PART V

England, 1778

Antonio Carriedo was a man who believed in destiny. He preferred to think of it as destiny, instead of as Fate, that cruel mistress men bemoaned for cursing them. But no one ever saw destiny in a negative light. He had always preferred to be optimistic, something Gilbert sometimes admired and other times scorned. Antonio believed his life had been set out long before he began it; the stars above him knew what he was going to do even when he did not. They knew he would be born in a bordello to a chocolate-eyed whore. They knew he would run away, join a pack of street urchins, start thieving whatever his sticky fingers could grasp. They knew he would find his way to the sea, where he would eventually meet a silver-haired prisoner who spoke with a peculiar accent. You let me out of these chains, we'll take over this ship. The stars must have exchanged knowing smiles when the Spaniard, a few scant months past fifteen, was filled with a seductive mixture of fear and excitement at the thought of a mutiny. The first of many. He wasn't unskilled with a sword, but it was the red-eyed Prussian who led the two-man charge, who made the first kill, who saved Antonio again and again. Of course, over the following decades, they saved each other enough times that the idea of debt was scorned for the more satisfying acknowledgement of loyalty, comradeship, brotherhood. They robbed any ship they pleased, meddled in any affair that caught their fancy. Gilbert taught him the most important lesson: the colors a ship was flying didn't matter. Prussian, Spanish, French—it did not matter. What mattered was the loot inside. And the very same rule applied to people.

Now, walking up the narrow stairs of their tenement with Peter Kirkland asleep in his arms, he spared a thought for the all-knowing stars. What did they think of these developments? It wasn't the first time he'd climbed into a married woman's bed, but it was the first time he felt this unspeakably powerful love. It was just as strong—no, he thought, stronger—than the love he felt for Gilbert. He never should have listened to those stars that beckoned him out of the seaside shack that last dawn. Take me with you, Marianne had begged. And he had left, believing he would be back within the week, a month at the most. Seventeen years. He'd wept, more than once, when he was stuck out to sea, miles from France, Spain, the places he would always call home. Gilbert had come to him one night as he cried, shoved his shoulder. Come on, bring yourself together. Don't be a lady about it. Antonio had lashed out, striking his friend in the jaw, and after the pair had rolled around on the deck for a sufficient amount of time, they leant against each other, spine to spine, and passed a bottle back and forth. You're not the only one who misses her, Gilbert had said, voice ragged from the alcohol. Antonio had felt one moment of pure hatred at the thought of choosing between his friend and his girl. Gilbert must have felt him stiffen, because he said, Yeah, I know, she's yours. You can love a woman without fondling under her skirt, you know. And Antonio had realized that, in all their time together, he had never seen Gilbert so much as kiss a woman. It was true that they tended to be wary of his appearance at first, but after a few drinks, they pawed at the Prussian just as much as they clambered over Antonio. But Gilbert never kissed, never squeezed, never flirted without sarcasm. He preferred his fights to love-making, it seemed. You spend every waking moment surrounded by men, Antonio had once said to him. Don't you ever tire of them? Gilbert had just shrugged. Guess not.

Antonio hoisted Peter higher in his arms; the boy was really too big to be carried around like this, but he was content to be babied, his arms loose around Antonio's neck, head flopping over his shoulder. Antonio didn't mind the young boy, but he didn't have much experience with children. Still, if Marianne was willing . . . and they made it through this twisted mess with Arthur . . . he wouldn't mind trying for a baby of his own. Furthering his bloodline. It was a thought more noble than Antonio was used to.

At the top of the stairs, on their floor, Antonio paused and turned back to watch Marianne join him. She had never liked cities, and it showed in the very lines of her face, the irritation in her eyes. Marianne was a beautiful woman, but she was fiery when she wanted to be. Antonio wished he could sort all this out for her, but he knew as well as the stars did: this would not end without confrontation.

So he was not very surprised to find the door of their flat hanging open, with Gilbert holding Arthur at gunpoint and a red-haired man standing at a respectful distance. He did a quick glance around the room to make sure everyone was okay—Mathieu was alright, and Kuma was tired but alive—before saying, "Hello again, Señor Kirkland."

