by JL Merrow
Bran couldn’t control his flinch. “That’s a ridiculous oversimplification. Edward II was an inept ruler, both in the political and the military sense—”
“Yeah, but you can bet that’s not why everyone hated him so much. Kings were supposed to be the peak of masculinity, and he just didn’t fit the bill. And you—how can you be so uncritical of the Black Prince? Just because he knew his strategy and he cut a dash on the tournament field? You’re like every bloke on Grindr who puts ‘masc: UB2’ or ‘no fems’ on his profile.”
Bran’s blood chilled. “Just what are you insinuating?”
“I’m not insinuating. I’m bloody well saying it. There’s plenty of gay homophobes around, and you’re one of them.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Bran snapped. “I’m not gay. I told you that before.” He had, hadn’t he?
“Come off it. I’ve seen the way you look at women—or don’t look, more like. And the way you look at men.” Sam leaned closer, invading Bran’s space, and his eyes darkened. “I saw the way you were looking at me not five minutes ago. You want this. I know you do.”
Every nerve ending in Bran’s body screamed at the man’s proximity. But to back off, to distance himself, would be to lose ground. To admit that there was something to back off from. And the reckless side of him, the side he’d tried so hard to quash, was shouting at him. He already knows. There’s nothing left to lose.
Bran leaned in likewise, his head curiously light while his stomach roiled. He reached out a hand, and was sure Sam was about to take it, inviting the touch—
“You all done with these?” One of the barmaids, collecting glasses.
Bran snatched back his hand, his heart pounding. “Thank you.” He waited for her to leave, and then stood. “I’ll call a cab.”
“Uh, okay,” Sam was saying even as Bran strode off. He paid the bill at the bar with barely concealed impatience, then instead of going back to their table, made his way to the door. He hoped Sam would assume he’d done it so as not to disturb other people with his call, because of poor reception in the building—anything but the true reason, which was that he’d had to get away for a moment.
The air outside had cooled considerably in the hours since they’d arrived, but the chill breeze, while a balm to his heated skin, did nothing to clear his head. Pacing by the restaurant entrance, Bran called the cab company and learned to his relief that, as luck would have it, one of their drivers was about to make a drop-off in Newquay, only a few miles away. The journey back was going to be bad enough without an awkward wait for it beforehand.
They’d almost . . . But they hadn’t. He’d had a lucky escape. No good could possibly come of anything happening between him and Sam. Any blurring of the line between professional and personal with someone who was, in some sense, his employee was bound to be a bad idea for the exhibition. They didn’t even like each other, for God’s sake—at least, Bran hadn’t liked him before tonight, and any change was undoubtedly due to the wine. Granted, Bran admired the man, with his passion for his subject, his refusal to be browbeaten. And it was certainly no hardship to look at Sam Ferreira, with his ridiculously tousled hair and those deep, brown eyes. How much of a hardship would it be to see even more of him, to touch his skin and tousle that hair anew, to be the cause of those warm smiles—and more?
Against all odds, Sam seemed to want him. Unless . . . unless this was a trick? Some way of scoring points against Bran by leading him on to an admission of desire and then rejecting him? Bran didn’t think he could bear that humiliation. He’d never be able to face the man again.
Yes, it had been a lucky escape.
What had he been thinking?
“Bran?” Sam’s voice startled him, despite its softness. “Bit rubbish timing that, wasn’t it?”
What are you playing at? Sam wasn’t sure—but he was sure he didn’t want to stop. Didn’t want to let this opportunity pass him by. He was getting through to Bran, he knew he was. Finally breaking down the barriers the guy had been building since childhood. He’d seen a whole different side of Bran this evening—a passionate, humorous, even vulnerable side—and he liked it. A lot.
Sam had always thought Bran was good-looking in an unapproachable sort of way, but when Bran let down his defences and stopped caring so much about what people thought, he was amazing. That moment when he’d been so wrapped up in what he was saying he’d banged on the table, and his hair, usually so rigidly in place, fell over his eyes . . . yeah, that moment put all of Sam’s teenage fantasies about dark, handsome actors to shame.
