Brothers of the Wild North Sea (49 page)

I took it easy in deference to my passenger. It was a long time since Archie had deigned to hell around on a bike with me, but I knew it was a rough ride. The quads were single-seaters technically, one and a half at a stretch—or a crush, more like it. The pillion either hung on to the back of the saddle, or…

I hit a tussock and bounced the bike hard. Cameron gave a startled yelp then burst into wild laughter. I pulled up, grinning too. God, what a sound—unfettered, like a kid’s. “Sorry. You okay?”

“Aye. Nearly went crack over nips into yon bloody bush, but I’m fine.”

“Crack over nips, eh? What a nice Larkhall lad.” I let the engine idle. “I know we’ve barely met and all, but if you hang on to me, you’ll be safer.”

“You don’t mind?”

“Course not.”

He put his arms around me tentatively. I gave his hand an encouraging pat—it was only a business arrangement after all, never sparking the slightest frisson in me when Kenzie was hitching a ride—and he closed his grip.

That was better. We had a lot of ground to cover, and now I could give it some welly. After the first good bump or two, he got the idea and hung on properly. I picked up speed and felt him duck his head against my shoulder to shelter from the wind. “All right back there?”

“Yes. Go faster if you like.”

I chuckled. “Fun, is it?”

“Hell, yeah.”

I closed my fist on the throttle and took off. His grip was powerful. Whatever the reasons for his loss of weight, they hadn’t yet impinged on the essential inner force of him. I could take a lot of his skinny warmth at my back, I decided, gunning the quad up to the last crest before the long slope towards the cliff’s edge and the sea. From there I’d get an idea of the task ahead, how far the flock had scattered, if any looked like they had new lambs at foot. Fill up the bale feeders, see to any casualties, begin the endless round of fence checks…

“God almighty. Stop.”

I braked so hard he nearly went over my shoulder. “What? Did I hit something?”

“No. I just want to see… It’s so beautiful.”

“Jesus.” I snapped off the engine. “You scared me.”

“Sorry. But look at it.”

I was looking. I looked at this landscape every day, through sea frets, rain, or just the mists of my exhaustion. I didn’t need him to tell me it was lovely, on those rare days when it cracked open its casket of jewels.

Or did I? That serpent band of light had found its reflection, its shimmering twin, in the sea. The air between them was on fire, casting the cliffs in bronze, throwing a weird burnished radiance right into the zenith. Ailsa Craig island burned on the horizon, its sugarloaf turned into a pyramid, as if Giza had set sail from its sands and paused here on some unimaginable journey, to Atlantis maybe. Yes, I’d been looking. But I hadn’t seen it in months.

Cam dismounted from the bike and came to stand beside me. “Incredible place,” he said softly. “What’s it called?”

“Just Seacliff, as far as I know—like the family. Seacliff Farm.”

“Seriously? That’s wild. Crazy romantic.”

I stole a glance at him. The transfiguring light had caught him too. If anything deserved to be on the cover of a book…

“Not really,” I said, gruff in proportion with my desire to tell him so. To undo my grip on the quad’s handlebars and reach for him. I did let go with one hand, but only to point at the glittering water then the towering faces of rock that lined the shore. “It’s pretty basic really. Sea. Cliff.” I turned in the saddle and gestured back the way we’d come, where Harry’s windows had taken the sunset, almost as if he’d put on all the lights and kindled a comfortable fire. “Farm.”

“Nichol, did you ever see…?” Cam paused, and I frowned at the unsteady hitch in his voice. I couldn’t have upset him, could I? “Did you ever see a film called
Young Frankenstein
?”

“Yeah, of course. It’s one of my favourites.”

“Do you remember when Igor’s driving Professor Frankenstein home to the castle, and they hear something howling, and the girl says, ‘Werewolf!’? And Frankenstein says, ‘Werewolf?’, and…”

“And Igor starts pointing and says, ‘There, wolf. There, castle.’ Okay, okay, I get it.” I shook my head, helplessly mirroring his smile. “Fair enough. I don’t know how I got so blind to it all. Or so grumpy about it, for that matter.”

