Best Laid Plaids

By Ella Stainton

A gay paranormal historical with “lively prose and unusual plot charm . . . a solid cast of supporting characters (both alive and dead) to bolster the tale.” —Publishers Weekly

Scotland, 1928.

Dr. Ainsley Graham is cultivating a reputation as an eccentric.

Two years ago, he catastrophically ended his academic career by publicly claiming to talk to ghosts. When Joachim Cockburn, a WWI veteran studying the power of delusional thinking, arrives at his door, Ainsley quickly catalogues him as yet another tiresome Englishman determined to mock his life’s work.

But Joachim is tenacious and openhearted, and Ainsley’s intrigued despite himself. He agrees to motor his handsome new friend around to Scotland’s most unmistakable hauntings. If he can convince Joachim, Ainsley might be able to win back his good name and then some. He knows he’s not crazy—he just needs someone else to know it, too.

Joachim is one thesis away from realizing his dream of becoming a psychology professor, and he’s not going to let anyone stop him, not even an enchanting ginger with a penchant for tartan and lewd jokes. But as the two travel across Scotland’s lovely—and definitely, definitely haunted—landscape, Joachim’s resolve starts to melt. And he’s beginning to think that an empty teaching post without the charming Dr. Graham would make a very poor consolation prize indeed . . .

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Aug 31, 2020
• ISBN: 9781488076831

Book preview

Chapter One

Joachim

Fifeshire, Scotland, 1928

Joachim kept a brisk pace up the interminably long path to Rosethorne House, no matter that his ankle might give out before he got there. The steel tip of his walking stick twanged, punctuating each step in the way he’d grown accustomed in the ten years since the end of the Great War. Gravel drives like this were the worst; bloody slippery underfoot and hard to catch purchase. He mopped his brow once he stopped on the wide sandstone steps that led to a front door of oak that could have graced a medieval castle.

Rosethorne House, my arse.

It was an estate and a rather formidable one. Sixteenth-century foundation, though a storybook façade had been added sometime in the past two hundred years. Ivy and some sort of flowering vine trailed between small diamond-paned windows, which glittered in the sunshine.

After traveling for three hours on the train up from the university town of Durham in the north of England, and another hour and a half on the bus from Edinburgh, Joachim’s resolve flagged. He was much too shabby to be a guest in a place like this.

Bollocks. When he’d concocted the scheme to venture into the lowlands of Scotland to gather research for his PhD, Stuart Graham, his mentor and friend who made the arrangements, could have at least warned that he belonged to a wealthy family. But Joachim had never been a coward—had he? He pressed the doorbell before he answered that question.

Less than thirty seconds later, the door opened wide. A smart black-suited man—the butler?—looked the weary traveler over with such liveliness that Joachim’s ears pinked. Really, Stuart, you could have warned me to buy a new blazer at the least.

Joachim introduced himself and asked for his host. He should be expecting me?

Dammit, he shouldn’t have ended on that questioning note, but the unseasonable April heat coupled with the dusty hike from the bus stop left him all out of sorts. He did his best to surreptitiously slick down his wavy hair, difficult without a comb and mirror.

The butler ushered Joachim into a wood-paneled hall and held out an arm for his stuffy wool overcoat and hat, which he handed over with relief. Sniffed himself furtively. Didn’t smell as slovenly as he looked, thank heavens.

Ah, yes. Master Ainsley is in the parlor awaiting your arrival.

The answer settled some of the gnawing in his belly; for the past two hours, he’d whiled away the final leg of his trip worrying that Stuart’s quirky at best—barmy as a Bedlamite at worst—younger brother would refuse to give him accommodations for the night.

But he was expected, and Joachim inhaled deeply and plastered a smile on his face as he was led down the hall toward the tinny sound of a gramophone belting out Let’s Misbehave.

Odd choice of music for an intellectual.

Though perhaps not so peculiar when said scholar had annihilated his reputation as one of the Empire’s most learned folklorists by publicly insisting that he chatted with ghosts.

On a daily basis.

