vigorli

Title: Purity of Intention (5 / ?)
Author:

arieltachna
Type: RPS / FPS crossover
Pairing: Diego / Orlando
Rating: NC-17
Warning: none
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction, created for entertainment and enjoyment only. With all due respect, we do not own these characters, either the actors or those created by Arturo Pérez-Reverte. We just think it’s a fascinating world.
Feedback: would be wonderful
Beta:

sileya
Summary: A cynical swordsman is hired to return a runaway – or so it appears
A/N: our deepest appreciation to

rsharpe for expert collaboration on the swordfight

~~~~~

"I bathed in the river yesterday – some of the other boys and I went swimming," Íñigo said hastily, hoping the Capitán would find nothing unusual in his disinclination to bathe. Changing the subject quickly, he asked, "Señor, where is this – " he hesitated at the sharp look in his guardian's eyes, biting off the insult he had been ready to utter. "Where is the English gentleman going to sleep?"

Orlando had been in the bedroom. He knew the bed was large enough to sleep two. From the sound of Íñigo’s comment, it had slept two more than once. As much as he longed to be the one to sleep at Diego’s side, he knew it was a hopeless wish, one it would be easier, in the long run, not to indulge. He knew his benefactor, though. Alatriste had insisted he take the bed at every inn between Málaga and Madrid, much to Orlando’s chagrin. There had not been an alternative then. Here, though, there was one.

“I shall take the cot,” he suggested. “That way, I do not deprive you of your bed, Capitán.”

Íñigo shot the infuriating Englishman a resentful glare. Of course the pampered noble thought nothing of depriving Íñigo of his bed! Before the young Spaniard could protest, Capitán Alatriste shook his head with a tightening of his lips his young protégé had learned was best not to challenge.

“That is most considerate of you, but it would leave me to bed with Íñigo, who has a distressing habit of sprawling over every available space when he sleeps,” Diego countered dryly. “I do not choose to spend my first night home fighting for a few inches of my own mattress. You will share my bed, Señor.” Diego had spent six awkward nights drowsing in chairs or on the floor during their journey from Málaga – be damned if he was going to be put out of his own bed in his own home. The thought of lying only inches away from the Englishman’s nearly unclothed body set a curl of lust tightening in his groin. He knew he was damning himself to a night of frustration, but the chance to have Orlando in his bed was one he could not force himself to pass up.

Orlando glanced away uncomfortably. He should have known the Spaniard was too much of a gentleman to make the lad sleep on the floor, and he already knew he would not be allowed that option, but he wished wildly that he dared suggest it again. Anything to avoid the hellish torture of being only inches from the body that had fueled his fantasies, waking and dreaming, since he first laid eyes on it. He had no idea how he would be able to lie there and not touch, not roll against the other man. “If you are sure you don’t mind sharing,” he answered finally, realizing that the other man was awaiting a reply.

“I think we will be able to endure a night together,” Diego replied, hoping in his own case that it would be true. His recent release notwithstanding, he remained aroused by his imagination’s image of Orlando’s nude body as he bathed. Willing his expression to remain impassive, he nodded toward the door. “Tell Caridad we are finished with the bath,” he instructed Íñigo. “And ask her to send up breakfast in the morning,” he added. “Perhaps a night’s rest will help us decide our next steps.”

Íñigo nodded, careful not to let his resentment show on his face. The Capitán was not asking anything more than he usually did, but the fact that Íñigo’s efforts would benefit the snotty Englishman as much as Alatriste bothered the boy more than he would admit.

Suddenly weary, or perhaps simply impatient to see the young Englishman in his bed, Diego was not willing to wait for one of the tavern’s man-servants to remove the bath. “Help me drag this into the sitting room,” he requested Orlando. “Then you can retire without being disturbed again.”

Not likely, Orlando thought. Not with you in bed next to me. “That would be agreeable,” he said instead, following Alatriste into the bedroom. Perhaps because the apartment was two rooms rather than one, the bedroom was quite small, with room for the bed and armoire along one wall. The addition of the tub had left the space crowded so that to remove it, they had to stand quite close together, closer than they had been except when riding had forced them into the same saddle. The proximity sent a fresh surge of lust through the Englishman, leaving his cheeks hot and his cock hardening. He forced his gaze to the tub, refusing to look at Diego. He knew his discomfiture and his arousal would show on his face if he did.

The swordsman had not considered the impact the constricted space in the bedchamber would have on his already heightened senses. The clean fragrance of the Englishman’s skin teased at his nostrils as they bent over the basin; the tousle of damp hair curling against the pale arch of his neck tempting Diego’s fingers to push it away and feast his lips on the delicate flesh. Keeping the bulk of the tub between them to hide the effects of his reluctant guest’s closeness, Alatriste hauled the bath over the threshold, careless of the water that sloshed over the sides to splash their bare feet.

