Page 3 of Marked Out with Greater Brightness

He loved them. He did not want them to worry for him.

He would not give them reason to. He was a physician, after all. He would do no harm.

Chapter 2

They rattled into St. Andrew’s Square mid-evening. The sky had darkened and spread like a compassionate cloak, discreet and soft and smoky against spires, cast iron, lamplight, castle bulk, enthusiastic new fantasias. In even as short a span as a month, the outlines had changed: the frenzy of building carried on.

Well, and of course it had; life did not stop because he, Cameron Fraser, went to London for a month and fell in love. Cam laughed at himself for that, but only inwardly; he put a hand under Ashley’s elbow, exiting the carriage. He moved to do that for Blake as well, but their adventurer had already swung himself out, and if he needed assistance he did not show it.

Cam sent the carriage around to the back, and then recalled belatedly that Ashley, being the duke, should be giving the orders. Ash, gazing at the tall classical lines of the building, did not appear to mind. “It’s lovely.”

“Well,” Cam said, in agreement, “yes,” and considered the neat address, the sign. His practice, his rooms upstairs. Hugh had been so thrilled at the location, the newness, the elegance, he remembered. “Come in.”

He did have a housekeeper, though Mrs Burke did not live in; he’d sent word ahead, and she’d come in to do a bit of shopping, airing-out, all that. He’d paid her wages even while he’d been away for a month; she’d more than earned it, given everything she’d put up with over the years, from distillation experiments to black-edged mourning to the time, early on, she’d walked in to find Hugh kissing him atop the breakfast table. She’d lifted both eyebrows, said, “And I’m sure that’s not good for cleanliness, and here I thought you were doctors; I’ll come back later, shall I?” and swept out.

They’d laughed about it, then. So young.

That was something else he’d have to sort out. So much, and fourteen days to do it all, to pack up his life and start anew…

He wished he were younger. Less tired. The world loomed.

He took Blake and Ashley up the stairs, to his actual rooms. The building was modern, light, new; it was professional, though, the home of a working—if well-off—physician. It had good plumbing, including new pipes; that’d been important, and welcome, here in the New Town. But it wasn’t old money, family wealth, any of that.

He thought about Ashley’s opulent Mayfair mansion, and Blake’s far less tasteful but lavish Wildborough House.

But that was also unfair. Ash hadn’t planned for, hadn’t anticipated, the wealth. And Blake was planning to sell that house; it’d been a symbol of rebellion, naked statues and erotic art and deliberate rejection of propriety. Not needed, now. Now that Blake was happier.

Mrs Burke’s nephew James did some of the odd helping-out around the place, and had taken charge of bringing up their luggage; he ducked out as they came in. Cam told him, “Thank you,” and slipped him some extra coin. James grinned at him, said, “Good to have you back, Doctor,” and rather shamelessly looked Blake up and down on the way past, with a fifteen-year-old’s appreciation of the notorious Earl of Thorns. Cam stifled a sigh.

Ash inquired, wide-eyed, “Does your staff know? I mean about—er—you, us…what you, er, like…”

“My staff, as you call it, is Mrs Burke and young James, there, and she’s known for years, and he’s an unrepentant flirt.” He watched Ash looking around; he tried to see his home with those wide genius eyes, anew.

Moderately nice but sturdy furnishings, dark wood, a few years old but solid, meant to last. Tea things, which Mrs Burke and James had no doubt set out, with impressive timing. Two large chairs, that low sofa, the side table that’d once held Hugh’s scientific experimental curiosities. It’d been bare since Cam had packed everything away.

The curtains were long and heavy, dark green, thick enough to withstand Scottish chill; but they were also older, and somewhat faded, he noticed now. He hadn’t been looking at them closely enough.

He did not have priceless art, nor marble sculptures. The books were practical, for the most part; one shelf held novels, stories, one of Blake’s melodramatic memoirs. Hugh had not been a novel-reader, but had put up with Cam’s small but growing collection, with affection.

He said, “Both of you should sit down. I’ll get the tea,” because that was what a person did, when that person felt inadequate, when anxious about one’s aristocratic lovers, when the emotions could not be expressed any other way.

Ashley had pounced in the direction of the bookshelf. “I haven’t read most of these…well, they’re very scientific, anatomical, I suppose I wouldn’t’ve…oh, The Mystery of Dunharrow Abbey, you do like Gothic novels…oh, you have Blake’s An Earl Abroad in Egypt! Unimpeachable taste.”

“I did know who he was. Read anything you’d like; they’re all ours, now.” That made Ash grin at him, brighter than the firelight; Cam found himself breathless.

Blake, greatcoat off, had gone over to the tea-tray, despite Cam’s own offer, and had begun pouring: being useful. He turned to look at them both, though: smiling faintly, pink in his cheeks. He didn’t say anything, though.

Cam evaluated that quietness, the usefulness; and went right over and put a hand under Blake’s chin, holding him in place. Blake had those adventurer’s muscles, but Cam was the tallest of them, and could throw a physician’s authority, not to mention his age and presence, around. Blake smiled a little, glanced down a little, looked back up: still held by Cam’s touch. “I’m fine.”

“Are you?”

“I like being helpful. Anyway, I remember how you both like yours.”

“Hmm.” Cam moved his hand to the nape of Blake’s neck, under shaggy hair, over clothing but a reminder. “Not sure I like you being quiet, lad.”

“I don’t need anything.”

“I know that one’s a lie, and you’ll not be trying it on me.”

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