his own cloaks for riding. The young man looked the part of a gentleman in it; no one gave them a second glance when Eames sat Arthur down with him in one of the small private rooms kept for the nobility. The chairs were better padded than the rough wooden affairs in the main inn, a fact for which Arthur was clearly grateful as he eased himself into his seat.

“What will you have?” asked Eames.

“I’m – I will have whatever you wish me to have,” said Arthur, visibly taken aback by the question. “I am – that is, I shall”—

“Bring us a selection of meats,” said Eames to the hovering innkeeper, “some wine, and some bread, I think.”

Arthur wouldn’t relax, even once the food arrived and Eames began to eat. Arthur took the hard heel of the loaf and a small slice of venison, and sipped slowly at his wine between polite bites.

“You are not well,” said Eames.

“No, I am quite well,” Arthur said, with that infuriating and impossible blend of subservience and arrogance.

“You don’t eat,” said Eames.

“I find myself without a good appetite,” said Arthur in the same tone.

Eames eased back into his chair and contemplated Arthur, every neat precise angle of him. “You were at Oxford, by your accent,” Eames said, not quite asking. “How does an educated young man like yourself fall upon such a hard profession? I should think you were better suited for the clergy.”

Arthur set his bread down on the table and folded his hands in his lap, still and silent.

“And the education of a young lady, how curious!” Eames continued, determined to puzzle this out with or without Arthur’s cooperation. “It seems a terrible waste of money to me, but then Lady Ariadne’s father has no son to lavish with such attention, I suppose.”

Arthur maintained his formal posture, unblinking.

“You are teaching her Latin and French and geography, of course. Elocution and theology, too? What else might be of use to a fine young lady such as Ariadne? Dancing? Needlepoint? Singing?” Eames could see the flicker of tension in the hollows of Arthur’s jaw but there was no other visible betrayal of emotion. He leaned forward, sensing that Arthur was about to break. “Do you show her how to flirt? What a fine tutor you must be.”

And on cue, Arthur sat upright with an infuriated huff of air, meeting Eames’ eyes with a sudden keen gaze. “Architecture,” he said.

“Architecture?” said Eames, blinking.

“The study of buildings, of structures,” clarified Arthur acerbically. “You must be familiar with it, even having studied at Cambridge – by your accent.”

“Ah,” said Eames, feeling his mouth curve. “Yes, I vaguely recall having heard the word before. Do you mean to say you are teaching my bride-to-be about ionic columns and flying buttresses?”

“The mathematical principles,” began Arthur, almost incensed, “are fascinating and illuminate many underlying fundamental theorems of geometry and physics, and milady Ariadne has shown an extraordinary aptitude for the subject. And she is not your bride-to-be, milord, whatever your aspirations.”

“Oh, yes,” said Eames, “Sir Dominic has that honour, however fleetingly. But I am fascinated by what you say of Ariadne. Of what use is it for a lady to be able to design something like a bridge? Would not your time have been better spent teaching her the design of a good embroidered pillow?”

Arthur sat back in his chair as quickly as he’d surged forward, still obviously annoyed. “The study of beauty is never wasted on those who appreciate it,” he said, quietly, tightly.

Eames found his eyes tracing the curve of Arthur’s neck, the crook of his elbow, the hollow of his throat, the deep intelligent brown of his eyes. “I cannot disagree,” said Eames, and his voice sounded almost like that of a stranger.

***

Eames’ country estate had a modest manor house settled comfortably in the midst of a pleasant bit of rolling farmland. It was some time since Arthur had smelled such air, free of the claustrophobic stench of London, its damp fetid streets. The fields were the deep green colour of late autumn, and the sky overhead stretched out in brilliant blue as far as Arthur could see.

It was a pity Arthur was a captive, and victim of a very tired and battered rear end besides; otherwise he might have more will to enjoy the scene surrounding him.

“I shall write Lady Ariadne straightaway,” said Lord Eames, waving Arthur to follow him into the house. “You will add a postscript, and we will send it by messenger on a fresh horse. She’ll be on her way to me by tomorrow.”

“I most certainly will not add a postscript,” Arthur said, hobbling after Eames.

