Page 24 of Beguiled
“Like I was—like I was damned to hell. Just for thinking about the sorts of things you and I did together last night.” The words tumbled out of David in a torrent. He took a ragged breath, forcing himself to keep his eyes on Murdo.
“Don’t you feel like that anymore?”
David shook his head, unable to say more.
Murdo gave a rough laugh. “It’s not themostringing endorsement I’ve ever received,” he said.
“No?” David smiled weakly. “Well, you’ve no idea how far I’ve come.”
“Oh, I’ve an idea.” Murdo raised a hand and touched David’s jaw, an impossibly gentle brush of his fingers.
Time hung, silent, between them for a moment. Then Murdo said, like someone admitting an uncomfortable truth, “I’d like to see you again, while I’m here.”
David stared into those intense, unsettling eyes. It was a bad idea. A terrible idea. He would pay if he gave in and let himself have this, because much as the last time had been a treasure, it had been a bittersweet one. There would be a price to pay for more memories like this. A black descent.
But there would be this too. This excited temporary joy. This pleasure.
When all was said and done, he couldn’t bring himself to say no.
“I’d like that too,” he murmured.
He was rewarded with a smile, an unguarded, happy one that made Murdo’s dimple flash in his cheek. “When?”
“I don’t know—aren’t you going to be busy? With the King, I mean?”
Murdo sighed. “Quite a bit of the time, yes. Are you going to any of the events Sir Walter’s organised?”
“Just to Holyrood on Monday, with some others from the faculty.”
“Hmm. Is that when the good burghers of Edinburgh are to take turns at droning on about themselves while His Majesty smiles and nods?”
“The same,” David agreed, a small smile twitching at his lips.
“I’ll be there too. Can I see you after?”
David thought of how many people there would be at Holyrood. How chaotic it would be. How impossible.
How very unwise this was.
“Yes,” he said. “Yes, I’d like that.”
Chapter Seven
Monday, 19thAugust, 1822
David tweaked the saltire cockade on his hat and stood back to study his appearance in the small looking glass that sat on his dressing table, craning his neck this way and that.
It was the day of the ceremony at Holyrood, and he wore his new suit of clothes. He could only hope the Dean would find him up to scratch. The man had already made it clear that he considered David a very poor substitute for Patrick Chalmers.
It was going to be a long day. The King wouldn’t arrive at Holyrood Palace till mid-afternoon but David and his fellow advocates were meeting at the Dean’s house at eleven o’clock. The Dean’s carriage would take them all to the palace, where the Dean and Vice-Dean had an early meeting with Sir Robert Peel. While they were thus engaged, the rest of their party would be dispatched to the Entrée Room to secure a good spot for the King’s arrival. When the King arrived, the speeches would begin.
The thought of spending the day with some of the most senior men in the faculty should have pleased David, but in truth he dreaded the day ahead. The politics of the faculty—something that Chalmers seemed to negotiate with perfect ease—eluded him, even after six years, and he’d always felt the safest course of action was to steer well clear of it all.
Today, it would be unavoidable.
There was one thing that made it all bearable: Murdo Balfour would be there. Part of the King’s entourage.
David hadn’t set eyes on Murdo since that morning three days ago now. Already their time together felt unreal. The memory of their last conversation made David shake his head in bewilderment, even as it made him helplessly smile. Even as the rational part of him told himself to stop behaving like a besotted boy.