Provoked (10 page)

“No. Answering it honestly. That is the reason I represented them. If you want to know if I agree with their views, you need to ask me another question.”

“Do you agree with their views?”

“Do you?”

Balfour laughed, though not humorously this time. He turned his head, his eyes travelling over David’s face. There was something heated and intense in his gaze that made David’s gut clench. “You first.”

David shrugged, cultivating a cool expression even as he suppressed the dangerous glimmer of attraction. “Some of them. I believe the suffrage should be extended. I think if it is not, there will be much more violence. Perhaps even a people’s revolution, as happened in France.”

“And would you welcome war between the classes?”

“Of course not.”

“But your weavers would have done so. They went to war, did they not? A short-lived war, but a war nonetheless.” The deep voice was all seriousness now.

David stared at Balfour, fear and attraction churning inside him, an unpleasant combination that nevertheless made him feel fully alive in a way he hadn’t felt in a long time. Was this man Lees? He was not speaking tonight like a man nourishing a secret passion for a woman, but he knew Isabella Galbraith all right. She might be the lady he had his eye on. And he fitted Lees’s description. He could be the man Euan MacLennan sought.

“The weavers told me that the war, if you can call those skirmishes a war, happened because of government agents. Men they believed to be their own, who deliberately provoked those events with the sole purpose of flushing out those most likely to speak out against the government.”

Balfour met his gaze. “Is that so? Who were these agents, Lauriston? What happened to them?”

They faced each other on the cold, dark street, the mist snaking between them.

“I should dearly like to know,” David said. “People died because of those men.”

“Perhaps people were saved because of them.”

“We’ll never know, will we? Their actions deprived the weavers of the chance to decide for themselves how they would act. Perhaps they would never have raised arms against the government. Now three of those men are dead and the rest are being transported. Not to mention the people killed in the riots.”

“And look how many died by the guillotine in France,” Balfour said. “Would that be better?”

“If France teaches us anything, it is that it’s unwise to crush the people.”

For a moment there was a heavy silence between them, pregnant with turmoil. David’s heart thudded in his chest. Then Balfour shrugged and began to walk again. “In truth, I do not disagree with you on that.”

Surprised by Balfour’s sudden concession, David fell into step beside him, gradually calming, and for a while, they merely walked, David still wondering if Balfour was Lees, and, if he was, what he thought of the result of his actions.

When they turned onto Queen Street, Balfour said, “My house is halfway along.”

The oil lamps in this part of town were more numerous than on the smaller streets, but even so, the light was poor. Nevertheless, when David glanced at Balfour, he was able to tell somehow that the other man was preoccupied. Was it that David’s eyes had grown more used to the dark by now? Or was it something else, more ephemeral and intuitive?

Strange, the clues to a man’s soul. The pitch of Balfour’s hunched shoulders was expressive. Something about his fixed gaze suggested he was looking inward. David turned his own gaze away, giving the man his privacy and retreating into his own thoughts.

Soon enough, they were stopping in front of a tall, thin, grand house, part of a row of tall, thin, grand houses.

“Here we are,” Balfour said, turning to David and giving him a very direct look. “Would you like to come in?”

Although the prospect of such an invitation had crossed David’s mind, he felt a measure of surprise. They had done nothing but argue since they’d left Chalmers’s house, and he rather thought Balfour might’ve decided against extending the evening. As for David, whilst the thought of that night in Stirling had been haunting him ever since, he knew it would be very unwise to seek to reenact it. He made sure never to go with the same man twice, keeping his encounters as anonymous as possible.

And then there was the fact that it seemed Balfour might have some connection to the mysterious Lees.

“I think not,” David said at last, quietly.

“Are you sure?” Balfour said, stepping closer, his voice deep and intimate. “I enjoyed our last time together. I would like to do it again. Wouldn’t you?”

His body brushed against David’s, and David felt as though his whole being had come to life just from that light touch.

Yes, he wanted to do it again. He wanted it more than anything. But that didn’t make it right, and dear God, the man might be
Lees
, responsible for the transportation of Peter MacLennan amongst others, and the deaths of good men.

