Harry hands over the groat.
His brain starts to function again a short while later as he stares down at the bundle in his hands. He’s too embarrassed to run back to the woman and return it, so instead he tucks it into his saddlebag. The perfume is for Annie. The … other, he’ll lay aside for his wedding night.
Harry’s little party rides down the dear, familiar lanes into Dartington a week later, their cart groaning with gifts and the air pregnant with snow. Piers spots them near the upper pastures and, shouting, tears ahead on foot, their harbinger. When they turn in to the gates of the manor, the entire population of the hall is waiting in the courtyard to welcome their lord home.
In all the sea of smiling faces, Harry searches restlessly for only one.
But it’s not there.
Harry slides off Libby and hands her reins to Peter just in time for Annie to envelop him in a hug. Harry lifts her up and swings her round and she squeals in delight like a little girl. ‘I’m so happy to be home,’ he says. ‘Everything went well while I was gone?’
Given everyone’s abundant good cheer, Harry guesses that Iain hasn’t killed anyone and/or run away. But it’s always good to check.
‘No disasters,’ Annie smiles, patting his cheek.
Harry lowers his voice. ‘How was he … ?’
Annie’s smile widens and her eyes take on a mischievous twinkle. ‘Ask him yourself,’ she says, putting her hands on his shoulders and turning him towards the stables.
Iain is prowling towards him with the half-limp, half-strut he’s developed since his leg was broken. In Harry’s absence, he’s reverted to his Scottish habits: despite the early winter weather he is barefoot, wearing only a long, baggy shirt, belted low on his hips. He’s looking down, raking a dirty hand through his hair to dislodge the pieces of straw from it. His shirt is a mess, almost translucent with wear and badly torn at the shoulder. Then he looks up, and grins as he sees Harry.
Harry’s breath fails him.
Iain’s hair has been cut. His face is exposed to view, no longer hidden behind dark, matted locks.
Harry’s heart fails him next, skittering strangely in his chest.
Iain is the most beautiful thing he has ever seen.
He knows he’s grinning like a fool, unable to take his eyes off his friend, overcome with what feels like not just butterflies in his stomach but the whole damn aviary. In between one breath and the other they’re hugging, crushing each other to their breasts, Iain warm and hard with muscle and smelling of the stables. Harry whispers to him, ‘I missed you.’
‘How was it?’ Iain says, separating them enough to look into Harry’s eyes, checking to make sure he’s survived the month away.
‘I don’t really know,’ Harry sighs. ‘I both hated it and loved it at the same time.’ Then he remembers the gifts, and switches from French to English to call out, ‘Annie! The cart is full of things for the manor. Gifts from the King!’
Annie squeals again and gets the boys to unload the cart before shooing everyone into the hall, complaining about the cold. Iain slings an arm around Harry’s waist and they go inside, Harry unable to stop the smile constantly tugging at his lips.
The fine fabrics, trim and clothes have all been arranged on one of the long dining tables, and the inhabitants of the manor are already looking over them, exclaiming over the colours and the weaves. Harry sees the linen undertunic from one of his court outfits and grabs it from the pile. It’s far too narrow on him to wear in the country, but Iain is small and slim, so it would serve as a good everyday shirt for him.
He passes it over to his friend. ‘For you,’ he says.
Iain fingers the fine linen and the careful stitching and looks up at him, questioning. ‘Are you sure?’ he says softly.
‘I’m not going to wear it, Iain. It’ll fit you better. Besides,’ he says, plucking at Iain’s frayed sleeve, ‘this shirt’s about to fall off you. Here, try it on.’
Iain snorts, then undoes his belt, bends to doff his old shirt, and pulls Harry’s court shirt on.
And.
Harry tries to make words happen, but they catch in his throat.
The shirt is even tighter on Iain than it was on Harry, stretched taut across shoulders tanned and bulky from work, a waist thickly corded with muscle. The hem barely comes to the tops of his thighs, and Harry has to force his glance to stay at Iain’s chest, rather than look down to see if he can catch a glimpse of Iain’s manhood. He can see the small shifts in every muscle under the shirt as Iain fidgets, uncomfortable in the tight linen. There is … There is nowhere safe to look.
‘Iain! There are children here,’ Annie yells good-naturedly from the other side of the table as she playfully covers Katie’s eyes. Katie swears at Annie and tries to duck underneath her hand.
Iain groans, turns away, and wriggles out of the shirt, putting on his old, torn one with visible relief.
‘Sorry,’ Harry says.
Iain shrugs and hands him back the shirt. And Harry realises they’re almost eye to eye, that Iain is no more than a scant inch shorter than him now.
‘When did you get so big?’ Harry says, putting a hand on Iain’s shoulder, his brain not comprehending how the skinny Scottish boy of midsummer has bulked up into the man in front of him. But yes, that is … a lot of muscle under his hand.
(The assorted flying creatures in Harry’s stomach move lower, and begin to cause disturbances there, too.)
Iain smirks. ‘Had to take care of some Sassenach idiot’s manor while he was off gallivanting around with his king. And his steward’s trying to fatten me up to be the Christmas goose.’
‘I try my best,’ Annie groans melodramatically, ‘but
