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Harry typically recovered first. "That was a lot to process,
Martin. I think we need to do this experiment again."
Choking on his laughter, Martin rolled to the side. He flung a
hand over his eyes and panted softly. "If you feed me, I can oblige
you. But just wait until you try it from the other end."
Harry gasped. "I& I m going to need to gather a lot of
information about this, Martin."
"I'll be happy to assist."
Chapter Nine
"A tingly sensation in the solar plexus at his smile over the
bacon this morning." Conscious that he was smiling like an idiot,
Harold jotted down a few more notes in the leather bound journal that
Martin had presented him with. He couldn't believe how many of the
pages he'd filled already. Their "experiments" were becoming all
consuming. He'd scarcely given a thought to the refinements to his
pistol.
He stared at the note he'd just made and frowned. Breakfast
wasn't really a part of the experiment, was it? He scooted back on the
seat and leaned his head on his hand. Thoughtfully, Harry flipped
back through the pages of the journal that he'd filled over the last
seven days.
He'd had plenty of raw fodder to turn into notes about the
physiological effects of sexual activity, different activities, positions,
senses. He should have an abundance of data. There were plenty of
notations about the parameters of their activities, the orgasms, the
touches, the tastes of passion. But there were plenty of others that
were& not. And those weren't in the least scientific. They were
useless.
Good lord, he paused on one fairly rhapsodic passage about
the way Martin's eyes seemed to change during the course of a day. A
man's eyes didn't really melt, how the fuck had he come to write such
drivel in the first place?
Closing the book, Harry twined his fingers about the pen. This
wasn't a problem he'd encountered in his endeavors with Andre. That
had been a simple matter of action, reaction, assessable by increase of
heart rate and speed of breath, intensity of ejaculation, though not
measurable.
It had to be Martin. Martin was corrupting the purity of his
experiment somehow. He ground his teeth and squared his jaw. Such
could not be allowed. Dipping the nib of his pen in an inkwell, he
began meticulously scratching out every detail that was not related to
the sexual interplay between them, every sappy, romanticized bit of
drivel about flashing eyes and gut wrenching smiles.
The scratching didn't make him happy though. If anything
each crosshatch made his mood darker, built his fury. Emotions had
no place in science.
"Martin!" he called, flinging the pen on the desk.
The door opened, and Martin peeked in. Harold was instantly
swept back into the morass of foolish sentiment that had corrupted his
note taking. And was it any wonder? Martin had adopted Harry's own
habit of going about the house in his shirtsleeves and stockings,
declaring that it made things much easier.
The sight of Martin, smiling wickedly, in creamy linen
bisected by black braces, faun pantaloons clinging lovingly to
sculpted thighs made "things" infinitely harder for Harry though.
"Fuck! Martin, you can't go about half dressed!" he protested.
Martin laughed and entered the room. Leaning one hip on the
closed door, he struck a languid pose. "Why not? If you can run about
in disarray, then I see no reason why I cannot as well. No one comes
here, and we've agreed not to go out, so where's the harm?"
"The harm," Harry blustered, feeling like a fool, "is that I
cannot seem to get anything done properly with you running about
next thing to all together!"
Martin smoothed a hand down his braces and pressed it to the
fall of his pantaloons. "I distract you?"
"You must know you do!" Harry flounced, to his own disgust,
out of his seat and crossed to Martin's side. He watched mystified as
his hand covered Martin's, seemingly of its own accord. The anger
he'd felt was fading, the heat it had roused turning to something more.
"You have to stop."
Martin slid his hand out from under Harry's and used it to tip
Harry's head up so their gazes met. "Stop what, Harry?"
Blinking, Harry peered through his glasses at Martin's smiling
face. "Absorbing my attention. I have work to do, you know." He
regretted his words instantly when Martin's smile disappeared.
"I thought I was your work." The warmth he'd blathered about
in those tea-colored eyes faded, and while he knew there was no
scientific explanation for it, Harry shivered at the chill that crept into
its place. Eyes aren't hot or cold, he scolded himself. They're just
eyes.
"Our experiments are interesting, Martin. But they aren't my
work, they're just entertainment." And yet again he proved with a few
words that he was quite capable of making any situation worse
without effort. "I didn't& "
Martin pushed him away and opened the door. "I meant
watching over me was your work. Being your work was bad enough,
but I think I quite resent being your entertainment more."
"That's not what& "
The door slammed. Angry thuds signaled Martin's progress
through the house to the kitchen, quite a feat considering his
stockinged feet.
"What I meant either." Harold stared blankly at the
whitewashed door, trying to work out what had happened, and how he
could fix it. He should go talk to Martin.
But what could he say?
He couldn't think of anything worse right now than standing in
the tiny back garden stammering through an apology while Martin
blew a cloud of the disgusting tobacco and stared at him coldly.
He could handle choking on the smoke. He'd done that often
enough in his lab, after all. It was the icy expression in those eyes that
he couldn't face.
The pounding at the front door to the cottage gave him a few
minutes reprieve.
He strode down the hall and opened the door, revealing a
stalwart man in a red waistcoat and black jacket who gazed at him
expectantly.
"Yes?"
The man pointedly looked Harry over from head to toe and
Harry remembered his partial dress. "Is this the home of Peregrine
Gretton?"
Harry scowled. "Lord Peregrine is the owner of this cottage,
yes. He does not however reside here, and so this cannot be termed
his home, though it is in fact one of his houses."
The man on the step bristled, his jaw tightening. "That so?
And who might you be?"
"I might be damned near anyone. Who the fuck are you?"
Nash would be thrilled by the ease with which the crudity spilled
from his lips these days.
"I'm Norton of Bow Street, here on official business."
"You'll have to look for Lord Peregrine at the Home Office or
at Gretton house in Grosvenor Square. You won't find him here." He
began to shut the door, but a bulky booted foot blocked his path.
"I'm not looking for Lord Gretton as it were. I'm looking for a
man named Martin Tillman. He's an American wanted for war crimes.
You don't mind if I look around, do you?"
"I do in fact mind. If you want to search His Lordship's
premises, well, you're going to have to answer to him for it, not me. I
won't let you set foot inside this door unless he allows it." He hoped
his anxiety didn't show on his face. "I'd lose my job if I let you in."
The key to lying successfully was in being as truthful as possible, and
if the runner came in and found Martin, Harry would indeed be out of
a job.
"He needn't know." The runner tried a smile but it just made
him look smarmy in Harry's opinion.
"He'll know. His Lordship is a right bastard, too. You go see
him at the Home Office and if he says it's all right then you just come
on back here and I'll let you have the run of the place."
He leaned on the door, and the runner removed his foot, letting [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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