Indulgence 2: One Glimpse (22 page)

“Are you killed?” John cried as he splashed down the muddy embankment and into the knee-deep water, the driverless horses now ambling on the lane behind him.

“What a question,” Sam tried to counter, but it came out as gurgled nonsense when his hand sank into the mud beneath him and he floundered backward into the water. Strong hands gripped the front of his waistcoat and pulled him up. Sam spit muddy water away from his lips, then froze.

John straddled over him in the shallow water, one knee down and the other boot sinking. Their thighs touched, for John was practically sitting on Sam’s lap. But he could not even give that his full attention when his face was cradled in John’s hands and he stared up into wide bronze orbs that examined every inch of him.

“Are you hurt?” John demanded. “Can you move your legs? Sam? Are you listening to me?”

Listening, watching, smelling.

“I’m fine,” Sam said between breaths. “Not hurt.”

“You’re sure? You look dazed.” John leaned closer, as if being able to see the pores on Sam’s nose would confirm his health. Sam’s didn’t move. The freezing water around him was all but forgotten as John stroked his thumbs across Sam’s cheeks. Eventually, John’s stroking slowed and stopped, but he didn’t release Sam. Neither said a word.

What is this?

“Ho, Darny! Shaw!”

The voices were far off, accompanied by the crunch of gravel under running feet. John did not appear to hear them.

“John, I’m fine,” Sam said, shifting. The next shout was much closer. “They’re coming. John, for God’s sake, move away from me!” He twisted in the water just as John seemed to come to his senses and stand back. By the time Mosley and the others came to a halt at the top of the embankment, John stood clear in the ankle-deep water, and Sam was still trying to gain his footing in the mud.

“Bleeding Christ, man!” Farnsworth cried. “We saw it clear from the stable yard. I can’t believe my eyes that you’re standing.”

“Aye,” Fletcher declared, tugging down his waistcoat. “Haven’t seen a flight like that since… Well, I never have.”

Sam reached the embankment and bent over to place a hand on the soggy grass. “I’m fine. Truly. Nothing broken but my pride, I fear.”

“Pride?” Mosley gawked. “Don’t be a fool, man. You were just flung head over arse from a high perch, and you aren’t dead. Have that engraved on a button.”

Sam stared, dumbfounded, but with each passing second the accident became more real. He looked over the embankment and the gravel path, then to the horses and the death-trap phaeton behind them. It was true. He wasn’t dead. He wasn’t even hurt.

He started to laugh.

“I say, Darn, you think he hit his head?” Leeds asked.

Now Sam really could not hold it back. He laughed harder, clutching his side as the sick, giddy realizations hit him. He could be dead or crippled.

“Have you lost your mind, Shaw?” Sills sneered.

“What’s the man to do? Start blubbering and crawl to his bed?” Mosley slapped his thigh and laughed. “Good show, Shaw! If I ever cheat death like that, I’ll damn well laugh too.”

The others voiced their agreement and started laughing. As Sam used his hands to clamber up the embankment and made squishing steps toward the path, the laughter only increased. But he didn’t care. There was nothing cruel of jeering in it. For the first time in Sam’s life, he honestly felt like he was being laughed
with
.

“And you, Darn!” Farnsworth threw up his hands. “What the devil happened?”

“Yes, what say you?” Leeds added. “You took that turn like a madman.”

John, who had not moved from his place in the shallow water nor said anything, climbed up the bank and began unbuttoning his mud-sodden waistcoat. “Wasn’t paying attention,” he said, gaze fixed on the buttons. “I saw the turn too late.”

“Saw the turn too late?” Sills snorted. “The devil, Darny; you’ve driven this path more times than I can count. Did something distract you?”

Sam started to say something to take Sills’s attention from John, but John snapped his eyes up and barked, “Nothing was distracting me!”

Sills lifted his chin angrily. “Well. Don’t be sore with me just because you lost your head at the reins and nearly got our good baronet here killed.”

John’s face paled, and Sam could swear he saw him sway on his feet.

“It was hardly that bad,” Sam countered. “I’m fine.”

“Yes, yes, no point in harping on could haves.” Mosley came forward and gave Sam a firm slap on the back. “Just be glad it went the way it did and you’ll have a story to tell. Ha! Add this to your mysterious quarrel with Brenleigh, and you’ll be the name on every tongue in London.”

