While Iain waited for James to finish with his newest discovery—a modest yellow flower of tiny proportions—Iain pondered the man’s words.
Although it was absurd to suggest he was universally liked, it was true that he tended to get along with most people, and he couldn’t deny that the King seemed to have formed a certain attachment to him. Over the last few months, Iain had gradually become an unofficial part of the King’s personal guard, and very recently his role had begun to morph again so that now he was more of a personal attendant—part of the King’s inner circle. It was a turn of events his army masters thoroughly approved of. They liked to know everything that was going on, and having a man so close to the King was extremely useful.
My dear young friend.
That was what the King called him.
In all honesty, though, it was a friendship that was beginning to weigh on Iain. The King was given to emotional outbursts and lengthy periods of wallowing over his hurt feelings. At such times, he liked to have his friends about him, to seek their counsel and give vent to his emotions. Repeatedly.
It was—boring.
Today, though, Iain could only be glad of his privileged position. It was, after all, entirely due to the King’s intervention that he was here at all. Technically, he was still on duty, but when he’d told the King about the dear friend who had invited him to visit and who he would not otherwise see for the second year in a row, his sentimental master had all but ordered him to be on his way.
I shall manage without you for a week or two, Captain, he’d said in a martyred tone. Go. Visit your friend with my blessing, and when you come back, you may accompany me to Brighton.
So, here Iain was, at Wylde Manor for two whole weeks. No duties or obligations. Just long, leisure-filled days. With James.
Heaven.
James straightened from his examination of the tiny flowers. “Such a pleasing little plant,” he said happily.
“You’ve not taken a sample,” Iain pointed out, gesturing at James’s empty hands.
“Gosh, no, I must’ve looked at hundreds of these in my time. They’re pretty common. I’m sure I’ve shown you them before. Don’t you remember?”
Iain shook his head. “I can’t say I do, but in fairness, you’ve probably shown me scores of little yellow flowers over the years.”
“It’s not just a little yellow flower!” James protested. He bent and picked one of the tiny blooms, then stood up again, stepping closer to Iain to show him. “Look at the shape of those petals.”
“It’s doesn’t look much a bird’s foot to me,” Iain said, considering the puffy curves of the little flower, neat as a lady’s slipper.
“‘Birdsfoot’ isn’t a reference to the flower,” James said. “It’s the seed pods.” He pointed at the plant again, and Iain saw what he was talking about, a star of five brownish seed pods that looked like nothing so much as a chicken’s foot. The pods even had little points on the ends, like claws.
“Oh yes,” he said, bending down for a closer look. When he glanced up at James again, he saw the man was smiling at him almost indulgently. “I never notice these things,” he said. “Except when you point them out to me.”
“That’s what I like best about being a naturalist,” James said. “I have all these little secrets that no one else knows about.” He gave a wry chuckle, then said, “Come on, let’s find this bee orchid. I’m sure there are some on the other side of the hill.”
They set off again, as briskly as before, but they got all the way over to the other side of Shipley Edge with no sign of any bee orchid. It was only when they were on their way back to the house, when they were just about to cut into the woods behind Wylde Manor, that James stopped in his tracks.
“There’s one!” he exclaimed, slipping the satchel from his shoulder and crouching down.
Iain squatted down beside him, curious.
The bee orchid was an odd little thing. Its pretty purple petals were like a set of fairy wings surrounding the central part of the flower that looked like nothing so much as a bee’s rear end, nuzzling in to collect nectar. Iain squinted and looked more closely, fascinated to see that what looked like the swollen abdomen of a good-sized bumblebee was in fact another petal, ingeniously rounded.
“How extraordinary!” he declared. “It looks like a real bee when you first look.”
“Yes,” James said, turning his head to look at him. He smiled delightedly, his whole face lighting up with the pleasure of discovery. “Isn’t it outrageous?”
Iain frowned. “I don’t understand, though,” he said. “Won’t it put the other bees off? Thinking there’s a bee in there already, getting the nectar?”
