Free A Most Personal Property (Ganymede Quartet Book 1) by Darrah Glass Page A

Martin bowed his head, contrite. “They had every right, of course, Sir.”
    “No need to apologize,” Henry reassured him, though his blush deepened, uncomfortable with his showroom memories.
    “Should I change into my uniform, Sir?” Martin asked, standing and beginning to unbutton his shirt. “I should feel more at home here if I look the part.”
    Henry backed toward the door. “I’ll give you some privacy,” he said.
    Martin smiled. “I don’t need privacy, Sir. Please, don’t trouble yourself.”
    “No, it’s all right,” Henry said hurriedly. He turned and fled for the safety of his own room. He sat on the edge of his high bed and wrung his hands together nervously. When Martin appeared a few minutes later, fully dressed, Henry was both disappointed and relieved. Martin wore the narrow fawn trousers, collarless shirt, black waistcoat and black jacket that were also Timothy’s uniform. His hair was tied back with a narrow black ribbon. He tugged at his sleeves and smiled shyly at Henry.
    “Does it suit me, Sir?”
    The sleeves of the jacket were a little short, but the garment otherwise hung well on Martin’s slim frame. The blue of his tattoo stood out brightly against the white of shirt and skin.
    “Did it hurt? Your tattoo, I mean.”
    “Yes, Sir, but I didn’t mind,” Martin told him proudly. “I was among the first in my class to earn it.”
    “May I see it?” Henry asked, beckoning Martin closer. Martin came to stand between his feet and then, without Henry asking, went down to his knees, unbuttoning the top button of his shirt and lifting his chin so that Henry might better see the mark.
    It was a circle a bit larger than a half-dollar, azure blue, a chalice wreathed in laurels. Delicate tendrils unfurled from the edge of the disk and there was a number beneath, which Henry read aloud.
    “1-7-3-1-0-N-Y.” Henry lifted his hand to the mark, but stopped short of touching the knobs of Martin’s collarbones.
    “My number, Sir,” Martin said. “Ganymede has a long history.” Once again, Henry could hear the pride in his voice. He paused, then added, “Touch it if you’d like, Sir,” and raised his chin higher still, exposing the length of his throat.
    “No, no.” Henry shook his head and looked away. He could feel Martin’s eyes searching his face and wished that he would not blush. “Get up,” he said. He slid sideways along the bed, away from Martin, and stood.
    Martin’s hands moved to his shirt buttons and for a wild moment Henry thought he might undress; however, all he did was refasten his top button. “Is there anything I might do for you, Sir?” Martin asked, getting more slowly to his feet. “Anything at all?” When Henry did not immediately answer, he added, “I should be very happy to serve you. That is what I’m here for,” in a low, intimate tone.
    Henry knew this, of course, but now that Martin was his, he was overwhelmed and embarrassed by the possibilities.
    “It will be time for your dinner soon,” Henry told him, although this wasn’t actually true. “Timothy will want to show you around first. We should go find him.”
    “Of course, Sir. As you wish.”
    They went down the back stairs, which were more convenient, although Martin, as a companion slave, could also use the front staircase as he wished. “Timothy already told you about the stairs, I imagine,” Henry said, talking so fast he was making himself out of breath. “Timothy knows everything.” Timothy was with Cook and Randolph in the kitchen and was not prepared to instruct Martin at all, sending them back to Henry’s rooms with obvious impatience, not wanting them underfoot.
    “Perhaps I should put my things away, Sir?” Martin suggested. When Henry acquiesced to this suggestion with a shrug, he began unwrapping his packages. Henry watched from the doorway, leaning against the jamb, his arms crossed over his chest. Martin smiled as he worked, touching the items almost reverently.