To Love a Traitor (14 page)

Matthew’s face darkened. “I may not have known your brother, but I’m quite certain if he was half the man you think him, he’d have been horrified to hear you talking like that. How can you think he’d have held your life more cheaply than his? I can tell you now, if any man suggested either Jimmy or Peter were worth less than me, simply because they happened to have been born later, I’d knock his block off.”

“It’s not that, so much. It’s just… You didn’t know Hugh.” George broke off there, discomfited, because of course Matthew
had
known Hugh, hadn’t he? He just didn’t realise it.

“So tell me about him,” Matthew said reasonably enough. “What was it about him that made him so much better than you?”

“If he was here now, you wouldn’t have to ask,” George said with a sad smile. “He was simply…Hugh. Everyone loved him. He could turn his hand to anything, and you never saw him without a smile on his face.”

“Did he look much like you?”

“God, no. He was far taller, and broader across the chest. Fair-haired too—Mother always used to say he was the very image of our father when he was a young man. I take after her side of the family, of course. Hugh’s shadow, she used to call me when I was a child—I was always following him about, and being smaller, and dark, made it even more apt, I suppose.” George stared unseeingly across the fields. “He was frightfully good at everything he tried. And fearless too. He’d take a leap at any fence you cared to name, for a bet or a dare. Almost broke his neck a dozen times.”

“And did his horse also love him, when he brought it limping back to the stables?”

“Oh, Warrior was as fierce and as brave as Hugh was. Although now I come to think of it, he did throw Hugh a couple of times, when he really didn’t like the look of a jump. But there was never any bad feeling between them that I could see.”

“Was he academic, like you? Your brother, I mean, not the horse.”

“Not really, but he always managed to scrape through somehow. He was of Father’s mind, in any case—Father always said that a man who got better than a third had wasted his years at college. And we were all terribly proud of Hugh’s rugger blue.”

Matthew gave him a sidelong look. “I bet you didn’t get a third class degree.”

George shrugged sheepishly. “Double first in French and German. But no blue. I could no more have played rugby for Cambridge than I could have flown to the moon.”

“Hmm. It doesn’t seem to
me
that you wasted your time studying, and I’m quite certain your colleagues at the Admiralty didn’t think so.” Matthew’s expression changed, grew softer, as he linked his arm in George’s. “And I’d like to have a few words with whoever made you feel less than worthy. I suppose it was the barracks-sergeants and the prison guards? You may not believe this, but the average Tommy had a lot of sympathy for a man who wouldn’t let them break him.”

George managed a weak smile. “I do believe you. There were one or two, when they’d see me on punishment, who would offer a word of support. And in London it was women, mostly, who’d voice their disapproval at seeing an able-bodied man out of uniform. I suppose they thought it unfair, when their menfolk had gone off to fight.”

“Lord, war’s a wretched business, isn’t it? I’m so glad it’s all over now.” Matthew took a deep breath and blew it out slowly. “Look at these fields. So peaceful—you’d never believe there had been a war on, just across the Channel.”

It was so exactly what George had been thinking earlier that he unconsciously drew closer to Matthew, their arms still linked.

He felt, more than heard, as Matthew’s breath hitched. “George,” he said slowly. “Am I reading this wrong?”

All of a sudden, George found it hard to breathe himself. “No,” he managed, and slipped his hand down to enclose his friend’s. The weather was so mild, neither of them had bothered with gloves, and the touch of skin to skin was electric. “Is… Is that all right?” he asked, mindful of what he’d seen earlier. “Your father—he hasn’t forbidden you to, well…”

Technically speaking, they were not at present under the man’s roof, but George couldn’t have countenanced going against the reverend’s express will while enjoying his hospitality, even so.

“Lord, no,” Matthew said with a breathy smile. “In fact, he was rather giving his blessing.”

George blinked at this astonishing statement.

“And then,” Matthew continued, “I had to tell him there was nothing to bless, not yet at any rate. George, do you mean to say you really do feel more than friendship for me?”

His heart lighter than air, George laughed. “Yes, God, isn’t it obvious?”