Arthur spluttered, "How dare you hold my son?! Put him down this instant!"

"Relax, old woman," Gilbert retorted. He looked to Antonio. We can handle this, right? Antonio gave a little nod, and Gilbert released the Englishman, pistol pointed at him casually, since there was little cause for concern. It wasn't as though Arthur Kirkland—his Lordship—knew how to disarm someone.

Marianne seemed to realize this, because once she got over the shock of seeing Arthur and Alistair, she carried the bag of steaming fish and chips over to the bed and sat down beside Mathieu, tossing the pistol to the floor indifferently.

"Oi, be careful with that, I just had it fixed," the ginger-haired man protested. He spoke without the refinery of Arthur; he had the hints of a Scottish brogue, if Antonio's ears weren't mistaken.

"How'd it break the first time?" Gilbert asked.

"Gettin' tossed round the place," the Scot grumbled.

"Ah, always the way. I hope you brought enough for me," Gilbert added, addressing Marianne.

She was getting Mathieu's portion in some semblance of order and ignored the question. As Antonio set Peter gently down on the mattress beside his brother (the sleeping boy was apparently lost in his dreams, for he barely stirred) he replied, "We brought extra."

"Oh, good, that's fitting," Gilbert remarked. "Since we have guests."

"EXCUSE ME." Arthur stood near the center of the room, cheeks red, looking less than sane, all things considered. Maybe it was how his eyes seemed too big for his face. Or how he'd tried to smooth his hair back neatly and it was falling over his forehead messily anyway. He wasn't really an ugly man, Antonio thought, but he wasn't exactly handsome, either. If his personality was even half as attractive, they might get somewhere with all this.

"There is no need to shout," Marianne snapped. She held up a bundle of greasy food wrapped in brown paper. "Here, Gilbert."

"Could you bring it here, Toni?" Gilbert asked sweetly. "My hand is full."

Antonio carried the bundle over and passed it to Gilbert, who managed to grasp it in one hand and tear off bits of fish and fried potatoes. It was not an appealing process to watch, but Antonio was immune, since he had seen absolutely every disgusting thing Gilbert was capable of doing and, if asked, could easily list them from worst to blinding to life-ruining, and vice versa.

Arthur took in the people around him, and Antonio knew precisely what the look of desperate sadness on his face was from. It was not from being ignored. It was not from being humiliated. It was not even from his family essentially rejecting him. It was simply caused by the heartbreaking change in Arthur's life: for a while, he had the illusion of control. And now he had lost it.

It's the stars, Antonio thought, feeling sympathy for this pitiful lord. The stars know. Not us.

"Señor Kirkland," he said, making the Englishman jump. How did Marianne wind up with this skittish thing? "I think you and your friend should sit down." He gestured to the other bed. "So we can discuss this calmly."

"And so I can eat my food," Gilbert added, words muffled by fish and batter.

Arthur winced in disgust, grimacing, then ducked his head and obeyed Antonio, sitting with the redheaded man (neither of them looked happy to be on the same bed). Gilbert dropped the pistol on the floor and resumed leaning back against the wall; at the Scot's exasperated noise, Gilbert told him, "It's nothing personal against you. I just hate the man you came in here with."

Arthur pointed at Gilbert, sitting up straight in defiance. "Look here, I'll not sit here and be bullied by some . . ." He trailed off, lip curling as he struggled to come up with a fitting name for Gilbert, before finally putting his nose in the air and finishing, ". . . thug."

Gilbert's pale eyebrows spiked. "Wow. There's no coming back from that."

Mathieu put a hand over his mouth to hide his smile.

Antonio cleared his throat, glancing pointedly at Gilbert. As much as he liked to keep things lighthearted, this was a necessary evil. Talking it out was better than lunging with whetted blades. In this situation, anyway. Gilbert understood, gave a small nod. Let's get this over with.

"I know this is more between Arthur and Marianne," Antonio began, "but after what happened at the house I don't trust him to be alone with her. So I think we should do this as we are." He glanced at Marianne. "This may be a stupid question, but who do you want to be with?"

