Page 105 of Enemies with an Earl
Sam had brought up this concern with Felix—partially. Kind of. Not really.Fuck. He’d focused on the need for purpose. Which had led to him joining into the meeting back in Felix’s study. Sam hadn’t voiced the deeper truth beneath it all, the fear that would forever flow in his veins. Dependency. Sam couldn’t be dependent.He couldn’t. Not again.
The one thing Sam should have been able to count on, without question, was family. But he had learned the hard truth: that was a lie. The only person he could rely on was himself. Because even those meant to love you could be the same ones tightening the noose around your neck.
Sam needed to have something outside of Felix. Needed security of income, of position. His breath ripped from him. Too rapid. Too rough. Not enough. He couldn’t do this without independence.
A nicker drifted over to him as he strode around the back of the stables, still no destination in mind. He’d just keep going. Until he couldn’t anymore.
“Och, is there a siege I didnae ken about?”
Sam stumbled to a stop at the booming voice, head whipping around until it landed on a towering man with greying black hair.
“Where you storming off to, lad? Didnae realize there was a fortress to be taken. Though, looks like ye lost yer army.”
Sam frowned.What?And lad? At two-and-forty, Sam hadn’t been called a lad in a long while. Well, besides Cook at Devonford. Sam’s heart did a pathetic squeeze. Bloody hell, he could use one of her tarts right about now.
The man chuckled and approached Sam. “I s’pose you don’t need an army with the fury ye’re carrying.”
The older man was leaner than Sam, but solid—solid as a Scotsman. They stood eye to eye, but even though they were clearly around the same height, something about the man’s presence made him…taller. Commanding, but not domineering. A quiet, sure presence that made a person want to follow.
Kind blue eyes stared back at Sam. “Mr. Campbell, the Bentley stable master,” he said in greeting.
Sam knew that, of course, though they hadn’t officially met. This was Lydia’s partner.
The man’s lips curled into a soft smile, one that instantly put Sam at ease. “And you’d be Felix’s man, aye? And a Scotsman?” He winged a brow.
“Urm.” Sam cleared his throat and shook off his discomposure. “Yes. To both.” His stomach roiled slightly at yet another reminder he belonged to Felix. “Mr. Samuel Thorne.”
Mr. Campbell’s eyes sharpened. “Do ye appreciate a fine Scottish whisky? I just finished up what I wanted to get done at the stables and could go for a dram.”
There was no way Sam could refuse without sounding unpardonably rude. This was Lady Bentley’s lover, Felix’s brother’s father. As close to family without being family as one could get.
Even if sitting still and sipping whisky was the last thing that sounded appealing. He wanted to ride. Or swim. But riding only reminded him he was a servant ordering a horse, which was not done. And swimming, which was an outlet he’d shared with his best mate, now only reminded him of his time with Felix in the Thornfield Hall bathing pool. He had nothing of his own anymore.Fuck.He rubbed the panic battling against his ribcage.
“That’s it. We’re having whisky. I’m making the decision for ye. Come.” Mr. Campbell strode off toward a path that led away from the stables and Thornfield Hall. Clearly expecting Sam to follow.
Sam followed.
He caught up in a few strides. “How did you know? That I was Scottish,” he clarified.
Mr. Campbell glanced at him quickly before his attention drew forward again. “Englishmen arenae built like ye. The closest I’ve ever seen is Felix. And he’s worked extremely hard to make that so.”
Mr. Campbell’s words had softened at that statement. And now that Sam knew of Felix’s past, that small statement held a much deeper meaning. Sam had always been impressed by Felix’s size. It wasn’t just his height; he was well-muscled, strong. Height was inherited, but for most, strength was earned through relentless effort. An effort Sam was sure was spurred by Felix’s desire to build his own armor of muscle. Protection. A way to feel safe.
“That and ye bear a striking resemblance to a Scotsman I remember from when I was a young lad in Scotland.”
“Oh?”
They approached a generously sized cottage, and Mr. Campbell broke off the path toward the front door.
“Aye,” he called over his shoulder. “I grew up on a laird’s estate. My da trained horses there before he passed.”
He opened the door and led them inside until they entered a large parlor with ample seating and a roaring hearth. “Make yerself comfortable, lad.”
Mr. Campbell went straight to the sideboard and made quick work of pouring them each a whisky while Sam settled in one of the armchairs angled around a side-table.
He returned and proffered a glass of amber liquid to Sam, stare sweeping over Sam’s features. “Yer likeness to the laird is uncanny.”
Sam blinked and took the whisky. “Oh?”
