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Ah, yeah. This would be a good one. Through the trees Edward observed the handsome coach judder along the rutted road, bouncing on its springs. Sleek horses, gilt doors. The gentleman inside was rich as sin. And there was only one man inside—this Edward could tell just by looking, from years of experience. He imagined the booty he would come away with: guineas, jewels, banknotes… Maybe there might even be a fight over it. The last half-dozen marks had given up their assorted wealth with hardly a whimper. This was the downside of his reputation preceding him the way it had begun to. There was just no excitement to be had anymore.
He tightened his mask, adjusted his bandolier, and rode out onto the road, pistol pointed directly at the coachman, who drew up to a stop with a low “Fuck.” Edward rode around to the side of the carriage, got down off Annie and yanked the door open, leveling his gun into the darkness at the occupant.
“Give me everything you’ve got.”
From inside emerged a face blinking in the sunlight, followed by broad blue-brocaded shoulders and then the whole upper body of a foppish gentleman about Edward’s age. He said, “D’you mind if we do this on the way?”
“... Do what?”
“The robbing bit. I’m happy to oblige, just sort of in a major hurry.” He peered nervously out the back window of the carriage. Nobody was coming down the road but it seemed like he thought there might be soon. “And it’s very roomy in here. Space enough for you to draw your sword, even, if you’d like.”
“Well—I can’t leave my horse, can I?” This being the only reasonable excuse Edward could come up with, for some reason.
The fellow pursed his lips. “No, suppose you can’t. Well, Rocco there on the left has been on his last legs for a bit, I’ll have your fellow harnessed in his place, then we can be off. But we’ll have to be quick about it.”
This strange deed done Edward found himself seated presently inside the plush womb of a gentleman’s carriage, surrounded by velvet and ribbons. He was momentarily bewildered but got a handle on himself in time to launch himself forward and press his dagger to the pale flab of the man’s throat.
Said gentleman was smiling, for some reason. “Hang on—you’re Edward Teach! I’ve heard of you!” He began to sing that awful broadsheet ballad: “Come all you valiant highwaymen and outlaws of disdain—” and Edward let out a growl and levered the dagger in closer just a touch to shut him up. Unlike most gentlemen of his class he’d robbed this one’s breath smelled quite nice, or at least not wholly like rotting teeth under an overpowering fug of lavender perfume.
“If you’ve heard of me,” said Edward, “you understand the mechanics of this transaction.”
“Oh—yeah,” said the man. “But I haven’t got anything for you. I left it all at home.”
“They all say that."
“I’m serious! I’m not joshing. I left in a bit of a hurry, you might say. Nothing but the carriage and the clothes on my back. You can have those, if you want, as soon as we reach Dover. I won’t need them where I’m going.”
Insanely it sounded like he was telling the truth.
“And what about your wig?” said Edward. It was quite nice: sleek and pulled back with a ribbon, curled only at the sides, very well-kept too. Flattered the fellow’s face, far more than the bigger and fluffier style his sort tended to wear.
Maybe that’s why the man seemed less eager, ever so slightly, about this prospect. “I really like this one,” he said.
“I do too,” said Edward. “So give it to me, now.”
The man did so, hands shaking slightly, but enough for Edward to see and be satisfied by. He settled back in his seat, stowing his dagger so he could turn the wig over in his hands.
“Well, you’ve got pretty refined taste for a criminal,” the gentleman put in. “Those are actually about to be all the rage, soon you’ll see everyone here wearing them.”
“... Everyone? How the hell can you know that, now? You some kind of—clairvoyant?”
“Ha! Hardly. Because,” said the man patiently, “they’re all the rage in Paris now, having begun as a trend in the military, and then filtered up to the court. Which means that any day now they will be in style here amongst the lords and ladies, and after that, the merchants and the politicians, and so forth on down. It’s a regular process. You see?”
