According to
JL Merrow in To Love a Traitor, wounds of the heart take the longest to heal.
When
solicitor’s clerk George Johnson moves into a rented London
Yet as
he gets to know Matthew—an irrepressibly cheerful ad man whose missing arm
hasn’t dimmed his smile—George begins to lose sight of his mission.
As Matthew’s advances become ever harder to resist, George tries to convince himself his brother’s death was just the luck of the draw, and to forget he’s hiding a secret of his own - his true identity - and an act of conscience that shamed his family.
But as their mutual attraction grows, so does George’s desperation to know the truth about what happened that day in
[Warning: Contains larks in the snow, stiff upper lips, shadows of the Great War, and one man working undercover while another tries to lure him under the covers. LOL]
To Love a Traitor
SamhainNow (September 15, 2015)
ISBN: 9781619229921
Excerpt:
December, 1920;
two young men with rooms in the same lodging-house
Later that week the
weather was still bitterly cold. Nevertheless, George found himself staying up
late with his books, reading up on tort by candlelight with a blanket wrapped
around him for warmth. It was extraordinary how fascinating the English legal
system could be, built as it was in the main upon individual cases.
But even George’s
interest in larrikins (who or whatever they might be) throwing squibs into
crowds couldn’t sustain him long past midnight, given that he’d been up at six that
morning and would have to do the same on the morrow. Yawning, he closed his
books and shed his clothes, shivering as the chilly air struck his bare flesh.
As he hastily pulled on his pyjamas, he was startled to hear someone speaking.
The words were indistinct, but George was almost certain they came from
Matthew’s room. Quietly opening the door, he could see no one there, which
rather settled the matter—unless they were on the street? A quick glance out of
the window confirmed that the street was empty, all good citizens presently
tucked up in their beds, and the bad ones gone for richer pickings than could
be had in Allen Street . But who on earth could Matthew be talking to at this time of
night?
Perhaps he always
talked in his sleep, and George had simply never been awake to hear him before?
Listening with guilty avidity, George realised it sounded as though Matthew
were distressed. A nightmare, then, poor fellow. George had had his share of
those.
He was certain
Matthew wouldn’t thank him for poking his nose in—he’d probably be mortified to
know that his night-time woes were audible to others. Having snuffed his candle
and climbed into bed, George stuck his head under his pillow and tried to
ignore the noises from next door—but a vigorous thump on the wall right by his
ear, followed by the unmistakeable sound of a sob was too much for him to
endure. Matthew might hate him for it, but George just couldn’t leave the man
in such distress. Flinging off the blankets, he pulled on his dressing gown and
padded to Matthew’s door in his slippers.
Uncertain whether
to knock, George stood on the landing for a moment, irresolute. A further cry
from within prompted him to pull himself together and open the door.
He hadn’t thought
to re-light his candle, but like his own, Matthew’s room looked out on the
front of the house, and a faint glow from the streetlamps filtered through the
curtains. It was enough to make out Matthew’s form, writhing in the bedclothes
which had wrapped themselves around him like a shroud. “Matthew,” George
whispered, laying a hand on his shoulder. Matthew started violently. “It’s all
right,” George reassured him. “It’s just a dream.”
George started to
unwind the sheets from the sweating form. It seemed to help—as Matthew’s limbs
were freed, the thrashing eased. “Hush,” George kept repeating. “It’s all
right. Just a bad dream.”
“George?” Matthew’s
voice was hoarse. “George, what are you doing here?”
“I heard you cry
out. I think you had a nightmare.”
“God, George… I was
back there in the dugout, when that wretched shell landed and it collapsed… Oh
Lord—you don’t want to hear about this. I’m sorry, George. Just being a bit of
an idiot. Sorry to have woken you.”
“You didn’t wake
me—I’ve only just finished studying. Now, will you be all right, or would you
like me to stay for a while?”
“I… Would you mind,
awfully, staying for just a little while? I’m being a wretched nuisance, I
know.”
“Don’t be
ridiculous,” George said a little more sharply than he meant to. “And is there
anything else you need?” he asked in a softer tone.
“Do you think you
could light the candle? It’s on the bedside table, and the matches are in the
drawer.”
Feeling more than
seeing his way, George managed to locate the matches and lit one with a
blinding flare that left him blinking for a moment before he could find the
candle. Once lit, the candle showed him Matthew’s pale face, his hair plastered
to his forehead in little curls. He was sitting up, his right pyjama sleeve
flopping forlornly where he hadn’t bothered to pin it up. George’s chest felt
curiously tight at the sight of him. “It must be a wretched place to go back to
in your dreams,” he said.
“Do you know, it’s
the only time I remember anything about it at all? In my dreams. If it even is
a memory and not something my beastly mind has cooked up all by itself.”
“Does it happen
often?” George asked before he could stop himself.
“Lord, no. Hardly
at all, these days. I must have had too much cheese for supper or something,”
Matthew said with a ghost of a grin. “Or possibly Sherlock Holmes is a little
too racy for bedtime reading for one of my advanced years.”
“Advanced years?”
George asked in a light tone. “You can’t be older than twenty-five.”
“I can, you know.
I’m twenty-five and six—no, seven months, now.” Matthew’s smile seemed much
more genuine, and his colour was returning.
George felt
horribly torn and confused. It was such an intimate situation—he in his
dressing gown, and Matthew in bed not six inches away from him. George knew he
should be thinking of a way to use the situation to his advantage, to find out
more about Matthew’s time in the trenches, but all he felt was a fierce
yearning to close the gap between them, to hold his friend tight—and did he
only imagine that Matthew’s lips had parted, his eyes half-closed, ready to
welcome his embrace…?
He couldn’t do it.
If he was mistaken, then the best that could happen would be Matthew never
speaking to him again. He’d have failed utterly in his task—and in any case, it
would be the act of a scoundrel to take such a step whilst concealing so much
from Matthew. But if he told the truth—the whole truth, so help him God—it
would be the end of everything. A wave of grief washing over him for what he
could never have, George stood. “Well, you’ll be all right now, won’t you? I’d
best get to bed—work in the morning, you know how it is.”
He didn’t look
behind him as he left the room. If Matthew was watching him go with an air of
disappointment, it would do him no good to see it—and if he had only
imagined that Matthew returned his feelings, he was too much of a coward to
want to know.
* * *
JL Merrow is that rare beast, an English person who refuses to drink tea. She read Natural Sciences at
No comments:
Post a Comment