“Someone will be up to remove the tub shortly,” Íñigo announced as he returned. Diego nodded, turning down the oil lamp that burned in the center of the small table. “Lock the door behind him when he leaves,” he instructed, pulling his shirt over his head as he turned back to the bedroom.

Orlando swallowed convulsively when Diego removed his shirt. The Spaniard clearly felt safe here if he was comfortable enough to undress, even partially. As they traveled, his companion had remained constantly on guard, even sleeping with his sword around his waist, ready to protect Orlando at every moment. To see him now, so obviously unconcerned, reassured Orlando on the issue of security while adding to his concerns about what the night would bring. Would he walk into the bedroom and find Diego down to his smallclothes? And if he did, would he be able to stop himself from begging for the older man’s attention? He did not have the answer to either question, but he knew he could not avoid the inevitable, especially not after telling Alatriste that he was looking forward to the rest. “Buenas noches,” he said to Íñigo, following the swordsman into the bedroom.

Dropping his shirt over the small stool that sat beside his clothes-press, Diego hesitated a moment before removing his breeches and climbing into the bed clad only in his smallclothes. After six fitful nights of broken sleep, he knew he needed rest if he was to have his wits about him to come up with a plan to deal with McKellen. He could only hope Orlando would fall asleep quickly, leaving him free to fight off his own insistent desire enough to allow himself to find some repose.

Orlando stepped into the bedroom, shutting the door behind him and looking anywhere he could except at Diego. Even staring at the furthest corner from the bed, he could see the other man in bed, his chest bare, the sheets covering the Spaniard’s lower body so that Orlando could not tell what the swordsman still wore. Then his eyes landed on the pile of clothing on the small stool, shirt and breeches. Damn! he cursed silently, struggling to get his own body under control so that he would not embarrass himself as he undressed. That brought him to another problem: undressing with Diego’s eyes on him. The older man was not his lover, however much he wished otherwise, and to strip down in his presence, beneath his watchful gaze, seemed too fraught. Still not looking directly at Alatriste, he approached the bed, still fully clothed.

Lying on his back, Diego let his gaze rake over Orlando’s body, wondering how much of his clothing the young man would remove before climbing into the bed. He could feel his cock thickening and shifted slightly under the bedsheet, watching from beneath hooded lids as the Englishman hesitated at the foot of the bed. “Are you going to stand there all night?” he growled, his voice rasping. Turning to his side, he blew out the bedside candle. The moonlight filtering through the latticed window provided enough illumination to reveal the other man’s unsettled expression. A pang of anger twisted in Alatriste’s chest at the thought that the Englishman could not even bear to share a bed with him. “Get into the bed already and get to sleep,” he husked.

The lack of light and the absence of Diego’s gaze gave Orlando the courage he needed to slip off his shirt and climb into bed. He lay there awkwardly, afraid to move lest he roll against the Spaniard. He could smell the soap the other man had used, and the deeper musk of the man, the scent enough to have him shifting restlessly as his erection returned. He shivered with suppressed desire, certain he would stare at the ceiling all night.

Diego swallowed deeply as the mattress dipped beneath Orlando’s weight. Even though the younger man stayed well on the far side of the bed, Alatriste could feel the warmth radiating from his body, heating his own blood. He shifted to his side, his erection pressing into the bedding as he turned his back on the Englishman. He didn’t need to face him to imagine the lissome body, to picture himself straddling the younger man’s hips, tasting the honey-coloured skin. His cock twitched as he imagined the younger man moaning his name as he pleasured him. He knew it was madness to allow himself to indulge in such hopeless fantasies, when the foreigner could obviously barely stand to sleep in the same room with him, but his body refused to listen. Stifling a groan, Diego exhaled roughly and fought to prevent himself from rubbing against the sheets to relieve his need.

Each time Diego moved, Orlando imagined what might come from it, saw with vivid clarity the older man moving over him, working his way down Orlando’s body, the moustache tickling his skin in sensitive places, driving him out of his head with lust. The sudden burst of breath he heard from his bedmate sounded far too much like the sounds of passion for Orlando’s composure. He buried his face in the pillow, biting the cloth to keep his own moan from escaping. He wondered how the Spaniard would react if he suggested asking for another cot, because he could already tell he would never get enough sleep in the Capitán’s bed.

Orlando’s restless movements made Diego imagine the Englishman writhing beneath him in ecstasy. He cursed himself silently, knowing if he did not bring his lust under control he would not be able to stop himself from turning over and reaching for the alluring body beside him. His hand circled his erection, squeezing tightly as he fought for control, willing himself to breathe deeply and clearing his mind of all thoughts, his weariness finally allowing him to drop into an uneasy sleep.

With the cessation of movement and the ensuing silence, Orlando finally settled to sleep, his fantasies following him into dreams where the handsome mercenary ravished him to their mutual delight.

