Chapter 11

Of course the story was not so easy. Blake, a writer—even one of sensationalist memoirs—knew that stories weren't. And he knew himself, and how little he had to offer a pair of geniuses.

He loved them with everything he was, and he lay in bed being weak and depleted, and he watched Ashley and Cam grow closer. Touching. Smiling. Ash's bashful pleasure when Cam pulled him close and petted him. Cam's grin while hearing Ash ramble about the metrical devices in classical poetry.

Blake knew that expression. He'd worn it himself.

The first days were a fantasy. A daydream. Ashley recovered rapidly—the fever'd been bad, but singular, not recurring—and, though his lungs might be weakened, he had Cam for care and attendance. He was up and around faster than Blake, who evidently had been hit harder, and who did not like it.

Cam said it'd been something picked up during travel, most likely; exacerbated by strain and stress and not resting when he'd first felt ill. Some sort of fever, tropical. One of the drugs had worked; Cam admitted that he wasn't sure which, that the field of medicine still did not know enough about rare diseases, that he'd been desperate, near the end.

Blake took his hand. Kissed it. Told him that it had worked, that Cam had saved him. He hadn't forgotten the darker edges of Cam's words, during the hazy dangerous hours. A loss, he thought. The bad day, when they'd met. Someone Cam hadn't been able to save.

He wasn't sure Cam wanted him to ask, so he didn't. But he told Cam that he was here and alive; he said it with a smile, with innuendo, flirting. Being bright and weightless as he could, a reminder of light, if Cam needed that.

Ash read to him sometimes, both of them convalescing, in sunshine. Cam took ready charge of them both, with a dominance that felt natural, an easy assertion. Ash answered orders with a laugh and teasing; Blake ended up surprised, because that tended not to occur to him; he generally found himself responding naturally to command, because that meant someone wanted him to do something—whether that was getting up for a short walk across the room or eating a few bites of soup—and he did not want to let anyone down.

But perhaps he wasn't surprised. Ashley was a stronger person than he was. More fearless. More clever. More Cam's equal. Blake understood.

Some of those moments were perfect. Diamond-etched, clear as a breath of clean air atop a Swiss peak. The first night they went to bed together was one of those perfect moments: cautious, not for sex, not yet, but finding ways to fit and tumble and tuck their bodies into Ash's large bed.

That first night, they'd moved Blake into Ash's bed, in part so that the housemaids could clean the spare room. Blake, not above clinging to company—he did not want to vanish into the heavy oceans again—reached out, when Ashley hesitated, plainly thinking of giving him space. Cam said, "Would you like us to stay, lad?" and Blake nodded.

Ashley's eyes lit up. He'd been wrapped up in his cozy robe, only a shirt and trousers under; he said, "Cam?"

"Hmm?" Cam had pulled off his own shirt, and both Blake and Ash ended up equally speechless, for a moment. Solid muscle. Red hair, tempting. Glorious. "Question? Both of you."

"I have a question," Blake said. "You wouldn't happen to sleep naked, would you?"

Ashley blushed. But added, "Same question?"

Cam laughed. "You two. Such flattery."

"If all doctors looked like you, I'd pretend to be ill more often," Blake said. His body was in an odd confused halfway state: hungry, wanting, but still very wrung out. His cock stirred, but he suspected he'd not be very impressive at the moment.

It felt strangely…nice, in an inexplicable way. Wanting, not able to have; aroused, but denied release. He tucked that thought away for later.

Cam's mouth did something between a laugh and a shadow of old pain. "Weren't pretending, were you? But yes, I sleep bare. Unless you'd rather I not."

"Oh no!" Ash blurted out, and then blushed even more but kept talking. "I mean yes, please! I mean—you know what I mean."

"I would feel much better," Blake suggested, "with you naked. Touching me. You know. In case you need to feel…anything."

Cam glanced at the bedroom's painted ceiling, at blue-and-white flowers and flourishes, and muttered, "Oh, to be twenty-eight again…" but got back to getting naked, grinning.

