A plate of food and a glass of wine later, his mood hadn’t improved. He’d had another dizzy spell, not as bad as the one in the graveyard but enough to remind him that he was still on the road to recovery and claret wasn’t helping.
Then the ridiculous oversight about his father’s family-history research started nagging at him, upsetting him more than the story of the recurring dream. How long was it going to be before he became so forgetful he ended up like his mother, barely able to organise his thoughts? Thank God it was likely she’d be gone by the time he turned completely gaga.
He contemplated the pile of stuff from the loft, had a “what’s the bloody point?” moment before deciding he might as well sort it, because he couldn’t face work at the moment and didn’t have anything else pressing to occupy himself with. Except the bottle of wine and that would only make him feel worse. He had to fetch an old rag to go over the hoard; he hadn’t realised in the poor light up there just how filthy and flyblown the books were. He flicked in a desultory way through the book about the church, but there was nothing he hadn’t seen in Dominic’s photocopy.
The Lusmoore timeline proved intriguing. The pencilled scribble next to Mary’s name looked like it read Lawson followed by something else, although that might have been wishful thinking. It could equally have been “laundry” or any other of a dozen words. But when he took the document over to peruse in the better light from the standard lamp, his dad’s familiar handwriting, which he recognised with a pang of renewed sorrow, was plain.
Lawson. No grave. The note in his fingers began shaking—Morgan steadied both it and his hand against the window.
See other note. Other note? Where the hell was that to be found? Dad had always kept his papers in good order, and there hadn’t been anything like a random note stuffed among the contents of the crates.
Morgan crossed the room, picked up the Lusmoore file, and then shook it in order to coax out any loose pieces of paper which might have been hidden there. Nothing emerged, no matter how much he flicked the pages. If the note still existed, it was probably with the other stuff in the loft, and he had no desire to clamber back up there. He was about to shut the file, when he noticed pieces of yellowed Sellotape sticking over the top of some of the pages, attaching pictures, paper cuttings, and the like. Working through the file again, he found the note he wanted about halfway.
Lawson survived the wreck? Plenty of coincidental evidence that he did. (Local gossip, uniform, book.)
So Dad had reached the same conclusion as he and Dominic, based on the similar information. Had he found anything definitive, though?
Mary Lusmoore said to have helped save him, only to tip him over the cliff. Evidence? Ballad.
Nothing new there.
The medallion found in the rock cleft. Need to research the story.
What medallion in what rock cleft? Morgan went through the Lusmoore file again, then the book about the church, but there were no further notes, no evidence of any of these researches, if his father had ever completed them, and he hadn’t lost interest when he’d moved on to his next pastime. Dominic would have a field day over that medallion story.
Only Dominic wasn’t going to hear about it, was he?
Morgan put the Lusmoore stuff into a bag. Maybe he should simply parcel it all up and post it, with a businesslike note mentioning the medallion but no apology or expectation of a reply. Something cool and cursory might be a particularly effective way of bringing things between him and Dominic to an end than a continued radio silence.
Morgan recalled that conversation they’d had on the sand, about how people didn’t talk to each other enough. Ironic that they should have ended up in the same position, when they seemed to have spent hours on end gassing to each other about things both trivial and important. Perhaps they’d expended all they had to say.
Or perhaps Dominic would feel the need to say sorry one final time, and would be on the phone in the morning. Morgan could imagine how such a conversation might go.
“I’m scared.” He’d say. “Apologies can’t make that go away.”
“So get proper help, like I’ve said a dozen times.”
“What’s the point? It’s not like a broken leg you can stick in plaster until it sets or your back, that’s going to get better of its own accord. There’s no cure, nothing to stop it. You either end up fading away like Mum or . . .”
“Or what?”
“You throw yourself over the cliff. Might as well make an end of it rather than turning into a vegetable.”
He knew what Dominic’s response to that would be. Checking if Morgan was serious—or even halfway serious. Threatening that if there was a grain of truth in what Morgan said then he’d be coming straight round, irrespective of whether he was still in Cornwall or halfway across the country. Saying he’d tie Morgan to the front door or the bed or the kitchen table until he’d talked some sense into him.
