Playing to Win (31 page)

“Haha!” Andrew’s voice rang out from the garden. “Got you, ya wee fandan.”

Colin closed his mouth. “Sorry,” he told Lady Kirkross. “I may have taught him that word.”

She chuckled. “At least he’s learning something in Glasgow.”

Colin stared down into the blue-purple sorbet, willing himself to eat despite his churning stomach. He recalled what Andrew had said that first night they’d met again in Fergus and John’s kitchen:
Now you’ll be a productive member of society, rather than continue your parents’ toxic welfare habits.

Those words had made Colin feel small as a gnat. Did Andrew still feel that way? Is that what he’d told his parents, that Colin was a perfect example of why their beliefs were all so very right?

Andrew and his father trudged up the porch stairs, each with a wiggling terrier under his arm. “Brilliant scrum, Dad.” He held up the Scottie dog as if to toss it. “Mum, catch!”

“Don’t you dare,” she said with a laugh.

Andrew angled the wee black pup so they were nose to nose. “Back inside with you and your failed rebellion.” He took a step toward the porch door, then stopped short. “Oh.”

Colin turned to see a large man in his thirties ambling toward them, with the posture of someone who already owned this place.

“George,” the others said, with varying degrees of enthusiasm.

He stopped when he saw Colin. “Terribly sorry. I forgot you had company tonight.”

Aye, right
, Colin thought as he stood to greet his boyfriend’s infamous brother, musing how all of Lord Kirkross’s handsomeness genes had gone to his second son.

Andrew stepped forward, still wrangling the Scottie. “George, Lord Ballingry, may I introduce Colin MacDuff, my boyfriend.”

“Lord Ballingry, how do you do.”

George hesitated before shaking the hand Colin extended, long enough to make it awkward, long enough to make Colin wonder if he’d erred in offering it. A line from the
Debrett’s
guide came back to him:
A gentleman is never rude unintentionally.

“Will you join us for pudding?” Lord Kirkross asked his elder son.

Lord Ballingry’s gaze slithered from Colin to the table, conveying that he’d rather dine with a rabid stoat. “Thank you, but no. I only popped in to give you the good news. The sale of the loch quadrant will be finalized on the twenty-second.” He turned to Andrew. “Mr. Olkhovsky was particularly enamored of the boathouse. He’ll be demolishing it to make room for a
dacha
, of course, but he found the location simply charming.” George spared Colin a glance. “A
dacha
is a Russian country house.”

Colin nodded. “Yes, I know.”

Andrew had gone utterly still at the news. The Scottie stretched up and licked his chin, snapping him out of his fog. “We’re staying there tonight. I suppose it’ll be the last time.” He went to the door and deposited the dog inside, then came back to take the Westie from his father.

Lady Kirkross seemed suddenly uncomfortable as well as she adjusted her teacup on its saucer. She gestured for Colin and her husband to take their seats again. Shoulders slumped, Andrew made his way to the table through the thick, silent air.

“Are the two of you going riding tomorrow?” George asked him. “No doubt your Mr. MacDuff would love to meet Timothy.”

Andrew stiffened as he sat down. “I don’t know.”

“You should,” George said. “The three of you could have a jolly old time.”

“Who’s Timothy?” Colin asked, though he sensed he shouldn’t.

“The stableboy,” George said.

“The stablemaster,” Andrew said, louder, through clenched teeth. “George, if you’re not staying—”

“Where are you from, Mr. MacDuff?” the earl asked.

“Glasgow.” Colin didn’t offer specifics and hoped they wouldn’t be requested.

“That’s an exciting place of late,” George said. “Were you at that kids’ debate at the Hydro arena today?”

“No, sir. That was for sixteen- and seventeen-year-olds.”

“And you’re what age?”

“Nineteen,” Colin replied, though the question seemed a semi-rude one, based on the rustlings of discomfort from Andrew’s parents.

“Ah, sorry. I took you for younger, probably because you’re wearing Andrew’s old clothes.”

“George!” Lady Kirkross exclaimed. “Apologize this instant.”

“What for? They look good on him, and it’s a fitting way for Andrew to mark his territory.”

Colin’s hairline prickled with the heat of shame. He was torn between the instinct to smash George’s doughy face and the knowledge that to do so would end his life as he knew it.