This had literally never occurred to Edward before. He had just sort of assumed that styles—happened. Like weather. He was about to ask for further explanation but suddenly the man became alarmed, peering out the back window of the carriage again, and then banged on the roof of the carriage and shout, “Faster, man, faster!” The sound of a whip-crack was heard from outside and the carriage sped up, jostling its occupants rather severely.
“Why the fuck are you in such a rush?”
“Ah, long story. Not very interesting. Especially not to an esteemed criminal like you. Domestic issues, you see.”
“Well, we have a while till Dover, if that’s really where you’re going, and I’m curious. And I have a knife. And a gun. Both of which I know how to use: so tell me.”
The man tugged at his cravat and then his lace cuffs in a nervous motion. “I could begin by introducing myself,” he said. “Horribly impolite of me not to have done so sooner. I’m Stede Bonnet.” He made an aborted motion, as if wanting to shake Edward’s hand but thinking better of it.
“Is there a little more to that name, maybe? Before and/or after? Just a gut feeling I have.” Edward said, spinning the wig by the cap casually on the top of his finger.
A sigh. “Lord Stede Bonnet, Viscount of Trewsbury, Baron of Aredale.”
“That’s more like it.”
“Suppose you get a lot of Viscounts, in your line of work? Or more Marquesses? Do you keep track? If you made a little chart—”
“Your story,” said Edward, fondling the handle of his pistol, “now, thanks.”
Thus threatened Stede launched into his sordid tale. Sordid insofar as it was clearly embarrassing for him to tell—there was nothing materially scandalous involved, other than the inherent shame in abandoning one’s family and property and King to pursue an independent life across the Channel. He was paranoid of being pursued and caught not because of any material proof that his wife would come after him, or send her pack of intimidating cavalry-officer brothers in her stead, but because he likely thought that’s what he deserved. Taking the main road right to Dover, planning to stop at the fanciest coaching inn along the way that night—he might well have wanted to be caught.
But Edward was uninterested in playing along. Figuring out how to get this man free despite himself—why, it was a robbery of a sort, wasn’t it? And more fun than Edward had had in ages.
“Don’t go on to Dover,” Edward said, when Stede’s tale had straggled to a sad stop. “The smugglers in the coves south along the coast will have cutters that can get you there faster than any packet, and without running the risk of being discovered in a central location.”
“Smugglers?” Stede said, affronted. “I wouldn’t—”
“What, you can invite a black-clad highwayman into your coach for a bit of friendly back-and-forth but you draw the line at hard-working, salt-of-the-earth Channel smugglers? Fucking hypocrite, you are.”
“I know you, though,” said Stede. “From the songs. It’s different.”
“I’m nothing like that bastard in the songs. Hate the goddamn songs,” spat Edward. “Worst rhymes I ever fucking heard. Leaves out the horse too, the horse has got a name, Annie, that’s her name, wouldn’t have a career if not for the horse, why doesn’t anyone give her her due? Meanwhile that whole thing with the—the girl—”
Stede sang, “The lovely Arabella, who waited for her lover beside the willow tree—”
“Doesn’t exist,” said Edward. “Pure fabulation. Girl who wrote the song stuck herself into it, clearly, because I never met her. Who has the time for that—that sort of thing?”
“I see,” said Stede thoughtfully. “You’re dissatisfied with your personal branding.”
Edward let out a huff. He didn’t know what Bonnet meant by that and didn’t much care to find out. He stuck his head out the window and, ignoring nervous protests from Stede, had the carriage take the next turning off the Dover road and head towards Hythe, where he figured Jack would be willing to repay some of his many, many debts by ferrying this lacy fugitive across to Dunkirk or wherever the fuck it was he picked up his contraband.
“This Jack,” said Stede, “I can trust him to convey me safely to France?”
Edward was picking at his nails with the tip of his dagger. “Probably not, mate. But at least your wife or her brothers would never expect to find you with him—that is what you want, right?”
Stede swallowed visibly and nodded.