The thought of the imaginary conversation lifted his spirits more than a real one might have done at this point. Make-believe Dominic was much easier to deal with; make-believe Dominic couldn’t be hurt. And if Morgan really intended throwing himself off a cliff, why didn’t he get up, go off, and do it? Why live with the anguish? Was it only the thought that it might finish his mother off entirely that stopped him, or was there still some light in the darkness that wasn’t a wrecker luring ships onto the rocks?
Catching sight of the pile of things he’d brought downstairs, Morgan felt again the urge to chuck the lot away. He scooped everything up, ready to consign it all to the dustbin; halfway to the kitchen, he turned so woozy he had to drop the lot and steady himself on the back of a chair. Definitely no more claret for the foreseeable future. One of the older books, spine and binding cracked and kept together by mere luck, had fragmented, and among the loose pages strewing the carpet lay a little book which had been slipped among them.
The True History of the Wreck of the Troilus: A reliable and astonishing account as told to the author by an eye witness.
Bloody hell. This book had been here all the time, as much a part of the house as the beams, and he’d had no idea. Gingerly, he picked it up, flicked through it; the title itself would date the book to the 1800s, as would the illustrations on the first few pages, one of which brought him up short. The ship depicted was nothing like the painting in the museum and everything like the one he’d seen in his nightmare, so much so he almost dropped the book. If he was going to read the text, he’d better get himself some strong coffee in lieu of alcohol.
Settled down again, mug in one hand and book in the other, Morgan began to go through the familiar story, an account that proved horribly familiar in every detail. The date, late August, was etched into his memory. The time of day—sun just setting on the horizon—and the weather—wind to the north, whipping up the grey sea into white flecks, howling through the air and rattling the windows of the local cottages—rang a bell. The Devil’s Anvil awash with spray, its jagged grin hidden against the darkening sky.
Coffee splashing on his trousers from the mug that was trembling in his hands like a cat after a pigeon, reminded him how much of a shock to the system this was turning out to be. He put down his coffee mug and gingerly picked up the book again.
The account ran on, depicting events exactly as they’d been in his dream, as though he’d written this account rather than the anonymous early-Victorian author. Morgan read on, sweaty palmed, reliving his dream with every detail of the story. The frigate, a razee, struggling to get along the coast, decks washed with the waves and sailors hanging on for dear life to any available rope. The wind driving them onto the shore . . .
Morgan put the book down once more, reached for his coffee, then drew back, not able to trust his hands from shaking. What the hell did this mean? Was that “past life” crap going to turn out to be true, that he really had witnessed the wreck and was experiencing every detail of it in his nightmares?
He was about to get the bottle of wine and drain the lot when he realised he was being the biggest fucking idiot in the world. Nobody needed to have been around two hundred years previously to have learned all those minutiae. They’d simply have had to do what he’d done earlier—read the book, or have it read to him. The sense of relief, hard on the heels of the shock, made his head spin.
Morgan picked the book back up, reading all the way through to the end, less frightened now by the familiarity of what the text contained. There was no mention of Lawson, although the statement that all on board had apparently been lost gave some leeway. At the end, there were a couple of blank pages which had been written on at some point in the distant past, given how the writing had faded. Not his dad’s handwriting—not a script he recognised at all—and the words were barely legible. Perhaps it was the typical “this book belongs to” statement like might get scribbled on the frontispiece, although in this instance the volume of print already there had prevented it.
He turned the page, to find a list of names. Not Capell family members, but the distaff line, each name written in a unique style, probably by the person concerned. The list started with what must have been Morgan’s several times great-grandfather, given the fact the last few generations were familiar names, passing through a line of daughters, and leading to his mother. The last entry on the list staggered him afresh.
His name, scrawled in a childish hand. So he must have come across the book already. Had Dominic been right all the time?
There was one realistic chance of finding out—two if he included Harry, but if he knew about the tome, surely he’d have mentioned it. His brother, Eddie, might know something, although that begged the question about why Morgan’s name was there and not his. And if this was such an important part of family history, with those names so carefully inscribed there on the page, why had it suffered the ignominy of being consigned to the loft with a load of tat? A simple phone call would clarify matters.
