Soulless, page 2
"Mr. Robinson. Thank you for welcoming me into your home." Despite Ulwin's faintly foreign manner, his English was unaccented. "Once again, I apologize for this odd hour. Alas, I am the devoted son of an ailing father. Though he is bedridden, he has read of your lovely little village of Maidenstone. His fondest hope is to make these rolling hills and green pastures his final home. And as for the splendor called Grantley...." Ulwin halted in midsentence, taking in Nicholas's study as if the smoke-stained wallpaper and tatty furnishings were nothing short of magnificent. "It's no exaggeration to say this house is the answer to my father's prayers."
"Yes, well, I fear the man's prayers are poor indeed," Nicholas said, taking another sip of port, "if a heap of stone and an ancient farm are sufficient answer."
Ulwin's smile didn't falter. His black eyes stayed on Nicholas, the stare as distinctly un-British as his heel-clicking bow: bold, demanding, intrusive.
He's heard, Nicholas thought. This is the alpha, then, come to cow the weaker male.
But even as the supposition crossed Nicholas's mind, his more rational side, ever-untouched by alcohol, disagreed. Ulwin exuded no hostility, no menace. If the notion wasn't utterly nonsensical, Nicholas might almost have believed he sought to—well, ingratiate himself in some suggestive, almost obscene way, as a man might ingratiate himself to a woman. Surely that was impossible. Still, when Nicholas spoke, his discomfort was obvious. "You have a queer stare, sir."
Ulwin kept smiling, but his dark eyes widened. Whatever he'd expected, Nicholas's response fell wide of the mark.
"So I'm told. Forgive me. No doubt I have spent too much time on the Continent, and their curious ways infected my own. I intend no offense, Mr. Robinson. And please believe me when I assure you my father's prayers are humble, yet genuine. As are mine. We are but simple folk, touched by fortune rather than gentility."
It cost Nicholas some effort to puzzle out what the smiling fool meant by that last statement. Was it a stab at the Robinson pedigree, which included a duke and an Italian countess by marriage? Did Ulwin mean to imply that he and his father were men of the people, whatever that dubious phrase meant?
"Let me add, Mr. Robinson—I know the sale of Grantley can be no easy decision. Leaving your home, depriving the villagers of their beloved ancestral lord," Ulwin continued, putting a hand on Nicholas's chair and leaning in so only a few inches separated their faces. This was inexcusably close, Continental manners or no. And still he stared directly into Nicholas's face, that strange gaze growing ever darker, more insistent, more penetrating....
Nicholas yawned pointedly. This time, his reward was abject disbelief on Ulwin's face. Was the man such an inveterate charmer, his methods of flattery never failed?
"Leaving one's home may be blessing or curse. As for the people of Maidenstone...." Nicholas drained his glass and set it aside. He knew he sounded tipsy, but didn't care. "Why do you believe they would mourn to see me depart? Have they confided their grief in you? Expressed what the putative loss of one Mr. Nicholas Robinson will mean to them?"
Ulwin looked uncomfortable. He didn't like the question, which Nicholas's rational side knew was ridiculously contentious, or he was frustrated by his inability to inspire goodwill.
"The villagers have... spoken of you," Ulwin said, running a hair through his hair. It curled slightly above the ears but was otherwise straight, combed back from a high forehead. "Of your heroism. And your suffering."
"Indeed?" Nicholas's pleasant inebriation disappeared. "Tell me. What did they say?"
Pressing his lips together, Ulwin transmitted a wordless message. I could answer, but you would not wish it.
"Speak," Nicholas snapped. "If you want this interview to continue, pray, please go on."
Chapter Two
Ulwin didn't seem to know how to proceed. He was truly mystified, that much was plain, either by Nicholas's lack of pliability or by Ulwin's failure to charm what he'd no doubt been assured was an easy target.
"Haven't I the right to hear what stories my people carry to strangers?" Nicholas persisted. "The tale of woe Maidenstone attaches to one Nicholas Robinson?"
"Very well. I heard you went out with a riding party, a few years past," Ulwin said. "Your brother-in-law—I believe he was called Peyton—took point. His horse was a bad-tempered stallion, newly-purchased and much prized. Some evil humor overtook the beast. When it reared and bolted, a tree branch swept Peyton from the saddle. He was dragged, boot caught in the stirrup, as the stallion galloped away."
