Love at First Hate

by JL Merrow

  “Yeah. Yeah, I was. But it wasn’t how it sounds.” Sam’s voice came over as desperate in his own ears. Pleading.

  “Then how was it?” Bran’s tone was clipped. Disbelieving.

  Bastard. Sam’s temper flared as he took in that closed-off face. “Do you even want to hear what I’ve got to say? Is there any point to all this, or should I just go straight over to Jory’s and pack my bags and save us both the aggro? Because you giving me a fair hearing? I’m not getting that. Not from the way you’re looking at me now.” His fist had clenched all on its own. Sam forced himself to straighten out his fingers.

  Bran’s eyes narrowed. “How the bloody hell do you expect me to look at you? As if I’m happy the exhibition I’ve been planning for years, have invested a considerable amount of my own money in, has been irretrievably ruined, its credibility utterly undermined? I’m going to be a bloody laughing stock. All because of what you did.”

  “Nothing’s been ruined! That paper was on Joan of Arc, not the Black Prince.” Sam ran a frustrated hand through his hair. “The Black Prince had been dead for fifty years by then, for Christ’s sake.”

  “You really think that matters? Why should anyone believe a word you say anymore? Why should I believe you?”

  “Why should you believe me?” Fuck, that was a low blow. “Because I thought we had something. I thought you— Fuck it, I thought you were actually starting to care about me.”

  “Apparently the man I may have been starting to care about doesn’t actually exist.”

  “Jesus, Bran, I’m still the same person. I made a mistake, that’s all.”

  Bran’s tight-lipped expression didn’t soften, and Sam’s hopes crumbled. “Deliberately falsifying research isn’t a mistake. It’s fraud.”

  “Christ, if that’s how you feel, why not call the bloody cops? So this is it, then? You’re going to tell me to fuck off for something that happened before we even met? Fine. Tell you what? Don’t bother. I’m going. Have a nice exhibition. Have a nice sodding life.”

  His hands shaking, Sam wrenched open the door of the Portakabin and launched himself through it.

  Bran didn’t say a word.

  Sam drove almost blindly, away from the castle and out into the countryside with no idea where he was going. When he saw a sign to a clifftop viewpoint he took the road—little more than a track—and drove up to the far end of a small car park. The few other cars there were clustered around an ice cream van near the entrance. Sam was alone, which was how he wanted it.

  He stood in the stiff breeze that was blowing up from the sea, gazing down over crags and rocks to the churning water below. Was he never going to escape his past? Was one moment of weakness always going to count more than all the years of study and hard, hard work before it?

  This was supposed to be his fresh start. And for fuck’s sake, he hadn’t lied about anything. He’d checked that Jory knew all the facts before he took the job, hadn’t he? So how come he was apparently still in the wrong?

  Bran had looked at him like he was nothing. Like he wished he’d never set eyes on Sam. He hadn’t even given him the chance to explain—he’d had Sam tried and convicted before Sam could say a word in his own defence. That was Bran all over. Leaping to judgement. Seeing everything in black-and-white. Nobody was wholly good or bad, were they? Not the Black Prince, and certainly not Bran himself, the self-righteous bastard.

  The wind was making his eyes sting, and Sam blinked furiously. It wasn’t fair . . . except it was, wasn’t it? He’d brought all this on himself. The Edinburgh thing would never have happened if he hadn’t been so bloody naïve. If he hadn’t wanted what he shouldn’t have. And Bran . . .

  That was worse. Sam had known he ought to tell Bran about his past. He’d known how important the exhibition was to Bran, and he still hadn’t disclosed information that Bran would absolutely have wanted to know. He’d pushed it aside, told himself it didn’t matter so long as he’d been honest with Jory—Jory, who was nothing to do with the exhibition or the Woodstock Trust. He’d just done a favour for a brother he didn’t like all that much.

  Even after they’d slept together, Sam had been too busy living in the moment. Seizing the day, because tomorrow the axe might fall.

  It’d bloody well fallen now.

