Love at First Hate

by JL Merrow

  “Bran?” Kirsty asked with unusual hesitance.

  “What do you expect me to say? That I understand perfectly, these things happen? What do you expect me to do, even?”

  “I’m asking you to not come down too hard on him, now he’s owned up to it,” she said, looking him in the eye. By her side, Euan stared at the floor.

  “Why the hell shouldn’t I? I could have died.”

  Euan stood up explosively. “See? I told you he’d be like this. Waste of bloody time!”

  “Then don’t let us keep you.” Kirsty’s voice was firm. “You’ve done your bit anyhow.”

  “Fine. Fine. You know where to find me.” He stomped out of the living room, and a moment later the front door slammed.

  Kirsty let out a long breath. “What were we saying? Right. Look, we both know you’ve got a lot of clout round here. If you tell them to chuck him in jail and throw away the key, then that’s what they’ll do. And God knows you’ve got reason, but . . . I’m asking you to just think twice first.” She muttered something afterwards that Bran didn’t quite catch, but which might have been Christ knows why.

  Bran would like to know too. “Why?”

  “Because he’s never been in trouble with the law before. Because Gawen likes him, and it’s gonna upset him enough already to know Euan’s the one who hurt his favourite uncle. Because we’ve all done something we’ve regretted after a drink or two.” She gazed at him earnestly. “And I know it’s not been easy for you, getting over the injuries and the illness. But I don’t reckon going all out for revenge is going to make that any better.”

  Revenge? Bran would have called it justice. But she was probably right. Bran could have died, perhaps—but he hadn’t. And he remembered, now, that incident with Euan at the house, and while the punishment had been out of all proportion to the crime, it didn’t show Bran in any good light. In fact, he was appalled at himself. Or perhaps more honestly, he was appalled at the thought of anyone he cared for—of Sam—ever finding out he’d acted that way.

  Even after discovering Sam’s deception, Bran still cared for his opinion. The realisation left him heartsick and breathless from the pain in his chest. Had he been asleep, all these years until now? Dwelling in a dream world, where nothing he ever said or did was wrong, and fooling himself into thinking it was reality? Waking from his delusions was brutal—and well overdue.

  After all, what was Kirsty even asking him for? Merely to refrain from taking undue advantage of his privileged position here in Porthkennack. A position Bran only held because of an accident of birth. Who was to say if, born into the same circumstances as Euan, and as bitterly aware of social injustice, Bran might not have let his temper get the better of him and landed on the wrong side of the law?

  Edward of Woodstock had always given due honour to his enemies. Surely Bran could show mercy to his?

  He made his decision. “I won’t press charges.”

  Kirsty’s eyes went wide. “What? I wasn’t asking you to let him off altogether.”

  “I know you weren’t. But I . . . I’ve become aware, recently, that my past conduct has not been wholly blameless, and I can see how I might have contributed to the situation. It only seems fair to allow Euan, too, a chance to change his ways.” She opened her mouth, and Bran hurried on to forestall her. “I have some conditions. First: Euan goes. I don’t want Gawen spending time with someone with a proven capacity for violence. If you want to keep on seeing him—”

  “Not a problem. He’s had his marching orders already. He told me he never meant to hit you that hard, and I told him, I believed he hadn’t meant it. And I did believe it. But one day, who’s to say it wouldn’t be me or Gawen who got on his wick, and he wouldn’t mean to hit us hard either? But it’d be too late. And I told him straight, I’m not risking that.”

  Bran took a deep breath. “Good. You deserve better. Although I suppose I should give him some credit for admitting his crime to you.”

  She snorted. “Not a lot else he could do, was there? Not once I’d found your wallet shoved down the bottom of his rucksack. Christ, I thought it was drugs, you know?”

  “What?”

  “Jory didn’t tell you? S’pose not. He had Gawen crying on his shoulder over Euan getting in a snit cos Gawen touched his stuff—so when he told me, I thought, what’s Euan got to hide? So that’s when I searched his bag. A bit of weed’s one thing, but I’m not having the hard stuff round my lad.”

