Unnatural

by Joanna Chambers

  Or perhaps he was being foolish and imagining a connection that simply wasn’t there.

  “What if I promise to write to you from India?” Iain asked. “Since I’ll not be living under my own name there, I’ll have to be careful, but there will be ways of getting letters to and from my friends and family, from time to time.”

  James’s gut clenched at those words and at what they hinted at—the risks Iain would be living with, day in, day out. He pressed his head hard against the window, as though the physical sensation of the cold glass against his skin might somehow distract him from the turmoil that Iain was causing him.

  “Will you write back to me?” Iain asked softly. “Let me know how you are?”

  There was a blockage in James’s throat that he couldn’t get a word past. It seemed to swell painfully when he swallowed against it, and heat was building behind his eyes, prickling there. The shame of tears threatened, and he fought to get himself under control.

  “James?” Iain’s voice was soft with disappointment. Pleading. “Won’t you answer me even?”

  James couldn’t hold back the small, choked noise that escaped him then. It was only a little noise, in its way, but in the dark, in this strange little cocoon they’d made for themselves, it was naked and raw. It carried all his grief and anger and bewilderment and put them on painful show.

  Yes, he still cared for Iain. Still loved Iain. And Iain must know it.

  It was humiliating, to care so deeply for someone who did not reciprocate those feelings beyond friendship. For someone who could talk so casually of leaving England forever and never seeing James again, when that thought was enough to break James’s heart—again.

  “Jamie—”

  The darkness moved. The darkness that was Iain’s body shifted towards him on the narrow ledge. Iain braced his hands on either side of James’s head, one flat against the cold glass that James’s cheek was pressed up against, the other gripping the curving edge of wall. He was so close that his breath stirred James’s hair, and when James turned his head, his nose brushed Iain’s cheek.

  Now, they were eye to eye. Now James could see him. Iain’s eyes gleamed in the darkness, and the moon washed the planes of his face with its cold, gentle light.

  He watched James for long, unmoving moments.

  Didn’t Iain know what to say?

  “What?” James prompted, and still Iain didn’t speak, just stood there, so vibrantly alive. The glass of the window was cold against James’s left side, but all down his right flank, Iain was warm. For the first time in two long years, they were in contact again, careless of the rules of a world that said that men did not touch each other in such a way.

  “I want you to forgive me.”

  The words were carried out on a whisper. They touched James’s own lips.

  “Forgive you?” James repeated, puzzled. “For what? Rejecting me?” He shook his head minutely. “You don’t need to apologise for not wanting me, Iain.”

  Iain bent his head a little so their foreheads met. It had the effect of lowering his gaze, shielding him from James’s scrutiny when he said softly, “No, not for that. I did want you. For hurting you.”

  James closed his eyes, and for a little while, he just stood there, allowing himself the luxury of this rare physical contact, conscious that this might be the last time they would ever be so alone, so intimate. Finally, though, he had to open his eyes, had to go on. “All right,” he said wearily. “If you feel you need my forgiveness, you have it.”

  Iain sagged a little against him. “Really?” he breathed. He sounded surprised, as though he hadn’t expected to win the point so easily.

  James nodded. “I wouldn’t want you to leave England forever with a loose end trailing,” he said, trying and failing to inject a little humour into his tone. “This way, you can depart with a clear conscience, can’t you?”

  “I’m not sure you can grant me a clear conscience,” Iain said. “But if I can depart knowing I have your friendship again, I will be happier than I can say.”

  James frowned at that. “I—I don’t know about friendship, Iain. Forgiveness for the past is one thing, but—” Before he could complete the thought, the door rattled and swung open, and a crowd of people swarmed into the quiet of the library, all giggling and talking.

  “Mr. Sinclair!” one of the young ladies called out. “Mr. Hart! We’ve come to find you out, wherever you’re hiding!”

  “Come on, Mr. Potts!” another one said, giggling. “Put on the blindfold!”

