And of course, Iain had studied James back. The face he looked at now was as familiar to Iain as the one he looked at in the mirror each morning—more so, for he knew James’s fleeting expressions better than he could ever hope to know his own. In profile, James’s face was lovely to him. Straight nose, determined chin. Fine, dark blond brows. James’s upper lip protruded just a little as his front teeth bit softly into his lower lip—a sign that the man was concentrating. Iain smiled helplessly. He wanted to raise his hand and smooth it over James’s old-gold hair, trace his thumb over the edge of James’s small, neat ear. Lean forward and kiss...
James seemed to sense his attention then, but instead of turning, he slowly stretched out one arm to point. “Look,” he whispered. So Iain did.
It took him a little while, but then he saw it, only two feet away. It looked like a leaf hanging from the edge of a clump of bluebell heads. Until it opened its wings and flapped off, flitting around for a little while before landing again on another flower. He saw then that there were several of them. They were feeding in a determined way, flitting from flower to flower, collecting nectar.
Iain wanted to ask his usual stupid questions, but he could see that James wanted to watch quietly, so he held his peace, contenting himself with observing, dividing his time between the butterflies and James, letting himself have the simple pleasure of sitting in harmony with his friend.
They really were extraordinary little creatures. It wasn’t just that their wings were leaf-green, they even carried a pattern of distinct veins and had points at each corner tip just like the point of a leaf. They were spotted and edged with subtle marks of brown, as though to mimic rot, and when they hung from a flower to feed, they looked just like a stray leaf caught up by a stirring breeze.
For a long time, Iain and James sat there, silent and still. The only sound either of them made was the occasional notation James scratched into his notebook. Iain didn’t mind sitting quietly. If there was one thing the army had taught him, it was endless patience—soldiers were forever waiting around. And just having James at his side felt like a kind of reward, something to absorb and enjoy. Something to remember.
Eventually, James shifted and glanced at Iain. “Shall we walk a bit more?” he asked. “I think there might be some alder buckthorns further along—that’s where they tend to lay their eggs.”
“I’d like to see that,” Iain agreed, rising. During their period of silent observation, his clamouring mind had quieted and now he felt oddly content, more at peace than he had in ages. Perhaps it was being in the wood, surrounded by nature, but Iain felt oddly sure that it was being with James.
“The butterflies were feeding,” he observed as they strolled.
“Yes, they feed a lot at this time of year. They’re not long out of hibernation.”
“They hibernate? How do they manage that when the leaves have fallen from the trees?” Iain asked. “Where do they hide?”
“They hibernate in evergreens,” James said. “Somewhere they can burrow into and sleep undisturbed. Ah, look, here are a few buckthorns.” He stopped in front of what looked like an indeterminate wall of greenery. How James could tell these were buckthorn bushes rather than some other kind of shrub, Iain didn’t know.
“This is where they like to lay their eggs,” James continued, squatting down to peer at the underside of the dense clumps of leaves. “When the caterpillars emerge, they eat the buckthorn and pupate here. Ah, here we are. Come and see this.”
He beckoned to Iain, who obediently dropped to his haunches to look. The eggs were more obvious than he expected, hanging from the underside of the leaves like milky tears, just three of them and well spaced out.
“There aren’t many,” he pointed out.
“Yes, and they might not even have been laid by the same female,” James said. “The brimstones tend to lay only one egg at a time.” He rose gracefully to his feet and said, “Let’s see if we can find any pupae.”
He checked over the clump of shrubs thoroughly but ultimately shook his head. “There’s none here that I can see, but there are more buckthorns further along. Come on.”
They checked several more shrubs before James finally found what he was looking for.
“That’s a pupa?” Iain exclaimed, leaning closer. It looked exactly like a brand-new, tightly furled leaf, readying itself to stretch open.
“Isn’t it lovely?” James murmured, his gaze rapt. “As the pupa matures, a spot will appear here.” He pointed to the side of the green casing. “It’s the same spot you see on their wings when they emerge. This is a very early pupa, though.”
“They’re always hiding,” Iain observed.
“Yes, through the whole life cycle,” James agreed.
“I bet they sometimes wish they could just stop,” Iain mused. “It’s tiresome, always having to be careful.”
James glanced at him sharply, but Iain kept his gaze fixed ahead, though James’s gaze upon him was so heavy, he could feel it like a physical touch.
After a while, James said softly, “Life is not safe. Hiding means survival for them. And that’s the business of all living things, isn’t it? Surviving, I mean.” He paused. “Potts thinks these creatures are here to satisfy the whims of his God. I don’t agree. I think they’re here because of their own burning need to live.” He glanced at Iain and smiled. “Science will explain it all, one day.”
“I don’t think Potts would like the sound of that,” Iain replied. “He prefers to look for the answers in his own Book.”
“Yes,” James agreed. “But he only has one book to look in, and it never changes, so I doubt he’ll find any new answers there.” He turned and began to walk away, calling over his shoulder, “Let’s start walking to the river. The picnic will be starting soon.”
Iain started after him, and they began to walk back towards the main path.
“So, how long till you leave England?” James asked when they’d been walking a few minutes.
