Page 50 of King's Man

“Is it?”

They shared another long look, then the gamekeeper squinted up at the night sky. “Ah, fuck it, you’re right.”

The younger man hid a smile and said nothing more.

Sam risked a glance at Nate, but he was watching the two men with rapt attention. “We won’t cause you any trouble,” he said. “I swear it. We’ll leave right away and not return.”

The gamekeeper’s eyes dropped to the ground, he scratched behind the ear of his dog. “We’ll search further into the woods and come back at dawn. Make sure you’re gone.”

“You have our word,” said Nate. “And our gratitude.”

A grunt of acknowledgment, then a curt command to his dog who stood up, watching him. He exchanged another glance with the young man and together they walked up the lane, past the cottages, the dog trotting along at their heels.

Sam’s knees felt suddenly weak with relief. And Nate sagged at his side with a soft grunt of pain. “Come on,” Sam said. “Let’s hitch up the pony and get the hell out of here.”

Chapter Sixteen

Dawn had almost broken by the time they reached Liverpool and Sam had secured lodging at an inn close to the docks — one used to merchants and travelers keeping strange hours.

Now, Nate sat on the floor of their small room in front of the fireplace, knees pulled up to his chest and his forehead resting on them. His injured arm hung slack at his side, his hand curled into a loose fist on the bare floorboards next to the rug, and the neckcloth that served as a bandage bloomed scarlet. The prospect of having to dig around and remove a piece of shot from Nate’s arm left Sam a little lightheaded, but he’d learned enough at Simsbury about treating the wounds of others to at least feel ready. Bracing himself, he touched Nate’s damp hair to rouse him. “Nate.”

He looked up, blearily. “Ready?”

“Let’s get your coat off first. On your feet.” He offered a hand and Nate took it with his good arm, letting Sam haul him upright and steady him. “Alright?”

“Good enough.” Nate looked pasty in the firelight, even though he smiled. “Hurts.”

Taking care not to jostle him, Sam untied the makeshift bandage, grimacing at the amount of blood.

“It’s still damp,” Nate reminded him. “Blood spreads in water.”

“I know. Now your coat.” He slipped it carefully from Nate’s shoulders, but Nate still hissed when the sleeve dragged over his injured arm. A long hole sliced the fabric, a tear the width of Nate’s bicep. The same was true of the shirt beneath, the blood black in the firelight. “You’ll need a new shirt,” Sam said, trying to smile as he helped Nate to sit back down.

He lay Nate’s wet coat out near the fire and put his own with it to dry, then turned back to him. Nate sat cross-legged, peering down at his arm. “It took a chunk out,” he said in a faint voice.

“Don’t look.” Sam kneeled in front of him, batting his hand away. “I’ll just, uh —” He gestured at Nate’s shirt. “This needs to come off.” It shouldn’t have been awkward, but they’d undressed each other many times and the echoes of that past tenderness resonated in this very different intimacy.

The look in Nate’s eyes told Sam he felt it too. Without comment, he began working on his neckcloth one-handed, but the cloth was soggy and uncooperative. After watching him struggle for a moment, Sam reached to help. Their fingers brushed, tangling, and Nate gave a breathy laugh, letting his hand fall away. He didn’t drop his gaze though. Sam could feel the weight of it as he worked to undo the knot, unwind the neckcloth, and unbutton the two fastenings at the throat of his shirt, letting it fall open.

Beneath, he glimpsed the leather cord holding Nate’s ring. It rested against his clavicle, disappearing under linen that stuck damply to his chest. Helpless against the impulse, Sam reached out and touched the cord, tracing it with his fingertip. Nate said nothing, hardly drew breath, and when Sam looked up, he found himself watched. Feeling foolish, he drew his hand back. It was hardly the time for sentimentality. “Waistcoat,” he said, and Nate closed his eyes, letting Sam fumble open the buttons.

Moving around behind him, Sam slipped the waistcoat over his arms. Nate didn’t flinch this time, which either meant Sam was doing a better job or that he wasn’t the only one with other things on his mind. Setting the waistcoat aside, he found himself caught by the shape of Nate’s back through the clinging linen of his shirt, the way his hair fell loose, freed from its queue by the river.

The way the blood stained his sleeve.

From this angle, Sam could see that the shot had struck from behind — Nate had put himself in front of the bullet — and had torn a path across his bicep. With luck it hadn’t penetrated the muscle.

“Your shirt,” he said, embarrassed by how rough his voice sounded. Nate just nodded and reached down to tug it free of his breeches. Sam helped haul it up over his head, setting it aside with his damp waistcoat. Then he stopped, the supple curve of Nate’s bare back as he curled forward making Sam’s blood surge. He wanted to smooth his palm along the length of Nate’s spine, feel the flex of his muscles, the heat of his skin.

He made himself focus on the wound instead. “It’s not bad.” He bent closer to get a good look. The shot had plowed a furrow through his arm, deep enough to bleed profusely but — thank God — it hadn’t lodged in his flesh. There were some grazes along the top of his shoulder too, probably from when he’d fallen, but nothing too serious. Sam felt his stomach unwind in relief, a real smile finding its way to his lips. “I think you’ll live,” he said, resting his hand on Nate’s shoulder. “Let’s get this cleaned out.”

Nate nodded and leaned his head on his knees, staring into the fire. He was probably afraid of passing out. Nate had never been a bear-wrestling kind of man, happier with his books and ideas than so-called manly pursuits. Sam felt a rush of fond feeling and permitted himself a squeeze of Nate’s shoulder, a brief comfort to them both. Then he took the cooled boiled water the landlady had provided and used it to flush out the wound and wipe away the blood.

Nate tensed under his ministrations, muscles bunching, but he didn’t make a sound. He just sat with his head bowed, hair falling forward to hide his face. Sam resisted the urge to sweep it back, to press a kiss to his temple. The faster he did this, the better for them both.

Once the wound was clean, he started applying a tincture of myrrh and turpentine.

“God’steeth!” Nate hissed, jerking away. “What’s that?”

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