Low Road

Low Road

by James Lear


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Robert Louis Stevenson's Kidnapped has long been considered a masterpiece of high adventure. In The Low Road, James Lear reinvents this classic as a satirical, queer, coming-of-age story. In 1705 Scotland, young Charles Gordon reaches adulthood ignorant of his family's heroic past in the Jacobite Rebellion. He sets out to discover the truth about his father, but instead is kidnapped by mercenaries and sold into slavery as the plaything of a group of corrupt military officials. But Charlie's talents, in and out of bed, win him powerful friends as well as dangerous foes. The false priest, Lebecque, violent Captain Robert, depraved General Wilmott — all contribute to Charlie's "education." Eventually leading a makeshift army of sex-crazed layabouts, Charlie faces the might of the English forces. Will he triumph, or is it better to retreat to the safety of his sybaritic lifestyle? James Lear expertly interweaves spies and counterspies, scheming servants and sadistic captains, tavern trysts and prison orgies, into this delightfully erotic work that can take its place alongside his acclaimed novels The Back Passage and Hot Valley.

Product Details

ISBN-13: 9781573443647
Publisher: Start Publishing LLC
Publication date: 09/08/2009
Pages: 272
Product dimensions: 5.00(w) x 7.90(h) x 1.00(d)

About the Author

James Lear is the nom de plume of a prolific and acclaimed novelist. As James Lear he is the author of The Back Passage The Secret Tunnel Hot Valley The Low Road and The Palace of Varieties. He lives in London.

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My father was a soldier, and his father before him. That's all I know about my family history, or all I am allowed to know. Since my mother and I returned to Gordon Hall a year ago, I have grown used to evasions, silences and lies on the subject.

For many years, since my late childhood, we lived out on the island of Rum, remote from the storms and alarms of the Jacobite uprising, protected by a few miles of water from the dangers of the mainland. My father, who I last saw when I was twelve, stayed at Gordon Hall, the family seat on the east bank of Loch Linnhe, where I believe he distinguished himself in the service of the Stuart cause. More than that I have been unable to discover. I know, from my mother's tearful silence on the subject, that my father is dead and that I will soon inherit Gordon Hall as head of the family. I am eighteen now, three years from my majority. Three years before I, Charles Edward Gordon, named after the rightful king now in exile, can take charge of family affairs and demand the truth.

We returned to the mainland in 1750, four years after the Battle of Culloden when my mother judged it safe to re-establish the family in its rightful home. Here we are comfortable and quiet, respected if distant members of the community, coming into contact with our neighbours at the weekly visit to the church at Portnacroish, three miles from Gordon Hall. My only companions are my mother, my nurse Ethel-a grim-faced but good-hearted Highland woman who still treats me like a child and a succession of female tutors, employed by my mother but regularly dismissed when, as inevitably happens, she suspects them of moral laxity. My mother fears that contact with these 'Hanoverian trollops' will corrupt me, and is constantly on the lookout for any sign of intimacy between us. I can assure her with a clear conscience that I have little interest in these girls beyond their slender grasp of Latin, algebra and, particularly, history. What I want more than anything is the company of men, but this is forbidden; my mother won't have my 'head filled with idle dreams of glory'. In this I have little choice but to obey her.

I am less able to obey my mother in other areas, however. Try as she might to stifle my curiosity, I am determined to know more about my father and his role in the glorious Revolution of 1745. I know that we were on the 'right' side, the Jacobite side, although you'd scarcely guess it from the house or its inhabitants. All trace of our historic allegiance to the Church of Rome has been purged from Gordon Hall - the exquisite little Lady Chapel gutted and converted into a grain barn, the ancestral portraits removed from the dining hall. We can't conceal our identity absolutely, and the locals know who we are - but, as my mother is at pains to point out, people forget the past quickly enough if nobody reminds them. She has even encouraged me to use my second name, Edward, in preference to the 'more inflammatory' Charles - the name my father gave me in recognition of his lord and master, Charles Edward Stuart. But even she is unsuccessful in effecting this ridiculous transformation.

