by JL Merrow
“So am I the first bloke you’ve had up here?” Sam asked, his voice teasing. “Or did you use to sneak boys in all the time when you were in your teens?”
“God, no.” Bran shuddered, unable to stop himself.
Sam lifted himself up on one elbow to gaze down at Bran, his eyes wide and black in the dim light. “Parents not supportive? Or did it just take a while for you to grow into your looks?”
“Father had strong views.” Going into detail about those views would only pain them both. Bran paused, uncertain—but here, in his bed, curtains drawn, it finally felt safe to admit it. “And it took me a long time to get over . . . Devan’s father. And yes,” he added in a determinedly lighter tone, “it took me a while to grow into my looks. I was well into my twenties before people stopped assuming I was Bea’s much younger brother, not her twin.”
“Think she’ll be okay about you and me?” Sam’s voice was soft.
“I think so. Yes, she’ll have to be.” He stroked Sam’s hair, marvelling anew at its silky texture. “She’s decided to make some changes in her own life, so she can hardly begrudge me mine.”
“Good,” Sam said drowsily. “So I’m okay to stay the night?”
“Yes.” Bran drew him closer. “Stay.”
Sam seemed to have an insatiable appetite for morning sex. Bran wasn’t complaining—having woken up enfolded in strong arms, with a tousled head nuzzling into his neck, he had quite an appetite for it himself. They came together lazily at first, and then with more urgency, hands and tongues getting involved, ragged breaths turning to stifled moans.
Not so stifled, by the end. As Bran came down from his high, he found Sam looking at him sheepishly. “It’s just gone nine. Your sister will have left for work already, right?”
Bran struggled to get his brain sufficiently in gear for speech. “Possible. It is Bea. But unlikely, seeing as it’s Saturday.”
“Huh. So it is.”
“We are open to visitors today, however.”
Sam’s eyes widened. “Shit, are they here now? Do you think they heard us?”
Bran laughed. “We don’t open until ten thirty. So no.”
“Oh. Good.” Sam relaxed back into Bran’s arms for a moment, then raised himself up on an elbow. “If someone sees me here, is it gonna be an issue?”
Bran gazed at him, taking in the tiny crease between those soft, dark eyes. He couldn’t imagine, now, wanting to hide what this man was to him. “No. It won’t be an issue.”
It was a while before they made it out of bed. In the end, it was rumbling stomachs that got them up and sent them downstairs for breakfast, by which time, as Bran had half expected, Mrs. Castilla was there. A widowed lady in late middle age, she was one of their keenest volunteers. She looked nonplussed at seeing Sam with Bran, but recovered well, wishing them a good morning and then bustling off with a mutter about checking the flower arrangements.
Bran sent Sam a rueful smile. “I’m afraid we’re going to be the topic of conversation all over Porthkennack by nightfall. Mrs. Castilla doesn’t believe in keeping things to herself.” And if he felt a flutter of nerves in his stomach at the thought, he was fairly sure he managed to keep Sam from noticing.
Sam grinned. “Hey, you think I’m bothered? I snagged the most eligible bachelor in town. You think I’m gonna keep quiet about that? Uh, you don’t want me to keep quiet—”
Bran laughed, somehow at ease once more. “No, I don’t. Come and see if we can find something for breakfast.”
With visitors potentially arriving, Sam clearly didn’t feel comfortable staying at Roscarrock House after breakfast, so Bran exacted a promise to see him for dinner and let him out through the kitchen. When he made his way back upstairs, he met Bea outside her room.
She’d apparently been waiting to talk to him. “Who was that?”
“Sam Ferreira.”
“Your curator?”
“Yes.”
Bea gave him a searching look. “So things are changing around here too. I want you to know I’ll be leaving for London in August. Probably for good. I’ve spent too long trapped in this house with memories and ghosts.”
Trapped? Bran could never see Roscarrock House, or Porthkennack itself, in that light. This was his home. “There are good memories too, aren’t there?” he asked, stung.
“Perhaps I’ll remember them better when I get away.” She hesitated. “You and your curator . . . it is what I think it is, isn’t it?”
Bran’s heart fluttered in his chest. It was a terrifying thought, but a liberating one too. Preparing to tell Bea that he was planning to be open about being gay, that he and Sam were in a relationship, felt very like readying himself to step off a cliff—
And that was another thing, wasn’t it? “Bea?” he said, his voice gentle. “Let’s go into your room. I’ve got a few things I need to tell you. The first one is about Father. And Mother.”
Five Weeks Later
The grand opening of the Black Prince exhibition might not have gone off without a hitch, but in Bran’s experience, things rarely did. At any event, all last-minute crises fell well within the boundaries of what he considered acceptable.
Bran had a feeling those boundaries were considerably more relaxed than they had been only a few months ago. Sam had borne all their shared stress with patience and good humour, and Bran had done his utmost to appear to be doing likewise. At least the biggest hurdle had been cleared some weeks previously, with Canterbury Cathedral giving their secular blessing to the arrangements for the loan of the funerary achievements.
