Chapter 4

Over the next days, two weeks, one turning point, Cam showed his loves around Edinburgh, and met with a few long-standing clients and patients to explain his decision about the future and London, and began sorting and organizing his rooms, his equipment, his home. His life.

Some of his patients were happy to accept his referral to other physicians he knew—Robert Lewis was a fine doctor, and willing to take on more clients, and Cam spent a pleasant afternoon chatting with him, though an odd hollowness set in after, on his way home. One more loss, or change, or something given away. Robert had congratulated him on the move, on illustrious clientele, on securing a duke as a patron. Cam had smiled, and thanked him, and told him to pay attention to Mrs Bates' legs and that recurrent swelling, in case it portended worse.

One or two of his patients—the wealthier, who could afford to—swore they'd come down to London to see him, wherever he set up that new private practice. Cam thanked them for the loyalty, and meant it.

The skies rained some days, and on other days hung misty and silver, scattered with light like pearls. The city shimmered in damp stone and iron and old legends. Cam made sure, at home, they always had hot tea, restorative and strong. His partners needed warmth.

Fourteen days left, before leaving. Then twelve days. Then ten. Time, moving forward. Filled up, occupied, like territory in danger.

Blake had previously done some exploring, some climbing, out in the hills; he was happy to let Cam take charge on this occasion, though, showing off the city and the streets, the old and the new. Cam kept an eye on him, and took them on the walk up Arthur's Seat, cautiously, with a mind to weak lungs and the easiest path. Wind whipped around them, and the clouds raced, white over blue; the grass was green and gold, and the ancient stones sang under their feet.

Ashley, forgetting about the existence of illness in the face of mythology, practically combusted from historian's excitement; Cam, amused, made a mental list of each monument, fountain, and antique point of interest he could think of, to share. He had not been to them all, preoccupied with work and not being on any sort of idle visiting tour; but he would, for Ash.

He took them to the University, with some faint stirring of pride in it; he took them to see the Royal Infirmary, where he'd done some consulting, though he did not want Ashley near anyone potentially contagious. He took them to the wood-beamed shaggy pub that'd been his and Hugh's student haunt, to share that space and that piece of his heart; he saw Blake's smile when he explained the location, and felt Ash's leg press against his under the table.

He went back to the Infirmary, while his loves were occupied with some of their own work: Blake polishing volume two of the next adventurer's tale, Ash answering various letters about contributions to a scholarly translation project, plans for establishing that library, the state of the Auburndale estate. Cam told them he wanted to speak to some of his old professors, which was true; he also wanted some advice. He did not like feeling uncertain.

Sitting in Professor Monro's study—the senior, not the junior; Cam had always found the younger Monro to be careless with cleanliness, and disliked that fact with professional courteous dislike—he explained Blake's fever, the symptoms, his own attempts with the drugs and tinctures he knew. Alex made contemplative noises, took notes—something new, something exotic, something to research—and called in the specialists in chemistry and botany, and asked to see Cam's records of the symptoms and progression and attempts at desperate infusions.

He had fair copies; he handed them over. He left with the feeling that he'd not learned much, but perhaps he'd added something to the medical school's awareness of diseases; he tried to take comfort in that.

He came home, through patchy sunshine like falling leaves, to Blake lounging on the rug by the fire like a wild jungle-cat with a pen in one hand, and Ashley using Hugh's old distillation-equipment table as a writing-desk for a stack of letters. Cam stopped in the doorway, struck by the sight: so right, so home, so at home; and yet that wasn't the point of that table, which he'd left bare for so long…

Blake put down the pen. Rolled to his feet, with panther grace. "Was it a frustrating meeting?"

"Was it—no. No, nothing so bad." He let Blake strip off his greatcoat, with large skillful hands. "Just being reminded how much we don't know, yet."

"You know so much." Ash signed the last letter, added it to the stack, got up. "You saved us both."

"I did that."

"I spent some time making an inventory," Blake offered. "All your books. Titles. Which trunks they'll go into."

Of course he had. Blake Thornton had a devilish wanderer's reputation, and also the practiced experience of someone good at organizing expeditions, planning and packing, figuring out inventories and quantities. Blake was trying to be useful.