And wouldn’t it be best to find out for sure?
an insidious little voice said inside him.
You can’t just walk away now. Go with him.

But of course, Balfour being the direct, unsettling man that he was, offered no pretext for the invitation. If he’d asked David in to drink or talk, David could’ve accepted and told himself it was only polite or that he sought more knowledge of the man. He could’ve allowed the inevitable to happen in manageable increments. But no, Murdo Balfour did not dissemble. He simply told David he wanted him and made him choose.

“I would like to do it again. Wouldn’t you?”

There was no going in that house for any other purpose, or even pretending to do so.

David imagined Balfour’s cock in his mouth, how it would feel to rub his face against the hard, hot flesh and engulf it in his own willing throat. He was hard now, and as the idea took hold of his mind, one of Balfour’s hands pressed against the placket of his breeches, roughly caressing his erection.

“I want you in my mouth this time,” Balfour said raggedly. “And I want to fuck you.”

The first statement felt like a caress. The second, like a splash of cold water in his face. David didn’t allow himself to be fucked. Ever. It was one thing to suck a cock, quite another to let a man penetrate his body. Hypocritical, perhaps, but he needed to maintain some moral fences if he wasn’t to go mad.

“Better not,” he said finally, stepping back and adding truthfully, “I have court tomorrow morning.”

Balfour dropped his hand. He said nothing, his dark eyes searching David’s face, and though David tried to present a calm, indifferent expression, he could tell from the way Balfour watched him that he saw something of David’s turmoil.

“Very well,” he said at last with a sardonic twist of his lips. “As I said, I prefer my pretty boys willing.”

He began to turn away, but David shot out a hand, grabbing him by the elbow, detaining him. “I’m not pretty,” he gritted out. “Or a boy, for that matter. I’m four and twenty.”

Balfour gave him a long look. “You’re a boy all right,” he sneered. “An idealistic, romantic, pretty boy. It’s why your Miss Chalmers is so enamoured with you. Because you’re beautiful, virtuous and utterly unthreatening.” He shook off David’s hand. “But that doesn’t interest me, Mr. Lauriston. I don’t want someone who practically faints when I tell him I want to fuck him. I want someone who knows how to give pleasure and receive it too. So go home, back to your monkish bed, and flagellate yourself for wanting something—someone—you’re not supposed to want. I can easily find someone else just as pretty as you and a great deal more willing.”

Having delivered this speech, Balfour turned on his heel and marched up the steps to rap at the door of his house with his cane. A few moments later, the door creaked open, revealing a footman holding a candle.

Shocked into stillness by Balfour’s verbal assassination, David remained where he stood and watched as Balfour strode into his house without so much as a backward glance.

Only when the footman closed the door did he finally move again, turning towards the Old Town and home.

Chapter Eight

The following day was busy, and it was late when David got home.

The hearing on Mr. MacAllister’s case had taken all day and had been hard fought, but Chalmers had succeeded in persuading the judge that, of all the many reasons the magistrates had given for refusing to enrol Mr. MacAllister as a voter, only one had any potential merit. The judge had agreed that little evidence would be required to settle the matter and had ordered a further hearing just a few weeks hence to hear the case in full. It was a significant victory. Cases often ran for years in the Court of Session, and Chalmers had advised Mr. MacAllister that the magistrates were likely to try to push the case beyond the coming election to deprive it of any practical purpose. That they had failed to do so was down to a number of factors: David’s meticulously prepared submissions, Chalmers’ calm, confident delivery and finally the judge’s goodwill. For of course, the judge knew and liked Chalmers well. It was part of what the client paid for when he chose to instruct the man.

After the hearing, Mr. MacAllister insisted on buying them all a dram to celebrate. It turned into considerably more than a few drams, and now David found himself weaving his way home, feeling thoroughly intoxicated after far too much whisky and no dinner.

He had entirely forgotten that it was Tuesday and that Euan was due to come to his rooms. He only remembered when he got to his front door and found the lad slumped outside, dozing.