Only he wasn’t going to ring his brother, was he? For a start, Eddie would be suspicious about what had prompted him to get in touch; for seconds, there’d be a huge risk that the story about the dreams would come about; and last—no means least—he might blurt out his worries about his mental state. Eddie hadn’t shown much understanding towards Mum; Morgan wasn’t giving him the chance to do the same to him. Talking to Dominic hadn’t completely opened the floodgates, but they were significantly weakened.
He went into the kitchen, flicking on the radio to hear Classic FM blaring out the theme to Pirates of the Caribbean. Had his mate Derek been to see that and had it made him think of running round the garden shouting, “Avast!”? What had Mum said about them? Pretending to be brave. That’s what he needed to do now: pretend to be brave, ring Eddie, and get the whole bloody thing sorted out.
Morgan thought about taking Dutch courage, but resorting to the bottle would likely loosen his tongue. He’d just have to fucking well bite the bullet, and if things went tits up, then he’d have to deal with it.
He fetched his phone and rang. Luckily his brother answered quickly, before Morgan lost his nerve.
“Hello?” the familiar voice sounded down the line.
“Hi. It’s Morgan.”
“Morgan? Is Mum okay?” The panicked tones did nothing to ease the situation.
“Yes, she’s fine. Doing as well as can be expected.” Morgan took a deep breath. “I had a bit of inner ear trouble, but it’s clearing up. How are things?” They exchanged a bit of news, both sounding slightly constrained at the fact they so rarely communicated now.
“The reason I rang—apart from getting an update,” Morgan added, probably unconvincingly, “was because I’d been having a clear out in the loft. You wouldn’t believe how much old rubbish is up there.”
“I would. Dad was always a hoarder. Found anything valuable?”
“I wish. No. Just puzzling.” Another deep breath. “An old book about that shipwreck. The one the timbers came from.”
“Yep? I vaguely remember something like that.”
“Do you? I have no memory of it at all, but my name’s in the back.”
“Yeah, I know.” Eddie laughed. “I was dead jealous that you got to sign in it, not me. Time I confessed.”
Morgan’s head spun, nothing to do with labyrinthitis this time. “What?”
“That I hid the book among all the old programmes and things. Because you were the lucky one. I was hoping you’d get cross that it had been lost.” Eddie chuckled again. “You didn’t. That was the most annoying thing of all.”
“I didn’t get cross because I had no bloody idea it existed.” He was getting angry now, though. “If I had, it would have saved a lot of angst, believe me.”
“Eh?”
“Long story. Don’t ask.” Don’t ever ask. “If it was such a big deal, any idea why I don’t remember anything about it?”
“Hm.” Eddie paused for a moment. “Do you remember having pneumonia?”
“Sorry? What?”
“You were flat on your back with pneumonia.”
“Oh, right. I know I was ill, but I’m never sure how much of the detail I remember is entirely based on what people told me afterwards.” He certainly recalled with horror one bout of coughing that had racked his body to the point where he hadn’t been able to breathe. The doctor had visited, but they’d kept him at home, dosed up with antibiotics and who knew what, or so he had found out later. Although what this had to do with anything . . .
“That’s probably why you don’t remember the book. It was your favourite when you were lying in bed, helpless. You kept wanting to hear it read. When they thought you were at death’s door, they let you sign it.”
“Death’s door? Was I that bad?”
“I doubt it, given that you didn’t get dragged to hospital.” Eddie sounded a touch too hearty in his reassurance. “Gran got into a state about you. Dad wanted to ban her from the house, but that made it worse. She was convinced you were popping your clogs.”
“Sounds like her.” Morgan’s increasingly strong sense of relief fought against his natural pessimism. “Didn’t Mum or Dad say anything about the book going missing?”
“Not at the time. They were too worried about you being ill. Anyway, although it was Mum’s book, she hated it. It used to give her nightmares, she said.”
A tingle shot up Morgan’s spine. “Say that again.”