Bran drew back, clearly skittish. “What?”
“Bit rubbish timing, the barmaid turning up like that,” Sam said ruefully. “Just as we were gonna—you know.”
“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”
Yes, you bloody well do. They’d been about to kiss. And now Bran was trying to backpedal, pretend it’d never almost happened. Suddenly, Sam was sick of it all. Sick of all the arguments, the broken conversation. And especially sick of all the pretending. “Yeah, you do. I know you do. I don’t get it—why do you fight it so much? Why not give in and be happy?”
“You think you know what will make me happy?”
Sam laughed softly, without humour. “Pretty sure I know what’s making you unhappy.”
“And you’re proposing yourself as a cure?” Bran’s words might be a challenge, but his tone sounded more like a plea.
“Think I might be able to relieve the symptoms for a while, at any rate.” Christ, it must be the wine making him bold. Was he risking his job here, making one more gamble he couldn’t afford? But God knew, the payout would be bloody fantastic if he won. For everyone—Bran would be a hell of a lot easier to work with if he wasn’t struggling with his own desires all the time. But mostly for him and Bran. And didn’t they deserve to win, for once? Sam held his breath, and slipped an arm into Bran’s.
Bran’s whole body tensed, and Sam braced himself for a shove, maybe a blow—and then, slowly, Bran relaxed. He didn’t pull away. “All right,” he said, and it was the sound of surrender.
Sam’s heart clenched. What must it be like to have such a need to be in control that you couldn’t even give in to your own desires without a sacrifice? “It’s okay,” he whispered, then slid his hand down Bran’s arm and clasped their fingers together.
Bran squeezed his hand, and how far gone was Sam that such a simple gesture felt like the world? He was afraid to move, afraid to speak, lest he break the fragile detente between them. They stood there together in the dark, by the side of the quiet road. A group emerged from the restaurant, talking among themselves, and passed by Sam and Bran, paying them no more heed than if they’d been statues.
Bran’s grasp on Sam’s hand didn’t falter. He didn’t try to escape.
The night was mild, clear, and perfect, pinprick stars glittering down at them and a crescent moon high in the sky. A gentle breeze carried the scent of cut grass, and beneath it, the earthier reek of a nearby farmyard. Sam found himself missing the fresher air of Porthkennack, with its briny sea smells and sudden gusts of wind. He huffed a laugh. He’d gone native, and he hadn’t even realised.
“What is it?” Bran didn’t sound defensive. Sam liked that.
He waved his free arm. “This place . . . It’s really nothing like Luton, you know?”
“I don’t know how people can live in cities. Crammed together, on top of one another, with grey walls and barely a glimpse of sky. Never seeing the sea. I’d go mad.” Bran’s words were soft but heartfelt.
“I lived in Luton for years. Never knew any different. Then I went away, and it all seemed different when I came back. S’pose I was the one who’d changed.” Sam laughed, shaking his head. “Christ, that’s such a cliché.”
Bran’s fingers tightened convulsively, then eased, still in Sam’s grasp. “Have I changed?”
Sam wasn’t sure if he was expected to answer that or not, or what he could
possibly say if he did.
Bran carried on. “I always thought I couldn’t change. Shouldn’t, even. Father always spoke of . . . of continuity. The family, eternal.”
“Everything changes,” Sam said, squeezing Bran’s hand. “And it’s not always for the worse.” There were so many things he could mention. Gay marriage. Increasing acceptance. High-speed broadband. And okay, yeah, he was still a little drunk.
“Not the Roscarrocks. They never change.”
Sam frowned. That was bollocks. Bran’s family might be old money, but they weren’t stuck in a time warp. Huh—they’d even had a teenage pregnancy. Mal had filled Sam in on the bare bones of the story. “Why did you have to be such a git about Dev? I get it can’t have been easy at the time, but after a quarter of a century, isn’t it all water under the bridge? Why did you keep trying to pretend he didn’t exist?”