Starved as I am of male company, I take pains to keep myself in readiness should the Glorious Cause claim my services. I ride daily, I run twice round the perimeter of the estate, I swim in the cold waters of Loch Linnhe, I practise my swordsmanship. This latter, I must admit, is a doomed enterprise without a proper fencing master, but my mother will allow no one even faintly resembling a soldier into the house. And so I stand before the great mirror in the hall attempting thrusts and parries with none to correct my flailings.

Fortunately I am strong by nature, happiest when outdoors, blessed with sturdy limbs and a healthy constitution. I inherited my father's looks and colouring: I have short, sandy-red hair, close-set blue eyes, a straight, rather leonine nose and a pale complexion that is prone to freckles, especially in the summer. Ethel says I still look like a schoolboy, but I am conscious of growing into manhood: my shoulders and chest are broad, my waist and hips still narrow. My backside, as I survey it in the mirror during my lonely fencing sessions, juts out like a shelf and forms a perfect hemisphere in profile.

I have said that I am surrounded entirely by women, but this is not strictly true. My sole contact with my own sex is Alexander, our groom, the only man I know who knew my father. Alexander kept the horses at Gordon Hall after Culloden, and remained in the family service ever since, tending the stables until our return from Rum. He's a quiet individual, maybe six years my senior — he must have been little more than a boy when he entered my father's service during the Uprising. Alexander greets me every morning when, shortly after dawn, I arrive at the stables to help him exercise the horses; our conversation is limited to curt exchanges on equestrian matters. I wonder sometimes whether Alexander is simple, so taciturn is he; but he alone holds a key to my past - and so I live in hope that one day he'll drop his guard. I can only assume that he's kept on at Gordon Hall under strict instructions from my mother to say nothing to me. With two ailing parents of his own, and any number of brothers and sisters to support, he's in no hurry to lose his position.

Like many of the local people, Alexander is tall and dark, almost a different race from me. His thick black hair is cropped close to the skull; his skin is olive in colour, compared to the milky whiteness of my own. He has high cheekbones, deeply hooded eyes and a large, full mouth which, sadly for me, he keeps closed most of the time. But when he does choose to speak, he reveals a mouthful of extraordinarily white, regular teeth-a rarity in these parts, where most of the young men have lost theirs either in fights or under the tender ministrations of the dentist. Or lack thereof. His smile is as rare as sunshine on these misty lands, and just as welcome when it comes.

I have learned a good deal from Alexander. He's immensely strong, can spring on to a horse in a second, and can hold Starlight, our biggest stallion, at a rope's end. Occasionally, after a hard gallop and a quick wash at the horse trough, we've wrestled in the exercise yard; Alexander's not heavy, but he can pin me to the ground every time. The first time this happened I was fascinated by the black hair under his armpits, just inches from my face, and the patch of soft black fur on his stomach leading down into his coarse wool trousers. What little hair I have on my body - and it's all grown in the last six months - is just a shade redder than the golden hair on my head. Try as I might to initiate these enjoyable matches, Alexander usually shrugs me off with a quick twist of the arm and returns to rubbing down the sweating horses.

One morning in May, however, Alexander was in a fresh, mischievous mood - and this is where my story begins. It was a beautiful day, the mist hanging over the loch when I left the sleeping house in my suede riding breeches and white cotton shirt. The dew soaked my boots as I strode through the grass whisking the heads off a few early dandelions with my crop. I arrived at the stables just as the first shaft of lemon-yellow sunshine was breaking through, sparkling dimly on the waters and catching the steam as it spurted from the horses' nostrils. Alexander, as ever, was hard at work cleaning out the stables, humming to himself and talking to the animals as I crept silently up behind him.

