by Lee Rowan
He had not had a decent night’s rest since he had left Brendan sleeping and run away. Run away! Such a cowardly rout would have seen him cashiered, if it had been done in the line of duty. The more he considered his action, the more he regretted it. That infamous letter—what a slap in the face it must have been to a sensitive young man!
“I should rather be dead than endure your indecision…”
Carlisle was beginning to feel that way himself. But that was foolishness; neither of them would die. Brendan would live, and finish growing up. He would eventually realize that some kinds of love were not meant to last for very long, and other sorts were too dangerous to countenance. He would come to understand that a clean break was for the best. He would learn to redirect that energy, pour it into creating art the way that Carlisle himself had poured his heart into Twin Oaks. If all Brendan’s passion and enthusiasm could be transformed into art…
If.
Brendan might just as easily be crushed by this second disappointment, so soon after the misbegotten entanglement with Hillyard. He had the fervor of youth, but he was also the sort who took disappointment hard. His drawings of Queenie and her foal had been the inspiration for a possible career, but what if he came to see his drawings as just another aspect of this mistake and Carlisle’s rejection?
Philip Carlisle looked back on what he had done, and realized he had made the worst possible choices at every opportunity. He should have kept that desk between them, should have torn up the book himself, should have… should have…
He should not have fallen in love with Brendan Townsend, taken him to bed, and then fled like the worst coward on the face of the earth. But having done it, he saw no way to repair the mistakes, because any move he made toward Brendan would be a move that would endanger the boy. This was not a matter of choosing between a right choice and a wrong one. There was no right choice and there never would be.
Brendan awoke the next morning with his head free of pain and his mind clear, his decision made. He had to go find Philip. There was no other way he would ever know peace again.
He could guess where Philip had gone. Back to Kent, home to his horses, the only place he could have gone. And in addition to that, he still had the murder investigation to resolve. Brendan was certain Major Carlisle would never shirk his duty.
He had to see Philip one last time, speak to him, make certain that he had not done anything stupid or unthinking to offend the man he loved. He wanted to hope for a reconciliation, but that was beyond reason. All he could reasonably wish was to have things settled between them, so that if they happened to meet socially—which was likely, as Philip was one of James’ oldest friends—there would be no cause for heart-burning.
Why had he fled so furtively? Had he feared Brendan would make a scene—did Philip think him as indiscreet as Tony? Was an explanation too much to expect? If Philip decided that the pleasure they’d shared was simply not worth the risk… well, it would be unfair of Brendan to try to argue him out of that fundamental decision. If he had resolved to end it, Brendan would understand. It would hurt, but he would understand.
Thirty-five miles was not an impossible distance for a lone rider. Brendan had considered the possibilities for travel, and decided that he wanted to be as independent and free of encumbrances as possible. He could ride Galahad, take the trip in easy stages, and stop overnight at coaching inns, making the trip in two or three days, depending on how well Galahad bore up on the journey.
He could send his luggage back home, tell James that he was off to Kent once again, and pack all that he really needed in a pair of saddlebags. He could not take much more than a few clean shirts, but he would not need much.
He would not be staying very long.
A light spring rain had washed the morning clear, and Philip Carlisle decided to take Nightshade out for a ramble before breakfast. The stable was too full of memories; even watching Queenie and her rapidly-growing Princess made him think of that astonishing sketched likeness, and the eager joy on Brendan’s face at his honest praise. The light in his eyes, the disbelieving smile on his half-parted lips, which had been so unaccountably sweet…
Damn!
Was he going to be followed everywhere by those memories? After a week, the recollection was still painfully sharp and clear. He had never had this difficulty before; in wartime, he had learned to banish the horrors and clear his mind, to focus on the next task at hand.
But this was not the same, was it? These memories were more like his fond recollections of Lillian, although after ten years she no longer sprang to mind unless summoned.
Was he fated to wait ten years before these memories would fade? And how would he deal with living day to day? What would he do if he happened to run across Brendan in London, as was quite likely? He could not terminate his friendship with James Townsend without some rational explanation, nor did he wish to.
The situation would be intolerable He had acted on a craven impulse, and he would have to pay the penalty: seek Brendan out, offer his apology, and endure whatever recriminations the young man might seek to heap upon him. Lord knew he deserved them.
A bird burst suddenly from a low-growing shrub, and Nightshade sprang sideways, demanding Carlisle’s entire attention to keep him from bolting. He should not have brought this rowdy lad out when his own mind was in such turmoil; Whiskey would have been a much better mount for a troubled man.
“You want to run, do you?” he said aloud. “I know the feeling. It’s not always a wise thing to do.” Not for humans, at any rate.
But a gallop would do them both good. He turned Nightshade toward the little rise that stood between them and the stables and gave him his head, letting the immediacy of sun, wind, and the powerful creature under his control block out all mental rambling. His breath sang through him, his blood sparkled like champagne. For the first time since he’d come home, he felt real happiness. This was life, the best part of it. All else was just the means to this moment of truth and clarity.
