by JL Merrow
“Soon,” Roarke said with a light emphasis that had Bran’s hackles rising.
“There’s a holdup? I thought Dr. Banerjee had left plans almost completed—you must have plenty to work on.”
“Your new man wants us to hold off while he makes some changes.”
“My—what?” Damn it, when would he learn not to set off a coughing fit?
Roarke waited patiently until Bran had finished hacking. “Your Dr. Ferreira.”
“Ferreira, whoever he may be, isn’t my anything.” Wishing fervently for a glass of water, Bran took care to moderate his speech this time. “Who the hell is he? Where has he come from?”
Roarke rubbed his chin. “It was Dr. Solomon brought him over at the start of the week. Said he’d be running the show from now on. If I’d known you hadn’t okayed it—”
“No—it’s hardly your fault.” Damn the woman. How dare she bring in her own man to curate his exhibition? “I’ll sort this out. You carry on.”
Bran reined in his steps unwillingly as he strode towards the castle. His chest was aching, and too much exertion would only set him off again.
“Where is Dr. Solomon?” he demanded of the young woman at the ticket desk.
A stranger to him, and hardly more than a girl, she visibly quailed inside her oversized tan polo shirt. “I think she was going up to the keep?”
That was one of the few mostly intact parts of the castle, with several rooms to visit and a viewing point at the very top. Dr. Solomon, Bran discovered after climbing more stone stairs than were good for him, was not in the keep. No doubt she was in Dr. Banerjee’s office, conspiring with Ferreira.
Bran took a few, carefully controlled breaths before making his way back down the narrow spiral staircases, a stop-start affair that entailed a great deal of pressing himself to the wall to allow ascending visitors to pass.
Pushing open the door of the Portakabin, which had been left ajar, Bran got his first look at the stranger occupying Dr. Banerjee’s desk. Young and brown skinned, with a shock of black hair that was tousled on top and cropped closer at the sides, he was typing two-handed with a pen sticking out of his mouth and a look of fierce concentration on his annoyingly handsome face.
The young man didn’t even glance up at Bran’s entry, just mumbled something completely indecipherable, which fanned the flames of Bran’s annoyance. Bran walked smartly up to the desk. “Who the hell are you?” he barked.
The pen fell to the desk as the young man startled and, at last, looked up.
Sam blinked up from his screen, still half-engrossed in the battle of Crécy, into the darkest brown eyes he’d ever seen, shaded by black brows that were lowered in fury. No—not black; they were the same bitter chocolate as the hair above them, but in this light it was as near to black as made hardly any difference. The guy scowling down at him was white, winter-pale despite the season, and in his late thirties at Sam’s guess. He had well-defined cheekbones and a narrow, almost pointed, but strong jaw. Not bad looking at all, especially in what was clearly a very expensive suit—although he’d lost weight since he’d had it tailored. He showed the classic short bloke’s almost military posture—ramrod straight back to make the most of every inch, and puffed-out chest like a bird seeing off a rival come mating season.
Sam had always found that sort of cute, but he was pretty sure if he mentioned it now, the guy would literally kill him.
“Well?” the man demanded.
Sam realised he’d been goggling like a fish on a slab. “Uh, I’m Sam Ferreira. And you’re . . .?”
“Branok Roscarrock.” He said it as though Sam should know who he was, and while Sam did, obviously, none of this attitude made sense.
“You’re Jory’s brother, right?” Sam had thought he was still ill. And bloody hell. Jory’s big brother was about as unlike him as a bloke could get. His colouring was totally different—dark hair instead of blond—and where Jory was tall, and broad with it, Bran was built on a much smaller scale. A Celt instead of a Viking. Sam could understand, though, why Jory was, if not exactly scared of his brother, certainly a bit on the wary side. He had a definite air about him, Big Brother Branok did. Like he didn’t need to be physically imposing.
Had Sam thought him pale? His face was darkening by the second, which probably wasn’t great for an ill bloke.
“And I repeat, who are you?”