To Bran’s irritation, people had spent far more time gazing at—and photographing themselves in front of—the vividly coloured replicas of the prince’s armour displayed in the entry hall than they had examining the actual precious relics themselves. “For God’s sake,” he’d muttered to Sam. “That surcoat was worn by Edward of Woodstock.”
Sam, who’d been infectiously giddy all day, had only grinned. “Yeah, but you’ve got to admit it was in a lot better nick back in those days. And the dim lighting”—a condition of the loan, so as not to further damage the delicate fibres—“makes it even harder to see the detail. Just look on it as a good omen for when we have to give the real ones back.”
Bran had had to concede he had a point. And admittedly it’d made policing the “no photography” rule for the relics somewhat easier.
After the public opening, with jousting and other medieval delights courtesy of English Heritage, there was a reception for press and local dignitaries at the exhibition centre. Speeches were made, although mercifully short, and canapés and prosecco served. Kirsty’s sculpture was unveiled, while she stood serene and proud, Gawen by her side. He seemed more subdued, but that might just have been discomfort with the public attention. Certainly he was back to his normal self as soon as he was out of the spotlight.
Bran had half wondered if Craig might turn up to disrupt proceedings, like a jealous ex standing up at a wedding to voice his objection, but there was no sign of him. Probably he was entirely over Bran already. Sam and Bran had discussed what to do if anyone brought up the discredited paper, and were confident they could handle it, but it was a relief not to have to deal with that sort of thing.
There were one or two other absences, none of which surprised Bran. He’d been able to predict with remarkable accuracy which of his former social circle, such as it was, would react negatively to news of him and Sam. What was even more astonishing, however, was how little he cared. Weighed against his happiness with Sam, what were a few old fogies who no longer wished to partner him for a round of golf? He’d never liked the game all that much anyway. Or certain players, come to that.
Dr. Banerjee had of course been invited. Bran had been a little surprised, although gratified, that she’d accepted, and looked out for her. She arrived late, pushing a wheelchair in which sat an ill-looking man of her own age.
Bran strode over to greet them. “Dr. Banerjee, I’m so glad you could ma
ke it.”
“Thank you for the invitation. This is my husband. Sanjay, this is Mr. Roscarrock.”
Bran shook the dry, trembling hand that was held out to him. “Delighted to meet you.”
“I’m glad it all came together,” Dr. Banerjee said. “I felt so guilty leaving you in the lurch, but with Sanjay’s health . . .” She made a two-handed gesture of helplessness.
Bran’s chest ached. Life, and love, could be so very fragile. But . . . she felt guilty? “I’m so sorry. If I’d known your circumstances—”
“I should have told you, perhaps. But when he had the attack—and such a bad one—it was very hard to think clearly. And in any case, I think leaving was the right decision. For more than one reason.”
He couldn’t help glancing over to where Sam was talking animatedly to a reporter from the local paper. When Bran looked back at Dr. Banerjee, she gave him a knowing smile.
He was almost certain he didn’t blush. “I must introduce you to Sam, when we have a moment. Dr. Ferreira, that is. We’re planning a book on the prince, once the exhibition is running smoothly, and we were hoping you wouldn’t mind us using some of the work you undertook during your time here. We’d credit you, of course.”
“Writing? I always thought you were too busy for anything like that.”
“I was. But my priorities have changed.” Again, Bran’s gaze flicked to Sam as if of its own accord. “Please, take some time to think about it.”
“I will.” Her smile broadened. “And I’ll look forward to speaking with your Dr. Ferreira.”
It was immensely satisfying to see the surprise on the face of Jennifer Solomon as she drew near and took in Bran and Dr. Banerjee talking civilly. There was someone always ready to believe the worst of him. He wondered how Dr. Solomon had taken the news that he and Sam were together—then decided that on reflection he didn’t really want to know.
Bran exchanged a few more words with Dr. Banerjee and her husband, then left her to the presumably more welcome company of Dr. Solomon. There were plenty of other people he needed to make nice with, but eventually, the promised introduction was made and Sam and Dr. Banerjee seemed to hit it off immediately, to Bran’s mingled pleasure and mild chagrin. At length, the event began to wind down. Bran was free to rejoin Sam, now relaxing with his family.
Only two of Sam’s sisters had made the trip from Luton with his mother to attend the opening—the eldest, Maria, and the youngest, Nat. Bran, having braced himself for the dragons of Sam’s description, had found them to be charming, erudite women who clearly relished an outing without their children (and, perhaps, their husbands). He’d been a little more nervous about meeting Sam’s mother, and she’d given him a thorough examination both visually and verbally, but he’d apparently passed muster. At least, she’d started scolding him for not eating enough, which Sam had whispered was a sign of approval.
“We’re going to be heading off now,” Maria said when he rejoined them. They were staying in a hotel, which Bran had insisted on paying for, as having guests at Roscarrock House during peak visitor season wouldn’t have been ideal. “I need to call the kids or they won’t go to sleep. But it’s been a lovely day.” Sam winced as she dug him in the ribs with an elbow. “You did good, baby brother.”
