Love at First Hate

by JL Merrow

  Riptide Publishing

  PO Box 1537

  Burnsville, NC 28714

  www.riptidepublishing.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. All person(s) depicted on the cover are model(s) used for illustrative purposes only.

  Love at First Hate

  Copyright © 2018 by JL Merrow

  Cover art: Garrett Leigh, blackjazzdesign.com

  Editors: Rachel Haimowitz and Veronica Vega

  Layout: L.C. Chase, lcchase.com/design.htm

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher, and where permitted by law. Reviewers may quote brief passages in a review. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Riptide Publishing at the mailing address above, at Riptidepublishing.com, or at marketing@riptidepublishing.com.

  ISBN: 978-1-62649-832-7

  First edition

  September, 2018

  Also available in paperback:

  ISBN: 978-1-62649-833-4

  ABOUT THE EBOOK YOU HAVE PURCHASED:

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  Bran Roscarrock has been living in the closet all his life. As heir to an expansive family legacy in the town of Porthkennack, old-fashioned ideals of respectability and duty were drummed into him since childhood, and he’s never dared to live—or love—openly.

  Sam Ferreira, an old friend of Bran’s brother, Jory, is a disgraced academic desperate to leave his dead-end job. When Jory asks him to take over as curator of a planned exhibition on Edward of Woodstock, the fourteenth-century Black Prince, Sam leaps at the chance to do what he loves and make a fresh start.

  But Bran’s funding the exhibition, and though sparks fly between the two men, they’re not all happy ones. Bran idolises Prince Edward as a hero, while Sam’s determined to present a balanced picture. With neither of them prepared to give ground, a hundred years of war seems all too possible. And if Bran finds out about Sam’s past, his future may not be bright, and their budding romance may be lost to history.

  About Love at First Hate

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Epilogue

  Dear Reader

  Also by JL Merrow

  About the Author

  More like this

  “Bye, Uncle Bran!” Gawen’s voice had finally settled into a deep baritone that was hard to credit, coming from the slight, tousle-headed figure waving by the front door. “And thank you for The Gorg—uh, the book.”

  “The Gormenghast Trilogy.” Chuckling, Bran waved back from the vast distance of four feet away, having barely made it a couple of paces down the path. “You’re welcome. And don’t stay up all night reading it. School tomorrow, remember.”

  “But I haven’t got any interesting lessons. It’s just English, French, and History. And double games.” Gawen’s tone made it clear what he thought of that.

  Bran could empathise. But only silently. “Physical education is important for your health. And you need to pass your exams in all your subjects, not just the interesting ones.” Gawen’s mother Kirsty being something of a free spirit, this sort of gentle nagging was often left to Bran.

  “I suppose.” Gawen’s mouth turned down comically. Bran managed not to laugh as he said a final farewell.

  As he walked through the garden towards the road, the faint light from the open door threw eerie shadows from Kirsty’s driftwood sculptures. Bran had never managed to get used to them. He could see they were art, and good art at that, but they weren’t his kind of art. Too . . . unrestrained.

  He’d stayed later than he’d planned. Kirsty had cooked, Gawen had begged, and Bran could remember being thirteen himself—wanting his father to spend time with him, and the crushing disappointment of being refused. So he’d allowed himself to be persuaded. He’d got a more-than-decent meal out of it, and all in all it’d been a definite improvement on the rest of the day. Pennock & Hardy were proving annoyingly obstinate over the Constantine Bay property, and Bran had had sharp words with a visitor to Roscarrock House. Too many of them seemed to be under the impression that “Private: No Entry” only applied to other people. Sometimes Bran hated living and working in a house that was open to the public.

  Still, the house was his heritage. And Gawen’s too. For a boy who lived for maths and physics, Gawen was gratifyingly interested in Bran’s retellings of Roscarrock family history. Everyone said, of course, that that was down to Gawen’s father, but Bran liked to think he deserved at least some of the credit. After all, he’d been more of a father to the boy than his brother had for the first ten years of Gawen’s life. Jory was doing a better job of fatherhood now, though—Bran had to grant him that. He’d moved back to Porthkennack just over a year ago, and looked likely to stay for good. Bran had worried, at first, that Jory’s presence would mean Gawen would have less time for Uncle Bran, but apparently his affections were made of sterner stuff than that.

  It was a warming thought, and Bran found himself smiling as he walked back through the town. The sun had set a while ago, and a soft breeze was blowing in off the sea. It brought with it the scent of brine and seaweed, and the cries of gulls as they foraged around town for the rich pickings left by careless tourists—not so many of them, this early in the season, but enough for a noticeable increase in avian activity. Bran imagined pitched battles fought over discarded bags of chips or half-eaten sandwiches, then wondered when he’d become so fanciful. Gawen’s influence, no doubt.