“Sorry?”
“Can you say that last bit again, please. The line’s bad at this end, and I didn’t catch it,” Morgan lied.
“Mum didn’t like the book because it gave her bad dreams. About shipwrecks. She’d have burned the bloody thing if it hadn’t been some kind of family heirloom.”
“Right.” One final question. “So, if she hated it, why did she read the thing to me? I mean, I know I was a pain in the arse, always wanting my own way, and I must have been worse if I was ill, but wouldn’t she have thought it might scare me?”
“She did. And you were. A pain in the arse, I mean. It was Dad who read it to you. Mum went flipping mental at him.”
“I can imagine. Thanks for filling in the blanks.”
“My pleasure. Don’t leave it so long before you ring the next time, okay?”
“Okay. Love to all the family.” Morgan ended the call, then stared again at the little book. Surely the explanation couldn’t have been this simple, that this book had been the cause of so much stress and worry?
I told you so.
Morgan could almost hear Dominic’s voice speaking the words. It didn’t help that it seemed the bloke had been right all along.
How easy would it be to pick up the phone and put things straight? Too easy, maybe, or did he want the bloke to ask him for forgiveness?
You’re the one who stopped me saying sorry all the time.
Yeah. And Morgan was the one who’d implied he didn’t want a snivelling wretch for a boyfriend, like he didn’t want a lying rat. Maybe he should take a whole tin of man up, get on the phone to Dominic, and plead with him to be forgiven, given that Morgan was the one who’d acted like a pillock time and again. If his mother had been hale, hearty, and here, she’d have stood over him, forcing him to make the call, but she wasn’t there and he was too weary to make any more calls tonight. He’d sleep on it and make up his mind in the morning, because surely he’d regret acting impulsively? Only hadn’t he been acting impulsively when he’d had the row with Dominic, if not this whole month?
He picked the phone up, found Dominic’s number, and pressed Call.
After what seemed an age—long enough for Morgan to think Dominic had seen the name of the incoming caller and was ignoring him—the call connected.
“Hello?” Dominic’s tone was cool.
“Hi, it’s me.” Morgan felt tongue-tied, unsure of where to start. After being so adamant that he wanted rid of Dominic, he now regretted not having the bloke in the room with him. It was hard enough talking over the phone, but when it was something as tricky as this, both parties needed to see the facial expressions accompanying the words.
“I guessed that.” Dominic went silent; he clearly wasn’t going to make this easy, but why should he?
“I’ve got some news.”
“Right.” His tone was more conciliatory now. “Have you seen the doctor?”
“Appointment’s not yet, remember? I’m not cancelling it,” Morgan added hastily, not wanting to risk an argument. “Are you still in Cornwall?”
“Yeah. Been doing a bit of walking, up on the headland, where Lawson’s supposed to have been killed. Only I suppose you’re not that interested now.”
“I am. Got some news about him too. Some old stuff of my dad’s I found in the attic. I’d forgotten all about the research he’d done, which made me get in a state, of course.” Morgan shook his head; this was too hard. “I’m not making much sense. Can we meet up?”
“I’ll come round.”
“You don’t need to. I mean, I’d like it if you did, but I feel guilty calling you over here every two minutes.”
“You feel guilty about everything.” Dominic produced half a chuckle.
“I know I do. I have to grow a pair sometime.”
“As I remember, you have a magnificent pair already.” The half chuckle had developed into a full blown—and extremely lascivious—laugh.
“Stop it.” Morgan couldn’t help but grin.
“Get the coffee maker on. I’ll be twenty minutes. Longer if the grockles are out in force.”
“I’ll get the biscuits out too.” Those bloody biscuits—they’d been as integral to his relationship with Dominic as the ship or the sex. And the way his stomach had started to churn, he wasn’t convinced he could keep even a digestive down.
While the coffee brewed, Morgan took all the stuff from the loft through into the dining room. It was easier to spread the material out there, and less of a temptation to spread himself out on the settee and hint he and Dominic use sex to solve their communication problems. It would be a pretty effective solution if a cowardly one, and would just put off the moment he and Dominic had to talk things through. He tried to arrange it neatly, but found himself all fingers and thumbs so left it strewn.