“You shall,” repeated Eames airily. “You may write anything you like. You can beg her to stay in London if you wish.”

“I won’t,” Arthur maintained, voice echoing in the stone-floored foyer of the house. “I beg your pardon, milord, but I will not.”

Eames finally heard the resolve in Arthur’s words and paused midway through the act of handing his cloak to his servant. “Very well,” he said, and there was a sudden strange coolness in his voice that made Arthur suddenly regretful of his own tone, if not his meaning. “She will come to you in any case. Of that I am certain.”

“Her father will never allow it,” said Arthur, trying to sound more reasonable and less resolute.

“A young lady who is so indulged that she may study any subject she chooses will hardly hesitate to go against the wishes of her father,” said Eames with damnable confidence; the hideous thing was that of course Eames was perfectly correct in this. Arthur knew Ariadne would stop at nothing to secure Arthur’s safety. He only hoped she had the good sense to bring a half dozen of her father’s armed men with her.

***

My Lady Ariadne,

I hope this letter finds you well as it left me and your esteemed tutor Mr. Arthur Sheldon. Mr. Sheldon bids me tell you that he wishes you would not leave London and that he suffers not at all by my treatment of him. He certainly does not desire you to come to visit him here at my estate, though of course you should be very welcome if you condescended to grace us both with your lovely company. I flatter myself that you might find my lands beautiful and that you may have some pleasure in wandering the paths that my late sister once so loved.

Your faithful servant,

Lord Charles Eames

***

“You have an impressive library,” said Arthur, meaning it. He’d only rarely seen so many books together, especially in a private collection. There were over a dozen volumes stacked together on the shelf.

“It was the pride of my late father,” said Eames, smirking and standing with arms folded.

Some of the earlier tension between them had dissipated, but not entirely. Arthur could tell that his refusal to acquiesce to Eames’ demand had more than annoyed the lord. It had unsettled him deeply. For the first time, Arthur began to wonder if Lord Eames was questioning his own part in this evil scheme, if perhaps Eames wasn’t the absolute villain Arthur had believed him to be.

Still, Eames had sent the letter to Ariadne; Arthur had seen the messenger depart with all haste only an hour before, and it wouldn’t be long before Ariadne was reading Eames’ threats against Arthur. Whether it pricked at Eames’ conscience or not, he was obviously proceeding with this mad plan to ruin Ariadne and elope with her. And as for Arthur, he could hardly hope to find employment as a tutor again after this scandal was known. Eames probably hadn’t even stopped to consider this – and why would he? Such a lowly person as a tutor could hardly give Eames a moment’s pause.

“Will you have dinner?” asked Eames, breaking into Arthur’s musings in a manner annoyingly counter to Arthur’s thoughts.

“Why do you take pains to treat me as a guest in your home?” Arthur returned shortly. “If I am a prisoner, why do you ask after my health and my appetite and my education?”

Eames reached out a hand – long slender fingers, elegant and sure – and stroked the leather spine of one book, idly. “I thought you quite boring,” he said, all laziness, “but I find more and more that you are not at all the man I thought you were.” He dropped his hand again, and looked over at Arthur. “You still haven’t said why you didn’t decide to join the clergy. Surely it would be a more dignified position for a young person of your abilities.”

Arthur gritted his teeth. “I found myself disinclined to take up that particular mantle,” he said as vaguely as he could. “Will you not leave me be? I assure you, I am very boring indeed.”

“Boring people never know that they’re boring,” said Eames, and suddenly he was turning to face Arthur, he was reaching over and stroking Arthur’s jaw, he was fixing his blue gaze first on Arthur’s startled eyes and then on Arthur’s lips, parted with surprise. “You’re not boring at all, are you?” Eames murmured, and he was somehow closer yet, and Arthur was frozen with shock, and Eames stopped looking at Arthur’s mouth and moved in to kiss it instead.

The kiss was breath-robbing, Eames’ soft curved lips against Arthur’s, insistent and yet yielding, and Arthur didn’t know what to do, how to stop it, how to move away, and Arthur’s traitorous hands came up and clasped Eames’ broad strong shoulders, not pushing or pulling but simply gripping them, feeling their muted power.