They crested the rise and he gazed down upon his home, the paddock just visible at the far side of the stable, the chimneys of the house rising above treetops. It was more than most men could ever hope for; he would be its steward for as long as his strength endured, and he would learn to be content…
Carlisle squinted as an unfamiliar horse appeared around the near side of the stable, the sun glinting off flanks bright as a new copper penny. His heart leapt, then sank, as he recognized the horse and its rider.
He restrained his first impulse, which was to turn tail and run, back over the hill, across the orchard, into the woods. Bad enough that he had waited for Brendan to appear, instead of seeking him out. It was his home ground, after all. He waited until he knew that Brendan had seen him, then raised a hand in greeting and nudged Nightshade into a slow walk down the slope. He wanted to gallop; his mount sensed that, but he could not allow it.
There was time enough to think while they slowly approached one another, but he found his mind strangely slow. All he could do was drink in the joyful, fearful sight and wonder what in the world he was going to do.
As Brendan drew close enough to make out detail, Carlisle saw that his coat was dusty and his face worn. Galahad, too, looked a bit jaded, as though he’d spent less of his time in the stable than he was accustomed to. To a cavalry officer, that combination of details suggested only one thing. “Good God, don’t tell me you rode all the way!”
Brendan shrugged. “Not in one day. I am sorry. Should have written to ask, I know. Or stopped to get a bell...”
Unclean, unclean… The shaft struck home; Carlisle closed his eyes. When he thought he had control of his voice, he said, “Just as well you did not. You’d have frightened the horses.”
A corner of that sensitive mouth quirked up, but Brendan did not speak. Carlisle wondered if he, too, was at a loss for the right thing to say. Finally he essayed a question on the most innocuous topic he could dredge up. “Shall we ride together?”
Brendan nodded, and Galahad fell into place beside Nightshade. Eventually Carlisle found it easier to say what was on his mind than to keep it in. “Please accept my apologies for the disgraceful manner of my departure. I was so far beyond point nonplus that I could think of nothing else.”
“It is I who must apologize,” Brendan said, “for putting you in an impossible position. I cannot apologize for what we did together—”
“No need,” Carlisle interjected.
“Yes, there is; it was unfair to seduce you, after all you had done to help me.”
“Seduce me?”
Brendan’s glance flickered to him for an instant. “What else would you call it, sir? You’d never have made the first move. You were inexperienced, I was … not. And I blush to admit I would do the same if we had it to do over, even knowing that there was no future in it.”
Carlisle was nonplussed once more. “Why?”
“Trust,” Brendan said simply. “For the first time in my life, I was with someone with whom I could be myself—all of myself.”
“But your family, friends…”
“Know nothing of me, not in that regard. Major, I have been guarding my tongue since I was ten years old!”
Carlisle raised an eyebrow.
“Yes,” Brendan said to his unasked question. “I have always known, always had to be so careful… I cannot regret having known that freedom, that safety, just that once. I realize it would be presumptuous to ask to keep your friendship, sir, but I do hope there need be no lies between us, and no regrets.”
“I should like that.” He was glad that Brendan had appeared here, out in the open where they were able to speak freely, though he felt as though he still had to watch his every word. “I could not say anything in that letter that might raise the slightest suspicion in anyone’s mind. I hoped you would understand that.”
“I did understand. Of course I did. But what I still cannot understand…” He began to talk rapidly, his self-control dissolving before Carlisle’s eyes, “I cannot understand how the man who would face down a blackmailer in his own den could not find the courage to—to do me the simple courtesy of rejecting me to my face!” He turned away for a moment, and took a deep breath. “I apologize,” he said formally, under control once more. “I did not come here to throw accusations at you—”
“You have every right,” Carlisle admitted. “What I did was disgraceful, and I have no excuse. I am not the hero you think me, sir!”
“I believe you are. At least, I thought so.”
“My dear boy—”
“Don’t call me that!” Brendan cried. He reined Galahad in, and turned to look Carlisle full in the face, and said, “Not unless you mean to act as though there’s truth in it.”
“It is the truth.” He straightened, feeling as though a tremendous weight had gone from his shoulders. “It is, though at first I was not even aware of that. Not until…” No, that path was too dangerous to follow. “In any case, I hope you did not believe I became involved in the Arbor affair with the intention of winning the favors of the fair Mr. Hillyard!”
Brendan smiled, and shook his head. “No, by the time it came to that even I was no longer so gullible. But why did you take up the problem? It seemed to me even then, though I welcomed your help, that to involve yourself in such a matter was to take a considerable risk with no apparent reward.”
“I asked myself the same thing,” Carlisle replied. “And my first answer was that there is always some intrinsic satisfaction to be gained in foiling a blackmailer. I can think of few things so vile as battening off the failings of another. And Dobson was a particularly disgusting opponent.”
“True, but you had never met him when you agreed to help me.”
“I had met you, and I have a great regard for your brother. I did not want to send you off without at least giving you what advice I could. At first I thought you simply a good, loyal friend… perhaps too loyal. And then I began to fear that you had been ensnared by bad companions.”
