Unnatural

by Joanna Chambers

  Over the heads of the more oblivious customers, signals were exchanged, too subtle for an ordinary man to notice—not to mention Iain in his present state.

  He sniggered at that thought and upended his tankard, pouring the last of his ale down his throat.

  “Another, Cap’n?” the man beside him asked, hiccoughing as he elbowed Iain in the side. He was a new friend, this one. Not bent, unfortunately, since he was comely, in a rough sort of way. Not really Iain’s type, though. He liked them prettier, and fair. Fair like—well, that one over there.

  Iain’s gaze snagged on the back of a man’s head on the other side of the dim room. He’d just walked in with his two companions and was in the process of removing his hat. His hair gleamed like old gold in the dim light, picking up the sparse candlelight. His friends were beardless lads with nervous, eager smiles, but Iain wasn’t interested in them. His attention had been caught fast by the fair man. With his height and those shoulders, he reminded Iain of James Hart—but it couldn’t be Jamie, could it?

  “Cap’n!” the man beside him repeated, jostling him with that elbow again. “Come on—do you wan’ another?” He paused and seemed to think carefully. “Or we could get some gin.”

  Iain dragged his gaze back to his companion, forcing himself to concentrate on what the man was saying. He blinked hard, thinking back to what they’d just been talking about. “Wha’ were we goin’ to do?” he said, a distant part of him wincing at how slurred his words were. He sounded like his father, a thought that made his gut churn. Then he remembered. “Weren’t you going to get some playing cards?”

  His new friend—Charlie?—frowned at that, then grinned. “Yes—you’re righ’,” he said, standing up and clapping Iain on the shoulder. “I’ll go and see what I can rustl’ up. Cards and”—he hiccoughed—“gin. I think gin for cards, don’t you, Cap’n?”

  He didn’t wait for a reply but weaved away, disappearing into the press of bodies.

  Iain’s head swam, his vision blurring. Christ, how much had he had? He pulled out his pocket watch, closing one eye in an effort to focus on the hands. After a few seconds, his eyes adjusted, and he saw that it was almost eleven o’clock—he’d been drinking hard for five solid hours.

  He didn’t care. He was glad of it, glad of the oblivion and tired of feeling bored and miserable. Tired of watching every word he said, tired of having to spend his days charming everyone he came across. He felt more like the King’s fool than his guard these days. The King wanted Iain in his personal entourage because he was handsome and merry and people tended to like him easily. He expected Iain to be always amusing, ever ready with a bon mot and a compliment for the ladies. Ready to talk to anyone he was seated next to at dinner, no matter how dull, how rude, how incapable of comprehending the English language. Always on hand to listen to the King’s complaints and self-pitying monologues, always available to soothe George with platitudes about how well thought of he was, how loved by the people.

  He’d been stuck in the King’s service for over a year now, and there was no sign of him getting back to his regiment any time soon. He felt like a fraud wearing his uniform. His sword would be rusting in its scabbard.

  Iain’s gaze crept back across the room to the young men standing at the bar. They were talking animatedly and laughing loudly, an attractive group. He suspected they were bent, and when he saw the shorter, dark-haired one brush against the tall, fair one, he was sure of it. Infuriatingly, the fair man still hadn’t turned round, and Iain found himself willing him to do so, as though he could make him move merely by desiring it hard enough.

  “Come on,” he muttered under his breath, “come on.”

  As though he’d heard Iain, the fair man finally shifted, turning round and leaning his elbows back against the rail of the bar. The lurch of excitement that racked Iain’s body when he caught sight of his handsome familiar face had him rising to his feet before he could think better of it.

  It was James Hart standing there.

  Iain hadn’t seen him since the previous summer, a silence having settled between them since Iain’s last visit to Wylde Manor and the argument they’d had after that...incident down by the swimming hole. Iain had left early the following day, not even waiting to say good-bye properly.

  Suddenly, that seemed so very absurd.