Bran closed his eyes against the moonlight. “Because that man ruined everything.” The words tore out of him like they were taking a part of Bran with them.
Sam gave him a sharp glance. “What, by being born? Bit tight blaming Dev for that.”
“No . . . not him. The other man. Devan Thompson’s father.” Bran’s tone was bitter enough to curdle cream.
Too bitter, if it was all about a couple of teens in love who’d got carried away. “What do you mean? Your sister— Did he—” Sam was glad when Bran interrupted him before he had to spell it out.
“At the very least, he took advantage of her. He was older; he knew what he was doing. She was fifteen.” Bran made an aborted gesture and turned away, his fingers slipping from Sam’s grasp.
Christ. Sam tried to imagine anyone taking advantage of one of his sisters at fifteen. And, well, he couldn’t, because even his youngest sister was three years older than he was and had always seemed incredibly grown-up and sure of herself to him. But he was pretty sure it would’ve involved whole-family retribution and bodies under the patio. “You don’t know what happened for sure?”
“She won’t talk about it. Never has. Not even to me.”
“Maybe especially not to you?” Sam said tentatively. “You being a bloke, and her brother?”
“We used to share everything. All our lives. Until he came along, all sophisticated and charming, with his film-star looks and smiles.” Bran scrubbed his face with his hands. “And . . . ruined things.”
Sam drew in a sharp breath. He couldn’t have explained it, but something made him ask, “Did you want to share him? Dev’s dad?”
“I . . . I didn’t know what I wanted. Not then. I’d never . . . And he was so . . .” Bran shook his head. “I didn’t even understand how I felt about him. But he did.” Bran hugged himself, the fine material of his jacket pulling taut around his shoulders. Sam had hit the nail on the head, all right.
“And he told you to piss off?” Yeah, Sam had been there, done that. Been the one with a hopeless crush on a straight bloke. Course, Sam had already known he was gay at the time, and he hadn’t had to deal with his own sister getting knocked up by the bastard who’d broken his heart. “Okay, yeah, I get it. Still not fair on Dev, but I get it. You didn’t want him around bringing back all the bad memories.”
“It wasn’t just me. Bea didn’t want anything to do with him.” Bran still wouldn’t meet his eye. “You think I should have been stronger, don’t you? Should have acknowledged him when he sought us out. Have you any idea what a shock it was seeing that face after so many years? He . . . looks just like him, you know.”
Sam’s heart ached for the guy. For all of them, really. “Hey, I’m not judging. Seriously. I don’t know what I’d have done, either.”
“I tried to make amends, over the years. When Gawen was born, I did everything I could to make sure he stayed part of the family.”
Sam smiled and slipped his arm around Bran’s shoulders. Again there was that odd moment of tension before Bran relaxed into his hold. “Yeah. Yeah, you did. From what I hear, you couldn’t have been a better uncle to Gawen.”
Bran’s arm crept around Sam’s waist, pulling him closer. “You don’t know how much it means to hear you say that. But I don’t deserve any credit for it. Gawen’s an easy boy to love. He reminds me so much of Jory, when he was younger, but he’s very much his own man. I suppose he’s my second chance to make that right too.”
Sam made a questioning sound.
“Bea and I weren’t particularly nice to Jory when he was a boy.”
“That’s kids for you,” Sam said diplomatically, and then was surprised by a yawn. “’Scuse me. Must be past my bedtime. Heh. I’ll be falling asleep at work tomorrow and getting in trouble with the boss.”
Bran’s shoulders vibrated with silent laughter. “I’m not, actually, your boss. Technically.”
“Can I have that in writing?”
“You’ve already got an employment contract. With the Woodstock Trust.”
“Uh-huh. And you’re nothing to do with that lot.”
Bran drew away slightly to look him in the face. “Sam, I hope you know that whatever might happen between us, it’s got nothing to do with your employment. I wouldn’t want you to think—”
“Hey, don’t worry. Come on—when have I ever worried about keeping you sweet?”