“I’m due to sail in two months’ time.”
“How long is the passage?”
“I hope not much longer than four months, but it could be five, or even six.”
James was silent for a little while, then he said quietly, “That’s a long time to be at sea.”
“Yes.” Iain sighed. “And I’m not what you’d call a keen sailor.”
“You don’t like it?”
“Not much. I tend to get quite seasick. I’m hoping I’ll get used to the motion, though, what with the journey lasting so long.”
“I don’t get seasick,” James said, “but when I’m out there—truly at sea, I mean, with no land in sight—well, I don’t like that much, I must say. Though I’m glad I’ve experienced it.”
Iain recognised the feeling James described only too well. The great, vast loneliness of being at sea, cast out onto the ocean with nothing to protect you but the boards of the ship beneath your feet and a few scraps of cloth to catch the wind.
“What is it that you’re glad to have experienced?” Iain asked, curious.
James’s didn’t look at him. His gaze was fixed ahead. The expression on his face—what Iain could see of it in profile—was dreamy, a little unfocused. As though he was looking inward.
“Most of the time, you go through life without realising how small and unimportant you are,” he said. “Without seeing what a tiny fragment of all life on earth and in all history you represent. How fragile your human body is, how easily broken it is.” He did look at Iain then. “I sailed to Ireland a few years ago. It was a terrible crossing. There was a storm, and we were badly tossed about. I thought we were all going to die—though when I told the captain afterwards, he seemed to think that was terribly funny.” James gave a rueful smile at that before going on. “I went onto the deck for a while during the storm, and the waves were huge. When I looked out over the ocean, all I could see was water, stretching forever in every direction. I remember I looked up and saw a kittiwake flying high abov
e us, and I imagined what we must look like to it from up there. What a tiny, fragile little basket of sticks I’d entrusted my safety to. It was terrifying.”
“And you were glad to have experienced this?” Iain said, raising an eyebrow.
James laughed softly. “Yes, it was strangely liberating. Oh, there was a sort of sadness, I suppose, in comprehending the fragility of life, but at that instant, I understood in a way I never had before how precious my small life was. That if I didn’t make the most of it, that if I didn’t choose to do the things that excited me, took the...comforts that I needed, then I would simply—never have those things. Would die without having lived.” He smiled, a little sadly. “That was when I decided once and for all never to marry. As soon as I got home, I told Mother. Did I ever mention that to you before?”
“You told me you’d decided it,” Iain said. “But not the reason why. How did you tell her?”
“She was going on about some young lady she wanted to introduce me to, and I found myself saying it—that I couldn’t consider marriage to any woman, that I had no inclination or wish for such a thing.” He shrugged. “As you’d imagine, she was upset, but she’s come to realise I’m not going to change my mind.” He paused, then added pensively, “Sometimes I think she knows about my...preferences, though we’ve never discussed them, obviously.”
Not like Iain and his father, then.
“Once a sod, always a sod.”
Just then, there was a low, threatening rumble overhead. They both looked up at the ominous sky.
“Looks like the rain might be coming after all,” Iain said.
Even as he said it, the sky was darkening, black clouds rolling quickly in. Another rumble of thunder, and the first drops of rain came, spattering against the leaf canopy above.
“I think this is going to be a downpour,” James said. “We should shelter. Come on, there’s a place near here.”
He turned around, leading Iain back the way they’d just come, except instead of taking the path that led to the bluebell glade, he selected another, less obvious path that snaked left. This path was so overgrown, it was almost unnoticeable, and it twisted and turned its way to a clearing that was even more surprising than the one filled with bluebells, because this one had a cottage in it. It was small and painted white, and it had a neatly thatched roof. Iain didn’t bother asking who lived here—the cottage was too pretty and well kept, and these woods too private, for it to be anything other than a rich man’s folly.
The rain was driving down heavily now. Iain sheltered under the lintel of the front door while James dashed round the back of the cottage, returning half a minute later with a key held triumphantly aloft. “Kate showed me where this was the last time I was here,” he said as he fitted it into the lock and opened the door.
“Mind your head,” he warned, ducking his own as he walked into the cottage ahead of Iain.
It was pretty inside too. A wealthy man’s idea of a simple life—everything plain yet deeply comfortable. The wingback chairs on either side of the fireplace suggested companionable evenings in front of the fire, and Iain could imagine a pair of lovers sharing a tasty meal at the small sturdy oak table by the window where he and James set down their wet hats.
It looked as though there was another chamber off this main room. Curious, Iain crossed the floor—half a dozen paces did the job—and opened the door, halting in the doorway at the sight of the surprisingly sumptuous bed, draped in blue silk, that dominated the tiny bedchamber.
“Kate told me Edward’s father had a lover,” James said behind him. “This cottage was their place. Kate said no one knew who she was.”
“Perhaps ‘she’ was a ‘he’,” Iain murmured. “Perhaps that’s why he was so discreet.”
“I wondered about that,” James admitted. After a brief silence, he added, “Just last night, Mrs. Potts was telling me that Edward’s mother spent all her time in London while his father stayed at Holmewell. She suggested that Mama Porter was off having affaires with half of London while Papa Porter was virtuously celibate here. I wondered if she knew about this place.”
