Page 27 of The Last Kiss

Ash laughed when he brought Sable to a canter, oblivious to Harry’s confusion, gleeful in a way he hadn’t seen since Rouen. Harry laughed too, eyes filling, heart bursting. Christ, what must he look like? Glancing around, afraid of seeing John’s sly gaze, he wiped his eyes and tried to pull himself together before Ash noticed.

Bringing Sable back to a trot, then a walk, Ash turned, beaming. “Thank you, Harry. This is just what I needed. I spend entirely too much time inside my own head.”

“Aye, that you do,” Harry said, afraid his heart might be beating in his eyes, afraid Ash could see that it beat only for him. “And Sable listens to you better than me, that’s for sure.”

“She was always my girl.”

“Still is. You should try riding her again.”

“I will. I want to feel confident on Bella first.” A hesitant look. “Talking of which, I was hoping we could ride out tomorrow if the weather clears up. I could ask cook to pack us some grub. Will you have time, do you think?”

All the time in the world. My whole life if I could share it with you. “I should think so. About eleven, suit?”

Ash nodded. “We could try and reach Rowbarrow Pond. It’s so peaceful out there in the spring, lots of wild birds. It’s pretty and” — he glanced away, pale cheeks pinking — “and-and secluded.”

“It sounds nice.” Nice? Sweet Jesus. It sounded like an invitation. It sounded like trouble. It sounded bloody irresistible.

Ash gave him a cautious — hopeful? — look. “Let’s make a day of it, then, shall we?”

CHAPTERNINE

Olive called in later that afternoon. She strode across the lawn to where Ash was listening to his mother complain about the state of the herbaceous border and the lack of any competent gardeners these days. His thoughts were happily elsewhere, back with Harry in the paddock, in that moment when time had seemed to stop and he’d felt caught in a liminal space between the old world and the new, the old Ashleigh and the new.

He’d never kissed a man, although he’d thought about it a great deal in the abstract. At school and at Cambridge he’d harboured passions for other boys, but they’d been Platonic in the most cerebral sense. At the front, things had been different. He’d become more intimate with men there than he’d ever been before — all the men had been intimate, sleeping, cooking, and eating together for weeks on end, burning lice from each other’s clothes, dressing minor wounds, nursing each other through colds and chills and the long anxious nights. At home, all of that would have been called women’s work, but at the front they’d had no choice but to care for each other and there his tender feelings for Harry had thrived. Now, back in society’s straitjacket, those feelings were seeking new expression and his body was coming alive in ways he’d not had time for at the front. Standing with Harry in the paddock, practically in his arms, had felt like standing on the cusp of something irrevocable. In that moment, he’d wanted to kiss him almost more than he’d wanted to breathe. Everything would have changed if he’d done it, he’d have stepped into a world where he was a new person: Ashleigh Dalton, a man who kissed other men, who desired other men, who loved other men.

The question that preoccupied him while his mother rambled on about the rhododendrons was whether Harry wanted to take that step with him. Ash thought he did — he hoped he did — but to make an error in such a situation would be calamitous.

Such were his thoughts as Olive came striding across the lawn towards them, her skirts flapping out behind her. Rather shorter skirts, Ash suspected, than her mother would approve, far above Olive’s ankle boots. She was smiling as she walked, but Ash saw something else in her face that made him frown — tension gathering around her eyes and at the corners of her mouth.

“Olive, how lovely to see you,” his mother gushed. “Just in time for tea.”

“Oh, I’ve not come forthat, Mrs Allen.” Olive’s gaze flicked to Ash, oblivious to her bad manners. “I’m here on orders from Major Edwards, in fact. He’s visiting a colleague in London tomorrow, Ashleigh, and asked me to take measurements for the new prosthetic he discussed with you.”

His mother’s fingers tensed on his arm. “I see.” Her tone implied that such things should not be discussed in polite company. Olive, of course, didn’t care a whit for polite company.

It was enough to provoke Ash into agreeing, even though the last thing he wanted was Olive, or anyone else, prodding and poking his leg. “Splendid idea,” he said, with rather more gusto than he felt. “Thank you for taking the trouble, Olive. I could have come to Chewton Lodge and seen you there.”

Olive shrugged, the tension not leaving her face. “Quite all right, I was passing anyway. Shall we go to your room?”

“Of course.” The fact that his mother didn’t object was testament to the extent to which his bedroom, cobbled together on the ground floor, was nothing but a sickroom. And Olive, the woman she’d see him marry, was nothing but his nurse. In both their eyes, he had become sexless — a patient. It made him even more grateful for the heat in Harry’s gaze. Harry, who saw him as a man, not an invalid. And, if Ash was right, a man to be desired.

That thought provoked a smile as they turned back to the house. It amused him that he harboured a secret passion that neither woman could possibly imagine. He wondered what they’d think if they knew how his blood burned for Harry West, how he, above all, was the one Ash would have liked to take to his bedroom.

They left his mother at the door to the garden room and, while she rang for tea, Ash led Olive to his bedroom. The maid had been in to make the bed — the lamp he’d smashed had been swept up and replaced by another — and fresh flowers sat in a vase on the mantle. The fire had been set, but not lit, and with the window wide open the room felt rather chilly.

“Well,” Olive said as he went to sit on the bed. “I hope you don’t mind this?”

He shrugged. “It’s not my favourite thing, but Major Edwards thinks this new prosthetic will be better. I’m in no position to object.”

“I meant me doing this.” She turned and closed the door. “I know you feel self-conscious about your injury.”

“If I do, that’s my silliness, not yours.”

She turned, shaking her head. “Lots of men feel the same way, you know. Even the ones who brazen it out in public have a little cry at night. I hope — That is, I’d like you to be honest with me.” Her gaze moved away from him. “I hope we’re friends enough for that.”

He got the distinct impression that they were discussing more than his leg. “I hope so too,” he said, and in the spirit of honesty added, “You’re right, I don’t like looking at it and I don’t like — I don’t want people to think ofthatwhen they see me. Stupid, really, when I see what other men have to face.”

“Just because other men are having a bad time of it doesn’t mean you can’t feel what you feel, Ashleigh. We’re all different.” She pulled the chair from the window and set it in front of the bed, sitting down with her bag on her lap while she rummaged and pulled out a tape measure and note book. “Come along, then. Let’s have a look.”

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