Love at First Hate

by JL Merrow

  Would Bran really fire him, though, with so much to be done before the exhibition opened? What if Canterbury used yet another change of curator as an excuse not to lend their relics after all? The grand opening would be a fiasco. But what were the chances Bran would see it that way? If he was that desperate to get rid of Sam, he’d have no problem persuading himself he could do it all on his own.

  Could Bran fire him? He kept saying he wasn’t technically Sam’s boss. Maybe the rest of the Woodstock Trust people—whoever they were—would veto any attempt to sack Sam at this late stage? Relying on that might be wishful thinking, though.

  Sam carried on kicking himself for a self-indulgent couple of minutes, then got a grip. Maybe he couldn’t have a do-over of this morning, but there was something he could do. And hopefully Bran would take it as the olive branch it was intended to be.

  Pulling up his proposed wording for the Limoges display, Sam scanned it to see if there were areas of negativity he could, in conscience, tone down for Bran’s sake.

  He got more than he’d bargained for. Looking at it all with a cool head, he had to admit Bran had a point. Coupled with the other changes he’d made, introducing the point of view of the ordinary people—both English and French—caught up in the Black Prince’s military campaigns, it did tend to paint the prince in a bad light.

  Sam winced. Christ, he’d had a classic knee-jerk reaction to Bran’s partisan worship of the Black Prince, and he’d gone way too far, using a sledgehammer to squash a gnat. He couldn’t believe he’d been so blind—how could he not have realised what he’d done?

  Because you thought Bran was another Doug, that was why. Sam had leapt to the conclusion, even if he hadn’t articulated it to himself, that Bran was doing what Doug had, was trying to paper over the cracks in his research. And yeah, Bran had wanted to put his own spin on the facts, but that didn’t excuse Sam gyrating off wildly in the other direction.

  Thank God there was still time to make changes. He tweaked a few paragraphs, and gave more prominence to the 2014 discovery of a letter in the prince’s own hand regarding the siege of Limoges that detailed far lower casualties among the defenders.

  Then he went back to the scripts for the “oral history” recordings and read them through with a critical eye. They were definitely a bit lacking. National pride had been at a real high at the time of the prince’s campaigns—he’d been a charismatic leader and a home-grown hero. In World War II, when Churchill said, “We will fight them on the beaches,” what he’d meant was, “You will fight them.” Churchill himself had had a bunker to hide in. But back in the days of Edward III and the Black Prince, leading a battle campaign meant getting on your horse and plunging right into the thick of things. The common folk had respected that. It was like saying, Okay, my life’s better than yours, but I’m willing to die alongside you.

  And Sam had left that aspect out entirely. Where were the fourteenth-century equivalents of the old ladies who sat in their run-down council houses with their collections of royal wedding plates and mugs, telling anyone who asked that the Queen might be the richest woman in the country, but she worked hard and she did a good job, bless her? Where were the citizens of London who turned out to cheer the prince’s triumphant return from Poitiers, bringing with him a captive king and, to make sure the cheering didn’t die down, having the fountains run with wine instead of water for the day?

  The peasants might have revolted in the end, but Sam would bet his PhD a lot of them had had very mixed feelings about it all.

  He settled down to make some revisions.

  It wasn’t until his stomach rumbled that Sam realised just how long he’d been working. He’d missed lunch entirely—fair enough, he’d had a very late breakfast—and it was getting on for five o’clock. Bran hadn’t been in touch. Well, okay, that just meant the ball was in Sam’s court. Should he call? No, it was too soon. He’d give it a day at least.

  Still second-guessing himself, but pleased with the day’s work, Sam packed up his things and headed back to Jory’s. He lucked out again there—Mal was still in exam mode, and Jory seemed preoccupied. All that was said about the previous night was, “Went well, did it? Good,” and later on an awkward reassurance that Sam was perfectly free to have a “guest” stay the night.