By the time Morgan heard the car crunch up the gravel drive, he’d worked himself into a bit of a state, nearly dropping the entire plate of biscuits and having to wipe crumbs off the family trees. When Morgan opened the door to let his guest in, Dominic looked in as much of a lather, tension in his brow and dark-rimmed eyes suggesting a lack of sleep.
“Are you all right?”
Dominic frowned. “I’m supposed to be asking you that. How’s the head?”
“Fine.” Morgan ushered him in. “Actually, I had a bit of a dizzy spell earlier, but it really is getting better. Honest.” It was time he started being frank.
“Good. Just don’t cancel your doctor’s appointment.”
“I won’t.” Morgan got Dominic settled in the dining room, letting him go through the papers—all bar the note and the book—while he fetched the mugs of coffee. He stood at the dining room door, watching with pleasure Dominic’s intense concentration, before asking, “What do you think?”
“Interesting stuff.” Dominic glanced up, delight on his face. He took his drink. “Thanks.”
“No worries. You can keep the book with the history of the church, by the way.” Morgan cradled his mug, tension gradually ebbing from his shoulders.
“Can I? Double thanks, then.” Dominic smoothed over the book’s cover with those long, expressive fingers. “Was all this up in your loft?”
“Yep. Right treasure trove up there. I’d forgotten all about it.”
Dominic glanced over again, smiling. “Realising that would have given you a fright, I guess.”
“It did, especially coming on the heels of visiting Mum.”
Dominic paled. “Has anything happened?”
“No. She’s as well as she could be, physically; she got herself a bit upset.” Morgan explained what had happened during his visit, what Christine had told him about the dreams recurring across the generations. “It was the last thing I wanted to hear. By the time I went rummaging for these, I was convinced I was on the slippery slope to premature senility.”
Dominic stretched his arm out, as though to touch Morgan’s hand, then quickly withdrew it. “You must have been through hell.”
“I have. And it’s made me appreciate the fact I’m a total idiot.” Morgan picked up a biscuit, rolling it between his fingers but not eating it. “I should have got a doctor to check the contents of my head ages ago.”
“Would he or she have found anything in there?” Dominic smiled. “I know I’m not allowed to say sorry, but I’m saying it. I’ve been too eager to tell you your fears were stupid, that there was a rational explanation, rather than listen and focus on giving you a bit of comfort. I’m glad you’re getting some professional help. Not because I think you are going loopy, but to help you see things in perspective. Stop you getting stressed.”
“You’re forgiven for the apology. And it’s returned too, because it turns out I might have been fretting over nothing, like you said.” Morgan slipped his hand onto the chair next to his, where he’d hidden the note and book, bringing them out to lay on the table. “Have a read of this.” He pushed the story of the shipwreck across to Dominic, then made an attempt on the biscuit. He’d thought he wouldn’t be able to manage eating it, but his appetite had returned with a vengeance, and he’d polished off a handful of them by the time Dominic had reached the end of the tale.
“This reads like a script for your nightmare,” Dominic said, looking up from the text at last.
“Seems like it. Mum’s nightmare, too, if Christine’s to be believed. Have a gander at the final page.”
Dominic turned to the list of names, then whistled. “Bloody hell. Did you know about this?”
“Of course I didn’t.” Morgan related the phone conversation with Eddie, while Dominic listened, nodding his head as the story unfolded. “Seems like there was one bit of family history I was oblivious of. The key bit as probably turns out.”
“It would certainly explain a lot. Especially if your subconscious associates the story of the wreck with the time when you were so ill. No wonder it gives you the creeps.” Dominic raised his hand. “Sorry. Getting into the pseudo-psychology again. I need to learn to give it a miss.”
“You do, if you don’t want to risk being a pain in the arse.”
“Takes one to know one.” Dominic shook his head. “I really like you. I can’t help being an old-fashioned pompous prick, and it’s too late to do anything about that fact, but I’m trying my best.”