'There's spring in the air, boys, and I should be out there running with you instead of shovelling shit for her ladyship,' he muttered, as I crept up the ladder that gave external access to the hayloft. Perched above the stable I watched Alexander from a new angle, occasionally seeing straight down the neck of his shirt to the firm, brown torso beneath, sometimes as far as the patch of black fur that so intrigued me. 'Where's Master Charlie?' he murmured in Starlight's ear, leaning himself against the stallion's thick grey neck. 'Still abed, the lazy little fucker, where I should like to be myself right now.' I wasn't offended; Alexander called me worse to my face when I made a blunder with the horses. But what did he mean about being in bed? Not in his own bed, surely; I knew that he shared that with two of his younger brothers. In mine, perhaps, enjoying the luxury of the big house. 'Wouldn't we have some fun, Starlight?' he said, leaning for a moment on his shovel. 'Me and Master Charlie ...' He rubbed the stallion's spine where I had ridden bareback often enough. 'He's a fit little jockey, ain't he? Fit for service.'

It was the longest speech I'd ever heard Alexander utter, and I was so struck by the incongruity of the situation that, rather than betray my eavesdropping by laughter, I chose to launch myself with as much noise as possible from the loft door straight down into the soft, golden pile of hay beneath. Alexander should think I had simply run up the ladder for a prank, without knowing I had been spying before my sudden aerial entrance.

He yelled when I landed, then laughed, grabbed me by the ears and pulled me upright, hoiked me over his shoulder and ran out into the yard where he made to fling me into the trough. I could see the green, foamy water approaching at a frightening speed, and was just screwing up my eyes and mouth to endure the dunking when suddenly we stopped in our tracks. Alexander held me over his shoulder for a while then dropped me lightly on to my feet. We stood facing each other, both breathing hard. Somewhere overhead a lark was singing; the horses, excited by the burst of action and noise, were stamping in the stables. I braced myself for wrestling and made to grab Alexander by the waist, but he extended one lazy arm and kept me at bay while I swung and lunged impotently towards him. Finally he pushed a little harder and I landed hard on my arse on the damp earth, my legs splayed out straight in front of me. The shock of the landing took my breath away, and I sat for a moment gasping as Alexander stared down at me, smiling his rare, enigmatic smile.

'You're a cheeky wee fucker,' he said, his gaze boring down from beneath his heavy lids.

'And you're an insolent groom,' I said, returning the gaze and the smile. He extended a hand and pulled me to my feet. I watched the thick, corded muscles working in his forearm.

'Oh Charlie, look at the state of you. You're covered in filth.'

He was right; I'd landed straight in the mud that surrounded the horsetrough where the thirsty beasts were wont to shit and piss while they slaked their thirst. I tried to rub some of the muck off my backside, but this just made matters worse.

'Get the bloody things off, boy,' muttered Alexander. 'We'll hang them up to dry and brush them down later. I've an old pair of the master's you can borrow.'

Leaning on his strong, sinewy arm, I struggled out of my boots then, trying to avoid the stinking mud that coated the seat, primly pulled down the riding breeches until they bagged around my ankles. I must have looked ridiculous - my boots held up in one hand as I bent over, wriggling and squirming to protect myself from further soiling. From this ludicrous position I looked up to see Alexander laughing his head off. I was about to remonstrate with him (I could be a bossy little lord when I put my mind to it) when he charged me once again, threw an arm round my waist and heaved me into the air. There was little I could do; my breeches effectively bound my legs at the ankle, and my shirt had ridden up over my ears. I was conscious only of the fresh air on my bare bum, and of the heat from Alexander's arm where it encircled me.

He trotted me into the stable and dumped me face down over a bale of straw. 'Stay there, you dirty little bugger, and I'll get you cleaned up.' I freed my head from my shirt, and looked round over my shoulder. Thanks to my clumsy attempts to undress, I had smeared mud all over my buttocks and the back of my thighs. Alexander pulled off his own shirt, which I'd also managed to ruin in the process, and pulled a handful of clean, golden straw from the bale. 'Now then,' he said, 'let's see what we can do.' He started dabbing at my backside with the coarse straw; it tickled, and I squirmed. 'Stay still, will you? I can't send you back to your ma with a dirty arse.' He rubbed harder this time, removed the worst of the mud and discarded the dirty straw under the horses' feet.

