Page 63 of The Queer Principles of Kit Webb
And then he bent and rested his forehead on Percy’s knee and let the relief and exhaustion wash over him.
“Shh,” Percy said, his fingers tangling in Kit’s hair. “It’s all right.”
Kit opened his mouth to protest that of course it was all right and Percy could just shut up about it, but when he tried, all that came out was a sob, and he realized his cheeks were wet with tears.
So he let Percy pet his head, and it occurred to him that Percy wasn’t as awkward at soothing as Kit might have guessed. He said things like “hush, hush,” and “there, now, I have you,” as if they came naturally to him.
“What have I done to you,” Kit said.
“What haveyoudone tome?” Percy scoffed, his hand stilling in Kit’s hair. “You have it all backward, you great lummox. Now let’s go to sleep before you say anything even stupider.”
And Kit was so relieved to hear that edge of comfortablerudeness in Percy’s voice, more reassured by it than he could have been by any gentle words.
The night was cold, so Kit told himself that it was only practical for them to lie pressed up against one another. Kit fell asleep with his head buried in the fine hair at the base of Percy’s neck, one arm thrown around Percy’s middle. And if he was dimly aware that Percy was still wide-awake, he didn’t let that stop sleep from overtaking him.
Chapter43
Percy had never slept on the ground in his life. He had also never been shot. Nor had he spent an entire night in another man’s arms. It was an evening of firsts, all of which combined to put him into a state quite unfit for sleep. He shut his eyes and might have managed to doze off once or twice, but he kept being startled by the sounds of owls hooting and leaves rustling, or by the solid presence of Kit behind him.
Or by the throbbing ache in his thigh.
Christ, he knew it was only a graze. He had known as soon as it happened—before it happened, even, because he had thrown himself against the side of the carriage to avoid being hit directly. He knew it was hardly any worse than the gash he got in his arm during the prizefight, but its existence was an unwanted reminder of the predicament he was in.
All their efforts had come to naught, even though Percy now had the book. The central problem remained: a blackmailer was about to expose the duke as a bigamist. If the duke was dead, they could not hope to extract funds from him, and as his illegitimate son and false wife, they could not inherit anything from the estate. If he lived, they certainly couldn’t plan on extorting anyfunds from him because—Christ—because Marian had shot him. Percy could hardly believe it. If the duke lived, they’d be lucky to escape the gallows. He supposed he’d have to run away.
Percy didn’t know where this left him. He didn’t know what his next step needed to be, or what his future might look like. The less he thought about what Marian had done and why, the better. By all rights, he ought to be miserable. And yet he felt strangely—not peaceful, exactly, nor resigned, but somewhere in between.
Kit began to stir well before dawn. Percy, taking this as a sign that it was time to give up any hope of sleep, tried to sit up, only to feel Kit’s arm tighten around him. Kit grumbled something along the lines of “Not yet,” and “Stay,” and Percy was sorely tempted. But he also knew what would come next, and sure enough, he felt Kit go still, heard a sharply drawn breath. And there, that was Kit realizing where he was, who he was with, and what had brought them there.
“I’m so sorry,” Percy said, because he hadn’t said it the day before.
“So am I.” Kit’s voice was sleep rough, and the words were more growl than actual speech. He still hadn’t loosened his hold on Percy, though, so Percy turned in his arms.
“How is your leg?”
“How ismyleg?”
“It didn’t escape my attention how badly you were limping by the end of the night.”
“It’s pretty fucking terrible,” Kit said after a moment. “But nothing I haven’t been through before. It’ll be fine to walk on.”
Percy decided to postpone that argument. He got to his feet,gritting his teeth through the pain in his thigh. The pistol ball had torn through about an inch of muscle. The scar would be unsightly and he was afraid nothing could be done to salvage those leather breeches, but the shot had missed both bone and artery; as long as he escaped fever, he would recover. Carefully, he stepped into his riding breeches, thankful for once that they were loosely tailored.
The barn door creaked open, and the little boy stuck his head in. He carried a jug and a basket. “Gran thought you might be hungry. We haven’t any tea or sugar,” he added, shifting from foot to foot.
Percy looked between Kit and the boy. Last night, even through his fog of pain and confusion, he noticed the way Kit looked at the child as if he were seeing a ghost. Kit had said little about his past, but from what Percy had been able to piece together, it was filled with ghosts.
“Thank you,” Percy said, taking the jug and basket from the boy.
“Your horse doesn’t like me very much,” said the boy.
“Balius doesn’t like anyone very much. Including me,” said Percy. “But he’s strong and fast and he puts up with me. Did he try to hurt you?”
The child gave Percy a withering look. “I know how to take care of horses.”
“Ah. Silly me. Thank you for taking care of him for me, then.”
“Dennis comes from a long line of horse thieves,” Kit said after the child left. “So he really does know how to look after horses.”
