“It was one reason,” he said carefully.
Nicol stared at him. Waiting for him to expand. Was this an invitation to be frank? It was difficult to tell.
“Another reason,” Lindsay continued slowly, watching Nicol, “is that I wanted to get to know you better.”
Nicol gave a huff. “I can’t imagine why,” he said. “I’m not the sort of person who—” He broke off, pressing his lips together in an impatient line.
“Who what?” Lindsay asked. “What sort of person aren’t you?”
Nicol’s frown was a scowl now, one he directed at the wine in the glass he held. “I’m not someone people want to get to know. I’m not likeable or amiable, or the least bit entertaining or witty.”
“You think not?” The stonemason, Paterson, had certainly liked Nicol, but perhaps Nicol didn’t realise that. And of course, Lindsay liked Nicol—except that liking was far too tame a word for what Lindsay felt.
“No,” Nicol replied, flatly. “I have my talents but I’m under no illusion that personal charm is one of them.”
Lindsay couldn’t help but smile at that. “Well, it’s true that you haven’t put yourself out to charm me.”
Nicol stared at him, his blue-grey gaze searching. “And yet,” he said eventually, “here you are.”
“Yes.”
Nicol frowned and repeated, “Why? I don’t understand.”
That unique scent of Nicol’s teased at Lindsay. It was an outdoors scent, summoning up pictures in Lindsay’s mind of mountainsides and rocky passes and scree. Something clean and mineral about it.
Nicol was still waiting for an answer, brows pinched. Grey-blue eyes, wary and uncertain.
Lindsay realised his heart was racing.
“Can’t you guess?” he whispered, the words tumbling carelessly from his lips. “I’m here—I asked you here—because I want you.”
Nicol’s eyes widened with shock and he jerked back a little.
Lindsay waited for him to respond, but as time passed and it became clear that Nicol was not going to reply, he added, reckless now, “I wanted you the moment I set eyes on you at Cruikshank’s. Couldn’t you tell?”
Nicol shook his head wordlessly.
“I thought it might have been rather obvious—certainly by the time I came to your office this afternoon.”
Nicol stayed silent, just staring at Lindsay in apparent disbelief, until, goaded beyond politeness, Lindsay said, “Say something, will you?”
Nicol swallowed, hard. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”
“Just tell me: yes or no.”
Lindsay saw a glint of fear in Nicol’s eyes at the bluntness of that question.
“Yes or no to what?”
Lindsay’s gaze was steady. “You know what I’m asking.”
“I’m not sure I—”
“I want to go to bed with you. I want to fuck you.”
Now Nicol’s face blazed scarlet. “For God’s sake, be quiet,” he hissed, glancing around nervously. The other diners were paying them no mind, caught up in their own murmured conversations. Lindsay had spoken so quietly, no one could possibly have heard him.
“I’m equally happy for you to fuck me,” Lindsay offered in the same low tone. “Or, if need be, we could come up with some other variation on the—”
“Stop!” Nicol bit out. “You must—you must stop saying these things. I have no intention of doing anything like that with you.”
Lindsay leaned over the table, narrowing the space between them. He was filled with a dangerous exhilaration. “What’s wrong, Nicol. Scared? I didn’t take you for a coward.”
“Coward? What’s your definition of courage?” Nicol bit back. “Pleasing yourself? Doing whatever you want, never mind that it’s against every law there is?”
“Yes,” Lindsay said simply. “Sometimes.”
Nicol snapped his mouth closed and looked away. He seemed very remote now. Untouchable.
This time, when the silence stretched, Lindsay leaned back in his chair.
“You’re right about one thing,” he said at last. “You’re not amiable.”
“Not in the least,” Nicol agreed flatly. Then he set his wineglass down. “I should be going,” he said. “Tomorrow is a busy day for me.”
Disappointment sliced through Lindsay. Disappointment and profound regret at his hasty, too-frank words. He had played his hand far too quickly with Drew Nicol, and he couldn’t even say why he’d done it. It was unlike him to be so clumsy. Nicol might be attracted to Lindsay, but that didn’t mean he was willing to own his desire, and there was no point trying to force the issue. That way led madness, maybe even violence. Lindsay knew that too well.
