Robert started, but he set the oil lamp down in the farthest corner and then returned to sit beside the Highlander.
“I used to climb onto the roof of my cottage to look at the stars,” Cameron finally said. “Now that the cottage is gone, this is the next best place.”
The stars? Robert exhaled and tipped his head back. And then he had to suck in a quick, surprised breath. He rarely looked at the stars when he was here, and now he wondered why that was. The night was crisp and cloudless, the stars white and sharp as diamonds. Straight overhead, a heavy stretch of them shimmered like dust.
There must be thousands. Millions. It was almost impossible to wrap his mind around the vastness of it.
“I didn’t realize the stars could be so clear.”
“When it’s not cloudy, it’s perfect,” Cameron agreed. “There aren’t any other lights blocking out the sky.”
Robert snorted. “When it’s not cloudy? Does that happen very often?”
Cameron’s mouth lifted, just the slightest bit. “It happens enough.”
He handed the bottle back, and their fingers brushed. Heat rose to the surface of Robert’s skin, and spread, as though Cameron’s touch could command his blood.
“I saw the aurora borealis once.”
Robert wasn’t much of an astronomer, even an amateur one. The term was unfamiliar. “What is that?”
“Green lights that dance across the sky in the winter. It looks like magic.”
Robert took a swig of whisky. The lip of the bottle was still warm from the other man’s mouth. He leaned back on one hand so he could see the stars better.
Even this was like magic. He couldn’t imagine more.
“I didn’t take you for the type of person to appreciate the stars.”
A beat of silence and then, “But you don’t really know me, do ye?”
No—on the rare occasions he’d thought of Cameron before they’d interacted, he’d assumed he was probably a straightforward, hardworking type. This was Robert’s failing, the assumption that he would fit it into a neat, simple category. And then Cameron had been forced to move in, and Robert thought he was cold—and he was. But then Robert had seen him burn hot. And he hadn’t been cold, either, when Robert had leaned against him and felt the heat of his body and heard Cameron’s laugh rumble against his cheek.
But that didn’t mean Robert’s earlier impressions were incorrect. They were all different sides of the same person. Faces he showed strangers and acquaintances and friends. Faces he kept purely for himself, like this one: the wonder of a starlit night.
But now this face was partly Robert’s, too, because he’d allowed him to see it.
Cameron was right—Robert didn’t truly know him, but he wanted to. He was too intrigued by the things he’d glimpsed beneath the surface. He wanted the other man to view him as a friend, as someone worthy of respect, as someone worth confiding in. Someone worth showing more than one face to.
Of course, the fact that he sometimes stroked himself while imagining Cameron’s hands and mouth on him wasn’t exactly friendly. And he wanted that, too—Cameron’s hands and mouth on him—but he didn’t know if it was something he was allowed to ask for.
He took two or three healthy swigs from the bottle and handed it back. Warmth pooled in his stomach.
A streak of light flashed across the sky, there and then gone. “A shooting star,” he said. “I should make a wish.”
Cameron was silent. Robert glanced over at him, though he could only make out his outline and the dark blur of his face.
“What would ye wish for?”
The question made Robert’s body flood with warmth. To ask that, he had to care, at least a little. Or maybe he was just humoring him. At the moment, the difference between the two didn’t trouble Robert very much. “I don’t know. You’re not supposed to reveal your wish.”
“Why not?”
“Seven years of bad luck?”
Cameron snorted. “I think you’re mixing up your superstitions.”
The bottle was passed back, and Robert took another drink. He wasn’t drunk, but he was feeling pleasantly lazy. He wondered if Cameron was feeling the effects of the whisky, too. “I don’t make wishes anymore,” he said abruptly.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Cameron’s head turn toward him, which he assumed was an indication of interest.
And Robert found himself speaking, found himself telling the other man something he’d never spoken of to anyone, not even the people he loved the most.
“When my parents died, we were taken in by my aunt and uncle. Their house was in the country, and there was a wishing well, not far away. I walked there, every day, and threw a penny in, for months. And every day, I wished that my parents would…speak to me…somehow…give me some indication that they were…somewhere…that they weren’t simply gone. It never happened. And one day I just stopped going.”
Robert sighed. “I was old enough to know better. You would think I wouldn’t have been quite so stupid.”
“It wasn’t stupid,” Cameron said.
Something brushed Robert’s hand—the glass bottle. He nearly smiled at the offering—something about it felt almost tender. He took one more drink and set the bottle between them. Then he lay on his back so he could see the sky without craning his neck. It wasn’t very comfortable—the stone floor was a rigid pillow, and the stones were a bit damp, too, but he could see the sky better. The stars winked down at him, distant and bright.
For a few minutes, all was quiet.
“It’s been ten years,” he said, and he was sure this revelation was due to the whisky because, normally, he didn’t even like to think about it, “and sometimes I’ll have dreams where they’re still alive, and everything is like it used to be. And then I’ll wake up, and for an instant…for one instant…”
“You canna remember if it’s real,” Cameron finished quietly.
Robert blinked. He hadn’t expected the other man to understand so perfectly. His next breath was unsteady. “And when I realize it’s not, it hits me like a blow. Even after all this time.”
He didn’t think Cameron was going to say anything further, but then, “It’s been more than ten years for me, and it’s the same.”
Robert tipped his head to look at the other man, one cheek against cold, damp stone—Cameron had lain back, too, but his face was still pointed toward the sky. “Your parents are dead?”
“No.”
“No?”
“They’re as good as dead. I left fourteen years ago, and I haven’t seen them since.”
“Why?”
“They didn’t want me.”
Robert wanted to know more, but he had a feeling Cameron wouldn’t take well to prodding.
He couldn’t imagine it, though. He would’ve given anything to have his parents back, and Cameron had gone fourteen years without seeing his. A spark of anger unfurled in his stomach—Cameron’s parents were alive, somewhere, and he was wasting it.
He opened his mouth to speak and then closed it again. Cameron was still. Even his chest barely moved as he breathed. With a soft sigh, Robert turned toward the sky again. He didn’t know what Cameron’s parents had done, or what had happened between them, so he supposed he couldn’t judge.
“This is nice,” he said, changing the subject. “Quiet.”
“Too quiet for some.”
“But not for you?”
“Not for me.”
Robert felt strangely peaceful. Though it didn’t take long for that peace, combined with the lateness of the hour and the consumption of alcohol, to turn to lethargy. “Maybe someday I’ll see the aurora borealis, too,” he murmured. “You shouldn’t keep these things to yourself, Cameron.”
“What do ye mean?”
He didn’t really know what he meant, but he kept speaking with no input from his brain. “You should share things. With someone. You shouldn’t hoard it all for yourself—things are better when you share them with someone. With me.”
“With you?”
“If you want. I wouldn’t object. I know Miss Hale wouldn’t object.”
Cameron made a derisive noise. “Miss Hale is too young.”
“She’s charming.” Robert paused. “Or Willoughby—he likes you.”
“Willoughby—the cat?” Cameron sounded offended, but amused, too.
Robert laughed.