'That's better. Now, let's try again.' He took a fresh handful and continued his job, rubbing my arse until it glowed with the scratching. 'Charlie, however did you get yourself into such a state?' he said. 'Look at yourself!' With one huge, calloused hand he spread my buttocks; the mud had worked its way down into the crevice between them. 'Get these off,' he said, pulling on the breeches that still constricted my ankles, 'and let the dog see the rabbit.' Between us we managed to divest me of the filthy garment; I remained kneeling over the straw bale. Alexander kicked my feet apart, spreading my legs as wide as they would go. Picking up his discarded shirt, he dunked it in a pail of water, wrung it out and dumped it on my arse. The shock of the cold water made me yell. 'Sorry, Charlie, but we'll soon have you cleaned up now.' He dabbed and scrubbed and rubbed with his soaking shirt, working it right down between my buttocks; the water ran down my thighs, over my balls and off the tip of my cock, which was pushed back between my legs and pressing against the straw. Goosepimples spread all across my arse and my legs; I felt my balls pulling up to escape another sluicing.

'Just rinse you off now, Charlie. Brace yourself.' I barely had time to look round before a pail full of cold water hit me full on. It went in my face, soaked my hair, my shirt, everything. 'There, that's better,' said Alexander as I spluttered in surprise. 'Now let's get you dry.' I was going to complain, but held my noise as he started to rub me down with a thin woollen blanket. He dried my eyes and my ears with the patience and tenderness I'd seen him lavish on the horses; he rubbed my hair a little more forcefully, pulled the soaking shirt off over my head and dried my neck, my back, my legs. Soon, thanks to the friction of the wool, I was as warm as I could wish.

Alexander seemed in no hurry to stop, and I had no desire to prevent him. His movements with the towel became slower, firmer as he dried my buttocks with extravagant care and attention. I have said that my arse formed a perfect hemisphere in profile; now, jutting up into the air with my legs spread a yard apart, it exerted some kind of fascination over Alexander. Every so often I felt the contact of his fingers as the blanket slipped aside, then, more and more, the full touch of his palm against my arse. I heard him hissing quietly, the way ostlers do when they groom a horse. Aside from that, the stable was quiet. Occasionally one of the horses stamped or snorted, a bird sang overhead. I could hear the blood thumping in my ears.

The warmth that Alexander's rubbing had imparted to my backside soon spread to my balls, which had come out of hiding and were now flopping down in their pouch. My cock, still pressed back between my legs, was responding to his ministrations by doubling in size and getting hard; pressing against the straw, I was now in a certain amount of discomfort, which I could only alleviate by pushing my backside further into the air. This freed my cock, which sprang up against my belly, making a slapping noise as it did so.

Alexander took this as a sign of encouragement, I suspect, and grabbed a buttock in each hand, kneading them roughly. New as I was to this kind of experience, I realised that a boundary had been crossed; we could no longer pretend that he was simply cleaning me up after a riding accident. Something altogether different was going on. Alexander stopped his mauling and stood bare chested, sweating slightly, rubbing a bulge in his coarse wool trousers, staring down at me with a dazed look in his eyes. I had no idea what to do, under the circumstances; half of me wanted to get up, laugh and wrestle him to the ground, to turn it all into a game. But I stayed where I was. I knew that there was further to go. My penis was throbbing so hard now that it was beating a tattoo against my stomach. Still looking at Alexander, I pushed it back between my legs so he could see that I was as hard as I could get.

'My God, Charlie, you're a big boy now,' said Alexander. I knew that my cock had grown considerably in the last few years; having nothing to compare it with, I thought little of it. So I just smiled over my shoulder and waved my hard cock around, slapping it against each thigh as I did so. My own solitary experiments in front of the mirror during fencing 'lessons' had taught me what happened if I played with my cock for long enough; now, however, I felt a new intensity as I displayed myself for Alexander's appreciative stare.