  “Oh, really I don’t think... Wouldn’t it be more sensible for me to be the guide?” That was Potts, that unmistakably pompous self-important tone. “I am, after all, a guide of men in my role as a vicar.”

  A chorus of objections shouted that suggestion down.

  “You lost in the coin toss,” a firm male voice—Edward—said, cutting through the babble. “You’re the seeker. I’m the guide.”

  “Oh, but Sir Edward—”

  “Oh, just get on with it! You’ve only got three minutes—I’m going to turn the timer over in half a minute, whether or not you’ve got the blindfold on.” This last was Kate, all firm and no-nonsense.

  During these noisy exchanges, Iain and James remained nose to nose, sharing the same air as they breathed, neither of them daring to speak. The silence between them was fragile, the veil of darkness they wore a flimsy protection from the clamouring world just beyond the drapes.

  James wasn’t sure what made him do what he did next. Perhaps he was goaded into it by the thought of the world and its insatiable demands of proper behaviour, or perhaps it was Iain’s plea to return to the platonic safety of their childhood friendship.

  Or perhaps he just wanted it.

  Whatever the reason was, he lifted his chin and pressed his mouth against Iain’s, raising his right hand to curl his fingers round the back of Iain’s neck and pull him closer.

  For one frozen moment, Iain was all shock and resistance, but when James pulled him in closer and stroked his tongue over the firm seam of Iain’s lips, James felt a deep shudder rack the man’s body. And then Iain was pressing against him harder, lifting his hand from the window pane to thread his cold fingers into James’s hair, deepening the kiss further.

  I did want you.

  And God, his mouth. So smooth and pliable, the soft bristle of his moustache teasing the edge of James’s lips. And the scent of him, the headily familiar trace of neroli oil from his hair pomade. His heat, his strength as he pressed his long body against James’s, and every bit of him, everything that James had missed, all of it so welcome after these years of estrangement.

  James hadn’t been entirely chaste since they’d last seen one another, but his occasional encounters didn’t alleviate his basic loneliness one bit, merely slaked his lust from time to time. And right now, the reason for that was painfully clear—that his loneliness wasn’t caused by being alone, but by the absence of Iain, by the absence of the one person who knew him better, liked him better, than anyone else.

  It was a realisation that made his blood run cold. Made him tear his mouth from Iain’s and end their kiss, turning his face back to lean it against the window again, to stare out into the darkness, horrified by his own thoughts.

  Iain had never offered him more than friendship. The occasional letter.

  And it wasn’t enough.

  Beyond the curtains, the babbling voices of the crowd of seekers quietened down to some muffled giggling.

  “Walk forwards till you get to the desk,” Edward instructed. Shoes shuffled on the wooden floor and one of the young ladies giggled.

  Iain took hold of James’s chin between his thumb and forefinger and turned his face back so they were looking into each other’s eyes again. He stayed silent, but his eyes held a question that James could see, even in the darkness. James shook his head, trying to turn away again, but Iain wouldn’t let him. He looked puzzled and angry. He let go of James’s chin and pointed at James’s chest,
before jerking his thumb at himself, his movement seeming almost angry.

  You were the one who kissed me, he seemed to be saying.

  “Two minutes,” Kate announced beyond the curtains.

  The other guests began calling out suggestions while Edward tried to give Potts instructions. It sounded as though the vicar was getting confused. He managed to knock over what sounded like a whole shelf of books. They clattered noisily to the floor, causing Mr. Potts to let out a decidedly unmanly squeak and the young ladies to shriek with amusement.

  With twenty seconds to go, Kate began a countdown, and the rest of the guests joined in while Edward sent Potts to search behind the desk, just below them.

  “Where the hell can they be?” Edward exclaimed. “There’s not even any good hiding places in here!”

  “Four, three, two, one—time’s up!”

  “They can’t be in here!” Edward protested.

  “Come out, you two! You’ve won!” Kate sang out.

