Charles’s office, where Elizabeth went to collect her trust income every month.
David searched for something reassuring to say, but before he could come up with anything, Chalmers spoke again.
“I want you to move the business of administering the trust to another solicitor—preferably in another city altogether, if Elizabeth can be prevailed upon to leave London. Only one of the trustees can deal with this.” He paused and sent David a regretful look. “David—I know it isn’t fair to ask you, but I can’t ask Donald. Not with Kitty as she is.”
“Is that all?” David asked. “No need to apologise, old friend. Consider it done.”
“I shouldn’t be asking you,” Chalmers replied unhappily. “I know you’re not fully recovered.”
“Well, I don’t need to be for this. It so happens that Lord Murdo leaves for London tomorrow, and I’m sure he’ll be willing to take me with him in his carriage, so I’ll travel like a king and be in the capital within the week.” He paused briefly. “And I’ll do what I can to persuade Elizabeth to move elsewhere. She needs to get out of Kinnell’s reach. I’ll write to let you know how I get on.”
Chalmers sighed, a soft gust of mingled relief and sadness. “Thank you. Though I doubt I’ll see any letter you send me once you’re there.”
“Of course you will—”
Chalmers waved an admonitory finger at him. “No lies, David, please. Not between us.”
David swallowed against the sudden lump in his throat, then forced himself to nod, and Chalmers managed a weak smile in reply.
The silence that followed was broken only by Chalmers’s laboured breathing. David watched him, noting the tiny facial clues—the faint furrowing between his brows, the tightness of his mouth—that hinted at the pain he was suffering.
After a while, Chalmers roused himself to speak again. “She talks a lot about this Euan MacLennan. I think they may be living in the same house.”
His tone was neutral, impossible to read.
“I believe so.”
A brief lull, then, “Do you think she loves him?” Chalmers’s gaze was troubled.
“I don’t know,” David said. Then, driven to honesty: “But I know he loves her. And he is a good man. As far from Kinnell as a man can be.”
Chalmers gazed at the ceiling, pondering that.
“When you see her,” he said at last, his voice dropped almost to a whisper, “tell her—tell her that I’m sorry I allowed Kinnell to propose to her. I never liked the look of him, and I should have gone with my gut instead of being swayed by Margaret’s wishes.”
“I’ll tell her.”
“And tell her I want her to be happy—above all else. If she loves MacLennan, she should have him. It’s not her fault that she can’t marry him.” His eyes drooped again as he rested back against the pillows, breathing shallowly. He was exhausted now, paper white, with a sheen of perspiration on his brow. Yet he steeled himself to speak once more. “Tell her about—about Mary,” he said.
“I will,” David murmured, covering one frail hand with his own. “I promise.”
“You are a good man, David.”
“I don’t know about that.”
“Oh, you are. I can never tell you how grateful I am for what you did for my girl. You needn’t have done it. I don’t know if I’d’ve done it, in your shoes. But it’s how you are. You see the wrong and the right in the world, and you feel responsible for making it better.”
“That’s a generous view of me,” David said, embarrassed by the older man’s breathless, heartfelt words. “Lord Murdo scolds me when I get on my high horse. He says I’m too black-and-white about everything.” He chuckled, and Chalmers smiled in return.
“Perhaps at times,” he allowed. “Certainly, you’re very hard on yourself. I wish you’d let yourself be happy.”
That surprised him. He stared at Chalmers, wide-eyed. “I am happy,” he protested.
“Are you? You’re a fine lawyer, lad, but I worry that’s all you have in your life. Work.”
David felt himself flush. “My work is important to me. It brings me great satisfaction.”
“I know. But it is not all there is in life. You realise that?”
Chalmers would never know, David thought, how much more difficult that question was for a man like him. It was easy enough for a man—a normal man—to say Yes, there is more to life than work when the more he yearns for is marriage to a woman, his own hearth, his own children. But when a man’s more is something entirely forbidden? When his more means embracing a life made up of long, solitary waiting broken up with bright moments of stolen happiness?