~~~~~~~

The teasing dance of sunlight through the fluttering curtains awoke Alatriste the next morning. Stretching and groaning, he rolled onto his back, only to find the other side of the bed empty. A momentary panic seized him, fearing that the Englishman had stolen away while he slept. Swearing below his breath, he hastily pulled on his breeches and flung open the door to the sitting room, his racing pulse calming when he saw Orlando seated at the small table with a sheet of paper before him.

Orlando looked up when the door to the bedroom slammed open, revealing Diego clad only in breeches, barely fastened so that Orlando caught a glimpse of his smallclothes beneath. He had smiled at his protector with open delight before he registered the scowl on the handsome face. His smile faded as he took in the annoyed expression. Glancing back down at the paper, he signed his name and waved the letter back and forth to dry the ink. “Could I send this letter to my father?”

For a moment, Alatriste thought he discerned an expression of pleasure cross Orlando’s face when he entered the sitting room. Berating himself for allowing his nighttime fantasies to carry over into waking hours, he scowled and reminded himself that his only concern needed to be keeping the young Englishman safe until the threat from McKellen’s machinations could be eliminated. Approaching the table, he rubbed the back of his neck, glancing over to where Íñigo still slept on his narrow cot. “We can walk to post it as soon as we have broken our fast,” he agreed, wondering how much the younger man had revealed to his father of the danger he faced. He was shocked to discover how much it pained him to think of his charge returning to England.

Seeing the scowl, but not sure what had caused it, Orlando hastened to say, “I only told him I was no longer in Málaga, and that I was safe. I write to him once a week and if I don’t, he’ll worry and might send people to search for me. I didn’t want that to alert McKellen.” He handed the letter to Diego to see if he wanted to approve it before sending it.

Wondering at Orlando’s offer to read his letter, Diego shook his head, pushing the document back to the younger man. He was about to speak when a knock sounded at the door, causing the swordsman to tense before he remembered he had instructed Íñigo to order breakfast. The scent of sweet pastries quickly roused Íñigo from his sleep, and the platter was soon emptied along with the accompanying pitcher of strong coffee.

