The Captain and the Squire Read online

At least, not for a moment.

  “Starkers Tarkers,” he finally said. Then his hand slapped Tarquin’s shoulder. “Showing off the goods, eh?”

  “You—don’t you—how dare you—! Goods? My fine rump is goods?” Tarquin’s lip quivered with fury. But by god, how long had it been since someone had even remembered that Tarquin had a bottom, let alone remarked on it? But he’d be damned if he let a Hardacre charm him. “You’ve really got my dander up, you bounder, you!”

  “Then it’s probably a not good thing that the tear is now on the front of your trousers too!”

  “It never bloody is!” Tarquin glanced down, only to discover that the split had spread from back to front, revealing a couple of inches of his thigh. “A fine pair of corduroys like these, ruined! And ruined, I might add, by a poorly kept fence, which is the all the fault of your ruddy Uncle Beardsley!”

  “I’ll add the fence to the list,” was the smooth response. “Now, what else can I do for a man like you on a fine night like this?”

  “You can collect the Oracle of Delphi, for one thing, although I have no idea where you’ll keep her!”

  “Ah, yes! That’s all a bit of a mystery.” He took his arm from around Tarquin’s shoulders. “That was in the will too, along with the house. Take care of the Oracle of Delphi. What is it? Statue? Painting?”

  Tarquin chuckled and patted Christopher’s arm. Perhaps he lingered a little longer than he should have, but he patted it again, just to make sure that those biceps really did feel like mahogany. “I can show you right now if you’d like. The Oracle is in my orchard—I’m babysitting.”

  “Babysitting?” He emptied the champagne from his glass in one gulp. “Do I need to put some more clothes on before I’m introduced?”

  “Oh, she won’t mind you turning up in a state of near-nudity.” And nor shall I. “Though you might want some shoes, perhaps?”

  “Give me a minute to find my trainers and I’ll be right with you.” Mr. Hardacre the Younger made a fist of his hand and knocked it playfully against Tarquin’s biceps. “We can talk about Prince Albert’s Prince Albert at the same time!”

  Tarquin raised an eyebrow. “Let’s not,” he replied.

  “Let’s,” Christopher corrected, then turned and made his way toward the house. In those clinging damned shorts.

  Tarquin glowered after him. No one would think he was staring at Christopher’s fine arse instead. Damned cheek of it, a Hardacre having a body like that. It was a far cry from the stooped old man with his malicious sneer and his raucous girlfriends. The old man who had taken so much pleasure in tormenting the farmer next door and who had now apparently appointed his great nephew to do the same.

  But there the similarities ended, because this was no seemingly permanent nonagenarian. No, this new agent of chaos was young enough to make Tarquin’s life hell for decades.

  Oh, sod it.

  Tarquin had his dogs, though, and, tormented though he may be, with them he would never be lonely. Even now, they would be padding across the veranda in search of biscuits or snoring in the hallway.

  And there was his collection, too, inherited by dint of Tarquin’s descendancy from many a royal Groom of the Stool, and Tarquin’s own careful perusal of auction sales catalogues from across the globe.

  Prince Albert’s Prince Albert was most definitely his.

  “I really can see your arse,” a plummy voice called from over his shoulder. “Sorry about the fence, perhaps you should use the driveway next time? You know, seeing as you’re not a racehorse and all.”

  Tarquin swallowed the remains of his brandy in one gulp and turned to face him. “At least, unlike you, I’m wearing more than a mere scrap. There used to be a gate between the two gardens, I’ll have you know, until your uncle got rid of it.”

  “And instead, gazelle-like, you leap the fence.” Christopher laughed, drawing level with him. “So, I’m ready to meet the mysterious Oracle.”

  I bet he thinks it’s a statue. A glorious marble nude standing majestically in a columned folly.

  Tarquin would’ve rubbed his hands together with glee if he hadn’t been holding an empty glass. He gestured toward the boundary of Christopher’s garden. “Follow me. You can hop over the fence, can’t you?”

  “I think I can probably manage it,” he deadpanned. “Without tearing my clothes, I daresay.”

  An image of those swimming shorts tearing straight down the cleft of Christopher’s buttocks filled Tarquin’s mind, and he inhaled raggedly. “Would…would hate you to tear your shorts, old bean.”

  “Your dander would really be up then, wouldn’t it?”