But only a few seconds passed before Arthur’s mind cleared of shock and he remembered – this was the man who was planning to destroy his young charge. This was the monster who would have stolen her from her bed in the middle of the night and dragged her, terrified, to wed him under threat of disgrace and disownment. This man was no one Arthur should be kissing.

Arthur shoved hard with both hands and Eames staggered back satisfyingly, caught off-guard. “She’s like a sister to me,” said Arthur, furious, “how dare you, how dare you presume to– and she’s not some prize to be claimed, she’s not to be owned or possessed by you!”

“Oh, of course not, Sir Dominic reserves that privilege for himself,” snarled Eames, lips red and brow stormy, fury snapping in his eyes. “Do you ever think she might be better off with me than with that brooding violent madman?”

“She’d be better off dead than with you,” Arthur returned coldly.

All at once Eames seemed like the very madman he was accusing Sir Dominic of being. His blue eyes went wide with rage and he pointed at Arthur, hand trembling. “You – you can’t possibly know,” he sputtered, apoplectic, and then just as abruptly left the room, slamming the door behind him.

***

It was wrong to have kissed him, Eames thought, only Arthur had suddenly seemed so tempting, so like a mysterious door waiting to be opened. And Arthur had kissed back, he had, at least until his indignant shove and hurled accusations.

Eames paced the length of the room, pausing only to take another few swallows of wine.

Like a sister, Arthur had said, all rage and propriety, as though Eames couldn’t possibly comprehend what that meant. Ariadne – no, Lady Ariadne, Arthur’s student, his employer’s daughter – like a sister to common bookish Mr. Arthur Sheldon! It was preposterous, it was utterly mad. And yet –

No, it wasn’t worth contemplating.

***

Eames didn’t appear again that evening. Arthur took his dinner in the kitchen with the servants and afterwards poked around the small manor house brooding on his idiotic decision to give his word. Now would have been the perfect moment to make good an escape, to walk out the scullery door and borrow a horse and make for the nearest village, send word to Ariadne that he was free and she needn’t do anything dangerous or daring for his sake.

Not that Arthur could contemplate the prospect of riding with any kind of equanimity, he admitted to himself grudgingly. Every muscle in his legs and torso ached tremendously and his backside felt like one throbbing bruise. He’d be lucky to be able to rise tomorrow morning and take some role in trying to stop Ariadne from acquiescing to her own downfall.

Here was a long room with an old-fashioned trestle table running down it, a formal dining hall from a past generation. Above the massive hearth there were dark hanging oil paintings, nearly impossible to discern in the light cast by Arthur’s candlestick. He paused nonetheless and raised his light up, squinting into the gloom. A family portrait, not well executed to be sure, but there was the former Lord Eames in all ermine and blue velvet, Lady Eames seated by him, and two offspring. The smaller child was the current Lord Eames, Arthur could see, recognizing the lush curve of the lips obvious even in the poor likeness and dim light. The elder child was a young woman with striking eyes and –

Oh.

“Milady,” Arthur murmured, shocked. He’d forgotten, he’d forgotten entirely, but of course this was none other than the late Lady Cobb, aged perhaps fourteen – lovely and wistful even at this tender age. What had her given name been again? Mallory, yes, pretentiously French because her mother -- Eames’ mother -- had come from a French family long ago. Mal, Sir Dominic had called her once, tenderly, when he hadn’t realized Arthur was nearby.

Eames’ sister, then. How had Arthur forgotten? He moved the candle back to look at young Eames’ face, and sure enough, he could trace a little of Philippa and of James in the boy’s features. Eames was their uncle, of course.

But what good could it possibly do Eames to ruin his brother-in-law’s marriage? Why on earth would Eames not wish for the children to have a new mother, young though she was?

Arthur lowered the candlestick, his hand trembling a little with shock. He had thought, in his ignorance, that Eames was only settling some score with Sir Dominic, some matter of dishonour between noblemen that could only be satisfied with more dishonour. He’d thought perhaps Eames had contracted some strange longing for the young Lady Ariadne, too, the way that men seemed to do with young ladies sometimes, drawn to their innocence and sweetness with a weird compulsion to possess it through its corruption.

