Unnatural

by Joanna Chambers

  Not like James. Oblivious James, who was still looking at Iain with that warm, happy expression.

  Who was still to so much as glance at Miss Kirk.

  “Would you be kind enough to help me dismount, Mr. Hart?” she said. She was using her helpless voice again, and it took real effort for Iain to control the urge to sneer, sour antipathy filling his belly.

  James glanced at her then, finally. “Oh, Miss Kirk. Of course.” He stepped forward and lifted his arms to her.

  Absurdly, Iain found he couldn’t watch. Instead, he busied himself with dismounting from Hector, then leading the horse away to check its legs and speak with the groom who approached to take over the animal’s care. All this he did while determinedly ignoring the polite conversation between James and Miss Kirk, though her soft, delighted laughter grated on his nerves.

  When Iain was done with the groom, he left the stables and began striding up the gravel path to the house. He felt ready to fly apart. Now that he was finally alone, the events of earlier were playing over and over in his mind—that first tentative kiss from James and how quickly Iain had succumbed to it, the passion that had flared between them, a passion Iain had long feared—rightly, it seemed. He’d never known anything like that sort of immersion in another person. It had overtaken him completely at the swimming hole, consuming him utterly. What if the others had arrived a few minutes earlier? Would Iain even have heard their approach? He doubted it. There had been a real danger of both him and James being exposed today, and the fear that realisation sparked in him near hollowed him out.

  He had almost reached the house when he heard James calling to him.

  “Iain—wait!”

  Damn.

  He stopped in his tracks and turned. The other man was jogging towards him, grinning, though his grin faded as he drew nearer, his expression growing wary at whatever he saw on Iain’s face.

  Iain hated himself a little for being the cause of that, even as everything in him knew that he had to start squashing James’s dangerously obvious happiness.

  “What do you want?” he said shortly as James finally halted in front of him.

  James frowned. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. I just want to know what you want.” He sounded abrupt and annoyed. Cold.

  James straightened slowly, his gaze tracking over Iain’s face. At last he said, “This afternoon. You probably know I’ve wanted that to happen for a very long time.”

  Iain closed his eyes. “James—”

  “No, let me speak,” James interrupted, and Iain looked at him again, reluctant to hear what the man had to say even as he knew he had to let him say it.

  “It’s not just that I wanted what happened to happen,” he said. He swallowed hard then plunged on, “It’s that I want what we already have—this thing that’s been building between us—to be more than friendship.” He stopped then, and smiled tentatively, reaching out to touch Iain’s arm.

  Iain couldn’t help it—he shook James’s hand off and took a step back. “Don’t touch me.”

  James paled, and Iain felt like he’d just stuck a knife in him. But he made himself press on anyway, hack the whole limb off.

  “Why do you think I never go with the same man twice, Jamie?” His voice was harsh, unfamiliar even to his own ears.

  James just stared at him dumbly.

  “It’s because doing otherwise is dangerous,” Iain bit out. “If you start something like this up with a friend—can you imagine how easy it would be to give yourself away? The hundred ways that can happen, with a look, a touch?”

  “We’ll be discreet,” James blurted. “We’ll hardly be the first men to have to hide our feelings in public.”

  Iain huffed out an astonished laugh. “Well, you certainly weren’t discreet earlier today!”

  “What do you mean? I’ve done nothing that would attract attention!”

  “Yes, you did,” Iain condemned. “Earlier in the woods, you acted like a guilty schoolboy, not like a man who’d merely been swimming.”

  “For God’s sake, Iain! I was embarrassed at being caught naked and worried about one of the ladies seeing me—anyone would have acted the same!”

  “Would anyone have openly stared at me in the stables like a lovesick puppy? And in front of Agatha Kirk, no less? I swear that girl suspects something...” He turned his head, casting a glance down the gravel drive to check there were no observers to their argument. They probably looked like they were having a lover’s tiff.