“I thought so…and then I kept thinking I must be mistaken,” Matthew whispered in a tone of wonder. “You kept on drawing away from me.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“There’s nothing to be sorry for.”

“Yes, there is, if I’ve hurt you in any way.”

“You haven’t. You’ve made me very happy, in fact.” Matthew squeezed his hand almost painfully tight. “Lord, and we discover this now, when we’re out in the open for anyone to see!”

“And not a sheltering copse in sight. We shall just have to hurry back.”

Matthew nodded, grinning. “Would it be unseemly haste, do you think, if I were to race you the entire way?”

“Not in the least, but if we did that, I’d probably be far too out of breath to be any use when we got there. How about we walk briskly?”

“Excellent idea. Less haste, more speed.” Matthew let go of George’s hand after one last squeeze and strode off smartly back the way they’d come.

George followed his friend almost giddily. They must have made a fine picture, marching along at a pace more suited to city streets in the driving rain than to a country lane on a balmy afternoon, for an elderly lady cutting holly in her garden turned to stare as they passed.

“Nothing like a good, brisk walk for the constitution, I always find,” Matthew said cheerily, with a lift of his hat to the lady.

Fortunately, they made it far enough away before laughter overtook them.

“Perhaps we should have run after all,” George said as they finally,
finally
reached the gates of the rectory.

“Perhaps we should. Oh Lord, do you suppose we’ll make it upstairs before anyone sees us and ropes us into a game of charades?”

“I hope so. I’m not in a fit state to be seen.”

“Yes, you are. And I should like to see as much of you as possible,” Matthew added in a whisper that did nothing at all to help George’s composure as they crept through the hall.

Fortune was with them, as they made it to the bedroom without shocking anyone with their wild appearance. Matthew closed the door behind them and wedged a chair under the handle. “No one will come in—but just to be on the safe side…”

“Your brothers will still be out, won’t they?” George asked, not that he cared one jot so long as they weren’t in the room with them. But damn it, now they had the privacy to do as they wanted, nervousness had crept in, an unwanted visitor.

“Yes, and they’d be the chief danger. So we’re safe now. We can do whatever we want.” Matthew’s eyes were dark and his face flushed as he pulled George to him, leaving no room to doubt what he wanted.

“Have you—I’ve never…” George struggled to form a sentence, his mind fogged with happiness, desire and a healthy dollop of terror.

“It’s all right. I have. But we won’t do anything you don’t want to—”

“Anything. Anything you want.”

“Let me touch you.” Matthew ran his hand jerkily down George’s side, squeezing tightly when he reached George’s hip. Dimly, George understood what he was asking and allowed his hold on his friend to slacken, making space between them.

When Matthew’s hand reached his groin, George gasped aloud. He felt like he was on fire, and Matthew’s touch on his most sensitive part only served to fan the flames. “Yes…” he hissed.

“Let me—” Matthew had already started to work on George’s trouser buttons, and his nimble fingers had them open in short order.

George recollected himself enough to tear off his jacket and wrench his braces off his shoulders, allowing his trousers to fall to the floor.

“Oh yes,” Matthew breathed, his hand slipping into George’s underwear and closing around his heated erection. George bit back a moan. “Now you take my things off,” Matthew panted, moving his hand slowly up and down.

Wondering how on earth he was supposed to have any co-ordination while Matthew was stroking him so deliciously, George fumbled at the fastenings of his friend’s clothes, succeeding in undoing them more by luck than judgement. Having finally bared Matthew’s chest, George bent to press frantic kisses to it, but the angle was awkward, so he finally settled for pressing their torsos together and nuzzling into Matthew’s neck. His hands carried on working at Matthew’s trousers and were shaking by the time they finally gained access.

It didn’t seem to bother Matthew. He let out a hoarse groan as George finally grabbed hold of his cock, and his own hand sped up on George’s erection. “Lord, George…”

George couldn’t wait any longer. With a cry, fortunately muffled by Matthew’s neck, he spilled himself over his friend’s hand, his whole body juddering with the ecstasy of it. Barely leaving time for his vision to clear, George dropped to his knees. He might not have had any experience of it, but he’d heard the other boys talking at school and he had a fair idea what to do. Still reeling from his climax, George plunged his mouth over Matthew’s cock.