Cam knew that. He knew. And his heart melted and ached and gave way like winter snow in spring, as he looked at Blake's dark hopeful eyes.

He said, "Thank you," and tugged his Blake in for a kiss, and then Ash as well, tasting them both, letting them touch him and cling to him and run their hands all over him, warming him up from the chilly walk. "How're the library plans, then?"

The next morning he took them to the bookshop where he'd first met Blake; rain came, as it had then, and Ashley laughed and held out a hand to touch raindrops and then ran inside and bought two Gothic novels, an edition of Tacitus, and a brand-new illustrated expensive copy of Le Morte D'Arthur. Ash also spotted Blake's series of memoirs for sale, and did not give away the presence of the Earl of Thorns but did get into an extended discussion with the bookseller about the vivid nature of Blake's storytelling and the deserved popularity of every dramatic volume.

Blake, leaning against a shelf, let him talk, despite a hint of embarrassment showing flower-pink. Cam said to him, juggling Ash's purchases, "He's so proud to be with you, y'know," and Blake blushed more. Cam said, "So am I," and shifted the books and his grip on them, so that their arms brushed.

The nights were sweet and bittersweet: all three of them in that bed, his bed, their bed. Lots of joy, lots of pleasure. Explorations, with some of the equipment, the oils, the sensations. Discovering what felt good, what each of them liked, or might be uncertain about, or appreciated thoroughly. Sometimes more intense, sometimes more unadorned and simple; depended on the mood, Ashley's health, Cam's own judgment about what they needed.

No room for memories, or Cam told himself not, lying in the middle of the bed at night with long-legged elfin warmth beside him, with dark piratical muscles nestled into him. He gazed up at the bed-canopy, for a while, as that night lightened. The canopy was old-fashioned but necessary, here in the north; he knew it well. The green of it, hanging.

Ten days left. Eight. Six. That countdown, counting away.

Blake and Ash wanted to help him pack. Of course they did; they had such generous hearts. Cam wasn't sure he wanted their help, and did not know why. He didn't know how to explain.

He did not, in the end, have much. The furnishings would stay; he'd brought some of the equipment and his clothing down already, when he'd been asked to come and consult for Straithern's wife during her pregnancy. That had been a request, and one with history; the earl's father and Cam's father had been friends, both mad about horses, and Cam had known the present earl when they'd both been boys. He'd gone when asked, because they were not their fathers, and he'd always liked David.

He had the books, and the rest of his clothing, and the rest of the equipment downstairs. He found himself lingering over trunks and book-spines. Taking volumes from shelves, setting them down again. Hesitating.

He spent some time dealing with his lease and getting out of it. That wasn't really a problem, especially given that he'd be leaving to work as the Duke of Auburndale's personal physician—Ash had told him to go ahead and say so—and that title garnered respect, even obsequiousness.

Cam thought briefly about titles, and inheritances, and his own self-worth. He was proud of his position, his profession. He'd worked for it. He'd earned it. His family, not that they were much in the way of that these days, had always believed in hard work; they'd built their stables and their reputation, and they wore that reputation like a hoisted banner, justifiably so.

Blake was an earl. Ashley was a duke. They both came with estates. With lands, and tenants, and great houses. Cam wasn't sure how much they were respectively worth, as far as funds per year. Blake, who did his and Ashley's accounts, would know. Cam hadn't wanted to ask.

But, regardless of his feelings about the titled class as a whole, he couldn't think of either of his partners as the idle rich. They weren't.

Blake had climbed the mountains and forded the rivers and learned at least five local languages, and had scars and calluses to show for it, including a vicious long-healed gash along his thigh that'd horrified Cam's physician's soul at the nearness to a gravestone consequence. He also knew that Blake's father had been terrible, though Blake had not yet told him all the details; he hoped to be entrusted with that, someday. He did know that the old earl had hated his children; Blake said the man had tried to ruin the estate, to leave no inheritance, and had very nearly succeeded. Blake had said it lightly, making a joke of old pain and a loveless childhood. Cam had some thoughts, very angry ones, about this.

