The Garden's End (MLM)

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN.

                Pip dreamt of the stream.

He lay there on the grass, the damp earth seeping into his clothes, but he did not mind. The ground was warm, the shade of the trees was a comfort, the sun that shined through the branches like stars that glimmered only for him, and the water as it rushed past was the most comforting lullaby.

Pip's cheeks were warm, his lids heavy. He wanted to fall asleep here, but did not dare close his eyes, for in the stream stood Oliver, his naked back to him, his elbows resting on the bend behind him.

"Oliver," whispered Pip, but his love did not turn around. Pip leaned closer to him. "Oliver, can you hear me?"

But Oliver continued to enjoy his view of the forest, unaware of Pip behind him.

"He won't answer," said another figure across the stream. Resting on his back, as Pip was, and staring up at the branches, was Lord Westcott. He was dressed in the same black ensemble and white shirt, unperturbed at the damp earth beneath him.

Pip's brows pinched together. Here, the sunlight seemed to favour Lord Westcott, glimmering off his hair and turning the dark locks a golden shade of chestnut. His eyes soft, his black lashes curled against rosy cheeks, and his fingers as they stretched out and barely grazed the water's surface were long and nimble; the hands of a musician.

Pip's brows pinched together. "Why not?"

Lord Westcott shrugged a shoulder. "He doesn't want to."

"But I want to hear his voice."

Lord Westcott's lips quirked up in a small, sad smile, as though he knew something Pip didn't. "Shush now, Pip. Watch the trees."

But Pip could not admire the trees any longer, for Oliver was here but was not looking at him. He continued to splash a hand in the water, to gaze at the birds as they flew past, to hum to himself. It was as though he could not see Pip at all.

Pip felt unreasonably upset. Why wouldn't Oliver acknowledge him?

"I've told you," said Lord Westcott. Had Pip spoken aloud? "He doesn't want to."

Pip's eyes burned, his chest was heavy. "But I—"

"Rest, my darling," said Lord Westcott quietly, his voice low and thunderous, lulling Pip to sleep. He turned his eyes to meet Pip's. "I will guard you."

Oliver's name rested on Pip's tongue but would not move past his lips. Lord Westcott's eyes shined, emeralds bright in the dark hazel of his eyes, his smile small, carrying a secret he did not dare utter. But what could a man like Lord Westcott ever fear to confess? Surely nothing, for who would refuse him?

"I will guard you," he said again, and Pip's eyes fluttered. He could only vaguely see Lord Westcott through his eyelashes, and he felt no fear as weariness overtook him. Because he believed Lord Westcott. Pip was safe here, under his protection. He was safe with him.

Pip opened his eyes to Charles sitting on the edge of his made bed, buttoning his waistcoat. He took a moment, inhaled, exhaled, stretched underneath his covers. Then he froze. Charles was awake.

He sat up abruptly. "What time is it?" he demanded at once, nearly stumbling out of bed.

"Twenty minutes to six," said Charles. "Calm yourself, you're not late."