Morgan woke in a sweat, unsure of where he was or what was happening, apart from the fact somebody seemed to be demolishing the house with a sledgehammer. When he’d shaken himself fully awake, he grasped it was only someone knocking on his bedroom door.
“Are you all right?” a muffled, worried voice asked. Dominic’s voice, Morgan’s befuddled brain eventually informed him.
“Yes. Fine.” He sat bolt upright. “Is there a problem with Mum? Did I sleep through the phone ringing?” He switched on the bedside light; the clock said it was just gone half past one.
“No, unless we both slept through it.” Dominic didn’t wait to be invited in, opening the door and peering round it anxiously. “You didn’t sound fine. I thought you were being murdered.”
Hell, had he been that loud? “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“I know that.” Dominic smiled, coming completely into the room before perching gingerly on the side of the double bed. “Were you having a nightmare?”
“I’m afraid so.” Morgan tried to give the impression it was nothing to get worked up about. “Side effect of excess of those mushy peas, I suspect.”
“Probably as bad for you as cheese. You look like death warmed up.” Dominic patted Morgan’s leg through the duvet. “Want me to make a cup of tea or anything?”
“No, or else I’ll be having to get up again to use the loo.” Morgan forced a smile. “Actually, I tell you what might help. Could you stay here a while? Only for company.”
“Of course I can, so long as I can slip under the covers. It’s getting bloody freezing out here.” Dominic shivered; whether that was accidental or done deliberately to emphasise the point, Morgan wasn’t sure. He wasn’t sure if this was the start of a pass, either. Still . . .
“Come on, then. Can’t let guests get cold.” Morgan edged across, freeing the duvet and letting Dominic under it, although he kept his distance.
Hell, it felt like an eternity since he’d had anyone other than James to snuggle up (or wrestle) with. If this turned out to be a fledgling night of passion, it was like none Morgan had ever known. Instead, it was as though two schoolboys were having a sleepover and discussing ghost stories in the night. Ghost stories. Morgan shivered at the thought.
“You must be freezing cold as well.” Dominic felt Morgan’s arm. “Bloody hell, you’re like ice. Come here.” He grabbed Morgan’s left hand, rubbing it between his. Dominic’s fingers were strong, adept, and hugely comforting. “It must have been a pig of a dream to leave you like this.”
“Tell me about it,” Morgan said, immediately regretting his words. “Here. Warm the other one.” He turned, slipping his right hand into the reassuring grip.
“What you really need is a roaring fire. Or a cuddle. I can’t offer the fire.” Dominic freed his hands, slipping his arm round Morgan’s shoulder to take him into a wiry but gentle embrace. “The only way to stop parts of you freezing off.”
Morgan could think of another more effective and more appealing method, and maybe he’d been wrong to think his guest wouldn’t have the same thing in mind. If this was an attempted seduction on Dominic’s part, it was certainly endearing, if clumsy and clichéd. In character, then.
“Thank you.” Morgan sighed, happily leaning into the embrace.
“Thanks for what?” Dominic hugged him closer.
“For melting this here iceberg. I thought I’d never be warm again.”
“It’s what any half-decent friend would do.” The hug changed, Dominic’s fingers now wandering lightly across Morgan’s shoulder.
“What about a lover?” Morgan turned his head up so he could peer into his guest’s eyes, having one last rethink before they crossed the bridge over which there’d be no going back. “What would a lover do?”
“What a stupid question. He’d do this.” Dominic leaned in for a kiss or three. Soft tender kisses, firm longing kisses, desperate needy kisses. No further words for now, only two mouths—and bodies—beginning to familiarise themselves with each other.
Dominic proved surprisingly skilful, touching and caressing with assurance and style; the bloke was good at this. He was so adept, and eager, that Morgan soon lost any guilt that he might be forcing his guest into doing something he only had half an inclination to do. And that he might be getting himself into something which wasn’t a good idea in the long run. He needed comfort tonight, and he’d work through the consequences, whatever they were.
“I’m going to sound mad, but I’ll risk it. I usually sound mad, anyway.” Dominic whispered against Morgan’s neck as they stopped to take a much-needed breather. “I’ve fancied you since you first appeared in view on Saturday, haring down that path like there was a fire to put out.”
“I was running because I was worried you’d go too far and end up over the cliff.” Such a bizarre concern, looking back. “Don’t ask why, I just got it into my head that some terrible accident might happen. That if you were a stranger who didn’t know the dangers, you couldn’t be trusted . . .”
“Do you trust me here? In this bed?” Dominic’s voice had taken on an authority it hadn’t carried before, not even when he’d been talking about his beloved research. Maybe in the bedroom he found his truest metier. “I promise I’m safe as houses. Safer than ships,” he added, kissing Morgan again.
