“Yes, we were.” Robert glanced back at him briefly but didn’t stop moving. “I’m not inclined to stand around while you hurl verbal abuse at me. If I did something that bothered you, find those words you keep buried in the depths of your prickly soul and tell me. Until then, we have more important matters at hand.”
Ian stared. No, he gaped. Never in his life had he been spoken to the way Townsend had just spoken to him.
Against all reason, his feet began to move. To follow him.
Like a dog called to heel.
He gritted his teeth, but Townsend was right—they did have more important matters at hand. Ian had accused Mr. Hale of being childish, but arguing with Townsend because he was jealous was also childish, particularly when whoever had tried to pin the thefts on him was still out there, free to plot Ian’s demise.
He stared at the back of Townsend’s head, at the unyielding angle of his shoulders. A sudden, unwanted question emerged—what would Townsend be like as a lover? Ian had assumed he’d be carefree, easygoing, generous. Now, with this new side of the man he saw emerging more and more often, he wondered if he might be demanding, greedy, if he might take more than he gave.
Ian didn’t think he would mind.
Robert glanced over his shoulder, saw Ian following, and smiled.
Ian’s pulse quickened at the sight of Robert’s smile. But he should have realized he wasn’t actually upset—Townsend wasn’t the sort to take offense for very long. This would have bothered him just a few days ago. He would have assumed it was because Townsend didn’t like anything getting in the way of his idleness. Now he simply assumed that Townsend wasn’t the sort to hold grudges, which didn’t necessarily seem like a bad trait.
He was incredibly irritated by this shift in perception.
Ever since they’d gotten stuck under the Worthingtons’ bed, ever since Robert had pressed against him, shaking with laughter, he’d been less inclined to think harshly of him. That moment had drawn a line in the sand—before, they were apart, separate, a huge wall between them. After, somehow, they were in it together.
It was a damned nuisance.
Just because Ian was less inclined to think of Townsend harshly didn’t mean it wasn’t deserved. Townsend still crawled out of bed each morning as if he’d been drinking until dawn. He was still a lazy aristocrat.
And it would be a mistake to think of him as anything else.
“I’m glad you decided to come,” Townsend said as Ian drew alongside him.
“Why?”
“Have you ever been down to the cellars? One of the rooms was used as a prison when Llynmore was first built, and I’m quite positive there’s a bloodstain on the floor.”
“Couldn’t it be wine, from later?”
“It could be,” he allowed, but he sounded unconvinced.
“So…ye want me there because you’re frightened to go alone?”
Townsend tilted his head and narrowed his eyes. “I’m not frightened,” he said. “I like to hedge my bets.”
“Meaning?”
“If there would happen to be something down there—a deranged murderer who’s been hiding there for years unbeknownst to any of us, or, God forbid, a rampaging unicorn—I might have a chance to escape if they’re occupied with you first.”
Ian didn’t even know where to begin. “So ye would use me as a human shield?”
“Don’t take it personally, Cameron. I would be tempted to use anyone as a shield against murderers and unicorns.”
“I don’t think it likely that there’s anything down there. Someone would have noticed.”
“You obviously haven’t read as many gothic novels as I have.”
They made a detour so Robert could stop in his bedchamber and retrieve an oil lamp. “This will be brighter than a candle,” he muttered to himself, checking the amount of oil in the reservoir.
Ian took a moment to study the room. It was fairly well kept—a large bed was neatly made, across from which rested a tall wardrobe and a washstand. There weren’t any personal belongings left out. Looking at just those things, Ian might have assumed he was in a freshly cleaned guest room.
And then he got a good look at the desk by the window, which was illuminated by the sunlight angling across the surface.
It was a battlefield…of parchment and quills and books.
Ian couldn’t even see the actual desk. Everywhere, sheets of foolscap covered in a slanted scrawl were stacked or strewn about. Books, both open and closed, took up any space the foolscap had left. And teetering precariously close to a corner was an intricate silver-topped inkwell and an open cedarwood box that contained no fewer than ten quills.
Most had the grayish tinge of goose quills, but there were some larger white ones that were probably swan. Ian had no idea why one person would need so many quills.
But he moved closer as Robert fumbled with the lamp and saw that, based on the ink stains, all of them had been used.
He stared down at the stack of parchment and was just reaching a hand out to draw it closer to him when Townsend practically flung himself between Ian and the desk. Ian blinked.
“I’m finished,” Robert said brightly, holding the lit oil lamp between them.
They were close. Too close. Townsend’s breath fanned across Ian’s mouth, and at that light touch, hunger roared to life inside him—too strong, too fast, too hot. He stepped back, shaken.
He turned quickly, wondering why he hadn’t stayed in the hallway in the first place. And how Townsend could affect him so strongly without even touching him.
The walk to the central tower house and then down the spiral stairway to the ground level was silent, and it was a more tense silence than Ian was used to with Townsend. He wondered if Townsend suspected— No…there was no reason for him to suspect anything. Ian had turned away too quickly for him to see even the smallest spark of desire.
A devious part of his mind wondered what would happen if Townsend had seen his desire.
Would he return it?
Ian tamped down on that line of questioning. Even if he did, Ian was not foolish enough to think it was a good idea to start a physical relationship with his employer’s brother. There were too many ways it could go wrong.
And the suspicion that his desire might encompass something more than a hasty fuck or two was warning enough.
Ian did not get jealous. He did not care. He did not hang around someone simply because he liked to hear them talk. Except…he’d done all of those things with Townsend.
In light of that, lust was the last thing he needed to succumb to. It would only cement all of those things, only make them stronger.
But Ian knew how to deny himself—he knew he could deny himself. They just had to find the other stolen goods, resolve the issue, and Ian could get to work on building a new cottage.
And forget all about Robert Townsend.
Chapter Ten
Robert bumped into the unyielding wall that was Ian Cameron’s chest as he tried to avoid the dark stain that covered the stone floor. He moved back when the other man glared at him.
Still, he couldn’t resist. He let the glow of the oil lamp spill over the stain. “Wine?” he asked skeptically.
Cameron looked down at it, frowning. “Aye. It could be blood.”
Robert didn’t think Cameron sounded as disturbed as he should have been.
He wasn’t sure if the room had once had individual cells, but now it was simply an open room with a low, curved ceiling and no windows to let in light. The doorway was about half the size of a normal human being, and they’d both had to crouch to enter. Robert wasn’t sure if this had been a way to further degrade medieval prisoners—making them crawl to their imprisonment—or if the masons simply hadn’t cared how big the doors were in the lower levels, since they’d mostly be used by servants and prisoners and not the resident family.
Either way, Robert didn’t like it. It was too dark, the stone ceiling too close. It made him feel like he might never feel the sun again. The idea of someone being thrown down here for a crime seemed more like torture than justice. He could joke as much as he wanted about using Cameron as a shield, but he was, in truth, simply relieved at another human presence.