“Quite correctly.”
“And, I confess… I was angry on your behalf, that you should put yourself at such risk for a man who treated you without any regard. What he did was infamous, tantamount to taking one’s mistress to a brothel!”
Brendan nodded. “I felt that way myself. I had not realized, when we roomed together at college, that he saw me as little more than a great convenience. But in a way I must always be grateful.”
Carlisle snorted. “To that brat!”
“Yes, indeed I am. However selfish his motives, he did show me my true nature. I had always thought myself a cold, sexless creature because I was never drawn to women, even the most beautiful. And if he had not taken me to The Arbor and shown me exactly who he was, and what little regard he truly had for me… I might yet be laboring under the misconception that he was my friend.”
Carlisle nodded, but had no reply.
“So, then,” Brendan said, “I suppose I must ask: is it your wish that we forget what passed between us, and establish a friendly but disinterested acquaintance?”
Carlisle meant to say, “Yes,” but the memory of that night assailed him—arms around him, a warm, eager body pressed against his own, physical delight he had thought was denied him forever. His throat closed. He swallowed, not daring to meet the younger man’s eyes. “I think that would be for the best, don’t you?”
“That depends on how one chooses to define ‘best,’ I think,” Brendan said wryly. “I have no doubt it would be the safest course of action...” He shook his head, much as a horse would when bothered by flies. “No, I cannot carry on this way. Major—Philip, I love you. I am well aware that we cannot have anything in the
way of a regular connection, but I would be content with whatever time together we could contrive. I do not wish to let you go …unless that is truly what you desire.”
Carlisle stared at Nightshade’s mane, absently noting the way the hairs fell to one side or the other along the line of the spine. “We cannot always have what we desire,” he began .
“I wish you would answer my questions.” Brendan caught his eye, and held it. “That’s the second you’ve evaded.”
“It is? What was the first?”
“Why did you leave as you did? Were you afraid I would make a scene if you told me that you had made a mistake? I do not think it was because you suddenly took me in dislike for having been too bold.”
“Not at all.” If he was going to turn this young man’s love away, he at least owed him honesty. “I was afraid, my—I was afraid for you. Did that sordid business in town not show you how dangerous such a liaison could be?”
“It showed me how dangerous it can be to seek affection among strangers, certainly. I think that two men of discretion, who took no unnecessary chances and were faithful to one another, might do very well together.”
“You say that now… Brendan, I must tell you something. When I was young, I felt as you do about my own regimental Captain. He did not return my feelings—I doubt he ever guessed how I felt! But later, when I fell in love with my wife, he was forgotten.”
“What became of your Captain?” Brendan asked.
“Killed in action.”
Brendan pulled Galahad up short. “Philip, are your parents also dead?”
“Yes, for some years now.”
“Brothers? Sisters?”
“None that lived.”
Brendan blinked, and Carlisle could have sworn there were tears standing in his eyes. “My poor Philip, has everyone you ever loved died and left you alone?”
Carlisle cuffed him on the arm. “I was a soldier, you young sapskull! Of course I lost friends I loved.”
“Still…”
“I chose not to marry again because the disease of the blood that took my son and wife also took both my brothers. Would you breed a horse that showed so poorly? Wife, mistress… legitimate or base-born child, I swore I’d never take that chance again.”
He
had not meant to say so much, but this conversation was in its own way more intimate than any he’d ever had with his wife. There were things one did not speak of with a lady. There were other things one never said to anyone—such as the fact that the night he’d spent with Brendan was the first time in ten years he was able to lie with anyone. He had never even dared try since Lillian’s death, for fear that he might sire a doomed child.
Brendan looked suitably abashed. “I did not mean to imply your unease was irrational… It is only that, having spent my days among a flock of relatives, I find it hard to imagine life without any family. You have had far more than your share of ill luck.”
“Well, that’s true enough. But if that is my luck, I should hate to see it rub off on you. And I cannot help wondering whether you simply have not met the right lady. You are—”
“No younger than my brother was when he married his wife, and he had yearned after every pretty miss in the neighborhood since first his voice began to change. If I were going to fall in love with a girl, I am certain I’d have done it by now. I almost wish I could. My life would be much easier if I had not fallen in love with a stubborn country squire, but you are who and what I want.”
“You would still be risking everything, and for what?” Carlisle wondered why he was arguing. The only proper thing to do was to ask the younger man to leave and never speak of it again, but he could not quite make himself do that.
“For something that makes me glad to be alive—yes, even if I risk my life and lose it! Sir, I have had half my life to consider
the matter. In a hundred years’ time we shall both be dust, and that condition will endure for a very long time. I would rather not live as though I were already in that state.”
And that, Carlisle suspected, was what he himself had been doing since Lillian’s death. “I wish I had your bravery,” he confessed. “In matters of the heart, I believe you have more courage than I ever will.”
“You have a great deal more to lose than I do, and people who depend upon you, whereas I have nothing much to offer, except myself—but I could promise you I shan’t die in childbirth.”
