Page 52 of Beguiled

With tender swipes, he cleared away the remaining traces of oil and semen, then rescued the bedcovers from the floor and draped them over David’s prone body. Finally, he snuffed out the last two candles and joined David in bed again, pushing and prodding till David took the hint and turned onto his side, allowing Murdo to curl his big body around David’s back.

David wanted to say something, to acknowledge what had just passed between them, but he couldn’t seem to find the words. He thought that Murdo must feel the same. The silence between them felt oddly sacred.

Sleep. He would sleep. Time enough in the morning to talk.

Murdo’s soft kiss on the nape of his neck was the last thing he remembered before his dreams took him.

Chapter Fifteen

Saturday, 24thAugust, 1822

David woke to birdsong, the smell of morning chocolate…and an aching arse.

Opening his eyes, he realised he was alone in bed. The tinkle of cutlery came from the adjoining sitting room, and Murdo’s voice, a low murmur.

Another voice. Obsequious, respectful. The door opening, then closing again.

Moments later, Murdo appeared in the doorway to the bedchamber, dressed in a dark blue dressing gown that was as elegantly formal as David’s evening clothes.

He smiled at David. “You’re awake.”

David offered an embarrassed smile in return. “Only just.”

“Do you know what time it is?”

David frowned at that, considering. He’d always been an early riser, the ingrained habit of a born-and-bred farm boy, and his sense of time rarely failed him.

“Half past nine,” Murdo offered without waiting for an answer.

When David’s jaw dropped open with shock, Murdo laughed.

“You’re corrupting me,” David said, sitting up, then felt his cheeks scorch as he recalled just how much corrupting Murdo had done last night.

Murdo watched him blush, his head to one side. “Do you regret it?” he asked. His tone was careful, those dark eyes watchful.

“No!” David exclaimed, almost offended to be asked. “Not at all!”

Murdo looked perfectly relaxed, lounging in the doorway, yet David detected a minute easing of strain in those broad shoulders at David’s vehement protest.

“I wondered if you’d have second thoughts,” he admitted.

“No, I’m—” David paused. “I’m glad.”

“Good,” Murdo said. Then he cleared his throat and turned away. “Why don’t you come and have some breakfast, then.”

David watched him go before he hopped out of bed to pull on his drawers, shirt and breeches. Thus attired, he wandered into the sitting room. As before, the table was set with snowy linen and fine dishes. Fine food and—yes, his nose hadn’t tricked him—there was morning chocolate this time too. David tried the chocolate, but it was too sweet for his taste.

“We drank beer for breakfast, on the farm,” he said, setting the chocolate aside and reaching for the teapot. “My father swore by it. Still does.”

“Not whisky?” Murdo said casually as he dissected a kipper. “I thought that was your favourite tipple.”

At David’s silence, he looked up, frowning in a puzzled way. “Sorry,” he said. “I was only jesting. And you do drink a fair old lot of whisky, don’t you?”

Oddly enough, David thought, he’d been drinking less since Murdo had come back. Even at last night’s ball, he’d just sipped at some wine punch. He wasn’t sure precisely why that was. Perhaps it was because it was in the evenings when he was alone with his thoughts that he tended to indulge most freely. There had been fewer of those nights lately, and even when he was alone, he’d had other matters taking up his attention.

It was good to wake without a thick head and a thicker tongue. Good to feel clear-headed. Perhaps, when Murdo went back to London, he’d try to lessen his drinking. Except that the thought Murdo would soon be leaving, perhaps never to return, made David feel like doing nothing else so much as sinking a bottle of the hard stuff to the very last dregs.

Ah, perhaps heshouldregret last night after all.