  Iain stared at James for an instant, then he pushed away from him and leaned forwards to wrench the curtains apart.

  “We’re here!” he announced, grinning merrily, and jumped down, leaving James stranded on the ledge.

  As soon as Iain was back on the ground, the young ladies surged forwards to meet him, all of them talking over each other.

  “Oh, that was so clever!”

  “How ever did you think of such a hiding place, Mr. Sinclair?”

  “What forfeit are you going to choose for Mr. Potts?”

  He let them swarm him, laughing as he answered their questions, as he teased them and flirted with them. He was putting on his usual show, the dashing, merry cavalry officer.

  No sign now of the man who had whispered, Forgive me. Of the man who’d kissed James with passion and desperation.

  No sign of the real Iain Sinclair at all.

  Chapter Eleven

  Then: 1821

  2nd June, 1821

  Wylde Manor, Derbyshire

  Iain had elected to ride all the way to Wylde Manor, sending his luggage ahead of him. As much as he’d enjoyed the ride—he was, after all, a cavalry officer, as at home in the saddle as on his own two feet—he was glad to finally arrive. Dusty, tired and saddle sore, he had already decided that the first thing he’d do would be to ask for a hot bath in which to soothe his aching muscles.

  Within two minutes of stepping inside the front door, however, when he was just about to express his wishes to James’s efficient housekeeper, a familiar voice distracted him from his determined course of action.

  “Iain, by God! You made it a day early. What luck!”

  Iain looked up to see the source of that voice, his friend, standing, smiling, at the top of the staircase, and his heart leapt with uncomplicated happiness, a grin spreading over his face as he watched James’s swift descent.

  “I rode like the very devil to get here today,” he admitted as James reached the bottom of the stairs and they strode towards each other, reaching out to clasp one another’s hands. “All to have an extra day and night here. I hope you are suitably grateful.”

  “Oh, I am,” James said brightly, “I am.” He kept hold of Iain’s right hand in his own and stepped in a little closer to clap his left hand to Iain’s shoulder, looking straight into his eyes. For a long moment, they said nothing, just looked at one another, grinning like fools.

  The self-conscious discomfort that had dogged their first few meetings following the disastrous night when James had tried to kiss him had long passed, thank God.

  “It’s been too long,” Iain said at last.

  “Far too long,” James agreed. “Ten months, is it? But God, it’s good to see you now. You’re looking well, old boy.”

  “As are you,” Iain replied, grinning. James was wearing what looked to be his oldest, most comfortable clothes, and his hair had grown too long—he’d tied it back at the nape of his neck with a black ribbon in an old-fashioned style. All in all, he was very far from the fashionable ideal of a gentleman. Yet somehow he looked perfect, effortlessly handsome with that bright, happy smile and his grey eyes shining with undisguised pleasure.

  “I look like a country yokel,” James said ruefully. “But I don’t mind. I’m quite happy in my baggy breeches.”

  “You do look a little yokel-ish,” Iain agreed, chuckling. His laughter was more of a spontaneous bubbling of happiness than an expression of mirth, and James seemed unperturbed by it. He chuckled too, his grey gaze moving over Iain’s face with a pleasure he took no pains to hide.

  “Christ, look at us,” he said at last. “Standing here like a pair of idiots. I was just about to walk out to Shipley Edge. Care to come with me?”

  And just like that, Iain forgot the bath he’d been dreaming of, forgot his aching thigh muscles and tense neck. “I’d love to,” he said promptly. “Can you spare me five minutes to change my clothes?”

  James chuckled. “Take a half hour if you like,” he said. “I don’t mind waiting for you.”

  “I won’t need more than a few minutes,” Iain assured him. “My luggage arrived this morning. Your housekeeper tells me it’s already been hung up for me.”

