by Lily Maxton
The bottle was passed back, and Robert took another drink. He wasn’t drunk, but he was feeling pleasantly lazy. He wondered if Cameron was feeling the effects of the whisky, too. “I don’t make wishes anymore,” he said abruptly.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Cameron’s head turn toward him, which he assumed was an indication of interest.
And Robert found himself speaking, found himself telling the other man something he’d never spoken of to anyone, not even the people he loved the most.
“When my parents died, we were taken in by my aunt and uncle. Their house was in the country, and there was a wishing well, not far away. I walked there, every day, and threw a penny in, for months. And every day, I wished that my parents would…speak to me…somehow…give me some indication that they were…somewhere…that they weren’t simply gone. It never happened. And one day I just stopped going.”
Robert sighed. “I was old enough to know better. You would think I wouldn’t have been quite so stupid.”
“It wasn’t stupid,” Cameron said.
Something brushed Robert’s hand—the glass bottle. He nearly smiled at the offering—something about it felt almost tender. He took one more drink and set the bottle between them. Then he lay on his back so he could see the sky without craning his neck. It wasn’t very comfortable—the stone floor was a rigid pillow, and the stones were a bit damp, too, but he could see the sky better. The stars winked down at him, distant and bright.
For a few minutes, all was quiet.
“It’s been ten years,” he said, and he was sure this revelation was due to the whisky because, normally, he didn’t even like to think about it, “and sometimes I’ll have dreams where they’re still alive, and everything is like it used to be. And then I’ll wake up, and for an instant…for one instant…”
“You canna remember if it’s real,” Cameron finished quietly.
Robert blinked. He hadn’t expected the other man to understand so perfectly. His next breath was unsteady. “And when I realize it’s not, it hits me like a blow. Even after all this time.”
He didn’t think Cameron was going to say anything further, but then, “It’s been more than ten years for me, and it’s the same.”
Robert tipped his head to look at the other man, one cheek against cold, damp stone—Cameron had lain back, too, but his face was still pointed toward the sky. “Your parents are dead?”
“No.”
“No?”
“They’re as good as dead. I left fourteen years ago, and I haven’t seen them since.”
“Why?”
“They didn’t want me.”
Robert wanted to know more, but he had a feeling Cameron wouldn’t take well to prodding.
He couldn’t imagine it, though. He would’ve given anything to have his parents back, and Cameron had gone fourteen years without seeing his. A spark of anger unfurled in his stomach—Cameron’s parents were alive, somewhere, and he was wasting it.
He opened his mouth to speak and then closed it again. Cameron was still. Even his chest barely moved as he breathed. With a soft sigh, Robert turned toward the sky again. He didn’t know what Cameron’s parents had done, or what had happened between them, so he supposed he couldn’t judge.
“This is nice,” he said, changing the subject. “Quiet.”
“Too quiet for some.”
“But not for you?”
“Not for me.”
Robert felt strangely peaceful. Though it didn’t take long for that peace, combined with the lateness of the hour and the consumption of alcohol, to turn to lethargy. “Maybe someday I’ll see the aurora borealis, too,” he murmured. “You shouldn’t keep these things to yourself, Cameron.”
“What do ye mean?”
He didn’t really know what he meant, but he kept speaking with no input from his brain. “You should share things. With someone. You shouldn’t hoard it all for yourself—things are better when you share them with someone. With me.”
“With you?”
“If you want. I wouldn’t object. I know Miss Hale wouldn’t object.”
Cameron made a derisive noise. “Miss Hale is too young.”
“She’s charming.” Robert paused. “Or Willoughby—he likes you.”
“Willoughby—the cat?” Cameron sounded offended, but amused, too.
Robert laughed.
“You’re an idiot, Townsend. And ye drink too much.”
“I don’t drink too much. I am appropriately drunk. Anyway, your fault.”
A beat of silence followed that assessment. “How is it my fault?”
“I was trying to keep up with you, but you must weigh a stone more than me.”