But here was something different, something Arthur couldn’t begin to understand.

“What the devil are you doing this for?” Arthur asked quietly.

The darkness around him held no answers.

***

Eames dreamt.

“I’ll set her free if you marry me,” he told Arthur, holding Ariadne by the hand.

Arthur, standing in the window, stepped out and fell from view.

“I warned you,” said Mal, urgently whispering behind Eames. “Charles, I told you this would happen.”

“This isn’t what you told me,” Eames said to her, irritated. “This isn’t what happened. He pushed you. And it was you, not Arthur. It was you.”

“I warned you,” said Mal again, insistently.

“No, this isn’t how it happened,” said Eames again, shaking his head. “Mal, this isn’t how it happened.”

***

Arthur slept a scant few hours and woke at dawn again. He had some notion of walking down the lane away from the manor house, not far enough to break his word to Eames but enough to stop Ariadne’s carriage before it could get to the door, before she could get into Eames’ hands.

But even if Ariadne struck out at daybreak, which she almost certainly had, it would be a longer journey by carriage than on horseback, and Arthur knew that he couldn’t stand in the lane for hours waiting. He’d tried Eames’ patience enough yesterday, and he knew well that Eames might not value Arthur’s life enough to spare it if he felt sure of his prize.

And then there was the matter Arthur hadn’t allowed himself to contemplate: the kiss in the library yesterday. It worried Arthur, how easily he’d surrendered himself in those brief seconds, how quickly his fears for Ariadne had been subsumed in the pressure and heat of Eames’ mouth, the press of his body. And what had it been to Eames, after all, but a lark? Perhaps even just a tease. Obviously Eames had stumbled upon one of Arthur’s deepest secrets, and decided to use it to amuse himself, to distract Arthur. It was shocking and cruel.

It had been dizzying and perfect, too.

“Good day,” said Eames when Arthur joined him at the long table, several feet away from the family portrait over the hearth. “Did you sleep well, my dear Arthur?”

“I’m not your dear,” said Arthur, “and I slept tolerably well.”

“Boiled egg?” asked Eames, untroubled by Arthur’s response, apparently having forgotten their contretemps from the previous night.

“Thank you,” said Arthur, taking an egg.

“Salt?” asked Eames. “Ham?”

“Thank you,” Arthur said again, woodenly, starving in spite of himself.

They ate in silence, Arthur awkwardly and Eames with annoying grace and ease. “It’s a fine day again today,” remarked Eames.

“Yes, very nice for this time of year,” replied Arthur. “That is a good likeness of you, over the fireplace.”

“Is it?” said Eames, uninterested.

“I don’t know if you are aware,” said Arthur, “but I knew your sister very well indeed.”

Eames set down his knife with a slightly too-loud clink. “You did?” he asked, and buried his face in his cup, hiding his expression from Arthur’s eyes.

“Yes, I was at school with,” began Arthur, and stopped. “Well, my father died when I was reading for philosophy at Oxford. My older brother withdrew his support for my tuition. Your sister and – and her husband, he was ahead of me a few years, they were kind enough to, to render assistance. And I was quite, uh. I knew your sister very well.”

“I hadn’t the slightest notion,” said Eames, for all the world as though he didn’t care. But there was some small tension gathered at the corners of his mouth that spoke otherwise.

“She was,” said Arthur, “she always very kind to me. Very good to me.”

“Mal always had a soft heart for strays,” said Eames, but the remark lacked the barbs it might have carried, and Eames suddenly cast a soft glance Arthur’s way. “And excellent taste in friends,” he added, more gently.

Arthur met Eames’ gaze, trying to discern something beyond gratitude and kindness in Eames’ expression. “Thank you,” he said, uncomfortably.

Eames rose from his chair. “Ariadne will arrive in a few short hours, I anticipate. I should make myself ready for her.” He tugged at his cuffs and then grinned sharply at Arthur. “It is a pity you didn’t take the holy oaths, Arthur, you could have married us off yourself.”

