Best Laid Plaids Page 2

  And now, Joachim was in Scotland with a gorgeous—and he must remember, potential—madman, utterly unsure of how to proceed.

  Stuart’s brother resumed his position with his foot on the log and dug into the fire once more. “Research.” He tossed Joachim another grin over his shoulder. A perfectly squared shoulder for all its slenderness. It matched the proportions of the rest of his shape—long, lean muscles that would likely not thicken as he aged.

  The man Nelson wheeled in a trolley laden with covered salvers and spread a crisp tablecloth over a small table he dragged in front of the sofa. He arranged plates and silverware with an almost magical speed, and had all the dishes uncovered in under a minute. Violet circled it once, her nostrils flaring appreciatively.

  “Sir?” He repeated it twice more before Ainsley revived from an almost trancelike state and faced Joachim.

  “Lovely. Please, tuck in Cockburn.” He snickered and so did bloody Nelson. At Ainsley’s prompting, Joachim filled his plate with cold chicken and spring peas. He slathered butter on his bread, still warm in the middle.

  “And will you need me for anything else, Sir?” Nelson asked, pouring dark red wine into two goblets.

  “You’ve readied his room?” Ainsley tossed a piece of chicken to the dog, who caught it with a snap of her jaws.

  “Indeed.” The servant nodded at Joachim. “I’ve unpacked his valise upstairs.”

  Joachim murmured his thanks.

  Twirling the stem of the glassware in his fingers, Ainsley gestured for Nelson to leave. “I won’t need you back until eleven tomorrow morning. I plan on keeping Cockburn up until dawn.” He waggled his groomed eyebrows.

  Mind out of the gutter, Cockburn. The Scotsman must have meant that he had some amazing stories to tell. Just last week, Joachim had stayed up all night reading one of Ainsley’s books, Historical Roots of Scottish Fey. The small bookshelf in his bedroom also boasted the other five books the dishonored academic had written. Prolific for one who couldn’t be more than twenty-six or twenty-seven.

  Joachim had hoped to get a clue about the workings of Graham’s mental instability. Instead, he’d found himself enchanted by the combination of in-depth research and pictorial word choice and had gobbled all the books up in a single fortnight.

  Yet, that immersion into fairy tales must have played tricks on the poor man’s mind, inducing him to believe in what all rational people knew to be mere children’s stories. It was good for Joachim to remember exactly why he was here.

  “You’re much better-looking than Barley intimated.” Under the table, Ainsley dropped his hand to right above Joachim’s knee.

  Cockburn stopped chewing mid-mouthful. Surely he was merely making a point to be welcoming?

  “Skittish, are we? Don’t tell me he sent over a virgin?” Ainsley’s hand drifted higher, paralyzing Joachim with shock. He needed to put an end to this, this, seduction or proposition or whatever it was now.

  But good Lord—the blaze of heat that shot throughout his extremities was electric.

  “I’ll be most put out.” Ainsley Graham pouted and fingered the button right above Joachim’s navel. “I’ve been picturing my cock in your luscious mouth since you walked in the door, and I do so hate to be disappointed.”

  Chapter Two

  Ainsley

  Ainsley had never been partial to beards, but Cockburn’s close-clipped golden-brown facial hair would be deliciously wicked brushing against the sensitive skin of his inner thighs. He’d grasp those honey-colored waves in his fingers hard enough to make the enormous brute of a man moan and beg for more.

  It was an indecent mental image, though enchanting. That mouth, all plump and pink and...currently hanging open in what had to be mock effrontery.

  Unfortunately, Ainsley couldn’t actually indulge, that wasn’t his pleasant task.

  His best mate Barley’s confusion over whether or not his new lawyer friend—this glorious beast pretending to go by the ridiculous name of Joachim Cockburn—shared their appetites was why he now sat in Ainsley’s lair. If anyone could tease out the truth, it was Ainsley. The mere fact that the man frequented their club in Edinburgh ought to be proof enough.