  There was no sign of anyone, but Iain stepped back from James nonetheless, putting a little more distance between them. He saw James notice, hating the hurt expression in his eyes.

  “All right,” James said slowly, his gaze very steady. “I think you’re being a little excessive, Iain, but I can appreciate why you’re concerned. I can be more careful, more discreet. But please, just give this a chance before you—”

  “No.” Iain shook his head to emphasise the firmness of his resolve. “No, Jamie, we’re not going to repeat what just happened. You’re my friend, and I will always”—he broke off before making himself go on honestly—“I will always have a deep regard for you. But I can’t give you what you’re asking for. It’s too risky for you.”

  James stepped forward, moving into the space Iain had so painstakingly created between them.

  “Too risky for me?” he exclaimed. “Don’t pretend this is anything to do with me. You are the one who is afraid here, not me! You, the big, brave cavalry officer!” He made a sound of disgust.

  “Less than a minute ago, you were assuring me you could be careful,” Iain said tautly. “Well, look at yourself now, Jamie. If anyone came upon us now, they would wonder what on earth you’re in such a passion about. And this is exactly my point. This is why it’s so dangerous to mix up physical desire with real emotions.”

  James opened his mouth to reply, then closed it again. He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing visibly in his throat, and attempted a wobbly smile.

  “Listen to me. This is the wrong place for this discussion,” he said. “Let’s go back to the house. We can talk privately there.”

  Iain shook his head. “There’s nothing more to talk about.”

  “How can you say that?” James whispered.

  Iain stared at him for what felt like the longest moment of his life. James’s grey eyes were wide and pleading, and that dark blond hair that Iain’s fingers had been buried in such a short time ago was tumbling over his brow into his eyes. Old gold. He wanted to reach up and brush the stray strands back. Wanted to pull James into his arms and chase away that injured look.

  He wanted things that it was unwise to want.

  “I think I’d better go back to London,” he said at last, wearily.

  James looked stricken. “What?”

  “First thing tomorrow.”

  “But you only just got here.”

  “I know, but I can’t stay now. It’s best for both of us that I go. You must see that, Jamie.”

  “No, I don’t see that. Not at all. I see that you want to avoid talking with me in private. That you—”

  Iain interrupted angrily, throwing up his hands. “Why is everything so difficult with you? You are always pushing. Always wanting things from me that I simply cannot give!”

  “I have never asked you—”

  “Yes, you have!”

  Suddenly Iain realised that he was the one shouting now, and that he was breathing heavily with temper and frustration, his blood up. He stared at James’s mouth and was appalled to discover he wanted nothing so much as to crush his own against it. He closed his eyes, forcing himself to calm.

  When he opened them again, he said flatly, “You asked this afternoon when you decided to kiss me.”

  James’s expression was disbelieving. “You kissed me back,” he pointed out. “In fact, let’s be very clear. You kissed me back, and then you turned me over and lay on top of me and took control of what we were doing. Jesus Chris
t, Iain, don’t pretend you didn’t choose what happened between us! For pity’s sake, have some pride, man.”

  A hard flush warmed Iain’s cheeks at that reminder. “I didn’t mean to suggest it was all you,” he said. “Of course, I take responsibility for my part in it. I don’t blame you for what happened—”

  “Blame me?” James said incredulously

  James looked so shocked, Iain wondered if he’d misheard what Iain had said.

  “I just said I don’t blame you.”

  James still didn’t say anything, but he looked stricken.

  “Jamie,” Iain said firmly, fixing the man with a steady look. “Listen to me, I don’t blame you. It was as much my fault as yours. No, more so, in fact. I was the one who...” He trailed off as he saw that his words weren’t helping at all. “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s not only that you don’t want to do this again, is it?” James whispered. “You regret what we just did. You’re already wishing it hadn’t happened.”

  “I—”

  And right then, Iain was lost for words.

  Did he regret it?