Swallowing the last bite of the sweet empanada, Diego rose and quickly donned his shirt and jacket before buckling his sword belt around his hips. Pulling on his worn leather boots, he slipped the vizcaína into the back of his belt and reached for his cloak and hat. He glanced at his ward, who had risen as if to accompany them.

“Wait here, Íñigo,” he instructed, before turning his gaze to Orlando. “If I am to keep you safe, this is what you must do. No one at the tavern has seen or heard anything from McKellen while we were gone, but without doubt he will be expecting me to contact him soon. Keep your eyes and ears open, and if you see or hear anything unusual, tell me at once. If anything happens and I tell you to run, you will do it, immediately and without questions. Understood?”

Orlando nodded slowly. Diego’s orders were not so different than what Eric had expected. In one respect, Diego seemed to expect even more than his erstwhile protector. Diego expected him to help keep watch. Deciding that was compliment enough to excuse the curt tone, he added, “I will do as you say.”

“Bien,” the swordsman replied, surprised but pleased that the Englishman had not protested his strictures. He watched with a critical eye as Orlando buckled on his sword, finding that the younger man seemed adept at handling the weapon. That did not mean he would be as adept at wielding it, Diego reminded himself. It was his job to ensure that he never needed to find out.

The two men walked in silence through the early morning streets to the central plaza, where Orlando delivered his letter to the posting office. Questions darted through Orlando’s mind incessantly as they walked, about the city which he was visiting for the first time, about the man walking at his side, about Diego’s plans for foiling McKellen once and for all, but he saw the swordsman’s eyes darting back and forth as they walked, saw the way his hand hovered close to his sword, the other holding back his cape, ready to pull the long knife he had seen his protector slip into the small of his back at need, and so he held his tongue, his own hand ready, his own eyes watchful even as he drank in the sights of the city.

They reached the posting office without incident and began the return. Orlando was tempted to ask if they could go somewhere other than the tiny rooms in the inn, but he doubted Diego would feel as confident protecting him elsewhere. If he did, they would surely have gone there already.

Even as he watched their surroundings for any hint of danger, Alatriste could not help but be aware of the presence at his side. The young nobleman was obviously holding back his usual conversation about the streets and buildings they passed, his umber curls bobbing as his head turned back and forth as much to keep watch as to take in the sights. The unconscious grace of his carriage tempted the Spaniard’s eye, but his acquiescence and confident manner made Diego question whether there was more to the Englishman than the spoiled child of privilege he had initially dismissed him as being.

They were only a few minutes’ walk from the tavern, and the swordsman’s gaze was lingering appreciatively on the swell of his companion’s backside, when something moved in the periphery of his vision. Grasping the younger man’s shoulder and thrusting him behind him, Alatriste’s hand closed over the hilt of his rapier as two men stepped out of the shadows of the alleyway ahead of them. Recognizing their faces as two of the many men who since the end of the war made their livings by putting their swords up for hire, he had no doubt as to their intentions. Not waiting for them to approach any nearer, he drew his sword and gave Orlando a backward shove. “Run,” he commanded, his free hand pulling the vizcaína free from his belt as the mercenaries drew their own swords in turn. “Run, now!”

Orlando hesitated only a second before doing as his protector commanded. He knew the dangers of sword fighting, knew that the odds were already against Diego without the additional distraction his own presence would add. Hand on the hilt of his sword in case he needed to draw it, he ran in the direction of the inn, hoping he would could reach it in time to roust the aid Diego would need. He had just found the older man; he was not about to lose him to two ruffians now.

As Orlando reluctantly obeyed his order, Diego gripped both his rapier and the vizcaína and faced the two men. Both were shabbily dressed and without cloaks. Studying them warily as they neared, he identified them as Dourif and Urban. He'd seen them before, drinking in the local taverns, boasting of their prowess. Though he'd never seen either of them fight, in his experience men who had to boast about their skill rarely lived up to their bravado. Still, there were two of them, and if they had worked together enough to coordinate their attack, they could be dangerous. He glanced quickly between the two, determining that the closest man, Dourif, was hesitant and the grip he used on his sword’s hilt was awkward and far too tight. He would be the easiest to dispatch with speed. The longer he had to fight two opponents, the worse the odds that he could be wounded ... or killed.