“How do you know I’m not as drunk as you are?”
He lifted his head. “Are you?”
“If I was, I wouldn’t act like it.”
“Are you telling me you’re hiding your drunkenness from me?”
“Aye.”
His head fell back against the stones with a soft thunk. “That’s completely against the spirit of companionable drinking. There’s a code, and you have broken it.”
Cameron seemed unconcerned. “I’m surprised ye can say ‘companionable’ without stumbling over it.”
Robert bridged the space between them with his hand and gave Cameron a healthy shove—or at least, as healthy a shove as he could manage with his heavy limbs. “Companionable,” he said again, crisp and clear. “See—I’m articulate to the last drop.”
He realized he hadn’t lifted his hand from Cameron’s shoulder. He wondered how long he could leave it there without crossing the border of friendship. He slipped it away reluctantly.
Cameron huffed, a sound that was half exasperation and half amusement. “Now you’re just showing off.”
“Cameron…”
“What?”
He was going to say, “Just share them with me. If you share things with anyone, choose me. Just me.” But he stopped himself at the last moment. He didn’t think their tentative, fledgling friendship could weather that sort of statement. At best, it was possessive. At worst…at worst it revealed that Robert’s feelings went somewhat beyond male camaraderie.
“Point out some constellations to me. I don’t know many.”
Cameron hesitated, but finally he raised his arm, and Robert followed its shadowed outline. “The cross, with the bright star at the front—that’s Cygnus. The swan.”
Robert cocked his head. “I see the cross. But it doesn’t look like a swan.”
A soft, amused exhale. “Use your imagination.” Cameron’s arm moved north. “And that’s the plough—the four in a square with the three branching off.”
“…A plough? Truly?”
“Don’t say it,” Cameron warned.
“It’s a square. A square with a handle.”
“You’re not a very good student,” he noted. “What do they teach you in England?”
“When I went to university, it was philosophy and history, mostly. A lot of Greek readings. Very important things,” he said, scoffing slightly.
“Did ye speak this way to your teachers?”
“No. But they were all very old. I wouldn’t have wanted to give one of them an apoplexy. You’re hardy enough to take my insults.”
“Thank you?” His voice lilted in a question.
Robert felt his mouth curving in an irrepressible grin. He could do this, he thought, every night. Talk to Cameron. Joke with him. If Cameron would let him. “You are most welcome.”
Cameron chose not to comment. “And if ye follow the corner of the plough, you’ll see Polaris.”
“The North Star?” Robert asked.
“Mmm. Find it, and you’ll always know true north.” He paused, catching Robert’s attention. Robert realized he was already becoming more attuned to Cameron’s silent ways of speaking—a pause, a hesitation, an indrawn breath, a subtle shift. He was very careful with his words, Robert realized. He did not take them lightly. “Polaris i
s a binary star.”
“It’s a what?” Robert asked. He had no idea what that meant.
“A binary. Two stars that orbit each other.”
“It looks like one star.”
“They’re close together. That’s why it looks so bright.”
Robert hadn’t known that two stars could orbit each other. But it was a nice thought. That they weren’t entirely alone in the vast expanse that surrounded them.
“See, it isn’t so awful,” he muttered.
“What isn’t?”
“Sharing.”
He didn’t hear if Cameron said anything in response, or if he paused, or hesitated, or drew a quiet breath, because his heavy eyelids finally closed, and he was lost to the world.
…
Ian sighed when he realized Townsend had fallen asleep, his breath heavy and even in the still night. The next time they were together like this—if there was a next time—Ian shouldn’t let himself drink whisky. He knew he was just as drunk as Townsend was—somewhere between acceptably relaxed and too-weak inhibitions.
But drink seemed to affect them differently. It loosened Townsend’s tongue and made him even more talkative. Ian didn’t get much more talkative than he normally was, but whisky smoothed out his edges and made him feel…softer…somehow. As if he could just take life as it came, and share things, and not get too worried if he and Townsend crossed certain lines that he’d already told himself he wouldn’t cross.