  The last thing Tarquin needed was anyone knowing about his personal tastes. Especially a Hardacre. “I’m engaged, I’ll have you know, to the lovely and fragrant Petunia. If you’re insinuating that I’m some sort of…some sort of…Grecian, then I’ll have you know that I most certainly am not. I have no need to find out how toned or otherwise your behind might be, and I have certainly no desire to see your tilly-tadger!”

  “My what? Toned I’ll take, guilty as charged, but…tilly-tadger?” He chuckled, then asked, “Wasn’t that a character in The Wind in the Willows?”

  And Christopher Hardacre vaulted the fence.

  My God.

  “Rhymes with badger,” Tarquin mumbled. How the hell was he going to live next door to an arse like that without going insane? But, importantly, it was a Hardacre arse, and a Bough had no business mooning over it. Mooning being the appropriate term, of course.

  Tarquin wedged his empty glass into his pocket and clambered over the fence. He plucked the torn piece of fabric from the nail, but wasn’t quite sure what to do with it. “Welcome to Bough Towers, Christopher.”

  “Chris, please, we’re not in church.” He put his hands on his hips and surveyed the garden. “This is nice, not at all how Uncle Bea made it sound. I was expecting a herd of cows and a manure pile three stories high!”

  Bloody Beardsley.

  “Yes, well, that’s your uncle for you. Truth was always slippery with him.” Tarquin led Christopher through the trees. Now that his new neighbor was here, he decided to give him a tour. “There’s apples here, and pears. Quinces and some impressive plums, too!”

  Chris nodded, peering up into the trees as he said, “Do you come down hard on scrumpers, squire?”

  “I believe in good, firm punishment.” Tarquin picked up a stick and swished it through the air. “Anyone found scrumping will receive the full weight of my ire, and a good thrashing to boot!”

  His infuriating neighbor raised his eyebrow, then reached up and plucked a ripe, juicy plum from the tree. “That’s me in trouble then.”

  Tarquin planted his feet firmly and swished his stick. The bloody man was playing with him, he knew that only too well, but how could Tarquin not follow through on a promise? In a low murmur he said, “Oh, so you want a swipe across your bottom?”

  “I’m only human, squire.”

  The insufferable cur.

  Tarquin could have laughed it off, but there was something about those wide blue eyes and, admittedly, that delightful rear, that spurred Tarquin on. He swished his stick again.

  “Up against the tree. Hands firm on the trunk. Feet shoulder width apart. Hop to it, Hardacre!”

  “What would the fragrant Petunia say if she heard that?” His tormentor winked, then dropped the sunglasses again and bit decadently into the plum. “Show me the Oracle, before I decide to take you seriously.”

  Tarquin didn’t reply. He’d made a fool of himself. Outed himself, and to a Hardacre! He hurled the stick aside and strode on through the orchard, not caring that the undignified tear in his trousers was on full view to his new enemy, until they finally reached his abandoned deckchair and the contented pig.

  “Right, here we are then.” Tarquin flopped down in his deckchair and mussed the pig’s bristly head. And when Chris lifted the sunglasses again, Tarquin felt an unmistakable thrill of triumph. The expression o
n that handsome face was no longer one of self-assured smugness—instead, there was only confusion. Confusion that was swiftly giving way to disbelief.

  “It’s a pig,” he muttered finally.

  “Yes, the Oracle of Delphi is a prize-winning Gloucester Old Spot!” Tarquin rubbed her head with renewed vigor and fussed her leathery ears until the pig squealed gleefully. “Did your dear, lamented uncle neglect to mention you’d inherit a sow who’d won rosettes at the Sussex County Fair?”

  “It’s a pig,” Chris said again, then he lifted his sunglasses. “Is this a joke, I mean—it’s an actual pig. With a curly tail!”

  “Yes! Well done, City Slicker!” Tarquin chortled. “What else do you think this delightful creature is? She’s not a frog, nor a salmon either for that matter. She’s a gorgeous pig!”

  The Oracle grunted deep in her throat, clearly enjoying Tarquin’s compliments.

  “I don’t… How…” He fell silent again, his mouth gaping. Had the man never seen a pig before?

  “She’s all yours! I’ve got a harness for her here, but she’s not overly fond of it—are you, Orry?” Tarquin blew her a kiss. “I’ve been looking after her since Beardsley passed on to the Great Big Gin Palace in the sky.”