“I know you are. I’d not have asked you back if I hadn’t thought you were tolerable. I could have posted all this lot.” Morgan studied his dad’s little note in his hands; it might have been the plum piece of information, but he wasn’t ready to share it yet. “It might have been easier if there hadn’t been so much stuff going on. Mum. Me feeling sorry for myself over James. Me feeling sorry for you because I’d made you stay over that first bank holiday. That bloody attack of labyrinthitis. Me getting myself shit scared and not wanting you to see what a state I was getting into. Not wanting you to suffer what I’d suffered with Mum.”
“Is that why you told me to piss off?” Dominic didn’t seem cross, just bemused.
“Yes. I mean I don’t think I thought it through quite that rationally—I was too frightened to think of anything logically—but that’s what it came down to. It’s no fun watching somebody you’re close to lose it.”
Dominic nodded slowly, clearly choosing his words with care. “You don’t need to say yes, but if it would help to have somebody around for a bit, while you see the doctor and get yourself sorted out, I’d be available. The woman from the HR department has been nagging me to book the time off I carried over from last year, and these few days haven’t eaten it all up.”
“I didn’t realise you were such a workaholic.”
“I’m not. Sad thing is, I had no real incentive to take a break before.”
Morgan felt torn again. If he agreed to Dominic’s plan, would it be for the right motive? Did he want Dominic here for his own sake?
“Is it that hard a decision?” Dominic was evidently trying to sound jokey, but the concern in his voice couldn’t be hidden.
“Only for a fucking idiot like me.” Morgan took Dominic’s hand. “I’d really like you to stay for a few extra days, if you could. After that, we’ll take it as it comes. Not create problems if we don’t have to.”
“That works for me.” Mingled relief and delight illuminated Dominic’s face. “I’ll get on the phone to them tomorrow. I can always work remotely if there’s anything urgent to deal with.” He squeezed Morgan’s hand. “I’m pleased you trust me. I do know what a big thing it was for you to tell me about that nightmare, and I guess it’s even bigger getting me alongside now. I mean, not that I think you’re going gaga, but—”
“Oh, shut up.” Morgan pushed back his chair, rounded the table, and plonked his backside on the edge of it, leaning down to give Dominic a kiss. Not a full-blooded passionate lip-smacker, but one that could be a promise of things to come if both parties agreed.
“Not sure either of us deserve that, but thanks.” Dominic beamed.
“I’ve got something else for you too. Not that!” Morgan sniggered as he caught Dominic eyeing up his crotch. “Not at the moment, anyway. And you might like this more.”
“How could I like anything more than having it away with you?”
“Reserve judgement on that until you’ve seen it.” Morgan produced his dad’s note, like a conjuror.
Dominic read it, whistled, read it a second time, then gave Morgan a cautious smile. “This is genuine, isn’t it? You didn’t fake it to keep me happy?”
“Don’t overvalue yourself.” Morgan slapped his arm. “Of course it’s real. That’s Dad’s writing. And before you ask, I haven’t seen anything else about the medallion, although you’re welcome to take your chances with the spiders up in the loft and turn everything out a second time.”
“I might take you up on that.” Dominic read the note again. “Seems like this story’s going to run and run.”
“Don’t get too excited. It might still be a wild-goose chase.”
“It might. But I don’t care.” Dominic got out of his chair and wrapped his arms round Morgan’s waist. “Remember I said I’d always wanted to live round here? I’ve kept an eye out for jobs in the area, and there’s a firm in Launceston that’s got a vacancy recently come up. Closing date end of June. I don’t know whether I should apply.”
“Of course you should. What the fuck’s stopping you?”
“I didn’t want to risk bumping into you.” He held Morgan tighter. “If you were still not talking to me, and if I’d got the job and moved here, I’d have looked like one of those weird blokes who stalk their ex.”
“Daft bugger.” They shared a kiss—a rougher, deeper, longer kiss than the previous one, the memory of what they’d done before acting itself out in the way their bodies moved together. The snug fit of flesh on flesh both comfortable and stimulating. “Steady on,” Morgan gasped, at last. “Dining room table’s too hard to do it on.”
