Despite the cold, there were plenty of other spectators on the way to the match, so many that the road was badly clogged for the last couple of miles, slowing them down practically to walking pace. Finally, though, they reached the field behind the White Hare Inn, and James brought the curricle to a halt, drawing it up alongside a row of other gigs and carriages behind a sign marked Betting Stand.
“It’s so busy.” James eyed the crowd in front of them with dismay.
“Lucky we have a nice high curricle to watch from, then,” said Iain, whose pensive mood seemed to have lifted now.
“Oh,” James replied. “I didn’t think of that.”
“We’ll be further back than the people at the front,” Iain pointed out. “But at least we’ll see the fight.”
“True.”
“Right, then.” Iain clapped his hands together. “Time to get ourselves some ale and some food! You wait here—I’ll be back directly.”
With that, he jumped down from the curricle, promising to return directly with provisions. James watched him stroll towards the White Hare Inn, which seemed to be doing a roaring trade. While he waited, he amused himself by watching the antics of the vast crowd of shouting, swearing men that surrounded him. They came from every possible walk of life—from gentlemen to gypsies—and with no women present, none that James could see, anyway, there was a feeling of edgy egalitarianism. It felt as though anything could happen here.
At last, a good half hour after he left, Iain returned, swinging a large, pot flagon of ale in one hand and balancing two hand-sized pies in the other, one on top of the other.
“You’ll have to swig your ale from that,” Iain informed James, thrusting the flagon into his hands before climbing back up onto the gig one-handed, passing one pie to James and keeping the other for himself. He bit into his own pie with a muffled groan of pleasure and began to chew with relish.
James lifted his pie to his mouth. It was still warm, and the meaty filling smelled wonderful. It was only then that he realised how hungry he was, his belly grouching as though on cue. He demolished the pie in a few mouthfuls, brushing the crumbs from his fingers after.
As tasty as the pie was, the filling had been salty and James reached for the ale as soon as he was done, pulling out the cork and drinking deeply of the dark, hoppy beer. It was strong, far stronger than the ale he drank at home. This was more like stout, treacle brown and sweetish. It tasted good, so James drank more.
“You’re fairly getting through the ale,” Iain said at one point. He was smiling but frowning slightly too. “It’s not a race, you know.”
“I’m fine,” James protested, slapping Iain on the shoulder. “It’s just ale, not spirits.”
Iain raised a brow at him, but he said no more about it.
It seemed to take forever for the fight to start. They waited and waited—and drank—as spectators continued to arrive, the field filling up till it was ringed with carriages and there was a crowd seven or eight deep all round. Then, at last, two fighters stepped out onto the grass.
“This is it!” James said excitedly.
“Not quite,” Iain replied. “There’re two other bouts before the main event. These are untried fighters.”
Untried they might be, but their appearance provoked a prolonged betting frenzy, which meant more waiting.
“I’ll get more ale,” James informed Iain, hopping down from the curricle with the now-empty flagon.
“All right. Get more pies too, if there are any.”
The pies were long gone by the time he made it to the front of the line of men that stretched out of the taproom of the White Hare Inn and looped all the way round the courtyard, but the innkeeper filled the empty flagon with more of the dark, treacly beer and sold him a few pickled eggs, which he wrapped in brown paper so James could pop them in his pocket.
By the time he made it back, the first fight was over—there had been a dramatic knockout, apparently—and the second was about to begin. Iain’s rapt attention flickered only when James offered him a pickled egg.
“Good Lord!” he said, eyeing the yellowish orbs. “We’ll be taking our life in our hands eating these, Jamie. They look ancient.”
“I don’t care,” James said. “I’m ravenous.” He bit one in half defiantly, then practically retched—they were so vinegary, they made his eyes water. Iain burst out laughing at his expression, and then James started laughing too, spraying egg out of his mouth.
