Chapter 4
Malcolm had hoped to shock The Long Laird by saying he needed to fight, but the man was so wrapped up in his own problems that he’d barely registered the comment. Malcolm didn’t want to fight, one more knock to the head might be his last, but the idea was so tempting. He hadn’t missed the ring, at first, but now after years of being overlooked at work and living alone with his memories, he wondered if it was worth the risk to get that same old thrill back in his life.
The King’s Book Club provided a different type of thrill, but lately even that had become tired and boring. It was always the same people fucking each other in the same ways, swapping around over the years, with a few of the older crowd competing in increasingly grotesque ways over new members. That part was becoming distasteful in a way he couldn’t stomach. At least when he fought, people cheered his name for the right reasons. He missed the tension, the training, the knowledge that he was good at something and most importantly, he had been valued for it.
“Tell me one thing.”
“Yes?” The Long Laird’s light brown eyes lit up like an eager puppy, ready to please Malcolm and make up for the mess he’d put them in. He breathed out slowly as hope beckoned. The Long Laird probably had no idea what type of club The King’s Book Club was ... or maybe he did and suddenly Malcolm had something new and interesting to ponder. He held himself back, not wanting to salivate like an old roue.
“Do you miss it?” He asked because he missed it, and he wanted to know he wasn’t alone in that. He would’ve kept going if his mentor, the Duke of Galforth, had let him. Initially he’d been glad someone was looking out for his well-being, and he’d been excited about the job at Sotheby’s because he’d been able to prove that he wasn’t simply a body to be used for people’s entertainment. He’d done both for a while, until he couldn’t fight anymore. Back then, he’d known he couldn’t spend his entire life taking blows from others and dishing them out. He’d appreciated that Galforth understood he was more than a boxer, that he could think, and solve problems, and at Sotheby’s, people listened to his opinion. They still did, but he was frustrated by the lack of recognition for his skill level.
He’d become a faded old champion, like a news clipping slowly fading in the sunlight over the years until the glory written on the pages disappeared completely. He’d come to realise that his opinions were often ignored until repeated by a white colleague, and to have his thoughts stolen like that wasn’t a compliment.
“It’s complicated.” The Long Laird gazed out the window of Bennington’s carriage, tension in his jaw, and Malcolm understood that he was telling the truth that he could never fight again. There was too much hurt and sorrow and regret painted on his face.
“Yes, I can imagine it would be, for you. I miss it.”
“What parts?”
Malcolm relaxed. “I miss being someone. I miss the intensity, focusing on a rival and myself, and knowing I am ready for any challenge. And you?” Finding rare watches was a similar challenge, albeit very different in physical intensity.
“Honestly, I don’t know. The last match changed me so much that it’s hard to remember what came before.” The Long Laird’s surprising honesty drew him in closer.
“Yes. I can see how it might.”
“Should we spar? I haven’t stepped into a ring since...” There was a wavering bravery to The Long Laird’s tone.
“No. You don’t need to do this for me. I’m not going to push you to do this fight simply because it’s tempting for me. I told Bennington and Mardin I would only fight you because I needed an excuse to avoid it.” If he stepped into a ring, his issue would be obvious to a keen observer. From the way The Long Laird’s eyes had softened when they’d tapped knuckles, Malcolm wondered if he’d already noticed.
“You used me as an excuse.”
“Yes, we’ve already established that, but I thought it was worth reiterating now we are talking about sparring.”
“If neither of us want this, why did you say that you might?”
Malcolm shrugged. “Ignore that. It was wishful thinking.”
“Give me your hands.” The Long Laird held out his hands, palms up, and Malcolm’s stomach sank because there was only one reason The Long Laird would ask this. He placed his hands into the other man’s and tried not to jerk them away as their skin touched. Warmth rushed up his arms as The Long Laird held the weight of hands and slowly stroked his thumb over the scarred skin of his knuckles.
“I can see why you were so good. Your hands are naturally weighted.”
Malcolm shuddered. “I was accused of that more times than I can remember.” He’d always had to open his fists and show the judges and opposition that he wasn’t hiding lead weights in his fists, that his hands were just big and heavy all on their own.
“It figures.” The Long Laird’s gentle exploration of his hands was almost overwhelming in its care and attention. His touch went beyond that of another fighter examining his tools, eking towards the erotic and Malcolm could only stare at The Long Laird’s pale fingers moving and caressing him. Freckles dotted the backs of his hands, and light brown hair peeked out of the sleeves of his jacket over his wrists. Malcolm didn’t pull away, not even as the tremors became worse, he wanted more of The Long Laird’s touch despite his own hands shaking like they always did when he held his hands out like this for an extended period.
“My coach had this...” The Long Laird’s voice cracked and Malcolm looked up from their connection to see a shimmer in the other man’s eyes. “He refused to stop sparing and it worsened rapidly.”
“I stopped when they started. Galforth noticed after my sixteenth win and made me stop. Every year they get a little bit worse. It’s so gradual that it’s hard to tell if the progression is getting faster.” He gulped. It wasn’t something he talked about, and no quack of a doctor would know what to do.
“Oh Colossus.” The Long Laird squeezed his hands, still too gentle when Malcolm craved a stronger touch.
“I’m not him anymore. Please call me Mr Milson, or maybe just Malcolm.”
“Malcolm. My name is Rory. Laird Rory Cockburn.”
“Rory. A suitably Scottish name.” His own had been given to him by Galforth on his arrival in England as a young boy, his original name erased long ago.
“Aye.” Rory didn’t ask about his origins and he was glad of it. Anyone who knew anything about politics could look at Malcolm’s skin and know that it wasn’t a good story, and it wasn’t one he wanted to repeat to a stranger. Not even a stranger who—still—cradled his hands so nicely. It had been so long since anyone cared for him like this. He had Lawndry and a few other friends, and he had occasional lovers at the King’s Book Club, but those connections weren’t like this. If he wasn’t careful, he’d get lost in The Long Laird ... in Rory’s touch.
“So the nickname is because you are actually a Laird?” Malcolm needed to remind himself that this man with the gentle touch stood well above him in societal status.
“Aye. But that might change soon.”
Malcolm didn’t understand. Once a Lord or Laird, always one. “How?”