  The afternoon’s events flooded his memory, each sensation bright and vivid. The scent of the cool, crushed grass beneath them, the uneven warmth of the dappled sunlight on their bodies. The feel of James in his arms, his skin smooth beneath Iain’s hands, his lean body tensing with passion and need. The slick pulse of his spend as he finally came. The soft, happy look in his grey eyes afterwards.

  “No, I don’t regret it,” Iain whispered. But James didn’t hear him. He’d turned on his heel and begun to walk away several moments before. When Iain made his soft, inaudible confession, it was to the man’s retreating back.

  James’s gait was swift and angry as he strode down the drive, his shoulders stiff with injured pride.

  Best let him hold on to that anger, Iain thought. It would be a better bedfellow than heartache.

  And hopefully in a few months, when James—when both of them—had calmed down after today’s events, they could be friends once again.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Now: 1824

  28th May, 1824

  Holmewell, Hampshire

  The morning after that game of Hide and Guide and Seek, Iain wakened early—or rather, gave up at last on trying to sleep.

  He’d lain, wakeful all night, thinking of those dark minutes behind the curtains in the library with James. Of their kiss. He’d touched his own mouth as he lay in bed in the darkness, trying to summon up a better memory of the press of James’s lips and the sweet sweep of his tongue, but the physical sensation had been translated in his memory into something more elusive and ephemeral—something that could stir but never satisfy.

  Better to chase that memory, though, than to allow himself to dwell on the others. Like the wary reserve on James’s face, an expression Iain hadn’t seen before, and one that he wished he could banish forever. James’s nature was to be direct and open—it was Iain who had taught him to be distrustful and careful. Before he left Holmewell, he wanted to do something to repair what he’d done. He just wasn’t sure what. Before he’d come, he’d hoped that an apology, a heartfelt one in which he took all blame upon himself, would be enough to restore things to how they’d been before. But now he realised that wasn’t going to be nearly enough.

  Last night, James had, with typical generosity, accepted his apology, granting him forgiveness without hesitation. Yet nothing had changed, not really. Not when James remained unwilling to restore their friendship, and Iain’s apology had done nothing to erase the sadness from his eyes.

  Plainly, Iain had expected too much. It stood to reason that it would take time for James to trust him again, but in a matter of weeks, he would be on his way to India, and God only knew how long it would be before he returned to England.

  Well, all he could do was try again. Kate had planned a picnic down at the river this afternoon, with games for the children. It would be just like when they were boys. And perhaps—just like in those old days—they could sneak off together for a while.

  With renewed determination, he got out of bed, ringing for hot water. Within half an hour, he’d shaved and dressed and was on his way to the breakfast room. His plan was a simple one—to find James and shadow him for the rest of the day, whatever he might be doing.

  The breakfast room was empty when he entered. The footman informed him that he was the first of the guests to rise, which surely meant that if he waited long enough, James would eventually appear. With that heartening thought, he helped himself to some coddled eggs and ham and sat himself down at the table.

  The next guest to arrive for breakfast, annoyingly, was Mr. Potts.

  “Good morning, Mr. Sinclair,” the vicar said, smiling in a way that managed to suggest smug superiority and oily ingratiation at the same time.

  Iain nodded in response. “Morning, Potts. You’re up early.”

  “Yes,” Potts agreed as he filled his plate. “Mr. Hart and I are going on a little expedition.”

  “Mr. Hart?”

  Had James willingly agreed to spend time with the pompous vicar?

  “Didn’t he mention it to you?” Potts replied, taking a seat across from Iain. “I assumed he might have done, since the two of you seem to be such particular friends.”

  Iain sent the vicar a quick glance, wondering what he meant by that. He knew Potts had been put out the afternoon before at having his conversation with James interrupted by Iain’s arrival. Was it merely that still?

  “No,” Iain said carefully. “He didn’t mention any expedition. Isn’t there to be a picnic today?” He looked away as Potts cut a kidney in half. He’d never been able to abide offal at breakfast.