  “And you found my wallet. Why on earth didn’t he get rid of it?” Bran was more concerned at this evidence of Euan turning his temper on Gawen. Thank God he wouldn’t be around to do so any longer.

  “That’s what I said.” Kirsty rolled her eyes. “Think he was hoping if he ignored it, it’d go away by itself. Right, what’s the rest of your conditions?”

  “There’s just one more. I realise I can’t enforce this, but . . . tell him to get some anger management help, for God’s sake. There must be something available on the NHS, if he can’t afford private. And make sure he knows that if I ever hear of him being violent again, I won’t hesitate to inform the police of what really happened here.” Bran hesitated. “Are you all right here on your own? I suppose he’ll be coming back for his things. Do you want me to . . .” Bran wasn’t sure how to end that sentence. See him off the premises? Round up a West Country posse to run him out of town?

  Kirsty shook her head. “He’s not an axe murderer. Just an idiot. I’ll be fine.”

  “Call me, after he’s gone for good.”

  “I’ll be fine.” She flashed a sudden smile. “It’s a well-kept secret, isn’t it?”

  Bran frowned, puzzled.

  “You. Bran Roscarrock. I’ve always known you had a heart in there.” She jabbed a finger at his chest, thankfully without making contact. God knew it ached enough already.

  “Don’t spread it around. I wouldn’t like my reputation for ruthlessness to be tarnished.”

  Kirsty folded her arms and gave him a long, hard look. “Wouldn’t you?”

  And that was the question, wasn’t it?

  Bran drove himself back to Roscarrock House, lost in thought.

  Sam had driven home from the cliffs with nothing resolved, feeling like a wrung-out dishrag. He’d persuaded his mum to give him a few more days to sort out the money mess before she did anything drastic like remortgage the house.

  And he’d promised to look up those debt-advice links and ring the Citizens Advice Bureau the next day, despite how thinking about the way he’d felt when he’d got Bran’s email—Christ, only yesterday—was like a knife in his heart.

  Was it really the only way to get his finances straight? He could win it all back if he only got lucky . . .

  No. He wasn’t going down that route again. Not ever.

  It might not have been the worst day of Sam’s life, but it was right up there with the day he’d found out what Doug’s corner-cutting was going to cost him.

  Jory was already in when Sam got back to the house. Sam waved a quick hello and ducked into the kitchen to make a sandwich.

  He really wanted a sweet chutney one like his mum had used to make when he was a kid, but Jory and Mal didn’t have any fresh coriander or grated coconut. Or any green chilli—in fact, the only ingredients they had were bread and sugar.

  Which wasn’t to say Sam didn’t consider it for a moment. He settled on jam, and as he was spreading it, Jory came in and cornered him with the air of a bloke determined to get something off his chest.

  Sam looked up warily.

  Jory took a coffee mug off the mug tree and fiddled with it. “I, well, I’m sorry I reacted the way I did when you told me about you and Bran. I should have been happy for you. Which I am, obviously. Happy.”

  Yeah, right. Happy people always went around moping like someone had just shot their dog.

  Sam sighed. “You don’t have to be.”

  “Yes, I do. It’s good that you’ve found someone. And that Bran has. That you’ve found
each other.” The handle was going to come off that mug if Jory didn’t watch out.

  “No, I mean, he’s dumped me.” Saying it out loud brought a sharp twist of pain in Sam’s gut.

  Jory almost dropped the mug. “What? I mean, why?”

  “He found out about me getting sacked from Edinburgh. Doug’s dodgy research—everything.”

  “But that wasn’t your fault!”

  “Not the way Bran sees it. So I’m out of a job, and out of a . . .” Sam’s voice cracked, and he hung his head, blinking hard.

  Strong arms slid around his shoulders, startling him even as they drew him in to Jory’s warmth. Christ, he didn’t deserve this comfort. But it was so bloody nice, even though he didn’t know what the hell to do with his hands, one of them still holding a knife covered in strawberry jam.

  Jory’s voice rumbled in his ear. “I’m so sorry. This is all my fault.”

  What? Sam broke the hold and took a step back. “No way, mate. Are you serious? After everything you’ve done for me?”

