Brothers In Arms 05: Retreat From Love Read online

  Freddy harrumphed. “Without Freddy and Freddy’s doctors you surely would have died, at the very least. And don’t you forget it.” The fondness in his tone took the sting out of his words and Brett’s smile grew.

  “How can I, when you remind me of it so often?” Freddy laughed and Brett motioned them forward again. Anne was glad she was no longer looking at him when he continued. “Although today it is a little stiff from the fall I took yesterday. Walking is good for it.”

  Anne bit her lip to hold back another apology. She couldn’t hold back her gasp when Brett continued, however.

  “Freddy’s recent gunshot wound has healed much cleaner. His arm was not affected at all.”

  “You were shot?” Anne cried, turning to Freddy and clutching his arm. Immediately she pulled her hand back as if it were burned. “I’m sorry! Did I hurt you?”

  Freddy laughed. “You didn’t hurt me. It was my left shoulder. And it’s almost as good as new. My doctors assure me it was a superficial wound. Although I must say it felt quite profound to me.”

  Anne covered her mouth with her hand. First Father and the duke, then Bertie and Brett, then Jerome and now Freddy. What would they all do if Freddy died? And now his death would be so much more devastating to Anne, now that she’d seen him again and talked to him, admired him for the man he had become. Freddy laid his hand lightly on Anne’s arm in response to her distress. “I’m all right, Anne, really.”

  Anne found she was shaking and she wrapped her arms around herself. “I’m sorry. It’s just that I didn’t know. And…well, I’m very glad you’re all right now, Your Grace.” She swallowed, bringing her emotions back under control. “How were you injured?”

  Freddy and Brett shared a look before Freddy answered. “I helped to apprehend a wanted criminal who was holding a friend at gunpoint.” He waved a hand casually in Brett’s direction. “Brett was there as well.”

  “My God!” Anne was aghast. “What were you two doing chasing down criminals? You are gentlemen, not constables.”

  Freddy was amused, and even Brett had a slight grin on his face. “Yes, well, we caught him, didn’t we?” Freddy asked with a note of pride in his voice.

  “But why? I still don’t understand why you were there.” Anne couldn’t give up her questioning. Why would they risk their lives that way? Didn’t they understand that there had been enough death for them all? Did they need to provoke it? To invite it into her life once again?

  Freddy became quite serious as he answered. “It was a matter of friendship, Anne. A friend needed us. I will always assist a friend when they request it, and sometimes even when they don’t. Friendship is very important to me, Anne. My friends are all I have left now.”

  “How long ago were you injured?” Anne pressed a hand to her heart, foolishly thinking that might slow its rapid beating.

  “It’s been almost three months. My doctor didn’t want me to travel until recently. But I needed to come here to recover. Ashton Park has been calling me home for some time.”

  Anne felt better at Freddy’s words. He’d been following his doctor’s advice. And if he told him it was safe to travel now then surely he must be all right.

  “It took Brett much longer to recuperate from his injury after Salamanca. How long, Brett?” Freddy’s question was asked casually, but Anne saw Brett tense.

  He didn’t look at her as he answered. “Well, it took nearly a year to get me out of bed. Then another year before I could walk without crutches. Then I spent a year with a cane. Almost another year to get me on a horse.”

  Brett‘s recitation was matter-of-fact, but Anne could imagine all that he was leaving out. Nearly four years before he was recovered enough to walk beside her today. He’d been injured so badly, as badly as she’d feared. She felt even guiltier about her unprovoked attack on him at the pond. She’d known he’d been badly injured, but according to Freddy he’d been unable to travel. She wished for a moment that she had been the one at his side during his illness and recovery, but quickly shook off the thought. She couldn’t have done for him what Freddy had done. Freddy had saved his life.

  “Aren’t we passing The Narrows?” Freddy asked, changing the subject as he turned his head to look this way and that.

  “The Narrows?” Brett asked.