David realised Chalmers still waited for his reply, and he made himself smile, though his heart ached. “I do,” he said. “I do realise it.”
“I hope so,” Chalmers whispered. “Because you deserve to be happy, lad. Same as everyone, and more than most.”
Chalmers fell into a delirious sort of doze after that, while David considered what the man had said to him, and the words he’d been asked to pass on to Elizabeth.
Be happy. Don’t let love go.
Don’t deny it.
After twenty minutes, David began to wonder if Chalmers would ever wake. Concerned, he rang the bell, and soon Mrs. Jessop appeared.
“Should I have called before?” David asked anxiously as she bent over Chalmers.
“No, sir,” Mrs. Jessop replied, adjusting the pillows. “He is in and out of sleep almost constantly now. Sleep is a blessing for him, you see, a safe harbour from the pain.”
David nodded, fighting the ache that grew in his chest as the realisation of his friend’s mortality struck him anew.
“I should go now and leave him to his rest.”
He stepped forward to touch one last time the thin, dry hand that rested on the bedcovers. The tears in his throat tasted hot and salty.
“Good-bye, old friend,” he whispered.
Beneath his fingers, Chalmers’s hand stirred, just a tiny movement, then his papery eyelids cracked open.
“Be happy, lad,” he breathed. Then closed his eyes once more.
Chapter Seven
Once David was out of Chalmers’s house, he set to walking, needing the distraction of physical exercise. He walked east, out past Waterloo Place and up to the broad summit of the Calton Hill, where he sat for a long time, letting the wind rip through his hair, growing so cold he felt almost numb. He probably looked like a statue, sitting on his boulder, unmoving, but inside he was all agitation and grief.
Perhaps if he’d been his old self, he’d have set off running or climbed some rocks. Done something that cost him physically, relishing the burn in his muscles, even a few bruises or cuts. But he wasn’t his old self. Even after this relatively short walk, his knee and his hip griped at him.
For once, he was glad of the cane that spared his knee on the descent from the hill. He remembered too vividly each torturous step he’d made on that ill-judged walk back to Laverock House from McNally’s, the agonising jolt in his knee each time his right leg had to take his weight. He still felt a shadow of that pain today, but thankfully the cane did the brunt of the work.
It seemed he was learning to be careful after all.
For some reason, that thought depressed him, and when he reached the bottom of the hill, he set off in a new direction, unwilling to return to the house yet. The North Bridge took him up to his old hunting grounds at St. Giles on the High Street. He paused outside Parliament House and debated going in to the advocates’ library to see who was around, perhaps to catch up with the latest faculty gossip. In the end, though, he couldn’t face it. Couldn’t face answering questions about his accident, his recuperation, the reason he was in Edinburgh. Instead, he sloped off to the Tolbooth Tavern and, despite the hour, ordered himself a gill of the hard stuff.
It was gloomy in the tavern. The day was grey and overcast. Even if it had been bright, the tiny windows with their thick, warped glass let in little sun. The only o
ther source of light in the room was the fire in the grate, and that gave off little illumination—it must have been going for a few hours at least, as it was naught but glowing embers now.
Chilled to the bone, David sat himself near the fire. The landlord brought his gill of whisky over, setting down beside it a small metal cup. He acknowledged David’s murmured thanks with a nod and tossed a couple of logs onto the fire on his way back to the bar. Soon, yellow tongues of flame were licking over the fresh fuel. Brownish smoke billowed out of the fireplace as the damp, resiny bark was consumed, making David cough and shift his stool back till the logs began burning properly.
He watched as the logs were gradually consumed, first turning black, then glowing orange, then finally going white at the edges, till there was nothing left of them but two ghosts that still somehow held their old shapes—at least until the landlord stirred the fire with a poker and turned them to ash.