Sam had only just mentioned his name. “Uh, Dr. Sam Ferreira,” he added, stressing the Dr. a bit. Maybe it was just forgetfulness—hey, the bloke had been bashed in the head, hadn’t he? “I’m the new curator of the Black Prince exhibition.”
A muscle tensed in Roscarrock’s jaw. “Are you now? I suppose Dr. Solomon drafted you in, a decision, I might add, which is entirely outside her authority.” He said Jennifer’s name like it was a swear word. “What are your qualifications? Have you any prior experience in curating an exhibition of this importance?”
Sam was starting to see why nobody liked this bloke. “I’m qualified,” he said shortly. “And it was Jory who hired me.”
“Jory?” That seemed to take the guy aback, but he soon rallied. “Where did he find you?”
“We’ve known each other for years.” And what the hell business was it of his brother’s? Christ, he had a nerve. Sam would be damned if he was going to justify his existence to the bastard. Then his conscience pricked. Maybe the elder Roscarrock was just crap at making conversation, and this was his version of How’s work going?
“And just what do you think you’ve been doing?”
Yeah, he really needed to work on those social skills. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I just spoke to Roarke, and he tells me you’re going against decisions that have already been made. Wasting hours of work by your predecessor. This is not what you’re being paid to do.”
What? “Excuse me, but since when are you my boss?”
“Since I started paying your wages, I should imagine.”
The air practically crackled with frost as Sam stared in horrified disbelief.
“As the major investor in the exhibition centre,” Roscarrock went on, clearly relishing it, “and the driving force behind the entire project.”
Oh, crap. And Jory couldn’t have mentioned this before? Sam cleared his throat. “You’re the . . . Woodstock Trust?”
“I’m its principal member, yes.”
Big Brother Branok re-christened himself hastily in Sam’s head to Mr. Roscarrock, although he baulked at adding a Sir. “Sorry,” he ground out. “I didn’t realise.”
“Clearly. Well, then?”
Sam felt a pang of sympathy with whoever had landed Roscarrock in hospital. He had a strong urge to knock that smug expression right off the git’s face.
But that’d really make his mum proud, wouldn’t it? Sam took a deep, calming breath. “All I’ve been doing so far is finding out what’s been done already, and working within and around that framework.” Why the bloody hell hadn’t Jory warned him?
“And yet I hear from Mr. Roarke that you’ve told him not to start installing the displays already agreed upon.”
“Look, I’m not trying to reinvent the wheel. With less than two months before the exhibition’s due to open, there wouldn’t be time in any case. I just need to make some edits to the information panels before we get them printed up. Cut the word count down a bit. And I want to broaden the scope a little.”
Roscarrock drew in a sharp breath, which seemed to pain him. His face darkened. “Cut— That text was agreed between me and Dr. Banerjee. I see no reason to change it. And broaden the scope? In what way?” He leaned over the desk.
Sam found himself sitting up straighter without even meaning to. “Just to balance the picture. Encourage visitors to look at the historical evidence from all sides.”
“From all sides? It’s the historian’s job—” Roscarrock was seized with a coughing fit that almost doubled him over.
Sam stood up in alarm. “You all right, ma
te? Look, come and sit down, yeah? I’ll get you a glass of water.” He tried to offer the bloke a hand, but Roscarrock shook him off violently and coughed even worse.
Shit. He’d been working here for less than a week, and already he’d pissed off the boss and then half killed him.
“Can I call someone?” That got him an angry shake of the head. “I’ll, uh, I’ll get that water.” Sam ran around the Portakabin to the visitor centre, dodged meandering tourists, and darted into the shop, where he grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge and yelled out, “I’ll owe you,” to Tim behind the counter. Then he raced back to his office.
But when he got there, panting, Roscarrock had disappeared, apparently into thin air. Like the plague doctor’s ghost Mal had told Sam about the other night, that’d been seen by the swings in the park again. For a moment he almost wondered if Roscarrock’s illness had been worse than they’d all thought, and the bloke was now haunting them to make sure no one screwed up his legacy.