“You’ve tried, have you?” Dominic pressed closer. “Shame. It would feel good, doing it under these beams, given that they brought us together.”
Morgan laughed. “I should have known you only wanted me for my carpenters’ marks.”
“You’ve got some of those on you too? I never noticed. Still, I guess it was dark.”
“We could leave the light on. This time.”
“We could.” Dominic pulled Morgan off the table and into his arms. “We will.”
On reaching the bedroom door, Dominic halted, his expression momentarily guarded.
Morgan took his arm. “What’s wrong?”
“Just checking this is what you want. Speak now or forever hold your peace and all that.”
“My peace is not what I want to hold. Your piece, however . . .”
Dominic grinned, clearly relieved. “I thought I was supposed to be inspecting you?”
“There’s time for both.” Morgan edged them through the door and into his room. The bed was still a mess from the morning, but neither of them was worried about that, both in too much of a hurry to get their clothes off and search for those imaginary marks. Dominic alleged he’d spotted some on Morgan’s back, in the very place he could never check without ricking his neck. Which meant he’d have to check over the rest of Morgan’s body to see if any others had eluded him—which he did, inch by inch, with fingers and lips, unable to resist making the odd smutty nautical joke while he was at it. Most of which seemed to concern masts.
Morgan went along with everything, amused to have at last found somebody who saw the funny side of sex. Well, wasn’t it a faintly ludicrous business?
And when they eventually climaxed, in a tangled heap on the tangled bed, it felt like coming home; a sailor back from sea finding himself in a safe and familiar haven.
Sometime in the middle of the night, Morgan stirred from a peaceful, dreamless sleep. He reached for a drink of water, and noticed Dominic lying awake, watching him by the moonlight streaming in through the window.
“You okay?”
“Never been better.” Dominic rubbed his tousled head against Morgan’s. “Counting my blessings. Among which is you not having a nightmare tonight.”
“I’ve not had one in ages.” Morgan remembered counting his own blessings—albeit finding them few and flimsy—when he’d had the Dear John letter. How things had changed. He snuggled back down, but the moon’s brightness disturbed him. Reluctantly, he eased out of the embrace. “I should shut those curtains, or I won’t get back to sleep.”
“You stay there and rest. Let me.”
Morgan watched as Dominic slipped out of bed and—body silvered in the moonlight—moved across to the window.
“Don’t shut them just yet. That light suits you.” Morgan left the bed to join his love, slipping an arm round Dominic’s wiry frame and resting against his shoulder.
“That’s nice. Here, listen. We’ve got background music.”
Owls were hooting out in the silver birches, whose branches gently rustled in the breeze. A summer night’s symphony, or an overture to romance. Morgan thought he could detect a suspiration of the waves—or was that simply his imagination?
“It’s magical,” he said, leaning closer into a hug which was turning distinctly amorous again. “I don’t mean any of that superstitious nonsense. The magic of the real world and all its wonders.”
“Is real love magic, as well?” Dominic whispered against his neck.
“Something like that, maybe.” Morgan had thought he loved James and that James loved him, but now he wasn’t so sure. There’d never really been a sense of “for better or worse” with the Rat. Not like he’d found with Dominic. “Not yet.”
“There’s still hope, then.” Dominic nuzzled against Morgan’s neck. “I’ve been trying hard not to, but there’s every chance I’ll fall in love with you. As I’ve been allowed to say sorry today, I’ll apologise for it in advance.”
“You’re such a drip.” Morgan chuckled. “I’m too tired and confused to know where my heart’s at, but I do know this feels different to how it was with James. Less like a brand-new suit than a comfy old jumper.”
“And you’re such a romantic. Not.” Dominic kissed him. “Coming here feels like coming home.”
Maybe one day it would be. But that was a conversation for another time. In the meanwhile, it was getting nippy and there was a big, warm, comfy bed to hand. Morgan edged them towards it.
“What about the curtains?” Dominic whispered.
“Sod them. I’ll use the moonlight to search for your carpenters’ marks. All over. Mast and all.”