"It is a stupid question." Any good humor she had left after moving to London had been shattered by seeing her husband. Her ocean eyes were lightless as she stared across the room at him. "I want to be with Antonio. I do not love you anymore, Arthur. We do nothing but fight, and fight, and fight. We do not belong together."

Arthur's eyes could hold no more despair. "But we are married. Does that mean nothing?"

Marianne nodded. "Oui. It does mean something. It is the lock on the cage you keep me in."

As it turned out, Arthur's eyes could hold more despair, but a bleak flavor of it. He slumped in defeat, tears welling in those emerald eyes. "I . . . I'm sorry—"

To everyone's surprise, it was the Scot who interrupted Arthur. "Don't bother." He shook his head, impatient to have all this behind him. "No point in apologizing. It's done, move on."

Perhaps if Marianne and Arthur were alone he would have been able to speak his mind, his heart. But with an audience, he was still the repressed aristocrat, scared stiff to outstep the starched bounds of propriety. He was a man, a gentleman but still a man. He had already raised his voice, that was bad enough, but to cry in front of others? It would be unacceptable. So he squared his jaw and did some quick blinking, cleared his throat and adjusted the cuffs of his coat sleeves, and at least composed himself enough to say evenly, "We shall divorce, then. I shall handle the arrangements."

"What a gentleman," Gilbert muttered, just loud enough to be heard. Arthur gave no response; his green gaze was unwavering on Marianne.

The Frenchwoman nodded. Antonio was surprised by how blank her face was; he realized with a jolt that she was using precisely the same method to get through this that Arthur was. She was numbing herself to whatever sadness she may have felt—that, or she was simply not showing any feelings. Antonio hoped it was the latter. Marianne said, "Antonio and I will have the house in the country."

Arthur bristled. "But that house was a gift from my parents," he protested.

"And you have never liked living in it," Marianne replied. "You have always wanted to live in London. And besides, your work is here. You would spend all your time away from the house, anyway. So, we will live in it. You will live in your beloved London."

Arthur was silent for a long moment, considering her words. Try as he might, he could not find fault in them. "Very well. And what of the children?"

Antonio saw panic come into Mathieu's violet eyes. As someone who had never reaped the benefits of supportive parents, Antonio couldn't relate to the boy's fear, but his heart went out to him regardless. Would the children be allowed a choice in who they wanted to live with? Peter would choose Marianne, undoubtedly—if not for her, then for the exotic delight of living with ex-pirates. Mathieu had chosen Marianne once, but would he do it again? And what of this eldest child, the daughter Antonio had yet to lay eyes on—what would she have to say about all this?

Marianne turned to her middle son. In gentle French, she told him, "You will live with me and Toni, but you may visit your father if you wish."

Mathieu looked at his mother, caring and easily understood; then at his father, prickly and barely capable of expressing himself. They were polar opposites. What had the stars been thinking when they put those two together? And yet, Mathieu felt his heart being torn between his mother and his father. His mother, who would always love him, who would take care of him as long as he needed. His father, who would always need him, or Amelia, or someone to take care of him. For all his posing, Arthur Kirkland was not a man who could be left by himself. Mathieu did not have the proof of this that Amelia did (the poor chickens, Lydia, etc.) but the clever boy could sense it. If Arthur was left to deal with the heartbreak by himself, he would never get through it; it would destroy him. No, he would destroy himself in an attempt to get rid of it. How could you carve the pain out of your heart without bleeding out in the process?

Mathieu nodded to his mother and looked across the room at his father. In English, he said, "Peter and I will live with Mother, and we'll visit you when . . . well, if you have time for us."

A brief, sharp hurt flashed in Arthur's eyes. "I'll always have time for you."

Marianne and Gilbert scoffed in dubious unison.

Arthur's thick brows lowered. "I will make the time. I'm your father. Of course I will." Then, his expression lightened. "And Amelia? You didn't mention her."