  After the third time Sam had to repeat himself when talking to Jory, he decided maybe he wasn’t the only one who had stuff on his mind. “Are you all right, mate?” he asked cautiously, as he and Jory cleared up after dinner.

  “Me? I’m fine.”

  “Seriously? Because from where I’m standing, you seem like something’s eating you.” Shit, had Jory somehow found out Sam had spent the night with Bran? Given the obviously strained fraternal relations, that might explain Jory not being comfortable around Sam anymore. “Have you, uh, heard something that bothered you?”

  “Oh, it’s nothing. Just something Gawen said.”

  “Gawen?” Huh. Sam always forgot Gawen went to Jory’s school, so they presumably saw each other during the day. “Is he okay?”

  “He’s fine, but I don’t think he’s been getting on too well with his mum’s new man. Gawen said Euan shouted at him over the weekend to leave his effing things alone. And he helpfully pointed out that Euan didn’t actually say effing.”

  “What was that all about?”

  “Gawen was looking for something he’d mislaid, and, well, Euan’s rucksack was in the living room. Now, Gawen says he only moved it to look underneath, and that he didn’t even think of searching inside, which makes Euan’s reaction a bit extreme.”

  “Do you think he’s telling the truth?”

  “I’d like to think so. Except if he is, it’s worrying.”

  Yeah, Sam didn’t like to think of any kid getting yelled at for no reason. “Have you spoken to his mum about it?”

  “No. I didn’t want to overreact myself.”

  “You wouldn’t be overreacting. You’re obviously worried, Gawen’s worried enough to tell you about it, and you don’t want to let anything like this escalate. He’s your kid too, you know.”

  Jory was nodding. “Thanks. It’s just so hard to judge sometimes, whether I should interfere. I didn’t do a great job of being a father for the first years of his life, so Kirsty has every right to tell me to mind my own business.”

  Sam shrugged. “Just be nice about it, and I’m sure she’ll be okay.”

  “You’re right.” Jory put down the tea towel. “I’ll give her a call now.”

  Good deed done for the day, Sam thought, and finished clearing up in the kitchen.

  Later, as he was going to bed, Sam checked his phone. Still no message from Bran, but then he hadn’t really expected one. It was going to have to be him making the first move, wasn’t it? Maybe it was a bit soon, but then again, best to make contact before Bran had a chance to turn up at the castle and pretend nothing had happened.

  If Sam wanted last night to be the start of something more, that was. When he asked himself that question, he was almost surprised to find he really, really did. He’d been wrong about Bran, dismissing him as just another repressed corporate type with a stick up his arse. Okay, maybe he’d been right about the repression, but Sam got the feeling that was something he’d struggled with all his life. The way he spoke about his family—particularly his dad—made Sam think a lot of Bran’s issues had been caused by his upbringing, and that he’d be only too happy to lay them to rest.

  It gave Sam a warm feeling, to think he might be able to help with that. And it wasn’t just altruistic. Bran with his hair down was a man Sam wanted to spend a lot more time with. His stomach fluttering, Sam fired off a quick text, then shut his phone down for the night.

  Bran had never been good at mornings after. He generally found it impossible to gauge whether a partner intended their liaison to be a one-night stand, or the start of something more regular. Much of the time, of course, Bran had no desire for a repeat performance—but making this clear generally went a lo
t better when the other party was on the same page.

  One thing Craig had been good at was articulating what he wanted. Which was probably why he’d lasted so much longer than any other men in Bran’s life.

  Sam, now . . . Last night it’d all seemed so simple. Earth-shattering, yes, but also simple. Sam and he were embarking on a relationship, and they weren’t going to hide it. Bran had made the momentous decision to change everything about his life. But this morning, with its awkward conversation and nervous glances, had left him uncertain whether anything had changed at all.

  Alone in the kitchen of Roscarrock House, Bran stared into his coffee cup and tried to see some wisdom in its depths. Did he want things to change? The thought of it was terrifying—but also exhilarating. To be openly in a relationship with Sam . . .