"You know you can't beat both of us, Alatriste," Urban sneered. "Just walk away and nobody has to get hurt."

Not deigning the taunt worth a reply, Diego circled until his back was to the nearest building, blocking either of the two from coming at him from behind. He might have let a lone assailant make the first move to judge the degree of skill his opponent possessed, but two attackers would necessitate a different strategy. He advanced slightly to the right and lunged for Urban's sword arm. The larger man parried nimbly and Diego countered with another thrust, again for the sword arm. Urban smirked at the simple moves, clearly thinking that Alatriste's reputation had been exaggerated. The look changed to surprise when Diego turned the lunge into a feint and let his sword arm drop to avoid the answering parry. Withdrawing slightly, he immediately countered with a lunge to the opposite arm, drawing the rapier back quickly and leaving two bloody slices across Urban's left shoulder.

The tight space of the alleyway interfered with the plan the two men had developed. Karl was supposed to keep Alatriste's sword occupied while Brad attacked him from behind. The swordsman had anticipated them, however, keeping the building at his back. Seeing his partner injured, though, riled Brad's anger and he threw himself at their opponent's side, determined to keep the other man from killing his friend.

Leaving Urban dazed and grunting with pain, Diego spun quickly to catch the second man's sword as he lunged for Diego’s side. A circular parry wielded with strength and speed was enough to dislodge Dourif’s unsteady grip and his sword spun away, clattering to the side of the alleyway. The fool stood still in shock as he realized he had been disarmed. Alatriste had neither time nor patience for fools and amateurs.

Sparing a quick glance at Urban, who seemed to have changed his opinion of the ease with which he would earn his pieces of gold, Diego moved quickly across the cobbles toward the weaponless Dourif. While it would even the odds if the smaller man simply fled, Alatriste couldn't take the chance that the ruffian might overtake Orlando. True, the Englishman had a sword and Dourif did not, but Diego still had no idea how proficient Orlando was with his weapon. It was a chance he was not willing to take. The question proved moot when Dourif confirmed Diego’s appraisal of his foolishness by scrambling for his lost weapon.

Brad cursed his ineptness when his sword went flying. If he had been fighting with anyone else, he would have abandoned the field, knowing himself outmatched, but he could not abandon Karl. Scrambling for his sword, he did his best to defend the other man until he recovered enough to fight again.

Using the moment while Dourif regained his sword to catch his breath, Alatriste's eyes flickered between the two assassins. Seeing Urban wounded seemed to have impaired his partner's judgment - his attack was driven by emotion, not forethought, always a dangerous mistake. With as little effort as another might flick away an insect, Diego deflected the sword.

Alatriste had killed men before, both in war and for pay. He was not proud of it - a man did what he had to do in battle, or to earn enough to live - and unlike some who wielded a sword for hire, he did not enjoy watching his antagonist suffer. So instead of slicing the vizcaína up into his opponent's kidneys or stomach, he thrust the point of his rapier into Dourif's heart. It wasn’t a deep thrust. It didn’t need to be. It took only three fingers'-width of steel to kill.

With one of his opponents dead, Diego turned his attention back to the other before the body of the first had crumpled heavily to the street. He knew it was likely that the sounds of the fight had alerted someone. A constable could have already been sent for, and Diego could not chance being delayed by questions while Orlando was alone and unprotected. It was time to end this.

Karl saw Brad go down and his heart clenched. He knew he should have brought someone else to fight Alatriste with him, but Brad had refused to be dissuaded, insisting that they face the man together or not at all. Cursing the day he laid eyes on the old geezer who had hired them, he advanced on his quarry with more caution than before. He had to survive this fight, if only to see that Brad got a decent burial.

