Enlightened

by Joanna Chambers

  David shook his head. He didn’t admit that he’d wanted to wait for Murdo, but that was the truth of it. There wouldn’t be too many more breakfasts together after this one. Murdo was leaving for London tomorrow. When he returned, it wouldn’t be long before David had to go back to Edinburgh. All in all, they had just a handful of days together left.

  “All right.” Murdo yawned. “Give me a quarter of an hour to wash and dress, and we’ll go down together.”

  “WHAT DO YOU PLAN TO do today, then?” Murdo asked as he slathered his toast in butter. If David held a buttercup under Murdo’s chin, he was sure the reflected light would shine like a beacon. Murdo didn’t just like butter, he loved it.

  “First of all, I’m going through the last batch of title deeds. They arrived from Mr. Urquhart yesterday, and I’m hoping they’ll fill in the remaining gaps about the estate.”

  Mr. Urquhart had been Sir Hamish’s solicitor. When David’s letters to the man requesting the deeds to the estate had gone unanswered, David had been forced to go to Perth to see the man in person. At that stage, the reason for Urquhart’s failure to respond had become clear—he was ninety, if he was a day, and, frankly, somewhat wandered. His only companion appeared to be an unmarried niece who, mortified to learn of David’s errand, promised to instruct her uncle’s clerk to go through all the deeds in her uncle’s possession to identify those pertaining to the Laverock estate.

  Due to the sheer volume of deeds held by Mr. Urquhart, not to mention the total lack of any kind of system of organisation, the task had taken a number of weeks. However, the final batch had now arrived, and David could only hope that these would help to finally make sense of the estate title once and for all, clearing up the remaining uncertainties. Having spent so long teasing out the tangled legal threads of the myriad plots that made up the estate—some inherited, some purchased, some acquired by marriage—David wanted to at least complete his research before he left Laverock House.

  “Rather you than me,” Murdo said.

  “What about you?”

  “I’m going to ride over to Howie’s place this morning and take a look at his cattle. He’s willing to part with a few, and I gather their yield is the envy of Perthshire.”

  “You’re turning into quite the gentleman farmer.”

  “I’m learning.”

  “Do you want to go fishing later?” David asked.

  Murdo gave a slow smile. “I’d like that.”

  David gave a soft laugh, even as his cheeks heated. He’d asked quite innocently, but now he remembered the last time they’d gone fishing, and what they’d got up to in their private little nook of rocks.

  There hadn’t been any catch that day.

  Before David could answer, there was a soft knock at the door. It was Archie, the footman, bearing the morning’s post on a silver tray. He placed the tray at Murdo’s right hand and enquired if they wanted anything else, withdrawing when both of them shook their heads.

  Murdo rifled through the pile of correspondence. “Two for you,” he said, handing over two slim packets before turning his attention back to his own correspondence.

  David perused his letters. He recognised the looping handwriting on one of them as that of his friend Donald Ferguson—Elizabeth’s brother-in-law. Donald had been looking after some of David’s cases while he was staying at Laverock House and regularly wrote to him to keep him advised as to progress and to seek David’s advice.

  Breaking the seal, David unfolded the letter and began to read.

  My dear Lauriston,

  I write to you with the gravest of news. Patrick Chalmers is dying...

  “David?”

  Murdo’s voice was sharp with concern, but David couldn’t tear his gaze from the letter and those looping letters.

  Chalmers—his mentor, the man to whom David owed his career—was dying.

  Chalmers—his friend.

  He thought of Elizabeth, hiding from her husband in London. She probably wouldn’t get the chance to see the father she adored again, and the thought made his heart ache.

  “David, what’s wrong?”

  “It’s from Donald,” David got out numbly. “Patrick Chalmers is dying, and he wants to see me.”

  He looked up. The stark pity in Murdo’s eyes somehow made the situation feel more real, and he had to swallow against the sudden lump that appeared in his throat. “I have to go to Edinburgh.”

  Murdo nodded, but he added, “Are you sure you’re fit to travel?”