Ashley, on the other hand, had known love, though his parents had died young; Ash had genuinely not expected to inherit the title, since everyone'd thought his uncle and aunt, also still young, would have a child, and he'd been busy teaching undergraduates, publishing articles, living in airy scholar's rooms upon an Oxford professor's salary. He had not asked to be dragged out of that life, though he was handling newfound responsibilities well, with kindness, because Ash did not know how to not be kind.

Cam, lying awake under the familiar canopy that night, decided that perhaps that was one reason they all fit so well: they shared that comprehension, underneath all the differences. They all understood about throwing themselves into a passion, a chosen field, a height to scale. They'd all had pain, and bruises, and also joys. Celebrations. Discoveries.

Celebrations, he thought. Professor Rutherford, the botanist, had asked whether Cam would be at the Assembly Rooms, if he'd bring his aristocratic friends along, if he planned to make any introductions. Cam had said no without thinking.

In the dark, staring at the canopy, considering titles and youth and wealth, he reconsidered. The muted green swoop, faded color less noticeable in the night, hung like a minor accusation: he should've thought that his young earl and duke might like at least some attempt at acquaintance here. Parties. Assemblies. Balls, even. Fine things.

The next morning he suggested that he accompany Ash and Blake to the Assembly Rooms over in George Street that evening, if they wanted some society. Edinburgh was not London or even Bath, but it could dress up and promenade well enough; there'd be some sparkling titles and diamonds and young whips around, and card-parties, and various other entertainments.

Ash set down his teacup, swallowed, blinked owlishly. "Do we need entertainments?"

"We've been here nine days, and you've seen history and bookshops and my education."

"And it's been marvelous." Ash picked up the tea again, as if that settled the question. "I like knowing you, and I've got new books."

Blake put down his fork with a bite of sausage still on it. "Are you concerned that we're growing bored?"

"No." Yes. "I only thought you might enjoy it."

"We're not bored. But if you're truly concerned…" Blake's grin appeared: a lightning-whip of practiced seduction. "You could come up with inventive explorations for me in the bedroom. Some of those salves, the tingling sort…heating…ginger, perhaps…"

"Maybe later." Definitely later. He poked his own porridge—long-standing habit, that: warm and snug—with a spoon, added honey, added cream. The ribbon of cream pooled and gathered. "You can imagine it for us, for a while. If you did want to attend some of the social whirl…well, for one, I could make you wear a pretty carved toy all evening. Inside you, just right, while you're engaged in polite introductions." He thought he had one or two that'd work, someplace in that chest.

Blake's eyes had grown larger and darker and hot at the idea; but he was scrutinizing Cam's expression. "We can do that here at home. You are worried about it. Us."

They did not have secrets; Cam gave up. "I was only wondering…the two of you, your titles and all…the lives you had, London, all of that…"

"Our life," Ash corrected, catching up. "Together. From now on. You said so, aye?"

The echo, his own accent, made him smile: Ashley and languages. "Aye. D'you mind that we're missing it? The balls, the parties. The Season. Your invitations."

Ash, clutching the teacup, grew mildly horrified. "I'm a professor—or I was. I like history. I trip over my own feet when I dance."

Blake said, "As of yesterday, the Rose is putting on a theatrical adaptation of The Earl of Thorns at the Castle of the Mad Alchemist. I need to be out of London. For this fortnight, or for the next five years, preferably."

"I might have plans regarding that adaptation," Ash murmured. "When we get back."

Blake swung that way. "Oh no—"

"It's based on your book, and we should know what they've done to it, and I like everyone celebrating you!"

"So do I," Cam interjected, "and yes, we're going, and you can tell us how they've got it wrong, after, but it's still your story up there, and we're proud to be here with you, lad." Blake sighed, but smiled, and nodded, so that was all right. "And you both don't mind that we're…that I'm…" He borrowed Blake's flippancy, shoved his spoon into the porridge, disrupted the pool of cream. "I love you both. But I'm not an earl or a duke, I'm not one of you, and I won't be."

"You sound even more Scottish," Ash observed dreamily, "when you're being blunt, and I love it. Yes, of course we know."