“She won’t do it,” said Arthur warningly. “I’ll see to it she doesn’t do it.”

“I shall have to summon the parish priest, I suppose,” said Eames with a short sigh, ignoring Arthur. “Please, take your time, finish your breakfast. We have several hours yet.”

***

The hipbath was ready, steaming gently in his chambers when Eames came up from breakfast. He stripped down and gingerly stepped in, less than fond of the idea of bathing so late in the year when la grippe abounded, taking up residence in those foolish enough to get properly chilled and wet. But it was his wedding night, after a fashion, and Eames wanted to be as gentlemanly as possible about the mostly distasteful experience.

He washed hastily, not giving the water time to cool before he heaved himself out, dripping and smelling of lye, but clean and tingling all over. His manservant toweled him down vigorously and wrapped him in a thick robe. Eames sat in front of the fire and scrubbed at his sopping hair, glad of the unseasonably warm day. “Lay out my clothing and leave me,” he told his manservant. “And summon Mr. Sheldon to me, if you please,” Eames added as an afterthought, recklessly.

The door creaked open and closed again a couple of minutes later. Eames didn’t bother to turn and look at Arthur. “Bath is warm, if you’d like to make use of it,” he said, mostly teasing.

“Did you want something of me?” asked Arthur, so bloody formal and careful.

“Yes,” said Eames. “No.” He sighed, looked back over his shoulder to see Arthur frozen just inside the doorway. “You’re Sir Dominic’s man, then?” he asked.

“No,” said Arthur. “I suppose he might call me a friend, but I owe no allegiance to him, if that is what you wish to know.”

“He paid for your schooling,” said Eames. He kicked out a leg, casually, aware that the motion made his robe gape open a little.

“A generous act for which he has never required compensation,” said Arthur. “Sir Dominic knows I wish to be my own man.”

“Your own man?” repeated Eames, facing the fire again, amused. “Not Lady Ariadne’s man, then?”

“No, not hers either,” said Arthur, impatience beginning to cut through his tone.

Eames deliberately swept the robe off his leg, baring it in Arthur’s line of sight. His skin was pebbled like gooseflesh, but not from the chill. “Will you come here? Since you’re your own man, you’re free to follow your own desires, yes?”

He could hear the hitch of Arthur’s breath. “Am I here to amuse you, then?”

“Amuse yourself, too, if you like,” said Eames with a grand sweep of his hand.

“How could I?” said Arthur, choked-sounding. “How could I, when you are planning to undo my Lady Ariadne? I might be my own man, but it doesn’t make me without – without scruples, without a feeling heart.”

Eames stood up, needing to get closer to Arthur, who still hadn’t shifted from his frozen position near the doorway. “Come now,” said Eames, “don’t be so serious, my darling, don’t be so very,” and he had Arthur by the waist and he was kissing him and Arthur made a helpless small sound and pressed himself desperately to Eames, from shoulders to hips, shuddering with want. All Arthur’s maddening reserve and propriety fell away in an instant, and it was intoxicating, maddening. Eames found himself making his own hungry sounds, clutching at Arthur’s shoulders, his hair, his arse, grinding their hips together through too much fabric, feeling his arousal answered by Arthur’s own.

“Stop, stop,” said Arthur, and kissed Eames’ neck. “No, we must stop.”

“Arthur,” said Eames, smiling and panting, “you aren’t stopping at all.”

“I shall, in just one –“ and Arthur reached down, parting their bodies enough so Arthur could run one hand, one ink-smudged scholarly hand down the bare center of Eames’ chest, stopping just short of his waist. “Oh, sweet Jesus,” Arthur said, the oath wonderfully at odds with both Arthur’s usual temperament and his current actions.

“Keep going,” said Eames, shivering and tense and laughing.

“No, no,” said Arthur. “Eames, you know I can’t. Not while you’re still planning this – this mad thing that you’re doing.”

For an instant Eames considered it, considered saying, Well, alright darling, if you insist and dropping to his knees and taking prim Arthur to pieces with his hands and mouth, Arthur’s smudgy gorgeous fingers wound through Eames’ wet hair. “If you marry me, I’ll let her go,” he said, grinning into the corner of Arthur’s jaw, quoting his dream playfully. “Hmm?”