  With one last grin, he clapped James on the shoulder and dashed upstairs. He didn’t need a footman to guide him. Mrs. Morrison had already confirmed he was in the same room he’d been put in the last two times he’d come. The chamber was, as she had promised, all ready for him, his clothing hung up in the wardrobes, a fresh ewer of water sitting on the sideboard and a vase of purple irises on the small table next to the bed.

  Iain stripped off his dusty riding clothes and filled the basin with water, dampening a cloth and running it quickly over his face, neck and chest, under his arms and over his groin. And then he was dragging out fresh clothes and dressing at breakneck speed before rushing back downstairs.

  James was waiting for him in the hallway, scribbling in a notebook.

  “Ready?” Iain called out as he walked towards him, causing James to start and look up. His sudden helpless smile made Iain happy.

  “Absolutely,” James replied, closing the notebook. “Come on, let’s be on our way.”

  They fell into step together, heading for the front door again, nodding at the footman who opened it for them to pass through.

  “So what are you looking for today?” Iain asked, certain there would be something.

  “Anything of interest,” James said, tucking his notebook into the small leather satchel at his hip. “But most especially Ophrys apifera, more commonly known as the bee orchid.”

  “A bee orchid rather than a bee?”

  Iain’s voice was tinged with surprise—James’s particular interest was insects, not plants.

  “Yes, I’ve become rather interested in a particular group of plants which seek to draw insects to them by mimicking the anatomy of the animal in question. The bee orchid is one such plant.”

  “And where will we find it?”

  “Chalky ground,” James replied promptly. “Of which we have plenty round here. Well, four miles or so hence. Are you up to eight miles this afternoon?”

  “I think I can just about manage that,” Iain replied drily, faintly affronted by the question.

  James laughed. “Don’t be offended, it’s just that you’ve already had a long ride today. I thought you mightn’t be in the mood for more than a stroll.”

  “I’ll be fine,” Iain insisted. “Come on.” And with that, they started down the long drive that led to the manor gates.

  It was a beautiful afternoon, warm and sunny. A perfect afternoon for a walk. They strolled along country paths, enjoying the cool shade cast by the trees, and exchanging family news.

  Every now and then, they paused for James to examine a plant or take a sample of something to look at later. He had all sorts of little tools in his satchel—an eyeglass for observing the tiniest of details, a little cutting tool that was part blade, part scoop. Soft cloths for storing any specimens he took away wi
th him and, of course, his notebook, which he used not merely for notes but also for quick sketches, sometimes of a whole plant, other times just one part of it.

  After a couple of miles, they turned off the main path, climbing over a stile to access the narrower, steeper track that led to the top of Shipley Edge.

  “Come on,” James said as he jumped to the ground. “We’ve been dawdling a bit. Let’s pick up the pace.”

  Iain nodded and followed James over, easily matching his brisk pace. James thought nothing of walking fifteen, even twenty miles in a day, so eight miles was a mere stroll to him. As for Iain, he was equally used to strenuous exercise, albeit he tended to spend more time on horseback than on foot.

  “So, how goes army life?” James asked as they half walked, half clambered over a rocky section of the track. “I know you hated being posted in Manchester. You’ve sounded happier in your recent letters. Are you enjoying your vaunted new post, guarding the King?”

  “Better than Manchester,” Iain admitted. “Though in truth I’ve been growing a little bored lately. The King is not an easy man to be around.”

  “He seems to have taken to you.”

  “He has,” Iain replied, not bothering to hide his surprise. “I don’t know why, to tell you the truth. He is a rather strange fellow.”

  James just laughed at that. “It’ll be the same reason everyone likes you.”

  “Everyone doesn’t like me,” Iain said drily. “I can assure you of that.”

  “Most people do,” James said, and when Iain looked at him, raising his brows in exaggerated disbelief, he added, “They do. You’re blind if you think otherwise. I think it’s because you seem so merry all the time. Always so—oh!” He broke off suddenly. “Oh, do look! Birdsfoot trefoil!”

  He shrugged his bag off his shoulder and crouched down to take a closer look.