Enlightened

by Joanna Chambers

  David had never seen Murdo so shaken. Carefully, he touched his lover’s knee, stroking gently with his thumb. “Tell me.”

  To David’s alarm, Murdo dropped his head into his hands and let out a shuddering sigh. He stayed like that for a long time. Eventually, in a thin voice, he said, “Do you remember me telling you about the first time I was buggered?”

  Buggered. David balked at the ugly word, at the wrongness of it being applied to Murdo. It took him a few moments to think back to another conversation, months before.

  “I remember. You said there were two men,” David said slowly. “And that they were rough with you.” Even as he spoke, a kind of realisation began to dawn, and nausea swirled in his gut. “Please tell me that had nothing to do with your father.”

  Murdo didn’t deny it. “The one my father had asked me to befriend was called Gilliam,” he said flatly. “Somehow, he found out who I really was. I’d arranged to meet him at a house in the country for the weekend, and they—he and his friend—well, they really let me have it. Threw me in a carriage once they were done, and sent me home as a message to my father.”

  Somehow, David managed to keep the hand on Murdo’s knee stroking gently, soothingly, even as a wild animal clawed in his chest to get out. To get out and find this Gilliam and his friend. And Murdo’s father.

  Murdo lifted his head out of his hands, though he still didn’t look at David. “It was fifteen years ago,” he said disgustedly. “Yet even now, it affects me like this.”

  “Of course it does,” David protested gently. “It would affect anyone like this.” Under his fingers, he could feel Murdo’s tension. The thrum of it was almost like a vibration beneath his fingers, and he couldn’t make his mind up whether all that nervous energy was trying to reject David’s compassion or clamouring for it. Certainly Murdo didn’t reach for him. He rested his elbows on his thighs and held his hands in front of his face, loosely clasped. He’d made a cage of himself, with David on the outside. David’s hand on Murdo’s knee was the only connection between them, but since Murdo let it rest there, David reasoned he must want it to stay.

  “My father made sure Gilliam paid for that insult later, but even so, that was the episode that made me realise just how dispensible I was to him. After that, I decided I had to get out from under his thumb. And since he held the purse strings, the only way to do it was to become financially independent.”

  “How old were you when this happened?”

  The story was pouring out of him now, no hesitation in the answer that followed.

  “Almost twenty. I was done with Oxford by then, ready for something new. So I set about learning finance and trade. My Uncle Gideon was only too pleased to help me—he detests my father—and I had the benefit of aristocratic connections galore, of course, which Gideon liked.

  “I worked hard, but I’m under no illusions. The thing that really made me successful was that I took advantage of all the privileges of my standing. I used my name to open doors and bring others with me. I built and built my fortune till I was satisfied I’d never need the old man again. Then I kept building it. I wanted an estate of my own, one that my father had no connection to. I wanted to be able to buy and sell him.” Murdo glanced at David over one hunched shoulder, revealing a glimmer of vulnerability. “I’ve spent the last fifteen years plotting to get away from him. It’s what this trip to London is all about.”

  David opened his mouth to ask what he meant by that—what Murdo planned to do in London—but when he saw the distraught look on Murdo’s face, he stopped himself. Now was not the time to plague Murdo with questions David already knew he was reluctant to answer. Instead, he leaned in, pressing his side against Murdo’s, his hand still resting on the other man’s knee, musing over what Murdo had just told him.

  “I’m so sorry that happened to you,” David murmured at last, turning his head to press a kiss to Murdo’s neck. The scent of bitter orange from Murdo’s hair pomade filled his nostrils, familiar and oddly comforting.

  “No need for you to be sorry.”

  “I know, but I’m sorry anyway. Sorry I wasn’t there to stop it. I wish I could make it right.”

  “So very like you to want to put things right,” Murdo murmured. He turned his head till their eyes met, and his dark gaze was warm with affection. His lips sought David’s, and their mouths moved together in a consoling kiss that had nothing to do with passion.

