Love at First Hate

by JL Merrow

  “About what?”

  “I didn’t think you were interested in women. She is attractive, though, isn’t she?”

  Bran blinked. “I’m not—this was a professional visit. Anyway, why are you home so early?”

  “I had a meeting cancelled. And don’t change the subject. It makes it seem as though you’ve got something to hide. A professional visit, in that dress?”

  Trust Bea to jump to the right conclusion—albeit about the wrong person. Then again, did he still have something to hide concerning Sam? Only time would tell. Time, and the man himself. “It’s her day off. Surely she can wear what she likes? There’s nothing going on between me and Sally.”

  “Then what did she have to say? Have they caught the man who attacked you?”

  “No.” He hesitated. “There isn’t going to be an arrest.”

  Bea took a step forward. “You know who did it. You remembered?”

  “No, but I have my wallet back, and the person who took it won’t be a problem again.”

  “You’re just letting it go? You could have died. Have you got any idea what it was like, seeing you so battered, so ill?” Colour rose in her face as she stalked up to him.

  “I doubt it was worse than suffering through it directly!” Aware he’d raised his voice to match hers, he made an effort to get himself under control. “Bea, I haven’t made this decision lightly. It’s for the good of the family.”

  She subsided, as he’d hoped she would. A moment later, though, she flashed back into anger. “Tell me it wasn’t Jory.”

  “No—Christ, no.” Bran took her hands. “Jory would never do anything like that. It’s no one we care about, I promise.”

  Bea looked momentarily confused, then her face smoothed. “You’re sure this is the right way to go about things?”

  Bran nodded. “I am. We’ll never see him again.”

  “Good. God, I need a drink.” She dropped Bran’s hands and walked back down the hall—missing his startled realisation that they would, after all, be seeing Euan Mayhew again. He was the model for Kirsty’s sculpture. They’d be seeing him every time they went to the exhibition.

  Oddly enough, Bran found himself more wryly amused than annoyed.

  He went back into his study and checked his phone. No message from Sam. Bran wondered if Jory had spoken to him yet. Would he come? And if he did, would it be tonight? He might want to sleep on it before making a decision.

  Bran was tempted to call him—but no. He’d made his overture, and hounding Sam about it wouldn’t help. He would just have to bear the uncertainty. For as long as it took.

  Jory didn’t get back from school until gone five—he had an after-school club he supervised on a Friday, which Sam reckoned was true dedication.

  “I talked to Bran today,” Jory said without any preamble when he walked into the living room, where Sam had taken his laptop and his job search. “He wants to see you.”

  Oh God. Sam couldn’t face that. “What, so he can give me my P45 in person? No, thanks. He can spring for a stamp, the tight bastard.” Christ help him, he still felt disloyal, talking about Bran like that.

  “It’s not about the job. It’s about you.” Jory looked earnest. “I think he really cares about you.”

  “No. No, he doesn’t. I fucked it up, didn’t I?”

  “No.” Jory bit his lip. “This is my fault. I should have—”

  “No! Seriously, mate, this isn’t on you. You and me both knew we weren’t telling Bran the whole truth. And you did it to give me a chance. To give me a job doing what I love. So don’t go blaming yourself for it going wrong. You did the best you could for me.”

  “I’m not sure I did. But I tried.” Jory rubbed the back of his neck. “Will you talk to him? Please?”

  Did he have any idea what he was asking? Sam shook his head. “There’s no point. He’ll just shout me down. Tell me again how I’ve ruined his life.”

  “I don’t think so. He wrote you a note.” Jory handed over a crisp white envelope.

  Christ, that was Bran all over, that was. Fondness stabbed Sam painfully in the heart. Anyone else would have texted, but Bran preferred to send a proper letter. Sam took a deep breath, ripped open the envelope, and slid out a folded slip of paper.

  The message was short. And not at all what he’d been expecting.

  Sam, I deeply regret not giving you a fair hearing. Please forgive my hasty speech, and accept my invitation to Roscarrock House. Yours, Bran

  It messed with his head. Was Bran saying he was still Sam’s? Or was it just formality? But the way he’d written the note, with deeply and please . . . Sam looked up. “There’s no time. Or date, even.”

