Harry smiles as he realises all this has been said in English. He’s so overwhelmingly proud of Iain, for holding down the estate in his absence, for adapting so well to their home. Iain still has an accent, but his English has improved immeasurably in the month Harry has been away. He looks over to congratulate Iain, but his eyes dip low and catch on Iain’s nipples, erect in the chill of the hall, the thin linen draping over the hard nubs. He forces his gaze upwards, to Iain’s face, to those dark lashes and pale eyes, the dusting of freckles across his cheeks.
Iain licks his lips.
And in the space between breaths, all Harry’s plans of fortitude and chastity burn to ash.
He realises he’s leaning forwards, desperate to feel those lips against his own. He steps away, shaking himself, then hands the linen shirt to Annie. ‘Maybe this will fit Piers,’ he says.
Annie tucks the shirt under her arm. ‘Not to worry, I’ll sew Iain a new shirt from some of this nice blue linen,’ she says. ‘It’ll bring out his eyes.’
God, no, Harry thinks.
‘You remember my old shirt?’ Iain says, leaning against the table to speak to Annie. ‘Can you make it like that?’
Annie frowns. ‘You’re in England. You should wear English clothes.’
‘No,’ Iain says, sticking out his lower lip in a pout. Harry wants to bite it.
‘Any of the court ladies catch your eye?’ Annie says, elbowing Harry.
Katie groans.
‘What?’ Annie grumbles. ‘I want children to spoil. It’s about time.’
‘There was one,’ Harry says, ducking his head shyly. ‘A very highborn lady from Lancashire. I don’t think she’d ever settle for me, though.’
‘Nonsense,’ Annie says. ‘She’d be lucky to have you. Let me tell you, Harry, there is nothing worse than the prison of a bad marriage. The heart of a good man is worth untold acres of lands and manors.’
Harry sneaks a glance at Iain and grits his teeth as the castles of his contrition collapse within him, their foundations worthless sand.
He is not a good man.
Iain’s face betrays no expression, but he quietly excuses himself to go up to the solar.
Annie sees Harry’s distant gaze and mistakes it for exhaustion. ‘You must be bone-tired from the journey, Harry.’ She turns to her young assistant cook. ‘Katie, grab him some bread and apples and cheese from the kitchen, and some of that roast chicken.’
Harry goes upstairs not much later, excuses made, and laden with a basket of food and a jug of cider.
Iain is naked, bent over the washbasin, cleaning the dirt of the day off his neck and shoulders with a wet rag.
Harry sinks onto his bed and just watches.
Iain wrings out the rag then starts on his armpits, and stomach, and down between his legs. He pauses when he feels Harry’s eyes on him.
‘I’m sorry,’ Harry breathes. ‘You got even more beautiful while I was gone. I didn’t think that was possible.’
Iain snorts and throws the rag at Harry’s head. He catches it with a bark of laughter and flings it right back at Iain.
‘Didn’t mess around with your girl at Windsor?’ Iain rumbles, turning back to his ablutions.
‘She wasn’t that kind of girl,’ Harry says.
‘And I’m that kind of boy,’ Iain says, something mournful fraying the edges of his voice.
‘Iain, no,’ Harry says, walking over to his friend. ‘Somewhere you became my best friend, and at court … I kept turning around to tell you things, imagining what you’d say, and … I wanted you there. With me. All the time. Alys is beautiful and perfect and brilliant, but you’re you, and nobody will ever replace you. What you mean to me.’
Iain still has his back to him, and Harry puts his hands on Iain’s shoulders, leans his forehead down so it touches the base of Iain’s neck. ‘I don’t know what we’re doing. I don’t know what this is. I prayed so hard, throughout my time away from here, that I could … be your friend. W-without sin. I thought I had succeeded. And I come back, and with one look from you I am ablaze again.’
Iain turns, a wild look in his eye. He steps into Harry’s space, his bare chest pressed against Harry’s tunic. ‘Does she make you feel like this?’ he growls, his broad, calloused hand moving to cup Harry’s burgeoning erection.
‘N-no,’ Harry stutters, shutting his eyes against the wave of lust that slams through him.
Iain leans in closer still, and traces his lips along the shell of Harry’s ear. Harry is shaking: exhausted, overwhelmed, and so, so turned on, that he barely hears what Iain whispers: ‘Da mihi castitatem et continentiam, sed noli modo.’
He palms Harry’s erection again and Harry moans. ‘What do you want, Harry?’ Iain says, tracing his lips along his cheekbone. ‘Do you want me to stop? Or do you want to go to bed?’
Harry slams his lips against Iain’s, forcing his tongue into the man’s mouth. Iain shudders and lets out his own low groan as Harry’s hand comes around the back of his neck to hold him there. All Harry wants is to plunder this man, ruin him, learn every swell and cut of his new, work-broadened body until his fingers can recall each muscle perfectly. As his other hand grips Iain’s arse, pulling their hips together, he can feel the man’s thick erection pressing against him.
When they break apart, breathless, Iain wipes the saliva from his glistening lips and says, ‘Take your clothes off now, or I will take them off, violently.’
Harry nods and backs up until his knees hit the edge of the bed, and then he sits down and begins fiddling with the new and confusing buttons of his clothes. Iain watches him, lazily stroking himself, a predatory look on his face.
Harry kicks his fine clothes into a pile on the floor and opens his knees, staring his own challenge back at Iain. And then Iain is between his legs, licking a wet stripe up
