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frustration—“that is, I’m asking you. Will you please just wait here till I get back? I shan’t be gone above a fortnight, but I’d feel happier going if I knew you would be giving yourself a little longer to recuperate.” He paused, then added, “And if I knew you would be here when I return. We can talk about everything properly then.”
    David couldn’t answer him straight away. A heavy weight in his chest was crushing all the words out of him, and he wasn’t entirely sure what that weight was made of.
    He managed a nod, though, and eventually, a muttered, “All right.”
    And then Murdo was reaching for him, and David tried to forget everything else as he lost himself in Murdo’s embrace.

Chapter Three
    The day after Dr. Logan’s visit, David’s leg was greatly improved—almost as good as it had been before he’d embarked on his ill-fated trip to McNally’s. He noticed the improvement as he rose from Murdo’s bed early that morning. Levering himself carefully to his feet, he waited for the inevitable pain in his knee, but instead of the slicing agony of the past few days, all that came was the lesser twinge of before.
    He glanced at Murdo, thinking to share the news, but the other man was sleeping still, his face boyish and easy in slumber. David paused, admiring the familiar, handsome lines of Murdo’s face, smiling at how sleep softened him. It was tempting to wake him but it was still early and the other man looked so peaceful.
    Instead, David crossed the room, his bare feet nearly silent on the rug-strewn floor, to pull one of the heavy velvet drapes aside. The early morning sun streamed through the gap he’d made, illuminating the bedchamber, penetrating to the very back of the room to bathe Murdo’s sleeping form in gold. Murdo shifted, murmuring a complaint, and David quietly closed the drapes again, watching as Murdo turned over and settled back to sleep.
    David glanced at the clock on the mantel—it was barely six, but there was no danger of him falling back to sleep. If he returned to bed, he’d only lie there, fidgeting, and probably wake Murdo. Better to go to his own bedchamber where he could read or deal with some correspondence.
    Pulling on his drawers, he headed for the door to the study that connected Murdo’s bedchamber to his own. He turned the doorknob slowly so as to minimise the noise and closed it behind him just as quietly. Once, the study had been a shared dressing room for the lady and gentleman of the house, but when Murdo had first moved to Laverock House, he’d liked the morning light the room got so well that he’d decided it would be better used by him during his working hours. A serendipitous choice, it transpired. A study they both used was far more plausible as a conduit between their bedchambers than a dressing room that David could have no earthly reason to be in.
    David padded past the two desks—his and Murdo’s—smiling at the tidy piles of correspondence and paperwork lined up to be dealt with, and opened the door on the other side of the room, the one that led to his own bedchamber. The drapes were drawn in his bedchamber too, the bedcovers carefully mussed, and the door that gave out to the main corridor was securely locked. All of it part of his nightly routine.
    He crossed to the wardrobe and drew out a set of comfortable clothes, ones that he wouldn’t mind getting dirty. With his leg feeling so much better, he thought he might go fishing later, and the old-fashioned brown breeches he’d pulled out—once Murdo’s—would be perfect for that, soft and worn, the matching waistcoat a loose fit on his lean form.
    After tying his neckcloth in a perfunctory knot, all that remained to be done was to bring some order to his too-long hair. A dab of pomade brought it under temporary control, and, fully dressed, he threw a glance at the mirror to check his appearance, concluding with satisfaction that he didn’t look too disreputable. He might not pass