Page 17 of The Last Crimes of Peregrine Hind
And for the first time that he could ever remember in his petted and pampered life, Sandy itched to take care of someone else. He felt it like a catch in his breath, like an ache in his bones. He wanted to feed this man until his lean frame filled and thickened. He wanted to make Peregrine sleep enough and eat enough—and fuck until all the tension was bled from his limbs.
He wanted Peregrine’s grim heart in his hands, and he wanted to treasure it forever.
A stupid wish.
“I don’t,” Sandy said after a long a time. “I’m—I think I’m?—”
He drew in a breath. Even after thinking about how he wanted to answer, he found the words hard to say. “I’m scared. Of it.”
Peregrine didn’t give him a look of disgust or of disbelief; he didn’t prompt Sandy to say more. Instead, he waited patiently while Sandy pressed his face into the highwayman’s warm shoulder and spoke the words against his skin.
“I don’t have many virtues, but I do have these: I’ve never forced anyone into a decision they didn’t want to make, and I’ve never defrauded someone who couldn’t afford it. I’ve wheedled and whined and coaxed and flirted, but I’ve never locked someone in a room until they married whom I wanted them to marry. I’ve never used my position and influence to coerce someone poor and scared into my bed.”
Peregrine stiffened under Sandy, but before Sandy could think too much of it, Peregrine was shifting so that he could wrap his arms around him. The warmth that tickled through Sandy’s chest at this gesture was ridiculous. Who felt flattered by being held by a lover? And how could this small thing outweigh the fact that Peregrine was going to kill him?
But for the moment, it did. He relaxed into Peregrine’s arms, rooting against the older man’s muscled shoulder until he was totally comfortable.
Once he’d finally settled in, Peregrine asked, “Are you worried that if you’d become like Reginald if you were the duke?”
Like Reginald . . . like his father and mother . . .
Sandy had gone to London thinking he would finally be done with all the noisome games and fleeting affairs which filled the days of Reginald’s denizens, and instead, he’d been drawn into just as many games, just as many affairs, all of them as noisome and fleeting. Perhaps he wasn’t a villain like Reginald yet, but he’d hardly acquitted himself as a saint at court. Who knows what he’d be like with enough power, enough vipers whispering in his ear?
“Yes, of course I’m worried about that,” Sandy said with a sigh. “Wouldn’t you be? If your own natural virtues were so few to begin with?”
“I’m a highwayman,” Peregrine reminded him. “My natural virtues are very few.”
“I don’t believe it,” Sandy said, running a hand over Peregrine’s stomach again. “I think you have some tragic, noble reason for taking to the road.”
Peregrine didn’t answer, but Sandy felt a new tension beneath his hand, something like stillness. Indecision, maybe.
He tilted his head up to look at the man holding him. This close, Sandy could see the dark grains of stubble on Peregrine’s jaw and the tiny white starburst of a scar near his temple. His lips were parted, revealing the blunt edges of the teeth which had scored Sandy’s neck and chest just an hour ago.
He could also see a faint, barely perceptible struggle in the thief’s eyes. It was almost invisible—one blink too many, one blink too long—but Sandy had watched enough card players weigh whether to keep playing to recognize it.
Sandy was too impatient, too eager for anything of Peregrine’s, for anything of this man’s history or heart. “You can tell me,” he said quickly, knowing he was playing his own hand too fast even as he played it. “I want to hear all about that tragic, noble reason. I want to know what my brother did to you. I want to know everything about you.”
For an instant, it looked like Peregrine was going to tell him. Like he was going to trust him. His lips parted, and his throat worked, and his brow furrowed as if with effort, and?—
The instant passed. Peregrine’s face slid into its usual stony chill, and he efficiently disentangled himself from Sandy.
“Peregrine,” Sandy said as the highwayman stood and walked to where his clothes were draped over a chair. “Stay at least. You don’t have to talk. But stay.”
“No.”
Sandy’s hands fisted on the bed. He hated being dismissed like this, and more than that, he hated that he’d told Peregrine things he’d only ever told Juliana, and now Peregrine wouldn’t even look at him.
And—and—he didn’t want Peregrine to leave. Sandy was already cold without him, and the highwayman was better than warm; he was solid. Steady.
He made Sandy feel steadier just by being nearby.
Peregrine stepped into his breeches, not looking at Sandy. “You should sleep.”
“You should sleep. Here. With me.”
“I’ll be outside,” he replied. “In case you were thinking of escaping.”
“I’m always thinking of escaping,” Sandy said, annoyed now.