  “I told you not to tell Bran everything. If we’d been honest with him from the start—”

  “He’d never have let me in the door, and you know it.”

  “How did he find out?”

  Sam shrugged. “Stuff’s there on the internet for anyone to find. S’pose I should be surprised he hadn’t checked up on me before now.”

  “It’s odd that he should do it just after you two get together.”

  “Is it?” Sam huffed a bitter laugh. “Not short of a few trust issues, your brother. Not that I’ve helped on that count.”

  Jory looked away. Yeah, he was probably feeling guilty too. “And he told you you were fired?”

  “He didn’t have to. Came at me, all guns blazing. Said I’d ruined everything.”

  “That’s rubbish. He’s overreacting.” Jory’s jaw firmed. “I’ll talk to him.”

  “You don’t have to. It’s my mess—”

  “And he’s my brother.” Jory’s tone softened. “Go and eat your sandwich before the bread gets all dry. I’ll put the kettle on.”

  Sam admitted defeat and took his snack into the living room, where he found Mal sprawled on the sofa. When had he come in?

  Mal looked up with a grin. “You two finished having a cuddle? Cos I could murder a cuppa.”

  Shit, had he seen Jory with his arms round Sam? “Uh, whatever you saw, it wasn’t—it didn’t mean anything. Uh, there’s nothing going on— Okay, you can stop laughing now.”

  Mal didn’t. “Jesus, your face. Yeah, I worked that out all by myself, ta. For a start, Jory’s never been into kinky stuff involving food and cutlery—” He ducked as Sam threw a cushion at him.

  They were both really nice to him all evening. Sam couldn’t help feeling he’d done nothing to deserve it.

  Friday morning, Sam didn’t bother going into work. What was the point? He’d probably find the Portakabin padlocked and Roarke’s entire team of construction workers under instructions to see him off the premises. Preferably with extreme prejudice.

  And, okay, that last bit was unlikely on a lot of levels, but Sam couldn’t have faced going in.

  Instead, he gritted his teeth and looked up the nearest Citizens Advice Bureau. Before his mum could send him a text reminding him to do it. He’d missed the day for drop-in advice this week, but telephone advice was available. While he was holding, waiting for an advisor to be free, he looked up all the debt advice he could find on their website.

  In a way, it was reassuring. For a start, it brought it home to Sam that a lot of people had it way worse than he did. There was a link to click on called What to do if you’re about to be evicted, and advice on prioritising your debts. At least Sam wasn’t juggling court fines, utility bills, and unpaid rent with his credit card debt. The website laid out simple, step-by-step instructions on what to do and how to do it, with sample letters to send to creditors asking them to hold off debt collection and freeze interest and charges.

  In another way it was totally depressing. The information was written so a five-year-old could understand it, and here Sam was, with a PhD to his name, having to face the fact that he hadn’t even managed to come up with these simple steps on his own. It was obvious, when he thought about it, what he should have done from the start. But that was the key phrase, wasn’t it? When he thought about it. He’d been doing everything he could to not think about it.

  Thank God Jory and Mal weren’t around to overhear his pathetic, stammering call once the advisor finally connected—or the one he made afterwards to his credit card company. Sam felt hot, and stupid, and small. The woman on the line was perfectly polite and businesslike, but she’d wanted to know when he’d be able to pay his debt, and with the way his job was going—had most likely gone—he hadn’t been able to give her a good answer. But with the tourist season starting, he ought to be able to find some kind of work in Porthkennack, even if it was worse than the job he’d had in Luton. There had to be plenty of crappy jobs no one would take unless they were desperate—cleaning seagull shit off the prom, or mucking out taxis after hen nights, maybe—and after all this, Sam had to concede he was desperate.

  He still nearly wept when she finally agreed to hold off collection and freeze the debt. He put the kettle on for a cup of tea feeling light-headed—hell, light-bodied as well. He wasn’t even sure it was a good feeling, what with one problem sort-of-solved making way for another that most likely didn’t have a solution.

  Okay. One thing at a time. Sam opened up his laptop and started looking for jobs.