It was only then that David blinked himself out of his daze and realised how much time had passed. Realised too that he hadn’t so much as poured himself a single dram. His whisky sat, untouched, in the pot jug the landlord had set down in front of him, and the drinking cup was dry.
For a moment he considered sinking the lot in one big gulp. Then he remembered Murdo’s hand on his arm, his voice tight with frustration.
“Whenever you’re confronted with something you don’t like, this is your answer...”
Cursing inwardly, he grabbed his cane and stood, gritting his teeth against the inevitable twinge of pain as he rose. Even with the cane, the long walk had taken its toll on him—in some ways, the hard, uneven cobbles of the city’s streets were more punishing than even the worst of country paths.
It wasn’t much more than a mile back to Murdo’s house, but it felt ten times longer. By the time he crossed the threshold, his limp had returned. The housekeeper came into the hall while the footman was taking his hat and cane. She asked if David would like some luncheon, or perhaps some tea and cake. He smiled politely and declined. Between the emotional encounter with Chalmers and the pain in his hip and knee, he had no appetite at all. He wanted nothing more than to lie down.
At last he was able to excuse himself, escaping to his appointed bedchamber. He near groaned with relief when he finally closed the door behind him, crossing the room to pull the drapes closed. Once his privacy was assured, he stripped his clothes away and sat on the bed to examine his throbbing knee. It was faintly swollen and tender, the pain beginning to worsen now that the constant movement of walking had come to an end and the limb had begun to cool. Sighing, he fetched his jar of liniment from the armoire and began to rub his leg down, reflecting all the while on how much better Murdo was at this, how much more soothing his hands were than David’s own.
When he was done, he lay back, grimacing as he arched his stiff hips up so he could drag the top bedcover out from under him and pull it over his exhausted body. Despite his physical tiredness, his mind kept running on, a strange, anxious misery twisting inside him as he considered Chalmers’s parting advice to him and his own depressing vision of what his future held.
Months ago, before David’s accident, Murdo had alluded to some kind of arrangement whereby they might see each other once a year or so, with Murdo’s other life—the one that would have a wife and family in it—kept carefully separate. David didn’t need to try that arrangement out to know it wasn’t one that he could live with. Everything in him protested at the very thought. When Murdo married, he would make a promise to his wife to cleave only to her. How could David give himself to Murdo after that? It would be wrong in every way. Unfair to Murdo’s wife and, yes, unfair to himself too.
He could just imagine Murdo’s response to that protest. He’d say that any woman he married would go into the marriage accepting—indeed expecting—that Murdo would have lovers. And that she could take lovers of her own. He would say, in that slightly weary tone he used when talking about the aristocratic world he inhabited, it’s the way of the world... David had heard it before— It hadn’t been enough to allay his objections then, and it wasn’t now.
At some point, he fell into an uneasy sleep, drifting into a garbled maze of dreams. He dreamt he was with his first love, Will Lennox, swimming in the river at Midlauder, gooseflesh rising on his skin. Will was young and beautiful, his brown hair sleek from the water, green eyes twinkling with mischief. They came together in a kiss, laughing.
The kiss was innocent at first, but soon it grew more feverish and the body under David’s hands grew harder and more demanding. He realised he was no longer with Will but with Murdo.
Murdo’s jet gaze met his own, dark and pleading.
David broke the kiss and asked him what was wrong, but Murdo didn’t answer him, just gazed at him with mute pain. Then David glanced down and saw that Murdo was bleeding, his long fingers spread over a gaping wound in his chest. David yelled Murdo’s name and pressed his own hands over the wound too, crying out helplessly as dark blood slugged out over their interlaced fingers.
He woke himself with his own shouting, his heart thundering with panic and fear, tears wet on his face. At the same moment, his bedchamber door flew open, the handle banging against the wall as Murdo ran in.
“What’s wrong?”
David sat up. “Nothing—I just had a dream—a nightmare.” He dashed the tears away, mortified. “I’m sorry if I alarmed you.”