Marianne raised a helpless hand, palm to the ceiling. "She will not want to live with us. She prefers to be around people. There are more people in the city than the country. She will be happy to live with you. But she must visit."

Arthur's lips curled upward, a smile both smugly triumphant and genuinely delighted. He loved his silly goose. She was his favorite, after all. "Yes. Yes, of course." He was looking quite a sight better than when he had first come into the flat. His pale skin had a bit more color to it, and his eyes—though a bit red from unfallen tears—were focused, bright. He still regarded Antonio and Gilbert with distaste, but that was to be expected. Miraculously, the situation had been sorted out, no one had been shot, and Arthur had only raised his voice once. To celebrate, Mathieu got up and gave his father a hug before he left.

"I'll see you soon, lad," Arthur whispered, voice wavering only slightly. "Take care of . . ." Here was where he might before have said your mother. After a moment of hesitation, he finished instead with, ". . . Kuma."

Not before nor since had Arthur referred to their dog by Mathieu's chosen name for him. The boy smiled against his father's thin shoulder. When goodbye wasn't forever, it didn't feel so hard to say. In fact, it felt good, in a bittersweet way. It reminded him of how much he had loved his father, the uncomplicated love of child to parent, when he was a young toddling thing. Life would be different now. This was a fresh start, a veer in the path away from hell, toward the golden gates of heaven.

"I will," Mathieu replied softly. "Tell Amelia I said hello."

"Yes, I shall do that." Arthur adjusted the hat atop his head, smoothed the front of his frock coat, waited for Alistair to collect his pistols, then gave the occupants of the room one final nod of farewell before the pair of Kirkland brothers strode out, the door swinging shut behind them.

They had been given a second chance. Mathieu was not going to waste it.

. . .

"Hey, hey, slow down," Gilbert said through chuckles. He had no sooner sat down on the fallen log than Mathieu had straddled his lap, peppering kisses all over his neck. Gilbert placed a hand on the boy's back, to keep him from falling, and used the other to gently hold his chin, pulling him back enough to look him in the eye. "Are you trying to send me to the grave? I'm an old man, you know."

Mathieu stifled a giggle at how absurd the words sounded from someone like Gilbert. "You are not old." He put his hands on the man's broad shoulders, feeling how strong they were, how wonderfully solid and sure he was. A guardian, for Mathieu to have all to himself. "You're like a fine wine. You taste better with age."

Now Gilbert tipped his head back to laugh, full and loud. Mathieu loved that laugh. So self-confident. Mathieu hoped one day he could laugh like that. Gilbert brushed his thumb over Mathieu's cheek, red eyes twinkling with fond amusement. "I've turned you into a feisty little thing. I feel rather proud."

Mathieu raised a teasing eyebrow. "Maybe I was always like this, I just never showed it."

"So you're saying you've been holding back all these years." Gilbert's hand trailed down Mathieu's back to squeeze his bottom through his trousers.

"Oui." Mathieu arched his back, moving his hips to slowly grind against Gilbert. "I have a lot of pent-up feelings." He leaned forward more, until his lips brushed against Gilbert's, his voice dipping low. "They need to be released."

"Verdammt." The Prussian nuzzled into the boy's neck, where he still smelled of sugar and berries from helping his mother make tarts earlier. They had struggled to find time to get away in the past month. So much work had to be done, cleaning up the chicken massacre (Marianne was, to say the least, not pleased), tidying up the things left in disarray now that they had no maid, sorting out where everyone's bedroom would be and getting a larger supply of clothing for Gilbert and Antonio to wear. Arthur had made the arrangements of the divorce; it was expedited superbly by his status as lord, and as far as anyone knew, it was all behind them. The folks in the country had no need to worry about money or work; though Marianne no longer had a share in Arthur's fortune, the children did, and Mathieu gave the majority of his money to his housemates. What did he need to buy? Everything he wanted was right here.