  “David,” he said, when they broke apart. “David.”

  He said David’s name like it meant something all on its own.

  Like a vow.

  Like a promise.

  Chapter Five

  It was past five o’clock when they reached Murdo’s Queen Street townhouse. Their arrival flustered the housekeeper. She hadn’t expected Murdo till the following day, and now she trailed them to the drawing room, apologising profusely that the bedchambers weren’t ready yet. His Lordship’s was being aired, she said, and she hadn’t realised that Mr. Lauriston would be joining him.

  Although that last observation was offered by way of apologetic excuse, David felt an immediate pang of anxiety. Did she think it odd he was here, and unannounced no less?

  Murdo, of course, was unconcerned. He brushed the housekeeper’s apologies aside with a careless smile, saying that some tea and scones would occupy them very well while their chambers were made up, if she’d be good enough to see to it.

  David watched as she left the room, an upright, starched little woman, nodding sharply at the footman who held the door open for her, as correct as any sergeant major.

  David wondered about the footman too. Although the man’s expression was impassive now, David fancied he’d seen a flicker of curiosity there when they had entered the room. Or perhaps he was being ridiculous.

  That was entirely possible. He’d been feeling conspicuous all day—as though he had a sign round his neck that declared him to be Lord Murdo Balfour’s lover. It was, after all, the first time they’d gone anywhere together since they’d begun to regularly share a bed. Suddenly, David found himself wondering what expression he wore when he looked at Murdo, whether he was standing too close to him, whether the casual little touches that Murdo bestowed on him—his hand on David’s arm, or at the small of his back—were unexceptional or entirely betraying.

  “I’ve been dying to kiss you,” Murdo said now, interrupting David’s train of thought. Although they were alone and the door was firmly closed, David still felt a bolt of panic. His gaze flickered to the only other possible threat—the window—and he stepped back from Murdo’s advance.

  “Not here,” he said. “The drapes are wide open.”

  Murdo just smiled. “We’re on the second floor, and there are no houses opposite. No one can see.”

  “Nevertheless”—David broke off, looking around, a shiver of unease running through him—“anyone could walk in.”

  Murdo frowned. “No one walks in on me in my own house. My servants know to knock.”

  David didn’t feel reassured. He moved across the room, his cane tapping on the polished parquet floor, to investigate just how private the window was.

  It was, of course, as Murdo had said—and as David already knew—entirely private. Just the street below them and, opposite, the broad, green stretch of square after square of private gardens. Not that they looked green right now. Already, it was dusk, and the world was suffused in the half-grey light that prevailed just before full darkness fell. At this time of day, the gardens looked shadowy and vaguely threatening.

  Fenced round and locked up tight, these gardens were for the exclusive use of the proprietors of the houses that overlooked them. For some, it was a place to walk and sit, safe from the filth and squalor of the inconvenient poor of the city. There were others, though, who never stepped foot inside the gardens. For them, the gardens were a guarantee of privacy, a protection from anyone building more houses on their doorstep.

  If you had enough money, you could protect yourself fr
om most things. You could surround yourself with broad, green stretches.

  Even then, though, sooner or later, you had to face the world.

  Today David had left the broad, green stretches of Laverock House behind him. It felt different here. Murdo might ignore his servants, but David hadn’t missed their silent, careful interest. They would be speaking about him below stairs now, he was quite sure. The man who had been brought here, injured, months before. The man whose bedside the master had barely left for weeks, and who’d then gone with the master to his new estate in Perthshire.

  “They must be wondering about me,” David murmured, turning to meet Murdo’s frowning gaze. “Your servants, I mean.”

  “Quite apart from the fact that it’s none of their business, they know who you are. You were here before, after all.”

  “That was different. I was injured. I needed help. Now I’m perfectly able to manage on my own.” David paused before adding, “Perhaps I shouldn’t stay on when you go to London tomorrow. I could easily take a room at an inn instead.”