  The breeze freshened, and Sam wrapped his arms around himself, although the sun was still shining. Christ, how could he have done that to Bran? Undermined the very thing he held most dear—well, maybe not, because God knew the guy loved his nephew, and Sam was fairly sure he was fond of Jory too under all that big-brother posturing, but still, the Black Prince was Bran’s passion. Had been all his life, pretty much. And Sam had lied—by omission, at any rate—about a threat to that passion.

  Christ, he was a dick.

  Seagulls swooped and whirled around the rocks below, their cries sounding over the crashing of the waves. How far down were they—a hundred feet? More? Life must be so bloody simple for seagulls. Catch fish. Eat fish. Maybe steal some poor sod’s ice cream for dessert. Rinse and repeat.

  “Are you all right, mate?”

  The voice startled Sam, and he whirled. A middle-aged white bloke in walking gear was standing there with a worried look on his face. “Uh, yeah, fine.”

  “The wife and I were just about to get a cup of tea.” He nodded to a plump lady standing a few yards away, holding a grinning Staffie on a lead. “You’d be very welcome to join us.”

  “I . . . No, I’m good, thanks.” Sam mustered up a weak smile. Christ, he must look worse than he felt. “Not a jumper. Just came up here to think, you know?”

  “Sure?”

  “Yeah. I’m fine.” Sam moved away from the edge to show willing, and the guy visibly relaxed. “Going to head back down in a mo.”

  He did end up having tea with the couple, because they looked so worried about him. Roger, the bloke, bought him a doughnut to go with it and told him all about getting made redundant a few years ago and thinking his life was over at fifty, but then he’d met Asha waiting at the deli counter in Tesco’s (she’d smiled at that) and got a new, better job—less money, but less stress too—and now they were in Cornwall celebrating their anniversary.

  Sam didn’t say a lot. He didn’t have to. He felt better while he was with them, and a little of it lasted as he waved them off on their walk, but then the bleakness settled back over his soul like a sea mist, chilling his heart.

  He climbed into his car and checked his phone out of habit. There was another message from Mum—again, just telling him to call her. Suddenly, talking to his mum sounded like a really, really good idea. At least she’d never stop loving him.

  He dialled her number. “Hey, Mum.”

  “Alessandro, what is going on?” Her voice was sharp.

  Sam’s chest tightened, and the chill slid deeper. This might not turn out to be the comforting chat he’d been hoping for. “Uh . . . what do you mean?”

  “Why have I had bailiffs at my house?”

  Oh. Oh crap. “Mum, you didn’t let them take anything, right? Christ, I’m so sorry.”

  “Of course I didn’t let them take anything. I told them you don’t live here, and if they didn’t go away I would call the police. And I repeat, Alessandro: What is going on? What trouble are you in now?”

  Sam winced at the now. “It’s . . . a misunderstanding.”

  “Then you don’t owe anyone any money?”

  “I do, but . . . I told them I’d pay it back. They just need to wait.” Crap. He’d meant to get in touch with them, tell them he’d definitely start paying once he’d had his first salary cheque, but with everything else going on, he’d forgotten. How could he have forgotten?

  “How much do you owe?”

  “It’s not that much. I’ll pay it off in a few months.” Except how was he going to do that with no job? Christ, his life was a mess.

  “How much, Alessandro?”

  Sam cringed at her tone. Reluctantly, he named the figure.


  There was a shocked silence. “Why do you owe so much money?”

  Suddenly it was all too much. Sam squeezed his eyes shut against the too-bright light coming through the windscreen. “Because I’m an idiot. It’s . . . Mum, I’m sorry, but it’s gambling debts.”

  “Gambling? How could you do something so foolish?”

  Sam hunched in on himself. “I told you I’m an idiot. It was just supposed to be a quick flutter. Something to help me relax, but once I started . . . I’m sorry, Mum. I tried to stop—I have stopped now, I promise. I haven’t placed a bet since I got this new job.” His voice cracked on the last word.

  “Oh, Sam.” Her tone was softer now. “Why didn’t you tell me you had money troubles?”

  “How could I? I knew you wouldn’t be happy. And it wasn’t so bad at first. But then the interest kept racking up . . .”

  “And it still is, hmm?” She sighed. “I’ll send you the money. You need to pay this off straight away.”