  “I understand the picnic’s this afternoon,” Potts said as he buttered some bread. “Mr. Hart was telling me after dinner yesterday evening that he planned to spend this morning looking for a particular species of butterfly. Apparently, if we walk up the hill, there’s a place in the woods just beyond, where there’s a good chance of seeing it. Since I’m something of a naturalist myself—though more of a botanist, in truth—I told him I’d be delighted to join him for the morning.”

  So, Potts had invited himself along—well, two could play at that game.

  Iain forced himself to smile. “Butterflies, eh? Sounds fascinating. Do you know, I think I’ll come along too. It’s not as though I’ve got anything else to do.” When the vicar opened his mouth to protest, Iain quickly added, “After all, it’s not often a layman like myself gets the opportunity to join two learned gentlemen on a scientific expedition.”

  Potts closed his mouth but still frowned. Pleased by the flattery, Iain guessed, but still unhappy at the thought of Iain joining the outing. After a while, he said uncertainly, “I don’t mind, but I’m not sure that Mr. Hart will be agreeable.”

  “What wouldn’t Mr. Hart be agreeable to?” another voice asked from the doorway.

  James.

  Iain looked up from his breakfast and smiled at his friend, but James’s gaze was fixed on Potts, eyebrows raised in question.

  The vicar opened his mouth to speak, but Iain got in first. “Mr. Potts is wondering how to tell you that I’ve just shamelessly invited myself on your butterfly expedition. He didn’t want to say yes without your agreement, but you would not forbid me to come, would you, James?”

  James’s cheeks pinkened at Iain’s use of his first name. Iain usually called him Hart in front of others, reserving James, and especially Jamie, for when they were alone. This casual use of his Christian name in front of Potts made plain to the vicar that Iain considered James a particularly close friend. No one would be surprised by such familiarity given how long they’d known one another, of course, but before now, Iain had always been careful to avoid the intimacy in public.

  Now he wondered why he had been so absurdly strict about such a silly thing. It felt good to use James’s given name. He found he wanted to say it again, to use the blatant privilege over a
nd over, as if he was making a claim.

  “Well?” he said, grinning at James, putting him firmly on the spot and feeling reasonably safe that the man would be too polite to refuse such a modest request from an invited guest of his sister’s. “May I come? I’m not as knowledgeable as either of you, it’s true, but I promise not to interrupt when you start talking about clever stuff.”

  James’s blush faded. He looked irritated now, those beautifully carved lips pressed together in a firm line. “Of course you may come, Sinclair,” he said at last, his use of Iain’s surname very deliberate, Iain was sure. He strolled over to the sideboard to investigate the contents of the various silver dishes lined up there, adding over his shoulder, without looking round, “I’m hardly going to refuse to allow you to join us purely because of your admittedly profound ignorance.”

  Iain couldn’t help but laugh at that, tickled by the man’s cheek, despite recognising James’s irritation was very real. He turned in his chair to watch James fill his plate. “What kind of butterfly are we looking for?” he asked.

  “Gonepteryx rhamni,” James said absently. “The common brimstone.”

  “What does it look like?”

  “The common brimstone is not one of the Lord’s more beautiful creations,” Potts interjected. Iain jerked his head round to look at the man. He’d all but forgotten Potts was there.

  “With its wings closed,” Potts continued, “it looks like nothing so much as an old leaf.”

  James joined them at the table, smiling briefly at the footman who arrived at his elbow with the coffeepot. “I think it’s beautiful,” he disagreed. “It’s no peacock butterfly, true, but the accuracy of the mimicry—it’s extraordinary. The shape and hue of the wings, the veins, and those little brown spots and edges. It’s perfectly realised, Mr. Potts. You must agree.”

  “I don’t doubt the accuracy of its mimicry,” Potts conceded, raising another greyish slice of kidney to his lips.