It was true. Nicholas could still see it, clear as yesterday: John's head bobbing obscenely as it struck first the turf, then the two-lane track, then the shrubbery. Nicholas had grown up with John Peyton, taking supper with John's family countless times, spending many a boyish night in the Peyton house long before he began courting John's younger sister, Lydia. Bold, daring John always purchased the most spirited horses, viewing their resistance as a sign of worth. But the stallion called Storm-Born had been far from worthy. He'd fought the saddle, stamping, bucking, and cutting his mouth to ribbons on the bit. And finally one day, Storm-Born reared over nothing, unseating John by racing under a branch. John's boot heel had twisted in the stirrup, making it impossible for him to free himself. Transforming a dangerous predicament into an almost certainly deadly one.
"And?" Nicholas waited for Ulwin to continue. If this handsome, pseudo-European sycophant tried to prevaricate, Nicholas would turn him out at once, the sale of Grantley be damned.
A less supremely confident guest might have backed away. Ulwin, hand still on the back of Nicholas's chair, did not. So close, Nicholas saw the man's black eyes were flecked with gold.
"I'm told you galloped alongside the stallion. Caught its bridle. When it reared again, you were pulled from your mount. As you fell, you freed your brother-in-law's foot, releasing him." Ulwin's smile faded. "Then the beast trampled you."
"So it did. What more?"
Ulwin ran his hand through his hair again. "Mr. Robinson, have mercy. Would you have it precisely as I heard it, in the public house?"
"I would."
Ulwin sighed. Releasing his grip on the chair at last, he stood up straight, crossing his arms over his chest. "They say it's a miracle you survived. You were crippled, of course. And your other wounds were... well. Too severe to discuss."
"Indeed? Do you mean to tell me, over pints of ale in a public house, the brutal truth was presented to you with such delicacy, Mr. Ulwin?" Nicholas smirked, enjoying the other man's discomfort. "That according to village drunkards and inveterate gossips, my wounds were too shocking for polite company?"
He and Ulwin glared at each other. Ulwin looked deeply vexed. Nicholas, by contrast, was having the most fun he'd had in weeks.
Ulwin took a deep breath. When he spoke at last, his voice was flat, unsympathetic. "Your lower half was broken. To stop the worst injuries from festering, the village doctor castrated you. Then, when you did not die, he ran away with your wife."
Nicholas found himself smiling. For years, he'd existed in a torturous limbo where everyone knew his most intimate secrets, yet no one dared speak them to his face. He was meant to be grateful. Instead, it made him furious, frustrated, as he was incapable of striking out as he so desperately wanted. And the irony that this feeling could best be described as "impotence" was not lost on him.
"Let me correct you on one point," Nicholas said. "It was the stallion, Storm-Born, that castrated me. Dr. Graham merely cut away the ruined flesh. As for the other details, including Dr. Graham's egress with my former wife, you're quite right, sir. But you seem ill at ease. Come now, Mr. Ulwin. In all your travels on the Continent, am I the first eunuch to make your acquaintance?"
"Far from it. In point of fact, I've known many eunuchs over the years," Ulwin said, still looking uncomfortable. "But none so malicious or bad-tempered as you."
Nicholas laughed. "Have no cause for alarm. My new physician assures me I am no longer capable of true rage, any more than I am capable of true lust. But anger, bitterness, and cruelty?" Nicholas shrugged. "Ask any woman, no bollocks required. Sir—sit. Be at home, I beg you. Take some port."
"With gratitude." Ulwin took in the nearest chair, a leather wingback. "May I confide something in you, Mr. Robinson?"
"Call me Nicholas."
"Nicholas." Ulwin flashed a sudden grin—wide, uninhibited, animalistic. "In all the years I've acted as my father's agent, never has an interview gone so wrong."
"Yes, well, doubtless you never dealt with so recalcitrant a subject. But remember, I am the only eunuch for at least a hundred miles." Rising, Nicholas limped to the drinks cabinet where the decanted wine waited, pouring them each a glass. "It's my solemn duty to shock newcomers."
Handing Ulwin his glass, Nicholas returned to his seat, stretching his aching legs toward the fire. Storm-Born's hooves had broken his pelvis in two places, snapped one femur, and cracked both kneecaps. By the time Nicholas regained enough consciousness to realize the full extent of his injuries—he'd lost not only his health, but his manhood—the ache in his bones had kept him grounded. It was impossible to imagine oneself in a waking nightmare when the pain was so very real.