Urban was wiser than his partner, or at least better able to control his emotions. Though his eyes flashed with anger, his attack was measured. Diego might wonder at the unusual concern between two mercenaries, but he could not allow himself to become distracted. He needed to get back to Orlando. This time when he engaged the wounded man, he did so with harder blows and greater speed.

The tempered steel of good Spanish blades clanged and clanked as both Diego and his adversary moved quickly over the cobblestones. Their boots scraped against the rough street and their exhalations puffed into mist between them. Parrying another cut that sliced dangerously close to the sleeve of his tunic, Diego wished absently that he'd taken the time to wrap his cloak around his arm as a make-shift buckler. In his urgency to protect Orlando against the sudden attack, he hadn't thought to do so before he was engaged in battle. He couldn't do it now without tucking the vizcaína into his belt and switching hands with his sword, maneuvers he would not care to attempt while facing an opponent of Urban's skill. He considered whether he might get close enough to toss the cloak in the other man's face while he dove in for the kill. Not a strictly honorable way to dispatch an opponent, but no one had recently accused Alatriste of being overly honorable. Judging by Urban's experience, Diego doubted he'd be taken in by that ploy.

Karl fought with all his skill and determination, but he was quickly coming to realize that he was no match for Alatriste. In an attempt to rid his opponent of one of his weapons, he slashed hard at the other man's left hand. The attack failed, though, and left him with yet another slice, across his own wrist. Angry now, at his own idiocy in accepting this commission, at Brad's blindness in insisting on coming, at Alatriste's skill, he attacked with renewed strength and speed, determined to finish this once and for all.

Orlando had run at Diego's command, not questioning the order since it had been part of the terms of this outing, but the further he went from where he had left his protector, the more doubt crept in. He had seen Diego fight, knew the man was a whirlwind with his sword, but against two mercenaries, even the best blade was at a disadvantage. His feet slowed as his concern grew. He had not Diego's skill, but surely he could help somehow, even if only to distract one of the attackers long enough for Alatriste to finish off the first. Skidding to a halt, he turned back, determined not to leave Diego to his fate as he had done with Eric.

Sword in hand, he made his way back to where he had left Diego, stumbling over a body lying at the entrance of the alleyway. "Diego!" he gasped, falling to his knees in horror, thinking his protector had been felled by the attackers. He started to roll the body over, fearing to see Alatriste's face set in a death mask. The sound of steel biting steel reached his ears as his hand touched the cold shoulder, and he realized Diego was still fighting, that the body under his hand was one of the attackers. Rising, he tightened his grip on his sword, determined to help his protector in any way he could.

Parrying to escape a blow that would have impaled him, Diego heard his name called out in anguish. More than twenty years of fighting in pitched battles and street engagements such as this one had taught Alatriste the folly of being distracted, but no distraction had ever called his name with such pain and fear. He turned his head towards the sound for no more than an instant, but it was enough time for his opponent to strike.

Even as Diego realized that Orlando had disobeyed his order and was returning with his own sword drawn, Urban took full advantage of his quarry's divided attention. The assassin lunged for Alatriste's heart and Diego barely diverted the blade with a parry from the vizcaína in his left hand. The turning sword pierced Diego’s right shoulder instead, the tip of the rapier grating against bone. The sharp pain and the force of the blow took Alatriste to one knee and he dropped the vizcaína to brace hard against the force of the fall.

Urban advanced to deliver the stroke that would end the fight, only to be met with a handful of dirt and filth that Diego swept up from the cobblestones and flung full in the man’s face. The bigger man staggered back in surprise and disgust, shaking his head to clear his vision. By the time he had wiped the offal from his eyes, Diego was back on his feet.