  Still, Barley hesitated to let his quarry in on his intentions. It was a crime worthy of prison to make a pass at another fellow, after all, and the man was presumably a law-abiding barrister. Ainsley volunteered to make a lewd advance to Barley’s prospective lover. Anyone who met Ainsley knew he was a proud shirt-lifter and he’d led a charmed life thus far. If charges of indecency were pressed—well, the world already considered Ainsley a loony. He’d play it off as a misunderstanding.

  Dear God he’d like to strip off that horrible gray-and-brown jacket that did nothing for the man’s muscular chest and discover what was hidden beneath. He sighed. Barley would arrive within the hour and either drive the poor man home, reeling from outrage—or they’d disappear to fuck like rabbits in the guest room.

  Barley had all the damned luck.

  The man’s arms flailed. Was he choking? Joachim Cockburn—that was a farce, wasn’t it? Ainsley was sure it was something much more pedestrian like Henry or Herbert. Whatever his true name, he clutched at Ainsley’s sleeve, his handsome face purpling as he attempted to loosen his tie.

  Bugger. He was choking.

  Roused, Ainsley thumped the poor sod’s back until the food was dislodged. Pleased with his heroics, he handed Cockburn his goblet. The man drank deeply enough that a small river slid down his lips. Tantalizing. Would that it were something even more agreeable than wine dripping out.

  Ainsley winced as the wineglass was set down with such force it could crack. Cockburn’s fists clenched and he moved close enough to Ainsley that he could kiss him with very little effort.

  Except the raw fury on the man’s face might make that a wee bit awkward.

  “There’s obviously been some confusion, Dr. Graham. I don’t know who Barley is, and under no circumstances can I begin to imagine what my level of sexual experience could have to do with research.” The words were tight, probably like the state of his arse.

  What a shame Barley found him first.

  Wait. A faint alarm went off in his subconscious mind.

  “Alec Barley sent you.” They’d discussed it last week at the club, and then Barley’d sent along a telegram a few days before. Ainsley had everything fixed for a secret tryst. He’d given the staff the night off. Even sent away his sister, Trixie.

  Focus, Ainsley. He could hear Mama’s voice trying her damnedest to shake him from whatever reverie he lost himself in. Almost as though she were in the room when he knew she wasn’t. He’d insisted she stay far away, as well.

  “Again, I know no one by the name of Barley. Or Alec, come to think of it.” Cockburn shifted his weight to his back foot, a frown wrinkling his high forehead. He was shorter than Ainsley, though not by much, and substantially built like a professional rugby player.

  God in heaven; those arms could easily throw Ainsley onto a bed, or anywhere else he damned well pleased.

  Research.

  Ainsley flicked the light switch and blinked from the intensity of the bulbs like a vampire might.

  His brother Stuart. Bloody hell. A different telegram about some tiresome Englishman who wanted to mock Ainsley’s life’s work. Not that he wanted it to be the only work he’d produce in his life—he was still young, after all, and a handful of books on folklore wasn’t all he was destined to write. Even if he’d been too terrified...no, hesitant to even think about a new project for the past two years. That was beside the point.

  Oh fuck.

  The overall rumpled appearance of his guest shouted that he was Stuart’s friend, didn’t it? Ainsley asked, dreading the answer that was now clear.

  Cockburn’s handsome face flushed where it was uncovered by his beard. Ainsley truly did appreciate that beard.
Would it be soft against his mouth or spiky? But Christ on a stick—this man was Stuart’s friend. He squeezed his eyes tight. Perhaps this was a nightmare?

  It was not.

  All right, deep breaths. Violet’s nose inched toward the chicken and shook Ainsley from his wool-gathering as he sank his fingers into her fur to hold her back. Everything was fine. It wasn’t as though Stuart didn’t suspect what his younger brother got up to in the privacy of his own bloody house, but oh. What a grim conversation that would be if Stuart were to be told he’d asked his friend for a blow.

  “You were to arrive tomorrow, weren’t you?” Ainsley had planned on leaving for town for the weekend to avoid this particular man. It was foolish not to write these things down in a diary the way Trixie did. She plagued him to follow her advice and now it was clear he should have. He’d have to tell her she was right when she came home. Wouldn’t she crow?