“Are you kidding me? You must have been through hell.”

His voice had changed completely. Now its huskiness was something else—a sympathy that passed like a blade through my hard-won defences. God, and I wasn’t going to have to reach for him—he had put out a hand to me, careful but unafraid. I held very still while he brushed his fingertips across my fringe.

“Were you very lonely?”

Desolate.
I hadn’t known till now. I didn’t bloody want to know. If I let that come to surface, he would see it. He was a stranger, a runaway. A criminal, to take the view that Archie Drummond would, an unknown who had broken into my life and would like as not be gone in the morning.

“Sometimes,” I managed. I couldn’t say more. If I opened my mouth again, he would see how badly I wanted him to kiss it.

Oh, God. He saw anyway. A sweet concentration gathered in his eyes. He leaned a little towards me. I heard the wind in the gorse, the whisper of the sea far below us then nothing but the pulse of my own blood.

To seal their bond, they must break the ties that bind.

A Private Gentleman

© 2012 Heidi Cullinan

Painfully introverted and rendered nearly mute by a heavy stammer, Lord George Albert Westin rarely ventures any farther than the club or his beloved gardens. When he hears rumors of an exotic new orchid sighted at a local hobbyist’s house, though, he girds himself with opiates and determination to attend a house party, hoping to sneak a peek.

He finds the orchid, yes…but he finds something else even more rare and exquisite: Michael Vallant. Professional sodomite.

Michael climbed out of an adolescent hell as a courtesan’s bastard to become successful and independent-minded, seeing men on his own terms, protected by a powerful friend. He is master of his own world—until Wes. Not only because, for once, the sex is for pleasure and not for profit. They are joined by tendrils of a shameful, unspoken history. The closer his shy, poppy-addicted lover lures him to the light of love, the harder his past works to drag him back into the dark.

There’s only one way out of this tangle. Help Wes face the fears that cripple him—right after Michael finds the courage to reveal the devastating truth that binds them.

Warning: Contains wounded heroes, bibliophilic tendencies, orchid obsessions, a right bastard of a marquis, and gay men who get happily-ever-afters.

Enjoy the following excerpt for
A Private Gentleman:

“Vall
ant
!” Sir Joshua barked. The shout echoed against the empty walls. The baronet mumbled beneath his breath as the sound of footsteps came closer. Both Vallant and Wes tensed when the sheet rippled and the chair creaked. But Sir Joshua didn’t find them, only grunted and farted as he settled back in the chair anchoring their sheet, breathing heavily.

“Fucking cocktease,” he grumbled. Another grunt, another fart, and then a belch as well.

Wes and Vallant held very still. They also tried not to breathe.

Sir Joshua did not rise. After the passage of a few more minutes, he began to snore.

Wes and Vallant were trapped. They sat beneath the sheet, inches apart and staring at one another. Vallant no longer looked terrified, but he didn’t look settled, either. The strangest thing, however, was that Wes got the distinct feeling it wasn’t Sir Joshua who upset Vallant the most. It was Wes. And the longer they sat there, silent and staring, the more desperately Wes wanted to know what about him inspired such a reaction.

Careful not to make a sound, he reached into his vest pocket and pulled out his notebook and pencil.

Balancing the paper against his leg, he wrote,
I will not expose you.
He started to pass it over before pulling it back to add,
Not to Sir J nor to any other. You have no need to fear.

He handed the notepad over and watched carefully for Vallant’s reaction.

Vallant’s first move was to lift the paper very close to his face, though after studying it, he glanced up at Wes, his look still wary. Which meant he hadn’t feared exposure.

Which meant he feared the
other.

Grimacing, Wes motioned for the paper.