Karl spit and sputtered as he tried to clean his face. He should have known better than to expect any kind of fair fight from the other mercenary. He only wished he'd anticipated such a move. Finally able to see again, he looked beyond his adversary to the object of his commission, returned to the fray. Alatriste was wounded badly, surely out of the fight. All that remained was to engage the younger man. The old Englishman had insisted the young one was no threat with a sword, so Karl was quite sure he could disarm the boy and force him to accompany him as he made his escape. He would come back later for Brad.

Acting as rashly as the swordsman he had just dispatched, Diego stepped full into Urban's path, an action born not of strategy or cunning but of pure fear at seeing the assassin turn on Orlando. Switching his sword to his left hand, Alatriste thrust his rapier into Urban's right shoulder with as much force as he could muster due to his own wound. But it was enough.

Unlike Alatriste, Karl couldn’t retain his hold on the rapier, the sword falling to the street as he clasped his wounded shoulder. Giving up on the commission, on anything other than staying alive to make sure his dead lover received last rites and a proper burial, he fled down the narrow street, cursing the other mercenary and Englishmen in general, especially the two whose plots had cost him the man he loved. As he rounded the corner, he called on the full pantheon of saints to see that they met a suitably unpleasant end.

Seeing the ruffian flee, Orlando sheathed his sword. “Diego!” he shouted in dismay when Alatriste turned and he saw the blood already staining the leather jerkin. He rushed to the Spaniard’s side, his arm going around the other man’s waist. “How badly are you hurt?”

“I told you to return to the inn,” Diego countered through gritted teeth. The wound in his shoulder seeped steadily, but he judged he would be able to make it back to his apartment before the loss of blood became critical. Despite the throbbing pain, his nerves hummed at the clasp of Orlando’s arms around his waist. Fighting off the temptation to allow the Englishman’s embrace to support him, Alatriste pushed away, cleaning his bloodied sword on his bandana before sheathing it. He stooped to retrieve his vizcaína, staggering as a wave of dizziness swept over him.

“Do not be foolish,” Orlando scolded when Diego wavered on his feet. He returned his arm to its place on the swordsman’s waist, inserting his shoulder under the other man’s arm to support him. “Let me help you back to the inn. Then you can scold me all you wish.” He felt the shiver that trembled through the Spaniard, but discounted it as an effect of his injury. He did wonder, though, how Diego would interpret the answering shiver that went through his body at the closeness of his oft-desired fantasy.

Alatriste knew he should push away, but his pulse was hammering and his body felt disconnected from reason and good sense. Every instinct told him he needed to remain on his guard, though he doubted McKellen had sent more than the two mercenaries he had just dispatched to retrieve Orlando. He settled for leaning as slightly as he could on Orlando’s shoulder, keeping the vizcaína at the ready in his right hand as they walked. He set a steady pace, the need to keep Orlando safe overriding the temptation to draw out the feel of the younger man’s body pressed flush against his, their hips brushing each other with every step.

Diego was not a man who asked for help lightly, but he recognized in that moment that, weakened as he was, he would not be able to keep Orlando safe without aid. He needed someone he could trust to protect the Englishman, both from his enemies and from Diego himself.

When they drew within sight of the inn, Orlando spied Íñigo loitering outside the entryway. Had the situation been less dire, he would have had a few choice things to say about the boy wasting his time in idleness when he could be improving his mind or learning a trade, but for the moment, he was simply glad to see another familiar face. “Get hot water and some linen from the kitchen,” he ordered the boy. “Your Capitán is hurt!”

Íñigo’s first thought was to help Alatriste up to the room, but it seemed the Englishman had that matter well in hand. Scowling at being usurped once again, he ran nevertheless to the kitchen to tell Caridad that the Capitán was hurt. That should foil any plans the aristocrat had on the swordsman. As soon as the señora heard that Alatriste was injured, she would be up the stairs to hover as was her wont. He delivered his news with the appropriate flourish and watched as his prediction came true. The woman ordered the servants to prepare water and linens and bustled off, muttering a mixture of prayers and curses under her breath as she climbed the stairs to rap firmly on the door.

