Page 23 of Burying Venus

As Dermot walked towards him, careful to hide his erection, Thorne’s eyes darkened, lips seemingly growing redder until the man looked to be the devil incarnate. Dermot passed the plate to him and gasped when soft fingers brushed against his own coarse hands. He fled as soon as he was able, hurrying back to Robert with the feeling he’d be overcome were he to stay a moment longer.

‘Dermot, now we are all here, please recite the day’s events. Feel free to have a few potatoes and even, at my pleasure, a piece of pie,’ Robert said, patting the chair again.

All Dermot could think as he took his seat was that yapping like a lady’s miniature dog would hardly have been out of place. At the kind charity of his master, he dared to take the potatoes and even went so far as to select some vegetables. As Robert had said, he survived mostly on scraps and gruel.

‘Am I correct in understanding that the accused in your possession are aunt and nephew?’ Thorne said, not having touched the beef brought at his behest.

Looking to Robert, Dermot saw the man already tearing into the innards of an unknowable number of animals, coiled together in death as they had been divided in life, and knew his part in the play had come.

‘Yes,’ Dermot said, continuing only when Thorne raised one finely shaped eyebrow. ‘We found them on a hunting trip. I was accompanying Lord Robert, Lord Tristan, and Lord Aubrey…’

‘We do not need your autobiography,’ Weston said, well into his meal. ‘Please, the events as they transpired and no more.’

Patronising words bravely flung at the man telling the tale, one paid such a paltry sum that his doing nothing would be entirely warranted, left Dermot grinding his teeth. Bits of potato skin languished between them, torn to shreds in his vexation. Only when he noticed the witchfinder’s steady, unblinking eyes fixed on him was that same blaze doused by desire.

‘We came to the nephew in the forest, and he ran to his aunt. We apprehended them,’ Dermot said, quite taken by the roast potatoes. Never before had he eaten them hot.

‘I think that quite natural. Was my partner not saying so before? It is often the matriarch of the family that teaches the rest. We men are not prone to such things naturally. It is only a country boy, a rowdy creature, with witch’s blood in his veins that might take an interest,’ Weston said. His voice softened somewhat as he nodded to Thorne, and Dermot realised he too was entranced. Watching their interaction keenly, Dermot observed Thorne curl a strand of hair around his finger, tongue running the length of his upper lip, and realised the witchfinder was not quite so ignorant as to his effect on men.

‘Dermot,’ Thorne said abruptly. ‘Did they say something in their native language that you could understand? A curse of some sort or an unnatural moving of the lips, perhaps.’

A surge of pleasure struck him, making him shiver as his body was set asunder. Such rapture he’d known only through Maldred’s hands. Falling back, Dermot gulped down the last of some carrots. His back hit the chair hard.

‘They did! The old whore cursed us in our own language, no natives required. Didn’t she, Dermot? Robert?’ Tristan said, voice muffled somewhat by the pheasant in his mouth, gravy streaming down his chin.

Lord Stanley said nothing to chastise his son, chewing on the same helping of food that doubtless had already been churned to paste. His eyes watched the table, fogged over and lifeless.

Only Weston seemed to understand something was amiss. Gawking slightly and inching towards Thorne, he said, ‘What exactly was this curse?’

Tristan laughed and, enjoying Weston’s burgeoning horror, raised his goblet so red wine sloshed over the brim and onto white cloth. ‘Curse you, she said!’ He giggled like a child, rocking back on his chair in a fit of mania.

‘Brother,’ Aubrey said. This mere whisper brought about a sudden headache, and Dermot pushed himself forward so he could clutch the table.

‘Lord Robert,’ Weston said haltingly, ‘I think your brother has had too much to drink.’

Robert chewed contentedly on a slice of pie, reaching for his own wine glass. ‘Dermot, would you continue on to our examination in the dungeon?’

As every effort had been made to suppress rather than fantasise, Dermot could recall the torture to no great degree. His mind went through the motions in nightmares, but only because it was the cause of his problems with Will. Frightened by Aubrey’s effect on him, he looked instead to Thorne. Lust coiled around him like a viper, and he could not help but let out a fairly amorous groan.

Thorne, who had been cutting his beef, noticed Dermot’s eyes on him immediately. With the witchfinder’s full attention, Dermot reached his peak. His body pulsated almost against his will, toes curling, as every conceivable fantasy involving himself and Thorne flitted through his mind. A telltale wetness seeped from his cock; he had just spurted on his breaches.

‘Thorne,’ he murmured. At once his senses cleared, and he noticed the sombre black coat and blazing silver on the man’s chest. ‘Oh, God.’

‘Do not take the Lord’s name in vain,’ Thorne said. He was entirely unaware the man who should’ve felt most demeaned was himself.

‘My most sincere apologies, Mr Thorne. I did not think,’ Dermot said, coming back to himself. Never had he thought himself capable of such a thing. He looked to Robert, who gave no indication of having noticed, and sat back in his chair.

Thorne sneered and continued playing with his food. ‘My father was a vicar, you see, and I have been raised in a God-fearing home. The Lord is always with me, so I pray you mind your tongue.’

What this omnipresent god thought of his witchfinder being used roughly in another man’s mind was unknowable, but Dermot relished it all the same. The son of a vicar was yet another fantasy for his bed. He no longer cared if Will heard him reach his pleasure, bound as the three of them were to their scant chamber.

‘Will you carry on, Dermot? I’ve almost finished my helping of pie, and I dare say I’ve indulged more than I should have,’ Robert said.

Disturbed by everyone’s eyes on him and racking his mind for something innocuous, Dermot said, ‘Lord Robert found a mole on the boy, a mark.’ Only on seeing Thorne clutch at his charm did Dermot realise he had sent his countryman to the grave. ‘Oh, no, maybe…’ he fluttered.

‘Precisely right,’ Robert said, pushing an empty plate to the side. ‘It was then I went to pen a missive to yourself, my good man. Knowing we cannot be too careful. Indeed, it was my worry the aunt in question was given to revolutionary ideas.’

‘My word,’ Weston said, having recovered from his earlier shock. ‘Could such a thing be happening here? I myself observed some of the men and women we dealt with being of that sort. What a worry for your family.’