Page 26 of Provoked

“If France teaches us anything, it is that it’s unwise to crush the people.”

For a moment there was a heavy silence between them, pregnant with turmoil. David’s heart thudded in his chest. Then Balfour shrugged and began to walk again. “In truth, I do not disagree with you on that.”

Surprised by Balfour’s sudden concession, David fell into step beside him, gradually calming, and for a while, they merely walked, David still wondering if Balfour was Lees, and, if he was, what he thought of the result of his actions.

When they turned onto Queen Street, Balfour said, “My house is halfway along.”

The oil lamps in this part of town were more numerous than on the smaller streets, but even so, the light was poor. Nevertheless, when David glanced at Balfour, he was able to tell somehow that the other man was preoccupied. Was it that David’s eyes had grown more used to the dark by now? Or was it something else, more ephemeral and intuitive?

Strange, the clues to a man’s soul. The pitch of Balfour’s hunched shoulders was expressive. Something about his fixed gaze suggested he was looking inward. David turned his own gaze away, giving the man his privacy and retreating into his own thoughts.

Soon enough, they were stopping in front of a tall, thin, grand house, part of a row of tall, thin, grand houses.

“Here we are,” Balfour said, turning to David and giving him a very direct look. “Would you like to come in?”

Although the prospect of such an invitation had crossed David’s mind, he felt a measure of surprise. They had done nothing but argue since they’d left Chalmers’s house, and he rather thought Balfour might’ve decided against extending the evening. As for David, whilst the thought of that night in Stirling had been haunting him ever since, he knew it would be very unwise to seek to reenact it. He made sure never to go with the same man twice, keeping his encounters as anonymous as possible.

And then there was the fact that it seemed Balfour might have some connection to the mysterious Lees.

“I think not,” David said at last, quietly.

“Are you sure?” Balfour said, stepping closer, his voice deep and intimate. “I enjoyed our last time together. I would like to do it again. Wouldn’t you?”

His body brushed against David’s, and David felt as though his whole being had come to life just from that light touch.

Yes, he wanted to do it again. He wanted it more than anything. But that didn’t make it right, and dear God, the man might beLees, responsible for the transportation of Peter MacLennan amongst others, and the deaths of good men.

And wouldn’t it be best to find out for sure?an insidious little voice said inside him.You can’t just walk away now. Go with him.

But of course, Balfour being the direct, unsettling man that he was, offered no pretext for the invitation. If he’d asked David in to drink or talk, David could’ve accepted and told himself it was only polite or that he sought more knowledge of the man. He could’ve allowed the inevitable to happen in manageable increments. But no, Murdo Balfour did not dissemble. He simply told David he wanted him and made him choose.

“I would like to do it again. Wouldn’t you?”

There was no going in that house for any other purpose, or even pretending to do so.

David imagined Balfour’s cock in his mouth, how it would feel to rub his face against the hard, hot flesh and engulf it in his own willing throat. He was hard now, and as the idea took hold of his mind, one of Balfour’s hands pressed against the placket of his breeches, roughly caressing his erection.

“I want you in my mouth this time,” Balfour said raggedly. “And I want to fuck you.”

The first statement felt like a caress. The second, like a splash of cold water in his face. David didn’t allow himself to be fucked. Ever. It was one thing to suck a cock, quite another to let a man penetrate his body. Hypocritical, perhaps, but he needed to maintain some moral fences if he wasn’t to go mad.

“Better not,” he said finally, stepping back and adding truthfully, “I have court tomorrow morning.”

Balfour dropped his hand. He said nothing, his dark eyes searching David’s face, and though David tried to present a calm, indifferent expression, he could tell from the way Balfour watched him that he saw something of David’s turmoil.

“Very well,” he said at last with a sardonic twist of his lips. “As I said, I prefer my pretty boys willing.”

He began to turn away, but David shot out a hand, grabbing him by the elbow, detaining him. “I’m not pretty,” he gritted out. “Or a boy, for that matter. I’m four and twenty.”

Balfour gave him a long look. “You’re a boy all right,” he sneered. “An idealistic, romantic, pretty boy. It’s why your Miss Chalmers is so enamoured with you. Because you’re beautiful, virtuous and utterly unthreatening.” He shook off David’s hand. “But that doesn’t interest me, Mr. Lauriston. I don’t want someone who practically faints when I tell him I want to fuck him. I want someone who knows how to give pleasure and receive it too. So go home, back to your monkish bed, and flagellate yourself for wanting something—someone—you’re not supposed to want. I can easily find someone else just as pretty as you and a great deal more willing.”

Having delivered this speech, Balfour turned on his heel and marched up the steps to rap at the door of his house with his cane. A few moments later, the door creaked open, revealing a footman holding a candle.

Shocked into stillness by Balfour’s verbal assassination, David remained where he stood and watched as Balfour strode into his house without so much as a backward glance.

Only when the footman closed the door did he finally move again, turning towards the Old Town and home.

Chapter Eight