Orlando had just gotten Alatriste seated and was about to remove the man’s boots when he heard a knock at the door. Surprised that Íñigo had not simply come in as he always did, he frowned. “Wait here,” he told Diego. “I will be right back.” Going into the other room, he opened the door to see a woman he did not know, with Íñigo hovering behind her. “Did you bring the water?” he asked her.

“My servants will bring it when it is hot,” she replied. “I want to see Diego.”

“He is injured,” Orlando protested. “I am taking care of him. If you want to help him, go back and hurry your servants along. The longer he is allowed to bleed, the harder it will be for him to get better.” He all but pushed her back out the door, closing it firmly behind her.

Íñigo scowled when the door to his own home was all but slammed in his face. Who did this Englishman think he was, upturning their lives, causing the Capitán to be wounded, and now taking over as though he had more of a right to care for his guardian than Íñigo himself? As soon as Caridad was down the stairs, Íñigo thrust the door open, ready to confront the interloper, when the sight of the Capitán’s face drawn with pain stopped him before he could speak. He dropped to his knees at his guardian’s side, his eyes wide with fear. He had seen the Capitán injured before, but had never seen a wound that bled as badly as this. “Will he be all right?” he asked the Englishman, his hand grasping the one that hung limply at Alatriste’s side. “What can I do to help?”

“Go get Roux,” Diego grated, clenching his teeth as Orlando began to ease off the blood-crusted leather jacket. “Tell him I have need of his assistance.”

Íñigo ran for the door. He had been with Alatriste for eight years. He knew the gypsy healer and swordsman his guardian had served with during the wars, had always been told to go to Roux if the Capitán did not return from a commission, but Alatriste had never sent for Roux’s assistance before. Fear gripped him at the thought that his guardian was badly injured enough that he was sending for the other man, speeding his steps through the city.

When the jacket was removed, Orlando started pulling free the laces on Diego’s shirt, his hands trembling with the restrained need to hurry, knowing that undue haste could worsen the injury yet wanting to help as quickly as possible. The shirt was bloodied already, so he pressed that to the wound. “Can you hold it there while I go check on the water?”

Diego nodded, the movement of his head enough to make his vision swim alarmingly. “Clothes-press,” he managed to rasp, pressing the blood-sodden shirt to his shoulder as firmly as he could. “Rags… use to… bandage.” He leaned back into the straight wooden chair, trying to steady his uneven breathing. He meant to add an instruction to lock the door, but Orlando had found the bundles of cloths and was back kneeling before him, his soft hands on Diego’s chest, stealing the swordsman’s breath.

Orlando had just pulled the rags from the armoire when another knock sounded at the door. Quite sure it was not Íñigo returning with the mysterious Roux, he almost called for the person to enter. Self-preservation, well ingrained by Eric’s constant lectures, stopped him from that mistake. He went to the door, checking to make sure it was indeed a servant. Taking the bucket of hot water from the man and thanking him, he returned to Diego’s side. He dipped one of the rags in the water and wiped it carefully over the injury, washing away the blood and sweat. When it was as clean as he felt he could get it, he grabbed another handful of rags and made a pad to cover the wound. Using another strip to bind them in place, he knelt beneath Diego’s uninjured side. “You will be more comfortable in bed.”

“Not until Roux arrives,” Alatriste protested, the bloodied vizcaína still clutched in his right hand. Though he was not sure how long he would be able to stand if another hired sword arrived to threaten Orlando, he would fight to his last breath to protect the young Englishman. Diego was about to direct the nobleman to lock the door when it swung open suddenly. He struggled to his feet, switching the long knife to his good hand when Íñigo burst into the room, followed by a slender, dark-haired figure. Orlando rushed to his side, his arms wrapping around the swordsman’s bare chest to hold him steady as Diego tried to block the younger man with his body.

“Now there’s a sight I haven’t seen in a long time,” Roux drawled suggestively, following Íñigo into Diego’s rooms.

tbc...