No, drinking whisky with Townsend was a bad idea.
He pushed himself to a sitting position and glanced at the other man, though he could only make out his outline in the dark—long limbs sprawled carelessly, one arm thrown back to cushion his head.
If he slept with his arm like that for too long, he’d be in for a painful awakening.
Before he could stop himself, Ian reached forward and touched the side of Townsend’s face. Stubble scratched the pads of his fingers, and for a second, his breath slowed and his heartbeat felt too heavy. He paused; time seemed to turn around him sluggishly. Then he pulled back, resisting the urge to let his fingers trace a path to Townsend’s mouth.
Instead, he kicked his ankle.
Townsend started. “What the devil?” His head turned and he glowered. He clearly didn’t like to be woken up abruptly. “What was that for?”
“Would ye rather I left you here all night? The stone floor won’t be as pleasant a few hours from now.”
Townsend pushed to his feet, surprisingly steady for someone who’d just been dragged out of slumber. “Troublesome bastard.”
But he fell into step beside Ian, and the silence that fell around them as they made the trek back to the castle wasn’t an uneasy one.
And if Ian’s fingers still burned where he’d touched Townsend’s face, he figured that as long as he didn’t think about it, or repeat the gesture, the feeling would fade quickly enough.
Chapter Nine
“Are you truly trying to settle this?” Worthington asked Robert the next morning.
They were currently the only two people in the drawing room, where herring and barley cakes and eggs had been set out on a sideboard. The other man sat down across from him, and Robert took a sip of tea.
The sun was out, gently filtering in through the sash windows, leaving squares of light on the polished wooden floor. He wondered if Cameron was working outside.
Somewhat reluctantly, he fixed his attention on his guest. “What do you mean?”
“Have you discovered anything? Are you any closer to finding our belongings?”
“I am doing my best,” Robert said.
“I don’t want vague answers!” Worthington said. “Have you questioned the servants?”
“Not yet.”
“You should. You should question them directly. They’re your servants; you should be able to tell if they’re acting suspicious.”
“I would rather search the castle and find the items first. If I let on that they’ve been accused of stealing, the thief might panic and destroy your belongings.”
Worthington mulled this over. “I suppose that’s true. But you’ll have to keep an eye on them and make sure they don’t leave now that the weather has improved. It would be intolerable to simply let them get away to sell the items in Oban or Fort William.”
To simply let them get away— Worthington seemed quite positive one of the servants was a criminal, though he had no evidence.
“And forgive me if I step too far”—Robert forced his face to remain pleasant. Starting a statement with those words was a sure indicator that one was stepping too far—“but your relationship with Mr. Cameron is a bit odd.”
Robert’s grip tightened on his teacup, and his pulse kicked up a notch. “How so?”
“He is hired help and your family treats him like a close friend. If he was the thief, would you even do anything about it?”
Robert didn’t need reminding that Cameron was his brother’s factor—he reminded himself of that fact often enough. “Yes, I would. But I doubt that he is.”
“And why is that?”
Why? Because Ian Cameron was bloody Ian Cameron. He was too proud to go skulking around stealing things. Robert’s faith might have been shaken briefly, but every interaction he had with Cameron only reaffirmed it. But he had no idea how to explain any of this to Worthington, because Worthington didn’t know Cameron and had no interest in knowing him.
He was, after all, a Highlander, and not of their class.
“He is a trusted employee. Lady Arden has known him for years and would vouch for his honor in a heartbeat.”
“Lady Arden?” Worthington looked puzzled.
Oh, good God. Robert could practically see the wheels turning in his head. If Worthington speculated on the nature of Lady Arden’s relationship with her husband’s factor in his travel memoir because Robert had said something careless, Theo would kill him.
“But, of course,” Robert said quickly, “no one can be ruled out completely until I’ve found evidence. Leave it to me, Mr. Worthington. I won’t fail you.”
