Early the following day, Trevor woke to someone’s mobile phone ringing faintly but persistently from the next room. Rudy stirred softly next to him. Trevor sat up and looked down at his beautiful holiday romance, and felt a moment of deep affection. For somebody who claimed he didn’t sleep well, Rudy had unquestionably improved. Trevor smoothed a hand through Rudy’s hair, causing him to emit a low purr before reclining back into his pillows.
Both had been exhausted from the previous day—and not from any excessive carnal activities, with only a comfortable session before both dropped off to sleep. Their dog-tiredness had come mainly from an afternoon of manual labour in Mortimer House. Everyone else had opted to catch up on lost sleep or await news of Mary and Karl and the possibility of a new arrival.
Rudy and Trevor had decided to get busy, working with old Tam and Millie to bring down decorations from the attic. After sifting through and cleaning them, or creating new ones, they had then spent three hours clambering up and down ladders. Trevor loved the old house, the musty smells and the sheer vastness of the place, full of oak panelling, faded tapestries and old family portraits—so different from the modernised lodge. Fortunately, they had no boars’ heads or game trophies on the walls, something Trevor might have found distasteful. Chatting to Tam—whose accent he could just about understand—he had learnt little snippets about the Mortimer family, an old English gentry who had settled in Scotland in the early eighteenth century. Tam had also let slip that Rudy’s father was the sixteenth Earl of Stratham. When Trevor had casually dropped this titbit into a conversation, Rudy had told him in no uncertain terms that if he even so much as bowed—or curtsied, come to that—to either of his parents, he would get the biggest wallop across his backside.
“Promises, promises,” a grinning Trevor had replied.
Best of all, Rudy had taken Trevor to his old bedroom on the upper floor so that they could both clean up. Spacious and yet oddly austere, the room boasted two voluminous oak wardrobes along one wall, a free-standing mirror in between, floor-to-ceiling velvet curtains of deep scarlet outlining the French windows and a large double bed with a thick quilted bedspread to match the curtains. If a person viewed the room from the doorway, they would never have associated the space as a boy’s bedroom. Rudy had admitted his family had decorated the room once he’d moved out but that things looked much the same. He’d had a strict upbringing, primarily where manners, tidiness and a lack of teenage paraphernalia were concerned. No posters had been allowed on walls, he’d had to hang his clothes up before bedtime, magazines and books had to be tidied away on shelves or—in the case of some of his more private collections—hidden away beneath his bed.
Together they had showered, smoothing and caressing the grime from the creases of each other’s bodies—initially in innocence, until before long the ritual had turned sensual, both of them breathing hard with desire. Rudy must have known what would happen because he’d had the foresight to lock the bathroom door. After rolling a condom and plenty of lube onto himself, he’d turned Trevor’s face to the glass cubicle wall and pushed slowly inside. Holding his hands above his head, he’d begun the slow back and forth until both of them achieved a mutual rhythm. Finally, they came together in shuddering spasms, Trevor’s cock spurting abstract patterns onto the glass. For a long time, they clung to each other beneath the shower, letting the warm water wipe everything clean. While they’d both dressed in the bathroom, Rudy had confided in Trevor.
“I’ve dreamt about doing that with someone. But what we did was hotter than any fantasy I’ve ever imagined.”
By seven o’clock that evening, Rudy had had to physically drag Trevor away from fussing over his decorative creations and order him back to the lodge. Antoni had prepared a mouth-watering salmon en croûte with a lemon parsley sauce, polished off by a dessert of Eton mess. Dinner had been a subdued affair, nobody having much to say after the craziness of the past few days, and they passed only a few comments across the kitchen table about Antoni’s cooking skills. Eventually, Johnny had broken the virtual silence.
“Have you heard from your mother, Cheryl?”
“Not yet. I tried calling earlier, but either her phone was switched off or she’s forgotten to charge it again.”
“So we don’t know what’s happening?”
“No,” Cheryl had said. “I talked to her at midday, and they said Mary’s contractions are coming more regularly now, so looks as though the baby may be early. They think Mary might have been further along than she thought. Mum said she’s going to stay there with them until they know for sure.”
“Are they considering painkillers?” Frank had asked.
“I think she wants to avoid them as much as possible,” Cheryl had replied, in all innocence.
“I meant for Karl,” Frank had answered, raising a collective chuckle around the table.
By ten o’clock that evening, everyone had decided to turn in, and for the first time that holiday, the lodge and its guests slept undisturbed, everyone enjoying a silent night.
* * * *
That morning, by the time the phone stopped ringing, Trevor and Rudy had thrown on dressing gowns and shuffled out to the kitchen. Cheryl was perched on a stool by the kitchen counter, talking animatedly into the phone—the call clearly from somebody she knew. While Trevor moved across to find out what was happening, Rudy flicked on the electric kettle. Seeing them both, Cheryl provided a smile and a simple wave of one hand before asking the person at the other end to hold on.
“Mum’s on the line. Mary gave birth to a baby boy at four-thirty this morning. Premature and weighing in at three pounds, two ounces, so he’s in an incubator for now, but all things considered, both mother and child are doing very well. Father passed out during the birth. Sorry, Mum, say that again.”
As Mrs M spoke from the other end, Cheryl placed a hand across her mouth and tears sprang to her eyes.
“Oh, Mum. That’s lovely,” she said, clearly moved. Then, placing the phone against her shoulder, she told them, “Mary and Karl have insisted on naming him Connor. After the twin brother we lost.”
Trevor reached in and gave her a warm hug. What an amazing Christmas. Behind them, Frank and Johnny entered the kitchen.
“Connor, eh? Now there’s a good Irish name. So she’s had the little devil, has she?” asked Johnny.
“His middle name’s Karl,” said Cheryl. “Plain and simple. And Mary’s mum and dad are flying in at lunchtime. So Mum and Doris are about to make their way back by bus and should arrive at the Fort William station just after lunchtime.”
“As long as the roads are clear, I’ll come and pick them up,” said Rudy, pouring boiling water into mugs.
“She says thanks, you’re a godsend. Okay, Mum. Yes, I told him. See you later,” said Cheryl, rolling her eyes, before putting down the phone. “She’ll text me when they’re half an hour away from Fort William. And Trev, she said to put some sparkling wine in the fridge, because we’ll all need to have a wee tipple tonight, to wet the baby’s head. A wee tipple? My mother’s now officially Scottish.”
After Rudy had made a couple of calls to confirm that the authorities had cleared the roads in and out of Arkaig and they’d finally received the text message from Mrs M, he asked Trevor to accompany him into town.
Sitting high up in the vehicle, warmth from the heater enveloping them, they listened to Rudy’s choice of music. And Trevor found himself discovering a little more about his new friend, who was, apparently, a diehard country and western and country-rock fan, with song after song from old and modern artists—Blake Shelton, The Allman Brothers, Sam Hunt, Dolly Parton, Garth Brooks.
“You like country?” asked Rudy.
“I’m not too familiar. Except for the classics.”