  He hadn’t even known until he spoke that he was going to accept the invitation.

  Jory shrugged. “He wants you to come whenever you can. Will you go?”

  Sam hedged. “I thought you were mad at him. How come you’re so keen on him getting his way?”

  “We talked. It, um, it turns out I might have got the wrong impression about a few things.”

  Yeah, it seemed there was a lot of that about. “I’ll go.” Sam scrubbed his hands on his jeans. Should he get changed? No, this wasn’t a date. His T-shirt was presentable enough—it was the black one Maria had given him for Christmas, with the George Santayana quote on it: Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it. And he hadn’t spilled his food down himself today, thank God.

  Christ, his gut was churning with nerves. Best get it over with.

  Walking up to the front door of Roscarrock House felt like turning up at Buckingham Palace on spec to ask if the Queen fancied a cup of tea and a natter. It wasn’t just the cannons on the lawn, facing out to repel boarders. The house itself was intimidating—big, grey, blank-faced. It’d stood here for centuries before any of Sam’s family had set foot in England. What would Sir John Roscarrock, who’d built the place back in the sixteenth century—Sam had looked it up, so sue him—have thought of an Indian immigrant turning up to court his great-times-many-grandson?

  Actually, come to think of it, the bloke had been a privateer, hadn’t he? Which was a fancy way of saying a government-sponsored pirate. There was a good chance neither Sam’s gender nor the colour of his skin would have been an issue for him. Buoyed by this thought, Sam knocked on the door.

  Bran opened it himself. Sam’s breath caught. He looked . . . vulnerable.

  Sam swallowed and shoved his hands in his jeans pockets to stop them reaching out of their own accord. “Hi.”

  “Thank you for coming,” Bran said, watching him closely from the doorway. It was cool, now, high on the cliffs with the breeze getting up and the sun going down, and Sam shivered. Bran stepped back immediately. “Come in.”

  “Thanks.” Sam looked curiously around the hallway. It was a little bare, without any personal touches. Sam supposed that was to be expected. He knew the place was open to visitors some days, but he’d never had a chance to come. Once he’d got to know Bran, it would just have been weird to turn up at his place like a tourist.

  “Come through to my study.” Bran led the way to a smallish room that housed a large, expensive-looking antique desk. A comfy chair in red leather stood by a tall fireplace, above which hung—Sam smiled—Burnell’s portrait of the Black Prince.

  “It’s a copy, but not a bad one,” Bran said. “Can I get you a drink?”

  “Uh, yeah, thanks. Just a small one. I drove.” Sam didn’t really want a drink, but he didn’t want to seem standoffish, either. And it’d give him something to do with his hands.

  Bran poured them each a brandy from a crystal decanter. “Please sit down.” He gestured at the comfy chair.

  That was a measure of making himself at home Sam wasn’t ready for. Not yet, and maybe not at all, depending on what Bran had to say. “Thanks, but I’m good. You wanted to talk?”

  Bran nodded and swirled the brandy in his glass. Already the rich aroma was filling the small study, taking Sam back to
the drinks they’d shared at the Tinners Rest. “I’m sorry,” he said at last. “I didn’t give you a chance to explain yourself before.”

  “No. No, you didn’t.” Sam swirled his own brandy, mostly so he could take a fortifying whiff of it before he spoke. “It’s— I’m not saying I’m blameless. I cocked up. I know that. But it wasn’t— I didn’t set out to defraud anyone.”

  “Jory said you were coerced.”

  Oh God. He really was willing to listen. Hope flared in Sam’s breast, but he tamped it down. They still had a way to go yet. “Not sure I’d call it that, but Doug begged me not to say anything. I didn’t know until after we’d sent the paper off, and then . . . I know I should’ve got them to pull it, but he’d been under a lot of stress—his wife was ill, and he was under pressure from the university—and he said no one would ever find out.” Christ, he was explaining this badly.

  “Doug?”

  Sam leaned against the wall by the door, all the energy drained out of him. “Dr. Douglas Craignton. He was my supervisor, and the lead author of the paper. I was just down as coauthor.”