  “For God’s sake!” Murdo exclaimed. He stared at David, all impatience and disbelief, then sighed. “You’re in one of your moods, I see. Imagining all sorts of nonsense.” He pinched the bridge of his nose before continuing more calmly. “It’s perfectly commonplace for gentlemen to put their friends up in their homes, David. Sometimes for months at a time.”

  David pressed his lips together, resenting the implication that he was being absurd. “That may be the case for men who’re social equals, but we’re not equals.”

  Murdo sent him another incredulous look, black eyebrows raised. “Are you of all people suggesting you’re my inferior?”

  “Of course not,” David replied, irritated now. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t see how other people view us. I don’t want you to be exposed to rumour—not any more than I want to be exposed to it. Our friendship is not without risk, Murdo, you know that. We have to take reasonable precautions not to draw suspicion.”

  Murdo stared at him for a long moment. “I honestly don’t understand where this has come from,” he said. “What’s prompted all these worries? You gave no hint of any of these concerns in the carriage on the way here.”

  David sighed and turned to look out of the window again. Already the sky had darkened further. Soon it would be fully night.

  “It’s just—coming here, back to Edinburgh, seeing the servants’ reaction to me arriving with you—”

  “What reaction?” Murdo asked, sounding genuinely bewildered.

  “Just because you didn’t notice it, doesn’t mean there wasn’t one,” David said wearily.

  Murdo was silent for a moment; then he said, “It’s not just that, though, is it?” He stepped closer and laid his hand on David’s shoulder, and the comfort of that touch was both reassuring and unbearable, promising far too much, making David want things he couldn’t have.

  “No,” David admitted, staring out at the darkening sky. “It isn’t just that. It’s leaving Laverock House— I’ve been so happy there, and now it’s coming to an end, and—”

  “David—”

  “—and as much as I wish I didn’t have to go back to my old life, I do have to.”

  Silence.

  Finally, David turned round again, and he saw that Murdo’s eyes held sadness. They glimmered, ink black in the candlelight, till he veiled the emotion in them with a down sweep of his thick lashes.

  “It needn’t be over,” Murdo murmured. “I don’t want it to be—you must know how much I care for you...” His lashes lifted, and David met that dark—now beloved—gaze again. Did he know how much Murdo cared for him?

  This thing between them was more than friendship, more than desire too. More than he could bring himself to speak aloud. Speaking it would give it a name, and once it had a name, he was lost. The black descent was going to be bad enough without that.

  David closed his eyes against the burning emotion in Murdo’s gaze. When he opened them again, he had himself a little more under control.

  “I’m going out,” he said. “I want to find out from Donald how things stand before I go up to see Chalmers.”

  Murdo searched his face for a moment. “All right,” he sighed. “Go and do what you need to. We’ll talk about this later.”

  DONALD AND CATHERINE Ferguson didn’t live too far from Murdo’s house, but while he had a whole townhouse to himself, they occupied only the upper half of a similarly sized, if slightly less grand property. When David called on them at half past six, they were just about to sit down to dinner, and Donald insisted he join them.

  “Come on,” he said, leading the way upstairs. “There’s plenty of mutton to go round, and Catherine will be pleased to see you.”

  “There’s no need to feed me,” David protested, even as he followed Donald upstairs.

  “Don’t be silly,” Donald said good-naturedly. “As though we’d think of eating while you watch.”

  Their home was cosy and comfortable looking, David thought as he followed Donald through the hallway and into the dining room. With its hotchpotch of rugs and framed needlepoint pictures—Catherine’s, David presumed—on the walls, it was far less elegant than Murdo’s house, but far less intimidating too.

  Catherine rose from the table when they entered the small dining room. She smiled at David, but it was a wan smile and there were lines of strain about her eyes.

  “I’m so glad you’re here, Mr. Lauriston,” she said as he bowed over her hand. “Father so particularly wants to see you. He’s mentioned it to me the last several times I’ve visited him.”

