Page 23 of King's Man

He’d wanted to wound, that was the truth of it. He’d wanted to make Nate hurt the wayhe’dhurt for the last five years — to ache right down to his bones for everything they’d lost. But Sam’s father would have warned him that a man who lifts his hand to harm a friend harms himself the deepest.

And so it had proven.

Nate’s hurt had been obvious last night, proclaimed by the miserable slump of his shoulders and the dousing of his fiery spirit. He’d looked so dejected as he’d trudged miserably to bed that Sam, fool that he was, had almost apologized. He’d resisted at the last moment, reminding himself of Cole’s advice — make sure he knows what he done to you — and told himself Nate deserved the pain. What right did Nate Tanner have to feel injured when Sam was the one wronged?

No right at all.

And yet Nate’s wounded expression and tentative glances ached like a bruise beneath Sam’s skin, impossible to ignore. And today, in his need to ease his own discomfort, he’d relented. Too proud to apologize for his severity, he’d moved to sit with Nate on the box, allowed their legs to press together, allowed Nate’s shoulder to brush his own, and let his body hum with remembered intimacy.

Upon reflection, that had been a mistake.

Because by the time the light began to fail and they stopped for the night at an inn near Solihull, Sam was mired in a confusion of feelings. Anger, desire, resentment, longing: how was it possible to feel it all at once?

The Greswolde Arms was a smart building for a coaching inn, and very busy. “We don’t have any more rooms,” the landlord apologized. “You’re welcome to sleep in the hayloft or leave your chaise in the yard and sleep in there. Or you could try up at the Black Horse, but everyone’s busy this time of year.”

“I’ll be comfortable enough in the hayloft,” Sam said, throwing Nate a quick glance. “Mr. Tanner can sleep in the coach.”

Nate’s answering expression was inscrutable. “As you like.”

Sam did like. He needed time away from Nate, time to restore his equilibrium. Time to reinforce his shaky defenses.

They ate in silence amid the noise of the crowded dining parlor, and Sam ordered himself a bottle of the inn’s cheapest gin. Nate eyed it while they ate but said nothing. He was, like Sam, partial to a good Kentucky whiskey.

Eventually, the landlord appeared with blankets for both and another apology. “It don’t feel right letting a couple of gents go without a room. I’d offer my own bed but the wife —”

“I can assure you,” Nate said with a smile, “that Mr. Hutchinson and I are both used to bunking in odd places.” He met Sam’s eyes across the table. “We used to go night fishing back home. Sometimes we’d just bed down right there on the riverbank.”

The bastard.

The landlord’s gaze darted between them, a slight lift of his eyebrows suggesting curiosity, but he only said, “Well then. I’ll bid you a good night, sirs.”

Once he’d left, Nate reached for Sam’s gin and poured a large measure into his empty ale cup. He lifted it in salute. “A man shouldn’t drink alone.”

Sam grunted and refilled his own cup. “It’s been a long couple of days.” But the liquor was at least rubbing off the edges of his tension, his shoulders starting to unknot.

“And some long ones yet to come.” Nate examined the rim of his earthenware cup, then lifted his dark gaze to Sam’s. “Listen. You should know that MacLeod is a violent man. Vicious. If we’re caught in his house, he’ll take matters into his own hands. You need to be ready for that.”

“What nice company you’re keeping these days.”

Nate conceded that with a spread of his hands. “Needs must when the devil drives.”

“So speaks the great revolutionary. What happened toGive me liberty or give me death?”

Nate’s lips tightened as he looked away. “Must everything come back to that?”

“Everythingdoescome back to that. You made it so.”

“Idid?” The challenge in Nate’s eyes, the flash of irritation, shouldn’t have raised gooseflesh across Sam's skin, but he felt raw and dangerously exposed tonight. Vulnerable. “We both had a hand in it. We both had our principles and made our choices.”

And there was truth in that, he supposed. Even if Sam’s choices had been forced by men who refused him the liberty of his own conscience. But what was the point of still arguing? It was done now, it was over, and in a few days, Nate would be gone. There was no going back to what they’d once been, but this journey would be intolerable if they kept worrying at the past like dogs fighting over old bones. “Perhaps,” Sam said cautiously, “we could call a truce while we’re on the road.”

“A truce?” Nate cocked an eyebrow. “We’re not at war, Sam.”

That was true. The battle was over, the land laid waste, and they were picking through the wreckage until they went their separate ways once more. With a sigh, Sam said, “I guess not.”

A flicker of emotion lit Nate’s eyes, chasing away yesterday’s sadness. “Truce, then.” he said, knocking his cup against Sam’s and swallowing a mouthful of gin. “Christ.” He pulled a face. “This is vile. Can you not get good whiskey in England?”

“You can. I prefer not to drink it.”

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