  Anne’s laugh was a little forced, but she was going to let Freddy lead them away from the melancholy topic of Brett’s injury and Salamanca. “It’s the name of the farm in the valley there. It actually refers to the house, which is long and narrow. One long hallway with a dozen rooms coming off of it. The Hutchinsons are still there, Freddy.” She walked over to the fence to point in the direction of the house, and she put her gloved hand on the top of the fence post. It was wet, and she immediately pulled her hand back, but not before her glove got soaked. She looked up at the tree shading the post. “I forgot about the shade here. The sun hasn’t had time to dry the dew.”

  She stepped back onto the road, Brett moving out of her way to let her pass in front of him. His nearness made her self-conscious. She could feel his heat and smell his musky scent, and as she thought of all he’d been through in the last few years she wanted to brush up against him so badly she nearly stumbled. Instead she busied herself taking off her wet glove.

  Freddy had been waiting patiently in the road, watching them. Anne felt for a moment as if she were acting out some play for him for which she didn’t know her lines. Then he smiled and she felt silly. They resumed walking, a little slower on Anne’s part due to Brett’s sore leg. After a quiet minute Anne became uncomfortable. There was no one else on the road, just the three of them. The sun was warm on her back, and the scents and heat and sounds of the two men beside her were arousing her against her will. She was becoming the most outrageous wanton when it came to these two. Wasn’t that the cruelest injustice? That she was more aware of and attracted to the two men she couldn’t have than any other men she’d ever met? She waved her glove in the air, trying to dry it.

  “Here, let me,” Brett said in his quiet fashion, and took the glove from her. She gave it without a protest. There was something appealing about the sight of her delicate white glove in his large hand. He pulled off his own glove, and as he pulled each finger free of the brown leather Anne felt the tug on her insides. It was ludicrous. How many times had she seen a man remove his glove? But as Brett’s large, capable hand emerged Anne felt breathless.

  She looked away, but her eyes slid back to him. She couldn’t resist watching him. He shoved his glove in his jacket pocket. Then he ran her wet glove over his palm slowly. Good lord, Anne felt that caress across her flesh and shivered. She imagined Brett dragging the soft kid glove across her breasts, smoothing the hard points of her nipples with the leather and then tracing a pattern with the fingers down her bare stomach until he cupped her mound with the palm of the glove. She nearly moaned out loud as a pulse began to pound between her legs and she felt wetness slip out of her to coat the lips of her sex.

  Suddenly Brett slipped his thumb into the thumb of her glove. His was too large—it stretched the leather until it was tight around his thumb, outlining every fold and bone in his knuckle, the shadow of his nail. It was as if the glove held him like a lover, wrapping itself around that finger, and Anne became lightheaded with desire. Would he fit her like that? So tight, so full?

  When he was satisfied with the fit of his thumb in the glove, Brett pushed his index finger inside and Anne bit back a whimper. She looked up at his face and saw that he had no idea she was watching him. He was completely engrossed in what he was doing to her glove.

  Anne forced herself to look away. She turned, trying to find some inanity to say to Freddy when she saw he was watching Brett, too. And if Anne wasn’t mistaken, with the same awareness that she had been experiencing. She glanced down almost reluctantly and caught sight of his cock, hard in his tight breeches while he watched Brett’s sensual play with her glove. God, she could have them both. Couldn’t she? The thought was sudd
en, unexpected, and brought a blush to her cheeks.

  She thought about the injuries the two men had sustained, both life threatening. But they had survived and were here now. Was this opportunity something she could let pass her by? An opportunity she may never have again. If she had learned only one thing in the last decade it was that life was fleeting. So many people who were important to her had died. And these two almost joined that sad list. Before today—no, before yesterday and seeing them both at the pond—she had been content knowing that they were alive and well somewhere in the same world in which she lived. It wasn’t enough anymore. She tried to control her panicked breathing as she thought about the consequences of pursuing a liaison with these two men. Could she risk her heart again? She knew that any relationship she had with them was doomed to end sooner rather than later. If she did risk her heart, would she regret it as much as she’d regret letting them go? With equal parts joy and trepidation she realized the answer was no. She could never regret reaching for what she wanted, no matter the consequences.

