Page 18 of All of Us Murderers

Eleven

He was, lingering in the corridor, his tall frame distinctly more decorative than the wallpaper.

“I’m glad you’re still here,” Zeb said, ushering him in to the bedroom and shutting the door.

He would have liked to flop onto the bed, since he was now feeling the backwash of far too many exhausting interactions.

“Honestly, I’d run screaming into the night if I had the energy.

Are there secret passageways here, do you know?

There must be: my grandfather would never have built a Gothic mansion without them. ”

“Secret—Go back a bit. What was the noise about?”

“Elise saw a ghost in her room, which beckoned her with a skeletal hand,” Zeb explained. “I dare say Hawley would know how to pull that sort of thing off—the theatrical effects, I mean—but I can’t think how he did the disappearing act unless there are secret passages.”

“You think the ghost is Hawley dressing up?”

“It must be him. He was the only one unaccounted for when I saw it, and he didn’t come to see what the noise was about just now.”

“But I saw it too, weeks ago. As have several of the other staff. All well before the family’s arrival.”

“You are joking,” Zeb said.

“No. It’s been something of an issue here. Several people have reported it—various staff members as well as Miss Jessamine, and there’s no pattern of any one person being unaccounted for at its appearances. People are unnerved. The housemaid is genuinely afraid.”

Zeb gaped at him. Gideon, apparently misinterpreting his reaction, added, “I’m not saying it’s real.

I’m saying it’s cleverly done, persistent, and predates Hawley’s arrival.

I told Wynn about it, since frightening people strikes me as a rather unwholesome hobby.

Unfortunately, he believes quite sincerely in the family ghost, and also fears that Miss Jessamine has become a little too interested in the topic. ”

“He’s not wrong.”

“So he ordered me in so many words not to speak of it. Not to deny it, because that would be untrue, but also not to discuss what I saw, or speculate on the subject. That has left me in a rather awkward position.”

“Not just you,” Zeb said. “I see that you didn’t feel you could talk about it, but I thought it was Hawley, and told Dash it was Hawley, and he has just gone to confront bloody Hawley, which I expect he will do with the words Zeb said it was you.”

“Oh,” Gideon said. “Oh, hell’s teeth.”

“Hawley told me not to get in his way,” Zeb said hollowly. “He’s bound to think I’m stirring up trouble for him, and he’ll talk to Wynn, and…oh my God.”

“He can’t do that tonight: Wynn has retired to bed. And Hawley is a late riser, so you can be gone before he gets up. I’ll order the motor first thing. I realise you made a promise, but under the circumstances—”

“I made a promise on the clear understanding that I would not be marrying Jessamine, and then Wynn all but ordered me to propose to her, in front of her. I really don’t know what the devil he was playing at tonight. I suppose his mind is becoming clouded.”

“He seems sharp enough to me,” Gideon said with a frown.

“But his behaviour is awfully erratic. And it’s got me in a lot of trouble, which is about to get a great deal worse.”

“Zeb—” Gideon stepped towards him, extending a reassuring hand, then pulled it back with a jolt. It was how he’d used to reach for Zeb in times of trouble, an instinctive movement, deep in the body. Zeb understood that, because the instinct to reach for Gideon now was engraved into his bones.

They stared at each other for a second. Gideon cleared his throat. “I’ll have the chauffeur ready and waiting for eight o’clock. I dare say Hawley will spew his malice but you won’t be here to hear it.”

“Right. Good. Thank you.” He was just a few feet away, so close. They were both still in evening dress and Gideon did look good in evening dress. He looked good in anything; he always had.

Zeb wanted him so much.

He’d never stopped wanting him, over the past year.

He’d had better-looking lovers before and since, and more skilled ones, and certainly easier ones to get on with, and none of them had mattered a damn by comparison because none of them had been Gideon.

And it probably wasn’t sensible, or possible, or even fair, but they were here together, against all the odds, and he had to try.

“Look,” he said. “Could we, perhaps—when you’re back in London—could I see you again?

I have missed you awfully, and it was good to talk, and I know I got things horribly wrong before so I quite understand you’re still angry, but I’d very much like to make amends, if I could.

If you want.” He sounded pathetically hopeful in his own ears.

Gideon hesitated. “I’m not coming back to London for the foreseeable future. I can’t leave this job. I literally can’t afford to.”

“Then may I write to you here? Or was that a polite rejection? Not that you owe me a polite rejection. You could tell me to sod off and I’d have no grounds to argue. Only, you didn’t, so was it a rejection?”

Gideon shut his eyes, possibly in despair. “God damn it, Zeb. What’s the point of this? You have to go. I have to stay.”