Matthew arched convulsively, and George was forced to grab his hips with both hands to hold him still. The hard flesh in George’s mouth felt strange, too large, but the taste was salty and musky, and the thrill of it coursed through his veins. As he moved his head up and down, he chanced looking up—and was mesmerised by the sight of Matthew with his eyes screwed up as if in pain, and his hand stuffed into his mouth to muffle his cries.

Then Matthew looked down—and as their eyes met, George felt the flesh between his lips pulse, and suddenly his mouth was filled with jet after jet of viscous, salty liquid. For a moment, George thought he would gag—but really, it was no worse than swallowing oysters, and George felt absurdly pleased with himself as he saw Matthew looking at him with awe.

“George…” Matthew reached down to urge him up. As George stood, Matthew pressed their bodies together and kissed him fiercely. The thought of him tasting his own seed in their kiss made George shiver. “That was wonderful, George. You’re wonderful.”

“No, you were,” George said, overcome.

“Come on,” Matthew said, his voice rough. “We’d better get our togs on and go downstairs for supper before Mother sends Peter up to bang on the door.”

Chapter Seventeen

Supper, as promised, was a short, informal affair consisting mainly of cold meats and an astonishing variety of homemade pickles and chutneys in an equal variety of jars and pots. Many of them, George strongly suspected, had been presented to the rector the previous day by his parishioners. Jimmy and Peter, fresh from the cross-country run, ate like young wolves, and Agnes managed likewise to pack away a surprising amount of food, although her manners were daintier than those of her younger brothers. George too ate ravenously. He felt on top of the world. Matthew was his, finally his. Everything was perfect.

Almost before the supper dishes had been cleared away, the first evening guests started to arrive.

When Evelyn Connaught said she had “some people” coming round for drinks, it appeared she meant “the entire village, and half of the next”. George was tempted to turn tail and run for his room at the sight of the chattering throng that filled the drawing room and spilled into the hall. He jumped as he felt a familiar hand on his shoulder.

“Chin up, George,” Matthew murmured into his ear, causing a tingle to run down his spine. “They’re mostly here to see Mother and Father. We only need to show our faces for a little while longer, and then we can make a run for it. As long as we’ve been seen at some point, they’ll never notice we’re gone for the rest.”

“Sometimes I think you can read my mind,” George replied in a grateful whisper.

“Oh, I’m being entirely selfish, believe me. Half of these people are total strangers to me, and the rest I see only once a year, and all they can think of to say when they see me is ‘How’s the arm?’ as if it might have somehow have started to grow back in the last twelve months.”

George was certain this was not, in fact, the case, but said nothing, grateful for his friend’s thoughtfulness. Squaring their shoulders, they walked together into the fray.

It turned out to be a social gathering much like any other: everybody talked, and nobody said anything of consequence or, indeed, particular interest except to themselves. George just was beginning to think he’d nod off if anyone else remarked how unusual was the weather that year, when a party of latecomers drew attention by their entrance.

George glanced idly over—and a lead weight plummeted into his stomach. That profile was unmistakably familiar, with its combination of crooked nose—broken during a particularly vicious game of rugby—and bright red, almost orange hair. It belonged to a contemporary of George’s from Eton, Harold Pevensie, and he was standing not six feet away.

Oh God. George felt as though a band of ice were fixed about his chest. George Johnson’s life might very well have been perfect—but George Johnson didn’t really exist, did he? He was Roger Cottingham, who’d lied to the man he’d been intimate with scant hours ago. And if he didn’t act quickly, Matthew would find out.

“I’m sorry, Matthew—I don’t feel well,” he blurted, hating himself for heaping lie upon lie.

Matthew was instantly concerned, laying a hand upon his arm. “George? Whatever is the matter? Why don’t you sit down for a moment, let me get you a drink—”

“I just need to go to my room,” George said, the band tightening as he cursed his friend’s solicitous nature that wouldn’t just let him turn and flee for safety. He tried to shrug off Matthew’s hand without appearing rude. “Please—”

It was too late. Pevensie had turned, and the light of recognition was in his eyes. “Good Lord—it’s Roger Cottingham, isn’t it? I haven’t seen you in years—”

“You’re mistaken,” George broke in roughly. The band of ice had shattered, and sharp splinters were forcing their way into his flesh. “My name is George Johnson, and I’m
quite
sure we’ve never met.”

