Love at First Hate

by JL Merrow

  The gravedigger had had an easy job of it; the ground had barely settled in the family plot from when they’d buried Mother a few months ago. The headstone was still with the mason. Bran entertained an idle thought that Father had planned it this way so as to be both convenient and cheaper for them, and appalled himself by actually making a choked-off sound that drew curious glances from his fellow mourners. He looked down. Let them think it a sob.

  Bea’s hand crept around his arm, and Bran allowed himself to be comforted. Christ. What would he have done without her, all these years with Mother ill and Father . . . unhappy?

  Should he tell her what Father had done?

  No. Father hadn’t wanted her to know, had he? Or his final letter would have been addressed to both of them. Bran couldn’t go against that—certainly not today, of all days, with his father’s body only just lowered into the ground.

  It was Bran’s burden alone.

  Present Day

  Sam’s concentration was shot to hell for the rest of the day. The disastrous conversation with Branok Roscarrock kept running through his brain, along with a sneering voice inside him helpfully pointing out exactly why antagonising his boss was such a crap idea. As if he were likely to forget he was in debt up to his ears and practically unemployable to boot.

  At five o’clock sharp, he gave up, shut down his computer, and drove out to the cliffs on the northern side of the headland in an attempt to clear his mind before going back to Jory’s. The fresh sea air was calming, and he was able to stretch out muscles cramped from sitting hunched over his computer. Staring out over the sea, far-off gulls screaming as they flitted about like gnats, somehow put things into perspective. So what if Branok Roscarrock didn’t like him? Sam didn’t like him, either. Shrewd, dark eyes and that compelling air of self-assurance notwithstanding. And the bloke wasn’t going to be hanging around all the time. He had his own business to run, didn’t he? The business Jory’s son was supposed to be taking over when he grew up. Some property empire or something.

  Christ, Roscarrock must be loaded. The thought left a bitter taste. Big Brother Branok could have a flutter on the horses—footie or the dogs would be too lower-class for him, wouldn’t they?—anytime he wanted, and not even care if he won or lost. He’d probably never had to worry about money in his life, with his public school accent and his air of bloody entitlement.

  No wonder he expected any arguments over the exhibition to go his way. Everything else in his life of luxury and privilege obviously always had done and always would.

  Sod it. Forget Branok Roscarrock for a while. Sam rambled along the cliff path, and was rewarded with the sight of the lighthouse, shining a warm, optimistic white in the late-afternoon sun. That place probably had some stories to tell. Maybe he should pay it a visit? Yeah, that was what he needed to do. Get out and about while he was here. See the sights. Get some exercise and fill his lungs with fresh, salty air.

  Stay away from that bloody betting site. He should never have let himself get sucked in, but after Doug—a lot of crap had happened in his life after Doug. Sam had deleted the app before he’d moved down here, intending to make a fresh start, but reinstalling it would only take seconds, and the website was just a few clicks away in his browser. The knowledge tugged at him every time he switched on his phone, although he’d managed to stay off since he’d come to Cornwall. It was just . . . while he was on there, everything else went away for a while. There was nothing but the thrill of the gamble. The sheer buzz of winning.

  Yeah, and the crushing depression of realising he’d just blown another few hundred quid in minutes. Sam needed to remember that. Needed to get his head sorted out, save his money, and pay off those debts.

  With a bit of luck, Jory wouldn’t have the nerve to ask him to find his own place for a couple of months once Sam confronted him about his bloody big brother.

  Right. Apparently forgetting about Branok Roscarrock wasn’t going to be an option. Might as well head home.

  Half an hour later, Sam parked his Mini in front of Jory’s house and pulled the handbrake on with a vicious jerk. Then he felt bad about it and gave the steering wheel a pat. “Sorry, babe. Not your fault.”

  When he went inside, there was no one in the living room, but he could hear sounds coming from the kitchen. “Hello?” he called. “Anyone home, or is that the burglar? Don’t bother with the small bedroom, there’s nothing worth nicking in there.”

  “It’s me,” Jory called. “I’m making a start on dinner.”