  He was crossing the floor of the inn before he could think better of it, his long legs eating up the space between him and James. He saw the moment that James noticed him, the instant smile that lit up his handsome face before an uncertain expression Iain didn’t like chased it away.

  “Jamie!” Iain exclaimed as he drew close. “It’s really you.”

  He could feel James’s companions’ eyes upon him, but he didn’t so much as glance at them—his attention was all for James, who was now looking at him as though he were a ghost.

  “Iain,” the man said faintly, allowing Iain to take his hand in a firm grip and to clap his other shoulder in a display of easy friendship that belied all the complicated feelings between them.

  “Jamie,” Iain said again. Just that.

  For a long moment, they just stared at one another, and even though James looked a little troubled, his grey gaze was still the most wonderful, welcome, restful thing that Iain had seen in a long time. It soothed all the jagged parts in him so that it felt like, right now, standing here holding James’s hand, he was experiencing the first peace he’d known in ages.

  And then James was clearing his throat and extricating his hand from Iain’s grip, looking away from him to catch the eyes of his companions.

  “Gents, this is my...friend. Captain Iain Sinclair.” James gestured at him, a small, almost embarrassed gesture that Iain found he didn’t like, and when James glanced at him again, his expression was careful. “Mr. Alun Lloyd, and Mr. Philip Carstairs,” he intoned politely, indicating the two gentlemen beside him. “Friends from university.”

  Carstairs glanced at Iain from under his sandy lashes, offering a subtly provocative smile. “Delighted to meet you, Captain.” He was a decent enough looking fellow with his sandy hair and compact frame, but he couldn’t hold a candle to James.

  Iain sent him a careless smile, including Mr. Lloyd in it. “Likewise.”

  He turned back to James. “It’s been too long,” he said. “A year? More?”

  “Ten months,” James said crisply and Iain couldn’t help but smile at that, at his typical precision. It bothered him, though, that there was no answering smile.

  The need to touch James was near overwhelming, an itch that grew in Iain till he could feel it prickling his fingertips. The effort he was expending to stop himself reaching out was enormous—and seemed suddenly ridiculous. He lunged at James drunkenly, slinging a companionable arm around his shoulders.

  “Ah, but it’s good to see you,” he exclaimed, making his voice jovial—as though he was just a merry drunk. That was all anybody would think, wasn’t it? And anyway, who cared what anyone else thought?

  Beneath his arm, he felt James stiffen and shrink. The man gave an awkward laugh, bearing the weight of Iain’s arm for a few seconds before he shrugged it off, glancing at his friends, then round the inn, nervously.

  “Have you been drinking awhile, Sinclair?” James asked. His expression was only mildly enquiring but his voice was tight, and Iain felt a wave of sadness swamp him at the disapproval and the use of his surname. His arm dropped to his side, bereft.

  “Awhile,” Iain admitted.

  “Are you here with friends, Captain?” That was the shorter, dark-haired man. The one who’d been pawing James earlier. Iain fancied he detected a faint challenge in the young man’s gaze.

  “I came alone,” Iain said. “Though I was speaking with someone when you came in.” He waved in the general direction of the table he’d been sitting at. “He was going to get some cards for a game.” He looked up, catching James’s eye. “Would you like to play with us? Two’s a hopeless number for cards.”

 
James glanced at his friends, half enquiringly, half apologetically. The dark-haired man opened his mouth—to protest, Iain suspected—but before he could speak, the sandy-haired one said smoothly, “What a good idea. Where’s your table?”

  Iain led them across the room. The table was still miraculously empty. Charlie, a fair-weather friend if ever there was one, must’ve forgotten about him. He never did come back with any playing cards, but Iain soon forgot about him anyway. The conversation with James and his friends flowed easily enough, and the sandy-haired fellow bought a jug of gin for them to share.

  As drunk as he was, Iain still noticed that James was uncharacteristically quiet. He didn’t look much at Iain either. It was funny—Iain hadn’t realised how often James’s gaze rested on him until, suddenly, he wasn’t looking.