“Not at all—the idea is that male bees want to copulate with it!” James laughed.
Iain frowned even harder. “But hang on, you told me that worker bees don’t copulate or—”
“That’s honeybees,” James interrupted, shaking his head. “The sort of bee that this plant is trying to attract is solitary. Not the sort that make honey or live in colonies.”
“Oh. So the male bee comes along and tries to have his way with that petal—”
“Labellum,” James corrected. “That’s the proper botanical term.”
Iain rolled his eyes. “He tries to swive the labellum,” he continued, “and...what?”
“And he gets the pollen from the flower on his body and carries it away with him. And thus the orchid reproduces. That’s what’s supposed to happen anyway, if the right sort of bee is around.”
“That’s sneaky,” Iain said, grinning.
“Oh, nature is very sneaky,” James replied. “There are lots of plants and animals that mimic things. Some, like the bee orchid, seem designed to attract, others to repel—to put predators off eating them. Still others are concerned with blending in with their surroundings. It’s difficult to fathom how such seemingly perfect design came about in the humblest of living things—an insect, a wildflower, a little bird.” He smiled at Iain. “Of course, many would say that it’s all part of the good Lord’s grand design.”
“Don’t you think that?”
James was silent for a long beat. “No,” he said at last. “I think that’s too easy an answer. Though I do think there’s a reason for everything. That’s why I’m a scientist, I suppose. To try, in my small way, to contribute to the discovery of the great Why of it all.” He turned his attention back to the bee orchid and frowned thoughtfully.
After a minute, Iain said, “Well? Aren’t you going to dig it up?”
James worried at his lower lip with his teeth, a habit of his when he was undecided about something.
“I don’t like to dig up specimens when there aren’t many around,” he said. He dug into his satchel, drawing out his notebook. “I think I’ll draw it instead, if you don’t mind waiting.”
“Of course not,” Iain said. “I’m happy to lounge in the sun for a while.”
He settled himself on the grass while James rummaged in his satchel, stretching out and leaning back on his elbows, tipping his head back and closing his eyes. Relishing the warmth of the sun on his face. He felt like he’d spent more time indoors these last five months than in the five years previous. The King was not a lover of the outdoors.
While he basked, James sketched. At first James sat, cross-legged, his drawing book resting on his knees, but after a while, he adjusted his position to lie on the ground beside Iain, flat on his belly, his chin propped up on one hand, while he drew with the other.
At length, Iain sat up, leaning over to examine James’s work.
“Not bad,” he said, tilting his head to one side as he examined the drawing.
James screwed up his nose. “Not good enough, though.”
He’d told Iain years ago that he wasn’t a natural artist, but he’d worked hard with a drawing master to achieve a degree of competency, maintaining it was important for a scientist to be able to accurately sketch his specimens.
“It’s bett
er than I could do,” Iain pointed out.
“Well, that’s not saying much. You can barely draw a circle. There are infants who draw better than you.”
“How dare you!” Iain exclaimed, all mock outrage, shoving at James’s shoulder.
“Oi!” James protested as his pencil flew across the page, right through his careful sketch. “You bloody oaf!” he cried, but he was grinning.
Casting his notebook and pencil aside, he launched himself at Iain, using the element of surprise to knock him over before trying to wrestle him into submission.
Iain began laughing as James tried to pin him, and it was a laugh that came right from the pit of his belly, filling his whole body with mirth, an expression of the happiness that had been building in him all day.
“Submit, villain!” James cried.
These days, he was as tall as Iain, with shoulders that had broadened considerably over the last few years, and lean, wiry muscles. His grip was strong too, firm on Iain’s shoulder and hip. But he didn’t have Iain’s bulk—or his fighting skills—so when Iain finally overcame his mirth enough to fight back, it wasn’t long before he dislodged James, flipping him onto his back so hard that the wind rushed from him with a pained huff and he was gasping for air and laughing at the same time.