As night fell they pulled off the road into a crumbly-looking coaching inn. Edward removed his mask, sword, and cloak and put them into Annie’s saddle-bags but left the remainder of his gear on. There were lots of straps and buckles and so forth that glinted when he walked or rode—a bitch to take off on his own but worth it for the way a room would fall silent when he strolled in. Of course then that meant he had nobody to talk to while he drank or ate: but tonight he could talk to Stede Bonnet, whose well-founded fear of the famous Black-Bearded Highwayman hadn’t seemed to stop him gabbling on about whatever was on his mind during the rest of the ride over.
The inn and its environs were a source of distaste to Stede; Edward quite enjoyed the sight of him nearly losing his lunch over the legless, leprous beggar out front. If he really was planning on abandoning his lavish lifestyle and becoming some sort of wandering bohemian, he’d have to deal with much worse. Better for him to start adjusting now.
Inside, two musicians on lutes were plugging pathetically away at Edward’s least favorite ballad about himself. “Walking down the road / I can tell that you / are the most dangerous man on the road…” First order of business was getting them to play something, literally anything else, which he accomplished by unholstering his pistol, pointing it at them, and demanding they do the one about the Golden Vanity.
“Can’t figure out why this isn’t the most popular ballad,” Edward grumbled, as the two nervously struck up the new song. “Much better than any of the stupid highwayman ones.”
“De gustabis non est disputandum,” said Stede confidently.
“I’m sorry, are you having a stroke? The hell was that?”
“It’s Latin. Means ‘there is no accounting for taste.’ People like or don’t like certain things just because, and there’s no telling why. Best not to question it. Mysteries of the universe.”
Ale and chops were brought over by a confused-looking landlady, who kept glancing at Stede as if convinced he was some kind of frilly phantasm. Eventually Ed said, “So what’s the plan?”
“Well, I thought I’d wash up, and then get some rest before—”
“No, I mean when you get to France.”
“Um. You know, I can’t say I’ve thought about it all too much. Find a little house by the sea. Catch up on my reading. Do some decorative stitch-work. Then some more reading. I’ve always wanted to try my hand at writing poetry, perhaps a booklet of sonnets or epigrams…”
Absolutely absurd. Patently fucking ridiculous. This man was like—Edward searched for a comparison, the kind a poet would make, and came up only with “bird.” A pretty one, with a silly song. In a tree that was just about to be chopped down by a woodsman. A sexy woodsman wearing lots of leather. Who would catch the bird as it fell from the tree and feel its bright breast underneath his rough hands..
“Edward? You alright?”
He started. “Yeah, m’fine.”
“Dropped off for a bit just there. I think it’s past our bedtimes, isn’t it? I’ll just cover the meal, and the room…” He shook a few shillings from an inner pocket and handed them to the landlady.
“Hey—what, you did have money on you, this whole time!”
Stede smiled, a strange look in his eyes. “Sure,” he said. “Wouldn’t travel without it, I’m not an idiot. But you didn’t press the question, did you, when you certainly could’ve, so maybe you’re the idiot, eh?”
“Fucking lunatic,” grumbled Edward, and followed Stede upstairs.
***
“Having some trouble there?” Stede asked. Before Edward could say anything in his own defense Stede, having gotten down to his breeches and undershirt much quicker, walked up to him and begun delicately handling the tricky buckles on the front of his surcoat.
Christ alive, Edward was already getting hard. Stede was very close, very warm… How long had it been since Edward had been touched? Maybe if he’d bothered to spend some of his considerable profits in a house of ill repute once in awhile, like the Association of Highwaymen recommended to ward off distraction while on business, he wouldn’t be in this ludicrous situation. But he was well and truly in it, now, according to his prick. And he would simply have to see it to its conclusion.