Pevensie’s eyes widened in polite disbelief. “Really? Well, good Lord. You know you’re the spitting image of old ‘Conchie’ Cottingham. Always wondered what had happened to him—suppose they had to let the blighter out of quod sometime. Are you
sure
you’re not—”

“If you’ll excuse me,” George said, his tone sharp enough to draw a few unwelcome glances, and unable to bear it any longer, he strode out of the room and up to the bedroom. He slumped on the bed, his head in his hands. Oh God. He’d done this all wrong. He should have stayed to brazen it out… No, he should have gone straight up to Pevensie and persuaded him, somehow, to hold his tongue. It was too late now. Matthew would have to know all. Unless he hadn’t heard? Hope flared in George’s breast—only to be instantly doused.

“George?” Matthew’s voice at the door was halting, hesitant. “What did he mean by calling you Cottingham?”

“N-nothing,” George lied, hating the betraying quaver in his voice. “He was mistaken.”

“Then why are you so upset?”

“I’m not upset. I’m quite all right.”

“You don’t look all right. Or sound it, come to that.” Without waiting for an invitation, Matthew came in and shut the door. He sat on the bed and put his arm about George’s shoulders. It was almost too much to bear. George ached to lean into that embrace, to accept its comfort—but Matthew would never offer it if he only knew the truth. “Can’t you tell me about it?” When George said nothing, Matthew persevered. “
Is
your name Cottingham?”

It was too much. Roughly flinging off his friend’s arm, George threw himself off the bed and stood staring out of the window. The gardens should have looked bleak at this time of year, but a careful planting of evergreens ensured a pleasant view even in midwinter. George supposed he should look his fill; he wouldn’t be staying here again. “And what if it is?” he said finally.

“Well, then, I’d rather like to know why you’re pretending it isn’t,” Matthew said, reasonably enough. “George…” Matthew’s tone altered, and it filled George with foreboding. “I’ve just realised—your brother Hugh, who died in the war—he was Captain Cottingham, wasn’t he? The man I served with in Ypres.”

George couldn’t speak. Why did it all have to come out now, when he’d convinced himself Matthew was innocent?

Apparently, his silence was answer enough. “Why would you lie to me about it? Unless… Unless you thought, somehow, that I couldn’t be trusted with the truth?” There was a pause, and when Matthew spoke again his voice, closer now, was filled with hurt. “Why would you think that?”

George forced himself to turn, to look into Matthew’s eyes as he spoke. “There were…suspicions raised, about Hugh’s death.”

“Suspicions…?”

“That… That someone might have told the enemy to expect him.”

“Might have…” Matthew’s face was ashen. “You think it was me. You think I’m a rotten, cowardly traitor who got your brother killed.”

“No, honestly, I don’t—at least, at the start, perhaps—”

George broke off as Matthew made an angry gesture with both arms as if trying to place a barrier between them. The stump of his right arm waving in the air should have looked ridiculous, but instead it tore at George’s heartstrings. “I don’t… I trusted you, George…Roger…
Damn
it,” Matthew cried, his voice shaking. “I don’t even know what to call you. Is anything you told me true? Are you even a solicitor’s clerk, or is that just another lie?”

“No, I swear it isn’t. Matthew, I—”

“I invited you to my family’s home, I let you…” Matthew’s voice cracked, the sound like a knife in George’s chest. “And our friendship…everything… It’s all been a lie? Just an excuse to…to get me to talk? Give me enough rope to hang myself, is that it? God, what a fool I’ve been, thinking you—”

“No, Matthew, please listen—”

“I can’t. I’m sorry. Not now. I
can’t
, George.” He turned away, his shoulders heaving. “Please…please leave. If you have any shred of…of…”
Decency
, George thought he was going to say, but Matthew finished in the end with, “…regard for me, please leave.”

His heart breaking, George left.