He was spectacular everywhere. Large and thick and well-made, a thoroughly powerful man. Blake, who'd seen it, wanted it again, even more so if that were possible. Ashley, who had not seen it, made a tiny wordless sound.

Blake said, "Really? Wait, have you never—"

"I'm not a virgin!" Ash's cheeks were pink. "I mean, not exactly…well, twice…I was lonely and you were gone…mostly hands, though! Er…between my thighs, once, he wanted to—to finish like that…"

"When? Who ?"

"It doesn't matter, it wasn't—"

"Who was it?"

"The senior lecturer in Etruscan art," Ash admitted. "Only two nights. And I was tipsy, both times. We both were. A lot of wine at supper…a holiday supper, one of those nights, and there was so much brandy…He wasn't you. Either of you."

"Wait, though." Cam, naked and strong and unselfconscious about it, came over to Ash. Touched his chin, made him look up, the way he'd done for Blake. Ashley and Cam were closer in height, Blake noticed; he himself was the shortest, though more densely muscled than Ash's willowy prettiness.

Cam said, eyes searching Ash's face, "You were tipsy, you said. Brandy. You went back to his rooms? And he wanted to touch you?"

"I wasn't so drunk that I didn't know what I was doing."

"Did he hurt you, at all?"

"No." Ash put his hand over Cam's, against his cheek. "No, nothing like that. It was quick, and clumsy, but he wanted it to feel nice for me too. I didn't entirely know what I was doing, and I'll admit I still don't know much, really, but it felt good."

Cam made a dissatisfied grumble. "Useless great fool, then. Him, not you. Not showing you how good you could feel. Taking advantage."

"Unfair," Ash objected, "I did know what I wanted." He was breathing faster, obviously aroused now, from the lift of his chest, the line of his cock under clothing.

"Hmm. Well. We'll be taking care of you much better, in a bit." Cam moved the hand. "You're not sleeping naked, though. Staying warm. Gowns."

"Oh no," Ash said. "Please. More unfair. I'd like to feel you everywhere."

"If I get a vote," Blake began, from the bed.

Both of them swung his way, and chorused, "You're recovering!"

He gave up, at that.

They settled for Cam naked, brawny and reliable, arms around them both as they cuddled up against him; Ashley and Blake were not, after some complaining on Ash's part, naked, but nightgowns could be pulled up and teased aside, and bare skin could be found by exploring fingers.

Blake wanted to touch. To explore. He couldn't. Too much reverence. Incredulity in his hands, his palms. Trembling.

But Ash leaned over Cam to kiss him, another of those starlight kisses; Cam joined them, kissing both of them, and then easing them down into being held, cradled against himself. That reality, the sensation of it, banished the incredulity. This was true. This was happening, in the pretty daydream bedroom, in a world where they'd so improbably found each other again.

Cam held them both very tightly. Ash turned out to be a quiet sleeper, albeit one who tended to curl up and become a ball of stolen blankets and sheets. Blake stayed awake for an uncounted while, only marveling.

The first morning they woke up together was also a marvel. And the next. And the next.

Ash read them bits of translation work, on drowsy afternoons; some of those poems were indeed astonishingly filthy. Even Blake felt his eyebrows go up. Cam just laughed and said, "Was that a suggestion, then, about how best to fuck you? When you're better, mind."

Cam had some appointments—he was still consulting for the Duchess of Straithern—and so was out of the house for hours at a time, working. He always came home to them, though; he moved out of the hotel, and into the townhouse, and none of them commented, until Ash offered shyly, "I'm so glad you're here; this house was so empty, and now it's so full, with both of you," and beamed at them both.

Blake himself did not go home, at first because Cam said he shouldn't be moved and then because the subject somehow never came up.

He knew it should. He knew this dream could not last. But if they were letting him stay, he was just selfish enough to take as much as he could. To hold the golden moments close, while he was allowed.