  “And you’re saying he was the one responsible for the lies? The falsified research?”

  “Not lies. Not really. He—he cut corners. Didn’t adequately verify the authenticity of the papers we were using to support his theory. I guess he just wanted it to be right. But I was reading through some other sources, just out of interest, and I realised the key document we were relying on had to be fake. I told him at once, obviously, and he . . . he told me to bury it. Let the paper stand. He said it didn’t disprove his theory. It just didn’t actually prove it. And what people didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them.”

  “And you just agreed?”

  “I didn’t just anything. I told you it was complicated. We were . . . we’d been having an affair.” Sam took a gulp of brandy.

  “You said he was married.”

  “Yeah. I know. Shitty thing to do. Maybe I deserved what I got. But I . . . Shit, I loved him. I thought he loved me. When he said he was planning to leave his wife, he just needed her to get well first, I believed him. I even swallowed the whole We haven’t shared a bed for years line. And he was desperate. He hadn’t published anything for so long, and this was going to get his name right back out there, you know? He seemed so certain no one would call us on it.” Sam swallowed, his gut churning at the memory of that anxious time. He’d barely slept, agonising over whether they’d get away with it. If they even should get away with it. It’d almost been a relief when the shit had actually hit the fan—until he’d realised just how bad it was going to get. “Course, he was wrong about nobody catching on. As soon as the paper was published, the emails started coming. The paper was attacked in the press and . . . well.”

  “You were both sacked?”

  Sam gave a bitter laugh. “Both? No. He blamed it all on me. Told everyone he’d trusted me with the verification, and I’d assured him all due diligence had been applied. He tried to justify it to me afterwards, you know? He said he had so much more to lose—his position, his income, his family’s home, all that.” So basically, Sam hadn’t been worth shit to Doug, set against all that. Sam had never come so close to hitting a man in his life as he had at that moment.

  Bran had gone pale. “You must have thought I was just like him.”

  “What?” Sam took a step towards Bran. “Why the hell would I think that?”

  “Because I put my own reputation above your welfare.”

  “That’s not the same. I betrayed your trust. You had a right to be angry. He—Doug was a coward. You’re not the same.” His chest tight, Sam put his drink down on Bran’s desk and took Bran’s arm. “You’re nothing like him.”

  The light coming in through the study windows had that jewel-like quality Sam had always loved about early evenings in the country. Bran’s dark eyes met Sam’s gaze for a long moment, then flashed away. “More than you think, perhaps. I . . . I’ve been questioning my values, lately. Wondering if the way I’ve lived my life has been a mistake. There have been consequences I hadn’t foreseen. That I hadn’t even been aware of until now.”

  Despite everything, Sam laughed. “Jesus, Bran, you’re talking to me about mistakes having consequences?” He gave Bran’s arm a squeeze. “Coming here, to Porthkennack, was supposed to be my fresh start.”

  “And has it been?”

  Sam thought he knew what Bran was asking. “Yeah. It has been. If you can forgive me.”

  “Can you forgive me?” Bran countered.

  Yes would have been Sam’s instinctive answer, but he forced himself to remember how hurt he’d been. “Can you promise me, next time we have an argument, that you’ll at least listen to my side of the story before flying off the handle?”

  “I . . .” Bran glanced away for a moment, then looked Sam straight in the eyes. “I’d like to. I wish I could, but I don’t want to lie to you. I can promise I’ll try my utmost, and that if I fail, I’ll know it, sooner rather than later, and I’ll be deeply sorry for it, and do my best to make it up to you.”

  Sam’s heart melted at Bran’s honesty. God knew it was a quality Sam could do with a bit more of. He hadn’t been honest with Bran—hell, he hadn’t even been honest with himself, hiding his head in the sand and hoping his problems would just go away by themselves.

  “Can’t ask for more than that, can I?” he said, his voice hoarse. “And me too. I mean, I promise that too.”

  Sam reached out, and Bran came readily into his arms.

  It was so natural to slip his arms around Sam and pull him closer—so different from the awkward embrace he’d given Jory earlier. Bran breathed in the scent of him, basked in his warmth, and felt whole for the first time since the storm had broken. He could admit, now, that he’d overreacted. Had lashed out at the sting of betrayal.