Aren’t I the lucky one?

Sam tried to watch John without being noticed, but he had his back turned as he removed his soaked waistcoat and snapped some of the water out of it. A gust of wind blew over them, alerting Sam to the fact that he was shivering.

“Afraid I am going to play the dandy and beg for a bath, Mosley,” Sam said, still shifting his gaze anxiously toward John, “before I freeze to death and lose any chance of telling tales back in town.”

“Oh, no worries on that,” Fletcher drawled. “If you do turn up the daisies, Mose here will be sure to tell the story for you. Repeatedly.”

The others laughed while Mosley shot Fletcher a friendly scowl. Farnsworth and Fletcher climbed aboard the phaeton and trotted it back to the stables while the rest of them crossed the field back to the house. All the while, Sam kept trying to catch John’s eyes in the hopes of seeing something. He was not certain what. All he knew was the way John had looked at him in the water, the way he had called his name and touched him, left Sam entertaining hopes he had never thought himself foolish enough to entertain.

* * * *

John stomped through the kitchen entrance like a miserable child, his water-logged boots slurping beneath him. He had broken off from the others to go round to the stables and apologize to Farnsworth for the misuse of his horses and his phaeton. Though in his present mood he hardly gave a damn. He had needed an excuse to get away from the others for a moment and to avoid Sam.

Sam.

Once more the bile rose to the back of his throat. It was all the worst mixed in one nauseating brew: shame, humiliation, guilt. He had almost gotten Sam killed, and all because he had lost his focus in those deep green eyes. When he had leaped down from the phaeton, he had been sure he would find Sam nothing more than a broken husk. And what had he done next to make things even worse?

Lost your bloody mind, that’s what.

God help him, he had wanted to warp his arms around and Sam. He had wanted to strip him of his clothes and examine every inch of him for injury. He had wanted to kiss him until neither of them could breathe. Instead, he had stroked his face and stared at him like a mute idiot.

Fucking hell.
And then, the way Sam had snapped his name and rolled in the mud to get as far from him as possible stuck in his mind like a thorn. How Sam must hate him. How disgusted he must be.

John passed through the kitchens and the servants’ door, then down a long corridor leading to the front hall. A bath was probably already growing cold in his room. Just as he reached the doorway leading to a front parlor, Sills stepped out and beckoned him over with a look.

“What?” John snapped.

Michael’s expression turned irritated. “Listen. I understand you’re worn thin, but don’t take it out on me. And I won’t ask you about the phaeton. None of us are perfect, you know.”

John rubbed his face and did not bother to hide his aggravation when a fresh wave of shivers racked him. Be damned, he was cold!

“Yes, I understand.” John sighed. “But why would I be ‘worn thin’? I’m perfectly all right.”

“Nonsense.” Michael smirked. “If I was having to play up to Shaw, I would be past my tolerance too, though I’ve seen other fellows bear far worse for the purpose.”

“Michael, for God’s sake,” John said through his teeth, “what are you talking about?”

Michael crossed his arms over his chest. “The money, of course. The whole bleeding ton knows Shaw’s sister is set up with forty thousand. I just can’t believe you would keep me in the dark about it.”

John stared as anger pooled in his gut. Michael thought he was playing at being friendly with Sam, and all just to get at Florence Shaw and her dowry?

“Darny,” Michael continued, “if you’re setting out for a leg shackle and a bit of coin, you can do much better than the Shaw chit. I don’t know of anyone who comes with quite such a heavy purse, but surely you would be willing to give up a bit of the ready for someone a bit more palatable.”

“I am not playing up to anyone, and I am not scouting the marriage mart,” John said irritably. “And why the devil would you think so?”

“Well, if that’s not your purpose, why did you invite the bore? Honestly, man, I don’t see the appeal.”

John was growing so angry he no longer felt cold. “I was unaware I had to submit my friendships and acquaintances for your inspection. And if you wish to discuss bores,
Michael
, I’m finding this conversation very tedious.”

“What has gotten into you?” Michael demanded, scowling. “First you vanish for three days under some flimsy story about eating bad oysters, then you show up late to a ball behaving oddly and searching for Samuel Shaw of all people? And then offering to second him against Brenleigh? What the devil is going on?”

