Jack gazed down at the viscount’s son, seeing before him the man he loved. The man he adored. Jack dropped the teacups and clutched his hands to his chest. Whether it was what one did or not at a proposal, he sank to his knees and embraced his husband.
“Yes—yes, yes!”
His lips met Thorne’s. The kiss went on and on. They had a good many to make up for, after all.
Until a soft, whiskery muzzle decided to nudge against them.
“You’ll always be trouble, won’t you, Apollo?” Jack rubbed the horse’s nose, receiving a friendly snort in return. Yet Thorne had more weighty matters on his mind and took up Jack’s hand, gently sliding the gold band onto his finger.
“This was my grandfather’s wedding ring. The late Viscount Thorne was a bit of a hellraiser.” Thorne kissed Jack on the tip of his nose. “And I think, in true British style, it’s beginning to drizzle.”
Jack collected the scattered teacups and Thorne picked up the tray.
“To the kitchen?” But Jack saw the corner of Thorne’s mouth quirk up. He was looking in the direction of the stables.
There was an echo of the wide-eyed groom in Jack’s voice. “I promise, Captain Thorne, those stables are immaculate.”
“Trooper Woodvine, shall we inspect Apollo’s quarters?” He rose to his feet. “Lead the way, soldier.”
Off they went toward the yard, leaving the paddock behind them. Apollo threw his head up into the rain then took off at a happy canter, his mane flowing in the soft summer breeze.
“This one, I think.” Jack unbolted the split door and showed Thorne in. “Spacious but cozy. And a fashionable address to boot!”
Thorne stepped into the cool interior and set the tray down on a bale of hay. He filled the teacups with another helping of wine then put his hands on his hips and looked around, his face set in a serious, stern line.
“Not bad, Trooper Woodvine, not bad at all.” He turned to Jack and opened his arms wide. “Now come here!”
Jack rushed into his arms and kissed him.
“My husband dear, my captain. Now let’s have our picnic and shelter from the rain.”
Thorne’s arms encircled Jack and lifted him clear off his feet for a few seconds. “Does that make you my wife? I love you, Jack, so bloody much.”
“I’m your darling, that’s who I am.”
The drizzle fizzed against the yard, and Jack watched it for a moment through the half-open door, his head resting on Thorne’s shoulder.
“Do you remember—the night we spent in that stable?”
He could see from the smolder in Thorne’s gaze that he certainly had not forgotten. His captain pressed a gentle kiss to Jack’s hair and whispered, “I told you that I didn’t fraternize. What a fool I almost was.”
Thorne drew back just a little and with one hand draped the shawl over Jack’s shoulder. His smiled, his face utterly serene when he asked, “Might I tempt my darling to a wedding night roll in the hay? For old time’s sake?”
“Our honeymoon in the stable…why not? And every anniversary to follow!”
Jack kicked off his new brogues, careless as to how they landed. His eyes on Thorne, he started to unbutton his jacket. Urgency building within him, he pressed his mouth to his husband’s ear.
“Help me out of this ridiculous suit, for god’s sake!”
It was a delightful jumble of eager hands and gentle laughter, loving kisses and irresistible embraces but eventually, somehow, Jack and his captain found themselves naked in their impromptu marriage bed of straw. Now, for the first time, Jack knew that they had all the time in the world, and the evening sun and the trilling birdsong and nothing but this waiting on the horizon. They lay wrapped around each other, legs entwined, bodies pressed together, kisses and soft words ringing on the evening breeze. How many times could Jack hear the words ‘I love you’ and not tire of it? How many times could he be caressed, by the same hand, over the same few inches of skin, and at each stroke only feel the intensity of that love and the strong unyielding bond all the more? How many times could their bodies—scarred and beautiful, lost and found—reconnect and recombine?
For Jack and his captain had passed through a furnace. And love had survived, and so had they. They had wandered into hell and emerged in their earthly paradise, where there was shelter enough, and where there was peace. Jack had heard the earth shake under battle, but he now heard it sigh with the rain.
There was nothing else Jack needed to say and Robert fell silent too. Instead Robert Thorne—not captain, not Honorable, just Robert—devoted himself to kissing Jack’s throat, his lips, his shoulder. Jack held the man who was his whole life as they made love. His hips barely moved yet the faintest thrust was enough to send thrills of pleasure coursing through him. Jack felt as though they were two halves of one, joined by an invisible thread even when a whole world stood between them.
And still he whispered, I love you.
