Page 34 of King's Man

“John MacLeod enjoys the trappings of aristocracy very much,” Nate said dryly, “but I understand his father was only ennobled twenty years ago.” He threw a sideways look at Sam. “In recognition of services to the West India lobby, of course.” By which he meant the sugar and slave trades. “Lord Marlborough’s descended from pirates, not nobility. Young adventurers whose riches came from Caribbean sugar instead of Spanish gold. He’s as fake as his fake castle; this ridiculous monstrosity is no older than you or me.”

Sam snorted softly and twitched the lines, urging the pony on. “I want to look inside the place tomorrow,” he said after a while, “and find MacLeod’s study. I don’t suppose you know where it is, do you?”

“No idea, I’m afraid.”

“Well, I can’t spend hours searching the house in the dark. I’ll visit tomorrow on some pretext and see if I can —”

“You can’t go in there alone.”

The urgency in Nate’s voice surprised him. “Why not?”

“Because MacLeod’s a vicious bastard, that’s why not. What if there’s trouble? It’s too dangerous for you.”

Too dangerous for you.

Sam found his gaze fixed on Nate’s earnest profile. Ridiculous how those words fell on him like rain after a drought, but until that moment he hadn’t known how much he needed… What? Nate’s concern? His kindness? Lowering, to need another man’s attention so much. But maybe, when you’d lost everything, even crumbs of consideration felt like a feast.

When Nate looked over, Sam didn’t dare meet his eye. “There’s a track off to the right at the bottom of the hill,” he said. “Let’s try there for a place to sleep.”

The track wound through the trees until it reached a small row of tumbledown laborers’ cottages, backed by a stream that Sam could hear but not see in the encroaching dusk. There was no smoke in the chimneys, no light nor sound of habitation.

“Hello there?” he called as he drew the trap to a stop. No reply. He glanced at Nate, feeling another butterfly flutter of warmth as their eyes met. “We’re in luck, perhaps? Better than a night under the trees.”

Sam jumped down and Nate followed more cautiously. He looked uneasy and moved around to take the pony’s bridle, keeping her still while Sam went to investigate the cottages.

They were crudely built and ill-repaired, rags at the windows shifting listlessly, a door creaking as it swung in the breeze. At the end of the row someone had built an animal shelter, but part of the roof had fallen in. The whole place reeked of abandonment.

“There’s no one here,” Sam said as he peered into one of the empty cottages. “I think we’re safe to stay the night. The fireplace looks usable if we can find enough dry wood.”

Nate eyed the place dubiously. “I hope there’s no disease.”

“No disease.” Sam moved to the trap to retrieve their luggage. “This is what the English call progress, I reckon.”

“Ah.” Nate grasped his meaning. “These belong to MacLeod, then? He evicted his tenants before he enclosed his land.”

“Probably.” Sam shot him a glance. “London’s full of folk turned off common land so that men like MacLeod can enrich themselves.”

“If the British Parliament represented its people, instead of a handful of aristocrats and sugar barons, maybe it wouldn’t allow these enclosures that impoverish them?”

Sam handed him his portmanteau. “There’s plenty here who’d agree. You think only America understands liberty, Nate, but you’re wrong. The British aren’t sleeping, and they’re not fools, either. But war and violence are no way to change a bad lot.”

“Sometimes they’re theonlyway.” Nate put up a hand to forestall Sam’s argument. “But it doesn’t follow that they’re always the best way. I agree.” He smiled, cautious and — God damn it — sweet. “Weagree, Sam. Again.”

They looked at each other. “Maybe,” Sam conceded.

“Just like we always did.”

Until the end, until it had come to the crucial question and they’d found themselves marching to the beat of different drummers. Sam sighed, turning his attention to the pony. “We should see to her while it’s still light. At least there’s water here and some grazing.”

“So long as MacLeod doesn’t catch her on his land.”

Sam began unhitching the pony from the trap. “I don’t think his reach can be quitethatlong.”

“If itis,” Nate said, “we’ll have more to worry about than the damn horse.”

Chapter Twelve

It was almost dark by the time Sam had finished settling the pony and pushed open the door to the ramshackle cottage. Nate had gotten a blaze going in the smoky fireplace, and Sam found him unwrapping the food they’d bought at the posting inn.

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