“Then I’m putting myself in your hands.”
Morgan did so—literally and figuratively. He wasn’t disappointed, innocent kisses and caresses soon sailing the seas of passion and into the dangerous waters of abandonment. He wasn’t going to mind what they did or how they did it; he wasn’t expecting the romantic encounter to end all romantic encounters.
“What do you fancy?” Dominic asked, as they broke from a wonderfully stimulating clinch.
“What have you got?” Morgan would take anything at the present moment, and Dominic would have to be sharp about it. Excitement was reaching fever pitch, and Morgan didn’t feel inclined to keep it under control.
“Whatever you want. I’m flexible. In more ways than one.”
“You say the most romantic things,” Morgan laughed. “Surprise me.”
Which was exactly what Dominic did, showing an adeptness with hands—and tongue—that Morgan would never have predicted he possessed. And Morgan had never realised how stupidly exciting it was to be stroked on one particular spot on the tender skin between his legs, a spot which Dominic found with unerring accuracy.
Release came quickly, and with a careless pleasure Morgan had long forgotten was possible. He gave as good as he got, revelling in the delight of discovering what worked and didn’t for this new and unexpected lover.
“That was good,” he said when they had both got their breath back, snuggling down at Dominic’s side, determined that the bloke wasn’t going back to the guest room for the rest of the night.
“Only good? I must be out of practice.” Dominic laughed gently. It had probably been a minor miracle he hadn’t said sorry when they’d been rolling between the sheets, but in the sex department he’d had nothing to apologise for.
“Maybe we should organise some further chances for you to get into training, then.” Morgan, wonderfully sleepy, gave his guest a good-night kiss. “See you here in the morning, gorgeous.”
“Yeah.” Dominic returned the kiss. “Hope the bad dreams have all gone somewhere else now.”
“So do I.” Fucking hell, didn’t he just?
Morgan had managed to get back to sleep very easily, only to wake again fighting for air and coughing, as though expelling water from his lungs. He panicked at finding a body next to him, a split second of incomprehension followed by happier remembrance.
Dominic started, then woke. He grabbed Morgan’s arm, sounding increasingly concerned. “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing. Only a touch of indigestion. I’ll be fine.” That didn’t sound convincing. Why did the dream have to come back tonight of all nights, and with such recurring vengeance? All the talk of Troilus the last few days must have stimulated parts of Morgan’s brain which were best left fallow.
“It isn’t ‘nothing.’” Dominic got out of bed, slipping on the T-shirt he’d discarded so easily earlier. He switched on the bedside light. “Have you had another nightmare?”
“Yes. How the hell can you know? I’m starting to think you’re psychic.”
“It’s bloody obvious, from the same ‘rabbit in the headlights’ expression you had earlier. The same face you wear when we talk about Troilus.” He sat on the bed, taking Morgan’s hand to rub it, and swopping the hard edge in his voice for something lighter. “I’m starting to think you’re having nightmares just to stop me from sleeping.”
“Pillock.” Morgan glanced up at the window, unsettled. Had the curtains not been drawn, he still wouldn’t have been able to look out to sea—this room faced inland—but the Devil’s Anvil kept calling to him. “Okay. You’ve got me bang to rights. It isn’t the mushy peas. It isn’t the business with Mum unsettling me.”
“That’s been obvious too.” Dominic squeezed the hand he held. “Don’t talk about it if it makes things worse.” Trust him to have to sprinkle everything with an apology, even if it was in his tone rather than his actual words.
“It doesn’t hurt to talk. Not with you, anyhow.” Morgan sighed.
You’ve trusted him with your body—why don’t you trust him with your mind?
Good question. Nobody, not least James, who’d been a damn sight more intimate body-wise, had been allowed access to the darker recesses of Morgan’s thoughts. Maybe it was time to get it all into the open. He nudged Dominic’s arm. “Want to go downstairs and get a drink? Somehow I don’t fancy going back to bed and finding I either can’t sleep or I nod off and the dream comes back.”
“We don’t have to try to sleep.” James might have said the same thing, but he’d have been distinctly lascivious, trusting that sex would solve any problem. Which it never did.
“We don’t,” Morgan replied, returning the squeeze. “Except this wretched nightmare’s knocked my libido for six. Sorry.”
“That’s my word,” Dominic said, leaning over and kissing him on the forehead. “And we’re both banned from using it remember? A drink it is. Want me to get the kettle on?” He grabbed a rug from the end of the bed and enfolded himself in it like a cloak.