  “Mum, where are you going to get that kind of money?”

  “The mortgage is paid off. I can get a loan—”

  “No. You’re not going to put your home at risk.”

  “It won’t be at risk because my son will pay me back.”

  “And what if I don’t?” Sam drew in a shaky breath. “What if I . . . What if I lose my job?”

  “Sam? Is there something you’re not telling me? Is everything all right?”

  It was too much. First the guy on the cliff, now her . . . Sam’s eyes were stinging again, and there wasn’t any breeze to blame it on in the car. “Mum? I’ve made a real mess of things.”

  “Then tell me about it, and we’ll fix it.”

  Sam wasn’t sure it could be fixed. But the telling . . . Yeah. It was about time he stopped trying to sweep stuff under the carpet.

  Bran sank into Sam’s desk chair, desperately wishing he were at home but not yet trusting himself to drive. He’d hoped . . . He wasn’t sure what he’d hoped for, but it wasn’t for Sam to admit to everything. To acknowledge he’d come here under false pretences, with a reputation in tatters—and that his disgrace had been deserved.

  Damage limitation. That was what was needed. Bran would have to distance himself from Sam—no, Ferreira—immediately. Make sure everyone knew he was outraged to discover the man’s tarnished credentials. The exhibition should not be allowed to suffer. Perhaps he could get hold of another historian? And this time, not via Jory.

  That betrayal hurt almost as much as Sa—Ferreira’s. Jory knew how important the exhibition was to Bran, and yet he’d let him place his trust in a publicly disgraced curator. Did Jory really hate him that much? He’d thought things had been getting better between them.

  And Sam . . . Oh God. Bran had actually been prepared to brave public opinion and enter into a relationship with him. Openly. Never mind all the snide comments and unfunny jokes there had been about Jory and his boyfriend after they’d set up house together. No one had said anything in front of Jory—of course not—but Bran had heard, at the golf club and at drinks parties. He’d known only too well what certain people would think about him if he took that step with Sam. But he’d been ready to face it—and for what? A man who’d deceived him. Had attempted to deceive the academic world.

  How could he trust anything Sam had told him now? Bran’s chest ached more fiercely than at any time since he’d been attacked.

  It was almost a relief when his phone rang—at least, after the surge of disappointment that crushed Bran despite himself when he saw it was Kirsty, and not Sam somehow calling to make everything okay again.

  “Bran? Can you come over? Now, if possible?”

  “Is something wrong?” Oh God, Gawen—

  “No, but I need to talk to you, and the sooner the better.”

  If Gawen was all right, what could possibly be so urgent? But at least it was something to think about other than the disaster his life had become. “I’ll be right over.”

  The short drive from the castle to Kirsty’s house took well over ten minutes, and Bran cursed at every delay caused by slow-moving tourists on the road. The dejected apathy with which he’d greeted her request had been replaced by a tight knot of concern. Was this about Gawen after all? Kirsty had said nothing was wrong, but then why the urgency?

  It was a school day, he reminded himself. If anything had happened to Gawen, Jory would be right on the spot, and it would be him Bran had heard from, not Kirsty.

  Nevertheless, he was heartily relieved to reach her front door and have her open it with a smile, however tight-lipped. “Is everything all right?” he couldn’t prevent himself from asking.

  “Fine. But come in, yeah? Euan’s got something to say to you.”

  “Euan?” What on earth could he have to say to Bran? They’d never even met.

  “Just come on in, will you?”

  Perplexed, Bran followed her into her living room.

  The man who stood there waiting for them was tall and well-built, with dirty-blond hair tied back into a loose ponytail. He wore faded, ripped jeans, an equally distressed T-shirt and a scowl. Bran wouldn’t have trusted him as far as he could throw him, and he wasn’t at all happy about someone so disreputable looking being around his nephew. No wonder Kirsty had made sure they hadn’t met—until now.

  Or had they? The more he looked at the man, the more there seemed to be something vaguely familiar about him. Bran still couldn’t see what on earth Euan could have to say to him. Unless . . . An uneasy feeling churned in his stomach. Kirsty was divorced from Jory now—which meant she could remarry any time she wanted to. Did Euan want her to move away from Porthkennack? Take Gawen away? “I’m told you’ve got something to say to me,” he all but snapped, unable to bear the tension any longer.