  Chalmers was still hanging on, then. Thank God for that.

  “I’m equally anxious to see him.”

  “Let’s have something to eat while we talk,” she suggested.

  As they settled themselves at the table, David took in the changes that the last few months had wrought on his friends. Catherine—until now, a round and vivacious girl—was noticeably thinner, her manner much more subdued than the girl he remembered. She served only a very small portion of food onto her own plate and pushed what was there around for the most part, eating little. Was she too anxious about her father to eat, David wondered?

  Donald was changed too. Always the most jolly of men, he looked suddenly careworn, his forehead etched with deep furrows from frowning.

  “Forgive my bluntness,” David said when the inevitable small talk had been disposed of, “but—how is your father?”

  Catherine and Donald exchanged a look, then Donald said, “He does not have long left, David. It will be a matter of days.”

  Catherine flinched at that, though she didn’t disagree.

  David paused. “Then I should like to see him as soon as I can. Would this evening be possible?”

  Catherine pressed her lips together unhappily. “I’m afraid Mama won’t have visitors in the evening. She says Father’s too tired.”

  “Surely, given the circumstances—” David began carefully.

  Donald interrupted, his tone flat. “Your best bet is tomorrow morning. She won’t refuse you then, not when he’s specifically asked for you. Otherwise, I suspect she’d take great delight in sending you away— She never liked you, you know.”

  “Donald—” Catherine protested weakly.

  “Well, it’s true!” he retorted. He turned to David again. “She was convinced you had designs on Elizabeth, even though it was plain as day that you weren’t the least bit interested. And, of course, she blames you for Elizabeth running away.”

  Catherine sighed. “I know it’s not satisfactory, Mr. Lauriston. But you’re probably better visiting in the morning anyway. Father takes a sleeping draught every evening, and once he’s had it, he becomes a little disorientated.”

  That was all very well, David thought, provided Chalmers was still around tomorrow morning. But he nodded his agreement and allowed Catherine to change the subject.

  As soon as the meal was over, Catherine excused hersel
f, pleading tiredness.

  “Is Catherine all right?” David asked Donald once she had left the room. Donald was busy getting some whisky out of the sideboard, but at David’s question, he paused, staring down at the decanter in his hands.

  “Not really,” he said simply. “She suffered a miscarriage a few weeks ago. On top of everything else, it was pretty unbearable for her.”

  “Oh God, I’m so sorry.”

  Donald looked up and gave a sad half smile. “The doctor sees no reason to worry she won’t conceive again. It’s just—she’s still very dejected about it. She tries to hide it when people are around, but when we’re alone, she’s inconsolable. And it’s not just the baby. She was frantic about Lizzie when she ran off, and now there’s her father, dying. Catherine adores him. All the girls do.” He sighed and set the whisky down on the table, fetching two glasses before he settled back in his chair and poured them both a large measure.

  “She hasn’t been herself for weeks,” he continued gruffly. “I’ve been working here as much as I can, so I can keep an eye on her. I don’t like her being too much alone. It makes her melancholy.”

  “I’m so sorry,” David said again. “Catherine’s always been such a merry girl.”

  Donald sighed again, a heavy, careworn sound. “And I’ve been so preoccupied with work.”

  David felt an immediate stab of guilt. Donald had taken a raft of cases off David’s hands when David had gone to Perthshire with Murdo to recuperate from his accident. Donald had dealt too with all the trustees’ duties for the trust Chalmers had put in place to provide for Elizabeth, even though, as his cotrustee, David should have borne an equal share of the responsibility.

  “I’m sorry, Donald,” he said now. “I’ve taken you for granted. You’ll have to let me know what I can do to rectify matters.”

  “Don’t be silly.” Donald pasted on a ramshackle smile. “It’s not as though I didn’t get paid for dealing with your cases. I’m not that much of a martyr!”