“Dear God,” David exclaimed. “I forgot you were coming! Come in and get warm. I’ll get a fire going. It’s damn near freezing tonight.”

Once he’d unlocked the door, David pulled the younger man to his feet and guided him inside, aware of his own unsteady gait.

“Sorry, Davy,” Euan muttered as he allowed David to steer him into the sitting room. “I never meant to fall asleep. I just thought I’d sit and wait awhile.”

“Don’t be daft,” David replied, mortified. He gently pushed Euan towards an armchair and turned away to light a candle. “My fault entirely. I’ve been preoccupied—but that’s no excuse.”

Once the candle was glowing, he bent to light the fire that Ellen, the maidservant, had already made up and put a kettle on before heading to the larder to find out what he had to eat. He felt suddenly ravenously hungry.

Ellen had fetched him some cold meat pie for his dinner and left it in the larder with a pot of plums. He got out two plates and divided the pie roughly between them, adding a hunk of cheese, a scattering of oatcakes and a couple of the plums to each plate to bulk out the simple meal.

When he got back to the sitting room, the fire was blazing and Euan was looking more awake, chafing his hands in front of the flames. He smiled wanly over his shoulder at David, then frowned.

“You don’t need to feed me again, Davy.”

David made an impatient sound. “Doesn’t it occur to you I might be hungry myself? It’s customary to offer some of what you’re eating to any guest you have, didn’t you know?”

Euan flushed and accepted the plate that David thrust none too politely at him.

David fetched cutlery from the sideboard drawer and passed it over silently, nodding at Euan’s muttered thanks before he settled himself on the other armchair, and they began to eat.

David ate his pie quickly, almost groaning with pleasure over the short, lardy pastry and cold, pressed ham. He made short work of the cheese and oatcakes too, then set his plate aside and leaned back in his chair with a plum.

The immediate, sharp sourness of the purple skin drew a rush of saliva into his mouth. The mellow sweetness of the golden flesh that followed was like nectar. He ate the fruit in a few bites, dropping the stone onto his plate, then rose to lift the now-boiling kettle from the fire.

“I’ll just get us a toddy,” he said, giving Euan an overly wide berth as he walked past him with the heavy kettle. Experienced with intoxication, David was a careful drunk, compensating expertly for his lack of coordination with slow, practised movements and over-precise diction.

In the kitchen, he mixed up some of the hot water with whisky and honey, pouring the mix into two pewter cups and stirring them thoroughly to melt the honey.

“What’s in this?” Euan asked, frowning, when David handed one of the cups to him. “I don’t drink spirits.” He looked every the inch the theology student then, with his thin, earnest face, and his slender, scholarly fingers wrapped round the pewter cup.

“There’s a bit of whisky in it, but the hot water burns off the spirit,” David replied. “It’ll stop you catching a chill from sleeping on my stoop.”

Euan took a swallow and immediately coughed. “How much whisky did you put in?”

“A good measure,” David admitted with a chuckle. “It’ll warm you up,”

Euan looked unconvinced but lifted the cup and gingerly sipped at it. “It’s not your first dram tonight, is it?”

“No,” David said, relaxing his head against the back of his chair. “I’ve already had a few.”

“Yes, I can tell.”

David raised a self-mocking eyebrow. “And I thought I was hiding it so well too.”

“You are, actually. The most telling thing is how much more relaxed you seem.” Euan paused. “And you smile more. Is this who you really are, Davy?”

David chuckled again. “
In vino veritas
? No, it’s just that all drunks smile. When they’re drunk anyway.”

“Are you a drunk, then?”

David sighed. “At times.”

“Peter used to say that drunkenness is what keeps the working man down. He gave up spirits when he was my age, and he never let me drink at all.” The lad lifted his cup and drained the rest of the contents. His eyes were watering when he lowered the cup—there was still a good bite of spirit in there, despite the hot water. “Can I have another?”

David stared at him for a long moment, then shook his head. “You should listen to your brother.”

“Ah, but I can’t now, can I? Not ever again.”

David caught a glimpse of Euan’s thin face, etched with an expression of unbearable grief, before he turned his head away to hide.