walked to the inn, pausing only to kick rocks and then grumble when he hurt his foot. He was being a sulky child, but he fucking hated having to do what he was about to do. It was so unfair, just so bloody unfair, that Martin couldn’t even have a good thing for a few weeks. He was no saint, and he had made bad choices, but now that he had determined to do the right thing it was just so annoying that the right thing always involved Martin doing things like giving away houses and giving up the man he loved.
No, he reassured himself, he wasn’t walking away. There was nothing so simple as walking away where he and Will were concerned. He was just putting a period to this part of their friendship. It was a minor thing, really, and years from now they’d probably look back fondly on the short time they had spent in bed together. That was all.
At the inn, he dug in his pocket and realized he hadn’t any money at all. But Daisy was behind the bar and gave him what he needed, waving away his protests. “I’ll put it on Mr. Sedgwick’s tab.”
“Don’t you dare put this on his tab. Not this.”
She studied him with narrowed eyes while she trimmed the nib of the pen and handed it to him. “You look right—”
“Not in the mood,” he said, not even able to muster up enough enthusiasm to insult her.
“That bad?”
To his horror, Martin realized his eyes were hot and prickly. He pressed his thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose to spare himself some modicum of dignity. “It is exhausting to be a decent person. I could be a villain with no effort whatsoever. It would be like rolling downhill.”
“Why don’t you, then?” she asked, and her tone held more challenge than it did curiosity.
“Because there’s enough bad in the world. I’m trying to put my weight on the other side of the scale. Which I know is both futile and self-important but there you have it.”
“You should talk to my mum,” Daisy said as she handed him a sheet of slightly crumbled paper.
Martin pretended he didn’t know what she was talking about, and set about writing his letter.
“I’m sorry,” Will blurted out as soon as Martin walked in the door.
Martin shook his head. “You don’t have anything to apologize for. You’re a dramatic bastard and I should have guessed.”
“Then we’re all right?”
One corner of Martin’s mouth hitched up in something resembling a smile, even though it didn’t get anywhere near his eyes. “We’ll always be all right.”
Will felt a wash of relief sweep over him, and even more so when Martin put his arms around him. He didn’t tell Martin that he loved him, not then, not when they were tangled together in bed, not in the morning when they drank tea or the evening when they read by the fire. It was always there, in his heart, on the tip of his tongue, but he was afraid that speaking those words aloud would only make them rehash that last argument. Saying those words would be the end of something.
Two days later, when the sound of hoofbeats woke them from an afternoon nap, he had occasion to realize that “We’ll always be all right” didn’t mean much of anything.
“What the hell is that?” Will asked, sitting up in bed. The lane was wide enough for a pony cart but he had never seen any conveyance come within a hundred yards of the cottage. And now he could hear that this was no pony cart—he could make out at least two separate sets of hoofbeats. He got out of bed and stepped into the first pair of trousers he laid his hands on, then scrambled into a shirt and waistcoat. He collected the clothes he had removed from Martin a few hours earlier and tossed them onto the bed. Martin’s hair was rumpled and his lips were still swollen with kisses. Will hoped whoever this was would promptly go away.
Will waited until Martin was decent, then unbolted the door. In front of the cottage was a chaise and four. Two liveried servants rode on the chaise, one in front of the body of the carriage and one behind. One of them hopped down and swung open the carriage door, which Will could now see was emblazoned with a coat of arms. As he watched, the servant helped a woman step