Andrew Lord of Despair(33)

As had Astrid. Her hand went to her belly, while her gaze was on Andrew, who’d had the boldness to raise such a potentially worrisome topic while peering so casually at his wineglass.

“Twins can be dangerous to the mother,” Gareth said, scowling.

“That’s not often the case.” Andrew buttered a roll, all casual unconcern. Astrid focused on his hands rather than the butter. “The babies tend to be smaller, and are thus more easily delivered, if I might mention such an indelicate topic. The difficulty comes in the burden of carrying them and caring for them. The babies can be sickly because they also tend to come early.”

The entire table gaped at him for a silent moment, until Astrid asked the obvious question. “And how did you come to be such an expert on this?”

“Yes, Brother,” Gareth echoed. “Have you firsthand knowledge of siring twins?”

Andrew examined the roll, which had acquired something like a landscape of butter. “I have firsthand knowledge of birthing twins, well, secondhand knowledge.”

“About which,” Gareth said, “you will now enlighten us, within the limits of the ladies’ sensibilities.”

Andrew left off sculpting the butter, but kept the knife in one hand and the roll in the other.

“The Order of Saint Bernard maintains hostels for travelers who find themselves in the high passes of the Alps,” he said. “Some of these hostels are quite comfortable, like mountain spas, but most are rustic: a single room, simple beds, fuel, basic provisions. They have saved many a life, nonetheless, including my own. I tried to make the trip through the mountains from Bavaria to northern Italy at a time of year when that was a chancy undertaking.”

Across the table, Felicity and Gareth exchanged a look of concern while Andrew added yet another dab of butter to his roll. “I found myself in one of these hostels, keeping company with an Italian couple and the wife’s old granny. The wife was quite, quite near her time, but hoping to return to Italy before the babies came. Suffice it to say, she was not successful, and somewhere in the north of Italy, there are two little fellows named Andrew and Alex, who look nothing like me whatsoever.”

Gareth’s expression was pure consternation, Felicity went back to staring at her stomach, and Astrid… wondered why a man purportedly traveling for leisure would attempt to cross the Alps when it was a chancy undertaking.

“Someday,” Gareth said, “you should write down the memoirs of your travels, Andrew. If this is just one example of the situations you found yourself in, then the whole must be fascinating.”

Andrew set what remained of the butter aside. “Lots of lumpy mattresses, boiled cabbage, and stinking cities, but some nice scenery as well.”

Was scenery worth four years of exile?

Astrid did not add that question to her list when Andrew joined her in bed several hours later. She instead kept their conversation to safer topics.

“Screw, swive, fuck, roger… How many naughty words are there for it?” Astrid asked, exasperated.

“Lots.” Andrew was curled behind her, lazily moving his hips to rub his erect cock against the tops of her thighs. If he changed the angle, he could join them in sexual union  , but he apparently wasn’t in a hurry.

“I dreamed of you,” he murmured into her ear. “Almost made a mess of my sheets.”

“Why should a dream mess up the sheets?”

And so he explained about nocturnal emissions, about the suspected causes of orchitis, and about how cold affected an erection. Her questions were avid and endless—nothing she asked shocked him. He described different positions and the diseases of vice that could bring permanent and tragic consequences, also bordellos and how multiple partners could enjoy one another at the same time.

“And you’ve done this, with two other men and one woman?” Astrid asked, agog.

“I have,” Andrew answered through a lazy yawn.

“Did you enjoy it?”

“It was years ago, Astrid, and at the time, I fancied myself some kind of connoisseur of exotic pleasures. On my end, it was an inventive use of a woman’s mouth, nothing more. As for the rest of it, I got the impression that keeping one’s elbows and knees out of the other fellows’ way was more of a challenge than actually screwing the wench—that and finding some leverage.”

“Oh, you wicked, depraved, hopeless man.” And how bored had he been to seek adventures like this? “Mind with me you don’t attempt your depravities.”

“I would not hurt you, you know. I would be careful with you,” he said, holding her against him.

She let him make his naughty pronouncements, curiosity and trust turning her up tolerant. He would never hurt her, not bodily, they both knew that. He hinted and teased, and gently threatened, but in the end, slipped himself exactly where, in Astrid’s opinion, he belonged.