  When the drink finally overwhelmed him, it took him unawares. He wasn’t sure when his eyelids fell and his head lolled, only knew that, abruptly, James’s lips were brushing his right ear, his breath warm as he spoke into it, his hand gently shaking Iain’s shoulder.

  “Come on,” he urged. “Wake up, Iain. You’re falling asleep—let’s get you home.”

  “’M’fine,” Iain muttered without opening his eyes. “Just resting my eyes.”

  “No,” James’s voice said in his ear, quiet and firm. “You need to go home. Come on, I’ll take you. Philip says we can borrow his carriage.”

  Alone with James?

  “All right,” he said and lurched to his feet, reeling a little before steadying himself by gripping the edge of the table.

  James’s short Welsh friend looked distinctly put out at their leaving, but the sandy-haired one—Philip, whose carriage was being offered—seemed quite pleased. Perhaps he fancied his chances with Aled or whatever his name was once James was out of the way.

  “Thank you,” James was saying earnestly to Philip as Iain swayed on his feet. “I’ll send your driver straight back after.”

  Philip waved him off carelessly. “In your own time, dear boy,” he said. “I’m sure Alun and I can amuse ourselves here for a while.”

  James turned to Iain. “Come on, then,” he said, placing his hand at the small of Iain’s back and pushing lightly in the direction of the door.

  Iain was so used to looking after himself always that it was a real novelty to let someone else do it. He found himself relaxing into James’s care, allowing the man to guide him through the crowd of drinkers and out into the night, then down the street to where Philip’s driver idled outside his carriage.

  Iain stood there on the street, eyes closed, while James spoke to the driver, not even bothering to listen to what was being said. Then he let James coax him up the steps of the carriage and steady him as he climbed inside and sat down on the bench.

  When James settled down next to him, Iain slumped against his side. He let his head fall onto James’s shoulder, and in that moment, it was as though everything else just fell away. It felt so right to rest there, letting James be his bulwark. Letting James’s warm strength absorb all of Iain’s cares.

  When had James grown this broad in the shoulders?

  Iain sighed heavily, contentedly. He felt James’s head turn, perhaps in surprise. Then the weight of James’s head leaned against his own, as though he drew something in turn from Iain, as though they fed something in each other.

  The motion of the carriage and the comfort between them must have rocked Iain to sleep. The next thing he knew, he was being shaken gently, wakening with a start.

  “Iain—we’re here. Come on.”

  With unquestioning obedience, he stumbled out of the carriage after James and then stood watching as it drove off into the darkness.

  Only then did he realise where they were—at the Hart family townhouse.

  “What’re we doing here?” he said stupidly as James urged him towards the front door. “I thought you were taking me home?” He felt a bit less intoxicated now, though still thickheaded from his brief sleep in the carriage.

  James glanced at him with surprise. “I kept asking you in the carriage where your rooms were. But you just kept telling me your old address in Manchester. I thought you could sleep the worst of the drink off here, and my driver could take you home in the morning.”

  Iain groaned softly and palmed the back of his neck. “Christ, sorry.”

  “It’s all right,” James said easily, rapping on the front door with his cane. “If you want to go home now, I can get Reilly up to take you.”

  “No, no, it’s all right,” Iain replied. “Don’t wake your servant unnecessarily. If you really don’t mind having me as a guest for a few hours, that is.”

  “Of course not,” James said. He wasn’t looking at Iain but his voice was soft and sincere. “We mightn’t have seen each other for a while but we’re still friends.” He paused. “I hope we’ll always be friends.”

  Iain stared at James’s averted profile, even though it hurt him a little to look. James had that uncertain look about him again, and Iain was the cause of it. He wanted to chase that expression away. He wanted to see James smile.

  “Of course we’re friends,” he said. He lifted a hand, stroking his thumb across James’s cheek. “Now and always.” Reluctantly, he let his hand drop away, watching, fascinated, as James swallowed visibly. And then the door was opening.

  The footman stood aside to admit them. He locked up again then handed a lit candle to James to take upstairs, enquiring softly whether his master needed anything else.

  “No, thank you, Groves. That will be all.”