Common sense pointed out that no self-respecting ghost would be seen dead haunting a Portakabin. Roscarrock had probably just taken the direct route back to the car park, and far from wanting to haunt him, clearly wanted nothing more than to get away from Sam.
Sam sat down heavily in his chair and twisted the top off the water bottle before taking a long, cooling drink. Christ. That had gone so bloody well, hadn’t it? Jory’s brother—Sam’s boss—hated him.
Thank God Bran had had the foresight to tell the taxi driver to wait for him. Attempting to telephone for one would have been even more humiliating than his display of infirmity in front of Ferreira had been. An iron band of pain tightening around his chest, Bran scrambled into the back seat of the car and managed to choke out his destination: Roscarrock House.
Then he closed his eyes and tried to calm his heart rate, his breathing, and the sick feeling of betrayal—by his brother, by his own body, for God’s sake.
How could Jory have done this to him? Brought in this outsider to run his exhibition? Without even having the courtesy to inform him, let alone consult him on the appointment. Who was Sam Ferreira? Where had Jory found him? The name sounded Spanish or Portuguese, but if Bran had had to guess from looks alone, he’d have said the man was of Indian or Pakistani descent, rather than European. His accent was southern English, working class, although educated.
Sitting in the back of the taxi, the inaction allowing him no vent for his frustrations, Bran was at least able to use his phone to make a quick internet search for Dr. Samuel Ferreira. It brought up a small number of hits, none of them historians. Had the man just walked in off the street? Was the PhD even real? Surely no one so young, so ridiculously good-looking, could be a serious academic.
That had made his embarrassment all the more excruciating. Ferreira was absurdly handsome, with an easy, wide smile that formed laughter lines at the corners of his soft, brown eyes. The jet-black scruff that covered his jaw had given him a rakish, almost piratical air. His thick, tousled hair had looked casually stylish, and just a little bit fluffy, as if begging to be stroked.
Bran swallowed. He did not need such distractions, especially at a time like this. Ferreira was his subordinate—effectively, if not legally speaking; the man was employed by the Woodstock Trust. And he’d shown worrying signs of wanting to upset the apple cart, with his balanced picture and his idea of encouraging the visitors to make up their own minds. The whole point of the exhibition was to tell the true story of Edward of Woodstock. To rescue him from his unfair reputation as a cold-hearted villain. Not to let the visitors go away cherishing their own ill-formed opinions as if they were worth as much or more than those of a qualified historian. Or someone who’d studied the Black Prince all his life.
Bran flinched as the dreadlocked driver hit another pothole. No, Ferreira would have to be kept on a tight rein. Bran would have to bring him round to the correct way of thinking. He was confident he could do this—once he was feeling a little better, that was.
Whatever attraction he might feel for Sam Ferreira, he certainly wasn’t going to act upon it. That would only be asking for trouble.
Witness Craig’s appearance at the hospital. Bran stared out of the window, wishing the journey was over. He’d have to do something about Craig too. If only he didn’t feel so wretchedly exhausted at the prospect. And there was the business of his mysterious assailant. To let that go unpunished would send out entirely the wrong message. Perhaps he should get in touch with Sally Peters again. Just to see what progress had been made.
When, at length, they reached Roscarrock House, Bran paid the taxi driver his exorbitant fee, added an undeserved tip because, while he hoped he’d never see the man again, he’d be damned if he’d let the Roscarrock name become a byword for tight-fistedness, and trudged into the house. Bea wasn’t home, as it was barely four o’clock, so he made himself a cup of tea and took it into his study. He felt bone-tired, and his chest was in agony.
Edward of Woodstock gazed regally down from his portrait. He’d never given up, had he? He hadn’t even let his last, fatal illness stop him from campaigning. Bran would have to raise his game and follow the prince’s example, that was all.
Of course, Edward of Woodstock had had a considerable number of people to aid him. Perhaps Bran should look into getting some help. Engaging a driver for a couple of weeks could hardly cost more than he’d be paying out for taxis, could it? Maybe Jory would know of some sixth-former who would be willing to take the job over half-term for a minimal wage.