"We want you." Blake reached across the breakfast table to set a hand on Cam's arm. Informal, all of them: Ash was wearing Cam's dressing gown, thick and quilted, because they'd wanted him to stay warm. None of them had proper coats on; Blake had lit the fire, and his hand and forearm were strong, tanned, under a rolled-up sleeve. "I knew I wanted you the night we met. And then again, when you came to help us in London…the way you feel, the way I feel around you…it's right. You and Ash—you both feel so right. Like I've never been so balanced, so secure."

"We love you," Ashley agreed. "It confused me, at first—I knew how I felt about Blake, I always did, but then you were so…it was like the missing piece of a puzzle. Like a word I'd been struggling with, not knowing, a gap in a line of poetry, and then one morning I woke up and I understood it, how that shape and that sound meant that word, and the line was complete."

"We're here for you," Blake said. "We said so, but I don't think we realized…it's asking a lot of you, isn't it? Our lives will change, at least in some ways, but not like yours will."

Ash put his head on one side. "Oh. Is it about your—your Hugh? Oh, sorry, was that the wrong question? I didn't mean to just blurt it out."

"No," Cam said. Breathing was difficult, not because he didn't feel loved—he did, so much—but for precisely that reason: so much, and they knew him, both of them; they saw him and touched him, here in this house, in this room, and it'd been so long and it was so clear and so bright. "No, I…I can talk about him. It's not…he'd be happy. I believe that. I'm happy."

"It's not guilt," Blake said. "Then…it's just too much? All of it?"

"No. Never. I'm here for you both." He put his hand atop Blake's, moved it to encircle Blake's wrist; glanced at Ashley. Pleaded, "I love you. You know that. I said yes to our plan. I want to live with you."

Blake nodded. Ash said, "But then…" and stopped.

"I don't know," Cam said. "If I could bloody well diagnose myself—" But he stopped, shook his head. "I don't know."

"No," Blake said after a moment. He'd turned his arm slightly, leaning into the caress, Cam's hand around his wrist. "But…do you want us to not help, for a morning? With the packing, the inventories, all of it."

"I know you're good at that," Cam managed. "I don't mind, honestly."

"Hmm. I think Ash and I should go for a walk, today. Up the hill, for those views. Picturesque." Blake paused. "And don't say we're both still recovering."

"You are!"

"I'm tough as leather," Blake said, "and Ash, well…I'll take care of him. We'll walk slowly."

"I'm not an invalid!" Ash protested, a statement instantly undermined by a tiny cough.

"We'll be fine." Blake's eyes met Cam's, and stayed there, peaceful. "We won't be out too long. We'll come home to you." And the deep ink-pools of his gaze said more: I know you worry, I know you want to care for us, I know what you told us, about Hugh and a carriage accident, and the way you didn't know, then; you didn't know what'd happened until two days after, when someone thought to inform Hugh's professional partner in the practice…

Blake paused again, put on that wicked lazy smirk, and added, "You can make it an order, if you'd like. Come home to you. I'll make sure we listen; I'm all yours."

"You're a bloody menace is what you are," Cam muttered. "Looking like that, with those eyelashes…"

Blake deployed the eyelashes to even greater effect, on purpose.

Ashley, picking up on the shift in mood—a lightening, a change, Blake's teasing and the way Cam's whole self responded—put in, "I like dramatic views. Getting to do some of the explorations, for a change. Not merely in stories."

"You're just as bad," Cam said to him. "Should toss you back in bed and sit on you, shouldn't I…" But he didn't mean that, and he knew he didn't; an odd lightness, the relief of being known, suffused his bones. "Fine. Only an hour or two, mind, and you come back if the weather changes; I don't want either of you aggravating anything."

"We'll be properly obedient," Blake said cheerfully, and picked up his fork, with the bit of sausage still on it. He did so with his other hand, since Cam's grip had stayed on his wrist. Blake was, in fact, fairly ambidextrous, a useful trait when climbing mountaintops and also in bed, they'd collectively discovered.

Cam drummed fingertips over that wrist now, in his grip. He meant to say thank you; he meant to say I love you; he meant to say you tell me that I take care of you, but so do you; you keep me safe in ways I didn't know I needed, both of you.

He thought, from the way they both looked at him, then, that Ash and Blake heard those unsaid words. He hoped so.