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Of course he had. Blake Thornton had a devilish wanderer’s reputation, and also the practiced experience of someone good at organizing expeditions, planning and packing, figuring out inventories and quantities. Blake was trying to be useful.
Cam knew that. He knew. And his heart melted and ached and gave way like winter snow in spring, as he looked at Blake’s dark hopeful eyes.
He said, “Thank you,” and tugged his Blake in for a kiss, and then Ash as well, tasting them both, letting them touch him and cling to him and run their hands all over him, warming him up from the chilly walk. “How’re the library plans, then?”
The next morning he took them to the bookshop where he’d first met Blake; rain came, as it had then, and Ashley laughed and held out a hand to touch raindrops and then ran inside and bought two Gothic novels, an edition of Tacitus, and a brand-new illustrated expensive copy of Le Morte D’Arthur. Ash also spotted Blake’s series of memoirs for sale, and did not give away the presence of the Earl of Thorns but did get into an extended discussion with the bookseller about the vivid nature of Blake’s storytelling and the deserved popularity of every dramatic volume.
Blake, leaning against a shelf, let him talk, despite a hint of embarrassment showing flower-pink. Cam said to him, juggling Ash’s purchases, “He’s so proud to be with you, y’know,” and Blake blushed more. Cam said, “So am I,” and shifted the books and his grip on them, so that their arms brushed.
The nights were sweet and bittersweet: all three of them in that bed, his bed, their bed. Lots of joy, lots of pleasure. Explorations, with some of the equipment, the oils, the sensations. Discovering what felt good, what each of them liked, or might be uncertain about, or appreciated thoroughly. Sometimes more intense, sometimes more unadorned and simple; depended on the mood, Ashley’s health, Cam’s own judgment about what they needed.
No room for memories, or Cam told himself not, lying in the middle of the bed at night with long-legged elfin warmth beside him, with dark piratical muscles nestled into him. He gazed up at the bed-canopy, for a while, as that night lightened. The canopy was old-fashioned but necessary, here in the north; he knew it well. The green of it, hanging.
Ten days left. Eight. Six. That countdown, counting away.
Blake and Ash wanted to help him pack. Of course they did; they had such generous hearts. Cam wasn’t sure he wanted their help, and did not know why. He didn’t know how to explain.
He did not, in the end, have much. The furnishings would stay; he’d brought some of the equipment and his clothing down already, when he’d been asked to come and consult for Straithern’s wife during her pregnancy. That had been a request, and one with history; the earl’s father and Cam’s father had been friends, both mad about horses, and Cam had known the present earl when they’d both been boys. He’d gone when asked, because they were not their fathers, and he’d always liked David.
He had the books, and the rest of his clothing, and the rest of the equipment downstairs. He found himself lingering over trunks and book-spines. Taking volumes from shelves, setting them down again. Hesitating.
He spent some time dealing with his lease and getting out of it. That wasn’t really a problem, especially given that he’d be leaving to work as the Duke of Auburndale’s personal physician—Ash had told him to go ahead and say so—and that title garnered respect, even obsequiousness.
Cam thought briefly about titles, and inheritances, and his own self-worth. He was proud of his position, his profession. He’d worked for it. He’d earned it. His family, not that they were much in the way of that these days, had always believed in hard work; they’d built their stables and their reputation, and they wore that reputation like a hoisted banner, justifiably so.
Blake was an earl. Ashley was a duke. They both came with estates. With lands, and tenants, and great houses. Cam wasn’t sure how much they were respectively worth, as far as funds per year. Blake, who did his and Ashley’s accounts, would know. Cam hadn’t wanted to ask.
But, regardless of his feelings about the titled class as a whole, he couldn’t think of either of his partners as the idle rich. They weren’t.
Blake had climbed the mountains and forded the rivers and learned at least five local languages, and had scars and calluses to show for it, including a vicious long-healed gash along his thigh that’d horrified Cam’s physician’s soul at the nearness to a gravestone consequence. He also knew that Blake’s father had been terrible, though Blake had not yet told him all the details; he hoped to be entrusted with that, someday. He did know that the old earl had hated his children; Blake said the man had tried to ruin the estate, to leave no inheritance, and had very nearly succeeded. Blake had said it lightly, making a joke of old pain and a loveless childhood. Cam had some thoughts, very angry ones, about this.
Ashley, on the other hand, had known love, though his parents had died young; Ash had genuinely not expected to inherit the title, since everyone’d thought his uncle and aunt, also still young, would have a child, and he’d been busy teaching undergraduates, publishing articles, living in airy scholar’s rooms upon an Oxford professor’s salary. He had not asked to be dragged out of that life, though he was handling newfound responsibilities well, with kindness, because Ash did not know how to not be kind.
Cam, lying awake under the familiar canopy that night, decided that perhaps that was one reason they all fit so well: they shared that comprehension, underneath all the differences. They all understood about throwing themselves into a passion, a chosen field, a height to scale. They’d all had pain, and bruises, and also joys. Celebrations. Discoveries.
Celebrations, he thought. Professor Rutherford, the botanist, had asked whether Cam would be at the Assembly Rooms, if he’d bring his aristocratic friends along, if he planned to make any introductions. Cam had said no without thinking.
In the dark, staring at the canopy, considering titles and youth and wealth, he reconsidered. The muted green swoop, faded color less noticeable in the night, hung like a minor accusation: he should’ve thought that his young earl and duke might like at least some attempt at acquaintance here. Parties. Assemblies. Balls, even. Fine things.
The next morning he suggested that he accompany Ash and Blake to the Assembly Rooms over in George Street that evening, if they wanted some society. Edinburgh was not London or even Bath, but it could dress up and promenade well enough; there’d be some sparkling titles and diamonds and young whips around, and card-parties, and various other entertainments.
Ash set down his teacup, swallowed, blinked owlishly. “Do we need entertainments?”
“We’ve been here nine days, and you’ve seen history and bookshops and my education.”
“And it’s been marvelous.” Ash picked up the tea again, as if that settled the question. “I like knowing you, and I’ve got new books.”
Blake put down his fork with a bite of sausage still on it. “Are you concerned that we’re growing bored?”
“No.” Yes. “I only thought you might enjoy it.”
“We’re not bored. But if you’re truly concerned…” Blake’s grin appeared: a lightning-whip of practiced seduction. “You could come up with inventive explorations for me in the bedroom. Some of those salves, the tingling sort…heating…ginger, perhaps…”
“Maybe later.” Definitely later. He poked his own porridge—long-standing habit, that: warm and snug—with a spoon, added honey, added cream. The ribbon of cream pooled and gathered. “You can imagine it for us, for a while. If you did want to attend some of the social whirl…well, for one, I could make you wear a pretty carved toy all evening. Inside you, just right, while you’re engaged in polite introductions.” He thought he had one or two that’d work, someplace in that chest.
Blake’s eyes had grown larger and darker and hot at the idea; but he was scrutinizing Cam’s expression. “We can do that here at home. You are worried about it. Us.”
They did not have secrets; Cam gave up. “I was only wondering…the two of you, your titles and all…the lives you had, London, all of that…”