“Unfair!” James gasped when he could finally speak, the single word carried on a gurgle of pained hilarity.
“Submit,” Iain demanded softly, looming over him. “I have you fast. You’ll not escape.”
And then the oddest thing happened. One moment, they were in fits of laughter; the next...something between them shifted. James’s chuckles faded to a smile, and his grey gaze softened with affection. Iain’s breath caught in his throat to see the tenderness on James’s face. Worse, his cock, pressed hard against James’s thigh, stiffened. He felt sure James must feel his excitement and the sudden flush that crept over the other man’s cheeks seemed to confirm his fears. He watched, fascinated, as James’s oil-black pupils expanded, their darkness eating up the calm grey of the surrounding irises, and for an absurdly long moment, they just stared at one another. As much as he knew he ought to, Iain couldn’t look away. His friend’s dear, beloved face—all mirth melted away now—held all of Iain’s attention, and desire pulsed through his body, insistent as the pounding of his blood in his veins.
They were still gazing at one another when, with a whoosh, like a great sucking breath, a dozen or more birds rose out of the trees at the edge of the wood, making them startle and jump apart. A few seconds later, came the unmistakable sound of human voices.
They scrambled to their feet, dusting themselves down. James was just putting his drawing things back in his satchel when the walkers who had disturbed the birds emerged from the edge of the trees. Two ladies—more of the Harts’ guests, Iain guessed.
“Hello there,” James called out to them, waving. They greeted him with waves of their own and warm smiles.
“Good afternoon, ladies,” James said as they drew near. He executed a brief, clumsy bow—the man had never had much time for elegant manners.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Hart,” the older lady said, nodding at him in a friendly way and sending Iain a quick curious look. “Have you and your friend come out to enjoy the air as Agatha and I have?”
The younger lady said nothing, but she sent James a bashful look through her lashes that Iain noted James entirely missed.
“Yes, it’s far too lovely a day to stay inside,” James replied. He gestured in Iain’s direction, adding, “May I introduce my friend, Captain Sinclair? Would you believe he arrived only this afternoon, and despite having ridden all day, immediately agreed to walk out to Shipley Edge with me?”
“Without even so much as a cup of tea first?” the older lady asked with mock astonishment. “Oh, now that is heroic!”
Everyone laughed politely, and the introductions were duly made. The older lady was Mrs. Lamb, a friend of James’s mother. It transpired she knew Iain’s mother too and asked warmly after Mrs. Sinclair’s health. The younger lady was Mrs. Lamb’s niece by marriage, Miss Kirk. When James suggested they walk back through the woods together, the ladies happily agreed.
Iain quickly offered his arm to Mrs. Lamb—although he had something of a reputation as a hardened flirt, he always made sure to assiduously avoid the company of any marriageable young women who might be looking for a husband. It was only once they were on their way that he realised he’d made a mistake. His decision meant he had to spend the entire walk back watching James escort Miss Kirk, and by God, but the girl milked every second.
Iain scowled as James guided her over the uneven path, noting sourly that she leaned far more heavily on his arm than was remotely necessary. When they crossed the stile at the tree line, she actually asked James to lift her down from the wooden step despite the fact she must’ve climbed over without any assistance only a few minutes earlier. It was all Iain could do not to roll his eyes at Mrs. Lamb, who, despite being at least three decades older than her niece, was able to hop down perfectly well, declining Iain’s offer of assistance with a chuckle.
Iain found himself deciding that the Kirk girl was an irritating chit. He hated the soft, breathless way she spoke, leaning close to James’s ear every time she had something to say to him. And her silly helplessness was plainly put on. At the very same time that she was stumbling her way over a few exposed roots, hanging on to James as though for dear life, her aunt was informing Iain that the girl was a bruising rider who thought nothing of racing her mare, Artemis, along the long Northumbrian beaches at a breakneck gallop.