A sitting room worthy of Sir Walter Scott greeted him. A fireplace large enough to house a small family crackled, flanked by sterling sconces in a similar grand ratio that radiated a warm glow. The room sported two enormous wooden chandeliers, their electric lights turned off, and heavy green draperies were pulled shut instead of allowing the sunshine in.

Such a waste on a day like this. They were few and far between in Britain.

In front of the hearth, a well-shaped leg balanced on a log. It belonged to a kilt-clad man, poking at the fire, which to Joachim’s mind, didn’t need tending. A black-spotted setter thumped its feathered tail once as greeting.

Excuse me, Sir, your guest has arrived. The butler cast another impertinent stare Joachim’s way before disappearing back down the hall.

Sir continued to thrust his poker at the fire, causing a flurry of sparks to chase up the flue like fireworks. Was that a giggle? Joachim watched with increasing annoyance for an entire minute. His ankle wobbled with the need to sit.

The setter dragged its body off the Persian rug and pressed its head against Joachim’s thigh. He patted the dog once but grunted dissent when it nosed his groin. His host twitched like a ghost walked over his grave.

Good heavens, how long have you been there? The iron poker rattled to the floor. Heel, Violet. That’s not the polite way to meet our guests, is it? The dog sat down and looked for all the world as though she disagreed.

But Joachim could merely gawp, his wits chased away by the sheer physical beauty of his host facing him now. Within a half second, his hand was firmly pumped and grasped in long fingers that would be elegant if not for the bitten-down nails.

I’m Ainsley Graham, but I reckon you know that, or you wouldn’t be here, would you? The supernaturally good-looking man beamed as he continued to not only hold on to Joachim’s right hand, but to cover the knot of their palms with his other.

In the dim light, Joachim was unable to make out the color of the gentleman’s eyes, which traced down his body even more intimately than the butler’s had. Silky, overlong hair drooped artfully over his smooth brow and shone like sunlight through a goblet of claret. His wide smile curved higher on the right.

This expensively dressed ginger was simply the most magnificent creature Joachim had ever encountered in his life. Astonishing, since his brother Stuart often looked as though he’d rolled out of bed five minutes before hurrying to the university, with half his hair sticking up.

I’m Joachim Cockburn, how do you do? His mouth was as dry as the Mojave.

The infamous Dr. Graham’s gaze drifted down toward Joachim’s hips. "Cockburn? His grin hinted at a leer. One can only hope from the right reasons."

Before Joachim could scowl, Ainsley Graham sauntered to an already open crystal decanter and poured two drams of whiskey. Or dram and a half, really. He pushed one into Joachim’s hand and set his own down untouched, gesturing for his guest to sit.

Relieved to get off his ankle, Joachim chose the corner of a sofa farthest from the fireplace and balanced his walking stick against the arm. Even with at least ten other options, his host sat so close on the same sofa that the spicy scent of his eau de cologne tickled Joachim’s nostrils and made him sneeze.

Queer. Yet, at a different time and place it would be more than welcome. Stuart’s brother, he reminded himself and took a longer drink than he ought. Running his finger under his collar, Joachim gasped from the whiskey’s sharp bite and set it down on a side table with a thud.

I’m pleased that you got the telegram about my arrival. I worried that you’d wonder why a stranger showed up on your doorstep. His laugh was forced but Ainsley Graham appeared not to have heard him. In fact, his focus was so intent on something behind Joachim’s head that he turned to look to see what it could be.

Graham shook his head once and raised his eyes back to Joachim’s. Gray, perhaps? Or blue? It was too dark to tell but they were light and wide and so thickly lashed it was a wonder he could even prop open his eyelids.

"Oh, I’d have been pleased to let you in, even without a telegram." The redhead turned his body sideways, drawing his bare knee along Joachim’s thigh.

Damnably close.

Yet Joachim was unable to squirm away, even if he’d actually wished to. There was no room. Er, well... Dr. Graham—

Ainsley, please. Doctor sounds as though I should be decked in tweed and wear a monocle. He flicked over Joachim’s tweed blazer and he shrugged, not in the least embarrassed. Or not showing it at any rate.