“Don’t,” said Arthur, and pulled away, pulled himself square and tall. “You – don’t make light of it, Eames. Don’t make fun.”

“You think this is fun?” Eames said back, temper rising in a hot flood. “You think I want to, to marry some young girl, to force her, to”—

“Then don’t do it!” Arthur exclaimed, wide-eyed, stepping back. “If it’s so very abhorrent to you, don’t do it. Be the bigger man, whatever your problem with Sir Dominic is, choose a higher path, leave poor Ariadne out of your petty schemes!”

“Get out,” said Eames, untying his robe and shrugging out of it. “Get out of my rooms, go read a book or design a cathedral or conjugate verbs, stop preaching to me about things you can’t begin to comprehend.”

Eames could see, out of the corner of his eye, that the sight of him naked and striding across the room briefly paralyzed Arthur. “Please, Eames,” said Arthur, quietly.

“Get out,” Eames repeated, dangerously low.

Arthur left.

***

Ariadne’s carriage came up the lane just as the sun reached its zenith. Arthur stood on the threshold of the manor house, helplessly waiting with Eames just in front of him as they watched the carriage grow nearer. It was flanked by several armed men – good girl, Ariadne, thought Arthur warmly – and was keeping a fast pace. Ariadne must have changed horses at least once on the journey. She was hurrying.

“That isn’t her father’s livery,” said Arthur, realizing it suddenly.

“No,” agreed Eames, tension tugging his shoulders back, straightening his posture, “no, it’s not.”

“It’s”—began Arthur, startled.

“Sir Dominic’s,” said Eames grimly. “Damn it all.”

The carriage pulled up and the armed men dismounted calmly enough while the footman opened the carriage door and offered the passenger a hand down: Ariadne, lovely and frantic-looking. “Mr. Sheldon!” she said, spotting Arthur. “Oh, thank God, you are well.”

“I am,” agreed Arthur, heart in his throat, for here came the second passenger from the carriage.

“How dare you set foot on my land?” Eames asked, furiously. “How dare you come here, you of all people?”

Sir Dominic held his ground. “I couldn’t very well allow my new wife to come unaccompanied, and she would not be persuaded to stay safe at home.”

“Your new wife?” said Arthur, blinking.

“We married in haste last night,” said Sir Dominic. “I hope, under the circumstances, Arthur, you will forgive me for not waiting until you could be present.”

Arthur felt a smile tug at his mouth. “I shall try to forgive you,” he promised.

“My father understood the urgency once Sir Dominic spoke to him,” said Ariadne. “Arthur, are you truly alright?”

“I am very well, milady,” Arthur reassured her.

“He will come with us now,” said Sir Dominic. “Charles, I beg you not to make this more trouble than it needs to be. It’s over.”

“No,” said Eames, “no, you – you can’t simply go on as though nothing happened, Dominic, it’s obscene! It’s – I can’t bear it!”

“Of course I’m not going on as if nothing happened,” said Sir Dominic, not ungently, “but it’s been two years now, Charles. She would want the children to have a mother. She would have wanted that.”

“You – you can’t possibly know what she wanted. She wanted to live, Dominic! You robbed her of that!” Eames roared, and his hand went to his belt, and Arthur leapt forward not a second too soon, holding his arms pinned to his sides, keeping Eames from drawing his rapier. “You killed her!” Eames shouted, struggling against Arthur furiously, frantically. “You killed Mal, you killed her!”

“I didn’t,” said Dominic, “Charles, you know I didn’t.” He held his hands up, shaking. “You know that’s not what happened.”

Arthur saw it, suddenly, with a dizzying flash of understanding; Eames thought that Sir Dominic had murdered Lady Cobb, his sister. He had been trying to steal Ariadne away from Sir Dominic, to rob Sir Dominic of any happiness he may have found with her. He was taking revenge indeed, but not for the sort of petty insult Arthur had first imagined.

“You did, you killed her!” Eames shouted, lunging forward, and Arthur barely held onto him this time.