  Bran couldn’t face going down to the castle on Friday. Too many painful associations. Instead, he hid himself in his study from the visitors invading his house, and tried to concentrate on work that had nothing to do with the exhibition.

  It was getting on for lunchtime, when the door opened. Bran frowned up at the interloper, a blistering tirade on keeping to the public areas already on his lips. It died unspoken when he saw Jory.

  Anger at his brother’s betrayal crashed head-on into shame that he’d been so ready to repeat the mistake he’d made with Euan, leaving Bran tongue-tied. Jory didn’t speak either as he came in and shut the door behind him.

  Bran found his voice at last. “Shouldn’t you be at school?”

  “I’ve got a free period, and I’m not on duty over lunch. Plenty of time to come up here for a word.” Jory folded his arms and stood with his feet hip-width apart, as though bracing for a storm.

  Bran fought the urge to snap at him to sit down and stop looming. He leaned back in his chair and tried to ignore the crick in his neck. “And?”

  “Sam told me about . . . you and him. That you’re together. Lovers.” Jory flushed bright red.

  “We were.” Bran’s throat was tight. Damn this. “Did you know about Sam’s past? The circumstances under which he left Edinburgh?”

  “Yes.” Jory’s colour deepened, and his stance was no longer so steady. “He, um, he made sure I knew.”

  And neither of them had so much as mentioned it to Bran. “Yet you still brought him here? To take charge of my exhibition? What the hell were you thinking of?” He’d stood up almost without realising it, the better to look his brother in the eye.

  It was at times like this that he hated their very obvious physical differences. Jory was a head taller than he was, and broader as well. It shouldn’t have mattered—neither of them was at all likely to resort to blows, for God’s sake—but somehow it did.

  Jory’s chin went up. “Maybe I was thinking he deserved a second chance. It wasn’t fair, what happened to him—at least, it shouldn’t have to follow him around his whole life.”

  “He falsified research!”

  “He didn’t falsify anything. It was the lead author on the paper who did it. Sam was coerced into going along with a fait accompli.”

  “Coerced? By whom?”

  “By the man he was in love with, who was effectively his boss, and who lied to him about both the relatio
nship and the research.” Jory took a step towards Bran’s desk, and lowered his voice as he leaned on the front, bringing his head down to Bran’s level. “Sam’s not the villain here. Maybe he did wrong in letting it slide, but just how easy do you think it would have been to speak out against his supervisor? The man he loved? And he’s been punished for it enough—for God’s sake, he took the whole blame for something that was only peripherally his fault. He hasn’t had a decent job since it happened—until now.”

  “Because nobody wants to employ someone they can’t trust.” Was it true, though, what Jory had said? Was Sam really more innocent than he’d appeared? Bran knew only too well that just because Sam had convinced Jory his spin on the matter was true didn’t mean it actually was—but he desperately wanted to believe it.

  He should have let Sam explain himself. Listened, instead of shouting him down with a mind already closed to any reasons or excuses.

  “You can trust Sam,” Jory was saying. “I know him—he’s a good man.”

  “But what about his reputation? Even if this story is true, Sam’s name attached to the exhibition is bound to tarnish it.”

  Jory pushed off the desk with an impatient gesture. “Outside academia, who even cares? How many of the tourists who’ll go to the exhibition do you think will even bother to notice the name of the curator?”

  “But what if they do?”

  “Then you tell them what I told you. That everyone deserves a second chance.”

  When had Jory got so grown-up? Become so unafraid to speak his mind in front of his big brother?

  “You owe it to him,” Jory went on. His eyes narrowed. “And you owe it to me too.”

  “To you?”

  “Yes. For all those years you made me feel being gay was something to be ashamed of.”

  Bran felt it like a blow to the heart. He made to move away from behind his desk, but stalled after the first step. “I never said—”

  Jory stepped back with an angry gesture. “You didn’t have to say it! Father said it for you, and you never once disagreed with him. Anytime the subject came up, you’d get that look on your face, as though you’d rather . . . I don’t know, eat slugs or something, than talk about men loving other men.”