  The idea fluttered in his stomach. He felt as though he were standing at a crossroads, and to choose the road ahead would take him . . . where, he didn’t know, but there would be no coming back. But the roads on either side led nowhere he hadn’t been before. And he was sick and tired of trudging the same old paths.

  Then again, it might not be his decision. Would Sam still want a relationship with him, in the sober light of day? This morning hadn’t exactly been reassuring in that regard, at least, not once they’d got out of bed. Perhaps Sam had already been regretting his choices of the night before.

  This was pointless. Bran would find no answers here, and he wasn’t about to hurry over to the castle like a lovesick idiot, begging Sam to tell him where he stood. Bran drank the last of his coffee and rose. Time to get some work done.

  Bran settled down to work with his old vigour, and by the time Bea came home, he was well satisfied with his day’s progress, especially given the late start. He came out of his study to meet her in the hall. “We should go out to eat tonight.”

  Bea cocked her head. “Are we celebrating something?”

  “Can’t I just want to take my sister out for a meal?”

  “To make up for not coming home last night?” she asked with unsubtle emphasis.

  Bran frowned. “You were all right, weren’t you?”

  “Of course I was. Don’t be silly. I’m a grown woman. And we don’t need to eat out. I brought some food home.”

  Bran had somehow failed to notice the bags by the door, although he realised now there was an enticing aroma of garlic coming from that direction. The bags turned out to contain a varied selection of delights from a local delicatessen. “Feeling hungry tonight?” he asked, surprised.

  Bea coloured faintly. “I felt like making an effort, that’s all.”

  “In that case, I’ll open a bottle of wine. Pinot grigio?”

  She nodded, looking pleased. “That would be nice.”

  Forking up some rather good pasta salad ten minutes or so later, Bran decided now was as good a time as any to sound her out a bit. “Bea . . . how would you feel about me seeing someone?”

  Bea stilled for a moment, but then carried on dissecting her chicken. “Why should I have any particular feelings about it?”

  She could be so bloody difficult, sometimes. “If I were to have them to stay at the house, for example?”

  “Why are you asking me? Have you met someone you’d want to do that with?”

  “I . . . was speaking hypothetically.” Bran flushed, even though it wasn’t a lie—nothing was settled with Sam, for God’s sake.

  “Is it a man?” she asked coolly.

  She’d known. Of course she’d known. “Would it make a difference if it was?”

  Bea put down her fork. “Possibly. To some people, definitely. Whether that would have a material effect on the family’s interests—”

  “Damn the family’s interests. I meant to you.” Bran took a swallow of his wine. “Your opinion matters. It always has.”

  “Why wouldn’t I want you to be happy?” She didn’t meet his gaze.

  Bran knew, then, that something was wrong. “Are you happy?”

  Bea’s mouth twisted, and she placed her knife and fork neatly together on her plate.

  It had the impact of a drumroll. Bran put his own cutlery down and gave her his full attention. Perhaps, finally, he was going to find out why she’d been so . . . distant these last few weeks. “Are you?” he prompted.

  She took a deep breath. “I’m thinking of moving to London.”

  It was so wholly unexpected Bran couldn’t speak for a moment. “Why?”

  “I’ve been offered a job. A good job. And if I don’t go now, I never will.”

  “But do you want to leave Porthkennack?” Bran couldn’t imagine it. Not for himself, and not for her either. Exchange the wild freedom of the Cornish coast for a life hemmed in by skyscrapers, with the din and reek of constant traffic?

  And would Porthkennack be the same without her? They’d always been together, he and Bea. Always, apart from when they’d been at school.

  Everything changes, Sam had said last night.

  “I should have left a long time ago,” Bea said harshly.

  “Why?” Bran was stung.

  Bea stood, shoving her chair back. She didn’t walk away, though.

  Bran stared at her in silence, fearing any word from him might put her off, might persuade her to keep her thoughts to herself.

  “It’s never like you imagine it will be, is it?” she said softly.

  Bran matched his tone to hers. “What isn’t?”