But Andrew had already leaped from his chair and was now advancing on his brother, wielding the sorbet spoon. “You will apologize to Mr. MacDuff, or I will carve out your eyeball and feed it to the dogs.”

“Oh,” Lady Kirkross said softly.

George, who was at least fifty pounds heavier than his younger brother, didn’t back away an inch. But he did turn his head to Colin and say, “I’m sorry if I offended. Please forgive me.”

Colin looked to the marquess and marchioness for cues. Their eyes begged him to defuse the tension. He stood slowly, straightening his blazer in what he hoped was a dignified manner. “Of course. No offense taken.”

“Thank you.” George stepped back. “Mother, Father, my apologies again for interrupting. Enjoy your evening.” He turned for the door.

“Lord Ballingry.” Colin’s sharp voice echoed back to him from the castle’s stone wall.

George stopped and looked around, as if wondering what insignificant entity could be addressing him. “What is it?”

“You’ve not apologized to your brother,” Colin said.

“It’s all right.” Andrew started to move back to the table. “Just let him go.”

“It’s not all right.” Colin put a supportive hand on Andrew’s back.

“An oversight,” George said. “In my haste to depart, Andrew, I neglected to specifically include your delicate self in my blanket apology. Consider it said.” He spun on his heel again and disappeared into the house.

Floored, Colin turned to Andrew and blurted the singular thought exploding through his mind. “What an absolute cunt!”

“I
AM
SO
, so sorry,” Colin said for the hundredth time as Andrew parked the car beside his beloved boathouse. “I still cannae believe I said that.”

“The only thing to be sorry for is not saying it to his face.” Andrew felt positively giddy. He’d barely stopped grinning ever since Colin’s spot-on pronouncement of his brother’s nature. “I’ve not heard my father laugh so loud in years.” Even Mum had smiled into her teacup, and later joked that henceforth they shall refer to George in his absence as “A.C.”

He and Colin entered the boathouse, which Dunleven’s part-time housekeeper, Beatrice, had prepared for their arrival, even leaving a basket of fruit, cheese, and wine for their late-night consumption. With steps quiet as a cat’s, Colin explored the two-room house and its adjoining porch overlooking the loch.

Andrew slipped off his shoes and stood barefoot in the open doorway. Peace settled into his bones at the sound of the water lapping against the foundation beneath him. He couldn’t imagine spending his last night in the boathouse with anyone else.

Colin peered down into the loch, then turned and reached up to touch the edge of the porch roof. “I like this place. It’s cozy. Friendly.” He crossed the porch to examine the wall hanging, a weathered wooden carving of a salmon rising from the waves. “It’s also very
you
.”

“That’s because it’s mine.”

Colin looked at him, eyes glittering in the soft porch light. “Yours? How?”

“My brother and sister live in enormous houses elsewhere on the estate. But this wee cottage is mine, and personally I think I got the best deal. It’s remote, it’s sturdy, and of course it’s on the water.” He stroked the weathered, butter-yellow siding next to the door. “It’s perfect.”

“And now it’s being sold to Russians who’ll demolish it.”

“A necessary sacrifice to save Dunleven, which matters more than any of us.”
Especially me.
“You must think me so spoiled. I’ve a perfectly lovely flat, and wherever I find work after uni, my parents will buy me a house. To replace this.” His throat tightened on the last sentence.

Colin looked down at Andrew’s hand clutching the doorpost. “Would another house really replace this? I mean, you thought it’d be yours forever, right? You thought you could come back any time you wanted and just…have a place.”

Andrew huffed out a breath of astonishment, that Colin would understand what hurt him most. “I did. I imagined one day my husband and I would spend weekend holidays here. We’d bring our beautiful children—mine biologically, of course, with Emma Watson as surrogate and egg donor—”

“You’re mates with Emma Watson?”

“I’m joking. Well, not really. We all have aspirations.” Andrew hoped his light tone was convincing, but based on the sympathy in Colin’s eyes, he was failing miserably.

“We should trash the place when we leave,” Colin said. “Break the legs off the bed, chuck the telly in the loch, have a massive pish on all the furniture and rugs, like a pack of wild dogs. That’d teach them.”

Andrew laughed. “We could carve a message to the new owners here on the porch floor. How do you say ‘Fuck you’ in Russian?”

