Page 27 of King's Man

They made a strange caravan, the chaise crawling along empty, Nate and Sam trudging behind like filthy footmen. It was difficult walking, the mud sucking at his boots, thighs burning with the strain of wading through the muck.

“Be thankful it’s not still raining,” Sam said, eying him sideways.

“At this point, I doubt it would matter. God’s teeth, Sam, how do you live in all this mud?”

“I don’t usually make a habit of wallowing in it. Besides, it rains in Rosemont too.” He slid Nate a wry look. “Or has your Congress outlawed rain?”

“So they have,” Nate said, catching Sam’s light tone as carefully as he might a butterfly. “It’s been decreed that the sun will always shine in America.”

“The farmers won’t be happy.”

“Well —” The uncertain smile in Sam’s eyes had Nate’s hope rising. “Then the rain’s only to fall on their fields. How’s that?”

“About as plausible as the rest of your fantastical future, I suppose.”

“Sam…” He couldn’t stop the sigh. “It was your future too once, remember? We used to talk of — Christ!” His boot stuck fast and a moment later his stockinged foot slipped free and went plunging into cold, sticky mud. “Oh, for the love of…”

Sam snorted a laugh and watched Nate trying to pull his boot free. The damned thing wouldn’t budge, and Nate’s wet, slippery fingers couldn’t get purchase.

“You could help,” he snapped, wiping his hands on the shoulders of his shirt — the driest part of himself he could find.

“Suppose. But watching’s more fun.”

Nate glared, but Sam’s grin popped his irritation like a soap bubble. He felt daring, suddenly, boyish in a way he’d not felt in years. “Is that so?” With a flick of his fingers, he sent a gob of mud right into Sam’s face.

“You…!” Sam spluttered, gasping in shock, and Nate sucked in an apprehensive breath. “You utter shit.” Scooping up a handful of mud, Sam flung it right back. Nate ducked, but Sam’s second shot hit him square on the arm.

And then it was war.

Nate was hampered by only having one boot, but he held his ground as they pelted each other with handfuls of mud, like children. He was laughing and breathless, and inside him something began to unspool — days of tension, years of regret and longing — all of it unraveling in this lunacy. He could see it in Sam too, in the sudden wildness unleashed between them, in his breathless laughter and glittering eyes. And when Nate charged forward to shove a handful of mud down the back of Sam’s shirt, he found himself tackled around the waist and they both went down into the mud.

The breath knocked from him, Nate squirmed away. But Sam was too fast. He grabbed Nate’s shoulder and hauled him in, flipping him over onto his back and straddling him. “Submit!” he demanded, one hand splayed on Nate’s chest, warm through his sodden shirt, and the other holding a fistful of gloop high above his head. It dripped from between his clenched fingers. “Surrender.”

Never!The word hovered on Nate’s lips, but something in Sam’s expression held him silent. Some need for victory. Until that moment, Nate hadn’t realized that Sam might feel defeated, that he might consider Nate the victor in the conflict that had torn them apart. But, dear God, hadn’t they both lost? His laughter failed and he held out his hands. “You win. I surrender.”

He’d always surrendered to Sam, after all. It had been his joy.

Swallowing, Sam lowered his hand but didn’t look away. He breathed hard, chest rising and falling beneath the mud smeared across his skin. And the heat in his eyes set Nate’s heart pounding in hope, made his body respond. He saw want there, certainly. Forgiveness?Something fonder still?God, please…

“Damn you, Nate Tanner,” Sam said, feelingly. “Damn you to hell.”

He pushed himself to his feet and Nate scrambled up next to him, still missing a boot. It was sticking out of the mud some feet away. He reached out a hand. “Sam —”

But Sam was already turning away. “Come on, the chaise is halfway down the road. Let’s get your damned boot and be after it.”

With a frustrated sigh, Nate clambered to his feet and followed.

An hour later they reached the next inn, the sun high and the day approaching noon. Nate flaked dry mud from his arms as he trudged wearily into the yard, leaving Sam to make his way over to the inn to ask about a place for them to wash, and about a change of horses. The post-boy wanted to inspect the wheel for damage, so their stay promised to be lengthy.

He glanced around the yard while he waited, catching a couple of lads paused in their business of hauling water to gape. They probably made quite a sight, covered head-to-toe in filth. He hoped Sam had got something out of his system, throwing mud instead of insults, but feared it would take more than that to break down the wall between them. Perhaps they’d found a few chinks, but Sam appeared reluctant to look through.

After a few minutes, Sam appeared from around the side of the inn and beckoned Nate over. He had good news: a stream where they could wash ran behind the inn, and the landlady had offered to provide them with a meal when they were done. “And there are horses here, so we’ll not lose too much time,” Sam added. “The road into Stone is drier, apparently. We should go faster now the rain’s passed.”

Nate contemplated whether he considered ‘faster’ to be a boon or not as he followed Sam around the back of the inn, through a yard where a few chickens were scratching a living, and across a swath of grass to a sparkling stream.

A willow dipped its branches into the water at the point where the bank gave way to a shingly beach that was clearly used for washing and collecting water. Nate glanced around as he dumped his portmanteau on the bank and pulled out the cleanest clothes he could find. “I suppose the sight of two men frolicking in the stream won’t bother anyone?”

Sam shrugged. “Dare say they’ve seen worse.”

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