  The footman nodded and withdrew, leaving them to make their way upstairs.

  James led the way, and Iain followed him, mesmerised by the lean length of James’s legs as he climbed the stairs, the tight fit of his breeches, his taut, well-shaped arse. Christ, but he’d grown up comely, this lad of his.

  Strange to think how right it felt to think of James like that. As his.

  He followed James into a small sitting room. He’d been in here once before, only that time, James was the one who’d been drunk instead of Iain. Not that Iain felt so inebriated now. Now he was experiencing that strange, deceptive lucidity that sometimes came in the very depths of drunkenness.

  “This is familiar,” he said, smiling.

  James was turned away from him, lighting a branch of candles from the single one he’d brought upstairs. He didn’t look round at Iain’s assertion, merely asked, “Is it?”

  “Yes. Don’t you remember the last time I was in here?”

  James cleared his throat, still turned away. “I’m not sure I do,” he said, and Iain knew he was lying.

  “I took you out to see that boxing match at the White Hare Inn.”

  “Oh yes,” James said faintly. “I remember now.”

  “Our positions are somewhat reversed tonight, though.”

  “In terms of...?”

  Iain hiccoughed. “Being the worse for wear for drink.” The words came out in a shambling slur, and he gave a self-mocking laugh.

  “I’ve never seen you like this before,” James said. “How long have you been drinking?”

  Iain looked at the ceiling, considering the question. “Since around five, I think.”

  “Were you celebrating something?”

  Iain laughed harshly, then shook his head. “No. Quite the opposite.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning I needed to get drunk.”

  “Why?”

  Iain sighed, rubbing his hand over the back of his neck. “Because I’m bored rigid. I’ve been playing the courtier for a year now, and the truth is, I hate court politics. I’m good at it, but I hate it. The King is tedious and selfish, and everyone else at court is self-serving and manipulative. But my orders are to stay where I am—so I have no choice.”

  James’s eyebrows rose at his vehement tone. “Couldn’t you ask to be transferred? Let another officer take your place?”

  Iain gave a bitter chuckle. “The only reason I’m there
at all is because the King took a particular liking to me. And since my superior officers like having a window into the King’s mind, I’m stuck. Though why they want to hear about the nonsense that goes on in there escapes me. The man might fancy himself as a head of state, but all of Europe knows who really holds the power in this country and it certainly isn’t Georgie boy.” Abruptly he yawned, then scrubbed his hands over his face. When he dropped his hands away, he saw that James gazed at him with a tender expression that made him feel the strangest pang of pure longing.

  “You look exhausted,” James said. “Come on, you can sleep in my bed. I’ll take one of the guest cha—”

  “No,” Iain said. “Don’t do that.”

  The words were out his mouth before he’d thought them through, and James was plainly startled.

  “What?” he said, his tone suggesting he genuinely thought he’d misheard.

  “Stay with me,” Iain said.

  James’s shock was palpable. He stared at Iain openmouthed for a few seconds before shaking his head. “You—you’re not thinking straight. You don’t want—”

  “I do,” Iain said. He stepped forward, taking a firm hold of James’s slim hips and tugging him forwards so that his long lean frame slammed against Iain’s broader one. They were practically the same height now, and Iain loved that. Loved that, standing, their chests and groins matched perfectly. Lips matched perfectly. He had a moment to see the sudden darkening of James’s eyes before he pressed his mouth to the other man’s.

  James made a brief, weak sound of protest, his hands fastening round Iain’s biceps with the apparent intention of pushing him away, except that when Iain licked his tongue over the seam of James’s lips, the man’s firm grip on Iain’s upper arms loosened and he groaned in defeat, parting his lips to let Iain’s tongue sweep inside his mouth.

  It was so fucking sweet, that reluctant surrender. So sweet and so giving. So generous. He had always loved James’s generous spirit. Had always loved this boy, this man. And now he wanted to show it.

  Tearing his mouth away he stared into James’s eyes—those lovely grey eyes, turbulent now, with confusion and passion.