Jack loved as he was loved, sure that loneliness would be banished for all the days yet to come. The seasons would change, the moon rise and the sun shine but here in their sanctuary he and his captain would be undiminished, safe beneath the unbroken blue of a summer sky. This was a refuge they would enjoy together, forged from artillery and fear and the love that had come so close, horribly so, to being forever lost.
All that was lost is found, all that had been severed has been mended, every wound has healed.
Jack let his captain love him, tenderly, absolutely. Their bodies twined together, completing, adoring.
And the captain was there with him, no longer a dream, no longer a thought of what might have been, but forever his, safe in this place where nobody would find them. His captain, his Robert, whose every muscle seemed to be tensing, whose skin was hot, whose body was hard and whose kisses were so soft when their lips met again in the moments before they left the world behind completely.
They soared up into a bright, white space, brighter than any phosphorus flare. Into a place where there would be no more partings, no more pain.
And on it went until Robert’s head sank to rest on Jack’s shoulder. He gasped for breath and repeated again and again those declarations of love that had seemed lost. There was something else too, the sensation of warm tears rolling over Jack’s scarred skin as they fell from the captain’s eyes. When he lifted his head again to meet his lover’s gaze there was no sadness, only the bright light of joy.
The rain outside had stopped and the air was alive with the scent of a summer evening and the sound of Apollo’s happy whinnies from the neighboring paddock. Jack and Thorne lay there in the straw, gazing at each other in, satisfied contentment until Jack smiled brightly at the disarray of his usually so pristine lover.
“That straw in your hair definitely suits you.” Jack went to brush it free but Thorne stilled his hand.
“Leave it.” Thorne smiled and snuggled against Jack, holding him in a tender embrace. “I think I’m going to enjoy being a farmer.”
Jack leaned toward his husband, waiting for his kiss. Robert took Jack’s face in his hands and pressed his lips gently to Jack’s but this time there was no sadness, no thought that this was the last, but the sure and safe knowledge that they were just beginning. It was a kiss that said forever, and it went on and on and on.
Also available from Pride Publishing:
An Actor’s Guide to Romance
Catherine Curzon and Eleanor Harkstead
Excerpt
Chapter One
Every hero needs his villain. The thorn in his side, the shadow on his sun, the fly on his teacake. Holmes had his Moriarty, Superman had Lex Luther, ET had the lack of intergalactic telephone lines and Thomas Fox had Adam Fisher. From that long-ago audition at drama school when each had chosen a monologue that had stopped the panel in its tracks to the first of innumerable shared curtain calls when a new Jeeves met his Wooster, he was always there, always up for the same roles, his name on the same lists that were proposed for your consider
ation, matching every single achievement until, still chasing one another’s shadow more than two decades after that very first meeting at RADA, together they had waited for Godot. They were like a mirror image, two careers on parallel lines, from youthful love interest to middle-aged gravitas, each as decorated, as popular, as perfect as the other.
Maybe they always would be until one died or they killed each other.
Who knows?
In any titanic struggle, the parties must know their places and right now, theirs was a dingy basement off Covent Garden, where Thomas and Adam were embracing.
“Thank god we found each other. What would I do without you, darling?”
Adam rolled his eyes. Not enough for it to be noticeable from the front row, but Thomas noticed, because he intended Thomas to notice. Because that was the sort of thing that Adam did, the sort of thing he had always done. He rolled his eyes, gave a little sigh and finally whispered, “Did you have onions at lunch?”
Then he raised his voice to an audible volume and replied, “I feel as though I’ve been searching all my life for something, and I didn’t realize until we found each other.”
Thomas gazed down at Adam’s full lips and, despite sudden stiffness in his neck, began to lower his face to kiss him. Adam blinked, his blue eyes shining when they met Thomas’ gaze, his embrace around Thomas’ waist tightening. He pursed his lips, blinked again and declared, “God, that is oniony!”
Thomas flung up his hands and backed out of their embrace. “I can’t bloody do this, Adam, if you keep titting about!”
From the side of the room there came a flurry of movement as their solo audience threw up her hands, dashing script pages across the floor. Gill Henley rose from her seat in a whirlwind of scarves and floral print and exclaimed, “For Christ’s sake, gents, this scene again! Can you not just plough through and pretend you might actually be in love? You’re supposed to be actors, so act!”
“It was a joke, darling!” Adam was all innocence now, of course, because he would be, wouldn’t he? He put his hands on his hips and addressed Thomas. “You dragged me out of character, Tom Fox. It’s a cheap way to steal a scene.”
“I dragged you out of character?” Thomas felt his face flush as he tried to rein in his frustration. “You keep breaking out of character to comment on my breath! Which, I might add, does not smell of onions. And don’t bloody call me Tom Fox. I’m not a character in Wind in the bloody Willows.”