"Usually I never drink wine." Ulwin took a small sip of port. "Yet this evening I consider it very welcome. Regarding your... unfortunate history. Might I trouble you for one last detail?"
Nicholas nodded, looking forward to the question. Perhaps he was even beginning to enjoy Ulwin's company. Distraction was priceless. In his early days as a cripple, Nicholas had thrown tantrums. Wept, cursed God, even burnt a Bible in the great room hearth, shoveling coal atop the book when its oilskin cover wouldn't catch alight. But now, four years hence, he'd learned to exist almost entirely within the confines of his skull. He could no longer hunt, fish, ride, or sample the joys of the flesh. He would father no child, nor grow old with the satisfaction of seeing his family name carried on. So any diversion from the hell of his own thoughts was a blessing indeed. "Mr. Ulwin...."
"Bancroft," Ulwin interrupted. "Or Ban, as most call me."
"Ban. We've progressed beyond the mere civilities. Ask me whatever you wish," Nicholas said, and meant it.
"After all you suffered, I merely wondered. How fares your brother-in-law, Peyton?"
"Dead."
"Ah."
"Yes." Nicholas looked into his wineglass. He didn't feel sad. He didn't feel anything, except guilt, white as lime and grinning like a deaths-head whenever he closed his eyes. Men feared pain and sadness more than anything in the world, but it was guilt that endured, outlasting all, impervious to decay.
"Though I freed his boot from the stirrup, his skull was cracked," Nicholas continued. "He died within the day. And my father-in-law shot Storm-Born in the head, or so they told me. After being crippled, not to mention the loss of my dearest friend and my wife, I felt no special vindication to hear the stallion was dead. But I suppose we must accept such vengeance as Fate affords."
Ulwin leaned forward, mouth quirking up on one side. "The villagers call you a man of letters. Of higher learning. Of science." His black, gold-flecked eyes met Nicholas's. "Do you truly imagine Fate affords us vengeance? That Fate intervenes in the lives of men?"
"Not at all," Nicholas said. "A figure of speech. Nothing more."
Ulwin appeared to digest that. "So. In your view, Fate cares nothing for the individual man? She concerns herself only with nations or the very great men? Or do you mean to suggest, sir, there is no such thing as Fate?"
Nicholas smiled. Theological debates were especially good, even when the word "God" was never uttered. He took a sip of wine to fortify himself.
"Mr. Ulwin—Ban. This is what I believe. Storm-Born reared because he needed gelding. John Peyton died because he struck his head once too often. I am both eunuch and cripple because I lacked the strength to overpower a stallion. Fate, Providence, God Himself—none arranged the consequences of my misadventure. Indeed, none exist, except in the minds of the superstitious and ignorant."
As Ulwin appeared to consider Nicholas's frank heresy, he held the glass of port away from his body. As if it, like his host, might prove contaminated, or as if he, in truth, despised the taste.
"You're a rare man," Ulwin said at last. "One willing to set his personal philosophy against.... Well. What mankind has revered as absolute truth for centuries."
"Never mind mankind and its follies. Tell me about yourself, Ban. Are you a devout Christian?" Nicholas asked, doubting it. The lines around Ulwin's eyes, the deep creases across his brow, signaled either privation or dissolution. Surely the man's harsh masculinity owed either to youthful disasters—horrors he hid beneath his genial façade—or to an overabundance of gambling, drink, and whores.
"Alas. I am not. I haven't set foot on hallowed ground in ages." Ulwin inclined his head. "Yet do not mistake me. I am a great believer in the unseen. In mystery," he said, voice gaining another dimension.
In spite of himself, Nicholas shivered. He tried to pull his gaze away, but was held fast, like a magnet caught by an opposite polarity.
What's happening to me?
Now that Nicholas was no longer on intellectual guard against Ulwin, now that his fresh glass had worked its magic, he found himself captivated by Ulwin's eyes. They were truly black—not merely dark brown framed by sooty lashes but ebony, so dark the pupils turned invisible. And in the midst of that blackness, motes of gold winked like stars....
"Nicholas. Your gaze has turned candid." Ulwin's voice was soft, soothing. "Do you find some fault with me? My address? My costume? Myself, as it were?"
