Page 10 of A Gathering Storm

Ward smiled. “Thank you, Mr. Gwynn. That’s most helpful. I’ll try the mill stream. Could you direct me there?”

Gwynn’s directions took Ward just outside the village and onto a bridle path that, when followed to its end, brought one to the next village. Ward had only been strolling a few minutes when he encountered three men coming the other way. One was soaked to the skin and was being held up by the other two. All three were singing a song about someone called “Lovely Molly.”

“I beg your pardon,” Ward said, stopping them in their tracks. With his ugly voice, he never sounded polite, always harsh and probably angry—not the best when accosting three really rather drunk men. Ward smiled to make up for his unfriendly tone. “Will I find Mr. Nicholas Hearn down this way?”

The three men stared at him for a moment, then one of them said, “’Bout another quarter mile down this path. Unless him and Gabe Meadows have gone off walking the other way, that is. He’s a reg’lar wandering Gypsy, our Nick.”

“Well, he certainly wandered over that stream easily enough,” another added. “Not like you, Bert!”

“‘Wandered’? ’E bleddy flew!” the soaked one slurred indignantly, his Cornish burr thick. “Like a bleddy airymouse, ’e was!”

“Airymouse”?

The other two laughed at that and they set off on their way again. They’d scarce walked the length of themselves before the one in the middle hissed to the others, with the too-loud care of the very drunk, “That’s ’im as sent Jago Jones to his death.”

One of the other men shushed him quickly, darting a quick glance back at Ward before starting up the “Lovely Molly” song again. And then they were weaving away, stumbling round a bend in the path, their voices already fading. Ward sighed and set off in the direction they’d come from.

The trees grew thicker the further down the bridle path Ward walked, creating a leafy canopy over his head through which the evening sun gently streamed. After a few minutes, he couldn’t hear the men he’d met at all. Only the twittering of a few birds coming home to roost disturbed the peace. Ward removed his hat and strolled on, enjoying the warmth and the silence.

And then, just as he drew close to the bridge, he heard the low murmur of new voices. Male voices.

Later, he would wonder what it was that made him slow his step at that point. Consciously hush his own movements. Perhaps it was the edge of anguish in those voices. But at the time, he was only acting instinctively.

He moved carefully forward, listening attentively.

At first he couldn’t make out words, only that there were two voices, and something . . . contentious was being discussed. But this was no ordinary argument between two ordinary men. This was something much more intimate. One voice was implacable, a little angry, the other pleading. As Ward drew closer, the first words he discerned were “No”—this from the angry voice—and from the pleading one, “Nick,please.”

Nick. Nicholas Hearn.

Ward moved closer still. Just a few feet ahead, there was a turnoff from the main bridle path, a smaller footpath that led to the mill stream, and to the little bridge over the water. Carefully, quietly, Ward stepped onto the footpath and walked a little further, his steps tentative. The voices were becoming more distinct now, and when he saw the sun-dappled outline of a figure ahead, through the trees, he stopped, heart in his mouth. Glancing around, he saw a shadowy copse on the same side of the path where the two men stood. He would be out of sight there, but able to see, and to hear.

This was very wrong—he knew it was—and yet Ward found himself stealing into the copse, holding his arms close to his body and turning his hips so he could slip between two trees without so much as brushing a leaf.

“I saw you looking at me, Nick. I know you still want me.”

Ward’s heart thundered so loudly it was amazing he could hear what was being said. But oh God, he did. He heard every word.

“So what if I do?” This voice was bitter. “It’s hardly the point. You aremarried.”

Ward was so close, he didn’t dare move his feet, but he swayed there, tilting his head till he found the best view from between the thick, leafy branches.

Now he could see them. Standing there, illuminated by the evening sun, while he stood, like a thief, in the shadows. Nicholas Hearn was dressed like the other villagers. His shirt sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing well-made forearms, his tawny skin contrasting with the white cotton. His dark waistcoat was open, and his simple shirt had no collar. The top button was undone, and Ward’s gaze went straight to the twin points of his collar bones at the base of his throat, and the deep dimple between them, before moving up to take in the furious expression Hearn wore as he glared at his companion.

From this vantage point, Ward could see Hearn’s face quite well, but of the other man he saw little more than a head of reddish-brown hair and a sliver of his profile. Nothing of his expression. This man was a bit taller than Hearn, and a bit leaner too. He was dressed more formally than Hearn, though not so much as Ward. He wore a coat at any rate, and looked to have a tie about his neck.

“Nick, please, I’m going back to Truro tomorrow,” the man said, his voice gentle now. “Can’t we have one more time together? There’s only you in the cottage now.” He lifted his hand and set it on Hearn’s shoulder, and Hearn closed his eyes, his expression almost pained.

“Gabe,” he whispered. “Don’t.”

“But I can’t stay away,” Gabe murmured back. He lifted his other hand and curled it round the nape of Hearn’s neck, leaning in and pressing his mouth against Hearn’s lips.

Hearn’s hands were fisted at his sides, the knuckles white, as though he was fighting with himself not to put his arms round the man kissing him, even as he let his mouth be taken.

Ward stared at them, appalled and aroused and now drenched with guilt. He rubbed at the placket of his trousers, trying to discourage his stiff cock from hardening further. This was not for his eyes. This was not for anyone’s eyes but the two men standing in front of him. And Christ, how foolish were they to do this here, where they might be seen by anyone happening along? They were lucky—damned lucky—it was him and no other.

It was past time he left. Past time he retreated a good way back. He readied himself to do just that while they were still caught up in the tight, desperate kiss, but before he could move, Hearn lifted those arms—not to pull Gabe into a closer embrace, but to thrust him back. So hard that the taller man stumbled.

“Nick,” Gabe gasped. “Bloody hell, what’s wrong with you?”