The Sugared Game - K.J. Charles Page 0,75
going to find out his mistake. I’m with you, Kim. I’m in this. Let’s get a war on.”
Kim stared at him, eyes wide, and Will didn’t even think. He just kissed him, hard, and felt Kim’s mouth responding desperately, hands clutching his shoulders, hanging on for dear life. Kissing in the open because nothing at all mattered at this moment but to know they were together. The rest could wait for later, if there was a later.
“Will,” Kim whispered at last, against his lips. “I don’t want to do this.”
“I know.”
“You’re with me?”
Will reached up for one of his hands and gripped it. “Right here. Not going anywhere.”
Kim’s shoulders heaved. “Thank you.”
They held on for a few silent seconds, drawing strength. “Come on, Lord Arthur,” Will said at last. “We’ve a battle to fight.”
Kim took a deep breath, straightening his back. “If I’m a knight, does that make you my squire?”
“Sod off.”
“Yeoman, then. You look like a yeoman.”
“I don’t even know what that is.”
“A horny-handed son of toil.”
“Did you say horny-handed?”
“I know your hands. If the cap fits...”
Will told him to sod off again. Kim started the car. They drove on, towards a reckoning.
Chapter Fifteen
Etchil wasn’t a palace along the lines of Althorp or Deene Park or suchlike, but it was impressive all the same. It was an old mansion in red brick with a lot of chimneys and windows, and they’d driven for a couple of minutes on a winding road through open grounds to get there. Nice for some.
Kim brought the Daimler to a halt and checked his wristwatch, which Will still found a rather silly affectation in a civilian. “Quarter past five. We’re here in time for cocktails, although it’s always time for cocktails. Hello, there.” He swung out of the car to greet a distinguished man in tails who had come to greet him. “How are you? I hope that trick elbow’s better. Sorry to spring extra guests on you at no notice.”
“It is of no import at all, Lord Arthur. My elbow is quite comfortable, thank you.”
“Glad to hear it. My pal, Will Darling.”
This must be his host. Will wasn’t entirely sure how to greet a viscount at all, let alone one who he knew to be a criminal. He extended a hand, and snatched it back when the man bowed instead, doing a good impression of not having seen it. “Welcome to Etchil, Mr. Darling. My name is Benson. Don’t hesitate to mention anything we can do to make you comfortable.”
Will shot a glance at Kim, who said, “Thank you, Benson. Where’s Phoebe?”
“In the Italian garden, I believe, Lord Arthur.”
“We’ll go through.”
He sauntered into the house. Will followed at his heels. “Who was that?” he muttered.
“Butler.”
“What about our bags?”
“They’ll be brought in.”
“They won’t unpack them, will they? I’ve got my—you know, in there.”
Kim swung on his heel to a man in livery who had apparently materialised out of nowhere to bring their luggage in. “By the way, just leave Darling’s bag in his room, will you? Thanks.”
Will would have added an excuse. Kim simply turned back and walked on. Clearly being a lord meant not having to justify yourself. That explained a lot.
The interior of the house was quite something. The great hall was stone-flagged and wood-panelled, with a gigantic fireplace topped with a stuffed stag’s head and a pair of muskets. There was a magnificent oak flight of stairs that plucked at Will’s long-dormant joinery experience, huge furniture, a big painting of a battle scene from the Napoleonic wars, all frothing horses and gunsmoke, some full-length portraits of people in olden-days clothes, and a lot of weaponry. There were no fewer than six sets of crossed swords, spears, and sabres on the walls, plus some tattered and faded military flags. Will attempted not to look like a day-tripper, gawping at the museum around him.
Kim led the way at a brisk trot through a panelled room that was mostly book-lined and another that was all cream wallpaper and paintings of horses, and into an airy sitting room with a glass-panelled door out to the gardens.
“Here we go,” he said, and opened the door.
He strode out. Will tagged along, shivering at the cold and wondering why anyone would stand around outside in a British mid-March. The answer came as Kim turned down a gravel path through a gate in an ivy-covered wall and into a walled garden that was about five degrees warmer thanks to a brazier. There were carved stone Roman masks on the