“I understand,” Lindsay said. “Let me settle up and we can leave.”
“There’s no need for you to pay—” Nicol began, but Lindsay froze him with a look. Nicol subsided, though he pressed his lips together in a firm line that signalled his displeasure.
Lindsay eyed that stubborn, appealing mouth with profound regret for one long moment, then tore his gaze away and summoned the footman.
Chapter Eight
When they stepped outside into the cool night air. Lindsay inhaled deeply, filling his lungs. It had been stuffy inside Dalkeiths and his wolf was prowling within him, pressing its muzzle against his human edges, eager to be free and no doubt certain it could do a better job at winning Nicol over.
Beside him, Nicol was tight-lipped and silent.
“Well,” Lindsay said, turning to him, “My rooms are at Locke Court, just off the High Street. Which direction do you go, Mr. Nicol?”
Nicol glared at him. Or rather, at his throat.
“Is something wrong?” Lindsay asked mildly.
“Your clothing is very ostentatious,” Nicol said. “As are your jewels.” He pointed an accusatory finger at the crisp white linen wound around Lindsay’s neck. “Is that a diamond pin?”
Lindsay pressed his chin into his chest in an attempt to look at the offending item. “It is,” he said. “Diamond and amethyst. Do you like it? I think it goes very well with my coat, I must say.”
“You are a fop,” Nicol said. “More to the point, you are quite plainly a wealthy fop. Make no mistake, Mr. Somerville, there will be at least a dozen cutpurses between here and Locke Court who will be only too pleased to relieve you of your jewels and purse.”
Lindsay grinned, amused. “Are you worried about me, Mr. Nicol? I must say, I’m very touched. However, I will be quite all right, you know. I’ve walked the streets of London and Paris at this hour of the night many times and I can’t imagine Edinburgh is much worse than either of those wicked cities.”
“I can’t speak for London or Paris,” Nicol replied in his terse way, “but I can assure you that you are underestimating your chances of being set upon. These streets are very dangerous at this hour.”
Lindsay tried to hide his amusement. Poor Nicol; he really had no idea who he was dealing with—though the fact that he appeared to feel responsible for Lindsay’s well-being was oddly endearing.
Lindsay made his expression serious. “What do you suggest I do?”
“Take a chair back to Locke Court.” Nicol scowled down the length of the dark street as though willing an empty sedan to appear.
Lindsay shrugged. “Very well. If it makes you feel better, I promise to do that, just as soon as I come upon some chairmen—there were plenty of them around earlier, quite close to here.” He smiled and offered his hand to Nicol, who hesitated a moment, then took it. His long fingers were surprisingly warm and Lindsay experienced a queer jolt when they touched his own—and an even queerer ache at the thought that this was all he’d have of Drew Nicol’s touch.
“Well, I’ll bid you farewell,” Lindsay said briskly, offering a half-bow. “I apologise for... pressing my attentions upon you, Mr. Nicol. Thank you for your company.”
With a final nod, Lindsay turned on his heel and set off down the street. He’d barely gone a f
ew paces, though, when he heard Nicol cursing behind him, then the tattoo of swift boot heels on cobbles. A moment later, a hand was on his shoulder, stopping him. Lindsay turned to find Nicol scowling at him.
“You should wait here for a chair,” Nicol said. “Dalkeiths can summon one for you.”
“There’s no need for that,” Lindsay replied, “I’m sure I’ll come across one momentarily. I’ll likely have to wait an age at Dalkeiths.”
Turning, he began striding along the road again. There was more muttering behind him, then Nicol was catching up to him again.
“If you insist on walking,” Nicol grumbled, drawing up alongside him, “I’d better walk with you. You’ll surely be accosted, dressed like that. You’re practically a walking invitation.”
Lindsay suppressed a smile. It seemed he was to have a little more of Nicol’s company after all, and he couldn’t find it in himself to complain.
“That’s very kind of you, I must say,” he replied. “Perhaps you’ll agree to join me for a brandy when we get to my rooms?”
Nicol gave him look. “I’m just going to see you safely home,” he said. “Then I’m returning to my own home.”
