“Shouldn’t we run?”
“Don’t argue.” Da Silva grabbed the wire and putty off the doorframe and shoved them in his pocket, then dropped to the keyhole, working his picks with maddening deliberation. “And take off that pullover, just throw it over that chair. Now.”
Red with shame and anger at himself, Curtis did as he was told, pulling his dressing gown over his bare chest at da Silva’s rapid, bewildering directions. There were running footsteps audible now. Several men, approaching fast.
“Over here, quick.” Da Silva rose and turned his back to the storeroom door. Curtis stepped over, and da Silva said, urgently, “Don’t hit me.”
“Wh—”
Da Silva fisted his hands in Curtis’s dressing gown, dragged him forward and kissed him on the mouth.
Curtis couldn’t even react for a second. His mind was already fizzing with hurry, panic, anger at himself and rage at his traitorous host, the late hour and confusion, and now there was the sensation of hard lips battering his mouth, a hand behind his head, pulling at his hair and forcing his face forward, stubble that rasped across his skin. He stood, frozen stiff, and da Silva kicked his ankle viciously so that Curtis half-fell forward, leaning against him, and the main light clicked on, shocking him with its glare.
Da Silva pushed Curtis away so hard he stumbled a few paces back. He swung round to face three shotguns.
Fighting instinct surged, the appalling awareness of being unarmed and outnumbered overriding any other thoughts. He tensed, assessing the threat.
Three men in nightgowns. One was the handsome servant Wesley; the other two were both older, both with the unmistakable stamp of the soldier. All had their weapons—the latest model of heavy-duty Armstrong shotguns—at their shoulders, and all three had them aimed at Curtis. The older men were giving him their full attention, but Wesley was glancing over Curtis’s shoulder, his eyes widening, biting back a smirk.
A few endless seconds ticked by as they stared at each other. They weren’t about to shoot, Curtis registered.
“Put those guns down,” he ordered. “Good work, but no need for it. Mr. da Silva and I were just—” He looked round as he spoke, indicating da Silva, and the words dried in his throat.
Da Silva was leaning back against the door, hips tilted provocatively forward. His eyes were hooded, black hair dishevelled, lips parted and a little red, like a man who had been thoroughly kissed. The silky dressing gown was open, revealing his smooth, bare chest and, Curtis couldn’t but notice, dark nipples, one of which—oh, good God—was pierced with a silver ring.
He looked decadent beyond belief. He looked as though someone had been about to fuck him right there against the door, and as though he’d have liked it.
Someone, and it would be obvious to the servants who that was.
Curtis felt the blood flame in his cheeks and forced his gaze away, back to the guns.
“Put those down.” He managed something like a note of command.
“Beg your pardon, gentlemen,” said one of the older men woodenly, lowering his shotgun a fraction, so that he could not quite be said to be pointing it at a guest. Curtis wasn’t reassured. “An alarm went off. Were you leaning on the door just now, at all, sir?”
“The door,” da Silva repeated, mouth curling in that secret smile. “Ye-e-es, perhaps a trifle. That set an alarm off, did it?”
“Might have. If you was leaning very heavy-like. Sir.”
“Or if someone else was—” began Wesley, smirking and allowing his gun to droop. The grizzled man made a low, warning noise. Wesley’s grin vanished and he muttered, “Sorry, Mr. March,” as his shotgun swung back up. Curtis wanted to order him to put it down at once. He was held back by the thought that he didn’t know what he’d do if the man refused.
“Unfortunate accident,” he said instead. He ought to help da Silva’s brilliant, unspeakable improvisation somehow, but it was as much as he could do to get the words out, choking with embarrassment, the bare-chested man lounging in the corner of his vision. “Sorry for any trouble.”
“Sir,” March said flatly. “Excuse me.” He strode towards the storeroom door as he spoke, lowering the shotgun but keeping himself ready, not bothering to apologise as da Silva was forced to shift out of his way. The other two men waited in position, weapons still raised.