Lord Finch took his usual walk along the top of the inner wall after breakfast, glancing down now and then to see how the rose garden was doing, but his mind was on the fact that someone had actually tried to kill him – as well as on the man who had been sent to do the deed. He felt no animosity towards the assassin, but he was certainly curious. What little he had heard of John Reese's past evoked images of stealth, cunning, and violence; and while Lord Finch avoided the last item as much as possible, he had to admit that it was all very interesting, even exciting. He was not yet ready to admit that the rippling muscles and mischievously twinkling eyes of John Reese might have more to do with his interest in the man than his colorful life.

Sir Donnelley had recommended (after he had gotten over his disappointment about not feeding the prisoner to the dragon) that they pretend to have found the assassin dead in the trap, so that Count Snow would not know that they knew of his plot. Since Fusco needed to be fed, anyway, he ordered the guards to take half of a steer carcass and cut it up – just as they might have done to a thief's body that had fallen on the Spikes of Death – and load it onto a wagon. From Lord Finch's vantage point on the wall, he could see the wagon winding along the trail to the dragon's lair, where twin wisps of smoke wafted out on the early morning breeze. Fusco, at least, would benefit from their ruse.

As he turned to go back into the castle, Lord Finch could hear the chambermaids chatting over the laundry. He was invisible to them where he was standing, up on the ramparts, but their voices echoed off of the stone walls and were quite clearly audible to him.

"...so he's tall, dark, and handsome, but it won't do anyone any good," Zoe was saying in obvious disgust. "He's one of those queers – I offered to show him a good time, but he just smiled and lay back down!"

"Maybe it's because he'd just been whipped; maybe he was just too sore to go for a romp in the hay," one of the other chambermaids suggested.

"Or maybe he just likes his women young," said a very pert young girl. This remark was followed by such an outcry and commotion that Lord Finch peered over the edge of the ramparts (something he did not normally care to do, for he was not fond of heights) to see Zoe and the girl tussling on the ground, the laundry tubs overturned and the wet clothes being scattered everywhere. Several of the guards rushed over to break up the catfight, but not before the courtyard had been turned into a messy morass of mud, which was plastered liberally over both of the shrieking women.

"Very interesting..." Lord Finch murmured to himself as he scurried back inside the castle. He meant the fact that John Reese had turned down a "romp in the hay," so to speak, with Zoe – who, while not a young woman anymore, was still quite attractive. "But just because he's not interested in her, doesn't mean that he's not interested in all women," he reminded himself as he entered his dressing room. "And even if he were, that doesn't mean that he's... attracted to men." With a mental shake, Lord Finch forced himself to look at his reflection in the large mirror. He saw a middle-aged man past the prime of life, coddled with too much good food and wine (as his slightly rotund waist indicated), with a shock of fine, wispy hair that was threatening to recede and then disappear altogether.

He also forced himself to recall the physique of the assassin: broad shoulders, long limbs, capable-looking hands, and deep-set eyes that still caught the light and twinkled with wit and intelligence. His chest had been lean and muscular, covered in smooth, tanned skin, and his back (under the bloody marks left by the whip) was shapely in a long, masculine V. Remembering how the man had smiled made Lord Finch shudder, but not with loathing.

"Such an attractive man must surely have his choice of women. Perhaps his tastes are too refined to sleep with just any old chambermaid. Or perhaps... he really is so sore from the whipping that he couldn't entertain such a thought... I do hope she tended to his wounds properly... and remembered to give him a clean shirt... and some breakfast..."

Thinking of the clean shirt reminded Lord Finch that the man would be washed up and more presentable now, and (since Sir Donnelley was not around to dissuade him) he decided to go down and check on the prisoner once more – just to make sure that he was being treated agreeably, of course.

The two soldiers standing guard outside the cell door let him in without comment, and Lord Finch slipped in to find John Reese sleeping on the hard wooden slab along the wall. He was lying on his stomach (his back covered in bandages) with his head turned sideways on the clean tunic, which he had folded to serve as his pillow. For a long moment after the cell door had closed behind him, Lord Finch simply stared at the sleeping man's face: observing the long, straight ridge of his nose; the dark, full lashes that lined his eyes; and the faint creases around his mouth, which would deepen whenever he smiled. He hadn't been allowed to shave (no doubt Sir Donnelley had vetoed the idea of giving the assassin a razor) but the light stubble on his chin and cheeks only gave him a mildly roguish air. He looked so peaceful and innocent, in fact, that Lord Finch jumped in surprise when he spoke.

"Good day, my Lord. To what do I owe the honour?"

"Well... ah... I'm sorry to have awoken you," he began, trying to calm his heart as it thudded in his throat. "I, uh... I was just checking to see... just to make sure, you know, that your wounds were properly tended to. I... I'm so sorry about that. I should have stopped them before they even started."

John Reese slowly opened his eyes to regard the other man with a thoughtful expression.

"I would have preferred that, too. You might have guessed that I wouldn't give up any information since I knew I would only be killed as soon as I did. Although I suppose if your soldiers had kept whipping me, there would have come a point when I would have preferred to die."