  It still hurt that Sam and Jory had colluded in, if not actively deceiving him, then certainly keeping him in the dark. But if they hadn’t . . . what then? Bran would have vetoed Sam’s appointment. Would, in all likelihood, have tried to take on the job himself, while still racked with ill health and juggling his other responsibilities. He’d have made a godawful, ill-conceived hash of it. And more to the point, he’d never have met Sam.

  A sharp taint of anger soured his dizzy joy at their reconciliation. Had Bran thought himself betrayed? That was nothing to what this Doug had done to Sam. For a few moments, Bran indulged himself with some vicious revenge fantasies.

  Then Sam kissed him, and all other thoughts fled. Sam was here, in Bran’s home, warm and solid, tasting of brandy and hope for the future. Banishing the faint ghost of Bran’s father which had always lingered in this room. Bran manoeuvred them until Sam half fell into the red leather chair by the fireplace, and then he clambered onto Sam’s lap, straddling him, kissing him all the time. Hands delved into clothing, and matters swiftly escalated.

  It was as though it was their first time again, only minus the alcohol and the secrets.

  Afterwards, they sprawled, boneless, in the chair. Odd—it had never seemed too big to Bran before, but it somehow seemed the perfect size for the two of them now.

  Sam glanced up at the portrait of Edward of Woodstock. “Gave him a bit of an eyeful, didn’t we?”

  Bran followed his gaze. “He doesn’t seem too put out about it.”

  “Heh, maybe he had more in common with his grandad than we thought?”

  “Three words: Joan of Kent.”

  “What, so he couldn’t have been bi?” Sam’s stomach gurgled loudly, and he laughed. God, he was gorgeous. “Oops. Could be time to get some food. Gotta keep our energy up, haven’t we?”

  “I like your thinking.” Bran hadn’t realised until now how absolutely ravenous he was. He stood, dislodging Sam gently. “There’s probably some pizza in the freezer.”

  Sam made a face. “All right, but first birthday you have? I’m buying you a cookbook.”

  “Fine, as long as you’ll promise to eat whatever tra
vesties I manage to produce from it.”

  “Hey, it can’t be any unhealthier than all that frozen crap.” Sam got out of the chair and adjusted his clothing, now sadly wrinkled, although fortunately otherwise unscathed. “Um, is your sister at home?”

  “I think so. But we probably won’t see her.” It was a large house, thank God.

  “Shouldn’t we ask her if she wants to join us?”

  “I’m not sure she’d thank us.”

  “But—” Sam shook his head. “No, fine. She’s your sister.”

  Bran managed to locate pizza, and even found some leftover salad in the fridge to go with it. Sitting at the kitchen table with Sam, eating their simple meal, felt domestic in a way Bran hadn’t even known he’d missed. It brought back memories of his mother, serving up food when he’d been a child. Before she’d become ill. There had been life in Roscarrock House back then. It’d been absent for far too many years.

  Whatever Bea was doing, she stayed out of their way. Had she realised what was going on? Or was she simply wrapped up in her own world, making plans for her future far from Porthkennack? Whatever the reason, Bran was grateful not to have awkward introductions spoiling the mood.

  He worried Sam would make his excuses and leave after the meal. But Sam simply stayed, as if there had never been any question of him leaving. And at the end of the evening, they tumbled into Bran’s bed and made love again, slowly this time and savouring each moment, every touch.

  Even after they’d both reached their climax, Bran couldn’t seem to stop touching Sam. They lay in the dark of Bran’s bedroom, holding one another. “Is this the room you had when you were a kid?” Sam asked idly. “There’s no sign of teenage you.”

  “At the age I am now, I should bloody well hope not. And I was never sentimental about childhood.”

  “Yeah? Go on, admit it. You’ve got an attic full of old toys you can’t bear to part with.”

  Bran stroked Sam’s chest, enjoying the lightly furred dip between his pectorals. “No. All my outgrown toys were passed on to Jory. I’m not sure any of them survived the experience.”