  What the hell was Brett doing with that glove? Freddy was trying to hide his agitation. He knew his cock was hard. He was the Duke of Ashland walking down the bloody road with a hard prick. Come one, come all, and see the desperate duke! He nearly snorted at his predicament. But then Brett pressed another finger into the glove and it turned to an inward groan.

  Freddy had always admired Brett’s hands. Hell, Freddy admired everything about Brett. He wanted everything about Brett. Brett was on a horse every day, in addition to a regimen of various exercises to strengthen his legs and arms, and the calluses on his palms were a result. He didn’t like to wear gloves often. Brett liked to touch things. He liked to explore texture and density and heat with his hands and fingers. Freddy had been tormented untold times by Brett’s hands as they ran over ordinary objects, learning them. Freddy wanted Brett to know him with those hands, to feel him, to learn him.

  He realized his breathing was erratic and he glanced at Anne to see if she’d noticed. The only thing Anne was noticing was Brett’s hand in her glove. And to judge by the pebbled nipples jutting out the tight bodice of her dress she was as aroused by it as Freddy was. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, the tops of her creamy breasts rising above the décolletage of her dress. Freddy had noticed the dress was several seasons out of date, and tight, as if it didn’t fit anymore. Another piece of the puzzle. What was going on in the Goode household? If they had hit hard times, why had they not applied to Freddy for aid?

  Freddy’s thoughts scattered as Brett worked another finger into the glove. He had his thumb and two fingers in it already. Freddy’s cock jumped as he imagined those fingers working their way into him. Anne’s hand fluttered involuntarily at her side and suddenly Freddy had a picture of Brett working his fingers inside Anne while Freddy watched. Then Brett would turn to him, pull his hand away from Anne, wet with her cream, and he’d reach for Freddy… Freddy shivered in spite of the sun’s warmth on his back. God, he could imagine how that would feel, Brett’s fingers inside him wet with Anne’s desire. His cock jumped and he forced the image away. This was not the time or place. He was here to bring Brett and Anne together. He would have no place in their bedroom. The thought was enough to dampen his arousal.

  Suddenly Anne’s hand reached out and touched Brett’s. They all froze, stopping there in the middle of the road. Freddy felt as if he were watching her touch Brett’s cock, the move seemed so intimate. Brett had all but his smallest finger in the glove. It was obvious the leather would never be the same. It was stretched beyond repair.

  Brett’s realization of what he’d been doing brought a blush to his cheeks. “Perhaps I should give this back,” he muttered, trying to peel the too-small glove off his hand. Freddy nearly groaned. He imagined Brett sliding his cock out of Anne’s sex as it held him as tightly as her glove. He clamped a lid on his imagination before he could fully visualize Brett’s cock sliding out of Freddy in the same fashion.

  Anne swallowed audibly. Had her imagination led her down the same path? “Yes, perhaps you should,” she said breathlessly. Then her hands joined Brett’s as they began to pull the glove off. Her hands were small and white, delicate. She had long, thin fingers that ended with beautiful nails, long ovals with bright crescent moons at their tips. They were short, but Freddy imagined they were firm and well-formed when they were long. His back muscles rippled as he imagined Anne digging those nails into him as she came around his cock.

  She pulled the glove off Brett’s index finger, and Freddy imagined both sets of hands on him, wrapped around his cock, inside his ass. He turned away abruptly and coughed to cover his moan. They were killing him. Did they know they were killing him?

  Brett was mortified. He’d ruined her glove. That was obvious. What had he been thinking? He hadn’t been, not with his head anyway. What was it about Anne’s proximity that caused his brain to cease functioning?

  Her glove was so soft, so small and fragile, as he imagined Anne would be. So delicate, and he’d wanted to violate that delicate, fragile sheath. God, what was wrong with him? But the feel of his over-large fingers pressing the soft, damp leather apart and pushing inside the tight, humid warmth there had mesmerized him. He’d tortured himself with visions of Anne spread out beneath him as first his fingers and then his cock had parted her tight little cunt and ravaged her. He imagined the heat and the wetness of her passage, the texture of her springy, black pubic hair against his fingers and cock.