“He didn’t,” said Ariadne, “Lord Eames, Dominic couldn’t have done such a thing, you know it.”

“He didn’t,” Arthur agreed, idiotically inserting himself into the argument, but then Eames went limp inside the circle of Arthur’s arms. “He didn’t,” Arthur said again, more quietly. “Eames, I was there right before it happened. I swear it. I swear it.”

“You – you were there?” Eames asked, a fine tremor still shaking him. He turned his head and looked at Arthur. “You were there?”

“I was there,” agreed Arthur. “Milord, I was there, I saw how”—he paused, seeing the flash of agony in Eames’ eyes. “She was not herself, milord,” Arthur said, more gently. “I left against my better judgment. I know now I shouldn’t have left, but I could no more have stopped her from – no more than Sir Dominic could. No more than you could, milord.”

“That’s not what happened,” said Eames, shaking his head, “she wrote me a letter, she wrote me and said she was afraid for her life. She was afraid he would kill her.”

“She wasn’t in her right mind,” Arthur said, almost whispering. “Milord -- Eames. You know it to be true, I think.”

“No,” said Eames, shaking his head, dashing the back of his hand over his eyes. “No, it’s a mortal sin, she would never have”—

“It wasn’t her,” said Arthur, and took Eames shoulder in his hand. “She wasn’t herself.”

“No,” said Eames again.

“Eames,” said Arthur, “you have not known me above two days but I think you know me to be an honest man nonetheless. You said it yourself, my sense of honour runs deep. I would never lie to you about such a thing. I am my own man in this too.”

Arthur could see it, the moment when Eames finally conceded. His shoulders rounded and his face dropped from a mask of agony into exhausted indifference.

“Come, Arthur,” said Sir Dominic. “We must leave now.”

“Come and have a wedding supper with us,” said Ariadne, with none of her husband’s habitual sternness. “Philippa and James would be very happy to see you again.”

Arthur could sense that Eames would raise no objection to Arthur’s departure, abrupt though it might be. All the fight was gone from him. He was stunned and fatigued, and didn’t seem to hear anything that was being said now. “I will come soon,” said Arthur, hand still on Eames’ shoulder. “I should – Lord Eames may require me to stay. Of my own free will, of course.”

“Will you?” said Eames, blinking out of his trance. “Will you stay, Arthur?”

“Perhaps as your guest instead of your prisoner,” Arthur said, smiling a little. “If you’ll have me.”

“It would be my”—

“Are you certain, Mr. Sheldon?” asked Ariadne, laying a hand on Arthur’s arm.

“We have an understanding,” said Arthur with a nod. “It’s quite alright, milady.”

“When you return to the city,” said Sir Dominic haltingly, “perhaps you would be so kind as to wait on us, and on the children, Charles. If, if you wish.”

Eames didn’t reply, but he did look up and meet Sir Dominic’s eyes, giving a quick almost-nod.

The footman helped the newlyweds back into the carriage and the whole assemblage headed off back down the lane towards London, leaving Arthur and Eames standing still on the threshold of the manor.

“I am not accustomed to,” said Eames, “well, Mal would have said I always get my way. This is – it’s unexpected.”

“You couldn’t have done it,” said Arthur. “You couldn’t have forced her to marry you. You had too many doubts.”

Eames scowled at the distant carriage. “I could have done it.”

“No, you couldn’t,” Arthur said with a patient smile. “I wouldn’t have allowed it.”

“Hmm,” said Eames, with feigned displeasure. “You take great liberties with your superior, Mr. Sheldon.”

“I am your guest now,” said Arthur equably. “You are obliged to be patient with me and my insubordination.” He slipped his hand down the length of Eames’ arm and twined their fingers together, breath quickening.

“I”—said Eames, looking down at their joined hands. “I may need some time. This is all very – unexpected.”

“We have all the time in the world,” said Arthur. “I find myself abruptly without employment, as it happens.”

Eames’ mouth twitched almost unwillingly. “In that case, would you care to join me for a walk about the grounds?” he asked, with playful formality.