All right, Ainsley. Joachim did his best to smile and behave as though his host’s body wasn’t pressed against his hip. And moving closer with each breath.

Ainsley ran his fingertip across the bridge of the sofa near enough to touch Joachim’s shoulder. What did you say your first name was again? I’m afraid I was too caught up in your pronunciation of your surname to give it proper due.

Blast the man. They did tend to say Coe-burn in Scotland, didn’t they? Joachim hadn’t been razzed so much in the army. Well, at least not since his time in the army. His nostrils flared and he swiveled his head to glare at his host, whose lips were pursed into a seductive pout.

Frankly at a loss, Joachim reached for the whiskey, risking a second swallow. And then a third.

Joachim. He said it without clenching his teeth, thanks to the silky warmth trailing down his throat.

Graham’s hand inched nearer to the nape of Joachim’s neck, causing his skin to quiver. What an appalling burden. Were your parents Puritans? Please tell me your friends call you something else. For the first time there was a hint of Scots under the well-modulated boys’ school drawl.

The whiskey’s headiness played off Joachim’s empty stomach and he almost laughed at the sincere rudeness of the question. My father was a minister, my mother was Belgian. I’m named for my maternal grandfather. How about you call me Cockburn?

Perhaps, if you play your cards right. Ainsley Graham was most definitely staring at Joachim’s mouth. He unconsciously rubbed his lips together and flushed at the dazzling light that brightened Ainsley’s face when he laughed. Our rascal Barley set me up, hasn’t he?

Pardon? Joachim tilted his head to the side, confused. Perhaps Stuart’s family called him Barley? It made no sense, but nicknames rarely did. His stomach growled and he coughed to cover it up.

Ainsley lifted his glass and then set it back down without a drink, tapping his chin. I’m sure Barley said your name was something less provocative, but I’m a good sport. He stood and stretched his lean body like a cat before he pulled the servants’ bell. At least, Joachim assumed it was to alert servants—he’d never seen one before. But in a house this size, there must be a better method than shouting to fetch someone.

I sent everyone—including my mother—away aside from Nelson, and he’ll be serving supper before he leaves, too. Nothing fancy, but I don’t think you came for the food, did you? Ainsley winked and refilled Joachim’s glass, clinking it against the side of his before settling back down on the sofa. Any closer, and he’ll be in my lap.

Bloody hell, the room was over-warm, matching his host’s gaze. I didn’t, and I’m not particular about what I eat. I came to mine your brain for research, didn’t I? Because it was best to discuss his purpose for coming such a long way. He had a doctoral thesis to write, after all: the manifestation of delusions in those otherwise accounted as sane.

From what he’d read, Ainsley Graham fit the bill.

After a lecture two weeks earlier, Stuart Graham had found Joachim at a pub reading one of Ainsley’s books. Once Stuart finished his drink, he sheepishly admitted to their being brothers and offered to wrangle an introduction. Assured Joachim that he would be welcomed for a visit to see the haunted sites Ainsley had publicly verified to the chagrin of his university colleagues.

Is he sane? Joachim’s stomach had lurched at the idea of spending a week with a madman. He’d spent countless hours working at the asylum near his university, but those were patients and Joachim wasn’t alone with any of the truly dangerous ones.

Stuart had flushed with what may have been relief, or perhaps his third gin, nodding. Er, yes. Let’s say he’s an eccentric. Ainsley’s a certified genius with no sense of self-preservation, whatsoever. He excused it with the comment that Ainsley was the result of a second marriage to a flighty woman who’d indulged her own three children to the point of criminality. And if Ainsley Graham was a bit of a crank, that was all her doing.

And now, Joachim was in Scotland with a gorgeous—and he must remember, potential—madman, utterly unsure of how to proceed.

Stuart’s brother resumed his position with his foot on the log and dug into the fire once more. Research. He tossed Joachim another grin over his shoulder. A perfectly squared shoulder for all its slenderness. It matched the proportions of the rest of his shape—long, lean muscles that would likely not thicken as he aged.