  The direct route from Kirsty’s house led him through a quieter part of town, away from the pubs, restaurants, and amusement arcades of the centre.
Bran’s shoulders relaxed. He’d never been one for raucous entertainment, even in his teens, and he couldn’t help finding it a little tacky. On the other hand, a thriving local economy was nothing to be sniffed at.

  The street lamps were set farther apart here, and just ahead of him, one flickered. On, off, on—and then off for good, or so it seemed. Bran would have to report it. He fumbled in his pocket for his phone, then tried to remember how to turn on the torch app like Gawen had shown him a month or so ago. There. Bran shone the surprisingly bright light at the post, and made a note of the number.

  When he switched off the light again, the darkness seemed three times as stygian. Bran was damned, though, if he was going to use a torch to get through streets he’d known all his life. The next street lamp wasn’t all that far away.

  As he looked towards it, Bran saw the silhouette of a man coming towards him with unhurried tread, and tensed for a moment before firmly telling himself not to be such a child. There was something familiar about the half-seen figure, wasn’t there? Hardly surprising, of course, in Porthkennack. Bran squinted, but couldn’t make out who it was—and of course, with every step nearer, he was shrouded further in darkness.

  Bran’s face, by contrast, would be faintly illumined by the glow from the far street lamp. He hated being at a disadvantage. Still, if it was an acquaintance, presumably the man would greet him verbally, and hopefully he’d recognise the voice. Bran walked on, trying not to be too obvious about examining the advancing figure. The man had his head down and his hands in his pockets. Bran frowned. Surely he knew that figure?

  They were only a few feet from one another when, perversely, the faulty street lamp sparked back into life. Pale light fell across them both, making Bran blink as much in surprise as in the sudden brightness.

  The man looked up. “You.” It was a vicious snarl borne on alcoholic fumes. “Bastard!”

  Eyes wide, Bran drew in a breath—and then a fist drove into his stomach and all breath fled, leaving only a tight knot of pain.

  He stumbled. Struggled not to fall.

  Then his head exploded in agony, and the darkness was absolute.

  “You sure this is right?” It was followed by an earsplitting belch.

  Sam managed not to sigh out loud. Or wince at the reek of beer as he bent down to go over the bill for table eight. “You had the banquet meal for four and up, yeah? And there’s seven of you. So that’s that total.” He underlined it in pen.

  “What’s all that other guff, then? How come you charged us for all them other meals?” The guy who’d apparently been designated the mathematician of the group frowned. He was a big, beefy bloke in his early twenties, and Christ knew why he’d got the honours given his total lack of comprehension of simple addition.

  “That’s because three of you wanted chips with it, and then the gentleman over there”—Sam pointed to the biggest bloke at the table, currently swaying worryingly in his seat—“decided he didn’t like curry and he wanted an omelette instead. And then there’s drinks.”

  “We never had all them lagers. You sure you didn’t get the number wrong?”

  “Wrote them all down as you ordered them,” Sam said patiently.

  “Yeah, but you could’ve made a mistake. Wrote it down wrong.”

  I have a PhD. In medieval history. Which you probably can’t even spell right now. “Trust me, I didn’t make a mistake. I’ll show you the chits if you like.”

  “Nah, don’t bother.” Maths Genius raised his head to address his mates. “You lot of wankers are a bunch of bloody pissheads.”

  “I only had water,” Omelette Guy complained.

  “Water?” One of his mates burst out laughing. “You fucking poofter.”

  Maths Genius pushed back his chair so suddenly he almost knocked Sam flying, and stood up to bang on the table. “You leave him alone, you wanker.”

  “And mind your fucking language!” one of the others yelled out, to raucous laughter.

  “Don’t feel well,” Omelette Guy mumbled, swaying some more.

  Bloody hell. “Cash or credit card?” Sam tried to keep them on track.

  “Oi, lads, who’s got cash?” Maths Genius bellowed.

  There was a chorus of, “Dunno,” “Let me check,” “Who’s had my wallet?” and “Cashpoint wasn’t working.”

  “Yes, it fucking was,” Maths Genius answered to the last one. “I got mine out all right.”

  Someone cackled. “You got it out in the restaurant? You filthy bugger.”

  “Takes one to know one, mate,” someone else said. “I saw you dipping your wick in—”

  “Credit card, then?” Sam raised his voice, desperate to be heard. Omelette Guy had gone a horrible yellowy-grey colour. “And you can settle up with your mates when you get out of here?”

  “Oi, hang about, hang about,” Maths Genius grumbled. “Give us a minute, here. Or do you not want a bloody tip?”

  Give them a minute? Didn’t they have beds to go to? It was nearly 1 a.m., and Sam was this close to telling them where to shove their tips, if he hadn’t needed the money so badly. “Sorry. But I think your mate needs some fresh air.” He nodded at Omelette Guy.