  “Are you even listening to me, Dr. Graham?” Lovely blue-green eyes exactly the color of the Firth of Forth in July narrowed enough that Cockburn’s long brown lashes tangled together.

  Ainsley rubbed his forehead. Clammy with the hint of sweat. Perhaps he had a fever? “I’m doing my best. It’s something of a struggle.” Stuart’s friend hadn’t punched him, or anything else idiotic, so perhaps the Englishman wasn’t terribly vexed? Ainsley flashed the handsome brute his winningest smile.

  Cockburn’s blush swept up his ears. Fucking hell—Cockburn was the man’s actual name, not a joke one cooked up by Barley. He winced again.

  However, that meant this man wasn’t Barley’s infatuation. Which meant that Ainsley was free to... No, Ainsley. Focus.

  “I beg your pardon, my mind tends to wander.” He inhaled as deep as he could and threw himself into the sofa, digging his nails into his respective palms to try to remain attentive. Never very helpful, as he chewed them to the quick. “Not that it’s because of you. It’s something that always happens.”

  “Isn’t there anything you can do to keep from slipping away?” Joachim’s voice was kinder than he deserved. God, he’d mocked that name, too. How unbearably rude. It was a good thing Mama had been banished from the room.

  “Er, there are a few activities that keep me anchored in the present.”

  Studying and reading which was how he’d become a PhD before he turned twenty-four. It’s not as though Ainsley had had much else to do in those long, lonely years in between his brother Charlie heading off to war and his sister, Trixie, returning from her finishing school on the Continent, drenched in scandal. Ainsley scraped dull nails over the back of his scalp and tugged his hair, which sometimes served as a distraction. This wasn’t one of them.

  Mr. Cockburn’s head tilted to one side as he studied Ainsley like he was a specimen in a laboratory. Unfair that someone so pleasant to look at was such a tosser. But really, what other things did keep him anchored in the moment?

  Ah yes—driving his motorcar, thank God, because that could get dangerous otherwise.

  Kissing, as well.

  Fucking.

  Cock sucking...well, that was a wee bit unpredictable.

  And music. Which was why he usually kept the gramophone on. He ought to change the song now. But which would he rather listen to?

  Joachim snapped his fingers.

  He tossed his companion a look of gratification. “Yes, that’s perfect. Snapping or clapping and simply waving your hands in front of my face.” Ainsley frowned. “But I’d prefer you not to stomp. It leaves me unsettled.”

  Mr. Cockburn sat back down—on the opposite side of the room—and crossed both his arms and legs. Absolutely closing himself off. “You’re a character, aren’t you?” The Geordie burr held a hint of admiration.

  That made Ainsley preen a bit. Being admired was lovely. “I do hope you’ll forgive...er...the things I said a few moments ago?” He grinned broadly enough to show his teeth. “I’d rather Stuart didn’t hear about it.”

  “No, no. I’d never...” Joachim caught his breath and scanned Ainsley’s face with a touch of a smile before he ducked his head. Running his open hands down his thighs—those thighs that Ainsley would like wrapped around his waist—Cockburn changed the subject. “My field is psychology. I’m writing my dissertation on how the mind can be led to believe things that simply aren’t true.”

  Ah, that lit a fire in Ainsley’s brain, snapping him to attention. “I suppose you don’t believe in spirits?”

  His guest didn’t answer. He stared at his hands, clasped in front of him as though he were the one lost in his thoughts. Each second that passed made Ainsley bristle a wee bit more.

  But then Cockburn looked up and flashed a sincere smile. A bit too sweet, to be honest. Ainsley’s belly pitched like he’d eaten one too many blackcurrant-flavored wine gums. Familiar because he always struggled with overindulging himself. Gorged until he made himself ill and never touched whatever it was again.

  “I admit I thought you were daft when I read the transcripts of that lecture you gave.”

  “Did you?” It did come out as a snarl. Ainsley couldn’t help that. He’d met so many patronizing arseholes who made fun of him that he’d given up living in the town house on Queen Street and stayed at Rosethorne full-time when he’d lost his position at the university.

  The quietly handsome man across the room shrugged those massive shoulders. “But Stuart claims you’re a genius so I’m open to believing you, if I were to see some of this for myself. Possibly become a convert.”