“A fair point.” Bran started to say something else, but broke off as a car drew up in front of them. Their taxi.
“We’re going to yours, yeah?” Going back to Jory’s together was a definite no-no. Bran’s shields would go right back up again in front of his little brother.
“We could . . . I’ve got a place near here we can go to.”
Was Sam actually hearing this? Or was he dreaming it all, and he’d wake up in a few hours with a hangover? Did Bran Roscarrock, pillar of Porthkennack, just as good as say he kept a love nest round here? “Yeah, okay,” Sam found himself saying, because that was so much better than a twenty-minute cab ride and besides, when weird shit like this happened you had to go with it, right?
“It’s not far. Just a few minutes in the car.”
“You really do come here often, then,” Sam said, mostly to himself. Then he started to wonder about it. “Hey, you’re definitely not seeing someone, are you?”
The taxi driver revved his engine. Bran tensed again, then stepped away from Sam to open the car door. They climbed in, and Bran gave the address. Newquay. Sam hadn’t realised how close they were to the town, here.
He hadn’t had an answer to his question. “You’re not, are you? Seeing someone?”
“No. I was . . . but it didn’t mean anything. It’s over now.”
Sam frowned. “It wasn’t him who put you in the hospital, was it?”
Bran’s head spun towards him so fast he ought to have got a crick in his neck. “No. Of course not. Craig would never—” He fell silent, maybe not wanting to give away any further information inadvertently.
“Right. Good. To both.” Sam scrubbed his hands on his trousers. “I’m not big on the rough stuff. Or screwing around, for that matter. Just wanted to get that out there.”
Bran’s gaze darted to the driver, and Sam took the hint and fell silent.
It wasn’t far at all to Bran’s flat on the outskirts of Newquay. Which was good, because Sam had started to worry the bloke might be second-guessing himself. And yeah, of course Bran had every right to change his mind—but Sam reckoned they’d both regret it if he did. Bran needed to ease up on himself. Let himself have what he wanted for once in his life.
The flat was in a small, modern block, built high on the edge of the cliffs. The rest of the apartments were most likely owned as holiday bolt-holes by people who were absent most of the year, or by young professionals. Nobody was likely to notice or care if Bran brought men here.
Had there been many? Before tonight Sam would have given even odds on whether Bran had ever slept with a man before. Now, he wasn’t so sure. Bran might be in the closet, but apparently he liked company there.
They didn’t meet anyone insi
de when Bran unlocked the front door and took Sam through the lobby to the lifts. They got out on the third floor, and Bran ushered Sam into flat number twelve.
A narrow hallway led to a decent-sized living room, with a white-and-chrome kitchenette on the left that didn’t look like it got a lot of use. The furniture was all modern, which, like the sleek glass-and-concrete building itself, had to be a change from Roscarrock House. Sam wondered which Bran preferred. He didn’t ask. Too-searching questions might have broken this strange, intimate mood between them.
“Nice place,” he said instead. “Had it long?”
“A few years. Since it was built.” Bran took off his jacket and laid it on the back of the sofa.
Sam stepped through the room and up to the French windows at the far end. “Can I open these?”
“Go ahead.”
The key was in the lock, so Sam turned it, opened the doors, and stepped out onto the balcony. Immediately, the sounds of the sea were in his ears, and he smiled. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he could just distinguish where the waves, pale moonlight glinting off them, washed up on the beach below. There were few lights visible—they were at the very edge of town here.
In daylight, the views must be spectacular. Bran could make a killing renting it out to holidaymakers, and maybe he did. Although it’d mean restricting his love life to off-season, so maybe he didn’t, after all.
“I can see why you chose this place,” Sam said, turning back to Bran. “Feels kind of free, doesn’t it? Being right on the edge of the land like this.”
Bran swallowed, and his gaze intensified. “That’s . . . Yes.”
It was as if Sam had said something profound. Perhaps he had, to Bran. Sam felt a sudden surge of longing for this deeply private man who only truly let his passion show when talking of a prince six centuries dead. “Will you come outside?”