Gilbert's lips found Mathieu's, and all the tiny things he took notice of slipped away, muted into peace. Blessed peace. Mathieu knew he wasn't an expert kisser, but he was working on it, and Gilbert didn't mind acting the teacher. He took the lead as they kissed and caressed each other, while Mathieu maintained his slow, steady grind against him. This was exhilarating but familiar territory; they had kissed three times since Antonio had become the master of the once-Kirkland household (not that the Spaniard would ever wish to be referred to as such). Each time Gilbert and Mathieu kissed, Mathieu felt the knowledge bore deeper inside him, like words carved into stone. I love a man. I want a man. He loves me. He wants me back.

Gilbert stood up, strong arms holding Mathieu to him, and turned around to lay him over the log. Mathieu wrapped his legs around the Prussian's waist; those hips felt so wonderful between Mathieu's thighs. He could barely catch his breath as Gilbert unbuttoned his shirt, trailing hot kisses across his collarbones. Mathieu felt sublime submission tingling through him. Was a man supposed to enjoy being pinned down? He could not care less. This was what he wanted. He dragged his hands down Gilbert's back, feeling the muscles flex through his shirt. They had not gone this far before, but Mathieu was done with waiting. His mother had not waited, and neither would be. He had Bonnefoy blood. When he found what brought him happiness, he seized it!

Gilbert pulled back again, looking down at him, panting. Mathieu could feel how much the Prussian wanted him; it thrilled him. Gilbert could not be called a gentleman, but he was still man enough to ask, "You're sure you want this? No regrets?"

Mathieu smiled, just as breathless. "I'm sure. No regrets."

It would hurt, regardless of having no regrets, of having Gilbert's saliva slicking things, of being in love. Gilbert offered his fingers and Mathieu bit, a fair trade, the give and take of shared pain. But soon the pain became just a burning that was impossible to tell apart from the flames of desire licking inside Mathieu, so he sucked on the Prussian's fingers instead, and the older man growled as he gave in to the carnal side of his lust. He again reminded Mathieu of a lion, the deep sounds rumbling in his chest, the muscles flexing beneath his skin, the power and shameless masculinity that, in the dappled sunlight of the forest, became its own kind of regality.

Some said what they were doing was a sin. If this was what sin felt like, then Mathieu didn't mind being a sinner. This was the feeling of being lost your whole life and finally being found.

Sodomy was, obviously, not a common activity for most men, so Gilbert had not been intimate in quite a while, and Mathieu was a virgin, so neither of them lasted more than ten minutes, but it was the most beautiful, aching seven and a half minutes of Mathieu's life. He was gasping and crying out, his cheeks were red, his hair and skin were damp with sweat, but he couldn't feel self-conscious through the pleasure Gilbert gave him. What did he have to worry about, anyway? He was clearly something pretty enough, clever enough, good enough to be wanted, to be loved. He was worthy of that.

"I love you, Mäuschen," Gilbert whispered through a sigh of relief as his hips stilled and he calmed atop Mathieu.

Mathieu would have teared up, but his joy overcame even happy tears. He kissed Gilbert's lightly stubbled cheek. "I love you, lion."

They lowered down to the grass, lazing in each other's arms, sinking into bliss. Bliss that was, for the time being, uninterrupted by the twelve-year-old boy watching in the bushes, dark blue eyes bulging from the scandal they had just witnessed.

. . .

"What did you say kept your father from visiting?" Marianne asked, glancing over her shoulder as she set the table, then swatted at her daughter's arm. "Wait until after dinner!"

Amelia grinned, licking the icing from her finger. Along with the tarts, Marianne had made some sponge cake, as well. Mathieu had helped; Amelia wasn't a natural cook like her mother and her brother. A shame, because she was a natural eater. She would just have to find a man who could make her desserts (he won't be Prussian, Gilbert assured her).

"Oh, the usual," Amelia replied absently. "Reading this and signing that. Nothing interesting. He said he was dreadfully busy!"

At head of the table, Antonio smiled at Amelia's exaggerated imitation of her father. She made his voice sound far deeper than it actually was.