He knew they cared about him. He wasn't sure why they did, but he accepted that much as true. Ash and Cam fussed over him, and sat with him when they had time, and made him drink Cam's terrible tinctures. They were tender with him, and Blake caught them both looking at him with a kind of awful gratitude, when they thought he was asleep. The way they might look at a rescuer, a protector, a savior.

But he was none of those. He hadn't done anything.

He'd written to Cam, upon the strength of desperation. He'd been unable to help Ash on his own. He didn't even have his usual strength, muscles easily worn out. He could not be seductive or attractive; his hair was too long and he was ill in bed and he sometimes thought about being a lost puppy, in the rain, and how one might care for a small pathetic creature in need but probably not fall in love with it.

He watched Ashley and Cam both do their work to improve the world, to help people; he watched them fall into a sweet familiar shorthand, knowing each other's routines, fetching a book when Ash'd mentioned wanting it or having strong dark tea waiting when Cam got home, shaking off misty rain. He saw them together, Cam's arm around Ash when they came into his room.

He could not be angry. That wasn't the emotion. He loved them both, after all.

He knew it'd be a matter of time before they asked him to go. Before they recognized that they did not need him, in order to be happy.

Ashley, on the seventh day, had a letter from the Royal Antiquarian Society; he came into the bedroom positively glowing, while Blake was napping. He said, "Oh, Cam's not back yet—I wanted to tell you both…"

"He'll be back in an hour," Blake said. "He went out while you were in the library with that Oxford scholar. The apothecary."

"Ah. I'll tell you both after he's back, then."

Blake nodded, because what else could he say? He tried, "Good news, at least?"

"Oh yes." Ash's eyes danced. "The best. But you look tired; don't let me keep you awake, please. You need to rest."

"I've been resting. Tell me something interesting about your poetry?"

"Oh, of course." Ash settled in on the bed, slippers kicked off, an absentminded literary water-bird come to land. "Would you like to know about the argument—in verse—over whether soft seductive poetry, or, er, explicit and bluntly sexual expressions, would be more effective? There were differing schools of thought, fairly obscenely…"

Blake listened to that light flowing voice, let it fall over him, and knew love like heartbreak. Like those blunt verses: obscene and unmistakable.

At dinner—in the bedroom, on trays, shockingly informal but none of them cared—Ash produced the letter, radiant. "I've been invited to give a lecture! To the Society. And to contribute to an exhibition of manuscripts! They've read some of my work, and the invitation's such an honor—"

"And well deserved," Cam put in, voice rich with praise. "You're good at what you do. And if they're any good, they're recognizing that too."

"You're welcome to come, as guests—it's not for two months, they'll advertise—" He stopped, buoyant, self-deprecating. "I hope people do come."

"They will." Blake knew they would; how could people not respond to Ash's enthusiasm and intelligence? "And you'll love it. You've missed teaching."

"Yes…" Ash laughed again, quieter, pleased. "I thought I'd have to give that up. Not enough time. But this…I can have this. I can do this. I can be a scholar, still—a scholar duke, perhaps. With a library. I could build a library. A proper one, I mean, a whole building. A museum."

"Congratulations, then," Cam told him, "and we'll be right there cheering you on. And a library's a fine thing."

It was. Blake saw it unfolding in glittering possibility: Ash's brilliance, a home for scholars, a section on classics, of course. And no doubt a medical textbook wing.

The next day he managed, from bed, to look over Ashley's accounting for the estate and the income, and to fix the mathematics, because Ash was a genius with words but less so about adding multiple columns in the correct order. He got away with that because Cam was working and Ash was meeting with the Oxford scholar again, selecting texts for the lecture; nobody ordered him to rest and not be productive, so he summoned Baynes and the ledgers.

He couldn't change the world or save lives. But he was decent at mathematics. And that might make Ash's life, and library project, easier. In the future.

He also asked young Peter to run over to his own house and bring back his last travel journals, water-stained, sand-scuffed. After all, his publisher wanted the next memoir.

