CHAPTER THREE
The stately pile was an Elizabethan manor set in acres of the South Devon countryside with added Victorian wings and an Edwardian stable block, all a harmonious celebration of British architecture and landed wealth over the centuries, nestled in a favourable valley leading down to the river. Ben had been here many times and was greeted by Lady Philipa almost like the son she never had, which naturally made Ben uncomfortable given his relationship with her husband, but which Nikolas himself seemed to find amusing.
Ben never let his unusual relationship with his boss trouble him much. It had begun in this very house the first time he had been invited, following on from his interview after being headhunted from the Regiment. He’d felt himself under intense scrutiny all weekend, aware he was being watched, judged, and weighed in some personal balance of Sir Nikolas Mikkelsen’s own making. He’d assumed it was an assessment of his suitability for the job. By the second night, he wasn’t so sure and had returned the quick, penetrating stares with an equal intensity. By the third day, something had clearly been decided in those brief, held looks; but pressed face first into the billiard table later that night, Ben couldn’t have said exactly how things had gone so quickly from intense looks to the sharing of such violent physical release.
Philipa came to meet him as he crunched his Ducati over the gravel in front of the oaken door. She kissed him on both cheeks, pushing the numerous dogs that habitually surrounded her away from his leathers. “Darling—get down, Bodger; I’m so sorry. Nik told me. No! Holly, down. Just dreadful. Do come in.”
He followed the wind-blown woman in tweed through the spacious but cold hallway. Nearly Christmas, it was festooned with elaborate and beautiful wreaths and winding, tasteful greenery. It led into the kitchen, which usually acted as the focus for what Lady Philipa termed her intimate country weekends. Nikolas was sitting at the table as Ben entered and didn’t spare him a glance from the paper. Once she’d plied Ben with tea and a plate full of mince pies, Philipa took her small, noisy flock with her to do something that required a flower basket and more shouted admonitions to the dogs. Peace fell on the kitchen. Nikolas looked up for the first time and took a mince pie from Ben’s plate. “Hello, Benjamin.”
Ben suppressed a smile. He had no idea what the relationship with his boss really was, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to let the man know he actually liked him. Like was a safe word, and he was sticking with that. He half turned away from the table, moved his plate further out of reach, and asked stonily, “What’s the job you’ve got for me, sir?”
“All in good time.” After a few moments, watching his wife direct one of the gardeners cutting holly, Nikolas asked, deceptively casually, “So, Benjamin, will you indulge me?”
Ben did laugh at that. Sir Nikolas would never be so inelegant as to mention their more unusual extracurricular activities. Ben knew exactly what his boss wanted and nodded. “Sure, why not?”
They led Nikolas’s horses out of the magnificently appointed stables. In most everything else he did, Nikolas retained his enigmatic, impeccable elegance, the facade no one was allowed to penetrate—but not in this. On a horse, he became something else, something dangerous. He became primitive. He was at one with the animal in a way an English aristocrat could never be. Ben felt menace, something truly fierce in the Norseman when they rode together. They negotiated the grounds down to where the gardens met tidal river estuary. It was low tide and the mud flats were exposed. The track was slippery, with a deep, primal smell of mud, salt, and seaweed. They rode carefully, the horses’ hooves picking between the rocks. Then they came to the beach, just wet sand now at the low tide. Nikolas turned around in his saddle, his face animated. “Race?”
Ben wondered how this beautiful man could bear to live his life hidden behind the facades he showed to the world. This was the Sir Nikolas Mikkelsen he was allowed rare glimpses of. After all, it wasn’t easy for a man to keep all his pretences in place when covered in another man’s sweat and come. When Nikolas was deep inside Ben’s body, he was a very different man. Here, on a freezing beach in December, that man of passion and fire emerged once more. Ben laughed, the wind catching the rare sound and whipping it away out to sea. “What do you win when I inevitably lose?”
Nikolas laughed too and nudged his horse closer, their thighs touching. “I am a generous host, Benjamin. You can choose your own forfeit.” His thick Danish accent tangled the words. Ben felt the same frisson of excitement at the base of his spine that he’d felt during their very first meeting, a handshake across a desk and a simple greeting, “Mr Rider. Thank you for coming.” Nikolas had thanked him for coming in more imaginative ways since then.
Ben made as if to answer Nikolas’s question now, slyly turning towards their proposed route. Then with a kick, he was off. He needed every advantage. The wind made his eyes water, froze his ears. He could ride, but he rode like a man on a horse. Nikolas Mikkelsen didn’t. He was the horse and the pounding surf; he was the wind whipped around their heads, the smell of salt and earthly pleasures. He caught Ben easily, stayed with him and toyed with him as they approached the cliffs that rose to the headland. As they negotiated the tidal pools, he pulled ahead and around the newly exposed section of beach into the cove that was only accessible at low tide. Their finish marker was always an imaginary line between the millstone and the camel, two distinctly shaped rocks Ben had renamed “the arsehole” and “the stiffy.” Nikolas beat him by several lengths, as he always did. He pulled up in the surf, wheeling, his horse dancing to the beat of the waves. Ben reigned in beside him. “Bastard.”