Marianne's lips pressed together, but she wasn't upset. Having Arthur here for visits was more awkward than anything else. She was never quite sure what to say to him. Their conversations so far had all been brief, about the weather or the garden. He still hadn't apologized for the chickens. Or the strangling. Or the seventeen-year-old argument they had been trapped in. When she thought of how much negativity was trapped within her, never to be let out (nothing was better to rely on than an Englishman's repression), she nearly teared up. She had told him so long ago that if he stopped loving her, he would long for her until the day he died. She suspected that would turn out to be true, one way or another. He would remarry, undoubtedly, to another woman he did not love. He would miss the early days of his first marriage, when they enjoyed the knicker of horses, the clean air, the birdsong. When he called her his dearest. And there was a part of her that would always miss those days, as well. Those happy golden times.

But I have Toni now, she thought, smiling at her handsome man. I have what I always wanted.

She set down the final plate and tipped her head back to holler, "DINNER IS READY!"

Mathieu and Gilbert came in from the sitting room, still chattering about whatever book Mathieu had been reading. Marianne didn't care for prose; she preferred poetry, love sonnets. But Mathieu had decided to teach Gilbert how to read in English, so they were making their way through a romance. Gilbert was also teaching Mathieu how to swordfight, apparently. When the two came in from outdoors a few hours earlier, clothes dirty and sweaty, Gilbert claimed it was the fruits of a long bout of sparring. The boy shows a lot of promise. For some reason, Mathieu had blushed and smiled at the floor. If she was being truthful, Marianne was glad her middle son had begun to show interest in more masculine things. Gilbert was a good influence on the boys. Antonio, too. They needed strong men to teach them how to express themselves in a masculine fashion.

Marianne waited until everyone was seated, then sighed and said, "Amelia, would you go get Peter? He's in his room."

"Probably taking a nap," Amelia said knowingly, rising from her seat. "He could die in his sleep and it wouldn't wake him up."

"Don't say such things," Marianne admonished. "What a horrible thought."

"It would be more horrible if it made sense," Gilbert offered, making Mathieu nearly choke on his glass of milk.

Amelia and Marianne gave Gilbert matching unimpressed looks, then Amelia turned and strode out, down the hall, up the stairs to Peter's room. She knocked on the door before she opened it. "Wake up, Petey." The boy was there, curled up on his bed, back to her. She stepped over and nudged his shoulder. "Wake up. Dinner's ready."

Peter's eyes were closed, but in an unnatural way. He was just pretending to be asleep. Amelia felt her lips tug into a smile. "Alright, if this won't wake you, what about . . . tickling!" She wiggled her fingers around his midsection, where she knew he was most ticklish. Her brother convulsed with giggles, but he quickly sat up, moving to the head of his bed, expression troubled. She sat down on the edge of the mattress, her own expression growing serious. "What's wrong, Peter?"

He hugged his knees to his chest, unwilling to look at her.

"Hey." She scooted a little closer to him, rubbing his arm like their mother would. "You can tell me, can't you? You can tell me anything. I'm your sister, right? You know I can keep a secret if I have to."

Peter shook his head, burying his face in his arms. His voice was small. "It's really bad."

"But what is it?" Amelia asked, probing as gently as she could.

"I can't say it."

"Alright . . ." Amelia pondered how to solve this puzzle. "How about I guess, and you tell me if I'm right or wrong? Can you do that?"

Peter's nod was so subtle, Amelia almost didn't notice it. She crossed her legs (which was so much easier to do in trousers, you didn't have to worry about flashing anyone, but did her mother listen? of course not) and began her questions. "Did something happen to you?"

"No."

"Did something happen to Mattie?"

". . . Yes."

Oh, I'm good at this! "Something bad happened to Mathieu?"

"Yes."

The miserable squeak of Peter's voice made Amelia's merriment quickly perish. "He told you what it was?"

He shook his head. "I saw—"

Amelia leaned closer. "What did you see?"

Peter slowly lifted his head, eyes gleaming with tears and dread. For every secret he had stumbled across in the past, it had been impossible to keep his mouth shut about it. He was a snitch, but not a malevolent one; he was simply addicted to the childish feeling of bringing in new information to those who wouldn't have known otherwise. He loved it. But this was the first time something had happened that he wished he had not seen. He wished this had not happened. It was his fault! He'd wished for someone bad to come!