“Oi, less of the baby.”
Mrs. Ferreira wrapped her arms around Sam, standing on tiptoe to kiss him on the cheek. “I’m very proud of you. We’ll see you for lunch tomorrow.” She then, to Bran’s pleased discomfort, hugged him too. “Look after my son. And don’t let him make any more bad decisions.”
“Mu-um.”
“I’ll do my best.” Bran tried not to smile too much at Sam’s expression. At least she hadn’t mentioned the debt problem explicitly. Bran had offered a loan again, and been refused again. But Sam had agreed to a payment plan and was sticking to it.
Sam sighed as they waved his family off. “Why is it that even when you’re in your thirties, mums still treat you like you’re a spotty teenager?”
Bran thought, with a pinprick of conscience, of Jory. “It’s not just mums.”
“Yeah, tell me about it. Older sisters too. You have no idea how lucky you are.”
“I have an older sister,” Bran pointed out. “Bea is ten minutes older than I am.”
“Yeah, but that’s . . .” Sam cocked his head. “Okay, fair point. I mean, obviously I like her and everything—she’s your sister . . .”
Bran took his arm. “Probably best to end that sentence there. I know she can be a little intimidating.” Not to mention, there was still bad feeling over the Devan Thompson affair.
Bran hadn’t said anything to Sam yet, but he was planning to write to Devan Thompson. To apologise for the way he’d behaved on meeting him. He wasn’t sure it would bring about a reconciliation—nor would he blame the man for that, after how he’d been treated—but he hoped at least they’d be able to end any active animosity. After all, with Mal being his close friend, it was quite likely Devan would be in Porthkennack again.
Another thing he hadn’t mentioned to Sam was the donation he’d made to the lifeboats in memory of Gerren Ede. He’d thought long and hard about whether to make it openly, in the spirit of an olive branch, but had decided in the end to remain anonymous. He didn’t want to appear to be trying to buy goodwill.
As the last guests drifted away, Bran turned to gaze at the exhibition centre. A trick of the setting sun enriched the wood of the structure into beaten copper warmth, and the reflection of salmon-pink skies blazed from the plate glass windows. To one side, the standard of St. Piran, with its white cross on a black background, fluttered lazily in the warm evening breeze. Out in front, aloof and alone and larger than life, stood the Black Prince himself, carved from local timber. Rough-hewn at the base, the figure sharpened into focus, its features clearly—at least to Bran’s knowing eye—those of Euan Mayhew.
Sam followed Bran’s gaze. “Does it bother you that it’s him?”
“Mind reading as well? Is there no end to your capabilities?” Bran spread his hands, and smiled as Sam captured one of them to hold in his own. “No. To be honest, I thought it would, but it doesn’t. He . . . he didn’t win, in the end.”
“Got away with it,” Sam said darkly. “After nearly killing you.”
“But it was my choice not to press charges. That makes a difference. The worst thing about the attack was feeling so . . . powerless. Vulnerable. I don’t feel like that anymore. Mayhew’s well away from here now, and hopefully he’ll think twice before letting his fists do the talking in future.” And hopefully Kirsty would think twice about the sort of man she was with before she let the next one into Gawen’s life. But Bran had to resign himself to there being some spheres over which he had no control.
Sam raised Bran’s captive hand to his lips and kissed it. “Still think he got off lightly.”
Sally Peters, who had lingered for some reason, joined them at that point. “Very effective, that sculpture. Reminds me of someone.”
Don’t you start. “The model left Porthkennack a couple of months ago.”
She nodded. “So I heard. Euan Mayhew, wasn’t it? I’ll look out for him. In case he ever decides to pay another visit.”
“I doubt he will.”
Sally raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. Then she glanced over Bran’s shoulder, and smiled. “Bea. I wasn’t sure if you were still here.”
“I came with Bran.” Was it Bran’s imagination, or was there more warmth in Bea’s tones than he’d used to hear?
“Ah, so you’ve been stuck here waiting for the men. Well, I was about to head off, so if you like, I could give you a lift.”
“There’s no need—” Bran began, but Bea interrupted him. “Thank you. That’s very kind.”
He and Sam stood and watched the women walk away, their figures gilded by the setting sun. Sally, much the taller, moderated her stride to accommodate the more petite Bea, but still there seemed an odd asymmetry between them.
Bran laughed. “No, I didn’t see it coming, either. Bea doesn’t really have friends. Still, maybe she’s changing.” After all, he had. “I don’t know what’ll happen when she moves away next month, though.” Maybe befriending Sally was simply a practice run for building herself a social circle in London.
Or even, perhaps, a way of making sure she’d hear how Bran was faring in her absence? With Bea, one really never knew.
Bran couldn’t say he was sorry to see her go. He’d miss her, but it was past time they lived their own lives, instead of relying on each other for everything. They’d isolated themselves in their clifftop stronghold, and it hadn’t done either of them any good.
And when she moved out, Sam would be officially moving in.
It was time for Roscarrock House to be a real family home again. One where the occupants were bound not just by history, but also by love.
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