“Take a chair back to Locke Court.” Nicol scowled down the length of the dark street as though willing an empty sedan to appear.
Lindsay shrugged. “Very well. If it makes you feel better, I promise to do that, just as soon as I come upon some chairmen—there were plenty of them around earlier, quite close to here.” He smiled and offered his hand to Nicol, who hesitated a moment, then took it. His long fingers were surprisingly warm and Lindsay experienced a queer jolt when they touched his own—and an even queerer ache at the thought that this was all he’d have of Drew Nicol’s touch.
“Well, I’ll bid you farewell,” Lindsay said briskly, offering a half-bow. “I apologise for... pressing my attentions upon you, Mr. Nicol. Thank you for your company.”
With a final nod, Lindsay turned on his heel and set off down the street. He’d barely gone a few paces, though, when he heard Nicol cursing behind him, then the tattoo of swift boot heels on cobbles. A moment later, a hand was on his shoulder, stopping him. Lindsay turned to find Nicol scowling at him.
“You should wait here for a chair,” Nicol said. “Dalkeiths can summon one for you.”
“There’s no need for that,” Lindsay replied, “I’m sure I’ll come across one momentarily. I’ll likely have to wait an age at Dalkeiths.”
Turning, he began striding along the road again. There was more muttering behind him, then Nicol was catching up to him again.
“If you insist on walking,” Nicol grumbled, drawing up alongside him, “I’d better walk with you. You’ll surely be accosted, dressed like that. You’re practically a walking invitation.”
Lindsay suppressed a smile. It seemed he was to have a little more of Nicol’s company after all, and he couldn’t find it in himself to complain.
“That’s very kind of you, I must say,” he replied. “Perhaps you’ll agree to join me for a brandy when we get to my rooms?”
Nicol gave him look. “I’m just going to see you safely home,” he said. “Then I’m returning to my own home.”
“But what if a cutpurse accostsyou?” Lindsay asked. “If your argument is that there’s safety in numbers, I can hardly leaveyoualone to the dangers of the city, now can I?”
“I’ll be fine,” Nicol said. “Unlike you, I do not invite attention with obviously expensive clothes and jewellery. And besides, I know this area very well and have my own rooms quite close to Locke Court.”
That was an interesting tidbit, Lindsay thought.
“Very well,” he said. “I may as well accept your offer of protection, particularly if we’re going the same way in any event.”
As they strolled towards the Canongate, Lindsay began a cheerful monologue about how long he’d spent getting ready for this evening’s dinner and how time-consuming it would be to remove his fine clothing and cosmetics when he got home. Partly, it amused him to play up to Nicol’s assumption that he was nothing but a fribble, but there was also a sly delight to be had each time he mentioned disrobing or bathing or some other intimacy. Each and every time he did so, Nicol gave off a wave of that delicious scent that made Lindsay near-wild with lust.
Ah God, but Lindsay was playing with fire.
He’d moved on to the subject of his dailytoilette, and was waxing lyrical on the benefits of soaking one’s hands in milk for a quarter hour each day, when he became aware that they were being followed, just as Nicol had predicted. To Lindsay’s amusement, Nicol hadn’t yet realised, though he was plainly making the effort to be watchful. Without Lindsay’s heightened senses though, he had not picked up the telltale sounds of soft, careful footfalls, or the ripe scent of the unwashed bodies that pursued them. Two individuals, Lindsay discerned, each with their own uniquely unpleasant scents.
Moving closer to Nicol, he set a hand on the man’s arm and said softly but urgently, “Keep walking and don’t turn around—I think we are being followed. Listen.”
Nicol glanced at him sharply, then away, his expression concentrated. After a minute or so, he muttered, “I think you’re right but keep going for now. Don’t slow down.”
The alley they were in was very dark, and there was a quiet corner up ahead, a vulnerable point before they joined the main street again where it was only wide enough for them to walk in single file.
As they drew closer to the corner, their pursuers grew bolder and less subtle, the footfalls and whispered conversation behind them audible now.
Lindsay felt a familiar bolt of excitement as the men closed in on them, the hunter inside him excited at the prospect of a fight—he ran his tongue over the edges of his teeth. They felt sharp and ached with the desire to bite. His wolf pressed hard at him, wanting to be free. Perhaps wanting to show off in front of Nicol.
Nicol was not excited though—not in the same way as Lindsay at any rate. His brows were lowered in concern and his heart thudded hard, audible to Lindsay’s sharp ears.
He glanced at Lindsay. “We are going to have to face them,” he murmured. “Before they overrun us. I want you to stay back and let me take charge. Are you ready?”
Lindsay nodded, strangely thrilled by Nicol’s dominant, protective manner, even as his wolf grumbled at being thrust aside.
“Remember to stay behind me,” Nicol said. Then he turned and, raising his voice, called out, “Who’s there?”
At first there was nothing but silence, then a skittering of pebbles and a muffled whisper.
“Come out!” Nicol demanded.
A long shadow peeled away from the darkest corner of the alleyway, emerging into the faint moonlight. Then a second joined it. Two shadowy, indistinct figures, one carrying a long, glinting knife and the other—a much younger man—a crude club.