"If something bad happened," Amelia said quietly, "the right thing to do is tell someone."

He took a deep breath.

And he told.

. . .

It had been a very, very long time since Gilbert was caught off guard. He stayed alert while waking, and never allowed himself to sleep too deeply. He'd spent more time behind bars than not growing up, and he knew that many people would slit a throat just for the hell of it if given half a chance. Being surprised was weakness, and a sailor—a pirate—could not afford a weakness. Besides, he already had enough things going against him. His appearance, his accent, his . . . romantic interests. Trying to live a respectable life as the man he was would be damn near impossible. The domesticity of the recent weeks in Marriane's home was foreign, but not unwelcome. Unfortunately, it seemed he had been lulled into a false sense of security, because one moment he was sitting at the table, buttering a roll like a downright respectable human being—and the next, he was being smacked and slapped by Amelia, who had flown across the room like a wraith and was screaming like a banshee. He brought his arms up instinctively to protect himself, too distracted by the physical assault to decipher the verbal one. Antonio quickly came round to hold Amelia back, and Gilbert sat sideways in his chair, staring at them in confusion. Beside him, Mathieu's face was white as a sheet. What was Amelia saying?

"HOW COULD YOU DO THAT TO HIM?!" she shrieked, jerking against Antonio. Her eyes were lit with blue fire. She was much more frightening than her father. "YOU DISGUSTING SODOMITE!"

Gilbert's shoulders sagged a little, weary. There's the magic word. He knew things were going too well. He was fated to make a mess of everything, break everything he touched. That was what his brother always told him, blue eyes flat with weary disapproval, looking just like their father used to. You ruin everything, Gilbert. You take too many risks. You're not careful enough. You're impulsive and angry, like a child. You have to stop.

He'd been careful, hadn't he? He'd pushed poor Mathieu away in the beginning. He'd forced himself to put distance between them countless times, so he wouldn't be so terribly tempted to touch the boy, kiss those soft pink lips. He was as gentle as he could be with him. He did everything right, short of asking the boy to court him. And it hadn't mattered, had it? He still wound up in the same damn mess.

Marianne stood up, slamming her hand down on the table to silence the squalling. "Amelia! What in hell are you talking about?"

Amelia tore an arm free of Antonio's hold and used it to point accusingly at Gilbert, at once a mirror image of her father. "He raped Mathieu!"

All of the air left the room. Marianne turned slowly, slowly to Gilbert. Her eyes were darker than a storm sea. Her voice was precise, low, restricted, the words coming out at a strangled pace. "Is . . . this . . . true?"

Beside him, Mathieu's mouth opened to protest, but Gilbert's hand found his knee beneath the table. Mathieu sought Gilbert's gaze, desperate and confused, but Gilbert just gave a tiny, bittersweet smile and shook his head. Mathieu was clever enough to see Gilbert's reasoning. If it was a consensual act, they would both be persecuted for breaking the law. But if it was a rape, only Gilbert was the villain. This was the only way to keep his Mathieu safe.

Before Mathieu could do anything, Gilbert stood up, pushed in his chair, and stepped back from the table. He was overly aware of Antonio's eyes burning into him, but, for the first time, he could not look at his friend. He simply inclined his head to Marianne. "Yes. It is true."

The betrayal and utter horror in her eyes was like a sword through his heart. He wanted to look away, but he kept looking, as punishment for himself. For being born as this damned creature. For tangling her son into this web of sin. For not hanging himself like he had meant to so long ago.

Antonio let Amelia go, and the girl stepped up to him with utter hatred. She spat in his face and said, "I hope you burn forever. Father was right. You have no soul."

Marianne came next, slapping him across the cheek that didn't have saliva trailing down it. Then she shoved him backward, hard enough that he staggered (he knew better than to fight it, and to be honest, he didn't have the heart). Her fury was more potent than Amelia's; it was equal parts anger and sadness. "I trusted you," she ground out, jaw clenched to keep herself from sobbing. "I trusted you!"