Excerpted from "The Low Road"
by .
Copyright © 2009 James Lear.
Excerpted by permission of Start Publishing LLC.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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The Low Road 3.3 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 16 reviews.
brjunkie More than 1 year ago
I always enjoy the boyishly playful erotica in James Lear's books, and the 'The Low Road' does not disappoint. However, I was expecting a bit more battling and sword fighting action, especially for being set in Scotland in the 1800s. The setting is one of the reasons that attracted my interest so strongly to this book. Compared to Geoffrey Knight's Fathom's Five books, where there is a real sense of danger mixed in with the arousing sex of muscly and well hung men, 'The Low Road' definitely stands up to as an equal. Where I believe that the novel really excels is that it actually does have a plot, unlike the two Jay Starre books I've read, and it isn't just a 200 page book full of nothing but sex, sex, and more sex. The plot does seem to drift away at times, and gets easily side tracked by M/M action, kind of like its main character Charlie. I find that James Lear enjoys writing about the rich, spoiled, young youth at the edge of entering manhood, whose life experiences are forced by outside influences which teaches them how to mature into men. So when Charlie loses his first love who he gave his virginity to, and a suspicious yet attractive tutor/priest enters the family estate at his mother's request. Charlie works out for himself that Lebecque is a threat to his rightful claim and inheritance to the Gordon estate, by marrying his mother the Madame Gordon. Charlie soon finds both his heart and destiny puts him on a road not only to growing up and earning an honorable reputation, but will also will further his education in the acts of love and sex. As the story continues its narrative, we learn about the hardships, loose of hope, and the strong will of the Frenchman Lebecque, through the letters he has written to Charlie, without knowing whether Charlie is even getting them. Fortunately with these letters, the book is able to deliver a more masculine sense of adventure and more dangerous element of action. By the end of Charlie's travels, he will learn what real, true love is. But he'll also worry that his confession of lust filled with various partners, shameless acts of voyeurism, and also because of his self-indulgent procrastination on his difficult way to not only find but to also rescue Lebecque if he is even still alive, could very well deny him the one he loves and cares for. His hormonal impulses may very well cost him more than what the sex is worth with strangers and stragglers, which lasts only for a short while in a fading memory compared to a lifetime spent with the one who got away.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
I really wanted to love this book I really did! But this book is to little to cost over 10$ this book reads like a short story I don't waste my money and yes I did like the book, the sex was hot(fyi the book is mostly about sex:)
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
starlight70 on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
In Lear's world, all men are gay, or into gay sex. Good-looking or ugly, fat or skinny, tall or short, good guys or villains, all would get into gay sex as the story progressed. It is like watching porn in words, instead of visual. Somewhere along the line, the pornish acts became redundant and did not contribute much thrill as compared to the first few pages. I was bored by then, and waited for the book to end. And oh yeah, never seen before a really long letter, where the whole act of sex was written as a chapter itself? Then, read this book. Ridiculous to expect a man in prison would be able to describe such a lengthy writing when he was in prison.
carlosmock More than 1 year ago
The Low Road by James Lear Charles Edward Gordon -- Charlie -- is 19 y/o heir to The Gordon Hall in Scotland. His father fought on the wrong side of the Jacobite Rebellion in Scotland. The book opens in 1750 when Charlie discovers gay sex with his groom, Alexander. The plot is an excuse for gay erotica. Never knew there were so many gay men in the Scottish highlands! Abducted by the English, trying to save his tutor, Messieur Benoit Lebecque, Charlie's adventures start when he tries to find the truth about his father. Kidnapped by mercenaries and sold into slavery as the plaything of a group of corrupt military officials, Charlie's talents, in and out of bed, win him powerful friends as well as dangerous foes. Narrated from the first person point of view, it reads like a short story that went on for too long. The sex scenes were all very hot, but after a while, I found that I had started skimming through them rather than enjoying it. I was disappointed because the writer never reveals the truth about Charlie's family.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Never a dull moment. Several great twists to the story kept it interesting! Told in Lear's usual style with plenty of hot action.
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