The man Nelson wheeled in a trolley laden with covered salvers and spread a crisp tablecloth over a small table he dragged in front of the sofa. He arranged plates and silverware with an almost magical speed, and had all the dishes uncovered in under a minute. Violet circled it once, her nostrils flaring appreciatively.

Sir? He repeated it twice more before Ainsley revived from an almost trancelike state and faced Joachim.

"Lovely. Please, tuck in Cockburn." He snickered and so did bloody Nelson. At Ainsley’s prompting, Joachim filled his plate with cold chicken and spring peas. He slathered butter on his bread, still warm in the middle.

And will you need me for anything else, Sir? Nelson asked, pouring dark red wine into two goblets.

You’ve readied his room? Ainsley tossed a piece of chicken to the dog, who caught it with a snap of her jaws.

Indeed. The servant nodded at Joachim. I’ve unpacked his valise upstairs.

Joachim murmured his thanks.

Twirling the stem of the glassware in his fingers, Ainsley gestured for Nelson to leave. I won’t need you back until eleven tomorrow morning. I plan on keeping Cockburn up until dawn. He waggled his groomed eyebrows.

Mind out of the gutter, Cockburn. The Scotsman must have meant that he had some amazing stories to tell. Just last week, Joachim had stayed up all night reading one of Ainsley’s books, Historical Roots of Scottish Fey. The small bookshelf in his bedroom also boasted the other five books the dishonored academic had written. Prolific for one who couldn’t be more than twenty-six or twenty-seven.

Joachim had hoped to get a clue about the workings of Graham’s mental instability. Instead, he’d found himself enchanted by the combination of in-depth research and pictorial word choice and had gobbled all the books up in a single fortnight.

Yet, that immersion into fairy tales must have played tricks on the poor man’s mind, inducing him to believe in what all rational people knew to be mere children’s stories. It was good for Joachim to remember exactly why he was here.

You’re much better-looking than Barley intimated. Under the table, Ainsley dropped his hand to right above Joachim’s knee.

Cockburn stopped chewing mid-mouthful. Surely he was merely making a point to be welcoming?

Skittish, are we? Don’t tell me he sent over a virgin? Ainsley’s hand drifted higher, paralyzing Joachim with shock. He needed to put an end to this, this, seduction or proposition or whatever it was now.

But good Lord—the blaze of heat that shot throughout his extremities was electric.

I’ll be most put out. Ainsley Graham pouted and fingered the button right above Joachim’s navel. I’ve been picturing my cock in your luscious mouth since you walked in the door, and I do so hate to be disappointed.

Chapter Two

Ainsley

Ainsley had never been partial to beards, but Cockburn’s close-clipped golden-brown facial hair would be deliciously wicked brushing against the sensitive skin of his inner thighs. He’d grasp those honey-colored waves in his fingers hard enough to make the enormous brute of a man moan and beg for more.

It was an indecent mental image, though enchanting. That mouth, all plump and pink and...currently hanging open in what had to be mock effrontery.

Unfortunately, Ainsley couldn’t actually indulge, that wasn’t his pleasant task.

His best mate Barley’s confusion over whether or not his new lawyer friend—this glorious beast pretending to go by the ridiculous name of Joachim Cockburn—shared their appetites was why he now sat in Ainsley’s lair. If anyone could tease out the truth, it was Ainsley. The mere fact that the man frequented their club in Edinburgh ought to be proof enough.

Still, Barley hesitated to let his quarry in on his intentions. It was a crime worthy of prison to make a pass at another fellow, after all, and the man was presumably a law-abiding barrister. Ainsley volunteered to make a lewd advance to Barley’s prospective lover. Anyone who met Ainsley knew he was a proud shirt-lifter and he’d led a charmed life thus far. If charges of indecency were pressed—well, the world already considered Ainsley a loony. He’d play it off as a misunderstanding.

Dear God he’d like to strip off that horrible gray-and-brown jacket that did nothing for the man’s muscular chest and discover what was hidden beneath. He sighed. Barley would arrive within the hour and either drive the poor man home, reeling from outrage—or they’d disappear to fuck like rabbits in the guest room.

