ring?'"
"Raleigh," Moshe growled, his fingers gripping Raleigh's arm.
Raleigh looked down at Moshe—at his flashing eyes, his contorted face.
Raleigh felt the smallest sparks of arousal, his cock thickening. Not wanting Moshe to see it, he quickly turned around and walked away by several paces. "How long has it been, Moshe?" he asked. "To have the duke writing such delicate words."
There was silence, and Raleigh allowed himself a rare feeling of triumph.
But then Moshe said, " Too long."
Still with his back to him, Raleigh looked down at the letter, finishing it. It really wasn't anything suspicious, more a love letter to Moshe's sword-fighting abilities than to Moshe himself. It was a challenge— perhaps you hide because you fear you will lose, Frederick taunted—but Raleigh knew the duke and he knew that it was good-natured teasing. That was something he had always excelled at, cajoling Moshe to fight him without having to ignite a deep rage.
Unlike Raleigh.
He palmed his forehead. "I am scheduled for a morning ride," he said wearily. With a sniff, he turned and set the letter down next to the invitation, keeping his gaze to them and not to Moshe.
Silence. Moshe stepped towards him, and for a brief moment Raleigh thought he was about to embrace Raleigh, but he did not. He grabbed the slips of parchment and headed back towards the door. "Fine," Moshe said shortly, "I will reply to the duke."
Raleigh cleared his throat. "To decline?"
"To accept."
*~*~*
Raleigh did not go on his ride.
He watched from his—their—chamber window as Moshe stood out in the courtyard, slowly moving through his warm-up paces. He held a light sword, one he apparently had since young adulthood and which he used for practice, and slid it cleanly through the air.
Next would be the longsword, and then perhaps a foil. Occasionally, Moshe chose not to use the fencing sword and did basic hand-to-hand combat forms instead. This always brought a frown to Raleigh's face, but he never spoke of it to Moshe. The last time he'd brought up the foil's omission, Moshe had gotten a curious look on his face and said, "If you join me for a round, I would be more inclined to use it."
As the usual troubled feeling at the idea of facing Moshe in fight clenched at Raleigh's gut, he heard a low cough behind him.
"Yes, Peter?" Turning around, he faced his servant.
"Sir Moshe had asked me to make sure a letter of his went with the rider to Marvle-Dein …"
They stared at each other for a brief time—too long a time, probably. Raleigh slowly looked back down at Moshe. "That's Master Moshe, not Sir. You know that, Peter."
"Yes, Master."
He knew full well the reprimand did not upset Peter. However, Raleigh was more troubled with himself. For the first time in a long time, he had felt the urge to resort to his old ways. But as he watched the twisting turns of Moshe's sword form, so beautiful in its mastery, he took some comfort that he had not. He didn't need another reason for Moshe to regard him with such disdain.
Bringing his hand to his mouth, he touched his lips. And then he said over his shoulder, "Could you read me what Master Moshe has written?"
"It is an acceptance for you and Master Moshe to attend the winter games at Marvle-Dein," Peter replied immediately.
Raleigh closed his eyes. "Both of us?"
"Yes, sir."
That was unexpected. And Raleigh had not agreed to it. He was not sure if Moshe took Raleigh accompanying him for granted, or if he was going to somehow shame Raleigh into going once the duke already assumed that he would be … Either way, Raleigh would have to speak to Moshe about taking such liberties with Raleigh's time, as well as assuming he was free to accept that invitation for either of them without permission from Ral—
Raleigh stopped himself mid-thought, letting out a small sigh. It was unlikely he would be able to speak to Moshe in such a way. No doubt Moshe would laugh in his face.
Once upon a time, such an
"Raleigh," Moshe growled, his fingers gripping Raleigh's arm.
Raleigh looked down at Moshe—at his flashing eyes, his contorted face.
Raleigh felt the smallest sparks of arousal, his cock thickening. Not wanting Moshe to see it, he quickly turned around and walked away by several paces. "How long has it been, Moshe?" he asked. "To have the duke writing such delicate words."
There was silence, and Raleigh allowed himself a rare feeling of triumph.
But then Moshe said, " Too long."
Still with his back to him, Raleigh looked down at the letter, finishing it. It really wasn't anything suspicious, more a love letter to Moshe's sword-fighting abilities than to Moshe himself. It was a challenge— perhaps you hide because you fear you will lose, Frederick taunted—but Raleigh knew the duke and he knew that it was good-natured teasing. That was something he had always excelled at, cajoling Moshe to fight him without having to ignite a deep rage.
Unlike Raleigh.
He palmed his forehead. "I am scheduled for a morning ride," he said wearily. With a sniff, he turned and set the letter down next to the invitation, keeping his gaze to them and not to Moshe.
Silence. Moshe stepped towards him, and for a brief moment Raleigh thought he was about to embrace Raleigh, but he did not. He grabbed the slips of parchment and headed back towards the door. "Fine," Moshe said shortly, "I will reply to the duke."
Raleigh cleared his throat. "To decline?"
"To accept."
*~*~*
Raleigh did not go on his ride.
He watched from his—their—chamber window as Moshe stood out in the courtyard, slowly moving through his warm-up paces. He held a light sword, one he apparently had since young adulthood and which he used for practice, and slid it cleanly through the air.
Next would be the longsword, and then perhaps a foil. Occasionally, Moshe chose not to use the fencing sword and did basic hand-to-hand combat forms instead. This always brought a frown to Raleigh's face, but he never spoke of it to Moshe. The last time he'd brought up the foil's omission, Moshe had gotten a curious look on his face and said, "If you join me for a round, I would be more inclined to use it."
As the usual troubled feeling at the idea of facing Moshe in fight clenched at Raleigh's gut, he heard a low cough behind him.
"Yes, Peter?" Turning around, he faced his servant.
"Sir Moshe had asked me to make sure a letter of his went with the rider to Marvle-Dein …"
They stared at each other for a brief time—too long a time, probably. Raleigh slowly looked back down at Moshe. "That's Master Moshe, not Sir. You know that, Peter."
"Yes, Master."
He knew full well the reprimand did not upset Peter. However, Raleigh was more troubled with himself. For the first time in a long time, he had felt the urge to resort to his old ways. But as he watched the twisting turns of Moshe's sword form, so beautiful in its mastery, he took some comfort that he had not. He didn't need another reason for Moshe to regard him with such disdain.
Bringing his hand to his mouth, he touched his lips. And then he said over his shoulder, "Could you read me what Master Moshe has written?"
"It is an acceptance for you and Master Moshe to attend the winter games at Marvle-Dein," Peter replied immediately.
Raleigh closed his eyes. "Both of us?"
"Yes, sir."
That was unexpected. And Raleigh had not agreed to it. He was not sure if Moshe took Raleigh accompanying him for granted, or if he was going to somehow shame Raleigh into going once the duke already assumed that he would be … Either way, Raleigh would have to speak to Moshe about taking such liberties with Raleigh's time, as well as assuming he was free to accept that invitation for either of them without permission from Ral—
Raleigh stopped himself mid-thought, letting out a small sigh. It was unlikely he would be able to speak to Moshe in such a way. No doubt Moshe would laugh in his face.
Once upon a time, such an
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