Nicholas let out his breath. Once, when he was barely seventeen with just a sprinkling of hair on his chin, a Parisian whore had addressed him in similar fashion. Seated in a theater a few yards from the floor show, Nicholas had been contemplating the whore's figure, the creamy swell above her jet-beaded corset, when suddenly she appeared beside his table, demanding explication.
"Young gentleman, why do you stare?" she asked in thickly accented English.
"I-I...." he stammered.
"Is it my face?" She indicated rouged cheeks and kohl-rimmed eyes. "My hair?" Henna-dyed curls bounced on her shoulders. "Or something else?" Slapping her generous hips, she vamped in time to the accordion, full thighs rubbing together in a way Nicholas found irresistible. Some women were nothing but bones and nerve. This one was filled with good humor and suet, a combination he much preferred.
"All of you," Nicholas had whispered.
Delighted, the whore had plopped on his lap, spreading her legs and rubbing herself against the tent in his trousers. Meanwhile, her soft lips found his Adam's apple, kissing him until he nearly plunged over the edge. The crowd, including his own turncoat friends from university, clapped and hooted, effusive in their approval. Unable to say no, Nicholas had followed the whore upstairs, losing his virginity and three pounds sterling in a single transaction.
Bancroft Ulwin is a beautiful man, Nicholas thought, ashamed. If he climbed astride me in similar fashion, I would melt just as readily. How starved I must be. I've never sinned thus, never craved a man in the way God Himself forbids. Why entertain such perversity now, when I can only offend between my ears?
"Nicholas?"
Ulwin's voice brought Nicholas back to reality. His eye stung. His ears buzzed. What was happening? Could he already be so drunk, after four years of quaffing spirits like water?
"Forgive me." Nicholas blinked. "Of what were we speaking?"
"Fault, of course." Ulwin flashed that broad, white-toothed grin. "I asked what fault you find with me."
"None." Nicholas sighed, trying to cover the sound with a smile. "In truth, I find you very much the lord of the manor. Should I sell you Grantley, I don't doubt you'll make a go of it. But tell me, Ban. Have you a wife? Children?"
"An intriguing question." Rising, Ulwin moved slowly to stand beside Nicholas again, once more gripping the chair's back. "Would you wish me married?"
"I can scarcely imagine it." Nicholas heard his voice from what sounded like leagues away. This was a dream; that was the only rational explanation. He'd fallen asleep by the fire and none of this was real. In which case, his recognition of Ulwin's male beauty, the firmness of his jaw, those gold-flecked eyes and that tall, straight figure was perfectly forgivable. In waking life, no male was permitted to consider his fellow man alluring. But in the realm of dreams, surely a eunuch could commit a blatant sin or two.
"Truly? You judge me not the sort of man to take a wife?" Ulwin's tone was teasing.
"Of course not," Nicholas said, blissfully honest. "A country baronet I may be, but I've been to university. I know your sort."
"Do you?" In one blurred motion, Ulwin dropped to a knee. Both hands clasped Nicholas's, the touch as hard and cool as river stone. "Enlighten me."
"You're bent. A sodomite." Surely Nicholas was dreaming if he spoke with such wild abandon, spewing the sort of casual honesty not even his worst enemy deserved. "But I'm safe from you. I have nothing to offer."
Ulwin grinned, feral in the depths of his eyes. "Do you not? I see one warm, wet hole between red lips. Wouldn't you love to taste my cock? Welcome it with your tongue?"
Nicholas gasped. He was dreaming. Dreaming....
"After that, I'll put you on your belly." Ban's long, cool fingers played over Nicholas's hand in a delicate yet startlingly intimate fashion. "Grease my staff and plow between your cheeks. Tell me the truth. Has any man filled you?"
"No," Nicholas whispered.
"I'm quite large." Ban's mouth found Nicholas's ear, his tongue tracing the lobe wetly, obscenely. "You'll scream before I'm done. Scream and pray for release."
Nicholas tried to order Ulwin out, to condemn such filth with every fiber of his being. Instead he lifted his chin. Awaiting the kiss he feared he couldn't deny, he shivered when Ulwin cupped his face with both hands.
"I want you. I need you," Ulwin said, looking deeply into Nicholas's eyes. "I need Grantley, too. Sell it to me. Tonight."