  Sam kicked off his shoes—a bit late, but it was the thought that counted—and padded into the kitchen.

  Jory looked up, red-eyed from the onion he was chopping. “I’m making curry. Is that all right? It’s only us tonight. Mal’s got college until nine, so he’s eating there.”

  “Yeah, curry’s fine.” Sam leaned against the counter where Jory couldn’t fail to see him, and folded his arms. “I met your big brother today. Or, as I call him, my boss.”

  Jory blinked, and mopped at his eyes with a sheet of kitchen roll. Probably for a bit longer than they needed. “Oh—Bran’s out of hospital?”

  Sam snorted. “Yeah, he’s out of hospital. He turned up at the castle, and guess how happy he was to see me?”

  “Uh . . .”

  “That’s right. He wasn’t, seeing as how he didn’t even know I’d be there. Mate, why didn’t you tell him about me?”

  “I was going to.” Jory’s face had gone bright red to match his eyes. “I just wanted to give you time to get properly established first. If I’d known he was on his way—”

  “Yeah, and how come you didn’t tell me about him? It’s not like the subject never came up. All those times I asked you about the Woodstock Trust, all those times your brother’s name came up in conversation—it didn’t occur to you to let me in on the secret that they’re the same thing?”

  “Bran’s only one member of the Woodstock Trust.” Jory looked shifty. He even sounded shifty. If he’d been any bloody shiftier, he’d have been in the next room by now.

  “Not the way he tells it. According to him, the whole flippin’ project is his baby and he doesn’t like to share. I thought I’d been left to myself a bit much. Should’ve known there was a reason for it. What is all this anyway? Some sibling-rivalry thing?”

  “No, of course not. I just wanted what’s best for the exhibition.” Jory took a deep breath. “Look, Dr. Banerjee told me before she left that Bran had been putting pressure on her from day one to . . . present a certain view of the prince. To leave out anything that showed Edward in a bad light. I don’t think he realises . . . Anyway, I thought if you had time to establish yourself, you wouldn’t be so susceptible, that’s all. I didn’t want you thinking you had to toe the party line just because he’s my brother.”

  “Funny. Cos from what he said today, that’s exactly what your brother’s expecting me to do.” Sam shook his head. “I can’t believe he hasn’t been in touch with you himself. He was in a foul mood with me.”

  Jory glanced guiltily over to where his phone sat charging by the kettle. “I, er, might have got a voice mail from him. I haven’t got around to listening to it yet.”

  Yeah, Sam could sympathise with that. He’d had a few messages that he hadn’t wanted to face on an empty stomach.

  “I’m sorry,” Jory said. “I shouldn’t have dumped you into this situation without warning you. I honestly didn’t think Bran would be out of hospital yet.” He paused. “How was he? I mean, as far as you could tell.”

  “You mean, apart from terminally pissed off? Nasty cough. And I think his ribs were still hurting, from the way he moved.”

  Jory winced. “Did he stay long?”

  Sam shook his head. “Long enough to have a rant and hack up half a lung, that’s all. Maybe you should go visit him?” And get him off my back, he thought, then felt bad about it. He didn’t have the right to be too pissed off with Jory—the bloke had still got him the job, even if he hadn’t given him t
he full picture about it.

  Jory nodded. “I will. After we’ve eaten.”

  Bran startled awake, disorientated. He’d fallen asleep in his chair by the fire, and now his neck ached in tandem with his ribs. He needed to eat something so he could take some more painkillers.

  “Bran?” Bea’s voice sounded from the hallway.

  “In the study,” he called, his voice croaky. It must have been her return that had woken him. He took a sip of stone-cold tea and grimaced. What time was it? Christ, almost seven o’clock.

  “You don’t sound too good.” Bea appeared in the doorway, her mouth downturned.

  “I’m fine.”

  “Have you eaten?”

  “Not yet.”

  Bea’s expression hardened. “I’ll heat something up.”

  “I can do it myself.” He wasn’t an invalid. He started to heave himself out of his chair.