  “Yes, of course.” He thought feverishly. “Do you suppose you could leave for London today instead of tomorrow? That way, I could come with you as far as Edinburgh. It would be much quicker than getting the stagecoach. Is that possible?” He frowned, thinking. “If not, perhaps Walter could take me as far as Perth, and I’ll take a coach from there—”

  Murdo interrupted him. “David, slow down. We’ll go today but—”

  “Thank you, I—”

  “But, will you promise me that you’ll stay at the townhouse in Edinburgh while I’m in London? And...” He paused, seeming to consider for a moment before continuing. “And will you promise to make no other permanent arrangements till my return?”

  David gazed at Murdo, taking in the hesitant expression and the new, unhappy lines that bracketed his mouth. This mattered to Murdo, he realised.

  “All right,” he said warily. “I promise.”

  With that vow in his pocket, Murdo seemed to minutely relax, a tension about his jaw easing enough that he managed a sad smile.

  “Good,” he said. Then, becoming brisk, “We’d better get packed, then.”

  Chapter Four

  The journey to Edinburgh was very different from the one David had taken in the opposite direction five months earlier. Physically, it was a good deal more comfortable. No need for him to recline this time, his leg splinted and harnessed. This time he sat in the carriage in quite the normal way, on the bench opposite Murdo, and the most discomfort he felt was a persistent stiffness in his leg from sitting so long.

  The journey was different in other ways too. Last time, he’d been journeying to an unknown place, for an unknown duration, with Murdo telling him that Laverock House would be his home for the foreseeable future. Now he was leaving that home behind. Perhaps forever.

  It had occurred to him, as he packed his trunk after breakfast, how very few of his own possessions he had at Laverock House. Most of his things were being stored at Murdo’s townhouse in Edinburgh. He only had a few clothes of his own—he borrowed whatever else he needed from Murdo—and some books and papers. It struck him as sad that he could pack away the last five months of his life, the richest, happiest months of all his life, he admitted to himself, into a single trunk. There was no need to leave anything behind.

  A few hours ago, he’d watched from the carriage window as Laverock House grew smaller and smaller, until it disappeared altogether. And he’d thought, I may never return here. It had wrenched at him, that notion.

  “How’s the leg?”

  He looked up, distracted from his thoughts by Murdo’s voice. Such a distinct voice, with its deep, rich timbre and those smooth English consonants, only the barest hint of Scots in it. Murdo nodded at David’s knee, and he realised that he’d been rubbing it in an absentminded way. Realised too that it ached. He made a face.

  “A bit stiff,” he admitted.

  “You have your liniment with you,” Murdo pointed out. “I’ll rub it down for you, if you like.”

  David hesitated, torn. A leg rub sounded heavenly, but he didn’t relish the thought of disrobing to any extent in the carriage. If the coachman stopped and looked in on them, what would he think?

  What if, what if.

  Already the world was intruding on them, making David realise how very sheltered these last months at Laverock House had been. No need to wonder what anyone thought there. Enough space and privacy for their intimacy to be kept between the two of them, and to go unnoticed and unremarked
upon.

  Murdo saw his hesitancy. “Come on, let’s get those breeches off. The sooner we do it, the sooner you’ll be dressed again.”

  David weighed the risks. Their last stop had only been twenty minutes before, so there was no need for the carriage to stop anytime soon. What’s more, the road had been deserted all day. There was really very little chance of him being caught in a state of undress by the coachman or anyone else. David sighed and lifted his leg, offering his booted foot to Murdo in acquiescence, smiling wryly when Murdo, grinning his triumph, grasped the heel of the boot and began to gently lever it off.

  As ever, Murdo was as meticulous as any valet, careful to draw the leather sleeve away from David’s tender leg in one long, smooth movement. The second boot was, as always, easier. While David undid the buttons of his breeches, Murdo moved to sit beside him, shouldering his way out of his coat and wadding it up to make a cushion of it, careless of its fine elegance.