  The two lads either side of Omelette Guy seemed to notice for the first time that he wasn’t looking too good. One pushed his chair so far away he banged into a girl in platform heels just getting up from a nearby table. “Whoops—sorry, love.”

  “Bloody hell, mate, you watch what you’re doing,” she squawked, tottering. “I nearly ended up in your lap.”

  He leered. “You can sit in my lap anytime, gorgeous.”

  “Oi, watch it, chum, she’s with me.” Heels Girl’s boyfriend puffed his chest out.

  Chair Guy got to his feet.

  Sam really wished he wasn’t on his own upstairs tonight.

  Then one of the other lads from table eight showed a bit more fellow feeling—not to mention total obliviousness to the threatening atmosphere—by patting Omelette Guy on the shoulder. “You all right, Rob? You’re not gonna chuck, are you?”

  Omelette Guy gagged.

  Sam’s heart stopped.

  Chair Guy jumped three feet away. “Oi, watch it, I got new trainers on.”

  Heels Girl and her bloke scuttled away.

  Sam met Rob’s mate’s eye. “Think we’d better get him outside.” Taking an arm each, they hauled the big guy out of his seat and, sweating, down the narrow stairs, past the queue still waiting for takeaway, and out onto the street.

  Where he finally hurled. Massively.

  At least it was outside. Thank God for small mercies. Sam looked down and realised with a sinking heart he’d caught some splatter. He’d have to clean that off in the loos. Luckily one thing this place wasn’t short of was disinfectant.

  “Rob, you big girl!” A shout in his ear alerted Sam to the rest of the group stumbling out of the restaurant.

  Shit. Had they paid? It’d be coming out of his wages if they did a runner. “Uh, guys, did you settle the bill?”

  Maths Genius clapped him on the back. “Don’t worry. Even left you a tip, cos Pete reckoned it’d be racist if we didn’t, you being a Paki and all. Oi, you are a Paki, right? Or have you just been at the spray tan?”

  “Tel, you tosser, you can’t call him a Paki.”

  “You did!”

  “Yeah, but not when I was talking to him. Sorry, mate.” He gave Sam an apologetic smile. “Pig-shit ignorant, some people are. You have a good night.”

  Finally, finally they left, walking off unsteadily down the street. Sam breathed a sigh of relief, and headed back into the restaurant to clean himself up.

  “Sam?” his boss called. “Why haven’t you got the mop out? We can’t have that mess out there putting people off.”

  “Sorry, Al, doing it now.” Sam sighed and got moving. “They did pay, right?” he couldn’t help asking.

  “Of course they did. But I don’t think they were impressed with your service. They left a very small tip. You�
��ll have to do better than that in future.”

  And there, in a nutshell, was the story of his life.

  “Mr. Roscarrock?”

  A woman’s voice. Soft and competent. It reminded him of Bea.

  Bran wished she’d leave him alone. His head ached terribly, and he was nauseous. Had he been drinking?

  “Mr. Roscarrock? Are you with us again?”

  Bran blinked his eyes until they focussed on a middle-aged female face wearing a concerned frown. “What?” It came out sounding rusty, as well as brusque.

  “You’ve had a bump on the head, Mr. Roscarrock. Do you remember what happened?”

  His thoughts were like slurry. He’d . . . been visiting his nephew, hadn’t he? “Gawen?”

  “Is that your partner? Someone you’d like us to contact?”

  “No.” Bran struggled to order his brain. Why did they think that? But no. It was just a . . . thing. Reaction. Because he’d said a male name. But how could they know—did they know? “Bea . . . My sister. My twin.” It seemed important to add that, although once he’d said it, Bran was no longer sure why.

  “She’s been informed, and she’s on her way.”

  Bran blinked at her. “Where?”

  “You’re in the Royal Cornwall Hospital in Truro. You were brought here by ambulance.”

  Ambulance? Had there been an accident? “Why?”

  “You’ve had a bump on the head. Do you remember?” It was said with endless patience. How many times had she asked him this already?

  “What happened? Is Gawen all right?” Bran struggled to sit up, but a vicious, sawing pain in his chest felled him almost before he’d moved.

  Gentle hands eased him back down. “It’s all right. Nobody else was hurt.”

  “What happened?” he asked again.

  “You were found lying unconscious in a Porthkennack street.”

  Hot shame at the indignity tightened Bran’s chest, causing a physical pain. To make matters worse, he heard himself make a sound that was unmistakeably a whimper. As if it wasn’t bad enough that he’d been lying in the street like a drunkard.

  But it didn’t make sense. Why couldn’t he remember? He’d been at Kirsty’s, talking to Gawen about . . . he wasn’t sure what. Schoolwork? Family history? He couldn’t remember leaving.