He tried to show an interest in the main fight—but no matter how much Iain tried to capture his attention with talk of throwing and parrying and returning, he found it difficult to concentrate. More entertaining by far to drink the ale and watch the crowd, all by Iain’s side. That was the real treat for him, just being here, with his friend. The two of them, shoulder to shoulder on the curricle, Iain’s flank and thigh warm against James’s and his ready, glinting smile flashing under his new moustache. The thrill, each time James drank from the flagon, of placing his mouth where Iain’s lips had just been.
It was a wonderful day. Nobody else made him laugh like Iain did, or listened to him the way Iain did. There was no one else but Iain who made James happy just from being able to look at him. When he rested his eyes on Iain, he felt warm and glad inside. He couldn’t gaze at him the way he wanted to, but there were plenty of chances to steal sideways glances that afternoon. And sometimes, when their eyes met, Iain would give him that special smile James liked to think was just for him. Fond and affectionate. Intimate.
When all the fights were over, James couldn’t have said who’d won any of them, but he was so content, he was unable to put his smile away. Iain jumped down from the curricle to go and collect his winnings, promising to be back directly, and James groped around for the ale, finally finding the flagon and upending it one last time, surprised to get naught but a dribble. He lifted the flagon a little higher to peer inside, closing one eye to get a better look, but his concentration was broken when something hit the back of his head, something cold and wettish.
“I said move your arse, you fucking molly!” someone shouted behind him. “You’re holding everyone up!”
A chorus of jeering laughter followed while James dropped the flagon to the floor of the curricle and pawed the back of his head, his good cheer dissolving on a wave of sour fear and trembling anger. He found his assailant’s weapon—a clod of mud—and cast it aside, then looked around for the man who had thrown it at him.
He was in the gig behind James’s own, standing up in the driver’s seat, brandishing a whip. His face was mottled and slack with too much drink.
“Are you deaf?” he sneered. “Or do you just need your soldier friend to come and drive yer gig? Is he another backgammon player like you?”
There were shouts of laughter and more jeering at that, and James drew his shoulders back, his anger beginning to overtake his initial alarm now that the drunk was starting in on Iain too.
“Shut your damned mouth,” he snapped. “I’ll move my gig when it suits me to do it. Be thankful I don’t come over there and teach you a lesson.”
Mortifyingly, the drunk burst out laughing at that. “Ooh!” he exclaimed in a high feminine voice. “The lad’s goin’ to come over and ’orsewhip me, lads! Whatever shall I do?”
“Teach ’im a lesson, Ned!” someone yelled out behind him.
“You’re right,” Ned called back. “He needs to learn some manners.” He fixed an ugly look on James, adding, “I saw you making up to your soldier friend. You think you’re better than me, but you’re nothing but a filthy little sod.”
He began to climb down from his gig, and James steeled himself for what was looking like an inevitable brawl, casting his gaze around his curricle for some kind of weapon—until a choked cry drew his attention back to his would-be assailant. He looked up and saw a scarlet-clad figure dragging the man, still mid-descent, from his gig and throwing him bodily to the ground.
Iain.
James gasped and got to
his feet, making the curricle rock.
This was Iain as James had never seen him before. His friend was always the very picture of merry good humour, always a smile on his face, a twinkle in his eye. But this man looked dangerous and very angry.
Iain smiled nastily at the man—Ned—who was now sprawled at his feet. “Feeling brave, are you? Come on, then.” He gestured at the man to get up for the fight he’d said he wanted with James, but Ned stayed where he was on the ground.
His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. “I didn’t mean—” he began, but Iain cut him off.
“Yes, you did,” he said in a tone that was a mockery of encouragement. “You said you were going to teach us some manners, so come on, then. Let’s get this lesson of yours.” He laughed into the silence that followed, a harsh bark of a sound. “Changed your mind, have you?”
Ned just stared at him fearfully. Iain leaned down, grabbing a fistful of his coat and jerking him forward, raising a fist as though to punch him. Ned cried out, raising his hands to cover his face. “Please—” he cried.
Iain laughed again and let his fist unfurl. Instead of punching him, he gave them man a humiliating open-handed cuff to the back of his head before letting him fall back to the ground.
“Fucking coward,” he concluded in a disgusted tone.