“I’ll Google it.” Colin pulled out his phone. “We are doing this.”

I love you.
The words nearly slipped off Andrew’s tongue. He pressed his lips together, not wanting to ruin the levity of the moment. Perhaps he’d say it later, in the dark.

“Oh!” Colin brushed past him into the cottage. “The Big Big Debate’s on.”

“I thought that happened this afternoon.”

“It did, but it wasn’t televised live. This is the recorded version.” He switched on the TV, which was already tuned to BBC One. “Oi, there it is!”

The camera panned over the crowd of sixteen- and seventeen-year-olds at Glasgow’s packed-out Hydro arena, where Scotland’s youngest voters were posing questions about independence to four prominent politicians, including Andrew’s personal heroine, Scottish Tory leader, Ruth Davidson. A proud lesbian, Davidson had given an impassioned plea to the Scottish Parliament for marriage equality. Her speech had inspired Andrew’s own coming out (though it had taken him months to find the courage to actually do it). Like Andrew, she’d suffered homophobic abuse from cybernats all year.

Still, he wasn’t in the mood for politics. “Must we watch?” Andrew crawled onto the bed behind Colin, then wrapped his legs and arms around him. “This will just put us at each other’s throats.” He took Colin’s earlobe between his teeth and gave a gentle but firm tug.

Colin caressed Andrew’s thigh. “It’s only another twenty minutes.”

“Then we can go for a swim?”

“Maybe. Shh.”

They watched the debate for five minutes before Andrew asked, “Is it me or is this dreadfully boring?”

“It’s not you. The kids live-tweeting this afternoon made it sound really cool. Maybe the BBC edited out all the good parts. Wouldn’t put it past those biased bastards.”

“The BBC are biased in favor of reality, something you’re clearly—” He stopped himself. After what he’d seen in Drumchapel Sunday afternoon, Andrew could no longer claim that Colin was poorly acquainted with reality.

They kept watching, and Andrew kept his tight hold on Colin. With only a week until the referendum, the polls showed Yes and No neck and neck. Though part of Andrew couldn’t wait for the whole business to be over—especially if it meant the end of his own cyber- and broken-window-related harassment—he also dreaded the outcome either way.

If Scotland voted No, Colin’s heart would shatter. Andrew had never met anyone who cared so much about something bigger than himself. Colin had pinned his every hope for the future upon independence.

If Scotland voted Yes, Andrew’s family would be devastated. It would be like someone—like everyone—had died. It went beyond protecting their wealth and way of life. A three-hundred-year-old Union would be broken, and with it the hearts of those who loved it, not just here in Scotland, but in England, Wales, Northern Ireland, and beyond.

Either way, someone Andrew loved would suffer one of the biggest traumas of their lives.
 

When the debate ended, he groaned with relief, then went to the chest of drawers and pulled out a pair of swimsuits. “The water should be reasonably warm, and by that I mean not quite hypothermia-inducing.” He started unbuttoning his shirt, skin already tingling in anticipation of the cold, clean water.

BBC Ten O’Clock News
began then. Andrew moved to turn off the TV, but Colin stopped him.

“You’ve got to see this one bit. It was brilliant. I watched the raw footage today online.”

Andrew wrinkled his nose when he saw the smug face of Scotland’s First Minister. “Alex Salmond’s press conference? Why would I—”

“Nick Robinson from BBC was a total prat and Salmond completely schooled him. The foreign press were laughing their arses off.”

On TV, news editor Robinson discussed the recent barrage of warnings from British CEOs on how an independent Scotland’s economy would suffer. Andrew rolled his eyes when he realized these “new alarms” had actually been issued last spring. Surely the No campaign could find more damaging ammunition than six-month-old recycled press releases.
Incompetent fools.

Then there was footage of the press conference, with Robinson asking the First Minister, “Why should a Scottish voter believe you, a politician, against men who are responsible for billions of pounds of profits?”

Andrew leaned forward, curious to hear Salmond’s weaselly reply. Instead the broadcast cut to a voiceover. “He didn’t answer,” Robinson said.

“WHAT?!?” Colin leapt off the bed. “He did answer! He totally fucking answered! I saw it!” He watched for another few moments, hands curling into fists at his sides. “This is bollocks! They edited it to fit their lies.” Colin found his phone on the desk. “I need to get on Twitter.”