Barley had all the damned luck.

The man’s arms flailed. Was he choking? Joachim Cockburn—that was a farce, wasn’t it? Ainsley was sure it was something much more pedestrian like Henry or Herbert. Whatever his true name, he clutched at Ainsley’s sleeve, his handsome face purpling as he attempted to loosen his tie.

Bugger. He was choking.

Roused, Ainsley thumped the poor sod’s back until the food was dislodged. Pleased with his heroics, he handed Cockburn his goblet. The man drank deeply enough that a small river slid down his lips. Tantalizing. Would that it were something even more agreeable than wine dripping out.

Ainsley winced as the wineglass was set down with such force it could crack. Cockburn’s fists clenched and he moved close enough to Ainsley that he could kiss him with very little effort.

Except the raw fury on the man’s face might make that a wee bit awkward.

There’s obviously been some confusion, Dr. Graham. I don’t know who Barley is, and under no circumstances can I begin to imagine what my level of sexual experience could have to do with research. The words were tight, probably like the state of his arse.

What a shame Barley found him first.

Wait. A faint alarm went off in his subconscious mind.

Alec Barley sent you. They’d discussed it last week at the club, and then Barley’d sent along a telegram a few days before. Ainsley had everything fixed for a secret tryst. He’d given the staff the night off. Even sent away his sister, Trixie.

Focus, Ainsley. He could hear Mama’s voice trying her damnedest to shake him from whatever reverie he lost himself in. Almost as though she were in the room when he knew she wasn’t. He’d insisted she stay far away, as well.

Again, I know no one by the name of Barley. Or Alec, come to think of it. Cockburn shifted his weight to his back foot, a frown wrinkling his high forehead. He was shorter than Ainsley, though not by much, and substantially built like a professional rugby player.

God in heaven; those arms could easily throw Ainsley onto a bed, or anywhere else he damned well pleased.

Research.

Ainsley flicked the light switch and blinked from the intensity of the bulbs like a vampire might.

His brother Stuart. Bloody hell. A different telegram about some tiresome Englishman who wanted to mock Ainsley’s life’s work. Not that he wanted it to be the only work he’d produce in his life—he was still young, after all, and a handful of books on folklore wasn’t all he was destined to write. Even if he’d been too terrified...no, hesitant to even think about a new project for the past two years. That was beside the point.

Oh fuck.

The overall rumpled appearance of his guest shouted that he was Stuart’s friend, didn’t it? Ainsley asked, dreading the answer that was now clear.

Cockburn’s handsome face flushed where it was uncovered by his beard. Ainsley truly did appreciate that beard. Would it be soft against his mouth or spiky? But Christ on a stick—this man was Stuart’s friend. He squeezed his eyes tight. Perhaps this was a nightmare?

It was not.

All right, deep breaths. Violet’s nose inched toward the chicken and shook Ainsley from his wool-gathering as he sank his fingers into her fur to hold her back. Everything was fine. It wasn’t as though Stuart didn’t suspect what his younger brother got up to in the privacy of his own bloody house, but oh. What a grim conversation that would be if Stuart were to be told he’d asked his friend for a blow.

You were to arrive tomorrow, weren’t you? Ainsley had planned on leaving for town for the weekend to avoid this particular man. It was foolish not to write these things down in a diary the way Trixie did. She plagued him to follow her advice and now it was clear he should have. He’d have to tell her she was right when she came home. Wouldn’t she crow?

Are you even listening to me, Dr. Graham? Lovely blue-green eyes exactly the color of the Firth of Forth in July narrowed enough that Cockburn’s long brown lashes tangled together.

Ainsley rubbed his forehead. Clammy with the hint of sweat. Perhaps he had a fever? I’m doing my best. It’s something of a struggle. Stuart’s friend hadn’t punched him, or anything else idiotic, so perhaps the Englishman wasn’t terribly vexed? Ainsley flashed the handsome brute his winningest smile.