Then again, being driven around by some teenager who’d only just passed his test might finish Bran off for good.
First things first, though. He needed to speak to Jory about Sam Ferreira—and make it plain he wasn’t happy with the underhand way Jory had dealt with matters. He pulled out his phone and rang his brother. Jory didn’t answer, of course—teaching was such a ridiculously inconvenient profession—and so Bran left a curt voice mail for him to call back at once, before ruining it with another coughing fit that hit him before he could end the call.
Damn it. The dregs of his now-lukewarm tea did little to soothe his throat. He made another cup, then switched on his computer. His inbox was fuller than ever, the mere sight of it exhausting him. He closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair.
If only he wasn’t so tired all the time.
Fifteen Years Ago
The morning of their father’s funeral, Jory slouched downstairs looking almost laughably uncomfortable in his dark-navy suit. He’d grown since Bran had bought it for him last year—what with their mother being so ill, Father had been too busy for anything like shopping—and several inches of wrist showed below his cuffs. As for the trousers, they were only saved from utter absurdity by virtue of having been bought deliberately too long. At least the boy had had the sense to wear black socks.
“He must be nearly six feet tall now,” Bea murmured in Bran’s ear. “Our little changeling.”
Christ. That would mean Jory topped Bran by a good six inches, and he was still growing, for God’s sake. “Hardly little. He should have told me about that suit. I could have replaced it if he’d only mentioned he’d grown out of it. Has he no concept of respect for the dead?”
“At least he’s in a suit this time,” Bea replied coolly. But then Bea did everything coolly, didn’t she? Growing up, Bran used to wonder if they’d been born in the wrong bodies, their personalities having somehow traded places in their shared womb. She’d always been the logical one, the composed one, whereas he’d always struggled to behave as calmly as Father expected him to. Women were allowed to be emotional, but a man should be in command of himself at all times. That was what Father always said.
Had used to say.
Then again, had Father been in command of himself back when he’d . . . Bran felt a frown forming on his brow and the beginnings of a headache, just as Jory met his eye, flinched, and looked away. It didn’t improve his mood.
“I made damn sure he’d be we
aring a suit. After what he wore to Mother’s . . .”
Bran’s chest tightened. Jory had come downstairs on the morning of their mother’s funeral in jeans and a sweater, protesting that those were the clothes she’d liked to see him in. Father had ordered Bran to sort it out, and he’d had to set aside his own grief to explain to a wilfully obstinate teenager that it didn’t matter a damn what his mother would have liked; they were the first family in Porthkennack and standards would bloody well be maintained. He could just imagine the talk if a Roscarrock from Roscarrock House had turned up at the churchyard in denim.
He’d been incensed to find Jory hadn’t even thought to pack a decent wardrobe for his few days home from school, the suit left hanging, useless, in the dormitory. They’d had to cobble something together from old clothes left in the attic by long-deceased uncles.
The worst of it was, if Jory had worn his own suit to Mother’s funeral, Bran would have seen he’d outgrown it and replaced it by now.
“He should have told me he needed a new suit,” Bran repeated. “How was I supposed to know?”
Bea shrugged. “It’s not like Father’s here to be offended, is it?”
No. No, it wasn’t.
The vicar spoke at nauseating length about Father’s importance to the local community and the weight of history behind the Roscarrock name. Bran had heard it all a million times before from the dead man himself. He clenched his fists to remain silent when the wretched clergyman lamented the “tragic accident” that’d torn Kenver Roscarrock from this world in his prime.
His father’s friends—more like business acquaintances—echoed the praise of the man whose body had had to be dragged, bloated, from the sea to fill the coffin before them. Bran stumbled out a few words himself, wishing he could have left the task to Bea, who’d have done it so much better.
Nobody mentioned Father’s state of mind. Nobody appeared to wonder why a man might wander the clifftops at night and in a howling summer storm.
Bran’s nerves were on a knife-edge by the time they were finally allowed to leave the church and follow the coffin to the freshly dug grave on the eastern side of the churchyard.