***

Eames wasn’t quite sure what drove him to do it, but he led Arthur to the small family plot some distance away, just outside the parish church. “It’s not marked,” he said, “but this is where we buried her.”

“I know,” said Arthur, “Dominic told me he had her brought here, after.” He knelt down and pressed a hand to the cool grass above Mal’s grave. “I miss her very much, too.” He paused, then added, “The midwife, she said that sometimes it happens that women are overtaken by this sadness after a baby is born. She was desperately sad, at the end.”

Eames joined him, kneeling on the ground, and if Arthur noticed the slow tears falling down Eames’ face, he didn’t say a word.

***

“Hmm,” said Eames, after they’d eaten dinner together and retired to Eames’ sitting room. “I’m not sure I can ravish you now that I hold you in such high esteem.”

“Ha,” said Arthur, using his newfound freedom to bask in Eames’ handsome presence, the curve of his mouth and the delicious strength of his hands. “You liked me much better when you were trying to make me compromise myself?”

“I do enjoy a good seduction now and then,” said Eames, with all too much relish.

“Shall I pretend to resist your overpowering charms, then?” asked Arthur, idly untying the neck of his shirt. “Would you like to chase me round the room while I shriek with dismay?”

“Hmm, tempting,” said Eames, eyes caught on the bit of Arthur’s chest bared by his open shirt. “Perhaps I can catch you unawares at your studies, bent over a book?”

Arthur laughed in spite of himself, and Eames looked thoroughly delighted with the sound. “I should never subject a perfectly good book to that kind of indignity,” Arthur said, trying to suppress his smile and failing.

“You’re absolutely right,” said Eames. “Let’s just take off all our clothes and roll around together on a bed, shall we?”

Arthur laughed again, and again Eames fairly beamed with pride before opening the door into his bedchamber and waving Arthur in.

Arthur tried to undress himself hastily but was held up somewhat by Eames insinuating himself into Arthur’s arms, insisting upon kissing and stroking every newly bared inch of skin. “You’re making this more difficult than it needs to be,” Arthur said, not really complaining.

“Mm, you’ve a fine little arse here,” said Eames with no shame at all, cupping the arse in question until Arthur yelped.

“Sore,” said Arthur, half-gasping with laughter, “from all the riding.”

“What an unfortunate reason to have a sore”—began Eames, and Arthur felt it necessary to his own sense of dignity to stop up that beautiful mouth with a kiss.

At last they did manage to land on the bed, naked as the day they were born, Eames flat on his back with Arthur stretched out on top of him. “I like this,” said Arthur, smiling helplessly and running his hands up and down Eames’ muscled sides. “I like you, I think.”

“You’ve the most maddening dimples in your cheeks when you smile,” said Eames, “I’m ashamed I’m only seeing them now.”

Arthur flushed with embarrassment and wanted to come up with a fitting retort but found himself without words, so sincere and blue were Eames’ eyes fixed on his. “You,” said Arthur, stupidly. “Kiss me.”

Eames smiled and obliged, and after a while Arthur kissed Eames’ neck and chest, and his stomach, and the narrow lines fletched into his beautiful hips, and then Arthur kissed Eames’ cock, took it in his mouth, and Eames stroked Arthur’s hair and made happy broken sounds in the quiet of the candlelit bedchamber. Afterwards, Eames spent an inordinate amount of time kissing the ink stains on Arthur’s right hand until Arthur lost all his patience and drew Eames’ fingers downwards.

“I’m rather glad you were the one in that maiden bed,” said Eames, kissing Arthur’s fluttering eyelids.

“Not a – a maiden bed, you – silly ass,” Arthur managed, gasping and shivering.

“Oh yes it was, and you in that pretty see-through nightgown with the ribbons and lace,” said Eames, stroking his thumb up over the head of Arthur’s cock, wet and sleek and desperately good.

“There were no ribbons or lace,” Arthur said, trying to be angry with Eames but unable to work up a proper sense of outrage when Eames’ hand was working his cock so very well.

“Mm, you looked very nice indeed in that flowery night bonnet with your hair all braided down your back and your bosom heaving with indignation.”

“You’re –you’re completely infuriating,” said Arthur, laughing, and came and came and came.