His hand shot out and grabbed Stede’s wrist, stopping him at the fourth buckle down. “Sorry, sorry,” Stede said quickly, drawing away, “I shouldn’t have—I really don’t know what came over me, I—”
Edward let out a low growl of “No,” then jerked Stede forward right into a heated kiss. At first he was met with stiffness and fear but then Stede went soft under him, kissing back urgently, a hand tentatively falling to Edward’s waist. Nice and solid, he was, against Edward: a well-fed slab of gentility. Probably his cock was pristine and undiseased and recently soaped… but when Edward reached down to palm at it Stede sort of dodged, slipping just out of reach.
“Let me just finish the gig here, real quick,” he muttered, and faster than Edward could’ve done it himself he had the surcoat buckles undone and the whole thing shucked and folded on the room’s sole spindly chair. With a determined air, refusing to be waylaid by Edward nipping at his mouth and neck, he made work of the belt and breeches fly as well.
“Get on the bed,” said Edward, pushing him in that direction.
“You’re not even fully undressed yet!”
“I don’t need to be. Neither do you, just get your breeches down, c’mon.”
“But—”
“Are you stalling? You’re stalling.”
“No—I just. I can’t say my—my fundament is prepared for a breach at this late hour… At this stage of middle-age. Been a long time since boarding school, y’know?”
“Fuck, that’s all?” Edward laughed. “Right, your mouth then. Or your thighs. Or your tits. I don’t care, to be honest. I just want to… I just want, okay?” He was close to Stede, their foreheads near touching. Was Stede—blushing? He was fucking blushing. It was cute. Fuck. He grabbed Stede’s hand and brought it down inside his unbuttoned breeches. Stede fumbled and then shyly took hold of Edward’s hard prick through his undershirt.
Edward observed with satisfaction the expression the size of it produced on Stede’s face. He wanted it just as bad as Edward wanted to give it to him.
On the room’s single bed, with Stede below him, breeches all the way off (and folded) and legs spread, Edward spat into his hand and prepared to hurriedly smear it around to ease the way.
“Hey!” exclaimed Stede, snapping his pale thighs shut.
“What? Your silky skin too good for my sexy saliva, man?”
“I have a variety of emollients and oil-based hair treatments in my travel bag, if you’ll just allow me…” He rolled onto his side and rummaged around underneath the bed, popping back up a second later with a small amber bottle.
“Oil just for your hair?” Edward asked, awed, as Stede poured a sizable amount into his palm. “Your hair that you’re… probably going to put a wig over anyway?”
“Exactly,” said Stede seriously. “And here, it even smells nice.”
He transferred the oil into Edward’s hand and motioned for him to raise it to his nose.
“It does smell amazing,” said Edward, then: “Shit! I can’t believe you’re distracting me from fucking with your fancy liquids.” Stede smirked, the tease. Once he’d generously applied the oil Edward let his fingers wander higher, thumbing at the upper limits of Stede’s thighs, then inwards, tracing the seam of his balls through their golden nest of hair and giving Stede’s plump cock a few solid tugs. Stede made such a noise when Edward did that—a gorgeous little moan that made Edward’s prick jump in needy agony. Good thing he was mere inches away from relief.
And what relief it was. Stede knew what he was doing, clenching his broad thighs so close as to provide a blissfully tight, hot channel for Edward. The slick clutch of it was perfect, thanks to the oil—God, he felt incredible. “Ah, fuck,” Edward said, “just—just look at you, yeah, touch yourself, just like that—” and, eager to please, there Stede went grabbing hold of his own cock, pulling at it with abandon.
When Edward looked up from admiring the sight of Stede’s prick he saw that his eyes had fluttered shut in pleasure. “Hey. Don’t close your eyes. Look at me while I’m fucking you,” said Edward. Again Stede obeyed, gazing up at Edward heavy-lidded.
What was he thinking about? What went on in that head? Some kind of fucking… clockwork bonanza? Complete with a gold-filigreed arm that occasionally pointed to NARCISSISM and other times to ANXIETY and other times to EXUDING EROTIC ENERGY AGAINST ALL FUCKING ODDS?