Nikolas turned his horse so they were side by side facing each other. “So, my winnings?”
Later, he couldn’t say if it had been the excitement of the race or the strange numbness of grief he’d felt since the fire, but Ben suddenly decided he wanted something more than he was usually allowed with this man. He hesitated for a moment then glanced needlessly around the empty December beach. They had the entire windswept, freezing place to themselves. Without thinking it through too much further, he leant forward and kissed the other man’s cold lips. Then he sat back to gauge his boss’s reaction, because for all the things they had done together, they’d never once kissed. They’d rarely bothered with a handjob, never a blowjob, never used these first steps to slowly work up to the wild and abandoned sex they’d fallen into that first weekend. They’d gone from a look to fucking, no quarter asked for or given. Ben couldn’t explain it, and as they never talked about what they were doing, he’d never asked either. So this kiss on a cold beach with horses stamping and turning and twisting beneath them was very different. Nikolas eyed him coolly, his detachment instantly in place. “Who was the body in the fire, Benjamin?”
Ben’s head reared back, and his horse, sensing his agitation, backed off too quickly. Ben had to grab the saddle to keep his balance, and he eased the horse out of the water and up toward the rocks. When he felt the wind lessen, he slid off the animal, walking her around, calming her—calming himself. Nikolas joined him, dismounting and finding a treat in his pocket for his horse, patting her nose and talking softly to her in his native language.
Finally, Ben replied, “Nathan. He was called Nathan. He was a carpenter. He was putting new windows into the cottage for me.”
“Had he been there long?”
“No. Why do you ask this now?” He saw Nikolas’s expression for a fleeting moment before the other could hide it. “You already knew all about him. Of course you did.”
They began to walk their horses back toward the headland separating the two beaches at high tide. “I was curious when you would tell me, though.”
“No, you weren’t. Jesus. Is this about the job or is this about us? You think his death has something to do with…It was just a kiss. People kiss. Normal people kiss.”
“You think you are not normal?”
“I think you’re not normal! With all due respect. Sir.”
Nikolas laughed. “So, you think I will become a substitute Nathan for you?”
Ben groaned. “No. Christ. Look, forget it, yeah? I…You won the fucking race. You always win, okay? I thought…” They were in the shelter of the cliff now, wind worn and hollowed into shallow caves all along the lower edge. “I just wanted…”
Nikolas’s hand suddenly cupped him around the back of the neck and pulled him close, his lips landing on Ben’s, silencing him. Their lips were cold, skin cold, but Nikolas’s leather gloves were soft on Ben’s face as they tested and tasted the kiss. The same height, they were a natural fit. They pulled apart, a rare smile on both their faces, and then they kissed again, this time with lips eagerly opening, tongues exploring. Ben thought his tongue had already discovered the most intimate places on his boss’s body, but he was wrong; this was something very different. He doubted either of them could kiss like this and keep up pretence or habitual detachment.
It was only Ben’s horse rearing and snorting that alerted them to the presence of others on the beach. Ben heard a yapping and saw two dogs come racing around the headland, chasing seagulls, barking joyously. They eased apart and remounted, walking their horses slowly, side by side. Ben couldn’t think of a thing to say, and he was fairly sure Nikolas was equally stumped. There was a lot to process. On the wind-blown promise of something better, something almost tangible and real, things had suddenly changed between them. They clearly both sensed it, and it silenced their front of easy familiarity. Ben felt a knot of sick tension in his belly. He’d rather things stayed as they were than lose Nikolas entirely. He knew very well who held all the power in this strange relationship—and it wasn’t him. Finally, Nikolas laughed ruefully and ran his fingers through his hair in a gesture so familiar that Ben knew things would be okay between them. He hadn’t ruined anything. He glanced at Nikolas to find the look returned. He shook his head fondly. “I’m sorry I blew up about Nate, sir. I guess I feel guilty because I pulled him into my life and it got him killed.”
“Did you intend for that to happen?”
“No! Of course not.”
“Then I see no cause for you to feel guilty. Sad, yes. But sadness always passes.”
Ben watched his boss’s lowered eyes as he spoke. He was tempted to ask when Nikolas’s sadness would pass but knew the question wouldn’t be tolerated. Instead, he announced cheekily, emboldened by the kiss, “Last one back buys lunch!”
He was a length ahead when they reached the stable, but then he’d been allowed to win. Who was indulging whom in this little victory, Ben wouldn’t have cared to say. They dismounted, and Nikolas handed the reins to a stable boy, fishing in his pocket for a last treat for Ben’s horse and murmuring something to her in the wild language of his conquering forebears.