At last they were back at the house. As soon as they were inside, Mrs. Lamb indicated that she and Miss Kirk ought to have a lie down before dinner, oblivious to her niece’s annoyance at that announcement. That left Iain and James alone in the hallway again, back where they’d been stood just a few hours earlier.
“A lie down,” Iain said scornfully, once the ladies were safely out of earshot. When James laughed softly, he added, “That girl was hanging on your arm so hard, I thought she was going to pull it out of its socket.”
“Don’t be unkind,” James chided him. “She’s really very nice.”
“My sisters don’t behave like that,” Iain replied churlishly. “Nor do yours.”
James just shrugged. “Anyway,” he said, “if there’s one person who really ought to have a lie down before dinner, it’s you. You’ll be falling asleep by eight o’clock at this rate.”
“You’re probably right,” Iain admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. His shoulders and thighs ached from the long ride. “Perhaps a short nap before dinner.”
James smiled at him, his expression wistful. “I wish I could join you,” he said.
For a moment, Iain couldn’t look away, struck dumb as a rush of mental images flooded his mind: James walking towards Iain as he lay in bed, loosening his cravat as he drew near. James lying down on him, his cock as hard against Iain’s thigh, as Iain’s had been earlier. James’s soft grey gaze on Iain’s face, his breath ghosting over Iain’s lips as he drew close...
“What did you say?” Iain said faintly, and was that his voice? He sounded stupid. Dazed.
“I wish I could have a nap too,” James said. His tone was prosaic. Apparently, he was unaware of the wave of desire that had just swamped Iain. “A little snooze would be just the thing right now, but I really ought to write my notes about the bee orchid while they’re still fresh in my mind, and I promised Mama I’d be in the drawing room early tonight, to entertain the ladies before dinner.”
Ah.
Iain cleared his throat and smiled tightly. “I see. Well, I’ll leave you to your duties then,” he said, adding after a pause, “Sorry I ruined your drawing earlier, old man.”
A stupid thing to say. It only reminded him yet again of that all too brief tussle in the grass, and his painfully hard cock pressing insistently against James’s thigh. Iain’s cheeks warmed at the memory—Jesus Christ, was he blushing?
If he was, James hadn’t noticed. “That’s all right,” the man said easily. “It wasn’t nearly good enough anyway. Besides, Miss Kirk’s agreed to come out and sketch it for me tomorrow. She’s an excellent artist, apparently.”
The urge to sneer at that was near overwhelming, but by some miracle, Iain managed to resist, instead saying something about Miss Kirk’s artistic abilities being a happy coincidence before heading for the stairs to return to his chamber for his long-awaited nap, James’s wish that he experience “sweet dreams” ringing in his ears.
He didn’t have any dreams, though, sweet or otherwise. Instead, he spent the next two hours staring at the ceiling, reliving those minutes in the grass earlier, over and over, wondering if he’d imagined James’s response to him.
Chapter Twelve
5th June, 1821
Wylde Manor, Derbyshire
When James walked into the breakfast room early on Tuesday morning, it was to find Iain sitting at the table alone, drinking coffee and staring unseeingly at the Times.
”Good morning,” he said cheerfully. “You managed to get up, then?”
Iain sent him a pained look. “It’s far too early. I’m meant to be having a restful country break, didn’t you know?” He gulped down the rest of his coffee, then poured himself another cup, yawning.
James chuckled and wandered over to the sideboard, which was groaning with food, to fill a plate.
“At least we’ll be able to escape on our own for a few hours this way,” he said as he served himself some kedgeree.
Somehow, Agatha Kirk had learned that it was James’s habit to breakfast at the unusually early hour of eight in the morning, and ever since, she’d been appearing for the breakfast every morning at the same hour. Worse, she invariably invited herself along to whatever James was planning to do that day. It was putting a complete damper on Iain’s long-awaited visit. In desperation, James had cornered Iain while Agatha was showing off her pianoforte skills the previous evening and asked him to meet James for breakfast at the even earlier hour of seven this morning.
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