Edward slowed a bit, letting his cock drag along underneath, bumping helpfully at Stede’s stones as Stede worked his hand up and down his own prick. How much more stimulation could he take? Edward reached out to roll Stede’s nipple in between his thumb and forefinger. This was enough to make him gasp and bite his lip, but he took it gorgeously.
“Oh, God. You’re really good at sex,” said Stede, breathlessly. He had at some point started moving, bucking his hips up so as to meet Edward’s downward thrusts, and by God did that make it feel even better.
“Course I am. I’m the fucking Black-Bearded Highwayman,” grunted Edward.
“Bet everyone says that in bed with you. Bet you get it all the time.”
“Yep. Pretty much always. Every day.” But the fact was that Edward couldn’t remember the last time anyone had told him anything of the sort. If they ever had at all. “And you’re really...”
“Really what?”
“Really close to making me—come—ah, fuck—”
In response Stede flexed his thighs, tightening around Edward, and Edward collapsed forwards onto his forearms, his head to the side of Stede’s, moving faster again, chasing the crisis that was just around the corner. Suddenly Stede slipped a hand around underneath Edward’s shirt, raking his nails surprisingly hard down his bare back, and said, right into his ear, “Edward,” and that was enough, lights behind his eyes and he was spilling, all over the smooth gold-dusted skin on either side of the warm breach, panting and dizzied.
He slid slightly off, at just the right angle to watch Stede frig himself to completion, spending over his hand, with a blissful half-smile on his face. Then Edward must have dozed off for a bit, for when he opened his eyes again the moon out the lead-glass window was slightly higher, and Stede had both of them up, and himself had gotten into a pristine nightgown, with ruffles all over, before falling asleep. Edward wanted to—oh, God, he wanted to get his arms around him. It took all the self-control of a hardened criminal to not cuddle up and instead to satisfy himself with inching closer, so their sides were pressed together, and he could feel the steady rise and fall of Stede’s breathing.
***
The smuggler plan was more or less a bust. “I really don't like him,” Stede was whispering, perhaps a little too loudly. “Or trust him, at all.”
Jack, from the gunwale of the cutter on the shore just yards away, drunkenly chucked an empty rum bottle at their heads; it missed and shattered on the rocks, scaring away a seagull.
“Yeah,” said Edward, watching Jack make obscene gestures at them. “He’s definitely not who I’d pick, if I had to pick a ferryman.” He waved a cursory goodbye to Jack, put his arm around Stede’s shoulder and guided him away, up the beach. “We could try further down the coast. I’m pretty sure Izzy puts in at Rabbit Cove a few miles away, he’s got a nice little dinghy—”
“Actually, I’ve been thinking,” said Stede. They’d stopped atop a scrubby dune. The early morning sun lit up the gold in his hair, and the embroidered figures on his waistcoat—or really, Edward’s waistcoat, because he had robbed Stede just yesterday, and was just taking his sweet time in reminding him of that fact, was all.
“You’ve been thinking that you don’t want to go to France, and that you’d rather stay here and try your hand at being a highwayman with me.”
Stede gasped, his mouth a perfect O. “What! How did you know I was going to say that?”
“I didn’t,” said Edward. “It was just what I was hoping you’d say. Was that really what—?”
“Yeah,” said Stede, and then seemed to diminish somewhat. “But you only work alone. That’s what they say in the songs—”
“Mate, fuck the songs. I hate ‘em, remember?”
“... But what if they wrote one about us? The two of us, on the road, stealing in style? That’d be a pretty good song, I reckon. You wouldn’t be able to say it was a bad song, cause I’d be in it, and I’d definitely like it, and get my feelings hurt a bit if you didn’t like it…”
Edward had to concede to this point, as they wandered over the dunes and back towards the village. He wondered how the ballad-writers would justify the sudden appearance of a silk-clad accomplice in the exploits of Edward Teach. Hopefully they’d get really fucking bawdy with it.