  A muscle twitched in Euan’s scruffy jaw, and he looked away for a moment before putting a hand in his back pocket and pulling out a wallet. He handed it to Bran, who took it automatically, confused.

  Then he blinked. This was his wallet. The one stolen from him the night he’d been attacked. He opened it in a daze and found its contents, unbelievably, intact. The picture of Gawen, the credit and debit cards he’d cancelled and replaced, even the cash. “Where did you get this?”

  Euan gave a bitter laugh. “Where the hell do you think? Shit, you don’t remember me at all, do you?”

  “You were there when I was assaulted?” Bran’s pulse thudded in his ears.

  “How about earlier? That afternoon, when you chucked me out of your gaff. Came over all lord of the manor and told me to sling my hook after I took a wrong turning in your precious stately home. Like the fact your ancestors licked the right arses and robbed the right ships makes you better than everyone else.”

  “Euan.” Kirsty’s tone was a warning. “You’re supposed to be apologising, remember? Or do you want to go to prison?”

  Bran wasn’t sure if the pain in his suddenly tight chest was real or just a memory. “You. It was you who assaulted me.” He took an involuntary step back on legs that were appallingly shaky. “Kirsty, call the police.”

  Euan folded his arms, his very stance belligerent. “Oh, for fuck’s sake. I told you he’d be like this.”

  “Sit down, both of you,” she snapped. “We’re going to talk about this like adults.”

  Glowering, Euan sat down on the sofa. After a pause to make it clear that it was his decision, Bran took an armchair. He managed not to make it an undignified collapse.

  Kirsty nodded and sat next to Euan, although with a noticeable gap between them. “Right. So, Euan, are you going to tell Bran what we talked about? Finally? And leave out all the class-warrior bullshit. Or I will call the police.”

  Euan scrubbed his face with both hands, then turned to look at Bran squarely. “I’m sorry, all right? I just lost it for a minute. Been drinking, hadn’t I? Down the Sea Bell.” He gave a harsh laugh. “I’d watch your step round there if I were you. Not one of the locals ’ave got a good word to say for you.�
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  Bran felt hollow inside. Was he really so hated? “Why?” he asked hoarsely.

  “Why have they got it in for you? Cos you screwed half their families over, from what I heard. Or do you mean why did I lay into you?”

  “You said . . . But for God’s sake, all I did was ask you to keep to the public areas of Roscarrock House!” Bran flushed as he said it. Perhaps he had been a little harsh with the man—but it’d hardly merited a violent attack.

  “It was just everything, all right? First you practically set the bloody dogs on me, then Kirsty here tells me I can’t come over that night cos she’s got you visiting, so I goes down the pub—”

  Where he’d presumably spent the evening nursing his grievance and marinating it in alcohol.

  “Then,” Euan went on, his voice increasing in volume as he spoke, “when she finally tells me I can come and have my dinner, cos Lord bloody Roscarrock’s pissed off at last, which by the way was a good two hours later than she’d let me think it was going to be, I see you walking down the street towards me. Taking names and addresses from the sodding street lamps for dereliction of fucking duty. Then you look up and give me the evil eye like you’re going to have the law on me for walking down the bloody street. I just lost it.”

  “And he took your wallet so it’d look like a mugging,” Kirsty said quietly, into the silence that’d followed Euan’s tirade. She sounded exasperated. As if the attack which had landed Bran in hospital twice and left him in pain even now were nothing but a minor misdemeanour.

  Bran’s temper flared. He could have died. If he’d hit his head harder; if the pneumonia had been more severe . . . He opened his mouth to say so.

  “Have you counted your money?” Euan interrupted defiantly. “I didn’t take a penny of it.”

  As if that mattered a jot. He sounded like a sullen teenager. Bran wondered how old he actually was, beneath the unkempt hairstyle and the weathered skin of an outdoorsman. Younger than Kirsty, he was certain. But then Bran could hardly throw stones on that count.