A painfully hard grip on his arm; Gilbert turned his head to see Antonio's green gaze, usually so expressive of what he was feeling, strangely unreadable. "You're leaving," the Spaniard said, voice just as hard and empty as his eyes. "And you're never coming back."

Gilbert wanted to look back at Mathieu, one last look at his sweet boy, but he didn't dare. It would kill him, the heartbreak of it. So he just ducked his head and let Antonio roughly shepherd him to the door and shove him away.

The pair of them stood several feet apart, Gilbert's hair glowing softly in the pink evening light, Antonio backlit and unrecognizable in the doorway. They stared at each other. They had once been able to communicate a hundred words with a few glances, but now both men felt that the other would never be understood again.

Antonio's voice came quiet and rough. "Tell me the truth. What happened with the boy?"

Inside, Amelia's voice rose. "He shouldn't be thrown out! He should be dragged to prison and hanged to death!"

Gilbert lifted his hands at his sides. "The same thing that happened with you and Mari."

"Don't call her that." Antonio turned his face away. The words had come out as a growl savage enough to shame him. Softer, he said, "It isn't right. Men don't . . ."

"Some do," Gilbert replied, his own voice growing hushed. "I do."

For a moment, Gilbert thought his comrade, his brother, might have sided with him. But the Spaniard shook his head, and Gilbert saw that it was the way it would always be: when forced to choose between his friend and his girl, it would always be the girl.

Gilbert forced himself to turn his back on Antonio. "You'll get your wish, Carriedo. You'll never see me again."

The silence dragged on long enough that Gilbert almost gave in and turned back to beg Antonio to reconsider. But then the farewell came, wistful but unfaltering: "Adiós, hermano."

Then the door closed, and Gilbert fled into the fading light. Above, the vibrant beauty of the sunset hid the audience of sorrowful stars.

. . .

That night, in Mathieu's room, he sat on his mother's lap for the first time in years, curled up in her arms as she gently rocked him, stroked his hair, sang him French lullabies. He had been unable to stop crying since Gilbert left at dinner; he had been unable to force a single word past his burning throat. His family saw it as suffering, understandable and expected. He had been raped, of course he was weeping. Of course he was emotional. Of course he could not bring himself to speak.

Who could ever have predicted such a thing? It was enough to shock anyone into silence.

He was just a boy. He was not strong. He was not a man yet. He was just a boy.

But Mathieu was sickened by his silence. He despised himself for accepting their kindness, their comfort. It came at a cost unspeakably dear. He would never see Gilbert Beilschmidt, his Prussian lion, ever again.

Marianne smoothed Mathieu's hair back from his forehead. Nothing would ever make me stop loving you, she had told him. Nothing. If he confessed to her that he loved Gilbert, that he had asked for that sinful act to be performed upon him, would her word hold true?

He lifted his head to look her in the eyes. She had been crying, too; they looked as saddened and exhausted as he felt. His lips parted, but something—be it fear or grief of a combination of the two—kept any sound stuck down inside him, unable to get out. The helplessness of it made fresh tears stream down his cheeks. He was so pathetic. Why had Gilbert even loved him in the first place?

"Oh, Mathieu," Marianne murmured, and held him close, resting her cheek against the top of his head. "It will be alright some day, mon chéri. Love will always come through in the end."

But he, the one who listened, barely heard her. He heard only the baying of the hounds that his father would send to hunt Gilbert down, the sharpening of Reformers' wicked metal sticks, the stomping hooves of the horse that would pull the hanging rope taut. If Gilbert died, it would be because of him. He would have killed the man that he loved, because he was a coward, always a coward.

Please run, Gilbert, he thought desperately, even though he knew his lover could not hear him. Please run until you find a safe place to hide. But he knew Gilbert would not listen even if he could hear the words. His lion was not a coward. He would fight until he found victory or he died in a blaze of glory. Whatever his fate, Mathieu knew: he would never see him again. So he closed his eyes and fell fitfully into his first of the nightmares—all the different ways Gilbert could be hurt or killed—that would plague him for the rest of his days.