“Sounds like a plan. I’ll find my dressing gown.” Bugger, it was perishing tonight, like November rather than May. “You get in the kitchen, and I’ll put the fire on in the lounge. No point in catching our deaths of cold, like poor sailors washed up on the rocks.”
“No,” Dominic said slowly, giving Morgan another sympathetic smile.
Obviously the cat was at least half out of the bag. Might as well release it entirely. “I’ll tell you downstairs.”
Morgan soon got the lounge cosy, with a couple of table lamps lit and the imitation log fire turning out warmth and light. Just like his childhood days: fire, hot drinks, some blankets from out of the cupboard under the stairs, ones left there from when they’d been used to wrap poorly children. Comfort all round. If Morgan wasn’t in a situation where he could tell everything now, he never would be.
“I used to have the bedroom that you’re in.” Why not start by giving Dominic some context? “You’ll have an amazing view over the sea tomorrow.”
“I did wonder if that was the case. There are some old things in the cupboard where I hung my jacket, which I thought might be yours.”
“Are there?” That showed how much Morgan avoided the room.
“I also wondered why anyone would give up such a stunning view. I guess you’re going to tell me.” Dominic blew on his tea before sipping it appreciatively.
“Something weird happened to me in that room when I was about seventeen. I relive it, in recurring nightmares—usually when I least want to.” There, that wasn’t so hard to confess, was it?
“Want to tell me about it?”
“No, I don’t. But I will.” Morgan took a deep breath. “It’s odd. Sometimes the whole thing feels like it happened to someone else, then the dream recurs and it’s all too real.”
“Then tell it like it happened to someone else. See if that helps.” Dominic nodded, cradling his mug and waiting patiently.
“All right. One night, Morgan got out of bed and went to the window. He looked out through the trees . . . Oh, this is bloody stupid.” He punched Dominic’s arm.
“Steady on! Don’t spill my tea.”
“Sorry. I looked out.” How to capture how peculiar that night had been? Some faint light from the westering sun had still been catching the top of the waves; grey water, with a northerly wind whipping up the white horses. “I was watching the sea, when a storm came in. That sounds clichéd, the old ‘It was a dark and stormy night’ thing, but that’s exactly what it was like. Eerily dark, like I was staring into a barrel of pitch. The wind rattling the windows and rain howling. I used to like storms, from when I was a little boy, watching the sea scudding and the birds taking shelter and me feeling snug inside.”
“Rain’s a great thing to watch from the other side of the window.”
“I always thought so, but I’ve changed my mind since that night. That was different. You have to understand that this isn’t just about being scared.”
“I do understand that.” Dominic rubbed Morgan’s fingers. “Go on.”
“The wind had swung onshore.” He shut his eyes. “The surf breaking over the Devil’s Anvil’s quite something, if the sea and wind run in a particular combination. I had to go and look.”
“I get that. Like having to watch a train wreck.”
“Yep. Granddad used to say ‘God bless all sailors on a night like this.’ He’d seen ships out there in distress on several occasions, and he believed it was stupid for people to think they’d tamed the world. That you couldn’t ever tame the sea.” The dam had been breached, words tumbling out over each other. “The night I’m talking about was in late August. Keep that date in mind. Out at sea, I spotted what I assumed was a replica sailing ship, one of those sail-training jobs that usually have a backup engine.”
“Ah, yes. To ease them home or out of port when the wind isn’t doing what it’s supposed to.” Dominic didn’t sound like he approved.
“It was a three-masted vessel, a frigate by the shape of it. She appeared to be authentic, although I knew that nothing from the time of Trafalgar could still be afloat. I kept telling myself she was either a charity job or a rich man’s plaything. The ship was foundering, breaking deep and taking on water. Not only that, she was being driven onto the lee shore by the stiff wind, sure to dash on the rocks.”
“Good God.”
Neither needed to mention the name Troilus; its presence was almost palpable. Same type of ship. Same time of year. “I ran to dial 999, get out the coastguards or something, but the line was dead, and I never considered using my mobile. Or maybe I did and the battery was flat.” Funny how the practical bits of what happened seemed less clear in his memory than the mental image of the ship foundering.
“What did your parents do?”
“Nothing. They weren’t here. They’d gone to a bank do down in Padstow and were staying over. Eddie was staying at a mate’s, so I had the run of the house—I’d thought it was such a treat.” He shivered. “I’ll grab another blanket. Could be a long session.”
Morgan carried on with the story as he tucked them up. How he’d gone back to his bedroom, able to do nothing other than watch helplessly through the window. “The top of something—I guess it was the main mast—went with a crack almost as loud as the thunder. The ship started, I don’t know how to describe it, flailing about.” He shrugged uncomfortably.