  “Mine?” Chris pressed his hand to his all-too naked chest. “I don’t know what to do with a pig! Do you know about pigs?”

  “Oh, yes. I’ve had them before. Orry was in a pen in the cowshed for a couple of weeks, but she’s as friendly as a dog and she managed to get out—I found her sprawled on the veranda with Mabel, my old spaniel. So after that, she lived in the house.” Tarquin quirked his eyebrow. “Petunia was not happy about that at all! Hahaha!”

  “Well, it doesn’t seem fair to take her away from her friends,” he replied. “Wouldn’t she be happier here?”

  Would you like to be the one who tells Petunia?

  “But she’s yours, Chris! I’m sure she’d love to have a wallow in that hot tub of yours!” With all those braying Hooray Henrys tipping champagne down their throats. Tarquin chuckled at the thought.

  “My gift to you?” Chris asked hopefully. “She looks very cozy.”

  “You haven’t even said hello to her. You can’t yield up your uncle’s pig without giving her a fuss!”

  The pig seemed to be smiling at Chris. Was she pleased to see him, or was she mocking him? Tarquin had no idea.

  “Oh, you’re enjoying this, Tarkers, aren’t you?” He looked down at the Oracle of Delphi then extended one hand before he snatched it back again, as though she were a flame rather than a pig.

  Tarquin grinned. “As I said, she’s as friendly as a dog. You’ve stroked one of those before, haven’t you? Just do it. On her back.”

  The pig peered up at the two men, that little expression of amusement still on her face. How anyone could be afraid of her, Tarquin couldn’t imagine. She was soft as a kitten, after all.

  Tarquin kissed the top of her head. “Look, it’s your new daddy! He’s come to take you home!”

  “But won’t you miss her?”

  Nice try.

  “She’ll only be next door!” Tarquin chuckled. “Come on, let me get her into her harness, and you can take her home. She loves a party—and all those nubile young women crowding your patio will remind her of your uncle’s heyday!”

  “Don’t get too excited, you won’t see too many good-looking ladies on my watch.” He quirked his eyebrow. “Good-looking guys, on the other hand…”

  Tarquin tugged down the hem of his jacket. Good-looking guys. Cavorting in the hot tub. And only on the other side of the fence.

  “Right. Yes. Well. You’re not Bough Bottoms’ first chap of a gay persuasion. We’re surprisingly modern here, I think you’ll find!”

  “Well, I am on the market.” Chris grinned. “Anyway, I’ll leave you and the Oracle to enjoy your evening. I’ll turn the music down a little too, it’s a bit bassy over here, isn’t it?”

  Tarquin winced. Hot, single gay man right next door. And I can’t tell him I’m gay. “A tad, yes. That would be kind of you. I enjoy a power ballad as much as the next man, but possibly not when I’m sitting in my orchard. Anyway, you must take the Oracle with you.”

  Tarquin rose from his deckchair and picked up the Oracle’s harness. He started to buckle her into it, and she unleashed an annoyed squeal. “Shh… Your new daddy will take you home! Lovely Chris! And just you wait until you see Daddy’s hot tub!”

  “What does she eat?” His voice had taken on a somewhat panicky timbre. “Oh, come on, squire, at least give me a pointer. I’m sorry about the plum!”

  “There should be a sack of her food in your garage, but apples are her favorite if you’re in a jam.” Tarquin handed the lead to Chris. The Oracle snorted.

  “Apples,” he repeated nervously, closing his fist around the lead. “Got it. What else?”

  “Make sure she has access to water, and remember to let her out for a…y’know, a widdle.” Tarquin narrowed his eyes at Chris. “You do understand all that, don’t you? You’re living in the countryside now!”

  “I know, I know. I’m not in Canary Wharf now,” Chris murmured.

  Oh, you would be from somewhere like that. Somewhere showy. Somewhere where it was hot tubs ahead of orchards.

  “Early retirement, or are you a DFT?” Tarquin asked, as he absentmindedly fingered Good Queen Bess’ special toy. “Y’know, Down From Town, only gracing us with your presence at weekends?”

  “What?” Chris blinked, looking for all the world like a man who was about to face the firing squad. His gaze traveled from the Oracle of Delphi back to Tarquin and he said, “I’ve got a pig.”

