Page 5 of Two Rogues Make a Right
“I’m not a baby,” Martin protested.
“Only acting like one,” Will murmured, earning himself a glare. “Is your hand steady enough to hold the cup?”
With a roll of his eyes, Martin held up a mostly steady hand. Will helped him wrap it around the cup, keeping his own hand around Martin’s just in case. It was slow going: Martin’s grip was shaky, and Will needed to brace a hand at the back of Martin’s neck in order to get the job done. Finally, though, Martin took a sip of the broth and swallowed, then groaned. “That was—well, if it’s possible for potato soup to be ambrosial, it just was.” He looked up at Will with a rusty, familiar smile and Will knew he ought to be glad to see it—Christ hewasglad, he was so glad he could hardly believe it—but the sight of that grin on Martin’s face suddenly made him want to take Martin by the collar and shake him. For the past two weeks, after finding Martin and dragging him off to the country, Will had tried not to be angry. But the healthier Martin became—healthiness being measured in relative terms—the harder it was for Will not to be furious with him. How dare Martin let himself get to death’s door, how dare he let Will think he was dead? How dare he act like his life didn’t matter, not to himself, not even to Will?
Martin, however, was utterly dependent on him; now wasn’t the time for a fight. But Martin Easterbrook had been able to detect Will’s less gentlemanly turns of mind for well over a decade, and when Will saw Martin’s eyes narrow, he knew he was caught out.
“Out with it, William.”
“No. I’m going to be a good friend,” Will said virtuously.
Martin lifted the cup to his mouth again, this time by himself, and regarded Will over the brim. “You’ll feel better if you get it out. Like lancing a boil.”
“No, that’s you. You’re the one who feels better after saying every wicked thing that pops into your mind.”
“Which is because it’s an excellent practice,” Martin said. “Come now. Either tell me why you’re cross or we’re going to spend the rest of the evening in terrible awkwardness.”
The worst part of it was that he was right. “I was going to mention that you could have been gorging yourself on soup if you had come to me in the autumn, rather than camping in my brother’s attic like a madman,” Will said, the words out of his mouth before he could think better of it.
“So Iwasliving in Hartley’s attic,” Martin said in tones of academic curiosity. “I half thought I dreamed the whole thing up.”
Will had to concede that Hartley’s attic wasn’t the most bizarre place Martin could have chosen as a refuge. The house had once belonged to Martin’s father, and Will could see how a feverish man might retreat to a place that had once been his home. But to choose an unheated attic over Will’s rooms seemed like courting a death wish.
“A hair shirt would have been more to the point,” Martin added thoughtfully, absently handing the cup to Will.
Will put the teacup down so he didn’t accidentally crush it in his hand. “Imagine how he would have felt to find your body in his attic,” he said.
“Imagine how you’d have felt to find my body in this bed one fine morning,” Martin retorted. “We both know it’s only by chance that you didn’t. Kind of you to spare Hartley the drama, though.”
Will drew in a sharp breath, because that’s precisely what he had expected every time he turned his back that first week. Every time he opened his eyes, every time he walked through the door, the first thing he did was check for the rise and fall of Martin’s chest. He still did.
Perhaps sensing an advantage, Martin pressed on. “You can’t stop me from dying, you know. I have consumption. I’m going to die.”
“Some people are cured,” Will protested. “And even those who aren’t can live for decades. My mother—” As soon as he spoke, though, he knew it had been a mistake.
“Indeed, tell me more about how I can look forward to decades of increasingly severe illness. It’s utterly unclear what you hope to accomplish here. As far as I know you’re neither a necromancer nor a miracle worker. You could have let me die in peace.”
“This again,” Will said, throwing his hands up. “You really are a bastard.”
“Well spotted.” Martin picked up the cup and raised it in a mock toast.
“You’re my friend,” Will said. “If you think I was going to leave you to die alone, you—” He really meant to say something likeyou’re sadly mistakenoryou never knew mebut what came out was, “You can go get fucked. Not everyone is as unrepentant an arsehole as you. You’re my friend, even if you seem to be intent on getting rid of me.”
“Seem? You haven’t been paying attention at all. I’ve been trying to shake you loose for months. Why did you think I wouldn’t answer your letters?”
Will knew from years of experience that Martin Easterbrook was a thoroughgoing lout when he didn’t feel well (which was often enough to make loutishness his basic personality, Will sometimes thought) and was even more of a git when he suspected that he was being treated like an invalid. Willknewthis. But that didn’t stop it from hurting.
Will clenched his fists. He didn’t want to fight—he hated it as much as Martin seemed to thrive on it. The middle of five sons, and raised in a house filled with quarrelsome adults, even a hint of disagreement made his skin crawl. Other people might like to linger on their differences, poking and prodding until they had aired all their grievances, but Will wanted nothing more than to smooth things over, bandage the wounds, and move on. He had to get out of the cottage before he said something regrettable. “I’m going for a walk,” Will said, reaching for his coat. “I’ll be back before dusk.”
By the time he reached the village, his fury had subsided into a more familiar sorrow. He posted a letter for Hartley, drank a pint of ale at the pub, and then bought a loaf of bread and some cheese to take home as a weak effort at reconciliation.
Before stepping through the cottage door, he steeled himself for the chance of finding Martin in distress or worse, but only after putting his hand to the door latch did he realize that this time he fully expected his friend to be alive. Martin was still pale, but had lost the grayish pallor of illness. His coughs had diminished in quantity and severity. His fever showed no signs of returning. Whatever crisis had been brought on by the idiot’s stay in a drafty attic had truly passed. Will had successfully nursed him through it. And while Martin might have preferred to have been left to meet his end alone, Will wasn’t going to be sorry for having intervened.
He placed his parcels on the table and glanced up to find Martin looking at him with a faint blush and an expression that might have been sheepish on anyone else. Will raised his eyebrows.
“Can we take it as read?” Martin asked.
“Take what as read?” Will asked, shrugging out of his coat.