There were no jeers from anyone else now—the man’s friends, if he’d ever had any, had moved on or were staying silent. The bystanders backed away, pulling horses aside and focusing their gazes elsewhere. Iain’s lip curled in a sneer that encompassed all of them. After one last contemptuous look at the man on the ground, he turned on his heel and crossed to the curricle, unhurriedly climbing up to sit beside James.
Despite all he’d drunk, Iain looked sober, his blue gaze steady and clear. For some reason, that made James feel even more inebriated than he had before. He found he couldn’t focus on Iain and had to close his eyes against a sudden swimming sensation, cringing a little when he heard Iain sigh.
“I shouldn’t have let you drink so much,” he said, his tone regretful. “Come on, I’ll drive us home.”
He took the reins gently from James’s hands.
“You didn’t need to save me,” James mumbled. “I wasn’t going to let him beat me. I can look after myself.”
Iain didn’t answer that, just gave him a long, hard look. Then he clucked at the horses and flicked the reins, and a moment later, they were on their way. And it was all James could do not to cast up his accounts over Iain’s lap from the rocking of the carriage.
Chapter Eight
Almost two hours later, when Iain brought the curricle to a halt outside the townhouse, James was no more sober than he’d been before they’d set off. The ale he’d been supping all day had well and truly settled into his system, and he seemed thoroughly, if happily, foxed.
“Come in,” James urged as Iain extricated him from the curricle. “Come and have some dinner, and we’ll open a bottle of claret. We’ve had nothing but a meat pie all day. Although I had that pickled egg, didn’t I?” He made a retching face.
“Claret?” Iain exclaimed. “You shouldn’t be having anything stronger than tea in your state. Your mother’s going to have me up on corruption charges.”
James just waved his hand. “Mother’s away. Sisters too.” He grinned sloppily at Iain. “They’ve gone to Hampshire for a few days, to Sir Edward Porter’s estate. Sir Edward’s finally come up to scratch—he’s going to propose to Kate. Can you believe he asked me permission?” He laughed uproariously at that, and Iain had to laugh too. Porter had to be ten years James’s senior and exceedingly high in the instep—the idea of him petitioning James for permission to pay his addresses to Kate was an amusing one.
“What did you say?”
“I said, ‘Don’t ask me, ask Kate,’ of course. She’d’ve had my hide if I so much as dared an opinion of any suitor of hers!”
Iain chuckled. “Why aren’t you in Hampshire too, then?” he asked, handing the reins to the groom who’d appeared to attend to the horses, and steering James towards the front door, which was presently being held open by an impassive footman.
“I’m going tomorrow,” James replied. “Didn’t want to miss out”—he broke off and hiccoughed—“on seeing you.”
Iain didn’t know what to say to that, especially when James looked up at him, a stupidly happy expression on his face—happy and hopeful and unguarded. As though Iain was the best thing he’d ever seen. For some reason, that expression made Iain feel both pleased and panicked at the same time. James had been looking at him like that all day, which was doubtless why that loathsome fellow had started in on him, calling him a molly. Christ, when he’d heard that exchange on his way back to the curricle, the anger that had gripped him had been overwhelming. He’d wanted to the pound the man’s face to bloody pulp for threatening James.
James, a molly?
Hell.
Sighing, Iain led James up the steps to the house and through the front door, pausing to murmur to the footman, “Which way to Mr. Hart’s rooms? I think he needs to get to bed now.”
“First floor, sir,” the footman replied, swiftly lighting a candle for Iain and handing it to him. “Second door on the right. Do you want me to lead the way?” Iain shook his head. He tried to steer James towards the stairs, but James dug his heels in.
“Tell Mrs. Legget we want a good dinner, Ridley,” he said to the footman. “Something excellent for Lieutenant Sinclair and myself. And wine!” He chuckled. “Lots of wine.”
The footman sent Iain a helpless look at that. Iain just shook his head and smiled, using one hand to turn James back to the stairs and urge him forward. Looking back over his shoulder, he murmured to the footman, “Just some tea and toast.”
The footman nodded and slipped away.