  Unexpected. As gratifying as that was—and it was, Ainsley wouldn’t deny it—there were things that he’d prefer to convert Stuart’s bearded friend to do. Though from the spark of interest clearly written on his face, conversion might not be necessary.

  Ainsley fetched his plate and resumed his meal. Eating helped him pay attention. The obvious desire to do the same shone on Cockburn’s face as he stared at his plate next to Ainsley’s elbow. “If you come back to the sofa, I promise not to throw myself at you again.”

  The Turkish rug under his feet suddenly occupied his guest’s attention. Gracious, the man could blush, couldn’t he? It was downright adorable.

  “Unless you wish me to?” Ainsley rolled his eyes at his own lack of discretion. But surely the man who was so fuchsia he could be planted in the back garden wasn’t uninterested.

  Joachim said, “Perhaps we stick to your telling me how you came to believe in ghosts?” Which wasn’t a no.

  But Ainsley could try to rein in his flirtatiousness. At least until after he’d finished his meal. “They speak to me. Have ever since I was a youth.”

  Joachim crossed all his limbs again, even tighter this time. The man was painfully easy to read. “I’d much prefer you not to tease, Dr. Graham.”

  Ainsley had never particularly cared for a broad Border accent, but it was darling the way he said mooch instead of much. It may be because Cockburn’s voice was deep and melodic. Or because Cockburn was deliciously fuckable and Ainsley’d lived the life of a hermit for ages. Gosh, had he really been celibate since the bust-up with that damned rat, Ross Campbell, after his blasted lecture? God, it couldn’t be because he had any affection for the bastard because he hadn’t. Not a drop. But—

  “You say the spirits speak to you? How?” Joachim wiggled his fingers as if any self-respecting ghost would ever engage in such mummery.

  Joachim’s blatant ignorance of the subject at hand dragged Ainsley screeching back to the present. He might not actually see the ghosts but he was bloody well sure they didn’t prance about in sheets and lurk in dark corners.

  “For starters, they do not convulse nor do they live to...er...wish to frighten lonely pensioners or children into cleaning their bedrooms.”

  Cockburn’s arms uncrossed. “What do they do, then?” He scraped his teeth across his bottom lip. God, it was plump and wet and it took all of Ainsley’s reserve not t
o lean over and lick it.

  Ainsley rarely trusted someone well enough to even discuss the spirits. In fact, since he’d given that lecture and was treated with such contempt, he’d not mentioned them even to his own nearest and dearest. Not that bloody Ross bloody Campbell was either near or dear to Ainsley’s heart. At least he wasn’t after he’d insisted that Ainsley ought to be locked away for making such claims, the despicable beast.

  Yet, here Ainsley was, forming his explanation in a way that might even be understandable to the curious man he’d much rather pounce on. “I hear them. And see them sometimes—very rarely. Usually it’s just the voices.” He pushed his mop of hair back. Lord, did I admit that I hear voices to a psychologist?

  A smug look settled on Joachim’s face. “Voices, hmm? And has anyone ever heard the voices with you?”

  God, this man was likely a rat, too. Ainsley dug his hands into his pockets. His words spat out like bullets. “Yes, actually. I’ve had visitations that have been witnessed by others. And not only did they hear the ghosts—they could see them. Touch them. As if they were living still.”

  Joachim lost his superior air. “People willing to testify to this?”

  With a sigh, Ainsley had to admit, “They wouldn’t be the most helpful witnesses.” People would assume his sister was trying to salvage his reputation, and the general populace tended to look down their noses at psychics like Barley.

  Glancing around the room, Joachim’s eyebrows knit together. “Do you believe they’re here now?”

  Ainsley chuckled at the absurdity. “Heavens, no. I banished them when I thought I was going to seduce you.”

  Chapter Three

  Joachim

  Joachim’s throat hurt from laughing so hard. When had he done that last? No idea, but likely years back. His chest ached a bit from the exertion—in a pleasant way. In fact, the tingling warmth that spread throughout his body left him the most comfortable he’d been since his dear mate George had died.