The next adventures of the Earl of Thorns. Exotic places and sensual encounters. Theatre adaptations, prints, fleeting fame. Sensational, improbable tales. An object of fascination, but only that, easily consumed and forgettable. Definitely not morally or physically improving in any way.

He poked at his own notes, gingerly. He was engaged in doing that when Cam finally got home and Ashley emerged. Ash asked what he'd been up to, all afternoon, and apologized for leaving him alone; Blake said, "You should know the Earl of Thorns doesn't need assistance for entertainment," and aimed for his best grin. Didn't quite make it. He'd have to try harder. "You're busy with your lecture."

"Well, but you're still important."

"Only reading my own notes. How're the manuscripts?"

"Magnificent!" Ash launched into a discussion of fragments and scribal hands and what would make a good candidate for the exhibition. Blake nibbled a bite of chicken, listening.

He saw Cam looking at him, eyebrows tilted. Blake looked away, at Ash and all the excitement.

He knew he should go. He knew it was a matter of time. He could not help wishing he could stay, but he had not ever had a home, not since he'd been old enough to understand how much his father hated him; this space, this house, this impossible daydream, would not be any different. And at least he'd done one good thing: he'd brought Ash and Cam together.

That was a good story. They would be so happy. They already were.

He nudged the chicken around on his plate, set down his fork.

Ash cut himself off to say, "Are you feeling well? You look tired. It's not worse—a relapse…"

"No," Blake said hastily. "No. Only tired. Like you said."

"I'm thinking I should look at you." Cam's eyebrows drew together, expressive red thunderclouds. "You're having headaches, again?"

"No. I'm fine."

"Still your doctor," Cam said, "and I—we—love you, lad. In case you'd forgot that part."

"Thank you," Blake said, "I love you, of course I do, I'm just thinking about the next book. My publisher. It's not important; I can finish whenever I want. I might need to meet with them, though. To give them some sort of timeline. Maybe tomorrow."

"If you're well enough," Ash said. "You can have your meeting here. I could stay with you."

"You don't need to do that. You're busy."

"I have to see Margaret in the morning," Cam said, "but I can come back early…I'm thinking I should in any case."

"No, don't. It's all right, really, I'm only being self-indulgent now." He conjured up his best lazy seductive rake performance. "Lying around in your bed. Taking advantage of you, when I've got a house right there. Your bed's nicer, I'll admit."

They both gazed at him dubiously. But just then Peter came in with a note—the Duchess had been feeling unwell, and requested Cam's attendance, if he could—and dinner ended in a flurry of Cam ducking out into the rain and Ash finding the housekeeper to give instructions about ordering more of Cam's favorite tea, since they were going through it.

Blake ran a hand over the leather of his topmost journal, feeling salt, memories, stories to hide in. Ireland, he thought. Greece. Turkey. Someplace he hadn't been. Someplace believable, if he said he was feeling restless.

As they were getting into bed that night, Cam's arm around Blake on one side, Cam's other arm around Ash, Ash's long limbs draped across Cam to find Blake, Ash murmured, "You fixed my household accounts."

"You were being overcharged for candles."

"You were supposed to be resting."

"It's not hard. You just can't add numbers."

"I can add," Ash protested. "There are too many columns."

"You," Cam said softly, "weren't going to tell us you'd done that, were you, Blake?"

Blake shifted in the bed, or tried to. Cam held him. He said, "It's not anything significant. You could have a steward do it. Or Baynes."

Cam exhaled, a loch-tinted grumble of air. "We should talk, lad. In the morning." His arm cradled Blake close; his chest was large and solid, with that familiar masculine fuzz of red hair.

In the morning Cam would go out to see clients, and Ash would be working on a new act of scholarly amazement; but Blake did not say that. Instead he said, "You feel good here; I always thought you did," and tucked his face into Cam's shoulder.

"Good." Cam kissed the top of his head, turned to kiss Ash. "You keep thinking that, feeling good, then."