  The pig seemed to know when she was being talked about. She looked up at Chris and snorted, then tugged on her lead.

  “You have indeed got a pig!”

  How wonderful it is to get one up on a Hardacre for once.

  “Right.” He nodded firmly and squared those wonderful shoulders, apparently girding himself to become a pig parent. Tarquin would miss the old girl, in a funny sort of way. She had a quiet dignity about her. “Nice to meet you, Tarkers. We’ll discuss the dying wish another time, I think. Come on, Mr. Pig, time to go home.”

  Mister?

  “She’s a Mrs. Pig!” Tarquin shook his head. Bloody Canary Wharf canary! “Mother of several prize-winning litters, no less!”

  Chris nodded again, then gave a sharp tug on the lead, which earned him nothing from the Oracle but a careless twitch of her ear. With a rather withering glance at Tarquin Chris pulled on the lead again, putting a little more force into this time. Twitch, went the cheeky ear, but the majestic sow didn’t move.

  Tarquin leaned back against the trunk of an old, gnarled apple tree, enjoying the sight before him. To think that he was the source of a Hardacre’s woes, and he had the bonus of a very nice view of those biceps and pectorals straining with effort. Who would’ve thought the day would end so well?

  “Come—on—” His neighbor planted his feet, pulling at the lead like he was taking part in the annual tug-of-war on the village green. He gritted his teeth, every muscle taut with the wasted effort of trying to coax the Oracle to move.

  But what a marvelous sight it is.

  How could a creature like this be a Hardacre?

  Tarquin patted the Oracle’s rump. “Off you go with Daddy! There’s a good girl!”

  Only then did she move from her spot and turn toward Tarquin like an obedient puppy seeking her master’s favor. She gave a happy snort then showed Mr. Hardacre exactly how one should handle a lead and, with a sharp toss of her magnificent head, pulled him off his feet and onto the grass.

  Christopher presented a fine figure even face down in the grass, it seemed, his shapely bottom on display. Accidental display, of course. Tarquin roared with mirth. “Need a hand, old chap?”

  “You’re bloody nuts!” Chris exclaimed, blinking up at him. “A pig on a lead? A dildo in your pocket as though it’s your mobile? Baring your ars
e at a housewarming? You’re not right in the head!”

  “I’m not? You’re the one lying on the ground in the middle of my orchard in his swimming trunks!”

  Tarquin took a step toward his new neighbor, but couldn’t go any farther as he was bent double by a new gale of laughter sweeping through him. He wiped away the tears in his eyes and finally controlled his hilarity for long enough to hold his hand out to Chris.

  “I can get up on my own, thanks,” he snapped. And perhaps he could, had he not still been holding the lead and had the lead not still been attached to the Oracle’s harness. No sooner was he halfway to his feet than she gave another flamboyant shake, sending Christopher Hardacre sprawling on the grass again.

  Tarquin took hold of Chris’ hand that was holding the lead, and looped his other arm around Chris’ waist. It was the neighborly thing to do, of course. “Ready? Let me pull you up!”

  “So long as you keep your royal dildo safely in your pocket,” was the carping reply. How ungracious he was, considering his pig had been Tarquin’s honored and rather spoiled guest since the demise of Hardacre the elder.

  Tarquin tightened his arm around Chris. A rather tortured sigh escaped him as he pulled him to his feet. Oh, what a joy to hold a muscled fellow in his arms. Even if it was only for a matter of seconds.

  Even if the muscled fellow in question was a bloody Hardacre.

  “Right. Well.” Chris nodded, brushing a few blades of grass from his chest. “Thanks, I suppose. For the hand up, I mean.”

  Tarquin retreated, but he couldn’t look away from Chris. He wanted him, with a pull so visceral that Tarquin wondered how he could ever return to his old life without being tormented by the thought of that man—that exquisite man—being only next door. “Any pig-husbandry issues, you know where I am. Just knock me up.”

  “She’s not going to come, Mr. Bow. Look at her, nothing’s going to shift her!” The unruffled Canary Wharf Canary was very ruffled by now, and it made him even more delicious. “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather keep her?”

  “Mr. Boff.” Tarquin patted the Oracle’s rump again. “Go on, piggy-wig! Off with Daddy!”