“Look,” Gill addressed them as though they were naughty schoolboys. “This isn’t a play about being gay. Stop making it the fulcrum of the drama. Your characters being gay is just part of the fabric of their lives, just like your lives. It’s not as though your whole lives are spent camping about and being as gay as gay can be, are they?”
She looked at Adam and narrowed her eyes.
“Yours is, I know that, but as a whole, gay is part of life, not life itself.” Gill held up her hand before Adam could protest. “You have one kiss in the text. It’s not the end of the world. Let’s call it a day and come back tomorrow, lips puckered, ready to kiss and move bloody on, yes?”
“Tell him.” Adam shrugged, already turning to retrieve his coat. “I’m a professional, he’s an onion-eater.”
Thomas clenched his fists. “It was a shallot, Fisher! It was not an onion!”
“Well, enjoy your evening of onions, Tom Fox.” Adam kissed Gill’s cheek and raised his hand to Thomas. “Because I am off home to study my lines. Bonsoir, my fine supporting player!”
He spun on his heel to give a deep bow then, with another wave, opened the door and disappeared into the hallway.
Even though Thomas knew that Adam could no longer hear him, he raised his chin imperiously and declared, “Equal billing, darling! I am no one’s support.”
“You both want bloody shooting.” Gill knelt to retrieve her abandoned pages. “I’ll see you in the morning, Tom—Thomas. We’ll crack it, I’m sure, and your adoring fans will never know how much you bloody hate each other.”
Thomas dragged his fingers through his hair and sighed.
“Look—why don’t I just do the honorable thing and back out? I should never have agreed to this. I thought—challenging play by an emerging writer, and if I have to put up with Fisher to do it, then fine.” He shook his head—he suddenly felt very tired. “We can’t even be in the same room as each other without warring—how can we ever kiss, for heaven’s sake? I’ll stand down from the cast, Gill.”
“Are you trying to wreck my career? It’s Fisher and Fox playing lovers. Have you seen the advance box office on this? You stand down, the press’ll think you’ve gone nuts, the producers will sue and when, not if, Adam gets nommed for this play, you’ll be chewing your own hand off. Better to be there on the list next to him, don’t you think?” She rose to her feet and patted Thomas’ arm. “You’re the best there are—it’s one kiss out of two hours of bloody good drama, we can get past it.”
“I bloody hope so.” He leafed through his script and found the stage direction that was causing so much trouble. Just two words—They kiss. It wasn’t difficult.
But it was.
“I’ll see you tomorrow, Gill. And don’t worry, I’ll bring breath mints.”
“Just bring your best game, love. That’s what’ll really piss Adam off.”
Won’t it just.
Thomas buttoned himself into his coat. Off home, then—but he knew Gill was right. There was so much riding on this play. And he knew it wasn’t just Adam who was struggling with it—Thomas was too.
He’d have it out with him. Now. This evening. No more flouncing from rehearsals. They needed to clear the air once and for all.
Not noticing the buffeting crowds, Thomas paused in a doorway to shelter from the misty rain and sent Adam a text.
Are you home yet or are you propping up The Old Vic’s bar again?
The reply arrived swiftly to ask, Home in 5 did I forget something?
Thomas took a deep breath before tapping out his response.
We’ve both forgotten what’s important. I need to see you.
Order your copy here
About the Authors
Catherine Curzon is a royal historian who writes on all matters of 18th century. Her work has been featured on many platforms and Catherine has also spoken at various venues including the Royal Pavilion, Brighton, and Dr Johnson’s House.
Catherine holds a Master’s degree in Film and when not dodging the furies of the guillotine, writes fiction set deep in the underbelly of Georgian London.
She lives in Yorkshire atop a ludicrously steep hill.
Eleanor Harkstead often dashes about in nineteenth-century costume, in bonnet or cravat as the mood takes her. She can occasionally be found wandering old graveyards, and is especially fond of the ones in Edinburgh. Eleanor is very fond of chocolate, wine, tweed waistcoats and nice pens. She has a large collection of vintage hats, and once played guitar in a band. Originally from the south-east, Eleanor now lives somewhere in the Midlands with a large ginger cat who resembles a Viking.
Catherine and Eleanor love to hear from readers. You can find their contact information, website and author biographies at http://www.pride-publishing.com.
Also by Catherine Curzon and Eleanor Harkstead
An Actor’s Guide to Romance
Also by Catherine Curzon
I Need a Hero: The Angel on the Northern Line
The Captain and the Cavalry Trooper Page 24