  She strode off, ignoring him, and he sank back into the cushions. It wasn’t worth fighting about. Let her fuss over him if she wanted to; she’d tire of it soon enough. Although it was odd how she seemed more angry than solicitous. Bran gave a minute shake of his head and pulled out his phone. Jory still hadn’t called him back. He debated calling again, but decided silence would better convey his disapproval.

  He ate the soup Bea provided, and then turned, reluctantly, to his emails. Did all these issues really need his personal attention? What was the point in building up the business if it all went to hell the minute he took his eye off things?

  Jory appeared around eight o’clock, just as Bran was wondering if it was too ridiculously early to go to bed and whether he really cared if it was. Despite his unplanned nap earlier, he was exhausted.

  At least Jory’s arrival gave him the energy of annoyance. “I take it you’ve finally come to let me know about my new employee.”

  “Sam’s employed by the trust,” Jory said. “And yes. I don’t know what you’re so up in arms about. You asked me to get a new curator, and I did.”

  “I asked you to be the new curator.”

  “And I told you I couldn’t do it. Sam’s a good man, and he knows a great deal about the Black Prince.”

  “And you didn’t think I might like some say in who’s spending my money?”

  “Oh, for— You were in hospital! Again. I wasn’t going to worry you over something that was perfectly well in hand.” Jory narrowed his eyes. “You didn’t bother telling me you were out of hospital, for that matter. I was planning to bring Gawen to see you after school tomorrow.”

  “Bea didn’t—”

  “No. She didn’t.” Jory folded his arms.

  Bran sank back in his chair, wearier than ever. “You’ll bring him here instead?” He hated how plaintive his voice sounded.

  At least it seemed to calm Jory’s belligerence. “Yes. Of course. He’s been looking forward to seeing you. Look, about Sam—it wasn’t like it was some big secret. If I’d known you’d be going over there today, obviously I’d have told you all about him sooner. We’re lucky to have him, you know. Especially at such short notice.”

  The man’s ready availability was suspicious in itself, in Bran’s considered opinion, but he couldn’t muster the energy to carry on the fight. “He said he was an old friend. You think he’s the best man for the job?” he asked instead.

  “Oh, absolutely. He’s worked at the National Museum of Scotland.”

  “So he is qualified, at least?” That was . . . better than expected.

  “Oh yes. I’m sure you’ll like him when you get to know him.” Jory’s tone called him a liar, and his face was equally dubious. “Could you try to get on with him, at least? Trust him to do a good job? It can’t be good for your health, getting so stressed about everything.”

  And that was why Bran hated his physical weakness so much. People took advantage of the weak, rode roughshod over their wishes. Oh, they might dress it up as concern, but the end result was a loss of control. Of independence.

  Bran would be damned if he’d lose control over his own life. “You should have consulted me over his appointment. I expect to see a copy of his CV by the end of the week.” Another coughing fit took him, and Jory fussed about offering drinks and calling Bea.

  It was only after Jory had gone that Bran realised he’d never had an answer about Ferreira’s CV.

  Thirteen Years Ago

  “He has dark hair,” was all Bran could think of to say on seeing his nephew—Jory’s son—for the first time, wrapped in a hospital blanket and cradled in Bran’s sister-in-law’s arms. Kirsty’s pale hair was lank and she looked older than her twenty-two years today, but happy. Jory, hovering awkwardly by her bed, might have been an unusually tall fifteen-year-old rather than only three years her junior. Anyone looking at their little group likely thought Bran was the baby’s father.

  “For now, anyway,” Kirsty said. “I had dark hair when I was born, Mum told me, but it all fell out by the time I was six weeks old and grew back blond. You can tell he’s Jory’s kid, though, can’t you?”

  Was she trying to convince them? Bran made a mental note to look into DNA testing. But the child did seem to resemble Jory, in his eyes, the shape of his forehead.

  Jory squared his shoulders. “His name’s Gawen. I wanted him to have a Cornish name.”

  At least he’d had some regard for family tradition.

  “And he’s healthy?” Bran asked.

  “Perfect scores all round,” Kirsty said, smiling at her son. “Do you want to hold him?”