There was no accusation in the man's tone, but Lord Finch felt as though his heart (which had only just settled back down where it belonged) had been skewered with a sword.

"Yes... I suppose you're right. And I'm sincerely sorry to have put you through... so much pain."

John Reese's face curled into a wry smile.

"There's no need to apologize, Lord Finch. After all, I was going to kill you. Although if I'd had my way, I would have used a poison to let you slip away, painlessly, in your sleep."

"Oh," Lord Finch responded, considering this. "That's... That's very... humane of you."

"I do try," John said, languidly moving up into a sitting position. "So many hired assassins enjoy their work too much, I think... They give the rest of us a bad name."

"Ah... yes, I suppose so..." Lord Finch mumbled, his attention riveted on the other man's chest, which – while crisscrossed with bandages – was nevertheless a thing of beauty.

"Did you come all the way down here to... check me out?" John asked with a knowing twinkle in his eyes, the corners of his lips twitching.

"I, uh... well, that, and ah... I wanted to let you know, we're going about as though you'd been killed – by the trap, you know," he replied, having some difficulty concentrating. "That way Count Snow won't know that we know that he knows... that is, that he was trying to assassinate me. Or that he's planning to start an uprising against the King."

"Good plan. Then what?" John prodded, his unwavering gaze slightly unnerving Lord Finch.

"Ah... well, I'm hopeful that my people will capture the woman assassin you described... and then... ah... well, um... I'm not sure..."

"If you'd like for my opinion, you should hire an assassin to take out Snow," John calmly stated. "Problem solved. As easy as that."

"Oh... Oh, I see... and I suppose... you would be the perfect assassin to carry that out?" Lord Finch inquired, his brain finally kicking into gear.

The younger man nodded. "Or Cara, for that matter, if you can capture her alive. I could tell her things that would make her want to kill Snow even without payment. But then, I wouldn't have a job..." He looked up at Lord Finch with his head cocked to one side. "To be honest, I've been thinking about switching careers. I don't suppose you have any job openings available here?"

"Well, ah... we have plenty of groomsmen... more than enough soldiers... enough scullery maids..." Lord Finch listed off, his brow furrowed in thought.

"I'm very good with my hands," John offered, showing Lord Finch his open palms and long, slender fingers. "And if you'll forgive me for being so forward, I've heard that you have some war wounds... Perhaps you could use a masseur?"

"A—A what?" Lord Finch stuttered.

"A massage therapist," John explained, standing up slowly to keep from startling the other man (or perhaps because his back was still sore). "I could rub your shoulders – or anywhere else that hurts, for that matter – and make the pain... just... melt away..."

While he spoke, John had inched closer to Lord Finch, eyeing the older man's injured hip with a significant look. Then he let his gaze travel gradually up Lord Finch's body, lingering on his neck – which had also been injured in the wars – until it came to rest on Lord Finch's somewhat frightened eyes. For, the moment that John had stood up, it became evident how tall he was, and it had also occurred to Lord Finch a split second later that he was alone in the cell with an assassin who – with or without his weapons – could probably kill him with ease. Instinctively, the master of the castle started stepping backwards as his prisoner drew nearer.

"It's all right – I won't hurt you," John soothed, his gentle voice almost hypnotic. "I just want to make you feel better... all better... all over... everywhere..."

With each word John advanced, until Lord Finch's back bumped against the wall. And still John came closer, his eyes holding Lord Finch's captive, as in a trance, and with his last word he was close enough that his warm breath caressed Lord Finch's face. It sent a shiver up and down Lord Finch's spine...


CENSORED ~ SMUT ~ CENSORED ~ SMUT ~ CENSORED ~ SMUT


Just then the cell door burst open and a very alarmed-looking Sir Donnelley rushed in with his sword drawn. He paused, however, at the unexpected tableau before him, trying to comprehend it with his benumbed brain. His eyes widened until they were bulging like a bullfrog's as the meaning and ramifications of the scene sunk in.


CENSORED ~ SMUT ~ CENSORED ~ SMUT ~ CENSORED ~ SMUT


Sir Donnelley gaped at them as though he could not tear his eyes away, although at the same time he looked horrified enough to claw his own eyeballs out, if only that would make him unsee what had been seen.


CENSORED ~ SMUT ~ CENSORED ~ SMUT ~ CENSORED ~ SMUT


Finally catching his breath, Lord Finch half-ran, half-stumbled out of the cell and did not stop until he was in the quiet privacy of his own bedchambers.

Sir Donnelley could not utter a single word, though he did lift his sword menacingly at John.

"Hey, can you blame me for trying?" John said with aplomb, getting up off of his knees and brushing the dirt off of his leggings. "I want to get out of here; I don't really care to go back to Snow. And Lord Finch is... well... rather adorable, in his own way."

Swallowing hard, Sir Donnelley gave a threatening shake of his sword in John's direction before stomping out of the cell. With a sigh, John lay back down on his hard wooden bed...


CENSORED ~ SMUT ~ CENSORED ~ SMUT ~ CENSORED ~ SMUT


A/N: If you would like to read this story in its entirety AND are older than 18, please visit my website at TheaNishimori dot WordPress dot com.