Murdo’s shoulders relaxed, and he closed the door quietly behind himself. “I thought you were being murdered!” he joked as he approached the bed, giving a short, awkward laugh.
Settling himself on the mattress beside David, he added more gently, “Are you all right?”
“In truth, I feel quite shaky,” David replied, forcing a laugh. He wanted to ask Murdo to hold him but couldn’t find a form of words he could utter. Will you hold me was impossible.
It turned out, though, that he didn’t need to turn his need into a spoken plea. Murdo reached for him without being asked, his arms sliding round David’s slim body, gathering him close.
“Christ, you’re freezing,” he muttered into David’s ear and began chafing David’s cold skin with his big, warm hands. “Were you sleeping like that? With just that thin cover over you?”
“I only meant to doze for a few minutes,” David said. “But I think I ended up sleeping for quite a while. What time is it?”
“Just gone five.”
“I slept three hours, then,” David exclaimed, shocked.
“Did you see Chalmers?” Murdo’s gaze, dark as pitch and soft with concern, was so reminiscent of the nightmare that David’s heart began to race again. Breaking eye contact, he burrowed closer in, needing the physical reassurance of Murdo’s body, warm and alive and close to his own. He slid his arms round Murdo’s waist and pressed his face into the other man’s neck, breathing in his familiar, heady scent.
For a moment, Murdo was very still, as though surprised. Then his arms tightened round David’s cold body, and he turned his head to press a kiss against one temple.
And right then, David felt a bolt of unexpected gratitude. Gratitude that he and Murdo were alive. Alive and here, together, now.
A profound understanding settled on him of what it meant to be alive. What a privilege it was. What it meant to share the moments of his life—even the difficult moments—with someone he loved.
Someone I love.
Murdo.
The revelation remained unspoken, the unused words even harder to utter than Will you hold me? Easier by far just to stay where he was, holding on to the flesh-and-blood man, imperfectly communicating his feelings by touch.
After a long while, he realised he hadn’t answered Murdo’s question.
“Sorry, I’m still half-asleep, I think. I did see Chalmers. He made a request of me. I’ll need to talk to you about it later.”
“We can talk about it now, if you like.”
“No, first I—” David paused, struggling again to find words. The
ones he picked sounded raw and desperate. “First, I need you.”
He lifted his head, knowing his face would give everything away. He didn’t even try to disguise his feelings, though. He just let Murdo see it all, the despair and the grief, and the sharp, pressing desire. Because what was the point in hiding it? What was the point of having the gift of life—and the gift of knowing how precious it was—if he couldn’t share it all with this man?
Murdo met David’s eyes, and his own gaze gentled. “I need you too,” he whispered, and he dipped his head to capture David’s lips.
It was just breathing at first; their lips resting together, the air from their mouths mingling. Impossible intimacy. Impossible tenderness. So unbearably sweet it was a barb in David’s heart. He felt it like physical pain, like physical joy.
They broke apart briefly, staring at one another, then David leaned in and took Murdo’s mouth again, but this time his kiss was hungry, devouring, and after a moment’s hesitation, Murdo returned his passion. Their tongues twined, Murdo’s clothed body moving against David’s naked one, his big hands tracing over David’s cold skin.
As good as Murdo’s hands felt, David was glad when the other man finally pulled away long enough to shed his clothes. He watched Murdo hungrily as the man quickly stripped, moaning his gratitude when they were finally skin to skin, loving the satiny drag of flesh on flesh and the prickle of Murdo’s chest hair against his own mostly smooth torso. He loved the breath-stealing pleasure when their cocks first met, the prod of Murdo’s blunt cockhead against the base of his own shaft, the firm press of all that heft as Murdo canted his lean hips up. They ground their shafts together, their mouths meshed in a deep, desperate kiss—breathing the same air, moving to the same frantic rhythm—and it felt like mere moments till David was crying out his release, Murdo’s answering groan following a heartbeat behind.
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