“Yes,” Zeb said. “But we could have tonight.”

Gideon opened his eyes at that. Zeb said, “Just tonight. No obligations. It doesn’t have to mean anything if you don’t want it to. But I missed you.”

Gideon didn’t speak at all for a moment. He looked almost blank, as if he didn’t quite understand.

Then he grabbed Zeb by the lapels, shoved him back against the wall in a couple of stumbling steps, and kissed him.

Zeb grabbed him back, pulling him in. Gideon’s mouth was urgent, as forceful as Zeb felt, and he was fisting Zeb’s lapels, dragging him close, kissing him with frantic need.

Zeb clutched his hair, his strong shoulder, then his arse, tugging their hips together, wanting all of Gideon’s touch he’d deprived himself of over the past year, for which he’d never found an adequate substitute.

Gideon’s mouth stilled, and he pulled back, leaving Zeb’s lips wet and bereft. Zeb stared up, praying he wasn’t going to change his mind, and Gideon moved his hands gently up Zeb’s lapels, took hold of the cloth on both sides, and shoved his jacket down over his shoulders.

Well, all right then.

Gideon had one knee up, trapping Zeb against the wall with his body. He used that position to jerk the sleeves down, without Zeb’s aid, and tossed the jacket to one side. He didn’t stop watching Zeb’s face. He didn’t speak.

He unbuttoned Zeb’s waistcoat, eased that off, discarded it. He slid his hand down the front to Zeb’s shirt, with its wretched fiddly studs.

“Just pull,” Zeb said. “I won’t be wearing it again.”

Gideon paused, and then he did it. He pulled hard, with both hands, wrenching the sides of the shirt apart, sending fastenings flying. He shoved the shirt down over Zeb’s shoulders, to his forearms, and stopped there. “Damn.”

Zeb still had cuff links in, so the sleeves wouldn’t go over his hands. The cloth of his shirt was tangled behind his back, restricting his arms. “Leave it,” he said.

“Your hands are caught.”

“Leave it.”

Gideon inhaled, a little hiccupy noise. Zeb licked his lips. “Touch me.”

Gideon spanned Zeb’s chest with his hands, sliding them up and down the bare skin, circling Zeb’s nipples with his thumbs, running his fingers through the sparse hair. Zeb stood, bare-chested, fiercely erect, arms trapped, as Gideon explored. It was quite hard to breathe now.

When Gideon looked up at last, the hunger in his eyes was a physical shock.

“You are beautiful,” he said, voice so low it vibrated. “Beautiful as ever, you scruffy, ridiculous stray cat of a man. God damn it, Zeb. What do you want?”

Zeb didn’t know what he wanted, and if he did know, he wasn’t sure he wanted to know. “Whatever you’re doing, keep doing it.”

Gideon’s hands moved to Zeb’s waistband, making short work of fastenings, working around his painful erection without touching, and pushing his drawers and trousers down round his ankles.

Zeb kicked off his shoes, then the clothing, which left him in socks, suspenders, and shirtsleeves round his wrists.

Somehow, he felt a lot more naked than if he’d been completely stripped.

Gideon, in impeccable evening dress down to the polished shoes, stepped back and looked him up and down.

“You look disgraceful,” he said softly. “I missed you so much. And I missed—”

He closed the distance again and his fingers wrapped possessively around Zeb’s prick. Zeb whimpered. He couldn’t help it.

Gideon’s fingers tightened, not stroking but squeezing Zeb’s shaft, the touch pulsing through him. It was something he’d always liked doing, toe-curlingly good, and Zeb was liable to come in his hand if this went on.

Gideon gazed at him a moment longer. Then he tugged with his lower hand.

Zeb had frequently been led by his prick, but it had always been a metaphor before now.

He followed Gideon because he had no choice, away from the wall, constricted and dreamlike.

Gideon moved around behind him and wrapped his free hand round Zeb’s waist, pulling him in, holding him tight.

Zeb’s arms were constrained by Gideon’s and by the entangling shirt.

Pliant in Gideon’s arms, held in his grip, just for tonight. It was very nearly unbearable. He wondered if Gideon’s harsh breath was only arousal, or if he felt the same desperate longing for everything they’d lost.

Gideon kissed his neck. “Talk to me, Zeb.”

“You talk. I talk too much.”

“You do not,” Gideon said. “I missed you talking. Although…” His free hand came up, stroking Zeb’s neck, his jaw. He thumbed Zeb’s lower lip, pushing it down, slid the thumb inside. “If you did want to use your mouth…?”

“Mph,” Zeb said in urgent if incoherent agreement.

Gideon released his grip. He pulled Zeb round to face him, and leaned back against the bedpost.