This was too much.

“I’m not discussing this further. My friends are my own concern, and I will be damned if I offer explanations to you or anyone else.” John shifted to leave but stopped. “And if you’re so keen to understand why I have befriended him, I would also like to know why you dislike him so.”

By Michael’s angry stare, it was clear he would give no answer. John made a disgusted sound and headed toward the stairs. As he headed up and toward his room, the knot in his stomach tightened. After the way he had behaved with Sam, defending their friendship was probably a moot point.

Chapter Ten

A Good Man

“The suit is hearts, Farnsy. Hearts!” Fletcher snapped.

“What? Are you certain? I could swear it was clubs this turn.” Farnsworth looked down at his cards and squinted his eyes, as if the slips of pasteboard were to blame. Sam suspected the man was simply so drunk that he was having a hard time seeing.

“Blast it.” Leeds shook his head. “I call a renege.”

Sam pressed his lips together to keep from laughing. Farnsworth had already revoked the hand when it was obvious he could have stayed in suit but didn’t, but Fletcher took the faux pas further by commenting on the card play.

“Well, dash it!” Farnsworth threw down his hand. “Why are we playing whist anyway? I feel like I’m in my old auntie’s parlor.”

“I would not mind sitting as banker if you prefer a game of faro,” Sam offered.

Farnsworth perked up at the suggestion. “That’s more sporting. What do you say? Eh, Darn? Mose? Would you be up for a faro table, or are you happy secluded in piquet and ignoring the rest of us?”

Sam looked to where Mosley and John sat at a tiny table near the fireplace. They had been playing piquet for the better part of an hour while Sam had agreed to play whist with Fletcher, Farnsworth, and Leeds. Sills, being the seventh man, seemed to be content reclining on a sofa while he drank port and commented on the play.

Smug bastard.

“You’ll sit as banker, Sir Samuel? How appropriate,” Sills drawled.

He had been making such jibes all evening, each one just cryptic enough to pass muster with the others and leave Sam unable to respond without looking churlish.

“Better’n you sitting banker, I’d think.” John snorted. “That’d be unfitting for sure.”

Sam watched as John took a long draw of port from his goblet and set it down with a little fumble. It was not the first time that evening he had rejoined one of Sills’s snide comments, and it was not the first time Sam was torn between being pleased and anxious. From the way Sills kept shooting John angry looks, which he then dragged over to Sam’s direction, it was clear there had been words between them.

“Damn right appropriate,” Leeds said as he swirled his crystal glass up to the firelight. “I’d say Shaw here is the only one left to be trusted with the arithmetic.”

Fletcher and Farnsworth laughed their agreement. In the hours since dinner, Sam had lost count of the number of the bottles they had uncorked. Leeds’s call of a renege on the card play was almost comical since all of them were already so foxed the game had been a bungle for some time. Sam had been sorely tempted to dive in as well, but held back. He didn’t want to do anything stupid, and in his current state of mind he feared he might do just that.

While sitting in his warm bath earlier and pondering the events of the day, he had grown more and more elated with his certainty. John must feel something more than friendship for him. He must! A man did not just lose his mind one day and touch another man the way John had touched him. Twice. It made Sam’s stomach flutter with that uncertain mix of joy and fear. Joy at how wonderful it would be to touch John back, and fear that he could be horribly wrong.

It wouldn’t be the first time I was mistaken.

“Why the moderation, Sir Samuel?” Sills said, putting weight on the title as he had been doing all evening. “I was more than half hoping that a few bottles of port would loosen your tongue and we would all hear the truth of your quarrel with Brenleigh.”

“Oh, what is that now? Three or four?” John leaned back in his chair and waved a floppy hand in Sills’s direction. “Well? Three or four times tonight that you’ve mentioned Brenleigh. You’re becoming an old gossiped—eh, goss-gossipy fishwife!”

The others let up whoops of laughter, either at John’s drunken speech or Sills’s obvious displeasure, Sam wasn’t sure. He was sure, however, that John’s inhibitions were vanishing by the minute.

“I’m tired of cards anyway,” John said as he lurched to his feet. He immediately grabbed the back of his chair, almost knocking it over. “Let’s throw darts instead.”