  “Put that at your back and lean against the wall,” he said, handing the wadded-up coat to David. “Then lay your leg over my lap, and I’ll see to you.”

  With another sigh, a more contented one this time, David obeyed. Just changing the position of his leg helped ease the pain, letting Murdo take the aching weight of it across his powerful thighs.

  “Can you get your breeches off from there?” Murdo asked.

  “Perhaps if I leave one leg on—”

  Murdo made a huffing noise of frustration, cutting him off without words, and leaned over to grab hold of David’s borrowed breeks and tug at them, forcing David to arch his hips off the seat. A moment later, Murdo had drawn them off altogether and tossed them unceremoniously onto the opposite bench. The next moment he was rolling down the stocking on David’s right leg and peeling that off too.

  David watched, unprotesting now, as his injured limb, pale and somewhat wasted still, was laid bare. Despite regular exercise, his right leg remained slightly thinner than the left. The knee looked wrong to David too, a bit off centre somehow. He made a face, not liking the sight of his weakness. It wasn’t just how it looked. It was the physical reminder of everything he couldn’t do. Walk, climb, run. The things he’d always loved and, until now, had taken for granted. Abilities he may never fully recover.

  “What’s wrong?” Murdo asked. He missed nothing, damn him.

  “I hate the look of it,” David said shortly. “It’s ugly.”

  Murdo’s brows drew together in a puzzled expression. He turned his head to the offending limb, caressing the length of it with his hands while David watched. Murdo had strong, capable hands that could rub the pain in David’s leg away, gentle hands that could wring such sharp pleasure from David’s body that he couldn’t stop himself crying out from it.

  David watched, mesmerised, as Murdo went through the now-familiar motions of opening the liniment jar, dipping his fingers in to get a bit of the dense, waxy stuff, then rubbing it between his hands, releasing a scent that David would associate forever with soothing comfort and relief. And then Murdo’s hands were on David, slowly sweeping up the length of his thigh, his thumbs digging into the wasted, perennially tired muscles, the blunt heels of his hands kneading and working over the damaged architecture of David’s injured limb.

  David closed his eyes, giving himself over to the singular pleasure of pain relief, letting himself have this, take this. This freely offered gift.

  “It’s not ugly,” Murdo murmured. “Nothing about you could ever be ugly to me.”

  His voice was soft and deep, as free from laughter as David had ever heard it, and David’s heart clenched in the cage of his chest to detect the sincerity in it. He swallowed, embarrassed to realise that Murdo had probably seen the bob of his throat and correctly read its meaning.

  This vulnerability seemed to grow deeper each day, in direct proportion to the depth of his feelings. The two were linked, quite inextricably, his affection for Murdo exposing him in ways that horrified him. The protective barriers he’d spent a lifetime building up felt like they were crumbling away in the face of emotions he was helpless to deny. There would be no protection left to him when this ended.

  And the end was coming.

  The black descent that came after the end would be upon him very soon. He’d been through it once before, but this time it would be much, much worse.

  The soothing hands on his leg stilled, and when David opened his eyes, it was to see Murdo watching him with an expression caught somewhere between sadness and concern. David’s chest ached, and all he could think to do to ease the feeling was to look away. He busied himself with sitting up, swinging his legs off Murdo’s lap and making a show of searching the floor of the carriage.

  “Where on earth’s my stocking?” he said, amazed to hear how prosaic he sounded.

  He found it at last, keeping his gaze averted from Murdo as he rolled the fine-knit material over his calf, his skin still faintly sticky from the liniment, then stretched across the carriage to fetch his crumpled breeches from the opposite bench.

  “David—”

  Murdo’s hand on his shoulder pulled him back. He didn’t resist, allowing Murdo to draw him back down onto the bench, though he kept his gaze on his own hands and the soft brown material bunched between his fingers.

  “What’s wrong?”

  David just sat there. What could he say? That their affection for one another, so obvious during that tender moment a minute ago—“Nothing about you could ever be ugly to me.”—made David feel...unsafe? Worse, that he knew now he’d never be safe again, that he had lost the safety of his splendid isolation the moment Murdo Balfour had walked back into his life six months before?