Cockburn’s blush swept up his ears. Fucking hell—Cockburn was the man’s actual name, not a joke one cooked up by Barley. He winced again.

However, that meant this man wasn’t Barley’s infatuation. Which meant that Ainsley was free to... No, Ainsley. Focus.

I beg your pardon, my mind tends to wander. He inhaled as deep as he could and threw himself into the sofa, digging his nails into his respective palms to try to remain attentive. Never very helpful, as he chewed them to the quick. Not that it’s because of you. It’s something that always happens.

Isn’t there anything you can do to keep from slipping away? Joachim’s voice was kinder than he deserved. God, he’d mocked that name, too. How unbearably rude. It was a good thing Mama had been banished from the room.

Er, there are a few activities that keep me anchored in the present.

Studying and reading which was how he’d become a PhD before he turned twenty-four. It’s not as though Ainsley had had much else to do in those long, lonely years in between his brother Charlie heading off to war and his sister, Trixie, returning from her finishing school on the Continent, drenched in scandal. Ainsley scraped dull nails over the back of his scalp and tugged his hair, which sometimes served as a distraction. This wasn’t one of them.

Mr. Cockburn’s head tilted to one side as he studied Ainsley like he was a specimen in a laboratory. Unfair that someone so pleasant to look at was such a tosser. But really, what other things did keep him anchored in the moment?

Ah yes—driving his motorcar, thank God, because that could get dangerous otherwise.

Kissing, as well.

Fucking.

Cock sucking...well, that was a wee bit unpredictable.

And music. Which was why he usually kept the gramophone on. He ought to change the song now. But which would he rather listen to?

Joachim snapped his fingers.

He tossed his companion a look of gratification. Yes, that’s perfect. Snapping or clapping and simply waving your hands in front of my face. Ainsley frowned. But I’d prefer you not to stomp. It leaves me unsettled.

Mr. Cockburn sat back down—on the opposite side of the room—and crossed both his arms and legs. Absolutely closing himself off. You’re a character, aren’t you? The Geordie burr held a hint of admiration.

That made Ainsley preen a bit. Being admired was lovely. I do hope you’ll forgive...er...the things I said a few moments ago? He grinned broadly enough to show his teeth. I’d rather Stuart didn’t hear about it.

No, no. I’d never... Joachim caught his breath and scanned Ainsley’s face with a touch of a smile before he ducked his head. Running his open hands down his thighs—those thighs that Ainsley would like wrapped around his waist—Cockburn changed the subject. My field is psychology. I’m writing my dissertation on how the mind can be led to believe things that simply aren’t true.

Ah, that lit a fire in Ainsley’s brain, snapping him to attention. I suppose you don’t believe in spirits?

His guest didn’t answer. He stared at his hands, clasped in front of him as though he were the one lost in his thoughts. Each second that passed made Ainsley bristle a wee bit more.

But then Cockburn looked up and flashed a sincere smile. A bit too sweet, to be honest. Ainsley’s belly pitched like he’d eaten one too many blackcurrant-flavored wine gums. Familiar because he always struggled with overindulging himself. Gorged until he made himself ill and never touched whatever it was again.

I admit I thought you were daft when I read the transcripts of that lecture you gave.

Did you? It did come out as a snarl. Ainsley couldn’t help that. He’d met so many patronizing arseholes who made fun of him that he’d given up living in the town house on Queen Street and stayed at Rosethorne full-time when he’d lost his position at the university.

The quietly handsome man across the room shrugged those massive shoulders. But Stuart claims you’re a genius so I’m open to believing you, if I were to see some of this for myself. Possibly become a convert.

Unexpected. As gratifying as that was—and it was, Ainsley wouldn’t deny it—there were things that he’d prefer to convert Stuart’s bearded friend to do. Though from the spark of interest clearly written on his face, conversion might not be necessary.

Ainsley fetched his plate and resumed his meal. Eating helped him pay attention. The obvious desire to do the same shone on Cockburn’s face as he stared at his plate next to Ainsley’s elbow. "If you come back to the sofa, I