  Anne fumbled trying to get her glove off him, and Brett winced as the scrape of her nail on his skin made his gut clench and his cock grow hotter and harder. He hoped to God she hadn’t noticed how hard he was. He glanced over at Freddy and was met with an identical problem in the other man. His gaze flew up and met Freddy’s hot blue perusal. Freddy knew. Freddy knew what he’d been thinking. At least part of what he’d been thinking. But Brett had worked hard the last five years to make sure Freddy didn’t know that Brett thought about him too.

  Because when Brett was torturing himself with visions of Anne, he’d thrown caution to the wind and let his fantasies about Freddy loose as well. He’d imagined those tight finger holes were both Freddy and Anne, and he was pushing into both of them. He’d never wanted to put his fingers in a man’s arse until Freddy had started parading his around Brett, after Brett was recovered and capable of having sex again. Freddy had offered that gloriously smooth, tight, white arse of his to Brett so often that Brett had worn his teeth down to stubs gritting them against temptation. But he wanted it. Christ, he wanted it. He wanted to shove his fingers—hell, his whole hand—in Freddy until Freddy could take Brett’s cock. And then he wanted to fuck him so hard he cried, and fist that long, hard cock of his. The tempting little bastard.

  Brett looked down at Anne’s hands on him again and a new, raw vision assailed him. He imagined Anne on top of Freddy, Freddy’s cock buried in her cunt, Brett’s fingers buried in her bottom while Brett’s cock filled Freddy’s behind. He gasped and jerked his hand from Anne.

  “I’m sorry,” she said in a panicked rush. “I was just trying to get it off. Did I scratch you?”

  Brett forced himself to take several deep breaths before he spoke. “No, no, I’m all right.” He gently pushed her hands away. “I’ll get it, don’t worry.” He made his hands work slowly, deliberately, calmly as he peeled the rest of the glove off. It was ruined, ruined. Just as he’d ruin them both if given half a chance.

  He looked up at Anne ruefully, at her agitated expression. “I’m sorry, Anne. I’ve ruined your glove. I shall replace it when we get to the village.” The glove had been old, Brett could see that. She needed a new pair. Was this her best pair? He inwardly chastised himself yet again. He should have come to see her, to make sure everything was all right. Because it clearly was not. He never should have allowed things to reach this point, where she couldn’t buy a new dress or a new pair of gloves. She was his responsibility, whether she wanted to be or not. He owed Bertie th
at. And Brett deserved at least that. No more, but at least the right to take care of her.

  “No, really, you don’t need to, Brett,” Anne whispered. She licked her lips and stepped back. “They were old, not my best pair I assure you.”

  Brett doubted that. She would have worn her best pair with them to go to the village. “Nevertheless, I shall replace what I have ruined.”

  Freddy cleared his throat. “Yes, it will be a good place to start. From there you can take us to whatever other shops your errands require, Anne. We were here a few months ago but didn’t have the time to visit everyone in the village. It is kind of you to take us around.”

  Brett gave a half smile at Anne’s consternation. Trust Freddy to make it impossible for her to say no. He really liked that about Freddy.

  Chapter Four

  July 12, 1810

  Anne,

  I should not write these words to you, but I find I have no one else. Some distant family, I suppose, who don’t know me and have no care for me. I think, perhaps, you would care. Am I a fool? The question requires no answer, of course.

  I woke to dreams of Talavera last night. I was sweating as if the fires were licking at my own skin. Then I sat and shook like a palsy victim until, in desperation, I took up pen and paper. And so here I am. As you can see from my handwriting I am still afflicted. But we both know I will never send this letter, Anne.

  Anne, Anne. Your name has become synonymous with home to me. I must force myself not to demand Bertie read your last letter again and again. You and Bertie are all that keep me going. Please write, Anne. Never stop writing.