Page 52 of King's Man

Sam nipped at his neck, sucked until Nate cried out again, then smiled and kissed him there, moving down to his collarbone. And there he found the leather cord holding the ring. It lay flush across Nate’s throat, the ring itself on the floor behind his shoulder. Sam wanted to rip it off the damn cord, to slide it back onto Nate’s finger and see it there forever.

But they had no forever, he knew that. They had only now.

Closing his eyes against a swell of pain, he buried his face against Nate’s neck and kissed him until Nate was writhing and begging and Sam could feel nothing but desire and the onrush of release.

Nate was close too; Sam still knew him well enough to feel it. They were masters of this, of pleasuring each other’s bodies. Perhaps God had built them solely for the purpose of loving each other? The space between them was hot, slick with sweat and their own eagerness. Nate’s fingers gripped his shoulder, his rhythm faltering, breaths catching in his throat. Sam pulled back to see his face, to watch him shatter as he thrust up, back arching off the floor as he spent between them with a bark of despairing joy.

The sudden slick heat was all Sam needed. His own release swept over him, washing away the world for one blissful moment of silence, leaving nothing behind but peace. And then he fell, down into the gray dawn, and Nate was there to catch him and hold him and whisper impossible promises against his skin. Screwing his eyes shut against squally emotions, Sam buried his face in Nate’s hair and lay still.

They rested there for a time, their slowing breaths filling the room, Sam’s head on Nate’s shoulder, Nate’s fingers drawing patterns on his back. Through the window, the sky turned from gray to eggshell blue. Eventually, as Sam’s body cooled and a shiver made its way across his skin, Nate spoke. His voice sounded heavy, but his hand still traced shapes on Sam’s skin. He said, “My ship sails in a week.”

Cold words for a summer morning. What could Sam say in reply?

“Would you — ?” Nate’s hand stopped moving, his voice a rough whisper. “Sam, come with me. Come home.”

Hell, but that sparked a searing pain. His throat tightened. “I can’t. I’m attainted of treason, Nate. You know what that means. I’m banished forever.”

“But —”

“I’m not welcome in America.” He had to close his eyes against the hurt of that. It never went away, the pain of being cast out by your friends and neighbors, of being branded aslessfor daring to disagree.

Nate pressed a kiss into Sam’s hair, but didn’t argue. It was the truth and they both knew it. There were tens of thousands like him — men, women, and children from all walks of life — driven out of their homes, disowned, and disavowed by their countrymen. No, he couldn’t go home. But another idea slipped into his mind like a sneak cracking a house.

You could stay.You could stay here, with me.

But he couldn’t ask that. Forging this new America meant everything to Nate — more, Sam knew, than he did. It always had. It always would. And Sam wouldn’t ask him to choose between them. Not again.

Chapter Seventeen

They made the drive through Liverpool to the livery in silence.

Both were tired, Nate supposed, and their lovemaking had ended in melancholy of his own creation. Stupid, to ask Sam to come home with him when he knew it to be impossible, but the thought of leaving him behind had felt intolerable. It still did. He wondered whether he might be able to procure Sam a pardon… Yet even as the thought crossed his mind, he remembered Talmach and his hatred of men like Sam.

And he remembered MacLeod’s letters.

He sighed and shifted on the hard seat of the trap, pressing in a little closer to Sam. His arm throbbed like the devil now he had no other distraction, and the jostling of the drive wasn’t helping. Neither were his river-damp coat and boots. But at least the day promised sunshine and he hoped they’d dry on the road back to London.

They’d slept a little in the tiny bed at the inn, and left the docks by mid-morning. Nate wouldn’t have been surprised to find MacLeod’s men looking for them in the city. In truth, he’d half expected to encounter MacLeod himself stalking along the wharf, waving his pistol above his slapdash old wig, outrage purpling his face. He shivered. It would be a long time before he could rid his mind of the image of MacLeod leveling his weapon at Sam, the flash of the muzzle in the dark. His own stark terror.

He glanced behind him, just to make sure MacLeod wasn’t there, and Sam cocked a curious eyebrow. “I thought we might have seen MacLeod’s men asking questions,” Nate explained.

“I hope it’s a good sign that we haven’t.”

“What else could it be?” A thought occurred. “Damn. Do you think it means he recognized me?”

Sam shrugged. “We don’t know what it means. Maybe he has other things to worry about, considering he killed a man last night.”

Possible, although Nate doubted the law could hold MacLeod to account. Not even for murder. But Sam was right, there was no point in borrowing trouble. He shifted again, cradling his injured arm to ease the discomfort, somewhat regretting his refusal of Sam’s offer to make him a sling. MacLeod must have seen him fall, though, and might have people looking for a wounded man. He didn’t want to appear to be one.

Sam spared him a glance. “You know MacLeod better than me. What do you think he’ll do?”

“That depends.” If he discovered the missing letters, he’d assume that his network of subversives had been compromised and erupt into a rage. Rightly so, because Talmach would be dogged in his pursuit of the men named in those letters. Rooting out the enemy within was the colonel’sraison d’etre.Far more than a simple duty, it was the man’s obsession. Not that Nate could tell Sam any of that. “If MacLeod recognized me, he’d go to Farris and accuse him of sending a spy. Which would scupper their deal, for sure.” And that would jeopardize Talmach’s whole case against Farris. The colonel would skin him alive. “Months of work ruined.”

“For the love of God,” Sam exclaimed, “that’swhat you’re worried about? MacLeod killed a man last night. And he’d have killed us too if Rowsley hadn’t blundered into the middle of things. How can you still want to trade with him?”

“I don’t. But it’s —” The truth hung on the tip of his tongue. After the tenderness they’d shared last night, it felt wrong to have secrets between them. Yet telling Sam the truth was too big of a risk. In only a matter of days, they would part. But at least now they would part as friends. Better still, they could hold out hope that one day, one glorious sunlit day, they might meet again as lovers on the grassy banks of the Pawtuxet.

Why endanger that dream for a truth that didn’t even matter?

---