“But what if a cutpurse accosts you?” Lindsay asked. “If your argument is that there’s safety in numbers, I can hardly leave you alone to the dangers of the city, now can I?”
“I’ll be fine,” Nicol said. “Unlike you, I do not invite attention with obviously expensive clothes and jewellery. And besides, I know this area very well and have my own rooms quite close to Locke Court.”
That was an interesting tidbit, Lindsay thought.
“Very well,” he said. “I may as well accept your offer of protection, particularly if we’re going the same way in any event.”
As they strolled towards the Canongate, Lindsay began a cheerful monologue about how long he’d spent getting ready for this evening’s dinner and how time-consuming it would be to remove his fine clothing and cosmetics when he got home. Partly, it amused him to play up to Nicol’s assumption that he was nothing but a fribble, but there was also a sly delight to be had each time he mentioned disrobing or bathing or some other intimacy. Each and every time he did so, Nicol gave off a wave of that delicious scent that made Lindsay near-wild with lust.
Ah God, but Lindsay was playing with fire.
He’d moved on to the subject of his daily toilette, and was waxing lyrical on the benefits of soaking one’s hands in milk for a quarter hour each day, when he became aware that they were being followed, just as Nicol had predicted. To Lindsay’s amusement, Nicol hadn’t yet realised, though he was plainly making the effort to be watchful. Without Lindsay’s heightened senses though, he had not picked up the telltale sounds of soft, careful footfalls, or the ripe scent of the unwashed bodies that pursued them. Two individuals, Lindsay discerned, each with their own uniquely unpleasant scents.
Moving closer to Nicol, he set a hand on the man’s arm and said softly but urgently, “Keep walking and don’t turn around—I think we are being followed. Listen.”
Nicol glanced at him sharply, then away, his expression concentrated. After a minute or so, he muttered, “I think you’re right but keep going for now. Don’t slow down.”
The alley they were in was very dark, and there was a quiet corner up ahead, a vulnerable point before they joined the main street again where it was only wide enough for them to walk in single file.
As they drew closer to the corner, their pursuers grew bolder and less subtle, the footfalls and whispered conversation behind them audible now.
Lindsay felt a familiar bolt of excitement as the men closed in on them, the hunter inside him excited at the prospect of a fight—he ran his tongue over the edges of his teeth. They felt sharp and ached with the desire to bite. His wolf pressed hard at him, wanting to be free. Perhaps wanting to show off in front of Nicol.
Nicol was not excited though—not in the same way as Lindsay at any rate. His brows were lowered in concern and his heart thudded hard, audible to Lindsay’s sharp ears.
He glanced at Lindsay. “We are going to have to face them,” he murmured. “Before they overrun us. I want you to stay back and let me take charge. Are you ready?”
Lindsay nodded, strangely thrilled by Nicol’s dominant, protective manner, even as his wolf grumbled at being thrust aside.
“Remember to stay behind me,” Nicol said. Then he turned and, raising his voice, called out, “Who’s there?”
At first there was nothing but silence, then a skittering of pebbles and a muffled whisper.
“Come out!” Nicol demanded.
A long shadow peeled away from the darkest corner of the alleyway, emerging into the faint moonlight. Then a second joined it. Two shadowy, indistinct figures, one carrying a long, glinting knife and the other—a much younger man—a crude club.
“Well now,” the man with the knife said, stepping forward. “It seems we’ve come upon a pair of gen’lemen, Billy. They must have a bit o’ gold on them, don’t ye think?”
As Nicol moved in front of Lindsay to meet him, the man growled, “We’ll be havin’ yer purses, gents.”
“I think not,” Nicol replied calmly.
The man gave a nasty smile. “If ye don’t want to make ma gully’s acquaintance”—here he ran his thumb almost lovingly over the blade of his knife—“ye’ll hand them over.”
Lindsay, who was now leaning against the damp wall of the alleyway behind Nicol, gave a laugh at the man’s dramatics, making Nicol shoot him a warning look.
“Sorry,” Lindsay said, adopting a suitably contrite expression. “But that was a ridiculous speech.”