  “I— Yes, all right.” Bran took the bundle she held out to him. It seemed absurdly light for a person. For the Roscarrock heir. The baby, barely visible in his swaddling, was warm and smelled faintly of milk. Gawen, Bran reminded himself. As he gazed down at his nephew, deep-blue eyes blinked open for a moment and the tiny, toothless mouth made a perfect O of a yawn. Then, with a twitch of limbs and a snuffle of the snub little nose, Gawen settled back into sleep in Bran’s arms.

  For an instant, Bran saw himself as a teenager, in a past that had never happened. Holding another new-born nephew. Had that child’s eyes been so blue? Gawen’s were as deep as the high-tide seas that crashed against the cliffs far below Roscarrock House.

  “He likes you,” Kirsty said softly.

  His chest tight, Bran banished all thoughts of Bea’s son. Whoever that child was now, he wasn’t part of their family. This boy, this tiny scrap of humanity, was their future. Damn the bloody DNA tests. This was Bran’s nephew, a Roscarrock by name as well as by blood, and Bran was going to see to it that Gawen lacked for nothing.

  Present Day

  Jory had come back from his big brother’s house with assurances that everything had been smoothed over. Mal, who was home from college by then, sent Sam a look that said no, he didn’t believe it either.

  Sam half expected Bran Roscarrock to be waiting for him when he got to work the next day, but there wasn’t so much as a stern email from the bloke. Sam shrugged and got on with his work, and tried not to wait for the other shoe to drop.

  It didn’t happen until Friday, when Jennifer poked her head around his door. “Sorry to be the bearer of ill tidings, but you’ve been summoned.”

  “Uh, what? Who by?” Although Sam had his suspicions.

  “Your lord and master. I had the misfortune to bump into him as he arrived. He awaits you yonder, in the place of execution. Sorry, I mean exhibition. Slip of the tongue.”

  Sam gave her a sardonic look. “‘Slip of the tongue’? My ar . . . mpit.”

  Jennifer burst out laughing. “Censoring your language? It’s been a while since anyone worried about offending my delicate, maidenly ears, I can tell you.”

  Embarrassed, Sam rubbed the back of his neck. “Too many memories of getting my wrists slapped by one of my sisters for swearing. S’pose I’d better get over there before I offend his delicate, maidenly self.” He snorted at the thought of either description applied to Bran Roscarrock.

  Then he felt bad becau
se the bloke was ill, after all. He was probably a lot more delicate than he looked right now. Actually, come to think of it, maidenly might not be too far off either, because seriously, even with those dark good looks, who’d want to go out with an arrogant, obnoxious prat like Bran? Sam amused himself trying to picture the man’s hypothetical significant other. Some mousy woman who thought he was the dog’s bollocks, probably. Either that or he went completely in the other direction and could only get it up for a dominatrix.

  Sam found Bran in the reception area of the exhibition centre, talking with one of the workmen. Their voices were low and even, and on catching sight of Sam, the workman gave Bran a respectful nod and got back to his task.

  Apparently Bran didn’t spread fire and brimstone everywhere he went. Only where Sam was treading. As Sam approached, Bran took a few stiff steps to meet him. Bran was wearing another dark suit today, this one with a subtle stripe, and what could only be an old school or college tie. Battle armour? Sam squared his shoulders and prepared to give as good as he got.

  Bran gave him a brief nod. “I thought we should have a proper talk. Now there are no more misunderstandings.”

  His tone was empty of aggression, and Sam relaxed a little. “Yeah, that’d be a good idea. We didn’t exactly start off on the right foot.” Shit, was he supposed to apologise? But what for, exactly?

  “I don’t suppose either of us was left with a good first impression of the other,” Bran went on.

  That was a polite way of saying he’d hated Sam on sight. “No,” Sam agreed shortly.

  “My brother has assured me you have the qualifications for the role you now find yourself in.”

  Find yourself in. Like he’d just wandered in off the street and stumbled into the job. “I do.”

  “He said you used to work in the Scottish National Museum.” Bran’s voice turned curt, as if Sam’s monosyllabic answers were getting to him.