“It sounds horrific.” Dominic snuggled closer.
“It was ghastly. I had to go out and see if there was anything I could do. Not sure what I had in mind, but you can’t stand by and do nothing. I nearly got swept off my feet by the wind when I got outside, but I’d had the sense to put on waterproofs. I’ve never known a night like it, before or since.”
“You were lucky you didn’t go over the cliff. Like you thought I was going to.”
“I know. That’s the odd thing, though. I didn’t feel in any danger, myself.” Morgan suddenly realised he had Dominic’s hand in his but wasn’t sure how it had got there. “That’s why it must have simply been a dream, or a hallucination or whatever. No matter how real it felt. At least . . .”
“At least what? You can’t leave me dangling there, like a cliff-hanger in a bad TV series.”
Morgan managed a laugh. “This is going to sound completely loony. I was awake when I got down to the cliff path—I know it wasn’t a dream from the rollicking I got from my mother when she found all my wet clothes the next day. I pretended I’d been out to help a motorist with a flat tyre. I had to tell a hell of a lot of lies.”
“I bet she didn’t believe any of them. I guess you never told her the truth?”
“God, no. You see, when I got down to the cliff that night, not only had the storm eased off into drizzle, there was no ship. And it wasn’t as if she’d just gone down, because there was nothing. No debris, no masts or spars or men in the water.” Nothing except a horrible sickening feeling in his stomach. “I went back to the house and looked at the phone. And I knew that if I picked it up, there’d be a dialling tone. Which I did and there was, all working perfectly and no evidence the lines had ever been down, as I found out subsequently. I did quite a bit of research, over the next few days.”
“You didn’t ring the coastguard? When you found the line working.”
“Would you have done? And risk being accused of making nuisance calls, especially if you’d convinced yourself that it had all been a dream? They’d have thought I’d been on the wacky baccy.”
“And had you? Or the gin? Come on, home alone and all that . . .”
If Dominic hadn’t been grinning, Morgan might have lumped him one. “I’d had nothing worse than strong coffee. And I was clearheaded enough to make sure I scoured the news and the weather and all the rest of it. There’d not been a shipwreck, nor even a storm as bad as I’d witnessed. But there was the story about Troilus.”
“I didn’t want to mention that.”
“I guessed the time of year would ring a bell. And the circumstances.” It had rung a vague bell at the time. Over the days following the dream, he’d researched the exact date of the wreck, found out that Troilus—the beloved Troilus so much a part of the fabric of their lives—had been a fifth-rate frigate, like the one he’d seen. Spookily alike, if the old pictures (pictures he might well have seen as a child and had forgotten about) were to be believed. And she’d been blown onto these very rocks—his rocks, the ones he saw every day from his room—back in 1794.
“No wonder you’ve winced when I’ve banged on about the wreck. And what a pillock I was asking if the bay was haunted.” Dominic’s face had paled, despite the fire’s glow.
“You weren’t to know.” Nor was he to know that his arrival had brought that long-buried dream right to the surface.
“There’ll be a logical reason behind it. The dream. Why you had it in the first place and why it’s come back. Although I’d imagine that the strain of the last few days might account for the recurrence.”
“True.” Morgan certainly felt run ragged.
“Although it’s odd.” Dominic frowned. “If it was simply a dream, that first time, how did you end up down by the cliff path?”
“Buggered if I know. As far as I’m aware, I have no history of sleepwalking.”
“Which suggests you were awake and having a hallucination, or experiencing some distortion of reality. Or else . . .” Dominic stopped. “This is no conversation for the middle of the night.”
“You’re right. We should try to get a bit of shut-eye and that isn’t going to happen if we scare ourselves shitless. No talking about nightmares.”
More to the point, no suggesting he’d seen a ghost ship. Or, worse than that, the faint possibility that this wasn’t just a nightmare; that Morgan had shown signs of losing his marbles at an earlier age than his mother had.
Maybe his mother had suffered these same worries, been watching for every little sign that she was going the same way as her mother and grandmother; she was an intelligent woman who wouldn’t have buried her head in the sand. If so, to have lived with that torment and never once revealed it to her children must have been doubly agonising. He wished he could ask her about it now, receive some reassurance, but that too was denied to him, itself a form of bereavement and loss. If he was sliding down that same hill, then he’d be sliding alone.
“Let the thoughts go.” Dominic held him close. “Whatever you’re torturing yourself with, there’s no bloody point. Let’s kip down here; pretend we’re having a sleepover or something.”
“Sounds good. On all points.”
Very good. And easier said than done.