Page 14 of By Marsh and By Moor (Marsh and Moor #1)

Jed was aching for it. He stuck his hand down Solomon’s breeches, pushing clothes out of the way, finding his cock rock-hard, eager and waiting for him.

Solomon groaned. “Christ, Jed. Fuck—”

Jed closed his eyes, savouring the heavy length of Solomon’s yard in his hand, the grip of Solomon’s long fingers wrapped around him. Solomon’s hand gave a clever twist, and Jed bit his lip over a groan.

He braced one hand against the broad trunk of the nearest tree, and pressed closer to Solomon. They brought each other to the edge with swift, hard strokes.

“Christ, I wish you were driving into me,” Solomon gasped.

Lust flared, firelike, in Jed’s belly, and he came off, unable to stop himself, long, hot waves of pleasure rolling over him.

Solomon dropped his head onto Jed’s shoulder, with a soft, breathy laugh. “God, I needed that.”

They stood there for a long moment, arms about each other, propping each other up. Jed’s pounding heart slowly returned to its usual rhythm. He shut his eyes, breathing in Solomon’s smell, letting himself relax. He found his hand was stroking Solomon’s back, slow and rhythmic.

It was strange to stand here, holding each other, instead of quickly buttoning up and moving away. Strange but good. Funny how well they fit together, like they were meant to be.

Solomon stirred, lifting his head. His lip twitched. “I don’t know about you, but I can’t bring myself to hurry back. Think Mrs Drake will object if we tell her that in future, every delivery will be delayed by a quarter of an hour or so?”

“If I have my way, we’ll need a mint more nor a quarter-hour next time.”

Solomon’s smile broadened. “Is that a promise?”

“You may consider it so.”

Reluctantly, they stepped apart, then found a small stream to tidy up in. As they knelt there side by side, Solomon asked, “Where are you sleeping? It’s a penny a night at the Boar, and there’s plenty of room for another person.”

Jed enjoyed a sudden, pleasant vision of the two of them waking together, as they had at the pithead… But it wouldn’t be fair to Solomon. His head was not in the right place, and he had already taken his temper out on Solomon more than once. Better to be alone.

He realised Solomon was still waiting for an answer.

“Nah, I reckon I’m all right. I’ve a bed at a boarding house.”

“All right,” Solomon said easily, after only a moment’s pause. “Come on, let’s get back before Bill wakes up.”

After they had unloaded the cart at the mill, Solomon and Bill took the packhorses on up into the hills, while Jed drove the cart, laden with reams of broadcloth, back to Barnstaple. The spring sunshine was warm on his shoulders, and he hummed under his breath as he drove.

At Mrs Drake’s yard, the weekly carrier’s cart from Exeter had just come in. Jed drew up alongside, but did not immediately climb down from the driver’s seat. He watched the people gathered around the Exeter carrier, clamouring for the goods and messages they were expecting.

When Jed used to return to Ledcombe with Bess and his cart, half the village would turn out to greet him, eager to collect a parcel or just hear the latest news from the outside world. That evening, Jed always dropped into the village alehouse to share the news he’d picked up along his route.

That happy-go-lucky young man hadn’t had a care in the world. He’d never been started, never been flogged. Never felt a ship’s deck list as the hull filled with water. Never heard the great guns roar, never seen cannonball crash into wooden decking and send splinters flying, raining down death.

Every man must do his duty.

He’d already given five years of his life. Five years of blood and sweat.

He chewed his lip, turning things over in his head. He wanted to dream of Penwick apologising, saying Carrie had convinced him not to have Jed pressed. But he couldn’t even begin to imagine it: the idea that the Squire would kowtow to a man from the village.

Everything seemed rather hopeless. He was counting on the press gang leaving Minehead someday soon, but even after that happened, his troubles would not be over.

Penwick might still find a way to set the law on him, or simply prevent him from finding his horse and cart.

And other carriers had probably expanded into some or all of the routes he used to drive.

A voice intruded into these bitter thoughts. “Here, you, what’s-your-name! Trevithick!” It was the head yardman. “Don’t just sit there. Get that cart unloaded.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” Jed muttered under his breath. He climbed down from the seat and trudged around to the horses’ heads.

The first thing to do was visit this Mr Morgan and discover what had become of his horse and cart.

The following day he had a stroke of good luck.

“Trevithick, you’re going to Heasley Mill,” the head yardman said as soon as Jed arrived at the yard, and raised his voice to call to the man who had just emerged from the stables leading a sturdy piebald packhorse. “Norris, here’s Trevithick to go along o’ you.”

The road to Heasley would take Jed very close to the village where Mr Morgan, Penwick’s man of business, lived. That had to be a good omen, surely.

He and Norris—a taciturn but not unfriendly fellow—set off with a long string of packhorses. After they’d made their delivery, it wasn’t difficult to persuade Norris to stop in High Bray for a drink.

“I have some business to see to,” Jed said. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

He left Norris sitting on the grass outside the alehouse with his mug of porter, the packhorses grazing peacefully beside him.

A village boy gave Jed directions to a smart brick house on the green, where a housemaid showed Jed into a room filled to overflowing with books and papers.

Behind a desk piled high with ledgers, a middle-aged man sat writing.

The young clerk at the corner desk was also scribbling away at something.

“A Mr Trevithick to see you, Mr Morgan,” the housemaid said.

The middle-aged man glanced at Jed. “Take a seat, my good man,” he invited, his pen still moving over the page.

Jed dropped into the chair, settled his hat on his knee, and looked squarely at Mr Morgan.

“I’m here to enquire about certain goods sold when you had Mrs Henry Penwick’s cottage cleared out on the occasion of her marriage.”

Mr Morgan laid down his pen and looked Jed up and down. “Who are you again?”

“My name is Trevithick, sir. I’m Mr Penwick’s brother in-law.”

Mr Morgan raised an eyebrow. “I see.”

Was that a hint of disbelief in his voice? Jed pressed on.

“My horse and cart were sold when my sister married. A draft horse, a bay Clydesdale, fourteen hands, and a four-wheeler with a fixed axle. I’d like to know what became of them.”

“Mr Penwick has said nothing to me about this.”

Jed’s heart sank.

“Can’t you just tell me what happened to my horse and cart, sir? You must have it wrote down in one of your books here.” Surely one of the incomprehensible rows of black-inked loops and lines must hold Bess’s fate.

“No doubt we do, yes.” He made no move to open any of the ledgers. “I’m afraid I can’t be of any use to you, my good man. If I had received word from Mr Penwick, or if you had a letter from him, it would be a different matter. But as things stand—”

Jed gritted his teeth, forcing himself to stay polite. “I beg you to reconsider, sir. It would be a great kindness on your part.”

“I won’t take up any more of your time.” Mr Morgan rang a little bell. “My housemaid will show you out.”

With difficulty, Jed swallowed the angry retorts that rose to his lips. He needed to keep in this fellow’s good graces.

Reluctantly, he stood up. “If you should change your mind, sir, you can find me at—” But he was unwilling to give out his exact whereabouts. Instead, he named an inn whose landlord he was acquainted with from his younger days. “A letter left at the Royal Oak on the Taunton road will find me.”

Mr Morgan’s expression said that he was highly unlikely to be making use of that information.

“This way,” said the housemaid, gesturing at the door to the street.