Iain walked James up the stairs with a firm hand at the small of his back. James was all over the place, chatty and unsteady on his feet, slurring his words a little. The candles in the wall sconces flickered long shadows up the walls and Iain held his own candle high, illuminating the steps ahead to make sure James didn’t trip.
When they reached James’s chamber, James shook Iain off and stepped aside, throwing open the door dramatically and gesturing Iain in with a flourish. Amused by James’s theatrics, Iain chuckled and entered, moving right into the middle of the room before stopping and gazing around curiously.
Although it was a single chamber, it was a very large room. As well as the usual bedchamber furniture—bed, wardrobe, sideboard—there was a writing desk strewn with papers, a small table with what looked like a microscope and several comfortable-looking armchairs.
Behind him, Iain heard the squeak of bedsprings. He turned to see that James had lain himself down on the bed. He was so still, Iain wondered if he’d passed out. He walked over to the foot of the bed and looked down at the young man lying there, dark blond hair disarranged, boots spattered with mud thrown up from the road. James’s eyes were closed but, as Iain stood there, gazing at him, a foolish smile grew on James’s face, as though he could feel the weight of Iain’s regard. With the careful enunciation of the inebriated, he said, “I’m not sleeping, you know.”
“Good. You won’t mind taking your boots off, then. You’re getting mud all over your clean bedcovers.”
“Can’t you do it for me?” James wheedled. “The room spins when I open my eyes.”
Iain sighed, but he took hold of the heel of one boot, prying it away from James’s foot and easing the tight leather sleeve from his slim leg. He repeated the routine with the other boot, set the pair aside, then stood at the end of the bed, looking down bemusedly at his drunken friend.
Beneath the shining black leather, James’s legs were clad in plain stockings, the knitted silk smooth over his lean shins and strong, narrow feet. Iain felt a brief but compelling urge to run his hand over one of those feet. To measure the curve of the high arch with his thumb. The thought jolted him and he found himself clearing his thro
at, almost with embarrassment, which was ridiculous considering some of the things he’d done to a few other gentlemen of his acquaintance. But none of those men had been James. His childhood friend. Someone he’d thought of like a brother for the last ten years.
Most of the time, anyway.
Pushing his wayward thoughts aside, he said brusquely, “Come on, then, let’s get your coat off.”
“Don’t make me move,” James pleaded, though he was still smiling. Smiling with his eyes closed. He looked so beautiful lying there on the big bed, with his fine features relaxed and happy and his dark blond hair gleaming dully in the candlelight. Iain found himself imagining what it would feel like to lower his body over James’s, to thread his hands into James’s dishevelled hair and ravage his smiling mouth with a rough, mauling kiss.
Ah God—as if it wasn’t bad enough that he desired men, now he was turning his depraved thoughts to this youngest and most innocent of his friends...
Iain swallowed hard, willing his sudden erection to subside, clenching his hands into hard, painful fists in an effort to distract himself from the tempting man laid out before him.
Exhaling hard, he pressed his lips together and walked round to the side of the bed, hovering uncertainly beside James’s head.
“If you sit up,” he said, “I’ll help you.”
“All right,” James half groaned, half chuckled. “But you’ll have to help me sit up too. My head’s reeling.”
When Iain sighed, James chuckled again, seeming inordinately amused, and Iain realised the only way the coat was coming off was if Iain wrestled it off him.
“You need a valet,” he grumbled, sitting on the mattress beside his sprawled-out friend.
“No, I don’t,” James mumbled. “I’m no dandy. I can get my own coats on and off and tie my own cravats, thank you very much.”
“You can’t seem to get this coat off,” Iain pointed out.
James laughed at that, and Iain couldn’t stop a chuckle of his own escaping at the merry sound.
“Come on,” he said, leaning forwards and sliding his arms under James’s prone body. “Up you get.” He levered James back up into a sitting position, holding him steady as James slowly blinked and focused upon him. It was only when James’s eyes widened in surprise that the intimacy of their position struck Iain—they were sitting upright, chest to chest, Iain’s arms wrapped around James’s body, their faces bare inches apart.
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