And that, apparently, was all the provocation the man needed to attack. With a snarl of outrage, he leapt forward, slicing into the air with his knife. Nicol did not retreat, though he feinted to avoid the blade and began slowly circling, fists raised and keen gaze searching for an opening.
The second man—boy really—hung back, weighing his club in his hands, and sought out Lindsay’s gaze, his expression ugly and threatening.
Amused by this attempt at intimidation, Lindsay met his eyes, letting him see the beast that hid inside his elegant, foppish form. His wolf was already close to the surface and eager for blood, and when Lindsay eased his control by a notch, the fierce animal rush of the beast as it strained to be let loose was like a powerful wave, surging up inside him. Briefly, his vision flickered grey, and the scents of the nighttime alleyway intensified.
The boy froze in terror at whatever he saw on Lindsay’s face, and then the sharp stink of urine was in the air as he pissed himself. The club dropped from his hands to the filthy ground, and with a squawk he turned and fled, abandoning his companion to fight alone.
Lindsay pressed back his wolf with effort.
“Where are ye goin’, ye fuckin’—” the other man yelled after him, distracted into a brief glance over his shoulder. Nicol, seeing his chance, lunged at the man and they grappled briefly till Nicol overpowered him and the knife clattered to the ground between them.
Nicol kicked the weapon towards Lindsay. “Pick that up,” he grunted, and Lindsay did so, tucking the wickedly sharp blade away. He watched, admiringly, as Nicol landed several blows on their assailant. Nicol was not an elegant fighter—probably he was not trained—but he was effective. The last blow he struck connected squarely with his opponent’s face, making a sickening crunching noise and sending the man to his knees where he writhed in the muck, hands cupped over his nose.
Nicol stepped back then, chest heaving, expression grim.
“Well,” Lindsay said. “I must admit, I’m glad you came with me now, Mr. Nicol. You were quite right about cutpurses.”
Nicol turned to him, glaring. “You should have taken a sedan chair, like I said.” He pointed at the lapel of his coat which was now torn and hanging. “Look at me. I’ll have to have this mended,” He sounded so aggrieved, Lindsay had to bite his lip against a smile.
“You are rather dis
hevelled,” Lindsay admitted, strolling towards him. “And you’re looking quite sore too.” Nicol’s left cheekbone was swollen and beginning to redden from some glancing blow he’d received during the scuffle. Lindsay lifted his hand and brushed his thumb over the sore area, only for Nicol to jerk his head back in something that might have been anger or shock. The air between them was thick, making Lindsay’s cock thicken in his breeches, and his breath grow unsteady.
A scrabbling noise made them both turn back to their assailant. He’d got to his feet and was even now running away, down the close.
Nicol exhaled angrily. “I wanted to find a watchman so I could have his arse hauled to the Tolbooth.”
Lindsay shrugged, unconcerned. “We’d have been trudging around for ages looking for one. At least this way I can take you to my rooms and get you cleaned up right away. My manservant can mend your coat and I have some remarkably good French brandy I’m sure you’ll enjoy while you wait. Come on.”
For a moment, Nicol looked as though he was going to argue, but in the end he merely sighed and nodded. “All right,” he said. “Some brandy wouldn’t go amiss, I must admit.”
Chapter Nine
That Wynne did not expect Lindsay to have company when he returned to their rooms at Locke Court was very evident from the fact that he was in his nightshirt when he opened the door.
“I’m sorry for dragging you from your bed,” Lindsay told him sincerely. “But I have brought Mr. Nicol back with me. We were set upon by thieves and his coat has been torn—I was hoping you could mend it for him. Doubtless he will have some bruises coming up too, so if I you could bring us some of your excellent salve, I’d be much obliged.”
Wynne’s calm expression betrayed no surprise at any of this. He nodded, stepped aside, and murmured, “Of course, sir. Right away.”
“Follow me,” Lindsay said to Nicol, “And I’ll fetch you that brandy. You look like you need it.”
He led Nicol into the sitting room where a low fire smouldered in the grate and several candles were burning. An open book lay on the table—Wynne must have been reading in here when they arrived. Lindsay suppressed a sigh. No doubt Nicol would draw that conclusion too and wonder why Lindsay’s servant was openly using his master’s rooms. Ah well, there was nothing he could do about that.
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