“You are not unkind.”
Ian snorted, a little huff of air, and Robert found himself smiling.
Ian moved away, then, taking off his coat and rolling up his shirtsleeves. Robert missed the feeling of the other man’s arm pressed against him. He looked over, studying Cameron’s hands, wide and rough, strong fingers dusted with copper hair, before he glanced at his sinewy forearms.
He had scars on his hands and arms—not a lot, but enough for Robert to notice. Some were thin and faint, some pale crescents.
“What are those from?” he said, nodding toward the scars.
Ian shrugged. “Working outdoors, mostly. Just cuts and scrapes.” He pointed at a crescent-shaped mark on his arm. “This is the one I remember most—a sheep bit me.”
“A sheep?”
“Aye.”
“A stupid, gentle sheep? How did you manage that?”
“Sheep are jealous of one another. I was trying to help one that had hurt its leg, and another sheep went after it. But I was in the middle. It accidentally bit me instead.”
Robert couldn’t help but laugh. “So two sheep were fighting over you, more or less?”
“Quiet, Townsend,” he said, but his mouth twitched as he said it.
“I can’t beat you in number, but I do have this, which might win for severity.” Robert leaned forward, pushing back his hair on the right side to reveal a slash of a scar near his hairline. “This is the pall mall scar. It’s a vicious sport.”
“I’ve never seen it played.”
“You hit a ball through a wicket with a mallet.”
Cameron frowned. “That doesn’t sound vicious.”
“You’ve never played against my brother. He’s the most competitive person I’ve ever met. Except perhaps for Annabel. He struck the ball with so much force that he uncovered a particularly sharp rock buried in the ground, which then tried to bury itself in my head. It hurt like the devil.
“I have another scar from Theo, actually.” Robert shoved his sleeve up to reveal a thin line along his upper arm. “We found some fencing equipment and proceeded to use it without any of the proper safety precautions.”
“Hmm,” Ian said. “And you’re sure these were accidents?”
Robert grinned. “For the most part.”
He was about to roll his sleeve back down when Ian touched him, softly, his rough finger tracing the thin, spidery scar, and everything in Robert stilled.
He realized how close they were to each other. Close enough to touch. Close enough to kiss.
Ian’s hand fell, but his gaze flickered to Robert’s lips, almost imperceptibly. Robert was close enough to see it. The heat he felt in that moment was so strong, so incredibly unexpected, that he didn’t know what to do with it. He knew what he’d told himself, but at the moment, none of those things seemed like a better option than simply leaning forward and finding out what Ian Cameron tasted like, instead of lying awake stroking his cock while he imagined it.
Cameron was looking down at Robert’s hand now, where it rested next to his on the stone floor.
Robert leaned forward slightly and opened his mouth; he didn’t know what he was going to say, but he never had a chance to find out.
“Are you a writer?” Ian demanded.
Robert drew back, desire falling away in a cold flash of reality.
Had he imagined that look? No, he didn’t think he had. And he certainly hadn’t imagined the touch. But it was possible, spurred on by his daydreams and fantasies, he’d imagined what was behind them.
“Why?”
“I just put it together. The ink stains and calluses. The horrible state of your desk.” Ian sounded terse, as though he should have thought of it sooner.
Robert felt cold. Or rather, his arm felt cold in the spot where Ian’s fingers had brushed him. Now, instead of heat and contact, there was only empty space.
“I am,” he said. There was no use lying about it; Cameron sounded pretty certain.
“And ye haven’t told anyone?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“What I write…it’s…not the most revered subject.”
“Gothic novels? You said that was what you like to read.”
Robert was startled that he’d remembered such an insignificant fact. Sometimes he worried that he rambled when he was with Cameron, because the other man was quieter, and Robert tended to talk to fill silences. He’d imagined half the things he said fell on deaf ears. He was grateful that he was wrong. “In a way.”
Ian studied his face. “Constable Whitley,” he said slowly. “It all makes sense.”
“That’s…well…don’t tell anyone,” he finally stammered. Of all the people to find out—it had to be Ian Cameron.
“Why not?”
“Because I started writing it simply for myself, and I didn’t expect a publisher to buy it. Theo and Eleanor…they’re not…they’re not very good with whimsy. I don’t know if they’d like it at all.”
“And ye care about their opinion that much? That you’d deceive them?”
“No.” “Deceive” was such an ugly word. It was more of a lie by omission. “I’ll tell them…I know I should…but when I didn’t tell them right away, it became more difficult as more time passed. But I will.”
He would. But he couldn’t do it now, anyway—Theo wasn’t here, and neither was Eleanor, and he thought that was something that would probably be best told in person instead of in a postscript in a letter. He could just imagine it: By the way, I’m the author of The Adventures of Constable Whitley. You know…that gothic/adventure/romance book that sold well that other authors hate?
Ian didn’t seem to understand, which was fine. Robert didn’t understand it fully himself.
“Is that why you wake up so late?” Ian looked disgruntled.
“Usually. I tend to write at night.”
Cameron made a noise in his throat that Robert couldn’t decipher. But it didn’t exactly sound pleased.
“You’re working on a second one?” Ian asked.
“Yes. The publisher wants a whole series because the first has been so successful.”
If anything, Ian’s frown deepened. Robert felt like he’d missed something. “So you would say that writing is your…profession?”
Why did he say “profession” as though he might choke on the word?
“Well, yes. I spend several hours a day on it, usually. My aunt and uncle tried to push me toward being a lawyer or a barrister, since Theo already had a military career, but I could never find much enthusiasm for the topic. And the clergy sounded even more stifling. For a while, I didn’t have to think about it, because my brother returned and he needed us…but writing always was the thing I liked the most.”
“I thought ye said ye didn’t have any special talents.”
Another thing he remembered. Perhaps Cameron was more focused on their conversations than Robert gave him credit for, was as observant of Robert as Robert was of him. A prickle of heat at the knowledge crept along his spine.
“Not everyone would consider writing a special talent.”
Another low snort. Ian did this more than he smiled or laughed, and Robert was becoming more versed in the sounds—low and derisive, abrupt and amused, soft and almost chiding.
“Worthington would probably use my book for kindling,” he pointed out.
“Worthington is an ass,” Ian said with so much cool disdain that Robert laughed.
“I wasn’t aware it was such an obvious fact.”
“It is,” Ian said and the prickle of warmth turned to a full-fledged blaze.
He wanted to say something else, to keep this easiness between them, when he heard a sound from outside the storage room. A voice.
“Robert? Mr. Cameron?”
It was Georgina. He suddenly remembered where he was. He didn’t think it was possible, but for a moment he’d forgotten.
“George!” He pushed to his feet. “We’re in here.”
“Are you trapped?”
“The door is stuck.”
“Oh, I should have told you…Catriona mentioned she was having trouble with this door. You have to lift as you push.”