I am not a madman. Only a stammerer. It is my tongue, not my mind, which is my affliction.
His lips tightened as he added,
Certainly I am preferable to he whose wind gags us and uneven snores prevent us from escaping.

He handed the pad over brusquely and waited.

Once more the pad went all the way up to Vallant’s nose. This time, however, when he read Wes’s note, he blushed.

“I don’t—” he began in a whisper, but as soon as he spoke Sir Joshua snorted and stirred. Wes laid a finger to his lips and passed over the pencil. Vallant took it and wrote hurriedly.

I don’t think you’re mad. Thank you for helping me. Certainly you had no cause to.

It was kind of Vallant to say this, of course, but it helped Wes not at all. He wrote again.

Then why do you fear me?

He was ready for Vallant to object, to insist he didn’t, but to his surprise, Vallant seemed abashed. He hesitated over the pad.

You are Daventry’s son.

Wes glanced at him, but Vallant wasn’t meeting his gaze. Wes wondered why the devil that was. Because of his father, apparently, but that explained nothing that would help him now. Fear of the office, perhaps?

He tried for levity.

An accident of birth. I’m afraid I’m nothing like my father, and he would be the first to tell you so. Emphatically.
After some thought he added,
I shan’t tell him anything either, if that gives you any comfort.

The pencil stub ended up in the corner of Vallant’s mouth, where he nibbled absently at it before writing his reply.

You are oddly tolerant of my nature.

Ah.

A return confession felt redundant after his reaction in the anteroom, but it seemed Vallant would demand it of him. Wes wrestled with phrasing, wanting to be clear to Vallant while being coded enough for another to fail to accurately decipher it should they find their notes. In the end he decided there was nothing for it, and he would need to burn these pages the moment he returned to his apartments.

I share it
.

To his surprise, Vallant only gave a grim smile. His reply was swift.

I meant that I am a whore. Somehow I doubt you claim that nature as well?

Was it terrible that Wes felt aroused by the conversation? Likely. He tried to absorb himself in composing a reply, which took some doing, both the absorption and the reply itself. What did one say to that?
No, don’t mind at all, old chap? What are your rates, perhaps I can give you some business?

Aloud, he would have no hope of continuing the conversation. Indeed, he would never have made it this far. But here, trapped as they were… Perhaps it was all the pent-up frustration of the evening, perhaps it was the opium, or perhaps it was simply Vallant himself, but Wes suspected very much he was flirting.

If all are as delightful as you, I should hope to encounter many more of your peers. If I am mistaken, however, I shall happily embrace you as an exception.

Vallant’s surprise at this reply was quickly masked, but Wes took pleasure in the suspicion that it flattered rather than alarmed him. When the notepad returned to him, Vallant presented it with a slight smile playing at his lips.

I apologize for my familiarity earlier. I honestly did mistake you for my friend.

Wes’s reply was as swift as he could write it.

Pray, think nothing of it. I live in hope you make the mistake often in the future. And I envy your friend.

This time Vallant’s mirth was more difficult for him to repress, though by his reply he clearly meant to keep trying.
Whores are meant to be bought with money, my lord, not flattery.

Another quick reply, one Wes gave almost without thinking.

Perhaps it is not the whore I am trying to buy.

This, though, upset Vallant, who went still and wary at once. His reply was also swift, his hand shaking slightly.

You have only seen the whore, I promise you. And him, sir, you must purchase with shillings.

Wes cast up his eyebrow. He had no idea why Vallant thought he would swallow such a lie.

Perhaps it wasn’t Wes he was lying to.

He should let it go, he knew. What he meant to pursue with such a man he had no notion. Sir Joshua was well asleep now, and they could easily make their escape. Yet he could not stop himself from writing again.

I have seen only a whore in the same way you have seen only a stammerer.

Vallant stared at the paper a long time. This time he didn’t chew the pencil, but he did nibble his lip. He glanced up at Wes, searching for something in his face. Then he returned to the paper.