Page 58 of King's Man

Vivid in his mind’s eye, Sam pictured it: the men on this list dragged from their beds in the middle of the night, stripped of their livelihood and property, banished from America. Cast out like Sam had been cast out, condemned by a whisper, by a rumor, by the petty vengeance of their neighbors. Nothing had changed in the years since he’d been gone. Nothing. And Nate was complicit, he was leading the hunt.

Leading the mob.

A cry of anguish caught in his throat and he pressed a hand over his mouth to stifle it, ruthlessly shoving his pain and confusion down deep, burying them beneath the tar and the flames. Only one truth remained clear, as unforgiving as the morning light: wherever Nate’s loyalties lay, they did not lie with Sam. And they never would.

He dropped the letter, watched it land atop Nate’s open book. He had tothink. Swinging away from the table, his heart lurched at the sight of Nate still sleeping — a sprawl of limbs, dark hair spilling across the white pillow, beautiful and treacherous. Sam wanted to punch him. He wanted to shake him and howlwas this a lie too?

But no,thisdidn’t matter. It was over, and Sam had to get away.

He couldn’t bear to stay.

Chapter Nineteen

Nate woke full of hazy pleasure.

From outside came the warm drift of conversation, women’s laughter, the bark of a dog and the squeals of playing children. Hoof beats and wheels clattered along the cobbled road beyond the yard and a distant clock chimed the quarter hour.

Peeling open his eyes, Nate blinked in the watery sunlight bathing the room. It fell on the bed next to him, on the space where Sam had slept, and he put out a hand to touch the sheet, warmed now by the sun and not Sam’s body. He’d slept in Sam’s arms last night, the best and deepest sleep he’d had in years, and couldn’t suppress a pang of disappointment that he’d not woken with him too.

A rolling rumble from outside drew his eye to the window, squinting against the brightness. The sun was high, which explained the noise in the yard. How late was it? Normally Sam wanted to be on the road by seven, but it was much later than that. Scrambling out of bed, Nate looked outside. The rumbling noise was a man rolling barrels across the yard and into the inn’s cellar. From the height of the sun, it looked closer to nine than seven.

Nate smiled and put a hand to the ring dangling against his chest. Sam had let him sleep, knowing how tired he’d been. The thought filled him with warmth and gratitude. But now his stomach was growling, and it was time to be leaving. Perhaps the landlady could give him something to eat on the road? At least it looked as though the night’s rain had passed, the sky a patchwork of blue and gray, clouds drifting on a breeze as languid as Nate felt.

Still smiling, he went to dress. His clothes were where he’d dropped them last night, in a heap near the table. He spared a moment to regret not hanging them up, because he’d look thoroughly disreputable this morning, but supposed it didn’t matter. He’d be back at his lodgings tonight and —

Shit.

Hell and shitting buggery.

Splayed on the table was his copy ofLes Liaisons Dangereuses — terrible for its spine, he thought with manic distraction — and atop it, MacLeod’s letter. Unfolded and read.

With sickening panic, he snatched it up and tucked it away, hands shaking as he shut the book around it. “No.” It was an airless sound, barely a word. “Please God, no.”

For an awful moment, he didn’t know what to do. He wanted to go backwards in time and burn the damned letter as soon as he’d found it. Why hadn’t he? He wanted to have never concealed it in his book. He wanted to have woken first this morning, hidden the letter away. He wanted — “Concentrate.”

Sam.

He had to find Sam and explain. All wasn’t lost. He could assure Sam he had no intention of doing anything with the letter but destroy it. He just had to speak to him. Make him understand.

Dressing quickly, barely bothering to tie more than a knot in his neckcloth, he ran out of the room. Downstairs, he found the landlord scrubbing the tables in the tap room, his wife sweeping the floor. No sign of Sam. Nate made himself slow. “Good morning,” he said breathlessly, attempting a smile. “I’m —”

“There you are, Mr. Tanner.” The landlord looked up with a smile. “And a fine morning it is. I was telling the wife, we’ve not had —”

“Yes, very good. I’m sorry to trouble you, sir, but I need to speak to my — my traveling companion, Mr. Hutchinson, on a matter of urgency and —”

“Why, he left, sir.” The landlord cocked his head, glanced at his wife who was leaning on her broom, watching curiously. “Said you was stopping a while?”

It was all Nate could do not to gape, though he could feel the blood drain to his toes and his head swim. “Yes,” he managed after a moment. “I, uh. I’m too late to catch him then…?” He cleared his dry throat. “What, ah, what time did he leave?”

“Before six, sir.” He leaned closer, confiding. “Giles weren’t too happy to be roused so early — that’s our post-boy — but I reckon he was compensated for his time. He’ll be back later, more’n like, if you want a word?”

“No, that’s…” He lost the thought, everything consumed by the realization that Sam had run from him. Last night they’d been as close as two people could be, but this morning he’d run. He hadn’t even wanted an explanation, he’d just gone. And really, Nate shouldn’t be surprised. Sam had never truly trusted him.

“You alright, sir? You’ve gone white as a sheet.” The landlord took a step closer. “Maybe you should sit down. Molly, fetch the gent a cup of ale.”

“I’m quite well,” he said, but sat down anyway. His hands were shaking. “I need to return to London immediately.”

“Well, you’re in the right place,” said the landlord, as his wife bustled over and pressed an earthenware cup into Nate’s hand. “All the stages going south stop in St. Albans — either here or at the Bell. You’ll be home by supper.”

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