The older man nodded, looking somewhat appeased. Robert finished his tea and left him to his breakfast. If he’d known these guests were going to cause so much trouble, he would have simply left them out in the rain, friendliness be damned.
…
When Georgina led the guests out for another walk, Ian and Townsend finished their search of Mr. and Mrs. Worthington’s room. The whole time that Ian was glancing beneath side tables and into armoires, he was trying not to recall that, just yesterday, Townsend had been pressed into his side, Ian’s hand against his mouth.
He was also trying not to look too closely at Townsend, who was wearing buckskin breeches that encased his muscular thighs like a glove. Ian wondered what he did for exercise—Ian had the bulky build of someone who was muscular from day-to-day work, while Townsend was built more like a wildcat—a rangy, supple, coiled strength. He was certainly no soft aristocrat. What was it, though? Weights? Fencing? Riding?
Ian was annoyed with himself for being so interested in the answer.
Townsend suddenly glanced back at him, and Ian had to lift his gaze quickly. “Did you find anything?”
He shook his head.
“Onward, then,” Townsend said, sounding disappointed.
The last room was Mr. Hale’s. At one point, Townsend stopped to admire the younger man’s reading collection—all poetry—which had been stacked neatly on an end table next to the bed.
“Blake, Burns…eh, Byron,” he muttered. “I suppose I can forgive him that lapse of taste.”
Ian didn’t want to ask, but he found himself curious more and more often where Townsend was concerned.
“Ye don’t like Byron?” Ian didn’t follow poetry and had never heard of Byron, but he didn’t mention that.
“He wrote one thing about a weary, disillusioned young man—of all the overused topics one could pick—and became instantly popular. Though perhaps I’m being pet
ty. He does have a way with words. Ah,” he said triumphantly. “Wordsworth and Coleridge. I’m impressed.”
“Why?”
“Hale’s collection has all the important modern poets. I wasn’t aware he was so well-read—he doesn’t really talk about himself, you know.”
Something pricked at Ian’s chest, sharp and instant. It wasn’t a feeling he was used to, and it took him a moment to realize what it was, because it had been so long since he’d felt it.
Jealousy. Hot, needling jealousy, writhing like a living thing in his gut.
Because Robert Townsend was admiring another man’s poetry collection, of all the idiotic reasons.
Ian turned away from him and finished his own search. Jealousy was an emotion one couldn’t feel unless one was attached, and Ian hadn’t let himself become too attached to anyone or anything in years. The only things he let himself care about were the stars overhead and the windswept land beneath his feet—things that changed, but changed in constant, predictable ways. They didn’t need to love him back, they just needed to be there.
And they always were.
But now he was jealous because Townsend and Hale had something in common. Something that Ian would never share with him. Did this mean… He didn’t know what it meant, but he knew he didn’t like it.
“Did you find anything?” Townsend asked after a minute or two.
Ian shook his head.
“Then that’s it. We’ve searched all four rooms and still haven’t found a thing.” Townsend sighed, ushering Ian out and then shutting the door quietly behind him. “I don’t know what to do.”
“We should leave the corridor, first of all. I’d rather not repeat what happened yesterday,” Ian said flatly.
Townsend, lost in thought, followed Ian, even though he was heading toward his bedchamber.
“Worthington is rather cruel to Mr. Hale. I feel sorry for him.”
Ian had to force himself to keep walking. “He isn’t a child. He needs to learn to stand up for himself.”
“But Worthington is his uncle,” Townsend pointed out. “And Hale is timid.”
“And?” Ian said abruptly.
“You don’t care at all?”
“Why should I?” He stopped suddenly, turning. Townsend halted quickly enough to avoid running into him, though they were now separated by only a couple of feet. They were in a long gallery lined with tall sash windows—a place to walk indoors when the weather outside wouldn’t cooperate. Annabel was slowly lining the space with gilt-framed Highland landscapes. And though they weren’t in direct sunlight, it was bright in the hall.