  “Life.” She paused. “When you were attacked . . . it made me think. I realised that if you died, I’d be all alone. I don’t want that. I hate it, but I don’t.”

  “You’d still have Jory and Gawen.”

  She gestured dismissively. “You know Jory and I have never got on. And Gawen’s a child.”

  She’d never been good with children, Bran recalled. Even when she’d been one.

  “That’s why I’ve got to go,” she went on. “I don’t want to sit alone in this old house going mad from the wailing of the wind.” Like Father. The unspoken words were wrenchingly clear. “I need to make a life for myself. Somewhere else.”

  “Away from me.” Bran felt frozen inside.

  “Oh, don’t look at me like that! Gawen likes you. And you’ve got your . . . whoever. Hypothetically. You’ve always had your men.” She said the last quietly, as though it were something to be ashamed of.

  Then again, he’d always acted as if it were, hadn’t he?

  Bea walked out of the dining room. Bran’s appetite went with her, but he forced himself to finish his plate. He was still healing, after all.

  The wine he put in the fridge. Perhaps she’d want it later. Bran cleared away the plates and wrapped up the remains of the food to put in the fridge as well. Had she bought all this with her revelations in mind? A figurative last supper for the two of them?

  He struggled to decide how he felt about her coming departure. Hurt, yes—she’d made it sound as though she were desperate to get away from him, and how could that do anything but hurt him? But no, this was about her, not him. It was a struggle to comprehend, though. He’d always thought Bea sufficient unto herself.

  It was both reassuring and unsettling to hear that she’d known all along about Bran’s men, despite the fact they’d never talked about the subject. Perhaps they should have. Well, that would change. He wouldn’t exclude her from his relationship with Sam—if, that was, Sam agreed that they should embark upon one.

  When he plugged in his phone charger before bed, he found he had a message. From Sam.

  Heart thumping, he opened it up. Can you come to the castle tomorrow? I’ve got something to show you.

  Bran stared at it for a long time before sending a quick, affirmative reply. So, he’d find out tomorrow where he stood with Sam. And it boded well that Sam had asked to see him so soon.

  Didn’t it?

  His emotions riding a switchback between excitement and fear, it took him a long time to find sleep that night.

  The next morning, Bran forced hi
mself to wait until midmorning before going down to the castle to see Sam. Sick of taking taxis everywhere, he decided on impulse to take his BMW for its first outing in . . . how many weeks? Bran didn’t like to count. The car didn’t seem to resent his neglect, or perhaps was simply happy to be in use once more, as it started readily and purred all the way across town. Even his ribs, still achy, didn’t protest as much as they might have at the unaccustomed exertion.

  Bran hoped it was a good omen. His heart rate sped as he got out of the BMW. He wasn’t at all sure what would be the outcome of this meeting with Sam, and couldn’t help remembering the awkwardness that had descended between them after they’d left the Newquay flat. Still, Sam had said he had something to show Bran—not the dreaded We need to talk. It was at least cautiously optimistic.

  Having found the Portakabin empty, Bran walked over to the exhibition centre. Sam was in the reception area, talking to Roarke. He used wide, open gestures while Roarke nodded, face impassive, apparently impervious to the lively charms of the man in front of him. Although he would be, wouldn’t he? Roarke had been married twenty years and, as far as Bran knew, had never looked at another woman, let alone a man.

  Bran’s stomach fluttered anew. Given the choice, he would have much preferred to have met Sam without witnesses. Should he have waited in the Portakabin? No, that would have been ridiculous. Still—

  Sam glanced over and smiled.

  Bran’s chest was tight, but it was a good tightness. Not painful. He found himself smiling back, and took a moment to compose himself before striding over to Sam. “Good morning. You had something to show me?”

  “Yeah. Yeah, I did.”

  “I can wait if—”

  “No, no. We’re done here.” Sam turned back to Roarke. “Okay, so we’re clear on that?”

  Roarke nodded. “Will do. Morning, Mr. Roscarrock.” He hesitated for a moment.