Page 32 of King's Man

“It’s already happened!” He threw up his hands in frustration. “What crime did I commit? Tell me that. Did I take up arms against you? Did I spy for the enemy? Did I plot against you? No. All I did was disagree and refuse to keep silent about it. And for that your arbitrary, self-created tribunal called me a traitor. For that, they stripped me of my God-given rights as an Englishman. And when I protested, they” — his voice cracked — “they took everything. They tarred me and beat me and sent me to Simsbury Mine to die.”

“Sam —”

“That’syour liberty.That’syour future. A country ruled by men who wield the mob like a weapon and don’t give a damn for the law. Men who think theyarethe law.”

Nate thought sharply of MacLeod and Farris, of their plans to pull everything down, of the fragile Continental Congress and the simmering unrest in the backcountry. “We won’t let it be that way.”

“You already have. You already —” Sam faltered, his anger collapsing abruptly, leaving him stripped and hollow. “You already let it be that way when they came for me and you said nothing.”

Nate went cold, heat leaching from his bones. “What could I have said? What could I have done that would have made a difference? Would you have had me condemn myself as well?”

Sam’s gaze lurched to the floor, his fingers strangling the neckcloth in his fist. His mouth opened as if to reply, but then closed in silence, jaw working as he chewed on unspoken words. With a frustrated shake of his head, he moved to the door, then stopped with his hand on the latch. He paused there for a long moment and Nate waited with breath held. For what, he wasn’t quite certain.

Eventually, Sam spoke. “I don’t know what you could have done,” he said. “I only know that I wouldn’t have — Icouldn’thave — watched you suffer and done nothing.”

With that he was gone, closing the door behind him, leaving Nate alone in a bed that still carried Sam’s scent.

Chapter Eleven

Liverpool looked nothing like the twisting old city of London.

Clean and modern, it rose in homage to British mercantilism, the wealth of an empire on display in its sparkling buildings and neatly planned streets. The city seemed to grow even as Sam watched, rising at the behest of the men who owned the vast wharves and warehouses that towered over its docks.

But as the chaise clattered along Liverpool’s broad streets, Sam realized it was not so very different from the capital. Poverty lurked here, too. Thin, hungry people poorly dressed, and every other house open for the sale of rum. Plenty of wealth, no doubt, but the wealth wasn’t shared. As in London — as it was everywhere in England — most people labored under the yoke of their masters, for little gain. It was difficult not to contrast it with Rosemont, where men owned their own land and labored for their own benefit. But that happy vision took no account of the enslaved men and women who labored on the Narragansett plantations, or whose sale had enriched generations of Newport merchants…

Perhaps Rhode Island was not so different after all.

He cast a glance at Nate, who sat gazing silently through the side window. He’d been preoccupied all morning, and Sam felt much the same.

Last night… Christ, but his body still glowed with the aftermath of that conflagration, like embers after a good blaze. Knock off the ash and he’d be burning still. But it was their argument this morning that had left him off balance. Nate’s final, frustrated question had touched a point of pain deep inside him. A secret, unspeakable truth.

Would you have had me condemn myself as well?

He’d been unable to answer, his thoughts too tangled.

Becauseno.Of course he wouldn’t have wanted that. He’dlovedNate, had wanted only his safety and happiness. He couldn’t have endured seeing him tarred and feathered and thrown into the back of that wagon with its dancing, dangerous flame. Deep in his heart, Sam knew that to be true.

And yet…

And yet at the same time,yes. The unspeakable truth was that a cringing, craven part of himhadwanted Nate at his side.Hadwanted him standing between himself and the mob.Hadwanted them together in the back of that stinking wagon. In the depths of Simsbury Mine.

Christ, what a shameful admission.

A dangerous one too, because it was difficult to blame Nate for staying silent when his silence and safety were exactly what Sam’s rational mind would have demanded. That contradiction ran like a fracture through the core of his resentment, splitting it wide open. And without its iron grip on his heart, he no longer felt anger when he looked at Nate’s tight, pensive expression. Rather, he felt deeper emotions stir, as if freed from the dungeon into which they’d been cast. Feelings like tenderness, and compassion.

Hopeless feelings.

Because a gulf — anocean — still divided them, and Nate would soon sail for Boston while Sam must forever remain in exile. Nothing had really changed, and all that would follow any softening of his heart was more misery.

With a sigh, he turned back to the window. The air was pungent with the salt-tang of the ocean that spread out beyond the western horizon toward home. Next to him, Nate sighed and crossed his legs…

Long lean legs that, last night, Sam had felt pressed bare against his own as they’d tussled for the ring Nate wore about his neck. He stole a glance at Nate’s throat, as if he might see the leather cord beneath his neckcloth. All these years, when Sam had felt so forgotten, so forsaken, Nate had carried his ring next to his skin. Whatever he’d done — or hadn’t done — when the mob came for Sam, Nate had not forgotten.

And that…that meant more than Sam could bear to admit.

“What’s the matter?” He started at the sound of Nate’s voice. “You’re fidgeting like you’ve got fleas.”

He looked over and Nate offered an uncertain smile. Sam returned it, just as tentatively. The carriage rattled on and their gaze held. Words flitted through Sam’s mind, timid as butterflies unable to land, and after a moment Nate turned back to the window with a heavy sigh.

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