  That every day made him more vulnerable? That the thought of their parting...

  “It’s nothing,” he lied. “I’m just—” He broke off.

  “Is it about Chalmers?”

  Guilt welled at Murdo’s assumption. How could he be thinking of himself when the only reason he was in this carriage was to see Chalmers one last time before he died?

  He swallowed. “Donald’s letter said he hasn’t long now.”

  “Don’t worry,” Murdo replied. “We’ll get you there on time.”

  The sudden reality of his friend’s imminent death struck David at that moment like a great wave. It swamped his heart with a powerful crash, then ebbed away, leaving behind a rocky debris of regret and grief that clawed at him.

  Life was very fragile.

  “I should go and see my family soon,” David said, surprising himself.

  “You miss them,” Murdo said, and it wasn’t a question.

  “Yes. They are good people.” Being with them nourished something in him, doing him as much good as the wholesome broth his mother made.

  Murdo smiled. “Well, you had to get all that virtue from somewhere.”

  David gave a weak laugh. “Are you teasing me again? I know you think I’m sanctimonious at times.”

  Murdo laughed too, but it was a soft, affectionate chuckle, no teasing in it.

  David pulled on the breeches then. He buttoned them up and straightened his clothes, and when he was done, he sat back down next to Murdo, enjoying the warmth of the other man’s leg against his own.

  After a while, Murdo said, “I thought that you and your father weren’t on the best of terms? You told me he hit you when he found you with your friend that time.”

  He was referring to the time David’s father had come upon him kissing Will Lennox when David was sixteen, a discovery that had prompted David’s gentle father to strike David for the first and only time in his life.

  David shook his head. “We are not on bad terms. We don’t speak of it at all—my father’s an elder of the Kirk and he worries for my soul, but he believes that if I don’t act on my desires, God won’t punish me, so he is able to live with it, that way.”

  “I take it from that, that you give him no reason to believe you act on your desires?”

  “No, I never would. I don’t wis
h to give him any more reason to worry. He’s suffered enough sleepless nights over me.”

  Murdo laughed shortly. “God, we couldn’t be more different. Over the years I’ve taken great pleasure in thumbing my nose at my father. I still do.”

  David stilled. Murdo never spoke about his father. Not voluntarily.

  After a long pause, David said with studied casualness, “He knows you prefer men?”

  Murdo gave one of his mirthless huffs of laughter. “My father knows everything about everyone, and—as he has reminded me all my life—knowledge is power. He uses his knowledge to persuade people to act as he wishes them to.”

  His tone was bitter, revealing.

  “Has he used knowledge about you to compel you to act as he wishes?”

  Murdo stared at the empty bench opposite them, his expression grim.

  “All my life—or tried to, at least. He was probably rubbing his hands together in glee when he found out about my preference for men—such a good bit of blackmail material.”

  “But wouldn’t a son with such preferences reflect poorly on him?” David asked, half-appalled, half-curious. “Surely he has a vested interest in keeping it quiet?”

  “You would think so, wouldn’t you? But my father is far more devious than you can possibly imagine. When I pointed out that a sodomite for a son would do his political career no favours—I was seventeen at the time, I believe—he replied that he would never allow my disgrace to be made public. Rather than allow my proclivities to pose a threat to the honour of the family name, he would admit me to an asylum—to be cured, you understand.”

  David stared, appalled. “Perhaps he was worried for you and thought the fear of committal would keep you on the straight and narrow?”

  Again, Murdo laughed, a hateful sound, harsh and contemptuous. “Oh no, he doesn’t mind about my preferences, you see. Everything serves a purpose in my father’s world. Once we had reached our understanding—my compliance in exchange for his tolerance—he was quick to put me to use. Before long I was tasked with befriending a man he wanted some information on. Someone with the same...interests. In fact—” He paled noticeably and broke off, exhaling sharply. “Never mind.”