Iain glanced over his shoulder. “Mama Porter or Mrs. Potts?”
“Both.” James smiled. “Either.”
Iain turned back to look at the blue expanse of that big empty bed. “It’s possible they had an agreement,” he said. “Many married couples are pragmatic like that.” For some reason, James’s words from before came back to him.
“If I didn’t choose to do the things that excited me, took the...comforts that I needed, then I would simply—never have those things. Would die without having lived.”
Edward’s father had come here to be with his lover. Male or female, who knew, but Iain fancied from everything he saw around him that it was someone the man had loved. Someone with whom he had taken pains to make a cocoon from the world. Safe and hidden.
The sudden, salty lump in his throat surprised him. He swallowed hard against the obstruction, staring at the bed, intensely aware of James standing at his shoulder, of James’s gaze upon him.
Right then, a bolt of longing hit him, deep in his gut, as sudden as the lump in his throat and equally unwanted.
He’d told himself he’d come to Holmewell to make things right with James. To make peace with him. Perhaps to try to snap that invisible thread between them.
Yet now he felt things were messier than ever, and as though it wasn’t one thread that connected them but a thousand, and all of them tangled up and knotted.
An apology wasn’t enough to sever those threads. All the forgiveness in the world wouldn’t do it. Only a blade, a sharp one, to slice through it all in one clean sweep. Or...
...was it possible?
Iain felt as though the storm that raged outside, lashing the little windows of the cottage with pitiless rain, raged inside him too, churning in him, making him dizzy with purpose. Should he slice himself free of the thread that bound him to James or...
Was it possible?
There were so many risks, so many ways to be found out. Worse than death to be publicly dishonoured—that was what he’d always thought—and it was right, wasn’t it? It wasn’t just himself he had to consider, after all. He had his family to think of too. People who trusted him to uphold the family honour. He couldn’t betray that. Bad enough that he’d left the army. The least he could do was go to India and make an attempt at serving his country in some other way.
Christ.
He whirled round in the doorway, catching sight of James’s startled expression as he stepped forward, seizing James’s upper arms and shoving him up against the wall.
“I can’t do this,” he managed, the words coming as hard as if they were being torn out of him, torn from his own flesh. “I can’t have you, and I can’t not have you.” He groaned, letting his head fall forward, forehead knocking hard against the wall beside James. “I can’t love you.”
He felt James’s body stiffening under his hands. “You don’t love me,” James said sharply.
“But I do,” Iain whispered. “And it’s killing me, Jamie.”
There was a moment of profound silence before James said, “No.” He began shaking his head from side to side. “No,” he said again. “This is what you love.” Crudely, he reached forward, rubbing his palm over Iain’s half-hard cock, making it thicken, and him hiss in a breath. “And no sooner have you had it than you want to be set free with good grace. For me not to hold you to anything after.” James pressed his hand there again as if to emphasise the point, sliding it up and down, making Iain buck helplessly against him.
“James, please, I—”
But James cut him off ruthlessly, lifting a hand to the back of Iain’s neck to jerk their mouths together in a hot, savage kiss.
His tongue was sinuous and sleek and seeking, his lean body hard and unyielding, giving no quarter. The fierce desire his kiss provoked in Iain was almost unbearable. Iain hadn’t wanted this, but he needed it, needed it like a drownin
g man needs air. His hands went to James’s hips, dragging him closer as he groaned into the man’s mouth, opening himself to James’s devouring kiss, only to stagger back when James pushed his hands between them and thrust Iain violently away.
For an instant, James just stood there, chest heaving, expression shocked and angry, then he said, almost brokenly, “Why are you doing this to me, Iain? Will you not be satisfied until you have destroyed me?”
Iain felt winded, as though he’d taken a solid punch to the gut. At first, he could do nothing but stare at James, reaching for him only when James began to turn away. “Jamie, please, how can you think that I’d want to destr—”
But James just pushed past him, grabbing his hat from the table as he made for the front door of the cottage and hauled it open. Outside, the rain came down in sheets and the thunder rolled again, heavy and ominous.
“Jamie, please,” Iain said again, grabbing for him, but James shook him off with a rough sound of disbelief.
“Don’t follow me,” he said. “Don’t ever follow me anywhere again.”
And with that, he ran off into the storm.
Chapter Sixteen
Then: 1822
16th April, 1822
Black Boar Inn, London
Iain was drunk. Gloriously drunk.
He’d had barely a minute’s peace for days. Caught up in one of his self-pitying glooms, the King had demanded Iain’s constant attention, till Iain was nearly driven mad with it. He was desperate to leave the King’s service, but his army masters wouldn’t have it. As long as Georgie wanted him, he was stuck there.
Tonight, though, he’d escaped with an invented story about a sickly aunt, tugging shamelessly on the King’s heartstrings to persuade him to agree, only to embark on a tour of his favourite public houses before ending up here, at the Black Boar, a place where, unbeknownst to most of the patrons, men like Iain came to find companionship.
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